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The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Note on Digital Production 0045 000
The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Issue 1 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 1090 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABP2287-0045 /moa/cent/cent0045/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Issue 1 Century illustrated monthly magazine Century monthly magazine Century magazine Scribner's monthly Forum Forum and century The Century Company New York Nov 1892 0045 001
The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Issue 1, miscellaneous front pages i-2

T~ CENTU RY I LLU STRATED PXO NTH LY AXAGAZI NE. Nc~em~er 1592, T~ CENTURY C~? toApril Ic~93 N EW-YORK. T. FISHER UNWIN, LQNDON. I~h~ XLJ( JY~eJ$eries 1~i~XXIIi z A. ~ Copyright, 1893, by THE CENTURY Co. THE DR VINNE PRESS. INDEX TO THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. VOL. XLV. NEW SERIES: VOL. XXIII. PAGE AFTER THE RAIN Mary F. Wilkins 271 ANNE, THE PRINCESS M. 0. UK Oliphant 904 With portraits and pictures. ARBOR DAY Editorial 953 ARBORETUM,ARNOLD. See Tree. ARCHITECTURE, GOVERNMENT, IN AMERICA Editorial 311 ART, FREE, A NATIONAL NECESSITY Editorial 627 ARTIST, A RUSSIAN NATIONAL. See Rdpin, flya. 3 ARTIST LIFE BY THE NORTH SEA H. UK Ranger 753 Pictures by the Author. ARTISTS, AMERICAN, PICTURES BY, THE CENTURY SERIES OF UK Lewis Fraser. Alice William M. Chase 29 Ringing the Christmas Bells Edwin H. Blashfield i88 The Mother ~ Edward E. Simmons 257 The Virgin Enthroned Abbott H. Thayer 312 The Annunciation Mary L. Macamber 312 The Mother Alice D. Kellogg 467 Purity William Thorne 560 My Sister Lydia Edmund C. Tarbell 740 Sunset Coast of Etretat George Inness 802 The Angel of Death Staying the Hand of the Sculptor .Daniel Chester French 846 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EDITOR . .... Edgar Wilson ATye 156 Pictures by E. W. Kemble. BALCONY STORIES Grace King. Pictures by A. E. Sterner. The Balcony . 279 A Drama of Three 280 La Grande Demoiselle 323 Mimis Marriage 493 The Miracle Chapel 497 BALLOT REFORM, EFFICIENCY OF Editorial 626 BANK-NOTE, THE ~I,O0O,00O Mark Twain 338 iv INDEX. PAGE BENEFITS FORGOT Wolcott Balestier 192 Portrait of the Author 407, 525, 766, 937 BIBLE, DoES IT CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS ? Gharles W. S/acids 126 BIBLE, THE PRESENT STATE OF OLD TESTAMENT CRITICISM Edward Lewis Curtis 727 BLINDNESS, THE PREVENTION OF, IN INFANTS Swan M. Burnett 316 BROOK FARM, REMINISCENCES OF George P. Bradford 141 BROWNE, HABLOT KNIGHT. See Dickens. BROWNING AND HIS ART, IMPRESSIONS OF Stopford A. Broohe 238 With Portraits. BRUDDEH ISAACS DISCOURSE Charles Battell Loomis 959 CASH CAPITAL OF SUNSET CITY, THE Hayden Carruth 838 Picture by A. Castaigne. CHICAGO ANARCHISTS OF i856, THE Joseph E. Gary 803 Pictures by A. Castaigne, and portraits, etc. CHICAGO FAIR. . See Columbian Exposition. CHINA, THE GREAT WALL OF Romyn Hitchcock 327 Pictures by Harry Fenn, Malcolm Fraser, and Otto H. Bacher. CHINA, THE GREAT WALL OF, A RIDE TO N. B. Dennys 332 Pictures by Harry Fenn and Malcolm Fraser. CHRISTMAS MEETING, THEIR Florence Watters Snedeher.. 304 Picture by Irving R. Wiles. CHRISTOPHER, CRUSTY. See Wilson, John. Henry A. Beers 361 COACHING. See Road. COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION. Some Exposition Uses of Sunday Henry C. Potter 138 Sunday at the Worlds Fair Editorial i~ Sunday in Chicago Washington Gladden 151 Road-Building Exhibit at Chicago Editorial 150 New York and the Worlds Fair Editorial 473 The Eye and the Ear at Chicago Daniel C. Gilman 477 Preliminary Glimpses of the Fair Clarence Clough Bud 615 The Worlds Fair and Landscape- Gardening Editorial 953 COLUMBUS RELICS, THE QUESTION OF GENUINENESS X. Y. Z 631 CO6PERATIVE FAILURE, A, AND ITS LESSONS N 153 CONGRESS, THE FIRST DUTY OF Editorial 309 CONSTANTINOPLE MUSEUM. See Turkey. COSMOPOLIS CITY CLUB, THE Washington Gladden 395 566, 780 CRUMBS FROM DINNER-PARTIES Alice Wellington Rollins 960 CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM Editorial 149 Portrait on page 17. DICKENS, AN ILLUSTRATOR OF Arthur Allehin .. 386 Pictures by Hablot Knight Browne ( Phiz ), and portraits. DIX, DOROTHEA. See Women, Notable. ELECTION CASES, REFORM IN CONTESTED Editorial .... 626 FINANCE, LEGAL TENDERS AND BIMETALLISM Editorial 474 FOREST-PRESERVATIcSN, A MEMORABLE ADVANCE IN Editorial 950 FULLER, MARGARET. See Women, Notable. GENERAL OPINION, THE . . Alice Turner 636 Picture by H. Helmick. GIPSYLAND, To Elizabeth Robins Fennell... 109 Pictures by Joseph Pennell 258, 414 GOLIATH Thomas Bailey Aldrich...~ 561 HOLLAND. See Artist Life. HUMORISTS, FEMALE, AND AMERICAN HUMOR Stinson Jarvis 151 IDY Margaret Collier Gra~a~n 879 Picture by Francis Day. IMMIGRATION PROBLEMS Editorial 310 INDIAN LIFE, PERSONAL STUDIES OF Alice C. Fletcher .... 441 Pictures by A. Castaigne. INDEX. V PAGE JAMAICA Gilbert Gaul 682 Pictures by tl~e Author. KEITH RANCH, AT THE Anna Fuller 761 KINDERGARTEN MOVEMENT, THE Talcoti Williams 369 Pictures by Malcolm Fraser, Otto H. Bacher, Irving R. Wiles, and others. The Kindergarten nc~t a Fad Editorial . 475 The Kindergarten in a Nutshell W. T. Harris 475 The Possibilities of the Kindergarten Angeline Brooks 476 The Philanthropic Side of Kindergarten Work Mary Katharine Young.... 476 The Kindergarten Movement in Chicago Alice H. Putnam 795 The Kindergarten in Turkey Carrie P. Farnsworth Fowle. 796 KNIGHT OF THE LEGION OF HONOR, A F. H~pkinson Smith 223 LABOR QUESTION, SUGGESTIONS ON THE , A Reader 154 LABRADOR, GRAND FALLS OF, THE FIRST ACCOUNT OF THE A. H. l47hitcher . 634 LIBRARY, FREE, MOVEMENT, A GENERAL Editorial 794 LINCOLNS, (ABRAHAM) LAST HOURS Charles Sabin Taft, M. P . 634~ LIND, JENNY. See Women, Notable. LISZT, FRANZ . Camille Saint-Salns 517 Portrait by Munkacsy. LUSTIGS, THE Mrs. Schuyler van Rensselaer 605 MCCLELLANS (GENERAL) BAGGAGE-DESTROYING ORDER I W. Heysinger 154 MALAY PENINSULA, LIFE IN THE John FairZie 577 Pictures by Kenyon Cox, Harry Fenn, W. J. Daer, and Malcolm Fraser. MASSACHUSETTS CORRUPT PRACTICES LAW, THE Editorial 149 MASSENETAUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES J. Massenet 122 Portraits by Layraud and A. J. Goodman. MILLETS (JEAN FRAN~OIS) YOUNGER LIFE, THE STORY OF Pierre Millet 380 Picture by Jean Fran~ois Millet. MILLION POUND, THE (~i,ooo,ooo) BANK-NOTE Mark Twain 338 MUSIC. Autobiographical Notes by the Composer ~ ~ J Massenet 122 Pictures by Layraud and A. J. Goodman. To Persons Desiring to Cultivate a Taste in Music W. J. Henderson 312 Franz Liszt Camille Saint-SatYns 517 Portrait by Munkacsy. How Pianists May be Different and yet Each be Great Fanny Morris Smith 628 Camille Saint-Salins H. E. Krehbiel 735 Portrait by Paul Mathey. MUSIC, To PERSONS DESIRING TO CULTIVATE A TASTE IN W J. Henderson 312 Mv COUSIN FANNY Thomas Nelson Page 178 Picture by A. E. Sterner. NAPOLEONS DEPORTATION TO ELBA. BT THE OFFICER IN CHARGE .... Thomas Ussher, R. N 664 Frontispiece portrait (facing page 643), and portrait of the Author. (See also page 797). NEW CASHIER, THE Edward Eggleston 189 Picture by C. D. Gibson. NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB, THE Brander Matthews 101 NEW YORK, PICTURESQUE Mrs. Schuyler van Rensselaer 164 With nine etchings by Charles F. W. Mielatz reproduced by wood-engravings, and three pen-and-ink drawings by. T. R. Manley. OBSERVATIONS C. 0. Stevens 8oo OBSERVATIONS Manley H. Pike 320 PARIS COMMUNE, WHAT I SAW OF THE. II Archibald Forbes 48 Pictures by H. D. Nichols, Vierge, R. D. Los Rios, A. F. Jaccaci, and Harry Fenn. What an American Girl saw of the Commune C. W. T Picture by F. C. Jones. PARKMAN, FRANCIS James Russell Lowell 44 Note on the Completion of his Work Edward Eggleston 46 With frontispiece portrait (facing page 3). PARKS IN AND NEAR LARGE CITIES Editorial 952 vi INDEX. PAGE PHIz. See Dickens. PIANISTS. hOW THEY MAY BE DIFFERENT AND YET EACH BE GREAT..~ Fanny Morris Smith..~.... 628 PRESENT-DAY PAPERS. The Problem of Poverty Washington Gladden 245 PRESIDENTIAL VOTING, DIRECT Editorial 793 PROFESSORS ABERRATION, THE Florence Watters Snedeker 6oo Pictures by Francis Day. PROVENCE, AN EMBASSY TO Thomas A. Janvier 483, 652, 847 Illustrations by A. Castaigne. RELIGIOUS BELIE~r, THE EFFECT OF SCIENTIFIC STUDY UPON .191. S. Williams 273 RT1N, ILYA, A RUSSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST Isabel F. Hapgood 3 Pictures by Ilys R~pin. REWARD OF THE UNRIGHTEOUS, THE George Grantham Bain. 347 Pictures by A. B. Weuzell. ROAD-COACHING U~ TO DATE T. Si~ern Tailer 79 Pictures from pbotograpbs. ROUSING OF MRS. POTTER, THE Gertrude Smith 718 Pictures by Irving R. Wiles. ROWDY, THE. Octave Thanet 67 Pictures by Alfred Kappes. RUSSIA, A VOICE FOR. BY THE SECRETARY OF THE RUSSIAN LEGATION . Pierre Bothine 611 RUSSIA, A WORD FROM Editorial 625 RUSSIAN ARTIST. See R~pin. SAINT-SAt~NS, CAMILLE Henry E. Krehbiel 735 Portrait by Paul Matbey. SALVINI, LEAVES FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF Tommaso Salvini 230, 588 With portraits. SEA-SERPENT, THE, AT NAHANT Francis Egerton 155 SENATORS? UNITED STATES, How CAN WE SECURE BETTER Editorial 792 SERENES RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE: TORY Cornelia A ood Pratt 284 Picture by W. T. Smedley. SHERMANLETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS: PASSAGES FROM THE COR- William Tecumseh Sherman RESPONDENCE OF GENERAL AND SENATOR SHERMAN $ John Sherman . . 88, 425, 689, 892 Portraits of General and Senator Sherman. SPOILS SYSTEM, RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE Editorial 625 SPRING SONGS, THE MOURNING DOVE. DRAWN BY Mary Halloch Foote 545 STRUGGLE FOR LIFE, A Alice Turner 799 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE Mrs. Burton Harrison ... 13, 215 Pictures by C. D. Gibson. 456, 499, 741, 8~8 TENEMENT-HOUSE EVILS, SOME Lillian W. Betts 314 TENNVSON, THE VOICE OF Henry Van Dyke With frontispiece portrait (facing page 413). THANKSGIVING, AN OLD-FASHIONED . Hezekiak Butterwortk 30 Pictures by George Wharton Edwards. TREE MUSEUM, A M. C. Robbins 867 Pictures by Harry Fenn and Henry Saudham, and portraits. TURKEV, AN ART IMPETUS IN John P. Peters 546 With portrait of Hamdy Bey, and pictures by Harady Dey and from photographs. UNCLE BEN AND OLD HENRY JLzrry Stillwell Edwa~-ds... 638 Picture by H. Helmick. UNCONSCIOUS DIPLOMAT, AN Alice Turner 478 Picture by E. W. Kemble. VIOLONCELLO OF JUFROW ROZENBOOM, THE Anna Eichberg King 643 Pictures by George Wharton Edwards. WAR CORRESPONDENCE AS A FINE ART Archibald Forbes 290 With portraits. INDEX. vii PAGE WESTMINSTER ABBEY Henry B. Fuller 700 Pictures by Joseph Pennell. WHALEMANS LOG, STRAY LEAVES FROM A James 7iemple Brown 507 Pictures by W. Taber and Clement Swift. WHITTIER Elizabeth Stuart P1ze~s 363 With frontispiece portrait (facing page 323). WILSON, JOHN Henry A. Beers 361 With portrait. WOMEN, NOTABLE. Jenny Lind Ronald J. McNeill 207 With portrait. Dorothea Dix Mary S. Robinson 468 With portrait. Margaret Fuller Josephine Lazarus 923 With portrait. WORDS ARE DEEDS, AND MAY BE CRIMES Editorial 950 ~ C~ C~. Johnston 954 WORKING-MEN, GOVERNMENTAL CARE FOR M. Carey Lea 955 WORKING-MEN, PLAIN WORDS TO. BY ONE OF THEM Fred Woodr 134 YOSEMITE VALLEY, THE PROPOSED RECESSION OF THE Editorial 472, 950 POETRY. ALLEGORY Edgar Fawcett 891 ANSWER, THE Rudyard Kipling 86 ASPIRATION Edith Willis Linn 857 BALLADE OF THE SPOONS, THE Alice Williams Brotherton 8oo BEAUTY Franh Dempster Sherman 320 BEYOND THE LIMIT Maurice Thompson 12 BOSTON GIRL, NOT A James G. Burnett 958 BOYS, SOME MORE James Whitcomb Riley 318 Pictures by E. W. Kemble. BRADFORD, G. P George Bradford Bartlett 148 BRIDAL MEASURE, A Thomas Bailey Aldrich 394 BROWNING AT ASOLO Robert Underwood Johnson 47 CAPRICE N 699 CHICAGO Marion Couthouy Smith 734 CHILD-GARDEN, THE Richard Watson Gilder 379 CHRIST, ON A HEAD OF, BY QUENTIN MAYSYS Bessie Chandler 576 CID RuV THE CAMPEADOR .. John Malone 211 Pictures by C. Rochegrosse. COMPENSATION John Hay 222 CONJECTURE Eva Wilder McGlasson 960 CONSOLATION Lisette Woodworth Reese 903 COOKE, ROSE TERRY, To Mary Bradley 121 COUNTER, A Edith M. Thomas 640 COUNTER THOUGHTS Mary Mapes Dodge 637 DEAD KING, THE George Horton 752 E PLURIBUS UNUM Unum 960 FROM DAWN TO SUNRISE Esther Bernon Carpenter 538 GENESIS John Hall Ingham 559 GIPSY TRAIl., THE Rudyard Kipling 278 GoDD-BV TO THE CRADLE Ella Wheeler Wilcox 960 GOTHAM, YOU DEAR OLD William Bard McVichar. ~ 320 HAVE VE NIVER HEERD TELL o ROSE CREAGAN ? Jennie E. T. Dowe 738 Pictures by A. Brennan. HEART OF THE TREE, THE H. C. Bunner 844 Pictures hp A. Brennan. viii INDEX. PAGE HOMESICK WESTERNER, THE Minna Smith 959 IN EXTREM?TY John White Chadwick 903 I s NIVER FEARED FOR MY OULD MAN Jennie E. T. Dowe 934 Pictures by Francis Day. INSOMNIA Thomas Bailey Aldrich 28 LETHE Louise Chandler Moulton .. 466 LIGHTS 0 LONDON, THE Louise Imogen Guiney 347 LOVERS IN LONDON Violet Hunt 565 MADONNA Harrison S. Morris 177 Picture by Frank Vincent du Mond. MADONNA OF DAGNAN-BOUVERET Robert Underwood Johnson.. 163 Picture by Dagnan-Bouveret. MERIDIAN C~harles T. Dazey 735 MOODS OF THE SOUL Robert Underwood Johnson . 47 NEW DAT Charles Washington Coleman 466 NOi~L Richard Watson Gilder 210 ONE TOUCH OF NATURE Edgar Fawcett 759 ONE WHITE MAY MORNING . Charles Winfred Douglas... 958 OPPORTUNITY Margaret Vandegrift 320 POEMS HERE AT HOME, THE James Whitcomb Riley 43 PROBLEM FOR THE SCIENTISTS, A Charlotte W. Thurston 959 SEEMING FAILURE Thomas Bailey Aldrich .... 191 SILENCE Maria Bowen Chapin 663 SINGERS EXCUSE, THE Mary Russell Bartlett . 958 SONG OF FAREWELL, A Edith Vernon Mann 866 THANKSGIVING DOZEN, A Richard Lew Dawson 159 TO-MORROW Walter Learned 922 TWO FRIENDS Charles Henry Webb 960 UNITED STATES POETRY COMPANY (LIMITED), THF% John Kendrich Bangs 7~7

Isabel F. Hapgood Hapgood, Isabel F. Ilya Repin, a Russian National Artist 3-12

VOL. XLV. THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. NOVEMBER, 1892. A RUSSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST. WITH PICTURES BY ILVA REPIN. No. i. A NATIONAL artistan artist who is equally at home in historical subjects; in scenes from modern life, ranging from the court to the peasant; in portraits, in interiors, and out- door lights, provided only that he be not asked to conform to the style of any set school, or to seek his inspiration outside of his native landthis is a rare phenomenon at the present day, when many men first cultivate assiduously a certain school, too often foreign, and then proceed to seek their subjects in all lands ex- cept their own. But this phenomenon we meet in the most famous of Russian painters, Ilya Evfimovitch R~pin. Even R~pin, however, has a predi lection for certain parts of his country, and his heart and brush are chiefly dedicated t~ that Little Russia where he was born and where the days of his humble childhood were passed. Little Russia is not much more than a name to those who regard St. Petersburg and Moscow as representing the vast empire of the Tzar, but its history is so full of poetry and chivalry that it may be classed with romance even for those who find facts dull and information heavy. ~ Far from the modern center of Russias life, from the capital of its commerce, its machine- organized army, its conventional court and officials, from theT snows and the birch and fir forests of the full-fledged empire of the North, lies the ancient capital of the infant nation, in the far South, the land of poetry, of legend, and of song. Kieff; cradled in the wide steppes, amid vivid sunlight and waving plume-grass, guarded by stiff, sentinel poplars, and raised high in air upon green hills, above the broad blue Dny~pr, still remains, in the hearts and the reverent affection of Russians, the Mother of all Russian Cities. From the ninth century Kieff has been the heart of the steppes. For a very long time the steppes of the southwest, which bear their pedi- gree in their name of Little Russia, formed the chief portion of the Russian sovereigns realm, and its ownership carried with it the much- coveted, hotly contested title of Grand Prince Copyright, 1892, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved. THE ATAMAN (CHIEF) OF THE COSSACES. 4 A RUSSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST (Grand Duke, as it is usually translated), and supremacy over the myriad other warring, petty princes of the growing empires early days. Across the steppes surged the hordes of Asia, which overran Europe in the dark ages; and, in later centuries, when Kieff; the sacred city of monasteries and churches, the goal of pilgrimages, had been set like a gleaming jewel in the Dny~prs rare crown of wooded hills, its possession was fought for, in many a bloody battle, by Poles and Russians, by Turks from Stamboul and by Tatars from the Crimea, the Volga, and the Don. Devil take you, steppes; how beautiful you are! cries G6gol, the child of the steppes, who has immortalized them and their wild cavaliers in musical prose, and has given us exquisite descriptions of the region, and tales filled with the dreamy poetry of the Ukraine. As we gaze from the cliffs of Kieff across the Dny~pr, and out over that grassy plain, that mainland ocean, upon whose emerald the flit- ting clouds cast shadows of gold, purple, and bronze, and which hardlyyields in inexhaustible fascination to what the Russian ballads term expressively the oceansea,~~ we feel as though, at any mo- ment, we might behold Tffras B~ilba and his gallant sons ride forth from the lower town at our feet. There still lies the monastic academy where those young hawks had completed their curiously mixed educa- tion, at which their father mocked until the younger, Andrii, pummeled him into respect, as was supposed to be fitting, in view of the fact that they were on their way to the Setch, where education of any sort was nearly superfluous, and where well-aimed blows were rated at their proper value. Some distance below Kieff; the Dny6pr descends in falls. At this point the kazdks, centuries ago, estab- lished their military republic of Zapor6zhya ( Beyond the Falls ), whose barrack capital, the Setch, wherein no xvoman might set foot, lay on an island in the stream. The famous band of Zapor6zhtzi was a motley crew of braves, composed of discontented men from all parts of the countryof those who had fled from towns to escape petty oppressions or taxes; of those who had fled from the country to evade land-service, or other impediments to the absolute liberty which their souls craved; of those who merely wished to indulge in the inborn Russian love of a roving life in the open air. Be patient,kaz~k, thou shaltbeAtamffn [chief] some day! was the democratic motto which their rough elections fully bore out, and which corresponded to the American boys motto touching the Presidency. They owned allegi- ance to no ruler for their debatable land betxveen many kingdoms; but the Sult8n of Turkey, the King of Poland, and the Tzar of Muscovy al- ternately sought and betrayed their friendship, while the kazffks, in turn, as blithely changed their loyalty, according to circumstances and booty. Southern Russia lay unprotected on the east, and suffered severely from the incursions of the Turks and Tatars, who carried orthodox Christians away into captivity by tens of thou- sands, and sold them like cattle in the marts of Stamboul, Trebizond, and other Eastern towns. The songs of the Russian people at this epoch bewailed the lot of their brethren in captivity, waxed wroth over the Christians who betrayed their faith, and rejoiced over those who made their escape by all sorts of wiles. Succor came only from the Zapor6zhtzi. These braves formed a stout defense for their peaceful brethren, and not only protected their boundaries from in- A FRAGMENT FROM THE ANSWEE TO THE SULTAN. ENGRAVED BY -i~ DAVIDSON. A MAID OF LITTLE RUSSIA (KHARKOFF GOVERNMENT). z 0 LL~ z U z 0 U 0 U ~T2 H z 0 U z LI~ 0 H 0 H A RUSSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST 7 cursions by the Mussulmans, but frequently descended the Dny6pr, in light barks, to the Black Sea, and fell upon the enemys coast towns. Having plundered and set fire to them, they rescued the captive Christians andbrought them back to their native land. It is an incident in the life of a later date that R6pin has chosen for his great picture, which was shown in the Perambulatory Ex- hibition this spring, and immediately bought by the Emperor. Toward the close of the seventeenth century, Ivan Dmftritch Syerko was the Atamftn of these modern knights-er- rant. The Zapor6zhtzi were at the zenith of and types which, though assimilated, in a mea- sure, to one warlike type, are as varied as their garments, the fruits of many a foray, which range from gold-embroidered velvet to home- spun, or as their accoutrements, which run the complete gamut, from Turkish matchlocks in- laid xvith gold, mother-of-pearl, and turquoise, to brass-capped pipes of Karelian birch-root, such as can be bought at the present day for a few cents in the popular markets of Kieff and other towns. The only uniformity about the company consists in the obligatory tuft of fluttering hair, a sort of scalp-lock, which, re- calls the Tatar queue of the Chinese. ENGRAVED ES P. PdTKEN. A COSSACK OF THE STEPPE. their power. Fifteen thousand pickedjanizaries It is not difficult to diVine that the letter be- had perished by night, under the walls of Za- gins with the proverb An unbidden guest is por6zhya, having been abandoned by their worse than a Tatar, which, under the circum- frightened allies, the Tatars. In i 68o, the Sul- stances, was a biting insult; and, judging from tan Mohammed IV. sent the Zapor6zhtzi a the gestures directed toward the steppe where formal threat that he would make another de- other members of the band are performing their scent upon them, which, this time, should be celebrated feats of horsemanship beyond the annihilating. They replied in a letter filled line of tents, since they were, evidently, on an with taunts and rude jests, and it is the inditing active campaign, it proceeds with a counter- of this Answer to the Sultan which R6pin threat of a prompt and businesslike visit to has represented in his spirited painting, and Stamboul. It was a bragging-match, the exact which gives us a vivid idea of the personality counterpart of those which we find described and the characteristics of this noted band. In in the epic songs of the tenth century as tak- the center of the group, the regimental scribe ing place between the paladins of Prince an important functionary where so few Vladimirs Table Round and the Tatar khans, were skilled in the art of letters, like old Tfirass before the walls of Kieff. sonsis seated at a rough trestle table. At These latest exponents of Russian chivalry his left, Syerko presides over the assembly who occupied very much the same ground with a sort of amused gravity. The scribes which was occupied by infant Russia in the face is puckered with suppressed mirth at the tenth century, and rendered to western Europe - impertinences which the assembled company the same service in the sixteenth and seven- is engaged in dictating to him; the kaz~tks teenth centuries which Prince Vladimir and are screaming with laughter over their literary his druzidiza rendered in the tenth are gone. exercise, and present an array of countenances Those days of Zapor6zhyas glory have passed 8 A USSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST away forever. Hetman Syerkos men carried his hand with them on all their expeditions for the period of seven years after his death, and that withered hand led them always to victory. Rut, early in the eighteenth century, soon after Hetman Mazeppas treacheryto Peterthe Great, the power and prestige of the kaz~ks declined. Since then, the rich virgin soil of the steppes has been gradually dedicated more and more to agriculture, their extent has been greatly curtailed, and the days of the last Russian chiv- alry, in the medieval sense of indiscriminate and reckless warfare, have vanished. Repin himself is half a kazftk of the modern style. His father was one of the kaz~ks whom the Emperor Alexander I. settled, as military colonists, in the government of Kh& rkoff, among the steppes, on their return from the European campaign of 1814, rechristening them Ublans. The father served the old long term of twenty- ye years, and our artist ranked in his youth as a military colonist. He began his educa- tion in the Topographical Institute. When Alexander II. abolished these economico-mili- tary colonies in 8~6, after they had done much involuntary service as cultivating agencies, and transferred the Institute to another part of Russia, the little colonist, then twelve years of age, went to learn painting from a painter of church images. It was, no doubt, the best thing that he could do, under the circumstances, but this instruction by no means explains, to one accustomed to the conventionality of fea- ture and coloring imposed on image-painters, R~pins present status as the finest portrait- painter Russia has ever had, For three years the lad painted images and small portraits from nature, the latter evidently without sugges- tion or instruction from his master, and distin- guished himself to such a degree that contrac- tors for churches came from a hundred versts round about to seek his services. In his lei- sure hours, on- holidays, the ambitious young artist read and studied to prepare himself for the goal of his ambition, for which he xvas also hoarding his earnings the Academy of Arts. His dream was realized when he reached St. Petersburg, in November, 1863, with only twenty dollars in his pocket, and found him- self face to face with the problem of existing through the severe winter, and getting his instruction. He has given us a glimpse of his extreme poverty, and of the sufferings which he endured in the years which intervened between his en- trance to the Academy in 1864 and his gradu- ation in 187i, in his account of the hardships of his fellow-student, Antok6lsky, the most noted of Russian sculptors. That is a period over which it is best to pass lightly. It ended when his picture, on a theme of his own selec- tion, and painted in addition to the Academi- cal program, was bought by a Grand Duke. This picture, his famous Towers of Barks on the Volga, shows the influence on his career of the progressive and talented artist Kramsk6y, who had been his master, without pay, all this time, since R6pin cared nothing for the pro- fessors at the Academy, and used that build- ing only for working and for the lectures. Kramsk6y was a young artist who had rebelled against the antiquated, conventional Academy, THE CONSPIRATORS. A RUSSIAN NATIONAL AR 1ST. 9 and had founded the Thciety for Perambulatory Exhibitions, which still thrives, and to which R6pin is a distinguished contributor. During the three years which he spent abroad at the expense of the government, chiefly in Paris, he felt a lack of power, an uncertainty as to what he should undertake, and he pined for his na- tive land. He seemed to have an intuition that national subj ects were to be his strong point. Of the two paintings which (with studies) date from this period, a fantasy from oneofthe mostcharm- ing of the Epic Songs, representing Sadk6 the rich Guest (merchant) of Novgorod, in the submarine realm of the Water King, hangs in the private apartments of the Empress of Rus- sia,in one of the summer palaces. In fact, if one wishes to study R4ins works, one must seek them in the Imperial palaces, and in the gallery of Mr. Tr6tiakoff, the merchant prince of Moscow, who is the M~ecenas of Russian painters. Who that has seen them will ever for- get Ivan the Terrible Killing his Son Ioann, The Return of the Exile, or the striking por- trait of Sut6ieff (the peasant secretary whose chief disciple is Count Lyeff Tolst6y), with its pitilessly truthful rendering of the narrow head, lono- blond locks falling over the small, pene- trating but not remarkably intelligent eyes, of a typical Great Russian peasant? Inimitable por- trait, of Count Tolst6y keep them company, and the present unpublished sketch of the great VOL~ XLV2. author, immersed in a book, and stretched out on the couch on which he was born, is one of many made at the Counts country estate. In this unpretentious country home, at Yas- naya Poly~na, this leather-covered couch har- monizes with the rest of the severely plain furnishing of the xvhole house, and, in particu- lar, of the famous study in which it stands. This study clearly shows that it is the central point in which all the great authors varied interests meet. Under the whitewashed vault of the ceil- ing stand bookcases, a scythe, a spade; a mis- cellaneous collection of rude footgear is piled on the rough floor of boards; a whetstone in a leather case and a saw hang on the plain white wall, in company with several crumpled felt hats and peasant coats of yellow and brown homespun, and the portraits of William Lloyd Garrison, Charles Dickens, and other celebrities who are favorites with the owner of the room; the writing-table is loaded with correspondence, books, pamphlets, and newspapers from many lands, as well as with his own manuscripts such are the surroundings among which R6pin introduces us to Count Tolst6y. Albeit the small, piercing eyes are concealed, his earnest face is sternest when he is engaged in reading the multitudinous publications which feed his omnivorous appetite for literature of all sorts and his universal interest in his fellow-men. His hair is becoming gray, and rarely conde ENGRAVED BY C. BCHWARZBURGER. ARREST IN A VILLAGE. (A (A H H 0 LT2 H A RUSSIAN NATIONAL ARTIST II scends to lie smooth above the prominent brow, under any circumstances. Assuredly, he was never known to take such heed of his some- what delicate health as to throw across his legs the rug which we see in the picture. The ar- tist, for purely decorative purposes, must have seized a blanket from the bed one of those highly colored and patterned blankets which are used everywhere in Russia, and which the inexperienced foreigner, on first acquaintance, invariably dubs horse-cloths. Whatever the Count may have been reading, when Ripin drew him in such apparent repose, poetry, philosophy, theology, or flction,we may be sure that his mind was active, and that his judg- ment on the work was keen and sure, so far as its literary value was concerned. Even the moral and theological views, which bias his judgment in other respects, are precious for their property of arousing thought and discpssion. If ancient military Russia has vanished, an- cient religious Russia has not, and R~pin is equally happy in rendering a characteristic scene from this same historic Little Russia whence he springs, and which he loves, that bridges over the gap of centuries between his fierce but pious Zapor6zhtzi of the steppes of old, and the peaceful and pious inhabitants of the steppe towns of the present day. The procession of The Revealed Image, also from this years exhibition, has walked bodily upon the artists canvas from the government of Khiirkoff. The glowing heat of summer broods over the scene. A wonder-working ik6n has been revealed as such by a miracle; a procession of honor has been formed, and the sacred image is being carried about rev- erently to all the prominent houses and points in the neighborhood. The neighborhood has received a liberal interpretation as to boun- dary, and the image is now on the highway, passing through a bit of forest. Similar pro- cessions are common everywhere in Russia, especially during the summer months. All the sacred images of a town or hamlet, headed by the most noted of them, and accompanied by church banners, lanterns, intoning priests, and chanting choir, are borne in a Procession of the Cross on a long round, in commemoration of some notable interposition of Providence in bygone years such as the departure of the French from Moscow in 1812, which is thus celebrated in the Kremlin, with great pomp, on the T 2th of October of every year. The inhabitants look upon these occasions as holidays, and people from all ranks in life fall in in the rear, join in the prayers at the sta- tions where the procession halts, sip the con- secrated water for health of the stream which is blessed, contend for the honor (which is granted as a signal favor) of carrying the heavy images, or of seeming to do so by touch- ing them with the tip of the finger as they walk close beside them. With the procession of The Revealed Image the case is slightly different, but only in the fact that miracles and cures are awaited from moment to moment. The halt and the lame bow before the won- der-working ik6n, with heads laid in the dust of the road, that the Virgin (the Revealed Im- age is always, or nearly always, a Virgin) may pass over them and heal them. The de- vout general, without whom no Russian scene is complete, pants along mopping his heated brow, and the sturdy religious tramp, a/las pilgrim, who is as indispensable to a land- scape as the general, strides on with unwearied enthusiasm in his crash foot-cloths and linden- bast sandals. It all forms part of his nomadic enjoyment, in company with the sun, wind, and dust, rain, mud, and open air, xvith a crust begged here and a copper begged there, K/zr/s/i rddi (for Christs sake), to be expended in fiery cold tea. The prominent ladies of the town, those who, by birth and position, are entitled to the privilege of bonnets and parasols, assert their rights to a leading place in the procession; while the peasant maids and men, in their gay, picturesque costumes, break their way through the underbrush on foot3 or in their rude /elfrga. The gigantic deacon swings his censer of silver gilt, and from his mouth, round as Giottos 0, framed in massive cheeks and long, crisp locks, his stentorian voice rolls forth in the rich intona- tions of the ancient Slavonic ritual, which are a perpetual delight to the musical ear. But there is a darker side to this sunny, out- door life of Little Russia, the midnight side. The old restless spirit remains unchanged. These regularfeatured, levelbr eyed men and women of the Ukraine, much handsomer than those of the North,such as Ripin depicts for us in his Maiden of KhSr- koff, are still addicted to fighting against all government, in modern, underhand ways, which are not an improvement upon the bold, open methods of warfare of the Zapor6zhtzi. Ever since the hatching of the conspiracy against Alexander I., which broke out in the Decembrist riots in St. Petersburg on that sovereigns death in 1825, when Nicholas I. came to the throne, Little Russia has been noted for its secret societies and plots. There is no line of painting in which R6pin, fine in all lines, excels more than in seizing the very heart of popular types and events. In his Ar- rest in a Village, and his Conspirators, he introduces us to some of the organizers of these plots. There is nothing, it is true, to show us the exact locality of these scenes. But, while the types are national, it is more T2 BE YOND THE LIMIT than likely that they come from the artists fa- vorite Little Russia. The roughly floored, low- ceiled, ill-lighted room, in which the officers of the law are unearthing treasonable docu- ments, is the ordinary dwelling of the peasants of almost any part of Russia. The prisoner, with his delicate, determined face, which is familiar to every one who has observed, let us say, the throng of readers at the Imperial Pub- lic Library in St. Petersburg, or any similar assemblage, has been hiding in some peasants izbd, and probably carrying on his hopeless propaganda in a quiet village, after assisting at some such midnight council of conspirators as R6pin shows us. The very hair of the ear- nest speaker, and of his intent hearers, whose faces are illuminated, prudently, by the faint light of a single candle, is suggestive; for al- though most Russians, with the exception of the close-trimmed army men (not including some favored kazftks), still believe that the Lord provided man with hair for warmth and ornament,not for the purpose of clipping it to the scalp, there are as many styles of wearing it long as there are of getting rid of it. Who that has had occasion to visit Russian post- A DREAM lay on the rim Of the horizon far and dim, Where the sea and sky together Shut in the golden weather; The ships with stately ease, Close to the steady breeze, Drew on, and on, and on, Pierced the limit and were gone. The headlands in the sheen Of orchards waxing green, Were like billows of rare bloom; The air was all perfume; Great sea-birds overhead On silent pinions sped; All was so sweet and calm That mere living was a balm. and telegraph-offices does not recall with de- light the inevitable pretty man, with the ec- centric coiffure, who is to be found in every station? The droop of these conspiring locks is as significant as are the faces, or as is the official in another picture, who is inspecting the village school, and driving both master and pupils to confusion with his examination. For ten years Rfpin has lived in St. Pe- tersburg, having found Moscow too narrow, when he tried it for a short time on his return from Paris. His charming studio, at the junc- tion of two of the picturesque canals by which the city is intersected, and not far from the scene of G6gols tale, The Portrait, is filled with objects of Russian manufacture, and its walls are hung with portraits of the most fa- mous men of the day. What next will come form from the busy brain and hand of the quiet, gentle genius, as different from the wild kazfiks and tragic personages of his imagin- ings as well could be, is a question which enlists the interest of the Russian critics and public every spring, and which, in the future, may evoke the sympathy and interest of a wider public. Isabel F Hapgood. But somewhere, far away, A hint of sorrow lay; A vague, deep longing stirred; Some strain, as yet unheard (Of music strange, to shake The heart till it should break), Was just beyond the rim Of the horizon far and dim. O land! 0 sky! 0 sea! Is there no peace for me? What shadowy dread is this That hovers round my bliss? Far as my vision goes My tide of pleasure flows; What lies beyond the rim Of the horizon far and dim? Maurice Tkomjso;z. BEYOND THE LIMIT.

Maurice Thompson Thompson, Maurice Beyond the Limit 12-13

T2 BE YOND THE LIMIT than likely that they come from the artists fa- vorite Little Russia. The roughly floored, low- ceiled, ill-lighted room, in which the officers of the law are unearthing treasonable docu- ments, is the ordinary dwelling of the peasants of almost any part of Russia. The prisoner, with his delicate, determined face, which is familiar to every one who has observed, let us say, the throng of readers at the Imperial Pub- lic Library in St. Petersburg, or any similar assemblage, has been hiding in some peasants izbd, and probably carrying on his hopeless propaganda in a quiet village, after assisting at some such midnight council of conspirators as R6pin shows us. The very hair of the ear- nest speaker, and of his intent hearers, whose faces are illuminated, prudently, by the faint light of a single candle, is suggestive; for al- though most Russians, with the exception of the close-trimmed army men (not including some favored kazftks), still believe that the Lord provided man with hair for warmth and ornament,not for the purpose of clipping it to the scalp, there are as many styles of wearing it long as there are of getting rid of it. Who that has had occasion to visit Russian post- A DREAM lay on the rim Of the horizon far and dim, Where the sea and sky together Shut in the golden weather; The ships with stately ease, Close to the steady breeze, Drew on, and on, and on, Pierced the limit and were gone. The headlands in the sheen Of orchards waxing green, Were like billows of rare bloom; The air was all perfume; Great sea-birds overhead On silent pinions sped; All was so sweet and calm That mere living was a balm. and telegraph-offices does not recall with de- light the inevitable pretty man, with the ec- centric coiffure, who is to be found in every station? The droop of these conspiring locks is as significant as are the faces, or as is the official in another picture, who is inspecting the village school, and driving both master and pupils to confusion with his examination. For ten years Rfpin has lived in St. Pe- tersburg, having found Moscow too narrow, when he tried it for a short time on his return from Paris. His charming studio, at the junc- tion of two of the picturesque canals by which the city is intersected, and not far from the scene of G6gols tale, The Portrait, is filled with objects of Russian manufacture, and its walls are hung with portraits of the most fa- mous men of the day. What next will come form from the busy brain and hand of the quiet, gentle genius, as different from the wild kazfiks and tragic personages of his imagin- ings as well could be, is a question which enlists the interest of the Russian critics and public every spring, and which, in the future, may evoke the sympathy and interest of a wider public. Isabel F Hapgood. But somewhere, far away, A hint of sorrow lay; A vague, deep longing stirred; Some strain, as yet unheard (Of music strange, to shake The heart till it should break), Was just beyond the rim Of the horizon far and dim. O land! 0 sky! 0 sea! Is there no peace for me? What shadowy dread is this That hovers round my bliss? Far as my vision goes My tide of pleasure flows; What lies beyond the rim Of the horizon far and dim? Maurice Tkomjso;z. BEYOND THE LIMIT. SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON, Author of The Anglomaniacs, Flower de Hundred, etc. WITH PICTURES BY C. B. GIBSON. I. BURST of fortissimo mu- sic from the organ, which had been dawdling over themes from Wagners operas, caused every head in the seated congregation to turn briskly around. Some people stood up, swaying to catch a first glimpse of the bride. Outsiders, tucked away in undesirable back- pews, went so far as to scramble upon the cushioned seats. It was, however, a false alarm. The middle aisle, center of interest, developed nothing more striking than a trim little usher, in pearl gloves with a buttonhole of white carnations, convoy- ing to her place of honor beyond the ribbon a colossal lady with auburn front, red in the face, and out of breath. Conversation in pews reserved for the elect of good society. She: Hum! Bridegrooms maiden aunt, suppressed generallyhow Freddy rushes her along! Sent twelve silver soup-plates and a huge tureen, when everybody knows soup is served from behind the screen, and it would take all one servants time to keep em clean but she thinks she s paid her way well to the front, poor soul! He: Here s the grooms motherdeuced fine woman yet is Mrs. Vernon. Who d be- lieve she d a son of five-and-twenty? Hates to admit it publicly, but is putting on the best face she can. She: Not her best face her second best. I ye seen her improve on that. But then, this half daylight, half electricity is abominably try- ing. And she really does look very well, viewed from the rear. He: Clever, toothe way she s run the family upwhen one thinks what the husband was. She: Does one ever think of him? By the way, what was he soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, what? He: Tinker, most likely, considering the family brass. I saw him once coarse-grained creature, epidermis like an elephant, diamond in his shirt-front, and all that. Speculated after the war in Virginia City mines, and made a big fortune; then dropped dead of apoplexy, and left it for her to spend. She sent her boy to a good school; gave with a free hand to all the charities; boy made friends everywhere; went through Harvard like a streak; has traveled, yachted, hunted, been in the best sets ever since; is about to marry into one of the proudest of the exclusive families of New Yorkand there you are.~~ She: Oh! But he s really such a beauty, dont youknow? Half the women in town have been pulling caps for Jerry Vernon. And, after all, what are the Hallidays but has-beens? He: Take care. There s one of their high-born ramifications glaring at you from the next pewold lady with eye-glasses and a snjff. Came up from Second Avenue in a horse- carlooks like the unicorn on the British coat of arms.~, She: Gracious! It s the brides cousin or something; let s change the subject. Oh! did you hear poor Mrs. Jimmie Crosland could nt go to the opera last night because that wretched, jealous husband shut her nose in a wardrobe door? He: Really? Was nt theirs the last wed- ding we came to in this church? She: Of course. Dont you remember? Regular peep-show; six chorus girls from the opera, in white xT~eils, to sing The voice that breathed oer Eden. They say she even hired the pages to hold up her trainput em in Charles II. wigs, and passed em off for little brothers. He: Exactly. One gets these theatrical affairs so confoundedly mixed up. See, the grooms mother is still upon her knees. A woman could nt pray so conspicuously unless in back seams from Worth. She: For shame! How malicious you men are! I should have said it s because she s keeping Mrs. Vane-Benson standing in the aisle for every one to see. You know they have been at some trouble to corral relatives to match the brides, and Mrs. Vane-Benson s their trump card. How bored the poor rector looks waiting in his bower of palms. He: Queer how people marry, and bury, 3

Mrs. Burton Harrison Harrison, Burton, Mrs. Sweet Bells Out of Tune 13-28

SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. BY MRS. BURTON HARRISON, Author of The Anglomaniacs, Flower de Hundred, etc. WITH PICTURES BY C. B. GIBSON. I. BURST of fortissimo mu- sic from the organ, which had been dawdling over themes from Wagners operas, caused every head in the seated congregation to turn briskly around. Some people stood up, swaying to catch a first glimpse of the bride. Outsiders, tucked away in undesirable back- pews, went so far as to scramble upon the cushioned seats. It was, however, a false alarm. The middle aisle, center of interest, developed nothing more striking than a trim little usher, in pearl gloves with a buttonhole of white carnations, convoy- ing to her place of honor beyond the ribbon a colossal lady with auburn front, red in the face, and out of breath. Conversation in pews reserved for the elect of good society. She: Hum! Bridegrooms maiden aunt, suppressed generallyhow Freddy rushes her along! Sent twelve silver soup-plates and a huge tureen, when everybody knows soup is served from behind the screen, and it would take all one servants time to keep em clean but she thinks she s paid her way well to the front, poor soul! He: Here s the grooms motherdeuced fine woman yet is Mrs. Vernon. Who d be- lieve she d a son of five-and-twenty? Hates to admit it publicly, but is putting on the best face she can. She: Not her best face her second best. I ye seen her improve on that. But then, this half daylight, half electricity is abominably try- ing. And she really does look very well, viewed from the rear. He: Clever, toothe way she s run the family upwhen one thinks what the husband was. She: Does one ever think of him? By the way, what was he soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, what? He: Tinker, most likely, considering the family brass. I saw him once coarse-grained creature, epidermis like an elephant, diamond in his shirt-front, and all that. Speculated after the war in Virginia City mines, and made a big fortune; then dropped dead of apoplexy, and left it for her to spend. She sent her boy to a good school; gave with a free hand to all the charities; boy made friends everywhere; went through Harvard like a streak; has traveled, yachted, hunted, been in the best sets ever since; is about to marry into one of the proudest of the exclusive families of New Yorkand there you are.~~ She: Oh! But he s really such a beauty, dont youknow? Half the women in town have been pulling caps for Jerry Vernon. And, after all, what are the Hallidays but has-beens? He: Take care. There s one of their high-born ramifications glaring at you from the next pewold lady with eye-glasses and a snjff. Came up from Second Avenue in a horse- carlooks like the unicorn on the British coat of arms.~, She: Gracious! It s the brides cousin or something; let s change the subject. Oh! did you hear poor Mrs. Jimmie Crosland could nt go to the opera last night because that wretched, jealous husband shut her nose in a wardrobe door? He: Really? Was nt theirs the last wed- ding we came to in this church? She: Of course. Dont you remember? Regular peep-show; six chorus girls from the opera, in white xT~eils, to sing The voice that breathed oer Eden. They say she even hired the pages to hold up her trainput em in Charles II. wigs, and passed em off for little brothers. He: Exactly. One gets these theatrical affairs so confoundedly mixed up. See, the grooms mother is still upon her knees. A woman could nt pray so conspicuously unless in back seams from Worth. She: For shame! How malicious you men are! I should have said it s because she s keeping Mrs. Vane-Benson standing in the aisle for every one to see. You know they have been at some trouble to corral relatives to match the brides, and Mrs. Vane-Benson s their trump card. How bored the poor rector looks waiting in his bower of palms. He: Queer how people marry, and bury, 3 HE IS WAITING FOR ME, / // /1 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 5 and flirt, under palm-trees, nowadays! Im get- ting awfully tired of being tickled by the spiky things every time I sit out a dance, or go to call upon a girl. Hullo! There s Mrs. what does she call herself since she got her divorce? She (animated) Is she? No, really? I would nt have missed seeing Hildegarde de Lancey for the world. It s the first time she s been out. Is nt she perfectly lovely in that gray bengaline and chinchilla, with the bunch of violets at her breast? I always did say Hildegarde de Lancey she is now; so nice to have got rid of her odious, ugly Smithson is the best-dressed woman in this town. Why, what a belle she is! I believe all the ushers would like to escort her in a body up the aisle. Of course Freddy de Witt saved her a front place. He knows what people want to see. He: She s a charmer, certainly. If I xvere the Mrs. Gerald Vernon that is soon to be, I d be rather glad Mrs. de Lancey is proposing to live abroad. She: Oh, nonsense. You men always think the worst. Jerry was touched, no doubt, but Hildegarde meant nothing. You cant conceive of a greater brute than Smithson, and Hilda was always such a darling thing. Every one says she is in luck to get rid of him so soon. How well she looksno wonder everybody stares. Oh, Im so glad we re to have Hilda back! Elsewhere in the church. A mother in Israel to her young daughters: So that s the famous divorcuie, Mrs. XVhat s- her-name Smithson, the papers have been so full of lately? Dont look at her, Doris and Gladys; I insist that you dont look that way. Have you observed the figure of Dorcas in poor Mrs. Goldings memorial window? The drawing of the right arm is excellent I wonder if that person does anything to her hair to give it that baby gold. I would nt trust her any farther than I could see. Dear me! the best people bowing, and smirking, and trying to catch her eye. Ahem! Mrs. de Lanceys toque sits quite close to the head, girls; I think it much more becoming than those great cart- wheel hats you insisted upon having sent home. DorisandGladys: Weknow~mama~ we ye been watching her ever since she came into the church. What fun it must be to make as much stir as the bride! Two girls in tailor gowns, with fur boas and muffs. They have come in an omnibus to the nearest corner, and were splashed with mud in getting out. Dear me! we are lucky, but I had to push awfully to squeeze in. If I had nt known Tom Brounlee, I d have never had this seat. He asked me if we are going on to the house, and I coughed and smiled, and he took it to mean yes. My, Jennie, look at the new suits! I can tell you the names of most everybody here. I do know the bride, anyhow, for we re on a working- girls amusement board, together. I must say she s as nice a girl as I ever wish to meet. Cant say as much for her sister, Miss Betty such a lank, sour-looking thing, and a tongue sharp as a razor. Nobody can stand her in our club. I wish the organ would nt play so loud you cant hear yourself talk. Gracious, child! lean over, and let me take that lump of mud off your face. I m thinking I can alter my blue Henrietta cloth by putting coat-tails bound with velvet on the basque, like the one that s just gone by. Have a chocolate, do; got em fresh to-day, as I passed by Tylers, on my way to match my blue. Oh! I do love weddings. I go to every single one I can. Lady from the Faubourg St. Stuyvesant, seated well forward in the church. Poor Margaret Halliday! there she comes with Betty and Trix and Jack. I wonder if her grandfather is nt turning in his grave at this minute, over the marriage of a Ilalliday with one of these upstart Vernons. Humph! Mar- garet looks haggard, Betty as yellow as a pump- kin, Trix rather overblown, and Jack growing up one of the beefy kind. I m glad it is nt my daughter who s to be sacrificed, that s all. Lady, who has secured end of pew on aisle, whispering to her husband next to her. George, that s Mrs. Clarkson that edged by you just now. If you d known it, you d surely have been more polite. Who in the dickens is Mrs. Clarkson, anyway? When we met them at dinner at the Tompkins, and you took her in, and were so charmingly agreeable! I declare, if I d had the least idea you were going to be glum and cross at a wedding, I d never have persuaded you to come. Enough for you to have had to shell out the sixth pair of piano-candlesticks this year, without bor- ing yourself with the wedding too! Geo;cge / You know you were always fond of Nelly Hal- liday. F/ease try, only tryI dont say you will succeed to be a li/tie H/like other people. I have given up hoping for more when you go out with me. (Mrs. Clarkson just then en- gaging George in conversation, he becomes easy and smiling on the spot.) Two Hibernian ladies, in silk gowns and imitation cashmere shawls, are ushered into the seats reserved for the domestics of both families. Arrab now, it s a sad day, Misthress Bran- igan, an you that s cuk in it only this twelve- month cant tell the faylins o me, that raised me little Nellie from a four-year old; the light o the house goes out wid her, the darlint. Go, Norah, says she, pushin me wid her two bonds like swans-down, be off wid ye to the SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. church, an sthop yer cryin, to watch yer gyiri come oop the aisle in all her finery. An is it happy ye are, Miss Nell? says I. Norah, says she, wid a little swate smile in the eyes of her, if it s the last word I have to spake to me old nurse before I m med Misthress Vernon, I m that happy Im afraid. Duet in the vestry. Jerry Vernon and his best man, Dick Henderson. The bridegroom: Oh, but I say, old man, something s happened at the house, or in the street, or hang it, you need nt grin. Look at the soles of these boots, will you? If that infernal fellow of mine has nt been and put a brand new pair on me, after all; and all the ushers and bridesmaids will be grinning when we kneel down. Dont you think the rec- tor could be induced to bless us s/a;idin~r up ? I d double the fee, oranything. Dick, if an accident has happened to that girlthis is a judgment on me for jeering at those who went before I never heard such a bally old idiot as that organist he makes me fairly crazy with his jigging tunesyou re sure you ye got the ring? ridiculous little object to cause all this fuss, is nt it ? Nell wears a six glove, and look at the height of herI never could have married a little woman by Jove, Dick, I wish we two did nt have to amble in there before everybody and simper at the crowd. Wkat? Coming? Back me up, Dick, and Ill go at it like a man. Nell s worth it, every time. Among the ushers huddled in the vestibule. The weary Mr. Frederic de Witt, mopping his beaded brow: Dumping the bridesmaids outside, are they? Well, I m glad. Great C~sar! but I m tired. The cheek of women at weddings, and the push! No; I decline to see any reporter. I refuse to divulge where they are going for the wedding journey, the names of those here present, or the price Jerry paid for our scarf- pins. You gave Jerry notice in the vestry, did you? Hope you did nt forget to remind him that the unfortunate man, having partaken of a light breakfast of eggs, bread, and coffee, WE ARE BEHIND TIME, MRS. VANE-BENSON AND I. SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 7 usually walks with a firm step to the place of execution. Hi, there, gentlemen! Fall into line to precede the bridesmaids, if you please. Among the bridesmaids. If we look as well as the couple that walk before us, I m all right. These directoire hats and coats are certainly too sweet. Oh! are nt you scared to death? But it s better than being Nell. The bride (divinely tall and most divinely fair a rose flush in her cheeks, her dark lashes downward bent, her dark hair knotted low on her neck, the old lace of her mothers bridal veil like frost-work upon her trailing robes of white, no ornament but a string of pearls around her throat, one of her hands lightly laid on the arm of the respectable old cousin who has been haled from his respectable old club to do pa- rental duty for the day), to herself: I saw him. He is waiting for me. All these people are here to see me become Jerrys wife. But it makes no difference. If we were in a desert it would be just the same. The thought of him fills my whole heart. I wonder if it s selfish and wicked to care for nothing, now, but the joy and the glory of being Jerrys wife. Until death us do part. The troth plight was interchanged; Jerrys hand, colder than her own, put the ring upon her finger; and the rector, who had baptized Eleanor, pronounced them man and wife. During the ceremony the lower part of the church, having sated its curiosity, was in full buzz of chat about the plainness of the brides gown, the absence of diamonds reputed to have been given by the groom, and the question whether guests should go on to the reception at once, or amuse themselves with other oc- cupations of the hour. While the clergyman was in the act of pro- nouncing the benediction, and the organist was panting to let himself loose on the wedding- march from Lohengrin, people were button- ing their wraps, and gliding out of the church, to be sure of their carriages before the crush. Hardly had Eleanor passed under the awning to her carriageand to the reality of life before public interest in the bride had in a great measure exhaled. But they rallied around her presently in the house occupied by Mrs. Halliday and her daughters, looking into a quiet down-town s(luare. The wide double drawing-rooms of the old family mansion had put aside their shadows for the day. Under an arch of greenery and lilies Eleanor received her friends, Gerald at her side, looking quite pitiably conscious and ill at ease. The bridesmaids, headed by Trix, Nells eighteen-year-old sister, to whom this event was a species of dThut into society, stood in a semi- circle, wearing the expression of amateur actors VOL. XLV.3. who have just acquitted themselves of a per- formance in which they happily believe the rest of the world to have been as much interested as were they. The crowd, jostling forward to pay salutation to bride and groom, continued afterward to jostle on general principles. Ex- changing inquiries to which no one listened for the answer, and comments as to the nicety of having one of the old-school houses open again for entertainment, they then pushed on to the dining-room to partake, less enthusiastically, of an old-school collation marked by the ab- senceof terrapin and truffles, and by the limited amount of the champagne. From the walls of this refectory looked down a row of oil-paintings in faded frames of gilt; a spirited young man with a Henry Clay stock and standing collar, flanking a high-colored lady in a bonnet with a bird-o-paradise, and a scarf over her bare shoulders; sundry Continental soldiers, New England Brahmins, and a stiff-husked dame or two of remoter date, with attendant cavaliers in periwigs and ruffles. Over the sideboard hung a sour-visaged personage of Revolutionary date, the great-grandfather of the bride, familiarly spoken of among his descendants as The Signer. He was a strong tower of American aristocracy, and Mrs. Halliday always felt that in his protecting presence at herparties she could venture to order in another bottle or so of soda water to dilute her champagne punch. Every- where in the house thus brought to contempo- raneous notice there were marks of gentility that lacked repair. The hangings and furniture, placed there before the centurys new birth into righteousness of taste, were massive but shabby. The carpets, worn into threadbare spots ill con- cealed hymodem rugs; the walls, faded beyond hiding with palms and rubber-trees sent in (on close contract) by the florist, called aloud for restoration. Although it was the fashion to say, when glancing casually about these rooms, How delightful! Ilow solid! What relief after the varnish and glitter of up-town! no one was observed to linger there over long, or to return unless especially bidden to a function of exigent conventionality. This afternoon, in custody of a hand of hirelings, who before cockcrow of another dawn would vanish, bearing with them every spoon, fork, plate, and glass now in ser- vice for the guests, the premises did not suggest even their usual homely comfort. But to-day, for the first time in many days, Mrs. Hallidays handsome features wore a look of complacent satisfaction. Betty, the eldest daughter, aged six-and-twenty, plain, angular, and pessimistic, stood by her mother at the door of the drawing-room, outside of which was posted Andrews, the lean, old-time butler, to announce the guests. Jack, the collegian, tall and pink-cheeked, with a down on the SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. upper lip that his sister Trix thought wonder- ful, a little too conscious of a new frock-coat with its buttonhole of gardenias, wandered about incessantly, resenting the notice of his mothers old friends who told him how much he had grown, and repudiating suggested re- semblance to this or that portrait upon the walls. In the rear of the two ladies was a man, no longer in his first youth, of distin- guished though inconspicuous presence a man with sleepy gray eyes and a languid man- ner, before whom Betty was always at her best. My dear Anthony, his hostess had said to him, you are at home here; you know everybody; for Heavens sake, stay and help me out with Nells in-laws.~ My dear cousin, I am yours as always, he had responded, with a smile, not however mirthful. The list is fortunately short, whispered Betty in mocking tones. Here, mother, comes your very largest pill Nells new mama. Yes, everything has gone off well. I am pleased that you admire the lace. No, my daughter is not tired; we have not allowed her to do much. Mrs. Halliday was con- scious of her thin, cold voice, and felt that it was a poor return for Eleanors new house, horses, brougham, victoria, not to mention the necklace and solar system in diamonds, already at the Safety Deposit Companys, in waiting till the brides return from her wedding lourney, the last Geralds gift,paidforby Mrs. Vernons check. But Mrs.Vernon was quite be- vond the point of sensitiveness on the trifling score of measured civilities. Ensconced as a relative within these shabby walls, she felt that her price was far above rubies or diamonds either! If Jerry had to put upon her the in- dignity of being a prospective grandmother, he had at least done it in good form. We are behind time, Mrs. Vane-Benson and I, she said, as the lady named made her bow, and retired to mingle with the throng; but Mrs. Vane-Benson judged it would be more the thing for us to let the young people such children! but I, myself, was married at sixteen get a little settled down before I fluster them with my congratulations; and I told her I guessed she was right. Mrs. Halliday winced at the voice and speech. She hardly dared trust herself to look full in the face this modish person in silver- gray with silver broideries, with the silver bon- net perched on her dark, glossy locks, with the brilliant color softened by rice-powder, the dazzling teeth, the frequent laugh, the effusive cordiality, the aroma of prosperity. She be- came conscious of lines in her own face, and of a break under her chin, that ought to have been, but were not, in Mrs. Vernons. She looked down at her old black velvet supplied with a new frontispiece of jetted lace, and marked the contrast between its indescribable wispiness and the crisp perfection of Mrs. Ver- nons attire. Altogether. she was in some haste to rid herself of dear Eleanor s mama. You will be wanting to speak to Nell and Gerald, she said. Mr. Theobald will give you his arm across the roomsAnthony my cousin Mr. Theobald, Mrs. Vernon. The hazel eyes took on a new luster of de- light. To be translated into the heart of that inner circle that till now she had only brushed with extremest flounce was to cross the room leaning on the arm of mywhy not our? cousin Mr. Theobald. To Theobald, for reasons of his own, the whole affair was a somewhat grim comedy; and, abandoning himself to the situation, he duly brought the widow to a halt before the bridal pair. My dearest Jerrymy sweetest Nell, the lady said, embracing both with such exuberance that Gerald fidgeted. We shall see more of each other now, Eleanor said, very low. Gerald has told me of all your generosity; he thinks there was never a mother so kind as his. Gerald knows I shall be terribly alone, began the older woman, tears ready to twinkle in her eyes. Madre, you must nt, please, the young fellow whispered, in a tumult of alarm. With Freddy de Witt, Henderson, and the others looking on, he felt that an expansion of ma- ternal tenderness would be his death-blow. Mrs. Vernon will perhaps allow me to take her into the dining-room, interposed Mr. Theo- bald, from the brides elbow, where he had been standing without speech. So polite of you, dear Mr. Theobald, ex- claimed flattered Madame Mare, linking her arm again in his. The danger was averted. Nell, who, better than any other, knew Theobalds fastidious taste, flashed on him a quick glance of grati- tude. She reproached herself, when he had gone, that she had not said something in the way of personal thanks for his gift of the etch- ings, so long coveted, which had arrived that morning framed for her boudoir in the new home. And now her attention was claimed by a radiant personage who was for the first time a guest beneath their roof. It was more than I hoped, to make your acquaintance in this way, said Hildegarde de Lancey. Mr. Vernon and I have always been such chums. Eleanor blushed, remembering the little pas- sage-at-arms with her mother regarding this SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 9 ladys name upon Jerrys list. She sent a swift inquiring look the gaze of a young-eyed cherub fortified with innocenceinto the pair of blue orbs that met hers with a deprecat- ing, almost pathetic appeal. Certainly, such an ingenuous beauty could not be to blame for her undue share of human griefs. We are glad to welcome you, the bride said graciously. Every one is so good to me, murmured Hildegarde, with exquisite pathos. And Gerald says you have been so good to him, went on Eleanor, while Jerrys atten- tion was absorbed by some one else. It is his grateful nature, as you will find. But I am keeping back your friends, so au re- voir, and the vision disappeared. Jerry, she s exquisite, said Eleanor. Who is ?there are so many shes. Nell, here s my Aunt Tryphena, who sent usby Jove, what did she send? Never mind; thank the old girl profusely, and choke her off good luck a man dont have to gush over apostle- spoons and salt-cellars every day of the year. 0 NELL, it must be so nice to be you, cried Trix, presently, when, in their bedroom, she hoveredaround hersister,helpingold Norah to put on the brides frock for traveling. This sable cape Aunt Penfold sent is simply gor- geous. Betty says she d have given mink, if you had married a poor man. And Jerry s so good-looking, and such a dear hurry, Nell,everybody sin the hall,andJerry andJack are fussing, declaring you 11 miss the train oh! I ye been having a peep out of the window at your new brougham, lined with dark myrtle-green satin such as we ye always dreamed of such horses, such rugs, and such a big, big footman to tuck you in and touch his hat no more cabs by the hour for you, you lucky girl. Run, now, you silly Trix, and tell Jerry I 11 be there, and ask mama to come; and you, Norah dear, take that long face away and dont let me see it till you ye learned to smile. Mama, are we alone? May I lock the door? Good-by, darling, darling; and would you mind sitting down upon this little chair, and letting me say my prayer at your knee, just to ask God to make me fit for such perfect happiness? II. Mv dear Miss Halliday, wrote Mrs. Ver- non to the sister of her new daughter-in-law, a few days after the young couple had left town on their wedding journey, Will you and your sister Beatrix give me the great pleasure of your company at an early dinner, very infor- mally, at seven oclock on XVednesday next, to go afterward to the opera? I am asking your cousins Mr. Thomas Halliday and Mr. Theo- bald; and, with the exception of one other man, we shall be quite a family party. I am longing for an opportunity to talk over with you the first news from our darling wanderers. Believe me, yours faithfully, M. VERNON. Thursday. M. Vernon, Thursday humph! Signs herself like a duchess; her name s Martha Luella Ann, observed Betty, throwing the note upon the table in the up-stairs sitting- room where the ladies Halliday were wont to read, sew, write notes, discuss their friends, and dictate to the day-dressmaker. Family party, indeed! I knew we d be plunged into a bo- som friendship. I dont believe Anthony Theo- bald would be caught at a Vernon dinner. Oh, yes, he would, cried Trix, coming in equipped for a walk with her fox-terrier around the square. I saw him after the play last night, looking wretched, really; and he asked me if we are going, and said he will be there. Then I suppose you approve of our mak- ing friends with Mammon? said Betty to her mother. Dont you think it s enough for Nell to have set up her golden calf? Why cant we grovel in honest pauperism, and maintain our self-respect? My dear Betty! said Mrs. Halliday, com- pressing her lips resignedly. She had long ago given up entering the lists of discussion with her eldest daughter. I want to go, said Trix, stoutly. I m dying to see one of Mrs. Vernons dinners, and to go to the opera under the shadow of her new tiara. The newspapers say it s a second- hand crown of real royalty, bought at a Paris sale. Well, her man is waiting, so make up your minds, resumed Betty, sitting down at the davenport, and dipping her pen in ink. If the senders of invitations could hear the bickering they cause in families, I dont think society would go on with such a rush. So you insist on our accepting, mother? Not at all, answered Mrs. Halliday, pluck- ing up spirit. Trix may, for we must keep in with Nells new people; but you will, as usual, do exactly as you please. It may endwho knows ?in Jerrys Aunt Tryphena chaperoning us to a Patri- archs, murmured Betty, dashing oW as she had intended to do since hearing that Theo- bald was to be of the party, a smooth accep- tance of Mrs. Vernons courtesy. I like our darling wanderers, as if theywere lost dogs! To end the conversation, Mrs. Halliday took up a newspaper addressed to her through the mail, and tore from it the cover. Trix, de- parting with the note and the terrier, did not see the white look that came upon her mothers 20 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. face, or hear the stifled exclamation of dismay uttered by the poor lady as she dropped the journal in her lap. What in the world ails you, mother? be- gan Betty. Oh! this is infamous, cried her mother. Take it away. I refuse to read another word mixing up my daughters name with the scan- dal about that de Lancey womans divorce. Betty, if Nell were to see this, it would break her heart. Oh! if her father had been alive, they would never have dared of course it is all a wretched lie about Jerry and Mrs. Smith- son. Jerry asked for her invitation, and Jerry is a gentleman, at least. Betty, I ye no patience xvith you, standing there like a stock. For Betty, quite mistress of herselg had picked up, smoothed out, and was reading the offending article with a scornful little smile. It was one of those upas-like exotics of modern society journalism, a two-column account of the Vernon-Halliday nuptials, with side-issues of biography of all concerned, set forth with plentiful cheap wit, audacious statement, and deadly innuendo. After disposing in short or- der of the bridegrooms pretensions to social importance, and affecting to voice the surprise of good society that the brides family should have so frankly displayed its inability to resist golden bait, it went on to give at length the history of Mr. Gerald Vernons late well-known infatuation for our most recent and distin- guished divorcee.,~ Thats a fin-de-si& le phrase, quoth Betty, coolly, laying down the journal without an added tinge upon her cheek. My dear little mummy, dont take the thing so hard. Every- body will read it, of course, and enjoy it thoroughly. Betty, how can you? I shall have to leave town, certainly. I remember when I danced with the Prince of Wales at the Academy ball, and my dress was described next day in the pa- pers, your dear father was so vexed, he wanted to go and overhaul the editor. Our family could never bear to see women in printoh! we shall not be able to face the light of day. It is bad enough to drag in this wretched Mrs. Smithson, but imagine the outrage of saying Nells f-father-in-law married her in-mother-in- law from the wash-tub / Did you ever hear of such an abominable charge? Noo, answered Betty. I always thought it was from a beauty-show. The wash- tub, now, seems to me quite an advance in the social scale. Mother dear, bear up. By the time you meet the people you know again, they will have forgotten all about it. This kind of pil- lory in print is too common in our society to hurt anybody long. In next weeks issue of this charming sheet you may no doubt have the pleasure of seeing some hit at the people who this week laugh at you. Here, see me poke the wretched thing into the hottest part of the fire; and you take Trix, and go out for a week to Lakewood. But Nell,my darling, sensitive Nell, suppose she reads this cruel paragraph. I m not in the least afraid of Nell seeing anything but the light that lies in Jerrys eyes, forI will give her till the end of the honey- moon before taking up human interests again. If Jerry sees it, he will probably whistle and say a good many bad words. If Mrs. Vernon sees it, it will do her good. That kind of wo- man needs a little rap over the knuckles from time to time, to keep her in her place. Betty! said Mrs. Halliday. She often felt that there was a sort of monotony in these monosyllabic rejoinders to her daughters trenchant sentences. MRS. VERNONS dinner was distinctly a suc- cess. To meet Betty and Trix she had convened old Mr. Tom Halliday, the cousin without re- proach, who, it will be remembered, had given Eleanor away at the altar; Mr. Theobald, and an extremely nice young Southerner, whose father had been killed in the war, and whose family was supposed to go back in an unbroken line to William the Conqueror, like all other Virginians, present or to come. To this Mr. Brockenborough Vyvan, a broad-shouldered, soft-voiced youth, Trix was assigned, and while secretly wondering where Mrs. Vernon had got him, the little minx was taking his mea- sure and deciding that he pleased her, which, happily, is all a healthy girl in her first sea- son generally cares to ascertain. Betty, going in with Theobald, was eminently suited and almost amiable. Old Tom, seated. at Mrs. Vernons right, fell into a doze after the first entrde, but waked up every time the servant ap- peared at his elbow with a new dish, and, for the rest, let the widow talk in a constant stream which led her to declare to his young cousins afterward that he was really one of the most agreeable dinner men in town. The dining-room, hung with tapestries and opening into a great conservatory, the perfec- tion of plate, porcelain, wines, and service were noteworthy even in extravagant New York. Betty, recalling, as under such circumstances guests inevitably will, the story of Mrs. Ver- nons origin, and her recent struggles for social recognition, marveled at the ease, even ele- gance, with which she now presided. She could not, at a birds -eye view, behold much difference between this and a similar dinner before the opera a few nights ago, in the penetralia of good society. She remembered having heard some one say that poor Mrs. Vernon had had abso SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 21 lutely no chance while her husband lived a crass vulgarian, sure to put his foot into every- thing; a typical American, like a commercial advertisement at the back of a magazine. The time lost in mourning him had been spent by the widow abroad, and in bringing up his son. And it was not till Gerald left college, and got in with the mothers and sisters of his fashionable friends, that the Vernons actually came up for notice. Even then he was invited, she ignored. The great fine house, into which she did not choose to bid the half-way pe.ople who would have been glad to go, was like a prison, in dreariness. Jerrys men came and went to and from his suite of rooms on the third floor, but never put in an appearance in his mothers draw- ing-room. This, at least, was what Betty Halli- day had heard. She saw that on the wave of Jerrys marriage into one of the really good old families Mrs. Vernon had resolved to ride into the haven of her hopes. And Betty could not but admit that she was doing this thing with a good deal of cleverness. What an exchange from our shabby house to such splendor! remarked Betty, in a low tone. I m rather glad Nell is to have a more modest establishment of her own. One can never keep up a friendship with riches that slap you in the face. She is the one woman I ever saw who would always, rich or poor, be herself; Theo- bald said, and then, relapsing into his usual im- passive manner, turned the talk into another channel. Speaking of homes, the site of this is where the old Sydney Wardour house used to stand; and twenty years ago it was a center of hospitality in New York, and accounted the height of fashion. How homely their entertain- ments would seem beside such as these, and how cramped their quarters! What has become of the Sydney War- dours? said Betty. One rarely hears their name. What has become of all of our once prom- inent families of moderate wealth who are submerged in the flood-tide of plutocracy? Either broken to pieces in the attempt to keep up, or the heads of the families dead, and the younger ones reduced to insignificance. The way we live now certainly does nt in- cline one to indifference to wealth, she said. The young men I know are most of them on the qul vive to help along their fortunes by a rich marriage; and as to the girls, it is no longer a support they expect from their husbands, but unlimited opportunity. Then it is well a woman like Hildegarde de Lancey comes a cropper now and then, to point a moral for the rest. I dont see what you call coming a cropper, retorted Betty, scornfully. She is more in de mand than any one I knowin the smart set, I mean. Old-fashioned people like my mother hold up their hands, but societyour society, the society caresses her, and condones what they are pleased to call her misfortunes. She is immensely in the swim. She was the bright star of a dinner the other night at the Bullions, where six out of the twelve guests are living apart from their legal partners owing to infeli- cities too numerous to cite. By Jove,we are catching up with Chicago, said Theobald. Did you see the squib in one of the papers recently,where an English traveler asks Mrs. Lakeside if she has been presented yet at court. My gracious! yes, indeed, she answers; every judge in the city knows me; I ye been divorced three times. Tony, tell me something, Betty pursued more gravely. You must know how people talk. Is there any reason why Nell should no; I cant ask you here. But I think we can count upon you to keep us warned. One dont want to be made a fool of before the world; and you know you always were so fond of Nell. Theobald drank ~ff at a draught his newly filled tazza of champagne before he answered, with a laugh: I think Mrs. de Lancey will find it to her advantage to keep quiet for a while. Let us talk~of something pleasanter: Trix, for instance. That t6te-~t-t~te with the athletic youngster yonder does nt promise well for the chances of Mr. Timothy van Loon. Oh, Trix is hopelessly unworldly. The Van Loon connection does nt tempt her in the least. Timothy, as to whom, since they got him away from the ballet-girl he wanted to marry in Paris a year ago, his family have de- cided that he cant do better than take up with one of ours, is densely unconscious of the fact that Trix considers him a booby and a bore. However, we don~know what a years appren- ticeship to society may do for our debutante. She may wake up to her advantages in time. WHAT a very long name you have! Trix had progressed so far as to be saying to her neighbor, Mr. Brockenborough Vyvan, whose dinner-card her eye had lighted upon. Yes; our hostess has given me the full ben- efit of it. It was worse than that once. Regi- nald Alfred I was christened, after two uncles; but the fellows at college called me Brock, and when I came to New York to go into the offices of Clyde, Lawrence & Clyde, they are building Mrs. Vernons new house at Lenox, you know, I cut loose from all the rest. I was sent by the firm once to wait upon a mil- lionaire client, a rough old hay-seed, whom I found studying my card. Look a-here, young 22 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. feller, he remarked, by way of greeting, if you re goin to make your livin out of us ever- age American citizens, take my advice and drop them tenderfoot frills off n your name. Itll be worth many a dollar in your pocket, if you do. And I did. The girls merry laugh rang out. Which was your university? she asked, helping herself to something that tottered in a silver dish. Yale, of course, he answered, with proud promptitude. Why, it cant be you are of course you are Vyvan, 8, the half-hack that made the famous run at the Polo grounds, and won our game against Princeton! Did you happen to be there? I should say so! Jack and I were on top of a coach waving blue silk handkerchiefs; and I fairly shouted myself hoarse for you. To tell you the honest truth, when I saw you in that awfully dirty canvas jacket and trousers, chew- ing gum, just before you kicked the final goal, I thought I d rather know you than anybody in the world. Vyvan tingled with satisfaction, to the ears. And who is Jack, if I may ask? In the Yale catalogue, John Livingston Halliday, of the Freshman class my brother, and the best friend I ye got. Yes, I know. He s the fellow who broughf a reputation for rowing to college from St. Pe- ters, and is talked of as likely to get a seat in the boxy of this years boat. I should say there is no doubt of that, said Beatrix, tossing her head complacently. Jack captained the winning Matlock six last year. I wish you could see his arm muscle. It is very nice that he is pleased with Yale. He really likes it tremendously, I think. Does he? said the amused alumnus. Oh, yes. He is pledged to Hay Boolay. Ah? That was my spot, too. Was it? I m so glad. And I m hoping and praying Jack will get into Sk What Senior Society were you in, Mr. Vyvan? Oh! What have I said? I beg your pardon, and, coloring with mortification at her heedless al- lusion to esoteric mysteries never to be ut- tered, she remained silent; nor was serenity restored until Vyvan led the talk into a dis- cussion of the students ball known as the Junior Promenade. She is as fresh as a daisy in the grass, re- flected Brock. I did nt believe it possible of a girl in society here. Queer thing she should have seen me make that run. But what have I to do with girls? Itll be a long day before I can cast a second look at any of the little dears, ended this philosopher of twenty-four. Such delightful spirits hasI suppose I may say our little cousin Trix, murmured Mrs. Vernon, turning to Theobald. I was re- marking only yesterday to Mrs. Vane-Benson that all of the Halliday girls are so very differ- ent, and each so charming, so individual. People will ask me if Trix is going to marry Mr. Timothy van Loon. I hardly think that fair to one of the family, do you? Mr. Theobald adjusted his monocle in his right eye, and looked at his hostess narrowly. He was a deliberate man, and her quick attack found him without a suitable reply. In his soul he was saying, She is an amazing woman; and, upon my word, I believe she 11 win. As for Cousin Tom, the old gentleman was already captive to the widows wines and the excellence of her cookery. He did not know that her chef, who was a sympathetic soul as well as a master of the art of fencing, had com- posed the menu of this little entertainment un- der the title of a Petit assaut darmes. M. Alcide, with the rest of Mrs. Vernons numer- ous retinue, perfectly understood the conditions of the case. When they came out from dinner, the men to pass into a Pompeian smoking-room, their hos- tess brought her party to a halt in a little ante- chamber purposely left in shadow theretofore. There was a general exclamation of surprise. Facing each other on the wall-spaces, hung full-length portraits of Gerald and his mother, the frames sunk in maroon draperies that,lighted with electricity above, gave the startling effect of living presences in the group. Of course you recognize the artist ? said Mrs. Vernon, modestly. They have but just come home from his atelier, and I coul& not deny myself the pleasure of seeing how they strike my guests. Strike me? They make me shiver, whis- pered Betty to Theobald. If that man had painted Dr. Jekyll, people would have been sure to see i~ it the monster Hyde. They say he employs a little somebody with horns to come up through a trap-door and paint his eyes for him. The frankness of these is DOsi- tively brutal. The portrait of Mrs. Vernon represented that lady standing in a gown of pinkish mauve satin, superbly rendered and full of glancing lights, against a background of azaleas of a purplish pinka resplendent burst of color, and of an originality in technic that bespoke a master hand. But no one, brought face to face with it for the first time, could fail to perceive the fatal note of bourgeoisie it betrayed the audacious revelation of qntamed savagery beneath this wealth of flaunting beauty. Geralds portrait, on the other hand, was his living, breathing self, handsome and high-bred, with the dash of an hidalgo of old Spain. But SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. 23 Geralds mother was not prepared for the effect it was to have on Trix. Oh! no, no! cried the girl, putting her hands before her eyes. That is not Jerry. It is somebody who has a cold heart, who is violent and self-willed, and would sacrifice any one he loved. I am sorry I looked at it, to have such a fancy get into my head. It is the old story, began Theobald, in the embarrassed silence produced by Trixs plain speaking. Half the people one knows are at war with their portraits sent home from famous studios. In an age that has seen ob- loquy cast on an example of Meissonier But Mrs. Vernon was not at once to be appeased by polite generalities. She was evi- dently ruffled, and in need of tangible consola- tion to recover her usual balance. Fortunately, this was not long in coming to her. When they reached the opera-house, and settled with the fashionable swan-like pose into their chairs, Betty Halliday, who was in a line with Mrs. VernonTrix, rosy and brilliant, be- tween the two found herself in the box adjoin- ing that of the social autocrat, Mrs. Van Shuter, known to the scoffers in the parquet as one of the chatterboxesin the parterre. Poor Mrs. Vernon, whose money had not yet pur- chased for her the right to disturb her neighbors with va1)id conversation, had hitherto been obliged to remain in depressing silence through long evenings of metaphysics set to music. In despair she had secured a score, and tried to pose as a virtuosa in Wagners music; but the effort proved too fatiguing, and she gave it up. Thus, she had returned to the privilege of studying every crease and surge of the fat Van Shuter back as it appeared overlapping a tightly laced corsage; the clasps of the van- ousVan Shuter necklaces; the thin, flaxen Van Shuter hair, strained up over a pinkish cranium, and surmounted by plumes and jewels. All these were familiar spectacles, but she could not truthfully aver that she had seen the near front of the lady who sat through the opera-season like Buddha, vast, placid, twinkling with gems, satis- fied to exist and to let herself be worshiped. Duringthe weeks past, Mrs.Vernon had vicani- ouslv enjoyed reports, vouchsafed by Mrs. Van Shuter to her visitors, of Mrs. Van Shuters at- tack of grip, of Mr. Van Shuters attack of grip, and of the inroads of grip on the consti- tution of Mrs. Van Shuters confidential maid. Dawson, said I, had floated in from the great ladys box, if, when you first begin to sneeze, you will clap a porous plaster on your chest, grease your nose xvith mutton tallow, 4nd take ten grains of quinine, you will certainly feel better the next day. But Dawson was ob- stinate, and the result was what you know. This much, even, had Mrs. Vernon been allowed to overhear but alas! not as one priv- ileged to sorrow with the sufferer. It would have been so sweet to breathe sympathy for Dawson into the ear of Dawsons mistress! To-night, things were different. When Mrs. Vernon, wearing the renowned tiara, faultlessly gowned in modest pearl-color, appeared before the eyes of the multitude, leading old New York in chains, many observers took note of it, and resolved to leave on the morrow their tardy cards at Mrs. Vernons door. Mrs. Floyd-Cur- tis, herself a lady recently promoted, mentally booked the widow for a dinner three weeks off. And, better than all, the ample bulk of the Idol turned slowly upon its satin-cushioned pivot, and Mrs. Van Shuter actually nodded and smiled toward Mrs. Vernons box. You have not dined with me this year, she said to old Tom Halliday. To Theobald, over Bettys shoulder, When are you coming to finish our nice talk about German baths? You are looking badly, and I wish you would try my little Doctor Bangs. He has done Mr. Van Shuter good, and he is doing Dawson good. Then to Betty, graciously, You have heard from your sister? Florida, I am told. It was in Florida I caught the cold that lasted till after Easter of last yearin our own car, really. Who is the young man with Trix? Somebody brought him to my party before the lastyes, Vyvan, I remember; I shall have him written in The Book, and you may present Mrs. Vernon to me, if you like, my dear. A few off-hand words from Betty, and the deed was done. Mrs. Van Shuter lifted her heavy eyelids, ducked her double chin; Mrs. Vernons color rose, and her tiara tipped for- ward. Mrs. Vernon had crossed the Riibicon. Dick Henderson and Freddy de Witt rehearsed it afterward at the club, and a number of br- gnons took in the fact. But Mrs. Van Shuters condescension did not stop at this. Your mother got the notice of the meeting at my house on Friday of next week? she asked of Betty. Tell her I count on her. There are so many coming who wont signify. It is to be a talk from that Mrs. Duncombe, the new woman who has had such success with the lower classes. What does she do to the lower classes? Betty inquired. Oh! ereverything; it is a scheme for making working-women understand their legal rights against their husbands. I should think her chief trouble would be from the married couples between whom she interferes. Eh? oh! She says with a Fund an immense deal may be done. I made her understand that I cant be looked to to give money, with all I have to do. But I said they may meet first 24 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. in my Empire room, and I let my Miss Thomp- son write the notices. I suppose we shall know, when we get there, what it is all about, said Betty, fearlessly. Yes, certainly. There are to be flowers distributed among the poor, in potswith little pamphlets revised by lawyers. Perhaps Mrs.ah Vernon would like to come. If she would like to come, I dont mind telling Miss Thompson to write a card for her. She might; I dont know, said Betty. She s awfully rich, and very generous. But I very much doubt her going unless you first call on her. A surprised look made itself manifest upon the Idols large pink face. But, then, every- body in town knows it was pains thrown away to be affronted by Betty Halliday. But you know, my dear, I never go in anywhere. And my first footman, James, en- gaged with me never to leave the box to ring a bell, except in an emergency. Tell James this is a very great emergency. I think, if you re economically inclined, you 11 find it pay, said Betty Halliday, by whom it was pains thrown away to feel affronted. III. NELL, said Gerald, who was sitting by his wife on the veranda of a Florida hotel, I never told you that as we drove away from the house the day of the wedding to catch the Southern trainyou know it had begun to rain I saw Tony Theobald striding around the corner without an umbrella, and his face as black as thunder. Queer Dick, is Theobald. I)ont suppose he d been having a row with anybody, do you? Oh, impossible, said Nell. She had her lap full of spring flowers, had been awakened by mocking-birds trilling on the bough of an orange-tree that swept her window, was breathing softest air, looking un- der a blue Italian sky across the sparkling wavelets of a lovely lake. Gerald was at her side, heaven in her heart. She dismissed the subject of Theobald as she had all other clouds that drifted across the azure of her empyrean. Suppose we go out on the water, Gerald proposed after a lazy silence. Delicious. It is what I like best. Shall you row? No; let s have one of those black fellows, one who sings, and loaf along till xve feel like landing. XVhat are you going in for? To get parasol and gloves, of course. Any- thing you want? Seems to me we might as well have left that pair of menials at home, for all the wait- ing on we get, said Gerald. My man, when he s not smoking my cigarettes, is asleep; and your Swede sits reading Seaside Libraries when she is nt at her meals. Do you know, Gerald, there s something a little queer about that girl. She told me last night, when she was brushing out my hair, that she thinks Florida is stupid; that is to say, not stupid, but that there is a great deal of sand here, and the negroes and alli- gators are very much alike. Fancy finding Florida stupid! Well, if the woman has nothing to do, and nobody to make love to her, perhaps the sit- uation is different in her eyes. I m afraid Hughes is a confirmed old bachelor; besides, he had a breach-of-promise suit in England once, and wont look at a woman since. Jerry, that reminds me, before I go there s time enough, is nt there ? Bless you, yes. There s as much time as there is sand, in Florida. Now that you have spoken about your valet I dont like to seem suspicious, but, really, there was rather a strange thing hap- pened yesterday. You know, when the breeze fell, and you were kept out fishing with those men so much longer than you expected, I got a little nervous and fussy, and I went into your room and began turning over the things on your dressing-table. I found there the necktie I like so much, the dark blue with the white speckles that you d taken off when you changed to flannels, and, just to comfort myself a little, I I Well you you I kissed it; and, happening to look in the glass, I saw behind me Hughes, who had come into the room in that noiseless way of his That s his specialty; commands extra wages always. And Hughes did what? Oh, he did nothing; but I caught an ex- pression in his eye that I thought strange and sinister. When I turned around, rather sharply for me, he begged pardon, and did I know that the sail-boat was in sight? Of course this was a trifling circumstance, but I could not mistake that very peculiar look Nell, I ye a secret to tell you. You are a little gull. Hughes is the salt of the earth, as valets go; supports an old mother in Eng- land, and all that; andnow you re going to be furious I ye seen that expression on his face a thousand times, it s when he s try- ing to hold in a laugh! Jerry, I did nt think you could be so mean. If we re to be spied upon, I wish we d left Hughes and Elsa in New York. Ever since old Norah had rheumatism I ye waited on myself~, and I m always thinking how I should love to lay out your things for you. 2: 2: z z 2: 0 rn 2: 0 0 z VOL. XLV.4 26 SWEET BELLS OUT OF TUNE. If you say so, I 11 send em both out in a leaky boat, anti swamp them in the lake; though it would be easier to ship them home by train. Unix-, if we do, we 11 he guyed awfully. As you are passing the desk, ask if the post is in. C) jerry, we dont want any letters, anti I have nt looked at a paper since the clay after the wedding, when I saw those two nightmares purporting to he us, between a member of the rogues gallery and somebody who makes three-dollar shoes. Well, they have clone with us now. We are hack numbers, and not wanted at any price. We may as well enjoy the woes of our successors. When I went to school in England a little American chap turned til) who wrote to his governor in London: Dear Father: If you dont take me away, I 11 run away. Every fel- low in the school has kicked me since I came! At the end of a week he wrote again : L~ear Father : I like it better than I did. A new fel- low came to-clay, anti we ye all kicked him! It was three weeks after the legitimate end- ing of the honeymoon, and they had been knocking around Florida, shunning the h aunts of men and the beaten tracks of travel. For a time it had seemed as if they would need an eternity of isolation in which merely to discuss their reminiscences of meeting and falling in love. They took into the woods books and magazines, and read them upside clown ; iii- vented childish devices to test anti fathom each others love; spent hours in profound analyses of each others character anti glorifications of each others qualities. Gerald was astonished and, to his credit be it said, delighted with the crystal ~mrity anti grand directness of his wifes nature. He had never imagined a woman like her, and told himself that he would forever wor- ship this Brunhilda as she deserved. And every day Eleanors heart, shy and a little slow to ex- panci in the new relation ,grew to a broader understanding of and a greater reverence for the marriage bond. She thought of her mothers loss of a noble husband with new tears and with self-reproach that she had not bestowed on it enough of tender sympathy. Poor dar- ling mama To have had anti lost, to have borne such anguish anti survived it! Eleanors mind roved continually over the field of her acdluaintance, trying to understand the apparent indifference to each other of most husbands anti wives, the sharp words, the strained civilities, the perpetual friction upon minor points. She recalled how she hati heard women fashion their own matrimonial differ- ences into witty stories for the amusement of their listeners. How could it be that this had seemed to her merely a matter of poor taste; had repelled her only because of her constitu- tional reserve and horror of public comment? Now, it was as if a guardian of the holy of holies hati seen some rude hand laid upon his treasure; she felt profaned, outraged, by the memory of things heard which she for the first time understood. Jerry, who, we may be sure, received his full share of the outpourings c)f her heart upon thcse themes, was startled at her vehemence. The daily efflorescence of her beauty in her great love laid hold on and bewitched him utterly. Compared with the other women he had known, she was unique. Over and over again, when tempted to give some light answer to what he imvartily styled her impossible theories, he was silenced by her lofty soul looking from its windows into his. He had a vague sense that he was ashamed to lay bare before such a gaze what his real man con- tamed of unbelief anti materialism on these poim~ts. And every now and again there crept into his mind a feeble wish that his wife would be a little less intense. But she (lid not come back to him, after ever so brief an absence, that his admiration was not stirred; and when she now returned, holding a sheaf of letters, and standing beside him to distribtite them, the light touch of her garments thrilled him tenderly as he sat look- ing up into the morning freshness of her face. One from mama, one from Trix; all these for you, but only one that looks a bit interesting a Florida postmark, a swell envelop, and crest. Why, Jerry, who has found us out? It s a bore this getting letters, as yotm say, he answereti, thrusting his batch into his breast-pocket, without noticing her question. Shall I take yours too? Of course you ye no 1)ocket in that stunning tailor-made thing; but I forgive you, for it fits like a glove. Come, now, the clay is well along. Hughes rallied to the effort of spreading a rug in the bottom of the boat, and saw them off most affablyNell, in her tailor-macic thim~ of olti rose cloth picked out with sil- a ver, making, under her big hat, a picture her lazy lord was satisfied to scan to the exclusion of Floridian scenery. A handsome negro, like the Farnese 1-Jercules in bronze,who reminded them also of Tamagno in Otello,his pink cotton shirt open to show his massive chest, his eyeballs and ivories Bashing good-fellow- ship, hancileti the oars. Over a sheet of rippled lime, broken here and there by the snout of a traveling gator, anti ringed with tropic foliage springing from golden sands, they dawdled icily, until the increasing vigor of the orb of day caused Jerry to break into irreverent dluotation The suns perpendicular heat Illumines the depths of the sea, And the fishes heginning to SIVIXET BALLS OUT OI~ TUNE 27 Not another word, said Nell. You rob the hour of its sentiment. Let us go ashore at yonder point. I know a wood that is like the wherein the poet dreamed of fair women; There is no motion in the dumb dead air, Nor any song of bird or sound of nh. [heir way led through the aisle of an orange- grove, its darkly shining leafage starred with white blossoms, and (lotted with golden globes. Here and there a rain of Cherokee rose petals fell upon their path. An intoxicating fragrance filled the air to oppression, and clung to their hair and clothes. It was a relief to pass out into the dim wood beyond, and to rest on the grass- less l)ordlerofa still pool, as green as jade stone, an almost perfect circle, and exquisitely clear. Here, seated upon the rug, Jerry smoking a cigarette at her feet, Eleanor read her home letters, tasting them leisurely, antI putting them hack into their envelops with a loving touch. Those dear people How good and sweet they are. anti vet, somehow, their letters seem to draw me back into that busy selfish world we have heen trvi ng to forget. Jerry, it is your turn now. Open your budget, and while you are husy, I 11 finish this story I began nearly six weeks ago. I call it playing it pretty low down on an aLithor to take him along for honeymoon litera- ture, Jerry said, making no motion to obey. Read, Jerry dear; read your letters. Per- haps there is something in them to entertain me with. Gerald laughed a little constrainedly. The serpent has entered Eden. Confess, Nell, that you are dying of curiosity about the one with a Florida postmark, in a mans hand that you dont recognize, bearing a crest you never saw Coming so soon after that mysterious tele- gram that Hughes brought you yesterday, that seemed to worry you, and that you tore into little bits and dropped into the lakehave nt I good right to he suspicious ? Why, did nt I tell you? he said, sitting up- right and speaking rapidly, while devoting him- self to picking bits of moss and earth from his trousers. That telegram was from an old friend of mine who s down here in his yacht man I saw last, strangely enough, when we l)artedl at Tangier, where we fi come in with a camel-train from Fez. You must do Tangier with me next year, Nell, after we ye finished Spain. Wonderful country Morocco is, though you d no doubt like Spain better And what is the old friends name, Jerry, for I suppose he has one, although you neglect to mention it ? Best fellow in the worldnot a ladys man exactly, and I in not quite sure how you and he will hit it off, he answered airily. But he s the kind of fellow I should nt like to offend was married a year or so ago to the surprise of all his frienils, and they re down here at a bunga- low he owns. The fact is, his wifewell, I m not sure you and she would hit it off, Jerry re1)eated flatly. and conscious of the same. Oh, you foolish boy, as if I dont see you are trying to hide something. Why on earth dont you tell me who it is ? This is his letter in my pocket. The let- ter said the telegram would follow, no, I mean the telegram said the letter would follow, so I was expecting it, you see. His wife has egged him on, no doubt; they re (lead set on getting us to visit them, and, hang me, if I see how I can get out of it, considering 1 in under tremen- dous obligations to Shafto in the 1)ast Shafto? said Eleanor, also sitting upright, a flush coming into her face. Not the man who marriedl that (lreadlful Mrs. King? Well, if it comes to that, answered Gerald, a little resentful of her tone, she was, when he marriedl her,in exactly the same position as Mrs. Clare andl Mrs. Lovell and Mrs. I uddington; all separated from their husbands and married again with the sanction of holy church. I dont claim that Mrs. Shafto is a nice woman exactly, but the world has no right to accept the others and taboo her. That Mrs. King! repeated Eleanor, with a cold horror in her voice. Why, when the papers were filled every day with her divorce suit, my mother burned them, all, rather than let her children or servants come upon them. The worst of it was, Mrs. King is a sort of rela- tive or prot~gde of our old Aunt Penfold, who refused to l)elieve anything against her; but my mother got up once and left a room when Mrs. King came into it. Mama says she is an outrage on society. Poor Nell, who had unconsciously coin- mitted the commonest error in tact of youth- ful wives, was (luite taken aback by the vexed note, despite its attempt at pleasantry, of Ger- aPis ansxvcr: I should think a woman of the world would want to receive her ideas of such things from her husband, rather than hold on to the anti- quated notions administered to her with school- room pap. Oh, but, Jerry dear, she persistedl archly, is n t it borne in on you by this time that I never mean to be a woman of the world?~ But Jerry refused to smile. It was not ordy that he felt strongly the usual objection of his sex to opposition in any form from hers; but the annoyance of Shaftos telegram had cul- minated in the receipt of this letter, about which he had foreseen that unpleasant corn- plications were likely to ensue. 28 INSOMNIA. All the same, Nell, your mother belongs to another world than yours and mine, now; and sooner or later you 11 come to recognize the fact. As long as I m with you, and sanction it, it can do no harm for you to mix a little with the friskies; and in a case like this it s a good work disguised, you know. He had suppressed his first flash of resent- ment, and Eleanor longed with all her heart to win hack his smiles by acquiescence. but the stern stuff that had come down to her from a long line of Puritan ancestors would admit no tampering with conscience. jerr)- darling, she said pleadingly, you know I (lont need to repeat it that it would be a joy to me to l)lease you in this thing; but, indeed, it would do no good; every instinct within me rebels against such society. It dont amuse me; and I m no actor to cover what I feel. It is nt that I pretend to At in judgment on them or any one. But, if you love me, dont spoil our life by bringing me into relations with that kind of people. That kind of people said her husband, angrily. I wonder if it occurs to you that my habits are made, my friends chosen that I cant throw over old chums because they re not up to the Halliday standard. Why, Jerry !the girl said, in pained ac- cents. So suddenly had their difference arisen, she could hardly believe her ears. Geralds eyes, fixed upon hers in displea- sure, filled her with dismay. And, withal, she had the feeling one experiences in watch- ing a pettish child in the process of working himself up. The whole matter seemed too far beneath their love thus to imperil it. De- nied the privilege of a weaker woman of melting easily and, at this stage of married life, effectivelyinto tears, she sat in silence, while he strolled to some distance from the spot. (To be continued.) INSOMNIA. Q LUMBER, hasten down this way, 0 And, ere midnight dies, Silence lay upon my lips, I)arkness on my eyes. Send me a fantastic dream; Fashion me afresh; Into some celestial thinr Change this mortal flesh. Well I know one may not choose; One is helpless still In the purple realm of Sleep: Use me as you will. Let me be a frozen pine In dead glacier lands Let me pant, a leopard stretched On the Libyan sands. Silver fin or scarlet wing Grant me, either one; Sink me deep in emerald glooms, Lift me to the sun. Or of me a gargoyle make, Face of ape or gnome, Such as frights the tavern-boor Reeling drunken home. Work on me your own caprice, Give me any shape; Only, Slumber, from myself Let myself escape! Cons/a;ice Gary Harrison. Thomas Bailey A/dr/c/i.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Aldrich, Thomas Bailey Insomnia 28-29

28 INSOMNIA. All the same, Nell, your mother belongs to another world than yours and mine, now; and sooner or later you 11 come to recognize the fact. As long as I m with you, and sanction it, it can do no harm for you to mix a little with the friskies; and in a case like this it s a good work disguised, you know. He had suppressed his first flash of resent- ment, and Eleanor longed with all her heart to win hack his smiles by acquiescence. but the stern stuff that had come down to her from a long line of Puritan ancestors would admit no tampering with conscience. jerr)- darling, she said pleadingly, you know I (lont need to repeat it that it would be a joy to me to l)lease you in this thing; but, indeed, it would do no good; every instinct within me rebels against such society. It dont amuse me; and I m no actor to cover what I feel. It is nt that I pretend to At in judgment on them or any one. But, if you love me, dont spoil our life by bringing me into relations with that kind of people. That kind of people said her husband, angrily. I wonder if it occurs to you that my habits are made, my friends chosen that I cant throw over old chums because they re not up to the Halliday standard. Why, Jerry !the girl said, in pained ac- cents. So suddenly had their difference arisen, she could hardly believe her ears. Geralds eyes, fixed upon hers in displea- sure, filled her with dismay. And, withal, she had the feeling one experiences in watch- ing a pettish child in the process of working himself up. The whole matter seemed too far beneath their love thus to imperil it. De- nied the privilege of a weaker woman of melting easily and, at this stage of married life, effectivelyinto tears, she sat in silence, while he strolled to some distance from the spot. (To be continued.) INSOMNIA. Q LUMBER, hasten down this way, 0 And, ere midnight dies, Silence lay upon my lips, I)arkness on my eyes. Send me a fantastic dream; Fashion me afresh; Into some celestial thinr Change this mortal flesh. Well I know one may not choose; One is helpless still In the purple realm of Sleep: Use me as you will. Let me be a frozen pine In dead glacier lands Let me pant, a leopard stretched On the Libyan sands. Silver fin or scarlet wing Grant me, either one; Sink me deep in emerald glooms, Lift me to the sun. Or of me a gargoyle make, Face of ape or gnome, Such as frights the tavern-boor Reeling drunken home. Work on me your own caprice, Give me any shape; Only, Slumber, from myself Let myself escape! Cons/a;ice Gary Harrison. Thomas Bailey A/dr/c/i. ALICE, BY WILLIAM M. CHASE.

