Harper's new monthly magazine. / Volume 86, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 994 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABK4014-0086 /moa/harp/harp0086/

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

Harper's new monthly magazine. / Volume 86, Note on Digital Production 0086 000
Harper's new monthly magazine. / Volume 86, Note on Digital Production A-B

Harper's new monthly magazine. / Volume 86, Issue 511 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 994 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABK4014-0086 /moa/harp/harp0086/

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

Harper's new monthly magazine. / Volume 86, Issue 511 International monthly magazine Harper's monthly magazine Harper & Bros. New York December, 1892 0086 511
Harper's new monthly magazine. / Volume 86, Issue 511, miscellaneous front pages i-2

HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. VOLUME LXXXVI. DECEMBER 1892 TO MAY, 1893. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 325 to 337 PEARL STREET, FRANKLIN $QUARE. 1893. A ~/& & b7T I - N CONTENTS OF VOLUME LXXXVI. DECEMBER, 1892MAY, 1893. AFRICA.See Slavery and the Slave Trade in Africa, and American, An, in Africa. AMERICAN, AN, IN AFRICA. (With Portrait of Richard Harding Davis 632 William Astor Chanler.) ART, THE PROGRESS OF, IN NEW YORK George Parsons Lathrop 740 BATEMAN, LORD .See Lord Bateman. BRISTOL IN THE TIME OF CABOT John B. Shipley 428 ILLUSTRATIONS. Initial Head-piece 425 Swearing in the Mayor, 1476 434 Sebastian Cabot 429 Temple Street and Church 434 Gorge of the Avon with St. vincents Rocks... 429 Radcliffe Chnrch 435 College Gate 430 Porch of St. Stephens Chnrch 436 Apartment in Rising Snn Inn 430 North Porch of Redcliffe Church 416 Queen Elizabeth at St. Johns Arch in 1574.... 431 Norman Chapter-house of the Cathedral 437 Old High Crdss 432 Old Fireplace, Welsh Back 437 The Gulidhall and Tolzey 432 St. Peters Hospital 438 St. Johns Gate 433 BROOKLYN THE CITY OF Julian Ralph 651 ILLUSTRATIONS. The Brooklyn Bridge on a Wintry Day 650 The new Tabernacle.... 662 The Heights, from Wall Street Ferry 653 A Scene in Klein Deutechiand, Sixteenth St Marks Place, near Brooklyn Avenue 636 Ward 663 Statue of Henry Ward Beecher.Designed by Along the Dry Docks 664 J. Q. A. Ward 657 The Sugar-refineries at Night 665 Statue of James S. T. Stranahan, in Prospect Joseph C. Hendrix 666 Park.Designed by Frederick Macmonnies 658 Saluting the Flag.Friday Morning Service at The Soldiers and Sailors ArchDesigned by Packer Institute .. 667 John H. Duncan 659 A Corner in the Physical Laboratory, Pratt In- Shopping on Fulton Street 661 stitute 671 BROOKS, PHILLIPS Rev. Arthur Brooks, D.D. 959 BUFFALO, THE STORY OF THE Hamlin Russell 795 CABOT, BRISTOL IN THE TIME OF.See Bristol in the Time of Vabot. CAMEO A AND A PASTEL Brander Matthews 130 , , CAMILLAS SNUFF-BOX Mary E. Wilkins 147 CANADASee Discontented Province A. CHICAGO.SeO Dream City, A. CHILD, A, OF THE COVENANT. A STORY Eva Wilder McGlasson 897 CHINESE A NEW LIGHT ON THE Henry Burden McDowell 3 ILLUSTRATIONS. Ready to say Mass 4 A Chinese Flower 10 A Chinese Shop 5 Consecration of the Joss 11 At the Restaurant 7 Painting Lanterns for the Chinese New-Year 13 A little Music S A Woman of the Pebple 15 The Gods of the Threshold 9 On the Steps of the Joss-house 17 CHRISTMAS PARTY, A. A STORY. (Illustrated) Constance Fenintore Woolson 40 COLORADO AND ITS CAPITAL. (With Map) Julian Ralph 935 COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION.SeC Editors Study, and Dream City, A. COMEDlES OF SHAKESPEARE, THE. Illustrations by Edwin A. Abbey. See Loves La- bors Lost, and Twelfth Night. CRAZY WIFES SHIP. A SKETCh. (Illustrated).. H. C. Bunner 115 iv CONTENTS. CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM.See Recollections of George William Curtis. DEATH Mary E. Wilkins 145 DENYER.See Colorado and its Capital. DISCONTENTED PROvINcE, A Henry Loomis Nelson 87~ ILLUSTRATIONS. Trappist Monks building Stone Fences 877 Trappists at Prayer 880 Trappisis engaged in Agriculture 879 Tail-piece 8S1 DIXIE, THE OLD WAY TO Julian Ralph 16~ ILLUSTRATIONs. Initial 165 The Mate of a Mississippi Boat Now, then, Roustabouts 166 Nigger 175 The Texas 167 The Chicago Man 176 Roustabouts getting under Way 168 The Man from Providence 177 The Saloon of a Mississippi Steamboat 169 The awful Bore 178 Saloon Ornaments (two Illustrations) 170 Roustabouts unloading a Mississippi Boat 179 The Pilot 171 Deck of a Mississippi Boat Youre married, Is fixed for Life, Boss, if de Goverment done aint you? 181 hold out 173 A Raft of Logs 1S3 A Mississippi Steamboat Captain 174 Tail-piece 184 Do SEEK THEIR MEAT FROM GOD. A SKETCH. (Illustrated) Charles G. D. Roberts 120 DREAM CITY A Candace Wheeler 530 ILLUsTRATIONS. Head-piece 830 Section of Tympanum in the Womans Building 837 Section of Tympanum in Manufactures Build- From the Fisheries Building 838 lugChase and War 831 From the Fisheries Building 839 Decorated Tympanum in Womans Building... 832 Decorative BorderAgricultural Building 840 Head of the Statue of the Republic 833 Study of Figure in Education 840 Group crowning the PeristyleThe Triumph of From the Balcony of the Fisheries Building 841 Columbus 834 Group crowning the central Facade, Agricult- Mounted Page.From the Triumph of Co- ural Building 843 lumbus . 835 Decorating a Dome 844 From Border of Tympanum 836 Du MAURIER, GEORGE, ILLUSTRATIONS BY: The Dancing Man of the Period, 154; Fe- line Amenities, 308; Histrionic Egotism, 486; Gentle 1errorism, 641; Street Dia- lectics, 810; Fin de Si~cle, 973. EDITORS DRAWER. Charlie Whittiers Christmas Party (Thomas Nelson tures of a Cart-wheel (Illustrations by H. M. Wilder), Page; Illustration by A. B. Frost), 155. After the Din- 645. Au inauspicious Start, 646. The Rhyme of the ner (Illustration hy W. H. Hyde), 157. Christmas at guileless Gondolier (Laurence Hutton), 646. Following Zenith City (1om P. Morgan), 158. A wise yoang Wo- Instructions (W. H. Siviter), 646. Weve All been there marl (Illustration by Albert E. Sterner), 159. A Guess. (Illustration by A. B. Frost), 647. Tile Mariner and the irIg Matcll (Harry Romaine), 159. A new Scheme (Wil- Boy (John Kendrick Bangs), 647. A Story of Charlie ham H. Siviter), 160. Cllristmas at the Peters Farm Harris (Thomas Nelson Page; Illustration by A. B. (JolIn Kendrick Bangs), 160. Pantomime? (Illustration Frost), 804. The Spirits moved him, 505. Quantity vs. i)y Irving R. Wiles), 161. A Christmas Card, 162. It Quality (John Kendrick Bangs), 805. Aprils Girl (Will calls for Sympathy, 162. For tile Rehabilitation of Carleton; Illustrations by Clifford Carleton), 806. The Christmas, 162. The Prosecution of Mrs. Dullet (Thorn- skittish Doctor (Frederick H. Cogswell), 805. The War as Nelson Page; Illustration by A. B. Frost), 320. Their was a Failure for him (R. K. Munkittrick), 508. An un- first Box of Parlor Matches (Illustration hy P. 5. New- fortunate Ir~terpolation, 809. A nice Question (Illustra- elI), 322. Of Course (David Budge), 323. American tion by Albert E. Sterrrer(, 809. How Jinny eased her- Liberty outraged (Juhian Ralph), 323. An Antiqrle (E. Mind (Thomas Nelson Page; Illustration by A. B. A. Opper), 323. Christmas Mornirlg (Illustration by Frost), 974. TIle Sailing of the Autocrat (Thomas Bailey Frank 0. Small), 324. The Danger of being too thor- Aldrich; Illustration by F. S. Church), 977. Light in ough (Thomas Nelson Page; Illustration by A. B. Indiana, 978. A great Combination, 978. An Injustice, Frost), 482. Dignity of the Church, 483. A modern 978. A Prospect of a lively Time (Illusiration by A. B. Valentine (Caroline W. Latimer), 454. Wanted to repeat Frost), 979. Refined Tastes, 979. Clever Underwriring it, 484. Wanted the Addition first, 484. Mr. Scaggss (Coggeshall Macy), 980. A wonderful Root (David Ker), Snake Story (John Kendrick Bangs; Illustrated by H. 980. A hard Woman to please, 980. Agnosticism (~Vil- M. Wilder), 485. Billinetons Valentine (Tilomas Nel- ham H. Hayne), 980. son Page; Illustration by A. B. Frost), 642. The Adven- EDITORS STUDY. The undiscovered Island of Bimini, 148. The greater at New Brighton, 480. Indicahions of tire Advancement Bimini historically evolved, 149. American Literature: of Women, 635. The Nicaragua Canal, 636. Tile Bless the real Development exceeds the Expectation, 150. irrgs of Interrrlptions, 637. The Movement for tlre Plea for more vigoromls Holiday Fiction, 151. The Spiritualization of Thought, 635. An Illustratiomr of the Good Tidings Side of Christmas Literature, 153. Apol- Influemice of the Ideal in Life, 638. Mr. Godwins Eulogy ogy for the Srlpremacy of Man, 313. The lllmlsion of the upoir Mr. Curtis, 639. Largest Uses of Education for tire Dram, 315. The truest Benefactors of the Race, 316. Individual and Society, 798. TIme American Imaginative Time old Soldier, 317. The architectural Features of the and Unpractical, 799. llamuptons colored Sturlents in Columbian Worlds Fair, 477. The Fair not a local but Esther, 501. The Story of the Hampton Industrial a national Enterprise, 477. The practical good Sense School, 802. By Way of Amendment, 967. Persistent exercised by the Commissioners in allowing free Play Race Instinct, 968. A new Candor in History, 969. for individual Genius, 478. Recogrrition and Encorlr- Sources of Puritan Character, 970. Spread of the Hu- agement of American Art at tire Fair, 479. The only mane Spirit, 971. Memoirs of Field - Marshal von discordant architectural Note, 479. The Relation of Moltke, 971. Color to Architecture, 480. The Curlis Memorial Hall ESCURIAL, THE Theodore Child 531 ILLUSTRATIONS. The Monastery 531 GrorlpofClrarlesV 538 Court of theEvangehists 531 Room of Philip II 539 Portrait of Philip IL by Titian 533 Choir in the Church of the Monastery 541 Tomb of Philip II 535 The Marble Crucifix by Cellini 543 Portrait of Charles V. by Titian 537 Pantheon of tile Kings 544 CONTENTS v ETELKA TALMEYR: A TALE OF THREE CITIES Brander Matthew8 857 ILLUSTRATIONS. For a Moment she sat silent 859 The wretched little Parody of a Man led on Eating a lonely Dinner 861 his tall, dark Partner 888 EVOLUTION OF NEW YOItK, THE. FIRST PART.See New York, The Evolution of. FACE, THE, ON THE WALL A STORY Margaret Deland 510 ILLUSTRATIONs. Bring me my Palette 518 They watched her as she knelt down and took She stood in a Stream of Sunshine beside her him in her Arms 829 Flowers 520 FANS MAiViMY. A STORY Eva Wilder McGlasson 76 ILLUSTRATIONs. The Sheriff 78 Yon hetter tell her to take the Child 82 God a Mercy 79 Watching 83 Little Fellers thrivin 51 Weve got her FLoRIDA.See Riviera, Our Own. FRENCH SCARE, THE, OF 1875 Mr. de Blowitz 948 FRONTISPIECES : But hell come in the Morning, sure, 2. Well, you hoary-headed Im- postor, what would yours be ? 164. Malvollo in the Dungeon, 326. Dance at the Ponce de Leon, 488. The Brooklyn Bridge on a Wintry Day, 650. Along the Canal in old Manhattan, 812. GILES COREY, YEOMAN. A PLAY Mary E. Wilkins 20 ILLUSTRATIONs. This is no courting Night 23 There is a Flock of yellow Birds around her Hey, black Cat I hey, my pretty black Cat!.. 27 Head 31 Father! Father! 33 HEFTY BURKE, THE ROMANCE IN THE LIFE OF. A STORY. (Illustrated.) Richard Harding Davi8 225 HORACE CHASE. A NOVEL Constance Fenintore Woolson 198, 438, 596,753, S8~ How LIN MCLEAN WENT EAST. A STORY. (Illustrated) Owen Wi8ter 135 IN THE BARRACKS OF THE CZAR Poultney Bigelow 771 ILLUSTRATIONS. Initial 771 Shoeing Cossack Horses 780 Advance of Russian Infantry 773 The Soldiers Song 781 Dragoons, mount I 778 A Hair-cut in a Cavalry Stable 782 A bold Dragoon 776 Kuban Cossack, Imperial Guard Corps 783 One of the Czars Body-guard 777 The Russian Military Gendarme 784 Cossacks Scouting 779 One of the Czars Pirates 785 IN THE MARSH-LAND Mary B. Wilkin8 147 KANsAS.15411891 John James Ingalls 696 PORTRAITS. John J. Ingalls 696 Martin F. Conway 704 Charles Robinson 699 Edmund G. Ross 708 James Henry Lane 702 Preston B. Plumb 706 Marcus J. Parrott 703 LE R~VEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. (Illustrated) Ferdinand Fabre 85 LIDE. A STORY Robert C. V. Meyers 359 LIGHT, A NEW, ON THE CHINESE.See Chinese, A new Light on the. LORD BATEMAN. A BALLAD. Comment by Anne Thackeray Ritchie. 124 Illustrations from Drawings by William Makepeace Thackeray. LoVEs LABORS LosT. Illustrations by Edwin A. Abbey. Comment by Andrew Lang... 900 ILLUSTRATIONS. The Kings Quandary 901 Armado and Moth 909 Jaquenetta 902 Dull. Sir Nathaniel. Holofernes 910 Costard 903 Boyet 911 Welcome to the Princess 905 Before the Princesss Pavilion 912 Biron amid the King 907 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. (With Portrait) . Charles Eliot Norton 846 MISSISSIPPI RIVER, THESee Dixie, The old Way to. MODERN KNIGHT, A. REMINISCENCES OF GENERAL M. G. VALLEJO. (With Portrait.) Emily Browne Powell 786 MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS. DoRmisTloAnumlal Message, Presidents, 640. Alt- 319. Cleveland, Grover, elected President, 803; inaugu- geld, J. P., Governor of Illinois, 481. Car-couplers, rated, 972. Clevelands Cabinet, 972. Columbian Cele- Automatic, Passage of Bill requiring, 972. Carr, E., Gov- brations in Chicago and New York, 319. Congress, Meet- ernor of North Carolina, 481. Cholera in New York, lug of, 640. Close of the Fifty-second Congress, 972. vi CONTENTS. MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.(Contiszued.) Crounse, L., Governor of Nebraska, 481. Democratic Vote in Presidential Election, 803. ElectionsGuber- natorial, 319, 481; Presidential, 319, 481, 803. Farm Products in 1892, 640. Governors, Elections of, in Col- orado, Connecticut, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Kansas, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, Mon- tana, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New Jersey, North Carolina, North Dakota, South Carolina, South Da- kota, Tennessee, Texas, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming, 481; in Florida and Georgia, 319. Hawaii, Movement for Annexation of, 803, 912. Hogg, J. S., Governor of Texas, 481. Internal Revenue 1892, 640. Kansas, Difficulty in the Legislature, 912. Lewelling, L.D. ,Governor of Kansas, 481. Matthews, C., Governor of Indiana, 481. McConnell, W. J., Governor of Idaho, 481. McCorkle, W. A., Governor of West Virginia, 481. McGraw, J. H., Governor of Washington, 481. Mitchell, Henry L., Governor of Florida, 319. Morris, L. B., Governor of Connecticut, 481. Nelson, K., Governor of Minnesota, 481. Northen, W. J., Gov- ernor of Georgia, 319. Osborne, J. E., Governor of Wy- oming, 418. Peck, G. W., Governor of Wisconsin, 481. Pensions of Mexican War Veterans, 640. Popular Vote for President, 803. Presidents Message, 640. Presidential Election, 319, 481, 803. Quarantine, Na- tiotial, Bill for establishing, 912. Railroad Traffic in 1892, 640. Republican Vote in Presidential Election, 803. Revenues, Public, in 1892, 640. Rich, J. T., Gov- ernor of Michigan, 481. Rickards, J. E., Governor of Montana, 481. Russell, W. E., Governor of Massachu- setts, 481. Senators, Election of, in Vermont,319; in Cal- ifornia, Connecticut, Delaware, Indiana, Kansas, Louisi- ana, Maine, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mis- souri, Nevada, Ne~v Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, and Wisconsin, 803; in Kentucky, Montana, Nebraska, North Dakota, and Wyoming, 972. Sheldon, C. II., Governor of South Dakota, 481. Shortridge, E. C. D., Governor of North Dakota, 481. Smith, J. B., Governor of New Hampshire, 481. Stone, W. J., Gov- ernor of Missouri, 481. Tillman, B. R., Governor of South Carolina, 481. Trade, Foreign, in 1892,640. Tur ney, P., Governor of Tennessee, 481. Waite, iJ. H., Governor of Colorado, 481. Werts, G. T., Governor of New Jersey, 481. FOREIGNArgentine Republic: Saenz Pefia, Presi- dent, 319. Canada: Change in the Premiership, 481. Dahomey,West Africa, French War in, 319,4811. France: Celebration of the Centennial of the Revolution, 319; Change of Cabinet, 481, 640, 803; Panama Canal Affair, 640, 883, 972. Great Britain, Gilbert Islands annexed to, 319; Introduction of Home Rule Bill, 972. Hawaii, Revolution in, 803. Mexico: General Diaz re-elected President, 319; Raid of Outlaws at St. Igtiacio, 640. Rome, the Popes Jubilee itt, 972. Spain, Change of Cabinet in, 640. Switzerland, Election of President in, 640. Venezuela, Revolution in, 319. DIsAsTeRs.By Earthquake: At La Union, Central America, 481; at Zante, Greece, 803. By Fire: At Ber- son, France, 640; at Canton, China, 803; at Milwaukee, Wisconsiti,319. By Hiurricatue: In Japan, 319. By Flood: Brisbane, Australia, 972. In Mines: At Dux, Bohetnia, 803; at Peuzance, Etugland, 803; at Wigati, Englatud, 640. On Railways: At Alton Jtiiiction, Illinois, 803; at Nel- son, Mintuesota, 640; in West Africa, 803. At Sea: Wreck of the Bokhiura, 319; of the Roumania, 319; of the Trinacria, 972. OaITuARv.Beauregard, P. G. T., 972. Blame, J. G., 803. Brooks, Phillips, 803. Butler, General B. F., 803. Campbell, Douglas, 972. Carroll, General 5. 5., 803. Child, Theodore, 319. Doubleday, General A., 803. Franz, H., 319. Gibson, R. 1., 640. Gould, Jay, 481. Green, Norvin, 972. Harrison, Mrs., 319. hatch, Ru- fus, 972. Hayes, H. B., 803. Hitchcock, H. D., 640. Horsford, E. N., 803. Ingalls, R., 803. Jeuuiiiugs, L. J., 972. Judd, Orange, 640. Kemble, Fanny, 803. Ketina, J. E., 803. Lamar, L. Q. C., 803. Lamb, Mrs. M. J., 803. Lavigerie, Cardinal, 481. Longfellow, Samtiel, 319. Newberry, J. 5., 640. Owen, Sir H., 640. Pope, General J., 319. Renan, Ernest, 319. Rotisset, Camille, 319. Schwatka, F., 319. Tame, H. A., 972. Tennyson, A., 319. Trollope, T. A., 481. Wordsworth, Bishop, 640. NEW ORLEANS, OUR SOUTHERN CAPITAL Julian Ba~ph 364 ILLUSTRATIONS. On Canal Street 361 Creole Types 368 An old Court in the French Quarter 369 In the old French Quarter 369 The Claiborne Cottagesa Summer Resorh of New Orleans in the Piny Woods 370 A Window in the old French Quarter 370 ~Uhe New Orleans Yacht Club 371 Reading a Death-notice 372 The queer old Chtirch of St. Roche 373 Along the Shell Road 374 At the old French Opera-house 375 A Bit of old Architecture in the French Quarter 376 NEW YORK, THE EVOLUTJ7ON OF. FIRST PART Thomas A. Janvie,- 813 Street Railway of New Orleans 376 Street in the old French Quarter, from the H6- tel Royal 377 A New Orleans Policeman 378 Bakers Cart 378 Vender of Lottery rickets 379 Types of the Dago 380 Dagos and their Boats 380 The old atid the new South 381 Along the Levee 382 A Relic of the old~~ South 383 Corner of Batik Building 384 ILLUSTRATIONS. Along the Canal in old Manhattan 812 New Yorke, 1695 822 Head-piece 813 Plan of New York in 1729 825 Map of New Netherlands, 1656 817 Plan of the City of New York, 1785 827 The Towne of Maunados or New Amsterdam,. 819 Plan of the City of New York, 1766-7 828 On the River Frotut 820 Tail-piece 829 NEW YORK, THE PROGRESS OF ART IN George Parsons Lathrop 740 PARIS.See Proletarian Paris. PASTELS IN PROSE (In the Marsh-land.Camillas Snuff-box. Shadows.Death.) Mary E. Wilkins 147 PENSIONS: THE LAW AND ITS ADMINISTRATION Edward F. Waite 235 PROLETAR[AN PARIS Theodore Child 1135 ILLUSTRATIONS. Bijon and PIre La Gloire 187 Wedding Party in the Bois de Bonlogne 193 Citizen Cotusin 188 Monsieur and Madame Salomout and the lean Citizen Jules Allix and his Portfolio 189 Cat 196 Citizen Jules Allix returning from the Cook Shop 191 QUEBECSee Discontented Province, A. RECOLLECTIONS OF GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS John W. Chadwick 469 ILLUSTRATIONS. Mr. Curtis in young Manhood 470 Mr. Curtis at the Age of Fifty 473 Mr. Curtis at the Age of Thirty-eight 471 Mr. Curtis at Chesterfield 475 CONTENTS. Vii REFUGEES, THE. A TALE OF TWO CONTINENTS A. Conan Doyle 244, 396, 551, 713, 913 LLLIT5TL~ATI0N5. Initial 244 Tell me, Adele, why do you look troubled?.. 245 The Man from America 247 The Grand Lever of the King 253 The old Hugnenot stood up with a Gestnre of Despair 260 At six oclock you leave Versailles forever.. 407 Marry the King! 411 Pass it through my Heart, Sire! 418 The Page 424 In the Kings Service 425 At the Horse, Despard, at the Horse ! 552 A Woman had darted through the open Door, and had caught the upraised Wrist 671 Maurice! she screamed. Maurice! It is you! 576 Do not sign it, Sire! 585 Tail-piece 586 Initial 713 The Wedding on hoard the Golden Rod 723 There was perched in front of them no less a Person than Captain Ephraim Savage of Boston 725 Held it up to cast its Light upon tl~ein 733 Escape from the St. Christophe 735 Father Ignatius Morat 915 Advancing through the Forest 917 Received by the Seigneur of Ste. Marie 925 The Lady of Salute Marie 927 Du Lhut hurled his Hatchet in the Skull of the Warrior 931 REJECTED MANUSCRIPT, THE. A STORY. (Illustrated) . Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward 252 RETRIBUTION. A STORY OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY (Illustrated) Howard Pyle 683 RIVIERA, OUR OWN Julian Ralph 489 ILLUsTaATIoNs. Dance at the Ponce de Leon 488 Hotel Cordova 489 She pansed and talked, with mally coquettish little Graces 491 On a Hotel Porch, Tallahassee 49~ On the Piazza of the Windsor Hotel, Jackson- ville 493 While the prettiest Girls were all in the darker Corners 495 Lake Worth 497 In the Gardens facing the Ponce de Leon 499 A Bit of the Court-yard of the Ponce de Leon.. 501 An old Bit of St. Augustine 503 A Street in St. Augustinethe old Church in the Distance 504 ROMANCE, THE, IN THE LIFE OF HEFTY BURKE. A STORY. ~ Richard Harding Davi8 225 (Illustrated.) S RI;SSIA.See Why we left Russia, and In the Barracks of the Czar. SHADOWS Mary E. Wilkins 147 SHAIIESPEARES COMEDIES, ILLUSTRATIONS OF.See Twelfth Night, and Loves Labors Lost. SLAVERY AND THE SLAVE TRADE IN AFRICA Henry H. Stanley 613 ILLUsTRATIONS. Capturing Slaves 617 A Slaver 621 In the Rear of a Slave Caravan 618 A Slave Market 625 Boy Slave . 619 An Arab 629 SOME TYPES OF THE VIRGIN Theodore Child 57 ILLUsTRATIONS. The VirginGiovanni Behlini (London) 59 The Virgin with the GoldfinchRaphael (Flor The Virgin.Lippo Lippi (Florence) 61 ence) 67 The Virgiii.Sandro Botticelli (Florence) 63 The VirginLeonardo da Vinci (London) 69 The Virgin.Andrea Mantegna (Verona) 64 The Virgin.Hans Memliuc (London) 10 The Virgin. Pietro Perugino (Louvre) 65 SOUTH, THESee Dixie, The old Way to, New Orleans, our Southern Capital, Ri- viera, Our Own. SPAIN.See Escurial, The. STORY, THE, OF THE BUFFALO Hamlin Res8ell 795 STORY, THE, OF THE OTHER WISE MAN Henry Van Dyke 277 TENNYSON. (Illustrated) Annie Fields 309 THACKERAY.SeO Lord Bateman. A Ballad. Tb JUAN. A STORY Maurice Kingsley 386 ILLUSTRATIONS. The Monte Deal at Ojo Cahliente 387 Tb Juan hanging there dead 390 He burrowed under the scant Branches of a low Sage-bush 389 TWELFTH NIGHT. Illustrations by Edwin A. Abbey. Comment by Andrew Lang 327 ILLUsTRATIONS. Malvohlo in the Dungeon 326 Sir Toby and his Companions 333 The Duke 328 Come away, come away, Death 334 Olivia and Viola 329 Malvollo finds the Letter 335 Maria, Sir Andrew, and Sir Tobv 330 Olivia and Malvollo 337 The Clown and Malvollo 331 viii CONTENTS. UNEXPECTED GUESTS, THE. A FARCE William Dean Howell8 211 ILLUSTRATIONS. Well, you hoary-headed Impostor,what would Im so glad to see you 217 yours be ? 164 Oh, I dare say he wont mind 221 Oh, Aunt Mary ! 213 Yes, Quails! 224 What in the World is it, Amy? 213 UNIVERSITY EXTENSION IN CANTERBURY. A STORY Rebecca Harding Davi8 789 VALLEJO, GENERAL M. G.See Modern Knight, A. VIRGIN, SOME TYPES OF THE.See Some Types of the Virgin. WASHINGTON SOCIETY. 1.OFFICIAL Henry Loomis Nelson 586 ILLUSTRATIONS, The Jam at the Senators 587 Reception at a Cabinet Ministers 591 The Lack of young Men 588 Going to the Ball 392 At the Japanese Legation 389 WASHINGTON SOCIETY. 11.INTIMATE Henry Loomis Nelson 674 ILLUSTRATIONS. Belles of Washington 675 At the Country Club 679 The new Pet 676 Genius in Society 682 Reception of the Barbarians 677 WHITTIER. NOTES OF HIS LIFE AND OF HIS FRIENDSHIPS Annie Fields 338 ILLUSTRATIONS. John Greenleaf Whittier at Forty-five 339 Lawn at Oak Knoll, Danvers 353 Home at Amesbury 341 The House at Hampton FallsWhittier on the Portrait from Photograph taken at the Asquam Balcony 355 House, July, 1885 342 View from Whittiers Window, Hampton Falls 338 Whittier in his Study 331 WHY WE LEFT RUSSIA Poultney Bigelow 294 ILLUSTRATIONS. The Third Section at Work 295 Gendarme, St. Petersburg 303 I thought I heard you say Come in ! 296 Two Officers are watching you In the Caf6 Tomboff 297 A Page of Sketches made on the Niemei 305 A Gendarme in Warsaw 298 The Frontier Guard and the Custom-house 307 Scene in a Polish Village 301 WISE MAN, THE STORY OF THE OTHER.See Story, The, of the other wise Man. WOMANS EXCHANGE, THE, OF SIMPKINSVILLE. A STORY Ruth McEnery Stuart 454 ILLUSTRATIONS. To see her standin there again, a-sayin them The Household was prepared for em, even same words 463 down to Tom 467 POETRY. AN APRIL BIRTHDAY AT SEA. (Illustrated) James Russell Lowell 672 LORDRE DE BON-TEMPS. PORT ROYAL, 1606. (Ilinstrated) William MeLennan 393 LOVE AND DEATH William H. Hayne 671 MONOCHROMES. NINE POEMS. (Ilinstrated) W. D. Howells 546 MYSTERY, THE. A SONNET Julian Hawthorne 119 MY UPPER SHELVES Richard Burton 551 NOURMADEE. (Ilinstrated) Thomas Bailey Aldrich 71 RED-BIRD, THE Madison Cawein 386 STORM-WIND, THE Arlo Bates 752 TRYSTE NOEL. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. (Illustrated) Louise Imogen Cuiney 18 VIOLET SPEAKS A Louise Chandler Moulton 770 A a HARP ERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. VOL. LXXXVI. PECElVIBEB, 1892. A NEW LIGHT ON THE CHINESE. BY HENRY BURDEN McDOWELLiLLUSTRATED BY THEODORE WORES. MIRAGE of Turanian civilization, a .A. shadow of the past projected upon the present, a frontispiece out of the book of life this, and more, is the Chinese quarter in San Francisco. These thirty thousand souls, huddled together in spaces weilnigh unbreathable, uninhabitable, jostling each other along dark and crowded thoroughfares, silently and imperturbably pursuing their myste- rious ways, so supremely indifferent to all that hems them in, men they seem not, but shades all too impalpable from the (leep Tartarus of Time. * Architecturally, however, Little China is at most but an influence, and it is doubtful whether a single structure in the entire colony owes its existence en- tirely to Chinese capital. Indeed, the necessities of the case made no such de- mand upon the frugal and thrifty Mon- gol. Like Moli~re, he took his own wherever he found it. The huge busi- ness block of San Franciscos early com- mercial period and the hastily construct- ed shanty of the sand hills alike became his property by right of conquest, and lie found both orders of American architect- ure equally available. The shanty soon shone resplendent in vernal green and sacrificial red; and the hard uncom pro- mising lines of warehouse, dry-goods em- porium, and office building were softened by many a jutting gable and projecting balcony, hung with lanterns and refresh- ed with lilies. The philosophy of Chinese house- painting is truly curious, though perhaps * The official map of Chinatown prepared by the San Francisco Board of Supervisors designates 2 theatres, 13 lar~e joss-houses, 16 opium dens, 110 gambling-hells, 246 manufactories innumerable res- taurants and shops, and 30,360 souls, living within an area of twelve city blocks! This is, indeed, a city within a city. VOL. LXXX ViNo. 511.i the interest which attaches to this subject lies more in the restrictions imposed upon the man with pot and brush than in the free exercise of a decorative art. For among these Celestials art is emi- nently utilitarian. We enjoy our colors; the Chinese put theirs to work. More, in house-painting, green and red are, so to speak, de rigueur; other colors would be unpropitious, unlucky, ill-omened. And even if the. average Chinaman (bal- ancing himself as best he can upon the superstitions and practices of ages) is ig- norant of tile precise grounds of his be- lief, he adheres none the less rigidly to the canon. As Pythagoras taught that music was the first cause of the universe, 50 tile Chinese have pinned their faith to the absolute efficacy of color, endowing it with powers quite beyond the laws of chemistry or physics. Indeed, poor John may be said to live and die by the color scale. No color, not even imperial yellow, lies so near the heart of the Chinese as red. True, they do not, as did the He- brews, smear blood on the lintel, but they have a custom of much the same import. Any one even superficially intereste(l in this curious people must have noticed the little pieces of red paperred peach paper it is called by the Chinesewhich, cov- ered all over with characters, are attached to the door-posts of their dwellings. The impression is general that these bits of paper in some way indicate the business or employment of the occupant. But Ah Sin himself will tell you that they are just lucky. This is as satisfactory a reply as could be expected from him under the circum- stances; tile mystery of life is not easily expressed in a couple of words. But why red peach paper? For the answer to this copyright, 1892, by Harper and Brothers. All righls reserved. No. DXI.

Henry Burden McDowell McDowell, Henry Burden A New Light On the Chinese 3-18

HARP ERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINES VOL. LXXXVI. DECE1VU3EiR, 1892. No. DXI. A NEW LIGHT ON THE CHINESE. BY HENRY BURDEN McDOWELLiLLUSTRATED BY THEODORE WORES. ~ MIRAGE of Turanian civilization, a the interest which attaches to this subject ~. shadow of the past projected upon lies more in the restrictions imposed the present, a frontispiece out of the book upon the man with pot and brush than of life this, and more, is the Chinese in the free exercise of a decorative art. quarter in San Francisco. For among these Celestials art is cmi- These thirty thousand souls, huddled nently utilitarian. We enjoy our colors; together in spaces wellnigh unbreathable, the Chinese put theirs to work. More, uninhabitable, jostling each other along in house-painting, green and red are, so dark and crowded thoroughfares, silently to speak, de rigucur; Qther colors would and imperturbably pursuing their myste- be unpropitious, unlucky, ill-omened. rious ways, so supremely indifferent to And even if the average Chinaman (bal- all that hems them in, men they seem ancing himself as best he can upon the not, but shades all too impalpable from superstitions and practices of ages) is ig- the (leep Tartarus of Time.* norant of the precise grounds of his be- Architecturally, however, Little China lief, he adheres none the less rigidly to is at most but an influence, and it is the canon. As Pythagoras taught that doubtful whether a single structure in music was the first cause of the universe the entire colony owes its existence en- so the Chinese have pinned their faith to tirely to Chinese capital. Indeed, the the absolute efficacy of color, endowing necessities of the case made no such de- it with powers quite beyond the laws of mand upon the frugal and thrifty Mon~ chemistry or physics. Indeed, poor John gol. Like Moli& re, he took his own may be said to live and die by the color wherever he found it. The huge busi- scale. ness block of San Franciscos early com- No color, not even imperial yellow, mercial period and the hastily construct- lies so near the heart of the Chinese as ed shanty of the sand hills alike became red. True, they do not, as did the He- his property by right of conquest, and he brews, smear blood on the lintel, but they found both orders of American architect- have a custom of much the same import. ure equally available. The shanty soon Any one even superficially interested in shone resplendent in vernal green and this curious people must have noticed the sacrificial red; and the hard uncom pro- little pieces of red paperred peach paper mising lines of warehouse, dry-goods em- it is called by the Chinesewhich, coy- porium, and office building were softened ered all over with characters, are attached by many a jutting gable and projecting to the door-posts of their dwellings. The balco~my, hung with lanterns and refresh- impression is general that these bits of ed wit~lr-1-ifies. paper in some way indicate the business The philosophy of Chinese house- or employment of the occupant. But painting is truly curious, though perhaps Ah Sin himself will tell you that they * The official map of Chinatown prepared by the are just lucky. San Fr ucisco Board of Supervisors designates 2 This is as satisfactory a reply as could theatres, 13 large joss-houses, 16 opium dens, 110 be expected from him under the circum- gainblin~-hells; 246 manufactories, innumerable res- sta taurants and shops, and 30,360 sools, living within aces; the mystery of life is not easily an area of twelve city blocks! This is, indeed, a expressed in a couple of words. But why city within a city. red peach paper l For the answer to t.his Von. LXXX VINo. Mti copyright, 1892, by Harper and Brothers. All riqhts reserved. 4 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. and to many a similar questionwe must look not in the present. but in the remote past. A Chinese authority of the second cen- tury, who bappily styles himself an In- quirer into Manners and Customs, states that the wonderful Peach-Tree is situated (very conveniently out of reach) in the Happy Islands of the Eastern Ocean. A comparison of the numerous beliefs which have clustered about this marvellous tree with those which prevail in other lands develops the fact that the Chinese have a tolerably definite conception of that Tree of Life which, in a lofty spirit of prophe- cy, rises so grandly in the middle of the Garden of Eden. Indeed, the Biblical account and the Chinese legend not only tally in many details, but, what is more striking, they both point very much the same moral; for we are told in the Bible that after the fall of man an angel drove him out of Paradise for fear that, having eaten of the tree of knowledge, he would also eat of the tree of immortal life. The same idea is expressed in Chinese story. The departed spirits of the Middle King- dom, yearning for immortality, turn their faces to the east, and eagerly repair to the sacred mountain where grows the tree of everlasting life; but, crossing the waters of the Eastern Ocean, and arriving at holy Mount Tu Sito, their hopes are rudely shattered. Two giant brothers, Thu Yu and Yuh Lui, hav- ing power over disembodied spirits, rise up before them and bind them with the cords of hell, and fling them down into Tartarus, which, by a nice conception. is placed directly under the roots of the divine ti~ee. Very evidently not even Chinese morality contemplates a short-cut to Paradise; although here hell is but purgatory a place of departed spirits and not a place of everlasting torment. We are expressly informed that these Chinese cherubim bind with ropes of reed and throw to the tiger (the tiger is the Chinese animal of hell) only those ghosts which, without virtual reason, wickedly wrought evil against mankind. By implication, surely the innocent soul must neces- sarily pass on, and freely feed on the Tree of Life. The Inquirer, continuing, states that the district magistrates have for this reason now always peach-wood fig- ures at their doors, and suspend ropes of reed and painted images of a tiger there, in memory and imitation of this past event, and in order to guard against evil.* We gain a still clearer idea of the two brothers from the constitution of the Chi- nese hell. There they are known as Horse Head and Cow Head, auct they are the executive officers of the Chi- nese judge of the dead. Now in the Yi- King the animal attributed to Khien, the Heaven or All-Father, is the Solar Hor~e; to Kwan, the Earth or All Mother, the Lunar Cow. A cuneiform cylinder re * It was by a very gradual process that these huge and massive peach-wood figures gave way to the little fluttering pieces of red paper now used to represent the spirits of the door. On New- Years day, says King Chu, the people make planks of peach-wood and fasten them to the door- way. They are called trees or wood of the ge- nii. King Chu also refers to a custorsi of his time which permitted the substitution of two painted likenesses of the spirits, which lie tells us are pasted on the left and right of the entrance Thu Yu at the left and Yuh Liii at the right. The Mung Lui, or antithesis of the doorway, as the red paper is often called, are now thought to suffi- ciently suggest the giant guardians of the gates of the sun. READY TO SAY MAsS. A NEW LIGHT ON THE CHINESE. 5 cently translated by Mr. St. Boscawen fairly tells over a~ain the story of Mount A Tu Soh and the giant brothers. Gidzubar, the solar hero, sinking slowly to his death beneath the dark winter clouds in the north, wanders vainly in search of the secret of immortality. He comes at last to Mount Masu in the East, where the Pine-Tree grows; there he encoun- ters the two guardians of the gate de A scribed as scorpion men, whose beads tower to the dome of heaven, and whose feet rest on the shadow of the dark land of Araliethe Bit Muti, House of Death. At the rising of the sun and at the set- ting of the sun they guard the sun. When Gidzubar beheld them, even be, the solar herd, trembled, and was con- strained to submit to their judgment. The very word khurub appears in the cuneiform, and shows how appropriate- V ly the Kherubim of the Bible are sym- bolical of the divine justice. But the Chaldaic Kherub hesitates before the godlike mien of Gidzubar, the hero. As Wotan, in similar perplexities, consults Erda at the foot of the tree Yggdrasil, so he also turns to his better half for ad- vice. Thus runs the text: The Scorpion Man to his female spake: Who approaches hearing the flesh of the Gods in his hody? The Female, the Scorpion Man inclined to: His progress is that of a God, hut his weakness is human. The die is cast; even the sun must die in the west to rise again in greater glory in the east. The Chaldaic canon explicitly declares the Kherubim male and female, but this is sufficiently suggested in the sense of contrast which is maintained throughout the entire series of life-tree guardians. For we are entitled to recognize our friends Cow-Head and Horse-Head in the doughty athletes Castor and Pollux, and in those patron saints of the gymnasia when athletics meant everything in Greece Eros and Anteros. As Fafner and Fa- solt they stalk in dire disgrace through the Niebelungen-Lied; they appear in CHINESE SHOP. 6 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. mediteval heraldry as supporters to the throne of Denmark; as Gog and Magog they are guardians of Gujidhall; and as the Lion and the Unicorn they are a- fightin, for the crown of England. The mythical character of the Red Peach-Tree is sufficiently established hy the language of many different writers. A commentator on the calendar of King Chu informs us that it coils up its leaves to a height of 3000 miles, and that a golden cock is sitting upon it when the sunlight dawns. An emperor of the Liang dynasty, Yuen Ti, emphasizes the typical character of this golden cock by stating that when he begins to crow, all the cocks in the world are thus stirred up and also crow. It is the cocks func- tion to awaken the glorious sun, which (in dispelling darkness) is held to dis- perse the evil spirits of night. These spirits, so the Chinese think, abhor the truth of the suns light, and shrink back into the lie of hell. And why not? Even poor Hamlets father must obey the fearful summons of the trumpet to the morn. Bernardo. It was abont to speak, when the cock crew. Horatio. And then it started like a gniltv tliin~ Upon a fearful snmmons. I have heard, The cock, that is the trnmpet to the morn, iDoth with his lofty and shrill-sonndin~ throat Awake the god of day; and, at his warnin~, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, The extravagant and errin, spirit hies To his confine: and of the trnth herein This present object made prohation. Marcellus. It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say, that ever g inst that season comes Wherein onr Savionrs birth is celebrated The bird of dawning singedi all ni_ht lon ,: And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch bath power to charm. So hallowd and so gracions is the time. Socrates sacrificed a cock to ~lscula- pius, the god of health, so the Chinese formerly placed a painted effigy of the bird of dawning on the lintel of their doors, to drive out pestilence, contagion, and evil spirits enerally. It is equal- ly noteworthy that it is a cardinal point of Chinese faith that their sun or Saviour- God Yao enters the world at midnight of the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month. On this occasion the golden cock upon the Tree of Life naturally does not wait for the dawn, but, in honor of the advent of a spiritual sun, crows all nig t long. In associating a mystical meaning with the color red, and closely connecting this meaning with the Tree of Life, the Chi- nese have but followed out all analogies to their logical conclusion. The tree of life is the tree of man; and red is the col- or not only of mans blood hut of the universal life. By very definition, then, red is the color of salvation operating t& secure the health of both body and soul. In Chinatown, therefore, it has actually become a sanitary precautiona sort ot spiritual chloride of lime. But it has other uses. No present, foi instance, is ever bestowed, even upon a. white barbarian, which is not carefully wrapped up in red paper. The very name for present is ang-pao, red parcel. Red i~ the color of the longevity candles and the birthday eggs. Again, no Chinese gentleman would ever think of inflicting upon friend or acquaintance such an omen of death as a white visiting-card~~ it is always red.* Red, in fact, is used generally on every joyful occasion, as at marriage or at the birth of a male child, and is only carefully avoided jn cases of decease or mourning. Even the red fire- cracker is more definitely connected with Chinese religion than with Chinese sport. In Chinatown fire-crackers are used to drive out devils-an employment which, though it brings them into rather gen- eral play, must not be confounded with the use our children make of them upon the glorious Fourth. As a matter of fact, Chinese boys and girls are not allowed to touch these implements of religious warfare. t With us even the yule-tree has de- generated into a toy; with the Chines& the tree is still a tremendous realityso. real, in fact, that its branches have ob- scured their spiritual sunlight and left them in the darkness of superstition. Is * White is the color of mournin ~ This is not the only pursuit to which Caucasians have given a frivolous turn. On the 9th day of the 9th mouth, the heaven day of the heaven moi~th (there are nine heavens and ten hells in Chinese mytholo,y), it is the cnstom of the gravest merchants. and fathers of Chinatown to make a pil~rimage to the nearest hills or high places, where, with great. seriousness, they proceed to fly kites wonderfully and fearfully made. Dragons twenty feet long,. fishes and animals-even sacred textsare thus sent up into the ether. These messengers heaven are touching evidences of no little rever- ence in the Chinese mind. It is needless to state that children are not allowed to fly kites, nor do their fathers, save on this one day. AT THE RESTAURANT. 8 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. it not strange that so idolatrous a nation should in this one case have so much re- frained from the actual representation of an idea exercising so powerful a control over their hearts and imaginations? Even in idol processions, where the sa- cred dragon himself is man~uvred, the peach-tree seldom appears on any of the numerous floats which constitute the chief glory of these pageants. Yet, de- spite the great mystery which shrouded the rites of Cybele, the pine of the great goddess was openly carried through the streets of Rome when her cult became the state religion, and an excellent repre- sentation of what the Chinese mystic would immediately recognize as corre- sponding to his notion of the Tree of Life was once a distinct feature of the Lord Mayors Show in London. From the branches of that tree still floated the cords of hellalthough the giant guar- dians Gog and Magog have been relegated to Guildhall-and its significance was still further accented by the presence of that type of self-sacrifice, the pelican de- stroying herself for her young. Through- out all Christendom the axe is now rude- ly laid to the roots of the unhappy fir or beech, their best service being deemed the amusement of our children and th~ gladdening of Christmas-tide. In China, however, the beatific peach-tree is per- mitted to freely scatter its blossoms o the air of spring as unmolested as if on holy Mount Tu Sob jtself. * * However, the peach-tree does occasionally ap- pear in Chinese iconography. The To Do Moroko- shi,a Japanese collection of Chinese antiquities, a work of the highest authority, pnhlished at Tokio in the year 1716, contains an interesting illustration of the cosmic Tree of Life risin~ out of the waters of the Eastern Ocean. Its hranches are seen crystal- lizing into rock and earth, with the sun and moon displayed on either side. Clearly here is the ex- planation of that confusion hetween tree and mountain which is so persistent a feature of Chinese mytholo~y. The Peach-Tree, instead of he- ing on Mount Tn Soh, is Mount To Soh. The tree is the mountain; the mountain is the tree. This A LITTLE MU5I~. A NEW LIGHT ON THE CHINESE. 9 By a natural and an interesting pro- cess the guardians of the tree of un- mortal life have become the Chinese gods of the threshold. In full stature, and presumably in primeval strength, they flank the doors of monasteries and the entrances to the halls of justice. Much reduced in size and perched high on shelves, they face each other in the vesti- bules of the Chinese home; and in their most diminutive aspect they become little images, occasionally two-headed, which are carried about the person as charms or hang from the eaves of Chinese houses. As there is no monastery in China- town, and, in theory, no hail of justice (although a sort of Chinese lynch - law certainly does prevail, and rather stub- bornly), these guardians of the threshold are not often to be seen in their heroic proportions. On important religious oc- casions the giant brothers (constructed of paper and eight feet high) are set up be- fore the joss-houses; but not until an im- is not allthe tree is also an animal, nay, a human tree. For every woman in China is most firmly believed to be a tree in the underworld. Her children are flowers on that treethe boys red, and the girls white. In the heavens they are stars. portant ceremonywhich must be taken to largely qualify the alleged idolatry of the Chinesehas been performed. On leaving the idol-makers these im- ages have no sanctity whatevereven a European can have them made to order for a trifling sum; it is only after they are consecrated that they become the domicile, for a season, of the great spirit they represent. The cePemony of conse- cration is very interesting. It takes place in either one of the narrow streets or al- leys leading off Pine and Sacramento streets, which of necessity serve as courts to the inner temple, or within the pre- cincts of the temple itself. After appropriate sacrifices and ser- vices a Taouist priest, accompanied by his acolytes, solemnly approaches the idol and consecrates it with a long brush by touchin~ up the two eyes with a spot of red. Before the red pencil, as the Chinese call the sacred brush, has been applied, the idol is but so much paper; after, such is the efficacy of prayer and ceremony, it is endowed with the light of heaventhe soul of an All-seeing God. Of course this power to make a god practically implies the power to unmake THE GODS OF THE THRE5HOLD. 10 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. him, but the antithesis does some injus- tice to the exact attitude of the Chinese towards their worship. It is true that as soon as the sacred festival is over, the idols are carefully destroyed, or rather burned; but this, commonly thought to be an act of sacrilege or indi~erence, is, on the contrary, an act of reverence. The gods, having left these temporary receptacles made in their image, they should not remain on earth, the Chinese think, to be profaned. They are conse- quently with due care given to the flames, and thus set free in the living fire, they are made one, so to speak, with their heavenly prototypes. The two gods of the door~~ appear in the Babylonian calendar as the Gem- inithe zodiacal sign for the third month the month of man.* * Professor Terrien de la Couperie has identified the first five hnndred Chinese characters as those used in the Hieratic Accadian, and he brings the Chinese from Snsiana into northwestern China about the twenty-third centnry before Christ. Pro- fessor de la Couperie has massed a convincing ar- ray of facts in favor of this hypothesis, which had, indeed, received the sanction of Fran9ois Lenor- mant before his death, and now enjoys the support of Professor Sayce and other eminent and carefol scholars. Indeed, the laws of circumstantial evi- dence would have themselves been sufficient in time to establish the identities of Chinese and Accadian The Chinese and Babylonian cal- endars, in fact, are identical in struc- ture, although the underlying princi- ple of both is much more clearly set forth in its Chinese than its Accadian form. The Chinese calendar is typ- ical for all calendars, and introduces us at once to the rationale of the most primitive method of notating time and thought. In accordance with the vivid imagination of a pe- riod in human history when the cre- ative far outstrips the critical in- stinct, Night and Day were the first parents of time. The Chinese calen- dar builds upon this simple antithesis to give the impetus of life to the pro- cession of days. The Sun and Moon as Father and Mother of time, stand at the threshold of the year, and im- pose the law of their duality upon the hour, day, month, year, and cycle.* This idea is extended throughout the entire Chinese time-table, which, by- the-way, with the exception of the 60-year cycle, is singularly like our own: THE CHINEsE TIME-TABLE. 60 married or 120 single minutes make 1 hour. 12 24 hours iday. 15 30(or29) days 1 month. 12 24 months 1 year. 60 120 years 1 cycle. The year begins with the first new moon after the sun enters the water sign of Aquarius, and consists of twelve months of alternately 30 and 29 days, with a full moon falling in the middle of each month. Formerly the days of the month were notated in China as in Babylon by moon stars, fancied to be pods upon the sacred tree. According to the Tchu Shu Ki. Nien, when the Emperor Yao had been on the throne seventy years, a kind of plant called lik-koh grew on each side of tile palace stairs. On the first day of the month it produced one pod, and so on every day a pod to the culture. If Comparative Philology insists upon linking the Chinese language with pre-Babyloniaa speech, the higher science of comparative custom and ideas still more indissolubly unites China with Chaldea. The Great Plan, as the Chinese loftily call their chart of wisdom, was brought from the banks of the Euphrates, from which it was also carried, as it now appears, to the four quarters of the world. * Indeed, the Chinese year is so much alive that the devouter Chinese women fast the first day of every month to provide food for the year to eat. A CHINE5E FLOWER. 9 A NEW LIGHT ON THE CHINESE. 