W. Lewis Fraser Fraser, W. Lewis The Century Series of Pictures by American Artists 29

ALICE, BY WILLIAM M. CHASE.

William M. Chase Chase, William M. The Century Series of Pictures by American Artists. Alice 29-30

ALICE, BY WILLIAM M. CHASE. AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. A TALE OF OLD COLONY DAYS. WITH PICTURES BY GEORGE WHARTON EI)WARDS. HAT is juSt the stun Squire Job Pettijohn sat down on the wall, and leaned his chin on his hand, and scanned a slate gravestone among a cluster of savin-trees. It was a solitary stone in the corner of a great field on a windy hill, where it was intended to make a family graveyard. The turnpike had passed the lot, and near the savin-trees was a pair of bars, as the rustic New England gateway used to be called. The gravestone had stood in the corner of the lot for nearly thirty years. Time had slanted it, and the little mound that had swelled the earth had sunken to the common level, and hore a network of blackberrv-briers with red leaves. The top of the stone bore the usual grim deaths-head and cross-hones, and underneath this solemn ad- monition had been carved the memorial: Sacred to the Memory of DELIGHT PETTIJOHN, only daughter of Joshua Toogood, and wife of Job Pettijohn, Aged 28 years. Beware, my friends, when this you see. What I am now, you soon shall be. You too like me will soon be gone. I was the wife of Pettijohn, And what I was you too shall be, And oh, my friends, remember me. Peimce to her ashes. 20 THAT IS JUST THE STUN

Hezekiah Butterworth Butterworth, Hezekiah An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving 30-43

AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. A TALE OF OLD COLONY DAYS. WITH PICTURES BY GEORGE WHARTON EI)WARDS. HAT is juSt the stun Squire Job Pettijohn sat down on the wall, and leaned his chin on his hand, and scanned a slate gravestone among a cluster of savin-trees. It was a solitary stone in the corner of a great field on a windy hill, where it was intended to make a family graveyard. The turnpike had passed the lot, and near the savin-trees was a pair of bars, as the rustic New England gateway used to be called. The gravestone had stood in the corner of the lot for nearly thirty years. Time had slanted it, and the little mound that had swelled the earth had sunken to the common level, and hore a network of blackberrv-briers with red leaves. The top of the stone bore the usual grim deaths-head and cross-hones, and underneath this solemn ad- monition had been carved the memorial: Sacred to the Memory of DELIGHT PETTIJOHN, only daughter of Joshua Toogood, and wife of Job Pettijohn, Aged 28 years. Beware, my friends, when this you see. What I am now, you soon shall be. You too like me will soon be gone. I was the wife of Pettijohn, And what I was you too shall be, And oh, my friends, remember me. Peimce to her ashes. 20 THAT IS JUST THE STUN AN 0L19 -TA SHIOA7IED THANKSGIVING. 31 iihat is just the stun the Lord forgive me if I am wrong. That there poetry never did quite suit me, although the schoolmarm composed it, she that is the traveling dress- maker now, anti gets her livin by goin round vision. Stands to reason that every one that reads that there poetry cant have been the wife of job Pettijohn. The parson criticized that verse when I first set it up, and it has never given me any satisfaction, though I have mowed past it, and stopped to whet my scythe here, for nigh upon thirty years. This aint no place for a graveyard, anyhow. Squire Pettijohn sat for a time in silence. A cloud of wild geese in V-form flew honking over his head. Them are dreadful lonesome birds, he said. They ye gone over my head now well nigh thirty falls since Delight went away. How this new house that I am buildin would have pleased her I always set store by her, and I think of her still when the avens hlow and the martins come, and the conquiddles sing, antI the wild geese go over after the leaves begin to turn. She wanted to live, but she had to (lie, and I was sorry for her. She would have been a good wife to me, Delight would, if she d only lived. Them wild geese make me think of old times. It wbs nearly night. The red sun burned low in the west, and promised a bright after- glow. The blue bay rolled afar, and over the savin-trees that margined the waters gray shadows were falling. It was October, and the air was still, With leaden feet the hired men were returning to their homes along the country road. An old clam-digger came up the hill and stopped to ask: How do you come on with that house of yourn ? Have you found them oven-stones yet ? Yes, said the Squire; I ye found just the stun. Glad to hear it, Sqtiire. That kind of stone is hard to find. Id ought to know. I ye built walls now for eenmost fifty year. The old clam-digger jogged along with a pail of clams on his back, hung on a crooked stick. The Squire slowly got down from the wall, saving mysteriously: I remember it all as though it was yester- (lay. The horses stopped three times, and there were thirty carriages. I m a well-to-do man, I am, and I have been elected justice of the peace four times. I ought not to build a new house without uettin Delight a pair of new graxestones. I 11 put these, poetry and all, into the floor of the new oven, and say nothin about it. That headstone is just what I ye been look- in for. I 11 have her removed to the cemetry, and get some white stones for her, and put a Scripture text on the headstone. Stands to rea- son that it is the right thing to do. The Squire walked slowly tip the road in the cool, crisp air. the walls were covered with wild grapes in dark red and purple clus- ters, or were feathery with clematis. Yellow corn-fields lay in the valley below, and ox- carts with loads of corn for husking were go- ing home to the haystack meadows. The shouts of the farm-boys to the heavy oxen echoed in the silent air. The wild-apple boughs were red with fruit, which wotild soon be crushed in the cider-mills. There in the distance a white sail careened in the blue bay. The sun sank red, andi the clouds ahout the sunset turned into coppery castles, with l)iniiacles of gold. The Squire stopped at the bars of an un- cultivated farm that joined his oxvn, and which was larger than his. It belonged to William Bradford, a commercial man, who lived in a public way in New York. The farm-house was built of stone and brick, was two and a half stories high, and had a heavy oak portico and ~reat dormer windows. A son of the owner n sometimes visited the place, and when he did so took his meals at the Sqtiires. It is a pity that that great farm should all rtin to waste, the Squire said. Even the pigeons lool lonesome there. It makes me lonesome; it does, now. Bradfords wife used to be a mighty pretty creeter; she s a fine lady now. The Squire moved on, and came to the Fotir Corners, where stood a guide-post. To Boston, he read. There was a painted black hand on the board. To Boston, he re- peated. That is the right way. I ye been elected justice of the peace three times, and mayhe they 11 send me to the General Court. Stranger things than that have happened. That guide-post is a kind of prophet. They all go right who follow thatto Boston. Maybe I 11 get there yet. The Squire passed thoughtfully on, and came to his farm-house, which for a full cen- tury had been known as The Old Red House on the Hill. The house had been built in the clays of the Pilgrim Fathers. It had great chim- neys and a slanting root; over which a cool woodhine, now flaming with crimson leaves, in the summer-time fell like a waterfall. It had been built in garrison style, the second story projecting over the first, and one of the chim- nevs contained a pane of glass out of which one could see the valley without being seen, a provision made during King Philips war. Back of the house were orchards of ancient trees, and a huge barn, and stacks of hay and straw. Across the road rose a new house, two stories high, perpendicular, and as stately, cold, anti z z H AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 33 expressionless as the old farmstead was pie- orchard boughs followed by a russet shower. turesque and full of historic character. The We come up and go like Indian pipes, the Squire had not the education or fine manners of ghost flowers of the woods. He was again his ancestors, but he inherited their sturdy char- silent. acter, and was a thrifty man. He had started Hadley, he continued, I ye got some- right in life, always spending a little less than thin on my conscience. I ye had a burden he earned, and so had become what was called there for many years. in those times beforehanded. Thirty years Lordy, Massa, I ye seen that you warnt savings had enabled him to enlarge his farm, always at ease. and build a new house after the manner of the Yes, Hadley; that poetry aint correct. times, one that was so perfectly perpendicular Poetry is it, Massa? In the hymn-book, and correct that every angle of beauty was Massa? wanting. He stopped at the pasture-bars of No; on the gravestun. Hadley, I m go- the farm-house meadow, and surveyed the tall in to get Delight some new ones structure and its two perfectly proper chimneys Gravestuns, Massa? with pride. Yes, Hadley. Hadley, for twenty years his hired man, a Now, that am right, Massa. I always knew negro from one of the Windward Islands, who that you re a good man in your maginations had come to Plymouth on a merchant ship, And, Hadley, what am I goin to do with came out to meet him, lifting his eyebrows as the old ones? he approached, as though some unexpected Dont know, Massa; for the Lor sake, event had happened. what? Massa Job, he said, coming up to the bars, Them stuns, if they were nt gravestuns, these be the las times. To-day we arewe would be just the thing for the floor of the new - are here, smart as peppergrass, and to-morrow oven. where is we? Do you know who is dead? For the Lor sake, Massa! Baked poetry No, Hadley; who? and all ! You know the Plymouth stage has passed? I want the best stuns that can be had for Yes; but who is gone? that oven, Hadley. An oven is a very impor- John Bradford. He died in New York; tant part of the house. If we did nt eat we the Brewsters have had a letter. wou~ld nt live. When a man quits eatin it is John Bradford! Can it be? Then Mary all over with him in this world. Bradford is a widder! Sure, Massa. Lor, Massa Job! Think of the great oven in the old house, Dont say anythin about it. and the Saturdays bakins in it for now nigh What, Massa Job? on to a hundred and fifty years. Think of the The widder. cordwood it has swallowed up, and the walnut Lordy, Massa Job, your mm is not turnin leaves; and the brown bread it has baked, and in that way so soon! He aint buried yet. Theyre the apple-puddins, and the rye-and-Injun, goin to bring him to Plymouth to rest among and the pans of apples, a~ the pumpkin-pies, his folks. and the gingerbread, an dT the beans, and all. And the widder will come, too. I wonder Think of the funerals, when you could hear the if the funeral procession will pass this way. clock tick,. and th~ wills that have been read Squire Job looked up with renewed pride when they came back from the grave, and the to his perpendicular mansion, and over the feasts with which the old oven comforted the cidery orchards to his bursting barns. Mary mourners. Bradford had been a favorite companion of his For sure, Massa. boyhood. They used to go whortleberrying to- And the Thanksgivins, Hadley! Oh, gether, and had gathered red cranberries in what Thanksgivin dinners have come out of the pasture-lands, and checkerberries in the that old oven! Makes me thankful just to think woods. She had fair cheeks and bright eyes of it. Roast pigs, and turkeys, and ducks, and then; he had dreamed of her often in his long chickens, and wild fowl, and shell-fish, and flat- widowerhood. fish, and ministers. He stood in silence. The negro respected For the Lor sake, Massa, you dont mean his feelings, and from time to time lifted his ter say that you roasted them F eyebrows. The Squire felt at last that he must No, no, Hadley; they came to say grace. say something. Old Parson Bonney he once fell asleep while Yes, Hadley, these are solemn times. The saying grace, and we had to wait until he woke earth drops its inhabitants as as the tree drops up, and by that time the dinner all got cold. its leaves, which last happy figure was sug- For the Lor sake! That was in the good gested by a ripple of sea wind among the old times. VoL XLV. 5-6. 34 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. Yes; he had the palsy. But that aint here nor there. Those were fine old days, in the town-meetin times, and we dont have any such of late years. The world is growin worldly, and it is nt now what it used to be. Spects t is the las times, MassaV Hadley, I ye got a great thought in my heada scheme. For the Lor sake, Massa! Yes, Hadley; we must finish that oven at once. I want you to find two large, flat stones almost as big as them gravestuns for the floor. You can get em. Next year I 11 have a reglar old-fashioned Thanksgivin. I 11 just have baked in that oven all the old things of the Pilgrim days, and we 11 have the minister come, and it may be the Leftenant-Governor Wins- low and other property people will be here likely enough somebody elseI cant say now. Who, Massa? I cant exactly say now, somebody, but never mind; we 11 have a reglar old-fashioned Thanksgivin, wild geese and all. Hadley lifted his eyebrows again and again. Surely you dont mean that Bradford wo- man the widder? Sho, Hadley! t is too soon to think of such things now. But old Governor Bradford, I ye just been thinkin on t; my grand-. mother used to tell me about it,well, old Governor Bradford, accordin to her account, old Governor Bradford, of the Mayflower well, his wife was drowned at the landing of the Pilgrims, and he had been kind o partial in his early years to a pretty girl at Austerfield, or Scrooby, or some country place in England, and she married, and her husband died. Well, I wont tell you any more now; it is a pretty story, but that aint wither here nor there. You go and look the farm all over, and see if you cant find two flat oven-stuns that will hold heat, large ones, almost as big as those grave- stuns. I first thought I would use themthe Lord forgive me! It would nt a been decent, would it, now? What became of the girl that the Governor loved, Massa? She became a widder. Did she come over in the Mayflower, Massa? No; she came over after the Mayflower. Some folks do. It was a mighty pretty story; shows what a woman will do for a man when her heart is all set right. She became Brad- fords second wife; some folks do have second wives. The Atlantic ocean, and Indians, and cold aint anythin to some folks. The Brad- fords all sleep over yonder where the moon is risin. Job Pettijohn made his way through the wall- side bushes of red alder-berries, when he was arrested by Hadley. Massa, what you goin to do with the old gravestuns? Well, Hadley, I would put em into the oven if they were nt gravestuns. I always used Delight well when she was livin, and I m goin to keep right on now. Hadley, do you put them gravestuns out of sight somewhere into the barn sullar wall, or somewhere, you need nt tell me where. I never want to see em again. I ye always had a prejudice ag in~ em, since Mary Bow, the old-maid dressmaker, stood here by my side and read: I was the wife of Pettijohn, And what I was you soon shall be. She looked up to me kind o knowin, and put her hand on my shoulders, and sort o pressed down, and I ye never wanted to visit the place with no women folks after that. That aint no kind o right poetry; t aint respectable to me. Stands to reason that all the old maids and widders and other folks wives cant be the sec- ond consort of Job Pettijohn. And what I was you soon shall be. Folks just laughed at that stun, and now I want you to hide it where I and no one else will never see it again. Break it all up. Just look at the moonas big as the sun. T is, sometimes, in these fall evenin s. Far over the sea, where the white sail of the Mayflower had drifted the Cross of St. George, the hunters moon, like a night sun, was fill- ing the sky with a flood of veiled splendor. Silence had fallen on all the farm-yards; candles gleamed here and there through the dusky trees; and the chill of a frosty night crept over the walnut-trees and rowaned meadows. Afar gleamed the sea-marshes, and in the stillness the memories of heroic lives and days seemed to haunt the a~r, as always in the old Cape towns. The two men went up the hill in the shadows. Hadley felt the spell of the moon, and made a classical allusion to one of the legends of the place. The ghost, Massa! Oh, that was nothin but an old white horse.~~ But his paws were in the moon, Massa. He was eatin apples from the top of the tree. Horses like wild apples, and will lift themselves up to get at them. The two men went home. The next day Had- ley searched the farm for two large, flat stones, but could not find any of sufficient size and hard- ness. He also took up the two gravestones, and set them against the mossy wall, and sat down and looked at them. If I were to break em up they d do first- AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 35 rate; and nobody would ever know it until the resurrection. I 11 do it. That night Hadley might have been seen among the savin-trees and red alders with a stone-hammer. The next morning poor De- lights unfortunate gravestones, poetry and all, had disappeared, and Hadley informed his master that he had found the right oven-stones, and put them in. From the day that the great stone oven was completed, Squire Pettijohn seemed to be lost in the vision of the proposedThanksgiving din- ner to his friends. It became the one event in his mental horizon. Poor John Bradfords body came back to the burying-ground of his fathers. The carriage of the undertaker passed the Squires new house, and the widow in her solitary coach. There were twenty carriages in the procession on the day of the funeral, and the horses stopped twice, or acted contrary, on their way to the windy hill where the earth had been opened. For horses to act contrary in a long funeral procession was the notable event of that slow, final ride to lifes eternal pillow. Squire Pettijohns sister, Hannah, a maiden lady who had been a school dame, kept his house. She was a tall, stately woman, and wore a high cap with flying ribbons at the ears, a crossed handkerchief about her breast, car- ried her keys at her side, and maintained a gold snuff-box with a very curious picture on the cover. She fondly hoped that her brother would never marry again, but yet looked upon all events of life philosophically, and took her poetry of life from the ancient Book of Job. Thatis the best which happens to every man, she used to say in the spirit of the man of Uz. Since we do not know anything, and never can know anything, we must believe that every- thing that happens is for the best good of every creature that lives. This Oriental philosophy gave her a serene manner, and left a peace in her long, charitable face that was something really beautiful to meet. Hannah, said the Squire, one September evening nearly a year after the new house and its handy oven were completed Hannah, stop your knittin, and listen to me. You have kept up your education, and I never did. I want you to help me about them there invitations. What invitations, BrotherJob? said Han- nah, dropping her needles. To the Thanksgivin dinner. I have a curious plan in my head. I ye been thinkin of it all summer. I m goin to have a reglar old-fashioned Thanksgivin. I m goin to send the invitations by letter, and put into each let- ter five grains of corn. For the Lor sake! said Hadley. Brother Job, be you crazy? What are you goin to send the corn for? Hannah, what did the ancient people of the Lord used to build green tabernacles for, and live in em a week every year? T was for the remembrance. Now, Hannah, when the famine came to the colony in Governor Bradfords day, Myles Standish dealt out to the people five grains of corn for a meal. Well, what hap- pened? The old Pilgrims had faith in the five grains of corn, and the next year good times came, and they met in the old log church on Pilgrim Hill and had a Thanksgivin. For remembrance, Hannah. For the Lor sake! said Hadley. I thought it was for seed, or the chickens. Who are you going to send invitations to? asked Hannah. Leftenant-Govemor Winslow Thats a good idea, Brother Job. He hon- ored the General Court, and is a good man; besides, he s all alone in the world. And the selectmen, hem as I m a justice of the peace.~~ Yes; you ought to invite them. And the parson. Yes. And seem that the Widder Bradford must be rather lonely, and must long again for old scenes and the bygones, I just thought I d in- vite her. Hadley rolled up his eyes, and if ever Han- nah Pettijohn began to knit as though a tire- woman were waiting, it was then. There was a long silence, broken only by the solemn tick of the old clock and the sound of the needles. Suddenly Hannah dropped her knitting- work, pushed her spectacles up on her fore- head, and said calmly: Those are good ideas, Job. I ye been com- munin with myself, and Ill do it. You 11 write em, Hannah? Yes; to all of 1J~iem. It dont matter what becomes of me. Thai which is best for us all is sure to come. I can trust Providence in all the changes of the winds and waves. But I m human, and I 11 have to battle with myself. Never mind; good comes that way. Her lip quivered, and she dropped her spectacles to hide her tears. I 11 always take care of you, Hannah, and she s well off. Who is well oW Brother Job? Oh, our old school friend. Hannahs needles flew again. She stopped knitting at times to punch the fire, and to stroke the kitten that lay purring in her lap. Then her needles would fly again. At last she arose slowly. Job, I m goin up-stairs to baste those quilts on the frames. Hannah, wait. Let s have it out and over. 36 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. I want to have good cookin for that day the best ever seen in the colony.~~ Dont I cook well, and bake, and serve, Job? Dont I do it all well? Yes, Hannah. XVe will want succotash, because that belonged to the Thanksgivins of old Indian times. And pandowdy, because that was the great dish of the next generation, after the apple-trees began to bear. And apple- dumplings with potato crusts. And rabbit-pie, and wild fowl, and cider apple-sass, and all things that the Pilgrim families used to serve on Thanksgivins in all their years of hard- ships. I 11 do my best, Brother Job, to have every- thing just as you say. I 11 lay myself out on it, Job. You ye been a good brother to me,in the main, and my heart has always been true, and to say that one is true-hearted is the best Lhing that can be said of anybody in this un- ~~ertain world; aint it, now, Job? A queer episode followed, which could not happen to-day, but was a serious thing then. The cat suddenly leaped up as from a dream, turned round and round, and ran under the great oak table. She seen a ghost, said Hadley. Animals always sees em before folks. Missus, dont go up-stairs! Dont, Missus! The sexton brought the new gravestones to-day, and left em~ among the savin-trees on the hill, and to-mor- row he s goin to move the body and all. You dont know what that cat sees. These am the las times. Why did nt you tell me, Job? There was a silence. Hannah began to rock to and fro, and to hum, and then to sing. In those days of New England religious revivals, which changed and lifted character, and kept communities strong and pure, there was one very searching hymn that Hannah used to sing in the conference meetings held round at the houses; and this she repeated now: The pure testimoni poured forth from the sperrit, Cuts like a two-edg~d sword, And hypocrits now are most sorle tormented Because they re condemned by the word. The pure testimoni discovers the dross, And Hum, hum, hum, and a violent rocking. You did nt answer me, Job? There was another silence, broken only by the tick of the clock. Job? Well, Hannah? There s one thing that I would like to know, and I ye heard others speak of it, too. Whatever became of those slate gravestones on Windy Hill, among the savin-trees? I used em in buildin, Hannah. That was no proper poetry for a gravestone. I ye done the respectable thing by Delight. I ye waited now goin on thirty years, and to-mor- row I shall show again my respect for her. She was a good woman. Buildin what, Brother Job? Oh, I got em used for foundation-stones on somethin I was buildin. That want no good poetry, Hannah. Dont ever speak of it again. The cat again whisked across the room, and Hadley rolled up his eyes, and went and stood by his benefactors chair, and said: For the Lor sake, Massa Job! These be the las times. My conscience is all on fire now. That there cat knows it all. Hannah would sit evening after evening on the old red settle, and look into the fire. She grew absent-minded, and used to stand in the frame of the door, and gaze at the tops of the trees. If he marries her, they 11 never want me, she would sometimes say, talking to herself. But somebody else will. Right-doin makes a home for every one in the world. I never cooked as I mean to cook for that Thanks- givin Day. My pandowdy will make them all grateful for the days of the five grains of corn. In the midst of the fall cooking an extraor- dinary thing occurred. For great husking- parties Hannah had been accustomed to bake very large loaves of wheat bread in the old house, and she followed up the old method in the new. She placed one of these enor- mous loaves on walnut leaves on the floor of the oven, without a pan, after the old custom. When she went to cut the bread for the great husking-supper she thought that she saw the word ashes in raised letters on the bottom of it. It must l~e a happenin, she said, so I 11 say nothin about it. But it is very mysterious; the letters all face backward. Some folks would think it was a sign. Early in October Mrs. Bradford was one day seated in her rooms in Fraunces Tavern, New York, where Washington had bade the officers of his army farewell, and announced his inten- tion of retiring to private life. There was with her a very bright and unique companion, little Annie Brewster of New Windsor, New York, a dwarf and a daughter of a descendant of Elder Brewster, the first minister of the Pil- grim republic. Washington had been a friend to her, and for the very popular reason that she had once refused an invitation from Lady Washington to be present at a social party. I have been invited merely out of curios- ity, said the little child of the Pilgrims, and never will I take the blood of the Brewsters AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 37 to any place where it is not invited for its own worth. The little girl may have misunderstood Lady Washingtons motive. Be that as it may, both Washington and his lady so much respected her for her refusal as to become her friends, and, according to an old family tradition, probably offered her a home with them. ?~Irs. Bradford had lived at the old historic hostelry since her husband died, as this had been his New York home. She had an unmarried son, and three daughters who were married, and each of her sons-in-law had offered her a home with him. But her days of ambition were over, she had lost a part of her property at sea, and she longed for a quiet life on her Old Col- ony farm. She dreamed continually of the sim- ple scenes of her girlhood, and felt that her sons health would be better on the windy hills over- looking Plymouth Harbor and Provincetown Bay. The postman knocked at the door, and sprightly Annie Brewster answered the call. She was given a letter, very odd and bulky, bearing the address of Mrs. Bradford. It is from the Cape, said the widow. I hope that nothing ill has befallen any of my old friends there. Annie, read it. The beautiful dwarf opened the letter, and there dropped from it a grain of corn. Then fell another, then others, five in all. Five grains of corn, said the widow. That has an Old Cape sound. What does the letter mean? This, said little Annie: DEAR MRS. BRADFORD: Let us remember the days of old. Our fathers dwelt in booths in the wilderness, and in grateful remembrance let us keep the feast of green tents and adorn our houses with boughs. I have sealed up in this letter five grains of corn, such as your great- great-grandfather, in the days of distress and humiliation, dealt out as a fast-day meal. I am going to give a dinner on Thanksgiving Day to my old friends, and keep a Feast of Tabernacles like the patriarchs of old. We were friends in other years. Let me invite you to be present on Thanksgiving Day, and renew the friendships of the past, and honor the enduring precisioners by our own grateful remembrance. You are a daughter of the Pilgrims of Scrooby and Austerfield, and you married a son of the Pilgrims, whose name is an ancestral crown. You will make me very happy by accepting the invitation, and thus honoring the men and days of old. Sincerely yours, JOB PETTIJOHN. P. S. Hannah joins with m~ in the invitation. It is she that herewith expresses my thoughts to you. The postscript was written in the same hand as the letter. Mrs. Bradford handed it to her son William. He made her write that, said the boy, with a smile. Hannah Pettijohn is a saint. Let us go, mother. And, Annie, you shall go with us. It is a delightful thing to visit the old Brewster farm in husking-time. Mrs. Bradfords mind ran over the past the old thrifty home-scenes of her girlhood; the avens, the lilac-bushes, the blooming or- chards, the peach boughs that grew pink, and the peartrees that grew white and odorous, at the coming of the long days of spring; the orioles in the great hour-glass elms; the clo- ver-fields; and the bobolinks, or Indian con- quiddles, that toppled in the waving grass; the haying-times; the merry huskings; the apple- pickings; the nuttings; the cranberry meadows; and the old dinner-horn that was blown from the bowery back door at the noontime hour. She could even hear the ospreys scream in the long July days in the clear blue sky. The great airy rooms and their industrious associations all rose before her. She thought of the looms in the garret; of the dipping-of-candles day; of the dismal killing time; of the powder candles that were burned on Christmas night; of the old bread-cart man, with his jingling bells; of the peddlers in their red carts; of the summer showers on the dry roof; of the horse-block; and even of the rag-bag and the button-bag in the saddle-room. She pictured the general training-day, and commencement-day in Cam- bridge town, but more than all the old Pilgrims Thanksgiving, when the people came home, and hands clasped hands over the bridge of a year, and heart pressed heart with affections that moistened the eyes. The stage-driver, with his long whip, the coach-dog, and spanking steeds rushed across her vision; the old folks with white hair and serene faces, at the end of the long table; the churchyard toward which the procession .of loviig hearts all traveled, and in which they all found rest at last; the bell, ring- ing, tolling on Sundays, and finally tolling on uncertain days as the earth opened and closed, and the sexton did his office. She laughed, burst into tears, and said: Yes, I will go. We will all go. Annie, you should go home and see the old Brewster farm once more, and read Elder Brewsters Bible, and sit in his chair, and look into his looking- glass, into which all the Pilgrims have looked.? The Brewster farm, with its great rooms, and long orchards overlooking the sea, was near the estate of the Bradfords and Pettijohns. The old parlor contained, and still exhibits, Elder Brewsters mirror, before which it is probable that all the Pilgrims passed, and saw their faces and forms, forever lost now, even to memory. Thanksgiving Day came, a mellow splendor 38 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. of Indian-summer weather, falling leaves, and purple gentians. The stage from Boston came rumbling d6wn the old country road, the farm geese fleeing before it into the lanes, and par- tridges whirring into the woods. It was a day of trial to serene Hannah Pettijohn. She had toiled for weeks in preparation for this day. There was hardly a notable dish in the country round that she had not prepared. She had scoured the house in all of its rooms, put down her new rag carpet in the parlor, her new husk mats on the kitchen floors, and had herrin- boned the chambers. In the midst of these preparations another curious and remarkable event had occurred. Hannah had found on the bottom of a great loaf of gingerbread, baked on walnut leaves in the new oven, some strange angles like raised letters. That looks just as though it read Remem- ber me backward, said she. Mebby t is a sign. There s something queer about that oven. The gingerbread seems all right, and it must be my head is out of order. She looked troubled, but did not mention the incident, and only said: I hope the bakin on Thanksgivin Day will come out straight. I d hate to have anything to happen then, especiallybefore Madam Brad- ford. She used to be a very particular person. Thatthere loaf of gingerbread did look just like a gravestone. I would nt like to have one of my great Thanksgivin loaves of wheat bread come out that way. I m goin to make my loaves of wheat bread for that particular day long and broad, and bake them on walnut leaves, and I want em to come out smooth. I m goin to do my duty, if it does hurt me, and it does. Mrs. Bradford, or Madam Bradford, as she was called, with her son and little Annie Brewster, had arrived at the old Brewster farm a few days before the Pilgrims feast. So when the stage arrived on Thanksgiving Day, the only guest that came directly to the Pettijohn house was Lieutenant-Governor Winslow, from the Winslow estate near the great Marsh- field meadows. Governor Winslow, as he was called, be- longed to the great family of colonial gover- nors and town magistrates, had once presided over the Senate in the General Court as sub- stitute officer, and so carried the family honor of Governor, or Left-tenant-Governor, as the title was then pronounced. He was a portly man of sixty, a widower, rich, and handsome. He looked finely on that day. The dogs barked when he arrived, and the farm-hands stood with uncovered heads under the burning elms to meet him. He had been a lifelong friend of the Pettijohns, the Bradfords, and the Brews- ters, and had seemed to take a particular in- terest in Hannah Pettijohn in his young days, before his marriage, when she used to keep school and sing coun/re in the choir. The Brewsters and the Brarifords came over to the Pettijohn farm early on the eventful day, and Madam Bradford received a most gracious reception from Job, and a polite one from Hannah. Madam Bradford wandered about the place, and gazed out on the hills where the old pre- cisioners used to live, and where were their graves. She lived in her girlhood again. Job watched her impatiently. Job was a man of decision. He had a very practical mind. He never let the grass grow under the horses feet when he was going to mill; he galloped with the grist while the stream was flowing. To-day the past had lit- tle poetry for him. He had invited Madam Bradford here to learn her mind, and he proceeded to do this at once, so that no cloud should hang over his Thanksgiving dinner. Mis Bradford, said he, come, let those old things go. I want to show you my new house. Let s go up-stairs. I want you to look out of the chamber winders.~~ Madam followed Job with a complex ex- pression on her face. There, Mis Bradford, I want you to look out on to your own farm, and see it as I see it every mornin. It is all goin to wreck and ruin, and it is a shame. Nobody to put up the walls, nobody to keep the meaders in order, nobody to pick the apples, nor nothin. Now, just look at my farm. Dont it look like livin, now? And you way off there in York State. It s strange that people will live so far away, and ketch such queer notions. Mis Bradford, I ye had an idea in my head goin on months. Your farm jines mi;ze, and you ought to jine me. There, that idea has flew out of my head like a martin-bird. I know it s sud- den. Say, Widder, now, what do you say? Esquire Pettijohn, you amaze me. I I I cant answer now. I must wait and con- sider. She looked out of the window and far away. My old farm does look neglected it does; but I must consider. Consider how long? I dont want you to spile my dinner by keepin me tossed about like a toad under a harrer. Oh, come back here to the old town, Sarah, and pass your re- mainin days among the genuine, original fam- ilies. I ye got enough; we re all property people on the Cape, and your folks are all buried here. But this, you know, is a very serious mat- ter, and I must have time to consider. I 11 give you until after dinner, bein t is you. And if nothin happens, I just know you 11 have me, and we 11 both sing out of the same AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 39 book at the sing after dinner, and render thanks for mercies new, as well as for the way-leadings of the Pilgrims of old. We 11 be led, too. But how about Hannah? What a sister she has been to you! She might feel that I had supplanted her in her new home. It would be hard for Hannah at first. But she has got a spirit that keeps a stiff upper lip, and marches on straight after duty; and after a little she 11 be glad of the change. She ought to have married herself. And she would have had offers but for you, Squire. The two stood in silence, looking out on the crimson woods. While this extraordinary scene was taking place in the chamber, another equally novel was occurring in the bright par- br below. Lef tenant-Governor Winslow, said Han- nah, on the arrival of that distinguished guest, you have been a very particular friend of the family ever since I can remember, and I am glad that you came early, for I want to have an honest talk with you about a matter that con- cerns my peace of mind. Leftenant-Governor Winslow, I am in trouble. I feel just as I had nt ought to, and I dont know of any one who has better sense to advise me than you. Leftenant- Governor Winslow, let us go into the parlor, all by ourselves, and I 11 lift the curtains and let the light come in. After this explicit statement of her unhappy state of mind, Hannahled the Lieutenant-Gov- ernor into the parlor, and raised the curtains to the sun. The light seldom entered an old New England parlor, except on wedding and funeral occasions, and when property people were guests. The parlor, as a rule, was the still, dark room of all in the house. The stately couple sat down in the parlor, which in this case was new. Leftenant-Governor Winslow, did you see them go up-stairs? Yes, Hannah. Why does that disturb you? She went up to see the new house.~~ 0 Governor, I feel as though the fox and the goose was havin a conference meeting, now I do. Just to think what I have done for that man! I nussed him when he was weakly, and made herb-tea for him for years and years, and gathered pennyroyal, and motherwort, and wintergreen, and all that. But I dont understand Then, Governor, listen. Think of the work that I have done, the hens that I have set, the peppers that I have raised, and ground, too, with my head all tied up in a bag as big as abol- ster-case, and the apples that I have dried, and how I pinched and pinched years and years, so that he might save money to build his new house, and now there s goin to be a change, Governor. Oh, I cant help cryin. And poor Hannah threw her white apron over her face. There s goin to be a change. I ye seen it comm for a long time, and I ye done my duty just the same.~~ What, Hannah? I hate to tell you, Governor, but I suppose I must. I ye done my duty, and tried to bear up. Just look out and see those milk-pans in the sunhow they shine! Well, Governor, it is nt for the Pilgrim Fathers that Job has made this great Thanksgivin Party, and that I ye been slavin for. They re dead. It is for Sarah Bradford. There the Lord forgive me! I m goin to tell you all my heart, but I m goin to act real good about it before the world, and show a Christian spirit. But you dont think that Madam Bradford would marryanybody? Yes, Governor; why should nt she? She lost most of her property except this in the old Cape Town, and birds dont roost in the air. Job s good-lookin, and beforehanded, and honest, and a good provider. You cant say anything agin him, only that he talks Yankee talk, and never minded his grammar. And she s a widder; a single woman wont take advantage of me in my home, but she s a widder, and you know a widder always stands in the market- place, and you never yet knew one to say No to a man like Job. Now, what am I to do, Governor? They 11 want you to live with them. How could I, Governor, after I have man- aged this household all these years? No; I must seek a home of my own As on some loneli buildings top The sparrer makes her moan, Far from the teats of joy and hope I set and grieve alone, as the hymn says. But, Governor, I must go and get the~ dinner~horn and blow it, and I feel as though it was the last trumpet. Think how many springs and summers and falls I ye blowed that hornnigh on to thirty years, and every time to a good dinner, and that my own hands have made. When I think of all these home things, the martin-birds, the chimney- swallows, the lilacs, the mowins, the huskins, the work-folks that are dead and gone, and how I ye done my duty all these years oh! oh! oh! You do pity me, dont you, Gover- nor? I shall be so lonesome. You know what it is to be lonesome, dont you, Governor?~ Yes, Hannah; I ye been a widower ten years now, and I know what it is to be lone- some, Hannah. I know what a capable woman you have been, and I feel for you, and I could nt bear to see you lonesome. I should have said so to you before, if it had nt been for Job. 40 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. I begin to see now what it must be to be lonesome. I can sympathize with you now. But, Hannah, you need nt be lonesome, and I need nt be lonesome. We can be com- pany for each other. We ye known each other all our lives. Now I would nt take you away from your brother Job, as a matter of principle; but if he marries the widow, I 11 just marry you, Hannah, if you 11 have me, Hannah. Eh? XVhat do you say to that? 0 Governor, Governor, what have I been sayin and doin! I only came to you in my trouble because you re a particular friend of the family, and I had to go to some one. Oh! oh it seems as though everything was breakin up. What haze I done! Thats right. You did just right. Ive been looking forward to something like this for a long time, Hannah, so I suppose we are as good as engaged. 0 Governor, engaged! What shall I say? Oh, the vicissitudes and the providences and the changes of this life! I m too old. But one of the Scripture women was five hundred when she got married the first time. Do tell, Governor! Who? I dont recollect now, but t was so. I in only fifty, Governor. I do feel kind of providential. I always had great respect for you, and you ye always been a particular friend, of the family. I 11 give you my answer at the singing circle this afternoon. Let me wait and see how they act. Now I 11 blow the dinner- horn, and I 11 blow it as I never blew it before! They 11 think it is the trumpet of jubilee! Hannah went to the porch door, and took down the long tin dinner-horn that had hung by the door-sill of the old house for a generation, and had been given a like place in the new. The blasts of the horn caused the guests and the workmen on the place to stand still. Such a vigorous dinner-call had never been heard on the place before. It made the dog bark, and the fall chickens run under the cur- rant-bushes. The response to the old dinner-horn was joyful. Hannah had left the final preparation of the table to Hadley, after she had put on her best alpaca gown and white kerchief. The Governor and Hannah came out to the table together, and Hannah was about to take her accustomed place as hostess when Job whis- pered to her: Sister How tender that word seemed! He did not use it often. Sister, would you mind if Madam Brad- ford were to take your place to-day? No, Brother Job; I would be right glad She sank into a chair, and her face turned - white as Madam Bradford was seated by Job at the middle of the table, opposite the blue gentian flowers. The Governor sat down be- side her, followed by the selectmen, and then Elder Cashman rose to say grace. The table was long and massive. The work- people were seated at a second table near the guests, except Hadley and one female domes- tic who went out to work, who were to serve. It would be hard to describe a New Eng- land Thanksgiving dinner a century after the days of the Pilgrims. The steaming brown bread, the baked apples, the apple-sauce, the succotash, the roast beef, ham, or pork, the crisp turkey, chickens, and game! The dessert was a long procession of bountiful dishes, from the apple-dumplings with potato crusts, sweet- apple pudding, mince-pies, gingerbread, and whole preserved clingstone peaches, quince marmbelaid, to the shagbarks and mugs of cider. The room was trimmed with twined creep- ing-jenny and red alder-berries. Over the shelf were a gun and powder-horn which had been used in King Philips war. Beside the fireplace hung long strings of red peppers, which were regarded as ornamental. Beside each plate were five grains of Indian corn, re- calling historic times, like the green booth and twigs of the Tabernacle feast of old. Just as the elder arose to offer thanks for all of this outward prosperity, Mary Bow came flitting in. She was the traveling dressmaker, and in lieu of a local paper was the domestic news-agent of the Cape towns. It is said that she had once been partial to Job, but that he had disappinted her. She entertained no good feelings toward him, although she was a warm friend to Hannah. She had an easy tongue, was very superstitious, always attended quiltings, apple-parings, and funerals, and was present on all notable occasions on the Cape, invited or no invited. She had brought scandal upon herself only once, though she carried scandal everywhere. One June day, when the church windows were open, and the air dreamy, the sermon had be- come to herasort of distant hum moving far, far away, like a bee amongthe sweet-briers. She had loosened the strings of her bonnet, which was new, and for the times gay, and oblivion came upon her, and her head fell back, and her bonnet dropped over on to the floor, and her nose had to be tickled by the tithing-man a humiliat- ing event in those days. The scene at the table as good Elder Cash- man lifted his hands was representative. The elder had a pure, firm Puritan face, that bore everywhere the certificate of his high character. Near him sat the selectmen in ruffles and wigs, and the Brewsters, recalling the days of Scrooby AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. 4 manor-house, when old Elder Brewster first preached to the poor people on Sunday, and then fed them. Little Annie Brewster was there, who had refused the invitation of Lady Wash- ington in honor of her old Pilgrim blood. As soon as grace had been said in stately Hebrew rhetoric, Job turned to Madam Brad- ford and, with a long departure from the poetry of the Hebrews, exclaimed: I 11 sarve the meat, you cut the bread, and then let everybody help themselves, and not wait for any compliments, or stand on cere- mony. The people all looked toward Hannah, for she seemed to have been displaced at her usual royal place and office at the table, and all of the Cape folks were true friends to the worthy woman. Madam Bradford rose and lifted to its side an enormous loaf ofwhite bread, which had been placed between a sweet-apple pudding and a suet pudding in the middle of the table; for in those bountiful days and occasions food was not served in courses, but the table was loaded with the whole meal from the begin- ning of the service. Madam Bradford looked handsome and stately as she lifted the bread-knife. This is the largest loaf of wheat-bread that I ever saw, she said. I do not believe that the like was ever seen in the Colony towns. She was right. The like had probably never been seen on the planet. She rested it against the suet-pudding dish, and whetted the knife after the old manner on the fork-handle. Just here Mary Bow tripped up to her elbow, and said: Here, Madam Bradford, let me help you. As the knife and fork in Madams hand were flying back and forth in the glittering air in the process of preparation for service, Mary Bow jumped back, and said: Hannah! What, Mary? asked the startled spinster. What is that on the bottom of the bread, Hannah? Looklook there! There was a deep silence. Hadley came round, lifted his eyebrows, and said: For the Lor sake! Signs and wonders! That looks just like the poetry on the old gravestone up among the savin-trees, for sure! Madam Bradfords eyes became fixed, as if they were sot, as one of the guests afterward described them in provincial adjectives. She let fall the fork, lifted the knife into the air, and stepped back slowly, saying in a deep, caver- nous voice: Job Pettijohn, what is that? Beware, my friends, when this you see! And the letters all face backward! Mary Bow gave a little shriek. The guests all dropped their forks, and sat silent. The crows of the swamp-trees might have held a convention there undisturbed. Madam broke the silence again: What I am now, you soon shall be, in a reading tone, spelling the words of the reversed letters. The spirit of Delightwrote that, said Mary Bow. It is resurrection poetry! It s all turned round; that was never done by any mortal. It s a sign! The spirit of Delight! exclaimed Madam Bradford. Yes, answered Mary, excitedly. She s been in the oven. It s a warnin! I think it s a death fetch. It is the handwriting on the bread! Job sat with fixed eyes, and Hannah with lifted hands. One of the selectmen said Hum, and one pounded his cane, while the others sat with their forks in the air. Hadley, what does this mean? said Mad- am, firmly. Where did that come from? Hadley stood trembling, with a dish of suc- cotash in his hand. Fore Heaven,it come out of the oven. Who did it? She, said Mary Bow, her cap-strings fly- ing. It s a warnin. I tell ye it s a warnin. This aint no Feast of the Tabernacles, as Job said; he s a hypercritter; this is the Feast of Beishazzar, and there s a Jonah here At these awful words, Hadley let drop the dish of succotash, which came down with such an ominous crash that it caused the poor ne- gros eyes to roll back in his head. There, what did I tell you? said Mary Bow, her ribbons flying around like wool on the spindle of a spinning-wheel. Just look there and .read that: You too like me will soon he gone. I was It breaks off there. Lift up the other loaves. There! There! You that have eyes prepare for wonders now signs and wonders the sea ragin and the earth roarin. Look there on the bottom of that there l~tf. What do you think of that? Just read it topsyturvy: The wife of Pettijoha! Hadley still stood over the broken succo- tash-dish with lifted eyebrows. Marys head bobbed, and her sharp eye fell upon him. What are you standing there like a stuck pig for? This is a time to be stirrin, not starin. Look there! 42 AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING. Fore Heaven, Missus, I just wish that the yearth would open and swallow us all up. The guests sat dumb, and the selectmen stared and listened to the frantic words of Mary Bow, who believed herself to be the Daniel of the awe-inspiring event. That poetry was written by the spirit of Delight. She copied it off of her gravestone. It s a warnin to you, Sarah Bradford, and it came for Hannahs sake. I had an impres- sion to come here to-night, to this feast of the Medes and Persians. I never fail to do my duty, and my tongue is my sword, and I will not spare. Sarah Bradford, dont you ever have anything to do with Job Pettijohn. The times of Cotton Mather have come back again, the folks have become so selfish and wicked. Everything here belongs to Hannah as much as to him. She helped earn it all, raisin red peppers, and grindin em, and sell- in em, and dryin apples, and settin soap, and makin rag carpets, and sellin live geese fea- thers, and all. Mary turned to poor Hadley again, who stood over the ruins of the succotash-bowl like an ebony statue. I once knew a woman who could fly, said she, xvishing to impress the wonders of the invisible world upon him. The powers above! I wish I could! said Hadley. I would. A guest at one end of the table uplifted a long loaf of brown bread, and his hands up- rose a moment later, and all the hands about him like so many muskets went up into the air. She s been here too! said a timid voice. The bottom of the loaf revealed the pa- thetic injunction: Remember me. Job, said Madam Bradford, these things are very strange. I dont think I shall ever change my relations after such an hour as this. Beware! said Mary Bow, quoting the bread. Just here the coach-dog caught the atmo- sphere of terror, and threw back his head and howled directly at Marys heels. Mary turned like a wheel, and the animal ut- tered anothe piercing cry, and added to the atmosphere of nervous excitement. Hadley, said Hannah, I dont believe in ghosts, or that anything ever happened with- out a cause. How came those letters on the bread? It mout be Belshazzar, and it mout not, as she said, said Hadley, nervously. That poetry used to be on Delights gravestone. It was dreadful distressin poetry to Job, Missus, and he told me to hide the stones where they never would be seen again. Did you do it, Hadley? Yes, Missus, that I did. I always obey Massa. Well, this is all very strange, said Madam Bradford. I have nt any appetite left for a Thanksgiving dinner after this. My nerves are weak, and I might as well take my bonnet and go. Hannah, I came here on account of the Pilgrim Fathers. I never meant to do you harm. I never thought of the things Job said to me up-stairs. What things did he say? asked Hannah, independently. Why, it might as well all be known. He asked me to become his wife. He did? And what did you tell him, Madam Bradford? I told him to wait until after dinner for an answer, and you see what has happened. It was never in my heart to injure you, Han- nah. What Mary says is true. You belong here, and I never would do a feathers weight of wrong to any human being, and I love you like a sister, Hannah. I never meant to deprive you of a home, Hannah, said Job. I hoped that you would share it with us, and be happy. I ye always been an honest man. It dont need no hants to teach Job Pettijohn to be honest, and square, and true. Well, Madam Bradford, said Hannah, I wish these things had nt a happened, and you d a said Yes to Job. I ye carried my- self pretty straight in life, but I ye misjudged him. Hannah gazed again at the bread. Looks just as though it was staml)ed by a piece of gravestone. I wish that these things could be explained. Now, Madam Bradford, it would make me perfectly happy if you would have Job; it,would now. It would make me sing the Thanksgiving hymns after dinner like a meadow-lark. Job is a good man, if he does talk rough, and is my brother. Hannahs eyes again pierced the bread. Sud- denly there came into her face a flash, and she turned squarely toward Hadley, and looked at him in silence. Hadley! Hadley! Hadley! she at last exclaimed in a slow, searching, and reproachful tone. Where did you hide those gravestones? Heaven have mercy on a poor soul, Missus! I m done gone, sure. I hid em in the oven/ There was a long silence, followed by a wonderful lighting up of faces. Madam Brad- ford sank into her chair. Job supported her. She presently turned to Hannah, and said: Then I am engaged! Hannah turned her chair squarely around, THE POEMS HERE AT HOME. 43 and looked first at Job and then at her beam- ing guest, and said: So am I You, Hannah! said Job, starting up. ~\XTho to? The Governor, said Hannah in a firm voice. I would have been engaged before, but for you, Job. If ever there was a joyful Thanksgiving un- derthe oak beams of an old New England farm- house, it was that which followed. Job got out his bass-viol immediately at the end of the boun- tiful meal, and, after tuning it; led the psalm of praise to the tune of Portland, by Ephraim Maxim, the favorite composer of that time, who once went out into the woods to commit suicide on account of his blighted affections, and, in- stead, wrote a hymn and tunea matter to be greatly commended. Amity, a very appro- priate selection, followed in the tuneful num- bers, Job swinging the tuning-fork: How pleasant t is to see Kindred and friends agree, Each in their proper station move, And each fulfil their part of love. Evening came early, with the November moon gilding the east as the sun went down over the dark, cool hills. The red settle, that throne of old New England wonder-tales, was brought before the fire, and one of the select- men, with pipe, snuff-box, and a mug of cider, told legends of the old Pilgrims and King Philips war. The far waves of the harbor glimmered as the moon rose high, and the old historic scenes lived again in the minds of all. At nine the great eight-day clock slowly and heavily struck the hour of separation, and under the shadow, regret, and pain, Elder Cashman arose and said: My friends, the years are short and few, and lifted his hands, and there fell a silence over all, with the Apostles Benediction. Job and the Lieutenant-Governor shook hands at parting, surrounded by the select- men, the Brewsters, the merry farm-hands, and the indoor help. Well, Governor, this seems like old times, when you and I were younger than we are now. I 11 tell ye what, Governor, we ye had a reglar old-fashioned Thanksgivin! Hezekiak But/erworth. THE POEMS HERE AT HOME. THE poems here at home! Who 11 write em down J es as they air,in country and in town, Sowed thick as clods is crost the fields and lanes, Er these ere little hop-toads when it rains? Who 11 voice em, as I heerd a feller say At speechified on Freedom, t other day, And soared the Eagle tel, it peared to me, She was nt bigger n a bumble bee? ~ Who 11 sort em out and set em down, says I, At s got a stiddy hand enough to try To do em jestice thout a-foolin some, And headin facts off when they want to come? Who s got the lovin eye and heart and brain To reckonize at nothin s made in vain At the Good Bein made the bees and birds And brutes first choice, and us folks afterwards? What we want, as I sense it, in the line 0 poetry, is somepin yours and mine Somepin with live-stock in it, and outdoors, And old crick-bottoms, snags, and sycamores. Putt weeds in pizen-vines and underbresh, As well as johnny-jump-ups, all so fresh And sassy-like! and groun-squirls, yes, and We, As sayin is We, Us, and Company!

James Whitcomb Riley Riley, James Whitcomb The Poems Here at Home 43-44

THE POEMS HERE AT HOME. 43 and looked first at Job and then at her beam- ing guest, and said: So am I You, Hannah! said Job, starting up. ~\XTho to? The Governor, said Hannah in a firm voice. I would have been engaged before, but for you, Job. If ever there was a joyful Thanksgiving un- derthe oak beams of an old New England farm- house, it was that which followed. Job got out his bass-viol immediately at the end of the boun- tiful meal, and, after tuning it; led the psalm of praise to the tune of Portland, by Ephraim Maxim, the favorite composer of that time, who once went out into the woods to commit suicide on account of his blighted affections, and, in- stead, wrote a hymn and tunea matter to be greatly commended. Amity, a very appro- priate selection, followed in the tuneful num- bers, Job swinging the tuning-fork: How pleasant t is to see Kindred and friends agree, Each in their proper station move, And each fulfil their part of love. Evening came early, with the November moon gilding the east as the sun went down over the dark, cool hills. The red settle, that throne of old New England wonder-tales, was brought before the fire, and one of the select- men, with pipe, snuff-box, and a mug of cider, told legends of the old Pilgrims and King Philips war. The far waves of the harbor glimmered as the moon rose high, and the old historic scenes lived again in the minds of all. At nine the great eight-day clock slowly and heavily struck the hour of separation, and under the shadow, regret, and pain, Elder Cashman arose and said: My friends, the years are short and few, and lifted his hands, and there fell a silence over all, with the Apostles Benediction. Job and the Lieutenant-Governor shook hands at parting, surrounded by the select- men, the Brewsters, the merry farm-hands, and the indoor help. Well, Governor, this seems like old times, when you and I were younger than we are now. I 11 tell ye what, Governor, we ye had a reglar old-fashioned Thanksgivin! Hezekiak But/erworth. THE POEMS HERE AT HOME. THE poems here at home! Who 11 write em down J es as they air,in country and in town, Sowed thick as clods is crost the fields and lanes, Er these ere little hop-toads when it rains? Who 11 voice em, as I heerd a feller say At speechified on Freedom, t other day, And soared the Eagle tel, it peared to me, She was nt bigger n a bumble bee? ~ Who 11 sort em out and set em down, says I, At s got a stiddy hand enough to try To do em jestice thout a-foolin some, And headin facts off when they want to come? Who s got the lovin eye and heart and brain To reckonize at nothin s made in vain At the Good Bein made the bees and birds And brutes first choice, and us folks afterwards? What we want, as I sense it, in the line 0 poetry, is somepin yours and mine Somepin with live-stock in it, and outdoors, And old crick-bottoms, snags, and sycamores. Putt weeds in pizen-vines and underbresh, As well as johnny-jump-ups, all so fresh And sassy-like! and groun-squirls, yes, and We, As sayin is We, Us, and Company! 44 FRANCIS PARKMAN Putt in old Natures sermonts them s the best; And casionly hang up a hornets nest At boys at s run away from school can git At handy-like and let em tackle it! Let us be wrought on, of a truth, to feel Our proneness fer to hurt more than we heal, In ministratin to our vain delights, Fergittin even i;zsas has their rights! No Ladies Amaranth, ner Treasury book, Ner Night-Thoughts, nuther, ner no Lally Rook! We want some poetry at s to our taste, Made out o truck at s jes a-goin to waste Cause smart folks thinks it s altogether too Outrageous common cept fer me and you! Which goes to argy, all sich poetry Is bliged to rest its hopes on you and me. PARKMAN.1 FRANCIS RANCIS PARKMANwasborn in Boston, F September i6, 1823, in a fine old house of the colonial period,fronting on BowdoinSquare, with a grass-plot before it, shaded by tall horse- chestnut trees, and a garden behind it full of fruit-trees and honest old-fashioned flowers. Like many other eminent New Englanders, he came of a clerical ancestry. His great-grand- father, by birth a Bostonian, was the first min- ister of Westborough, Massachusetts. Itis worth mentioningthata sonofthis clergy- man, at the age of seventeen, served as private 1 This essay was undertaken at our request by Mr. Lowell, and was left unfinished at his death. It has the melancholyinterest of being the last piece of writing prepared by him for publicaUon. EDITOR OF THE CENTURY. fames W/zi/comb Rile). in a Massachu- setts regiment dur- ing that old French war, as it used to be called, to which his grandnephew has given a deeper meaning, and which he has made alive to us again in all its vivid picturesqueness of hardihood and adventure. Another of his sons, returning to Boston, became a successful merchant there, a man of marked character and pub- lic spirit, whose fortune, patiently acquired in the wise fashion of those days, would have secured for his grandson a life of lettered ease had he not made the nobler choice of spend- ing it in strenuous literary labor. One of this merchants sons, a clergyman, was our au- thors father. He still survives in traditions of an abundant and exquisite humor, provoked to wilder hazards, and set in stronger relief (as in Sterne) by the decorum of his cloth. Two professorships in Harvard College perpetuate the munificence of Mr. Parkmans family. Energy of character and aptitude for culture were a natural inheritance from such ancestors, and both have been abundantly illustrated in the life of their descendant. Whether through deliberate forethought or unconscious instinct, Mr. Parkman entered early into an apprenticeship for what was to be the work of his life. While yet in college, as we are informed by a note in his Montcalm and Wolfe, he followed on foot the trail of Rogers the Ranger in his retreat from Lake Memphremagog to the Connecticut in ~ In 1846, two years after taking his degree at Harvard, he made an expedition, demanding

James Russell Lowell Lowell, James Russell Francis Parkman 44-46

44 FRANCIS PARKMAN Putt in old Natures sermonts them s the best; And casionly hang up a hornets nest At boys at s run away from school can git At handy-like and let em tackle it! Let us be wrought on, of a truth, to feel Our proneness fer to hurt more than we heal, In ministratin to our vain delights, Fergittin even i;zsas has their rights! No Ladies Amaranth, ner Treasury book, Ner Night-Thoughts, nuther, ner no Lally Rook! We want some poetry at s to our taste, Made out o truck at s jes a-goin to waste Cause smart folks thinks it s altogether too Outrageous common cept fer me and you! Which goes to argy, all sich poetry Is bliged to rest its hopes on you and me. PARKMAN.1 FRANCIS RANCIS PARKMANwasborn in Boston, F September i6, 1823, in a fine old house of the colonial period,fronting on BowdoinSquare, with a grass-plot before it, shaded by tall horse- chestnut trees, and a garden behind it full of fruit-trees and honest old-fashioned flowers. Like many other eminent New Englanders, he came of a clerical ancestry. His great-grand- father, by birth a Bostonian, was the first min- ister of Westborough, Massachusetts. Itis worth mentioningthata sonofthis clergy- man, at the age of seventeen, served as private 1 This essay was undertaken at our request by Mr. Lowell, and was left unfinished at his death. It has the melancholyinterest of being the last piece of writing prepared by him for publicaUon. EDITOR OF THE CENTURY. fames W/zi/comb Rile). in a Massachu- setts regiment dur- ing that old French war, as it used to be called, to which his grandnephew has given a deeper meaning, and which he has made alive to us again in all its vivid picturesqueness of hardihood and adventure. Another of his sons, returning to Boston, became a successful merchant there, a man of marked character and pub- lic spirit, whose fortune, patiently acquired in the wise fashion of those days, would have secured for his grandson a life of lettered ease had he not made the nobler choice of spend- ing it in strenuous literary labor. One of this merchants sons, a clergyman, was our au- thors father. He still survives in traditions of an abundant and exquisite humor, provoked to wilder hazards, and set in stronger relief (as in Sterne) by the decorum of his cloth. Two professorships in Harvard College perpetuate the munificence of Mr. Parkmans family. Energy of character and aptitude for culture were a natural inheritance from such ancestors, and both have been abundantly illustrated in the life of their descendant. Whether through deliberate forethought or unconscious instinct, Mr. Parkman entered early into an apprenticeship for what was to be the work of his life. While yet in college, as we are informed by a note in his Montcalm and Wolfe, he followed on foot the trail of Rogers the Ranger in his retreat from Lake Memphremagog to the Connecticut in ~ In 1846, two years after taking his degree at Harvard, he made an expedition, demanding FRANCIS PARKA/AN 45 as much courage as endurance, to what was still the Wild West, penetrating as far as the Rocky Mountains, and living for months among the Dakotas, as yet untainted in their savage ways by the pale-face. Since Major Jonathan Carver, no cultivated man of English blood has had such opportunities for studying the char- acter and habits of the North American Indian. The exposures and privations of this journey were too much even for Mr. Parkmans vigorous constitution, and left him a partial cripple for life. As if this were not enough, another calam- ity befell him in after years, the most dire of all for a scholar,in a disease of the eyes which made the use of them often impossible and at best precarious. But such was his inward and spiritual energy, that, in spite of these hope- less impediments, he has studied on the spot the scenery of all his narratives, and has con- trived to sift all the wearisome rubbish heaps of documents, printed or manuscript, public or private, where he could hope to find a scrap of evidence to his purpose. It is rare, indeed, to find, as they are found in him, a passion for the picturesque and a native predilection for rapidity and dash of movement in helpful society with patience in drudgery and a scrupulous deference to the rights of facts, however disconcerting, as at least sleeping-part- ners in the business of history. Though never 0 putting on the airs of the philosophic historian, or assuming his privilege to be tiresome, Mr. Parkman neverloses sight of those links ofcause and effect, whether to be sought in political the- ory, religious belief, or mortal incompleteness, which give to the story of Man a moral, and reduce the fortuitous to the narrow limits where it properly belongs. There was a time, perhaps more fortunate than ours, when Clio, if her own stylus seemed too blunt, borrowed that of Calliope, that she might submit the shews of things to the de- sires of the mind, and give an epic complete- ness to her story. Nature had not yet refused her sympathy to men of heroic breed, and earth still shuddered, sun and moon still veiled their faces at the right tragical crisis. The his- torian could then draw on the accumulated fancy of mankind in the legend, or on the sympathy of old religion in the myth. He was not only permitted, but it xvas a prime function of his office that he should fuse to- gether and stamp in one shining medal of ideal truth all that shabby small change of particu- lars, each bearing her debased and diminished image, which we in our day are compelled to accept as an equivalent. Then the expected word was always spoken by the right man at the culminating moment, while now it is only when Fortune sends us a master of speech like Lincoln that we cease to regret the princely largess of Thucydides, Livy, and Tacitus. Surely it was a piece of good luck for us that a man of genius should do the speaking for those who were readier with deeds than with the phrases to trick them outheroically. Shakspere is the last who has dealt thus generously with history in our own tongue. But since we can no longer have the speech that ought to have been spoken, it is no small compensation to get that which was spoken; for there is apt to be a downrightness and simplicity in the man of actions words that drive his meaning home as no eloquence could. Itis a great merit in Mr. Parkman that he has sedulously culled from his ample store of docu- ments every warranted piece of evidence of this kind that could fortify or enliven his nar- rative, so that we at least come to know the actors in his various dramas as well as the events in which they shared. And thus the cu- riosity of the imagination and that of the under- standing are together satisfied. We follow the casualties of battle with the intense interest of one who has friends or acquaintance there. ]~vVr. Parkjnans familiarity also with the scenery of his narratives is so intimate, his memory of the eye is so vivid, as almost to persuade us that ourselves have seen what he describes. We forget ourselves to swim in the canoe down rivers that flow out of one primeval silence to lose themselves in another, or to thread those expectant solitudes of forest (insuetum ;zemus) that seem listening with stayed breath for the inevitable ax, and then launch ourbirchen egg- shells again on lakes that stretch beyond vision into the fairyland of conjecture. The world into which we are led touches the imagination with pathetic inter& t. It is mainly a world of silence and of expectation, awaiting the mas- ters who are to subdue it and to fill it with the tumult of human life, and of almost more than human energy. One of the convincing tests of genius is the choice of a theme, and no greater felicity can befall it than to find one both familiar and fresh. All the better if tradition, however at- tenuated, have made it already friendly with our fancy. In the instinct that led him straight to subjects that seemed waiting for him so long, Mr. Parkman gave no uncertain proof of his fitness for an adequate treatment of them. James Russell Lowell. NOTE ON THE COMPLETION OF MR. PARKMANS WORK. IE work of Milton is a more lasting and a vastly nobler mon- ument of his age and race than the contemporaneous cathe- dral, but the men who first ad- mired St. Pauls did not dream that a man of Sir Christophers time hadbuilded better than he. We are materialists, as were our fathers before us, and we leave intellectual workers of the higher kind to toil in solitude, little cheered by appreciation; and when we give them appreciation we make them share 1t with the mere masqueraders in science. Only the other day, in a quiet library in Chestnut street, Boston, a great scholar, who is at the same time a charming writer, put the last touches to a work that has cost almost a lifetime of absorb- ing and devoted toil. Had the resultbeen some- thing material, a colossal bridge, for example, like that which stretches above the mast-tops between New York and Brooklyn, the whole nation would have watched the last strokes. But it is possible that the historian of the last quarter of the nineteenth century in America will find few events more notable than the com- pletion of the work of Mr. Francis Parkman that series of historical narratives, noxv at last. grown to one whole, in which the romantic ~tory of the rise, the marvelous expansion, and the ill-fated ending of the French power in North America is for the first time adequately told. Since its charms have been set before us in Mr. Parkmans picturesque pages, it is easy to un- derstand that it is one of the finest themes that ever engaged the pen of the historian. But before a creative spirit had brooded upon it, while it yet lay formless and void, none but a man of original genius could have discovered a theme fit for a master in the history of a re- mote and provincial failure. And yet in no episode of human history is the nature of man seen in more varied action than in this story of the struggles of France and England in the new world. Here is the reaction of an old and civil- ized world on a new and barbarous continent, here are the far-reaching travels and breathless adventures of devoted missionaries, ambitious explorers and soldiers, money-getting traders, and courezirs des lois. What a network of mo- tives religious, patriotic, and personal is displayed in this emulation of races, religions, of savage tribes, of European nationalities, of militaryand commercial adventurers, of intrigu- ing statesmen and provincial magnates. The reader lives in the very effervescence that pro- duced our modern America. In these contests were decided the mastery of the white man and the extinction of the red, the dominance of the Anglo-Saxon on the continent, and the preva- lence of the English tongue, and these conflicts played an important part in the evolution of in- stitutions that are neither English nor French. A great writer, like any other great character, is the offspring of two things: the man, and an opportunity suited to the outfit of the man. Francis Parkman gravitated to the wilderness in his early manhood, and lived among the savages as aiT acute observer of their customs and their spirit. His literary life has followed the trend of his individuality. He early began to write of frontier adventure and character, at first in fiction, and then in the remarkable series of historic compositions that now forms one of the great monuments of our literature. Never has the very soul of the wilderness been better understood and reproduced than in some of these histories. There has arisen in our time a new school of historians, men of large and accurate scholar- ship, who are destitute of skill in literary struc- ture, and who hold style in contempt. They dump the crude ore of history into their ponder- ous sentences, and leave the reader to struggle with it as he can. There are writers of a higher type who fail, through no fault of their own, to acquire an attractive style of narration. The late & eorge Bancroft, with all his vast erudition, and his ambitious manner, will never be read for pleasure, and Mr. Freemans diffuse and journalistic diction is an eddying tide that only a courageous reader cares to stem. Away over on the other hand are the books of Mr. Froude, which are interesting enough to people willing to read narratives founded on fact. Mr. Parkman belongs distinctly to the class of learned historical scholars who are also skilful and charming writers. His books, to borrow a phrase from Augustin Thierry, are important additions to historical science, and at the same time works of literary art. It is no part of my purpose to write a criti- cism of Mr. Parkmans books. I write only to celebrate the completion of a work that is a last- ing honor to our age and nation. In his forty- five years of work Mr. Parkman has ripened his judgment and matured his style, and the later books show a fuller mastery of the art of writing history, and a more severe taste, than the earlier productions of the same series. I do not believe that the literature of America can show any historical composition at once so valu- able and so delightful as the two volumes, en- titled Wolfe and Montcalm, with which the whole work culminates. Edward Egg/es/on. 46

Edward Eggleston Eggleston, Edward Note on the Completion of Francis Parkman's Work 46-47

NOTE ON THE COMPLETION OF MR. PARKMANS WORK. IE work of Milton is a more lasting and a vastly nobler mon- ument of his age and race than the contemporaneous cathe- dral, but the men who first ad- mired St. Pauls did not dream that a man of Sir Christophers time hadbuilded better than he. We are materialists, as were our fathers before us, and we leave intellectual workers of the higher kind to toil in solitude, little cheered by appreciation; and when we give them appreciation we make them share 1t with the mere masqueraders in science. Only the other day, in a quiet library in Chestnut street, Boston, a great scholar, who is at the same time a charming writer, put the last touches to a work that has cost almost a lifetime of absorb- ing and devoted toil. Had the resultbeen some- thing material, a colossal bridge, for example, like that which stretches above the mast-tops between New York and Brooklyn, the whole nation would have watched the last strokes. But it is possible that the historian of the last quarter of the nineteenth century in America will find few events more notable than the com- pletion of the work of Mr. Francis Parkman that series of historical narratives, noxv at last. grown to one whole, in which the romantic ~tory of the rise, the marvelous expansion, and the ill-fated ending of the French power in North America is for the first time adequately told. Since its charms have been set before us in Mr. Parkmans picturesque pages, it is easy to un- derstand that it is one of the finest themes that ever engaged the pen of the historian. But before a creative spirit had brooded upon it, while it yet lay formless and void, none but a man of original genius could have discovered a theme fit for a master in the history of a re- mote and provincial failure. And yet in no episode of human history is the nature of man seen in more varied action than in this story of the struggles of France and England in the new world. Here is the reaction of an old and civil- ized world on a new and barbarous continent, here are the far-reaching travels and breathless adventures of devoted missionaries, ambitious explorers and soldiers, money-getting traders, and courezirs des lois. What a network of mo- tives religious, patriotic, and personal is displayed in this emulation of races, religions, of savage tribes, of European nationalities, of militaryand commercial adventurers, of intrigu- ing statesmen and provincial magnates. The reader lives in the very effervescence that pro- duced our modern America. In these contests were decided the mastery of the white man and the extinction of the red, the dominance of the Anglo-Saxon on the continent, and the preva- lence of the English tongue, and these conflicts played an important part in the evolution of in- stitutions that are neither English nor French. A great writer, like any other great character, is the offspring of two things: the man, and an opportunity suited to the outfit of the man. Francis Parkman gravitated to the wilderness in his early manhood, and lived among the savages as aiT acute observer of their customs and their spirit. His literary life has followed the trend of his individuality. He early began to write of frontier adventure and character, at first in fiction, and then in the remarkable series of historic compositions that now forms one of the great monuments of our literature. Never has the very soul of the wilderness been better understood and reproduced than in some of these histories. There has arisen in our time a new school of historians, men of large and accurate scholar- ship, who are destitute of skill in literary struc- ture, and who hold style in contempt. They dump the crude ore of history into their ponder- ous sentences, and leave the reader to struggle with it as he can. There are writers of a higher type who fail, through no fault of their own, to acquire an attractive style of narration. The late & eorge Bancroft, with all his vast erudition, and his ambitious manner, will never be read for pleasure, and Mr. Freemans diffuse and journalistic diction is an eddying tide that only a courageous reader cares to stem. Away over on the other hand are the books of Mr. Froude, which are interesting enough to people willing to read narratives founded on fact. Mr. Parkman belongs distinctly to the class of learned historical scholars who are also skilful and charming writers. His books, to borrow a phrase from Augustin Thierry, are important additions to historical science, and at the same time works of literary art. It is no part of my purpose to write a criti- cism of Mr. Parkmans books. I write only to celebrate the completion of a work that is a last- ing honor to our age and nation. In his forty- five years of work Mr. Parkman has ripened his judgment and matured his style, and the later books show a fuller mastery of the art of writing history, and a more severe taste, than the earlier productions of the same series. I do not believe that the literature of America can show any historical composition at once so valu- able and so delightful as the two volumes, en- titled Wolfe and Montcalm, with which the whole work culminates. Edward Egg/es/on. 46 POEMS. MOODS OF THE SOUL. I. IN TIME OF VICTORY. AS soldiers after fight confess The fear their valor would not own When, ere the battles thunder stress, The silence made its mightier moan, Though now the victory be mine T is of the conflict I must speak, Still wondering how the Hand Divine Confounds the mighty with the weak. To-morrow I may flaunt the foe Not now; for in the echoing beat Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know The bitterness of near defeat. O friends, ~vho see but steadfast deeds, Have grace of pity with your pralse. Crown, if you must, but crown with weeds, The conquered more deserve your bays. No, praise the dead ! the ancestral roll That down their line new courage send, For moments when against the soul All hell and half of heaven contend. J887. II. IN TIME OF DEFEAT. YES, here is undisguised defeat You say, No further fight to lose. With colors in the dust, t is meet That tears should flow and looks accuse. I echo every word of ruth Or blame: yet have I lost the right To praise with you the unfaltering Truth, Whose powersave in mehas might? Another day, another man; I am not now what I have been; Each grain that through the hour-glass ran Rescued the sinner from his sin. The Future is my constant friend; Above all children born to her Alike her rich affections bend She, the unchiding comforter. Perhaps on her unsullied scroll (Who knows?) there may be writ at last A fairer record of the soul For this dark blot upon the Past. 1890. BROWNING AT ASOLO. (INSCRIBED TO HIS FRIEND MRS. ARTHUR BRONSON.) THIS is the loggia Browning loved, High on the flank of the friendly town; These are the hills that his keen eye roved, The green like a cataract leaping down To the plain that his pen gave new renown. There to the west what a range of blue! The very background Titian drew To his peerless Loves. 0 tranquil scene! Who than thy poet fondlier knew The peaks and the shore and the lore be- tween? See! yonder s his Venicethe valiant Spire, Highest one of the perfect three, Guarding the others: the Palace choir, The Temple flashing with opal fire Bubble and foam oi the sunlit sea. Yesterday he was part of it all Sat here, discerning cloud from snow In the flush of the Alpine afterglow, Or mused on the vineyard whose wine- stirred row Meets in a leafy bacchanal. Listen a moment how oft did he! To the bells from Fontaltos distant tower Leading the evening in . . . ah, me! Here breathes the whole soul of Italy As one ~rose bi~eathes with the breath of the bower. Sighs were meant for an hour like this When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. Do you wonder the poets heart should miss This touch of rapture in Natures kiss And dream of Asolo ever again? Part of it yesterday, we moan? Nay, he is part of it now, no fear. What most we love we are that alone. His body lies under the Minster stone, But the love of the warm heart lingers here. LA MURA, AsoLo, June 3 1892. Ro1~ert Underwood Johnson. 47

Robert Underwood Johnson Johnson, Robert Underwood Browning at Asolo 47

POEMS. MOODS OF THE SOUL. I. IN TIME OF VICTORY. AS soldiers after fight confess The fear their valor would not own When, ere the battles thunder stress, The silence made its mightier moan, Though now the victory be mine T is of the conflict I must speak, Still wondering how the Hand Divine Confounds the mighty with the weak. To-morrow I may flaunt the foe Not now; for in the echoing beat Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know The bitterness of near defeat. O friends, ~vho see but steadfast deeds, Have grace of pity with your pralse. Crown, if you must, but crown with weeds, The conquered more deserve your bays. No, praise the dead ! the ancestral roll That down their line new courage send, For moments when against the soul All hell and half of heaven contend. J887. II. IN TIME OF DEFEAT. YES, here is undisguised defeat You say, No further fight to lose. With colors in the dust, t is meet That tears should flow and looks accuse. I echo every word of ruth Or blame: yet have I lost the right To praise with you the unfaltering Truth, Whose powersave in mehas might? Another day, another man; I am not now what I have been; Each grain that through the hour-glass ran Rescued the sinner from his sin. The Future is my constant friend; Above all children born to her Alike her rich affections bend She, the unchiding comforter. Perhaps on her unsullied scroll (Who knows?) there may be writ at last A fairer record of the soul For this dark blot upon the Past. 1890. BROWNING AT ASOLO. (INSCRIBED TO HIS FRIEND MRS. ARTHUR BRONSON.) THIS is the loggia Browning loved, High on the flank of the friendly town; These are the hills that his keen eye roved, The green like a cataract leaping down To the plain that his pen gave new renown. There to the west what a range of blue! The very background Titian drew To his peerless Loves. 0 tranquil scene! Who than thy poet fondlier knew The peaks and the shore and the lore be- tween? See! yonder s his Venicethe valiant Spire, Highest one of the perfect three, Guarding the others: the Palace choir, The Temple flashing with opal fire Bubble and foam oi the sunlit sea. Yesterday he was part of it all Sat here, discerning cloud from snow In the flush of the Alpine afterglow, Or mused on the vineyard whose wine- stirred row Meets in a leafy bacchanal. Listen a moment how oft did he! To the bells from Fontaltos distant tower Leading the evening in . . . ah, me! Here breathes the whole soul of Italy As one ~rose bi~eathes with the breath of the bower. Sighs were meant for an hour like this When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. Do you wonder the poets heart should miss This touch of rapture in Natures kiss And dream of Asolo ever again? Part of it yesterday, we moan? Nay, he is part of it now, no fear. What most we love we are that alone. His body lies under the Minster stone, But the love of the warm heart lingers here. LA MURA, AsoLo, June 3 1892. Ro1~ert Underwood Johnson. 47

Robert Underwood Johnson Johnson, Robert Underwood Moods of the Soul 47-48

POEMS. MOODS OF THE SOUL. I. IN TIME OF VICTORY. AS soldiers after fight confess The fear their valor would not own When, ere the battles thunder stress, The silence made its mightier moan, Though now the victory be mine T is of the conflict I must speak, Still wondering how the Hand Divine Confounds the mighty with the weak. To-morrow I may flaunt the foe Not now; for in the echoing beat Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know The bitterness of near defeat. O friends, ~vho see but steadfast deeds, Have grace of pity with your pralse. Crown, if you must, but crown with weeds, The conquered more deserve your bays. No, praise the dead ! the ancestral roll That down their line new courage send, For moments when against the soul All hell and half of heaven contend. J887. II. IN TIME OF DEFEAT. YES, here is undisguised defeat You say, No further fight to lose. With colors in the dust, t is meet That tears should flow and looks accuse. I echo every word of ruth Or blame: yet have I lost the right To praise with you the unfaltering Truth, Whose powersave in mehas might? Another day, another man; I am not now what I have been; Each grain that through the hour-glass ran Rescued the sinner from his sin. The Future is my constant friend; Above all children born to her Alike her rich affections bend She, the unchiding comforter. Perhaps on her unsullied scroll (Who knows?) there may be writ at last A fairer record of the soul For this dark blot upon the Past. 1890. BROWNING AT ASOLO. (INSCRIBED TO HIS FRIEND MRS. ARTHUR BRONSON.) THIS is the loggia Browning loved, High on the flank of the friendly town; These are the hills that his keen eye roved, The green like a cataract leaping down To the plain that his pen gave new renown. There to the west what a range of blue! The very background Titian drew To his peerless Loves. 0 tranquil scene! Who than thy poet fondlier knew The peaks and the shore and the lore be- tween? See! yonder s his Venicethe valiant Spire, Highest one of the perfect three, Guarding the others: the Palace choir, The Temple flashing with opal fire Bubble and foam oi the sunlit sea. Yesterday he was part of it all Sat here, discerning cloud from snow In the flush of the Alpine afterglow, Or mused on the vineyard whose wine- stirred row Meets in a leafy bacchanal. Listen a moment how oft did he! To the bells from Fontaltos distant tower Leading the evening in . . . ah, me! Here breathes the whole soul of Italy As one ~rose bi~eathes with the breath of the bower. Sighs were meant for an hour like this When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. Do you wonder the poets heart should miss This touch of rapture in Natures kiss And dream of Asolo ever again? Part of it yesterday, we moan? Nay, he is part of it now, no fear. What most we love we are that alone. His body lies under the Minster stone, But the love of the warm heart lingers here. LA MURA, AsoLo, June 3 1892. Ro1~ert Underwood Johnson. 47 WHAT I SAW OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. II. BY ARCHIBALD FORBES. HORT-LIVED was the hal- firing down on the insurgents from the house- cyon interval of quietude in fronts. It was to be noticed that there had Paris during the late evening been no attempt anywhere on the part of the of Monday, May 23. Before Communists to occupy the houses and fire midnight, as I lay in my clothes from them on the advancing Versaillists. They on a sofa in the H6tel de la had been content to utilize barricades, and such Chauss~e dAntin, I could not sleep forthe burst- cover as the streets casually afforded. The ing of the shells on the adjacent Boulevard Versaillists, on the other hand, were reported to Haussmann. In the intervals of the shell-fire be freely occupying the houses and firing down was audible the steady grunt of the mitrail- from the windows; this I did not yet know of leuses, and I could distinctly hear the pattering my own knowledge, but I did know that they of the balls as they rained and ricocheted on the were for the most part very cautious in expos- asphalt of the boulevard. There came in gusts ing themselves, and that, except in isolated in- throughout the night the noise of a more dis- stances, they had shown little enterprise, and tant fire, of which it was impossible to discern done nothing material in the way of hand-to- the whereabouts. hand fighting. The dismal din, so perplexing and bewilder- About six oclock I went for a walknot an ing, continued all night; daybreak brought no unmixed pleasure just at the moment, nor to cessation of the noise. Turning out in the be indulged in without considerable circum- chilly dawn, and from the hazardous corner spection. Getting into the Boulevard des Capu- of the Rue de Ia Chauss~e dAntin looking cines, I found it still held by strong bodies of cautiously up the Boulevard Haussmann, I national guards, a large proportion of whom saw before me a stra~lge spectacle of desola- were very drunk, while all were quite at their tion. Corpses strewed the broad roadway, and ease and in lively spirits. The cross barricade lay huddled in the recesses of doorways. Some between the head of the Rue de la Paix and of the bodies were half shrouded by the foliage the corner of the Place de lOp6ra, which had of the branches of trees which had been torn been shattered the day before by artillery fire off by the storm of shot and shell. Lampposts, from the Versaillist position at the Made- kiosks, and tree-stems were shattered or upset leine, was restored, strengthened, and armed in all directions. The Versaillists, hereabout with cannon and mitrailleuses. Nay, more, I at least, had certainly not advanced during the was assured by Communist officers that the night; indeed it seemed that in a measure night firing one had heard had been mainly they had fallen back, and that the Commu- that directed by them from this barricade, and nists were holding positions which the day that it had compelled the Versaillist withdrawal before they had abandoned. The big battery from the Madeleine position. There was a of the former in front of the P~pini~re Barracks certain confirmation of this in the fact that the at the head of the Boulevard Haussmann, a great boule~ards were now quite unharassed position the Versaillists had ~attained to on the by Versaillist fire save for occasional vagrant previous morning, was still, so far as that boule- obuses which appeared to come from the Tro- yard was concerned, the limit of their occu- cad6ro direction. I did myself the honor to pation in force, although they held as an ad- partake of coffee with a hospitable but particu- vanced post the slight barricade theyhad taken larly tipsy squad of national guardsmen, and the day before across the boulevard about half- then struck down toward the Palais-Royal to way down it, at the intersection of the Rue ascertain how it had fared during the night Tronchet. Over this outpost the battery at the with the Rue St. Honor~ and the Rue de Ri- P~pini~re was steadily sending cannon and voli. Several of the cross streets had suffered mitrailleuse fire toward the eastern end of the much from shell-fire, which was still slowly boulevard, where a few national guards still dropping; but the barricades at the Place du prowled behind casual cover, throwing a shot Palais-Royal were intact and armed, and the now and then at the intermediate barricade, great barricade across the Rue de Rivoli at its Communist sergeants were running about the junction with the Place de la Concorde was side streets and the Rue Lafayette, ordering still strongly held by the insurgents, sure evi- the inmates of houses to close their windows dence that the Versaillists were not yet in the but to open their shuttersthis no doubt as possession of the Place. The Rue St. Honor6, a precaution against Versaillist sympathizers along which I walked westward, was crossed 48