11 15th, while on the 16th one pod fell off, enline half of the month; the waning and so on every day a pod to the last day phase the weak or feminine half. The of the month; and if the month was a duality of the month is a distinction we short one (one of 29 days), one pod shriv- have lost, owing to the separation of the elled up without falling. The growing lunar and solar years in the modern cal- phase of the month from the new to the full endar, although we still preserve the moon is considered the strong or mas- marriage idea in our day of twenty- CON5ECRATION OF THE JOSS. 12 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. four hours, which, in reality, consists of two days of twelve hours eachthe day of light and the day of darkness. Elo- quently and accurately, therefore, does the Bible say, And the evening and the morning were the first day. The intimate connection which exists in the Chinese mind between the smallest and the largest fraction of time is illus- trated by a philological as well as by a mathematical process. In the table given below the names of the twelve signs of the zodiac also serve for the names of the twelve months. Tbese same names compounded with the two terms chuh and cheng, make the twenty-four hours; and these again compounded with ten de- terminants produce just sixty names (and no more) for the years of the cycle. It is significant that as midnight is femi- nine, the day begins, as of necessity, with the second or feminine term of Tszc, the sign or month of Aquarius. beginning of the first to the end of the twelfth month, the Chinese--as do the Jewsrecognize a year extending from the beginning of the seventh, also lasting a twelvemonth. These two years are still recognized by customthe twenty- fourth day of the sixth month, now St. Johns day, and the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month, Christmas eve, being peculiarly solemn days of preparation for the incoming years. These pivots of timethese hinges of the two yearsare still a conspicuous element in the Shinto worship, the oldest religion of Japan. Mr. Ernest Satow makes the interesting statement that the priests of Isd purify the people at the two annual festivals of the sixth month and twelfth month. These festivals are call- ed Oharai No Matsuri. Pilgrimages are made to the shrine of 1s6, where wands, or oharai, are procured by every true be- lievei. On arriving home, these symbols CoMPARATIvE TABLE OF CHINESE MONTHS, bras, AND YEARS. First Ten. 1st Year, 3sze-Kiah. 2d Chow-Yih. 1st Mouth, Tsze. 2d chow. 3d 4th 5th 6th 7th 8th 9th 10th Tsze cheng, illidnight. chow chuh. 1 AM. cheor, 2 AM. Yin. Yin chuli, 3 AM. 3d cheor, 4 AM. Mao. Mao chuli, 5 AM. ~ 4th cheu~, 6 AM. ~ chen. Chen chuh, 7 A .ie. ~ 5th ehena, 8 AM. 0 a Sze. ~ Sze chuh, 9 AM. 6th cheng, 10 AM. wu. a Wu chuh, 11 AM. - 7th a ~ cheug, Noon. ~ I wel. ~ wei chuh, 1 P.M. ~ 8th Shen. a Shen cliuh, 3 P.M. a 9th chei~,.., 4 pie. a Yeo. ~ Yeo ehuh, 5 pie. i 10th cheng, 6 P.M. 11th Sn. 5u chuh, 7 P.M. cheng, 5 pie. Ll2th nai. nal chuh, 9P.M. cheng, 10 P.M. ~Tsze chuh, 11 P.M. (The process is continued until the 12 months and the 10 determinants make 60 years.) The duality of the year is also suggest- ed to the Chinese by the fact that the 12 stems or month names multiplied by the 10 branches or numerals make 120 years. But these must be married; therefore, on the theory, essentially Chi- nese though occasionally reasserted in our midst, that man and wife are one, they become the sixty years for which by philology there are provided just sixty names. * Besides the year extending from the * De Ia Couperie derived the 12 sterns from the 12 Babylonian months. In the 10 branches he sees the 10 Accadian numerals. of growth are placed in the icama oaina, shelf of the gods. Mr. Satow adds that every six months these wands should be changed for new ones, but that in practice the oharai are removed only once a year, perhaps less often. It is an illustration of the differentia- tion of custom that the use of red peach paper is utterly unknown in Japan. Japan, the land of beauty and optimism, has rejected the conceptions so dear, on the other hand, to the stoical Chinese. The Japanese are on terms of friendly intimacy with their spirits and gnomes, the Chinese in an attitude of fear and w Yin-Ping. Mao-Ting. cheu-wu. Sze-Ki. wa-Keng. wei-sin. Shen-Yen. Yeo-Kwei. Second Ten. 11th Year, Su-Kiah. 12th nai-Yih,etc. A NEW LIGHT ON THE CHINESE. 13 propitiation. Accord- ing to the Japanese, the devils fear most not red paper, bombs, nor fire- crackers, but the un- folded beauty of the lo- tus and the glory of the chrysanthemum. Indeed, it is signifi- cant that although in some parts of the Mid- dle Kingdom the cus- tom of hanging greens over the lintel on the twenty - fourth day of the sixth month is still observed here show- ing a rudimentary sym- pathy with the more beautiful religious stand-point they re- serve their full energies for the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month. This day is called in the calendar the day when the spir- its are seen out, and for obvious reasons. For at midnight of the twenty - third day the household gods ascend to heaven to report upon the conduct of the family, and do not return until New-Years eve, leaving their charges in the mean while to the tender mer- cies of the evil spirits, who, in common with the good deities, are supposed to have inhabited the house during the year. The Chinese have the greatest fear of disturbing their good spirits in attacking their evil ones. On the 24th, however, their household gods being absent in heaven, they are fully at liberty to wage unremitting war upon the unlucky de- mons of the night with the powerful aid of gong, drum, cymbal, fire, candle, and noisy fire - crackers. Long strings of these fire-crackers are hung from the eaves of the house and lighted from the ower end. The entire length is soon bl auze, spluttering, crackling, and wrig- gling like the fiery dragon himself. Any devil who can pass this cordon of flame is thought very clever. These dem- onstrations cease shortly after midnight. The sun god, Yao, having entered the world, mans struggle against evil may be relaxed without too much danger. * If our calendar were annotated with reference to Chinese feasts and fasts, it would be rather difficult to distinguish their holiday customs from those of our Christmas and New-Year. But, as it is, the 24th and 25th of December never co- incide with the 24th and 25th of the Chi- nese twelfth month, owing to the fact that their year is movable and ours fixed. But it is obviously improper to compare calendars on any other than the numeri * The twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month (if we except the twenty-fourth of the sixth) is about the only day Chinese housewives are at liberty to clean up, although they do not go to extremes, as did the ancient Mexicans, who destroyed the entire furni- ture of their houses before the beginning of every new year. PAINTING LANTERNS FOR THE CHINE5E NEW-YEAR. 14 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. cal basis. Hence, for the 25th of Decem- ber read the 25th of the twelfth month. It may be said that the Chinese, like all races and individuals who are in the first stages of self - conquest, exclusively ex- press their charity in these few days which usher in the birth of a new year. The custom of giving presents, and par- ticularly that of exchanging New-Year calls, is essentially Chinese. The coinci- dence of these two rather peculiar acts of brotherly love coexisting in Hol- land and Scotland should furnish cause for thought. It is a little singular, cer- tainly, that the Chinese, who are not an over-charitable or forgiving race, should enjoin the forgiveness of all debts at the beginning of the new year. It is aii amusing spectacle in China- town to see the creditor mercilessly hunt- ing down the debtor during the few days that remain. No one is exempt from this necessity, for in order to pay his own debts he must in turn collect what is due to him. The debtor who cannot fulfill his obligations by New -Year goes into bankruptcy by the operations of a custom stronger than law. He undoubt- edly earns the contempt of his fellow- men, but at least he is free from their persecution. His debts are forgiven, with quite as much sincerity as could be ex- pected under the circumstances.* Besides this painful phase of Chinese yule-tide, there are other preparations to be made for the fitting celebration of the great three-day festival, beginning with the first day of the first month. The red peach paper which has been re- moved from the doorway must be re- placed, and therefore about this time the professional letter-writer of the Chinese quarter takes his station on the street corner, and is busily employed in writing sentences of good omen. Naturally some of these gentlemen are more popular than others, a letter-writer who claims to have passed one of the inferior civil service examinations, or who at one time has been connected with a fashionable joss- house, being more in demand than he who has picked up his smattering of knowledge at school, or by what is an important factor in Chinese education, self-help. It is quite customary, also, to bring man who demanded payment of a debt during the Eleusinian festival in Greece could be put to death. these red paper slips to the joss-house, where for a trifling fee they are stamped with the seal of the joss. Certainly it is worth taking some trouble with a little piece of paper which is to do duty for an entire year; for as soon as the slips have been prepared and stamped, they are glued to the door-posts, against the time when the evil spirits shall return and make the last state of the man worse than the first. The moral which the Saviour pointed out to His disciples that spasmodic effort is inevitably followed by reactions unfavorable to true spiritual development is fully borne out by the history of the Chinese people. The ninth day of the ninth month, it has already been observed, is the heaven day of the heaven month, and is appro- priate to the Feast of Kites. The seventh day of the seventh month celebrates the marriage of the two years. The fifth day of the fifth, the third of the third, and the first of the first are equally festal days. In fact, the Chinese believe that there is luck in odd numbers, although to the even months they accord due mea- sure of respect. Through these numer- ous festivals and all the minute obser- vances associated with them are taught the lessons of life. A wealth of prover- bial and homely wisdom springs from this huge kindergarten system, which, though sadly in need of repair, still serves a purpose. There is a natural connection in the Chinese mind between the birth of the year and the birth of man. This associa- tion is sostrong that the birthday of any child born in January reverts to the first day of the month. Thus every January child, at least, toddles along in the foot- steps of the year. As soon as a child is born, the first question which presents itself is its ini- tiation into the human family. The pa- tria potestas reigns supreme; it is for the father to say whether the little life- bud shall grow up to become a citizen or citizeness of the Middle Kingdom. In accordance with the family law, which is supreme in China both for the Emperor and for his meanest subject, until the child has been lifted up by the father it has theoretically no existence. It fol- lows, therefore, that infanticide, or the failure to provide for offspring, receives the tacit approval of the law. As male children are a means of support in old A NEW LIGHT ON THE CHINESE. 15 age, they are useful, and rarely if ever destroyed. Daughters, however, are a responsibility and an expense, and are frequently exposed. Obviously, they are riot over-welcome in the Chinese home. Mothers of the poorer class exhibit considerable anxiety as to the matter, and frequently consult the neighboring joss-house, which, of course, has a panacea for all woes. The Taouist priest throws up the sticks in order to ascertain wheth- er the tree which represents the wo- man in the underworld bears white or red flowers. If white, then some- thing must be done to change the earth, for, as surely as the sun rises, to her no male children shall be born. But what is to be done? The remedy is certainly a curious one. It is an il- lustration of the familiar homceopath- ic principle that like cures like. In such a case the girl child of another family must be adopted, in order to ward off the long line of females which threatens the welfare of ~he house. This process is known as grafting.~~ Thus it turns out that a girl not wanted in her own home is at least permitted to live in another. But even then there is a surplus, and the mandarins are at their wits ends to stem the fearful tide of in- fanticide. A number of benevolent Chi- nese merchants have devised a plan which is certainly charming, considered both from the point of view of ingenuity and charitable intent. The little girls are brought up in asylums, which are prac- tically female universities. Although de- serted by their families, the authorities take great pains to obtain their pedigrees, which are hung up over their cots, and are, of course, invaluable for future use. As they grow older, these children are carefully trained and elaborately edu- cated. Arriving at a marriageable age, they have an enormous advantage over the average Chinese woman, who never receives any education whatever unless belonging to the wealthy or official class. Indeed, paradoxical as it may seem, very few Chinese can even read or write, and ___ therefore the little foundling carries to W her husband the one great boon which is the ideal, however remote, of every Chinese heartan education. For it is a mistake to suppose that the Chinese are, in the sense in which we understand the word, an educated race. This statement has been frequently made by a number of authorities, but it is none the less erroneous. Education is worshipped in China but not possess- ed. There are reasons for this anoma- ly, and they are important enough to be considered. In the first place, there is no public-school system, and the rates of tuition are moderately high. Now what is the wage of the worker? The com- mon laborer receives about five cents per day; the skilled laborer, ten cents; and when employed in the artistic trades, twelve cents. Obviously, nuder these conditions, it is wellnigh impossible for the father of a family to provide his chil- dren with the most elementary education, especially as reading and writing in China are both means and end. There are 40 - 000 characters in the language, and the present method of education is not con- ducive to their speedy acquirement. Even in the schools of Chinatown, where ev- erything is relatively more practical, children who dare to put together in ra- tional connection the characters they are being taught are subjected to tortures worthy of the inquisition of the Scotch Covenanters. They are permitted to pon- der over the essence of the character for dog and the character for bite but they are not allowed to put them to- gether until permitted by the teacher. A WOMAN OF THE PEOFLE. 