Archibald Forbes Forbes, Archibald What I Saw of the Paris Commune. II. 48-61

WHAT I SAW OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. II. BY ARCHIBALD FORBES. HORT-LIVED was the hal- firing down on the insurgents from the house- cyon interval of quietude in fronts. It was to be noticed that there had Paris during the late evening been no attempt anywhere on the part of the of Monday, May 23. Before Communists to occupy the houses and fire midnight, as I lay in my clothes from them on the advancing Versaillists. They on a sofa in the H6tel de la had been content to utilize barricades, and such Chauss~e dAntin, I could not sleep forthe burst- cover as the streets casually afforded. The ing of the shells on the adjacent Boulevard Versaillists, on the other hand, were reported to Haussmann. In the intervals of the shell-fire be freely occupying the houses and firing down was audible the steady grunt of the mitrail- from the windows; this I did not yet know of leuses, and I could distinctly hear the pattering my own knowledge, but I did know that they of the balls as they rained and ricocheted on the were for the most part very cautious in expos- asphalt of the boulevard. There came in gusts ing themselves, and that, except in isolated in- throughout the night the noise of a more dis- stances, they had shown little enterprise, and tant fire, of which it was impossible to discern done nothing material in the way of hand-to- the whereabouts. hand fighting. The dismal din, so perplexing and bewilder- About six oclock I went for a walknot an ing, continued all night; daybreak brought no unmixed pleasure just at the moment, nor to cessation of the noise. Turning out in the be indulged in without considerable circum- chilly dawn, and from the hazardous corner spection. Getting into the Boulevard des Capu- of the Rue de Ia Chauss~e dAntin looking cines, I found it still held by strong bodies of cautiously up the Boulevard Haussmann, I national guards, a large proportion of whom saw before me a stra~lge spectacle of desola- were very drunk, while all were quite at their tion. Corpses strewed the broad roadway, and ease and in lively spirits. The cross barricade lay huddled in the recesses of doorways. Some between the head of the Rue de la Paix and of the bodies were half shrouded by the foliage the corner of the Place de lOp6ra, which had of the branches of trees which had been torn been shattered the day before by artillery fire off by the storm of shot and shell. Lampposts, from the Versaillist position at the Made- kiosks, and tree-stems were shattered or upset leine, was restored, strengthened, and armed in all directions. The Versaillists, hereabout with cannon and mitrailleuses. Nay, more, I at least, had certainly not advanced during the was assured by Communist officers that the night; indeed it seemed that in a measure night firing one had heard had been mainly they had fallen back, and that the Commu- that directed by them from this barricade, and nists were holding positions which the day that it had compelled the Versaillist withdrawal before they had abandoned. The big battery from the Madeleine position. There was a of the former in front of the P~pini~re Barracks certain confirmation of this in the fact that the at the head of the Boulevard Haussmann, a great boule~ards were now quite unharassed position the Versaillists had ~attained to on the by Versaillist fire save for occasional vagrant previous morning, was still, so far as that boule- obuses which appeared to come from the Tro- yard was concerned, the limit of their occu- cad6ro direction. I did myself the honor to pation in force, although they held as an ad- partake of coffee with a hospitable but particu- vanced post the slight barricade theyhad taken larly tipsy squad of national guardsmen, and the day before across the boulevard about half- then struck down toward the Palais-Royal to way down it, at the intersection of the Rue ascertain how it had fared during the night Tronchet. Over this outpost the battery at the with the Rue St. Honor~ and the Rue de Ri- P~pini~re was steadily sending cannon and voli. Several of the cross streets had suffered mitrailleuse fire toward the eastern end of the much from shell-fire, which was still slowly boulevard, where a few national guards still dropping; but the barricades at the Place du prowled behind casual cover, throwing a shot Palais-Royal were intact and armed, and the now and then at the intermediate barricade, great barricade across the Rue de Rivoli at its Communist sergeants were running about the junction with the Place de la Concorde was side streets and the Rue Lafayette, ordering still strongly held by the insurgents, sure evi- the inmates of houses to close their windows dence that the Versaillists were not yet in the but to open their shuttersthis no doubt as possession of the Place. The Rue St. Honor6, a precaution against Versaillist sympathizers along which I walked westward, was crossed 48 WHAT! SA [V 01 THE PAEIS COIIJJV/UNE. 49 by frequent barricades, strongly manned by de- tachments of drunken but resolute men. The strongest barricade was at the junction of the Rue St. Hononi with the Rue Royale. Just here I witnessed one of the strangest imagin- able cross- question and crooked-answer spec- tacles. The Versaillists held in force the Rue du Faubourg St. Hononi, which is the continua- tion of the Rue St. Hononi west of the Rue Royale. They were thus in the rearof the great Communist battery facing the Place de la Con- corde at the foot of the Rue Royale, yet could not take it in reverse because of the cross fire from the barricade which stood across the head of the Rue St. llonor6. And they were further blocked by the Versaillist fire from the Corps L~gislatif across the Seine on the further side of the Place de la Concorde, directed against the Communist battery at the foot of the Rue Royale, and sweeping that thoroughfare in its rear. The diagram will make the curious situa- tion more clear; it was a deadlock the forcing of which neither side seemed inclined to at- tempt; the situation as it stood was passively in favor of the Communists. There were no Versaillists about the Made- leine, whither the day before they had reached in force, and where it seemed they had made good their foothold. Clearly their policy was to corps Ldgislatif. tHtHtt Pont de la 5eine. concorde. Place de la concorde. 44444 Battery. ttttt Roe St. Honor6. communists. B H p. VOL. XLV. 7. Rue do Faubourg St. Honord. versaillists in courtyards and houses. take no risks, and to economize as much as pos- sible in the matter of their own lives. A direct offensive effort along the wide boulevard would certainly have cost them dear; and, fresh as the red-breeches were from their German cap- tivity, their spirit was probably held not quite an assured thing. It became presently plain that the policy of the Versaillist leaders over- night had been reculer pour micux sait/er. Returning toward my hotel, I recognized how the Versaillist troops were engaging in the development of a great turning movement by their left. Yesterday they had reached the St. Lazare terminus, apparently on their way to Montmartre. Now theyhad got sure grip of the Place and Church of the Trinity at the head of the Rue de la Chausnie dAntin, and were working eastward by the narrower streets in preference to trav~rsing the wider Boulevard Haussmann. Between ten and eleven oclock, we in the hotel heard the sound of a fierce fire at the back of the Cii dAntin; and running into the Rue Lafitte, I recognized that the Versaillists had regained the Place of Notre Dame de Lorette, the man-trap triangle in which I had got involved on the previous after- noon, and were now fighting their way along the Rue de Ch~teaudun, which opens into the Rue Lafayette considerably eastward ofthe Cii dAntin. Meanwhile a heavy fire down the Boulevard Haussmann was being maintained, so that my hotel seemed in imminent danger of being surrounded. Regaining its front, and go- ing forward into the Rue Lafayette, I looked up eastward to the barricade across it at the junc- tion of the Rue de Ch~teaudun and prolonged across the dThouch~ of the latter street, and ~ 2~ DROWN BY H D NICHOLS FROM 0 PAINTING BY LEON Y ESCOSORA. A VERSAILLlsT. C -o 0 50 T/VJJA I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. could see the Communist defenders firing furi- ously along the Rue de Chi~teaudun. At length after a strong resistance they brole, and the Versaillists gained the commanding position. I watched the red-breeches climbing over the barricade as they poured out of the Rue de Ch~- teaudun and established themselves in posses- sion of the barricade across the Rue Lafayette. Now (at P. M.) they were firing westward down that street into the lower end of the Boulevard Haussmann, while other Versaillist troops were pressing down the latter, firing heavily, and covered by shell-fire describing parabola over their heads and falling in front of them. Thus the Communist detachments remaining about the bottom of the Boulevard Haussmann, not numerically strong, but singularly obstinate, were taken in front and rear; and indeed in flank as well, for a rifle-fire was reaching them along the Rue de la Chauss~e dAntin from the Church of the Trinity. Parenthetically I may observe that, standing in the lee of a projection at the foot of the Rue Lafayette, I was hemmed in be- tween three fires. There was not a civilian out of doors anywhere within sight; even the women, who were so fond of shell fragments, were under cover now. Communard after Communard, finding the Boulevard Haussmann too hot to hold him, was sneaking away out of the devilry, availing himself of the cover afforded by the Opera House. Yet the Versaillists hung back, At half-past two they had not got so far down the Boule- vard Haussmann as to be abreast of the Opera House, from the arms of Apollo on whose summit the red flag still waved. The Versail- lists simply would not expose themselves. About five and twenty Communists were block- ing the column with an intermittent fire. Two minutes at the/as de c/large would have given the regulars the boulevard from end to end; but they would not make the effort, and instead they were bursting their way from house to house, and taking pot-shots out of the windows. This style of cover-fighting on their part, of course, left the street free for artillery and mi TREATING VERSAILLISTS TO WINE, [fT/-fiT / 81 [1 OF ]7/1x RI/CIW (01 /il flAT/I. 5 trailleuse fire. an(l certainly neither was spared. the hells ami bullets were passing my corner in one continuous shriek and whistle; the crash of tailing stucco and the clash of broken glass were incessant. So scanty were the defenders that scarce any execution was (lone by all this e\1)en(Iiture of ammunition ; but it probably trie(l the nerves of the few Communists left. that their position was desperate was l)eyon(l a (built an(i this they (luite recognized, but were resolute to hold on to the bitterend. Their efforts were really heroic. just as all seemed ox er, they got a cannon from somewhere up to the hea(l of the Rue Hal~vy, and brought it into action auainst the Versaillist position at the Church of the Trinity. t4 was all weird and curious chaos. It was only of one episode that I couldI be the spectator, but the din that filled the air told vaguely of other strenuous combats that were heing fought elsewhere. Above the smoke of the villainous gtinpow(ler the sum- mer sun was shining brightly, and spite of the powder-stench and the smell of blood the air was halmv. It xvas such a day as macic one long to be lying on the grass under a hawthorn hedge. looking at the lamhs at play; and made one loathe this cowering in a corner, dodging hot and shell in a most un(lignifie(1 manner, and without any matches xx herewith to light ones ~iipe. For another hour or more my neighbors the Communists, who had been reinforced ,gave lianse to the Versaillist effort to descend the Boulevard Haussmann, and xvere holding their oxx n against the Versaillist fire from the Church ot the trinitx and the barrica (Ic on the rise of the Rue lafayette. the house at the right-hand corner of the Rue de Ia (hauss(e (lAntin anil the Rue t afayette the house whose llroject ing gable xvas my shelterhad caught fire, to my (lis(ltiietu(le and discomfort; but before the fire should seriously trouble me the impending crisis would probably be over. Furious and more furious xvaxed the firing all around. About the Opera House it xx as especially fierce. I had gli (if lighting at close (luarters in the open space before its rear front, and I could iliscern men shufflin~ alonu behind the low ,~ b 1)ar~il)et (if its roof. they carried hacks, but I could not see their breeches, and was not there- fore xvholly certain that they were Versaillists. A woman had joined me in my position be- hind the gahle,awoman who seemed to have a charmed life. Over an(l over again she walked out into the fire, looked deliberately about her, and came back to recount to me with excite(l volubility the particulars of what she had seen. She xvas convinced the soldiers on the roof were Versaillists; yet, as I pointed out to her, the dra/cazi rouge still wavedi above the statue on the summit of the lofty building. The people of the hotel in our rear (learly shared her be- lief. Gathered timi(Ily in the forte coc/uY(, they xvere crying Bravo! and clapping their hands, because they hoped and believedi the Versaillists xvere xvinning. The xvoman was right they were Versaillist linesmen whom xve saxv on the l)~xraI)et of the Opera House. There xvas a cheer; the peo- ille of the hotel ran out into the fire, waving harnlkerchiefs and clapping their hands. the tricolor xxas xx axing al ox e the hither portico. AN EXEC TION OF COMM UNAEI)S. 52 WHAT I SAW OF THE FAME COMMUNE The red flag waved still on the farther eleva- tion. A ladder! a ladder to reach it! was the excited cry from the group behind me; but for the moment no ladder was procurable. As we waited, there darted down the boulevard to the corner of the Rue Hah~vy a little grig of a fellow in red breechesone of the old French linesmen breed. He was all alone, and appeared to enjoy the loneliness as he took up his post behind a tree, and fired his first shot at a Communard dodging about the intersection of the Rue Taitbout. XVhen is a Frenchman not dramatic? He fired with an air; he reloaded with an air; he fired again with a flourish, and was greeted with cheering and hand clapping from the gallery behind me, to which the little fellow was playing. Then he beckoned us back dramatically, for his next shot was to be sped up the Rue Lafayette, at a little knot of Communists who, from a fragment of shel- ter at the intersection of the Rue Lafitte, were taking him for their target. Then he faced about and waved his comrades on with exag- gerated gestures which recalled those one sees in a blood-and-thunder melodrama, the Com- munist bullets all the while cutting the bark and branches of the tree which was his cover. Ah! he was down! Well, he had enjoyed his flash of recklessness. The woman by my side and I darted across and carried him in. We might have spared our- selves the trouble and risk; he was dead, with a bullet through his head. This little distraction had engrossed us only for a few minutes; the mo- ment it ended, all our attention went back to the scene on the roof of the Opera House. A ladder had been at length brought; and a Versaillist soldier was now mounting the statue of Apollo on the front elevation of the house, overhanging the Place de lOp~ra. He tore down the drapeau rouge, and substituted the tricolor just as the head of a great column of Ver- saillist troops came streaming out of the Rue de la Chauss~e dAntin across the Boulevard Haussmann, and down the wide streets toward the great boulevard. The excitement was hys- terical. The inhabitants rushed out of the houses with bottles of wine; from their windows money was showered into the street; the women fell on the necks of the sweaty, dusty men in red breeches, and hugged them with frantic shouts of V/ye ia ligne ./ The soldiers fraternized warmly; drank, and pressed forward. Their discipline was most creditable. When their officers called them away from the conviviality and the embraces, they at once obeyed, and reformed companies promptly at the double. Now the Versaillist wave had swept over us for good; we were again people of law and order, and thencefor- ward abjured any relations some of us smug bourgeois might have temporarily had with those atrocious miscreants of Communards who were now getting decisively beaten. Every- body displayed raptures ofjoy, and Communist cards of citizenship were being surreptitiously torn up in all directions. It was now no longer ciloyen under pain of being a suspect; the undemocratic monsieur revived with amus- ing rapidity. The Versaillist troops,horse, foot, and ar- tillery, pouring in steady continuous streams down the Rue de la Chauss~e dAntin and the Rue Haldvy, debouched into the great boule- vard at the Place de lOp~ra, taking in flank and rear the insurgents holding positions there- abouts and getting presently a firm grip of the Boulevard des Capucines westward almost to the Madeleine. This was done not without hard fighting and considerable loss, for the Com- munists fought like wild-cats, and clung ob- stinately to every spot affording a semblance of cover. Even when the success mentioned bad been attained, the situation was still curi- ously involved. The Versaillists, moving down the Rue de Ia Paix, were threatening the Place Vend6me, but avoiding close quarters. The Communists for their I)art, threatened as they thus were with being cut off nevertheless still DRAWN BA A. F. JACCACI. THE PAVILION OF FLORA, LOUVEF, AFTER THE FIRE. U HAT I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. 53 DRAWN BY A. F. JACCACI. RUINS OF THE COUR DES COMPTEA. held obstinately their artillery barricades at the foot of the Rue Royale and at the western end of the Rue St. Honor& The rear face of the former had been fortified and armed; and so, although the Versaillist artillery hammered at its proper front from the Corps L~gislatif, its rearward guns were able to interfere with the Versaillist efforts to make good a hold on the much-battered Madeleine. I was becoming exceedingly anxious to get some news sent out, and in order to ascertain whether there was any prospect of the despatch of a bag to Versailles from the British Embassy in the Rue du Faubourg St. Honor6, I started up the now quiet Boulevard Haussmann, and by tacks and zigzags got into the Rue dAgues- seau, which debouches into the Faubourg nearly opposite the British Embassy. Shells were bursting very freely in the neighborhood, but my affair was urgent, and from the corner of the Rue dAguesseau I stepped out into the Rue du Faubourg St. Honor~, intending to dart across to the Embassy gate. I drew back as a shell splinter whizzed past me close enough to blow my beard aside. The street was simply a great tube for shell- fire; nothing could live in it. Hoping that the firing might soon abate, I waited in an entry for an hour. Around about me there were several ambu- lances (as the field hospitals had come to be called in the late war). Into one close by I saw, for a quarter of an hour, one wounded man carried every min- ute I timed the stretchers by my watch. In others into which I looked, the courtyards were full of mattresses and groaning men. A good many corpses, chiefly of national guards, lay in the streets, behind the barricades and in the gutters. It fell dusk as I waited, the fire rather increasing than abating in in- tensity, and I would waste no more time. As I returned toward my hotel, I had to cross the line of Versaillist artillery still pouring southward from the Church of the Trinity, and so down the Rue Hal~vy, toward the quarter where the noise indicated that hot fighting was still going on. The gunners received a wild ovation from the inhabitants of the Chauss~e dAn- tin. Where, I wondered, had the good - people secreted the tricolor during all those days of the Commune? It now hung from every window in the still night air; the shouts of Vive la ligue / stirring itoccasionallywith a lazy throb. Still the work was not nearly done. Stray bullets whistled everywhere the women in their crazy courage had come to call them sparrows. And as the night closed in, from the Rue St. Honor~, the Place Vend6me, and the vicinity of the Palais-Royal and the H6tel-de-Ville came the noise of heavy, steady firing of cannon, mitrailleuses, and mus- ketry, accentuated occasionally by explosions that made the solid earth tremble. After a night of horror that seemed inter- minable, there broke at length the morning of Wednesday, May 24. When the sun rose, what a spectacle flouted his beams! The flames from the palace of the Tuileries, kindled by damna- ble petroleum, insulted the soft light of the morning, and cast lurid rays on the grimy recreant Frenchmen who skulked from their dastardly incendiarism to pot at their coun- trymen from behind a barricade. How the palace blazed! The flames reveled in the his- toric rooms, made embers of the rich furniture, burst out the plate-glass windows, brought down the fantastic roof. It was in the Prince Imperials wing, facing the Tuileries garden, V A ~ ~ - A~T ABL ~ A - N-c N -~ 54 TVHA iT I SA TV Of TIlE PARIS COMMUNE where the demon of fire first had his fierce sway. By eight oclock the whole of this wing was nearly burnt out. When I reached the end of the Rue Dauphin, the red belches of flame were shooting out from the corner facing the private garden and the Rue Rivoli. It was the Pavilion Marsan,containing the apartments oc- ~upiecl by the King of Prussia and his suite during the visit to Paris the year of the Exhibi- tion. A furious jet of flame was pouring out of the window at which Bismarck used to sit and smoke and look out on Paris and the Parisians. There was a sudden crash. Was it an explosion or a fall of flooring that caused the great burst of black smoke and red sparks in ones face? Who could tell what hell-devices might be within that blazing pile? It were well surely to keep at a respectful distance from it. And so I went eastward to the Place du Palais- Royal, which was still unsafe by reason of shot and shell from the neighborhood of the H6tel- de-Ville. Opposite was the great~archway by which troops were wont to enter into the Place du Carrousel. Was the fire there yet? Just so far and no more. Could the archway be broken down, the Louvre, with its artistic riches, might still be saved. But there was none to act or to direct. The troops were lounging supine along the streets, intentand who could blame the weary, powder-grimed men ?on bread and wine. So the flames leaped on from win- doxv to window, from chimney to chimney. They were beyond the arch now; the Pavil lon de la Bibiioth~que was kindlingthe con- necting-link between the Tuileries and the Louvre, built by the late emperor to contain his private library. Unless an effort to stay the progress of the flames should be made, the Louvre and its inestimable contents were surely doomed. Indeed, the Louvre might be said to be on fire already, for the Pavillon de la Biblioth~que was counted a I)art of it. And on fire, too, were the Palais-Royal and the H6tel-de-Ville, where the rump of the Com- mune were cowering amidst their incendia- rism; and the Ministry of Finance, and many another public and private building. No won- (icr that Courbet, SOl-diSalit Minister of Fine Arts, should have been sending far and wide, among friends native and foreign, in quest of a refuge wherein to hi(ie his head! I turned, sad and sick, from the spectacle of wanton destruction, to be saddened and sickened yet ftirther by another spectacle. Versaillist soldiers, hanging about the foot of the Rue St. Honor6, were enjoying the cheap amusement of Conimunard hunting. The lower-class Parisians of civil life seemed to me caitiff and yet cruel to the last drop of their thin, sour, petit b/eu blood. But yester- day they had been shouting V/ic Za Corn- rnuue / an(l submitted to be governed by the said Commune. To-day they rubbed their hands with livid, currish joy to have it in their power to denounce a Communard and to re- veal his hiding-place. Very eager in this pa- triotic duty were the (lear creatures of women. They knew the rat-holes into which the poor devils had squeezed themselves, and they guided the Versaillist soldiers to the spot with a fiendish glee. Voi/~t the brave of France, re- turne(l to such a triumph from an inglorious captivity! They have found him, then, the miserable! Yes, they have seized him from out one of the purliens which Haussmann had not time to sweep away, and a guard of six of them hem him round as they march him into the Rue St. Honor& A tall, pale, hatless man, with something not ignoble in his bear- ing. His lower lip is trembling, but his brow is firm, and the eye of him has some pride and indeed scorn in it. A veritable Coin- munard? I ask of my neighbor in the throng. Questionable, is the reply; I think he is a milk-seller to whom the woman who has denounced him owes a score. They yell, the crowd, my neighbor as loud as any, Shoot him! Shoot him! the demon- women most clamorous, of course. An arm goes up into the air; there are on it the stripes of a non-commissioned officer, an(l there is a stick in the fist at the end of the arm. The stick descends on the bare head of the pale l)risoner. Ha! the infection has RUINS OF THE VEATIBULE OF THE TUALERIES. !VIIAT I SAW OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. 55 caught; men club their rifles and bring them down on that head, or clash them into splin- ters in their lust for murder. He is down; he is up again; he is down againthe thuds of the gun-stocks sounding on him just as when a man beats a carpet with a stick. A certain British impulse prompts me to push into the m~l~e; but it is foolish, and it is useless. They are firing into the flaccid carcass now; throng- ing around it as it lies prone, like blow-flies on a piece of meat. Faugh! his brains are out and oozing into the gutter, whither the carrion is presently heaved bodily, to be trod- den on and mangled presently by the feet of multitudes and the wheels of gun-carriages. But, after all, womanhood was not (1uite dead in that band of bedlamites who had clamored Shoot him! There was one matron in hys- terics, who did not seem more than half drunk; another, with wan, scared face, drew out of the press a child-bedlamite, her offspring, and, one might hope, went home ashamed. But surely for the time all manhood was dead in the sol- dierv of France to do a deed like this. An officer one with a bull-throat and the eyes of Algiers stood by and looked on at the sport, smoking a cigar. A sharer in the crime surely was he if there was such a thing as dis- cipline in the French ranks; if there was not he might have been pitied if he had not smiled his cynical approval. The Commune was in desperate case; but it was dying hard, with dripping fangs bared and every bloody claw protruded. It held no ground now west of the Boulevard Sevastopol from the river north to the Porte St. Denis. The Place Vend6me had been carried at two in the morning; after a desperate struggle the last man of its Communist garrison had been bayoneted in the great barricade at the junc- tion of the Rue Royale with the Place de la Concorde, and the Versaillist masses could now gather undisturbed about the Madeleine. But how about the wild-cat leaders of the Commune still in possession of the H6tel-de- Ville, on which ~he Versaillist batteries were concentrating a fire heavy enough to be called a bombardment? Their backs were to the wall, and they were fighting now, not for life, about that they were reckless,but that they might work as much evil as might be possible before their hour should come. The Versaillists did not dare to make a quick ending by rushing straight at the barricades around the H6tel-de- Ville; they were timid about explosions. But they were mining, sapping, l)urrowing, circum- venting, breaking through party-walls, and ad- vancing from back yard to back yard; and it was a question of only a few hours when they should pierce the cordon. Meanwhile the hold- ers of the H6tel-de-Ville were pouring out death and (lestruction over Paris with indis- crimmate wildness and fury. Now it was a bou- quet of shells on the Champs -Elys~es; now a ~11j \\ ~-; -- 7 FRAN A PHATADRAPH BY LECADRE. RUINA OF THE H6TEL-OE-VALLE, AD SEEN FROM THE BRAVER. WHAT I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. heavy obus sent crashing into the already bat- morning was in full swing. Denouncements tered Boulevard Haussmann; nowa great shell by wholesale had become the fashion, and de- hurtling in the direction of the Avenue de la nouncement and apprehension were duly fol- Reine Hortense. Cut off by this time from La lowed by braining. It was a relief to quit the Chapelle and the Gare du Nord, the Reds still truculent cowards and the bloody gutters, and clung to a barricade in the Rue Lafayette near the yelling women and the Algerian-eyed offi- the Square Montholon. For its defenders the cers. I strolled away into the Place Vend6me, way of retreat was open backward into Belle- of which there was current a story that it had ville. Canny folk, those Versaillists! TIYe Prus- been held for hours by twenty-five Communists sians no doubt would have let them into Belle- and a woman against all that the Versaillists ville from the rear, as they had let them into found it in their hearts to do. A considerable La Chapelle. But Belleville, whether in front force had been massed in the Place; sentries or from rear, scarcely offered a joyous prospect. xvere in charge of the ruins of the famous col- It seemed to me that for days to come there umn. In the gutter before the H6tel Bristol lay might be fighting about that rugged and tur- a corpse buffeted and besmirchedthe corpse, bulent region, and that there probably the I was told, of the Communist captain of the Commune would find its last ditch. As for the adjacent barricade, who had held it to the bit- people in the H6tel-de-Vilie, they, in the ex- ter end and then had shot himself. The Ver- pressive old phrase, were between the devil and saillist braves had made assurance doubly sure the deep sea. One enemy, with weapons in his by shooting over and over again into the clay hands, was outside; another, fire and fire kin- that was once a man. And in the Place there dled by themselveswas inside. Would they roast, or risk death at the bayonet point? was the question I asked myself as I left the sol- diers stacking the corpses on the flower-beds of the garden of the Tour St. Jacques, and tried in vain to see something of the H6tel-de-Ville from the Pont Neuf. Its face toward the qual was hidden behind a great blanket of smoke, through the opacity of which shot occasional flashes of re(I flame. Further westward the merry game of the lay another corpse, that of the 1-Jecate who fought on the Rue de la Paix barricade with a persistence and fury of which many spoke. They might have shot her, yes, when a woman takes to war she forfeits her immunities,but in memory of their mothers they might at least have pulled her scanty rags over the bare limbs that now outraged decency, and refrained from abominable bayonet-thrusts. And now here was the Rue Royale, burn- ing right royally from end to end. Alas for the FROM A COMPOSITION PHOTOGRAPH OF THE TIME, MY APPERT. ENGRAVED BY C. A. POWELL. ASGAGRINATION BY THE COMMUNE OF HOATAGEG IN THE PRISON OF LA ROQUETTE, MAY 24, 0870. WHAT I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. lovers of a draught of good English beer in this parching lime-kiln; the English beer-house at the corner of the Rue du Faubourg St. Ho- nori was a heap of blazing ruins. Indeed, from that corner up to the Place de la Made- leine, there was not a house on either side of the noble street that was not on fire. And the fire had been down the Rue St. Honors, and up the Faubourg, and was working its swift hot will along the Rue Boissy. It was hard to breathe in an atmosphere mainly of petro- leum-smoke. There was a sun, but his heat was dominated by the heat of the conflagra- tion; his rays obscured by the lurid blue- black smoke that was rising with a greasy fatness everywhere in the air, filling the eyes with water, getting into the throat with an acrid semi-asphyxiation, poisoning the sense of smell, and turning ones gorge with the abomination of it. All up the Rue du Fau- bourg St. Hononi the gutters were full of blood; there was a barricade at every inter- section; the house-fronts were scored by shell- fire, and corpses lay about promiscuously. As I reached the gate leading into the courtyard of the British Embassy, the sight of a figure leaning against one of the pillars gave me a great shock. Why I should have been thus affected, it is necessary to explain. Neither my colleagues nor I had been able to get a scrap sent out of Paris since Sunday night, and it was now noon of Wednesda9. It was not for pleasure nor excitement that VOL. XLV.8. we were standing by the Communes bloody death-bed; we were on duty. I was wretched. Here I was miserably cii Pair, witnessing in- deed a momentous struggle, but the spectacle only useful professionally in order that I might with all speed transfer the pictures which had formed themselves on my mental retina to the pages of my newspaper, and thus make the world an early sharer with me in a knowledge of events on the phases and issue of which the world was hanging. This aim, this aspira- tion, must ever absorb the war correspondent to the exclusion of every other consideration whatsoever. It is for the accomplishment of this purpose that he lives; I do not know that he ought to continue to do so if he fails certainly not if he fails because of a mis- chance for which he himself is responsible, On the Tuesday night I could endure the blockade no longer. Somebody must get out, if he should descend the face of the enceinte by a rope. It was arranged that at sunrise on the Wednesday morning the attempt should be made by a colleague whose cool courage events had well tested, who had a good horse, knew Paris thoroughly, and had a large ac- quaintance among officers of the Versaillist army. He took charge of one copy of the scrappy letters I had written in duplicate in the intervals of watching the fighting; we shook hands, wishing each other a good de- liverance; and at noon of Wednesday I was congratulating myself on the all but assurance -~ 57 FROM A COMPOSITiON ~ RIFERT. ENGRAVED SF R. C. COLLINS. ASSASSINATION BY TIRE COMMUNE OF SIXTY-TWO HOSTAGES, RUE SOAXO, BELLEVILLE, AT 5 P. M., MAY ~6, 5870. WHAT .1 SA [V OF TEE RAMS COMMUNE. that my letters were already somexvhere about Abbeville on the way to Calais. The cheerful impression was abruptly dis- sipated by the sight that caught my eye as I entered the Embassy courtyard. My unfor- tunate colleague was leaning against one of the pillars, deadly sick, his complexion posi- tively green, his nerves utterly shattered. He had tried to get out, and, I doubt not, tried boldly and energetically; but he had failed. Hehad been fired upon, and maltreated; he had been denounced as a Prussian spy, and had escaped death by the skin of his teeth. Poor fellow! he bad been spattered with the blood and brains of denounced men who had not escaped. He bad given up, and had taken post where I found him as the likeliest point at which to meet me and tell me of his failure. Of course, as the consequence of that mis- fortune, it behooved me to make the attempt. I pondered a few moments, and then went into the clzaiwellerie of the Embassy, where I found Mr. Malet, now Sir Edward Malet, British Ambassador at Berlin. Malet, who was then second secretary, had remained in Paris to represent Great Britain,when Lord Lyonsand the rest of the Embassy perso;inei had mi- grated to Versailles at the beginning of the Commune. He may be said to have been sitting among ruins, for the smash of the big house had been severe. The parquet flooring of the ball-room was chaos, and the venti- lation of sundry rooms had been im- proved by shell-holes. In the garden walls were great gaps, through which the Versaillists had worked their strategic progress round the barri- cades, respecting much the whole- ness of their skins. I had met Malet in the early days of the recent xvar, when he came out of Paris to Meaux with commum- cations for Bismarck. I told him I meant to try to get out, and asked him whether I could take anything to Versailles for him. My dear fellow, he said, it s no use your trying. I sent off two messengers this morning; both have come backboth had been fired on. We must wait a day or two until things settle. Jam going to try to-day, and immediately, was my answer. You can help me, and at the same time further your own objects. Put your despatches into a big official envelop, address it to Her Majesty the Queen of England, and intrust me with the packet. No harm can come of it, anyhow. After a little excogitation Malet complied, and, pocketing the envelop, I went to the stable where my little horse was standing at livery. The Communist sentry had relieved himself, and the embargo was off; but the poor beast, having been half starved and long de- prived of exercise, was in a state of great debil- ity. However, I jogged gently along, meeting with no molestation,until,on the Quai de Passy, I essayed a little trot; for time was of value. Presently the poor creature staggered and then fell on its side, pinning me down by the leg. I sickened, partly with pain, for I thought my leg was broken; more, however, in the realiza- tion of failure to accomplish my purpose if this hurt had indeed befallen me. A line bat- talion was passing; half a dozen ~iou-~~ious were instantly around me. Some dragged the horse upon his legs, others raised me and carried me into a wayside cabaret. A glass of wine re- vived me; my leg was not broken, only the ankle dislocated. I ordered and paid for half a dozen bottles of Burgundy, my military friends carried me out and lifted me into the saddle, and I went on at a walk, thankful that I bad come so well out of the little disaster. I encountered and surmounted sundry sub- sequent difficulties and dangers; but the crucial obstacle was still before meat the Point du Jour Gate, whither I was making eu route for Versailles. Walking up and down in front of the guard-house were a colonel and a major of the line. No, it is impossible; very sorry, but our DRAWN RD A. F. JACCACI. THE GARDEN OF THE RUE HAXO, WHERE THE SIXTY-TWO HOATAGES WERE ASSASSINATED. (FROM A DRAWING MADE IN DS9D.) WHAT I SA W OF THE PARIS COMMUNE. 59 orders are imperative; you must apply for a permit to Marshal McMahon, whose quarters are at the ~cole Militaire. 1 J urged; I en- treated; I produced my envelop; but all to no purpose. The colonel went away; the major remained, and was so good as to accept a cigar. On his breast was the English Crimean medal, and on that hint I spoke yet again. I dwelt on the old comradeship of the French and English during the days of fighting and hardship be- fore Sevastopol. That medal he wore was the Queen of England~ s souvenir; could he delay a courier carrying to her important despatches? The old warrior looked cautiously round; we were alone. He spoke no word, but silently with his thumb over his shoulder pointed down the tunnel under the enceinte, at the further end of which was the open country. When I had passed the sentry at the exit I drew a long breath of relief, and pottered on to S~vres, at which place I left my horse and took carriage for Versaille?, where my old war time courier was residing in the despatch-service of the Daily News resident correspondent. As I drove up the broad avenue between Viroflay and Versailles, I overtook a very mis- erable and dejected company. In file after file of six tramped a convoy of Communist prison- ers numbering over two thousand souls. Pa- tiently and with some apparent consciousness of pride they marched, linked closely arm in arm. Among them were many women, some of them fierce barricade Hecates, others mere girls, soft and timid, here seemingly because a parent was here also. All were bareheaded and foul with dust, many powder-stained as well, and the burning sun beat down on the frowzy col- umn. Not the sun only beat down, but also the flats of sabers wielded by the dashing Chas- seurs dAfrique who were the escort of those unfortunates. Their own experience might have taught them humanity toward their cap- tives. No saber-blades had descended on their pates during that long, dreary march from Sedan to their German captivity; they were the pris- oners of soldiers. But they were prisoners now no longer, as they capered on their wiry barb stallions, and in their pride of cheap victory be- labored unmercifully the miserables of the Com- mune. For any overwearied creatures who fell out or dropped there was short shrift; my driv- ing-horse had been shying at the corpses on the road all the way from S~vres. At the head of the somber column were three or four hundred men lashed together with ropes, all powder- stained those, and among them not a few men in red breeches deserters taken red- handed. I rather wondered what they did in this gang; they might as well have died fight- ing on the barricades, as survive to be made 1 I am not positive that this was the place named. targets of a day or two later with their backs against a wall. To hand Malets despatches to the first sec- retary of the Embassy (Mr. Sackville West), and to eat a morsel, did not delay me in Ver- sailles beyond half an hour; and then I was off on wheels by the circuitous route through Ruel and Malmaison and the pontoon bridge above Argenteuil, to St. Denis and the railway. As I drove along the green margin of the placid Seine, the spectacle which the capital presented can never fade from my memory. On its white houses the sun still shone; he did not withhold his beams, spite of the deeds which they illu- mined. But up through the sunbeams strug- gled and surged ghastly swart waves and folds and pillars of dense smoke. Ha! there was a sharp crack, and then a dull thud on the air. No gun-fire that, but some great explosion which must have rocked Paris to its base. There rose a convolvulus-shaped column of white smoke, with a jet-like spurt, such as men describe when Vesuvius bursts into eruption; then it broke up into fleecy waves and eddied away to the horizon all round, as the ripple of a stone thrown into a pool spreads to the waters edge. The crowd of Germans who sat by the Seine steadily watching were startled into a burst of excitement. The excitement might well have~ been world-wide. Paris the beautiful was Paris the ghastly, Paris the battered, Paris the burning, Paris the blood-drenched now. And this in the present century, aye, but twenty years ago; Europe professing civiliza- tion, France boasting of culture, Frenchmen braining one another with the butt-ends of muskets, and Paris blazing to the skies! There wanted but a Nero to fiddle. Traveling to England and writing hard all the way in train and boat, I reached London on Thursday, May 25, and was back in Paris on Saturday, May 27. All was then virtually over. The hostages in La Roquette had been shot, and the H6tel-de-Ville had fallen, on the day I left. When I returned the Communists were at their last gasp in the Chateau dEau, the Buttes de Chaumont, and P~re-Lachaise; on the afternoon of the 28th, after just one week of fighting, Marshal MacMahon announced, I am absolutely master of Paris. On the following morning I visited P~re-Lachaise, where the very last shots had been fired. Bivouac fires had been fed with the souvenirs of pious sorrow, and the trappings of woe had been torn down to be used as bedclothes. But there had been no great amount of fighting in the cemetery itself. An infallible sign of close fighting are the dents of many bullets, and of those there were not very many in Pare- Lachaise. Shells, however, had fallen freely, and the results were occasionally very ghastly. (A 0 H z 0 0 0 z 0 U WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF TILE COMMUNE. 6i But the ghastliest sight in P~re-Lachaise was in the southeastern corner, where close to the boundary wall had been a natural hollow. The hollow was now filled up by dead. One could measure the dead by the rood. There they lay tier above tier, each tier powdered over with a coating of chlorid of lime, two hundred of them l)atent to the eye, besides those underneath hidden by the earth covering layer after layer. Among the dead were many women. There, thrown up in the sunlight, was a well-rounded arm with a ring on one of the fingers; there again was a bust shapely in death; and there were faces which to look upon made one shud- der faces distorted out of humanity with ferocity and agony combined. The ghastly effect of the dusky white powder on the dulled eyes, the gnashed teeth, and the jagged beards cannot be described. How died those men and women? Were they carted here and laid out in ghastly lying-in-state in this dead-hole of P~re-Lachaise? Not so; the hole had been replenished from close by. There was no dif- ficulty in reading the open book. Just there was where they were posted up against yon- der pock-pitted wall, and shot to death as they stood or crouched. Let us turn our backs on the blood-stained scene, and pray that never again may the civilized world witness such a week of horrors as Paris underwent in those bright, early summer days of 1871 ArcAiibald Forbes. WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SAW OF THE COMMUNE. 7F the beginning of the Fran- co-Prussian war in Septem- ber, 1870, we were obliged to leave Paris very sudden- ly, and with many others went to England, where we rerhained all the winter. In the spring of J871 my mother, getting very tired of traveling from one place to another with a large family, decided to come back to her home in Paris. All seemed quiet enough just then, and, as my mother very truly said she had never beard of two sieges immediately following each other, we settled ourselves in our apartment. Mr. Washburne, the American minister, hearing we were back, came in to see my mother, and told her to go at once to London, for he thought Paris no fit place for women and children. This bit of ad- vice was disregarded. After a few days had passed the gates of Paris were closed, and the second siege, commonly called that of the Commune, had begun. Mr. Washburne was very kind, and came to see us often, sometimes finding us pretty well frightened. One evening when he came he found us on our way to the cellar for the night, but that was almost at the end of the siege. I may as well state here that I never got so far as the cellar, but my intimate friends, children of the concierge, informed me that a great many people had their mattresses brought down to the cellar, and slept there every night, experienc- ing, I suppose, a feeling of safety, as the only I / I -~-~- _ WALL WHERE THE COMMUNISTS WERE EXECUTED IN P~EE-LACHAISR. (FROM A DRAWING MADE IN 1891.)

C. W. T. T., C. W. What an American Girl Saw of the Paris Commune 61-67

WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF TILE COMMUNE. 6i But the ghastliest sight in P~re-Lachaise was in the southeastern corner, where close to the boundary wall had been a natural hollow. The hollow was now filled up by dead. One could measure the dead by the rood. There they lay tier above tier, each tier powdered over with a coating of chlorid of lime, two hundred of them l)atent to the eye, besides those underneath hidden by the earth covering layer after layer. Among the dead were many women. There, thrown up in the sunlight, was a well-rounded arm with a ring on one of the fingers; there again was a bust shapely in death; and there were faces which to look upon made one shud- der faces distorted out of humanity with ferocity and agony combined. The ghastly effect of the dusky white powder on the dulled eyes, the gnashed teeth, and the jagged beards cannot be described. How died those men and women? Were they carted here and laid out in ghastly lying-in-state in this dead-hole of P~re-Lachaise? Not so; the hole had been replenished from close by. There was no dif- ficulty in reading the open book. Just there was where they were posted up against yon- der pock-pitted wall, and shot to death as they stood or crouched. Let us turn our backs on the blood-stained scene, and pray that never again may the civilized world witness such a week of horrors as Paris underwent in those bright, early summer days of 1871 ArcAiibald Forbes. WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SAW OF THE COMMUNE. 7F the beginning of the Fran- co-Prussian war in Septem- ber, 1870, we were obliged to leave Paris very sudden- ly, and with many others went to England, where we rerhained all the winter. In the spring of J871 my mother, getting very tired of traveling from one place to another with a large family, decided to come back to her home in Paris. All seemed quiet enough just then, and, as my mother very truly said she had never beard of two sieges immediately following each other, we settled ourselves in our apartment. Mr. Washburne, the American minister, hearing we were back, came in to see my mother, and told her to go at once to London, for he thought Paris no fit place for women and children. This bit of ad- vice was disregarded. After a few days had passed the gates of Paris were closed, and the second siege, commonly called that of the Commune, had begun. Mr. Washburne was very kind, and came to see us often, sometimes finding us pretty well frightened. One evening when he came he found us on our way to the cellar for the night, but that was almost at the end of the siege. I may as well state here that I never got so far as the cellar, but my intimate friends, children of the concierge, informed me that a great many people had their mattresses brought down to the cellar, and slept there every night, experienc- ing, I suppose, a feeling of safety, as the only I / I -~-~- _ WALL WHERE THE COMMUNISTS WERE EXECUTED IN P~EE-LACHAISR. (FROM A DRAWING MADE IN 1891.) 62 WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SAW OF THE COMMUNE. thing that could then injure them was the fall- ing of the whole house; and surely that was more pleasant and quite as effective as muti- lation by a shell. At first mother would not believe in the siege, and when the first cannon was fired she in- formed us that the noise was not a cannon, It was only the prte cock? re slamming. She had to abandon that theory when the Jorte coc/i?re not only slammed but whistled over the house in a very peculiar manner. So constant was the firing that, when an armistice was given, Paris was disagreeably quiet and monotonous at least I used to think so. At first every shot frightened me, and I imagined that every shell not only was aimed at our house but would surely strike it. In time I ceased to think of such a possibility, and at last became so accustomed to the noise that I rarely heard it. Indeed when a shell whistled over us or came near us, I often had not heard, or rather had not noticed, the explosion of the gun which had projected it. After a week or so I do not think any one thought much about the bombard- ment. We used to study in the back drawing-room, the windows of the front room being stuffed with mattresses to prevent the shells from coming in; I always thought that if the said shells in- tended to enter, the sight of a mattress would not change their course. However, a shell never tried to get in our front windows, or it might have disturbed our studies. If, while we were reading aloud or reciting, a shell exploded near the house, we would stop for a moment to look at each other with a listening stare, and then quietly go on, the monotonous sound of our voices not changing any more than if we had been interrupted by a knock at the door. This behavior on our part may have come from being so much with our governess, for she cer- tainly was the coolest and calmest woman I have ever met. She had been through the Revolution of 1848 as a child, and I had heard a great deal about it from her, and had conceived, as children do, very false impres- sions. My own idea of war, revolution, or siege in Paris meant but one thing in the end, which was that your head had to come off sooner or later; so my greatest fear (for the first two weeks) was of soldiers, or any rough-looking man I met on the street. I believe you can get accustomed to anything in this world if you make up your mind to it. The first time I heard a shell explode, I was with my two brothers in the conservatory over- looking the yard; the conservatory had been made into a play-room. We were standing at different tables, playing with tin soldiers, some being Prussians and others French; somehow I was always a Prussian. My eldest brother suddenly asked me if I had ever heard an obus whistle? No! I never had. I was not paying much attention to this question, or to his conversation. Well, he said, the other day I was on the roof with M (the butler), and we heard the queerest kind of noise, and he called out to me to lie down and his story was interrupted by well! it certainly was a queer kind of noise, a loud whistling noise, and as it grew nearer and louder, it seemed as if it would deafen us. I felt my knees tremble under me, and I slowly sank down to the floor, xvhere I remained for a few moments, while the sound gradually grew fainter and farther away, as the projectile passed without striking anything. Terribly frightened, I looked up, and saw that we had all three crouched down with our faces in our hands; and as we stood up one after the other, W, with a long breath and a relieved sigh, simply said, That s one! I heard a great many after that, and always threw myself down, as I was told to do when I could, but I have never been so frightened as I was that day. I remember looking out of the front window one day in company with mother and the maid, when a shell went straight down our street without touching anything, until it struck the last house, which was set on fire. One Sunday morning we had a rather unpleasant experience. Aswe were vainly looking for a church in which to hear mass, we saw a small group of men, women, and children, and, naturally enough we joined the crowd. The object of interest proved to be a man (or, shall I say, a born fool?) with an obus standing in a bucket of water, a wet towel wrapped around it; it was still hot (having fallen without exploding), and he was slowly unscrewing the cap with a long stick. I did not see much more, for I was seized by somebody, and hustled out of the crowd and down the street. Whether the obus burst, and killed the clever individual and his friends, I never learned. I have heard people say that there were no cabs to be had in Paris during the Commune or siege. I do not pretend to know if they existed during the siege, as I was not there, but I believe carriages were used for firewood and horses sold for beef at the butchers. Dur- ing the Commune, however, cabs were to be had; very possibly the cabmen drove their horses till they needed them for dinner, instead of hanging their carcasses in the cellar, thus making the poor animals a source of income as well as of food. My brother was sent for a cab one day, and, as he was so long away, mother got very nervous, and went down to the front door with the governess, wondering what was detaining him so long. Suddenly they heard the most frightful explosion from a shell WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF THE COMMUNE. 63 bursting close at hand. A fearful presentiment seemed to come over them, as they stood star- ing at each other. In a little while XV came running down the street, out of breath, and red with excitement, holding his hat in his hands and looking at it, while he moved it up and down as you would to prevent a griddle-cake from burning. He said he was on the Avenue Friedland, when he heard a shell coming behind him. His first idea xvas to run away from it, which he did with all his might, but, finding it was getting the best of him, and coming straight for him, he threw himself on the ground, where he remained breathless for a moment, while it struck the ground half a yard from him, bounded up to the first floor of a house, and, striking it, fell down again, at a little distance from where he was lying. He jumped up and went toward the shell to pick it up, when a man came out of the house and claimed it as having struck his house. Neither of them could touch it yet, but W , with natural American blood in his veins, throwing his hat over it managed to push it in, and ran off. He smelt strangely of sulphur, when he appeared before us with his hot treasure. Fighting against your own people is not what you might call a pleasant occupation, and a great many men, having refused to do it, and not being able to get out of Paris, hid themselves in the cellars and garrets of their houses. Neigh- bors are not easily deceived and rarely to be trusted anywhere; this is particularly true of the French concierge; therefore it was pretty well known where the refugees were. The sol- diers drummed in the streets to call them out. Some did come out for fear of being shot, but others did not, and our butler was one of those who did not. The soldiers usually drummed three times, then looked for, and usually found, the concealed ones, I am sorry to say. But we had better luck, for we man- aged to keep our prisoner safe till the Versail- lists came in; not without trouble, however, and one or two good frights. A paper was sent with M s full name, ordering him out. Mo- ther sent word that a man by that name had been her butler before the war, but that he had left her to go to fight the Prussians; this was true enough, and his coming back to us in England was nobodys business. The next thing was to try to get him out of Paris, for fear they might search our apartment for him. The American flag saved us from that annoyancea piece of good luck, this flag having been bought (I be- lieve by mistake) so big that we were usually mistaken for the American embassy, or some- how related to it. I believe M thought of getting through the gates in a cart of soiled clothes, but one or two men had tried it, had been found, and instantly shot. Notwithstand ing the flag, I think mother was rather nervous about him, and we had a pretty good fright one day, when the front-door bell rang, and the ser- vants, rushing to my mother, told her that they had not opened the door, because it was a sol- dier who had come to get the butler to shoot him, as they knew he was there. Whether or not mother was much frightened I cannot tell; she spoke for a few moments to our governess, and then decided to go alone and open the front door. XVe were very much excited, and I imme- diately imagined nothing short of a battle in the antechamber, and M shot before our eyes. Horrible as the idea was, and fond as I was of the man, I had a queer feeling that if anything was going to happen I was going to witness it, if I died for it, and I was also quite aware that our side would never give in. By the time we were all worked up to a great state of excitement, the door was opened by mama, who with a frigid stare, and a more than decided expression about her mouth, faced the enem)-, and demanded how he dared come to her apartment and ring her bell. A poor, mild- looking, and embarrassed man, in the Com- munist uniform, explained with a humble manner, and a more humble voice, that he was sorry to disturb madame, but he had been obliged to dress like this for safety. Did nt ma- dame know him? he was the tuner, and had come to tune her piano. One morning a report was circulated that there was an armistice, and it would last about six hours. The firing had not been heard for some time, so we naturally believed this little story, and decided to go, and have a look at the enemy; they could be easily seen from the Arc de Triomphe. Accordingly we started out in a procession loaded with opera-glasses, and field-glasses, indeed all the glasses we could get. We saw all we wanted, even a little more. We marched up th~ Avenue Friedland to the Arc, where we planted ourselves all in a row facing the Avenue de la Grande Armie, and began to examine the enemy. Quite a crowd of people were with us, principally servants, children, and some old men and women, all coming with the same intention, curious to see the enemy. Ambulances rushed past, going to and fro. They were empty going down to the fortifica- tions, but seemed to be full when coming up. I think they must have brought back some drunk- en soldiers, for the ordinary Communist seemed always drunk. We could see the enemy quite distinctly, even distinguish the uniform; some were standing in small groups, a few were near the cannon, and some were marching from one place to another, very much like animated tin soldiers. I was beginning to be bored, though I do not believe we had been there very long, 64 WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF THE COMMUNE. when, looking straight before me (without an opera-glass this time), I saw a big puff of smoke and a flash of light from one of the distant cannon. The tin soldiers had fired at us! I do not think I woke up to the fact that we were being used as a target till the people near us screamed, and ran round like chickens with their heads cut oft; not knowing in the least what they were going to do next, or where to run to get out of reach of the cannon. In looking vaguely round me I saw an old man fall, struck by a piece of shell; he was instantly killed. I was frigh- tened, but you must have time to get thoroughly 1 See an article on Gustave Courbet, Artist and Communist, in this magazine for February, 1884, from which this picture is taken. EnIToa. frightened, and I did not have that. I was still looking at the old man, who had lost his hat as he fell, and I remember thinking how the top of his bald head shone in the sunlight, when to my surprise I was grabbed by the arm by my gover- ness, and in a minute we were all running as fast as our legs would carry us down the av- enue toward home. We never believed in armistices again, and the opera-glasses were put away out of sight! We heard afterward that several persons had been killed, and did not hear of people going up to the Arc de Triomphe during the rest of the Commune. All this time the Communists were building their barricades as fast as possible, and one had been put up behind our house, on the Avenue ENGRAVED BY F. FRENCH. PULLINO DOWN THE VEND6ME COLUMN. WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF THE COMMUNE. 65 Friedland. It was quite unpleasant to see it improve each day, knowing that if they once mounted their ca~inon on it, we would prob- ably have the Versaillists passing through our apartment to take it. We heard very extra- ordinary stories of the down-town barricades; the up-town ones were said not to be com- parable with them, so we decided to judge for ourselves and see what they looked like. I was not often taken on down-town walks; that is the reason I am obliged to confess I never saw a j51/rolei~se. I heard my sisters talk of them, and say they had seen them going to be shot, and literally pulling their hair out by the roots; some of them were very well dressed, but I never saw one. We went to the Place de la Concorde, and actually got a cab to take us there, or rather a cabman, for he bad to be thanked for doing us that favor. I have never seeanything so wonderfully built as was that barricade; it was across the Rue de Rivoli, in a line with the Tuileries gardens, and was made en- tirely ofsand-bagsandbarrelsofsand; one little passageway, so narrow that only one person could pass at a time, went zigzag through it. When it was known that the Colonne Ven- d6me was to be taken down there was great excitement in Paris; people would not believe the Communists would dare to do such a thing. The day was appointed, and crowds went down to witness the sight, including every one of our family. There was no doubt left in anybodys mind when they arrived on the Place Vend6me, for there we found the scaffolding up, the ropes just ready, and men were sawing the lower part of the column. We might have stayed to see it come doxvn, but some people said it would cause an explosion of gas, and others that the Parisians would not allow the ~column to be taken down, and there would be a riot, and the crowd was so excited that mother decided to take us away and to come back after it was down, which we did. The crowd was very dense, and ropes were stretched across the Place to prevent the people crossing or com- ing too near. Soldiers were walking up and down with their guns on their shoulders, look- ing young and sickly. XVe managed to get near the rope, and there we stood for a long while staring at the old column, lying in so many pieces on the ground and covered with dust. The people seemed to be less excited. Whether they were cowed or simply subdued I cannot say; some grumbled and talked to each other in low voices, some few in their rage at the destruction of their great monument swore aloud at the Commune, for- getting the danger of their position. I felt very sorry for an old man next to me who was crying like a child; others looked at him with a pitying expression, and seemed to wish they could cry VOL. XLV. 9. too. Mother and our governess were talking to- gether in low voices; there was a slight dis- agreement on a subject. Suddenly, with great decision on her face, mother lifted the rope, and, passing under it, started to cross the Place, but as she turned round to tell us to follow her, a soldier called out to stop, that it was forbidden to cross, and finding she took no notice of him, he came up to her with his bayonet pointed to- ward her. I suppose he only meant to frighten her, but he came so near that his bayonet caught in the black lace on her dress. Now the Commune was not very particular as to the kind of soldiers in its service, and the average Com- munist soldier was from fifteen to twenty-two or -three years of age. This one was about twenty, thin, and unhealthy looking. When mother saw that the gun was entangled in her lace, she stopped, and, looking at him with a disgusted stare, said: Just look what you have done with your stupidity. The boy seemed quite frightened, and bending over the dress tried to help my mother disentangle it from the gun; it was not easy, without tearing it, and took several minutes. We looked on breathlessly, not knowing what was to happen next; but we might have known if we had thought a little, for, as usual, mother got the best of it. She quietly shook the lace, and, turning round without even looking at the sol- dier, she walked across the Place Vend6me by herself. There was a slight hesitation on the governesss part, but it did not last long, for she lifted the rope and passed under it, followed by five of us. The soldier again protested, but she quietly said, je suis avec madame as a in ot ~dordre, and we crossed the Place Vend6me without any more delays, to the astonishment of the crowd and the soldiers. Itwasverynear the end of the siege when the bill for the taxes was sent in, and it was unpleas- ant to know that you would have to pay them over again when th~ troops would have posses- sion of Paris. The paper was headed Cito- yenne (with our name badly spelled, of course), and signed Rajincourt, 41 Rue Garibaldi (Rue Billantin time of peace). I found this paperlong afterward, having wrapped a piece of she]l in it. Mother went to the office by herself, and told us all about it afterward. She told us she had been a little nervous on her way there, and was not very comfortable when she entered the office or bureau. Two men sat at the table with their hats on the back of their heads, and a few others lounged round. As she entered the room they all turned and stared at her, more from surprise than rudeness, and one of them, tilting his chair back, asked what she wanted. She said she wished to see the superintendent; he pointed to a man behind the grating of the desk. Going up to the desk, she told the super- 66 WHAT AN AMERICAN GIRL SA W OF THE COMMUNE. intendent who she was, that she had received the bill for the taxes, and was perfectly willing to pay, but The had come herself to ask if they would mind waiting for a few days, as with all this disturbance she had had a little trouble about money matters. He smiled and was quite amiable about it; he said he hoped she would tell her friends how gentil they were, they did not mind waiting to please the citoyenne, and coming out from behind his desk, he accom- panied her toward the door, talking all the while; and as a last show of his good nature, he struck her two or three times on the back, re- marking at the same time that she might tell people that the Communists were pas aussi mauvais atre~s tout. I remember so well the evening the Versail- list troops entered Paris. It had been a very noisy night, and several times I was waked by extra-noisy cannon, and when, at five oclock in the morning, the one and only cannon on the barricade of the Avenue Friedland was fired, I thought it was in my room, and actually shot myself out of bed. Almost immediately my brothers came into my room to tell me that the siege was over, the Versaillists had just entered; all the front blinds of our house were closed, and nobody was to look out, as the Commun- ists were running away to the barricades down- town, and if we looked out of the windows we might be shot at. These were mothers orders, and she was locked up in her own room with our governess. We all met in the hall, and talked it over, but only for a very short time, for we decided that we would never have another opportunity to disobey for such a good cause; so we opened one blind, and, as we were hanging out to see all ~ve could, the first thing we noticed was our own mother and the governess craning out of the other window, both of them having a very good time. I cannot say I saw very much, for I was not the first at the window, but I do not believe my youngest brother saw anything. The few Communists who ran by our street were pushing a cannon as fast as possible, and some soldiers were running, carrying their guns anyhow, but the greater part of them went by the avenues. Then for three days we had a very bad time of it. Many of the Communists hid in cellars, and others put on the workmans blouse, pretending to be delighted to see the city delivered, but it was not easy to fool the soldiers, who could find out the truth well enough from neighbors, and it generally ended by their being found, dragged out, and shot on the squares or in the parks. I happened to be jumping rope in front of our porte cocA?re, when I saw four soldiers and an officer; two of the soldiers were half dragging a man, who was on his knees before the officer b~gging for his life. It made my blood run cold, my heart stop beating, to see that poor wretch on his knees, screaming to be spared, and the officer holding a pistol at his head. The soldiers kicked him to make him get up, and hit, him on the head, so that you could hear the blows across the street. Some- body from a window called out to the officer not to shoot him before so many women and children, so they pushed and kicked him till they came to the end of our street, and there they shot him. As he was being dragged past our house, they stopped for a moment, and I saw a little boy about five years of age go up and kick the man while he was begging for pity from the officer, and one of the ~t tle concierge girls I used to play with told me she had gone to see him shot, and was disappointed because she came too late. A great many of the Versaillists entered by the Avenue Friedland. We stood at the corner of our street watching them, and mother had wine and cigarettes distributed to the of- ficers, as they halted. My brothers and I talked to the soldiers, who were tired and hungry. We heard two of them fighting about their bayonets; one said he had run through five Communists that morning; no wonder his bayo- net was bent and full of dry blood. We told one of the officers that the archbishop had been murdered ;he would not believe it, and think- ing that we did not know what we were talking about, he asked M . They were very angry, and remarked that they might have entered sooner, but the orders were not to injure Paris, and they thought they could force the insur- gents to surrender. A few days later we went down to the arcIzevt~ch6 to see the archbishop before he wa~ buried. There was a great crowd of people, and we were hurried through the dark rooms hung with black cloth. I was often frightened during the Com- mune, but I do not remember anything more terrifying than the fires. One night we went on our roof, and saw Paris burning in eight different places. Mother and our governess sat up half the night watching, not daring to go to bed, while we undressed by the light of the fires. The Tuileries burned for three days and the sky was full of black specks and pieces of paper, lists of things. I have now a list of jewelry that fell in our yard. I suppose that came from the Minist~re des Finances, which was burn- ing at the same time. C. W 7: THE ROWDY. WITH PICTURES BY ALFRED KAPPES. IKE HOLLINS nine- teenth birthday was event- ful. To have you under- stand how eventful, it is necessary to draw Mikes portrait. He was the ~ I ~ seventh child of Thomas Hollin, an honest black smith who couldand didboast that he had never scamped a piece of work, broken his word, or taken the sight of mans fists in his face without fighting. Hollin belonged to a trades-union, but it was a trades-union of the old-fashioned kind; and he despised the new-fangled notions of the Knights of Labor. Mrs. Hollin may be called a semi-Ameri- can; although her father was an Irishman, and her mother the daughter of an Irishman with a touch of some other nationality, she herself was born in Ohio; and a race that has been a certain time in America becomes, as it were, aired off; and the strong national fla- vor evaporates. Annie Hollins brogue was enlivened by American idioms; in the same way her temperament had felt the climate she was nervous, energetic, warm-hearte~l, hot- tempered, and tidy. Did you see her wiry little shape of a Saturday afternoon, hurling huge pailfuls of water over her back fence into the convenient ravine that served the neigh- borhood as a reservoir for tin cans, garbage, and diphtheria, you would call her a genu- ine American. Did you see her face, a small, round face, with a short nose, long up- per lip, brilliant blue eyes, and black hair, you would call her, just as decidedly, an Irishwoman, of course. But even her Irish face had an American touch, for she wore her hair clipped short like a mans: she never had time for long hair, she said. All her life she had been looking forward to a day of suffi- cient leisure to do up her hair; so far, the leisure was a mirage, receding as life ad- vanced. Hollin was her third husband. The other two she had lost; one by death, one by divorce. She had seen hard days, had wept over little coffins, and known what it was to be cold, and hungry, and bruised. If she had not,so she sometimes told Hollin, she never would have married again. It was not Hollins way to retort on such occasions, he being a man of deep experience in the married state a widower with six chil- dren on his second wedding-day. He only puffed the harder at his pipe, and, if the at- mosphere grew too dense, put on his hat. Mrs. Hollin was not a bad stepmother: she kept the children warm, neat, and well fed; if she cuffed them vigorously in her tem- pers, she made amends by lavish indulgence at other times, and there never was a more fearless or devoted nurse in sickness. Mike was the couples only child. Notwithstanding his advent, the family circle dwindled. Tom, the eldest son, a stolid, good fellow like his father, married and moved to another town; two of the sisters died of diphtheria; the eldest girl was married; one sister went out to ser- vice; the brother next to Mike fell into the cis- tern, and before Mike left school he was the only child at home. This departure from school occurred suddenly when Mike was fourteen; the direct cause being his fathers running up against him just as he swaggered out of a saloon. That s what they learn ye at school, is it? said old Tom, grimly. Time you was at work! And to work Mike went the very next morning, in spite of his mothers protestations and promises. Many were the tears shed by Annie Hollin because of Mikes lost learn- ing; for she gave the fetish-like worship of her class to education. But Mike did not regret the school. Study was irksome to him, and work suited him bet- ter than any one could have expected; he really had plenty ~f energy. Moreover, Hol- lin had shrewdly gaged the youngsters mind. He told him that he could have all he made over two dollars a week. The work was piece- work, and Mike very soon rose out of his hum- ble beginning as errand-boy for the foreman in the machine-shop of the Agricultural Im- plement Company, for which his father worked, to a bench of his own, and the right to counter- sink cultivator-shovels at ten cents a hundred. Mikes spiritual training was not cut short like his secular education; on the contrary, although his father never went to church, and his mother seldom, I am inclined to think that the boy suf- fered from a plethora of religious advantages. He attended no less than four Sunday-schools Roman Catholic, Presbyterian, Episcopal, and Unitarian. He went to the first school because his mother had been born in the Church of 67

Octave Thanet Thanet, Octave The Rowdy 67-79

THE ROWDY. WITH PICTURES BY ALFRED KAPPES. IKE HOLLINS nine- teenth birthday was event- ful. To have you under- stand how eventful, it is necessary to draw Mikes portrait. He was the ~ I ~ seventh child of Thomas Hollin, an honest black smith who couldand didboast that he had never scamped a piece of work, broken his word, or taken the sight of mans fists in his face without fighting. Hollin belonged to a trades-union, but it was a trades-union of the old-fashioned kind; and he despised the new-fangled notions of the Knights of Labor. Mrs. Hollin may be called a semi-Ameri- can; although her father was an Irishman, and her mother the daughter of an Irishman with a touch of some other nationality, she herself was born in Ohio; and a race that has been a certain time in America becomes, as it were, aired off; and the strong national fla- vor evaporates. Annie Hollins brogue was enlivened by American idioms; in the same way her temperament had felt the climate she was nervous, energetic, warm-hearte~l, hot- tempered, and tidy. Did you see her wiry little shape of a Saturday afternoon, hurling huge pailfuls of water over her back fence into the convenient ravine that served the neigh- borhood as a reservoir for tin cans, garbage, and diphtheria, you would call her a genu- ine American. Did you see her face, a small, round face, with a short nose, long up- per lip, brilliant blue eyes, and black hair, you would call her, just as decidedly, an Irishwoman, of course. But even her Irish face had an American touch, for she wore her hair clipped short like a mans: she never had time for long hair, she said. All her life she had been looking forward to a day of suffi- cient leisure to do up her hair; so far, the leisure was a mirage, receding as life ad- vanced. Hollin was her third husband. The other two she had lost; one by death, one by divorce. She had seen hard days, had wept over little coffins, and known what it was to be cold, and hungry, and bruised. If she had not,so she sometimes told Hollin, she never would have married again. It was not Hollins way to retort on such occasions, he being a man of deep experience in the married state a widower with six chil- dren on his second wedding-day. He only puffed the harder at his pipe, and, if the at- mosphere grew too dense, put on his hat. Mrs. Hollin was not a bad stepmother: she kept the children warm, neat, and well fed; if she cuffed them vigorously in her tem- pers, she made amends by lavish indulgence at other times, and there never was a more fearless or devoted nurse in sickness. Mike was the couples only child. Notwithstanding his advent, the family circle dwindled. Tom, the eldest son, a stolid, good fellow like his father, married and moved to another town; two of the sisters died of diphtheria; the eldest girl was married; one sister went out to ser- vice; the brother next to Mike fell into the cis- tern, and before Mike left school he was the only child at home. This departure from school occurred suddenly when Mike was fourteen; the direct cause being his fathers running up against him just as he swaggered out of a saloon. That s what they learn ye at school, is it? said old Tom, grimly. Time you was at work! And to work Mike went the very next morning, in spite of his mothers protestations and promises. Many were the tears shed by Annie Hollin because of Mikes lost learn- ing; for she gave the fetish-like worship of her class to education. But Mike did not regret the school. Study was irksome to him, and work suited him bet- ter than any one could have expected; he really had plenty ~f energy. Moreover, Hol- lin had shrewdly gaged the youngsters mind. He told him that he could have all he made over two dollars a week. The work was piece- work, and Mike very soon rose out of his hum- ble beginning as errand-boy for the foreman in the machine-shop of the Agricultural Im- plement Company, for which his father worked, to a bench of his own, and the right to counter- sink cultivator-shovels at ten cents a hundred. Mikes spiritual training was not cut short like his secular education; on the contrary, although his father never went to church, and his mother seldom, I am inclined to think that the boy suf- fered from a plethora of religious advantages. He attended no less than four Sunday-schools Roman Catholic, Presbyterian, Episcopal, and Unitarian. He went to the first school because his mother had been born in the Church of 67 68 THE ROWDY Rome, and, long since estranged from it, still felt its attraction, and cherished vague hopes of reconciliation when she could afford it. Therefore, she sent Mike to Father Kelly as clay to the potter. The other three Sunday- schools Mike attended on his own account because they had picnics and Christmas-trees. It may be imagined that his religious instruc- tion was variegated, even contradictory. Lit- tle, however, did contradictions trouble our young heretic; since his four guides each told him a different story of the way of life, he took a short cut out of all difficulties by believing none of them. At sixteen Mike was beyond reach of such modest bribery as Christmas-trees and picnics can offer. He preferred to spend his Sundays dangling his legs from an empty packing-box at the street corner, puffing at a rank cigar, his ears gulping down unsavory gos- sip, taking new lessons in the cheap vices; at intervals (presuming him to have a few pen- nies, or some talker in the crowd to be in a generous mood) refreshing himself at the ad- acent saloons. The town being under so-called prohibitory laws, you could nt throw a stone anywhere without hitting a green screen. By the time he was nineteen Mike knew how to drink, smoke, swear fluently, box in a crude fashion, and lose his money at any gambling game without wincing. He knew some other ways of pleasing the devil, if one may believe his father; in fact, he was a rowdy, the kind of fellow that women hurry past on the streets. But none the less was he his mothers idol. She dowered him with all the treasures of her dreams, from curly hairthe best you could say of Mikes red locks was that they were crooked at the endstoa sweet disposition. He was such a handy boy about the house (Mike did care for his mother in a careless way, and had the grace to help her, occasionally, with a tub or a basket of wood). Then Mike was .nt like them Murray boys, never could spend an evening home, always loafing and guzzling at the saloons, Mike was a great reader, he read aloud beautifully! If only Hollin had let him get an education, there was no knowing where he would have stopped. The truth was, Mike read a socialist newspaper, and some novels of the baser sort. Yet I am not denying some virtues in the mire. By nature Mike had a sweet temper. He was neither envious nor churlish; and he was kind to helpless creatures, the fowls, the dog, the cow, and the children. He had a distorted sense of honor, that, so far, getting tangled up with his class feeling, had done him more harm than good. For instance, honor, egged on by class feeling, hampered him in his work, not permitting him to be industrious or a notable artisan, of which there were the makings in Mike, for he was nice-fingered, quick-witted, and patient; but where work is done by the piece, it is not considered square to the other fellows to do too many pieces daily. Should you be so inconsiderate, the boss may put down the price on you; then, the slow workers will be in trouble, while the brisk workers cannot make any more. Therefore a shrewd mechanic will nurse his job! Mike brimmed over with class feeling. He belonged to a union and to the Knights of Labor, and to a mysterious organization without a name that carried its aims farther than most men out of the penitentiary care to go. All the enthu- siasm, all the capacity for reckless devotion, that belong to his own age and his mothers race, poured into this one channel zeal for his class. Mike was as proud because he was a Knight of Labor as any medieval knight ever was of his gold spurs. He bragged and he fought for the orderbragged to his father, and fought three miserable rats in the shop that refused to join the Knights and resented having their tools stolen: that was how his nose got broken. He made sacrifices for the cause, going without tobacco one whole month that he might con- tribute his share to what his father called the foolest fool strike in the country. Mike was capable of hero-worship also; he admired the foreman of his shop, Bill Nicker, who once had drawn a fifty-dollar prize in the Louisiana Lottery, and henceforth was a prime authority on betting, and knew how to drive so well that the livery stables would trust him with fast horses. Only second to this hero was a big fellow in the blacksmith shop about whom there was a dark rumor that he had once stood up against John L. Sullivan, in a round at an exhibition, with bare fists! Mike him- self never would make a pugilist, because he was a stunted little creature, agile and endur- ing, but small like his mother. All the more did he esteem inChes and muscle. Secretly he ad- mired his father; though Hollin made no se- cret that he despised his son. He aint no good, and never will be, fumed Tom; calling himself a Knight of Lahor, striking for every cat that squalls; wanting to buy cigars, what business as a kid like im got with cigars, anyhow ? not wanting to buy them at Carters, cause Carters men was on the strike! Now what the is it his look- out what Carters men does? They does nt consult us when they strikes, and why the should we be paying for their fun? T aint the way I was brought up. And them Knights aint the wust, neither. He belongs to some other society that he keeps almighty dark about. Guess the darker he keeps the better. That Bill Nicker s a bad egg; if he dont end on the gallows, I miss my guess. And Mike s THE ROWDY 69 lucky if he dont git there with him. He s woes of the world, which goads on many so- going to the devil fast s I ever see a boy cialists: not he, not William Nicker, who could yet. smoke his pipe when home on a strike, and let No, he aint, neither! Hollins wife, who his wife fill her tubs to earn him drink-money; naturally got most of these gruesome suspi- but he did have an unaffected hatred of the rich cions, would cry. No, he aint; and you that he was convinced was sympathy for the know it, Hollin. And you ought to be shamed poor. Thus he was a fanatic, with something talkin so of your own son. Mike may be a of the fanatics momentum. Mike considered little wild; but he never got drunk in his life, him one of the great reformers of the century; and he 11 come out all right, you 11 see. but Mikes father, havingbeen put to some trou- Perhaps in his secret soul old Tom craved ble by Nickers shifty ~vorkmanship, was out- to be proved wrong; for he never resented spoken against him, and usually called him Annies vehemence; rather, at times he seemed Gasbag. to invite it, as if he would see the other side Nicker was the real mover in the strange ex- of the argument, if he could. perience that came to Mike on his birthday. In fact, however, Mikes society justified his There had been a change of ownership in the fathers fears. The doctrines would have scared works. A new company had bought them, and any one except an anarchist. All the regular or- a new superintendent had been sent to the shops. ders of labor have an unacknowledged and des- The men were suspicious of the change; Nicker perate kind of following, that are to them what said harsh things of the owners. But Hollin guerrillas are to armies. Few people under- exulted. For one thing, his son Tom was com- stand how important a part such irregulars ing with Mr. Thorne; and Tom was the good, play in strikes. The younger and wilder spirits dutiful son whom old Tom loved, the rising belong to these secret bands; they are the man of whom old Tom was proud. ones having least to lose and most to gain, They say the new superintendent aint are always ready for a strike, tickled at the much more n a boy, Mike grumbled on one notion of the holiday, sure of being supported occasion. in idleness while the strike lasts (never having Humph! said old Tom, one thing in his a penny of their own by any chance to fall favor; he learned the business in the shop, back on), glad to get the better wage if the com~ back from college, and put on his over- strike be successful, hardly the worse in any alls, and got up at six, and kept hours. Say he event. kin do anything in the shops; invented a dandy Bill Nicker, already mentioned, was the on- spring to the cultivators; knows a good job ginator of Mikes society; Tom Hollin, ju- from a poor one across the street: that s the nior, afterward declared that Bill made most sort for me! of it up out of his own head. I cannot say Bill Nicker says he s a spy, said Mike; how far he was right: certainly Mike had no says he worked in the shop and found out suspicions; he believed in the society, and all how much the fellers kin do if they hump them- its vague and tremendous penalties, with unc- selves; and kept doing that much; so they put tion; he was afire to distinguish himself, and down the price. felt vastly superior to the workmen who did I mind Bill Nicker came from the Thornes, not belong. and he got a hand mashed fooling with a punch. Long ago said wise Francis of Verulam: They paid him his~vages full time and all the There is nothing makes a man suspect much, doctors bills more than to know little. Every man or boy That s cause they re insured; Bill told to say truth, most of the members were nearer me bout it. boyhood than manhoodin Mikes society Guess they got to pay fer insurance, then. was convinced that he was wronged, even where Pay comes at one end or nother; no great dif- he could not place the wrong. And, as igno- ference cept to a fool like Bill. And they sent rance is equally as hopeful as suspicious, they him off oh, I know all bout Gasbag they gave to Nickers artless schemes for turning sent him off fer stirring up bad blood with the the world upside down a faith that ought to men. He got up a strike; but it did nt pay, move mountains, and the Knights Lodge there was close to Nicker was a socialist, anarchist, moral out- firing him, they was. If ye want to know, that s law, every inch of him, having that facility for why he hates Thorne like pizen. The old man turning sentences that often passes for logic, puffed a minute, then summed up his case: He did nt always quite know what he meant Tell ye, Mike, them Thornes is pretty decent himself, and his hearers never did, but they folks, and fer one I m glad they bought us listened to his flatulent eloquence with awe. out. I know they give their men fair living He was not a lover of humanity, he had none wages, and some of the older ones gits a share of the pathetic frenzy of longing to help the of the profits. There s Tom; he was keen to THE ROWDY. 70 have me go there when he left; now he s a fore- man, been with em three year, and got his wages raised twice without his saying a word. He gits thirty dollars a week now. I wish to the Lord I d gone with him when he first went, for he says they know a good man when they see him, and are willing to pay for good work. Well, I know one thing, said Mike, sulkily, we aint a-going to have any interference with our organizing here. That young Thorne s got to quit fighting organized labor, or we 11 strike! My, what a long tail our cat s got! said old Tom, with a Rabelaisian grimace. Guess you better try to see what good work you kin do, and, my word for it, you wont have to strike. Look at Tom. He dont belong to no Union nor no Knights, and he s dumb up and up and up! I aint a-going to desert my comrades, anyhow, came round the corner of Mikes collar. His father took a stride forward, and tapped him on the shoulder. The old man looked very tall, there at his elbow, and Mike was im- pressed by something unusual, almost solemn, in his expression. Mike, he said, I ye been living and thinking a good while; and I know enough to~ know I aint going to do a bit of good by talk- ing to you. No matter; itll free mymind to tell. You re all wrong, boy, clean wrong, you and your societies. The way to help all the other fellers is to be a decent feller yourself. And it s a heap easier fer the strongest feller to climb the hill fust, and then and all the whilebe lendin a hand to the hindmost, than it is to have the strong one stay under- neath a-boostin and a-boostin up fellers that aint got sprawl enough to help themselves when they are boosted. I tell ye, Mike, it s all wrong. Mike was not convinced, but he was cowed by his fathers earnestness; he took refuge in sulky silence, glad to see the shop doors. The superintendent came. He was a tall, slim, smiling young fellow, in the last fashion of clothes, with very bright, dark eyes. He did look absurdly young and gentle, pretty as a girl! jeered Mike,but there was a faint contraction of the eyebrows giving to those bright and soft dark eyes a mingled steadiness and keenness of gaze, and a look that in a mans face never means but one thing. He s a hard hitter when he s mad, or I miss my guess, said old Tom. The first thing to happen was a strike, the cause being persecution of organized labor, in- somuch as Thorne had discharged four mem- bers of Mikes nameless society for drunkenness and inefficiency. Nicker was one of the men discharged. He had declared that it was not possible for his men to turn out more work a day than they did, without injury to the quality of the work; Thorne had replied that more work was done in the other shops, and if Nicker could nt get it done, he would try to find some one who could. Nicker kicked the metal wheel in his hands to the end of the shop, and picked up his coat, profanely giving Thorne permis- sion to try. The condition of affairs was ripe for mis- chief. The former owners had been neither better nor worse than the bulk of their kind. As they themselves said, they were not running the implement business as a missionary enter- prise, but to make money; it did not strike them as unfair or especially hard-hearted to pare down the mens wages in winter, when work was slack, and the shop could afford an idle time far better than workingmen with families. If the men did not like the wages, they could quit, which option the hotheads were for taking; but they, in general, had no children to clothe, or stoves to keep going, or butchers and bakers to satisfy. The men grum- bled; but they did not strike. They organized, and bided their chance. Thorne walked into a crater. The season was summer now the shops were running full time on heavy orders; it was the mens turn at the screw. Nicker was mightily busy with insinuations; whispering ugly stories about the Thornes determination to root out labor organizations, and splen- did promises of successif they all pulled together. On the other hand, Tom Hollin and the men that came with Thorne repre- sented that the new company (Thornes father and brothers) were fair men, who made their contracts at the beginning of the year, and stood by them. They would nt ask better men to work for. But an urTeasy suspicion clings to the work- man outside the unions and too successful to side with his mates. Tom Hollin had bought a house; his wife kept a hired girl; Sunday afternoons he would go driving in a buggy, with his wife and baby, dressed up like a gentleman. You could nt expect such a man to be in touch with the toiling millions! declaimed Bill Nicker. Nevertheless, the Hollins and a few more of the cautious workmen did succeed in averting a general strike, and in persuading the local Knights of Labor to be neutral. Thus from the first the strike was doomed; in less than a weeks time Thorne had filled half the empty benches with new men. The strikers began to be frightened. They sent a deputa- tion to Thorne, who told them that what places were not already filled were open to the first comers; he would not discharge the men he THE ROWDY 7 had hired. While he spoke he brushed an in- significant mustache with a hot-house. rose, looking more ami~able and girlish than ever; but he was no more to be stirred than the huge engine buzzing outside. They dont belong to the Knights or the union or nothing, urged Mike, one of the deputation. Dont they? said the superintendent. I did nt inquire. If they do their work well, they are free to belong to a dozen labor organ- izations or to none. It is none of my business; I shall go on filling the places as fast as I can. For you boys, I advise you to come back quick, while there are any jobs left. And how about Ransom, and OBrien, and Schreiner, and me? said Nicker. All of you, Mr. Nicker, will have to go somewhere else than here. We 11 see about that, Mr. Thorne. If this is going to be a scab shop, you 11 find it is nt easy running it; and these men that have taken the bread out of our childrens mouths, let them look out for themselves! The deputation went away, keeping a high crest, but inwardly disheartened by Thornes composure. Tom Hollin, to this day, maintains that whatever their anger and disappointment, they would not have gone beyond petty in- timidations with the new men, but for Nicker; to him Tom always charged the lamentable bloodshed that followed. Thorne gave warn- ing that, at all hazards, he would protect his men. He kept his word; the most turbulent week that the little Western city had ever known ended in a frantic riot, with utter rout to the strikers, a score of broken heads and limbs, a policeman stabbed, and one poor lad struck so heavily that he could never wring his moth- ers heart again. Poor Patsy was the only son of a widow, the best-hearted fellow in the world when sober. He belonged to Mikes society. Mike himself helped carry him home, and came away crying. Squalid, needless, futile tragedy that it was, it had more needless, more tragical possibilities in its wake. It is not an easy thing to propose assassination to American workingmen, even to young anarchists; but when, that night, Nicker rose in the garret that served his society for a council-chamber, and glanced from one bruised and lowering face to another, he recog- nized the image of his own passions. With hardly a dissenting voice, Arthur van Rensselaer Thorne, superintendent of the Ems- dale Agricultural Implement Company, was tried by this modern Fehmgericht, for murder, convicted, and condemned to death. The ex- ecution of the sentence was to be deferred for two weeks, lest suspicion should be turned in the real quarter; for the same reason the strike was declared off. There only remained to settfe who should be the executioner, and Michael Hollin drew the black lot. This it was that happened to him on his nineteenth birth- day. He held out the palm of his hand, and they all could see it; very likely not a man there but drew a breath of relief. I am ready, said Mike in an even voice. Nicker, watching the lad keenly, nodded once or twice; there were certain dusky labyrinths in his memory where he did not often care to rummage; perhaps they held faces with a like sinister radiance to that shining through Mikes freckles. He 11 do, decided the socialist. Nevertheless, he made him a sign to wait after the others had gone, having it in mind to hearten him up a bit; which he accom- plished by kicking aside the huddle of chairs and pushing Mike past the eddies of stale tobacco smoke and dust from shuffling feet, un- til they stood under the full glare of the gas- jets, and then saying, in his most impressive chest-tones, Remember our laws. If Thorne does nt die,you will! Think of that when you weaken. I aint going to weaken, said Mike. Well, I believe you, said Nicker, heartily. The social revolution would come quicker if there were more like you. Say, have you got any change about you? Let s go take a drink: I guess I dont care for a drink, said Mike; here s a quarter, though, you re wel- come to. It s all I got. The exhilaration that Mike experienced when the great man first condescended to bor- row small sums had been dulled by repetition of late; and his cynical levity jarred on the boys strained mood. He had nt ought to drink /o-nigk/~ thus for a daring second he ventiYred to criticize his chief, it aint no drinking business he s got us into. There was a relief when he could bid Nicker good night (every detail having been settled), and was free to go his own way. Mikes home was on the hills, and his custom was to ride up the long street on the electric cars; but to- night he did not hail the flashing thing that roared past him, spattering blue and green fire off the rails. Aint it like the devil? occurred to Mike. It aint near so much like the devil, really, though, as them saloons he stood opposite one, at the moment, able to see Nickers square shoulders and the back of the hand with which he wiped his black mustache, while he spent Mikes quarter I guess I wont drink any more. How devious and amazing are the ways of that strong spirit which, Christian or pagan, we may well call the Holy Ghost. Here is a 72 THE ROWDY young ruffian, whose life has been for years as evil as his wages would allow, who now is pledged to commit an atrocious crime; yet the weight of this very crime on his soul is crushing out his trivial vices. He, the idle, dissolute rowdy about to become an assassin, is nearer salvation than he ever was in his ig- noble life. For the first time poor Mike tried to understand the meaning of duty and devo- tion. In some indistinct fashion the cruel deed that he was to do seemed to him a sacrificial act, and himself a priest of justice. He was no longer simply Mike Hollin, he was the repre- sentative of the avengers of the poor, who dealt with the tremendous issues of life and death. He was awed. I guess I 11 behave as well s I know how, said Mike. He had mounted the hill, where lights were still shining from upper stories, behind dainty curtains; and now he turned into a side street. The houses grew smaller; and gradu- ally the red slipped out of the windows until there was no light visible except in one house, a little yellow cottage on the slope of a hill. There was a garden about the house with an old-fashioned garnishment of peonies and hol- lyhocks; the latter sprung so close to the walls and the bright window that the stalks were not only drawn but faintly tinted, the pink splashes showing amid the green. Mike knew why that single window wa~ bright while all the homes around were sound- less and dark. He looked at it as he whis- pered: Patsy, do you hear? I m glad it s me will do it. Rest easy, Patsy, boy; we 11 pay him up! We 11 revenge you! Then he recoiled and hurried away, for he had seen a shape cross the translucent white screena little, bent womans shape, a knitted shawl drawn over the gray head. She aint much bigger n ma, thought Mike, swallowing at a lump in his throat. Again he could hear the little, wrinkled creatures wail above her son. Never but the one cry over and over, Oh, he was always such a good boy to me! Its more n ma could rightly say for me, said Mike to himself; but she would, though; you bet she would! Poor ma, I aint done right by her, and that s a fact. I 11 fill the wood-boxes to-morrow, by . The Hollins lived in a Mississippi town, not yet so old that the high bluffs have been cleft in any rectangular order; there remain pic- turesque ravines between streets, and hills tied together by slight wooden bridges that echo hollowly to the tread, and shady slopes with foot-paths under the bur-oaks. Such a bridge Mike crossed, and rested his elbows on the railing just where the string-course sags on its crooked piles. Although an electric lamp swings from its toxver above the further bank, like a luminous porcupine, radiating fuzzy needles of light on the first half of the bridge, the shadow of the bank blocks off the last span. It is very dark. Sometimes the water stag- nates in the hollow underneath, and the frogs croak. Always it is a lonesome, uncanny spot, past which belated children scamper on win- ter evenings. Mike laid his eyes on the bright path. Some nighta night not so far away he must stand in the selfsame place, peering out of the dusk as he peered now, waiting, watching, until a light figure should step on the planks with an elastic footfall that Mike knew, should traverse the little portion of the road in the lamplight, and so pass into the darkness and the jaws of death! Everything was cunningly planned. Nicker had fitted in each detail, down to the alibi ready next day for Mike. There would be the revels at half a dozen saloons, three trusty comrades of the Fehmgericht to bear witness to the hours (omitting only one), a simulated drunkenness by Mike, and, finally, the bearing of him home, in the guise of a sodden and helpless wreck, to be put to bed by his mother. Oh, you dont need to be afraid, Mike, Nicker had chuckled, half an hour ago; we 11 see you through. I know the ropes. I aint afraid, said Mike. Nor was he afraid now; but his nerves thrilled as a violin- string will vibrate to a strong chord. He glanced from the light that was shining on Patsy OConnors winding-sheet to a light burning across the ravine where his mother waited for him, and he thought, I wonder has he any folks. Then he set his face home- ward, knitting his brows. All the way he could see the light. His father flung the door open before Mikes thumb was off the gate latch. Mike saw the room inside: the new brass lamp glowing on the table; the short waves of his mothers~black hair; the lines in her worn, little face painted in broad strokes by the light; and the gay rags, tumbled on her white apron, for the mat that she was knitting to lie in front of Mikes bed. She looked up, and her lips trembled while she smiled. You re late, Mike. His father speaks sharply. Yes, sir, says Mike, with an extraordinary meekness, to-night he has no more heart to squabble than he has had to carouse, there was a meeting, and the strike s declared off. I came right home after the meeting. I aint been drinking, pa. Had any money left to drink on? grunts old Tom. Um m m! the grunt, this time, that of the justified seer, as Mike shakes his head, looking foolish I thought as much. Well, go into the kitchen and git 73 THE ROWDY. your supper; your ma would save it for you. I told her like s not you was killed. Got hurted at all, hey? No, pa. To hear Hollins snarl, one would infer that he was rather disappointed at Mikes escape, whole and clean of limb the fact being that young Tom and he had scoured the town for news; and since he had come home (on as- surance from a friendly policeman that his boy vas safe), he had been pacing the floor, pour- ing out his anxieties by jerks, for his wife to ~ontradict. And did nt I tell you he would nt be t? shrilly chimed in Mrs. Hollin, among wh ;e virtues magnanimity will not be reck- one at the last day. And, Mike, dont you mint a word he says, or Tom, neither, for V L.XLV.IQ he s glad enough youre not laying longside Patsy Oconnor; and so s Tom. And Clara was crying, she was so scared about you; but I fried you some liver and apples, and there s coffee if it aint all sizzled away; I guessed you d like a hot supper better n me cryin Mike astonished his parents no more than himself by obeying a unaccountable im- pulse to kiss his mother. I wisht I d never made you cry, ma, he growled, and plunged into the kitchen. Well! said Thomas Hollin. The mother wiped the tears out of her eyes; but she called after Mike, in her natural high key: Say, Mike, little Terry came round with Clara, and he was so worked up he jest would nt go home; said he would stay and THE DEPUTATION CALLING ON THO NE. 74 THE ROUDY sleep with Uncle Mike. I let him, cause I chaff of his mates in the shop, or in beer knew you would nt mind. and dirty packs of cards, out of hours. He No; Im glad, answered Mike, his voice took to spending his evenings home. He was deeper than usual. civil to his father and to young Tom. I d Terry was the crippled seven-year-old boy like em to have something kind o pleasanter of his sister Clara, who had married the grocer bout me to remember than jest always hay- at the corner; and of all the four grandchildren ing to keep the coffee on the back of the he was the one that Mike petted most. Mrs. stove for me, thought Mike. Hollin, unknown to any mortal, had her ap- Old Tom viewed his sons changed ways palling seasons of vision with regard to Mike. with a mixture of bewilderment and secret His father was mistaken when he judged her thankfulness; it was too soon to approve; but to be blind; she knew more about Mikes vices he ceased to sneer or grumble, preserving than did he. But in her worst discouragement a decent silence, filled with tobacco-smoke. she would be comforted if she saw Mike with Young Tom was openly encouraged. Mike s Terry. He s got a good heart, that boy, or been brought up standing by Patsy OCon- he never could love a child so Lord, do nors death, that s what it is, said Tom. save him yet! Thus Annie Hollin used to He s trying to think it out; and one good prayfor she did pray, and fervently, although thing, he s broken with the Nicker gang. only on great occasions. I aint one to be Say, Elly, we must ask Mike to the house, bothering the Lord every time my bread dont sometimes, and lend him books. And I dont rise, said Annie. No, I help myself long s believe it 11 break me to hire a two-horse I Can; and when I cant, I ask help. Its the carriage next Sunday, and all of us go riding, way I d be done by, and it s the way pa and ma, and you n me and Arthur, and I do! Mike. The day must have been a hard one for her Even Claras husband, hitherto the gloomi- in spite of her bravado, since, after Tom slept, est of Mikes critics, had felt the contagion of she stole to the window and kneeled there a long the family hopefulness, and displayed his good time, sobbing and praying. She might have will in a package of Durham tobacco and an judged her prayers answered could she have invitation to a revival meeting, enlivened by looked into Mikes room, and seen Mikes face. stereopticon views of the Holy Land. Mike pressed against the curly yellow head, with that thanked him, smoked the tobacco, and went better and softer look that Terry often saw. to see the pictures. What would the staid dea- But surely she would have known a new fore- cons in the pew behind him have thought, boding had she tarried until the child roused could they have looked into his brain and himself to murmur sleepily, Give Uncle seen the pictures there! Steadily, these feign- Mike a kiss and a hug and a pat all his ings of his fancy grew more terrible, more little store of sweets cause the cops did nt absorbing. He got no comfort from his com- kill you! and heard Mike say huskily, You rades. Nicker made jokes about murder when wont quit liking Uncle Mike, whatever they in good humor, or ferocious threats when an- say, will you, little Terry? gry. The older comrades were shy of the sub- The following morning (the day of the ject. They re scared, the cowards! thought week was XVednesday) Mike applied at the Mike. The younger comrades had a callous shops for work. Before he started he filled cheerfulness that exasperated him. He couldnt the kitchen wood-box. Every morning he help thinking that they would be less cheerful filled it. He pumped water unasked. The were their own necks in danger, instead of his. next pay-day he bought his mother probably When was it that a new suspicion joined the the gaudiest and ugliest photograph frame to tumult of his thoughts? They changed; in- be gotten in the town for money. He put a sidiously, imperceptibly a doubt, not of the photograph of Terry in it. righteousness of the cause, not of the justice Oh, deane me, sighed Annie Hollin, that of punishing the oppressors, but a doubt of the boy must a got something on his mind; he exact measure of guilt of this special oppressor, aint natural at all. Arthur Thorne, unarmed his purpose. Whether Well, I hope he 11 stay unnatural, then, it was that seeing Thorne daily, discovering, / said her husband, easily. He aint worked so as a good workman is never slow to discover, well or kept so steady since I ye knowed him. that he understood the business down to the Mike, in fact, was working hard. The in- ground, and, discovering, too, that he was structions given him were to be industrious quick to commend, Mike had felt the pet and seem content. To xvork was a relief in sonal charm that made his brother the you~r~ the ferment of his mind, to seem content was fellows devoted adherent; whether it was tiha~t a different matter. Possessed still by a som- the talk of the shop, which had now ye :ed ber enthusiasm, he took no pleasure in the over to Thornes side, as to a man with ~znd ThtS ROWDY 75 that would stick to them that stuck to him, unconsciously affected him; whether he was influenced by the example of the principal Knights of Labor among the workmen, men not the least like Nicker, either in habit or principle, and giving a modified support to Thorne as apparently meaning well ; in fine, whether any or all of these causes moved him to compassion for Thorne as a man too rashly doomed, moved he was, and deeply. lie tried to brace up his nerves by a visit to Patsys mother, whom he had not seen for a week, not since he helped carry Patsys coffin to his grave. She met his sympathy with a strange an- swer. Is it Mr. Thorne you d be imputin it to, Mike Hollin ? she cried. He had no- thing to do with it at all, except the goodness of him paying for the fine carriages at the funeral. He did that, God bless him! I know well the man that s my poor boys murderer, and ye mind it, Michael Hollin! Oh,~ said Mike, vaguely, was it Officer Reilly? No, it was not, Michael Hollin. Who hit him I know not, nor do I want to know. They was all in a heap, and ivery man a-striking for his own headI might be blaming unjustly an I did know, so I pray God keep it from me! No; the wan Almighty God blames for that day, an the blood on it, aint the craturs that was hitting, maybe by mistake; it s the man that druv them poor boys wild an bad with his wicked lies. And him, Mrs. OConnor? Ye know well that it s Bill Nicker I mean, Michael Hollin. Of course she was raving in her grieg but he could not tell her so; and her words re- curred to him uncomfortably all the way down-town. It was a half-holiday at the works, owing to some repairs, and Mike had the afternoon to himself. He thought that he would go to Terrys school in time to walk home with Terry. There was a reason for the heavy sick- ness of heart that made him crave the little fellows companionship; time had not stood still for his struggles, and to-morrow was the night. Sunk in darker and darker meditation, he walked down the shady street toward the great brick building that is the Eighth Dis- trict school. And so mutinous was the cast of his thoughts, that he gave a guilty start when he observed, a little in advance, Nicker himself walking with the gigantic blacksmith. Of late the blacksmith, who was a member of the society, had been restive under dis- cipline, grumbling about Thornes sentence; and indeed, Mike had noticed that while the hatred of Thorne had steadily grown more virulent and reckless in the men outside, those who like Nicker were refused any place in the shops, the men at work were becoming listless and uneasy. Some of em would like to back out, said Mike, scowling. After to-morrow, it will be too late to back out. He quickened his pace a little, as one will when Black Care strikes the spursin,andhe was onlythebreadth of the street, obliquely, from the school-house, near enough to see the heads, white and yel- low and brown, filing behind the windows, in the formal march to the doors; he could dis- tinguish Terrys yellow curls, see the doors swing apart, the lower-room children pouring out into the street; when, quite without warn- ing, all the people on the sidewalk began to run with loud screams. The horrid cry arose: Mad dog! mad dog! Mike turned whence the noise mostly came, to behold an ugly sight. Down the side street, headed directly toward the crowd of children, ran the animal, one of those white, bow-legged, wrinkle-jawed, vicious-eyed bull-dogs, to which in their best estate one in- stinctively gives the larger half of the walk, at this moment a creature out of a nightmare, with his ghastly mouth and the blind, crouch- ing fury of his gait; and behind him raced fast and faster the single pursuer, a young man on a bicycle. He could see the children; in his set face and straining muscles was as fierce an eagerness as that hurling the brute. This picture flashed into Mikes consciousness be- fore he wrenched a loose brick from the pave- ment and ran straight into the dogs path. He passed Nicker and the blacksmith, who had leaped a fence, and were hunting for wea- pons on the safe side. One chance in a thou- sand that he might hit the dog before he should reach the children! If not Mike straight- ened himself and shut his teeth hard; the brick was poised in his right hand, he opened his pocket-knife with bis teeth and his left hand. They were aoming! A woman screamed as the rider gained. He was level with the beast, he swung his body over; nobody quite saw how it was done, but the dog was snatched up and held out at arms-length by the collar, while the wheels whirled on. Hold him! screamed Mike. Hold him! I kin hit him! The man on the wheels did hold the dog, held him far out, struggling savagely, a horrible mark. Mike threw his brick so truly, that the writhing, foaming mass collapsed into a string of limp legs and a bloody head, which the rider flung on the ground, just before he sprang down himself. They saw a quick movement of one arm; there was a flash and a loud report. Arthur Thorne replaced his revolver. Thank you, said he, with a nod at Mike; I really dont think he needed that last shot, 76 THE ROWDY but it was better to make safe. You throw t was nt me killed the dog, ma, said Mike, well, Hollin. who, indeed, was too harried by conflicting Mike bad drawn near enough to be one of emotions to realize the splendor of his own the crowd staring at the gory lump; a second conduct. earlier there were only Thorne, the dog, and Yes t was, too, sobbed Mrs. Hollin; you he, but now at least twenty men bustled up hit him with the brickbat. valorously with improvised weapons, and one But I never could have got nigh enough adventurous matron swung a tea-kettle. The in time to slug him, Mike cried very earnestly. blacksmith had wrenched off a pump-handle. Mr. Thorne he caught him up like light- Among them no one would have singled out ningtell ye, ma, t was somethin to see! Mike standing with shoulders relaxed, hands in Well, yes, he was brave, too, admitted his pockets, and mouth agape, for an actor in Mrs. Hollin. the scene. His head swam. A dizzy admira- I say ye both done well, pronounced the tion for Thornes feat mingled with something father, and I am going out this minute to that suffocated him, as he saw Terry limping git some beer to drink Mikes health. through the crowd, and heard the familiar little voice calling: Please let me get to my Uncle Mike. Did you kill him, Uncle Mike? Let me look. He cant bite nobody now, can he? Mike lifted the child up in his arms, and hid his face against Terrys jacket. You re a brave boy, cried the woman, sobbing. No, I aint, said Mike bruskly; there was all the children. Anyhow, Mr. Thorne done it. I must take this boy home. So he got away, got Terry home, almost staggered home himself. His father smoked his pipe on the piazza steps; indoors his mother was setting the ta- ble, both waiting for Mike, with excited faces, for a neighbor had told them the story. Mrs. Hollin ran out and fell on Mikes neck. But Mike could hardly remember the time when his father had praised him before; and yet so confused and troubled was his mind, that he was only aware of a new kind of pang. Never- theless, being occupied with the catastrophe and their own vivid emotions, none of the fam- ily except his mother noticed anything odd in his demeanor. Clara came before supper was ended, to relate the story with tears; and Claras husband choked when he thanked Mike. I know little Terry never could have got out of the way, said he. Tom came, too, with his wife, who, having been a school-teacher and wearing a gold watch, was considered to hold herself rather above the family; and Elly ac- tually kissed Mike, calling him, You splendid fellow! while Tom held him out by both el- bows, crying, Let s look at the young feller Mr. Thorne says is the bravest man he knows. ENGRAVED BY C. STArE. MIKE AND TERRY, THE ROWDY 77 Oh, you get out! stammered the wretched Mike, feeling ready to cry. And Bill Nicker, says Tom, gleefully, bless you, Bill was there, but he was nt there long; he got over a fence like greased lightning, and Johnny Mahin was with him; he got over, too, and pulled the handle off the Lowdersspump,and Lowder was round swearing he 11 make him mend it! The joke is, it s cast-iron, and he broke it off short. A feller s strong s thai ought nt to be afraid of a pup, says Lowder. Bill Nicker got Mrs. Lowders carving-knife, and was round mighty brave after the dog was dead. Is he gone to work yet? asked old Tom, who was puffing very comfortably on the step. No; says he s waiting for the new factory to start up over the river. Says he 11 get higher wages there. Bill Nicker, said old Tom, meditatively, he tries every way on earth to get higher wages, cept doing better work. To all this and more Mike listened. He said nothing. He felt no desire to defend Nicker. His moral world was in ruins. Nicker had shown the white feather, and Thorne had saved Terry. But only his mother watched him anxiously, sitting mute and dismal amid the chatter; only his mother stole to his door during the night and heard his sobs. In the morning she made a pretext of some pie for his dinner to get him off to her little pantry. You walk on, Tom, said she; he 11 ketch up! All right, called old Tom, cheerfully,he was in high good humor with Mike, the world, and himself, give the lad a good dinner, he deserves it. She folded a napkin neatly about the turn- over, and placed it in his pail. Her hands trembled. He could see her out of the corners of his eyes; he felt both those trembling hands laid on his shoulders; and he wriggled, blink- ing his swollen eyelids in the sunlight. Micky, said his mother, you dont need to wink, I know you been crying. You been wretched s could be going on two weeks. He looked at her with a quivering mouth that would nt smile for all his efforts. Dont you mind, Micky, when you was a boy, and you d been bad or anything had gone wrong, how you d come round after a while and tell all to mother? And then you d feel all right! Micky dear, cant you tell it all to mother now? She was afraid that he would be angry, but he was not angry. I wish I could, ma, he said, but I cant. Micky, I know it s that society. Mrs. OConnor told me she s sure theyre after some mischief. Two or three of the boys was at her house; and you know boys: they cant no more help leaking out what s in their minds than a dish-pan with a hole in it; and they was brag- ging to her how Thorne would be sorry some day. Micky, dont go to feeling bad. Say, if I tell the police on em, and have em took up, will anything come out to hurt you? She was startled at his face, xvhich turned a dark red, while he gripped her arms so hard that it hurt her. Mother, he groaned, if you do that, by I 11 cut my throat! Oh, then, I wont, Micky. Then I wont indeed, Micky. But, Micky, I d hate I d hate for any harm to come to Mr. Thorne, after Terry, you know, and him godfather to Toms boy. There 11 no harm come to Mr. Thorne, mother; I promise you that. He spoke very steadily, and, after a long look at her, he kissed her. It was so unlike Mike, and she was so oppressed, so fluttered, that she had no more strength to detain him. All she could do was miserably to watch him running through the little garden, and to fall on her knees by the flour-barrel. But in an instant she was on her feet. I dunno as I need to pray, after all, cried she. She intended no irreverence; she only meant that her own resources were not yet exhausted; unless they were exhausted, to her queer conscience prayer was unwarrantable beggary. Rapidly she made herself ready for the~ street, and ran over to Mrs. OConnors. Mike was a hero at the shops that day. The men thought that he seemed embarrassed by their praises; but that was natural, and to be commended in a youngster. John, the black- smith, himself the butt ofmany jocose references to pump-handles, approached him at noon. Mike sat on the shaidy side of the car-shed look- ing at the river. John said something compli- mentary about the dog; then he kicked at the bits of slag on the black ground. Say, you aint going on with it, are ye? said he in an undertone. No, said Mike. I wont let anybody hurt you. You can buy a revolver; I 11 lend you the money. And I 11 go home with you every night. Oh, that s all right, said Mike. The big man glanced half wistfully at the insignificant bare arms folded on Mikes knee and at the freckled, pale face; but he was a man of few words, so he merely said, I guess so, and went his ways. Id need more n him to stand them off ~ thought Mike, who had lost some of his belief in the Fehmgerichts infallibility, but not a whit of confidence in its power. I dont blame the boys, neither, he would have answered, had there been any one to argue with him. I m a traitor. But I cant help it. When the whistle blew for closing, Mike slipped away, and went to a toy-shop. There 78 THE ROWDY he bought some envelops and paper and a toy pistol. He was very particular that the pistol should be a safe one, with a rubber ball. Hay- ing made his purchases, he took the street-car to his sister Claras. Claras mother-in-law, the only person at home, wondered a little over his evident disappointment when he found her there alone: he gave her the pistol for Terry. From Claras house, instead of going home, although it was now past six oclock, he went down the hill to the river bridge. In sunny weather there are so many people loitering about the approaches to the bridge, on the stone wall above the river bank, or on the wharves of the bath-house and the boat-bouses, that one more quiet figure attracts no atten- tion, even should it be that of a young working- man who chooses to write his letters with a lead- pencil, and on his knee. Who would divine anything tragical concerning a round-shoul- dered young fellow that wrote with his tongue between his teeth, or who would imagine, when, having written and sealed his letter (the en- velop was addressed to A. V. Thorne, Esq.), he put both hands into his pockets and stared at the opal water and the great gold ball hung above it, that here was a bewildered and tor- mented soul, so tormented, so bewildered as to see but one dark passage of escape? I 11 post it, and he 11 get it to-morrow, said Mike. I had to give him a bit of a caution, and I aint told on anybody. I wisht I could get a word to ma; but she wont take it so hard, thinking it s accidental. All his misspent life seemed drifting past him on the softly flaming, glowing water: if he were to have the chance again, maybe he would n~t be such a fool. Terrys laugh sounded in the swash of the wa- ters, his mothers voice, his fathers gruff tones, and Nickers clear, rich intonations. He heard Nicker speak quite distinctly, If Thorne dont die, you wi/i! No; there was no other way out, but poor mother! For the lands sake, Micky, what are you looking at? said his mother. Ive been a- waving and a-waving to you, to get you to look round. She stood before him in the flesh, wearing her best bonnet, and her black silk gown given her by Tom, sacred to high feasts, and smiling as if well pleased. And why aint you walking home, Micky Hollin? she said, slipping her hand into his arm. Do you know Elly s been and got a grand supper for you, for a surprise, and all of us is coming, and Mr. Thorne, too? Itll be greatdoings, and I ye been hunting the town over for you. You ye got bare time to put on your Sunday coat; I got the things all laid out on the bed. All right, ma, said Mike, forcing him- self to smile. I 11 just run down to the bath- house for a plunge to clean up, and ride up in the street-car. You go on to Ellys. The tubs at home 11 do you, Mike, she answered, holding tightly to his arm. Wait; I got a letter Mr. Nicker gave me to be sure to give you. I guess it s about his going away, for I saw him getting on the cars. Now she released his arm. He read the note that she gave him, while the sky, and the street, and the lighted water, and her face, all reeled about him as about a man in an earthquake: Friend Mike: All is discovered. I m off to look for work. For Gods sake, do nothing in the matter! Will write. When Mike looked up, Mrs. Hollin was laughing hysterically. Mother, he cried, whathave you done? I aint done nothing, Micky dear. I aint let on a word to the cops. But I accidental like met Mr. Nicker to-day, and says I: Excuse me, Mr. Nicker, was there a fire or a fight down your way, for I seen three policemen there this morning? says Ibut I was lying, you know, God forgive me! I wish you d seen the man; he was hopping round like a hen with its head cut oW trying all the while not to appear strange at all. But he went off and he had nt .got well round the corner before he runs up on Mrs. OConnor, who said very stiff (she aint on no too good terms with him), Mr. Nicker, there was a little boy handed me this, begging me to hand it to you. I aint easy in my conscience bout it, but for old times sake, here t is. And you see, Micky, it was jest more lies, a letter telling him the police was on to everything, and for him to warn M. H . Ma, you wrote it! gasped Mike. Of course I wrote it, Micky. Do you ex- pect poor Mrs. OConnor, who can hardly sign her name, to write a document like that? I wrote it. And the man took it all for law and gospel, like I knew he would, and run home quick for his gripsack. I had to laugh to see him rolling his eyes round down at the depot, trying to look out of the back of his head if he could see a policeman, he was so scairt. But, the Lord be praised, we re rid of him, for good! So, Micky, I shant ask no questions and you dont need to tell me no lies; but dont never have no such awful things happen to you that your mother has got to be a liar for you, or think of taking baths in the river; and do try and be a good boy and please your father. Fore God I will, ma, said Mike, out of a full heart. Octave Tizanet. ROAD-COACHING ~WENTY-FJVE years ago the youth of America took no inter- est whatever in athletics. Our national game of base-ball was hardly known. What ~hanges have been wrought in one short quarter of a century in the taste for athletic sports may be seen by glancing at the numer- ous colleges throughout the country, where the maxim of Mens sana in corpore sano has a practical influence it never had before. Some eighteen years ago road-coaching was introduced into America by Colonel Delancey Kane, Colonel Jay, and others, and consider- able interest in it has been keptup ever since, though confined to a small set; but the gen- eral public at that time was not prepared to sec- ~nd their efforts with much enthusiasm, looking pon it rather as a pose than as a manly sport ~u~ring all the nerve, energy, and powers organization that can be developed by an letic pastime. ~his period has happily passed. The pub- UP TO DATE. lic to-day take such a lively interest in all mat- ters appertaining to road-coaching that a few notes which I have been able to gather from the best authorities on the subject may not be unwelcome at the present time. For conven- ience I shall divide the subject into the follow- ing heads: The Road; The Horses; The Pace; The Coach; The Horse-keepers; The Stables; The Driving; A Practical Illustration: The Record Trip from Paris to Trouville. THE ROAD. MACADAM roads made with volcanic rock carry a coach better than roads macadamized with sedimentary rock. This sedimentary rock disintegrates and becomes woolly in wet weather, whereas granite sheds the water much better. On roads that have high crowns and are narrow, such as can be found between Cook- field and Friars Oak in England, it is extremely difficult to make good time with a heavily laden coach, because when you pull out to pass a 79 ARRIVAL AT MANTES the pictures with this article illustrate the trip fruin Paris to Tess ille, descrihed on page t~ EDITOR.