16 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Four or five years must elapse before the student of Confucius even begins to read. What chance, then, is there foe a child of a parent who is making from five to ten cents a day? The Chinese Six Companies frequently have occasion to paste up notices on the dead walls of Chinatown. These notices. are intended to be read, and are therefore couched in the simplest language. It is a curious sight to watch these worship- pers of learning collected about the bill- boards. The writer has counted as many as a hundred, who, without uttering a word, have patiently waited for hours, urtil the scholar happens to arrive who shall read aloud to them an announce- ment which, if written in English, would be intelligible to a ten-year-old American child. It is pathetic that a people who lit- erally worship education should be so wholly debarred from it. A reverence for education is part of their religion. One of the interesting personages of Chinatown is the itinerant pager - scavenger employed by the Six Companies to patrol the entire quarter. It is his duty to pick up every piece of paper bearing a written character. These pieces of paper are taken to the joss- house and burned according to the rites. Tradition, fable, custom, and the of t-re- peated ritual imperfectly supply the place of a popular education. Indeed, the poor- est child is given what the Chinese believe tobe a religious education. The ceremony of going through the door is interest- ing in this connection, as it illustrates the solar symbolism, which is the essence of Chinese ritual. The door or sun- gate is erected in the middle of the room. On a table at the side are heaped up seven piles of rice, with a candle on each pile, recalling the modern birthday cake with a candle for each year of the childs life. The rice is in token of abundance, while the candles represent the seven stars of the Bushel, or Mother Goddess. When all is prepared a Taouist priest takes the young child in his arms, and followed by the father and the rest of the family, solemnly goes through the door a movable wooden frame placed first in the centre of the room, and afterwards at each of the four points of the compass. This ceremony is repeated on each birth- day until the child arrives at the age of sixteen, and the memory of it hangs over the Chinese man during all his life. For on his fortieth birthday it is customary to take a common bushel measure, and to fill it with rice and such toys or imple- ments as are significant of his capacity; the whole is surmounted by a huge can- dle, indicating, perhaps, that the seven gifts of the Seven-starred Goddess are fused into the individuality of one strong character.* At death there is that final passing through the door which leads to another life. In former times this was also act- ed out. This ceremony strongly suggests an extinct arkite ritual. The body of a deceased emperor or high official was borne through the streets on a catafalque. Arriving at the temple, the coffin was taken through the entrance; but once within, enough bricks were removed from the side of the temple to permit the coffin to pass out in an unusual manner, thus symbolizing the resurrection of the soul. At childhood, middle age, and death the thoughts of a Chinese man are thus cen- tred on his hope of immortality. The Chinese, like Shakespeare, recog- nize the Seven Ages of man. When he is ten years old, says the Book of Rites, he goes to school; when he is twenty, he is capped; when he is thirty we say he is at his maturityhe has a wife; when he is fifty we say he is getting grayhe can discharge all the duties of an officer; when he is seventy, he is oldhe dele- gates his duties to others. But all this time he is amusing himself very sadly; the curse of superstition, or of over-ear- nestness, covers him like a pall. He is not frivolous, this son of heaven ; at least lie begins to play late in lifehis children are not allowed to play at all; and if he is married, it is generally with- out his consent. Mythology rants through- out his drama; he cannot eat, drink, or sleep except according to the rites. Spec- tres dog his footsteps and beset him at every turn; but still he keeps on reason- * The pictnre by the pre-Raphaclite painter Due- do, The Borial of the Virgin, represents the Vir~,in Mary as being lowered into her tomb, the Twelve Apostles variously grouped around her, St. John kneelin,.~ by her side with the seven stars of the blessed Dipper raring from the ed,~e of the palm leaf in his hand. The palm and the seven stars are symbolical of immortality. Snhstitute the peach- tree for the palm in this pictnre and it wonid mean much to the Chinese, especially as nine of the apostles are anreoled, as if receiving light from the three not aureoled, who, in the conception of the artist, seem to typify the triune source of light dif- fused through the heavens nine. A NEW LIGHT ON THE CHINESE. 17 ing, fighting superstition with its own ship, China no longer stands apart from logic, and living a life not altogether the main current of history. If Aryan hopeless nor without reward. India, like a great tide, has washed in be- They are not easy to approach or quick tween China and her past, she remains to understand, these moon- eyed gentle- none the less a definite photographbut men; they do not understand themselves; little retouched of primitive civiliza- but if you ever get upon the path of their tion. To read between the lines of this logic, you are sure of gaining their assent. amazing jumble of tradition and belief is Artists in Chinatown were long in solv- to be introduced to the mathematics of ing the problem of getting models for their pictures, as the Chinaman has a superstitious horror of having his por- trait painted. He ima,,,ines if you get him on canvas you have him, so to speak, on the hip. His soul is there entangled in the colors, and he has been robbed of it by the artist. How- ever, he does not object to bein~ pho- tographed, as he has been told that the sun has something to do with that, and anything in which the sun is concerned is sure to be lucky. The Chaldeo - Chinese hypothesis, first timidly suggested by Lenormant, and more boldly advanced by De la Couperie, has been fully substantiated. It is important in this: Without it China is a puzzle, a problem with which neither scholar, moralist, nor states- man is competent to grasp. De Quin- cey, a man of the widest sympathies, confessed as much in 1818, when he wrote that to him a young Chinese seemed an antediluvian man re- newed, that he was terrified by the modes of life, by the manners, and the barriers of utter abhorrence and want of sympathy placed between him by feelings deeper than he could ana- ON THE 5TEP5 OF THE J055-HOU5E. lyze. Than with the Chinese, he could sooner live with lunatics or brute animals. Even Mr. Andrew Lang, culture, to see definitely articulated the in his article on Mythology, Encyclopcedia skeleton of things, to come into sympathy Britannica, 1890,feels justified in omittin~ however imperfectwith mans point any reference to Chinese or Japanese of view at a period not far distant from mythology, from want of information the birth of time. and the general obscurity of the subject, It took an incredibly short time to and the learned editors of that monumental Christianize the savagery of the New work LHistoirc dc lArt dans lAntiquit~ World. The empires of Mexico and Peru assert, without fear of contradiction, that fell almost at a blow. And now we are were China obliterated from memory and elbowing each other on this great conti- the map, the only loss to the world would nent, wondering whether there will be be a few teacups. Surely it is high time land enough for our children. We are W some place in history should be made for gazing eastward with the jealous scruti- the Chinesea place at least as large as ny of alarm. The oldest and newest civil- Mr. Lang accords to his own H& ttentots izations have been brought together upon and Fiji Islanders, especially as every the Pacific coast. Surely the Chinese third man in the world is a Chinaman. have much to learn from us, but have However, thanks to modern scholar- we not something to learn from them? II

Louise Imogen Guiney Guiney, Louise Imogen Tryste Noel. A Christmas Carol 18-20

II VOL. LXXXVJ.No. 5112 GILES COREY, YEOMAN. BY MARY E. WILKINS. CAST OF CHARACTERS. GILES COREY. PAUL BAYLEY, Olive Coreys lover. SAMUEL PARRIS, minister in Salem Village. JOHN HATHORNE, magistrates. JONATHAN CoawiN, OLIVE COREY, Cues Coreys daughter. MARTHA COREY, Cues Goreys wife. ANN HUTCHINS, Olives friend and one of the Afflicted Girls. WIDOW EUNICE HUTCHINS, Anns mother. PH(EBE MORSE, little orphan girl, niece to Martha Gore~. MERCY LEWIS, one of the Afflicted Girls. NANCY Fox, an old serving-woman in Giles Goreys house. Afflicted Girls, Constables, Marshal, People of Salens Village, Messengers, etc. ACT I. SCENE 1.Salem Village. Living-rown in Giles Coreys house. Olive Corey is spinning. Nancy Fox, the old sesvant, sits in the fire- place pas~ing apples. Little Plicebe Morse, on a stool beside her, is knitting a stocking. Pheebe (starting). What is that? Oh, Olive, what is that? Nancy. Yes, what is that? Massy, what a clatter! Olive (spinning). I heard nauglst. Be not so foolish, child. And you, Nancy, be of a surety old enough to know better. Nancy. I trow there was a clatter in the dumbly. There tis again! Massy, what a screech! Pha3be (running to Olive and clinging to her). Oh, Olive, what is it? what is it? Dont let it catch me. Oh, Olive! Olive. I tell you twas naught. Nancy. Them that wont hear be deafer than them thats born so. Massy, what a screech! Phabe. Oh, Olive, Olive! Dont let em catch me! Olive. Nobody wants to catch you. Be quiet now, and Ill sing to you. Then you wont think you hear screeches. Nancy. We wont, hey? Olive. Be quiet! This folly bath gone too far. [Sings spinning song. SPINNING SONG. Ill tell you a story; a story of one, Twas of a great prince whose name was Kin~ John. A great prince was he, and a man of great might In potting down wro~~g and in settin~ up ri~ht. To my down, down, down, derry down. Nancy. Massy, what screeches! [Screams violently. Phcebe. Oh, Nancy, twas you screeched then. Nancy. It wasnt me; twas a witch in the chimbly. (Screams again.) There, hear that, will ye? I tell ye twant me. I aint opened my mouth. Olive. Nancy. I will bear no more of this. If you be not quiet, I xviii tell my mother when she comes home. Now, Phcebe, sing the rest of the song with me, and think no more of such folly. [Sings with Plicebe. This king, being a mind to make himself merry, He Sent for the Bishop of Canterbury. Good-morning, Mr. Bishop, the kind did say. Have yon come here for to live or to die? To my down, down, down, derry down. For if you cant answer to my questions three, Your head shall be taken from your body; And if you cant answer unto them all right, Your head shall be taken from your body quite. To my down, down, down, derry down. Nancy (wagging her head in time to the music). I know some words that go better with that tune. Phabe. What arc they? Nancy. Oh, Im forbid to tell. Pheebe. Who forbade you to tell, Nancy? Nancy. The one who forbade me to tell, for. bade me to tell who told me. Olive. Dont gossip, or you wont get your stints done before mother comes home. Pheebe (sulkily). I wont finish my stint. Aunt Corey set me too long a stint. I wont. Oh, there she is now! [Knits busily. Enter Ann Hutchins. Olive (rising). Well done, Ann. I was but now wishing to see you. Sit you down and lay off yonr cloak. Why, how pale you look, Ann! Are you sick? Ann. You know best. Olive. I? Why, what mean you, Ann? Ann. You know what I mean, in spite of your innocent looks. Oh, open your eyes wide at me, if you want to! Perhaps you dont know what makes them bigger and bluer than they used to be. Olive. Ann! Ann. Oh, I mean nothing. I am not sick. Something frightened me as I came through the wood. Olive. Frightened you! Why, what was it? Pinebe. Oh, what was it, Ann? Ann. I know not; something black that hus- tled quickly by me and raised a cold wind. Phabe. Oh, oh! Olive. Twas a cat or a dog, and your own fear raised the cold wind. Think no more of it, Ann. Wait a moment while I go to the north room. I have something to show you. [Exit Olive with a candle. Phabe. What said the black thing to you, Ann? Ann. I know not. Nancy. Said it not: Serve me; serve me? Ann. I know not. I was deaf with fear. Phaube. Oh, Ann, did it have horns? Ann. I tell you I know not. You pester me, child. Phcvbe. Did it have hoofs and a tail? Ann. Be quiet, I tell you, or Ill cuff your ears.