T. Suffern Tailer Tailer, T. Suffern Road-Coaching Up To Date 79-86

ROAD-COACHING ~WENTY-FJVE years ago the youth of America took no inter- est whatever in athletics. Our national game of base-ball was hardly known. What ~hanges have been wrought in one short quarter of a century in the taste for athletic sports may be seen by glancing at the numer- ous colleges throughout the country, where the maxim of Mens sana in corpore sano has a practical influence it never had before. Some eighteen years ago road-coaching was introduced into America by Colonel Delancey Kane, Colonel Jay, and others, and consider- able interest in it has been keptup ever since, though confined to a small set; but the gen- eral public at that time was not prepared to sec- ~nd their efforts with much enthusiasm, looking pon it rather as a pose than as a manly sport ~u~ring all the nerve, energy, and powers organization that can be developed by an letic pastime. ~his period has happily passed. The pub- UP TO DATE. lic to-day take such a lively interest in all mat- ters appertaining to road-coaching that a few notes which I have been able to gather from the best authorities on the subject may not be unwelcome at the present time. For conven- ience I shall divide the subject into the follow- ing heads: The Road; The Horses; The Pace; The Coach; The Horse-keepers; The Stables; The Driving; A Practical Illustration: The Record Trip from Paris to Trouville. THE ROAD. MACADAM roads made with volcanic rock carry a coach better than roads macadamized with sedimentary rock. This sedimentary rock disintegrates and becomes woolly in wet weather, whereas granite sheds the water much better. On roads that have high crowns and are narrow, such as can be found between Cook- field and Friars Oak in England, it is extremely difficult to make good time with a heavily laden coach, because when you pull out to pass a 79 ARRIVAL AT MANTES the pictures with this article illustrate the trip fruin Paris to Tess ille, descrihed on page t~ EDITOR. 8o ROAD-COA CLUNG UP TO BA TE. vehicle your coach no longer runs on a level, and the wheels which are below the crown hind and drag heavily. Thebestroadis made of gran- ite macadam, slightly undulating, and with me- dium crown. Over such a road horses can go at a great pace without fatigue. Such a piece of road exists between Reigate and Crawley, and that distance has been accomplished daily for six months with the same horses, going at the rate of a mile in three minutes (distance nine miles and one half), as was done by Mr. W. G. Tiffany in 1873, when he horsed and owned the Brighton coach. Slightly un- dulating ground is the easiest for horses, as it calls for different muscular action in turn as they go up and down bill. Any one can prove this by merely running over the above kind of ground, when he will find that in go- mb down hill he will rest his lungs from the strain put upon them by rising ground, and will alternately rest different sets of muscles and regain his breath. Hence it is a great mistake to endeavor to run teams up a long hill, especially if any of them are a bit gone in the wind. Sandy roads, even if they are not hilly, are most dis- tressing to horses, as they have no spring. The more spring there is the better it enables the horses to keep the vehicle moving; whereas, when the road is deep, it is a dead pull and very disheartening. THE HORSES. LET us now consider the class of horses most suitable for road work. It will be noticed that in most coaches running out of London, where the pace is necessarily slow, owing to the crowded traffic and the desire to sell the horses to an advantage at the end of the season, a coarse-bred, short-necked. class of horse has gradually crept in from the omnibus to the coach. To each portion of the road the horses should be adapted. If the ground require it may be well enough to use a coarse horse that can exert his utmost strength for a consider- able time, providing the pace is slow; but it must be borne in mind that coarse horses ought never to be galloped. No greater mistake can be made than that of outpacing your stock. If a horse is worked within his pace he will last for years; if outpaced he will go to pieces in a few weeks. If it is considered desirable to have a gal- loping stage to your coach, remember to have small horses, or at least horses with a great deal of blood. They alone can stand the ex- citement and the wear and tear of a fast pace On the whole, the most desirable class of hon is a well-bred, well-proportioned animal of dium size that can trot eleven miles an without distressing himself. In a genera~ with regard to horsing a coach, it must Lains). A QUICIC CHANGE AT LA RIVI~RE THIBOUVILLE. ROAD-COACHLiVG UP ITO DATE. 8i membered that it is most desirable to buy all for each person when nine or more were carried your horses of a certain type, whatever that outside, while the duty xvas only threepence may be. In this way you can transfer a horse when there were seven or less. In both cases from one team to another; whereas, if you have the numher of inside passengers was limited to a nondescript lot, of all sorts and qualities, they six. Coaches carried as many as sixteen out- become very difficult to handle. A man should side, but only on short journeys. An example never allow himself to buy a horse because it of the old London coach carrying sixteen on the pleases his fancy as an individual, but should outside can be seen at the present day running try to maintain as near a~ possible the same from Ballater to Balmoral, and very curious ye- stamp of animal throughout. hides they are. I have counted twenty-five In the old days the road was divided up into on one of them, but the pace never averages certain stages, and menwere said to horse por- more than seven miles an hour. The true type tions of the ground. The guard carried a time of the modern coach can be seen on the roads bill, in order that the pace might be so regu- out of Paris and London at the present day. lated that if time were lost in one portion of These carry eight passengers on the body, three the journey he could prevent the coachman with the guard, and one on the box-seat be- from taking it out of the horses on the next. At side the coachman. They are beautifully con- the present day, however, the horses are gener- structed, and cannot be surpassed for traveling ally run in common over the whole of the road; up to ten miles an hour, including changes; hence the disappearance of the time bills. beyond that pace, however, a special vehicle, The roads out of London to-day are traveled such as the old mail, is required. very slowly for reasons mentioned above; but Now that road-coaching is on the increase for a gentlemans coach to be smart, a credit in America, it is to be hoped that a judicious to himself, and a pleasure to the passengers, and limited use of the horn may prevail. Con- the pace should not be less than ten miles an tinual horn-blowing has become not only a hour, including changes. nuisance to passengers, but an impertinence to The objective point of the road should be a the public at large. The latter certainly have place of beauty and interest, with a good cui- as much right to enjoy the road, if only with a sine, and the road leading to it pretty and donkey, as the noisy swell with his four horses smooth, as nothing is more disagreeable than and brass. to be shaken up over a long stretch of cobble- stones. To do ten miles an hour, play should HORSE-KEEPERS AND STABLING. be made over every bit of road that is advan- tageous. The coach should be taken as rapidly HORSE-KEEPERS are a subject of great tron- as l)ossible over all falls of ground, in order that ble at the present day. It is difficult to find the horses should have more time to contend men at reasonable wages who at the same time with rising ground, and should be allowed thoroughly understand four-horse work. In to run down hill at the accelerated speed it this respect old coachmen had a great advan- would naturally acquire. The horses, thereby, tage over those of modern times. The present are not fatigued by hauling at their pole-chains, horse-keepers are, as a rule, difficult to manage, The coach, in fact, should be allowed to take to say nothing of their conceit, incapacity, and itself down hill, and the horses should be kept love of strong liquor. It requires a thoroughly out of its way. Especially is this the case with competent man to go over the road and keep cripples, or horses with bad legs that must have these persons in order. This head servant does their heads and be kept on their feet by the not by any means get the praise to which he is whip, because the position of the ground bends entitled. He should be provided with a buggy; their hocks and puts them in their bridles an extra horse should be kept at every stage, so even with a loose rein. By this I mean that the that he can start any time, day or night, pick horse is gathered, or in other words has his up his changes on the road, and see what the hocks bent and his neck arched. Up hill, on horse-keepers are about. Moreover,he must be the contrary, the team cannot be held too thoroughly familiar with the business of man- tightly, and a judicious use of the whip, care- aging coach-horses. It is admitted that some fully distributed, must keep them in their of the best stud-grooms, accustomed to hunt- bridles the xvhole way up at a moderate and ers and ordinary carriage-horses, have signally even pace. failed to accomplish this work. Not only is the THE COACH. feeding an art in itself, but the stabling is also peculiar. The coach-horse must have more air I-N the old days it was an important matter and less clothing than any other horse that to consider the number of passengers that rode works, and nothing is more pernicious to a outside, as there was imposed by the Govern- highly excited coach-horse than to turn him ment a duty of fourpence halfpenny per mile into a warm stable when he comes off the road. VOL. XLV. ii. A 1 A (I) 0 z 0 H~ z 0 ROAL)-CO~1CHIiVG (JR 1)0 DATE. 83 ~lhe hours of feeding have necessarily to dif- fer at each stage, owing to the various times at which the horses commence their work, and great care has to be exercised, especially in warm, wet weather, to preserve their condition and keep them free from sore shoulders and galls. Each horse should be numbered and be known only by that number, a board being kept at the door of each stable giving detailed instructions to the horse-keepers. This precau- tion will save the annoyance of oft-repeated and time-losing mistakes. THE DRIVING. Ix regard to driving the road, it maybe said in general that no hard and fast rules can be laid down. Much latitude should be allowed to the individual, and his performance should be judged ofas a whole rather than by the crotchets of theorists. Some say that the reins should be buckled, others that the ends should hang loose; some that the coachman should throw the reins and whip down, others that he should bring them down with him from the box. These and other minor details form food for many petty discussions, but are really not worth the acrimony they have aroused. I would suggest that town teams should have cruppers, a smart set of harness with bearing-reins, and moder- ately tight pole-chains to facilitate the steer- ing of the coach, and that the team should be driven at a moderate pace with horses well collected; whereas with the country teams more of a coaching style should be adopted, the crup- pers, ornaments, and bearing-reins being dis- pensed with. A PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATION. THE RECORD TRIP FROM PARIS TO TROUVILLE. FROM i8oo to 1840 there were several classes of mails running from the General Post Office in London at St. Martins le Grand. The main lines ran north, south, east, and west, each coach carrying three passengers on the outside, and going at the rate of i ~2 miles an hour. Sub- sidiary mails made the necessary connections in the country, running at about 9 miles an hour, and carried six or eight passengers on top. It is only with the former class that we have to deal at present. We take for our type the Devonport Quicksilver Mail,which was considered the fastest out of London and was timed at 12 miles an hour, including changes. In the older days horses were not always of the best description, a~d the few coachmen that arc left from those times, such as Charley Ward, lay great stress on this fact. Modern coachmen have but little knowledge of these difficulties, because they generally have well-broken horses accustomed to their work, and good horse- keepers. In a trip from Paris to Trouville in July, 1892, an attempt was made to repeat as closely as possible the conditions of the old mails as well as to keep their time. The distance was 140 miles, portions of the road being level and very good, the remainder extremely hilly. On the day we drove, part of it was woolly from rain, owing to the fact that this, like most French roads, was macadamized with sedi- mentary rock. The official time-table was as follows: JULY 12, 1892. DOWN. Arrival. Departure. Paris Herald Office 6 A. M. St. Germain 7.08.... 7.12 Vaux 7.55.... 7.58 Mantes . 8.57... 9 Bonniiwes 9.39.... 9.45 Pacy-sur-Eure 10.30.... 10.33 Evreux 11.29... .11.33 La Commanderie 12.28 P. M. 12.31 2P. M. La Rivi~re Thihouville . . . . 1.24.. . . 1.26 Le Marche Neuf 2.06 2.12 Licurey 2.50 2.56 Bonneville 3.40 3.46 Pont lEv~que 4.182 . 4 21 Trouxille Town 4.40 Hotel Bellevue 4.50 140 miles in 10 hours ~o minutes. The passengers were Eugene Higgins, W. G. Tiffany (the noted whip), James Gordon Bennett, of the New York Herald, and the wrlter. Inside the mail were Mr. Hiekel, an amateur photographer, to whom we are in- debted for the accompanying illustrations; Mr. Luque, of the Figaro Illustrd; the builder of the mail, Mr. Guiet, and the sport- ing editor of the Paris Herald. Mr. Hig- gins drove during the first half of the journey, the writer the second. Morris Howlett acted as guard, and, in spite of his youth, was most efficient. There were thirteen changes; of these, three had not been in four-horse harness before, and the wheelers were very rein-shy. The horse- keepers were so inefficient that we had to har- ness many of our teams ourselves. Thus the conditions claimed by the old coachmen were fulfilled, and the difficulties of driving under these circumstances were very great. In the first place, some of the teams had never been driven fast, as they were horses hired sepa- rately from different dealers, accustomed to he driven about Paris to vehicles, single or in pairs, at the rate of 6 to 7 miles an hour. To get them up to a pace of 14 miles an hour, and to keep them there for a distance of 10 84 ROAD~COAGHfNx U!? TO DATA. ALL ABOARD! AT TOR ROLVILLR CROSS-ROADS, NRAR RONRRVILLR. miles, rendered them very excited and difficult to drive. If a great deal of care had not been used at the first part of each stage, they would have become entirely incapacitated owing to this sudden over-exertion. It requires much judgment to enable untrained horses to accom- plish the distance at this high rate of spee(l, without either running away or falling down. A team outpaced at the start would have been absolutely useless before half io miles had b en accomplished. When we tarted with a team we drove slowly, say 7 miles an hour, feeling the temper and quality of our horses. Then when we came to a fall of ground we would urge them until all but one were galloping, thus get- ting the pace of the best trotter in the team ~is a guide, and his fastest trot would be the pace for the rest of that stage. We had en- gaged cockhorses for the hills, but found that the time lost in putting them to and taking them off was not counterbalanced by their assistance. It was mistake, we found, to have too many relays on the road, for the time lost while changing is not made up on short stages. This was also the experience of Mr. J. mes Gordon Bennett when he put his coach on the road from Pau to Biarritz. In a drive like this, the use of the whip is of the greatest importance. People driving their own teaThs in the park, even for years, do not get the training a day like this offers. For example, through the ignorance of the horse-keeper the horses intended as wheelers, coarse and sluggish, were once put as leaders, whereas free little horses, which would have made capital leaders, were put J wheel, ne- cessitating a vigorous use of the whip on these misplaced leaders over every yard of the ground, while the wheelers had to be held. In another case the wheelers were very rein- shy, and continually pulled away from the pole. This could be controlled only by a judicious and energetic use of the whip, directed mainly to the off-side ear of the off horse, and vice versa. If we had not been able to administer this correction this stage would never hive been accomplished at 11. In this sort of worl time will not permit of any change of bitting and coupling. The coachman must keep his horses for that stage just as they are, whether he likes it or not; for it must be remembered that time w~ sted in changing of bit and coup- ling cannot be gathered up again, but is lost forever. As an il1ustr~ tion of the importance of what has been previoisly stated in regard to the feeding of co c~horses, it may be mentioned that one of the leaders, which was apparently perfectly sound horse, was unable to continue ROAD-COACHING UP TO DATE. 85 after three miles, and we were consequently forced to leave him on the road, although the next day he was perfectly well, and accom- plished his journey in comfort. We learned afterward that this horse had been fed too late, and it was impossible for him to work at a high rate of speed on a full stomach. As in the case of a judicious jockey who finds, when his horse bolts with him at the post, that the best thing to do is to outpace him at once and thus get hold of his head, so when we found ourselves with four big Percherons, heavy in the neck, and so lightly bitted that the strongest man in the world could not have stopped them suddenly, we whipped them into a run, tbus outpacing them, so that after a few miles they came back to our hand and were un- der complete control. In spite of the speed made during this jour- ney, various horse-dealers in Paris certified through the press that every horse used on the trip was returned to them in an entirely satis- factory condition. This distance of 140 miles in io hours and 50 minutes gives an average of a mile in 4-~ minutes, being a little over i 2 miles an hour, including changes; and these changes in many cases, for reasons explained above, were unne- cessarily long. In Selbys famous drive to Brighton and back, the changes were made on an average within one minute, and as he changed fourteen times we deduct 14 from 7 hours and 55 mm- utes, leaving 7 hours 41 minutes for the ac- complishment of the 104 miles. We changed twelve times, for which 48 min- utes must be deducted. Ten hours ~o minutes, less 48 minutes, equals io hours and 2 minutes for 140 miles, which gives for Selby i mile in 4-~j~% of a minute; Higgins and Tailer i mile in 4-~ of a minute, oran average of-~~6 of a min- ute per mile in our favor, in spite of all the ad- vantages in horses and road that Selby had over us. This, certainly the most sporting depart- ure in the coaching line of modern times, was conceived and carried out by the latest mem- ber of the New York Coaching Club, Mr. Eugene Higgins. He followed the advice of Colonel Jay, the president since its foundation, and came abroad to study coaching. Colonel Jays influence for good in these matters has made itself felt all over America, and many a young whip has to thank him for finding him- self on the road to success. When Mr. Hig- gins found that, from the dusty archives of the British Post Office, a genuine old mail-coach had been reconstructed, he conceived the idea ARRIVAL, ONE HOUR AND TRN MIRUTRS ABRAD OF TIMR, AT TOR HOTRL BELLEVUR, TROUVILLR. 86 THE ANS !VIYR. of ~)lacing this bric-h-brac of a l)ygone day in the e;i/ou;~z,y o fits time, and straightway sought out a road which excellently represented the one run from London to Devonport by the old Quicksilver Royal Mail; moreover, he col- lected fifty odd horses, which were queer and strange like those of old, and in the spirit of a true artist sought to make the equipment con- form to the epoch represented. In the old time the mails were constructed by the British Gov- ernment with the same thoroughness that they give to their ironclads to-day. The very best engineers were consulted, and their specifica- tions were handed to the constructors, who were obliged to conform to them accurately. Of this fact we have been able to assure our- selves by the courtesy of Mr. R. C. Tombs, Controller of the London Post Office, who kindly gave us access to the original documents at present in St. Martins le Grand. Unfortunately the modern coach-builder works by rule of thumb, and, because he has been accustomed to 1)ut a certain camber to his axle and a certain dish to his wheel, he goes on so doing without any idea of the prob- lem xvhich these two points involve. This was solved years ago by the mathematicians em- ployed by Parliament to make reports on this subject. We attempted to discover upon what principle these modern coach-builders were working, and upon investigation found that not one of them knew the law on the subject. So American coach-builders were insisting on a dish and camber that rested on a law of England totally unknown there, and which had never been in operation in America, where, unfortunately, the law regulating the crown to be given to roads has not yet been determined upon. Hence the strange anomaly, that an old Eng- lish idea, after having been offered in vain to English and American coach-builders, was finally taken up by the enterprise of a French- man well known in America, Mr. Guiet. T Suffera Taller. {x$7 2 THE ANSWER. AROSE in tatters on the garden path Called out to God, and murmured gainst his wrath, Because a sudden wind in twilights hush Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush. And God, who hears both sun-dried dust and sun. Made answer softly to that luckless one: Sister, in that thou sayest I did not well, What voices heardst thou whvn thy j3etals fell ? And the Rose answered: In my evil hour A voice cried: Father, wherefore falls the flower? For lo, the very gossamers are still! And a voice answered: Son, by Allahs will. Then softly as the rain-mist on the sward Came to the Rose the answer of the Lord: Sister, before I smote the dark in twain, Or yet the stars saw one another plain, Time, tide, and space I bound unto the task That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask. Whereat the withered flower, all content, Died as they die whose days are innocent; XVhile he who questioned why the flower fell Caught hold of God, and saved his soul from hell. Rua~yard A7f/ing~

Rudyard Kipling Kipling, Rudyard The Answer 86-88

86 THE ANS !VIYR. of ~)lacing this bric-h-brac of a l)ygone day in the e;i/ou;~z,y o fits time, and straightway sought out a road which excellently represented the one run from London to Devonport by the old Quicksilver Royal Mail; moreover, he col- lected fifty odd horses, which were queer and strange like those of old, and in the spirit of a true artist sought to make the equipment con- form to the epoch represented. In the old time the mails were constructed by the British Gov- ernment with the same thoroughness that they give to their ironclads to-day. The very best engineers were consulted, and their specifica- tions were handed to the constructors, who were obliged to conform to them accurately. Of this fact we have been able to assure our- selves by the courtesy of Mr. R. C. Tombs, Controller of the London Post Office, who kindly gave us access to the original documents at present in St. Martins le Grand. Unfortunately the modern coach-builder works by rule of thumb, and, because he has been accustomed to 1)ut a certain camber to his axle and a certain dish to his wheel, he goes on so doing without any idea of the prob- lem xvhich these two points involve. This was solved years ago by the mathematicians em- ployed by Parliament to make reports on this subject. We attempted to discover upon what principle these modern coach-builders were working, and upon investigation found that not one of them knew the law on the subject. So American coach-builders were insisting on a dish and camber that rested on a law of England totally unknown there, and which had never been in operation in America, where, unfortunately, the law regulating the crown to be given to roads has not yet been determined upon. Hence the strange anomaly, that an old Eng- lish idea, after having been offered in vain to English and American coach-builders, was finally taken up by the enterprise of a French- man well known in America, Mr. Guiet. T Suffera Taller. {x$7 2 THE ANSWER. AROSE in tatters on the garden path Called out to God, and murmured gainst his wrath, Because a sudden wind in twilights hush Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush. And God, who hears both sun-dried dust and sun. Made answer softly to that luckless one: Sister, in that thou sayest I did not well, What voices heardst thou whvn thy j3etals fell ? And the Rose answered: In my evil hour A voice cried: Father, wherefore falls the flower? For lo, the very gossamers are still! And a voice answered: Son, by Allahs will. Then softly as the rain-mist on the sward Came to the Rose the answer of the Lord: Sister, before I smote the dark in twain, Or yet the stars saw one another plain, Time, tide, and space I bound unto the task That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask. Whereat the withered flower, all content, Died as they die whose days are innocent; XVhile he who questioned why the flower fell Caught hold of God, and saved his soul from hell. Rua~yard A7f/ing~ I SEE TOPICS OP THE TIME LETTERS OF TWO B ROT HERS. FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF GENERAL ANI) SENATOR SHERMAN. INTRODU Cii ON. LEJAM TECUMSEH SHER- MAN was born in Lancaster, Ohio, February 8, 1820, the sixth child in a family of eleven. His father was a judge of the Supreme Court of Ohio, and a man of prominence, hut died when Tecumseh was only nine years old. At the death of her husband Mrs. Sherman found herself unable to provide properly for all her children, and Te- cumseh was taken into the family of his fathers oldest friend, the Hon. Thomas Ewing. At six- teen he entered West Point, and four years later was graduated sixth in the class of 1840. His first military service was in Florida, but at the beginning of the l\Jexican war he was sent with troops to California, and so missed any oppor- tunity for active service in the xvar. In i8go he was promoted to a captaincy, an(l married Miss Ellen Boyle I xx ing, the elder daughter of the Hon. ihomis ii wing, then Secretary of the Interior undei President Taylor. In 1853 Captain Shermm iesi~ned his commission and became a banker in C Thfornia, representing a St. Louis bankint~ house Owing to the finan- cial troubles in Cthfoinrx in 1857, it was de- cwled to close that branch of the bank, and Sherman spent the next txvo years in Leaven- worth, Kansas, as a partner in the law firm of his brother-in-law, Thomas Ewing, Jr. Legal work l)roved very distasteftil to him, and in 1859 he accepted the l)osition of superin- tendent of the State Military Academy of Louisiana. Here he remained until the break- ing out of the War of Secession, sending his resignation to the governor upon the seiz PASSAGES

William Tecumseh Sherman Sherman, William Tecumseh John Sherman Sherman, John Sherman - Letters of Two Brothers: Passages from the Correspondence of General and Senator Sherman 88-101

LETTERS OF TWO B ROT HERS. FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF GENERAL ANI) SENATOR SHERMAN. INTRODU Cii ON. LEJAM TECUMSEH SHER- MAN was born in Lancaster, Ohio, February 8, 1820, the sixth child in a family of eleven. His father was a judge of the Supreme Court of Ohio, and a man of prominence, hut died when Tecumseh was only nine years old. At the death of her husband Mrs. Sherman found herself unable to provide properly for all her children, and Te- cumseh was taken into the family of his fathers oldest friend, the Hon. Thomas Ewing. At six- teen he entered West Point, and four years later was graduated sixth in the class of 1840. His first military service was in Florida, but at the beginning of the l\Jexican war he was sent with troops to California, and so missed any oppor- tunity for active service in the xvar. In i8go he was promoted to a captaincy, an(l married Miss Ellen Boyle I xx ing, the elder daughter of the Hon. ihomis ii wing, then Secretary of the Interior undei President Taylor. In 1853 Captain Shermm iesi~ned his commission and became a banker in C Thfornia, representing a St. Louis bankint~ house Owing to the finan- cial troubles in Cthfoinrx in 1857, it was de- cwled to close that branch of the bank, and Sherman spent the next txvo years in Leaven- worth, Kansas, as a partner in the law firm of his brother-in-law, Thomas Ewing, Jr. Legal work l)roved very distasteftil to him, and in 1859 he accepted the l)osition of superin- tendent of the State Military Academy of Louisiana. Here he remained until the break- ing out of the War of Secession, sending his resignation to the governor upon the seiz PASSAGES LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. 89 ure of the State Arsenal, that being the first act of open defiance against the general Govern- ment on the part of Louisiana. John Sherman was three years younger than his brother Tecumseh, and at fourteen had al- ready begun to support himself as a rodman for the Muskingum River Improvement Com- pany. He soon came to be engineer in charge, but was removed after a years service in this capacity, because he was a Whig. At seven- teen he began the study of law in the office of his eldest brother Charles, at Mansfield, and May io, 1844, on coming of age, was ad- mitted to the bar. In 1848, he was sent to the National Whig Convention at Philadelphia, and his political life dates from that time. His intense interest in the excitement over the attempt to repeal the Missouri Compromise, from i8~ i ~, led to his election to Congress, and from December, 1855, when he took his seat in the House of Representatives in Wash- ington, his firm convictions and his earnest- ness in expressing them made him prominent. He was appointed by Congress on the Kansas Investigating Committee, a position of great personal danger, and in i86i was elected sen- ator from Ohio, only a few weeks before the first shot was fired on Sumter. He always took great interest in the financial questions of the day, thus preparing himself for the work he ac- complished as Secretary of the Treasury under President Hayes. After General Shermans death the desire to know what use was to be made of his papers NEw YORK, December, 1891. was expressed so promptly, and with such evi- dent sincerity, that I was led to undertake their arrangement for publication. Early in the work I found a series of letters which at once awoke my deepest interest, and which proved to be a correspondence between General Sherman and his brother John, during more than fifty years. These letters, exchanged by men of such eminence, and many of them written during the most stirring times of our countrys his- tory, seem to me a unique collection. They make a correspondence complete in itself, are of great historical value, and the expressions of opinion which they contain are very freely made, and give an excellent idea of the intel- lectual sympathy existing between the bro- thers. The letters, however, show but poorly their great affection for each other. Their tem- peraments and dispositions were so unlike, and their paths in life led in such different ways, that they naturally looked upon the great events of the day from widely different points of view. Still they never failed to feel and show for each other the greatest love and devotion as well as respect. In publishing these letters, my chief desire has been to let them speak for themselves, and to put them in such form that they may easily be understood. I feel sure that they will com- manl general interest, and be accorded that ready sympathy which was so freely and lov- ingly expressed at the time of General Sher- mans death. Rachel Ewing Sherman. THE STORM AND STRESS PERIOD. THE SOLDIER COUNSELS MODERATION. JN August of 1859 when General Sherman was I appointed superintendent of the State military school in Louisiana, great attention was being paid in the South to the military education of young men, and it is singular, in the knowledge of after events, that General Sherman should have gone to teach the art of war to the youth of the South. \Vhile there, or about that time, he re- ceived an offer from a banking firm to open a branch office in London, but after consulting his brother John, he decided not to leave this coun- try and his school, in which he was soon greatly interested. It was not long, however, before his relations with the school became strained, owing to his Northern ideas. In September, 1859, he wrote to his brother John from Lancaster, Ohio, where he stopped on his way to Louisiana: I will come up about the 20th or 25th, and if you have an appointment to speak about that time I should like to hear you, and will so arrange. As you are becoming a man of note VOL. XLV. 12. and are a Republican, and as I go south among gentlemen who have always owned slaves and probably always will and must, and whose feel- ings may pervert every public expression of yours, putting me in a false position to them as my patrons, friends, and associates, and you as my brother, I would like to see you take the highest ground consistent with your party creed. Throughout all the bitterness in the House of Representatives before the war, General Sherman urged upon his brother John to maintain a mod- erate course; but even then the general thought him too severe on the South, and in October, 1859, wrote as follows: Each State has a perfect right to have its own local policy, and a majority in Congress has an absolute right to govern the whole coun- try; but the North, being so strong in every sense of the term, can well afford to be gen- erous, even to making reasonable concessions to the weakness and prejudices of the South. LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. 90 If Southern representatives will thrust slavery into every local question, they must expect the consequences and be outvoted; but the union of States, and the general union of sentiment throughout all our nation are so important to the honor and glory of the confederacy that I would like to see your position yet more moderate. In December, John Sherman being the Re- publican candidate for Speaker of the House, the brother, who was greatly excited and anxious as to his election, writes from New Orleans, Sunday, December 12, 1859: DEAR BROTHER: I have watched the de- spatches, which are up to December io, and hoped your election would occur without the usual excitement, and believe such would have been the case had it not been for your signing for that Helper book. Of it I know nothing, but extracts made copiously in Southern papers show it to be not only abolition but assailing. Now I hoped you would be theoretical and not practical, for practical abolition is disunion, civil war, and anarchy universal on this con- tinent, and I do not believe you want that. I do hope the discussion in Congress will not be protracted, and that your election if possible will occur soon. Write me how you came to sign for that book. Now that you are in, I hope you will conduct yourself manfully. Bear with taunts as far as possible, biding your time~ to retaliate. An opportunity always occurs. Your affectionate brother, W. T. SHERMAN. The folloxving letters relating to the Helper book explain themselves: WASHINGTON, D. C., December 24, 1859. Mv DEAR BROTHER: Your letter was duly received, and should have been promptly an- swered, but that I am overwhelmed with calls and engagements. You ask why I signed the recommendation of the Helper book. It was a thoughtless, fool- ish, and unfortunate act. I relied upon the representation that it was a political tract to be published under the supervision of a committee of which Mr. Blair, a slaveholder, was a mem- ber. I was assured that there should be no- thing offensive in it, and so, in the hurry of business in the House, I told Morgan, a mem- ber of last Congress, to use my name. I never read the book, knew nothing of it, and now cannot recall that I authorized the use of my name. Everybody knows that the ultra senti- ments in the book are as obnoxious to me as they can be to any one, and in proper circum- stances I would distinctly say so, but under the threat of Clarks resolution, I could not, with self-respect, say more than I have. Whether elected or not, I will at a proper time disclaim all sympathy with agrarianism, insurrection, and other abominations in the book. In great haste, your affectionate brother, JOHN SHERMAN. SEMINARy, ALEXANDRIA, LA., Jan. i6, i86o. DEAR BROTHER: I received your letter ex- plaining how you happened to sign for that Helper book. Of course, it was an unfortunate accident, which will be a good reason for your refusing hereafter your signature to unfinished books. After Clarks resolution, you were right, of course, to remain silent. I hope you will still succeed, as then you will have ample op- portunity to show a fair independence. The rampant Southern feeling is not so strong in Louisiana as in Mississippi and Carolina. Still, holding many slaves, they naturally feel the intense anxiety all must whose people and existence depend on the safety of their property and labor. I do hope that Congress may or- ganize, and that all things may move along smoothly. It would be the height of folly to drive the South to desperation, nnd I hope, after the fact is admitted that the North has the majority and right to control national matters and interests, that they will so use their power as to reassure the South that there is no inten- tion to disturb the actual existence of slavery. Yours, W. T. SHERMAN. SPECULATIONS AS TO WAR. THROUGH all of General Shermans letters of this date, one can hear the thunder-crash before the storm. His longing for peace and for the avoidance of trouble is reassuring in a man of great military longings and ambitions. In Feb- ruary, i86o, he writes: If Pennington succeeds, he will of course give you some conspicuous committee,probably quite as well for you in the long run as Speaker. I dont like the looks of the times. This po- litical turmoil, the sending commissions from State to State, the organization of military schools and establishments, and universal be- lief in the South that disunion is not only pos- sible but certain, are bad signs. If our country falls into anarchy, it will be Mexico, only worse. I was in hopes the crisis would have been deferred till the States of the Northwest became so populous as to hold both extremes in check. Disunion would be civil war, and you politicians would lose all chance. Military men would then step on the tapis, and you would have to retire. Though you think such a thing absurd, yet it is not so, and there would be vast numbers who would think the change for the better. I have been well sustained here, and the Legislature proposes further to endow us well and place us in the strongest possible financial LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. 9 position. If they do, and this danger of dis- union blow over, I shall stay here; but in case of a breach I would go North. Yours, W. T. SHERMAN. Later, when things look more peaceful for the country, he xvrites: The excitement attending the Speakership has died away here, and Louisiana will not make any disunion moves. Indeed, she is very pros- perous, and the Mississippi is a stronglink which she cannot sever. Besides, the price of negroes is higher than ever before, indicating a secure feeling. I have seen all your debates thus far, and no Southern or other gentleman will question their fairness and dignity, and I believe, unless you are unduly provoked, they will ever continue so. I see you are suffering some of the penalties of greatness, having an awful likeness paraded in to decorate the walls of country inns. I have seen that of , and as the name is be- low, I recognize it. Some here say they see a likeness to me, but I dont. The following letters, relating to John Sher- mans speech in New York, explain themselves: WASHINGTON, March 26, i86o. Mv DEAR BROTHER: Yours of the 12th instant was received when I was very busy, and therefore I did not answer in time for you at Lancaster. Your estimate of the relative positions of SpeakerandCh[ ]ofW[ ]andM[ ] Com[ ] is not accurate. The former is worth struggling for. It is high in dignity, in- fluence, and when its duties are well performed it is an admirable place to gain reputation. I confess I had set my heart upon it and think I could have discharged its duties. . . . My l)resent position is a thankless, laborious one. I am not adapted to it. It requires too much de- tailed labor and keeps me in continual conflict; it is the place of a schoolmaster with plenty of big boys to coax and manage. I will get along the best I can. . . . You need not fear my caution about extreme views. It is my purpose to express my political opinions in the City of New York in April, and to avoid hasty expres- sions, I will write it out in full for publication. Affectionately yours, JOHN SHERMAN. LoUIsIANA STATE SEMINARY OF LEARNING AND MILITARY ACADEMY, ALEXANDRIA, LA., April 4, i86o. DEAR BROTHER: . . . I know that some men think this middle course absurd, but no people were ever governed by mere abstract principle. All governments are full of anoma lies, English, French, and our own; but ours is the best because it admits of people having their local interests and prejudices, and yet live in one confederacy. I hope you will send your speech, and if national, I will have it circulated. I see you have reported nearly all the ap- propriation bills early in the session. This has been referred to in my presence repeatedly as evidence of your ability and attention to busi- ness; so, whether you feel suited to the berth or no, it will strengthen your chances in the country.... Your brother, W. T. SHERMAN. WASHINGTON, D. C., April 13, i86o. DEAR BROTHER: I send you a copy of my speech in New York. I delivered it with fair credit, and to a very large, kind audience. Upon looking it over, I perceive a good deal of bit- terness, natural enough, but which you will not approve. It is well received here. Affec tionately yours, JOHN SHERMAN. ALEXANDRIA, LA., May 8, i86o. DEAR BROTHER: . . . Last night I got the copy of the speech and read it. . . . There is one point which you concede to the Southern States, perfect liberty to prefer slavery if they choose; still, you hit the system as though you had feeling against it. I know it is difficult to maintain perfect impartiality. In all new cases, it is well you should adhere to your convic- tion to exclude slavery because you prefer free labor. That is your perfect right, and I was glad to see that you disavowed any intention to molest slavery even in the District. Now, so certain and inevitable is it that the physical and political power of this nation must pass into the hands of the free States that I think you all can well afford to take things easy, bear the buffets of a sinking dynasty, and even smile at their impotent threats. You ought not to expect the Stuthern politicians to rest easy when they see and feel this crisis so long approaching, and so certain to come, absolutely at hand. . . . But this years presidential elec- tion will be a dangerous one; may actually result in civil war, though I still cannot believe the South would actually secede in the event of the election of a Republican. . . . Your affectionate brother, W. T. SHERMAN. GENERAL SHERMAN FAVORS SEWARD. AS the year goes on, General Sherman s anxiety increases, and his position becomes almost too strained for comfort. In his intense longing to preserve peace, he favors the nomination of Sew- ard rather than of Lincoln, believing him to be less inimical to the South. In June of i86o he writes 92 LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. I think, however, though Lincolns opinions on slavery are as radical as those of Seward, yet Southern men, if they see a chance of his success, will say they will wait and see. The worst feature of things now is the familiarity with which the subject of a dissolut5on is talked about. But I cannot believe any one, even Yancey or Davis, would be rash enough to take the first step. If at Baltimore to-day the convention nominate Douglas with unanimity, I suppose if he get the vote of the united South he will be elected. But [if], as I apprehend will be the case, the seceders again secede to Rich- mond, and there make a Southern nomination, their nominee will weaken Douglas vote so much that Lincoln may run in. The real race seems to be between Lincoln and Douglas. Now that Mr. Ewing also is out for Lin- coln, and it is strange how closely these things are watched,it is probable I will be even more suspect than last year. All the reason- ing and truth in the world would not convince a Southern man that the Republicans are not abolitionists. It is not safe even to stop to dis- cuss the question; they believe it, and there is the end of that controversy. . . . Of course, I know that reason has very little influence in this world; prejudice governs. You, and all who derive power from the people, do not look for pure, unalloyed truth, but to that kind of truth which jumps with the prejudices of the day.. So Southern politicians do the same. If Lin- coln be elected, I dont apprehend resistance; and if he be, as Mr. Ewing says, a reason- able, moderate man, things may move on, and the South become gradually reconciled. But you may rest assured that the tone of feeling is such that civil war and anarchy are very possible. JOHN SHERMAN S views AFTER THE ELECTION OF LINCOLN. THE following letter, written by John Sherman to his brother shortly after the election of Lincoln, is full of the intensest feeling, and is a complete statement of the Republican sentiment of the time. MANSFIELD, OHIO, November 26, i86o. Mv DEAR BROTHER: Since I received your last letter I have been so constantly engaged. first with the election and afterwards in arrang- ing my business for the winter, that I could not write you. The election resulted as I all along supposed. Indeed, the division of the Democratic party on precisely the same question that separates the Republican party from the Democratic party made its defeat certain. The success of the Republicans has, no doubt, saved the coun- try from a discreditable scramble in the House. No doubt the disorders of the last winter, and the fear of their renewal, induced many good citizens to vote for the Republican ticket. With a pretty good knowledge of the material of our House, I would far prefer that any one of the candidates be elected by the people rather than allow the contest to be determined in Congress. Well, Lincoln is elected. No doubt, a large portion of the citizens of Louisi- ana consider this a calamity. If they believe their own newspapers, or what is far worse, the lying organs of the Democratic party in the free States, they have just cause to think so. But you were long enough in Ohio and heard enough of the ideas of the Republican leaders to know that the Republican party is not likely to interfere directly or indirectly with slavery in the States, or with the laws relating to slavery; that, so far as the slavery question is concerned, the contest was for the possession of Kansas and perhaps New Mexico, and that the chief virtue of the Republican success was in its condemnation of the narrow sectionalism of Buchanans administration, and the corruptions by which he attempted to sustain his policy. Who doubts but that, if he had been true to his promises in submitting the controversy in Kan- sas to its own people, and had closed it by admitting Kansas as a free State, that the Dem- ocratic party would have retained its power? It was his infernal policy in Kansas (I can hardly think of the mean and bad things he allowed there without swearing) that drove off Douglas, and led to the division of the Demo- cratic party and the consequent election of Lincoln. As a matter of course, I rejoice in the result, for in my judgment the administration of Lin- coln will do much to dissipate the feeling in the South against the North by showing what are the real purposes of the Republican party. In the mean time, it is evident we have to meet in a serious form the movements of South Caro- linian Disunionists. These men have for years desired disunion. They have plotted for it. They drove Buchanan into his Kansas policy. They got up this new dogma about slave pro- tection. Theybrokeup the Charleston Conven- tion merely to advance secession. They are now hurrying forward excited men into acts of trea- son without giving time for passion to cool or reason to resume its sway. God knows what will be the result. If by a successful revolution they can go out of the Union, they establish a principle that will break up the government into fragments. Some local disaffection or tempo- rary excitement will lead one State after another out of the Union. We will have the Mexican Republic over again, with a fiercer race of men to fight with each other. Secession is revolution. They seem bent upon attempting it. If so, shall the government resist? If so, then comes LETTERS OP TWO BROTHERS. 93 civil war, a fearful subject for Americans to think of. Since the election I have been looking over the field for the purpose of marking out a course to folloxx~ this winter, and I have, as well as I could, tested my political course in the past. There has been nothing done by the Republican party but merits the cordial approval of my judgment. There have been many things said and done by leading Republicans that I utterly detest. Many of the dogmas of the Democratic party I like, but their conduct in fact in adminis- tering the government, and especially in their treatment of the slavery question, I detest. I know we will have trouble this winter, but I in- tend to be true to the moderate conservative course I think I have heretofore undertaken. Whatever may be the consequences, I will in- sist in preserving the unity of the States, and all the States, without exception and without regard to consequences. If any Southern State has really suffered any injury, or is deprived of any right, I will help redress the injury and secure the right. They must not, merely be- cause they are beaten in an election, or have failed in establishing slavery where it was pro- hibited by compromise, attempt to break up the government. If they will hold on a little while, they will find no injury can come to them unless, by their repeated misrepresentation of us, th stir up their slaves to insurrection. I still hope that no State will follow in the wake of South Carolina. If so, the weakness of her position will soon bring her back again or sub- ject her to ridicule and insignificance. It may be supposed by some that the ex- citement in the South has produced a corre- sponding excitement in the North. This is true in financial matters, especially in the cities. In political circles, it only strengthens the Re- publican feeling. Even Democrats of all shades say, The election is against us; we will sub- mit and all must submit. Republicans say, The policy of the government has been con- trolled by the South for years, and we have submitted: now they must submit; and why not? What can the Republicans do half as bad as Pierce and Buchanan have done? But enough of this. You luckily are out of politics, and dont sympathize much with my Republicanism anyway; but as we are on the eve of important events, I write about politics instead of family matters, of which there is nothing new. . . . Affectionately yours, JOHN SHERMAN. GENERAL SHERMAN S UNREST IN LOUISIANA. Tins is followed by a letter from General Sher- man, in which one can see that already he fully realizes the inevitable outcome of the dissolution of the Union and the strength of the South. Some months later he demanded 75,000 men to defend Kentucky, which required in the end more than twice that number to defend it, and he was in consequence called and believed to be in- sane. It was his knowledge, obtained through his singular position in the South, that enabled him to foresee more accurately than others the immense proportions of the coming war. LOUISIANA STATE SEMINARy or LEARNING AND MILITARy AcADEMy ALEXANDRIA, December i, i86o. DEAR BROTHER: . . . The quiet which I thought the usual acquiescence of the people was merely the prelude to the storm of opinion that now seems irresistible. Politicians, by hear- ing the prejudices of the people and [in] run- ning with the current, have succeeded in de- stroying the government. It cannot be stopped now, I fear. I was in Alexandria all day yester- day, and had a full and unreserved conversation with Dr. S. A. Smith, State senator, who is a mali of education, property, influence, and qualified to judge. He was, during the canvass, a Breckinridge man, but, though a Southerner in opinion, is really opposed to a dissolution of our government. He has returned from New Orleans, where he says he was amazed to see evidences of public sentiment which could not be mistaken. The Legislature meets December to, at Baton Rouge. The calling a Convention forth- with is to be unanimous, the bill for arming the State ditto. The Convention will meet in Janu- ary, and only two questions will be agitated: Immediate dissolution, a declaration of State independence, or a general convention of Southern States, with instructions to demand of the Northern states to repeal all laws hos- tile to slavery and pledges of future good be- havior. . . . When the Convention meets in January, as they will assuredly do, and resolve to secede, or to elect members to a General Convention with instructions inconsistent with the nature of things, I must quit this place; for it is neither right for me to stay, nor would the Governor be justified in placing me in this position of trust; for the moment Louisiana assumes a position of hostility, then this be- comes an arsenal and fort. . . . Let me hear the moment you think dissolution is inevitable. What Mississippi and Georgia do, this State will do likewise. Affectionately, W. T. SHERMAN. In the next letter, of December 9, General Sherman, after reasserting his belief that all attempts at reconciliation will fail, and repeating that Louisiana will undoubtedly follow South Carolina and Georgia, laments personally this, his fourth change in four years, and each time from calamity, California, New York, Leaven- worth, and now Louisiana, a state of affairs which, 94 LETTERS OR TWO BROTHERS. it must be admitted, would have been discourag- ing to any man. On December ~, John Sherman urges his brother to leave Louisiana at once, while the General waits, hoping against hope for peace. / / I am clearly of the opinion that you ought not to remain much longer at your present j)ost. You will in all human probability be in- volved in complications from which you can- not escape with honor. Separated from your family and all your kin, and an object of sus- picion, you will find your position unendura- ble. A fatal infatuation seems to have seized the Southem mind, during which any act of madness may he committed. . . . If the sectional dissCnsions only rested upon real or alleged grievances, they could be readily set- tled, but I fear they are deeper and stronger. You can now close your connection with the seminary with honor and credit to yourself, for all who know you sl)eak well of your con- duct; while by remaining you not only involve yourself, but bring trouble upon those gentle- men who recommended you. It is a sad state of affairs, but it is neverthe- less true, that if the conventions of the South- ern States make anything more than a paper secession, hostile collisions will occur, and probably a separation between the free and slave States. You can judge whether it is at all probable that the possession of this capital, the commerce of the Mississippi, the control of the territories, and the natural rivalry of en- raged sections, can be arranged without war. In that event, you cannot serve in Louisiana against your family and kin in Ohio. The bare possibility of such a contingency, it seems to me, renders your duty plainto make a frank statement to all the gentlemen connected with you, and with good feeling close your engage- ment. If the storm shall blow over, your course will strengthen you with every man whose good opinion you desire; if not, you will escape humiliation. When you return to Ohio, I will write you freely about your return to the armynot so difficult a task as you imagine. Affection- ately your brother, JOHN SHERMAN. The following short extracts from letters at this time show the gradual approach of ~var. (;eneral Sherman writes from Louisiana: Events here seem hastening to a conclu- sion. Doubtless you know more of the events in Louisiana than I do, as I am in an out- of-the-way place. But the special session of the Legislature was so unanimous in arming the State and calling a convention that little doubt remains that, on January 23, Louisiana will folloxv the other seceding States. Gov- ernor Moore takes the plain stand that the State must not submit to a black Republican president. Men here have ceased to reason; they seem to concede that slavery is unsafe in a confederacy with Northern States, and that now is the time; no use of longer delay. All concessions, all attempts to remonstrate, seem at an end. A rumor says that Major Anderson, my old captain (brother of Charles Anderson, now of Texas, formerly of Dayton and Cincinnati, Lars, William, and John, all of Ohio), has spiked the guns of Fort Moultrie, destroyed it, and taken refuge in Sumter. This is right. Sumter is in mid-channel, approachable only in boats, whereas Moultrie is old, weak, and easily approached under cover. If Major An- derson can hold out till relieved and sup- ported by steam frigates, South Carolina will find herself unable to control her commerce, and will feel, for the first time in her exis- tence, that she cant do as she pleases. A telegraphic despatch, addressed to me at Alexandria, could be mailed at New Orleans, and reach me in three days from Washington. WASHINGTON, D. C., January 6, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: . . . I see some signs of hope, but it is probably a deceptive light. The very moment you feel uncomfortable in your position in Louisiana, come away. Dont, for Gods sake, subject yourself to any slur, re- proach, or indignity. I have spoken to Gen- eral Scott, and he heartily seconds your desire to return to duty in the army. I am not at all sure but that, if you were here, you could get a position that would suit you. I see many of your friends of the army daily. As for my views of the present crisis, I could not state them more fully than I have in the inclosed printed letter. It has been very gen- erally published and approved in the North, but may not have reached you, and therefore I send it to you. Affectionately your brother, JOHN SHERMAN. GENERAL SHERMAN RESIGNS FROM THE LOUISIANA MILITARY ACADEMY. GOYERNOR MOORE of Louisiana took posses- sion of the arsenal at Baton Rouge, January so, I86I. General Sherman comments upon this in a letter written tohisbrother, January 16, and regard- ing it as a declaration of war, sends in his resigna- tion January i8,1 a copy of which he incloses to John Sherman in a letter dated the same day. ALEXANDRIA, January i6, i86x. Mv DEAR BROTHER: I am so much in the woods here that I cant keep up with the times at all. Indeed, you in Washington hear from I See Memoirs, Vol. I, p. 184. LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. 95 New Orleans two or three days sooner than I do. I was taken back by the news that Gov- ernor Moore had ordered the forcible seizure of the Forts Jackson and St. Philip, at or near the mouth of the IVlississippi; also of Forts Pike and Wood, at the outlets of Lakes Borgne and Pontchartrain. All these are small forts, and have rarely been occupied by troops. They are designed to cut off approach by sea to New Orleans, and were taken doubtless to prevent their being occupied by order of General Scott. But the taking the arsenal at Baton Rouge is a different matter. It is merely an assemblage of storehouses, barracks, and dwelling-houses designed for the healthy residence of a garrison, to be thrown into one or the other of the forts in case of war. The arsenal is one of minor importance, yet the stores were kept there for the moral effect, and the garrison was there at the instance of the people of Louisiana. To surround with military array, to demand sur- render, and enforce the departure of the gar- rison, were acts of war. They amounted to a declaration of war and defiance, and were done by Governor 1\Ioore without the authority of the Legislature or Convention. Still, there is little doubt but that each of these bodies, to assemble next week, will ratify and approve these violent acts, and it is idle to discuss the subject now. The people are mad on this question. I had previously notified all that in the event of secession I should quit. As soon as a knowledge of these acts reached me, I went to the vice-president, Dr. Smith, in Alex- andria, and told him that I regarded Louisiana as at war against the Federal Government, and that I must go. He begged me to wait until some one could be found to replace me. The supervisors feel the importance of system and discipline, and seem to think that my departure will endanger the success of this last effort to build up an educational establishment in Loui- siana. . . . You may assert that in no event will I forego my allegiance to the United States as long as a single State is true to the old Constitution. Yours, XV. T. SHERMAN. LoUIsIANA STATE SEMINARY OF LEARNING AND MILITARY ACADEMY, ALEXANDRIA, January i8, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: Before receiving yours of the 7th1 I had addressed a letter to Governor Moore at Baton Rouge, of which this is a copy: SIR: As I occupy a quasi military position under the laws of this State, I deem it proper to acquaint you that I accepted such position when Louisiana was a State in the Union, and when the motto of this seminary was inscribed in marble over the main door: By the liberal- 1 Meaning the letter of the 6th. ity of the General Government. The Union Esto perpetua. Recent events foreshadow a great change, and it becomes all men to choose. If Louisiana withdraw from the Federal Union, I prefer to maintain my allegiance to the old Constitution as long as a fragment of it survives, and my longer stay here would be wrong in every sense of the word. In that event I beg that you will send or appoint some authorized agent to take charge of the arms and munitions of war here belonging to the State, or advise me what disposition to make of them. And furthermore, as President of the Board of Su- pervisors, I beg you to take immediate steps to relieve me as superintendent the moment the State determines to secede; for on no earthly account will I do any act or think any thought hostile to or in defiance of the old Government of the United States. With re spect, etc. W. T. SHERMAN. I regard the seizure by Governor Moore of the United States Arsenal as the worst act yet committed in the present revolution. I do think every allowance should be made to South- ern politicians for their nervous anxiety about their political power and the safety of slaves. I think that the Constitution should be liber- ally construed in their behalg but I do regard this civil war as precipitated with undue rapid- ity. . . . It is inevitable. All the legislation now would fall powerless on the South. You should not alienate such States as Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Missouri. My notion is that this war will ruin all politicians, and that military leaders will direct the events. Yours, W. T. S. In the following letter of February i, to John Sherman, the General quotes the handsome note from Governor Moore accepting his resignation. I have felt the very thoughts you have spoken. It is war to surround Anderson with batteries, and it is shilly-shaJly for the South to cry Hands off~ No coercion! It was war and insult to expel the garrison at Baton Rouge, and Uncle Sam had better cry Cave / or assert his power. Fort Sumter is not material, save for the principle; but Key West and the Tor- tugas should be held in force at once, by regu- lars if possible, if not, militia. Quick! They are occupied now, but not in force. Whilst maintaining the high, strong ground you do, I would not advise you to interpose an objec- tion to securing concessions to the middle and moderate States, Virginia, Kentucky, Ten- nessee, and Missouri. Slavery there is local, and even if the world were open to them, its extension would involve no principle. If these States feel the extreme South wrong, a seeming concession would make them committed. The cotton States are gone, I suppose. Of course, 96 LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. their commerce xviii be hampered. . . . But of myself. I sent you a copy of my letter to the Governor. Here is his answer: BATON ROUGE, January 27, i86r. DEAR SIR: It is with the deepest regret I acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the ~8th instant. In the pressure of official busi- ness I can now only request you to transfer to Professor Smith the arms, munitions, and funds in your hands whenever you conclude to with- draw from the position you have filled with so much distinction. You cannot regret more than I do the necessity which deprives us of your services, and you will bear with you the respect, confidence, and admiration of all who have been associated with you. Very truly, your friend and servant, THos. [O.J MOORE. This is very handsome, and I do regret this political imbroglio. I do think it was brought about by politicians. The people in the South are evidently unanimous in the opinion that slavery is endangered by the current of events, and it is useless to attempt to alter that opin- ion. As our government is founded on the will of the people, when that xviii is fixed, our gov- ernment is powerless, and the only question is whether to let things slide into general anarchy, or the formation of txvo or more confederacies, xvhich will be hostile sooner or later. Still, L know that some of the best men of Louisiana think this change may be effected peacefully. But even if the Southern States be allowed to part in peace the first question xviii be revenue. Now,if the South have free trade, how can you collect revenues in the eastern cities? Freight from New Orleans to St. Louis, Chicago, Louis- ville, Cincinnati, and even Pittsburgh, would be about the same as by rail from New York, and importers at Nexv Orleans, having no duties to pay, would undersell the East if they had to pay duties. Therefore, if the South make good their confederation and their plan, the N orth- em confederacy must do likewise or blockade. Then comes the question of foreign nations. So, look on it in any viexv, I see no result but war and consequent changes in the form of govern- ment. A QUESTION OF MILITARY SERVICE. IN March of 1861, General Sherman started north by the Mississippi River. On the way, and after reaching Ohio, he heard discussions as to the advisability of coercion. XVhereas in the South there were absolute unanimity of opinion and universal preparation for war, in the North there xvere merely argument and apathy. After leaving his family at Lancaster, he went to Washington, still uncertain as to his next move. While there, he called on Mr. Lincoln, and stated his fears and convictions as to war and the gravity of it. Mr. Lincoln treated all he said with slight scorn and absolute disregard, and re- marked, Oh, well, I guess we 11 manage to keep house.1 This, with the general unconcern and disregard of the necessity of military in- terference, discouraged General Sherman, and, greatly dispirited, he returned to Ohio, and took his family to St. Louis, after ascertaining from friends that in all probability Missouri would stick to the Union. In writing at this time he says: Lincoln has an awful task, and if he succeeds in avoiding strife and allaying fears, he will be entitled to the admiration of the world; but a tune has occurred in all governments, and has now occurred in this, when force must back the laws, and the longer the postponement the more severe must be the application. On April 8 General Sherman wrote to his bro- ther: Saturday night late I received this despatch: Will you accept the Chief Clerkship in the War Department? We will make you Assistant Secretary when Congress meets.M. BLAIR. This morning I answered by telegraph: I cannot accept. In writing to explain his refusal, he does not state the real reason, which was undoubtedly that he preferred active service. John Shermans let- ter of April 12 approved of the determination, and states more fully his reasons for advising it. It is interesting to see, from the very first, John Sher- mans belief in his brothers talents as a soldier, and conviction that he would rise to a high posi- tion in the army in the event of war. Through all of General Shermans letters of that time there are evidences of very sincere distrust of himself, and deprecation of Johns flattering belief un- usual qualities in a man destined to greatness. WASHINGTON, April 12, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: I was unexpectedly called here soon after receiving your letter of the 8th, and at midnight xvrite you. The military ex- citenient here is intense. Since my arrival I have seen all the heads of departments except Blair, several officers, and many citizens. There is a fixed determination noxv to preserve the Union and enforce the laws at all hazards. Civil war is actually upon us, and, strange to say, it brings a feeling of relief; the suspense is over. I have spent much of the day in talk- ing about you. There is an earnest desire that you go into the War Department, but I said this xvas impossible. Chase is especially desirous that you accept, saying that you would be vir- tually Secretary of War, and could easily step into any military position that offers. It is xvell for you seriously to consider your conclusion, although my opinion is that you ought not to accept. You ought to hold your- 1 See Memoirs, Vol. I, p. 196. LETTERS OF YWO BROTHERS. 97 self in reserve. If troops are called for, as they surely will be within a few days, organize a regi- ment or brigade, either in St. Louis or in Ohio, and you will then get into the army in such a way as to secure promotion. By all means take advantage of the present disturbances to get into the army, where you will at once put your- self into a high position for life. I know that l)romotion and every facility for advancement will be cordially extended by the authorities. You are a favorite in the army, and have great strength in political circles. I urge you to avail yourself of these favorable circumstances to secure your position for life; for, after all, your present employment is of uncertain tenure in these stirring times. Let me now record a prediction. Whatever you may think of the signs of the times, the Government will rise from this strife greater, stronger, and more prosperous than ever. It will display energy and military power. The men who have confidence in it, and do their full duty by it, may reap whatever there is of honor or profit in public life, while those who look on merely as spectators in the storm will fail to discharge the highest duty of a citizen, and suffer accordingly in public estimation. I write this in great hurry, with numbers around me, and exciting and important intel- ligence constantly repeated, even at this hour; but I am none the less in earnest. I hope to hear that you are on the high road to the General within thirty days. Affectionately your brother, JOHN SHERMAN. GENERAL SHERMAN STANDS ALOOF. FROM the time of General Sherman s conversa- tion with Mr. Lincoln he distrusted the prepara- tions of the administration, which savored greatly of militia and raw recruits. With this army Gen- eral Sherman was unwilling to cast his lot, believ- ing that he was worthy of a better command or of none. In April he writes to John: But I say volunteers and militia never were and never will be fit for invasion, and when tried, it will be defeated, and dropt by Lincoln like a hot potato. And in the same letter: The time will come in this country when professional knowledge will be appreciated, when men that can be trusted will be wanted, and I will bide my time. I may miss the chance; and if so, all right; but I cannot and will not mix myself in this present call. . . . The first movements of our government will fail and the leaders will be cast aside. A second or third set will rise, and among them I may be, but at present I will not volunteer as a soldier or anything else. If Congress meet, or VOL. XLV.i3. if a National Convention be called, and the regular army be put on a footing with the wants of the country, if I am offered a place that suits me, I may accept. But in the pres- ent call I will not volunteer. WASHINGTON, Sunday, April i~, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: . . . The war has really commenced. You will have ftill details of the fall of Sumter. We are on the eve of a terrible war. Every man will have to choose his posi- tion. You fortunately have the military edu- cation, character, and prominence that will enable you to play a high part in the tragedy. You cant avoid taking such a part. Neutral- ity and indifference are impossible. If the gov- ernment is to be maintained, it must be by military power, and that immediately. You can choose your own place. Some of your best friends here want you in the War Depart- ment; Taylor, Shires, and a number of others talk to me so. If you want that place, with a sure prospect of promotion, you can have it, but you are not compelled to take it; but it seems to me you will be compelled to take some position, and that speedily. Cant you come to Ohio and at once raise a regiment? It will immediately be in service. The admin- istration intend to stand or fall by the Union, the entire Union, and the enforcement of the laws. I look for preliminary defeats, for the rebels have arms, organization, unity; but this advantage will not last long. The government will maintain itself or our Northern people are the veriest poltroons that ever disgraced humanity. For me, I am for a war that will either establish or overthrow the government and will purify the atmosphere of political life. We need such a war, and we have it now. . Affectionately yours, JOHN SHERMAN. OFFICE ST. Louis RAILROAD Co., ST: Louis, April 22, r86i. DEAR BROTHER: . . . I know full well the force of what you say. At a moment like thjs the country expects every man to do his duty. But every man is not at liberty to do as he pleases. You know that Mr. Lincoln said to you and me that he did not think he wanted military men. I was then free, uncommitted. I approve fully of Lincolns determina- tion to use all his ordinary and extraordinary powers to defend and maintain the authority with which he is clothed and the integrity of the nation, and had I not committed myself to another duty, I would most willingly have responded to his call. . . The question of the national integrity and slavery should be kept distinct, for otherwise it will gradually become a war of extermina- tion,a war without end. If, when Congress 98 LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. meets, a clearly defined policy be arrived at, a clear end to be accomplished, and then the force adequate to that end be provided for, then I could and would act with some degree of confidence, not now. I take it for granted that Washington is safe; that Pickens can beat off all assailants; that Key West and Tortugas are strong and able to spare troops for other purposes; that, above all, Fort Monroe is full of men, provisions, and warlike materials, and that the Chesapeake is strongly occupied. Then the first thing will be the aven- ues of travel. Baltimore must be made to allow the free transit of troops, provisions, and ma- terials without question, and the route from Wheeling to the Relay House kept open. Here there must be some fighting, but a march from Brownsville or Frostburg would be a good drill, via Hagerstown, Frederick, and the Potomac. From present information I apprehend that Virginia will destroy the road from Harpers Ferry west, and maybe the Marylanders will try the balance; but, without an hours delay, that line should swarm with troops, who should take no half-way measures. . . . Affectionately, W. T. SHERMAN. CONFIDENCE IN McCLELLAN. THROUGH all the spring months, while he was nominally but president of a street-car company, General Shermans imagination was engaged in defending the country, building forts, occupying positions of importance, and possessing railroads. His letters were full of military suggestions, some of whicb John Sherman showed the Secretary of War, Mr. Cameron, who, as it might appear, acted upon them. OFFICE ST. Louis R. R. Co., ST. Louis, April 25, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: . . . Virginias secession influences some six millions of people. No use in arguing about it at all, but all the Vir- ginians, or all who trace their lineage back, will feel like obeying her dictates and exam- ple. As a State, she has been proud, boastful, and we may say overbearing; but, on the other hand, by her governors and authority, she has done everything to draw her native- born back to their State. I cannot yet but think that it was a fatal mistake in Mr. Lincoln not to tie to his ad- ministration by some kind of link the Border States. Now it is too late, and sooner or later Kentucky, Tennessee, and Arkansas will be in arms against us. It is barely possible that Missouri may yet be neutral. It is pretty nearly determined to divert the half-million set aside for the July interest for arming the State. All the banks but one have consented, and the Governor and Legislature are strongly secession. I understand to-day the orders at the custom-house are to refuse clear- ance to steamboats to seceding States. All the heavy trade with groceries and provisions is with the South, and this order at once takes all life from St. Louis. Merchants, heretofore for peace and even for backing the adminis- tration, will now fall off, relax in their exer- tions, and the result will possibly be secession, and then free States against slave, the hor- rible array so long dreaded. I know Frank Blair desired this plain, square issue. It may be that sooner or later it is inevitable, but I cannot bring myself to think so. On the ne- cessity of maintaining a government, and that government the old constitutional one, I have never wavered, but I do recoil from a war when the negro is the only question. I am informed that McClellan is appointed to command the Ohio militia, a most excel- lent appointment; a better officer could not be found. . . . W. T. SHERMAN. - WASHINGTON, May 30, i86i. Mv DEAR BROTHER: Your recent letters have been received. One of them I read to Secretary Cameron, and he was much pleased with some of your ideas, especially with your proposition about Fort Smith and the island off Mobile. The latter is probably now in pos- session of the Government. It is probable that no movements will be made into the cotton States before winter. A regular plan has been formed by General Scott, and is daily discussed and reconsidered by him and other officers. The movements now occurring are merely incidental, rather to occupy public attention and employ tro.ops than to strike decisive blows. In the mean time it is becoming manifest that the secession- ists mean to retreat from position to position until they concentrate sufficient force to strike a decisive blow. I have a fear, not generally shared in, that now a rapid concentration is taking place, and that within a few days we shall have a terrible battle near Washington. Indeed, I dont see how it can be avoided. General Butler at Norfolk, General McClellan at Grafton, General Patterson at Charleston, and General Scott here, all concentrating, will surely bring on a fight in which I fear the Vir- ginians will concentrate the largest mass. I have been all along our lines on the other side, and confess that we are weaker than I wish. Every day, however, is adding to our forces, and strengthening our position. . What think you of Fnimont and Banks as Major-generals of volunteers, and Schenck as Brigadier? They are all able men, though I know you dont like volunteers. These ap- pointments are generally satisfactory, even to LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. 99 the regular officers, many of whom say that they had rather serve under able citizens than old-fogy officers. The old army is a mani- fest discredit. The desertion of so many offi- cers (treachery, I had better say), the surrender on parole of so many officers in Texas where all the men were true to their allegiance, has so stained the whole regular force of officers that it will take good conduct on their part to retrieve their old position. You are regarded with favor here. It will be your own fault if you do not gain a very high position in the army. . . . Affection ately yours, JOHN SHERMAN. On May 3, i86i, John Sherman wrote from Philadelphia: The time is past for expedients. They must either whip us, or we shall whip them. A threat of secession is idle. Missouri cant secede, nor can Virginia secede. . . . Those Dutch troops in St. Louis will have enough backing. Thank God, the arms in the arsenal were not stolen. I am now acting as volunteer aide to Major-general Patterson. Porter, Belger, Beckwith, Patterson, Price, and others, are on his regular staff. GENERAL SHERMAN OFFERS HIS SERVICES. IN John Shermans letter-book is a copy, sent at the time, of a letter General Sherman wrote to Secretary Cameron in 1861, giving his rea- sons for not enlisting sooner. Upon receipt of this, it was decided at Washington to make him colonel of three battalions of regulars, or major- general of volunteers. OFFICE ST. LOUIS R. R. Co., ST. LOUIS, May 8, i86i. HON. S. CAMERON, Secretary of War. DEAR SIR: I hold myself now, as always, pre- pared to serve my country in the capacity for which I was trained. I did not and will not volunteer for three months because I cannot throw my family on the cold support of char- ity, but for the three years call made by the President, an officer could prepare his com- mand, and do good service. I will not volun- teer because, rightfully or wrongfully, I feel myself unwilling to take a mere privates place, and having for many years lived in California and Louisiana, the men are not well enough acquainted with me to elect me to my appro- priate place. Should my services be needed, the Records of the War Department will en- able you to designate the station in which I can render best service. Yours truly, 17~,T T. SHERMAN. UNDER FIRE AS A SPECTATOR. BEFORE leaving St. Louis, General Sherman was an unintentional witness of the first fighting in the West, of which he gives the following account: OFFICE ST. LOUIS RAILROAD Co., ST. Louis, May rr, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: Very imprudently I was a witness of the firing on the people by the United States Militia at Camp Jackson yester- day. You will hear all manner of accounts, and as these will be brought to bear on the present Legislature to precipitate events, may- be secession, I will tell you what I saw~ My office is up in Bremen, the extreme north of the city. The arsenal is at the extreme south. The State camp was in a pretty grove directly west of the city, bounded by Olive street and Laclede Avenue. I went to my house on Lo- cust, between Ekventh and Twelfth, at 3 P. M., and saw the whole cityin commotion, and heard that the United States troops were march- ing from the arsenal to capture the State camp. I told Ellen, then took Willy2 to see the soldiers march back. I kept on walking, and about 5.30 P. M. found myself in the grove, with soldiers all round, standing at rest. I went into the camp till turned aside by sen- tinels, and found myself with a promiscuous crow~zl, men, women, and children, inside the grove, near Olive street. On that street the disarmed State troops, some eight hundred, were in ranks. Soon a heavy column of United States regulars followed by militia came down Olive street, with music, and halted abreast of me. I went up and spoke to some of the officers, and fell back to a knoll. . . . Soon the music again started, and as the regulars got abreast of the crowd, about sixty yards to my front and right, I observed them in confusion, using their bayonets to keep the crowd back, as I supposed. Still, they soon moved on, and as the militia reached the same point a similar confusion began. I heard a couple of shots, then half a dozen, and ob- served the militia were firing on the crowd at that point; but the fire kept creeping to the rear along the flank of the column, and, hear- ing balls cutting the leaves of trees over my head, I fell down on the grass and crept up to where Charley Ewing3 had my boy Willy. I also covered his person. Probably a hundred shots passed over the ground, but none near us. As soon as the fire slackened, I picked XVilly up., and ran with him till behind the rising ground, and continued at my leisure out of harms way, and went home. I saw no one shot, but some dozen men were killed, among them a woman and little girl. There must have been some provocation at the 1 His wife. 2 His eldest son. 3 Brother-in-law. 100 LETTERS OF TWO BROTHERS. point where the regulars charged bayonets and where the militia began their fire. The rest was irregular and unnecessary, for the croxvd was back in the woods, a fence between them and the street. There was some cheering of the United States troops, and some halloos for Jeff Davis. I hear all of Frosts command who would not take the oath of allegiance to the United States are prisoners at the arsenal. I suppose they will be held for the orders of the Presi- dent. They were mostly composed of young men who doubtless were secessionists. Frost is a New-Yorker, was a graduate of West Point, served some years in the army. . . . He was encamped by order of the Governor; and this brings up the old question of State and United States authority. We cannot have two kings: one is enough; and of the two the United States must prevail. But in all the South, and even here, there are plenty who think the State is their king. As ever, yours affectionately, W. T. SHERMAN. OFFICE ST. Louis R. R. Co., ST. Louis, May 20, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: ... The greatest difficulty in the problem now before the country is not to conquer, but so to conquer as to impress upon the real men of the South a respect for their conquerors. If 1\Iemphis be taken, and the army move on South, the vindictive feeling left be- hind would again close the river. And here in Missouri it would be easy enough to take Jef- ferson City, Lexington, and any other point, but the moment they are left to themselves the people ~vould resume their hatred. It is for this reason that I deem regulars the only species of force that should be used for invasion. I take it for granted that Virginia will be attacked with great force this summer, and that the great problem of the warthe Mississippi will be reserved for the next winter. In the war on which we are now enter- ing paper soldiers wont do. McClellan is natu- rally a superior man, and has had the finest opportunities in Mexico and Europe. Even his seniors admit his qualifications. Yours affectionately, W. T. SHERMAN. A COLONELCY PREFERRED TO A BRIGADI ERSHIP. OFFICE ST. Louis R. R. Co., ST. Louis, May 22, i86i. Mv DEAR BROTHER: I received your de- spatch last evening stating I would be ap- pointed colonel of one of the new 3-battalion regiments. This was, I suppose, an answer to my own despatch to the Adjutant-general ask- ing if such would be the case. The fact is, so many persons had written to me and spoken to me, all asserting they had seen or heard I was to have one of the new regiments, that I thought the letter to me had been misdirected or miscarried. . . . I shall promptly accept the colonelcy when received, and think I can organize and prepare a regiment as quick as anybody. I prefer this to a Brigadier in the militia, for I have no political ambition, and have very naturally more confidence in regulars than militia. Not that they are better, braver, or more patriotic, but because I know the peo- ple will submit with better grace to them than to militia of any particular locality. I think Missouri has subsided into a quiescent state. There will be no attempting to execute the obnoxious and unconstitutional militia law. A prompt move on Little Rock from here and Cairo and recapture of Fort Smith from Kansas would hold Arkansas in checka movement which could be made simultaneous with that on Richmond. I hope no men or time will be wasted on Norfolk; it is to one side and un- important. The capture of Richmond would be fatal to Virginia, and the occupation of Cumberland, Hagerstown, and Frederick by the Pennsylvanians, whilst troops threatened Winchester from Washington, would make the further occupation of Harpers Ferry useless. But, after all, the Mississippi is the great prob- lem of the Civil War, and will require large forces and good troops. Affectionately your brother, W. T. SHERMAN. On May 14, General Sherman received a de- spatch from his brother Charles in Washington, telling him of his appointment as colonel of the 13th Regular Infantry, and that he was wanted in Washington at once. The following letter was written while he was preparing to leave St. Louis for Washington, and the next one (June 8) from Pittsburg on his way East. OyFICE ST. Louis R. R. Co., ST. Louis, May 24, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: I have already written you so much that more would be a bore. Yours of the 2istis at hand, and I can act with prompt- ness and sufficient vigor when the occasion arises. You all overrate my powers and abil- ity, and may place me in a position above my merits, a worse step than below. Really I do not conceive myself qualified for Quartermas- ter-general or Major-general. To attain either station I would prefer a previous schooling with large masses of troops in the field one which I lost in the Mexican War by going to Cali- fornia. The only possible reason that would induce me to accept high position would be to prevent its falling into incompetent hands. The magnitude of interest at issue now will admit of no experiments. . . I have still my saddle, sword, sash, and some THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CL UB. ici: articles of uniform whicb xviii come into immedi- ate play. But look outI want the regular army and not the 3-year men. . . . Yours affectionately, XV. T. SHERMAN. A FORECAST OF GENERAL THOMAS S ABILITY TO COMMAND. PITTSBURG, Sunday, June 8, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: . . . Should I on my arrival find the Secretary determined to go out- side the army, and should he make advances to me, of course I shall accept. In like man- ner if he tenders me a brigade I will [do] my best, or if a colonelcyditto. I still feel that it ~ wrong to ask for anything, and prefer that they should make their own choice of this position for me. You are with General Pat- terson. There are two A. No. i men there George H. Thomas, Colonel 2d Cavalry, and Captain Sykes, 3d Infantry. Mention my name to both, and say to them that I wish them all success they aspire to; and if in the vary- ing chances of war I should ever be so placed, I xvould name such as them for high places. But Thomas is a Virginian from near Norfolk, and, say what xve may, he must feel unpleas- antly at leading an invading army. But if he says he xviii do it, I knoxv he xviii do it well. He was never brilliant, but always cool, reli- able, and steady, maybe a little slow. Sykes has in him some dashing qualities. . . . If possible I will try and see you in your new ca- pacity of soldier before I make another distant break. If you please, you may telegraph to Mr. Chase simply that I have come to Washington on Taylors call, but I cannot wait long, and if the Administration dont xvant my services, to say so at once emphatically. Yours affec tionately, W. T. SHERMAN. WASHINGTON, June 20, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: At last the order is out, and I am Colonel ~3th Infantry. I have been asking for orders, and am this moment informed for the present, that inasmuch as Lieutenant- colonel Burbank may enlist my regiment, and as my personal services here are needed, I will forthwith consider myself on duty here attached to General Scotts staff as Inspector-general. I did not dream of this, but it really does well accord with my inclinations and peculiar na- ture. My duty wjll be to keep myself advised of the character and kind of men xvho are in military service here near Washington, and to report to General Scott in person. Porter can tell you xvhat these duties will amount to. I suppose you will soon be here, for from Colo- nel Burnside I hear [that] all of Pattersons army is on the Maryland side of the Potomac, and no possible movement will be attempted before Congress meets. . . . In haste, your brother, W. T. SHERMAN. General Sherman remained on duty with Gen- eral Scott only ten days (June 2030), and then was given command of one brigade of McDowells army, which was to move from the defenses of Washington. He assumed command June 30, and went to work at once to prepare his brigade for the gen- eral advance. CAMP OPPOSITE GEORGETOWN, July i6, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: We start forth to-day, camp to-night at or near Vienna; to-morrow early we attack the enemy at or near Fairfax C. H., Germantown, and Centreville; thereabouts xve will probably be till about Thursday, when movement of the whole force, some 35,000 men, on Manassas, turning the position by a wide circuit. You may expect to hear of us about Aquia Creek or Fredericksburg (secret absolute). If anything befall me, my pay is drawn to embrace June 30, and Ellen has full charge of all other interests. Good-by. Your brother, W. T. SHERMAN. (To be continued.) THE NEW MEMBER OF THE I. OMETHING must have detained me that evening, since it was nearly mid- night xvhen I arrived at the club, and I hate to be so tardy as that, for some of our best members are mar- - ned men now, who never stay out after one oclock, or two at th~ very furthest. Besides, the supper is served at eleven, and the first comers take all the pleasant little tables which line the walls of the grill-room, leaving for the belated arrivals only the large table which runs down the middle of the room. As every one knows, ours is a club whose members mainly belong to the allied arts. Of course, now and then a millionaire manages to get elected by passing himself off as an art patron; but for the most part, the men one meets there are authors, actors, architects, and artists on canvas or in marble. So it is that the supper served at eleven every Saturday night, CLUB.

Brander Matthews Matthews, Brander The New Member of the Club 101-109

THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CL UB. ici: articles of uniform whicb xviii come into immedi- ate play. But look outI want the regular army and not the 3-year men. . . . Yours affectionately, XV. T. SHERMAN. A FORECAST OF GENERAL THOMAS S ABILITY TO COMMAND. PITTSBURG, Sunday, June 8, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: . . . Should I on my arrival find the Secretary determined to go out- side the army, and should he make advances to me, of course I shall accept. In like man- ner if he tenders me a brigade I will [do] my best, or if a colonelcyditto. I still feel that it ~ wrong to ask for anything, and prefer that they should make their own choice of this position for me. You are with General Pat- terson. There are two A. No. i men there George H. Thomas, Colonel 2d Cavalry, and Captain Sykes, 3d Infantry. Mention my name to both, and say to them that I wish them all success they aspire to; and if in the vary- ing chances of war I should ever be so placed, I xvould name such as them for high places. But Thomas is a Virginian from near Norfolk, and, say what xve may, he must feel unpleas- antly at leading an invading army. But if he says he xviii do it, I knoxv he xviii do it well. He was never brilliant, but always cool, reli- able, and steady, maybe a little slow. Sykes has in him some dashing qualities. . . . If possible I will try and see you in your new ca- pacity of soldier before I make another distant break. If you please, you may telegraph to Mr. Chase simply that I have come to Washington on Taylors call, but I cannot wait long, and if the Administration dont xvant my services, to say so at once emphatically. Yours affec tionately, W. T. SHERMAN. WASHINGTON, June 20, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: At last the order is out, and I am Colonel ~3th Infantry. I have been asking for orders, and am this moment informed for the present, that inasmuch as Lieutenant- colonel Burbank may enlist my regiment, and as my personal services here are needed, I will forthwith consider myself on duty here attached to General Scotts staff as Inspector-general. I did not dream of this, but it really does well accord with my inclinations and peculiar na- ture. My duty wjll be to keep myself advised of the character and kind of men xvho are in military service here near Washington, and to report to General Scott in person. Porter can tell you xvhat these duties will amount to. I suppose you will soon be here, for from Colo- nel Burnside I hear [that] all of Pattersons army is on the Maryland side of the Potomac, and no possible movement will be attempted before Congress meets. . . . In haste, your brother, W. T. SHERMAN. General Sherman remained on duty with Gen- eral Scott only ten days (June 2030), and then was given command of one brigade of McDowells army, which was to move from the defenses of Washington. He assumed command June 30, and went to work at once to prepare his brigade for the gen- eral advance. CAMP OPPOSITE GEORGETOWN, July i6, i86i. DEAR BROTHER: We start forth to-day, camp to-night at or near Vienna; to-morrow early we attack the enemy at or near Fairfax C. H., Germantown, and Centreville; thereabouts xve will probably be till about Thursday, when movement of the whole force, some 35,000 men, on Manassas, turning the position by a wide circuit. You may expect to hear of us about Aquia Creek or Fredericksburg (secret absolute). If anything befall me, my pay is drawn to embrace June 30, and Ellen has full charge of all other interests. Good-by. Your brother, W. T. SHERMAN. (To be continued.) THE NEW MEMBER OF THE I. OMETHING must have detained me that evening, since it was nearly mid- night xvhen I arrived at the club, and I hate to be so tardy as that, for some of our best members are mar- - ned men now, who never stay out after one oclock, or two at th~ very furthest. Besides, the supper is served at eleven, and the first comers take all the pleasant little tables which line the walls of the grill-room, leaving for the belated arrivals only the large table which runs down the middle of the room. As every one knows, ours is a club whose members mainly belong to the allied arts. Of course, now and then a millionaire manages to get elected by passing himself off as an art patron; but for the most part, the men one meets there are authors, actors, architects, and artists on canvas or in marble. So it is that the supper served at eleven every Saturday night, CLUB. 102 THE NE W MEMBER OF THE CL (lB. from October to May, is the occasion of many a pleasant meeting with friends who happen in quite informally. When the weeks work is done, it is good to have a place to forgather with ones fellows a place where one can eat, and drink, and smoke, a place where one can sit in a cozy- corner, and talk shop, and swap stories. I cannot now recall the ~~eason why I was late on the evening in question, nor just what evening it was, although I am sure that it was after Founders Night (which is New Years Eve), and before Ladies Day (which is Shak- speres birthday). I remember only that it was nearly midnight, and that as I entered the reading-room I was hailed by Astroyd, the actor. I say, Arthur, he cried, you are the very man we want to take the third seat at our table. You must have a bird and a bottle with me to-night, for this is the last evening I shall have at the club for many a long day. Are you going on the road again? I asked, with interest; for I like Astroyd, and I knew we should all regret his departure. I m off for Australia, that s where I m going, he answered; thirty per cent. of the gross, with five hundred a week guaranteed. I take the vestibule limited at ten in the morn- ing, and I m not half packed yet. So we must get over supper at once. Besides, I want you to meet a friend of mine. Then, for the first time, I noticed the gen- tleman who was standing by the side of As- troyd, a little behind him. The actor stepped back and introduced us. Mr. Harrington Cockshaw, Mr. Arthur Penn. As we shook hands, Astroyd added, Cock- shaw is a new member of the club. At that moment one of the waiters came up to tell the actor that the table he had asked for was vacant at last, whereupon we all three went into the grill-room, and sat down to our supper at once. I had lust time to note that Mr. Cockshaw was an insignificant little man with a bristling, sandy mustache. When he took his place opposite to me I saw that he had light-br own eyes, and that his expression suggested a strange admixture of shyness and self-assertion. While the waiter was drawing the cork, Mr. Cockshaw bent forward, and said, with the merest hint of condescension in his manner, Im delighted to meet you this evening, Mr. Penn, partly because just this very afternoon I have been reading your admirable essay On the Sonnet and its History. I was about to murmur my appreciation of this complimentary coincidence when Astroyd broke in. Arthur knows a sonnet when he sees it, he said, and he can turn off as good a topical song as any man in New York. I cant write, myse~ Mr. Cockshaw went on; I wish I couldthough I dont suppose anybody would read it if I did. But my bro- ther-in-law is connected with literature, in a way; he s a publisher; he s the Co. of Car- penter and Co. Just then Astroyd caught sight of Harry Brackett standing in the broad doorway. Here you are, Harry, he cried; join us. Have a stirrup-cup with me. I have nt seen you for moons,not for steen moons,and I m off for Australia to-morrow by the bright light. Is nt America good enough for you? asked Harry Brackett, as he lounged over to us. Not at the beginning of next season, it is nt, the actor declared. Electing a Pres- ident of these United States is more fun than a farce-comedy, and for two weeks before the Tuesday following the first Monday in November you cant club people into the theater. That s so, sometimes, responded Harry, as Astroyd and I made room for him at our little table; and I dont see how we are go- ing to keep up public interest in Gettysburg next fall, unless there s an old-time bloody- shirt campaign. If there is, I 11 get a phono- graph, and agree to let every visitor to the panorama sample a genuine Rebel yell. Astroyd caught the expression of perplexity that flitted across the face of the new member of the club, so he made haste to introduce the newcomer. Mr. Brackett, Mr. Cockshaw, he said; adding as they bowed, Mr. Brackett is now the manager of the panorama of the Battle of Gettysburg. And I m going to be buried on the field of battle, Harry Brackett interjected, if I cant scare up some new way to boom the thing soon. I should not think that so fine a work of art would need any booming, Mr. Cockshaw smilingly remarked. I had the pleasure of going in to see it again only yesterday. It is a great painting, extraordinarily vivid, exactly like the real thing at least so I am told. I was not at the battle myself, but my brother- in-law commanded a North Carolina brigade in Picketts charge; he lost a leg there. I dont know but what a one-legged Con- federate might draw, Harry Brackett solilo- quized. The lectnrer we have now is no good: he gives his celebrated imitation of a wound- ed soldier drinking out of a canteen so often and so realistically that he is always on the THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CL UB. 103 diminuendo of a jag when he is nt on the crescendo. If he gets loaded, said Astroyd, promptly, why dont you fire him? It s all very well for you to make jokes, Harry Brackett returned, but it is nt easy to get a lecturer who really looks like an old soldier. Besides, his name is worth something: it is so short that we can print it in big letters on a single lineColonel Mark Day. I should nt wonder if he had the two shortest names in all the United States. It is a short name, said the little man, as though pleased to get into conversation again. It is a very short name, indeed. But I know a shorter. My brother-in-law has one letter less in his, and one syllable more. His name is Eli Low. Harry Brackett looked at the new member of the club for a moment as though he were going to make a pertinent reply. Then appa- rently he thought better of it, and said nothing. As the conversation flagged I asked Astroyd if he was going to act in San Francisco on his way to Australia. No, he answered; I. go straight through without stopping, but I ye got two weeks at Frisco coming home, and I shall play my way back over the Northern Pacific. You know Duluth and Superior are both three-night stands now. San Francisco is falling off every year, Harry Brackett commented. The flush times are all over on the coast. I remember the days when a big attraction could play to ten thou- sand dollars three weeks running. Yes, Astroyd assented; Frisco is not the show-town it used to be, though we took nineteen thousand three hundred and forty in two weeks, last time I was there. Perhaps somebody will strike another bo- nanza before you get back, I suggested; and if there is another boom you can do a big business. I came near going out to the Pacific coast last summer, said Mr. Cockshaw, to look after a chicken ranch I m interested in near Monotony Dam. Somehow I could nt find time to get away, so I had to give it up. But my brother-in-law was an old Forty-niner, and he told me he once found a seven-pound nug- get in a pocket. He had a claim at a camp called Hell-to-pay. Ive played there in the old days, As- troyd remarked promptly. We did Hamlet on a stage made of two billiard-tables shoved back to the end of the biggest saloon in the camp. But the place experienced a change of heart long ago ; it has three churches now, and calls itself Eltopia to-day. It was a pretty tough town in my brother- in-laws time, the little man declared. He told me he had often seen two and three men shot in a morning. I had noticed that when Mr. Cockshaw men- tioned the strange luck of his brother-in-laws finding an extraordinary nugget in a pocket, Harry Brackett had looked up and fixed his eyes on the face of the little man as though to spy out a contradiction between Mr. Cock- shaws expression and his conversation. So when our little party broke up, and Astroyd had said farewell and departed, taking Cock- shaw with him, I was not at all surprised to have the manager of the panorama stop me as I was making ready to go home. I say, Arthur, he began, who is that little fellow, anyhow the one with the al- leged brother-in-law? I answered that I had never met Mr. Cock- shaw until that evening, and that Astroyd had declared him to be a new member of the club. Then that s why I have nt seen him be- fore, Harry Brackett responded. Queer lit- tle cuss, is nt he? Somehow he looked as though he might be a dealer in misfit coffins, or something of that sort. And the way he kept blowing about that brother-in-law of his would make a stuffed bird laugh. I wonder what his business really is. What s more, I wonder who he is. To satisfy this curiosity of Harrys we asked a dozen different men if they knew anything about a new member of the club named Cock- shaw, and we found that nobody had ever heard of him. Apparently Astroyd had been the only man there he had ever seen before that evening. Harry Brackett finally sent for the proposal book, to see who had been his sponsors. He found that J. Harrington Cockshaw, Retired, had been proposed by Mr. Joshua Hoffman, the millionaire philanthropist, and that he had been seconded by John Abram Carkendale, the second vice-president of the Methuselah Life Insurance Company. But we could not ask them about him, because old Mr. Hoffman was on his steam-yacht R/iadarna;itkus in the Mediterranean, somewhere between Gibraltar and Cairo; and Mr. Carkendale was out West, somewhere between Denver and Salt Lake City, on his semiannual tour of inspection of the agencies of the Methuselah Life. And As- troyd, who had introduced him to us, and who might fairly be presumed to be able to give us some information concerning the new member, was about to start for Australia. So all we know about him, said Harry Brackett, summing up the result of our re- searches, is that his name is J. Harrington Cockshaw, that he is Retired, whatever that may mean,that he knows Joshua Hoffman 104 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB. and John Abram Carkendale well enough to have them propose him here, and that he has a brother-in-law, whose name is Eli Low, who was in California in 49, who lost a leg at Gettys- burg in Picketts charge, and who is now a partner in the publishing house of Carpenter and Co. And with that information Harry Brackett had then perforce to be content. II. THE next Saturday evening I arrived at the club a little earlier. I had been dining with Delancey Jones, the architect, and we played piquet at his house for a couple of hours after dinner. When we entered the club together it was scarcely half-past ten; and yet we found half a dozen regular Saturday night attendants already gathered together in the main hall just beside the huge fireplace emblazoned with the motto of the club. Starrington, the tragedian, was one of the group, and Judge Gillespie was another; Rupert de Ruyter, the novelist, was a third, and John Sharp, the young African ex- plorer, was a fourth; while Harry Brackett sat back on a broad sofa by the side of Mr. Har- rington Cockshaw, the new member of the club. When we joined the party the judge was de- scribing the methods and the machinery of a gang of safe-breakers whom he had recently sent to Sing Sing for a bank burglary. The bank almost deserved to be robbed, the judge concluded, because it had not availed itself of the latest improvements in safe-building. When a bank gets a chilled-iron safe, it s a cold day for the burglar, I suppose, said Rupert de Ruyter, who occasionally condescended to a trifling jest of this sort. A chilled-iron safe is better than a wooden desk, of course, Harry Brackett remarked; but the safe-breakers keep almost even with the safe-makers. With a kit of the latest tools a burglar can get into pretty nearly anything except the kingdom of Heaven. And it is almost as hard to get a really fire- proof safe as it is to get one burglar-proof; said Jones. The building I put up for a fire-in- surance company out in Newark two years ago burned down before the carpenters were out of it, although the company had moved into its own office on the first floor, and about half of the books in the safe were charred into useless- ness, like the manuscripts of Herculaneum. I was never burnt out, myself, Mr. Cock- shaw declared, taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, but my brother-in-law was president of a lumber company in Chicago at the time of the great fire; and he told me that most of the books of the firm were destroyed, but that wherever there had been any writ- ing in pencil this was legible, even though the paper itself was burnt to a crisp, while the writ- ing in ink had been usually obliterated by the heat. The hint of self-assertion which might have been detected in Mr. Cockshaws manner a week before had now totally disappeared, as though he felt himself quite at home in the club already, and had no need to defend his position. His manner was wholly unobtrusive and almost deprecatory. There was even a cer- tain vague hesitancy of speech which I had not noticed when we had met before. His voice was smooth, as though to match his smooth face, clean-shaven except for the faint little mus- tache which bristled above the full lips. So soft-spoken had he been that only Harry Brackett and I had heard this contribution ofhis to the conversation; and under the lead ofJudge Gillespie the talk turned off from the ways of burglars to the treatment of criminals, and thus to the rights and wrongs of prisoners. Something that Rupert de Ruyter said started off John Sharp, usually taciturn and disinclined to talk, and he began by denouncing the evils of the slave-hunting raids the Arabs make in Africa. To show us just how hideous, how vile, how inhuman a thing slavery is, he was led to describe to us one of his own experiences in the heart of the dark continent, and to tell us how he had followed for days on the heels of a slave-caravan, finding it easy to keep the trail because of the half-dozen or more corpses he passed every daycorpses of slaves, women and men, who fell out of the ranks from weak- ness, and who either had been killed outright or else allowed to die of starvation. We all listened with intense interest as John Sharp told us what he had seen, for it was a rare thing for him to speak about his Afri- can experiences; sometimes I had wondered whether they were not too painful for him willingly to recall them. I wish I could go to Africa, said Rupert de Ruyter. I know that it is a land of battle, murder, and sudden death, but I believe that a picture of the life there under the equator, a faithful presentment of existence as it is, as direct and as simple as one could make it I believe a story of that sort might easily make as big a hit as Uncle Toms Cabin. And it might do as much good, said the judge. There is no hope for Africa till the slave-trade is rooted out absolutely. Until that is done once for all, this sending out of mis- sionaries is a mere waste of money. Yet the missionaries at least set an ex- ample of courage and self-sacrifice, suggested Mr. Cockshaw, timidly. Of course I dont know anything about the matter personally, THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB. 105 but my brother-in-law was with Stanley on that search for Livingstone, and I am merely re- peating what I have heard him say often. After the new member of the club had said this, I became conscious immediately that Harry Brackett was gazing at me intently. At last I looked up, and when he caught my eye he winked. I glanced away at once, but I was at no loss to interpret the meaning of this signal. For a while the talk rambled along unevent- fully, and then some one suddenly suggested supper. Ten minutes thereafter our little gath- ering was dissolved. Judge Gillespie and John Sharp had gone up into the library to consult a new map of Africa. Starrington and de Ruy- ter had secured a little table in the grill-room, and pending the arrival of the ingredients for the Welsh rabbits (for the making of which the novelist was famous), they were deep in a dis- cussion of the play which the actor wished to have written for him. Mr. Cockshaw, Harry Brackett, Delancey Jones, and I had made ourselves comfortable at a round table in the bow-window of the grill-room. Perhaps it was the pewter mugs depending from hooks below the shelf which ran all around the room at the top of the wainscot which sug- gested to Harry Brackett mugs of another kind, for he suddenly turned on Jones abruptly: And how are the twins? The twins are all right, Jones answered, and so am I, thank you. And how old are they now? Harry l3rackett inquired further. Two months, the happy parent responded. To think of you with a pair of twins, mused the manager of the panorama. I be- lieve you said there was a pair of them? I~ suppose I did suggest that number when I revealed the fact that my family had been increased by twins. Well, I never thought it of you, I confess, Harry Brackett continued. You are an archi- tect by profession, a lover of the picturesque, an admirer of all that is beautiful in an odd and unexpected way; and so I never dreamed that you would do anything so commonplace as to have two babies just alike, and of just the same size, and the same age. It is queer,I admit, Jones retorted; but then this is leap-year, you know, and there are always more twins born in leap-year than in any other year.~~ I never heard that before, Harry Brack- ett declared. I wonder why it is? Perhaps, said the architect, as he took down his own pewter mug, it is simply be- cause leap-year is one day longer than any other year. Oh! ejaculated the man who had let VOL. XLV. 14. himself into this trap; then he rang a bell on the table, and told the waiter who came in re- sponse to take Mr. Joness order. I wonder whether the prevalence of twins has anything to do with the periodicity of the spots on the sun, I suggested. Almost every other phenomenon has been ascribed to this cause. I believe that the statistics of twins have never been properly investigated, remarked Mr. Cockshaw, gently. I have not studied the subject myself but my brother-in-law was a pupil of Spitzers in Vienna, and he was much interested in the matter. He was pre- paring a paper in which he set forth a theory of his own, and he was going to read it at the Medical Conference in Vienna during the Ex- hibition of 1873, but unfortunately he died ten days before the conference met. Who died? Harry Brackett asked with startling directness Spitzer or your brother- in-law ? Dr. Spitzer is alive still, the new member answered; it was my brother-in-law who died. I m glad of that, said Harry Brackett to me, scarcely lowering his voice, although ap- parently Mr. Cockshaw did not hear him. If he s dead and buried, perhaps we shant hear anything more about him. And it was a fact that although we four, Jones and I, Cockshaw and Harry Brackett, sat at that little table in the grill-room for perhaps two hours longer, and then went back into the hall for another smoke, we did not hear the new member of the club refer again that night to his brother-in-law. III. A WEEK later I was pitting in my study, trying to polish into lilting smoothness a tale in verse which I had written for the Christmas number of the Metfopolis; and in my labors on this lyric legend I had quite forgotten that it was Saturday night. I had just laid down my pen with the conviction that whether the poem was good or bad, it was, at least, the best I could do, when Harry Brackett broke in on me, and insisted on bearing me off to the club. I want you to be there to-night, he asserted, for a particular reason. But what this particular reason might be he refused to declare. I ventured on a guess at it, when we were on our way to the club wrapped in our rain-coats, and trusting to a single um- brella to shield us both from the first spring- squall. I lunched at the club to-day, he said casu- ally, just after a sudden gust of wind had turned our umbrella inside out, and I heard that man Cockshaw telling Laurence Laughton that he i o6 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB. had never seen a great race himself, but that his brother-in-law had been in Louisville when Tenbroeck beat Molly Macarthy. That s why you are haling me to the club through this storm, I cried. You want a com- panion to help you listen to Mr. Cockshaws statements. I want you to be there to-night, he an- swered. And you will soon see why last Satur- day, when I heard that that brother-in-law of Cockshaws was dead, I gave a sigh of relief. I thought we were quit of him for good and all. But we are not. It was not Wednesday before Cockshaw had resurrected the corpse, and gal- vanizedit into spasmodic existence. Everynight this week he has been dining at the club. The brother-in-law? I asked. No, he replied, only Cockshaw. If I could see the brother-in-law there in the flesh, Id pay for his dinner with pleasure. But that s a sight I can never hope to behold. The man has had too many strange experiences to sur- vive. Why, do you knowbut there, I cant tell you half the things Cockshaw has told us now and again during the past week. All I can say is that he has literally exuded miscellaneous misinformation about that alleged brother-in- law of his. No more remarkable man ever lived since the Admirable Crichton and I never heard that he had nine lives like a cat. I deprecated Harry Bracketts heat in speak- ing of Cockshaw, and I told him that I thought the new member of the club was a most modest and unassuming little man. Thats just what is so annoying, returned my companion. If he put on frills, and lied about himself and his own surprising adven- tures, I could forgive him; but there it is the little semicolon of a cuss never boasts about his own deeds; he just caps all our stories with some wild, weird tale of his brother-in-laws doings. It is the meanest trick out. Do you believe he ever had a brother-in-law? This query was propounded as we stood be- fore the door of the club. Why should nt I ? was my answer. Oh, you carry credulity to an extreme, Harry Brackett responded as he shut his um- brella. Now I dont. I dont believe this man Cockshaw ever had a brother-in-law, alive or dead, white or black. XVhat s more, I dont believe that he ever had either a wife or a sis- ter; and unless he was aided or abetted by a wife or a sister he could nt have had a brother- in-law, could he? If he chooses to invent a brother-in-law to brag about, why should nt he? I asked. There s many a man who has written a book to glorify the great deeds of some remote an- cestor from whom his own descent was more than doubtful. I know that, Harry Brackett responded, as we entered the club and gave our storm- coats to the attendants; and I know also that there are men so lost to all sense of the proprieties of life that they insist on telling you the latest ignorant and impertinent remarks of their sons of six and their daughters of five. But I hold these to be among the most pesti- lent of our species less pestilent only than a man who tells tales about his brother-in-law. I said nothing in reply to this; but my re- serve did not check the flow of Harry Brack- etts discourse. All the same, he went on, people have ancestors and they have children, and to boast about these is natural enough, I m afraid. But a brother-in-law! Why blow about a brother- in-law? Of course it is a novelty at least I never heard of anybodys working this brother- in-law racket except Cockshaw. And I 11 ad- mit that it is a good act, too: with an adroit use of the brother-in-law Cockshaw can mag- nify himself till he is as great a man as the Em- peror of China, who is nephew of the moon, great-grandson of the sun, and second cousin to all the stars of the sky! I protested against the vehemence of Harry Bracketts manner, without avail. But he s got to be more careful, he con- tinued, or he 11 wear him out; the brother- in-law will get used up before the little man gets out half there is in him. No brother-in-law will stand the wear and tear Cockshaw is put- ting on him. Why, within a fortnight he has told us that his brother-in-law climbed the Jungfrauin 1853,lost a leg in Picketts charge in 1863, and went down in the Tecumsek in 1864. Now I say that a brother-in-law who can do all those things is beyond nature; he is a freak: he ought not to be talked about at this dub; he ought to be exhibited at a dime museum: I tried to explain that it was perhaps possi- ble for a man to have climbed a Swiss moun- tain, and to have been wounded at Gettysburg, and to have gone down in the Tecurnseh. But if he was colonel of a North Carolina regiment, how came he on board of a United States ironclad? asked my companion. Perhaps he had been taken prisoner, I suggested, and perhaps Shucks! interrupted Harry Brackett. That s altogether too thin. Dont you try to reconcile the little mans conflicting statements. He does nt. He just lets them conflict. We had paused in the main hall to have the talk out. When at length we walked on into the grill-room, we found Judge Gillespie, and Rupert de Ruyter, and Cockshaw already get- ting supper at the round table in the bow-win- dow. De Ruyter called us over, and he and the judge made room for us. THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CL UB. 107 As soon as we were seated, the judge turned to Cockshaw with his customary courtesy, and said, I fear we interrupted you, Mr. Cock- shaw. Not at all, the new member answered,with an inoffensive smile. But as we were speak- ingof philopenas I was only going to tell of an experience of my brother-in-law. Twenty years ago or so, when he was warden of the church of St. Boniface in Philadelphia, he met a very bright New York girl at dinner one Satur- day night, and they ate a philopena together give and take, you know. The next morning, when he left his pew to pass the plate after the sermon, he felt a sudden conviction that that New York girl was sitting somewhere behind him on his aisle to say Philopena as she put a contribution into his plate. He managed to look back, and sure enough he spied her in an aisle-seat near the door. So he had to whisper to a fellow-vestryman and get him to exchange aisles. In some tortured manner the talk turned to churches and to convents. And this led Judge Gillespie to give us a most interesting account of his visit to the monastery on Mount Athos, where the life of man is reduced to its barren- est elements. When we had made an end of plying him with questions, which he answered with the courtesy, the clearness, and the pre- cision which marked his speech as well in pri- vate life as on the bench, the talk again rambled on, rippling into anecdotes of monks and mon- asteries in all parts of the world. Harry Brackett had spent a night with the monks of Saint Ber- nard in the hospice at the top of the Simplon Pass; Rupert de Ruyter had made a visit to the Trappist monastery in Kentucky; I had been to the old Spanish mission-stations in Southern California and New Mexico; only the new member of the club had no personal experience to proffer. He listened with unfail- ing interest as each of us in turn set forth his views and his adventures, serious or comic. Then when we had all exhausted the sub- ject, Cockshaw smiled affably and almost timidly. I have lived so quiet a life myself, he ven- tured, that I do not know that I have ever met a monk face to face, and I knoxv I have never been inside of a convent; but when my brother-in-law was a boy, he was traveling in Brittany with his father, and one night they were taken in at a convent. My brother-in-law was given a cell to sleep in, and over his head there was a tiny cup containing holy water; but the boy had never seen such a thing before, and he did nt know what it was for, so he emptied out the water, and put his matches in the little cup, that he might have them handy in the night. When was this? asked Harry Brackett, feeling in his pocket for a pencil. In 67 or 68, Cockshaw answered. Harry Brackett pulled down his left cuff and penciled a hasty line on it, an operation which the new member of the club failed to notice. Oddly enough, he continued, my bro- ther-in-law saw a good deal of the Breton priests who sheltered him that night, for he was studying medicine in Paris when the war broke out in 1870, and he joined the Ameri- can ambulance, which happened more than once to succor the brave Bretons who had come up to the defense of the capital. Indeed, he was out in the field, attending to a wounded Breton, at Champigny, when he was killed by a spent shell. Remembering that Cockshaw had told us before that his brother-in-law was drowned in the Tecurnsek, I looked up in surprise. As it chanced, I caught the eye of the new member of the club. He returned my gaze in a straight- forward fashion, and yet with a certain sugges- tion of timidity. I confess that I was puzzled. I looked over to Harry Brackett, but he was gazing up at the ceiling, with his pencil still in his fingers. Then we both turned our attention to the Gramercy Stew which the waiter brought us, and which was the specialty of the club. Judge Gillespie and De Ruyter had almost finished their supper when we arrived, and they now made ready to leave us. I wish I were as young as you, boys, said the judge, as he rose; but I m not, and I cant sit up as late as I used. Besides, I must go to the Brevoort House early to-morrow morning, for I ye promised to take Lord Stany- hurst to Grace Church. Is Lord Stanyhurst over here? asked Cockshaw, with interest. He arrived this afternoon on the Siluria, the judge an~wered. Do you know him? I know hi~ son, replied the new member of the club. After a momentary pause he added In fact, we are remotely connected by mar- riage. He is my brother-in-laws brother-in- law. Judge Gillespie and Rupert de Ruyter did not hear this, for they had walked away to- gether. But Harry Brackett heard it, and he sat up- right in his chair and cried: What was that you said? Would you mind saying it all over again, and saying it slow? Certainly not, responded Cockshaw, with no suggestion of aggressiveness with all his wonted placidity. I said that Lord Stany- hursts son was my brother-in-laws brother-in law; that is to say, he married the sister of the man my sister married. xo8 THE NEW MEMBER OF THE CLUB. Do you know, Harry Brackett remarked solemnly do you know that you have the most remarkable brother-in-law on record? A brother-in-law so various, that he seemd to be Not one, but all mankinds epitome. How so? asked the new member of the club, with a stiffening of his voice, as though he were beginning to resent the manner of the man with whom he was talking. I sat still and said nothing. It was not my place to intervene. Besides, I confess that my curiosity made me quite willing to be present at the discussion, even though my hope of any possible explanation was remote enough. I dont want to say anything against any mans brother-in-law, Harry Brackett xvent on, but dont you think that the conduct of yours is a little queer? Jn what way? asked Cockshaw, with greater reserve. Well, in the way of dying, for example, Harry Brackett responded. Most of us can die only once, but your brother-in-law man- aged to die twice. First, he xvas drowned in the Tecumselz, and then he was killed at Champigny. But that was not began the new mem- ber of the club, and then he checked himself~ sharply and said, Well? Well, repeated Harry Brackett, with pos- sibly a shade less of confidence in his manner, Well, he was a very remarkable character, that brother-in-law of yours, before he departed this life twice, just as though he had been twins. In fact he died three times, for I d forgotten his demise in Vienna in 1873, just before the Exhibition opened. His habit of dying on the in- stalment plan did nt prevent him from putting in his fine work all along the line. I dont suppose that you married the sister of the Wandering Jew or that your sister married the Flying Dutchman, but I confess I canj think of any dther explanation. You see I ye been keeping tab on my cuff. Your brother-in-laws name is Eli Low, and he is now a partner in Car- penter & Co., the publishers. But he went to California in 1849, and he climbed the Jung- frau in 1853, and he lost a leg at Gettysburg in 1863, and he lost his life by the sinking of the Tecumsc/z in 1864, which did not prevent his being a boy in Brittany a few years later, or his getting killed all over again at Champigny in 1870 although I should think the Prus- sians would have been ashamed to hit a drowned man, even with a spent shell. And this second demise never interfered with his being president of a lumber company in Chicago at the time of the fire, i87i, or with his going in the same year to Africa with Stanley to find Livingstone. But he must have scurried home prettypromptly,becausein 1872 he was a warden of St Bonifaces in Philadel- phia; and then he must have flitted back across the Atlantic in double-quick time, be- cause in 1873 he was studying with Dr. Spitzer in Vienna, where he died a third time. So even if he were a cat he would have only six lives left now. In 1876 he seems to have gone to Louisville to see the Fourth of July race be- tween Tenbroeck and Molly Macarthy; and now to-day in 1892 he is a partner in a pub- lishing house here in New York. To this long statement of Harry Bracketts Mr. Harrington Cockshaw listened in abso- lute silence, making no attempt to interrupt and seeming wholly unabashed. Once a smile hovered around the corners of his mouth for a moment only, vanishing as quickly as it came. Now he lifted his eyes, and looked Harry Brackett squarely in the face. So you think I have been lying? he asked. I would nt say that, was the answer. I m not setting up codes of veracity for other people. But taking things by and large, I cant help thinking that your brother-in-law has had more than his share of experience. I wonder he does nt go on the road as a lec- turer or else I wonder that you yourself dont write a novel. The new member of the club repeated his question: You think I m a liar? Harry Brackett made no reply. Cockshaw continued in a perfectly even voice with no tremor in it. You think that when I told you all these things that you have amused yourself in setting down on your cuff in chronological order, I was telling you what was not so? Then what will you say, when I assure you that every statement of mine is strictly accurate? If you assure me, Harry Brackett an- swered, that your brother-in-law died once in 1864, and again in 1870, and a third time in 1873, all I can say is that he wanted to be in at the death, that s all. He was fonder of dy- ing than any man I ever heard of. Mr. Brackett, said the little man, when I told you all these things, one at a time, about my brother-in-law, I never meant to suggest, and I never supposed you xvould believe, that they all referred to one and the same brother- in-law. They dont. My wife has six brothers, and I have five sisters, all married now so I have still eight brothers-in-law surviving. Harry Brackett rang the little bell on the table, and when the waiter came he said, Take Mr. Cockshaws order. Brander Mat/hews. TO GIPSYLAND. BY ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL. PICTURES BY JOSEPH PENNELL. I. INTRODUCTION: A PHILADELPHIAN ADVENTURE. ITwas from Philadelphia that I first wandered into gipsy- land. In those days the town seemed so dull. Now that I have been many years away, I feel the charm of its prim streets lined with endless red brick and white marble and green shutters, the charm of the fine colonial mansions long since forsaken by fashion, the charm of the old churches with their little strip of green graveyard, or the quiet meeting-houses overshadowed by great trees, ~vhere gray-shawled women Friends, their sweet faces looking mildly from plain bonnets, and men Friends, in broad-brimmed hats and plain coats, linger when meeting is out on First Day morning. I feel it all now, until my own city seems lovelier and more picturesque than many a more world-famed town. But then I knew little else, and I wearied of it, as all good Philadelphians do. I wanted something new, something strange, something different, to give it the touch of romance, which I believed it lacked so sadly. And this novelty, this romance, this contrast, I thought I found in the gipsies. I was young: in my eyes they brought with them all the glamour of the East, all the mystery of the unknown. We used to go to see them, the Rye and I, when we knew their tents were pitched in pretty woodland or lonely field near the city. The Rye is my uncle, Hans Breitmann (Mr. Charles G. Leland), whom all the Romanies know. His gipsy lore was great; mine, all gleaned from him, was infinitely less, but even he, I think, did not love the Romany better than I. If the gipsy has cast his spell over many a wise man, over a Borrow in England, an archduke in Austria, a Hermann in Hungary, why should I be ashamed to say that in the years so long past the curl of the white smoke among the trees could set my heart to beating; that the first glimpse of the gay green van, with the pillows, white and ruffled, hanging from the window, could thrill me with joy? Have I not VOL. XLV.I5. said I was young when I first wandered into gipsyland? Often J was with us when we went gip- sying; indeed, he too was greeted as a friend by every traveler on the road to whom he wished Sars/zan! the mystic password of these freemasons from the home of strange secret brotherhoods. When the first sweet days of spring came, and blossoming fruit-trees lighted up many a trim side-yard, and trailed in purple glory over the second-story veranda, and the smell of the ailantus was strong in the streets, and spar- rows were busy eating up the measuring-worms, then we would walk far out Broad street, through the dripping darkness of the public buildings, past the Masonic Temple and the Academy of Fine Arts, past the big, pretentious houses of the rich up-town people, to where a bit ~of meadow-land between the built-up squares showed that we were well in the suburbs. For it was there that, in Oakdale Park, just be- hind the Rising Sun, but shut in by hedge and trees, the Costelloes, traveling northward after their winter in Florida, pitched their tents. And nowhere, from one end of Philadelphia to the other, were we more welcome than under this brown canvas roof, where, sitting on the car- peted ground, for the Costelloes were swells, they offered us beer in silver mugs, each marked with different initials, and gave us the gossip of the roads, ~vhile the dogs and babies tumbled in the long grass outside, and the pet goat strayed into the tent to rub himself against the old man, and the horses browsed under the apple-trees. But in the autumn, when the wind blew cold and fresh, and the country was aflame with scarlet and gold, and brilliant chrysanthemums and scarlet sage filled the borders of our grass- plots with their wealth of color, it was over to Camden we went, out to the reservoir beyond the town, where Davy Wharton and the Bos- wells had their camp. And of all, this, as I look back, is the gipsy tramp I like the best. For sometimes we would walk down Spruce street, silent and asleep at all hours, by the old Pennsylvania Hospital, getting one glimpse into its garden, lovelier and quainter, it seems to me now, than any I have seen in England, and then up Seventh street to Washington 109

Elizabeth Robins Pennell Pennell, Elizabeth Robins To Gipsyland 109-121

TO GIPSYLAND. BY ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL. PICTURES BY JOSEPH PENNELL. I. INTRODUCTION: A PHILADELPHIAN ADVENTURE. ITwas from Philadelphia that I first wandered into gipsy- land. In those days the town seemed so dull. Now that I have been many years away, I feel the charm of its prim streets lined with endless red brick and white marble and green shutters, the charm of the fine colonial mansions long since forsaken by fashion, the charm of the old churches with their little strip of green graveyard, or the quiet meeting-houses overshadowed by great trees, ~vhere gray-shawled women Friends, their sweet faces looking mildly from plain bonnets, and men Friends, in broad-brimmed hats and plain coats, linger when meeting is out on First Day morning. I feel it all now, until my own city seems lovelier and more picturesque than many a more world-famed town. But then I knew little else, and I wearied of it, as all good Philadelphians do. I wanted something new, something strange, something different, to give it the touch of romance, which I believed it lacked so sadly. And this novelty, this romance, this contrast, I thought I found in the gipsies. I was young: in my eyes they brought with them all the glamour of the East, all the mystery of the unknown. We used to go to see them, the Rye and I, when we knew their tents were pitched in pretty woodland or lonely field near the city. The Rye is my uncle, Hans Breitmann (Mr. Charles G. Leland), whom all the Romanies know. His gipsy lore was great; mine, all gleaned from him, was infinitely less, but even he, I think, did not love the Romany better than I. If the gipsy has cast his spell over many a wise man, over a Borrow in England, an archduke in Austria, a Hermann in Hungary, why should I be ashamed to say that in the years so long past the curl of the white smoke among the trees could set my heart to beating; that the first glimpse of the gay green van, with the pillows, white and ruffled, hanging from the window, could thrill me with joy? Have I not VOL. XLV.I5. said I was young when I first wandered into gipsyland? Often J was with us when we went gip- sying; indeed, he too was greeted as a friend by every traveler on the road to whom he wished Sars/zan! the mystic password of these freemasons from the home of strange secret brotherhoods. When the first sweet days of spring came, and blossoming fruit-trees lighted up many a trim side-yard, and trailed in purple glory over the second-story veranda, and the smell of the ailantus was strong in the streets, and spar- rows were busy eating up the measuring-worms, then we would walk far out Broad street, through the dripping darkness of the public buildings, past the Masonic Temple and the Academy of Fine Arts, past the big, pretentious houses of the rich up-town people, to where a bit ~of meadow-land between the built-up squares showed that we were well in the suburbs. For it was there that, in Oakdale Park, just be- hind the Rising Sun, but shut in by hedge and trees, the Costelloes, traveling northward after their winter in Florida, pitched their tents. And nowhere, from one end of Philadelphia to the other, were we more welcome than under this brown canvas roof, where, sitting on the car- peted ground, for the Costelloes were swells, they offered us beer in silver mugs, each marked with different initials, and gave us the gossip of the roads, ~vhile the dogs and babies tumbled in the long grass outside, and the pet goat strayed into the tent to rub himself against the old man, and the horses browsed under the apple-trees. But in the autumn, when the wind blew cold and fresh, and the country was aflame with scarlet and gold, and brilliant chrysanthemums and scarlet sage filled the borders of our grass- plots with their wealth of color, it was over to Camden we went, out to the reservoir beyond the town, where Davy Wharton and the Bos- wells had their camp. And of all, this, as I look back, is the gipsy tramp I like the best. For sometimes we would walk down Spruce street, silent and asleep at all hours, by the old Pennsylvania Hospital, getting one glimpse into its garden, lovelier and quainter, it seems to me now, than any I have seen in England, and then up Seventh street to Washington 109 110 TO GIPSYLAND. Square, where a few gray-haired men shared the seats under the trees with the nurses and children, across Independence Square, through Independence Hall, and so on along the noisi- est business streets to Market street and the Camden Ferry. Or else we would go at once over to Chestnut street, at the hour when it was gay with shoppers and sunshine, when we knew we would always meet, first, George H. I3oker, Philadelphias only poet, as he called himself; white-haired, white-mustached, dis- tinguished, and handsome, belonging there as essentially as the statue of George Washington in front of the old Statehouse, so that the street will never seem the same to me again, now that he has taken his last walk there; and next, further on, we would pass George XV. Childs walking borne with Tony~ Drexel, and between them the inevitable stray prince, or author, or clergyman from England. And whichever way we took we knexv that, as likely as not, we would find Walt Whitman on the ferry, or sitting in his favorite big chair by the fruit-stand at the foot of Market street, or just getting out of the street-car. He always had a friendly greeting for us, a friendly word about the travelers who made their autumn home so near his. I can never think of idle Davy Whar- ton or pretty Susie Boswell, lounging on the sunlit grass, without seeing the familiar figure, of the good, gray poet, leaning on his stick, his long white beard hiding and showing the loose open shirt, his soft, gray felt hat shading the kindly eyes. Now and then, in crowded street, we caught the gleam of the gipsy smile; now and then, in country walks, we came suddenly upon a tent by the wayside, and these chance meet- ings had all the delight of the unexpected. And there were great occasions when we left Philadelphia far behind, and went down to a country fair in some New Jersey town. It was on one of these, I remember, that I was first introduced to the Lovells. I thought nothing could be more enchant- ing than the life these people led, wandering at will from the pine forests of Maine to the orange groves of the far South; pitching their tents now in blossoming Qrchard, now under burning maple; sleeping and fiddling and smoking away their days while the rest of the world toiled and labored in misery and hun- ger. But if I said this to the Rye, he would laugh, and wish that I could see the Hunga- rian gipsies. They were wilder and freer, and all the strange beauty and poetry of their lives they put into their music when they played. There was magic in it. One memorable day in Chestnut street it was Sunday morning, and the stores were shut, and the street-cars without their bells rattled down at longer intervals, and every one, in Sunday clothes, was walking home from church or meeting we met three of the wildest, most beautiful creatures I had ever imagined. They were tall and lithe and muscular, and their dark faces, with the small, delicate, regular features, were as lovely as those that look out from many an old Floren- tine picture of Christ and the saints. Their hair hung in black curls to their shoulders, they wore high black sheepskin caps, a row of sil- ver buttons adorned their sbort blue jackets, and they carried large bags of coarse canvas. They seemed as out of place in our proper Chestnut street as ghosts at midday. The Rye stopped and spoke to them. They were gipsies from Hungary, and a light came into their eyes, and they showed their pretty white teeth, at the first word of Romany. But at once a crowd of idlers gathered. Who are they? what are they? what do they say? we were asked on every side. It was unbearable, and with a grasp of their hands we let them go. This was the beginning of it. After that meeting I felt that I never could be content until I had gone to the real gipsyland to Hungary, where Free is the bird in the air, And the fish where the river flows; Free is the deer in the forest, And the gipsy wherever he goes. Hurrah! And the gipsy wherever he goes. When next I sat with the Costelloes in the tent at Oakdale Park, when next I gossiped with Davy Wharton in the woods near the Camden reservoir, I thought that something I could hardly say whathad gone from them forever. A year later, when summer came, the Rye went northward, where, in scented pine woods, within sound of the sea, he spent long hours in Indian wigwams, while Towah told him tales of Gloscap and his wicked brother. But I was in Chestnut Hill, with nothing more exciting to listen to than the song of the crickets through the warm evening in our garden, sweet with roses and honeysuckle. And then it was that one morning I saw in the Ledgers column of advertisements that Hungarian gipsies were to play at the Miin- nerchor, the up-town beer-garden where no self- respecting Philadelphian living within the cor- rect radius of the old rime of the streets, Chestnut, Walnut, Spruce, and Pine, would willingly be seen. To go there was con- sidered fast in those days; but it was no- thing to me where the gipsies were to be found; that they were to play was all I cared to know. TO GIPSYLAND. III II. THE July night was warm and close when Ned, my brother, and I took an early evening train for the Mannerchor. A faint breeze was blowing over the fields to the piazza of the old farm- house where my family sat fanning and rocking them- selves in the fading light. But there was not a breath of air to cool the stifling Ninth and Green street sta- tion, not a breath to stir in the trees of the near garden. Glaring gas-jets parched the leaves on the lowest branches, and threw hot reflec- tions on the tiny grass-plots between the nar- row gravel walks and on the plants in tubs, which strove with pathetic failure to imitate the real country, as I then thought; but which now seem to me a very fair copy of the beer- gardens of the Fatherland. When Ned and I first passed through the turnstile no one as yet sat at the little tables ranged in order under the trees; no one was in the great shell-shaped band-stand at the far end, where lights blazed brightest and hottest. It was not much more than half-past seven; the gipsy concert did not begin until eight. The waiters, idling where shadows made the garden least hot, looked at us, the first comers, with lazy curiosity as we walked over to a table close to the music-stand. Presently two or three dark men lounged out from the house. They wore no sheepskin caps or silver buttons, their hair was uncurled, but I knew them. They were darker, swarthier than Seth Lovell or Davy Wharton, and I saw the gipsy in their eyes and in their every feature. The hands of the clock over the door pointed to ten minutes to eight; the waiters had roused themselves at last, and were rushing past us with glasses of beer; the German patrons of the garden were fast filling the chairs around the little tables. Then some one brought a big bass viol and turned up the lights still higher in the stand. There was no time to lose. Had not the Rye, had not every book I had read about them, told me that half the pleasure in the music of the Hungarian gipsies was in their playing for you alone, into the ear, as the saying is? And I was eager that on this, their first night in Philadelphia, their music should be for me; they must know me as a gipsy sister and not as a mere stranger, like the Germans who were already busy with their pipes and beer. Do go and speak to them, I said to Ned. The next minute he was addressing them politely in his most fluent Ollendorf: I wish with the gipsies to speak. But they shook their heads, smiled, and shrugged their shoulders. He took one by the hand, and drew him to where I sat. The others followed. Rcikessa /u Romdnis ? (which is good gipsy for Do you speak Romany ? ) I asked breathlessly. They looked puzzled; they half understood, but though the words had a familiar sound, they could not quite make them out. When they spoke, it was the same with me. Three or four others of the dark-faced men sauntered up and surrounded us. Five minutes to eight: what was to be done? Ji?akessa Iii Rorndnis? I repeated in de- spair. They were now as eager as I. Suddenly a youth, with wild eyes and wilder hair, raised his left hand close to my face, and, with his right, pointed to each finger in turn. Was it inspiration? Yeck, diii, trun ( One, two, three), I began. It was enough. A dozen hands were stretched out to shake mine. White teeth glis- tened, dark eyes flashed. Torrents of unintel- ligible welcome were poured upon me. Yes: this was far better than the gossip in Oakdale Park,,than the afternoon greeting by Camden Reservoir. But it was time for them to go. First they led me to the table that faced the band-stand, while the Germans under the pear-trees stared, and even the waiters stopped with their trays to look in puzzled amazement. In the hot glare of the gas-lights the gipsie~ took their seats and lifted their violins. The leader stood in front, with bow raised. He looked to me and bowed; the eyes of all his musicians were fixed upon my face. It began. I did not know then, as I do now, that it was a Cz6rd~sThey played. I only felt felt the fierce passion and unutterable sadness, the love and rage in the voice of violin and cymbal. In it was all the gipsy beauty, all the gipsy madness, I had ever dreamed, and more. And the music swept through me until I lived again whatever sorrow and gladness had come into my life. It is easier to let ones self go when one is young, when one has ones own romance to kindle the blood and to warm the heart. All around me stolid Germans were drinking beer; occasional groups of young men from the sacred quarter, with the consciousness of evil in their smiles, were sucking sherry-cob- blers and mint-juleps through long straws; glasses rattled, and now and then the bells of passing horse-cars jingled in the street beyond. But what matter? There was the starlit sky above, the trees hid the near houses, the dingy 112 TO GIPSYLAND. beer-garden was glorified by music divine and passionate, which was all for me alone. Is it any wonder that I lost my head a little as I sat there in the warm summer night, with the wail and rapture of the Cz~rdfis sweet in my ears? And yet it was only the ordinary band that one hears in every town of Hungary: a pair of cymbals, a flageolet, half a dozen violins, a bass viol, and a cello. They played without notes, and the leader, really the first violin, now faced his audience, now turned to his musicians, first to one, then to the other, sometimes merely swaying his body, again fairly dancing in time. When the gipsies left the band-stand they came to where I sat, while all the Germans stared the harder. The players saw the pleasure in my eyes, and they were glad. I could talk fast enough with the English gipsies; as well as they could I make my jest at the gorgiothe silly Gentilestanding by. But now I learned to my cost that the Hungarian Romany has a fair show of grammar and construction, while my English friends had none. But every Ro- many word I said was hailed with joy, and was a new bond of friendship. To table and chair, to violin and tree, they pointed: its Ro- many name, as I said it, was an open sesame to their hearts. Then one spoke atrocious French;. another better German. It was the youth with the wild eyes and hair who knew the language hated of the Hungarian, and, because of the strength of his desire to talk with me, he un- derstood my halting phrases. Did they take me for a Romany? I think not. The gipsy knows his people too well. There is in him a mystery never yet fathomed by the gorgio. He, like the freemasons, has a mystic sign by which he recognizes his own. But, sensitive as they are, quick to feel, they felt that I was their friend. The leader, as if to give me formal recognition, brought his wife, who was traveling with him, to sit at my side; and then with the grace which is half the gipsys charm, and after the pleasant custom of Hungary,like the music, it was new to me then; I understand it better now, he sent for beer, and, standing about my table, they clinked glasses with me and with Ned, and solemnly pledged their friendship and good-fellowship. And now, how the Germans stared! The gipsy music was an uncertain experi- ment in Philadelphia, where life is ordered in straight lines like the streets. To avoid failure that first evening, Karl Sentzs orchestra came and took their places in the band-stand after the first interval. The gipsies stayed with me while ordinary waltzes and overtures were played in the ordinary way, and the Germans placidly puffed at their pipes and drank their beer. As Levy blew himself red in the face over his cornet, the youth with the wild eyes and hairRudi, he told me his name was leaned close to my chair and whispered in slow German: They play from notes, these men; but we we play fr9m our hearts! This is the difference, for the gipsy is not the wan- derer, that hath no hope, of the Roumanian ballad, singing Without a heart to suffer what he sings. He has a heart when he plays; that is why, if you too have one, it beats in answer. Well, they played again, and again it was for me alone. One Cz~rdits after another filled this quiet Philadelphia corner with unaccus- tomed tears and laughter woven into sweet, strange sounds. The longer they played, the more intense was their joy in it: their black eyes glowed, their cheeks were aflame; when the frenzy seized them, they shouted with their violins, and then their voices were hushed as the sudden wild, low wail stilled their glad ec- stasy. In the end they were as men drunk with music. To their feet they sprang as they fairly beat out of violins and cymbals the fierce, stirring summons of the Rakotzy. But scarce had the last note been struck when Rudi, eyes like burning coals, was at my side. Come, he said, and he took my hand, and we ran through the garden, Ned at my heels,- the Germans dragging their heads out of their mugs to look, through the bar, through a passageway, to a long hall with a roxv of closets on each side. He left without a word. But in a second he was dancing back, waving over his head a pair of high boots, and, as if they were a Lenten offer- ing, placed them at my feet. Again he was gone, again he was pirouetting back, red breeches flying aloft flagwise; a third time, and a blue coat swung in the air and was lowered with the tributes before me. Earlier in the evening, remembering those beautiful wild creatures in Chestnut street, and their silver buttons and sheepskin caps, I had asked if he had no spe- cial costume; this was the uniform which the Hungarian gipsy always wears abroad, never at home, except when he serves as conscript. The others had followed fast behind, and gathered close about me. The fever of the Rakotzy was still in their faces, still coursed through their veins. They shook my hand again, they patted me on the shoulder, they laughed aloud. And I laughed with them; my hand went out to meet theirs in a warm, hearty grasp as I said good night; for at Ninth and Green a train waited, the last that night to Chestnut Hill. But the wonder of the music TO GIPSYLAND. 3 stayed with me as the cars steamed out of Ninth street, even while the men coming home from their evening in town snored serenely in their seats, and the conductor, who knew them all only too well, rudely shook each in turn as his station was reached; it lent a new loveliness to the wide dew-drenched meadows, dim and shadowy in the starlight, as I saw them now from the window, to the silent, deserted lanes of Chestnut Hill, when I walked back to the old house and the garden, the cool air full of the scent of honeysuckles and roses, and the crickets still chanting. It was the gipsies who had given this new, rare beauty to the sum- mer night, and yet, as I lingered on the piazza among the flowers, too excited to go to bed, it was not of them I was dreaming! This was but the beginning of a long sum- mer of music and beauty. Week after week the gipsies played in the Miinnerchor Garden, and night after night I turned my back upon Chestnut Hill, just as the afterglow began to fade, and the first stars came out, and the wind blew fresh and pure over the meadows, to go in the hot cars to the hotter town, and then to sit in the glare of many lights, breathing rank tobacco-laden air among the beer-drinkers in the little garden which was a paradise to me once the gipsies played. Their concerts, strangely enough, proved a success. There was soon no need for Karl Sentzs orchestra to divide the evening with them. All Philadel- phia, from down-town, from up-town, from the suburbs, came to crowd the Mannerchor. Per- haps a few really cared; more likely lights and movement and gaiety helped them to forget the heat better than darkened parlors and lonely porches. It was a chance. Another season, another year, their violins might have sung, tIieir cymbals been beaten,in vain. .But the sum- mer was dull; they appeared at the right mo- ment; they were made the fashion. Their blue coats and red breeches were seen at many a correct Germantown garden-party; proper Young ladias strummed the Rakotzy on their l)ianos; iarge parties from Chestnut, \Valnut, Spruce, and Pine spent the evening at the M~innerchor, and their numbers saved their reputations. But it was always for me the gipsies waited, always for me they reserved the table facing their stand, always for me their violins and cym- bals sang. I met them no longer merely as the gipsies. Each had his distinct individuality. Of the half-dozen Sandors among them, there was first the leader, handsome, graceful, but growing too plump with Philadelphia prosper- ity: at a months end his fine blue coat scarce met over his portly stomach. And there was Herr Joseg who played the cymbals, whose fingers flashed with opals and diamonds, who wore velvet xvhen the others went clad in cloth, and who spoke a weird tongue he called French. And Rudi I think I knew him best, he was so enthusiastic in his friendship; he was never from my side when he was not playing, and he was learning an English that rivaled Herr Josefs French: Goot eefnin! I lof you! ferry yell! ow de do! was his stock in trade. Then there was the large man who played the bass viol, and who said nothing, but chuckled loud when he patted me on the shoulder; he was father of the little fellow, the pretty parody of his elders in his red breeches and high boots. Another, only a few years older, was as beautiful as the youths in Del Sartos pictures: St. John we called him. The cello-player never spoke to me; a deep scar marked his cheek, and some- times he would lean his face close to his cello and whisper to it, and I thought there was mys- tery in his silence. Near him sat a small man with pathetic eyes, which seldom left my face, but who was as shy as the flageolet-player was fearless in his tender pantomime. And last the thin, tall gipsy like a mulatto, who, one even- ing, with much solemnity gave me his photo- graph and a letter; for my answer he still waits. It was in Hungarian; I could not read it; I was afraid to try to find some one who could. July. passed, and August came. At the Miin- nerchor the gipsies had been engaged for one month only. But Philadelphians had not yet tired of them, and they went to the park to play, to Belmont Mansion. To Belmont I followed. It was further from Chestnut Hill. But in the August afternoon it was pleasant in the park, and on the river in the little steamboat, starting just as shells and skiffs and canoes were launched from the row of pretty boat-houses on the banks. Some even- ings Ned was with me; on others it was with J (who already knew his way, as well as I, to the tents of the Costelloes and the Whar- tons) that I walked up the cool glen to Bel- mont Hill. I liked to sit there as the evening grew fresher, looking to where the river, in shadow, went wandering toward the million eyes of Philadelphias magnificent medioc- rity blazing in the hot glare of the sunset. People were dining in the mansion and on the wide porch; others were drinking beer at the little tables on the lawn; and when the sun had set, and faint lights glimmered here and there on the water below, or floated upward on passing barge or boat, and bicycle-lamps like fireflies flitted by in the valley, the gipsies played. Their music seemed more impassioned and wilder here in the open night. The voice of nature and freedom, what had it to do with stuffy halls and close town gardens? 4 TO GIPSYLAND. I consumed the deep green forest, With all its songs: And now the songs of the forest All sing aloud in me. All the storms and the sunshine through which they and their fathers have wandered sang aloud in the Cz~rdfts that now went wail- ing and sighing, rejoicing and exulting, over the hillside down the glen. They were con- scious, I think, of the difference. Their vio- lins grew more plaintive, fiercer. They could scarce tear themselves from the music; again and again when the last note was struck their bows would sweep the strings anew, and the cymbals beat a new summons, and they were once more whirling in the dance, or weeping their hearts away. There was magic now in their playing to hold the most indifferent, to wake tears and laughter at will. They waited for me at Belmont as they had in the Miinnerchor; they came and sat with me during the short intervals; and sometimes we walked homeward together through the dark, silent park. We grew friendlier in those long walks. It was the hour and the place for con- fidence, and then they would talk of the broad Hungarian plain and the wild Karpathian val- leys they loved, of the vintage on the sunny hillsides, and the dance in the white road. And it was then, too, that Rudi first spoke of his sweetheart in Hungary: Marie was her name. He took her photograph from his pocket, San- dor struck a match on his red breeches, and I had a glimpse of a young face framed in great masses of hair. The little flame flickered and died. Marie! Marie! cried Rudi in the star- light, and his voice was as sweet as his violin. During another of these long walks Rudi said they wanted me to come the next evening, when they would play as they never had played be- fore; I had not yet heard all their violins could tell. They were going from Philadelphia in a week now. Yes; it made them sad. Not for many months could they turn their faces to- ward the Hungarian plain, and Marie, and the deep green forests. They must play first in other American towns, and it would be lonely for them when I was not near. Would I come? Would I listen? There was only one answer to make as we walked together under the stars, with the last passionate cry of the Cz~rd~s still ringing in my ears. I was infatuated with the gipsies, my friends told me in reproach. Perhaps I was. They went back to the Mannerchor for their last week. It was near the shell-shaped band- stand, in among the plants in tubs, where we had first met, that they were waiting when J and I passed through the turnstile. The leader, with unwonted ceremony, stepped forward to greet me and to lead the way to the table they called mine. His wife was sitting there. I knew them so well now that before they spoke I was conscious of their state of unusual excitement. When they spoke it was with strangely boisterous gaiety; their eyes shone with a new light; there was triumph in their smiles. The little soft-eyed man for the first time wished me Latcho rat/i, while Rudi, speechless, danced about my chair. The gipsy with the scar was as gay as were the others. What did it mean? I cannot explain why I was uneasy; I was not afraid, not distrustful. And yet, instinctively, I wished that I had not come. The evening would not pass as had the many I had spent dreaming my own dreams, my thoughts far away in other gardens, on other hillsides, while I listened to their music: of this I was sure before I had been with them ten minutes. And when they played? Rudi was right. Never before had I heard all that violins and cymbals could tell. Their music was entirely Hungarian. One Cz6rdfts after another quickened into frenzy in the warm, still night while the waiters rushed in and out among the tables, and the Germans drank deep and long from their beer-mugs. But now the wail of sorrow was at once silenced by a pivan of joy. They came to me again dur- ing the first interval, and the Czftrdfts had not quieted them. The leader sent for a bottle of Hungarian wine. Was it that and not the mu- sic which had gone to their heads? I stilled the suspicion as disloyal even before it took defi- nite shape. Indeed, had theirs been ordinary intoxication it would have troubled me less. There was something far more alarming in the solemnitywith which the leader filled the glasses, and all, clinking mine, drank to me in the wine of their country, and cried aloud their Servus / Viva! E/fiii! I grew mere uneasy at these uncanny sounds, which I have since learned are harmless. Even as they drank, I determined to leave the gar- den as soon as the gipsies returned to the band- stand, and not to wait for the last friendly fare- well after the Rakotzy had beaten a dismissal. Again they played a Czftrd~s, all fire and pas- sion. But I rose to go. Without seeing, I knew that their eyes followed my every movement. La/cizo rat/i! I said to the leaders wife, who could speak only Hungarian. Sitting with her were two fellow-countrymen, not gipsies, whom she had met for the first time that night. She was talking with them, and at my good night turned in surprise. She took both my hands, and forced me into my chair. I told her in English, though I knew she could not understand, that I must catch a train, that I could not wait. And I struggled to get up. She protested almost with tears. She held my hands tight, she looked to San- dor, she half rose, hesitated, and then sud- denly spoke to the Hungarians at her side, while all the while the gipsies watched, and played a remonstrance. One of the Hun- garians lifted his hat. She begs you not to go, he said. Tell her, please, that I have a train to catch. There was despair in her face, and she clung to my hands. Again he translated: She says Sandor has something of importance to talk to you about. You cannot go. But I must! I must! I cried. The more she insisted, the more eager was I to be gone not to hear that something Sandor had to say. I could not draw my hands from hers, and again she spoke to her interpreter, fast and earnestly, never once looking from me. There was a twinkle in his eye, but he said, gravely and respectfully: Madam, she implores that you stay. San- dor to-night will ask for your hand in marriage for his brother. He is wealthy. He plays well. He will take you to many lands, to his beauti- ful Hungary. You will be rich; you will have the gipsy music with you always. This, then, was what it meant. I had been living my own romance in their music; they had been making one for me. It s impossible, I said. I must catch my train. It s all a dreadful mistake. I can- not stay another minute. I m so sorry! And I wrenched my hands from hers. With- out a look at the band-stand, though I felt all their eyes upon me, and trembled at the mad- ness of the Cz~rd6s, I fled from the garden ~tnd the gipsies to Ninth and Green streets, through the station, into the cars. The train had not started before I regretted my flight. Was ever yet womans curiosity put to so cruel a test? I had a lover .among the gipsies: so much I knew. But which one of these swarthy men was Sandors brother, and, in- deed, which Sandor was it who had a brother? Rudi loved the dark-eyed Marie in his Kar- pathian home, but, then, one or two more wives to a Hungarian gipsy would be no great mat- ter. Herr Josef, with the flashing opals and the velvet coat, see med the Crcesus of the band. Was it he whom I had refused with such reckless incoherence? Or was it the big bass-viol player who wanted a new mother for his boy? Or the flageolet-player the full tenderness of whose pantomime I had not grasped? Or that soft-eyed, shy creature? Or the mysterious one with the scarred cheek? I could not go back and ask. Never now would I know the lover with whom I might have 5 wandered from land to land, at whose side, under the starlit skies of Hungary, I might for- ever have listened to the gipsy music. iii. NATURALLY, from that day forward I was full of a longing for Hungary. Within aweek the gipsies had gone to a far Western city; the Miinnerchor was left once more to up-townGermans; and nobody who was ~{ anybody was will- inglyseenthereagain. But even if the young lady across the turnpike had not strummed the Racotzy on her piano from morning till night, I could not easily have got the gipsies out of my head. Who has not been foolish once, and the bet- ter for his folly? I began to dream of Hun- gary as a sort of earthly paradise, where the real gipsy, with long, black hair curling to his shoulder, and silver buttons on his coat, wan- dered, violin in hand, through the cool wood and over the vine-clad hillside, or sometimes into the towns, above all to Budapest, which, in my fancy, was an enchanted city of the East, with domes and minarets, with marble terraces and moonlit waters a Venetian Cairo on the Ganges. It was a trifle romantic and silly, I admit. But in our time we have all, like Stevensons lantern-bearers, carried our farthing dip, and exulted as if it were a ten- thousand-candle-power electric light. Not at once did my chance come to journey in search of this real gipsy to the land where my unknown lover so gladly would have taken me. He and his brother Sandor returned no more to Philadelphia The next winter another gipsy band gave a few concerts in town and in the suburbs. They had passed through Boston, however, and there was culture in their Cz~rdiis; besides, they played on the stage in the Academy of Music, while I sat, one of many, in the parquet, and the music was r~ot for me. Soon after this J went abroad. One day from him came a letter telling me how in Paris he had gone to the Eden Thea- ter, and there in the foyer he had heard that low, sweet wailing to which together we had listened many a summer night at the Miinner- chor, and had seen the Romany faces, the red breeches, and the blue coats. They were very like our friends, and, for the sake of old times, he had gone up and said, La/ciw divvus Prali! and they had kissed him, and wel TO GIPSYLAND. x i6 TO G/PSYLAND. corned him as a brother, and played for him alone, played until he once more saw the lights blazing in the shell-shaped band-stand, and heard the cry of zwei bier under the wither- ing trees, and the jangling of the street-car bells up Eighth street. It made me homesick, as I read, for the Hungary I had never seen. Another year, and J and I had joined fortunes, and were abroad together. We had been in London only a few days, and its roar like the roar of the loom of time, as Lowell once saidstill fell loud and strange on our ears. I remember it was Sunday afternoon: we had been to the Langham to see the Rye, and were walking down Regent street, where I wondered at the great, heavy shutters in front of the store windows, so old-fashioned after our Chestnut street stores, which make as gay a display on the first as on any other day of the week, and still more at the girls, on this pleasant July day, with big fur capes over their lawn dresses, and at the soldiers, with the funny little caps stuck on one side of their heads, and at the policemen, who surely belonged by rights to the Pirates of Penzance and Gil- bert and Sullivan. We were staring at any and every thing, as if London were a big show got up for our benefit. And so, when, on the ladder of a passing bus, a man suddenly ap- peared, wildly waving his arms in our direction,, we walked slower to see what new thing would happen now. One or two other people stopped. The man flew down the ladder, tumbled off the last two steps, and started to run. The conductor dashed after him: he had not paid. He fumbled in his pocket with one hand, the other he waved toward us. More people lin- gered, and in a minute there was quite a crowd. At last he found his penny, and then with a bound he was at our side, both hands out- stretched. It was Herr Josef Herr Josef, smiling and laughing and crying, opals and diamonds flashing on his fingers, talking now his old, bad French, now his new, worse Eng- lish. We all three walked down the street; before we parted he promised to come to us at our hotel, and we gave him our card. Of course he never appeared; which, perhaps, was fortunate, for if he had I do not know what we should have done with him. From that day to this we have not laid eyes on Herr Josef, who played the cymbal so well, and who may have been my lover. Another evening while London was still our wonderland, J and I had been dining in a shabby foreign restaurant in Leicester Square, the name of which I have forgotten, with a French actress studying her lines, and an oily Jew staring out of the window, through which we could see the statue of Shakspere in the little green space, and the women and children whom the most famous dynamiter in fiction wanted to blow up. The dinner was bad, and we left the place cross and still hungry. Close by the door a small dark man in red breeches and blue coat came sauntering quietly round the corner, but at sight of us he gave a sudden war-whoop of joy, seized J s embarrassed hands, and kissed him again and again. He was one of the gipsies from the Eden Theater, and his ecstasy soon drew a large and not over- reputable crowd. Two policemen bore down upon it, and in the confusion we escaped. But amusing as were these meetings, my real gipsy was not to be found in London streets. I was no nearer to him in England than I had been at home. Sometimes I seemed fur- ther away, for here the poor Romany had been exploited, and traveling up and down the roads in fine vans with valets in attendance were gentlemen gipsies save the mark! As if every gipsy was not a gentleman; as if any gentleman could hope to be a gipsy. It was no better when with the Rye I went to see the Romany at Epsom on Derby Day, orto Hamp- ton for the Costermongers Race. How they all begged, these English Coopers and Stan- leys, Boswells and Lovells! all save old Mat- tie Cooper, with face as dark as Herr Josefs or Rudis, and eyes as wild. He asked for no- thing, but, the day I met him in the soft Eng- lish sunshine by Thamess side, gave me a great bunch of sweet carnations with the bow of a prince. But there is only one Mattie Cooper in England. As the years passed, now and then we lis- tened to Hungarian Romanies at London gar- den-parties or receptions, where, among the people enjoying themselves in the solemn Brit- ish way, they seemed like the bird of their song caged, the deer brought to bay. We came across them at the Paris Exhibition of 1889, but what charm was there in music played to the Cooks tourists sweltering in the heat of the Champ de Mars, covered with its gray dust? At last, suddenly and unexpectedly, as all good things happen, we were called to Hungary. The parks were green and gay in London, and the may and laburnum were in bloom, when we packed up everything in the little Westmin- ster house, and gave the keys to the landlord: once we had met my gipsy, who might say when we would come back again? For the time we too must be free as he to go and to come. iv. ONE Sunday morning early, on the way to Hungary, we wheeled our bicycles into Pirna, the little Saxon town on the Elbe, for, as gip- sies should, we were traveling by road. The TO GIPS YLAND, 7 day was hright, church bells were ringing softly, people were idling in the steep, sunny streets. As we came into the great square, under the heavy walls of the old town-hall, out upon the summer air, drowning the church bells, stir- ring the whole place into sudden life, beat the first call of the Rakotzy. What if it were only the town band playing there, men in top hats and black coats, with none of the gipsy fire in their Saxon faces? The Rakotzy was still the music to hear when ones eyes were turned toward gipsyland. Not many days after we were in the Aus- trian hills, near Jschl, climbing a high moun- tain between endless pine forests. In the dense woodland it was already twilight, and the air had the freshness of night, though, when we passed a clearing among the trees and looked down, far below, a lake, lying there encircled by hills, was warm and golden in the sunset. And just here, the loveliest spot in all that wild mountain-pass, two gipsy tents were pitched. The Romany makes his camp where there is most beauty by the wayside, as instinctively as the bee flies to the sweetest blossom in a flower- garden. Latc/io divvus / we called as we passed. Laic/zo divvus / came the quick answer, VOL. XLV. i6. and an old woman and a man sprang to their feet. But we kept on, We had a long climb before us, and it was getting uncomfortably dark among the trees. Besides, would we not pass the same camp every day in Hungary, would we not in many sit and listen to cym- bal and violin? Besides well, we did not know these gipsies, and the night was black, and we had not lost all our common sense even if we were gipsy-hunting. They were the first and last we met in Austria. But a weok later we were in Hungary. It was noon: we had come to the end of the long s~reec, lined with white cottages, turning their gable-ends to it, and with rows of well- poles like masts along a quay, which, in the single mornings ride from Pressburg, we had learned to be the typical Hungarian village; beyond, under a group of trees overshadowing two quiet pools, of course the prettiest. green- est, shadiest oasis in the uninteresting stretch of cultivated plain,we saw the first Hunga- rian camp. Out from the tents rushed men in the loose white drawers, or divided skirts of the Hungarian peasant, women in ragged petticoats and bare feet, boys and girls as naked as God made them, funny little black things on the dazzling white road. They CAMPED OUT. ii8 TO GIPSYLAND. seemed free enough to match their song free, indeed, not only as the bird in the air, but as the savage in desert or jungle. But we had been pushing our bicycles for hours through the sand-tracks which in lower Hun- gary pass for highways, and we were too tired to care who or what they were. We did not speak, and the wretched things ran after us begging, whines their only music. By tbe time we got to Raab we were twice as tired. Our supper eaten. we went at once to bed, without a look at the town, without ask- A BRAUTY, YRT A BROOAR. ing whether in it were the gipsies we had come all the way from London to meet. We caught a glimpse of the familiar red breeches and blue coat in front of the hotel, but they were worn by the soldierly driver of a carriage with a coronet on the door. He might have been the one and only gipsy left in Hungary, and he could not have kept us on our feet another minute. But as we were falling into our first sleep, a sweet wail broke upon the nights still- nessa wail we knew and loved, and it rose and fell, now low, now loud, and louder, until it burst into the full frenzy of the Czfirdfis. Gipsies were playing somewhere below, and they played there for hours, while we listened in the darkness, half sleeping, half waking, thinking of the old evenings in the Manner- chor long ago, of the beautiful evenings that were to come. And I liked it so best on our first night in Hungary; to hear without seeing them, as if we still dreamed, and yet to know all the time that we were really in gipsyland. We gave up the fight with the sand the next day, and took the boat at Gran, the Rome of Hungary, with the sham St. Peters on the hill- top, and we steamed all afternoon down the Danube, which is blue only in Strausss waltz, between low hills, past long rafts steered by strange creatures in loose white, with wild hair hanging to their shoulders from under broad- brimmed black hats. As we sat under the awning of the upper deck, the opening wail of a Cz~rdiis startled us; it was a weak, shaky, CURIOSITY ON BOTH SLURS. /4 y~ 1O GIPSYLAND. I 19 puny little wail from the violin of a tiny gipsy boy perched atop a pile of boxes on the lower deck, where he was surrounded by a crowd of those strange creatures in white, who wrapped themselves in shaggy sheepskins as the evening grew cooler. He fiddled away while the sun fell below the western hills, while the grayness of twilight stole over the river, while one by one lamps were lighted on the shadowy banks, until, in a blaze of light, I3uda- pest came out of the darkness. It seemed, now that we were in gipsyland, that we were always making excuses not to speak to the Romany. But we knew the scene that would follow if we went down and talked to the child, and still we bided our time, And then, he too was begging for kreutzers. Five minutes after we had heard the last sweep of the lads bow over the strings of his vio- lin, a burst of the same music, but strong and steady and loud, greeted us as we came to the Hotel Hungaria. The river flowed below the windows of the room into which we were shown. When we leaned out, we could see the brilliant embankment, the Corso they call it, with the chairs under the trees, and the people eating ices. It needed but an illu- minated barge, like those which float on Vene- tian waters, but the twang of a lute, the beat of cymbals, out there in the summer night, and we should have been in that Cairene Venice on the Ganges, that town of Oriental splendor and ceaseless music, which was the OFF TO THE FIELDS. A VAGABOND. Budapest of our imagining. But the gipsies were in the dining-room, which we found for we went down-stairs almost at oncewas the court covered in by a glass roof, but, with its shrubbery and flowers, looking like a gar- denand a garden on a feast-day, so many were the colored lights among the leaves, so gay the blue and gold of the Hungarian offi- cers, so elaborate the dress of the full-blown Hungarian beauties. - At the end of the room, opposite the door, in a bower of palms and oleanders, were the gipsies, correct and commonplace in stiff linen and black coats, the leader, with his violin, facing the audience, and grinning as if in bored resignation. Every table in the large court was crowded, but behind the musicians ran a slightly raised gallery where there were fewer people. Here, between the palms, we could watch the musicians sitting around the cymbals in their bower. They stopped playing as we took our places ; the leader turned, they all drew close together as from underneath a table he brought out a plate piled high with gulden notes and small silver coins. Eagerly they bent over as he counted the money and laid it to one side. Then, on the empty plate he put one gulden notefifty centsas a decoy, and, stepping down, passed from table to table, smiling and bowing, actually 120 TO GIPSYLANIL begging! The real gipsy, who calls no man master, who plays only for his own delight, begging in the boro kelc/lerna of the gorgio / He came to us in our turn, when, instead of a rapturous Romany greeting, we gave him a twenty-kreutzer piece. I almost wished he would throw it back in our faces: but he did not; he bowed and smiled superciliously as the coin fell silently on the pile of notes. The collection over, they played again; but there was no magic in music bought for a few kreutzers. It was dull and lifeless. A party of unmistakable English tourists came into the room, and in a second they had struck up God save the Queen, quickly turned into a combination of Yankee Doodle and the Star-Spangled Banner, to make quite sure. This completed our disenchantment. But for the next week or two we went through a steady process of disenchantment. ing when the sun shone on the hills of Buda, and glorified even the long yellow wall and green shutters of the royal palace that was so much more like an Atlantic City or Cape May hotel; a marvel of color when the same hills were black against the sunset. And there was a sug- gestion of the East in the dark, half-naked men in long white tunics or wide drawers, or scarce more than a cloth about their loins, who un- loaded the barges in sight of the elegant idlers drinking coffee on the Corso. And we found the East again further down the embankment, where market-women in gay dresses sat by their piles of melons and peaches, pfrikas and tomatoes, under the big umbrellas which the progressive Hungarian is eager to change for one unbroken roof; and by the riverside, where were always the fishermens boats with the high Greek prow and the gaudy Christ or saint on the gilded cabin door. Our Budapest of the marble terraces and Once we went from the river, we might have Oriental dirt seemed a very Chicago or Denver been in our own far Western towns instead of of the yusz/as, a brand-new town with boule- in the capital of Attilas land; except when in yards and electric street-cars, and the sanitary broad daylight barefooted, short-skirted peas- engineering and other things which won the ant girls danced the Czfrd~s on the steps of a praise of Dr. Albert Shaw. It was well enough railway-station; except at night when the watch- so long as we stayed by the river: from our man, in sheepskins, his halberd over his shoul- windows we always looked at a beautiful pic- ders, made his rounds. But the newness of the ture, a nocturne in blue and gold when the place itself was aggressive. Not an old build- lamps were lighted; dazzling in the early morn- ing anywhere, but a church done up to look as GETTING DINNER. TO ROSE TERRY COOKE. 121 new as the rest, a real Turkish bath restored and working, and a tomb of some old sheik, to which we never went. Why should we? In this modern city we knew it would be as im- pressive as the obelisk in Central Park. And the people were in keeping with their town. The menwere tailor-made from London, the women, well-dressed Parisiennes trans- ported from the banks of the Seine to the Dan- ube. If the wild Hun had been tamed until all character had gone from him, it was no wonder that the fire had died from the Rom- anys music, that his violin had lost something of its power and charm. For though we heard the gipsies again at the Hungaria, and at every other hotel where they played, at the big Caf6 de lOp6ra in the Andrassy-strasse, and at the smaller restaurants where, on Sunday evenings, artisans and sol- diers grew noisy over their half liter, always they seemed spiritless and subdued. There was no difference except that at the cafe and the cheap restaurants, when the leader made his rounds, his plate was filled with coppers. We thought perhaps it was playing indoors that oppressed them, playing in close caf& and hotel courts when half Budapest was drinking coffee in flower-scented gardens and on the oleander-shaded pavement, or eating suppers in the middle of the street, and on the side- walks where at every table candles spluttered and sparkled in the darkness. Not even in France or Italy do people live more in the open air than in Hungary. And so, when the friends we made in Budapest told us that gipsies played at the Margaretheninsel, the island in the Danube which the Archduke J osef its owner, has turned into a public park, we took the little steamboat late one hot Sep- tember day, and steamed up against the cur- rent under the suspension bridge, past the huge pile of the new Parliament buildings, past the gay Kaiser Bad, with its brazen German band, to the pretty green island. Till twilight we walked along the trim, well-kept paths and by the sweet flower-garden, its roses still in bbs- som, and by the ruins of an old nunnery, to the restaurant at the upper end. There are baths here, as there are at every turn in Buda- pest and all Hungary, and hotels where people come for the summer, and the crowd was the same one sees at the sea-shore or in the moun- tains anywhere. The gipsies were already in the band-stand: among them were several who looked like Jews, and it seemed to us that the plate was passed oftener than at the Hungaria or the Cafe de lOp~ra. (To be continued.) Elizabeth Robins Pennell. TO ROSE TERRY COOKE. rS this (you asked) the recompense of art? lAnd will the work, alas! that I have done Out of the overflowing, eager heart, Be like these frost-flowers in the melting sun? Will all the little songs that I have wrought In love and hope, as swiftly come to naught? Nayfor to other hearts as well as mine, O poet-spirit, fine, and pure, and strong, To us unknown who loved and made no sign, I)ear has the singer been for the true song: It lives in souls uplifted, comforted, While you are what our ignorant speech calls dead. Mary Bradley. A FINE TYPE.

Mary Bradley Bradley, Mary To Rose Terry Cooke 121-122

TO ROSE TERRY COOKE. 121 new as the rest, a real Turkish bath restored and working, and a tomb of some old sheik, to which we never went. Why should we? In this modern city we knew it would be as im- pressive as the obelisk in Central Park. And the people were in keeping with their town. The menwere tailor-made from London, the women, well-dressed Parisiennes trans- ported from the banks of the Seine to the Dan- ube. If the wild Hun had been tamed until all character had gone from him, it was no wonder that the fire had died from the Rom- anys music, that his violin had lost something of its power and charm. For though we heard the gipsies again at the Hungaria, and at every other hotel where they played, at the big Caf6 de lOp6ra in the Andrassy-strasse, and at the smaller restaurants where, on Sunday evenings, artisans and sol- diers grew noisy over their half liter, always they seemed spiritless and subdued. There was no difference except that at the cafe and the cheap restaurants, when the leader made his rounds, his plate was filled with coppers. We thought perhaps it was playing indoors that oppressed them, playing in close caf& and hotel courts when half Budapest was drinking coffee in flower-scented gardens and on the oleander-shaded pavement, or eating suppers in the middle of the street, and on the side- walks where at every table candles spluttered and sparkled in the darkness. Not even in France or Italy do people live more in the open air than in Hungary. And so, when the friends we made in Budapest told us that gipsies played at the Margaretheninsel, the island in the Danube which the Archduke J osef its owner, has turned into a public park, we took the little steamboat late one hot Sep- tember day, and steamed up against the cur- rent under the suspension bridge, past the huge pile of the new Parliament buildings, past the gay Kaiser Bad, with its brazen German band, to the pretty green island. Till twilight we walked along the trim, well-kept paths and by the sweet flower-garden, its roses still in bbs- som, and by the ruins of an old nunnery, to the restaurant at the upper end. There are baths here, as there are at every turn in Buda- pest and all Hungary, and hotels where people come for the summer, and the crowd was the same one sees at the sea-shore or in the moun- tains anywhere. The gipsies were already in the band-stand: among them were several who looked like Jews, and it seemed to us that the plate was passed oftener than at the Hungaria or the Cafe de lOp~ra. (To be continued.) Elizabeth Robins Pennell. TO ROSE TERRY COOKE. rS this (you asked) the recompense of art? lAnd will the work, alas! that I have done Out of the overflowing, eager heart, Be like these frost-flowers in the melting sun? Will all the little songs that I have wrought In love and hope, as swiftly come to naught? Nayfor to other hearts as well as mine, O poet-spirit, fine, and pure, and strong, To us unknown who loved and made no sign, I)ear has the singer been for the true song: It lives in souls uplifted, comforted, While you are what our ignorant speech calls dead. Mary Bradley. A FINE TYPE. AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES BY THE COMPOSER MASSENET. You are so kind as to write to know what was the beginning of my musical career, and you ask me, How did I become a musi- cian? This seems a very natural question,but nevertheless I find it very awkward one to an- swer. Should I tell you that, like many of my brothers in ~rt, I had followed my vocation, I might seem slightly conceited; and should I confess it caused me many a struggle to devote myself entirely to music, then you might have the right to say, Why, then, did you become a musician? My father was a superior officer under the First Empire. When tbe Bourbo~ s were re stored he sent in his resignation. As he had been a distinguished pupil of the Polytechnic School, he devoted himself to manufactures, and started important iron-works near St. Etienne (Loire). He thus became an iron-master, and was the inventor of those huge hammers which, crush- ing steel with extraordinary power by a single blow, change bars of metal into sickles and scythes. So it was that, to the sound of heavy hammers of brass, as the ancient poet says, I was born. My first steps in my future career were no more melodious. Six years later, my family then living in Paris, one day I found myself in front de. idgi~ue~ C JULES ~MILE FR1iD~RIC MASSENET. (1865.)

J. Massenet Massenet, J. Massenet - Autobiographical Notes 122-126

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES BY THE COMPOSER MASSENET. You are so kind as to write to know what was the beginning of my musical career, and you ask me, How did I become a musi- cian? This seems a very natural question,but nevertheless I find it very awkward one to an- swer. Should I tell you that, like many of my brothers in ~rt, I had followed my vocation, I might seem slightly conceited; and should I confess it caused me many a struggle to devote myself entirely to music, then you might have the right to say, Why, then, did you become a musician? My father was a superior officer under the First Empire. When tbe Bourbo~ s were re stored he sent in his resignation. As he had been a distinguished pupil of the Polytechnic School, he devoted himself to manufactures, and started important iron-works near St. Etienne (Loire). He thus became an iron-master, and was the inventor of those huge hammers which, crush- ing steel with extraordinary power by a single blow, change bars of metal into sickles and scythes. So it was that, to the sound of heavy hammers of brass, as the ancient poet says, I was born. My first steps in my future career were no more melodious. Six years later, my family then living in Paris, one day I found myself in front de. idgi~ue~ C JULES ~MILE FR1iD~RIC MASSENET. (1865.) A UTOBIOGRAP/7IICAL NO TES BY THE COMPOSER MASSENET. 123 of an old piano, and either to amuse me, or to try my talent, my mother gave me my first mu- sic-lesson. It was the 24th of February, 1848, a strangely chosen moment, for our lesson was interrupted by the noise of street-firing that lasted for several hours. The revolution had burst forth, and people were killing one another in the streets. Three years later I had become or my par- ents affectionately thought I had becomea clever enough little pianist. I was presented for admission to the piano classes at the Impe- rial Conservatory of Music, and was admitted. To my mother I now was an artist, and even though my education took up six hours of my day, she found time to make me work at my piano to such good effect that within a year I became laur~at of the Conservatory. At this l)eriod my fathers ill health forced us to leave Paris, and so put a stop to my music for several years. I took advantage of this period to finish my literary studies. I3ut the pain of separation from the Conservatory gave me courage enough to beg my parents (whom my wish distressed) to give me permission to return, and I did not again leave Paris until the day when, having obtained the first grand prize of musical com- position (1863), I left for Rome with a scholar- ship from the Acad~mie de France. Did the progress made in these years of work really prove my vocation? Certainly I had won the prix de Rome, and had also taken prizes for piano, counterpoint, fugue, and so on. No doubt I was what is called a good pupil, but I was not an artist in the true sense. To be an artist is to be a poet; to be touched by all the revelations of art and nature; to love, to suffer ,in one word, to live! To produce a work of art does not make an artist. First of all, an artist must be touched by all the manifes- tations of beauty, must be interpenetrated by them, and know how to enjoy them. How many great painters, how many illustrious musicians, never xvere artists in the deepest meaning of the word Oh, those two lovely years in Rome at the dear Villa Medici, the official abiding-place of holders of Institute Scholarships unmatched years, the recollection of which still vibrates in my memory, and even now helps me to stem the flood of discouraging influences! It was at Rome that I began to live; there it was that, during my happy walks with my comrades, painters or sculptors, and in our talks under the oaks of the Villa Porghese, or under the pines of the Villa Pamphili, I felt my first stirrings of admiration for nature and for art. What charming hours we spent in wandering through the museums of Naples and Florence! What tender, thoughtful emotions we felt in the dusky churches of Siena and Assisi! How thor- oughly forgotten was Paris with her theaters and her rushing crowds! Now I had ceased to be merely a musician; now I was much more than a musician. This ardor, this health- ful fever still sustains me; for we musicians, like poets, must be the interpreters of true emo- tion. To feel, to make others feeltherein lies the whole secret! My time was nearly up at the Villa Medici, and but a few days separated me from the hour in which I had to say good-by to my happy lifea life full of work, full of sweet tranquil- lity of mind, a life such as I never have lived again. It was on December 17, 1865, that I had to prepare for my departure; nevertheless, I could not persuade myself to bid adieu to Rome. It was Rome that bade me adieu, and this is how she did it. It was six oclock in the afternoon. I was alone in my room, standing before the window, looking through the glass at the great city outlined in gray against the light still remaining from a lovely clear sunset. This view is forever imprinted on my memory, and at the time I could not detach myself from it. Alas! little by little a shadow crept over one corner of the sky, spreading and spreading until finally Rome had disappeared altogether. I have never forgotten those moments, and it is in r,emembering them that I evoke my youth. I NOTiCE that I am saying but little of mu- sic, and that I seem to care more for what strikes the eye than for what charms the ear. Let us open together some of my orchestral scores. Thereon I am in the habit of writing the day and the hour, and sometimes an ac- count of events of my life. Some of these have afforded me suggestions for my work. The first part of Mary Magdalene begins At the gates of Magdala, evening. It was in truth of Magdala that I was then thinking; my im- agination journe}?ed to far Judea, but what really moved me was the remembrance of the Roman Campagna, and this remembrance it was that I obeyed. I followed the landscape I had really knoxvn; therein was its accent, its exact impression. Afterward, in writing the Erinnyes, the love that I felt for an exquisite Tanagra terra-cotta dictated to me the dances for the first act of Leconte de Lisles admirable drama. Later, while I was arranging the score of the Roi de Lahore, near me was a little Indian box whose dark blue enamel spotted with bright gold continually drew my eyes to it. All my delight; all my ardor came from gaz- ing at this casket, wherein I saw the whole of India! Mournful recollections also take up a great part of the life of the musician whose mod- est beginnings were saluted by firing in the 124 A UTOBIOGI& IBHIGAL NOTES BY TEJ COAJEOSER il/LA SSEA7ETJ streets. In 1870a dismal date for my poor (lear country the Prussian cannons, answer- ing those of Mont Yal~rien, often lugubriously punctuated the fragments that I tried to write (luring the short moments of rest that guard duty, marching around Paris, and military exer- cises on the ramparts, left us. There the musi- cian, in the physical weariness of this novel life, vainly trying to find a few moments of forgetful- ness, did not altogether abdicate his rights. In the leaves of a finished score, but one which xviii never be l)rought before the l)ublic, (luse, I lind annotated the patriotic cries of the l)eople, and the echoes of the Marseillaise sung by the regiments as they passed my little house at lontaineblean on their way to bat- tle. And so in other fragments I can read the bitter thoughts that moved me when, having returned to Paris before it was invested, I was inspired by the woeful times that were upon us (luring the long winter of that terrible year. Oh, the unforgettable jlain and sorrow of V MASSENET IN HIS STUDY. (1890.) A UTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES BY THE COMPOSER MASSENETJ 125 those dismal days when our hearts plunged so quickly from comforting enthusiasm to the dark- est despair! when weeks ofuncertainty and of waiting were scarcely brightened by rare let- ters received one knew not how or whence, and bringing us news of ancient date concerning the far-off families and the dear friends we no longer hoped to see again! Then came the last effort, the last struggle at Buzenval; the death of my poor friend, the painter Henri Regnault; then the most terrible trial of all, whose shame- ful reality made us forget cold, hunger, all that we had enduredthe armistice, which in our wearied but far from resigned hearts rang the knell of our last and righteous anger! Yes,truly, during those dark days of the siege of Paris, it was indeed the image of my dying country that lay bleeding in me, feeble instrument that I was, when, shivering with cold, my eyes blinded with tears, I composed the bars of the Po~me du Souvenir for the inspired stanzas written by my friend the great poet Armand Silvestre, Arise, belovdd, now entombed! Yes, both as son and musician, I felt the image of my poor country imprint itself on my bruised heart in the sweet and touching shape of a wounded muse, and when with the poet I sang, Tear off thy winding sheet of flowers, 1 well knew that, though buried, she would come forth from her shroud, with blanched cheeks, indeed, but lovelier and more adorable than ever! I have already said how dear to me is, and how faithfully true remains, the recollection of my Roman years; and I would like to be able to convince others how useful it is for young musicians to leave Paris, and to live, were it but for a year, in the Villa Medici, among a set of intelligent comrades. Yes, I am thoroughly in favor of this exile,as it is called by the dis- contented. I believe in residing there, for such a residence may give birth to poets and artists, and may awaken sentiments that otherwise might remain unknown to those in whom they lie dormant. But, you answer, genius cannot be given to any one, and if these young men be merely good students, already masters of their trade, it is not possible to give them the sacred fire thex- need. Yes I believe that being forced to live far away from their Parisian habits is a positive advantage. The long hours of solitude in the Roman Campagna, and those spent in the admirable museums of Florence and Venice, amply compensate for the absence of musical meetings, of orchestral concerts, of theatrical representations, in short, of music. How few of these young men, before leaving France, ever knew the useful and penetrating charm of living alone in close communion with nature or art. And the day in which art and nature speak to VoL. XLV. 17. you makes you an artist, an adept; and on that day, with what you have already learned, and with what you should already know, you can create in strong and healthy fashion. How many garnered impressions and emotions will live again in works as yet unwritten! In order to give more weight to my personal opinions, let me have the pleasure of quoting a fragment of the speech made at one of the last prize-day distributions of the Acaddmie des Beaux-Arts by my whilom comrade at Rome, now my colleague at the Institute of France, the celebrated engraver Chaplain: During their stay at the Villa Medici, these young artists are far from spending all the trea- sure of thoughts and impressions which they there amass. What delight, and often what rare good luck, later to find a sketch made from some lovely scene, or an air noted down while travelingthrough the mountains! On the road from Tivoli to Su- biaco, one summer day, a little band of students were on a walking excursion through the beautiful mountains, which, like an amphitheater, surround and rise up around Rome. We had halted in or- der to contemplate at our leisure the xvenderful panorama of the Roman Campagna unrolling it- self before us. Suddenly, at the foot of the path we had just climbed, a shepherd began to play a sweet, slow air on his pipe, the notes of which faded away, one by one, in the silence of the evening. While listening, I glanced at a musi- cian who made one of the party, curious to read his impressions in his face; he was putting down the shepherds air in his note-book. Several years later a new work by a young composer was per- formed at Paris. The air of the shepherd of Su- biaco had become the beautiful introduction to Mary Magdalen. I have quoted the whole, even the friendly praise given me by my dear comrade of Rome; but I have spoken so much of myself here that I thought I need not refuse myself these compli- ments coming from another in justification of my enthusiasm forthose blessed years to which, it seems to me, I owe all the good qualities wherewith people are kind enough to credit me. Do not, however, think me too exclusive in my ideas. If I speak to you of Rome, it is be- cause the Villa Medici is unique as a retreat, is a dream realized. I have certainly been en- thusiastic, over other countries, and I think that scholars should travel. When I was a scholar, I left Rome during many months. Two or three friends would join forces and start off together. We would go to Venice or down the Adriatic; running over perhaps to Greece; and, on our return, stopping at Tunis, Messina, and Naples. Finally, with swelling hearts, we would see the walls of Rome; for there, in the Academy of France, was our home. And then, how delight- ful to go to work in the healthful quiet, in which we could create without anything to preoccupy 126 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? us with no worries, no sorrows. After a wan- dering life, after the hotel with its common- place rooms and table, what joy to return to our villa and to meditate under its evergreen oaks! The ordinary traveler never can know this repose, because it is to us alone, we scholars of the Institute, that France gives such a shelter. The remembrances of my youth have almost always been my consolation for the years of struggle that have made up my life. But I do not thank France alone for being so good to us. I wish to bring also to your country my tribute of gratitude. It is to a woman of your great country, to an American, to Miss Sibyl San- derson, the incomparable interpreter of Es- clarmonde, that I owe the impulse to write that lyric drama. I. Mdssenet. DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? H E question may be treated mainly as a philosophical ques- tion, in its bearings upon science as well I as upon religion. Un- ~) happily, it has be- come mixed with sev eral side issues, which should be detached from it, and thrown out of the discussion. As it is to be presented here, it will have nothing to do with the current disputes in different churches, or with the definition of any type of orthodoxy,- or even with the formal vindication of Chris- tianity itself. These are important issues in their own time and place. But there is a larger, if not higher, view of the main issue which they involve, and which they may even hide from our sight. All schools of philosophy, as well as all churches and denominations, have a commofl interest in inquiring whether the Bible can yield us any real knowledge within the domain of the various sciences. Indeed, all men every- where will become practically concerned in that inquiry, if the oldest and most highly prized book in the world is now to be set aside as a mixture of truth and error, obsolete in science, if not also in morals and religion, and of little further use in the progress of civilization. The way to the question should be cleared by several distinctions and admissions. Let us first distinguish mere literary imperfections from scientific errors, and frankly admit the existence of the former in the inspired authors. They were not trained rhetoricians, nor even practised writers. They show the greatest variety of cul- ture and of style. The rugged simplicity of the Prophet is in contrast with the refined paral- lelism of the Psalmist. The Evangelists did not write pure Greek. It has been said, it would be difficult to parse some of the sentences of St. Paul. Many of the Old Testament meta- phors seem gross to modern taste, and there are certain didactic portions of Leviticus which are too natural to be read in public worship. Nevertheless, to reject the teaching of inspired writers on such esthetic grounds would be like denying the mathematics of the Princi- pia because Newton wrote bad Latin, or re- pudiating some medical classic as unfit for the drawing-room. The literary blemishes of Holy Scripture, as seen by fastidious critics, do not touch its revealed content or divine purport, but may even heighten it by the force of contrast. We may also distinguish and admit certain historiographical defects in the inspired au- thors. The prophets and evangelists were not versed in the art of historiography, and did not write history philosophically, nor even al- ways chronologically. Their narratives have many little seeming discrepancies as to dates, places, names, and figures. The line of the patriarchs is yet to be traced, amid conflicting chronologies, with historical accuracy. Per- sons and events do not always appear to syn- chronize; as when it is stated in the Book of the K~ings that Ahaziah was forty years old on coming to the throne, and in the Chroni- cles~~ that he was twenty-two years old. The Evangelists Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell the story of the crucifixion of Christ with dif- fering motives and details, which have not yet been fully harmonized. Such things are sim- ply unavoidable in all historical composition. At the present date of antiquarian research, neither the dynasties of the Pharaohs, nor of the Ciesars, nor even of the Popes, have been clearly ascertained. No one can read Bossuets Universal History, or even Ban- crofts History of the United State~ with- out losing himself in chronological puzzles. The English historians Clarendon, Neal, and Burnet narrate the execution of Charles I. with substantial agreement, but from the most varied dogmatic points of view. There are ob- vious misprints in some editions of Hallams

Charles W. Shields Shields, Charles W. Does the Bible Contain Scientific Errors? 126-134

126 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? us with no worries, no sorrows. After a wan- dering life, after the hotel with its common- place rooms and table, what joy to return to our villa and to meditate under its evergreen oaks! The ordinary traveler never can know this repose, because it is to us alone, we scholars of the Institute, that France gives such a shelter. The remembrances of my youth have almost always been my consolation for the years of struggle that have made up my life. But I do not thank France alone for being so good to us. I wish to bring also to your country my tribute of gratitude. It is to a woman of your great country, to an American, to Miss Sibyl San- derson, the incomparable interpreter of Es- clarmonde, that I owe the impulse to write that lyric drama. I. Mdssenet. DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? H E question may be treated mainly as a philosophical ques- tion, in its bearings upon science as well I as upon religion. Un- ~) happily, it has be- come mixed with sev eral side issues, which should be detached from it, and thrown out of the discussion. As it is to be presented here, it will have nothing to do with the current disputes in different churches, or with the definition of any type of orthodoxy,- or even with the formal vindication of Chris- tianity itself. These are important issues in their own time and place. But there is a larger, if not higher, view of the main issue which they involve, and which they may even hide from our sight. All schools of philosophy, as well as all churches and denominations, have a commofl interest in inquiring whether the Bible can yield us any real knowledge within the domain of the various sciences. Indeed, all men every- where will become practically concerned in that inquiry, if the oldest and most highly prized book in the world is now to be set aside as a mixture of truth and error, obsolete in science, if not also in morals and religion, and of little further use in the progress of civilization. The way to the question should be cleared by several distinctions and admissions. Let us first distinguish mere literary imperfections from scientific errors, and frankly admit the existence of the former in the inspired authors. They were not trained rhetoricians, nor even practised writers. They show the greatest variety of cul- ture and of style. The rugged simplicity of the Prophet is in contrast with the refined paral- lelism of the Psalmist. The Evangelists did not write pure Greek. It has been said, it would be difficult to parse some of the sentences of St. Paul. Many of the Old Testament meta- phors seem gross to modern taste, and there are certain didactic portions of Leviticus which are too natural to be read in public worship. Nevertheless, to reject the teaching of inspired writers on such esthetic grounds would be like denying the mathematics of the Princi- pia because Newton wrote bad Latin, or re- pudiating some medical classic as unfit for the drawing-room. The literary blemishes of Holy Scripture, as seen by fastidious critics, do not touch its revealed content or divine purport, but may even heighten it by the force of contrast. We may also distinguish and admit certain historiographical defects in the inspired au- thors. The prophets and evangelists were not versed in the art of historiography, and did not write history philosophically, nor even al- ways chronologically. Their narratives have many little seeming discrepancies as to dates, places, names, and figures. The line of the patriarchs is yet to be traced, amid conflicting chronologies, with historical accuracy. Per- sons and events do not always appear to syn- chronize; as when it is stated in the Book of the K~ings that Ahaziah was forty years old on coming to the throne, and in the Chroni- cles~~ that he was twenty-two years old. The Evangelists Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell the story of the crucifixion of Christ with dif- fering motives and details, which have not yet been fully harmonized. Such things are sim- ply unavoidable in all historical composition. At the present date of antiquarian research, neither the dynasties of the Pharaohs, nor of the Ciesars, nor even of the Popes, have been clearly ascertained. No one can read Bossuets Universal History, or even Ban- crofts History of the United State~ with- out losing himself in chronological puzzles. The English historians Clarendon, Neal, and Burnet narrate the execution of Charles I. with substantial agreement, but from the most varied dogmatic points of view. There are ob- vious misprints in some editions of Hallams DOES TILE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? 127 Constitutional History, which could not have been in his manuscript. There may be trifling mistakes in some English translations of Ne- anders Church History which are not in the German, as well as grave misconceptions in some of his critics, which are neither in the English nor in the German. In like manner, as to any supposed inaccuracies in the Chron- icles and the Gospels, the fair presumption is, that they are not errors of the inspired text, but mere errors of transcription, or errors of translation, or errors of interpretation, or, sim- ply, still unexplained difficulties. It is the business of historical criticism to harmonize standard historians, not to impeach them; and thus far such criticism, as applied to the sacred historians, instead of impugning the scientific accuracy of Holy Scripture, has only confirmed it by unexpected coincidences and ever-grow- ing certitude. We should still further distinguish some tra- ditional glosses in the inspired writings. The original autographs, and their first transcripts, have long since been lost; and our existing text of the Hebrew and the Greek must have become corrupt through the negligence or de- sign of copyists and editors. Even the vowel- l)oints, accents, spaces, verses, and chapters, which have been added as aids to the sense, have also proved a source of faults and mis- takes, especially in the numeral letters. The book of Samuel is made to say that the Lord smote fifty thousand men in a village of less than five thousand inhabitants; and the Chronicles seem to state that King Jehosa- phat raised more than a million fighting men out of a district not half as large as Rhode Island. King David is said to have saved more silver coin for the decoration of the tem- ple than could then have been in circulation. The Trinitarian proof-text, There are three that bear record in heaven, seems to have been interpolated in some late manuscripts for a purpose. It is even alleged that there are spurious claims of authorship in the titles and contents of the sacred books. David,weknow, did not write all the Psalms; and we are now told that Moses did not write the Pentateuch, nor Isaiah the whole book of Isaiah. In short, the entire Bible gives internal evidence, it is claimed, of anonymous fragments com- piled by unknown hands. References are made in it to lost documents, such as the books of Jasher, Nathan, and Gad, the Wars of Jehovah, and the Visions of Jddo. There are two accounts of the creation, two versions of the commandments, three distinct codes in Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy,~~ besides any number of parallel, detached, and repeated passages throughout the Scriptures, suggesting to some critics a mere patchwork of loose chronicles, proverbs, psalms, prophe- cies, gospels, and epistles. Certainly all these phenomena have been common enough in secular literature. The Greek and Latin classics, and even standard English authors, are marred with textual cor- ruptions, such as the loss or change of a word or letter, or even part of a letter, sometimes running a single number up into the thousands, and sometimes reversing the meaning of a whole sentence, or turning it into nonsense. The text of Xenophon is full of them. The Epistles of Cicero have them by the hun- dred. The single play of Hamlet fills two large octavos of the Variorum edition of Fur- ness. There have also been some curious pseu- dographs more or less innocent. The antique manuscripts of Chatterton deceived the prac- tised eye of Walpole. Literary critics of the last century eagerly discussed the question whether the poems of Ossian had not been forged by their professed editor James McPher- son. It was long a moot point, XVho wrote the letters of Junius? Moreover, we have had fine examples of literary compilation and re- production without a taint of forgery or pla- giarism. Froissarts Chronicles of Knights, Kings, and Fair Women were personally col- lected by him in France, England, Scotland, and Spain, and inscribed upon illuminated parchments, which are still extant. Bishop Percy, the accomplished r~dacteur of the Rd- iques of Ancient English Poetry, not only recovered many manuscript ballads, but by his skilful emendations of them adapted them to modern taste and fancy. The materials of Froissart and Percy were at length wrought, by the masterly pen of Sir Walter Scott, into poems and novels which are read wherever the English tongue is spoken. And if Judge Holmes or Mr. Ignatius Donnelly could prove that Shakspere did not write Shakspere, but only recast and ~trranged the tragedies, his- tories, and comedies which bear his name, that incomparable book, with all its archaisms, an- achronisms, and solecisms, would remain the masterpiece of genius that it is, and men might still quote Shakspere, as John Randolph used to say, to prove anything worth proving. Perhaps also the Bible might be the Bible still in its most essential import, although its long-reputed authorship should now be dis- credited. It may be conceivable that such a Bible could have survived its own literary er- rors as a trophy of the most devout scholar- ship. But if quite conceivable, it is not yet certain, nor very probable. The plain state- ments of the inspired writers themselves, their apparent indorsement by our Lord and his apostles, and the consistent tradition of three thousand years, still stand opposed to the con- 128 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS.? jectures of learned criticism. And such con- jectures are not sustained by all the literary precedents and analogies. The title of a fa- mous author, like Homer or Shakspere, repre- sents the judgment of his nearest contempora- ries and successors, and grows with the lapse of time until it becomes too certain to be easily set aside. Such claims for Moses and Isaiah were not even questioned during more than twenty centuries. It would seem rather late now to overthrow all this external testimony by mere internal criticism of their accepted writings. Any traces of compilation in the sacred books need conflict as little with their received authorship as the like use of docu- ments and fragments in acknowledged works of genius. It is as easy to conceive that Moses could compose or compile the Elohistic and J ehovistic records of Genesis with their dif- ferent names of God, as that Shakspere com- posed or compiled both King Lear and Richard III., though the former, quite con- sistently, has only the pagan names of Jupiter, while the latter is full of the Christian names of our Lord. As yet, there is no more critical demand for two Isaiahs in the Jsaian prophe- cies than for a dozen Homers in the Homeric Poems. In fact, the sacred writers are not half as fragmentary and composite as well-known English historians, poets, and philosophers. Nor do marks of editorship always weaken the genuineness and integrity of a standard trea- tise. The postscript of Joshua at the close of the Pentateuch conceming the death of Moses may have been read by the ancient Hebrew as we now read a biographical note to the works of Bacon. Passing allusions to other books of Kings and Chronicles may have seemed like the conscientious ref- erences of a Hume, a Prescott, or a Motley to well-known official records; and explana- tory remarks and parenthetical hints, easily distinguishable by their connection, may have been like helpful annotations upon the text of a Milton or a Butler, with the difference that, in Hebrew manuscripts, they could not be put within brackets or in the margin. Indeed, a competent editor, like Ezra the scribe, might canonize otherwise unknown writers, as a Niebuhr or a Grote could sift crude annals and sanction the most obscure authors, or as some rare genius might detect for us the apoc- rypha of Shakspere. Not even such telltale signs as new words, late idioms, or local phrases could wholly discredit a renowned author whose writings have come down to us through all the vicissitudes of language and literature. The several codes of Moses, if framed before the conquest of Canaan, would have been no more ideal than the Republic of Plato, and any later Hebraisms or Chalda~ isms appearing among them since the Baby- lonian exile need be no more puzzling than Anglicisms or Americanisms among the feudal forms and Norman phrases of a recent edition of Blackstone. If the first and second parts of Isaiah are in any sense prophetic, to refer them to different authors at different periods merely because of differences of theme, style, and diction, would be like assigning a double authorship to Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, or arguing from a modernized version of Chaucer that he could not have written the Canterbury Tales, or claiming Childe Harold as an Elizabethan poem because of its few archaisms and Spenserian stanza. In all Hebrew literature, early, mid- dle, and recent, there is no stumbling-block like that of Lord Tennyson singing in the York- shire dialect as well as in the purest English. Sometimes the feats of genius may perplex us even more than the marvels of inspiration. Besides, it should not be forgotten that while the Bible is literature, and very good literature, yet it is not to be treated as uninspired litera- ture, and judged by mere esthetic rules alone, much less classed with the pseudonymous frag- ments which have become the puzzle and the scandal of critics. More than forty years ago that prince of biblical scholars, Joseph Addi- son Alexander, thought that such treatment of Isaiah had already reached its limit, with the promise of no further invention, unless it be that of reading the book backward or shuffling its chapters like a pack of cards. The higher criticism may have its duties as well as its rights. Without at all undervaluing any of its assured results, we may still hope, as we watch the brilliant tournament of learn- ing and genius, that the combatants will at length fight their way around the field of con- jecture back to the traditional belief from which they started, and which is still the com- mon-sense judgment of mankind. That judg- ment is, that if there be any evidence at all of inspiration in the sacred writers, such evidence favors their long-established authorship as well as canonicity, and their consequent accuracy, no less than their veracity, as organs of divine revelation. We are now ready for several conclusions. Neither the literary imperfections, nor the historiographical defects, nor the traditional glosses of Holy Scripture can of themselves, at their worst, impair its scientific integrity or philosophic value, if it have this value. Such mere errata may yet be corrected or explained, and prove in no sense permanent errors, much less essential untruths. They are wholly super- ficial and transient, not of the abiding essence of the revealed word. They may, indeed, and they often do raise presumptions against the DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? 129 claim of inspiration in the minds of hostile critics; but they are not the proper pleas of the friendly critics who look for scientific er- rors in an inspired Bible. Such critics take the dangerous ground that the Bible teaches nothing but religious truth, and may even teach such truth in connection with scientific error. This is dangerous ground, because it is ground lying inside the limits of an accepted revelation; because it involves not so much the mere human form, as the divine content, of that revelation; and because it exhibits that divine content as an amalgam of fact and fiction, truth and error, knowledge and super- stition. It is dangerous ground also, because it opens the way for hostile critics to proceed quite logically from scientific errors to reli- gious errors in the Bible, by arguing that if it teaches false astronomy and crude physics, it no less clearly teaches bad ethics and worse theology. And it is dangerous ground in philosophy as well as in religion, since it would deprive her physical no less than her psychical provinces of their chief source of transcen- dental knowledge, and abandon her whole metaphysical domain to the empiric, the ag- nostic, and the skeptic. Literary and textual obscurities there may be upon the surface of Holy Writ, like spots upon the sun, or rather like motes in the eye; but scientific errors in its divine purport would be the sun itself ex- tinguished at noon. Such a Bible could not live in this epoch. Let it first be observed, that the general dis- tinction between errant Scripture and inerrant Scripture is not made by Scripture itself. As a theory of inspiration, it is modern and ex- traneous. It has arisen from the supposed need of adjusting an ancient book to the science and culture of our time. Its good motive is not to be questioned; nor can its plausibility be denied. That divine truth should have been offered to us in a setting of human error does not seem at first sight wholly without analogy or prece- dent. If nature has its flaws and monsters, why may there not be faults and mistakes in Scrip- ture? If the development of science has been mixed with error, why not also the delivery of revelation? There is even a grain of force in such reasoning as applied to any mere textual or literary difficulties yet to be removed or ex- plained. But the moment it is applied to the sacred authors themselves, it breaks down. It was not their theory of their own inspiration. If anything is plain in their writings, it is plain that they claim to be making divine communi- cations under an unerring guidance. Our Sa- viour, too, sanctioned the claim in his own use of the Hebrew Scriptures, and renewed it for the Christian Scriptures. At length the apos- tles went forth maintaining it amid the master- VOL. XLV. IS. pieces of Greek and Roman literature. When St. Paul, in an assembly of Athenian philoso- phers, quotes from Aratus and Cleanthes sen- timents also quoted by Cicero and Seneca, it is with the polite acknowledgment, As certain of your own poets have said; but when he quotes from Moses a sentiment afterward quoted by David, it is with the devout pream- ble, As the Holy Ghost saith. Now it is simply impossible to associate such statements with an erroneous communication from God to man in any sphere of truth, physical or spir- itual. The only escape from them is to except them from the physical sphere, or limit them to the spiritual sphere. But no such exceptions or limitations can be found. As judged by their owyi claims, the Scriptures, if inerrant at all, must be accounted inerrant as to their whole revealed content, whatever it be and wherever found, whether in the region of the natural sciences, or in that of ethics and theology. The Bible also shows that its physical teach- ing is implicated with its spiritual teaching in the closest logical and practical connections, with no possible discrimination between the one as erroneous and the other as true. The full import only of these connections can be dis- cerned by profound study. Ordinarily we lose sight of them. We are so prone to detach Scripture from Scripture that we often neglect or slight large portions which do not at once strike our fancy or interest. We ask, what is the use of Genesis, with its dry genealogies; or Leviticus, with its obsolete ritual; or the Prophets, with their mystical visions. Why read the Old Testament at all, when we have its fulfilment in the New? or why even take much thought of the Epistles, while we have their core in the Gospels? The words of Christ contain the essential truths, and these are so few and simple that they may be read run- ning. All the rest we are ready to discard as mere surplusage. So might some masterpiece of dramatic art seem full of irrelevant scenes and dialogues until its plot has been analyzed and its details tested upon the stage. The de- vout student of the Bible, intent on searching its full contents, will soon find that the seem- ing medley is in reality a living organism, with its nearest spiritual truths in logical dependence upon its remotest physical facts, and the one in practical relation to the other. He will see its astronomical revelation of a Creator of the heavens and earth, not only distinguishing the true Jehovah from the mere local and national deities of antiquity, but identifying him with the maker of suns and systems in our own time, and thus disclosing the foundations of revealed in all natural religion, together with the revealed commandments against heathenism, idolatry, and profaneness. He will see the geological 130 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? revelation of the six days works, not merely upholding the narrow Sabbath of the old econ- omy, as commanded from age to age, but pro- jecting the larger Sabbath of the new economy as yet to be realized in the millennial age of peace, and so connecting the whole history of the earth with the history of man. He will see the anthropological revelation of Gods lost image in man as at once demanding and sus- taining the atonement and the incarnation, together with the whole human half of the decalogue, and the predicted regeneration of both earth and man in the resurrection. Throughout the realm of the sciences he will see the author of Scripture revealing himself as the author of nature, and building the one upon the other. The whole psychical superstructure of religious doctrines and ethical precepts will appear to him reposing upon its physical foun- dations in the prei~xisting constitution of nature andhumanity. Remove but one of those foun- dation-stones, and that superstructure will tot- ter. They stand or fall together. Historically, too, as well as logically, the concession of any scientific errors has led to the downfall of the whole biblical system of doctrine. It is seldom remarked that both the physi- cal and the spiritual teaching are alike given in a non-scientific form. Often is it said and said truly enough that the Bible does not~ teach astronomy or physics as a science. But neither does it teach theology or ethics as a science. The method and phrase of science are no more, no less, wanting in its physical than in its spiritual revelations. If the latter are pre- sented as a mere crude mass of facts and truths without law or order, so also are the former; and it will be no harder to find the epochs of geology in the first chapter of Genesis than the persons of the Trinity in the first chapter of St. John. If it be granted that the physical truths of Scripture are couched in the popular and phenomenal language of the times when it was written, so also are its spiritual truths veiled in the anthropomorphic and even barbaric im- agery common to all rude peoples; and when the Psalmist tells us, The sun knoweth his going down, he is no worse astronomer than he is theologian when he declares, He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh at the kings of the earth. Ifitbe urged that we have left far behind us the contemporary astronomy of the Old Testament, with its spangled canopy of heaven wrought as a marvel of handwork, how shall we defend its contemporary theology, with its man-like deity so often depicted as a monster of anger, jealousy, and cruelty. If we are told that we have outgroxvn its physics, with their cisterns in the earth and windows in the sky opened and shut by angels, what shall be said for its ethics, so long charged with polygamous patriarchs and pro-slavery apostles? If we are warned against a few devout scientists who are endeavoring to harmonize their geology with the Mosaic cosmogony, is there to be no warn- ing for this scandal of great churches and de- nominations at the present moment adjusting their metaphysics to the Pauline divinity? In short, there is not an objection to the non-scien- tific character of the physical teaching which will not recoil with greater force against the spiritual teaching. Whoever, for this reason alone, affirms scientific errors in the biblical astronomy and physics must be prepared to admit them also in the biblical theology and ethics. Nor can it be said that the physical teach- ing is any more reconcilable with popular fal- lacies than the spiritual teaching. It has been maintained that the divine author of the Scrip- tures accommodated them to the scientific er- rors of their own times for the sake of the moral and religious truths to be conveyed. There was no need to correct the false astronomy of the ancient Jews, so long as the phenomenal sun- rise and sunset were still true for them and for their age. It was only important to give them true ideas of God and duty, and to leave them to their unaided reason in other matters of mere science and culture. Our Lord himself is sup- posed to have thus connived at the story of Jonah, the belief in demoniacal possessions, and even the tradition of the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch. He did not come to teach natu- ral history, or medical psychology, or the higher criticism. It was enough for his purpose that he could make the entombment in the whales belly prefigure his own resurrection, prove his Messiahship by seeming to cast out devils, and enforce his teachings with the great name of Moses. But the risk of such reasoning is that it might prove too much. It might soon bring down the maxim, False in one thing, false in everything else, upon the head of any teacher who only once should deceive his disciples and teach them to deceive others. In the exam- ples given, it would leave the most momentous truths resting through all coming time upon a basis of prejudice, superstition, and falsehood. Moreover, it could be applied logically, as it has been applied actually, to doctrines the most essential; and in the end would reduce Chris- tianity to mere natural religion as adapted to Judaism. It is a matter of history that the so- called theory of accommodation has thus run its course in the schools of criticism. Be it ob- served, however, that the theory itself is not here in dispute, for the purpose of this argument. You may adopt it, if you like; and treat the history of Jonah as a mere nightmare vis- ion with a good moral, the demoniacs as cases of lunacy and delirium, and the literary claim DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS.? 3 of Moses as an old Jewish legend. But in that case you must be ready to find pious frauds and innocent fables throughout the Bible, and can no longer hold it to be false only in science and not also in religion and morals. If it were once true for its own time, it would soon cease to be true for our time. Here it should be noticed that both the phys- ical and the spiritual teaching alike have a permanent and universal import, as well as lo- cal and temporary reference. Usually this is admitted as to the biblical theology, despite its antique and rude imagery. We have read the Old Testament forward into the New and the New Testament backward into the Old, until the God of justice in the one seems consistent with the God of mercy in the other, and all an- thropomorphism disappears in a divine ideal of infinite purity and love. But as to the physi- cal sciences, it is sometimes held that the proph- ets and apostles were so dominated by their environment that they not only shared the sci- entific errors around them, but may even have expressed those errors in their inspired writings as freely as they have exposed their own frail- ties and idiosyncrasies. Otherwise, it is said, no revelation could have been received by them or made through them to their own age and country, or indeed to any other age and coun- try. There is a show of truth in such state- ments. Certainly it would be very absurd to treat the sacred writers as mere amanuenses without thought or individuality; and quite impossible to take them out of their proper set- tingin the unscientific ages when they lived, and from among the uncultured peoples whom they taught. It is not even necessary to suppose their own personal knowledge greater than that of their contemporaries, outside of the divine communications. But neither is it necessary to suppose them acquainted with the entire pur- port of those communications. They may have spoken better than they knew. They may not have been fully conscious of their messages, as applicable in other eras and stages of cul- ture. Even in pagan literature the great poets, sages, and philosophers, though writing solely for their own time, have unconsciously written for all after time. So Homer sang in ancient Greece; and the ages have been listening ever since. So Euclid, two thousand years ago, sketched lines and angles which to-day save the sailor from shipwreck, and regulate the commerce of nations. So Plato reasoned in the academy, with little thought beyond his own disciples; and the worlds philosophy is still sitting at his feet. No more marvelous would it be had David discerned a divine glory in the heavens which astronomy now illustrates, or Moses perceived a divine order of creation which geology is confirming. Inspiration may at least be supposed to equal genius. More- over, the claim of inspiration being allowed, the sacred authors at once appear as organs of another and higher intelligence than their own. Avowedly, they often speak of divine myster- ies which they knew only in part, and sometimes of a distant past or future which they neither had seen nor could see. Moses, in his vision of the creation, during six days may not have reviewed the whole physical development of the globe. Isaiah, in his vision of redemption, may not have foreseen beyond his own fore- ground, the whole moral career ofmankind. Yet behind the words of both Moses and Isaiah was an Omniscience embracing the entire course of nature and of history. No violence would be done to their personality by supposing them the mouthpiece ofsuch Omniscience. As voiced by its greatest teachers, science itself acquires an ever-widening vision of which they had not dreamed. Nor need any mystical sense be claimed for the sacred text in order to give it so large scope and fullness. It is not the mere learned exegete or visionary saint who is now reading between the lines of prophets and apostles. Itis the strict scientist who is returning from every conflict with the phenomenal lan- guage of the Bible, to interpret that language, as he has learned to interpret the phenomena themselves, in a richer sense and with a wider application. That the heavens declare the glory of God, has become only more true since a Newton and a Herschel have illuminated them with suns and planets. That heaven and earth were made in six days, is none the less true because a Dana and a Guyot have been re- tracing those days of Jehovah as long cosmo- gonic eras. That man was created in the image of God, might still be true, even though devout biologists should yet prove him to be but the full flower of the planetary life as well as the highest ideal of the Creator. Only the young and crude sciences, wrangling among them- selves, are at seeming variance with Scripture. The older, more complete sciences are already in growing accord with it. Hence it is that the revealed Jehovah still reigns in the astronom- ical heavens instead of having been left far be- hind us as an Israelitish Jupiter in the skies of Mount Zion. For this reason Genesis~~ is still repeating the story of the earth instead of becoming the forgotten myth of some Hebrew Hesiod; and for this reason Jesus himself is no mere Jewish Socrates of the schools. In a word, it is because the Bible, though non-scien- tific, is not anti-scientific, that it is as true for our time as it was true for its own time, and is likely to remain true for all time to come. We come next to the more positive argument that the physical teaching, like the spiritual, has been adapted both in kind and degree to our 132 DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? wants and capacities. It may be objected to the foregoing viexvs that after all, as a matter of fact, we get our theology from Scripture, and our natural sciences from nature, and that a mere absence of scientific errors from Scripture does not prove the presence of any scientific verities. This is true, and yet not true. As to theology, it is true that when con- sidered as a metaphysical science of God and divine things its material is mainly to be found in the Bible; but it is not true that as an. em- pirical science of religions it may not find ma- terial outside of the Bible in thereligious history of mankind. As to the physical sciences, it is true that they are derived mainly from nature as bodies of empirical knowledge; but it is not true that they can find no metaphysical ground and material in the biblical revelations concern- ing physical facts. On the contrary, a thorough investigation will show that, as we ascend the scale of the sciences from the simple to the com- plex, the revealed material increases with our increasing moral needs and decreasing mental equipment. In astronomy, on its metaphysical side, we shall find at least some revealed mat- ter, such as a Creator of the heavens whose im- mensity, eternity, omnipotence, immutability, and glory they declare; in geology, a little more revealed matter, such as the divine order of the material creation, the divine wisdom and good- ness which it illustrates, with some moral crises which mark its history; in anthropology, yet more revealed matter, such as the creation of man in the divine image, his vicegerent do- minion over nature, his primitive innocence, together with some glimpses of his early history, the origin of races, languages, and arts, and their adjustment in a scheme of universal prov- idence. And so on, through the higher men- tal and social sciences, we shall meet an ever- growing volume of revealed facts and truths, until we reach the topmost science of theology, where the revealed material becomes transcen- dent in kind and infinite in extent. Could we here pursue such inquiries, it might be shown that this apportionment of so large an amount of spiritual teaching with relatively so small an amount of physical teaching is not only in strict accordance with the preexisting constitution of the human intellect, but is itself a proof of the divine wisdom which has presided over the whole revelation. It only remains now to add that the physical teaching in its own place and for its own pur- pose is quite as important and valuable as the spiritual teaching. In proving this, there is no need to belittle the great religious themes of Scripture, or to deny a religious aim and pur- port even in its physical revelations. Such facts as the origin of the heavens, the formation of the earth, and the constitution of man have a physical side, which has been, indeed, revealed to us in connection with religious truth. Nevei~- theless, they are, at least, separable in thought for special study under their scientific aspects and in their scientific connections. As a matter of fact, they are thus treated by physicists and by some divines. Without foisting into the Bible any occult meaning, or forcing it out of its due sphere of influence, we may investigate its correlations with astronomy, geology, anthro- pology, and other sciences, considered as sub- sidiary and complemental to divine revelation; and the field of such correlations will widen the farther we investigate them. Moreover, true as it may be that religion is the chief topic of revelation, yet it is still true that it touches other great interests of humanity, and serves other high purposes. Although never designed to teach the arts and sciences, it has in fact alxvays promoted theni in every stage of their progress. While the furtherance of science, the perfection of philosophy, and the growth of civilization cannot be ranked as its chief ends and issues, yet they may at least be classed as its incidental fruits and trophies. In this guarded sense we shall find that the physical portion of revela- tion, small though it seem to be, is of the great- est benefit to science, philosophy, and general culture. There is, first of all, its apologetical or eviden- tial value, to which a passing glance should be given. Civilization is interested in the defense of Christianity; and whatever makes a divine revelation valuable, either in philosophy or in religion, becomes enhanced by the proof of its harmony with human science. When the chief authorities in any science are found favor- ing such harmony; when its established truths already illustrate it, and its hypotheses can be hopefully adjusted toward it; and when all the sciences are seen taking this general direction according to their different stages of advance- ment we gain new evidence of revelation, the highest perhaps that can be afforded. It is science itself becoming an unwitting, and some- times an unwilling, witness at the bar of Omni- science. It is evidence which is strictly scientific in its logical quality and force, since it is derived from the facts of nature as agreeing with the truths of Scripture. In this age of the arts and sci- ences it is as timely as the evidence yielded in the age of miracles and prophecies. It meets the modern scientist seeking wisdom, as that evi- dence met the ancient Jew requiring a sign. It even explains miracles and fulfils prophecies, and thus crowns and completes all former evi- dences. Without it, indeed, they would them- selves fall worthless to the ground. As no miracle could ever prove a falsehood, and no prophecy could perpetuate nonsense, so no amount of miraculous and prophetical evidence accumu DOES THE BIBLE CONTAIN SCIENTIFIC ERRORS? 33 lated in past ages could uphold a Bible contain- ing scientific errorsin the face of modern science. Herein lies the peril of the hour. The timid or rash apologetes who are spiking their guns on the outer bulwarks of scientific evidence, and fleeing into the citadel of orthodoxy to repair its walls, may yet find themselves in conflict with enemies whom they had thought to admit as friends within the ramparts. Schleiermacher long since forewarned us of that bombard- ment of derision, amid which they will be cere- moniously interred in their own fortifications. Not by weak concessions to science in this day of abounding science is the Bible to be vindi- cated. Only bystrengthening and insisting upon its scientific proofs can it retain its power, either at the center of Christian civilization or in the logical crusade ofthe missionary among heathen religions and philosophies. But the direct value of revelation, not only as scientifically attested, but as itself a source of scientific verity, lies more within the present inquify. As such value is largely metaphysi- cal, it may not be readily appreciated by the unthinking reader, who terms anything meta- physical which he does not choose to under- stand; or by the superficial thinker, who scorns all metaphysics but his own; or even by the special scientist, who abjures metaphysics for the sake of some little fragment of empirical knowledge. But to the profound inquirer, even though he eschew the scholastic meta- physics, it is becoming every day clearer that all physics at length run out into metaphysics, and that every physical science at bottom rests upon some hidden metaphysical basis, under- neath the facts or phenomena xvith which it deals, down in a recondite region of realities and causes which divine revelation alone can disclose. The Bible, indeed, does not teach the empirical part of any such science, its body of phenomena and laws; but it does teach its metaphysical complement, the divine ideas ex- pressed in those phenomena, and the divine causes of those laws. In astronomy it does not teach celestial physics, the figures, motions, and orbits of planets, suns, and stars throughout infinite space and time; but it does teach that divine immensity, eternity, and omnipotence of which the whole celestial system is but a phenomenal manifestation, and without which it would be an infinite anomaly. In geology it does not teach terrestrial chemistry, the birth and growth of the earth, through all its eras and phases, with all its strata, floras, and faunas; hut it does teach that divine power, wisdom, and goodness which are the source, method, and issue of the whole terrestrial de- velopment, and without which it would be at once causeless and aimless. In anthropology it does not teach the human organism, with its laws of heredity and environment, and the evolution of races, languages, and arts; but it does teach those divine ideals through which man has been passing from the image of an ape to the image of God, and without which he would be a mere failure and paradox. And in the higher mental and social sciences, while it does not teach any psychical processes and laws, it does teach all needed spiritual truth and knowledge. As yet, indeed, these subtle connections between the rational and revealed material of each science have not come clearly into general view; much less have they been logically ascertained and formulated. Never- theless, the large-minded leaders in all the sciences are at least seeking some more rational ground for them than sheer ignorance or clear absurdity; and not a few of them are finding it practically by studying the works of God together with his Word. At the highest point of scientific contact with the Bible appears its value in philosophy considered as the supreme science of knowledge or science of the sciences. Here the full ap- preciation is not only difficult, but barred by prejudice and distaste. We have become so accustomed, wisely enough, to treat philosophy as a secular pursuit, and have so just a dislike to any crude admixture of religion with science, that we may be in danger of the other extreme of leaving at least one half the philosophic do- main under the rule of skepticism and ignor- ance. Often, because unwilling to mingle sacred speech with scholastic jargon, we may seem to accept theories of knowledge which ignore or exclude revelation, as if there were no such aid to reason. Possibly our agnostic friends, with whom we agree up to a certain point, may sometimes have fancied the fastidious reserve to mean doubt of any philosophy taking reli- gion as well as science within its scope. If this be so, it is time to say, in the frankest English, that while they are building their knowledge upon faith, we are building our faith upon knowledge. It is time to remind them that the little they do know, they know only in part; that the most exact science of which they can boast is filled with crude hypothesis and vague conjecture; that it has been reared through ages of error by a fallible logic; that it depends upon an assumed order of nature which is broken every time they lift a stone from the earth; that it rests ultimately upon universal conceptions which by their own showing are self-contradictory; in a word that, apart from the despised metaphysics and the neglected Bible, it is mixed with credulity and based on absurdity. It is time also, on our part, to insist that, al- though we cannot know everything about God, and the soul, and the unseen world, we may 34 PLAIN WORDS TO WORKING M EN at least know something; that the otherwise Unknowable has been made known to us by an intelligible revelation; that this revealed know- ledge has been built up for us within the region of facts, through ages of experience, before science was born; that it not only comes to us with scientific evidence, but itself supports each science, and throughout the sciences yields ma- terial without which they would fall, like fall- ing stars, into a chaos and void in a word, that the inspired Bible is a radiant source of di- vine knowledge, chiefly within the psychical sciences, but also within the physical, and therefore essential to the completion of phi- losophy itself as the crowning science of the sciences. Such a philosophy will see no scien- tific errors flecking that sun of truth, which thus lights up its domain, but only paradoxes to dazzle it, should it too rashly gaze, and mystenes to blind it with tears. It is more than half a century since this dis- cussion began in the schools of Germany, and less than half that time since it passed into the Church of England. In our own country it seems destined to become popular in its course, as well as academic and ecclesiastical. The daily press already reflects a growing interest in questions of biblical criticism which hitherto have been kept within the province of scholars and divines. Parties are forming, as if some~ great battle for the truth of Holy Writ were at hand. Its defenders, it is to be feared, are as yet but poorly equipped and marshaled. Their opponents boast of the highest culture of the time; have the exultant sympathy of the whole unbelieving class; and even claim, however unwarrantably, some orthodox allies. In the first onset, doubtless, they will win a brilliant victory. Then may come a great up- rising of the Christian masses, as moved by that Holy Spirit who first inspired his Holy Scripture. Whoever shall stand apart from them in such a crisis will not be shunning a religious question alone. In his place he will be deserting some other related interest of hu- manity. The thinker will be deserting that which for ages has set the problems of philoso- phy. The scholar will be deserting that which has built up the universities of Christendom. The artist will be deserting that which has yielded the purest ideals of genius. The man of letters will be deserting that which has molded our English speech and literature. The man of the world will be deserting that which has lent to society refinement, and pur- ity, and grace. The merchant, the lawyer, the doctor will be deserting that which is the ethi- cal basis of their callings. The patriot and the statesman will be deserting that which has given us our freedom and our laws. And the philanthropist will be deserting that which is the very keystone of civilization. Cluirles W ~S/zields. PLAIN WORDS TO WORKINGMEN. BY ONE OF THEM. HE cause of labor is the issue of the hour. What it ought to have, but has not got; what it might be, but is not; and whatit may be, if it goes the right way to get there, are questions that fill the newspapers, occupy platforms and pulpits, and cause not a little headache in monopolistic and society nightcaps. We are in fact being turned inside out like a meal-bag, and scientifically gaged like a barrel of high wines. Without doubt, we shall be a disappointment to some in what we are, and a surprise to most in what we are not, being, after all, much the same as the rest of folks, the difference resting mostly in our boots and pockets. This change in events has come about for two reasons: the world is get- ting wiser, and we are getting troublesome. Now that the world is rubbing its eyes to look at us, that fact will do us no small good, if we so far follow it as to take a good look at our- selves, and with our expectations and claims discover and make note of our faults. SOME OF OUR FAULTS. WE have made some considerable to-do about what we ought to have. Do we ever stop to think of how much we throw away? We think of our thin slice of beef, our pat of sausage-meat, and our red herringnever too much and sometimes not enough; but how often is it that we scratch our heads over the dimes and dollars we drop in our mugs of beer? We object to a cut in our wages, and have hard words for such employers as, from greed or necessity, reduce a workers weekly pay; but do we not do the same thing when we