Mary E. Wilkins Wilkins, Mary E. Giles Corey, Yeoman. A Play 20-40

GILES COREY, YEOMAN. BY MARY E. WILKINS. CAST OF CHARACTERS. GILES COREY. PAUL BAYLEY, Olive Coreys lover. SAMUEL PARRIS, minister in Salem Village. JOHN HATHORNE, magistrates. JONATHAN CoawiN, OLIVE COREY, Cues Coreys daughter. MARTHA COREY, Cues Goreys wife. ANN HUTCHINS, Olives friend and one of the Afflicted Girls. WIDOW EUNICE HUTCHINS, Anns mother. PH(EBE MORSE, little orphan girl, niece to Martha Gore~. MERCY LEWIS, one of the Afflicted Girls. NANCY Fox, an old serving-woman in Giles Goreys house. Afflicted Girls, Constables, Marshal, People of Salens Village, Messengers, etc. ACT I. SCENE 1.Salem Village. Living-rown in Giles Coreys house. Olive Corey is spinning. Nancy Fox, the old sesvant, sits in the fire- place pas~ing apples. Little Plicebe Morse, on a stool beside her, is knitting a stocking. Pheebe (starting). What is that? Oh, Olive, what is that? Nancy. Yes, what is that? Massy, what a clatter! Olive (spinning). I heard nauglst. Be not so foolish, child. And you, Nancy, be of a surety old enough to know better. Nancy. I trow there was a clatter in the dumbly. There tis again! Massy, what a screech! Pha3be (running to Olive and clinging to her). Oh, Olive, what is it? what is it? Dont let it catch me. Oh, Olive! Olive. I tell you twas naught. Nancy. Them that wont hear be deafer than them thats born so. Massy, what a screech! Phabe. Oh, Olive, Olive! Dont let em catch me! Olive. Nobody wants to catch you. Be quiet now, and Ill sing to you. Then you wont think you hear screeches. Nancy. We wont, hey? Olive. Be quiet! This folly bath gone too far. [Sings spinning song. SPINNING SONG. Ill tell you a story; a story of one, Twas of a great prince whose name was Kin~ John. A great prince was he, and a man of great might In potting down wro~~g and in settin~ up ri~ht. To my down, down, down, derry down. Nancy. Massy, what screeches! [Screams violently. Phcebe. Oh, Nancy, twas you screeched then. Nancy. It wasnt me; twas a witch in the chimbly. (Screams again.) There, hear that, will ye? I tell ye twant me. I aint opened my mouth. Olive. Nancy. I will bear no more of this. If you be not quiet, I xviii tell my mother when she comes home. Now, Phcebe, sing the rest of the song with me, and think no more of such folly. [Sings with Plicebe. This king, being a mind to make himself merry, He Sent for the Bishop of Canterbury. Good-morning, Mr. Bishop, the kind did say. Have yon come here for to live or to die? To my down, down, down, derry down. For if you cant answer to my questions three, Your head shall be taken from your body; And if you cant answer unto them all right, Your head shall be taken from your body quite. To my down, down, down, derry down. Nancy (wagging her head in time to the music). I know some words that go better with that tune. Phabe. What arc they? Nancy. Oh, Im forbid to tell. Pheebe. Who forbade you to tell, Nancy? Nancy. The one who forbade me to tell, for. bade me to tell who told me. Olive. Dont gossip, or you wont get your stints done before mother comes home. Pheebe (sulkily). I wont finish my stint. Aunt Corey set me too long a stint. I wont. Oh, there she is now! [Knits busily. Enter Ann Hutchins. Olive (rising). Well done, Ann. I was but now wishing to see you. Sit you down and lay off yonr cloak. Why, how pale you look, Ann! Are you sick? Ann. You know best. Olive. I? Why, what mean you, Ann? Ann. You know what I mean, in spite of your innocent looks. Oh, open your eyes wide at me, if you want to! Perhaps you dont know what makes them bigger and bluer than they used to be. Olive. Ann! Ann. Oh, I mean nothing. I am not sick. Something frightened me as I came through the wood. Olive. Frightened you! Why, what was it? Pinebe. Oh, what was it, Ann? Ann. I know not; something black that hus- tled quickly by me and raised a cold wind. Phabe. Oh, oh! Olive. Twas a cat or a dog, and your own fear raised the cold wind. Think no more of it, Ann. Wait a moment while I go to the north room. I have something to show you. [Exit Olive with a candle. Phabe. What said the black thing to you, Ann? Ann. I know not. Nancy. Said it not: Serve me; serve me? Ann. I know not. I was deaf with fear. Phaube. Oh, Ann, did it have horns? Ann. I tell you I know not. You pester me, child. Phcvbe. Did it have hoofs and a tail? Ann. Be quiet, I tell you, or Ill cuff your ears. GILES COREY, YEOMAN. 21 Nancy. She neednt be so topping. It will be laying in wait for her when she goes home. Ill warrant it wont let her off so easy. Enter Olive, bringing an embroidered muslin cape. She puts it gently over Anns shoulders. Ann (throwing it oft violently). Oh! oh! Take it away! take it away! Olive. Why, Ann, what ails you? Ann. Take it axvay, I say! What mean you by your cursed arts? Olive. Why, Ann! I have been saving a long time to.buy it for you. Tis like my last sum- mers cape that you fancied so much. I sent by father to Boston for it. Ann. I need it not. Olive. I thought twould suit well with your green gown. Ann. Twill suit well enough with a green gown, but not with a sore heart. Nancy. I miss my guess but it 11 suit well enough with her heart too. I trow thats as green as her gown: greens the jealous color. Olive. You be all unstrung by your walk hither through the wood, Ann. Ill fold the cape up nicely for you, and you can take it when you go home. And mind you wear it next Sabbath day, sweet. Now I must to my wheel again, or I shall not finish my stint by nine oclock. Ann. Your looks show that you were up later than nine oclock last night. Phabe. Oh, Ann, did you see the light in the fore room? Ann. That did I. I stood at my chamber and saw it shine through the wood. Nancy. You couldnt see so far without spec- tacles. Ann. It blinded me. I could get no sleep. Nancy. You think your eyes are mighty sharp. Maybe your ears are too? Maybe you heard em kissing at the door when he went home? Olive. Nancy, be quiet! Nancy. You neednt color up and shake your head at me, Olive. They stood kissing there nigh an hour, and he with his arm round her waist, and she with hers round his neck. Theyd kiss, then theyd eye each other and kiss again. I know I woke up and thought twas Injuns, and I peeked out of my chamber window. Such doings! Youd ought to have seen em, Ann. Phoebe. Oh, Nancy, why didnt you wake me up? Olive. Nancy, Ill have no more of this. Nancy. Thats what she ought to have said last nighthadnt she, Ann? But she didnt. Oh, Ill warrant she didnt! I know you would, Ann. Olive. Nancy! [A noise is heard outside. Pheebe. Oh, whats that noise? What is com- ing? ~ Enter Giles Corey, panting. He flings the door to violently and slips the bolt. JVancy. Massy! whats after ye? Phoebe. Oh, Uncle Corey, whats the matter? Giles. The matter is there be too many evil things abroad nowadays for a man to be out after nightfall. When things that can be hit by musket balls lay in wait, old Gihes Corey is as brave as any man; but when it comes to devilish black beasts and black men that mus- ket balls bound back from What! you here, Ann Hutchins? What be you out after dark for? Ann. I came over to see Olive, Goodman Corey. Giles. Youd best staid by your own hearth if youve got one. Young women have no call to be out gadding after dark in these times. Phoebe. Oh, Uncle Corey, something did frighten Ann as she came through the wood. A black beast, with horns and a tail and eyes like balls of fire, jumped out of the bushes at her, and bade her sign the book in a dreadful voice. Giles. What! Wast so, Ann? Ann. I know not. There was something. Olive (laughing). Twas naught but Anns own shadow that her fear gave a voice and a touch to. Say naught to frighten Ann. father; she is the most timorous maid in Salem Village now. Giles. There is some wisdom in fear nowa- days. You make too light of it, lass. Olive (laughing). Nay, father, Ill turn to and hang up my own shadow in the chimbly-place for a witch, an you say so. Giles. This be no subject for jest. Said you the black beast spoke to you, Ann? Ann. I know not. Once I thought I heard Olive calling. I know not what I heard. Giles. Youd best have staid at home. Where is your mother, Olive? Olive. She has gone to Goodwife Bishops with a basket of eggs. Giles. Gone three miles to Goodwife Bishops this time of night? Is the woman gone out of her senses? Olive. She is not afraid. Giles. Ill warrant she is not afraid. So much the worse for her. Mayhap shes gone riding on a broomstick herself. How is the cat? Olive. She is better. Giles. She was taken strangely, if your mo- ther did make light of it. And the ox, hath he fell down again? Olive. Not that I have heard. Giles. The ox was taken strangely, if your mother did pooh at it. The ox was better when she Went out of the yard. Phoebe. Theres Aunt Corey now. Who is she talking to? Enter Martha Corey. Phoebe. Who were you talking to, Aunt Corey? Martha. Nobody, child. Good-evening, Ann. Phoebe. I heard you talking to somebody, Aunt Corey. Miartha. Be quiet, child. I was talking to nobody. You hear too much nowadays. [Takes off her cloak. Nancy. Mayhap she hears more than folk want her to. I heard a voice too, a gruff voice like a pigs. Giles. I thought I heard talking too. Who was it, Martha? Martha. I tell you twas no one. Are you all out of your wits? [Gets some knitting-work out of a ~upboard, and seats herself. 22 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Phabe. Werent you afraid coming through the wood, Aunt Corey? Martha (laughing). Afraid? Why, no, child. Of what should I be afraid? Giles. I trow theres plenty to he afraid of. How did you get home so quick? Tis a good three miles to Goody Bishops. Martha. I walked at a good speed. Giles. I thought perhaps you galloped a broomstick. Martha. Nay, goodman, I know not how to manage such a strange steed. Giles. I thought perhaps one had taught you, inasmuch as you have naught to say against the gentry that ride the broomstick of a night. Martha. Fill not the childs head with such folly. How fares your mother, Ann? Ann. Well, Goodwife Corey. Giles. She lacks sense, or she would have kept her daughter at home. Out after night- fall, and the woods full of the devil knoweth what. Martha. Nay, goodman, there be no danger. The scouts are in the fields. Giles. I meant not Injuns. There be worse than Injuns. There be evil things and witches. Martha (laughing). Witches! Goodman, you are a worse child than Pho~be here. Giles. I tell ye, wife, you talk like a fool, ranting thus against witches. I would you had been where I have been to.night, and heard the afflicted maids cry out in torment, being set upon by Sarah Good and Sarah Osborn. I would you had seen Mercy Lewis strangled al- most to death, and the others testifying twas Sarah Good thus afflicting her. But Ill war- rant youd not have believed them. Martha (laughing). That I would not, good- man. I would have said that the maids should be sent home and soundly trounced, then put to bed, with a quart bowl of sage tea apiece. Giles. Talk so if you will. One of these days folk will say you be a witch yourself. You were ever hard-skuhled, and could knock your head long against a truth without being pricked by it. Hold out if you can, when only this morning the ox and the cat were took so strange- ly here in our own household. Martha. Shame on you, goodman! The ox and the cat themselves would laugh at you. The cat ate a rat, and it did not set well on her stomach, and the ox slipped in the mire in the yard. Nancy. Twas more than that. I know, I know. Giles. Laugh if you will, wife. Mayhap you know more about it than other folk. You never could abide the cat. I am going to bed, if I can first go to prayer. Last night the words went from me strangely! But you will laugh at that. [Lights a candle. Exit. Phabe. Aunt Corey, may I eat an apple? Martha. Not to-night. Twill give you the nightmare. Phabe. No, twill not. Martha. Be still! There is a hnoek. Olive opens the door. Enter Paul Bayley. Ann starts up. Paul. Good-evening, goodwife. Good-even- ing, Olive. Good-evening, Ann. Tis a fine night out. Ann. I must be going; tis late. Olive. Nay, Ann, tis not late. Wait, and Paul will go home with you through the wood. Ann. I must he going. Paul (hesitatingly). Then let me go with you, Mistress Ann. I can well do my errand here later. Ann. Nay, I can wait whilst you do the er- rand, if you are speedy. I fear lest the delay would make you ill at ease. Martha (quickly). There is no need, Paul. I will go with Ann. I want to borrow a hood pattern of Goodwife Nourse on the way. Paul. But will you not he afraid, goodwife? Martha. Afraid, and the moon at a good half, and only a short way to go? Paul. But you have to go through the wood. Martha. The wood! A stretch as long as this roomsix ash-trees, one butternut, and a birch sapling thrown in for a witch spectre. Say no more, Paul. Sit you down and keep Olive company. I will go, if only for the sake of showing these silly little hussies that there is no call for a gospel woman with prayer in her heart to be afraid of anything but the wrath of God. [Puts a blanket over her head. Ann. I want no company at all, Goodwife Corey. Phabe. Aunt Corey, let me go too; my stint is done. Martha. Nay, you must to bed, and Nancy too. Off with ye, and no words. Nancy. Im none so old that I must needs be sent to bed like a babe, Id have you know that, Goody Corey. [Sets away apple pan; exit, with Phcebe following sulkily. Martha. Come, Ann. Ann. I want no company. I have more fear with company than I have alone. Martha. Along with you, child. Olive. Oh, Ann, you are forgetting your cape. Here, mother, you carry it for her. Good- night, sweetheart. Ann. I want no company, Goodwife Corey. [Martha takes her laughingly by the arm and leads her out. Paul. It is a fine night out. Olive. So I have beard. Paul. You make a jest of me, Mistress Olive. Know you not when a man is of a sudden left alone with a fair maid, he needs to try his sl)eech like a player his fiddle, to see if it be in good tune for her ears ; and what better way than to sound over and over again the praise of the fine weather? What ailed Ann that she seemed so strangely, Olive? Oleve. I know not. I think she had been overwrought by coming alone through the woods. Paul. She seemed ill at ease. Why spin you so steadily, Olive? Olive. I must finish my stint. Paul. Who set you a stint as if you were a child? Olive. Mine own conscience, to which I will ever be a child. Paul. Cease spinning, sweetheart. Olive. Nay. Paul. Come over here on the settle, there is something I would tell thee. GILES COREY, YEOMAN. 