Fred Woodrow Woodrow, Fred Plain Words to Working-Men. By One of Them 134-138

34 PLAIN WORDS TO WORKING M EN at least know something; that the otherwise Unknowable has been made known to us by an intelligible revelation; that this revealed know- ledge has been built up for us within the region of facts, through ages of experience, before science was born; that it not only comes to us with scientific evidence, but itself supports each science, and throughout the sciences yields ma- terial without which they would fall, like fall- ing stars, into a chaos and void in a word, that the inspired Bible is a radiant source of di- vine knowledge, chiefly within the psychical sciences, but also within the physical, and therefore essential to the completion of phi- losophy itself as the crowning science of the sciences. Such a philosophy will see no scien- tific errors flecking that sun of truth, which thus lights up its domain, but only paradoxes to dazzle it, should it too rashly gaze, and mystenes to blind it with tears. It is more than half a century since this dis- cussion began in the schools of Germany, and less than half that time since it passed into the Church of England. In our own country it seems destined to become popular in its course, as well as academic and ecclesiastical. The daily press already reflects a growing interest in questions of biblical criticism which hitherto have been kept within the province of scholars and divines. Parties are forming, as if some~ great battle for the truth of Holy Writ were at hand. Its defenders, it is to be feared, are as yet but poorly equipped and marshaled. Their opponents boast of the highest culture of the time; have the exultant sympathy of the whole unbelieving class; and even claim, however unwarrantably, some orthodox allies. In the first onset, doubtless, they will win a brilliant victory. Then may come a great up- rising of the Christian masses, as moved by that Holy Spirit who first inspired his Holy Scripture. Whoever shall stand apart from them in such a crisis will not be shunning a religious question alone. In his place he will be deserting some other related interest of hu- manity. The thinker will be deserting that which for ages has set the problems of philoso- phy. The scholar will be deserting that which has built up the universities of Christendom. The artist will be deserting that which has yielded the purest ideals of genius. The man of letters will be deserting that which has molded our English speech and literature. The man of the world will be deserting that which has lent to society refinement, and pur- ity, and grace. The merchant, the lawyer, the doctor will be deserting that which is the ethi- cal basis of their callings. The patriot and the statesman will be deserting that which has given us our freedom and our laws. And the philanthropist will be deserting that which is the very keystone of civilization. Cluirles W ~S/zields. PLAIN WORDS TO WORKINGMEN. BY ONE OF THEM. HE cause of labor is the issue of the hour. What it ought to have, but has not got; what it might be, but is not; and whatit may be, if it goes the right way to get there, are questions that fill the newspapers, occupy platforms and pulpits, and cause not a little headache in monopolistic and society nightcaps. We are in fact being turned inside out like a meal-bag, and scientifically gaged like a barrel of high wines. Without doubt, we shall be a disappointment to some in what we are, and a surprise to most in what we are not, being, after all, much the same as the rest of folks, the difference resting mostly in our boots and pockets. This change in events has come about for two reasons: the world is get- ting wiser, and we are getting troublesome. Now that the world is rubbing its eyes to look at us, that fact will do us no small good, if we so far follow it as to take a good look at our- selves, and with our expectations and claims discover and make note of our faults. SOME OF OUR FAULTS. WE have made some considerable to-do about what we ought to have. Do we ever stop to think of how much we throw away? We think of our thin slice of beef, our pat of sausage-meat, and our red herringnever too much and sometimes not enough; but how often is it that we scratch our heads over the dimes and dollars we drop in our mugs of beer? We object to a cut in our wages, and have hard words for such employers as, from greed or necessity, reduce a workers weekly pay; but do we not do the same thing when we PLAIN WORDS [TO WORKINOMEN 35 beat a shoemaker out of a quarter for soling our shoes, and underpay the teamster that hauls our coal and wood? We complain of being left off the slate by statesmen and pol- iticians, and of having to pay taxes to bribe aldermen and make millionaires of contrac- tors but do we see to it that when we deposit a ballot we cast it for a good man, and not for a rogue? And are there not more time and thought given as to what horse will win a race than as to what kind of man we want at Wash- ington? We find fault with corporations for depressing labor-values when the market is full of idle hands; but do we not crack the same kind of whip when we compel a contractor in the middle of an important contract to give us higher wages, or find himself left out in the cold? We have something to say about being left out of some classes of society, by reason of blue jeans and thick shoes; but do we not do the same thing with our poorer neighbor who has a room less in his house than there is in ours, and more patches in his coat than we can show. Soberly speaking, would there not be fewer paupers in the poorhouse had they taken care of what they once had, and fewer insolvent grocers if we paid our debts, fewer fools and more wise men in our city councils and our congresses, had we spent more time with our ballots and books than with billiards and ninepins? We are sufferers, it is true, from wrongs, abuses, ec~onomic crimes, and corporate des- potisms; but we can add to our hardships, and get a life-lease to any one of them, if we go on making mud faster than we sweep it away. We are on the door-step of better days and better homes, if we do not come down again. If we do, the slip will be on our own heels. No condition of society, no government, and no change in the labor situation, can do us the good it might, if we let our faults outrun their sex-eral virtues. Nor can we well complain of wet feet if we keep the faucet running, or of fire if we smoke our pipes in dry straw. Our societies and combinations have their force in the right-doing of their individual constituents. Their composition is the condition on which they exist, for good or for evilputty or granite, according to their atoms. OUR FOLLIES. THERE is no time in any history, no parish in any country, or family in any house, in which there is not to be found some one or some thing that is off its base at times, and plays the fool, if only for fun. On that score there is a pretty wide crack of folly in both the china and the earthenware of human life. We are no excep- tion. Our follies are as natural as our teeth or our fingers; and as with them, if one is de- cayed we can pull it out, and if the other is dirty we can wash it, so with what is crooked or cross-grained in our ways and doctrines we can straighten it out if we wish. As things are with us to-day, the misfortune is that if we make a break it is a big one, and in making a mistake we are not sitting down on one egg, but on a basketful. We have grown into so- cieties and combinations, and are no longer thumbs, but a handful of fingers. Organization has run us into lumps, and when we move, things have to give way or crack up. These combinations are right enough, and good enough, and some of them big enough. We can do with them what we could never do with- out them. We are in the position of a sheriff who can back a subp~na with a stout posse, or a government that can enforce its claims with gunners and grenadiers. With this lump of muscle in our sleeve, we can do some big work for good or for evil. With these condi- tions, our follies are something more than non- sense, and in speaking of them let us remember that it is always better to stop a fool than to hang him, and to pick the barnacles off a boat than to bore a hole in its bottom. Now we are not without a crowd of friends, who always side with the biggest dog in a fight, and who are full of congratulations and flat- teries; but the kind of friend that taps our knuckles when we do what is foolish is some- what scarce, and perhaps not always so wel- come as he should be. We have always found that the boy who praises another for stealing an apple wants half of it; and it is about the same with the older boys with whiskers and gray hairs, who have no objection to stray sheep if therefrom come their wool and mut- ton. In these plain words we have no such pap, and we are quite sure that there is no man among us, with the average weight of com- mon sense in his head, but will thank any one for telling us of a wasp on our collar, or a chalk- mark on our back. So far understood, we proceed to consider some of our follies. It is common sense to suppose that where two men dispute, say on the length of a pine board, or the diameter of a wheel, they call in some man with a tape-line to find out the di- mensions, and to decide the (lispute; this is a good old-fashioned and square-footed way of settling the whole matter. This plain and prac- tical sense is just as handy and useful in a dis- pute with our employers. But is it not a fact with too many of us that we are sticklers for one side of the argument, and will neither con- sider nor examine the other? It is just this one- eyed kind of business that makes us lopsided, and cross-grained, and as troublesome as a 136 PLAIN WORDS TO WORKING MEN blind mule or a deaf dog. In many cases we run ourselves into such reprisals as strikes and boycotts, when a little sense and some fair in- vestigation would have made such an action as ridiculous as trying to stop a round hole with a square peg. We are not talking now of justifiable strikes, nor are we teaching the soft nonsense that we are in duty bound to lie still and be skinned alive, but only (and let us here be clearly understood) of such strikes as are hot-headed, blind, foolish, and downright ini- quities. Take this for a sample: We draw up a schedule of wagesfixed and unalterable, till officially acted upon. In that tariff we place a second-class man on the same footing as we do the first-class. A can lay iooo bricks in a certain time; B, for the life of him, cannot place over boo. We insist on equal pay, though we would kick mightily, on our own behalf, at having to pay for a dozen eggs when we got but six. The contractor cannot see that this demand is fair. He has his contract to fill, his bread to earn, and his family to keep, just the same as we have. He cannot afford to pay for work that is not done, and if he could, he would be unjust to himself to do so. He objects to put his head into the mouth of a wolf, and refuses to pay the wage as fixed on our schedule. We lay trowels down and quit work, and in nine cases out of ten brace up on a glass of lager, and go home, to eat a dinner which perhaps is not yet paid for, and with a very thin prospect of having as much meat on our plate in a months time. We hang out; the single men pack up and go else- where, and the older folks look around for stray jobs, being sometimes glad to cut wood and shovel gravel: the whole thing, simmered down to a fine point, being just this, that we are suffering what we need not have suffered if we had been as fair to another man as he was willing to be to us. Pray, gentlemen, what fun is there in this business of getting into debt, running to the pawnshop, and accepting a weekly contribution from men who have little enough for themselves? What of comfort is there in seeing our children losing the calves off their legs, and the flesh off their bones, wanting school-books, and soles on their shoes, because their fathers are not heroes, but a pack of fools? Strikes are common, and they make notori- ety and money for some, but we know well enough that there is something painful and tragical behind the painted scenes. They are wet with childrens tears, and rattle with bare bones, and are resonant with regrets and curses. Strike when striking is absolutely necessary, if you will, but for the sake of common sense, a patch on your coat, and a potato for dinner, never so consent on a wrong basis, or till the whole system of conciliation and arbitration has been exhausted. To suffer for what is right is manful, and sometimes necessary, but there is neither glory nor buttermilk in breaking stones for a larceny on our neighbors pay-roll and rights. We may measure a boycott in the same bushel. It is a mighty means of bringing some bad men down to their marrow-bones, and of choking some such burglars of human rights as need it; but how often it is but simply the policy of wrecking a train to run over a stray cow, or, as we think, to punish a man sitting in an easy-chair a thousand miles away. We may shut the factory of a single sinner, and shrink his bank-account, and reduce his rail- way stock; but what of the five hundred hands that made their bread and butter in his employ? Where are they, now that the gates are locked, and what are they eating, when the grocer and the butcher refuse them credit? Is it right to starve a baker because we have a case against a miller; or to break up a butch- ers trade because he buys his beeves of a cattle king? These men have their rights as we have ours, to buy or sell as they choose, and the same right to live and get along as we have. More than that, it is well to remem- ber that the boycott knife is very apt to cut the fingers that open it, and thus to cut the wrong way. As before said, there is the virtue of power in a boycott, as there is in a double- headed switch-engine, and it is practically al- mighty in the right direction; but it can run both ways, and generally leaves some inno- cent and broken bones under its wheels. Such disasters are reactionary, and when the outside public have once burned their fingers in the matter, it is a dead-sure thing that they will turn the waterworks on the fire till it is but an ash-heap and a cold cinder. Of one thing we may be certain: that two wrongs can never make a right, and now that we have the means of a peaceful settlement of disputes in arbitra- tion, it is a folly and a crime to resort to any repri- sal till all fair and judicial methods have been exhausted. Taking down one tyranny to put up another is bad policy. The iron rod is not an inch shorter nora pennyweight less on the scale for passing from one class to another; and it will be just as easy to make five out of twice two, as to make the industrial world better and happier by any such process of doing wrong that right may come. Compelling unwilling men, under a threat of non-employment, to join unions, and insisting on employees discharging such as refuse, with the threat of a strike or a boycott, is not a whit less a sin against so- cial freedom than is the black-list of a railway, or the lockout of a manufactory. We have our rights let us press them; we have our follies PLAIN WORDS TO WORKINGMEN 37 let us throw them away with our old shoes and broken plates. OUR CHANCES. WE have come to a point in labor progress where we see not only the fence-rails that shut us in to small pudding and poor pay, but have the means, and the public consent, to take them down. We can get out of the woods into the road, and out of darkness into daylight, if we choose to do so. We wanted good laws, and we have come at last under the dome of Wash- ington, and up the stairways of Congress. By civilization and progress, we are no longer the serfs of society, but the sovereigns. What we think, and say, and do, is not now a mere mat- ter of club-rooms, third floors, and back base- ments, but a national concern. We are in the reading-desk; have we mastered the alphabet? We are at the helm of the ship; do we know the chart? Have we the necessary wisdom to see our chances and to use them? The bag of flour is on the table; can we make a decent loaf of bread? These are grave questions, and it is well to think them over, and where we find a shortage in weight, to make it up, and when we find un- fitness to set ourselves to the task of wiping it off the slate. It is on this line, and in this new position, that the necessity of more knowledge, and the value of education, are as plain as a 1ikestaff. We may have common sense and the average half-ounce of good intentions. These are good in their place, and are absolutely in- dispensable in all the details of life; but they cannot clean a clock, run a train, or lead la- bor up the ladder of its chances. Good inten- tions may fail at setting a broken leg, and a lump of muscle may not make up for a spoon- ful of brain; and the time has come for us to study as much as we smoke, and to think as much as we talk. We have the chance of get- ting books as easy as we do tobacco, and news- papers as cheap as a pair of shoe-strings. More than that, with our organizations we can con- nect lyceums and lectures, and start systematic programs of lodge studies, and thus, by our shouting less and thinking more, we can be able, in an educational sense, to utilize our op- portunities. We have also in sight the direct way of being better off in our stock of eatables, clothes, and dollar-bills, by such a process as that of co6peration. A woan FOR COOPERATION. JUST remember that file of twenty-eight poor weavers, tramping over the cobblestones of Toad Lane in Rochdale, taking down the shut- ters of an old factory-room, and stocking it with VOL. XLV.19. groceries, with the shoeblacks throwing mud at them, and the policeman uncertain whether they were tramps or lunatics. They went on, however, in the way of weaving by day and running their store at night, buying out of their investment what they wanted of tea, sugar, matches, and bacon. In 1844 they started with just 28 members and a capital of /28. In 1867 they had 6,823 members, /128,435 in funds, had done business to the amount of /284,910, and had accumulated the round sum of /41,619 as clear profit. There is no reason why we should not add to our little store by such enterprise and good sense. It is a grand idea; there is no such like it in any scheme for our industrial well-being. We are grumbling, and very rightly too, about the way the money runs; most of it, like the rain on a roof, into a few big tubs, and sparing only some chance pailfuls for the rest of us. By co- operation we can change this system of big water-pipes, and do some good plumbing on our own account. There are some men in the world who would persuade us that the inequali- ties of wealth can be removed by anarchy and revolutionby upsetting the farmers wagon and having a general good time in eating his watermelons. They teach us the doctrine of a forcible division of all things, so that no mans share of gold and silver, beef, mutton, cake, and pie,- shall be more than any others. It never was, never can, and never will be done. A given amount of work or investment has its legitimate results. We may not get it in every case, but, when we do, no man has the right to the eggs, so long as we own the hens, or to the crop, so long as we paid for the seed and did our own plowing. What we want is not a division, but a system of cobperation and profit- sharing that is distributive without being un- just. To bring about such a system is one of our aims, and, like all other things worth having, it will be on the line of hard work, com- mon sense, and fair play. The principle of co- operation goes to show that the wrongs of industrial life at which we kick are most of them removable by judicious methods, and not by any other means that we know of. PROFIT-SHARING. THE idea of profit-sharing is in the same direction, though not so far advanced, as co6peration. It is not a move from the labor side, but from that of capital toward labor, by giving it a share in the profits of its invest- ment. It is a step up-stairs, and its application and benefits depend on ourselves. It is a mat- ter of much promise to us workers, as recog- nizing faithful service, energy, and well-doing. it meets us in our want of capital by giving 138 SOME EXPOSITION USES OF SUNDA 1K us a share of investments toward which we could not spare a dollar, and it is adaptable to our present condition of ignorance (most of us with no knowledge or tact whatever) in the manipulation of money and the management of business. We look upon profit-sharing as a step on the line of progress, and as indicating on the part of employers a ~vise and manly intent to make our lot better than it is. Our chance lies in being equal to our duties, and not abusing our privileges. In these things there is no room for demagogues or dead- heads; the lazy and the shiftless, the drunken and the dishonest, must rub their elbow-joints somewhere else. We want no such sand in our sugar; and to my fellow-toilers I would say: Let us be as deserving of our rights as we have been noisy over our wrongs. We have no faith in any nonsense that thinks it can make the world so fiat that there will be no hills to climb and no holes to tumble into, and life in general so easy that we can go to heaven on padded chairs. There will always be some of us who will spend all they get, as if it was a hot coal in their jeans or a pot of butter in their hats. Men will lie, and cheat, and be tyrants, so long as this old planet throws a round shadow on the silent moon; but for such as are not of that kind the outlook is clear and the future full of hope. The chances are in our favor if we are but wise enough so to see them, and are not so loose-fingered as to let them slip. We workingmen have, as a class, our faults and follies; we have had our backsets, and we have some excuses for our ignorance: but be the past all it has been of wrongs, tyrannies, rags, tears, and bare bones, we can be even the better for that stern disciplineif we do not come short of our duty. Fred Woodrow. SOME EXPOSITION USES OF SUNDAY. FOREIGNER, sitting be- side a Vermont stage- driver, after observing for some time the rugged and barren aspect of the re- gion through which he was passing, is said to have ex- i..........J claimed, What do they raise in this country, anyhow? To which the driver replied, with sententious brevity, They raise men. It was an answer which had the preeminent merit of being true. The somewhat austere and discouraging conditions under which in many parts of a new country men have wrought and built have issued in certain substantial qualities of character which have had not a little to do with the virtue of communities and the greatness of a state; and thus it was, at any rate in the earlier stages of its existence, that the nation which is soon to celebrate the fourrhundredth anniversary of the discovery of America may be said to have vindicated the wisdom of the American experiment. Since those earlier days, with their stern ex- periences, the situation has greatly changed. The emergencies which challenged those who laid the foundations of a new civilization amid the wildernesses of North America have de- veloped an energy, and stimulated an ingenu- ity, of which, next year in Chicago, we are to see the latest and richest fruits. There can be little doubt of the splendor of the Exposition, or of the impressive variety of its various features. Quick as is our western mind to recognize and appropriate almost everything that is excellent in older civilizations, it has been quicker still to develop the forces, and to create the instruments, by means of which tasks hitherto regarded as almost impossible have been swiftly and triumphantly achieved; and in whatever else the Exposition of 1893 may be wanting, itwill not be lacking in bewilder- ing illustrations of human ingenuity and of mechanic and artistic skill. The tendency of the lavish production of these things is noticeable wherever we turn. Life is fuller, we are told, in these days than it was in the days of our fathers, and in more than one sense this is not to be disputed. It is fuller of conveniences, it is fuller of luxuries, it is fuller of a kind of restlessness which is not necessarily unwholesome, since out of it has come so much benevolent and beneficent activity in many forms. But whether life is really fuller in the sense that it is richer, and more ~vorthily intelli- gent, and more generously aspiring, is a very different question. I shall not undertake to an- swer it, but it would seem as ifs, just now, it were in many ways, and for the bib reasons,worth answering. A people may be great in one sense by virtue of what it has. Extent of territory, variety of resources, felicity of situation (a very unique characteristic of our American commu- nity), may go far toward making it great in a sense in which nations are often so estimated. Again, a nation may be great because of what it has done; the territory it has subdued, the

Henry C. Potter Potter, Henry C. Columbian Exposition: Some Exposition Uses of Sunday 138-141

138 SOME EXPOSITION USES OF SUNDA 1K us a share of investments toward which we could not spare a dollar, and it is adaptable to our present condition of ignorance (most of us with no knowledge or tact whatever) in the manipulation of money and the management of business. We look upon profit-sharing as a step on the line of progress, and as indicating on the part of employers a ~vise and manly intent to make our lot better than it is. Our chance lies in being equal to our duties, and not abusing our privileges. In these things there is no room for demagogues or dead- heads; the lazy and the shiftless, the drunken and the dishonest, must rub their elbow-joints somewhere else. We want no such sand in our sugar; and to my fellow-toilers I would say: Let us be as deserving of our rights as we have been noisy over our wrongs. We have no faith in any nonsense that thinks it can make the world so fiat that there will be no hills to climb and no holes to tumble into, and life in general so easy that we can go to heaven on padded chairs. There will always be some of us who will spend all they get, as if it was a hot coal in their jeans or a pot of butter in their hats. Men will lie, and cheat, and be tyrants, so long as this old planet throws a round shadow on the silent moon; but for such as are not of that kind the outlook is clear and the future full of hope. The chances are in our favor if we are but wise enough so to see them, and are not so loose-fingered as to let them slip. We workingmen have, as a class, our faults and follies; we have had our backsets, and we have some excuses for our ignorance: but be the past all it has been of wrongs, tyrannies, rags, tears, and bare bones, we can be even the better for that stern disciplineif we do not come short of our duty. Fred Woodrow. SOME EXPOSITION USES OF SUNDAY. FOREIGNER, sitting be- side a Vermont stage- driver, after observing for some time the rugged and barren aspect of the re- gion through which he was passing, is said to have ex- i..........J claimed, What do they raise in this country, anyhow? To which the driver replied, with sententious brevity, They raise men. It was an answer which had the preeminent merit of being true. The somewhat austere and discouraging conditions under which in many parts of a new country men have wrought and built have issued in certain substantial qualities of character which have had not a little to do with the virtue of communities and the greatness of a state; and thus it was, at any rate in the earlier stages of its existence, that the nation which is soon to celebrate the fourrhundredth anniversary of the discovery of America may be said to have vindicated the wisdom of the American experiment. Since those earlier days, with their stern ex- periences, the situation has greatly changed. The emergencies which challenged those who laid the foundations of a new civilization amid the wildernesses of North America have de- veloped an energy, and stimulated an ingenu- ity, of which, next year in Chicago, we are to see the latest and richest fruits. There can be little doubt of the splendor of the Exposition, or of the impressive variety of its various features. Quick as is our western mind to recognize and appropriate almost everything that is excellent in older civilizations, it has been quicker still to develop the forces, and to create the instruments, by means of which tasks hitherto regarded as almost impossible have been swiftly and triumphantly achieved; and in whatever else the Exposition of 1893 may be wanting, itwill not be lacking in bewilder- ing illustrations of human ingenuity and of mechanic and artistic skill. The tendency of the lavish production of these things is noticeable wherever we turn. Life is fuller, we are told, in these days than it was in the days of our fathers, and in more than one sense this is not to be disputed. It is fuller of conveniences, it is fuller of luxuries, it is fuller of a kind of restlessness which is not necessarily unwholesome, since out of it has come so much benevolent and beneficent activity in many forms. But whether life is really fuller in the sense that it is richer, and more ~vorthily intelli- gent, and more generously aspiring, is a very different question. I shall not undertake to an- swer it, but it would seem as ifs, just now, it were in many ways, and for the bib reasons,worth answering. A people may be great in one sense by virtue of what it has. Extent of territory, variety of resources, felicity of situation (a very unique characteristic of our American commu- nity), may go far toward making it great in a sense in which nations are often so estimated. Again, a nation may be great because of what it has done; the territory it has subdued, the SOME EXPOSITION USES OF S UNJ9A Y 39 railroads it has built, the towns it has planted, the institutions it has created, the feebler peo- l)les whom it has conquered, the vast immigra- tion which it has more or less perfectly assimi- lated. But it will hardly be denied that a nation is truly great not so much because of what it has, or has done, as because of what it isthe virtue of its citizens, the equity of its laws, the justice and purity of their enactment and their administration; the worthy use of its wealth, if it has wealth; if it has power, the righteous and scrupulous use of its power. And if at any time, in connection with any memorable anni- versary in its history, it undertakes at once to commemorate and illustrate its achievements, it would seem as if it might wisely and worthily associate with such commemoration some seri- ous and resolute endeavor to take account of its resources in their higher aspect, and to con- sider the relation of material progress to that other progress which is intellectual and moral. It is this consideration which has suggested the title which is prefixed to this paper. A very just jealousy has already disclosed itself lest the approaching Columbian Exposition should become indirectly the means of ob- scuring the American ideal of the Day of Rest, and it has been affirmed that to open the Ex- position for any purpose whatever on Sundays would go a long way toward precipitating this result. In other pages than these1 I have ven- tured to submit some considerations why some modification of these views might wisely be entertained. Of the danger of any substantial surrender of them I am as profoundly per- suaded as any one can be; and if it is to be a question between the complete closing of the Exposition, and such surrender of it to secular uses on Sundays as makes no discrimination between Sundays and week-days, then, for one, I should be in favor of the most rigorous clos- ing of every door. But the question which I have ventured elsewhere to raise is the ques- tion whether there might not be some uses of it which are not incongruous with our American traditions of the essential sanctity of Sunday, and whether these uses are impossible in Chicago. Says Macaulay, in his essay on Mit- fords Greece: The history of nations, in the sense in which I use the word, is often best studied in works not professedly historical. But it is not alone its history that a people needs to study, but the tendencies and the significance of its history; and, above all, the substantial worth and helpful relations, in the highest aspect of them, of the things which it has achieved. And so it would seem that if we could enlarge and emphasize the teaching 1 See Sunday and the Colombian Exposition, in The Forum, October, 1892. power of a great Exposition, we would be do- ing the best kind of service to those whom it will attract. It is not, surely, merely for the gratification of our national vanity, or for the exhibition of our national complacency, that we are heaping together our material achieve- ments, and inviting the rest of the world to compete with us! But if there is to be serviceable teaching, it may reasonably be demanded that there should be competent teachers. In one sense, certainly, a dumb and motionless construction may be an eloquent teacher. But it will be a much more eloquent teacher if it has some one to explain and interpret it. And it will be eloquent most of all if it has some one who is competent to show its significance, and to point out its relations to those higher aspects of our civilization which have to do with its highest aims. It is here, as I think, that some uses of Sunday suggest them- selves which certainly are not incongruous with its sanctity, and which are as certainly far bet- ter than to dismiss great numbers of people to a day spent largely, if not wholly, in mere idle- ness. For the moment we may leave out of sight the eminent probability that very few peo- ple will consent to spend it in this way. We may assume, if we will, that a large majority of them will devote at least a part of it to acts of religious worship and a part of it to absolute rest. We may dismiss from our minds the ap- prehension that many persons will find in the enforced idleness of Sunday in a strange city temptations to some evil uses of idle hours. All this, I say, we may for the moment leave wholly out of account. The question still remains whether there may not be uses for Sunday, in connection with an anniversary so exceptional, which may be not unworthy of association with a very sacred day and of those whose aims and interests are not exclusively material. For in what, after all, does the true wealth of nations consist~? Adam Smith to the con- trary, it may safely be said that it consists in the possession of noble ideals. It is the maintenance of these that gives us a State which raises men; it is the quickening of these which gives us a character which achieves enduring results. But it is the mis- fortune of a national or international exposi- tion that it is an illustration mainly of the achievements of human handiwork. Whether it be in tools or machinery, or even in pictures and sculpture, it is mainly an exhibition of what has been wrought in material elements. But suppose that one whose good fortune it will be to see all this marvelous assemblage of what machinery and the handicrafts have wrought, could enjoy the greater good fortune of seeing them in the company of one who was wise and able and clever enough to com 140 SOME EXPOSITION USES OF S UN]9A Y. prehend them in their relations to other things, and in their larger relations to that complex thing which we call modern life. Suppose that as one came into the presence of this great ob- ject-lesson there moved beside him one who knew how, adequately, to interpret it. This, at any rate, would be to bring us into contact with something nobler and more interesting than matter, because it would be the mind that wrought in and triumphed by means of it. And, to go a step further, suppose that there were some one who could gather up for us the larger lessons of this or that or the other department of a great exposition, and make us sensible of its significance as a part of the onward march of modern civilization. This surely would be not alone to see some- thing, but to learn something; and so, in the loftiest sense, a great exposition would be- come not merely a colossal show, but a mighty and ennobling educator. Is such a thing impossible? Are there not men in our American universities and colleges, in public life, in the full tide of successful pro- fessional activity, scores and hundreds of whom could render luminous and edifying a whole range of themes which a great international exposition would easily and immediately sug- gest? There are men scattered all over the continent whom many of us know through their pens, but whom it would be an inesti- mable privilege to know through the living voices. In every department of science, of art, of letters, there are teachers competent to turn Chicago into a glorious school in which all that one saw there was but the prelude to what one heard and learned with the ear and the mind. And does anybody who recalls the names and the gifts of these teachers doubt that, if opportunity were given them, they could speak to the multitudes who would gladly hear them of the higher significance of the intellectual and material achievements of the last four hun- dred yearsnot in the dry tones of merely scientific or technical analysis, but with that larger and finer vision which sees in tbings ma- terial the sign and emblem of truths and forces which are part of a higher realm? We talk of civilization, and of the mechanism of it, but can we go even a little way in its study with- out discovering how closely it is related to the moral history of nations and the progress of ideas? Somebody has said that gunpowder has had almost as much to do with the spread of truth as printing; and though the phrase may sound paradoxical, it is not difficult to see how the expulsion of the old barbarisms, whether of peace or of war, like the retreat of ignorance before the onward march of knowledge, has borne no insignificant part in lifting the life of nations to a cleaner and more righteous level. But the value of such suggestions, if they have any at all, lies chiefly in this, that they open the way for others that are at once more obviously and appropriately connected with all our tra- ditional conceptions of the American Sunday. To most of us that day stands supremely as an institution of religion. But for what is religion, if it be not for the revelation and the inculca- tion of moral ideals? It may have, most surely it has, other uses, but this, no less surely, is pre- eminent among them. And so ig when Sunday came to the Exposition in Chicago, it could be assumed that in some great hail in the midst of it there would be some worthy and inipressive presentation of theseif the nation should summon its ablest and most eloquent teachers and bid them do for us the prophets work amid such profoundly interesting and suggestive sur- roundings, it would hardly summon them in vain. For Ham/el was right: Sure, he that made us with such large discourse Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unused. And no appeal made to that faculty will be made wholly in vain. AND if~ then, in connection with such occa- sions, or as included in the scheme of which they were a part, it could be so ordered that the mighty forces of music could be invoked, if on Sunday afternoons or evenings the multi- tudes assembled in Chicago from hamlet and village and prairie that rarely or never hear the great works of the great masters, Mozart and Beethoven, Handel, Haydn, Bach, Wagner, and their compeers, could be lifted for a little on the mighty wings of grand and majestic harmonies, and made conscious of that subtle tranfusion of the sensible into the spiritual, which, in some aspects of it, seems to be the sole province of music, surely that, too,would be no unworthy use of a day consecrated to lofty visions and unuttered aspirations. And then, finally, ig in addition to all this,there could be, not alone in immediate connection with the Exposition itself, but in every sanctuary and pulpit of the great city, thronged and vibrant with a great and keen curiosity, some elect and chosen voices to speak for God and Duty and Patriotism and Self-sacrifice and the Eternal Verities, that, too, would be an undertaking worthy of the best energies of those who might give themselves to it, and worthy no less of the great religious ideals of a great people. Already we are hearing much of the religious exhibits Sunday-school furniture, ecclesiastical ves- sels and vestments, the paraphernalia of cere- monial, or the machinery of Church work. It 1 Hamlet, act iv. Sc. 4. REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM 4 xviii be well enough to have such things; but it will be better to have some living incarna- tions of the office of religion as a teacher, a guide to men in dark places, a Voice of cour- age and of hope amid the sorrow and burden of life. And so may the Exposition realize its noblest result to help men to knoxv, to think, to corn- pare, to remember, and to aspire. It may be that the dream which I have thus far sketcbed will seem to many impossible of realization; but if the same energy and ability and organ- ized endeavor which have already shown them- selves in other directions shall attempt to make it so, I am persuaded that it may become an ennobling reality. H ;zry C. Potter. REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM.1 BY A MEMBER OF THE COMMUNITY.2 JOINED the Brook Farm, of which George Ripley may be held the founder, on the last day of May, 1841. Part of the company had already be- gun work there about the first of April. Some engagements prevented my joining them until the last of May, although I had enrolled my- self among them some time before. Among those I found there were Mr. and Mrs. Rip- ley; Miss Marianne Ripley, a sister of Mr. Ripley; Nathaniel Hawthorne; and Warren Burton, who had been a Unitarian clergyman, and was the author of several little books, among them The District School as it was. Mr. Ripley, who had been for some time the minister of a Unitarian congregation in Boston, was a scholar of much metaphysical and theo- logical acuteness and learning, of a sanguine temperament, and xvith a remarkable power of rapid acquisition and perception perhaps a little hasty in his conclusions, and with other characteristics of a sanguine temperament. His mind was filled and possessed xvith the idea of some form of communism or co5peration, and some mode of life that seemed to produce better conditions for humanity; and was in- formed to some extent of what had been said and written on these subjects. Whether he was at this time acquainted with the ideas and works of Fourier, I cannot say; my own im- pression is that he was, but others, who are perhaps better informed than myself, tell me that he did not become acquainted with them till later, after he had been some time at Brook Farm. I think he must, at least, have known 1 The association continued in existence and oper- ation until some time in 1847, after the loss by fire of a very extensive building (called phalanstery) before it was finished. The whole enterprise was abandoned mainly, I think, from financial troubles and embarrass- ments. 2 The author of this paper died recently, at an ad something of them through the writing of Al- bert Brisbane. When he became acquainted with them he was at first certainly not disposed to adopt them fully; but later he and other members tried to arrange the institution on principles of Fouriers theories. Finding many disposed to sympathize practically or theoret- ically with his views and plans, he went for- ward with an ardor and zeal that were inspiring to those who came in contact xvith him, with a genuine and warm interest in the idea of as- sociation, and faith in the benefits it promised to humanity. Full of enthusiasm for his hopes and schemes, he threw himself into them with disinterested zeal, and worked long and ear- nestly and with much self-denial for their ac- complishment. Mrs. Ripley, too, who was of an energetic and enthusiastic temperament, en- tered into his viexvs very heartily, and was al- ways a prominent and important person in the conduct of the enterprise, and entered xvith zeal and efficiency into all the departments in xvhich she could take part. There appeared a just and favorable notice of her in some pleasing papers on Brook Farm, in the Atlan- tic Monthly, written by one of our zealous and very useful co-workers.3 With them came Miss Marianne Ripley, who bad had a school for young children in Boston, several of xvhom she brought with her. She lived in a small house close by the farm, which xve called the Nest, and had a warm interest in the enterprise. Charles A. Dana, now editor of the New York Sun, was an important member, and for a long time, I think till the close of the institution. He came to us from Harvard Col- lege,which he bad been obliged to leave, I think, vanced age. He was a man somewhat of the Emerson- ian type, of singular purity and loveliness of character. He was a teacher by nature as well as by profession, and one whose influence was as elevating as it has been abiding in many livesTHE EDITOR. 3 Miss Amelia Russell,formerly of Milton, not now living.

George P. Bradford Bradford, George P. Reminiscences of Brook Farm 141-148

REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM 4 xviii be well enough to have such things; but it will be better to have some living incarna- tions of the office of religion as a teacher, a guide to men in dark places, a Voice of cour- age and of hope amid the sorrow and burden of life. And so may the Exposition realize its noblest result to help men to knoxv, to think, to corn- pare, to remember, and to aspire. It may be that the dream which I have thus far sketcbed will seem to many impossible of realization; but if the same energy and ability and organ- ized endeavor which have already shown them- selves in other directions shall attempt to make it so, I am persuaded that it may become an ennobling reality. H ;zry C. Potter. REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM.1 BY A MEMBER OF THE COMMUNITY.2 JOINED the Brook Farm, of which George Ripley may be held the founder, on the last day of May, 1841. Part of the company had already be- gun work there about the first of April. Some engagements prevented my joining them until the last of May, although I had enrolled my- self among them some time before. Among those I found there were Mr. and Mrs. Rip- ley; Miss Marianne Ripley, a sister of Mr. Ripley; Nathaniel Hawthorne; and Warren Burton, who had been a Unitarian clergyman, and was the author of several little books, among them The District School as it was. Mr. Ripley, who had been for some time the minister of a Unitarian congregation in Boston, was a scholar of much metaphysical and theo- logical acuteness and learning, of a sanguine temperament, and xvith a remarkable power of rapid acquisition and perception perhaps a little hasty in his conclusions, and with other characteristics of a sanguine temperament. His mind was filled and possessed xvith the idea of some form of communism or co5peration, and some mode of life that seemed to produce better conditions for humanity; and was in- formed to some extent of what had been said and written on these subjects. Whether he was at this time acquainted with the ideas and works of Fourier, I cannot say; my own im- pression is that he was, but others, who are perhaps better informed than myself, tell me that he did not become acquainted with them till later, after he had been some time at Brook Farm. I think he must, at least, have known 1 The association continued in existence and oper- ation until some time in 1847, after the loss by fire of a very extensive building (called phalanstery) before it was finished. The whole enterprise was abandoned mainly, I think, from financial troubles and embarrass- ments. 2 The author of this paper died recently, at an ad something of them through the writing of Al- bert Brisbane. When he became acquainted with them he was at first certainly not disposed to adopt them fully; but later he and other members tried to arrange the institution on principles of Fouriers theories. Finding many disposed to sympathize practically or theoret- ically with his views and plans, he went for- ward with an ardor and zeal that were inspiring to those who came in contact xvith him, with a genuine and warm interest in the idea of as- sociation, and faith in the benefits it promised to humanity. Full of enthusiasm for his hopes and schemes, he threw himself into them with disinterested zeal, and worked long and ear- nestly and with much self-denial for their ac- complishment. Mrs. Ripley, too, who was of an energetic and enthusiastic temperament, en- tered into his viexvs very heartily, and was al- ways a prominent and important person in the conduct of the enterprise, and entered xvith zeal and efficiency into all the departments in xvhich she could take part. There appeared a just and favorable notice of her in some pleasing papers on Brook Farm, in the Atlan- tic Monthly, written by one of our zealous and very useful co-workers.3 With them came Miss Marianne Ripley, who bad had a school for young children in Boston, several of xvhom she brought with her. She lived in a small house close by the farm, which xve called the Nest, and had a warm interest in the enterprise. Charles A. Dana, now editor of the New York Sun, was an important member, and for a long time, I think till the close of the institution. He came to us from Harvard Col- lege,which he bad been obliged to leave, I think, vanced age. He was a man somewhat of the Emerson- ian type, of singular purity and loveliness of character. He was a teacher by nature as well as by profession, and one whose influence was as elevating as it has been abiding in many livesTHE EDITOR. 3 Miss Amelia Russell,formerly of Milton, not now living. 142 from some trouble in his eyes. He was sanguine in temperament, with all the ardor of youth, and of great natural energy and rather arbi- trary will, of fine personal appearance and at- tractive qualities in some other respects. Being, as I think, somewhat of a doctrinaire, he em- braced the ideas and modes of operation with ardor and systematic energy; and, as he brought with him from Harvard the latest improve- ments in scholarly law, filled an important l)lace as teacher, worker, and counselor. Dana did not come at the beginning, but later than myself, in the course of the first summer. MinotPratt, who with his family came in the course of the first summer, wa savery valuable accession to our society. He had been a printer, but was drawn to the Brook Farm enterprise by sympathy with its object and the mode of life, as well as by his taste for agriculture, which last he retained during his life. He was a man of singular purity and up- rightness of character and simplicity of taste, and was in many ways a very valuable mem- ber. In the later years of his life he was much devoted to the study of botany, and had a very peculiar, personal, and most extensive practical knowledge of the plants of Concord, where he passed the remaining years of his life after leaving Brook Farm. A man who proved to be a valuable and generally liked member of our company was John Cheever. He was said to be son of an English baronet, and once held some posi- tion, I think, in the government of Canada. What the previous life of Cheever had been I cannot say. We found him intelligent, kind- ly, obliging, and very capable and useful in some directions. His case was a pathetic one: from his former experience in life and a natural insight into character he seemed especially drawn to persons of superior culture and refinement, who in their turn became much attached to him; yet he always seemed to feel a sort of gulf between them and him- self. Then a very important person to us in our inexperience in farming was Tom Allen, a young farmer from Vermont who had become interested in the idea this was one of our pet phrases. He was valued and rather looked up to for his knowledge of farm work, and had pleasing traits of natural refinement. Besides those I have mentioned, there were others of marked and interesting character among them several young women, who, if not much known to fame, made a strong and last- ing impression on the friends who had the good fortune to know them and enjoy their friendship. I joined the company, as I said, the last of May. I arrived at evening, and the first im- pression was not very cheerful, the whole as- pect of things being a little forlorn. Perhaps the company were tired out with the hard farm work, which I think the novices found more exacting than they had expected. Taken from books and comparative luxury and elegance of living, and obliged to work, day in and day out, in shoveling in the barn-yard, which Mr. Ripley called his gold-mine, they were quite wearied and naturally a little depressed. But the next day, June i, made ample amends. It was to be a sort of holiday. Various groups of ladies who had been pupils and friends of Mrs. Ripleymany of them with their young children came out from the city to pass a festive day. The excitement of the arrival of the successive parties; the exuberant spirits of the children on their holiday, on this loveli- est of June days, and amid the very charming fields, woods, and knolls that made up or surrounded the farm, or skirted the lively brook that gave name to the place; the en- thusiasm of the new devotees to a life that looked so beautiful and fascinating on such a day; theinterest of those from the outside world who came to see old friends in so novel an en- vironment ,gave a sort of glamour to the whole scene, and to the enjoyment of the day. It seemed Arcadia rediix at least, if we had not got As/rcra redux. To the new inmates and cultivators it appeared the promise of a new, beautiful, and poetical life. We were floated away by the tide of young life around us. I dwell a little on this day, which may seem to my readers very like an ordinary picnic, be- cause it was the type and precursor of many such golden days that at intervals came to throw a bright light over our life, mingled, as it was, with heavy and burdensome toil and care for some of us. There was always a large number of young people in our company, as scholars, boarders, etc., and this led to a con- siderable mingling of amusement in our life; and, moreover, some of our company had a special taste and skill in arranging and direct- ing this element. So we had very varied amusements suited to the different seasons tableaux, charades, dancing, masquerades, and rural filtes out of doors, and in the win- ter, skating, coasting, etc. I have some vivid and pleasant recollections of exciting scenes by moonlight on the knolls, meadows, and river, with the weird aspects of its wooded banks under the wintry moon. One great charm of the life at first, and in- deed long after, was in the free and natural in- tercourse for which it gave opportunity, and in the working of the elective affinities which here had a fuller play; so that although there was a kindly feeling running through the family REMINISCENCES OF BROOK fARM. REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM 43 generally, little groups of friends drawn to- gether into closer relations by taste and sym- nathy soon declared themselves. For the first summer certainly, and indeed long after, the mode of life was felt to be very charming by most of those who were there. The relief from the fetters and burdensome forms of society, The greetings where no kindness is, And all the dreary intercourse of daily life, was a constant delight to those who had suf- fered from them in the artificial arrangements of society; the inmates were brought together in more natural relations, and thus realized the charm of true and hearty intercourse; and at the same time the relief and pleasures of soli- tude were not wanting: one could withdraw to the solitude of the woods, or of his own room without offense to any. There was for a long time a large element of romantic feeling and much enthusiasm, es- pecially among the young and more inexperi- enced, and those who knew nothing of the embarrassment of providing ways and means. For there was much in the existing conditions of our life to excite and promote this enthu- siasm: the picturesque situation,with something of wild beauty, with the rocks, woods, mead- ows, river, and the novelty of our position, where each step was often a new experiment, and with new aspects ever developing them- selves. Nor was this enthusiasm confined to the young and more ignorant; there was some- thing of the /~e mont~e pervading the family which led sometimes to those vagaries or hallu- cinations which afforded many a derisive laugh to the world without. But if in some instances there was a slight falsetto tone, there were a great deal of genuine faith and hope in the idea, and a conviction that this was, in many respects at least, a truer and better, as well as happier, life than that of the unfortunates who, according to our phraseology, were still in civi- lization (for this was a term of somexvhat sinister importwith us), andperhaps among the sen- sitive and thoughtful carried to a foolish excess a feeling of pity for the civilized, as we de- noted those not yet emancipated and still strug- gling with the evils of civilized life. At the same time, let me say that it seems to me, as I recollect, that the feeling with which the more serious and thoughtful went into this enterprise was very simple, and with no speci~i preten- sion or assumption of superiority. Their motive and object was to work out for themselves a life better suited to their tastes and feelings than xvas possible in the common social arrangements, and which was thus deemed more consonant to the real de- mands of humanity. The condition was somewhat like that of travelers in a new and unknown country. New vistas were constantly opening, and new aspects developed. The effect was a sort of exhilarating surprise and excitement, such as comes in traveling among new scenes. Much of the work the first summer was making and getting in the hay from our very extensive meadows and fields. This was pleas- ant work, and I have very agreeable recollec- tions of raking and otherwise working over many an acre in close company with Haw- thorne, with whom I first became acquainted here. He, as I understood him, was attracted to the enterprise by the hope of finding some more satisfactory and congenial opportunity of living according to his tastes and views than in the common arrangements of society, and also of uniting successfully manual with intellectual work. But he was, I think, disappointed in this, and found it not easy to combine writing with severe bodily toil; and as the former was so manifestly his vocation, he gave up farm work at the end of the first summer, and although he remained there some time longer, Part of the following winter it was as a boarder, not as a worker. The younger people, as usual, had their admiration and their worships, and Hawthorne was eminently fitted to be one of these, partly from the prestige of his reputation, partly from a real appreciation of his genius as a writer, as well as from the impression made by his remarkable and fine personal appearance, in which manly vigor and beauty were com- bined. He was shy and silent, and, though he mingled with the rest of the company in the evening gatherings in the hall and parlor of the Hive, he was apparently self-absorbed, but doubtless carefully observing and finding ma- terial for his writing. The incident introduced into The Blithedale Romance which is com- monly considered as giving the result of his life and observation at Brook Farm, the drowning of one 6f his characters with its ghastly features, did not really occur here, but in another place at some distance, and really had no connection. We had a good deal of enjoyment in becoming acquainted with and practising some of the industries of life un- known to us before, and in this, besides the ex- citement and novelty, was an accession of power in the exercise of some branches of this know- ledge, humble as they may seem. Besides the agricultural knowledge and experience so in- teresting to many of us, there was a feeling of healthy reality in knowing and coming into close contact with some of the coarser forms of labor and drudgery which go to make up that demd grind of life so distasteful to Mr. Mantalini. For instance, we spent some pleasant days working in a peat meadow. Interesting, indeed, 44 REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM. was the charming situation, surrounded as it was by woods, and lying along the pretty Charles River near Dedham, Massachusetts; the learn- ing something of a very old, hut to us new, kind of industry in the various operations of paring, cutting, and stacking the peat. I think Hawthorne was with us on some of these occasions. Then there was the great work of the wash-room, into which a large number of our company were drawn or thrown out, according to experience of fitness or the needs of the household. I may perhaps be allowed to dwell rather fully on some personal experiences, and indulge in some egotistic narration, on the ground of the magna pars fui ; for, besides serving a while in the wash- room, and pounding the clothes in a barrel or hogshead with a sort of heavy wooden pestle, in which process I learned something of the mystery of that remarkable disappearance of buttons from garments in passing through the laundry, so inconvenient and vexatious to bachelors, and wringing them out, not so simple a process as it might seem, I had for a considerable time the chief care of the clothes- line and of han.ging out; for it.was a part of our chivalry, in order to save labor and expense to the women, for the men to take on themselves, or have assigned to them, some of the harder and more exposing portions of the work. I have labored in the above-mentioned process of pounding the clothes by the side of some since well known and distinguished in the lit- erary and political world. Mrs. Ripley, too, whose most important function, besides a sort of general superintendence, was teaching, but whose zeal and energy led her to take part in various industries, sometimes shared in the labors of the wash-room. Then there was the experience of milking the cows, which could not be omitted by those bent on agricultural education; so some of us learned and practised the mystery of this accomplishment, somewhat to our own sat- isfaction, but apparently not so much so to that of the animals. But in time matters ar- ranged themselves, and we came to the con- clusion, reluctantly perhaps, that the old Phil- istine way might, after all, be the better, more sensible, and more economical; viz., that work requiring skill and experience should be ex- ecuted by those who had had the proper train- ing, rather than by amateurs, however our culture might suffer by the loss. But let it not be supposed that we had none but unskilled workers. There were some men of skill and experience in various departments, and inca- pable amateurs could be easily reformed out of office, as our system was flexible and readily yielded to the demands of our household work. I may mention, as an instance of the way in which we accommodated ourselves to our needs, our arrangements of the waiting de- partment. When our table had grown so large that it was found inconvenient to pass the dishes backward and forxvard, and as the getting up from the table to help ourselves as we might want anything seemed not quite or- derly, a special corps of waiters was detailed for this work, and to this were assigned some of the younger and more ornamental members of the company. A difficulty we found in the attempt to unite work of the head and the hands was the loss of time in passing from one to the other, especially for those engaged both in out-of- door work or other manual labor and in teach- ing. Thus, something of this kind might be likely to occur: we might leave our hoeing, weeding, haying, etc., and go from the fields to the house for a lesson with some pupil who, himself zealously engaged in hunting or trap- ping woodchucks, muskrats, or squirrels, or like absorbing occupation, might not be mindful of the less important lesson. The question is naturally asked, What were the financial resources and whence the funds for the daily support of the family? The pur- chase of the estate, and the carrying on of the farm and household were, at first, and for a few months (through the first summer per- haps), the private enterprise of Mr. Ripley; and those of us who went there did so by some arrangement with him, most of us work- ing for and with him, and receiving in return our daily support without any very definite or exact bargain. There were also boarders and scholars from whom, as well as from the sale and use of some of the various products of the farm milk, hay, vegetables, etc. the neces- sary funds and means of support were derived. After a while the company resolved them- selves into a community, with a systematic organization and with certain conditions, and soon, 1 think, were regularly incorporated as a sort of joint-stock company. In course of time several trades were introduced, and with the farm products contributed something to the necessary fund; but the income at first, and for some time, was mainly derived from board- ers and scholars, some of the latter paying a part or the whole of their board by their work in various ways. This brief sketch of the ways and means is very imperfect, as it is aside from my general design, which is to give mainly my personal reminiscences and impressions. The situation of our farm. was very pleasant. It lay between the towns of Dedham, Newton, and West Roxbury, of which it formed a cor- ner. About the house were wooded knolls, fields, and hills sinking down into a wide REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARAL 45 meadow that extended to Charles River and bordered on it. The place was well adapted to some of our winter pastimes, sledding, coasting, skating, of some of which scenes on moonlight nights many of us have a vivid and agreeable recollection. Through the meadows ran the lively brook from which we had our name; at a little dis- tance from the houses was a fine upland pas- ture which also sloped down to the river, and was a favorite resort for sunset views and twi- light walks. But the farm, though having many pictur- esque charms, was not adapted to be a very profitable one, as much of the land was not well suited for culture, consisting largely of a meadow that bore little but coarse grass, and pastures with rocky ledgespicturesque, indeed, but clothed with a thin, hard soil. There were beautiful and interesting localities in our neighborhood, where we found pleasant walks, or which we utilized for our rural f6tes. The Hive, the original farm-house and first residence of our company, was soon found in- sufficient for our growing numbers, and con- siderable additions were made from time to time; but our numbers still increasing, the Hive could not well hold us all, and we were obliged to swarm. So the Fyrie, after much planning and discussion, was decided on and begun. It was planned with much care and deliberation, but one might perhaps think that more regard was had to esthetic considera- tions than to those of ordinary comfort and convenience. It was pitched high on a rock, whence its name, and with fine picturesque rocks all around; but to climb the shelf on which it stood in wet, snowy, or scorching weather was not easy or comfortable; neither was the journey in the deep snow and mud through which our path lay to and from the Hive, where the operations of cooking and eating were carried on. Besides, there was no well, only a rain-water cistern, which want involved the trouble of fetching water for some purposes. But the situation was charming, and very near was a beautiful grove of pines so well known to the inmates, habitu~s, and loving vis- itors of Brook Farm where so many delight- ful days were passed, and so many charming fetes and entertainments of various kinds en- joyed by those who had the luxury of being idle. Many of our company had a fancy for climbing these trees, and some, a still more odd one of perching or roosting like birds or squirrels on the highest branches. Besides the Eyrie, there were added to our building, in course of time, the Cottage, a pleasant and pretty building where were held many of the gatherings for amusements, and later the Pil- \oL. XLV. 20. grim House; still later, shops and buildings for the various kinds of industry were introduced. The Eyrie itself was a sort of romance of houses: it had no kitchen or fireplace, and so was dishonored or degraded by no culinary uses. One striking thing about it was its acoustic character: it seemed constructed on some, I know not what, acoustic principles by which the sounds of each and all the rooms were, as it seemed, audible in every other; as it was the place for musical instruction, and the scene of the musical exercitations of troops of young beginners, one can, or perhaps can- not, imagine the discomfort of this remarkable property in this singularly constructed build- ing; and though I bad at one time a charming room there, I have not very charming recol- lections of the dreary monotony of scales and exercises through the long, sleepy summer days. I have some pleasant recollections of the large parlor in the Eyrie, which was designed with special reference to our evening gather- ings of various kinds for amusement or im- provement. We had many visitors from the outside world of civiliza/lon, among them some persons of interest and distinction. Miss Margare~t Fuller (afterward Countess Ossoli) was one of these, and was often there as a friend of the Ripleys and of others of the company, as well as from interest in the en- terprise and sympathy with its objects. She was to us an interesting and instructive visi- tor, and would sometimes hold conversations, a favorite mode of teaching with her. Then, too, among our visitors was Orestes A. Brown- son, whose active brain led him to the vari- ous new movements of which the air was full at that time, and finally to a very old institu- tion. He was also a friend of George Rip- leywhether then a Romanist I cannot say. One of the visitors best known to the world was Robert Owen of Scotland. He was nat- urally interested fri our experiment, as he had been engaged in something of a co6perative or communistic character at New Lanark, Scotland. I recollect that I received an agree- able impression of his great simplicity and trans- parency of character, as well as his earnest- ness and warm humanity. Then Miss Frances Ostinelhi, afterward well known in opera as Madame Biscacciarti, spent some time with us. Her fine voice in its youthful purity and fresh- ness was a great delight to us, as her youth- ful beauty and charm were very fascinating to some of the younger members of our com- pany. Then there were the Hutchinsons, a family well known at that time, and a marvel for their sxveet singing, and this especially in the interests of antislavery and temperance. The accord of their voices was very pleasing. A great charm of their singing was a sort of 146 REMINISCENCES OF BROOK FARM. wild freshness, as if brought from their native woods and mountains, and their earnest interest in the objects that formed so much the theme of their songs. We had in our vicinity some agreeable neighbors: among these Theodore Parker, who was a personal friend of Mr. Ripley and others of us, whose church some of us attended, and who often came to see us; for though he did not enter fully into the idea and plans of the Asso- ciation, he of course looked with generous in- terest on all that promised benefit to human- ity. There were also near us other families to whose hroad and liberal sympathy, generous assistance, and genial society we were much indehted. Besides, there came from time to time to see us reformers of a humbler or milder stamp, with various schemes and dogmas for reforming society: vegetarians, come-outers from Church and State, to some of whom no doubt the former was, in the rather strong language current at the time, the Mother of Abominations. Then there were long-bearded reformers dressed all in white, which was in itself a protest against something, I hardly know what; for a very liberal hospitality was exercised from the beginning, for which I think great credit is due to Mr. Ripley. There were also those who came to observe and make trial of our mode of life, or as can- didates for admission on a sort of probation; for, in the narrowness of our means and accom- modations, we could not take all that offered themselves. Mr. Ripley, who, as I have said, was somewhat sanguine in his way of looking at persons and things, would bring us from time to time accounts of applicants that looked to him very desirable, but who on further considera- tion were not accepted; for a very important question in regard to those who wished to join us was the Shylock one, Is he a good man? and this in the Shylock, and not in the ethical sense, and Is he sufficient? and perhaps our applicants were not so apt to have the former sort of goodness as the other, that of a more transcendent kind. Our enterprise attracted a good deal of at- tention and interest, and we certainly had the satisfaction of being much talked about, for good or for evilchiefly the latter. Indeed, it seems strange that it should have been looked upon so unfavorably, and have excited, I may almost say, such bitter hostility. If the world chose to think us very silly and childish and ridiculous in our mistakes, hallu- cinations, and vagaries, and that we had a foolish pretension and self-complacency, it was fair and reasonable enough in them to have their laugh at us; but these follies of ours, if they were so, were very harmless, good- natured, and well-intentioned, and with these there were a real earnestness of philanthropy and worthiness of purpose, which certainly de- served some respect, and were not properly marks for ridicule and malice. This prejudice was no doubt due in some measure to false or exaggerated accounts of our doings which were circulated and, naturally enough, in many cases innocently believed. There were criti- cisms on our fare, which was sometimes not very sumptuous, and on our style of living, which was not very elegant. But we did not go there for luxury, and if there was no elegance, there was certainly a good degree of refinement as far as consistent with our conditions. As an~ instance of this I may mention that the attempt was made to give, as far as possible, separate rooms to those who desired it. One very cur- rent and common misapprehension was that the members of our company were agreed, for the most part in views of extreme radicalism and hostility to the common beliefs and insti- tutions of society. But in fact no such uniform- ity existed; on the contrary, there was a great variety of shades of opinion and feeling. Indeed, there were some who might be con- sidered quite conservative, and often children from families of conservative parents, who were well enough acquainted with the leading per- sons to have confidence that they would get no harm. Some of the stories to which I have alluded related to the way in which Sunday was regarded and treated stories of disrespect and desecratioii of the day, as it was consid- ered, which shocked some persons, but I think without much ground. Quite a number in- clined to go to church, some to Boston, some to Theodore Parkers church, which was at that time in West Roxhury. Others chose to spend the day walking in the woods or other beautiful localities about us. But if not ob- served with much rigor, it was generally, as far as I recollect, a (luiet and peaceful day, and this was in accordance with the wishes and tastes of the principals of the company. At one time, I recollect, Mr. Ripley gave on Sun- day afternoons some account or explanation of Kants philosophy to those who wished to hear him. It should be considered that great freedom existed and pervaded our mode of liv- ing, and the company in general did not feel responsible for the eccentricities of some indi- viduals, or authorized to interfere with them, except perhaps in extreme cases. One of the interesting features of our life was the pleasant and favorable influence with which the young were surrounded. With great freedom in the modes of instruction and dis- cipline, there was no lack of thoroughness, for the most part; and, what was important, there was an inspiring influence either in the circum REkUNISCENCES OF BROOK FARM. 47 stances surrounding, or in the modes of impart- ing knowledge of a very varied character in an informal and genial way, by a variety of teachers with whom the pupils were thrown into near and friendly relations. In our easy way the teachers and pupils interchanged func- tions, the pupils becoming teachers and vice versa. Some of the pupils have become well known in various ways. General Frank Bar- low, so honorably distinguished in our civil war, and politically since, was then but a voun g boy. George Weeks, who went from us to the Williamstown college, where he graduated with honor, became a lawyer, and also had some judicial position. At the first sound of the call to arms to suppress the Re- bellion, he joined the volunteers, I think as captain in the First Massachusetts Regiment, distinguished himself as an officer, and after a gallant career died or was mortally wounded on the field, in some battle of western Vir- ginia, having risen to the rank of general. Then there was George William Curtis, of late so prominent in the literary and political world, and a number of others since esteemed and honored in the community. Isaac Hecker was there for some time, at- tracted by the object and character of the enterprise. He afterward went over to the Romish Church, where he has been a good deal distinguished, and active in the formation of a new order called the Paulist Fathers. John L. Dwight, so well known to the musi- cal world for his zeal and services in the cause of the higher music in our neighborhood, came early with the others of his family, and remained a long time, till the final abandon- ment of the enterprise. Of course his taste and zeal in the interest of the best music could not fail to be of very great value in our commu- nity, among whose objects artistic cultivation held a high place. There were many others whose memory and friendship are sacredly and lovingly cherished by many of us, but this seems hardly a place to give publicity to their names. I have spoken of the gatherings at the Eyrie, where were passed many pleasant and profit- able evenings; when some lion of special note caine along, it often was an occasion for dis- course or conversation on his specialty. The young people had a fancy for sitting on the floor or on the stairs. The scene was pretty and interesting. In the evenings of our washing-day the fold- ing of the clothes gave occasion for pleasant and social meetings. An amusing and rather odd practice was the frequent writing of notes among those who were constantly meeting each other for work, etc. Perhaps it was that the various sentiments could not be so well expressed viva voce, and pen and paper gave better oppor- tunity for more full and considered explanatory statements and epilogues, as needed, than the winged words of speech. One of our number, quite a singular character, had the habit of adIninistering advice and reproof, of which he was rather lavish, on little scraps of paper, which he left on the floor or ground where the objects of his censure might find them. The notes I mentioned above were generally put on the table at the l)late of the persons for whom they were designed. These may seem poor and trifling details, but some of those who were at Brook Farm may be pleased to recall the amusing, the trifling details and incidents of our life. But I must not omit among our social pleasures the gatherings in the barn in summer for preparing vegetables for the market, and other social work. Those who have not had the experience cannot know what a stately room for company a large barn is, with its lofty roof the sweet scent of hay for perfume, the twittering of the swalloxvs overhead for music, and the cool breezes pass- ing so freely through. Our meetings here were at times enlivened by what we pleased our- selves with thinking was wit. Various classes were from time to time formed for reading and studying together. One I recollect was a very agieeable opportunity of reading Dante in the original (we read in turn, the whole or nearly the whole) with a number of cultivated, in- telligent, and appreciative persons, those of better knowledge of the language helping the others. Mrs. Ripley was one of this class. In the summer we often had our readings out of doors, sometimes on one of those pleasant wooded knolls I have mentioned. But I find that the limits to which I must confine myself will not allow me to speak of many of the varied aspects and features of the life at Brook Farm, or to give any detailed ac- count of its course, progress, or final abandon- ment, which, besides, would be beyond the scope of this paper, professing as it does to give my personal reminiscencesin a some- what discursive manner. And now I wish to express for myself the very agreeable and, more than this, very af- fectionate remembrance of this rich and inter- esting episode of our lives, which feeling, I be- lieve, is shared by many others. There were, no doubt, some dissatisfied or discontented on one ground or another, and, of course many shortcomings and imperfections in carrying out the idea and professed object of the in- stitution. But I fully believe that many, very many, who were there look back upon it as one of the most profitable as well as delight- ful parts of their lives, and with warm feelings 148 G. P. BRADFORD. of affection and respect for its objects, and on the whole for the way in which the at- tempt was made to realize them. To many young people especially it was an opportunity of great and lasting benefit as well as of en- jovment. To such persons of high aims and aspirations, but whose life had been straitened and hampered by unfavorable conditions, this opportunity of a life freed from many of the embarrassing conventions of society, and xvhere feelings of humanity, sympathy, and respect for all conditions of life and society were cherished and professed as the basis of the as- sociation, in habitual intercourse, too, with persons of cultivation and refinement, of varied acquaintance with society and the world, sur- rounded by those of friendly and kindly char- acter and of aims at least theoretically humane and unselfish, to many of whom, too, they were drawn by the elective affinities into close and confidential intimacy, was a very valu- able and precious one, and was felt and ap- preciated as such by them at the time, and remembered with a tender and grateful inter- est. And some there are who still revere all the dreams of their youth, not only those that led them there, but those also that hovered around them while there and gave a color of romance to their life, and some of whom per- haps still cherish the hope that in some form or mode of association, or of co6perative in- dustry, may be found a more equal distribu- tion of the advantages, privileges, and culture of society some mitigation of its great and painful inequalities, a remedy, or at least an abatement, of its evils and sufferings. But it may be thought that I have dwelt too much on the pleasantness of the life at Brook Farm, and the advantages in the way of education, etc., to the young people, which is all very well, but not quite peculiar to this institution, and some may ask what it really accomplished of permanent value in the direction of the ideas with which it was started. This I do not feel that I can es- timate or speak of adequately; neither is it within the scope of this paper. But I would in- dicate in a few words some of the influences and results that I conceive to belong to it. The opportunity of very varied culture, intellec- tual, moral, and practical; the broad and hu- mane feelings professed and cherished toward all classes of men; the mutual respect for the character, mind, and feelings of persons brought up in the most dissimilar conditions of living and culture, which grew up from the free com- mingling of the very various elements of our company; the understanding and appreciation of the toils, self-denial, privations which are the lot to which so many are doomed, and a sympathy with them, left on many a deep and abiding effect. This intercourse or commin- gling of which I have spoken was very simple and easy; when the artificial and conventional barriers were thrown down it was felt how petty and poor they are; they were easily for- gotten, and the natural attractions asserted themselves. So I cannot but think that this brief and imperfect experiment, with the thought and discussion that grew out of it, had no small influence in teaching more im- pressively the relation of universal brother- hood, and the ties that bind all to all, a deeper feeling of the rights and claims of others, and so in diffusing, enlarging deepening and giv- ing emphasis to the growing spirit of true democracy. G. P. BRADFORD. fl ENTLEST of souls, of genius bright, ~ Wavering, but steadfast for the right; Doubtful on many a trifling theme, Faithful to every noble dream, Spotless in life, and pure in heart, Loving the best in books and art. All secret nooks of wood and field To him their hidden treasures yield. Anxious about each devious way As oer the earth his footsteps stray, He started on the heavenly route XVithout a question or a doubt. George P. Bradford. George Bradford Bar//elf.

George Bradford Bartlett Bartlett, George Bradford G. P. Bradford 148-149

148 G. P. BRADFORD. of affection and respect for its objects, and on the whole for the way in which the at- tempt was made to realize them. To many young people especially it was an opportunity of great and lasting benefit as well as of en- jovment. To such persons of high aims and aspirations, but whose life had been straitened and hampered by unfavorable conditions, this opportunity of a life freed from many of the embarrassing conventions of society, and xvhere feelings of humanity, sympathy, and respect for all conditions of life and society were cherished and professed as the basis of the as- sociation, in habitual intercourse, too, with persons of cultivation and refinement, of varied acquaintance with society and the world, sur- rounded by those of friendly and kindly char- acter and of aims at least theoretically humane and unselfish, to many of whom, too, they were drawn by the elective affinities into close and confidential intimacy, was a very valu- able and precious one, and was felt and ap- preciated as such by them at the time, and remembered with a tender and grateful inter- est. And some there are who still revere all the dreams of their youth, not only those that led them there, but those also that hovered around them while there and gave a color of romance to their life, and some of whom per- haps still cherish the hope that in some form or mode of association, or of co6perative in- dustry, may be found a more equal distribu- tion of the advantages, privileges, and culture of society some mitigation of its great and painful inequalities, a remedy, or at least an abatement, of its evils and sufferings. But it may be thought that I have dwelt too much on the pleasantness of the life at Brook Farm, and the advantages in the way of education, etc., to the young people, which is all very well, but not quite peculiar to this institution, and some may ask what it really accomplished of permanent value in the direction of the ideas with which it was started. This I do not feel that I can es- timate or speak of adequately; neither is it within the scope of this paper. But I would in- dicate in a few words some of the influences and results that I conceive to belong to it. The opportunity of very varied culture, intellec- tual, moral, and practical; the broad and hu- mane feelings professed and cherished toward all classes of men; the mutual respect for the character, mind, and feelings of persons brought up in the most dissimilar conditions of living and culture, which grew up from the free com- mingling of the very various elements of our company; the understanding and appreciation of the toils, self-denial, privations which are the lot to which so many are doomed, and a sympathy with them, left on many a deep and abiding effect. This intercourse or commin- gling of which I have spoken was very simple and easy; when the artificial and conventional barriers were thrown down it was felt how petty and poor they are; they were easily for- gotten, and the natural attractions asserted themselves. So I cannot but think that this brief and imperfect experiment, with the thought and discussion that grew out of it, had no small influence in teaching more im- pressively the relation of universal brother- hood, and the ties that bind all to all, a deeper feeling of the rights and claims of others, and so in diffusing, enlarging deepening and giv- ing emphasis to the growing spirit of true democracy. G. P. BRADFORD. fl ENTLEST of souls, of genius bright, ~ Wavering, but steadfast for the right; Doubtful on many a trifling theme, Faithful to every noble dream, Spotless in life, and pure in heart, Loving the best in books and art. All secret nooks of wood and field To him their hidden treasures yield. Anxious about each devious way As oer the earth his footsteps stray, He started on the heavenly route XVithout a question or a doubt. George P. Bradford. George Bradford Bar//elf. TOPICS OF THE TIME. A Great Citizen. O Fall the praise that has been uttered in memory of George \Villiam Curtis,editor, author, orator, true gentle-man, the highest and most significant is the praise accorded him as one of the greatest citizens of the republic. It is true that the loss to the American people of Curtis the writer, of Curtis the orator, the vanishing of that exquisite and lofty personality from current literature and from the modern platform,is a most deplorable event; but it is not the calamity that is suffered in the sudden cessation of the disinterdsted and patriotic activities of one of our few really influential critics of public events, one of the few leaders of public thought and action. For, strange as it seemed to those educated in a dif- ferent school, this modest, musical-voiced, courteous, scholarly persuader was an element of which the practical politicians of both parties learned that it was necessary to take account. He could easily suffer the gibes of men whose ideas of government were based upon opportunities for cash returns or of personal ag- grandizement, knowing as he did the purity of his own motives, as well as the telling effect of his well-deliv- ered blows. In American citizenship Curtis stood for the theory as little disputed as it is rarely acted upon by those in power that government, city, state, national, must not be for a ring, or for a faction, but truly and absolutely for the people. He believed that in a political contest there were no victors in thebarbaric sense; and that, therefore, there were no spoils to divide, but only duties to distribute, policies to be carried out, and al- ways the people to be served. The death of Curtis should not carry dismay into the ranks of his comrades and followers in the great cause of geod government in which his brilliant abilities and pure fame were so completely enlisted. It should rather give new sacredness to that cause; it should enlist larger numbers in the warfare; and be the occasion of greater and still more effective zeal. His ideal of the public ser- vice was not a vain and chimerical one. It was prac- tical in the truest sense; it is attainable; antI upon its accomplishment depends the very life of the republic. The Massachusetta Corrupt Practicea Law. MASSACHUSETTS continues to hold the lead among American States in the movement for electoral reform. U was the first State to enact an Australian ballot-law, which has served as a model for similar laws in many other States, and it has the honor also of enacting the most stringent, comprehensive, and carefully considered Corrupt Practices Act yet made a law in this country. Other States New York, Michigan, and Colorado have preceded it in point of time in passing such laws, but none of them has a law which can bear favorable See biographical sketch of Mr. Curtis, by S. S. Conant, in THE CENTURY for February 1883, in connection with which the engraving by Mr. Cole, reprinted in this number, first appeared. comparison with that passed by the Massachusetts legislature at its last session. We do not wish to lac understood by this praise of the law as pronouncing it a perfect statute. On the con- trary, it has some defects which are likely seriously to impair its usefulness as a means of suppressing the un- due and corrupt use of money in nominations and elec- tions. Yet it has few-er such defects than any other similar American law, and it has many merits which no other such American law possesses. As it is likely to prove a model for other laws, it is worth while to con- sider somewhat in detail its provisions. It requires all political or campaign committees, or combinations of three or more persons who shall assist or promote the success or defeat of a political party or principle in a public election, or shall aid or take part in the nomination, election, or defeat of a candidate for public office, to have a treasurer, who shall keep a de- tailed account of all money, or the equivalent of money, received by, or promised to, the committee, and of all expenditures, disbursements, and promises of payment or disbursement made by the committee or any person acting under its authority or in its behalf. Every such treasurer who shall receive or expend twenty dollars in money or its equivalent is required to file, within thirty days after election, a statement setting forth all the receipts, expenditures, disbursements, and liabilities of the committee, and of every other officer and other person acting under its authority and in its behalf, such statement to include tlae amount in eacla case received, the name of the person or committee from whom it was received, and the amount of every expenditure or dis- bursement, and the name of the person or committee to whom the expenditure or disbursement was made. In every instance the date of the receipt or disburse- ment is to be given, so far as practicable. The statement must also include the date and amount of every exist- ing unfulfilled promise ur liability, both to and from such committee, remaining uncanceled and in force at the time the statement is made, with the name of the persota or committee involved, and the purpose clearly stated for which the promise or liability was made or incurred. It will be seen at a glance that these provisions cover the monetary and other actions of the committee so completely that it will be exceedingly difficult for illicit conduct of any kind to escape full publicity ofter the campaign is ended. In regard to persons other than committees, including candidates, who receive or disburse twenty dollars, a similar sworn statement is required as from the treasurers of committees, except that candidates may pay their own personal expenses for traveling, stationery, postage, printing of circulars, etc., and need not include such expenditures in their sworn returns. All persons are forbidden to give any money or other valuable thing, or to promise any office, directly or indirectly, to aid or promote their nomination or election to any office, and all demands upon candidates for contributions are forbidden; but 149

Editorial Editorial George William Curtis 149

TOPICS OF THE TIME. A Great Citizen. O Fall the praise that has been uttered in memory of George \Villiam Curtis,editor, author, orator, true gentle-man, the highest and most significant is the praise accorded him as one of the greatest citizens of the republic. It is true that the loss to the American people of Curtis the writer, of Curtis the orator, the vanishing of that exquisite and lofty personality from current literature and from the modern platform,is a most deplorable event; but it is not the calamity that is suffered in the sudden cessation of the disinterdsted and patriotic activities of one of our few really influential critics of public events, one of the few leaders of public thought and action. For, strange as it seemed to those educated in a dif- ferent school, this modest, musical-voiced, courteous, scholarly persuader was an element of which the practical politicians of both parties learned that it was necessary to take account. He could easily suffer the gibes of men whose ideas of government were based upon opportunities for cash returns or of personal ag- grandizement, knowing as he did the purity of his own motives, as well as the telling effect of his well-deliv- ered blows. In American citizenship Curtis stood for the theory as little disputed as it is rarely acted upon by those in power that government, city, state, national, must not be for a ring, or for a faction, but truly and absolutely for the people. He believed that in a political contest there were no victors in thebarbaric sense; and that, therefore, there were no spoils to divide, but only duties to distribute, policies to be carried out, and al- ways the people to be served. The death of Curtis should not carry dismay into the ranks of his comrades and followers in the great cause of geod government in which his brilliant abilities and pure fame were so completely enlisted. It should rather give new sacredness to that cause; it should enlist larger numbers in the warfare; and be the occasion of greater and still more effective zeal. His ideal of the public ser- vice was not a vain and chimerical one. It was prac- tical in the truest sense; it is attainable; antI upon its accomplishment depends the very life of the republic. The Massachusetta Corrupt Practicea Law. MASSACHUSETTS continues to hold the lead among American States in the movement for electoral reform. U was the first State to enact an Australian ballot-law, which has served as a model for similar laws in many other States, and it has the honor also of enacting the most stringent, comprehensive, and carefully considered Corrupt Practices Act yet made a law in this country. Other States New York, Michigan, and Colorado have preceded it in point of time in passing such laws, but none of them has a law which can bear favorable See biographical sketch of Mr. Curtis, by S. S. Conant, in THE CENTURY for February 1883, in connection with which the engraving by Mr. Cole, reprinted in this number, first appeared. comparison with that passed by the Massachusetts legislature at its last session. We do not wish to lac understood by this praise of the law as pronouncing it a perfect statute. On the con- trary, it has some defects which are likely seriously to impair its usefulness as a means of suppressing the un- due and corrupt use of money in nominations and elec- tions. Yet it has few-er such defects than any other similar American law, and it has many merits which no other such American law possesses. As it is likely to prove a model for other laws, it is worth while to con- sider somewhat in detail its provisions. It requires all political or campaign committees, or combinations of three or more persons who shall assist or promote the success or defeat of a political party or principle in a public election, or shall aid or take part in the nomination, election, or defeat of a candidate for public office, to have a treasurer, who shall keep a de- tailed account of all money, or the equivalent of money, received by, or promised to, the committee, and of all expenditures, disbursements, and promises of payment or disbursement made by the committee or any person acting under its authority or in its behalf. Every such treasurer who shall receive or expend twenty dollars in money or its equivalent is required to file, within thirty days after election, a statement setting forth all the receipts, expenditures, disbursements, and liabilities of the committee, and of every other officer and other person acting under its authority and in its behalf, such statement to include tlae amount in eacla case received, the name of the person or committee from whom it was received, and the amount of every expenditure or dis- bursement, and the name of the person or committee to whom the expenditure or disbursement was made. In every instance the date of the receipt or disburse- ment is to be given, so far as practicable. The statement must also include the date and amount of every exist- ing unfulfilled promise ur liability, both to and from such committee, remaining uncanceled and in force at the time the statement is made, with the name of the persota or committee involved, and the purpose clearly stated for which the promise or liability was made or incurred. It will be seen at a glance that these provisions cover the monetary and other actions of the committee so completely that it will be exceedingly difficult for illicit conduct of any kind to escape full publicity ofter the campaign is ended. In regard to persons other than committees, including candidates, who receive or disburse twenty dollars, a similar sworn statement is required as from the treasurers of committees, except that candidates may pay their own personal expenses for traveling, stationery, postage, printing of circulars, etc., and need not include such expenditures in their sworn returns. All persons are forbidden to give any money or other valuable thing, or to promise any office, directly or indirectly, to aid or promote their nomination or election to any office, and all demands upon candidates for contributions are forbidden; but 149

Editorial Editorial The Massachusetts Corrupt Practices Law 149-150

TOPICS OF THE TIME. A Great Citizen. O Fall the praise that has been uttered in memory of George \Villiam Curtis,editor, author, orator, true gentle-man, the highest and most significant is the praise accorded him as one of the greatest citizens of the republic. It is true that the loss to the American people of Curtis the writer, of Curtis the orator, the vanishing of that exquisite and lofty personality from current literature and from the modern platform,is a most deplorable event; but it is not the calamity that is suffered in the sudden cessation of the disinterdsted and patriotic activities of one of our few really influential critics of public events, one of the few leaders of public thought and action. For, strange as it seemed to those educated in a dif- ferent school, this modest, musical-voiced, courteous, scholarly persuader was an element of which the practical politicians of both parties learned that it was necessary to take account. He could easily suffer the gibes of men whose ideas of government were based upon opportunities for cash returns or of personal ag- grandizement, knowing as he did the purity of his own motives, as well as the telling effect of his well-deliv- ered blows. In American citizenship Curtis stood for the theory as little disputed as it is rarely acted upon by those in power that government, city, state, national, must not be for a ring, or for a faction, but truly and absolutely for the people. He believed that in a political contest there were no victors in thebarbaric sense; and that, therefore, there were no spoils to divide, but only duties to distribute, policies to be carried out, and al- ways the people to be served. The death of Curtis should not carry dismay into the ranks of his comrades and followers in the great cause of geod government in which his brilliant abilities and pure fame were so completely enlisted. It should rather give new sacredness to that cause; it should enlist larger numbers in the warfare; and be the occasion of greater and still more effective zeal. His ideal of the public ser- vice was not a vain and chimerical one. It was prac- tical in the truest sense; it is attainable; antI upon its accomplishment depends the very life of the republic. The Massachusetta Corrupt Practicea Law. MASSACHUSETTS continues to hold the lead among American States in the movement for electoral reform. U was the first State to enact an Australian ballot-law, which has served as a model for similar laws in many other States, and it has the honor also of enacting the most stringent, comprehensive, and carefully considered Corrupt Practices Act yet made a law in this country. Other States New York, Michigan, and Colorado have preceded it in point of time in passing such laws, but none of them has a law which can bear favorable See biographical sketch of Mr. Curtis, by S. S. Conant, in THE CENTURY for February 1883, in connection with which the engraving by Mr. Cole, reprinted in this number, first appeared. comparison with that passed by the Massachusetts legislature at its last session. We do not wish to lac understood by this praise of the law as pronouncing it a perfect statute. On the con- trary, it has some defects which are likely seriously to impair its usefulness as a means of suppressing the un- due and corrupt use of money in nominations and elec- tions. Yet it has few-er such defects than any other similar American law, and it has many merits which no other such American law possesses. As it is likely to prove a model for other laws, it is worth while to con- sider somewhat in detail its provisions. It requires all political or campaign committees, or combinations of three or more persons who shall assist or promote the success or defeat of a political party or principle in a public election, or shall aid or take part in the nomination, election, or defeat of a candidate for public office, to have a treasurer, who shall keep a de- tailed account of all money, or the equivalent of money, received by, or promised to, the committee, and of all expenditures, disbursements, and promises of payment or disbursement made by the committee or any person acting under its authority or in its behalf. Every such treasurer who shall receive or expend twenty dollars in money or its equivalent is required to file, within thirty days after election, a statement setting forth all the receipts, expenditures, disbursements, and liabilities of the committee, and of every other officer and other person acting under its authority and in its behalf, such statement to include tlae amount in eacla case received, the name of the person or committee from whom it was received, and the amount of every expenditure or dis- bursement, and the name of the person or committee to whom the expenditure or disbursement was made. In every instance the date of the receipt or disburse- ment is to be given, so far as practicable. The statement must also include the date and amount of every exist- ing unfulfilled promise ur liability, both to and from such committee, remaining uncanceled and in force at the time the statement is made, with the name of the persota or committee involved, and the purpose clearly stated for which the promise or liability was made or incurred. It will be seen at a glance that these provisions cover the monetary and other actions of the committee so completely that it will be exceedingly difficult for illicit conduct of any kind to escape full publicity ofter the campaign is ended. In regard to persons other than committees, including candidates, who receive or disburse twenty dollars, a similar sworn statement is required as from the treasurers of committees, except that candidates may pay their own personal expenses for traveling, stationery, postage, printing of circulars, etc., and need not include such expenditures in their sworn returns. All persons are forbidden to give any money or other valuable thing, or to promise any office, directly or indirectly, to aid or promote their nomination or election to any office, and all demands upon candidates for contributions are forbidden; but 149 TOPICS OF THE TIME. any candidate may make a voluntary payment of money, or a voluntary and unconditional promise of payment of money, to a political committee for the promotion of the principles of the party which the committee represents, and for the general purposes of the committee. We regard this last quoted provision as the chief de- fect in the measure. Under it any candidate may give a large lump sum, which, though professedly given voluntarily, will really be the price which he will pay for his nomination. The law seems thus to sanction and legalize the assessment evil, which is one of the most objectionable in modern politics. To be sure, the report of the committee will show the exact amount of this contribution, and the exact uses to which it is put, but experience with the New York law has shown that candidates do not shrink from this exposure so far as it reveals the sums which they give. Candidates will he forced, not directly, but none the less surely, to pay the expenses of the campaign, and as no limit is placed upon these, it will follow under the new law, as under the old, that in many cases the man who pays the highest price for the nomination will be likely to get it. The provision which permits candidates to incur perannal expenses without including such in their re- turns is also susceptible of abuse. In striking at the corrupt uses of money in our elections we cannot do better than to follow the English statute, for that has accomplished completely what we are striving for the annihilation of the evils. The English act compels the complete publication of every penny received and spent, personally or otherwise, in promoting an elec-- don, and it fixes a maximum limit in each case beyond which the total expenditure must not be carried. Until we carry our laws to the same extreme, we must be prepared to see them only partly successful in practice, merely restricting the evils somewhat, but not eradicat- ing them. Road-Building Exhibit at Chicago. ALTHOUGH the advocates of good roads were un- able to induce Congress at its last session to pass a bill appropriating one million dollars for a special building to be used for a comprehensive road-building exhibit at the Worlds Fair in Chicago, they are not discour- aged. They propose to renew their request at the pres- ent session, and though they may not succeed in getting it granted, they declare their purpose of making an ex- hibit. If they cannot get a building, they will use tents, or some other inexpensive method of inclosure, and they will have a mile or more of roadways in various asages of construction. This is a patriotic determination. That there is a great and steadily increasing interest in the subject of good roads was shown in a very striking manner by the memorial u-hich the advocates of the proposed ex- hibit sent to Congress. It was a pamphlet of more than one hundred pages, and contained letters of approval from the President and several members of his cabi- net, a large number of senators and congressmen, the governors of nearly all the States, the mayors of many See also Our Common Roads~ in THE CENTURY fur April, i892. leading cities, prominent army officers, and the presi- dents of our leading colleges. All these persons ex- pressed hearty sympathy with the movement, and declared their conviction that no more worthy or pa- triotic cause could be represented at the Fair. These letters, accompanied as they were by a great mass of favorable newspaper comment, gave most encouraging evidence that public sentiment in all parts of the coun- try has been aroused to the pressing need of road re- form, and to the importance of using the best means for bringing it about. What the advocates of good roads propose is a com- prehensive exhibit of all that is known of scientific road-building, which will serve as a school of instruc- tion to the thousands of Americans who will visit the Fair. They will give sample sections of the best road- construction in this country and in Europe. They will have skilled workmen actually engaged in con- srru~ting sections of the various kinds of roads, the most expensive and the cheapest as well, and will have competent engineers and chemists in attendance to ex- plain the process of building the roads, constructing ar- tificial stone, and preparing cements. All machinery used in the work, and the various kinds of material, will be seen in daily practical operation. In short, the visitor who wishes to see not only what a scientific road is, but the exact way in which it is built, will have full opportunity of doing so. It is scarcely necessary to comment upon the great public value of such an exhibit. Thousands of men in all parts of the land will have their interest in the sub- ject not only aroused to fresh activity, but directed in intelligent channels toward the accomplishment of the most desirable results. Road-building will receive a truly national impulse, with the ultimate effect of in- calculably increasing the happinessbas well as the pros- perity of the whole people. It is not improbable that the people of the United States, now slowly awaking to the fact that they are more than one hundred years behind other civilized countries in the science of road- building, may date the general beginning of their de- termination to catch up with the rest of the-world in this matter from the Worlds Fair of I893. Thist we are far behind other nations in the construc- tion of our highways no one denies, but few persons realize how long the older countries of the world have been engaged in the work of scientific road-building. In that delightful book, Youngs Travels in France, we come almost constantly upon such tributes to the roads of that country as the following, under date of June 9, I787: The immense view from the descent to Douzenac is equally magnificent. To all this is added the finest road in the world, everywhere formed in the most perfect man- ner, and kept in the highest preservation, like the well- ordered alley of a garden, without dust, sand, stones, or inequality, firm and level, of pounded granite, and traced with such a perpetual command of prospect, that had the engineer no other object in view, he could not have exe- cuted it with a more finished taste. That was written over a hundred years ago about a road which had been built long before, yet it will stand to-day as a perfect (lescription of the best road which modern science is able to construct. What a civilizing influence such a road must be in any country through which it runs! 150

Editorial Editorial Columbian Exposition: Road-Building Exhibit at Chicago 150-151

TOPICS OF THE TIME. any candidate may make a voluntary payment of money, or a voluntary and unconditional promise of payment of money, to a political committee for the promotion of the principles of the party which the committee represents, and for the general purposes of the committee. We regard this last quoted provision as the chief de- fect in the measure. Under it any candidate may give a large lump sum, which, though professedly given voluntarily, will really be the price which he will pay for his nomination. The law seems thus to sanction and legalize the assessment evil, which is one of the most objectionable in modern politics. To be sure, the report of the committee will show the exact amount of this contribution, and the exact uses to which it is put, but experience with the New York law has shown that candidates do not shrink from this exposure so far as it reveals the sums which they give. Candidates will he forced, not directly, but none the less surely, to pay the expenses of the campaign, and as no limit is placed upon these, it will follow under the new law, as under the old, that in many cases the man who pays the highest price for the nomination will be likely to get it. The provision which permits candidates to incur perannal expenses without including such in their re- turns is also susceptible of abuse. In striking at the corrupt uses of money in our elections we cannot do better than to follow the English statute, for that has accomplished completely what we are striving for the annihilation of the evils. The English act compels the complete publication of every penny received and spent, personally or otherwise, in promoting an elec-- don, and it fixes a maximum limit in each case beyond which the total expenditure must not be carried. Until we carry our laws to the same extreme, we must be prepared to see them only partly successful in practice, merely restricting the evils somewhat, but not eradicat- ing them. Road-Building Exhibit at Chicago. ALTHOUGH the advocates of good roads were un- able to induce Congress at its last session to pass a bill appropriating one million dollars for a special building to be used for a comprehensive road-building exhibit at the Worlds Fair in Chicago, they are not discour- aged. They propose to renew their request at the pres- ent session, and though they may not succeed in getting it granted, they declare their purpose of making an ex- hibit. If they cannot get a building, they will use tents, or some other inexpensive method of inclosure, and they will have a mile or more of roadways in various asages of construction. This is a patriotic determination. That there is a great and steadily increasing interest in the subject of good roads was shown in a very striking manner by the memorial u-hich the advocates of the proposed ex- hibit sent to Congress. It was a pamphlet of more than one hundred pages, and contained letters of approval from the President and several members of his cabi- net, a large number of senators and congressmen, the governors of nearly all the States, the mayors of many See also Our Common Roads~ in THE CENTURY fur April, i892. leading cities, prominent army officers, and the presi- dents of our leading colleges. All these persons ex- pressed hearty sympathy with the movement, and declared their conviction that no more worthy or pa- triotic cause could be represented at the Fair. These letters, accompanied as they were by a great mass of favorable newspaper comment, gave most encouraging evidence that public sentiment in all parts of the coun- try has been aroused to the pressing need of road re- form, and to the importance of using the best means for bringing it about. What the advocates of good roads propose is a com- prehensive exhibit of all that is known of scientific road-building, which will serve as a school of instruc- tion to the thousands of Americans who will visit the Fair. They will give sample sections of the best road- construction in this country and in Europe. They will have skilled workmen actually engaged in con- srru~ting sections of the various kinds of roads, the most expensive and the cheapest as well, and will have competent engineers and chemists in attendance to ex- plain the process of building the roads, constructing ar- tificial stone, and preparing cements. All machinery used in the work, and the various kinds of material, will be seen in daily practical operation. In short, the visitor who wishes to see not only what a scientific road is, but the exact way in which it is built, will have full opportunity of doing so. It is scarcely necessary to comment upon the great public value of such an exhibit. Thousands of men in all parts of the land will have their interest in the sub- ject not only aroused to fresh activity, but directed in intelligent channels toward the accomplishment of the most desirable results. Road-building will receive a truly national impulse, with the ultimate effect of in- calculably increasing the happinessbas well as the pros- perity of the whole people. It is not improbable that the people of the United States, now slowly awaking to the fact that they are more than one hundred years behind other civilized countries in the science of road- building, may date the general beginning of their de- termination to catch up with the rest of the-world in this matter from the Worlds Fair of I893. Thist we are far behind other nations in the construc- tion of our highways no one denies, but few persons realize how long the older countries of the world have been engaged in the work of scientific road-building. In that delightful book, Youngs Travels in France, we come almost constantly upon such tributes to the roads of that country as the following, under date of June 9, I787: The immense view from the descent to Douzenac is equally magnificent. To all this is added the finest road in the world, everywhere formed in the most perfect man- ner, and kept in the highest preservation, like the well- ordered alley of a garden, without dust, sand, stones, or inequality, firm and level, of pounded granite, and traced with such a perpetual command of prospect, that had the engineer no other object in view, he could not have exe- cuted it with a more finished taste. That was written over a hundred years ago about a road which had been built long before, yet it will stand to-day as a perfect (lescription of the best road which modern science is able to construct. What a civilizing influence such a road must be in any country through which it runs! 150 OPEN LETTERS. Sunday at the Worlds Fair. THE Day of Rest is too important an institution in its relation to the physical, moral, industrial, and spirit- ual interests of the nation to he subjected to any sup- posed financial necessity. The Worlds Fair should not be kept open seven days of the week for any sordid reason. If Congress is to change its decision, it must be for sanitary, educational, and moral reasons, and not for merely financial ones. The Sabbath must not be bartered away; it most he put to its hest usesthe uses of man. If the gates are to be opened, it must he in the spirit of the statesmanlike, patriotic, and inspiring program outlined by Bishop Potter in his paper printed in this number of THE CENTURY and of the Rev. Dr. Gladdens admirable statement in our Open Letters. If the gates are to he opened during any part of Sunday, it should he for a silent exhibition: no hum of machinery; no confounding of the Day of Rest with the days of lahor. Sunday should be the day devoted especially to the higher phases of the great Exposition the natural beauties of the situation, the architecture, the landscape-gardening, the art, the music to the opportunities of listening to learned, patriotic, or spiritual discourse. Religion should not stand at the gates to drive away with thongs and reproaches the crowding myriads of humanity; hut with outstretched hands it should welcome men, women, and children to all within those gates that is noblest and most saving. The Worlds Fair at Chicago can and should he made an object-lesson of the humane and genuinely Christian use of the first day of the week. OPEN LETTERS. Sunday in Chicago. THE enforcement by law of Sabbath observance from a religious point of view or for a religious purpose has always seemed to me equally opposed to the spirit of our Government and to the spirit of our religion. All that we can seek through legal enforcement is a weekly rest-day; and we seek this in the interest of the na- tional health and the national vigor. We may believe that it is better for the whole people, and especially for the working-people, that one day in seven should be a day of rest. The principle on which the law of the Sabbath is founded is the old Roman preceptSalEs ppuli s/q59v111e iPx esto. That the national vigor is seriously impaired by the failure to keep the weekly rest-day is, I believe, pretty clearly recognized just now in Germany, where strenuous efforts are being made to recover a lost Sabbath, in the interest of the working- classes. If the opening of the Columbian Exposition on Sunday should seem to justify and encourage Sun- day labor, it would be a national injury. The working- classes, in whose interest it is to be opened on Sun- day, are the very persons who are chiefly interested in strengthening the barriers which divide the weekly rest-day from the other days of the week. It is they, above all others, as experience shows, who suffer from the overthrou- of the Sunday rest. The proposition to make the Exposition itself a great illustration of the fact that Sunday in America is in this respect different from other days, by stopping the pro- cesses of labor, and enforcing in all this enormous hive of industry the law of Sabbath rest, seems to me rea- sonable. If the visitors from all lands, admitted on Snurlay afternoon, could see all the machinery standing still, and be conscious of the Sabbath silence that has fallen upon all this toil and traffic, they would get some impression of the meaning of Sunday, in our national life. They would see that while continental Europe permits its laborers to be driven to their toil seven days in the week, the American rest-day stands be- tween the greed of wealth and the toiling millions for their shelter and defense. The lessons to he learned at the Exposition on Sunday afternoons would be different from those taught on week-days, but they might be no less valuable. There would be much to see and enjoy in those quiet hours; to the vast majority of the visi- tors the silent halls would afford an educational oppor- tunity more valuable, in some respects, than that of the noisy week. All this maybe conceded without yielding much to the implied threat of Chicago that if the Exposition is not opened on Sunday, Chicago will debauch the crowd of visitors. It might occur to Chicago that, whether tlae Exposition is open or shut, it is her first husiness to see to it that order be preserved, and that a strong hand be laid upon the dealers in debauchery. It is manifest that Sunday in Chicago, during the continu- ance of the Fair, might be a perilous day for the multi- tude, whether the doors of the Exposition were open or not. It is evident that it will be, unless Chicago takes good precaution against the peril. This measure of precaution the nation has a right to demand of Chicago. We have bestowed upon Chicago a great privilege and a great bounty; we have a right to ask tlaat she behave herself decently. We shall be sending our youth by the htmdred thousand to sojourn for a season within her borders. We want her to make her streets safe and orderly while they are there. We call upon her to restrain and suppress those classes of her population who thrive by the corruption of their fellow- men. Chicago is burning to show us her tall buildings and her big parks. It is a thousand times more im- portant that she show us a city well governed. The nation has done Chicago an immense service by giving her this exhibition. The one return that the nation has a right to require of Chicago is that slae order her municipal life in such a way that the nation shall take no detriment, in its reputation or in its morals, by the sojourn of this great multitude within her gates. Washington Gladden. CoLunnus, 0., September 7, 1892. Female Humorists and American Humor. Wsiy, in literature, are there no female humorists? Is it not because our sister has been, so far, com 5

Editorial Editorial Columbian Exposition: Sunday at the World's Fair 151

OPEN LETTERS. Sunday at the Worlds Fair. THE Day of Rest is too important an institution in its relation to the physical, moral, industrial, and spirit- ual interests of the nation to he subjected to any sup- posed financial necessity. The Worlds Fair should not be kept open seven days of the week for any sordid reason. If Congress is to change its decision, it must be for sanitary, educational, and moral reasons, and not for merely financial ones. The Sabbath must not be bartered away; it most he put to its hest usesthe uses of man. If the gates are to be opened, it must he in the spirit of the statesmanlike, patriotic, and inspiring program outlined by Bishop Potter in his paper printed in this number of THE CENTURY and of the Rev. Dr. Gladdens admirable statement in our Open Letters. If the gates are to he opened during any part of Sunday, it should he for a silent exhibition: no hum of machinery; no confounding of the Day of Rest with the days of lahor. Sunday should be the day devoted especially to the higher phases of the great Exposition the natural beauties of the situation, the architecture, the landscape-gardening, the art, the music to the opportunities of listening to learned, patriotic, or spiritual discourse. Religion should not stand at the gates to drive away with thongs and reproaches the crowding myriads of humanity; hut with outstretched hands it should welcome men, women, and children to all within those gates that is noblest and most saving. The Worlds Fair at Chicago can and should he made an object-lesson of the humane and genuinely Christian use of the first day of the week. OPEN LETTERS. Sunday in Chicago. THE enforcement by law of Sabbath observance from a religious point of view or for a religious purpose has always seemed to me equally opposed to the spirit of our Government and to the spirit of our religion. All that we can seek through legal enforcement is a weekly rest-day; and we seek this in the interest of the na- tional health and the national vigor. We may believe that it is better for the whole people, and especially for the working-people, that one day in seven should be a day of rest. The principle on which the law of the Sabbath is founded is the old Roman preceptSalEs ppuli s/q59v111e iPx esto. That the national vigor is seriously impaired by the failure to keep the weekly rest-day is, I believe, pretty clearly recognized just now in Germany, where strenuous efforts are being made to recover a lost Sabbath, in the interest of the working- classes. If the opening of the Columbian Exposition on Sunday should seem to justify and encourage Sun- day labor, it would be a national injury. The working- classes, in whose interest it is to be opened on Sun- day, are the very persons who are chiefly interested in strengthening the barriers which divide the weekly rest-day from the other days of the week. It is they, above all others, as experience shows, who suffer from the overthrou- of the Sunday rest. The proposition to make the Exposition itself a great illustration of the fact that Sunday in America is in this respect different from other days, by stopping the pro- cesses of labor, and enforcing in all this enormous hive of industry the law of Sabbath rest, seems to me rea- sonable. If the visitors from all lands, admitted on Snurlay afternoon, could see all the machinery standing still, and be conscious of the Sabbath silence that has fallen upon all this toil and traffic, they would get some impression of the meaning of Sunday, in our national life. They would see that while continental Europe permits its laborers to be driven to their toil seven days in the week, the American rest-day stands be- tween the greed of wealth and the toiling millions for their shelter and defense. The lessons to he learned at the Exposition on Sunday afternoons would be different from those taught on week-days, but they might be no less valuable. There would be much to see and enjoy in those quiet hours; to the vast majority of the visi- tors the silent halls would afford an educational oppor- tunity more valuable, in some respects, than that of the noisy week. All this maybe conceded without yielding much to the implied threat of Chicago that if the Exposition is not opened on Sunday, Chicago will debauch the crowd of visitors. It might occur to Chicago that, whether tlae Exposition is open or shut, it is her first husiness to see to it that order be preserved, and that a strong hand be laid upon the dealers in debauchery. It is manifest that Sunday in Chicago, during the continu- ance of the Fair, might be a perilous day for the multi- tude, whether the doors of the Exposition were open or not. It is evident that it will be, unless Chicago takes good precaution against the peril. This measure of precaution the nation has a right to demand of Chicago. We have bestowed upon Chicago a great privilege and a great bounty; we have a right to ask tlaat she behave herself decently. We shall be sending our youth by the htmdred thousand to sojourn for a season within her borders. We want her to make her streets safe and orderly while they are there. We call upon her to restrain and suppress those classes of her population who thrive by the corruption of their fellow- men. Chicago is burning to show us her tall buildings and her big parks. It is a thousand times more im- portant that she show us a city well governed. The nation has done Chicago an immense service by giving her this exhibition. The one return that the nation has a right to require of Chicago is that slae order her municipal life in such a way that the nation shall take no detriment, in its reputation or in its morals, by the sojourn of this great multitude within her gates. Washington Gladden. CoLunnus, 0., September 7, 1892. Female Humorists and American Humor. Wsiy, in literature, are there no female humorists? Is it not because our sister has been, so far, com 5

Washington Gladden Gladden, Washington Columbian Exposition: Sunday in Chicago 151

OPEN LETTERS. Sunday at the Worlds Fair. THE Day of Rest is too important an institution in its relation to the physical, moral, industrial, and spirit- ual interests of the nation to he subjected to any sup- posed financial necessity. The Worlds Fair should not be kept open seven days of the week for any sordid reason. If Congress is to change its decision, it must be for sanitary, educational, and moral reasons, and not for merely financial ones. The Sabbath must not be bartered away; it most he put to its hest usesthe uses of man. If the gates are to be opened, it must he in the spirit of the statesmanlike, patriotic, and inspiring program outlined by Bishop Potter in his paper printed in this number of THE CENTURY and of the Rev. Dr. Gladdens admirable statement in our Open Letters. If the gates are to he opened during any part of Sunday, it should he for a silent exhibition: no hum of machinery; no confounding of the Day of Rest with the days of lahor. Sunday should be the day devoted especially to the higher phases of the great Exposition the natural beauties of the situation, the architecture, the landscape-gardening, the art, the music to the opportunities of listening to learned, patriotic, or spiritual discourse. Religion should not stand at the gates to drive away with thongs and reproaches the crowding myriads of humanity; hut with outstretched hands it should welcome men, women, and children to all within those gates that is noblest and most saving. The Worlds Fair at Chicago can and should he made an object-lesson of the humane and genuinely Christian use of the first day of the week. OPEN LETTERS. Sunday in Chicago. THE enforcement by law of Sabbath observance from a religious point of view or for a religious purpose has always seemed to me equally opposed to the spirit of our Government and to the spirit of our religion. All that we can seek through legal enforcement is a weekly rest-day; and we seek this in the interest of the na- tional health and the national vigor. We may believe that it is better for the whole people, and especially for the working-people, that one day in seven should be a day of rest. The principle on which the law of the Sabbath is founded is the old Roman preceptSalEs ppuli s/q59v111e iPx esto. That the national vigor is seriously impaired by the failure to keep the weekly rest-day is, I believe, pretty clearly recognized just now in Germany, where strenuous efforts are being made to recover a lost Sabbath, in the interest of the working- classes. If the opening of the Columbian Exposition on Sunday should seem to justify and encourage Sun- day labor, it would be a national injury. The working- classes, in whose interest it is to be opened on Sun- day, are the very persons who are chiefly interested in strengthening the barriers which divide the weekly rest-day from the other days of the week. It is they, above all others, as experience shows, who suffer from the overthrou- of the Sunday rest. The proposition to make the Exposition itself a great illustration of the fact that Sunday in America is in this respect different from other days, by stopping the pro- cesses of labor, and enforcing in all this enormous hive of industry the law of Sabbath rest, seems to me rea- sonable. If the visitors from all lands, admitted on Snurlay afternoon, could see all the machinery standing still, and be conscious of the Sabbath silence that has fallen upon all this toil and traffic, they would get some impression of the meaning of Sunday, in our national life. They would see that while continental Europe permits its laborers to be driven to their toil seven days in the week, the American rest-day stands be- tween the greed of wealth and the toiling millions for their shelter and defense. The lessons to he learned at the Exposition on Sunday afternoons would be different from those taught on week-days, but they might be no less valuable. There would be much to see and enjoy in those quiet hours; to the vast majority of the visi- tors the silent halls would afford an educational oppor- tunity more valuable, in some respects, than that of the noisy week. All this maybe conceded without yielding much to the implied threat of Chicago that if the Exposition is not opened on Sunday, Chicago will debauch the crowd of visitors. It might occur to Chicago that, whether tlae Exposition is open or shut, it is her first husiness to see to it that order be preserved, and that a strong hand be laid upon the dealers in debauchery. It is manifest that Sunday in Chicago, during the continu- ance of the Fair, might be a perilous day for the multi- tude, whether the doors of the Exposition were open or not. It is evident that it will be, unless Chicago takes good precaution against the peril. This measure of precaution the nation has a right to demand of Chicago. We have bestowed upon Chicago a great privilege and a great bounty; we have a right to ask tlaat she behave herself decently. We shall be sending our youth by the htmdred thousand to sojourn for a season within her borders. We want her to make her streets safe and orderly while they are there. We call upon her to restrain and suppress those classes of her population who thrive by the corruption of their fellow- men. Chicago is burning to show us her tall buildings and her big parks. It is a thousand times more im- portant that she show us a city well governed. The nation has done Chicago an immense service by giving her this exhibition. The one return that the nation has a right to require of Chicago is that slae order her municipal life in such a way that the nation shall take no detriment, in its reputation or in its morals, by the sojourn of this great multitude within her gates. Washington Gladden. CoLunnus, 0., September 7, 1892. Female Humorists and American Humor. Wsiy, in literature, are there no female humorists? Is it not because our sister has been, so far, com 5

Stinson Jarvis Jarvis, Stinson Female Humorists and American Humor 151-153

OPEN LETTERS. Sunday at the Worlds Fair. THE Day of Rest is too important an institution in its relation to the physical, moral, industrial, and spirit- ual interests of the nation to he subjected to any sup- posed financial necessity. The Worlds Fair should not be kept open seven days of the week for any sordid reason. If Congress is to change its decision, it must be for sanitary, educational, and moral reasons, and not for merely financial ones. The Sabbath must not be bartered away; it most he put to its hest usesthe uses of man. If the gates are to be opened, it must he in the spirit of the statesmanlike, patriotic, and inspiring program outlined by Bishop Potter in his paper printed in this number of THE CENTURY and of the Rev. Dr. Gladdens admirable statement in our Open Letters. If the gates are to he opened during any part of Sunday, it should he for a silent exhibition: no hum of machinery; no confounding of the Day of Rest with the days of lahor. Sunday should be the day devoted especially to the higher phases of the great Exposition the natural beauties of the situation, the architecture, the landscape-gardening, the art, the music to the opportunities of listening to learned, patriotic, or spiritual discourse. Religion should not stand at the gates to drive away with thongs and reproaches the crowding myriads of humanity; hut with outstretched hands it should welcome men, women, and children to all within those gates that is noblest and most saving. The Worlds Fair at Chicago can and should he made an object-lesson of the humane and genuinely Christian use of the first day of the week. OPEN LETTERS. Sunday in Chicago. THE enforcement by law of Sabbath observance from a religious point of view or for a religious purpose has always seemed to me equally opposed to the spirit of our Government and to the spirit of our religion. All that we can seek through legal enforcement is a weekly rest-day; and we seek this in the interest of the na- tional health and the national vigor. We may believe that it is better for the whole people, and especially for the working-people, that one day in seven should be a day of rest. The principle on which the law of the Sabbath is founded is the old Roman preceptSalEs ppuli s/q59v111e iPx esto. That the national vigor is seriously impaired by the failure to keep the weekly rest-day is, I believe, pretty clearly recognized just now in Germany, where strenuous efforts are being made to recover a lost Sabbath, in the interest of the working- classes. If the opening of the Columbian Exposition on Sunday should seem to justify and encourage Sun- day labor, it would be a national injury. The working- classes, in whose interest it is to be opened on Sun- day, are the very persons who are chiefly interested in strengthening the barriers which divide the weekly rest-day from the other days of the week. It is they, above all others, as experience shows, who suffer from the overthrou- of the Sunday rest. The proposition to make the Exposition itself a great illustration of the fact that Sunday in America is in this respect different from other days, by stopping the pro- cesses of labor, and enforcing in all this enormous hive of industry the law of Sabbath rest, seems to me rea- sonable. If the visitors from all lands, admitted on Snurlay afternoon, could see all the machinery standing still, and be conscious of the Sabbath silence that has fallen upon all this toil and traffic, they would get some impression of the meaning of Sunday, in our national life. They would see that while continental Europe permits its laborers to be driven to their toil seven days in the week, the American rest-day stands be- tween the greed of wealth and the toiling millions for their shelter and defense. The lessons to he learned at the Exposition on Sunday afternoons would be different from those taught on week-days, but they might be no less valuable. There would be much to see and enjoy in those quiet hours; to the vast majority of the visi- tors the silent halls would afford an educational oppor- tunity more valuable, in some respects, than that of the noisy week. All this maybe conceded without yielding much to the implied threat of Chicago that if the Exposition is not opened on Sunday, Chicago will debauch the crowd of visitors. It might occur to Chicago that, whether tlae Exposition is open or shut, it is her first husiness to see to it that order be preserved, and that a strong hand be laid upon the dealers in debauchery. It is manifest that Sunday in Chicago, during the continu- ance of the Fair, might be a perilous day for the multi- tude, whether the doors of the Exposition were open or not. It is evident that it will be, unless Chicago takes good precaution against the peril. This measure of precaution the nation has a right to demand of Chicago. We have bestowed upon Chicago a great privilege and a great bounty; we have a right to ask tlaat she behave herself decently. We shall be sending our youth by the htmdred thousand to sojourn for a season within her borders. We want her to make her streets safe and orderly while they are there. We call upon her to restrain and suppress those classes of her population who thrive by the corruption of their fellow- men. Chicago is burning to show us her tall buildings and her big parks. It is a thousand times more im- portant that she show us a city well governed. The nation has done Chicago an immense service by giving her this exhibition. The one return that the nation has a right to require of Chicago is that slae order her municipal life in such a way that the nation shall take no detriment, in its reputation or in its morals, by the sojourn of this great multitude within her gates. Washington Gladden. CoLunnus, 0., September 7, 1892. Female Humorists and American Humor. Wsiy, in literature, are there no female humorists? Is it not because our sister has been, so far, com 5 OPEN LETTERS. pelled by nature to make idols, and because she is too much in earnest over her devotion to them to lapse into what would seem to her to be frivolity? Whether erected rightly or wrongly, these idols become a part of herself, and must be propped up at any cost. If, in pite of all her effort, some other power throws them down, or if they throw themselves down, she may be- come bitter, or sad, or savage, or religious but never humorous. A glance at the origin and effects of humor in men doeS much to answer the above question. Mans humor is the outcome of his capacity to see truth, or at least to discern untruth, and thus to make comparisons. Ac- customed since childhood to find the sawdust dropping out of everything, and losing belief in all kinds of wonderment-myths, he ceases to allow his early and more effeminate passion for something to adore and idealize to override his growing desire for truth. The deities which have become mythological, the misplaced affections and trusts, the mistaken respect for the great families of Bulstrode and Pecksniff, in fact, every thing in which he has been disillusionized, has gone to form his education to form an aggregate past of general smash at which Jove may smile. The man smiles, tooif he can. Every day, every hour, he sees the more effeminate of both sexes plac- ing on a heart-altar for adoration images, ideas, heroes, beliefs all of which have been for him, in turn, fe- tishes which once possessed every magic power with which fancy could endow them. He therefore smiles when he sees others in the purgatory of the worlds schooling, which teaches unpalatable truth and the healthy self-reliance which comes with full knowledge of sawdust and cheese-cloth. But his smile is not unkind; for he remembers the hurt which iconoclasm brought. The necessity he finds for making the best of things, and the habit he has fallen into of giving a sort of mental snap of the fingers at the unhappiness of each disillusionment, often pro- duce a certain philosophic mirth which provides one avenue of escape from the inevitable difficulty that education and love for truth force upon him cer- tainly a better one than js afforded hy despondency. There is nothing so sane as good humor. No matter how various may be the channels into which his sense of humor may afterward lead him, it first proceeds from his being convinced of the worth- lessness of a great deal that passes as valuable, and from that passion for truth which exhibits things as they are, and not as they seem, and which compensates him, most of the time, for the loss of the visionarys happiness. \Vomens idols are so much a part of their lives that when these are broken they cannot 5O~I) their fingers. They suffer, and their suffering seems to them sacred. To seek mans avenue of escape from wretchedness in the laisser-al/er of mirth would seem, to them, the worst kind of sacrilege. If possible, in time, they seek other idols perhaps embrace the religion which happens to offer the first consolation, taking care afterward to shut out any truth that might again disillusionize them. XVith them it is always a mere change of idols, never a total giving up of them. They will not face truth which means unhappiness. While man learns that happiness must be confined to quiet and normal limits, woman still seeks ecstasy. She does not love truth in a mas culine way. She loves satisfaction. The woman who gives up a comforting belief merely because it has no raison dVlre is rarer than the black swan. Fanatics and very single-minded people, such as the ancient Hebrews or present Arabs, are not humor- ous. So with women. The idols of fanaticism must be smashed before the whimsicality of human life finds speech. When men learn by education that they know nothing, there is fellowship upon the common ground of mutual loss. When satisfied that the questions of the universe will never be answered, they politely ig- nore the tragedy of roans position by saying, Is it not absurd? As long as women cannot break their idols, or suffer injury when these get broken, just so long will they never produce humor. Yet they appreciate many kinds of humor when these are put before them; when, for instance, it is made clear that Pecksniff was not what he pretended to be. But (George Eliot excepted) they have not created a Pecksniff. Not being convinced of the worth- lessness and absurdity of much that is considered valua- ble, their minds are not in the habit of placing the real and the unreal side by side; and if they do arrive at a lcnowledge of human weakness, they write of it only to condemn it, not being so accustomed to it that they can express or even discern the absurdities with which it often appears to men. The sermon or novel which causes change is generally, now, the one which makes weakness seem absurd. Vanity can be touched when religion is nowhere; and with well-informed Ameri- cans human error, and in fact almost everything else, is passed through a sort of compassionate whimsical- ity which appreciates what is valuable, and casts out or makes sport of the absurd. But, dazzled by her i(leals,blind to all else when gazing on her idols, woman does not arrive at the comprehensive and whimsical view of the humorist, and consequently loses in her writing the great moral uses of the sense of absurdity, which has done more to kill out error than all the argu- ment of centuries, and has made Americans a free peo- ple more than any Declaration of Independence that ever was signed. Again, women generally exist in one of two condi- tions the imagining of a happiness to come, or the seeking for consolation because it is lost, or never ar- rives. Now this makes them, in a limited way, much more serious than the men who have given up hoping for ecstasy, and have learned to smile, or to try to smile, at all life as it comes. This serious concentration; this continuous neces~ty for making herself, for either joy or consolation, a part of an adored idol; this picturesque passion for reverential wonderment; this utter disre- gard for a raison d~1re in anything she desires all these phases are poles apart from the mind that has been hammered by the brutality of truth into seeing the world as it is, and can pause to portray the humorous side of its events. Let me not be understood to suggest that motley s the only wear, or that heart-empty humorists have the best of it in life, though it must be admitted that the pleasantest men met with are often those who are so deeply conscious of the terrible realities of life that their humor is simply a well-bred effort to make the pathetic endurable, or to conceal their own distress. On many faces stamped with lines of grief may be seen playing a quaint humor, seeming like an essence which has come 152 OPEN LETTERS. through lifes furnaces purified; a something, call it what you will a pleasing play of fancy backed by compassion and good will, making trouble lighter and gaiety hrighter for all; a glimmer of satisfaction, per- haps, in not being responsible for the making of this world; an attempt to make the best of things where perhaps the only answers to the cries of the desolate and anguished are in the hearts of human beings. Then it is asked, Why, if witty women exist, does not their humor appear in hooks? The witty ones dis- cern laughable incongruities in channels outside those in which their devotions run. They are the least rev- erential of women, and generally so cold of nature that their gods are few. Some womanly instincts which blind others are so absent from them that they can see some absurdities of life without attaining the general view, so that they do not discern the comic side of things so extensively as some men; and in their writ- ings the thoughts which sway them thoughts which are part of or analogous to the worship of such gods as they possess always absorb them first. Satiric and ironic women are partly accounted for in the same way. They do not become humorists because their satire or irony is the only form of humor not always healthywhich they possess. Women whose natures are so strong in them that they feel themselves different from those who chiefly rule society often feel like hurling something at any negative saint who as- sumes to be more valuable. Especially satiric are they after they have transgressed a social law; and often with such a plentiful lack of ~vit in their bitterness that literature suffers little by not knowing of it. The study of George Eliot and her works goes far to suggest that for some time female humorists will be scarce. She, more than any other authoress, attained the general view. But always present with her was her w-oman s hunger for something to adore; and she never recovered from the heart-starvation which a perfect education and love for truth forced upon her. With her insight into human nature, even her satire was full of a fathomless compassion that yearned over the very ~veaknesses she amused us with; and, bravely as she faced the eternal impossibilities, her sexs absolute need for a certainty, and the divinity of her ideals, made it impossible forher to be content with the humorists con- viction that this world, apart from its tragedy, is highly absurd. Humor mingles strangely with the compassion and sense of decency which help to form the composite religion in which an American seeks to be valuable rather than holy; and if women are not up to his hu- moristic level, it is because they cannot as yet tread the same arduous path. For his part, he thinks they suffer too much already; and he is content that they retain their pow-er for worship especially of him. How odd that womans idols answer prayer! Cer- tainly, at least, she produces only while her idols exist. When life ceases to be in some way holy, or at any rate ideal, for her, then her creative faculty terminates. She ends where mans talent as a humorist begins. Speaking vaguely, then, and hoping that the fore- going will explain my meaning, men may become hu- morists as they find that they know nothing. Women are not humorists because they never cease to think they know something. Stinson Jarvis. XTOL XLV.2i. A Codperative Failure and its Lessons. ABOUT a dozen years ago a coi5perative scheme of considerable magnitude was begun and carried forward toward completion in a town in the Far XVest. It did not owe its conception to a strike, which with its accompanying heedlessness might have urged the in- vestors to inconsiderate action. The business venture was of soberj udgment, planned in quiet times. Casually investigated, the undertaking seemed, even to shrewd business men, to have many elements assuring its suc- cess. The business was not a new one to the investors. To nearly all of them it had been in one way or another their daily toil since early youth. Among the number financially interested were some who, by their intelli- gence and faithfulness, had risen to positions of foremen and superintendents in just such work as the enterprise was to give for them. No wonder, therefore, that the codperators had resolute faith in their undertaking. It was often their boast that this was the poor mans scheme, one that in every way they were specially fitted for. When once they had it in running order they would show the bloated bondholders at present employing them how to make money. Capital was speedily raised among these workmen, foremen, superintendents, and such of their friends as they were willing to have share with them. In an en- terprise so safely guarded, the investment was, in their estimation, surer than a bank-account. To mortgage their homesteads would not endanger them, when such certain profits were to accrue to the money so borrowed. So bank-accounts and borrowed moneya lien upon theirhomesteads were accumulated to make a capital of about one hundred thousand dollars. In felicitating themselves upon the bright hopes of immense profits, the first plan of a blast-furnace only was amplified to include puddling-furnaces, a merchant-bar mill, and even a foundry adjuncts which could only add to the lucrativeness of the scheme. All went well so long as the capital lasted. Later the day came to this enterprise, as it has to many another, when an empty treasury and an unfinished plant rep- resented the status of affairs. Hitherto it had been easy sailing. They had had money and visible property in- dividually upon which to borrow. They had the ability to plan the works and to direct the construction of the various parts. They were familiar with the machinery to be used, and so had found no difficulty in selecting to advantage. This practical knowledge had been in their estimation all that was necessary to make an ab- solute success of their scheme. Financial skill with them was of a lower order of merit, while business ability and practical knowledge of their trade were synonymous terms. But money must be provided, and they did not now have it among themselves. How and where it must be raised was the question. They were henceforth for a time compelled to attempt a solution of another and to them a new side of the business prob- lem, the financial part, which they had held in light esteem. So hopeful were they of their scheme that they sought no outside advice, nor did they court assistance where experience could give it. They felt themselves equal to the emergency. Money was borrowed on their furnace property, the loan being secured in a region where the current rate of interest was twenty- four per cent. per annum. 53

N. N. A Cooperative Failure and its Lessons 153-154

OPEN LETTERS. through lifes furnaces purified; a something, call it what you will a pleasing play of fancy backed by compassion and good will, making trouble lighter and gaiety hrighter for all; a glimmer of satisfaction, per- haps, in not being responsible for the making of this world; an attempt to make the best of things where perhaps the only answers to the cries of the desolate and anguished are in the hearts of human beings. Then it is asked, Why, if witty women exist, does not their humor appear in hooks? The witty ones dis- cern laughable incongruities in channels outside those in which their devotions run. They are the least rev- erential of women, and generally so cold of nature that their gods are few. Some womanly instincts which blind others are so absent from them that they can see some absurdities of life without attaining the general view, so that they do not discern the comic side of things so extensively as some men; and in their writ- ings the thoughts which sway them thoughts which are part of or analogous to the worship of such gods as they possess always absorb them first. Satiric and ironic women are partly accounted for in the same way. They do not become humorists because their satire or irony is the only form of humor not always healthywhich they possess. Women whose natures are so strong in them that they feel themselves different from those who chiefly rule society often feel like hurling something at any negative saint who as- sumes to be more valuable. Especially satiric are they after they have transgressed a social law; and often with such a plentiful lack of ~vit in their bitterness that literature suffers little by not knowing of it. The study of George Eliot and her works goes far to suggest that for some time female humorists will be scarce. She, more than any other authoress, attained the general view. But always present with her was her w-oman s hunger for something to adore; and she never recovered from the heart-starvation which a perfect education and love for truth forced upon her. With her insight into human nature, even her satire was full of a fathomless compassion that yearned over the very ~veaknesses she amused us with; and, bravely as she faced the eternal impossibilities, her sexs absolute need for a certainty, and the divinity of her ideals, made it impossible forher to be content with the humorists con- viction that this world, apart from its tragedy, is highly absurd. Humor mingles strangely with the compassion and sense of decency which help to form the composite religion in which an American seeks to be valuable rather than holy; and if women are not up to his hu- moristic level, it is because they cannot as yet tread the same arduous path. For his part, he thinks they suffer too much already; and he is content that they retain their pow-er for worship especially of him. How odd that womans idols answer prayer! Cer- tainly, at least, she produces only while her idols exist. When life ceases to be in some way holy, or at any rate ideal, for her, then her creative faculty terminates. She ends where mans talent as a humorist begins. Speaking vaguely, then, and hoping that the fore- going will explain my meaning, men may become hu- morists as they find that they know nothing. Women are not humorists because they never cease to think they know something. Stinson Jarvis. XTOL XLV.2i. A Codperative Failure and its Lessons. ABOUT a dozen years ago a coi5perative scheme of considerable magnitude was begun and carried forward toward completion in a town in the Far XVest. It did not owe its conception to a strike, which with its accompanying heedlessness might have urged the in- vestors to inconsiderate action. The business venture was of soberj udgment, planned in quiet times. Casually investigated, the undertaking seemed, even to shrewd business men, to have many elements assuring its suc- cess. The business was not a new one to the investors. To nearly all of them it had been in one way or another their daily toil since early youth. Among the number financially interested were some who, by their intelli- gence and faithfulness, had risen to positions of foremen and superintendents in just such work as the enterprise was to give for them. No wonder, therefore, that the codperators had resolute faith in their undertaking. It was often their boast that this was the poor mans scheme, one that in every way they were specially fitted for. When once they had it in running order they would show the bloated bondholders at present employing them how to make money. Capital was speedily raised among these workmen, foremen, superintendents, and such of their friends as they were willing to have share with them. In an en- terprise so safely guarded, the investment was, in their estimation, surer than a bank-account. To mortgage their homesteads would not endanger them, when such certain profits were to accrue to the money so borrowed. So bank-accounts and borrowed moneya lien upon theirhomesteads were accumulated to make a capital of about one hundred thousand dollars. In felicitating themselves upon the bright hopes of immense profits, the first plan of a blast-furnace only was amplified to include puddling-furnaces, a merchant-bar mill, and even a foundry adjuncts which could only add to the lucrativeness of the scheme. All went well so long as the capital lasted. Later the day came to this enterprise, as it has to many another, when an empty treasury and an unfinished plant rep- resented the status of affairs. Hitherto it had been easy sailing. They had had money and visible property in- dividually upon which to borrow. They had the ability to plan the works and to direct the construction of the various parts. They were familiar with the machinery to be used, and so had found no difficulty in selecting to advantage. This practical knowledge had been in their estimation all that was necessary to make an ab- solute success of their scheme. Financial skill with them was of a lower order of merit, while business ability and practical knowledge of their trade were synonymous terms. But money must be provided, and they did not now have it among themselves. How and where it must be raised was the question. They were henceforth for a time compelled to attempt a solution of another and to them a new side of the business prob- lem, the financial part, which they had held in light esteem. So hopeful were they of their scheme that they sought no outside advice, nor did they court assistance where experience could give it. They felt themselves equal to the emergency. Money was borrowed on their furnace property, the loan being secured in a region where the current rate of interest was twenty- four per cent. per annum. 53 OPEN LETTERS. Difficulties soon met them again, and at a new turn, for the borrowed money was insufficient in amount to complete the works. Experience was teaching them that the duties of their husiness had many complexities. They had just struggled with a very unfamiliar com- hination of duties the making of estimates of the cost of work and the paying for it. This was very unlike their daily toil, which had been directed by men posses- sing great financial skill and business ability. Their estimates were far too low to complete even the blast- furnace, which on the score, of economy was neverthe- less pushed toward completion. It was at this stage of affairs that they became thor- oughly awakened to the saddest of business straits inability to borrow, and their unfinished works mort- gaged at a ruinous interest. Overwhelming ruin was impending. It was evident that only financial skill could secure the needed aid. To solicit such help now, after their earlier boastings, must have caused them much chagrin. A friend was sought in whose business ability and integrity they reposed much confidence. They proposed to him the transfer of the controlling interest and the management of their scheme at a great sacrifice, if he would but help them to success. He gave them encouragement, for, as mentioned earlier, the scheme appeared to casual inspection as possessed of substantial merits. The financial part he investigated without discovering any troublesome perplexities. But when the basis of the scheme was carefully examined by an expert sent by the capitalist to look over the property, the fact was discovered, or, to speak accu- rately, was verified (for the cohperators had been ad- vised of it early in the history of their enterprise), that there was no suitable fuel economically accessible. What they bad deemed a bituminous coal was in real- itv a lignite, which would in no way serve for iron- smelting; and unless proper fuel could be obtained in the vicinity there was no reason for the existence of their scheme. The adverse report was the death-knell to the bright hopes of all interested. With some of their number the shock made reason totter as their fair dream vanished. Ir would have been a happy event, and not less no- table as an example, had the cotiperators succeeded. Their signal failure is an instructive lesson. These un- fortunate investors have come to know by costly ex- perience that a cotiperative scheme is subject to all the laws which circumscribe any business venture. No special commercial deity presides over cot5peration. In fact, such enterprises have inherent weaknesses which render them even less exempt than others from danger of wreck. Skill in labor is not the sole essential to success in business, nor does capital allied with it make it sure. If that were so, then but a brief interval would elapse before the united workmen of the world would control its capital. To achieve commercial success the combination of financial skill and business ability is far more essential than the combination of labor and capi- tal. The former qualities may be likened to the abili- ties of a victorious general, the latter qualities to the attributes of an army. The army may be ever so cou- rageous, ever so strong in numbers and equipment, but without a skilful captain no real battles can be won. Suggestions on the Labor Question. I SHOULD be glad to see a careful consideration of the following points by some capable writer on the labor question: First. The misdirection of associated strength. The mere possession of power and opportunities does not give the party controlling them infallible wisdom in their use. Second. The policy of confining the associations to a few xvell-defined ohj ects of beneficial character. Squan- dering strength by meddling with questions that can be settled by other means brings a stormy and expen- sive life and an early death to an association. Third. The growing tendency all over the world to localize administration, and to keep communities free from entanglement with the errors and mistakes of their neighbors. The labor movement seems to reverse this plan, and to endeavor to make every personal diffi- culty wide-spread and national. Fourth. The irresponsible action by secret societies to effect objects that should be controlled by open and regular laws, affecting all citizens alike. If the laws are not right, let them be properly amended. F~/t/z. The wisdom of compelling all associations of employers or employees to take out State charters mak- ing them responsible corporations that can sue and be sued; that is, making them responsible for the use of their great power for either good or evil. To make this provision complete, the officers controlling strikes or lockouts should be required to give substantial secur- ity that they will conduct their duties lawfully and with discretion. A provision of this kind would send reck- less and impracticatile agitators to the rear, and bring the more prudent elements of society to the control of the various associations. A Reader. General McClellans Baggage-Destroying Order. IN THE CENTURy for May, 1889, pages 157,158, there are letters from General J. F. Rusling and George E. Corson, referring to a foot-note (page 142 of THE CEN- TURY MAGAZINE for November, i888) of Messrs. Hay and Nicolays Life of Lincoln. The foot-note quotes from testimony of Lieutenant-colonel Alexander before the CommitteG on the Conduct of the War, to the effect that he saw on the evening of June 28, at General Mc- Clellans headquarters at Savages Station, an order directing the destruction of the baggage of the officers and men, and he thought also the camp equipage, and that he remonstrated with the general against allow-- ing any such order to be issued, and that he heard afterward that the order was never promulgated, hut suppressed. General Rusling states conclusively that the order was issued and executed (as (loes George F. Corson), but be thinks it singular that nobody has ever produced a copy of the baggage-destroying order, and that General McClellan does not mention it either in his official report or in the writings inoluded in McClellans Own Story. General Rusling relied apparently upon Messrs. Hay and Nicolay 5 omission to correct Colonel Alexanders statement as to its sup- pression as evidence that it was in fact suppressed, so far as accessible publications could demonstrate. This order, however, was published in full, together N. with the other circular orders of the same date (June 54

A Reader A Reader Suggestions on the Labor Question 154

OPEN LETTERS. Difficulties soon met them again, and at a new turn, for the borrowed money was insufficient in amount to complete the works. Experience was teaching them that the duties of their husiness had many complexities. They had just struggled with a very unfamiliar com- hination of duties the making of estimates of the cost of work and the paying for it. This was very unlike their daily toil, which had been directed by men posses- sing great financial skill and business ability. Their estimates were far too low to complete even the blast- furnace, which on the score, of economy was neverthe- less pushed toward completion. It was at this stage of affairs that they became thor- oughly awakened to the saddest of business straits inability to borrow, and their unfinished works mort- gaged at a ruinous interest. Overwhelming ruin was impending. It was evident that only financial skill could secure the needed aid. To solicit such help now, after their earlier boastings, must have caused them much chagrin. A friend was sought in whose business ability and integrity they reposed much confidence. They proposed to him the transfer of the controlling interest and the management of their scheme at a great sacrifice, if he would but help them to success. He gave them encouragement, for, as mentioned earlier, the scheme appeared to casual inspection as possessed of substantial merits. The financial part he investigated without discovering any troublesome perplexities. But when the basis of the scheme was carefully examined by an expert sent by the capitalist to look over the property, the fact was discovered, or, to speak accu- rately, was verified (for the cohperators had been ad- vised of it early in the history of their enterprise), that there was no suitable fuel economically accessible. What they bad deemed a bituminous coal was in real- itv a lignite, which would in no way serve for iron- smelting; and unless proper fuel could be obtained in the vicinity there was no reason for the existence of their scheme. The adverse report was the death-knell to the bright hopes of all interested. With some of their number the shock made reason totter as their fair dream vanished. Ir would have been a happy event, and not less no- table as an example, had the cotiperators succeeded. Their signal failure is an instructive lesson. These un- fortunate investors have come to know by costly ex- perience that a cotiperative scheme is subject to all the laws which circumscribe any business venture. No special commercial deity presides over cot5peration. In fact, such enterprises have inherent weaknesses which render them even less exempt than others from danger of wreck. Skill in labor is not the sole essential to success in business, nor does capital allied with it make it sure. If that were so, then but a brief interval would elapse before the united workmen of the world would control its capital. To achieve commercial success the combination of financial skill and business ability is far more essential than the combination of labor and capi- tal. The former qualities may be likened to the abili- ties of a victorious general, the latter qualities to the attributes of an army. The army may be ever so cou- rageous, ever so strong in numbers and equipment, but without a skilful captain no real battles can be won. Suggestions on the Labor Question. I SHOULD be glad to see a careful consideration of the following points by some capable writer on the labor question: First. The misdirection of associated strength. The mere possession of power and opportunities does not give the party controlling them infallible wisdom in their use. Second. The policy of confining the associations to a few xvell-defined ohj ects of beneficial character. Squan- dering strength by meddling with questions that can be settled by other means brings a stormy and expen- sive life and an early death to an association. Third. The growing tendency all over the world to localize administration, and to keep communities free from entanglement with the errors and mistakes of their neighbors. The labor movement seems to reverse this plan, and to endeavor to make every personal diffi- culty wide-spread and national. Fourth. The irresponsible action by secret societies to effect objects that should be controlled by open and regular laws, affecting all citizens alike. If the laws are not right, let them be properly amended. F~/t/z. The wisdom of compelling all associations of employers or employees to take out State charters mak- ing them responsible corporations that can sue and be sued; that is, making them responsible for the use of their great power for either good or evil. To make this provision complete, the officers controlling strikes or lockouts should be required to give substantial secur- ity that they will conduct their duties lawfully and with discretion. A provision of this kind would send reck- less and impracticatile agitators to the rear, and bring the more prudent elements of society to the control of the various associations. A Reader. General McClellans Baggage-Destroying Order. IN THE CENTURy for May, 1889, pages 157,158, there are letters from General J. F. Rusling and George E. Corson, referring to a foot-note (page 142 of THE CEN- TURY MAGAZINE for November, i888) of Messrs. Hay and Nicolays Life of Lincoln. The foot-note quotes from testimony of Lieutenant-colonel Alexander before the CommitteG on the Conduct of the War, to the effect that he saw on the evening of June 28, at General Mc- Clellans headquarters at Savages Station, an order directing the destruction of the baggage of the officers and men, and he thought also the camp equipage, and that he remonstrated with the general against allow-- ing any such order to be issued, and that he heard afterward that the order was never promulgated, hut suppressed. General Rusling states conclusively that the order was issued and executed (as (loes George F. Corson), but be thinks it singular that nobody has ever produced a copy of the baggage-destroying order, and that General McClellan does not mention it either in his official report or in the writings inoluded in McClellans Own Story. General Rusling relied apparently upon Messrs. Hay and Nicolay 5 omission to correct Colonel Alexanders statement as to its sup- pression as evidence that it was in fact suppressed, so far as accessible publications could demonstrate. This order, however, was published in full, together N. with the other circular orders of the same date (June 54

J. W. Heysinger Heysinger, J. W. General McClellan's Baggage-Destroying Order 154-155

OPEN LETTERS. Difficulties soon met them again, and at a new turn, for the borrowed money was insufficient in amount to complete the works. Experience was teaching them that the duties of their husiness had many complexities. They had just struggled with a very unfamiliar com- hination of duties the making of estimates of the cost of work and the paying for it. This was very unlike their daily toil, which had been directed by men posses- sing great financial skill and business ability. Their estimates were far too low to complete even the blast- furnace, which on the score, of economy was neverthe- less pushed toward completion. It was at this stage of affairs that they became thor- oughly awakened to the saddest of business straits inability to borrow, and their unfinished works mort- gaged at a ruinous interest. Overwhelming ruin was impending. It was evident that only financial skill could secure the needed aid. To solicit such help now, after their earlier boastings, must have caused them much chagrin. A friend was sought in whose business ability and integrity they reposed much confidence. They proposed to him the transfer of the controlling interest and the management of their scheme at a great sacrifice, if he would but help them to success. He gave them encouragement, for, as mentioned earlier, the scheme appeared to casual inspection as possessed of substantial merits. The financial part he investigated without discovering any troublesome perplexities. But when the basis of the scheme was carefully examined by an expert sent by the capitalist to look over the property, the fact was discovered, or, to speak accu- rately, was verified (for the cohperators had been ad- vised of it early in the history of their enterprise), that there was no suitable fuel economically accessible. What they bad deemed a bituminous coal was in real- itv a lignite, which would in no way serve for iron- smelting; and unless proper fuel could be obtained in the vicinity there was no reason for the existence of their scheme. The adverse report was the death-knell to the bright hopes of all interested. With some of their number the shock made reason totter as their fair dream vanished. Ir would have been a happy event, and not less no- table as an example, had the cotiperators succeeded. Their signal failure is an instructive lesson. These un- fortunate investors have come to know by costly ex- perience that a cotiperative scheme is subject to all the laws which circumscribe any business venture. No special commercial deity presides over cot5peration. In fact, such enterprises have inherent weaknesses which render them even less exempt than others from danger of wreck. Skill in labor is not the sole essential to success in business, nor does capital allied with it make it sure. If that were so, then but a brief interval would elapse before the united workmen of the world would control its capital. To achieve commercial success the combination of financial skill and business ability is far more essential than the combination of labor and capi- tal. The former qualities may be likened to the abili- ties of a victorious general, the latter qualities to the attributes of an army. The army may be ever so cou- rageous, ever so strong in numbers and equipment, but without a skilful captain no real battles can be won. Suggestions on the Labor Question. I SHOULD be glad to see a careful consideration of the following points by some capable writer on the labor question: First. The misdirection of associated strength. The mere possession of power and opportunities does not give the party controlling them infallible wisdom in their use. Second. The policy of confining the associations to a few xvell-defined ohj ects of beneficial character. Squan- dering strength by meddling with questions that can be settled by other means brings a stormy and expen- sive life and an early death to an association. Third. The growing tendency all over the world to localize administration, and to keep communities free from entanglement with the errors and mistakes of their neighbors. The labor movement seems to reverse this plan, and to endeavor to make every personal diffi- culty wide-spread and national. Fourth. The irresponsible action by secret societies to effect objects that should be controlled by open and regular laws, affecting all citizens alike. If the laws are not right, let them be properly amended. F~/t/z. The wisdom of compelling all associations of employers or employees to take out State charters mak- ing them responsible corporations that can sue and be sued; that is, making them responsible for the use of their great power for either good or evil. To make this provision complete, the officers controlling strikes or lockouts should be required to give substantial secur- ity that they will conduct their duties lawfully and with discretion. A provision of this kind would send reck- less and impracticatile agitators to the rear, and bring the more prudent elements of society to the control of the various associations. A Reader. General McClellans Baggage-Destroying Order. IN THE CENTURy for May, 1889, pages 157,158, there are letters from General J. F. Rusling and George E. Corson, referring to a foot-note (page 142 of THE CEN- TURY MAGAZINE for November, i888) of Messrs. Hay and Nicolays Life of Lincoln. The foot-note quotes from testimony of Lieutenant-colonel Alexander before the CommitteG on the Conduct of the War, to the effect that he saw on the evening of June 28, at General Mc- Clellans headquarters at Savages Station, an order directing the destruction of the baggage of the officers and men, and he thought also the camp equipage, and that he remonstrated with the general against allow-- ing any such order to be issued, and that he heard afterward that the order was never promulgated, hut suppressed. General Rusling states conclusively that the order was issued and executed (as (loes George F. Corson), but be thinks it singular that nobody has ever produced a copy of the baggage-destroying order, and that General McClellan does not mention it either in his official report or in the writings inoluded in McClellans Own Story. General Rusling relied apparently upon Messrs. Hay and Nicolay 5 omission to correct Colonel Alexanders statement as to its sup- pression as evidence that it was in fact suppressed, so far as accessible publications could demonstrate. This order, however, was published in full, together N. with the other circular orders of the same date (June 54 OPEN LIZ TTERS. 28, 1862), in Part III. of Vol. XI. of the War Records, p. 272, and has been accessible to any one since that volume was issued in 1884, five years before the date of General Ruslings letter, and four years before the publication by Messrs. Hay and Nicolay of Colonel Alexanders statement. In the next column and same page of THE CENTURy MAGAZINE these authors quote from the same volume of War Records, and from the third page preceding the circular, which is its own refutation of Colonel Alexanders statement as to its scope, as well as its non-promulgation and suppres- sion. The circular order applied only to tents and all articles not indispensable to the safety or maintenance of the troops, and to officers unnecessary baggage, and distinctly provided for the carrying by every divi- sion and army corps of its entire supply of intrenching- tools, showing that it was an order preparatory for battle, and not for contemplated disaster. Since many of the severely wounded were necessarily left hebind in the field-hospitals, with surgeons and medical sup- plies, it must he believed that there were not wagons enough to transport this unnecessary baggage, and as these wagons, used for ammunition and necessary forage and subsistence, were all brought in safely to Harrisons Bar, the presumption is that McClellan knew his business, for a furious and successful battle was fought on every day of the journey. This baggage-destroying order was, in fact, an ordi- nary incident of army life, very shocking, doubtless, to Colonel Alexander, who was then new in experience of actual xvar, and to civilians; but common enough in all campaigns. In fact, the same thing occurred when Sherman began his march to the sea; and when Grant began theWilderness Campaign the superfluous impedi- menta of the army were destroyed. War Records, Vol. XXXVI., Part II., page 382, contains Burnsides order of May 4, 1864, to abandon and destroy the large amount of forage and subsistence stores ac- cumulated for issue to his own troops, and which were at Brandy Station, between Grants army and Washing- ton, with no enemy within many miles, and directly on the railroad then in operation to Washington; and this merely in order to make a more rapid junction with Grants army, then about to cross the Rapidan. Every soldier of the war is familiar with many such instances, which occurred in every department and in every campaign. I. TV. fleysinger, Al. D., Late CeNain U. S. A. The Sea-Serpent at Nahant. THAT the traditions at Nabant about the sea-ser- pent were not evanescent may be shown by the fol- lowing remarks, arising from the article in the June CENTURy. When serving as a midshipman in II. M. S. (Vars/ite in 1842 or 1843 I was allowed to accompany Lieutenant Dickson and Mr. Jacob, purser of that ship, to Nabant. During our visit, one of us said to the consuls wife that we had been surprised to see fishing- boats out on Sunday in the bay. Oh, she said, are they out? Then I suppose there are shoals of fish (I think she named the fish) in the bay; they say they almost always precede the appearance of the sea-serpent. Of course I cannot say that those were exactly the words used, but I re- member that there was some little talk on the subject, more in joke than in earnest, and we went away to an hotel to get our dinner before going back to Boston. After dinner a man ran up and rather excitedly asked for a telescope, as the sea-serpent was in sight. Some- body furnished one, and we all hurried up to the group. There, sure enough, was something very much like what appears in the very minute sketch in the ar- tide referred to. It was certainly moving; not, we thought, with the tide, and was not a shoal of fish. How far off it was I cannot say, but probably not more than a couple of hundred yards, traveling along at a rate of something between five and ten knots, with a slight, undulatory motion, and leaving a wake be- hind it. I cannot particularize any shape as to the head, which was not raised clear of the water, though show- ing like other lumps of dark-colored body above the surface. I suppose we saw it for four or five minutes, and I know that we three Englishmen thought we had seen something very unusual. I wrote home about what I had seen, and I think my account gave rise to a friendly altercation between my father (then Lord Francis Egerton) and Professor Owen, and, if I mis- take not, to an article in one of the quarterlies. The subject was little talked of on board the ship, prob- ably because we were afraid of being chaffed about our credulity; but I am sure that, except what I have said of the ladys remark, we had had no reason to ex- pect to see anything strange at Nahant, nor had we ever heard of a sea-serpent as a frequenter of the bay. F,-ancis Egerton, Admiral. ST. GEoRGEs HILL, WEeaEluuE, ENGLAND. The Centurys American Artists Series. WILLIAM MERRITT CHASE. (SEE PAGE 29.) WHATEVER place posterity may award Mr. Chase as an artist, whatever the merits of his works may be in the estimation of the older or younger generation of artists, no one conversant with the art progress of this country can doubt that he is one of the strongest per- sonalities in our modern art life, and a most important factor in its development. By nature an optimist, pos- sessed of a fervent enthusiasm, artistic in everything, an honest believer in himself, and in the future of American art, he has impressed his thoughts and theo- ries, fancies and idea~, upon hundreds of students and younger artists, and has raised their enthusiasm to the diapason of Isis own. The Art Students League of New York has always been fortunate in the choice of its professors, and in the third and fourth years of its babyhood perhaps especially so. In 1878 Mr. Walter Shirlaw took charge of the weakling; the year following Mr. Carroll Beck- with and Mr. Chase were added to its staff. Shirlaw and Chase had just returned from Munich, Beckwith fl-nm Paris. With the knowledge of European methods possessed by these three, the artistic faithfulness and calm gentleness of Shirlaw, the vigor and tact of Beck- with, and the enthusiasm of Chase, the weak baby be came a sturdy child, and at the end of its fourth year the school had an attendance of one hundred and forty, and a surplus of eighteen hundred dollars. Mr. Chase has been identified with the League from that time to the present, and is now one of the ten professors who in- struct its students, nearly one thousand in number. 55

Francis Egerton Egerton, Francis The Sea-Serpent at Nahant 155-156

OPEN LIZ TTERS. 28, 1862), in Part III. of Vol. XI. of the War Records, p. 272, and has been accessible to any one since that volume was issued in 1884, five years before the date of General Ruslings letter, and four years before the publication by Messrs. Hay and Nicolay of Colonel Alexanders statement. In the next column and same page of THE CENTURy MAGAZINE these authors quote from the same volume of War Records, and from the third page preceding the circular, which is its own refutation of Colonel Alexanders statement as to its scope, as well as its non-promulgation and suppres- sion. The circular order applied only to tents and all articles not indispensable to the safety or maintenance of the troops, and to officers unnecessary baggage, and distinctly provided for the carrying by every divi- sion and army corps of its entire supply of intrenching- tools, showing that it was an order preparatory for battle, and not for contemplated disaster. Since many of the severely wounded were necessarily left hebind in the field-hospitals, with surgeons and medical sup- plies, it must he believed that there were not wagons enough to transport this unnecessary baggage, and as these wagons, used for ammunition and necessary forage and subsistence, were all brought in safely to Harrisons Bar, the presumption is that McClellan knew his business, for a furious and successful battle was fought on every day of the journey. This baggage-destroying order was, in fact, an ordi- nary incident of army life, very shocking, doubtless, to Colonel Alexander, who was then new in experience of actual xvar, and to civilians; but common enough in all campaigns. In fact, the same thing occurred when Sherman began his march to the sea; and when Grant began theWilderness Campaign the superfluous impedi- menta of the army were destroyed. War Records, Vol. XXXVI., Part II., page 382, contains Burnsides order of May 4, 1864, to abandon and destroy the large amount of forage and subsistence stores ac- cumulated for issue to his own troops, and which were at Brandy Station, between Grants army and Washing- ton, with no enemy within many miles, and directly on the railroad then in operation to Washington; and this merely in order to make a more rapid junction with Grants army, then about to cross the Rapidan. Every soldier of the war is familiar with many such instances, which occurred in every department and in every campaign. I. TV. fleysinger, Al. D., Late CeNain U. S. A. The Sea-Serpent at Nahant. THAT the traditions at Nabant about the sea-ser- pent were not evanescent may be shown by the fol- lowing remarks, arising from the article in the June CENTURy. When serving as a midshipman in II. M. S. (Vars/ite in 1842 or 1843 I was allowed to accompany Lieutenant Dickson and Mr. Jacob, purser of that ship, to Nabant. During our visit, one of us said to the consuls wife that we had been surprised to see fishing- boats out on Sunday in the bay. Oh, she said, are they out? Then I suppose there are shoals of fish (I think she named the fish) in the bay; they say they almost always precede the appearance of the sea-serpent. Of course I cannot say that those were exactly the words used, but I re- member that there was some little talk on the subject, more in joke than in earnest, and we went away to an hotel to get our dinner before going back to Boston. After dinner a man ran up and rather excitedly asked for a telescope, as the sea-serpent was in sight. Some- body furnished one, and we all hurried up to the group. There, sure enough, was something very much like what appears in the very minute sketch in the ar- tide referred to. It was certainly moving; not, we thought, with the tide, and was not a shoal of fish. How far off it was I cannot say, but probably not more than a couple of hundred yards, traveling along at a rate of something between five and ten knots, with a slight, undulatory motion, and leaving a wake be- hind it. I cannot particularize any shape as to the head, which was not raised clear of the water, though show- ing like other lumps of dark-colored body above the surface. I suppose we saw it for four or five minutes, and I know that we three Englishmen thought we had seen something very unusual. I wrote home about what I had seen, and I think my account gave rise to a friendly altercation between my father (then Lord Francis Egerton) and Professor Owen, and, if I mis- take not, to an article in one of the quarterlies. The subject was little talked of on board the ship, prob- ably because we were afraid of being chaffed about our credulity; but I am sure that, except what I have said of the ladys remark, we had had no reason to ex- pect to see anything strange at Nahant, nor had we ever heard of a sea-serpent as a frequenter of the bay. F,-ancis Egerton, Admiral. ST. GEoRGEs HILL, WEeaEluuE, ENGLAND. The Centurys American Artists Series. WILLIAM MERRITT CHASE. (SEE PAGE 29.) WHATEVER place posterity may award Mr. Chase as an artist, whatever the merits of his works may be in the estimation of the older or younger generation of artists, no one conversant with the art progress of this country can doubt that he is one of the strongest per- sonalities in our modern art life, and a most important factor in its development. By nature an optimist, pos- sessed of a fervent enthusiasm, artistic in everything, an honest believer in himself, and in the future of American art, he has impressed his thoughts and theo- ries, fancies and idea~, upon hundreds of students and younger artists, and has raised their enthusiasm to the diapason of Isis own. The Art Students League of New York has always been fortunate in the choice of its professors, and in the third and fourth years of its babyhood perhaps especially so. In 1878 Mr. Walter Shirlaw took charge of the weakling; the year following Mr. Carroll Beck- with and Mr. Chase were added to its staff. Shirlaw and Chase had just returned from Munich, Beckwith fl-nm Paris. With the knowledge of European methods possessed by these three, the artistic faithfulness and calm gentleness of Shirlaw, the vigor and tact of Beck- with, and the enthusiasm of Chase, the weak baby be came a sturdy child, and at the end of its fourth year the school had an attendance of one hundred and forty, and a surplus of eighteen hundred dollars. Mr. Chase has been identified with the League from that time to the present, and is now one of the ten professors who in- struct its students, nearly one thousand in number. 55 IN LIG/ITE!? VEIN. His enthusiasm for teaching, and his sympathy for an(l helpfulness to the students, are probably largely the outcome of his own early struggles. Born in Indiana in 1849, he was destined hy his father for a husiness career; but this xvas so uncongenial that he broke over the traces, and after a few lessons from a western painter entered the schools of the National Academy of Design in New York, where he remained for two years. During his stay in this city he was befriended by the portrait- painter J. 0. Eaton, to whom many others heside Mr. Chase are indebted for help and encouragement in their early art aspirations. In 1871 he went to St. Louis, where he had some success as a portrait-painter; in 1872 to Germany, where he became a pupil of Piloty. He returned to New York in 1878. l\lr. Chase is a National Academician, and President of the Society of American Artists, and has heen the recipient of many honors both at home and abroad. W. Lewis Fraser. IN LIGHTER VEIN. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EDITOR. By the Author of Autobiography of a Justice of the Peace. PICTURES a~ E. W. KEMnLE. SOME men are horn newspaper men; some achieve experience as newspaper men; and others have journalism thrust upon them. I do not know which is productive of the best results. My parents designed that I should be a lawyer, and so I studied the law faithfully for five years, which time was necessarily broken into a good deal hy vaca- tions of two or three months at intervals, which I de- voted to working by the month, an occupation of which I was passionately fond. Whenever the study of Coke and Blackstone began to grow irksome, and the world began to seem colder to me when I came in contact with it in my sedentary life as a student, I would start up impulsively and secure outdoor employment, by means of which I obtained a great deal of fresh air and new clothes with the price-mark still on them. After this broken term of study I applied for admis- sion to the bar of Wisconsin twice, and was told both times that I had better study some more. Some would have resented this action on the part of the bar of Wis- consin, hut I knew that there was no malice in it, and so I studied some more. What I liked about the study of the common law, and of Blackstone especially, was that I could read the same passage to-day that I read yesterday, and it would seem as fresh at the second reading as it did at the first. On the following day I could read it again, and it would seem just as new and mysterious as it did on the pre- ceding days. One winter I studied in the office of Bingham and Jenkins. It was a very cold winter indeed. It was one of those unusual winters so common in Wisconsin. An unusual winteT in Wisconsin may be regarded as the rule rather than the exception. I slept in the office, partly because I wanted to be near my work, and where I could get up in the night to read what Justin- ian had to say, and partly because hall bedrooms were very high at that time except in the matter of ceilings, and money was tighter in the circles in which I moved than I have ever known it to be since. The first day in the office was devoted to general housework, and learning the combination of the safe. This safe was in fact a large fireproof vault which con- tained valuable documents, also pleadings, and my blankets. I had a bed-lounge, which was used for con- sultations during the day, and opened out for sleeping purposes at night. After reading a chapter on riparian rights and a few lam mots from Justinian, I found that it was very late, and so cold that I determined to go to bed. Then I at- tacked the combination of the safe in order to get my blankets, but Justinian and Blackstone had so taken possession of my newly fledged mind that it had yielded slightly to the strain, and forgotten everything else. The gray dawn found me still turning the knob of the safo eleven tinies to the right, stopping on eleven, then nine times to the left, stopping on seven or some other number, but always scoring a failure, and pausing each time to warm my hands under the friendly sbeltcr of the roof of my mouth. That night was the coldest in the history of the State of Wisconsin, and the woodshed was also locked up at the time. The following summer I went up into Bur- nett County to look up a location for the practice of the law in order to have it all ready in case I should be acci- dentally admitted to the bar. The county-seat of Burnett County consisted at that time only of a boarding-house for lumbermen, surrounded by the dark-blue billows of a boundless huckleberry patch. There was also a log hovel with a dirt floor, in which a paper was published. 156 I ATTACKED THE cOMBINATION.

Edgar Wilson Nye Nye, Edgar Wilson Autobiography of an Editor 156-159

IN LIG/ITE!? VEIN. His enthusiasm for teaching, and his sympathy for an(l helpfulness to the students, are probably largely the outcome of his own early struggles. Born in Indiana in 1849, he was destined hy his father for a husiness career; but this xvas so uncongenial that he broke over the traces, and after a few lessons from a western painter entered the schools of the National Academy of Design in New York, where he remained for two years. During his stay in this city he was befriended by the portrait- painter J. 0. Eaton, to whom many others heside Mr. Chase are indebted for help and encouragement in their early art aspirations. In 1871 he went to St. Louis, where he had some success as a portrait-painter; in 1872 to Germany, where he became a pupil of Piloty. He returned to New York in 1878. l\lr. Chase is a National Academician, and President of the Society of American Artists, and has heen the recipient of many honors both at home and abroad. W. Lewis Fraser. IN LIGHTER VEIN. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EDITOR. By the Author of Autobiography of a Justice of the Peace. PICTURES a~ E. W. KEMnLE. SOME men are horn newspaper men; some achieve experience as newspaper men; and others have journalism thrust upon them. I do not know which is productive of the best results. My parents designed that I should be a lawyer, and so I studied the law faithfully for five years, which time was necessarily broken into a good deal hy vaca- tions of two or three months at intervals, which I de- voted to working by the month, an occupation of which I was passionately fond. Whenever the study of Coke and Blackstone began to grow irksome, and the world began to seem colder to me when I came in contact with it in my sedentary life as a student, I would start up impulsively and secure outdoor employment, by means of which I obtained a great deal of fresh air and new clothes with the price-mark still on them. After this broken term of study I applied for admis- sion to the bar of Wisconsin twice, and was told both times that I had better study some more. Some would have resented this action on the part of the bar of Wis- consin, hut I knew that there was no malice in it, and so I studied some more. What I liked about the study of the common law, and of Blackstone especially, was that I could read the same passage to-day that I read yesterday, and it would seem as fresh at the second reading as it did at the first. On the following day I could read it again, and it would seem just as new and mysterious as it did on the pre- ceding days. One winter I studied in the office of Bingham and Jenkins. It was a very cold winter indeed. It was one of those unusual winters so common in Wisconsin. An unusual winteT in Wisconsin may be regarded as the rule rather than the exception. I slept in the office, partly because I wanted to be near my work, and where I could get up in the night to read what Justin- ian had to say, and partly because hall bedrooms were very high at that time except in the matter of ceilings, and money was tighter in the circles in which I moved than I have ever known it to be since. The first day in the office was devoted to general housework, and learning the combination of the safe. This safe was in fact a large fireproof vault which con- tained valuable documents, also pleadings, and my blankets. I had a bed-lounge, which was used for con- sultations during the day, and opened out for sleeping purposes at night. After reading a chapter on riparian rights and a few lam mots from Justinian, I found that it was very late, and so cold that I determined to go to bed. Then I at- tacked the combination of the safe in order to get my blankets, but Justinian and Blackstone had so taken possession of my newly fledged mind that it had yielded slightly to the strain, and forgotten everything else. The gray dawn found me still turning the knob of the safo eleven tinies to the right, stopping on eleven, then nine times to the left, stopping on seven or some other number, but always scoring a failure, and pausing each time to warm my hands under the friendly sbeltcr of the roof of my mouth. That night was the coldest in the history of the State of Wisconsin, and the woodshed was also locked up at the time. The following summer I went up into Bur- nett County to look up a location for the practice of the law in order to have it all ready in case I should be acci- dentally admitted to the bar. The county-seat of Burnett County consisted at that time only of a boarding-house for lumbermen, surrounded by the dark-blue billows of a boundless huckleberry patch. There was also a log hovel with a dirt floor, in which a paper was published. 156 I ATTACKED THE cOMBINATION. IN LIGHTER VEIN. It subsisted on the county printing, which must have been worth at least $85 per year or even more at that time. Afterward the price was cut down. When I went into the office, the editor was bemoan- ing his sad lot, most of which was overgrown with jack pine and Chippewa Indians. He wanted much to get away from the steady grind ofjournalism, he said. He had been there over eight weeks, and had had practically no vacation whatever. He wanted to get away for a week to rest his tired brain. In fact he wanted to go up on Lake Superior for a weeks fishing, but could get no one to assume editorial control of the paper. I said that I would. I said that I should be glad to as- sociate myself with the paper for a week, and to work his public-opinion molds for him. He went away in the early morning, leaving me in charge of the paper and a middle-aged cat with nine newly fledged little ones. Charlie Talboys (the com- positor) and I ran the paper that week, and I tried to learn from the back part of the dictionary how to mark proof, but got interested in some pictures of the human frame in health and disease, and so neglected the proof till time to go to press. I wrote two scathing editorials for this pap6r, which had a good deal to do with bringing on the war, it was said. When I see now what that war cost in blood and bitterness and vain regret, of course I am sorry about it; but then I was young and impulsive, and had never brought on a war. I would know better now. The year after this I went to Wyoming Territory, thinking that in the crude state of affairs there at the time I might possibly be admitted to the bar under an assume(l name. I had of course given bonds in Wiscon- sin for my regular, annual examination for admission, but I decided to jump my bail and go west, where the bar was less conservative. In Laramie City the regular term of court for the Second judicial District was in session, Judge Blair presiding. Just here let me step aside to say a word of Judge Blair, a gentleman from West Virginia, who took charge of me, and whose memory will always have a large, expensive frame around it in my heart. I ap- plied for admission to the bar, as I had been in the habit of doing wherever I had lived, and Judge Blair appointed a committee of kindly but inquisitive lawyers who talked with me all of one summer afternoon. I can still remember bow warm the room was. As the gloaming began to gloam on the foot-hills, and the bull- skinners song came across the river, the committee reported that I had, on cross-examination, so contra- dicted my answers made on the direct examination, that my testimony was of little value; yet it was de- cided to admit me to the bar of Wyoming, provided I would agree not to practise. On the day of my arrival in Laramie, however, Judge Blair had said to me that the prospects for a young lao-yer in Wyoming who had very little money, and no acquaintances, were very poor indeed; but if I could do newspaper work, he thought he could help me to a place. As I saw right away that the Judge was my friend, I told him that it might be well to do that while wait- ing for my library to arrive. He laughed, and led me to the office of The Daily Sentinel, owned by Dr. James H. Hayford, to whom I was introduced. Dr. Hayford was a keen-eyed man with chin-whiskers, who wrote with a hard pencil sharpened from time to time on a flat file. He wrote with such earnestness that one could read his ablest editorials on any of the ten sheets of blank paper under the one he was writing on. He said that the paper could not afford to pay me what I was really worth, very likely, hut if $50 per month would make it interesting, he would he glad to have me try it for thirty days. Fifty dollars per month was so much better than the grazing at that season of the year, that I accepted it; not too hurriedly, but after counting 100 in my mind, and giving the impression that I was not too prompt to avail myself of the offer. The Sentinel was a morning paper, but I used to be able to wash up about seven oclock in the evening, and attend Alexanders Theater while the boys went to press. The performance on the stage at Alexander was not of a high order. The talent was not great, and the perfori~~ance far from meritorious, but in the audi- ence it was more thrilling. It took me five weeks to heal up the scalp of my room-mate so that the hair would cover the furrow made by a bullet one evening at the theater. Finally the paper was left almost en- tirely in my hands, and I became more enterprising, till at last we got to press sometimes as early as five or half- past five oclock in the afternoon. Then we got to horo- scoping the theatrical news up to eleven oclock, and printing it as fact. This was dangerous business. Fore- casting the evening news and going to press at tea-time are always hazardous. It used to be done very success- fully in Washington, D. C., but I was never successful. Once we had a concert for the benefit of the church, for I was quite a church-worker at that time. Even now old citizens of Laramie City point with pride to their church debt, and if you ask them who organized it and fostered it, they will tell you with tears in their eyes that I did it. This concert I desired to see, and yet I wished to get the paper off my hands first, so I wrote it up in an unbiased way, and then dressed for the evening by removing my trousers legs from the tops of my boots, and having the wrinkles ironed out at Beards tailor-shop while I waited. Among the features of the concert I wrote up a young lady who was on the program for a piano solo. She could play first-rate, was fair to look upon, and I gave her what The London Times would call a rattling good notice. But she did not play, and so I was jeered at a good deal by both of our subscribers. I remember her especially because as one of the en- tertainment committee I had to move her piano to the hall. She could not use the one that belonged to the hall, but wanted her very own instrument, a hollow- chested old wardrobe of a thing with deformed legs~ It cost five dollars to move a piano in those days five dollars each way. So I paid that to cart the old casket over to the ball, and five dollars to cart it back, making, as the i~eady calculator will see almost at a glance, ten dollars for the round trip. She did not play at all, hut when I had the machine taken back, she ordered it (lelivered at another house. The family had taken this time to move, and I had simply moved the piano for them. Even now I cannot read with dry eyes the fulsome description of her playing which I prematurely wrote, and which, in the light of a more thorough knowledge of musical terms, should have been edited by our home band. At this time the Indians began to become restless, and 57 IN LIGHTER VEIV PETER HOLTS RESTAURANT. to hold scalpfite ckamps~7;vs along the road to the Black Hills. Sitting Bull had taken a firm stand, and thirty- eight milch cows belonging to a friend of mine. He had also sent into the post his ultimatum. He sent it in, I believe, to get it refilled. War was soon declared. I remember writing up the first Indian victims. They were a German and his wife and servant who were massacred on the road outside of town, and buried at Laramie. It was not a pleasant experience. At this time I was asked by Charles De Young of the San Francisco Chronicle tojoin General Custer on the Rosebud, and to write up the fight which it was presumed would take place very shortly. Mr. De Young was to pass through our place at about five oclock in the after- noon, and I was to report to him then at the train. This was a great promotion, but I feared that it would be too sudden. From the pasty little think-room of the Sen- tii~elto a bright immortality beyond the grave was too trying to the lungs, I feared. I thought it all over, how- ever, and had decided to go at five oclock. I bade good- by to all those friends to whom I was not indebted, and resolved to communicate with the others by mail. I could have reached the train myself, but I was too late to get my trunk checked, and I could not go on the war-path without my trunk. So I did not go; I remained on the staff of The Sentinel, and went through some priva- tions which I shall never forget while I live. I allude especially to the time when I boarded out a twenty-five (lollar account for advertising a restaurant owned by Peter Holt. I was about to say that the restaurant was run by Peter Holt, but that would betray a hectic inaagination on nay part, for it just ran itself. I had been reared tenderly, and the restaurant of Peter Holt did more to make me wisla I was back home in the States where nice clover hay and cut feed were plenty than anything that ever happened to me. Dr. Hayford was a good man, and his soul, I think, was as pure as any soul that I ever saw which had been exposed as much as his had; but I have always won- dered why, instead of salary, he gave me power of at- torney to collect claims against restaurants in a poor state of preservation, and stores that did not keep my class of goods. From The Sentinel I went into official life for a time as a justice of the peace, and then, with Judge Blair as the moving spirit, the old Boomerang was started. I bought the material, and then edited the paper about three years, during which time I got to- gether a collection of poverty and squalor which is still referred to with local pride by the pioneers there. It was at this tinae also that I was chosen by the governor to act as notary public. The appointment came to me wholly unsought on my part. When I went to bed at night I had no more idea that I would be a notary public in the morning than the reader has. It was a case where the office sought the man, and not the man the office. I held this position for six years, an(l no one can say that in that time I did a wrong of- ficial act as notary puhlic. My seal cost me $6, an(l in the six years that I held the office I swore eighteen men at twenty-five cents each, two of whom afterward paid me. I was obliged to give a bond, however, as notary public. I do not know why, exactly, for the fees were my own, if I got any. I used to deal with a boot and shoe man whom I will call Quidd, and we were on friendly terms. I bought my boots of him, and scorched the heels thereof on his hot stove on winter evenings, when times were dull and the wintry hIatt outside reduced tlae profits in the cattle business. I casually asked Mr. Quidd to sign my bond as no- tary public, and told him what a sinecure it would be for him; but to my astonishment his chin quivered, lais eye grew dim with unshed tears, as he told me, with his hand trembling in mine, that he wished he could, hut that he had promised his dying mother,just as the light of the glory world lighted up her eyes, that he would never sign a bond or note with any one. I said: Do not mind this, Mr. Quidd; it is a trifling matter. Others will sign. I will get some compara- tive stranger to sign with me. Do not feel badly over - it. On the way home I got Edward Ivinson, Gen- eral Worth, Otto Gramm, Henry Wagner, Abraham Idleman, Charles Kuster, Dr. Harris, William H. Root, and James Milton Sherrod, the squaw-man of the Buffalo Wallow, to sign my bond. All of these were men of probity and property, and the bond was said to be the hest notarial bond that was ever floated in Wyoming. On the following day a case in my court as justice of the peace required a bond on the part of a saloon- keeper, and he went out a moment to get a surety. He was hardly out of the office before he returned with the name of Mr. Quidd. After that I bought my boots elsewhere. I could not trust a man who would so soon forget his promise to his dying mother. Years have flown by, and gray hairs have come on the head of Mr. Quidd, though I laave nt a gray hair yet, 4nd may not have for years, but I have always purchased my boots elsewhere. The Boomerang was first printed over a shoe- store; but the quarters were small, and, I might also add, extremely seldom from a box-office standpoint, and our insurance was two per cent. per annum; so we removed to the parlor floor of a thrifty livery-stable on a side street. The only vacation I had while there was at one time when I wrote two weeks editorials ahead, and went away for a fortnight. No one who has not tried it can realize bow hard it is to prepare two weeks editorials ahead and have them appropriate. Unforeseen changes are always certain to occur, and I am sure that now, after years of study and experience, I would not again try to do that on the salary I then thought I would get. It was during these days that I got mixed up in a fight for the post-office. I did not want the post-office, but I wanted Charlie Spalding to have it, and so I used 138 our columns for that purpose. Our columns were ever open to almost anything, and so I used them. But we could not get Spalding appointed, so he said to me one day, You get the office, and I will run it for you. At this time the other paper irritated me by a personal editorial which referred to me in a way that would irri- tate the ice-cream cast of Patience. It was then that I telegraphed my application, and it was acted upon at once hy the Presideut. I wrote to him, expressing my thanks, and offering to correspond regularly with him, and to aid him always whenever he got into hot water; for, I added, I live for those who love me, whether I lay up anything or not. This letter Mr. Arthur permitted to go to the press and the correspondents at Washington, for, of course, he was naturally proud and happy over it; hut it was an official letter, or else it was a private letter, and in either event it was not for the public. Besides, it drew out adverse criticism, especially from the London press. The London press asserted that this was no way to write to a President. I held the post-office a year, and then startled the ranks of the Republican party by resigning. I left the office and a fire-proof safe, which was too heavy to travel with, and which the porter told me he could not allow me to bring into the car. The Boomerang newspaper was regarded as a prosperous enterprise by those who did not have to pa~ the bills. It was extensively copied by the press of America, and even abroad. The news companies began to order it, and on& c opy was taken in Europe. All this made me proud and cheerful, but it did not seem to ap- peal to the Chinaman who was my laundress at the time. I can see now that a paper like The Boomerang, in the natural course of events, could not by any pos- sible means have become a valuable piece of property, except as a sort of gymnasium for the editor to prac- tise industry and economy in. For that purpose it af- forded good, light, airy room, and while not in actual training I could go and play in the haymow across the hall. Papers of this character have never paid. We had everybodyin theTerritory on our subseriptionlist, everybody outside the reservation, and after the sum- mer massacre was over, and the Indians came back to the reservation for the winter, some of them used to subscribe also; but even if we had every man who read, we did not have more than enough to squeeze along. Kind-hearted exchanges copied us, and credited us day after day and week after week; but still we languished, and even the stockholders could not seem to under- stand that a paper might be copied all over several con- tinents and yet die of inanition. I proved to my own entire satisfaction that a paper may be cheered, copied, audI indorsed abroad when no one wi~ indorse the edi- tors own paper at the home bank, and that approval of the editorial policy may overwhelm him at the mo- ment when he is deciding u-hether to put the molasses in the roller composition or to eat it himself. There is a grim and ghastly humor the humor that is born of a pathetic philosophywhich now and then strikes me in reading the bright and keen-witted work of our American paragraphers. It is a humor that may be crystallized by hunger and sorrow and tears. It is not found elsewhere as it is in America. It is out of the question in England, because an Englishman can- not poke fun at himself. He cannot joke about an 59 empty flour-barrel. We can; especially if by doing it we may swap the joke for another barrel of flour. We can never be a nation of snobs so long as we are will- i~ig to poke fun at ourselves. It saves us from making asses of ourselves. To-day many a well-fed special writer goes on Saturday evening to the cashier of a prosperous metropolitan journal for the reward he earned years ago on some struggling, starving, wailing bantling that is now sleeping in the valley. There are gray streaks in his hair, and a wrinkle here and there that came when he walked the floor of nights with that feeble, puling, colicky journalistic child; but with those gray hairs he got wisdom and he learned patience. He learned to be more prodigal with his humor, and more economical with his moans, and when he got a little grist of sunshine, he called in the neigh- bors, and when one woe came as the advance agent of a still greater, allied woe, traveling by means of its own special train, he worked it up into a pathetic story and made some one else the hero of it. Edgar W. Nyc. A Thanksgiving Dozen. USE to think Thanksgivun Day Was jist made to preach an pray! Nowdays whole endurun meetun You jist set an think of eatun. Preacher talks, but ever sinner Sets his mouth for turkey dinner; An to say T/zanksgiaun why, Means to feast an jollify: Harvest over, work all done, Ready for the winters fun, All the fambly home agin Round the table pitchun in! Then they set around an look Like the picters :n a book All the afternoon, jist glad To be back with main an dad! Las Thanksgivun I went down T ole man Goods, not fur from town; J ist a dozen people there, After church at Zions Hill, Come to talk an eat their fill. Ole man Good, with high-macbed hair, Soap-suds white, an long an thin; XVhiskers underneath his chin, Tryun to dodge the specs, I spose, That was reachun down his nose. Then Mis Good, home-like an smirkun, Short an dumpy, allays workun, Makun all the compny feel s Ef they s comun home to meals! Granma Good in specs an cap, With her knittun in her lap, Tilly hangun on her cheer, Talkun loud in grannys ear. Then the folks begin to come: Uncle Joe Biggs, thinks he s sonic, Dressed up slick as our ole cat In black broadcloth an plug hat, With gold cane an finger-ring, Lookun peart as anything; Then that fat Aunt Sally Biggs Waddles long in all her rigs Black silk dress, bonnet an shawl, Veil an gloves an parasol Never missed a feast or show, First to come an last to go! My, oh, my! I m tired to death; Lemme rest an git my breath Fore I speak, says she. I thought IN LIGHTER VEIN

Richard Lew Dawson Dawson, Richard Lew A Thanksgiving Dozen 159-160

our columns for that purpose. Our columns were ever open to almost anything, and so I used them. But we could not get Spalding appointed, so he said to me one day, You get the office, and I will run it for you. At this time the other paper irritated me by a personal editorial which referred to me in a way that would irri- tate the ice-cream cast of Patience. It was then that I telegraphed my application, and it was acted upon at once hy the Presideut. I wrote to him, expressing my thanks, and offering to correspond regularly with him, and to aid him always whenever he got into hot water; for, I added, I live for those who love me, whether I lay up anything or not. This letter Mr. Arthur permitted to go to the press and the correspondents at Washington, for, of course, he was naturally proud and happy over it; hut it was an official letter, or else it was a private letter, and in either event it was not for the public. Besides, it drew out adverse criticism, especially from the London press. The London press asserted that this was no way to write to a President. I held the post-office a year, and then startled the ranks of the Republican party by resigning. I left the office and a fire-proof safe, which was too heavy to travel with, and which the porter told me he could not allow me to bring into the car. The Boomerang newspaper was regarded as a prosperous enterprise by those who did not have to pa~ the bills. It was extensively copied by the press of America, and even abroad. The news companies began to order it, and on& c opy was taken in Europe. All this made me proud and cheerful, but it did not seem to ap- peal to the Chinaman who was my laundress at the time. I can see now that a paper like The Boomerang, in the natural course of events, could not by any pos- sible means have become a valuable piece of property, except as a sort of gymnasium for the editor to prac- tise industry and economy in. For that purpose it af- forded good, light, airy room, and while not in actual training I could go and play in the haymow across the hall. Papers of this character have never paid. We had everybodyin theTerritory on our subseriptionlist, everybody outside the reservation, and after the sum- mer massacre was over, and the Indians came back to the reservation for the winter, some of them used to subscribe also; but even if we had every man who read, we did not have more than enough to squeeze along. Kind-hearted exchanges copied us, and credited us day after day and week after week; but still we languished, and even the stockholders could not seem to under- stand that a paper might be copied all over several con- tinents and yet die of inanition. I proved to my own entire satisfaction that a paper may be cheered, copied, audI indorsed abroad when no one wi~ indorse the edi- tors own paper at the home bank, and that approval of the editorial policy may overwhelm him at the mo- ment when he is deciding u-hether to put the molasses in the roller composition or to eat it himself. There is a grim and ghastly humor the humor that is born of a pathetic philosophywhich now and then strikes me in reading the bright and keen-witted work of our American paragraphers. It is a humor that may be crystallized by hunger and sorrow and tears. It is not found elsewhere as it is in America. It is out of the question in England, because an Englishman can- not poke fun at himself. He cannot joke about an 59 empty flour-barrel. We can; especially if by doing it we may swap the joke for another barrel of flour. We can never be a nation of snobs so long as we are will- i~ig to poke fun at ourselves. It saves us from making asses of ourselves. To-day many a well-fed special writer goes on Saturday evening to the cashier of a prosperous metropolitan journal for the reward he earned years ago on some struggling, starving, wailing bantling that is now sleeping in the valley. There are gray streaks in his hair, and a wrinkle here and there that came when he walked the floor of nights with that feeble, puling, colicky journalistic child; but with those gray hairs he got wisdom and he learned patience. He learned to be more prodigal with his humor, and more economical with his moans, and when he got a little grist of sunshine, he called in the neigh- bors, and when one woe came as the advance agent of a still greater, allied woe, traveling by means of its own special train, he worked it up into a pathetic story and made some one else the hero of it. Edgar W. Nyc. A Thanksgiving Dozen. USE to think Thanksgivun Day Was jist made to preach an pray! Nowdays whole endurun meetun You jist set an think of eatun. Preacher talks, but ever sinner Sets his mouth for turkey dinner; An to say T/zanksgiaun why, Means to feast an jollify: Harvest over, work all done, Ready for the winters fun, All the fambly home agin Round the table pitchun in! Then they set around an look Like the picters :n a book All the afternoon, jist glad To be back with main an dad! Las Thanksgivun I went down T ole man Goods, not fur from town; J ist a dozen people there, After church at Zions Hill, Come to talk an eat their fill. Ole man Good, with high-macbed hair, Soap-suds white, an long an thin; XVhiskers underneath his chin, Tryun to dodge the specs, I spose, That was reachun down his nose. Then Mis Good, home-like an smirkun, Short an dumpy, allays workun, Makun all the compny feel s Ef they s comun home to meals! Granma Good in specs an cap, With her knittun in her lap, Tilly hangun on her cheer, Talkun loud in grannys ear. Then the folks begin to come: Uncle Joe Biggs, thinks he s sonic, Dressed up slick as our ole cat In black broadcloth an plug hat, With gold cane an finger-ring, Lookun peart as anything; Then that fat Aunt Sally Biggs Waddles long in all her rigs Black silk dress, bonnet an shawl, Veil an gloves an parasol Never missed a feast or show, First to come an last to go! My, oh, my! I m tired to death; Lemme rest an git my breath Fore I speak, says she. I thought IN LIGHTER VEIN IN LIGHTER I d jist drap afore I got Hyur; my head roars like a drum. How s yer folks? the preacher come? Hyur, Joe, take my things, says she. An Mis Good says No; let me. Then the preacher, slim an tail, Revernt Peter Mendenhall, Solemn-like, white tie an collar Seemed as if he could nt swaller! He come leadun his hoy Dick, At was up to ever trick; Worst hoy in the neighborhood, Cept to little Tilly Good. Preacher shuk hans with the others: Howdy, sister Good, an brothers Good an l3iggs, an sister too; Mother Good, an how are you? Bright day, friends, but somewhat chilly Dick, my son, shake hans with Tilly. Then come, clost behind the preacber, Mary Ann Kincaid, our teacher, Plump an sweet an full o fun, With her feller, young Lishe Dunn; Then our Kaintuck politician, Colonel Isaac Slathers, fishun For a office, changun coats See f e could nt make some votes. He was with Lucindy Mitten, 01 maid come from Boston, gittun Younger to him ever day, With the wrinkles blushed away! That s the dozen hub ? what, me? Bakers dozen, dont ye see! Purty soon Mis Good says, Walk Out to dinner; you kin talk list as well around the table. Then, Mis Good, we wont be able To do jistus to your cookun, Uncle Joe Biggs says, a-lookun At the others with a wink. I could eat a ba,l, I think, Says Lucindy, with a grin at Colonel Ike. Ef you-all s in it, I could too, be says to her. Colonel Slathers! Sakes! says she, What a cannibull you he! What Lishe said I could nt he-ur; All I know is Mary Ann Blushed an hid behind her fan, An Dick whispered loud to Tilly: Oh, what spoons! They re awful silly. When the compny all was sot, Dinner spread out smokun hot, Good says: Brother Mendenhall, Ast a blessun. Jist as all Bowed their heads, Lucindy Mitten Screams out: fVoit / They s tlzirt~en sett,,n At the table! Well,~Mis Good An Aunt Sally jumped an stood Pale as death; the others laft, An said: Pshaw! Set down! an cbaffed, Like: Now you dont blieve such stuff! That put Cindy in a huff, An she snapped out: Yes, I do; An it allays does come true: Ef thirteen eats dinner he-ur One will die before a yur/ Me or somen else must wait Dont ketch me a-temptun fate! An she stood there in her place, VEIN. Preacher wastun to say grace Gittun purty serous case, An somehow they looked at me / Ony one way I could see, So I gits up from my cheer, An says I : Now, looky he-ur: Caint spare granma or the preacher; Would nt take Lishe from the teacher; Colonel Ike is Cindys beau; Dick an Tilly s friends, I know; Others is two married p~~ Guess I in bout the one to spare! Now I 11 jist shove hoots down he-ur, An ast Nervy Whittaker; An if Mis Good dont object, She 11 come eat with us, 1 spect. You jist drive ahead, says I; We 11 ketch up on cake an pie! Thats the ticket! Yes; goon! Hurry, fore the turkey s gone, For it s ready now to serve. Yes, Tom; go an show yer Nerve I Ort to beerd em clap an shout As I left em an skinned out! Reglar Injun summer day; Air was blue, an woods was gray, Sun a-shinun lonesome red, Nervys orchard lookun dead; But her chimbly smokun there Stirred my blood, an, I declare, I was feard to go see her Little Nervy Whittaker! Never felt that way before, An when I was at their door, An she opened it, I stood Stoopud as a log o wood; Could nt speak or could nt stir, Could nt even look at her, Till she said: Why, come in, Tom; Whur on earth did you come from? Then I looked down at her laws, What a purty girl she was! Brown eyes dancun in her head, Lips an cheeks a-flamun red, Makun whiter them white teeth An her white neck underneath Did nt know what I was bout! But I mumbled sompun out. An she speaks UI): Well, I d say! Me leave home Thanksgivun Day? No, sir; you must stay with me Shant be, paw? An paw, says e: Why, of course, he 11 eat with us, Or they s gon to be a fuss! Well, I stayed, as you might know Nothun could a made me go; An fore night I plainly seen Cindy s right about thirteen, An my beun the odd one Is whur my good luck begun! So, as I was go n to sax, Comun this Thanksgivun Day, Cindy Slathers an her man, Lishe an his wife, Mary Ann, Biggses, Goods, an Mendenhall, Granma, Tilly, Dick, an all Nervys folks, a dozen more, They 11 be down to our house, shore, To git up for Nerve an me Our Thanksgivun jubilee! Richard Lew Dawson. THE DE VINNE PRESS NFW YORK i 6o

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The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Issue 2 Century illustrated monthly magazine Century monthly magazine Century magazine Scribner's monthly Forum Forum and century The Century Company New York Dec 1892 0045 002
The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 45, Issue 2, miscellaneous front pages 161-162

PAINTED BY DASSAN-BOADEHET. EAPYDISHI, 1852, BY THOMAS SHIELDS CLAHEE. MADONNA AND CHILD. TOSHAVED DY H. WOLF.

Robert Underwood Johnson Johnson, Robert Underwood Madonna of Dagnan-Bouveret 163-164

CI-JRJS TMZ4S NUMBER. THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. \OL. XLV. DECEMBER, 1892. No. 2. A MADONNA OF DAGNAN-BOUVERET. I. O H, brooding thought of dread Oh, calm of coming grief! Oh, mist of tears unshed Above that shining head That for an hour too brief Lies on thy nurturing knee! How shil we pity thee, Mother of sorrowssorrows yet to be! II. That babyhood unknown With all of bright or fair That lingers in our own By every hearth has shone. Each year that light we share As Bethlehem saxv it shine. Be ours the comfort thine, Mother of consolations all divine! A( 2XK7 Copyright, 1892 by I HI CF N I u& v C 0 All rights rcservcd. x6~ PICTURESQUE NEW YORK.1 i. natural man. Its charmif I must attempt a bit of defining myself is made up of harmo- the last century, Sir Uvedale nious and alien elements. It must have some Price, preaching the new gospel elements which speak to the esthetic sense, and of reaction against formality in also some which speak to that love of sharp gardening art, tried through a and telling contrasts, to that delight in the whole volume to explain pic- fortuitous and surprising, which is equally in- turesqueness. By dint of piling up descriptions, nate in our souls. in very pretty phrases, he succeeded. But he Thus the essence of picturesqueness is van- nowhere hit upon a good quotable definition, ety; and the charm of variety is more easily and I do not think that any writer since his appreciated than the charm of simple and day has found one. However, many writers pure perfection. More attractive to the aver- have tried to define beauty with no better age tourist than even the cathedrals, which success, and yet most people know, although they cannot tell, what beauty and picturesque- ness are. Of course, with the one as with the other, in- dividual estimates differ. But divergence in taste is greater, I think, as regards beauty than as regards picturesqueness. Only that long prac- tice of the eye and mind which we call cultiva- tion can fully reveal the higher kinds of beauty; but picturesqueness instantly appeals to the 1 With nine etchings by Charles F. W. Mielatz, reproduced by wood-engraving, and three pen-and-ink drawings by T. R. Manly, on page 174. stand undisturbed, are the ruined abbeys of England those abbeys to which the destroy- ing hand of the Reformer and the decorating hand of Nature have given a greater amount of variety, a larger element of the unex- pected, a higher degree of picturesqueness. There must be many persons who would rather look at the Parthenon in fragments than see it as it was before the Turkish bomb exploded. I am sure that a quite naive, untrained eye would rather see its fragments picturesquely overgrown with ivy and sprinkled with wild flowers than beautifully naked under the un 164 THE BATTERY.

Mrs. Schuyler van Rensselaer van Rensselaer, Schuyler, Mrs. Picturesque New York 164-177

PICTURESQUE NEW YORK.1 i. natural man. Its charmif I must attempt a bit of defining myself is made up of harmo- the last century, Sir Uvedale nious and alien elements. It must have some Price, preaching the new gospel elements which speak to the esthetic sense, and of reaction against formality in also some which speak to that love of sharp gardening art, tried through a and telling contrasts, to that delight in the whole volume to explain pic- fortuitous and surprising, which is equally in- turesqueness. By dint of piling up descriptions, nate in our souls. in very pretty phrases, he succeeded. But he Thus the essence of picturesqueness is van- nowhere hit upon a good quotable definition, ety; and the charm of variety is more easily and I do not think that any writer since his appreciated than the charm of simple and day has found one. However, many writers pure perfection. More attractive to the aver- have tried to define beauty with no better age tourist than even the cathedrals, which success, and yet most people know, although they cannot tell, what beauty and picturesque- ness are. Of course, with the one as with the other, in- dividual estimates differ. But divergence in taste is greater, I think, as regards beauty than as regards picturesqueness. Only that long prac- tice of the eye and mind which we call cultiva- tion can fully reveal the higher kinds of beauty; but picturesqueness instantly appeals to the 1 With nine etchings by Charles F. W. Mielatz, reproduced by wood-engraving, and three pen-and-ink drawings by T. R. Manly, on page 174. stand undisturbed, are the ruined abbeys of England those abbeys to which the destroy- ing hand of the Reformer and the decorating hand of Nature have given a greater amount of variety, a larger element of the unex- pected, a higher degree of picturesqueness. There must be many persons who would rather look at the Parthenon in fragments than see it as it was before the Turkish bomb exploded. I am sure that a quite naive, untrained eye would rather see its fragments picturesquely overgrown with ivy and sprinkled with wild flowers than beautifully naked under the un 164 THE BATTERY. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK r cinuded sun. And such an eye would admire Alcibiades more in the peaked cap, scalloped jerkin, and pointed shoes of the fifteenth cen- tury, than draped in the straight folds of a chiton, or passing unclothed from the wrestling- ground to the bath. Nevertheless, not all eyes can appreciate picturesqueness wherever it occurs. While es- thetic cultivation leads one gradually to rank the beautiful above the picturesque, at the same time it opens the senses to many forms of pic- turesqueness hitherto unperceived. It is a tru- ism to say that a landscape-painter finds a hundred things paintable, pictorial (and this comes very near to meaning picturesque), which the Philistine finds absolutely uninteresting or actually repulsive. Why should this be? It is because, as I have said, some elements of real beauty must enter into the picturesque, and the artists eye is so trained to seek out beau- ties that it finds them, very often, ~x here the untaught eye sees unmitigated ugliness. Among the things it has learned to value are beauties of light and shadow. Ordinary folk seldom notice these. To them a lrnd- scape is the same landscape at dawn, at noon, and at dusV To the artist it is three (lifferent landscapes at these different hours; and at one hour, perhaps, is totally uninteresting, at an- other exquisitely lovely. Again, the artist notes charms of color with especial keenness. And, again, he has trained himself to see things as COENTIES SLIP. i66 PICTURESQUE NEW YORK a whole, when they look best that way, with- out being disturbed by their details, and, in a contrary case, to forget the whole in admira- tion for certain features or effects. Thus the artist sees more in nature, and sees it better, than the ordinary man. And as it is with the spontaneous products of the earth, so it is with those huge artificial products we call cities. The painter will agree with you when you say that Paris is beautiful and New York is not, or that, compared with Nuremberg, New York is prosaic. But, whether you as- sert or deny the fact, he will insist that there are many picturesque things and places in New York, and that, under certain conditions, it presents many broadly picturesque effects; and he may even tell you that it is a pictur- esque city in a queer New World fashion of its own. of New York, which seems to sparkle with At- lantic salt, also stands by itself to the eye. Even the air of Philadelphia seems duller and less vital, and the air of Boston colder and more raw. The quality of the atmosphere influences not only the aspect of sky and cloud, the in- tensity of sunshine, and the look of long street- perspectives, but every minor fact of color, and of light and shadow. Put our party-colored New York buildings in London, and we should hardly recognize them, even while their surfaces were still unstained by soot; the thickness of the air would effectually disguise them. Put the dull-looking buildings of London in New York, and they would be transfigured to some- thing new by our brilliant sky, our crisp lights, and our strong, sharp shadows. Ugly as the American tourist thinks the smokes and fogs of London, they have a great II. attraction for the artist, lending themselves to ONE great influence determining the aspect the most powerful effects of chiaroscuro, and of a city is the quality of its atmosphere. This removing the need to draw details with prosaic quality is not alike in any two large towns un- accuracy. The fact that London has so seldom less they are geographically and industrially been portrayed by English artists simply shows very near akin. Doubtless the atmosphere of that there have not been many sensitive ar- Birmingham is quite like that of Manchester. tists in England. On the other hand, the much But the smoky air of London is not the same thinner, purer, but still slightly misty air of Paris, as the smoky air of Chicago. The delicate, has had a thousand devotees. It subdues with- grayish atmosphere of Paris can nowhere be out shrouding facts of local color, and softens matched. And the clear, pure, crystalline air details into manageable shape without conceal- ON TIlE EAST RIVER. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK i67 ing them. The transparent, almost metallic air of New York is more difficult to deal with. It keeps our city incomparably clean, and clean- liness is not so artistic as it is godly. I am glad of this chance to celebrate the cleanliness of New York, for we are always being told how dirty it is. Jt is certainly very dirty underfoot in many of its streets. But the eye which is looking for heauty or picturesqueness the eye which is really seeing a citydoes not care chiefly about pavements. And above our pavements we are so extremely clean that an artist of any previous generation would have declared us impossihle to paint. The modern artist, however, is not afraid of suW jects which lack tone. He has washed the old traditional palette, and set it anew with fresh, cheerful colors; he has learned how to portray the brightest sunshine; and he can rejoice in a place where he must paint sun- light falling on clear whites and yellows, bold reds, bright browns, and vivid greens, no less than one where, as in London, he can confine himself to neutral tones, or where, as in Paris, he can veil his whites, his pale light blues, his soft greens, and occasional notes of a more bril- liant kind, with a delicate gauze of airiest gray. Indeed, the more modern in temper he is, the more he is attracted by the toneless prob- lem; for it is the more difficult one, the nexver one, and, therefore, the one with which he has the best chance to do something that was not hackneyed long before he was born. So our young artists are heginning to draw A RAINY NIGHT, MADISON SQUARE i68 PICTUJ?ESQ UE NE W YORK. and to etch and to paint New York, and here and there they find corners and vistas of delight- fully novel flavor. They are excited by those frank, big irregularities of form which drive an architect to righteous despair, and which tune the Philistine tongue to less discriminating con- tumely. They are stimulated by our high, clear notes of color. And they take particular plea- sure in seeing how finely an occasional stream of black smoke from a chimney, or billowy rush of white steam from an elevated train, cuts into and contrasts with the crystal air and the azure sky, and then dies away, leaving them unpolluted. They do not say that New York is beautiful, but they (10 say that it is most amusing; and this is the current studio synonym for picturesque. The most picturesque of all the sights that New York offers is its general aspect when seen at night from a boat on the water. The abrupt, extraordinary contrasts of its sky-line are then subdued to a gigantic mystery; its myriad, many-colored lights spangle like those of some supernally large casino; and from the east or south we see one element of rare and solemn beautythe sweep of the great bridge, defined by starry sparks, as though a bit of the arch of heaven had descended to brood over the surface of the waves. In the daylight the citys sky-line, all along the western shore, is much too pronounced and yet prosaic to be picturesque. But on the more winding eastern shore there are many pic- turesque points of view, with the bridge always playing its part. When we get further north- ward, the big islands in mid-stream look much too pleasantly varied and bright to be the abodes of poverty, illness, and crime. And there is nothing in any land which, to the searcher for broadly picturesque effects, can be more satisfying than the southward outlook from the bridge itself, when the afternoon sun is shining on the gray-and-silver bay. One of the most beautiful views I have ever beheld, one far too nobly beautiful to be called picturesque, is the viexv of Paris, seen from the top of the towers of Notre Dame. None of New Yorks towers can show us anything which e(Iuals this panorama of pale gray and verdant tones, slipping away to the encircling hills, and cut through the middle by the shining line of the many-bridged Seine. Yet we get a very entertaining panorama of ruddy architectural irregularities, spotted by the more aggressive tall white or yellow irregularities of recent years, from the tower on Madison Square, while the desirable element of beauty is supplied by the distant boundary-lines of water and further shore. And from the top of the World tower down-town, where the adjacent buildings arc loftiei and the wide waters are much nearer, the prospect is astonishingly picturesque, astonish- ingly beautiful even, although in a wilder, cruder way than the one from the towers of Notre Dame. iii. WHEN we walk throuuh our streets we want b to appreciate all the picturesqueness they con- EAST RIVER AT GRAND STREET. ENSSSSED BY S. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK 169 tam, we must cultivate the artistic faculty of seeing only just as much at a time as we ought to see. We must sometimes note the general effect without considering special features, and sometimes contemplate a special feature to the exclusion of its neighbors. And we must put all rules of enjoyment learned in other towns out of mind, and all respect for ancient archi- tectural canons. For example, we may walk a long way upon Fifth Avenue without finding a truly pictur- esque feature. But do you want to see a finely picturesque general effect? Take an hour to- ward sunset, stand near Thirty-fifth street. Look to the southward, first down the slope of the long, gentle hill, and then down the longer level reach beyond, and let your eye rest on the far roseate mist and the crimson southern sky. This is more than a picturesque sight. It is a beautiful sight, and there are so few of its kind in New York that it ought never to be offered to unheeding eyes. VOL. XLV.23. Continue your course down the avenue, and perhaps you will be lucky enough to round the shoulder of the Brunswick while the shadows lie heavy on the trees in Madison Square; but the sky is still vivid overhead, and a strong beam of sunshine still lingers far up on Dianas saffron tower. This too is a beautiful sight, if you look only at the tower. But, seen from a more southerly point, with alien buildings around it, and a mat of foliage at its feet, the tower is eminently picturesque even at noon- time, still more at sunset, and especially at night when it is wreathed with flashing lamps. But it grows purely beautiful again in a clear midnight, when there is no light but the stars light, yet this suffices to bring out its pallid grace against a sky which, being the sky of New York, is, even at midnight, definitely blue. A little further to the southward still, and you stand at the corner of Twenty-third street. Here you will be happiest in winter, for then ENGRAVED BY J. CLEMENT. THE TOMBS. 170 PICTURESQUE NEW YORK a carpet of snow may give a key-note of color repeated in the white fronts of certain big shops, and again in the clouds which mark the flight of an elevated train at the end of the vista. This is not a beautiful view, but it is a picturesque one, and picturesque in a bold, careless, showy way quite characteristic of New York. For in other American towns where architecture is as audacious and irre- sponsible as here, there are not the same high colors distributed in the same effective large masses, and bathed in the same almost yet not quite metallic air, Chicago uses more differ- ent kinds of building-material than do we; but even if her smoke did not subdue their tints, she would still lack the coloristic decision of New York; for we make a much larger use of white and pale-yelloxv stone and brick and terra-cotta. Twenty-third street is a good place in which to learn that there are two sides to many optical questions. Our women, for instance, clothe themselves much too gaudily outdoors if we judge them individually by the standard of ood taste in dress; but they do not if we judge them collectively as an element in a tangled street-perspective. Our elevated roads have certainly spoiled many of our avenues; yet they bring numerous picturesque notes into the vistas of our cross-streets; and when we travel by them, especially at night, they delight our eyes with striking effects never seen until they were built. And it is the same with our flaunting sign-boards. Architecturally crimi- nal, and destructive of that look of dignified repose which may be even better in a city than picturesqueness, they add to the accidental contrasts which a painter of modern temper loves. The whole of Madison Square is picturesque to a painter of this sort, by day and night, in summer and winter. Or it would be if only some one would build, on its sharp southern corner, another tall light-colored tower to chal- lenge Dianas across the trees. Even this same shabby corner, as our etcher shows, is not un- picturesque when veiled by night and a rain- storm; and there are many other places in New York which assume a surprisingly picto- rial aspect under these conditions. ELEVATED RAILROAD STATION. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK 7 But these are not our characteristic condi- tions. They do not show our picturesqueness as most distinctly different from that of any other town. Our atmosphere and our light are our chief glories, with the splendid sap- phire sky they give, and the sumptuous masses of white clouds they allow to brood or fly above us. Therefore we have been wise of late years to run so decidedly to architectural whites and yellows. And therefore a shining spring day is the one on which we prefer that a stranger shall first behold us; or a snow-clad but equally shining winter day the sort of day which comes rarely now, as regards the snow, but, if we may believe veracious elders, used to come by months at a time. Then, when the sleighs are out, and every note of color in house or dress is keyed up to a double intensity by the white background, and the sleigh-bells do not ring more gaily than the brisk wind greets our cheeks, it must be a dull eye which finds the upper part of New York dully prosaic. iv. BUT it is not only up-town, in the central, re- spectable streets, that the picturesqueness of New York resides,not only and, in one sense, not chiefly, although here our color-effects are most brilliant. Picturesqueness of detail is un- ending along the river-fronts. Even the grimy, filthy water-streets show touches of it, and from the water itself there unrolls a perpetually new grouping of those many-sized hulls and tan- gled spars and cordages which, in every cen- tury and every maritime land, have been the artists joy. Queer, sordid and ramshackle are many of these waterside pictures, but often good to paint, and still more often very good indeed to draw. New York has nothing, alas, to recall the clean, stately quays which are a distinctive fea- ture in most European seaports. But around the Battery there is a dignified promenade, and the prospect it offers of restless water and pro- tean craft need not fear a rival. South street is more respectable than most of our water- streets, and seems distinctly picturesque to me. But perhaps this is because, as a child, I used to sit there in my grandfathers office and mar- vel at the giant bowsprits which almost came in at the window. Farther north lies Coenties Slip, with some rare remaining bits of old-time architecture stores whose quaint, Dutch, bourgeois quietude is emphatically brought out by the self-assertiveness of the big square red tower of the Produce Exchange behind them. Then, as we penetrate toward the center of the down-town district, there are picturesque glimpses of verdure, lighted up by flaming flower-beds, at Bowling Green and near the City Hall; and there are the varying reaches, TWO BRIDGES ON THE HARLEM. 172 PICTURESQUE NEW YORK now straight, now curving, now narr ow, and now broad, of the teeming business streets. Here is the famous slant of Wall street, made almost tunnel-like in recent years by the height of its reconstructed buildings. And from it we get another of New Yorks best sightsthe sight of Trinity Church, and of that peaceful graveyard which looks doubly peaceful amid this riot and roar; church and graveyard im- pressing not only the eye but the mind as witnesses that beauty and righteousness have their claims no less than money-making and architectural display. But we cannot appreciate the picturesque- ness which New York wears to both mind and eye unless we go immediately from the stately commercialism of its down-town streets to the adjacent tenefuent-house districts. Pest-holes to the sanitarian and the moralist, loathsome abodes of filth and horror to the respectable citizen, many parts of these districts gratify the eye that seeks pictorial pleasure. I have seen Grand street at Christmas-time when the East-siclers had on their best clothes, and were wandering in crowded groups along the booth-lined pavement, and the big shops seemed to have disgorged half their contents outside their windows; and Grand street was almost as picturesque as a German Ja/irmarki. I have seen Hester street on a Friday after- noon in May, when it swarmed so thickly with Jews of a dozen landshucksters and buyers inextricably mixed that there seemed no room for another, and all were as little like Ameri- cans as though they had never left their out- landish homes, and not a sound in their loud Babel was a recognizable part of civilized speeco; and Hester street was amazingly like those foreign ghettos which traveling Ne xv-York- ers take such pains to visit. I have seen Mul- berry Bend on an October day, when it was just as full of Italians, lounging, eating, work- ing, gossiping out of doors, with faces as beau- tifully brown and ruddy, teeth as white, smiles as quick, speech as voluble, jewelry as profuse, and garments as party-colored, as though they were at home in their Naples; and the New York sun gilded them as radiantly as though it had been the sun of Naples. I have seen the Bowery at night, when it is not a Parisian boulevard, but is something the like of which one could not see in any Paris; and a Chinese theater filled with Chinamen as absolutely ce- lestial as though they had come through instead of around the globe. And while of course I know that there are many other odd sights to be seen in New York, these have been enough to prove that he who says it is unpicturesque has never looked at it at all. Even yet we are by no means at the end of it. We must not forget the City Hall Park, which, with the giant newspaper buildings around it, would be so fair a center for the down- town districts had not Uncle Sam seen fit to truncate it and shut it in with his great ugly Post-office. Still, however, it is shady, fioxvery, and attractive, as the newsboys always know, and as scores of tramps daily discover. And it still holds unchanged that old City Hall, which is perhaps the most beautiful of all our build- ings, and which ought never to be changed, no matter how much money and how many other alterations it may cost us to preserve it. A couple of miles up-town is Washington Square, where, again, there are many tramps, but, in- stead of the newsboys, a sprinkling of baby- wagons and white-capped nurses; for this is the boundary-line between very poor and crowded and very well-to-do and roomy streets of homes South Fifth Avenue, with its teeming French, German, Irish, and negro population, ending against one of its sides, and the true Fifth Av- enue starting from another. This square shows at its best, perhaps, when from the window of some tall apartment-house we look over its crowding tree-tops at the flushing morning or evening sky. But even at the street-level its foliage gives a double interest to the Univer- sity building, which, architecturally, is a poor imitation of English collegiate structures, but - pictorially has considerable charm; to the neighboring gray church whose qualities are of a similar sort; to our new white Washington Arch; and to the beautiful Italianesque cam- panile of the new yellow-and-white Baptist church. This arch and this tower have made Washington Square really picturesque, espe- cially when, standing near the one, we see the other against a sunset sky, and its great crown- ing cross begins to glow with electric flame a torch of warning and of invitation alike to the outwardly righteous dweller on Fifth Av- enue and the openly sinful tlweller on South Fifth Avenue. Buildings which are pictorially, if not archi- tecturally, very valuable can here and there be found in every quarter of New York. The Tombs is one of them. Jefferson Market is an- other. Grace Church is a third, when we stand so far off to the southward that it seems to finish Broadway once and for all. And still another, very different in character, is the Quaker Meet- ing-house on Stuyvesant Square, which, with its simple shape, big trees, and little plot of well-tended grass, looks as though it had been bodily transported from some small Pennsyl- vanian town. Picturesqueness is hardly thought of when we go miles to the northwestward and find the Riverside Drive. It is beauty that greets us here, in the drive itself and the quite match- less river-view. But both beauty and pictur PICHJRESQ UE NEW YORK 73 esqueness can be found by him who seeks along the Harlem River, and, still further away, along the Bronx. And if he has time to search out here and there those scattered, fringing spots which go by the general name of Shanty- town, he will find perpetual picturesqueness in their tottering, pitiful, vanishing, yet often greenly environed, relics of bucolic days. But even if all that ought to be said could be said about every other quarter of Manhat- tan, how should one describe the Central Park? I shall not try. You, across the bridge, who own Prospect Park, may say you have a more beautiful pleasure-ground. But scarcely any other people in all the world can say this, and no one can say that he has a more pic- turesque pleasure-ground. Out of the net- tle difficulty Mr. Olmsted, great artist that he is, plucked the finest flower of achievement in this especial line. Out of the most unprom- ising park-site that men ever chose, he made the most picturesquely lovely park that men ever created. Few New Yorkers know it; few know more of it than its eastern and western drives. But the artist is finding it out; and whether or not he cares to bring into his can- vas bits and glimpses of adjacent streets, he will not soon exhaust its capabilities of picto- rial service. v. PERHAPS the most characteristic trait of our city is the quick and thorough way in which it makes good New Yorkers of its immigrants, foreigners or Americans, and the tenacious way in which it retains its hold, no matter how far off its sons may stray. The New Yorker who lives abroad may fancy himself a cosmop- olite; but he always remembers he is a New Yorker, and can never even fancy himself a simple American, much less a semi-German or a semi-Frenchman. But the Berliner who lives here is not a Berliner, a simple German, or even a mere German-American. He is a New York IN CENTRAL PARK. 74 PICTUI?ESQUE NEW YORK. (~ernsan, and this, as a florist would say, is a well-marked suhvarietv of the German spe- cies. And I need not speak of the Irishman who so instantly identifies himself with his feeling in the sense of historic vanity, municipal self-respect, local public spirit. But they love their city so well that they shudder at the thought of living anywhere else. They are deeply hurt if a stranger is dull enough to question where they belong. And if they were I)orn here, they never pay any other city the compliment of dis- cussing how it would seem to have been horn there, while the protid Bos- tonian is al)t to show his pride by de- claring he is glad he is not a native of New York. We are all good New Yorkers, I say, whether we were horn on Fifth Aventie, in a far European village at North Granite I edge in Yer- mont or near the head waters of the Yellowstone. And yet there is a dif I {I~ ~- 51 51dT ~ LEN ARD NENK 95111 RI 1 new home that he instantly thinks it ought to belong altogether to him. Then, if one of us removes to Boston, he or she remains, to the end of the chapter, a New Yorker who happens to live in Boston: but a Bostonian \vh() comes here is transformed at once into a New Yorker who happens to has heen horn in Boston. Man- hattan h for all the world, and all the ss orld has taken possession of it htit Manhattan retaliates hy taking 1bO~eNsiOis of every man who comes, and maikin! him with earmarks which no one cm mistake This is partlx~ of cotirse, because we who were horn here care so little where our neigh- hors were horii Y\ e care only what they are, and they are all ood N ew Yorkers. They are not protidl of theii city perhaps, as Parisians are proud of Paris bostonians of Boston. At least it is the fashion to aa that they have no filial IN SIIANTYrOWN. ference hetween the merely good New Yorker and the true, or horn, New Yorker. ohn, who came hy rail from Buffalo three years ago, feels in the same way about his pres- ent home as James, who came forty years ago, by an older path, trailing his little clouds of glory straight from heaven. But he does not see this present home in the same way. He sees our actual, visible New York. But James AN OLD LANE, 1/OLE VA//i) NEAR 94T11 SRI/El. PICTURESQUE NEW YORK 75 even if he came only thirty years ago sees this and an earlier, vanished one as well; and his constant perception of the vanished one vastly increases the picturesqueness of the actual one. As I, a horn New Yorker, take my walks abroad, I note a series of composite pictures, much more striking in their contrasts, unex- pected in their variety, than any which you, a recently adopted New Yorker, can behold. My mothers composites are more picturesque still, for often she sees three hits of New York mistily standing together on the same piece of ground. And if my grandfather could come hack,I am proud to say he was born in New England, hut I am sure he thinks less of this fact now than of the fact that he lived nearly seventy years in New York,if he could come back, he would behold, as a setting for his com- posites, the open fields and gardens upon which most of our New York has been built since he left Connecticut; and so their picturesqueness would he green and flowery. There is a city in the West which, within twenty years, has sprung up, new in body and feathers, from the ashes of its predecessor. And there are younger cities in the farther West which have been born, and have grown to architectural maturity, within the same brief period. But the deliberate hand of man has, during this period, done for New York almost as much as flame did for Chicago. Old New York has been torn down, and another city has arisen on its site, since the days when our streets rang to the tread of the returning ar- mies of the Union. For a parallel to what we have done with this city of ours, we must look far hack to some English cathedral where the still sturdy work of earlier generations was de- stroyed simply that living men might rebuild it bigger and taller and more in accordance with their own ideas of architectural excellence. To realize what this change means to the true New Yorker, we need not examine those districts within a mile of the City Hall where transformation has been most audacious. We need only look, I will say, at Union Square, and only with the eyes of one who holds the day of Lincolns assassination among her earli- est clear memories. Union Square is a lively place now and an amusing; and when we see it from upper Broadway, with, over the trees, the tall Domestic Building in the far distance, it is not an unpicturesque place. But this is how I behold it: Tiffanys store stands on a certain corner, and it is commonplace and pro- saic enough. But on this same corner I see a pale-gray stone church with a square tower, plausibly like that upon some English parish- church, and with a thick mantle of ivy exactly like an English one. There are no sky-scrap- ing business buildings anywhere, and not a sin- gle shop, and no horse-cars except along the Fourth Avenue side. The tallest structure is the Everett House, and elsewhere there are merely rows of modest high-stoop dwellings, with vines on their balconies and trees along their sidewalks. The trees in the square itself are much more numerous than you think, and spread out much farther, so that there are only narrow streets between them and the houses and they are mingled with (lense thickets of shrubs, and inclosed by a high picket-fence. Under their shadow all of usall the boys of the neighborhood and one or two bad little girls as wellare playing I spy among the bushes, digging shallow pits in the earthen paths for our game of marbles, and drawing circles out of which we hope, with our pet lignum-vit~ top, to drive the tops of the other fellows, per- hapsoh, bliss splitting them in two in the act. There are no tramps or other doleful fig- ures on the benches; there is only a rare police- man, who takes a fatherly interest in our sport; and there is a stall at one corner, where a fat Irishwoman in a red shawl dispenses pinked- out gingersnaps of a heavenly essence which, cannot be purchased, even by bad little girls, within a mile of the sophisticated Union Square of to-day. Now, this quiet old Union Square that I see, lying like a pretty cloud over the variegated and noisy one that you see, makes with it a very picturesque composite scene. And pic- turesque, too, is the Broadway I see, looking northward from the square; for there, mingling with the lofty stone and iron shops, are the ghosts of rows of little two-storied shops, with broad wooden pl4tforms in front of them such as still exist in small New Jersey towns. And high up, before one of these shops (the toy-shop of my youth, kept by a Frenchman named Phillipoteaux, for whose sake I have always liked to praise the painter of panoramas), stands the ghost of a life-size figure of Santa Claus, picturesquely promising next Christmas while the trees are still in their budding season. Even you, young artist, born on the Pacific slope and now fresh from Parisian boulevards, can see that your New York is picturesque. But I wish that I could show you minemine, which is not mine of my infancy or mine of to-day, but the two together, delightfully, in- extricably, mysteriously, perpetually mixed. AL. G. Van Rensselaer. DRAWN DV FRANCIS VINCENT DR MOND ENGRAVED BY H. DAVIDRRN. MADONNA. THE sloping street ran down a little hill And touched the tide; The clustered town was lying warm and still By the waterside. I wandered up amid the noonday heat Through humble doors, Where leafy shadow lay on path and seat And open floors. A tiny town it was of yellow walls For toiling folk, Where river boom and hurrying engine-calls The silence broke. But like a vision on the narrow way, Divinely sweet, Within the mothers arms a baby lay Beside the street. T was under shadow of the maple boughs She sat at rest, A lowly mother by her simple house, Her babe at breast; A slender matron of a score of years, With soft black eyes; Full of delights that trembled into fears Young-mother wise. Bending, she gazed upon the little head, Nor heard a sound; Her lips, drawn up to bless, were tender red And kissing-round. But fainter than her cheeks autumnal rose, A pale sweet glow Lay round her, as if wings in white repose Guarded her so. Most like it was the magic color made By some old brush: A halo like a light within a shade, A holy hush! And I what though the steaming mills awoke The heated air? What though the rattling engine through the smoke Made echo there ? I crossed the barrier years and won the land Of tenderest art, And knew the golden masters hand to hand And heart to heart. Harrison S. Morris. VOL. XLV.24. 77

Harrison S. Morris Morris, Harrison S. Madonna 177-178

MADONNA. THE sloping street ran down a little hill And touched the tide; The clustered town was lying warm and still By the waterside. I wandered up amid the noonday heat Through humble doors, Where leafy shadow lay on path and seat And open floors. A tiny town it was of yellow walls For toiling folk, Where river boom and hurrying engine-calls The silence broke. But like a vision on the narrow way, Divinely sweet, Within the mothers arms a baby lay Beside the street. T was under shadow of the maple boughs She sat at rest, A lowly mother by her simple house, Her babe at breast; A slender matron of a score of years, With soft black eyes; Full of delights that trembled into fears Young-mother wise. Bending, she gazed upon the little head, Nor heard a sound; Her lips, drawn up to bless, were tender red And kissing-round. But fainter than her cheeks autumnal rose, A pale sweet glow Lay round her, as if wings in white repose Guarded her so. Most like it was the magic color made By some old brush: A halo like a light within a shade, A holy hush! And I what though the steaming mills awoke The heated air? What though the rattling engine through the smoke Made echo there ? I crossed the barrier years and won the land Of tenderest art, And knew the golden masters hand to hand And heart to heart. Harrison S. Morris. VOL. XLV.24. 77 MY COUSIN FANNY. By the Author of Marse Chan, Meh Lady, etc. RISTMAS always up to me my cousin Fanny; I sup- was so foolish pose becau~e she al- about Christmas. My cousin Fanny was an old maid; in- deed, to follow St. Pauls turn of phrase, she was an old maid of the old maids. No one who saw her a moment could have doubted it. Old maids are a peculiar folk. They have from most people a feeling rather akin to pity a hard heritage. They very often have this feel- ing from the young. This must be the hardest part of allto see around them friends, each a happy mother of children, little ones re- sponding to affection with the sweet caresses of childhood, while any advances that they, their aunt or cousin, may make are met with in- difference or condescension. My cousin Fanny was no exception. She was as proud as Lu- cifer; yet she went through life the part that I knew of bearing the pity of the great majority of the people who knew her. This seemed to be quite natural. She lived at an old place called Wood- side, which had been in the family for a great many years; indeed, eversince before the Rev- olution. The neighborhood dated back to the times of the colony, and Woodside was one of the old places. My cousin Fannys grand- mother had stood in the door of her chamber with her large scissors in her hand, and defied Tarletons red-coated troopers to touch the basket of old communion-plate which she had hung on her arm. The house was a large brick edifice, with a pyramidal roof, covered with moss, small win- dows, porticos with pillars somewhat out of repair, a big, high hall, and a staircase wide enough to drive up it a gig if it could have turned the corners. A grove of great forest oaks and poplars densely shaded it, and made it look rather gloomy, and the garden, with the old graveyard covered with periwinkle ~t one end, was almost in front, while the side of the wood a primeval forest, from which the place took its name came up so close as to form a strong, dark background. During the war the place, like most others in that neigh- borhood, suffered greatly, and only a sudden exhibition of spirit on Cousin Fannys part saved it from a worse fate. After the war it went down; the fields were poor, and grew up in briers and sassafras, and the house was too large and out of repair to keep from decay, the ownership of it being divided between Cousin Fanny and other members of the family. Cousin Fanny had no means whatever, so that it soon was in a bad condition. The rest of the family, as they grew up, went off, compelled by neces- sity to seek some means of livelihood, and would have taken Cousin Fanny too if she would have gone; but she would not go. They did all they could for her, but she preferred to hang around the old place, and to do what she could with her mammy, and old Stephen, her mammys husband, who alone remained in the quarters. She lived in a part of the house, locking up the rest, and from time to time visited among her friends and relatives, who always received her hospitably. She had an old piece of a mare (which I think she had bought from S~phen), with one eye, three legs, and no mane or tail to speak of, and on which she lavished, without the least perceptible result, care enough to have kept a stable in condition. In a freak of hu- mor she named this animal Fashion, after a noted racer of the old times, which had been raised in the county, and had beaten the famous Boston in a great race. She always spoke of Fash with a tone of real tenderness in her voice, and looked after her, and discussed her ailments, which were always numerous, as if she had been a delicate child. Mounted on this beast, with her bags and bundles, and shawls and umbrella, and a long stick or pole, she used occasionally to make the tour of the neighborhood, and was always really wel- comed; because, notwithstanding the trouble she gave, she always stirred things up. As was said once, you could no more have remained dull where she was than you could have dozed with a chinkapin burr down your back. Her retort was that a chinkapin burr might be used to rouse people from a lethargy (she had an old maids tongue). By the younger mem- bers of the family she was always welcomed, be- cause she furnished so much fun. She nearly always ktched some little thing to her host, not her hostess, a fowl, or a pat of butter from her one old cow, or something of the kind, because, she said, Abigail had established the precedent, and she was a woman of good un 178

Thomas Nelson Page Page, Thomas Nelson My Cousin Fanny 178-188

MY COUSIN FANNY. By the Author of Marse Chan, Meh Lady, etc. RISTMAS always up to me my cousin Fanny; I sup- was so foolish pose becau~e she al- about Christmas. My cousin Fanny was an old maid; in- deed, to follow St. Pauls turn of phrase, she was an old maid of the old maids. No one who saw her a moment could have doubted it. Old maids are a peculiar folk. They have from most people a feeling rather akin to pity a hard heritage. They very often have this feel- ing from the young. This must be the hardest part of allto see around them friends, each a happy mother of children, little ones re- sponding to affection with the sweet caresses of childhood, while any advances that they, their aunt or cousin, may make are met with in- difference or condescension. My cousin Fanny was no exception. She was as proud as Lu- cifer; yet she went through life the part that I knew of bearing the pity of the great majority of the people who knew her. This seemed to be quite natural. She lived at an old place called Wood- side, which had been in the family for a great many years; indeed, eversince before the Rev- olution. The neighborhood dated back to the times of the colony, and Woodside was one of the old places. My cousin Fannys grand- mother had stood in the door of her chamber with her large scissors in her hand, and defied Tarletons red-coated troopers to touch the basket of old communion-plate which she had hung on her arm. The house was a large brick edifice, with a pyramidal roof, covered with moss, small win- dows, porticos with pillars somewhat out of repair, a big, high hall, and a staircase wide enough to drive up it a gig if it could have turned the corners. A grove of great forest oaks and poplars densely shaded it, and made it look rather gloomy, and the garden, with the old graveyard covered with periwinkle ~t one end, was almost in front, while the side of the wood a primeval forest, from which the place took its name came up so close as to form a strong, dark background. During the war the place, like most others in that neigh- borhood, suffered greatly, and only a sudden exhibition of spirit on Cousin Fannys part saved it from a worse fate. After the war it went down; the fields were poor, and grew up in briers and sassafras, and the house was too large and out of repair to keep from decay, the ownership of it being divided between Cousin Fanny and other members of the family. Cousin Fanny had no means whatever, so that it soon was in a bad condition. The rest of the family, as they grew up, went off, compelled by neces- sity to seek some means of livelihood, and would have taken Cousin Fanny too if she would have gone; but she would not go. They did all they could for her, but she preferred to hang around the old place, and to do what she could with her mammy, and old Stephen, her mammys husband, who alone remained in the quarters. She lived in a part of the house, locking up the rest, and from time to time visited among her friends and relatives, who always received her hospitably. She had an old piece of a mare (which I think she had bought from S~phen), with one eye, three legs, and no mane or tail to speak of, and on which she lavished, without the least perceptible result, care enough to have kept a stable in condition. In a freak of hu- mor she named this animal Fashion, after a noted racer of the old times, which had been raised in the county, and had beaten the famous Boston in a great race. She always spoke of Fash with a tone of real tenderness in her voice, and looked after her, and discussed her ailments, which were always numerous, as if she had been a delicate child. Mounted on this beast, with her bags and bundles, and shawls and umbrella, and a long stick or pole, she used occasionally to make the tour of the neighborhood, and was always really wel- comed; because, notwithstanding the trouble she gave, she always stirred things up. As was said once, you could no more have remained dull where she was than you could have dozed with a chinkapin burr down your back. Her retort was that a chinkapin burr might be used to rouse people from a lethargy (she had an old maids tongue). By the younger mem- bers of the family she was always welcomed, be- cause she furnished so much fun. She nearly always ktched some little thing to her host, not her hostess, a fowl, or a pat of butter from her one old cow, or something of the kind, because, she said, Abigail had established the precedent, and she was a woman of good un 178 derstanding she understood that feeding and flattery were the way to win men. She would sometimes have a chicken in a basket hung on the off pommel of her old saddle, because at times she fancied she could not eat anything but chicken soup, and she did not wish to give trouble. She used to give trouble enough; for it generally turned out that she had heard some one was sick in the neighbor- hood, and she wanted the soup carried to her. I remember how mad Joe got because she made him go with her to carry a bucket of soup to old Mrs. Ronquist. Cousin Fanny had the marks of an old maid. She was thin (scrawny we used to call her, though I remember now she was quite erect until she grew feeble); her features were sharp; her nose was inclined to be a little red (it was very straight); her hair was brown; and her eyes, which were dark, were weak, so that she had often to wear a green shade. She used to say herself that they were bad eyes. They had been so ever since the time when she was a young girl, and there had been a very bad attack of scarlet fever at her home, and she had caught it. I think she caught a bad cold with it,sitting up nursing some of the younger children, perhaps,and it had settled in her eyes. She was always very liable to cold. I believe she had a lover then or about that time; but her mother had died not long before, and she had some notion of duty to the chil- dren, and so discarded him. Of course, as every one said, she d much better have married him. I do not suppose he ever could have addressed her. She never would admit that he did, which did not look much like it. I think we used to speak of her as sore-eyed; I know she was once spoken of in my presence as a sore-eyed old maid I have forgotten who said it. Yet I can now recall occasions when her eyes, being better, appeared unusually soft, and, had she notbeenan old maid, would some- times have been beautiful as, for instance, occasionally, when she was playing at the piano in the evenings before the candles were lighted. I recollect particularly once when she was sing- ing an old French love-song. Another time was when on a certain occasion some one was talk- ing about marriages and the reasons which led to or prevented them. She sat quite still and silent, looking out of the window, with her thin hands resting in her lap. Her head was turned away from most of the people, but I was sitting where I could see her, and the light of the even- ing sky was on her face. It made her look very soft. She lifted up her eyes, and looked far off toward the horizon. I remember it recalled to me, young as I was, the speech I had heard some one once make when I was a little boy, and which I had thought so ridiculous, that I when she was young, before she caught thaf cold, she was almost beautiful. There was an expression on her face that made me think she ought always to sit looking out of the win- dow at the evening sky. I believe she had brought me some apples that day when she came, and that made me feel kindly toward her. The light on her hair gave it a reddish look, quite auburn. Presently she withdrew her eyes from the sky, and let them fall into her lap with a sort of long, sighing breath, and slowly interlaced her fingers. The next second some one~jocularly fired this question at her: Well, Cousin Fanny, give us your views, and her expression changed back to that which she ordinarily wore. Oh, my views, like other peoples, vary from my practice, she said. It is not views, but experiences, which are valuable in life. When I shall have been married twice I will tell you. While there s life there s hope, eh ? haz- arded some one; for teasing an old maid like her, in any way, was held perfectly legitimate. Yes, indeed, and she left the room, smiling, and went up-stairs. This was one of the occasions when her eyes looked well. There were others that I remem- ber, as sometimes when she was in church; sometimes when she was playing with little children; and now and then when, as on that evening, she xvas sitting still, gazing out of the window. But usually her eyes were weak, and she wore the green shade which gave her face a peculiar pallor, making her look old, and giving her a pained, invalid expression. Her dress was one of her peculiarities. Per- haps it was because she made her clothes herself, without being able to see very well. I suppose she did not have much to dress on. I know she used to turn her dresses, and change them around several times. When she had any money she used to squander it, buying dresses for Scroggss girls or for some one else. She was always scrupulously neat, being quite old-maid- ish. She said that cleanliness was next to god- liness in a man, and in a woman it was on a par with it. I remember once seeing a picture of her as a young girl, as young as Kitty, dressed in a soft white dress, with her hair down over her ears, and some flowers in her dress (that is, it was said to be she; but I did notbelieve it). To be sure, the flowers looked like it. She al- ways would stick flowers or leaves in her dress, which was thought quite ridiculous. The idea of associating flowers with an old maid! It was as hard as believing she ever was the young girl. It was not, however, her dress, old and often queer and ill-made as it used to be, that was the chief grievance against her. There was a much stronger ground of opposition; she MY COUSIN FANNY MY COUSIN FANNY ad nerves! The word used to be strung out in pronouncing it, with a curve of the lips, as ner-erves. I dont remember that she herself ever mentioned them; that was the exasperat- ing part of it. She would never say a word; she would just closeherthinlipstight,andw~ar a sort of ill look, as if she were in actualpain. She used to go up-stairs, and shut the door and windows tight, and go to bed, and have mustard-plasters on her temples and the back of her neck; and when she came down, after a day or two, she would have bright red spots burnt on her tem- ples and neck, and would look ill. Of course it was very hard not to be exasperated at this. Then she would creep about as if merely step- ping jarred her; would put on a heavy blue veil, and wrap her head up in a shawl, and feel along by the chairs till she got to a seat, and drop back in it, gasping. Why, I have even seen her sit in the room, all swathed up, and with an old parasol over her head to keep out the light, or some such nonsense, as we used to think. It was too ridiculous to us, and we boys used to walk heavily and stumble over chairs, ac- cidentally, of course,just to make her jump. Sometimes she would even start up and cry out. We had the incontestable proof that it was all put on; for if you began to talk to her, and got her interested, she would forget all about her ailments, and would run on and talk and, laugh for an hour, until she suddenly remem- bered, and sank back again in her shawls and pains. She knew a great deal. In fact, I recall now that she seemed to know more than any woman I have ever been thrown in with, and if she had not been an old ni~aid, I am bound to ad- mit that her conversation would have been the mostentertaining I ever knew. She livedin asort of atmosphere ofromance and literature; the old writers and their characters were as real to her as we were, and she used to talk about them to us whenever we would let her. Of course, when it came from an old maid, it made a difference. She was not only easily the best French scholar in our region, where the ladies all knew more or less of French, but she was an excellent Latin scholar, which was much less common. I have often lain down before the fire when I was learn- ing my Latin lesson, and read to her, line by line, C~esar or Ovid or Cicero, as the book might be, and had her render it into English as fast as I read. Indeed, I have even seen Horace read to her as she sat in the old rock- ing-chair after one of her headaches, with her eyes bandaged, and her head swathed in veils and shawls, and she would turn it into not only proper English, but English with a glow and color and rhythm that gave the very life of the odes. This was an exercise we boys all liked and often engaged in, Frank, and Joe, and Doug, and I, and even old Blinky, for, as she used to admit herse1f~ she was always worrying us to read to her (I believe I read all of Scotts novels to her). Of course this translation helped us as well as gratified her. I do not remember that she was ever too unwell to help us in this way except when she was actually in bed. She was very fond of us boys, and was always ready to take our side and to further our plans in any way whatever. We would get herto steal off with us, and trans- late our Latin for us by the fire. This, of course, made us rather fond of her. She was so much inclined to take our part and to help us that I remember it used to be said of her as a sort of reproach, Cousin Fanny always sides with the boys. She used to say it was because she knew how worthless women were. She would say this sort of thing herself, but she was very touchy about women, and never would allow any one else to say anything about them. She had an old maids temper. I remember that she took Doug up short once for talking about old maids. She said that for her part she did not mind it the least bit; but she would not allow him to speak so of a large class of her sex which contained some of the best women in the world; that many of them performed work, and made sacrifices, that the rest of the world knew no- thing about. She said the true word for them was the old Saxon term spinster; that it proved that they performed the work of the house, and that it was a term of honor of which she was proud. She said that Christ had humbled him- self to be born of a Virgin, and that every wo- man had this honor to sustain. Of course such lectures as that made us call her an old maid all the more. Still, I dont think that being mis- chievous or teasing her made any difference with her. Frank used to worry her more than any one else, even than Joe, and I am sure she liked him best of all. That may perhaps have been b~ecause he was the best looking of us. She said once that he reminded her of some one she used to know a long time before, when she was young. That must have been a long time before, indeed. He used to tease the life out of her. She was extraordinarily credulous would believe anything on earth any one told her, because, although she had plenty of humor, she herself never would deviate from the ab- solute truth a moment even in jest. I do not think she would have told an untruth to save her life. Well, of course we used to play on her to tease her. Frank would tell her the most unbelievable and impossible lies, such as that he thought he saw a mouse yesterday on the back of the sofa she was lying on (this would make her bounce up like a ball), or that he believed he heardhe was not surethat MY COUSIN FANNY i8x Mr. Scroggs (the man who had rented her old home) had cut down all the old trees in the yard, and pulled down the house because he wanted the bricks to make brick ovens. This would worry her excessively (she loved every brick in the old house, and often said she would rather live in the kitchen there than in a pal- ace anywhere else), and she would get into such a state of depression, that Frank would finally have to tell her that he was just fool- ing her. She used to make him do a good deal of waiting on her in return, and he was the one she used to get to dress old Fashions back when it was raw, and to put drops in her eyes. He got quite expert at it. She said it was a penalty for his worrying her so. She was the great musician of the connec- tion. This is in itself no mean praise; for it was the fashion for every musical gift among the girls to be cultivated, and every girl played or sang more or less, some of them very well. But Cousin Fanny was not only this. She had a way of playing that used to make the old piano sound different from itself; and her voice was almost the sweetest I ever heard except one or two on the stage. It was particularly sweet in the evenings, when she sat down at the piano and played. She would not always do it; she either felt not in the mood, or not sympa- thetic, or some such thing. None of the oth- ers were that way; the rest could play just as well in the glare of day as in the twilight, and before one person as another; it was, we all knew, just one of Cousin Fannys old-maid crochets. When she sat down at the piano and played, her fussiness was all forgotten; her first notes used to be recognized through the house, and the people used to stop what they were doing, and come in. Even the children would leave off playing, and come straggling in, tiptoeing as they crossed the floor. Some of the other performers used to play a great deal louder, but we never tiptoed when they played. Cousin Fanny would sit at the piano looking either up or right straight ahead of her, or often with her eyes closed (sh2 never looked at the keys), and the sound used to rise from under her long, thin fingers, sometimes rushing and pouring forth like a deep roar, sometimes ringing out clear like a band of bu- gles, making the hair move on the head and giving strange tinglings down the back. Then we boys wanted to go forth in the world on fiery, black chargers, like the olden knights, and fight giants and rescue beautiful ladies and poor women. Then again, with her eyes shut, the sound would almost die away, and her fingers would move softly and lingeringly as if they loved the touch of the keys, and hated to leave them; and the sound would come from away far oft and everything would grow quiet and subdued, and the perfume of the roses out of doors would steal in on the air, and the soft breezes would stir the trees, and we were all in love, and wanted to see somebody that we did nt ste. And Cousin Fanny was not her- self any longer, but we imagined some one else was there. Sometimes she suddenly began to sing (she sang old songs, English or French); her voice might be weak (j~ all depended on her whims; s/ic said, on he~iealth), in that case she always stopped and left the piano; or it might be in condition. When it was, it was as velvety and mellow as a bell far oW and the old ballads and chansons used to fill the twi- light. We used even to forget then that she was an old maid. Now and then she sang songs that no one else had ever heard. They were her own; she had composed both the words and the air. At other times she sang the songs of others to her own airs. I remember the first time I ever heard of Tennyson was when, one evening in the twilight, she sang his echo song from The Princess. The air was her own, and in the chorus you heard perfectly the notes of the bugle, and the echoes answer- ing, Dying, dying, dying. Boy as I was, I was entranced, and she answered my enthu- siasin by turning and repeating the poem. I have often thought since how musical her voice was as she repeated, Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. She had a peculiarly sentimental tempera- ment. As I look back at it all now, she was much given to dwelling upon old-time poems and romances, which we thought very ridic- ulous in any one, especially in a spinster of forty odd. She would stop and talk about the branch of a tree with the leaves all turning red or yellow .or purple in the common way in which, as every one knows, leaves always turn in the fall, or even about a tangle of briers, scar- let with frost, in a corner of an old worm-fence, keeping us waiting while she fooled around a brier patch with old Blinky, who would just as lief have been in one place as another, so ft was out of doors; and even when she reached the house she would still carry on about it, worrying us by telling over again just how the boughs and leaves looked massed against the old gray fence, which she could do till you could see them precisely as they were. She was very aggravating in this way. Some- times she would even take a pencil or pen and a sheet of paper for old Blinky, and reproduce it. She could not draw, of course, for she was not a painter; all she could do was to make any- thing look almost just like it was. 182 MY COUSIN FANNY There was one thing about her which ex- cited much talk; I suppose it was only a piece of old-maidism. Of course she was religious. She was really very good. She was considered very high church. I do not think from my recollection of her that she really wfs, or, in- deed, that she could have been; but she used to talk that way, and it was said that she was. In fact, it used to be whispered that she was in danger of becoming a Catholic. I believe she had an aunt tha~vas one, and she had vis- ited several times in Norfolk and Baltimore, where it was said there were a good many. I remember she used to defend them, and say she knew a great many very devout ones. And she admitted that she sometimes went to the Catholic church, and found it devotional; the choral service, she said, satisfied something in her soul. It happened to be in the evening that she was talking about this. She sat down at the piano, and played some of the Gregorian chants she had heard, and it had a soothing influence on every one. Even Joe, the fidgetiest of all, sat quite still through it. She said that some one had said it was the music that the angels sing in heaven around the great white throne, and there was no other sacred music like it. But she played another thing that evening which she said was worthy to be played with it. It had some chords in it that I remembered long afterward. Years afterward I heard it played the same way in the twilight by one who is a blessed saint in heaven, and may be play- ing it there now. It was from Chopin. She even said that evening, under the impulse of her en- thusiasm, that she did not see, excePt that it might be abused, why the crucifix should not be retained by all Christian churches, as it enabled some persons not gifted with strong imaginations to have a more vivid realization of the crucified Saviour. This, of course, was going too far, and it created considerable ex- citement in the family, and led to some very serious talk being given her, in which the second commandment figured largely. It was considered as carrying old-maidism to an ex- treme length. For some time afterward she was rather discountenanced. In reality, I think what some said was true: it was simply that she was emotional, as old maids are apt to be. She once said that many women have the nuns instinct largely developed, and sigh for the peace of the cloister. She seemed to be very fond of artists. She had the queerest tastes, and had, or had had when she was young, one or two friends who, I believe, claimed to be something of that kind; she used to talk about them to old Blinky. But it seemed to us from what she said that artists never did any work; just spent their time lounging around, doing nothing, and daubing paint on their canvas with brushes like a painter, or chiseling and chopping rocks like a mason. One of these friends of hers was a young man from Norfolk who had made a good many things. He was killed or died in the war; so he had not been quite ruined; was worth some- thing anyhow as a soldier. One of his things was a Psyche, and Cousin Fanny used to talk a good deal about it; she said it was fine, was a work of genius. She had even written some verses about it. She repeated them to me once, and I wrote them down. Here they are: LINES TO GALTS PsycHE. Well art thou called the soul, For as I gaze on thee, My spirit, past control, Springs up in ecstasy. Thou canst not be dead stone; For oer thy lovely face, Softer than musics tone, I see the spirits grace. The wild reolian lyre Is but a silken string, Till summer winds inspire, And softest music bring. Psyche, thou wast but stone Till his inspiring came: The sculptors hand alone, Made not that soul-touched frame. They have lain by me for years, and are pretty good for an old maid. I think, however, she was young when she addressed them to the soul-touched work of the young sculptor, who laid his genius and everything at Virgi- nias feet. They were friends, I believe, when she was a girl, before she caught that cold, and her eyes got bad. Among her eccentricities was her absurd cowardice. She was afraid of cows, afraid of horses, afraki even of sheep. And bugs, and anything that crawled, used to give her a fit. If we drove her anywhere, and the horses cut up the least bit, she would jump out and walk, even in the mud; and I remember once seeing her cross the yard, where a young cow that had a calf asleep in the weeds, over in a corner beyond her, started toward it at a little trot with a whimper of motherly solicitude. Cousin Fanny took it into her head that the cow was coming at her, and just screamed, and sat down flat on the ground, carrying on as if she were a baby. Of course we boys used to tease her, and tell her the cows were coming after her. You could not help teasing an old maid like that. I do not see how she managed to do what she did when the enemy got to Woodside in the war. That was quite remarkable, consid MY CO C/SIN FANNY 183 ering what a coward she was. During 1864 the Yankees on a raid got to her house one evening in the ~summer. As it happened, a young soldier, one of her cousins (she had no end of cousins), had got a leave of absence, and had come there sick with fever just the day before (the house was always a sort of hospi- tal). He was in the boys room in bed when the Yankees arrived, and they were all around the house before she knew it. She went down- stairs to meet them. They had been informed by one of the negroes that Cousin Charlie was there, and they told her that they wanted him. She told them they could not get him. They asked her, Why? Is he not there? (I heard her tell of it once.) She said: You know, I thought when I told them they could not get him that they would go away, but when they asked me if he was not there, of course I could not tell them a story; so I said I declined to answer impertinent questions. You know poor Charlie was at that moment lying curled up under the bed in the boys room with a roll of carpet a foot thick around him, and it was as hot as an oven. Well, they insisted on going through the house, and I let them go all through the lower stories; but when they started up the staircase I was ready for them. I had always kept, you know, one of papas old horse-pistols as a protection. Of course it was not loaded. I would not have had it loaded for anything in the world. I always kept it safely locked up, and I was dreadfully afraid of it even then. But you have no idea wl~at a moral support it gave me, and I used to unlock the drawer every afternoon to see that it still was there all right, and then lock it again, and put the key away carefully. Well, as it happened, I had just been looking at it which I called inspecting my garrison. I used to feel just like Lady Margaret in Tillie- ludlam Castle. Well, I had just been looking at it that afternoon when I heard the Yankees were coming, and by a sudden inspiration I cannot tell for my life how I did itI seized the pistol, and hid it under my apron. I held on to it with both hands, I was so afraid of it, and all the time those wretches were going through the rooms down-stairs I was quaking with terror. But when they started up the stairs I had a new feeling. I knew they were bound to get poor Charlie if he had not melted and run away,no, he would never have run away; I mean evaporated, and I suddenly ran up the stairway a few steps before them, and, hauling out my big pistol, pointed it at them, and told them that if they came one step higher I would certainly pull the trigger. I could not say I would shoot, for it was not loaded. Well, do you know, they stopped! They stopped dead still. I declare I was so afraid the old pistol would go off, though, of course, I knew it was notloaded, that I was just quaking. But as soon as they stopped I began to attack. I remem- bered my old grandmother and her scissors, and, like General Jackson, I followed up my advantage. I descended the steps, brandishing my pistol with both hands, and abusing them with all my might. I was so afraid they might ask if it was loaded. But they really thought I would shoot them (you know men have not liked to be slain by a woman since the time of Abimelech), and they actually ran down the steps, with me after them, and I got them all out of the house. Then I locked the door and barred it, and ran up-stairs and had such a cry over Charlie. [That was like an old maid.] Afterward they were going to burn the house, but I got hold of their colonel, who was not there at first, and made him really ashamed of himself; for I told him we were nothing but a lot of poor, defenseless women and a sick boy. He said he thought I was right well defended, as I had held a company at bay. He finally promised that if I would give him some music he would not go up-stairs. So I paid that for my ransom, and a bitter ransom it was too, I can tell you, singing for a Yankee! But I gave him a dose of Con- federate songs, I promise you. He asked me to sing the Star-spangled Banner; but I told him I would not do it if he burnt the house down with me in it. Then he asked me to sing Home, sweet Home, and I did that, and he actually had tears in his eyesthe hypocrite! He had very fine eyes too. I think I did sing it well, though. I cried a little myself, think- ing of the old house being so nearly burnt. There was a young doctor there, a surgeon, a reallynice-looking fellow for aYankee; I made him feel ashamed of himself, I tell you. I told him I had no doubt he had a good mother and sister up at home, and to think of his coming and warring on po~r women. And they really placed a guard over the house for me while they were there. This she actually did. With her old empty horse-pistol she cleared the house of the mob, and then vowed that if they burned the house she would burn up in it, and finally saved it by singing Home, sweet Home for the colo- nel. She could not have done much better even if she had not been an old maid. I did not see much of her after I grew up. I moved away from the old county. Most others did the same. It had been desolated by the war, and got poorer and poorer. With an old maids usual crankiness and inability to adapt herself to the order of things, Cousin Fanny remained behind. She refused to come away; said, I believe, she had to look after the old place, mammy, and Fash, or some such non- 184 MY COUSIN FANNY sense. I think she had some idea that the church would go down, or that the poor people around would miss her, or something equally unpracti- cal. Anyhow, she stayed behind, and lived for quite a while the last of her connection in the county. Of course all did the best they could for her, and had she gone to live around with her relatives, as theywished herto do, theywould have borne with her and supported her, though it would have been righthard on them. But she said no; that a single woman ought never to live in any house but her fathers or her own; and we could not do anything with her. She was so proud she would not take money as a gift from any one, not even from her nearest relatives. Her health got rather poornot unnatur- ally, considering the way she divided her time between doctoring herself and fussing after sick people in all sorts of weather. With the fanci- fulness of her kind, she finally took it into her head that she must consult a doctor in New York for her ailments. Of course no one but an old maid would have done this; the home doctors were good enough for every one else. Nothing would do, however, but she must go to New York; so, against the advice of every one, she wrote to a cousin who was living there to meet her, and with her old wraps, and cap, and bags, and bundles, and old stick, and umbrella, she~ started. The lady met her; that is, went to meet her, but failed to find her at the station, and, supposing that she had not come, or had taken some other railroad, which she was likely to do, returned home, to find her in bed, with her things piled up on the floor. Some gentle- man had come across her in Washington, hold- ing the right train while she insisted on taking the Pittsburg route, and had taken compassion on her, and not only escorted her to New York, but had taken her and all her parcels, and brought her to her destination, where she had at once retired. He was a most charming man, my dear, she said to her cousin, who told me of it after- ward, in narrating her eccentricities, and, to think of it, I dont believe I had looked in a glass all day, and when I got here, my cap had some- how got twisted around and was perched right over my left ear, making me look a perfect fright. He told me his name, but I have forgotten it, of course. But he was such a gentleman, and to think of his being a Yankee! I told him I hated all Yankees, and he just laughed, and did not mind my stick, nor old umbrella, nor bun- dles a bit. You d have thought my old cap was a Parisian bonnet. I will not believe he was a Yankee.~~ Well, she went to see the doctor, the most celebrated in New Yorkat the infirmary, of course, for she was too poor to go to his office; one consultation would have taken every cent she had. Her cousin went with her, and told me of it. She said that when she came down- stairs to go, she never saw such a sight. On her head she had her blue cap, and her green shade, and her veil, and her shawl; and she had the old umbrella and long stick, which she had brought from the country, and a large pillow under her arm, because she knew she was going to faint. So they started out, but it was a slow procession. The noise and bustle of the street dazed her, her cousin fancied, and every now and then she would clutch her com- panion and declare she must go back or she should faint. At every street-crossing she in- sisted upon having a policeman to help her over, or, in default of that, she would stop some man and ask him to escort her across, which, of course, he would do, thinking her crazy. Finally they reached the infirmary, where there were already a large number of patients, and many more came in afterward. Here she shortly established an acquaintance with sev- eral strangers. She had to wait an hour or more for her turn, and then insisted that several who had come in after her should go in before her, because she said the poor things looked so tired. This would have gone on indefinitely, her cousin said, if she had not finally dragged her into the doctors room. There the first thing that she did was to insist that she must lie down, she was so faint, and her pillow was brought into requisition. The doctor humored her, and waited on her. Her friend started to tell him about her, but the doctor said, I prefer to have her tell me herself. She presently began to tell, the doctor sitting quietly by listening, and seeming to be much interested. He gave her some prescription, and told her to come again next day; and when she went he sent for her ahead of her turn, and after that made her come to his office at his private house, instead of to the infirmary as at first. He turned out to be the surgeon who had been at her house with the Yankees during the war. He was very kind to her. I suppose he had never seen any one like her. She used to go every day, and soon dispensed with her friends escort, finding no difficultyin getting about. Indeed, she came to be known on the streets she passed through, and on the cars she traveled by, and people guided her. Several times as she was taking the wrong car men stopped her, and said to her, Madam, yours is the red car. She said, sure enough it was, but she never could divine how they knew. She addressed the conductors as My dear sir, and made them help her not only ofg but quite to the sidewalk, when she thanked them, and said Good-by, as if she had been at home. She said she did this on principle, for it was such a good thing to teach Aiijv eousi;t Fa;iny was ait old maid; in- deed, to fhiow SI. Pal/is I//rn of p//vase, s,7ie was an old maid of the oid niajis. iV~ one who saw i/er a niomenl co//id i/ave do//bled iI. VOL. XLV.2~. i86 MY COUSIN FANNY them to help a feeble woman. Next time they would expect to do it, and after a while it would become a habit. She said no one knew what terror women had of being run over and trampled on. She was, as I have said, an awful coward. She used to stand still on the edge of the street, and look up and down both ways ever so long; then go out in the street and stand still, look both ways and then run back; or as like as not, start on and turn and run back after she was more than half-way across, and so get into real danger. One day, as she was passing along, a driver had in his cart an old bag-of-bones of a horse, which he was beating to make him pull up the hill, and Cousin Fanny, with an old maids meddlesomeness, rushed out in the street and caught hold of him and made him stop, which of course collected a crowd, and, just as she was coming back, a little cart came rattling along, and, though she was in no earthly danger, she ran so to get out of the way of the horse that she tripped and fell down in the street and hurt herself. So much for cowardice. The doctor finally told her that she had no- thing the matter with her, except something with her nerves and, I believe, her spine, and that she wanted company (you see she was a good deal alone). He said it was the first law of health ever laid down, that it was not good for man to be alone; that loneliness is a spe- cific disease. He said she wanted occupation, some sort of work to interest her, and make her forget her aches and ailments. He sug- gested missionaryworkofsomekind. This was one of the worst things he could have told her, for there was no missionary work to be had where she lived. Besides, she could not have done missionary work; she had never done anything in her life; she was always wasting her time pottering about the county on her old horse, seeing sick old darkies or poor people in the pines. No matter how bad the weather was, nor how deep the roads, she would go prowling around to see some old aunty or uncle, in their out-of-the-way cabins, or somebodys sick child. I have met her on old Fashion in the rain, toiling along in roads that were knee-deep to get the doctor to come to see some sick person, or to get a dose of physic from the depot. How could she have done any missionary work? I believe she repaid the doctor for his care of her by sending him a charity patient to look after Scroggss eldest girl, who was bed- ridden or something. Cousin Fanny had a fancy that she was musical. I never knew how it was arranged. I think the doctor sent the money down to have the child brought on to New York for him to see. I suppose Cousin Fanny turned beggar, and asked him. I know she told him the child was the daughter of a friend of hers (a curious sort of friend Scroggs was, a drunken reprobate, who had done every- thing he could to cheat her), and she took a great deal of trouble to get her to the train, lending old Fashion to haul her, which was a good deal more than lending herself; and the doctor treated her in New York for three months without any charge, till, I believe, the child got better. Old maids do not mind giv- ing people trouble. She hung on at the old place as long as she could, but it had to be sold, and finally she had to leave it; though, I believe, even after it was sold she tried boarding for a while with Scroggs, the former tenant, who had bought it. He cheated her, in one way or another, out of all of her part of the money, claiming offsets for ser- vices rendered her, and treated her so badly that finally she had to leave, and boarded around. I believe the real cause was she caught him plowing with old Fashion. After that I do not know exactly what she did. I heard that though the parish was vacant she had a Sunday school at the old church, and so kept the church open, and that she used to play the wheezy old organ and teach the poor children the chants; but as they grew up they all joined the Baptist church; they had a new organ there. I do not know just how she got on. I was surprised to hear finally that she was deadhad been dead since Christmas. It had never occurred to me that she would die. She had been dying so long that I had almost come to regard her as immortal, and as a necessary part of the old county and its associations. I fell in some time afterward with a young doctor from the old county, who, I found, had attended her, and I made some inquiries about her. He told me that she died Christmas night. She came to his house on her old mare, in the rain and snow the night before, to get him to go to see some one, some friend of hers who was sick. He said she had more sick friends than any one he ever knew; he told her that he was sick himself and could not go; but she was so importunate that he promised to go next morn- ing (she was always very worrying). He said she was wet and shivering then (she never had any idea about really protecting herself; her resources being exhausted in her fancies), and that she appeared to have a wretched cold. She had been riding all day seeing about a Christmas tree for the poor children. He urged her to stop and spend the night, but she in- sisted that she must go on, though it was quite dark and raining hard, and the roads would have mired a cat (old maids are so self-willed). Next day he went to see the sick woman, and when he arrived he found her in one bed and MY CO US/N FANNY. 187 Cousin Fanny in another, in the same room. XVhen he had examined the patient, he turned and asked Cousin Fanny what was the matter with her. Oh, just a little cold, a little trou- ble in the chest, as Theodore Hook said, she replied. But I know how to doctor myself. Something about her voice struck him. He went over to her and looked at her, and found her suffering from acute pneumonia. He at once set to work on her. He took the other patient up in his arms and carried her into an- other room, where he told her that Cousin Fanny was a desperately ill woman. She was actually dying then, sir, he said to me, and she died that night. When she arrived at the place the night before, which was not until after nine oclock, she had gone to the stable her- self to put up her old mare, or rather to see that she was fed,she always did that,so when she got into the house she was xvet and chilled through, and she had to go to bed. She must have had on wet clothes, he said. I asked him if she knew she was going to die. He said he did not think she did; that he did not tell her, and she talked about nothing except her Christmas tree and the peo- ple she wanted to see. He heard her praying in the night, and, by the way, he said, she mentioned you. She shortly became rather de- lirious, and wandered a good deal, talking of things that must have happened when she was young; spoke of going to see her mother some- where. The last thing she ever said was some- thing about fashion, which, he said, showed how ingrained is vanity in the female mind. The doctor knows something of human na- ture. He concluded what he had to say with, She was in some respects a very remarkable woman if she had not been an old maid. I do not suppose that she ever drew a-well breath in her life. Not that I think old maids cannot be very acceptable women, he apologized. They are sometimes very useful. The doctor was a rather enlightened man. Some of her relatives got there in time for the funeral, and a good many of the poor people came; and she was carried in a little old spring wagon, drawn by Fashion, through the snow, to the old home place, where Scroggs very kindly let them dig the grave, and was buried there in the old graveyard in the gar- den, in a vacant space just beside her mother, with the children around her. I really miss her a great deal. The other boys say they do the same. I suppose it is the trouble she used to give us. The old set are all doing well. Doug is a professor. He says the word spinster gave him a twist to philology. Old Blinky is in Paris. He had a picture in the salon last year, an autumn landscape, called Le C6/6 du Bois. I believe the translation of that is The Wood- side. His coloring is said to be nature itself. To think of old Blinky being a great artist! Little Kitty is now a big girl, and is doing finely at school. I have told her she must not be an old maid. Joe is a preacher with a church in the purlieus of a large city. I was there not long ago. He had a choral service. The Gre- gorian music carried me back to old times. He preached on the text, I was sick, and ye visited me. It was such a fine sermon, and he had such a large congregation, that I askedwhy he did not go to a finer church. He said he was carry- ing soup to Mrs. Ronquist. By the way, his organist was a splendid musician. She intro- duced herself to me. It was Scroggss daughter! She is married, and can walk as well as I can! She had a little girl with her that I think she called Fanny. I do not think that was Mrs. Scroggss name. Frank is now a doctor, or rather a surgeon, in the same city with Joe, and becoming very distinguished. The other day he performed a great operation, saving a wo- man s life, which was in all the papers. He said to an interviewer that he became a sur- geon from dressing a sore on an old mare s back. I wonder what he was talking about. He is about to start a womans hospital for poor women. Cousin Fanny would have been glad of that; she-was always proud of Frank. She would as likely as not have quoted that verse from Tennysons song about the echoes. She sleeps now under the myrtle at Scroggss. I have often thought of what that doctor said about her: that she would have been a very remarkable woman, if she had not been an old maidI mean, a spinster. Thomas Nelson Page. ~YM.MAIDER, RINGING THE CHRISTMAS BELLS.

Edwin H. Blashfield Blashfield, Edwin H. The Century Series of Pictures by American Artists. Ringing the Christmas Bells 188-189

~YM.MAIDER, RINGING THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. THE NEW CASHIER. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE FAITH DOCTOR, THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER, ETC. friend MaCartney-Smith has working theories for everything. He illustrated one of these the other day by relating something that happened in the Giralda apartment-house, where he lives in a suite overlooking Central Park. I do not remember whether he was expounding his notion that the apartment-house has solved the question of Cooperative housekeeping, or whether he was engaged in demonstrating Certain propositions regarding the influence of the city on the country. Since I have forgot- ten what it was intended to prove, the incident has seemed more interesting. It is bad for a story to medicate it with a theory. However, here are the facts as Macartney-Smith relates them with his Q. E. D. omitted. I DO not know [he began] by what accident or on what recommendation the manager of the Giralda brought a girl from Iowa to act as clerk and cashier in the restaurant. The new cashier had lived in a town where there were differences in social standing, but no recognized distinctions, after you had left out the sedimentary poverty-stricken class. She not only had no notions of the lines of social cleavage in a great apartment-house, but she had never heard of chaperonage, or those other indelicacies that go along with the high civilization of a metropolis. I have no doubt she was the best scholar in the arithmetic class in the village high school, and ten to one she was the champion at croquet. She took life with a zest unknown to us New Yorkers, and let the starchiest people in the house know that she was glad to see them when they re- turned after an absence, by going across the dining-room to shake hands with them and to inquire whether they had had a good time. Even the gently frigid manner of Mrs. Drupe could not chill her friendliness; she was ac- customed to accost that lady in the elevator, and demand, How is Mr. Drupe? whenever that gentleman chanced to be absent. It was not possible for her to imagine that Mrs. Drupe could be otherwise than grateful for any mani- festation of a friendly interest in her husband. To show any irritation was not Mrs. Drupes way that would have disturbed the stylish repose of her bearing even more than mis- placed cordiality. She always returned the salutations of Miss Wakefield, but in a tone so neutral, cool, and cucumberish, that she hoped the girl would feel rebuked and learn a little more diffidence, or at least learn that the Drupes did not care for her acquaintance. But the only result of such treatment was that Miss Wakefield would say to the clerk in the office: Your Eastern people have such stiff ways that they make me homesick. But they dont mean any harm, I suppose. Some of the families in the Giralda rather liked the new cashier; these were they who had childrenthe little children chatted and laughed with her across her desk when they came down as forerunners to give the order for the family dinner. If it were only lunch- time, when few people were in the restaurant, they went behind the desk and embraced the cashier and had a romp with her. The smallest chaps she would take up in her arms while she pulled out the drawers to show them her paper- knife and trinkets; and when there were flow- ers, she would often break off one apiece for even those least amiable little plagues that in an apartment-house are the torment of their nurses and mamas the livelong day. This not only gave pleasure to the infantry, but relieved an aching which the poor girl had for a once cheerful home, now broken up by the death ~f her parents and the scattering abroad of brothers and sisters. The young men in the house thought her a jolly girl, since she would chat with them over her desk as freely as she would have chatted across the counter with the clerks in Cedar Falls, where she ~came from. She was equally cordial with the head-waiter, and those of his staff who knew any more English than was in- dispensable to the taking of an order. But her frank familiarity with young gentlemen, and friendly speech with servants, were offensive to some of the ladies. They talked it over, and decided that Miss Wakefield was not a mod- est girl; that at least she did not know her place, and that the manager ought to dismiss her if he meant to maintain the tone of the house. The manager, poor fellow, had to hold his own place against the rivalry of the treasurer, and when such complaints were made to him what could he do? He stood out a while for Miss Wakefield, whom he liked, but when the influential Mrs. Drupe wrote to him that the cashier at the desk in the restaurant was not a well-behaved girl, he knew that it was time to look out for another.

Edward Eggleston Eggleston, Edward The New Cashier 189-191

THE NEW CASHIER. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE FAITH DOCTOR, THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER, ETC. friend MaCartney-Smith has working theories for everything. He illustrated one of these the other day by relating something that happened in the Giralda apartment-house, where he lives in a suite overlooking Central Park. I do not remember whether he was expounding his notion that the apartment-house has solved the question of Cooperative housekeeping, or whether he was engaged in demonstrating Certain propositions regarding the influence of the city on the country. Since I have forgot- ten what it was intended to prove, the incident has seemed more interesting. It is bad for a story to medicate it with a theory. However, here are the facts as Macartney-Smith relates them with his Q. E. D. omitted. I DO not know [he began] by what accident or on what recommendation the manager of the Giralda brought a girl from Iowa to act as clerk and cashier in the restaurant. The new cashier had lived in a town where there were differences in social standing, but no recognized distinctions, after you had left out the sedimentary poverty-stricken class. She not only had no notions of the lines of social cleavage in a great apartment-house, but she had never heard of chaperonage, or those other indelicacies that go along with the high civilization of a metropolis. I have no doubt she was the best scholar in the arithmetic class in the village high school, and ten to one she was the champion at croquet. She took life with a zest unknown to us New Yorkers, and let the starchiest people in the house know that she was glad to see them when they re- turned after an absence, by going across the dining-room to shake hands with them and to inquire whether they had had a good time. Even the gently frigid manner of Mrs. Drupe could not chill her friendliness; she was ac- customed to accost that lady in the elevator, and demand, How is Mr. Drupe? whenever that gentleman chanced to be absent. It was not possible for her to imagine that Mrs. Drupe could be otherwise than grateful for any mani- festation of a friendly interest in her husband. To show any irritation was not Mrs. Drupes way that would have disturbed the stylish repose of her bearing even more than mis- placed cordiality. She always returned the salutations of Miss Wakefield, but in a tone so neutral, cool, and cucumberish, that she hoped the girl would feel rebuked and learn a little more diffidence, or at least learn that the Drupes did not care for her acquaintance. But the only result of such treatment was that Miss Wakefield would say to the clerk in the office: Your Eastern people have such stiff ways that they make me homesick. But they dont mean any harm, I suppose. Some of the families in the Giralda rather liked the new cashier; these were they who had childrenthe little children chatted and laughed with her across her desk when they came down as forerunners to give the order for the family dinner. If it were only lunch- time, when few people were in the restaurant, they went behind the desk and embraced the cashier and had a romp with her. The smallest chaps she would take up in her arms while she pulled out the drawers to show them her paper- knife and trinkets; and when there were flow- ers, she would often break off one apiece for even those least amiable little plagues that in an apartment-house are the torment of their nurses and mamas the livelong day. This not only gave pleasure to the infantry, but relieved an aching which the poor girl had for a once cheerful home, now broken up by the death ~f her parents and the scattering abroad of brothers and sisters. The young men in the house thought her a jolly girl, since she would chat with them over her desk as freely as she would have chatted across the counter with the clerks in Cedar Falls, where she ~came from. She was equally cordial with the head-waiter, and those of his staff who knew any more English than was in- dispensable to the taking of an order. But her frank familiarity with young gentlemen, and friendly speech with servants, were offensive to some of the ladies. They talked it over, and decided that Miss Wakefield was not a mod- est girl; that at least she did not know her place, and that the manager ought to dismiss her if he meant to maintain the tone of the house. The manager, poor fellow, had to hold his own place against the rivalry of the treasurer, and when such complaints were made to him what could he do? He stood out a while for Miss Wakefield, whom he liked, but when the influential Mrs. Drupe wrote to him that the cashier at the desk in the restaurant was not a well-behaved girl, he knew that it was time to look out for another. 190 TIlL? NEW CASH1EA~. If the manager had forewarned her, she could have saved money enough to take her back to iowa, where she might dare to be as friendly as she pleased with other respectable humans without fear of reproach. But he was not such a fool as to let go of one cashier till he had found another. It was while the manager was decid- ing which of three other young women to take that Mr. Drupe was stricken with apoplexy. He had finished eating his luncheon, which was served in the apartment, and had lighted a cigar, when he fell over. There were no children, and the Drupes kept no servant, but depended on the housekeeper to send them a maid when they required one, so that Mrs. Drupe found herself alone with her prostrate husband. The distracted wife did not know what to do; she took hold of the needle of the teleserne, but the words on the dial were con- fused; she quickly moved the needle round over the whole twenty-four points, but none of them suited the case. She stopped it at porter, moved it to bootblack, carried it around to ice-water, and successively to coupe, laundress, and messenger-boy, and then gave up in despair, and jerked open the door that led to the hall. Miss Wakefield had just come up to the next apartment to inquire after a little girl ill from a cold, and was returning toward the elevator when Mrs. Drupes wild face was suddenly thrust forth upon her. Wont you call a boy somebody. My husband is dying, were the words that greeted Miss Wakefield at the moment of the appari- tion of the despairing face. Miss Wakefield rushed past Mrs. Drupe into the apartment, and turned the teleseme to the word manager, and then pressed the but- ton three times in quick succession. She knew that a call for the manager would suggest fire, robbery, and sudden death, and that it would wake up the lethargic forces in the office. Then she turned to the form of the man lying pros- trate on the floor, seized a pillow from the lounge, and motioned to Mrs. Drupe to raise his head while she laid it beneath. Who is your doctor? she demanded. Dr. Morris; but it s a mile away, said the distracted woman. Wont you send a boy in a coup~? I 11 go myself, the boys are so slow, said the cashier. Shall I send you a neighboring doctor till Dr. Morris can get here? Do, do, pleaded the wife, now wildly wringing her hands. Miss Wakefield caught the elevator as it DRAWN DY C. A. GIBSON SHE WOULD CHAT WITH THEM OVER HER DESK. landed the manager on the floor, and she briefly told him what was the matter. Then she de- scended, and had the clerk order a coupe by telephone, and then herself sent Dr. Floyd from across the street, while she ran to the stable, leaped into the coupe before the horse was fairly hitched up, and drove for Dr. Morris. Dr. Morris found Mrs. Drupe already a widow when he arrived with the cashier. The latter promptly secured the addresses of Mr. Drupes brother and of his business partner, again entered the coup~, and soon had the poor woman in the hands of her friends. The energetic girl went to her room that night exhilarated by her own prompt and kind- hearted action. But the evil spirit that loves to mar our happiness had probably arranged it that on that very evening she received a note from the manager notifying her that her services would not be required after one more week. On inquiry the next day she learned that some of the ladies had complained of her hehavior, and she vainly tried to remember what she had done that was capable of misconstruction. She also vainly tried to imagine how she was to live, or by what means she was to contrive to get back to those who knew her too well to suspect her of any evil. She was so much perplexed by the desperate state of her own affairs that she even neglected to attend Mr. Drupes funeral, 191 but she hoped that Mrs. Drupe would not take it unkindly. It was with a heavy heart that the manager called Miss Wakefield into his office on the ground floor in order that he might pay her last weeks wages. He was relieved that she seemed to accept her dismissal with cheerfulness. What are you going to do? he asked timidly. Why, did nt you know? she said. I am to live with Mrs. Drupe as a companion, and to look out for her affairs and collect her rents. I used to think she did nt like me. But it will be a good lesson to those ladies who found fault with me for nothing when they see how much Mrs. Drupe thinks of me. And she went her way to her new home in Mrs. Drupes apartment, at the end of the hall on the sixth floor, while the manager took from a pigeon-hole Mrs. Drupes letter of complaint against the former cashier, and read it over carefully. The thickness of the walls at the base of so lofty a building made it difficult for daylight to work its way through the tunnel-like windows, so that in this office a gas-jet was necessary in the daytime. After a moments reflection, the manager touched Mrs. I)rupes letter of com- plaint to the flame, and it was presently reduced to everlasting illegibility. Edward Egglesto;z. SEEMING FAILURE. THE woodland silence, one time stirred By the soft pathos of some passing bird, Is not the same it was before. The spot where once, unseen, a flower Has held its fragile chalice to the shower, Is different forevermore. Unheard, unseen, A spell has been! O thou that breathest year by year Music that falls unheeded on the ear, Take heart, fate has not baffled thee! Thou that with tints of earth and skies Fillest thy canvas for unseeing eyes, Thou hast not labored futilely. Unheard, unseen, A spell has been! SEEMING FAIL C/RE. Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Aldrich, Thomas Bailey Seeming Failure 191-192

landed the manager on the floor, and she briefly told him what was the matter. Then she de- scended, and had the clerk order a coupe by telephone, and then herself sent Dr. Floyd from across the street, while she ran to the stable, leaped into the coupe before the horse was fairly hitched up, and drove for Dr. Morris. Dr. Morris found Mrs. Drupe already a widow when he arrived with the cashier. The latter promptly secured the addresses of Mr. Drupes brother and of his business partner, again entered the coup~, and soon had the poor woman in the hands of her friends. The energetic girl went to her room that night exhilarated by her own prompt and kind- hearted action. But the evil spirit that loves to mar our happiness had probably arranged it that on that very evening she received a note from the manager notifying her that her services would not be required after one more week. On inquiry the next day she learned that some of the ladies had complained of her hehavior, and she vainly tried to remember what she had done that was capable of misconstruction. She also vainly tried to imagine how she was to live, or by what means she was to contrive to get back to those who knew her too well to suspect her of any evil. She was so much perplexed by the desperate state of her own affairs that she even neglected to attend Mr. Drupes funeral, 191 but she hoped that Mrs. Drupe would not take it unkindly. It was with a heavy heart that the manager called Miss Wakefield into his office on the ground floor in order that he might pay her last weeks wages. He was relieved that she seemed to accept her dismissal with cheerfulness. What are you going to do? he asked timidly. Why, did nt you know? she said. I am to live with Mrs. Drupe as a companion, and to look out for her affairs and collect her rents. I used to think she did nt like me. But it will be a good lesson to those ladies who found fault with me for nothing when they see how much Mrs. Drupe thinks of me. And she went her way to her new home in Mrs. Drupes apartment, at the end of the hall on the sixth floor, while the manager took from a pigeon-hole Mrs. Drupes letter of complaint against the former cashier, and read it over carefully. The thickness of the walls at the base of so lofty a building made it difficult for daylight to work its way through the tunnel-like windows, so that in this office a gas-jet was necessary in the daytime. After a moments reflection, the manager touched Mrs. I)rupes letter of com- plaint to the flame, and it was presently reduced to everlasting illegibility. Edward Egglesto;z. SEEMING FAILURE. THE woodland silence, one time stirred By the soft pathos of some passing bird, Is not the same it was before. The spot where once, unseen, a flower Has held its fragile chalice to the shower, Is different forevermore. Unheard, unseen, A spell has been! O thou that breathest year by year Music that falls unheeded on the ear, Take heart, fate has not baffled thee! Thou that with tints of earth and skies Fillest thy canvas for unseeing eyes, Thou hast not labored futilely. Unheard, unseen, A spell has been! SEEMING FAIL C/RE. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. BENEFITS FORGOT. By the Author of Reffey, A Common Story, Captain, My Captain, etc. IT was James Deeds wedding-morning, and the town knew it. Deed himself was so full of the knowledge of it that his face would break from time to time, without his will, into a fond and incommunicable smile of happiness as he rode alone toward Maverick on his horse. His eye measured the crisp and spark- ling Colorado morning; and he took the sun upon his large, wholesome, likable face, with the pleasant feeling that its shining was for him. The agreeable world seemed to have him in thought, and to be minded to do the hand- some thing by his wedding-day. And the evil things, the blizzards and sand-storms, and the winds that will be howling at all hours in Col- orado, shunned the face of this thrice-blessed day. The cattle pony which Deed was riding had got the news of the kindling morning air, though he lacked word of the wedding; but 192 WOLCOTT BALESTIER. I,

Wolcott Balestier Balestier, Wolcott Benefits Forgot 192-207

BENEFITS FORGOT. By the Author of Reffey, A Common Story, Captain, My Captain, etc. IT was James Deeds wedding-morning, and the town knew it. Deed himself was so full of the knowledge of it that his face would break from time to time, without his will, into a fond and incommunicable smile of happiness as he rode alone toward Maverick on his horse. His eye measured the crisp and spark- ling Colorado morning; and he took the sun upon his large, wholesome, likable face, with the pleasant feeling that its shining was for him. The agreeable world seemed to have him in thought, and to be minded to do the hand- some thing by his wedding-day. And the evil things, the blizzards and sand-storms, and the winds that will be howling at all hours in Col- orado, shunned the face of this thrice-blessed day. The cattle pony which Deed was riding had got the news of the kindling morning air, though he lacked word of the wedding; but 192 WOLCOTT BALESTIER. I, BENEFITS FORGOT 93 it was enough that he also knew what it was to be happy. Deed patted his flank affection- ately, as they swung into town together; and he was of a mind to give good morrow to the herd that came to the barbed-wire fence to observe his happiness with impassive eyes. It was too early to see Margaret; but when he had waked at the ranch house on his cattle- range, where he had spent the last few days, he had found it impossible to remain quietly within doors, and since he must ride, it was the nearest thing to seeing her to ride in her di- rection. The curtains were still down at the windows of the house where Margaret had been staying with Beatrice Vertner for a month. The Vert- ners occupied the largest dwelling in Maverick except the brick house which Snell had built since he had made his strike at Aspen; its archi- tecture was in the journeyman carpenter Queen Anne manner common to Western towns which have reached their second stage. The pony, accustomed to stopping, swerved in toward the gate, and Deed was obliged to restrain him, unwillingly. There was no one in sight to mind that he should kiss his hand to a certain cur- tain in the second story; but he was obliged to content himself with this. He gave the pony the rein, and went swinging into Maverick by way of Mesa street. His eye roved anxiously, with another thought, as he galloped along, over the circle of snow-peaks that separated Lone Creek Val- ley from the world outside, and rested on a cleft in the white hills through which his younger son, Philip, should at the moment be making his way from Piiion on horseback, to be present at the wedding in the afternoon. Zacatecas Pass, which found its way through this breach in the Sangre de Cristo Range, led down, at a point thirty miles above Maverick, to the railway by which Philip should be tak- ing a train within a few hours. A dusty cloud, of which Deed feared~ he knew the meaning, hung above the trail. It seemed probable that it was snowing in the mountains. If it was, Philip would almost certainly fail to arrive in time: it was equally certain that he would be in danger. There had been a thaw, succeeded by freez- ing weather, and the crusted snow clung to the huge mountain shapes as if it were molded on them. It was charming to follow the modeling of their mighty bulks under the conforming yes- ture of white, swelling and dying away in divine suggestions of hidden grace, with the effect of a maidens raiment. The edged lines by which the hills mounted to the summits lay crumpled on one another, buried in softness. The snow plumped the hollows; and pursued their climb- VOL. XLV. 26-27. ing sides to the most secret fold. The angles were curves, and the curves glistering reaches of satin; for at every point the sunlight meshed itself in a gleam of white, and the whole field of snow shone with a blinding glitter. In fact, the polished radiance of the hills gave off a glare which the eye could not meet with patience, and Deed, withdrawing his glance from the mountains, fixed it on the scat- tered town into which he was coming. He knew every building in it: he had seen most of them go up. He remembered when the gen- eral supply-store of Maverick had stoodif a tent may be said to standwhere the post- office now reared its ugly splendor of brick, stone-trimmed and mansard-roofed. In the road over which he was riding there was a fa- miliar spot where an embattled squatter had held his own against the town for a twelve- month, refusing to move the log cabin which he had built in the center of Mesa street before there was a Mesa street. Deed had contributed to the building of the Episcopal church, past which he was riding at the moment; and as he glanced at its roof and front, he was sorry that he had not put aside more profitable busi- ness long enough to get himself appointed a member of the committee on its architecture. He tried to excuse himself by remembering that he had insisted on the simple and genuine Gothic interior, carried out in pine, which made it a very tolerable little church within. He had had nothing to do with the roller skating-rink, nor with the Grand Opera House, which depressed the observer by its resemblance to Libby Prison, though it was an achievement of wood, and claphoarded up to the summit of its false front. The ingenuousness of the pre- tense with which the false front faces down the spectator in the new towns of the West would be almost a thing to disarm criticism if the front, in iLself~ were more beautiful; cer- tainly if it were le~ hideous one would hardly like to humiliate it by going around behind and spying out the nakedness of the device. As Deeds eye ranged over the roofs of the main street behind the fronts, he smiled at the disproportion between the actual height of the squat buildings, and the height which the fronts alleged for them. His happiness gave an edge to his observation; he saw familiar things as if for the first time. On the treeless plain over which Maverick was dispersed nothing ob- structed the vision for miles, and from so slight an elevation as that along which Deed was cantering one commanded a panoramic view of the entire place. The hotel at the station, the public school with its high central tower, the post-office, and the railway hospital, were the only structures, besides the church, which lifted themselves above the level of the pre 94 BENEFITS FORGOT vailing one- and two-storied buildings. Except in the main street, the dwelling-houses lay iso- lated from one another in archipelagoes, mark- ing the push of the real-estate boom to one and another corner of the young city. As Deed came into the business center of the place, distinguished as such by the board sidewalk that went loftily along the thorough- fare on each side of the way, by the blazonries in red, black, and chrome-yellow on the mus- lin signs tacked upon the fronts of the shops, and by the tethered cattle-ponies, burros, and Studebaker wagons of the ranchmen who be- gan to come into town, he was hailed by a loitering group gathered about a telegraph-pole in front of the post-office. Goin the wrong way round, aint you, Mayor? inquired one of the group. Deed had served the unexpired term of a mayor of Maverick who had suffered the in- convenience of being shot in the early days of the town; and the usual military titles refus- ing to fasten themselves readily to a certain dignity which the town recognized in him, it had compromised upon Mayor, as being a fortunate combination of the respectful and the jocular. Deeds answering smile owned the impeach- ment of the humorous reference; but the eti- quette of Western chaff is not to sanction such an understanding with speech. It is, rather, de rzgueur to meet such references with a hea venly unconsciousness of innocence, and to own them only deep within the understanding eye, which admits both parties to such ameni- ties into the open secret of the no-secret. Well, yes; for Aspen and some places up Eagle River way I m going a good ways around, Burke, said Deed, with twinkling eyes, as he checked the pony; but I m headed right for the telegraph-office, I think, unless I ye taken my observations wrong. He was giving his pony the rein as some one said, There was some tell about town here, Mr. Mayor, of your having asked unani- mous consent to make another matter a special order of business for to-day. The postmaster, who had served a term in the legislature, was fond of the phrases he had learned at Denver. Yes; anything we can do for you, you know, darkly intimated the young fellow on whom the towns repute for the possession of the hardest drinker in the county depended. On Sundays Sandy was the sexton of the Epis- copal church; other days he divided between Iras and certain odd jobs. To be sure; that reminds me there is something you can do for me, Sandy. Ira has my orders. Call on him this evening, and take the camp. Make it a dozen, Mayor, wheedled Sandy. Could nt, responded Deed. I ye made it two. He smiled at the group. Sandy guf- fawed his enjoyment of the prospect. The rest coiled their tongues deep in their cheeks, shifted the pain of sustaining their bodies from one leg to the other, and gazed at the Mayors with a broad smile. Denver? asked some one. Deed shook his head. Y. and Z.s. Bottles? Kegs. He surveyed the grinning group with a smile, as he caught up the reins. The points at which he differed from them were perhaps rather more obvious at the moment than those by which he was allied to the life of the place and of the West. In spite of eight years spent in the West, broken only by occasional visits to his old home in New York, and, while Mar- garet was still in question, by a single visit to Europe, his bearing retained a sort of distinc- tion which no measure of consent to a civili- zation that surveys life with its hands in its pockets, and its trousers in its boots, was likely to vitiate. In being unaggressive, this bearing escaped the condemnation under which all forms of aloofness from the common lot properly lie in the West; and in being on humorous terms with itself, it rather commended itself than otherwise to a people who must see life as a joke if they would escape seeing it as a tragedy. It was far from being his manner of distinction that gave Deed his place in the regard of Maverick, and of Lone Creek County, of course; and it was scarcely by it that he pre- vailed in his practice before the Supreme Court at Denver, or in his fights for mineral claims at Leadville. He counted, as every one does in the West who counts at all, by pure force. Deed liked the West as men like what serves their ends, and for something more. There was a kind of oliligation of gratitude upon him to like it, for it had been his rescue from lethargy after the death of his wife in New York ten years before. He had had no wish to live when he came West, and his friends were surprised to hear after six months that he was still alive. He was what is called a very sick man when he reached Maverick; and as he was also a very miserable one, the chances that he would presently be borne to the desolate little grave- yard on the mesa just outside the limits of Mav- erick were rather better than the chances of hi~ pulling through to find a new strength with his reviving interest in life. In the event he not only came around, as the neighbors said, but, in laying hold upon the practice of his. profession again, discovered a pleasure in pur- suing the application of its principles to new conditions. BENEFITS FORGOT 95 He chaffed the West, now, when he met a man who, like himself, had once been a New- Yorker or a Bostonian; but this was by way of reminding himself to remember how absurd the whole affair was, after all. The real fact was, that, absorbed in his work in creating a future for his boys, and finally in accumulating the fortune which he had seen might be his one day for the use of the needful energy, he had forgotten to philosophize the West, as he had been used to do while from his sick-bed he lay staring idly on a range of mountains which he remembered thinking too big. Consciously or unconsciously, he had cast in his lot with this huge, crudely prosperous, blundering, untu- tored land; and if he had still reserves, there was never time left from his mines, his cattle, and his law to think of them. He was putting spurs to his horse as Snell, the leading merchant of the place, who had just joined the group, inquired suggestively, The young men will hardly arrive in time for the ceremony, I take it, Mr. Deed? I dont know, Mr. Snell, said Deed, re- straining the pony, which was chafing to be off again. I hope to see Philip. He s dropped his mining experiment up at Pifion, at my sug- gestion, and he will get through by the two- thirty train, I hope, if he gets over the Pass all right. I dont know whether to hope that he has left Laughing Valley City or not. I m just on my way to the telegraph-office to inquire. He cast a doubtful look toward Zacatecas Pass. Looks some like snow up around the Pass, commented one of those young men of middle age who, in the West, somehow keep the sap of youth jogging lustily in their veins at an age when it has dried out, or soaked down into the roots, of New England men. It is possible that the speculative fancy of man does not engen- der a new scheme with every moon for nothing. It does look like snow, owned Deed, as he glanced anxiously again toward the moun- tains; and some one ventured t~ ask him about Jasper. He was detained by business in New York, he said, at which Snell exchanged a sig- nificant glance with his neighbor. He hardly expected him for the wedding, Deed added. It ~vas pretty well known in Maverick that Jas- per wasted no approval on his fathers second marriage; and there were persons who saw dubious things beneath the peremptory sum- mons which he had given out a fortnight ago as calling him to New York. As Deed, to cut short the embarrassment of this line of questioning, definitively caught up the reins, and gave the pony a cut with the quirt, the group gathered about him lifted their sombreros, or such rakish or merely slovenly caps as they wore, and swung them about their heads in the burlesque by which Western man- ners express their condescension to the customs of a superseded civilization. It was not a bow, nor precisely a ceremony of farewell, but a mixed expression of thanks for the irrigation to be offered at Iras in the evening, and of an embarrassed sentiment of congratulation on the event of the day, which did not quite know the smartest way of conveying itself. When some one inquired, What s the mat- ter with James Deed, Esquire? and the crowd gave the foreordained answer with a single voice, they had really done for him all that one sovereign can do for another in the way of ex- pression of good will: it was frankincense and myrrh, and oil and wine and precious stones, offered him on a tray of gold, if you like. It was meant for the same thing, and Deed did not like it less. He turned in his saddle, and waved his own wide-brimmed hat to them in acknowledgment, his fine smile on his lips. THE Colorado sunshine was flooding the room in which Margaret awaited his coming, without let from blinds or shades. She stood in the big patch of radiance flung upon a rag carpet past fear of fading, and looked wistfully out of the window. The house stood a little apart, at the head of Mesa street, the chief thor- oughfare of Maverick, near the outskirts of the town, and, in the clear mountain air she could see for a long distance down the road. Breakfast was over, and Beatrice Vertner had left her to attend to some household duties, which weddings apparently do not make less important in their process of dwarfing all other concerns. A quarrel between father and son, Margaret was saying to herself, as she stood by the win- dow, it had not come to that yet, but that Jaspers opposition to his fathers second mar- riage had been saved from that only by the moderation and temperance of her husband who was to be, sh~ felt sure, seemed, at best, a wretched business; but this was, she felt, un- bearably sad. In the foolish days when she was saying Deed nay because she did not yet know herself, and he was following her from New York to Paris, and from Paris to Geneva, and from Geneva to Naples, patient, decently doubtful of himself, but persistent, she had seen what it cost him merely to be separated from his sons. Later, she had come to under- stand how the obligation he had felt to find something within himself to replace the tender care of the mother his boys had lost before they were old enough to know the meaning of such a loss must have reacted upon and en- riched his feeling for them. She remembered how, seeing that his concern for their welfare was the substance and texture of his life, she had warned him it was at Naplesthat such 196 BENEFITS FORGOT affection as his played with high stakes; and how his face had darkened almost angrily at her hint of the possibility that sons might dis- appoint ones faith in them. Just before their first meeting Deed had bought and stocked for his boys the cattle- range from which she hoped he was riding in at this hour, and Jasper was established there in undivided charge until Philip, then in the first year of one of his foolish boys experiments in Chile, should be ready to come back and take his share in the management. She recalled well enough how she had rallied their fathers unwitting boasts of Jaspers success, how she had assisted with inward amusement at the pre- tense that he kept his fatherly fondness covert by bantering it with her, and how, when that was his mood, she had seemed to consent to his transparent vainglory in the shrewdness of his clever young men of twenty-four as a nat- ural enthusiasm about a successful venture of his own. But constantly she had the sense of his loving pride in both his boys; and she liked it. Deed could not have told her, even if his knowledge of it had got out of the region of half-perceptions in which we keep our reluc- tances about the faults of those we love, that Jasper belonged to the Race of the Magnifi- cent, who have their own waya happy pro- vision arranging that no one shall find it worth quite what it costs to oppose such ways. When Margaret discovered it for herself, she had only to put it with familiar characteristics of Deed to understand how the partnership papers in the range, which were the origin of the present difficulty, had got themselves signed. When Deed, in good-humored recognition of Jaspers successful management of the range, had offered him a half-share in the profits from it until Philip should be ready to claim the third already belonging in all but form to each of the boys, it was like Jasper to say that it was very good of his father, and that they ought to put the thing on a business basis. But it was rather more like Deed, whose pride in Jaspers business shrewdness com- monly took shape before the young man him- self in a habit of ridiculing him indulgently about it, to have laughed at him, and con- sented. And it was not less of a tenor with their usual relation that he should have let Jasper have his way about giving this profit- sharing, for a limited term, the form of a partnership. About his own way Margaret knew he would have no conceit, while regarding the symmetry of his act in giving Jasper some- thing like the reward his faithfulness and sa- gacity in the management of the ranch had earned he would have a certain pride. For Margaret, who, for her own part, had ever frugalities and cautions to be satisfied before she could be about a matter, both understood and admired the recklessness with which Deed was accustomed to do a nice thing thoroughly. To her it was an inevitable touch of character that he should have glanced over the papers of partnership which Jasper had drawn up, should have signed with a smile for his grati- fication in doing an entirely gratifying thing, and then should have had the boy to supper with him at the only restaurant in town, where they drank to the success of the range in the champagne which had been left over from the previous nights supper of the Order of the Oc- cidental Star. Deed had not meant to marry again, then, of course, and the cattle-range was then an incident of his fortune, instead of one of the main facts of it, as it presently became. When he first thought of Margaret he con- gratulated himself that there was still the ranch, for, at a little past forty, he found himself, through the scoundrelly trick of a man he had trusted, almost as entirely on his own hands as he had been at twentywith a fortune to be won again, and with life to be begun pretty much afresh. When this trouble came on him he thought of the boys; remembered with satisfaction that they were provided for, whatever came; shrugged his shoulders; took a look at himself in the glass, measured him- self thoughtfully against the future, brushed the black lock down over the fringe of gray in front; smiled; went out and had a good dinner; and began again that afternoon. A year later, when he first offered himself to Margaret, it was pleasant to know that the ranch was now not quite all (some of his min- ing stocks were doing better); but the third interest, that would still remain to him when Philip should have claimed his share in the range had not lost its importance to him. And Jasper had done wonderful things with the enterprise since they had pledged each other in the bad wine of the Delmonico of the West. It was a little later that there began to be discoverable in Jaspers manner the hints of opposition to his fathers second marriage which had lately come near ending in an estrangement between father and son. The difference between them was, after all, but scantily patched up; and on the head of it Jasper had set out for New York, knowing that he could not be back in time for the wed- ding, and leaving word that he would write his father regarding another matter which Deed had broached to him just before his de- parture. The other matter was the reorgani- zation of the arrangement at the ranch to BENEFITS FORGOT include Philip, who had given over mining, after a twelvemQnth in the mountains. He had gone to Pifion on his return from Chile, with his young mans interest in any- thing rather than the usual and appointed thing lying ready to his hand; but he was now willing enough to accept his fathers ad- vice of a year before, and to join Jasper in looking after the ranch, where an assured in- come awaited him. Deed had wished to see this wandering, impulsive, hot-blooded, un- settled son of his actually established on the range before his marriage to Margaret. Un- expected events at Piiion had prevented this; but when he should come down for the wed- ding it was arranged that he was not to re- turn, but was to take up his residence at the ranch immediately. If this provision for Philips future had not already been made when Margaret first began to be in question, Deed could not have asked her to marry him. He felt, in a degree which it would be difficult to represent, his responsi- bilities to his boys; and the long habit of making them the first concern of his life must have prevailed with him, whatever his feeling for Margaret, if they had needed anything done for them. But the ranch was a property which, conducted with any skill, must yield them both a handsome revenue, when both should be established on it. Margaret liked the faithfulness to the future of his sons, which would not suffer him to put even her, or their common happiness, before it. He was determined to leave nothing at loose ends; and he was even awaiting the formality of Jaspers assent to the new arrangement at the ranch, as if it were an assent which he was free to withhold as if all property of his boys in the ranch were not derived from his generos- ity, and as if Jaspers present tenure were not peculiarly by grace of his fathers good humor. It was only a form; but Margaret knew that Deed regarded it as a sacred preliminary to their marriage; and when she saw him riding up to the door, waving a letter in his hand, she knew what letter it must be. She ran out into the frosty air to meet him. Standin~g on the porch, under the shadow of the scroll-saw work, which was as much in the Queen Anne manner as anything about the house, she waited for him to tie his horse, cuddling her arms about her waist. The air had an edge. She gathered herself together: there was the cold to keep out; and there was a soft, interior content which she was willing to keep in. It was hard not to be afraid of some of her feelings lately. Watch your horse! she adjured, with a little nervous shiver. He was trying to tie the 97 pony while he kept his eyes on her, and the tying was on the way to failure. He had taken the letter in his mouth for greater con- venience. They both began to laugh, so that he had to take it out. Dearest! he whispered, as he caught her to him in the porch. But she would not give him his kiss until they were in the hallxvay. It s come! she said, with a joyous nod toward the letter in his hand, as they went into the sitting-room, which was as discreetly empty as the whole house seemed suddenly to have become in the hush of their happiness. Yes, he said, alternately offering and re- fusing it to her, as he held her away to make certain that she was the same Margaret with whom he had parted the night before for the last time, and who was to give herself to him in a few hours. She sniffed at the flowers he had slipped into her hand in the hallway; and, to make sure she did not cry, laughed at the smile of love on his face, which often oppressed her with the obli- gation it seemed to lay on her to keep it always there. And then she clapped her hands and laughed again to perceive in herself a kind of girlish pride in his being handsome and manly, and altogether very fine and impressive this morning. It was true that he was a striking figure as he stood holding her at arms-length, and not less so when he left her side and went over to the mantel, where he leaned his head upon his hand and watched her for a moment in silence, as he struck at his riding-boots with the quirt he had brought in with him. His hair was a bit gray where his large round head had begun to grow hald on each brow; but this, with his grizzling eyebrows, and the strongly marked lines about his mouth,which.in a younger man, would have seemed merely the outward sign of resolution, wer~, the only tokens by which one would have known him to be more than thirty-five. His hair, like his mustache, which was the only adornment of his face, was worn clipped rather short; and this, coupled with his rather careful habit of dress, gave him a certain effect of trimness and well-being uncommon in the West. He had the habit of resting his weight firmly upon the ground; and the dig- nity and ease of his bearing were not lost in the most impetuous of his habitually rapid move- ments. His eyes had a tinge of blue in some lights, but it was the indefinable gray in them which gave the look of power and firmness to his face. It is doubtful if these eyes were really bluer in his kindly moments; but it is not doubtful that they seemed so. That which dis- tinguished his look and his manner, however, after the force which no one could fail to feel in him, was an effect of unconquerable youth- 198 BENEFITS FORGOT. fulness and buoyancy. His eager, mildly search- ing glances his manner of unceasing alertness and energy, gave one the sense of a man much alive. He glanced with keen liking about a room which he had known for a long time, but which, somehow, had never been as interesting a room as it was this morning. He was almost in a mood to forgive the wall-paper, which insulted the remnant of Eastern taste in him; and as he turned and, with his hands in his pockets, stared into the fire, not knowing what to say in his happiness, it gave him a warm feeling about the heart to see what a gay time the com- bustible piixon-wood of the mountains was hav- ing of it in the little grate. There was even a certain light-heartedness about the what-not in the corner, on which the collection of mineral specimens part of the religion of Colorado housekeepingwas reflecting the Colorado sunshine from unexpected facets of ore; while the iron pyrites winked in the sun at some pos- sible tenderfoot mistaking it for gold. Beatrice Vertners taste had contrived to give a homelike expression to such furniture as there was; but the room was rather bare. The big photograph of Veta Pass, in which a train had stopped to be taken, hung in frameless, fly-spotted solitude above the tennis-rackets and riding-crops in one corner. There was a good engraving above the fireplace, framed in unpianed scantling, and two clever oil- paintings by some of Beatrices Eastern friends brightened one corner of the room, which was further lighted up by a brilliant-hued Navajo blanket, hung as a porti?re at one of the door- ways. The home-made rag carpet, in its mod- est propriety of coloring, caused the Western villainy in wall-paper to wear a self-conscious smirk. At the side window there was a burst of color, where the lower sash pretended, not very seriously, to be stained glass. Such a spick-span conscience as I ye got this morning, Margaret, he said, coming over to her and taking her hands again, while he looked down into her eyes, which she straight- way dropped. There is nt an unswept corner nor an undusted piece of furniture in it. I ye had out all the couches, and had all the pic- tures down, and gone in for a general house- cleaning. The boys are safe and settled, both of them, and in seven hours Seven and a half, she corrected smil- ingly, with the precision which seems never to leave a woman who has once taught school. Half, is it? To be sure; half-past four. But everything must be whole this morning, Margaret, like our happiness. Have you no- ticed how every one feels responsible and interested about this affair? They were all at the windows as I rode up the street, or rather they were behind the curtains, and I had to try to look the disinterested morning caller on my way to pay a sort of duty call. But they saw through me. My foolish joy leaks through my eyes, I suppose. Margaret dear, he asked, taking her doubtful and feebly reluctant form in his arms (for, even on the eve of her wed- ding, the indomitable Puritan in her must have its shamefaced way with her will), tell me, does it distress you that I cant conceal it? You are so much better at it. Let me see your eyes. Come, you are not fair. Look up! And then, as she tremulously took his glance for a moment, he put back his big head, and laughed greatly. I see; you were thinking it: that it is unbecoming that they should be laughing over our happiness indecorous um unseemly. 0 Margaret, you are great fun! Am I ? she asked, with a shy smile, keep- ing her eyes on the button she was twisting on his coat. Yes, yes, he cried through his laughter, as he drew her to the sofa; you dont know what you miss in not being able to enjoy your- self. He caught her to him, and she hid her head on his broad breast for happiness. And with his arm about her he opened the letter. Is nt it fine, dear, to know that Philip is settled down and done for, before we begin with each other, and that we need not fear for him? Otherwise I should have felt as if I were running away from him. I like to get this letter from Jasper just at this time. Its only a form, but it makes everything quite sure. I m afraid we are too happy, he sighed, as he glanced over the first lines of the letter; and as he turned the page he looked up in a daze, and could not believe that there had ever been such a thing as happiness in the world. He bit his lips, not to cry out. Margaret watched him in silent fright as he read on. A pallor deepened over his face. It went, and he appeared to regain himself. But the thought, whatever it was, seemed suddenly to clutch him at the throat, and he buried his face in his hands with a groan. Margarets arms, for the first time of their own motion, stole gently about him. And so they sat for a long time in silence. Once she said softly, I m so sorry, dear- est. Questions, she saw, could not help him, and she did not know how to say her sympa- thy. She understood without words that Jas- per had in some way played his father false, and she yearned over the man who in a few hours was to be her husband, with an awed sense of what such a falsity must mean to him. The letter shocked her when she read it, but it could not sharpen her pain for him. Jasper explained that he could not hold him- BENEFITS FORGOT 99 self bound by the understanding under which his father apparently supposed him to have taken a half share in the profits of the range, and that he must decline to surrender to Philip any share in it. He stood upon the articles of partnership, giving him the rights of an equal partner, for a term of years. The rest was made up of phrases. He would be very glad to offer his brother employment on the range; would be most happy to afford him every~~ . . trusted that such an arrangement be- tween them might be mutually . . . hoped that this would be accepted in the spirit in which...; was sure that his father must feel that business is always business; and, disclaiming any motive of greed or animosity, begged him to believe that he remained his most affectionate son.~~ Margaret did not dare look at the stricken man beside her when she had finished this. If he had only died! he moaned. Oh, I know, James; I know! she murmured, with an uncertain caress. Do you, dear? He looked up dully. Something vital seemed to have gone out of him. His haggard look appalled her. She shrank from it with a fluttering glance. No, no, he said; you dont know. You should be glad you cant. You must have cared fora child in sickness and in health, and done things for his sake, and been through all sorts of weather with him, and scolded his badness, and loved his lovableness, to know. Of course, of course, whispered Margaret, mechanically, because she could not find the right words, if, in truth, there were any. You can guess, dear, he said, and it s good of you; but to know you ought to have watched his growth, with its touching likeness to your own growth; and have seen the little armful of flesh, with the tiny, beating heart, that you were once afraid you would stop with a rough clasp, grow to be a man, with a mans comfortable power over the world into which he came so unknowinglyand with a man s awful capacity for right and wrong. He sighed. Yes, yes, he went on with a note of bitterness; you must have done what you could to help him to a place in the world, his voice broke, and perhaps you ought really to have been both father and mother to him, he added, with the ghost of his smile: his friend, as you stood in the place of his mother; his comrade, as you were in fact his father, to know. Thank heaven, you dont know, Margaret! The patient desolation of his tone touched her inexpressibly. She took his hand in both of hers, studying it absently a moment, and one might have thought she meant to raise it to her lips; but, struggling against the tears in her voice, she said, Ingratitude, though, James is nt it much of a piece wherever you find it, andand suffer from it? I can understand that, I think. She paused, biting her lip for self-control. Oh, it is cowardly! she broke out. Does nt it seem so, dear? Cowardly and brutal! Her arm slipped about him again, as she searched for these blundering words of helpfulness. She would have given the world to reach and soothe the pang which she seemed to herself to be merely moving about in a help- less circle. The unyielding tradition in which she had been nurtured, and which possessed her less since she had let herself love him, but which still was mistress of her, had never been so irksome. At the moment she longed to be the creature of some sunnier land, the women of which do not have to wonder how they shall comfort those they love, who have a natural language for affection. But the honesty in her would not suffer her to express more than she could feel instinctively. Whowho but a coward, she went on chokingly, could wrong so unan- swerably as ingratitude wrongs so far past help, so deep beyond protest; so deep, deep down that the mere thought of lifting a voice against it is a misery, a nausea, a degradation! He leaped up. Yes, yes, he cried, with impatient energy; but one can act, must act when the things past talk. Where did I leave my hat, Margaret? He took her by both shoulders, with a sudden impulse, and looked for a moment into her eyes. She took fright at his set face, in which, save the tenderness for her, there was scarce anything of sanity. Whatwhat are you going to do? she asked, under her breath. He clenched his hands, as he turned from her, and caught up his hat, which lay on the sofa. Oh, I dont know, my girl! I dont know! My worst, I suppose. He was flinging himself out of the door. James! ~ she mirmured reproachfully. He turned and kissed her. In an hour, he whis- pered, and was gone before she could utter one of all the pleadings that hung upon her lips. She tremblingly watched him untie his horse. Every movement of his hands was charged with an angry energy that terrified her. Her heart leaped in fear at the wrathful twitch with which he loosed the knot that they had been laughing at together twenty minutes back; and she cowered at the ugly cut under which the pony shrank, as Deed set off at a gallop. Was this the good, the gentle man she loved? She put her hands to her eyes to shield them from the memory of the look on his face, as he parted with her. It was like the look of un- reasonsuch a look as one recalls in explana- tion of a terrible event, after it has befallen. 200 BENEFITS FORGOT~ II. IT was rather more than an hour before he returned, and Margaret had time to think of many things. She trembled at the thought of what he might be doing at any moment of her watching, and waiting, and poking of the fire. She recalled all that she knew of his hot and reckless temper; she told over to herself all that she had ever heard from others of the re- lentless fixity with which he carried out a thing on which he was resolved. She knew sadly the quality of his temper, of course; her experiences of it could hardly have failed to be numerous and bitter, in the time which had elapsed since she had known him. It was the chief flaw in his character. In ac- counting for it to herself, she said, when she was not fresh from suffering from some mani- festation of it, that no doubt it went along in- evitably with his generous and impulsive heart. She was ignorant about such things, and about men in general, but she had never known any one so entirely good, and kind, and open- hearted, and she told herself it was not for her to measure or question the correlative fault that must always go with a great virtue like that. She had moments of grave doubt about this, of course, and her doubt had been a minor rea- son among the controlling ones which had~ caused her to refuse him at first. When she finally discovered that she loved him, it did nt matter; nothing seemed to matter then. She now thought of his temper as one of the things she would set herself to modify or, rather, to help him about when they were married. What was marriage for, if not for some such mutual strengthening and improvement? Something Vertner had told her when she first came, and at which she had laughed at the time, recurred to her. It still made her smile, but in a frightened way. Vertner had heard it in Leadville. It was apropos of the grim strength of purpose which every one felt in Deed. Some one had come to a young lawyer there, to offer him a case in which Deed was engaged on the other side, and had been asked to come off! Aint you got more sense, inquired the practitioner, expres- sively, than to take half a day out of a ten- dollar-a-day job to come and set me on to Deed in a case where he s got the ghost of a show? Never saw him grip his fist, like that, in a court of law, did you? Thought not. Must is must about that time, young man. There aint no two ways to a burros kick. I ye been there. In fact, I was there day before yes- terday. Beaten? No, sir; I was nt beaten. I was cyclonized. I was taken up by the toes of my boots, and swung round and round with one of the prettiest rotary motions you ever saw, and banged against the top of Uncompaghre Peak, out there. No one but myself would have thought it worth while to pick up what was left of me, I suppose. But I did it; and I picked up too much sense at the same time to try it again. Why, that man s got more knowledge of the law, and more raw grit, and hang on, and stick to n he questioned the air with uplifted arm for a companson well, he ended hopelessly. Ill tell you what it is, he went on, with renewed grip of language; for them that likes monkeying with the buzz-saw, there aint nothing like it, short of breaking a faro-bank. It s strawberries and cream to that sort. But to peaceably disposed citizens like you and me, Charlie, there aint nothing at all, anywhere, like staying pleasantly and sociably to home, and letting the saw hum its merry little way through the other fellows fingers.~~ From time to time Margaret would go to the window, and look wistfully down the road. The expression on her round, shrewd, sugges- tive, wise little face at these times would have helped an observer to understand the look which made her seem older than her twenty- nine years; it was the authoritative look of ex- perience. The look of over-experience that sometimes fixes itself, to the sadness of the be- holder, on the face of a woman who has been down into the fight for bread with men, had passed by Margarets inextinguishable woman- liness; but she had not led an easy life; and one saw it in her face a face proportioned with a harmony that strangely failed to make it beautiful. Her eyes, which were small and bright, were deeply set under a high and well-modeled brow, from which the hair was brushed straight back in a way that must have been unbecoming to another type of face, but which was admirably suited to her own. In falling over her shapely little ears, the silky brown hair waved in a fashion pleasant to see. Her mouth, which was small and daintily made, wore an expression of unusual firmness. In conversation she would fix her animated hazel eyes in absorbed attention on the face of the person with whom she spoke, and when the talk was of serious things, a deep, far-away look would suddenly possess these eyes. She had an extraordinarily sweet smile, and there was a gentle and kindly soberness in her ex- l)ression. She was well and compactly made, yet her effect was unimposing. She seemed short and slight. She had a well-kept little ef- fect in her dress and the appointments of her person; but no one would have accused Mar- garet of knowing anything about dress. She was rather discreetly clothed than dressed in the sense of adornment. She wore white cuffs BENEFITS FORGOT. 201 at her wrists and a narrow collar at her throat, fastened by a brooch of gold wrought in an old-fashioned pattern. Margaret was not smiling when Beatrice came in, some time after Deed had gone, and found her with her head pressed against the pane. She turned her tearful face away as Beatrice drew her to her. Mrs. Vertner, one saw, had been quite re- cently a pretty woman, and she was still young a year or two younger than Margaret. The brilliant expression which had distinguished her among all her acquaintance in her young girl days in Newton (the Boston Newton), where she was still remembered as a clever girl who had made an inexplicable marriage, was overlaid, for the most part, by a look of anxiety and harassment, due to the conditions of her life. She made her housekeeping as little a sordid, crude, and ugly business as she could, and took its difficulties light-heartedly; but housekeeping in a Western town that has still to get its growth is at best a soul-wearing affair. Just now she suffered under the rule of a Swedish maid-servant who knew no English, and whose knowledge of cooking was limited to a fine skill in broiling steak insupportably, and a vain address in the brewing of undrink- able coffee. Crying, little one? she asked affection- ately. XVont you do something a wee bit like some one else, dear, one of these days, and let me be by to see it? That s a good girl. She kissed her, with a laugh. But stay odd all the rest of the time, Margaret. I should nt like you if you were nt odd, you knownot even if you were ever so little less odd. If I want you to be conventional, it is only for a moment, to see how it would seem. Come! Other brides smile. Try one smile! she pleaded. And at Margarets helpless amuse- ment, she snatched her from the window, and, humming a vague air, which defined itself in a moment as one of the Waldteufel waltzes, she beat time for a second, laughing in Margarets bewildered, tear-stained face, and caught her away into a romping dance. There! she cried, as she sank upon the sofa, breathless with laughing and dancing. I ye shaken you into sorts, I hope, and you re ready for the ceremonyor will be, if you 11 ever get yourself dressed. Not that I call it dressed, to wear that gray oh, I dont mean that, Maggie dear, she exclaimed at a pained look on Margarets face. She crushed Margaret to her in a devouring embrace. Or, rather, I do, she added honestly; but I did nt mean to say it. No; you d better wear it, she went on, at some sign of hesita- tion from Margaret. It will go beautifully with all the rest of it. Margaret Derwenter, she cried, with an affectation of seriousness, shall I tell you something? You will never be married. She retired for the effect, but fell upon her with all the armory of womans peacemaking at Margarets start. Literal! she cried. Will you never take things less hard? As if I meant it! What I did mean sounds foolish after you ye taken it like that. But I may as well say it. I dont believe the marriage ceremony is going to marry you as it does other women, Margaret; and you need nt tell me it is. If you are ever married, it will be by yourself; yes, I mean itby a kind of slow process of consent to the affair. Of course you will have a proper respect for the ceremony, and you will think it has married you. But women like you, Maggie, not that there are any, are not married in that way. Now, I was married when I left the church, and everybody knew it. Margaret laughed, not on compulsion this time, and, catching her arm about Beatrice~ s waist, drew her to the window to look down the road with her for Deeds coming. Almost any part of Margarets history, be- fore the time when she began to teach, and, by a curious arrangement of her own, to see the world, must wrong, or at least misspeak, in the telling the gentle and sweet-natured woman she had become. IFrom the first she had ideas; and it would be hard to say what one must call the ambi- tion which gave purpose and meaning to her young days. From the point of view of her grandmothers farm-house on a bleak New England hill, the pursuit of what she called culture represented to Margaret during these days an inspiration, an intellectual stimulus, and a rule of life. It would be a quarrelsome per- son who would not suffer any one to get what fun he might out of the idea of culture for cultures angular dear sake; and as an alter- native to the apjAes and cider, the mite-socie- ties, the socials, and the lectures which in winter stand for mental diversion in the back country of New England, it has advantages. But if some one said that the theory of life which it implies lacks ease, atmosphere, curves, lacks even, to say the worst of it at once, the sense of humor, only one who had a great many such New England winters in him ought to say a word. Margaret, in her pursuit of this mystic cul- ture, conceived education to be, until her edu- cation was done, an affair possessing length, breadth, and thickness. It is to be feared that she even improved her opportunities. They were not many, poor girl, until she left the New Hampshire village for her first stay in New York, where she studied at a school in which she spent a year learning that she was the only 202 BENEFITS FORGOT. pupil who regarded its advantages as precious privileges. Then she left it for Vassar, which was, at least; not touched with sham. She found here other girls with her thought about educa- tion; and she went about the erection of her structure of intelligence with an energy which presently sent her home to her grandmother ill. The structure remained her point after her return, however; and the reader who knows anything of this habit of thought should not need to be told th4t she looked upon it, not as a dwelling