23 Olive. Tell it, then. I can hear a distance of three feet or so. Paul. I know thou canst, but come. Olive. Nay, I will not. This is no courting night. I cannot idle every ni~ht in the week. Paul. Thou wouldst make a new command- ment. A maid shall spin flax every night in the week save the Sabbath, when she shall lay aside her work and be courted. There be young men here in Salem Village, though you may credit it not, Olive, who visit their maids twice every week, and have the fire in the fore room kin- dled. Olive. My mother thinks it not well that I should sit up oftener than once a week, nor do I; but be not vexed by it, Paul. Paul. I love thee better for it, sweetheart. Olive. My stint is done. Paul. Then come. (She obeys.) Now for the news. This orning I bought of Goodman Nourse his nine-acre lot for a homestead. What thinkest thou of that? Olive. It is a pleasant spot. Paul. Tis not far from here, and thou wilt be near thy mother. Olive. Was it not too costly? Paul. I had saved enough to pay for it, and in another years thhe, and I have the help of God in it, I shall have saved enough for our house. What thinkest thou of a gambrel-roof and a lean-to, two square front rooms, both fire- rooms, and a living-room? And peonies and hollyhocks in the front yard, and two popple- trees, one on each side of the gate? Olive. We shall need not a lean-to, Paul, and one fire-room will serve us well; but I will have laylocks and red and white roses as well as peonies and hollyhocks in the front yard, and some mint under the windows to make the house smell sweet; and I like well the popple- trees at the gate. Paul. The house shall be built of fairly sea- soned yellow pine wood, with a summer tree in every room, and fine panel-work in the doors and around the chimbleys. Olive. Nay, Paul, not too fine panel - work; twill cost too high. Paul. Cupboards in every room, and fine- laid white floors. Olive. We need a cupboard in the living- room only, but I have learned to sand a floor in a rare pattern. LPaul attempts to embrace Olive. She re- pulses him. Paul. I trow you are full provident of fa- vors and pence, Olive. Olive. I would save them for thee, Paul. Paul. And thou shalt not be hindered by me to any harm, sweetheart. Wast thy mother taught thee such wisdom, or thine own self, Olive? Olive. Twas my mother. Paul. Nay, twas thine own heart; that shall teach me, too. [Nine-oclock bell rings. Olive. Oh, tis nine oclock, and tis not a courting night. Paul, be off; thou must! [They jump up and go to the door. Paul (putting his arm around Olive). Give THIS IS NO COURTING NIGHT. 24 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. me but one kiss, Olive, albeit not a courting night, for good speed oa my homeward walk and my to-morrows journey. Olive. Where go you to-morrow, Paul? Paul. To Boston, for a weeks time or more. Olive. Oh, Paul, there may be Injuns on the Boston path! Thou wilt be wary? Paul (laughing). Have no fear for me, sweet- heart. I shall have my musket. Olive. A week? Paul. Tis a short time, but long enough to need sweetening with a kiss when folk are absent from one another. Olive (kisses him). Oh, be careful, Paul! Paul. Fear not for me, sweetheart, but do thou too be careful, for sometimes danger sneaks at home, when we flee it abroad. Keep away from this witchcraft folly. Good-by, sweetheart. [They part. Olive sets a candle in the window after Pauls exit. Nine-oclock bell still rings as curtain falls. SCENE 11.Twelve oclock at n~qht. Living- room at Giles Coreys house, lighted only by the moon and low fire-light. Enter Nancy Fox with a candle, Phmbe following with a large rag doll. Nancy sets the candle on the dresser. Nancy. Be ye sure that Goody Corey is asleep, and Goodman Corey? Phabe (dances across to the door, which she opens slightly, and listens). They be both a-snoring. Hasten and begin, I pray you, Nancy. Nancy. And Olive? Phabe. She is asleep, and she is in the south chamber, and could not hear were she awake. Here is my doll. Now show me how to be a witch. Quick, Nancy! Nancy. Whom do you desire to afflict? Pliosbe (considers). Let me see. I will afflict Uncle Corey, because he brought me naught from Boston to-day; Olive, because she gave that cape to Ann instead of me; and Aunt Corey, because she set me such a long stint, because she would not let me eat an apple to- night, and because she sent me to bed. I want to stick one pin into Uncle Corey, one into Olive, and three into Aunt Corey. Nancy. Take the doll, prick it as you will, and say who the pricks be for. [Phcebe sticks a pin into the doll. Phabe. This pin be for Uncle Coi-ey, and this pin be for Olive, and this pin for Aunt Corey, and this pin for Aunt Corey, and this pin for Aunt Corey. Pins ! pins! ! pins ! ! ! (Dances.) In truth, Nancy, tis rare spoit being a witch; but I stuck not in the pins very far, lest they be too sorely hurt. Nancy. Is there any other whom you desire to afflict? Phabe. I fear I know not any other who has angered mc, and I could weep for t. Stay! Ill afflict Ann, because she bath the cape; and Ill afflict Paul Bayley, because Im drove forth from the fore room Sabbath nights when he comes a-courting; and Ill afflict Minister Par- ris, because he put me too hard a question fiom the catechism ; that makes three morc. Oh, tis rare sport! (Seizes the doll and sticks in three pins.) This pin be for Ann, this pin be for Paul, and this pin be for Minister Parris. Deary me, I can think of no more! What next, Nancy? Nancy. Ill do some witchcraft now. I de- sire to afflict your aunt Corey, because she doth drive me hither and thither like a child, and sets no value on my understanding; Olive, because she made a jest of me; and Goody Bishop, because she liath a fine silk hood. Phabe. Here is the doll, Nancy. Nancy. Nay, I have another way, which you be too young to understand. [Nancy takes the candle, goes to the fire- place, and courtesies three times, look. ing up the chimney. Nancy. hey, black cat! hey, my pretty black cat! Go ye and sit on Goody Coi-eys breast, and claw her if she stirs. Do as I bid ye, my pretty black cat, and Ill sign the book. Phabe. Oh, Nancy, I hear the black cat yawl! Nancy (after courtesying three times). Hey, black dog! hey, my pretty black dog! Go ye and howl in Mistress Olives ear, so she be frighted in her dreams, and so get a little hit- ter with the sweet. Do as I bid ye, my pretty black dog, and Ill sign the book. Phabe. Oh, Nancy, I hear the black dog howl! Nancy (after courtesying three times). Hey, yellow bird! hey, my pretty yellow bird! Go ye entl peck at Goody Bishops fine silk hood and tear it to bits. Do as I bid ye, my pretty yellow bird, and Ill sign the book. Phabe. Oh, Nancy, I hear the yellow bird twitter up chimbly! Nancy. Tis rare witchcraft. Phabe. Is that nil, Nancy? Nancy. All of this sort. Ive given them all they can do to-night. Phabe. Then sing the witch song, Nancy. Nancy. Ill sing the witch song, and you can dance on the table. Phabe. But tis sinful to dance, Nancy! Nancy. Tis not sinful for a witch. Phabe. True; I forgot I was a witch. [Gets upon the table and dances, dangling her doll, while Nancy szngs. WITCH SONG. (Same air as spinning song.) Ill tell you a story, a story of one; ~Twas of a dark witch, and the wizard her son. A dark witch was she, and a daik wizard he, With yellow birds singing so gay and so free. To my down, down, down, derry down. The clock was a-striking, a-striking of one. The witches came out, and the dancing begun. They courtesied so fine, and they drank the red wine The wizards were three and the witches were nine. To my down, down, down, derry down. Halloo, the gay dancers! Hahloo, I was one; The goody that prayed and the maiden that spun! The yellow birds chirped in the boughs over- head, And fast through the bushes the black dog sped. To my down, down, down, den-v down. [A noise is heard. Phcebe jumps down from the table. Phabe. Oh, Nancy, somethings coming! Run, run quick, or it 11 catch us! [Both run out. Cwrt n falls. 25 GILES COREY, YEOMAN. ACT II. Best room in the house of Widow Eunice Hutch- ins, Anns mother. John Hathorne and Minis- ter Parris enter, shown in by Widow Hutchins. Hutchins. I pray you, sirs, to take some cheers the while 1 go for a moments space to my poor afflicted child. I heard her cry out but now. [Lxst. Lilathoine and Parris seat themselves, but Hatborne quickly springs up, and be- gins walking. Ilathorne. I cannot be seated in this crisis. I would as lief be seated in an onset of the savages. I must up and lay about me. We have heretofore been too lax in this dread- ful business , the powers of darkness be almost over oni palisades. I tell thee there must be more action Parris (pounding with his cane). Yea. Master Hathorne, I am with thee. Verily, this last be enough to make the elect themselves quake with fear. This Martha Corey is a woman of the covenant. Hathorne. Tbere must be no holding hack. The powers of darkness be let loose amongst us, and tbey that he against them must b~up. We must lmng, hang, bang, till we overcome! Parris. Yea, we must not falter, though all tbe woods of Massachusetts Bay be cut for gal- lows - trees, and the country be like Sodom. Verily, Satan bath manifested bimself at the head of our enemies, the colonies were never in such peril as now. We must strive as never before. or all will be lost. The wilderness full of malignant savages, wbo be the veritable ser- vants of Satan, closes us in, and the cloven foot- mark is in our midst. There must be no dally- ing an we would save the colonies. Widow Hutchins saith her daughter is grievously press- cd. (A scream.) There, beard you that? Hathorne. It is dreadful, dreadful, that an innocent maid sbould be so tormented by acts ~vbieh her guileless fancy could never compass! Parris. Verily, malignity bath ever coward- ice in conjunction with it. Satan loveth best to afflict those who can make no defence, and fastens his talons first in the lambs. Enter Widow Hutchins with the embroidered cape. Hutchins. Here, your worships, is the cape. Hathorne (examines it). I have seen women folk wear its like on the Sabbath day. I can see naught unwonted about it. Parris. It looketh like any cape. Hutchins. I fear it be not like any cape. Had your worships seen my poor child writhe under it, and I myself, when I would try it on, hent down to my knees as under a ton weight, your worships would not think it like any cape. Parris. I suspect there be verily evil work in the cape, and a witchs bodkin bath pierced these cunning eyelets. It goeth so fast now that erelong every guileless, senseless thing in our houses, down to the tinder-box and the ean(llCstick, will find binges and turn into a gate, whereby witchcraft can enter. You say, Widow Hutebins, that Olive Corey gave this cape to your daughter? Hutchins. Tbat did she. Yesterday evening Ann went down to Goody Coreys house for a little chat; she and Olive have been gossips ever since they were children, though lately there bath been soniewbat of bitterness betwixt them. Earns. How mean you? Hutchins. I have laid it upon my mind ere now to tell you, being much wrought lip con- cerning it, and thinking that you might give me somewhat of spiritual consolation and ad- vice. It was in this wise. Paul Bayley, wbo, they say, goeth every Sabbath night to Goody Coreys house and sitteth up until unseemly hours with Olive, looked once with a favorable eye upon my daughter Ann. had your wor- ships seen him, as I saw him one day in the meeting-house, look at Ann when she wore her green paduasoy, you bad not doubted. Youths look iiot thins upon maidens unless they be inclined toward them. But this hussy Olive Corey did come between Paul and my Ann, and that not of her own merits. There is no- b(idy in Salem Village who would say that Olive Coreys looks be aught in comparison with my Anns, but I trow Goody Corey bath arts which make amends for lack of beauty. I trow all ill-favored folk might be fair would they have such arts used upon them. Hathorne. What mean you by that saying? Hutchins. I mean Goody Corey bath devilish arts whereby she giveth her (laughter a beauty beyond her own looks, wherewith she may en- tice young men. Hathorne. You say that this cape caused your daughter torment? Hutchins. Your worships, it lay on her neck like a fire-brand, and she thought she should die ere she cast it off. Hathorne. Widow Hutchins, will you now put on the cape? Hutchins. Ohm, your worship, I dare not put it on! I fear it will be tIme death of me if I do. Hathorne. Minister Parris, wilt thou put on the cape? Earns. Good Master Hathiorne, it would ill behoove a minister of the gospel to put himself in jeopardy when so many be depending upon him to lead them in this dreadful conflict with the powers of darkness. But do thou put on the mantle the while I ~o to prayer to avert any ill that may come of it. Hathorne. Nay, I will make no such jest of my office of magistrate as to put this woman s gear on my shoulders. I doubt if there be aught in it. Prithiec, Widow Hutchins, when did this torment first come upon the young woman? Hutchins. Your worship, she went, as I have said, to Goody Coreys yester-evening to have a little chat with her gossip, Olive, and Paul Bayley came in also, amid some of them did talk strangely about this witchcraft, Olive and Goody Corey nodding and winking, and mak- ing light of it. And then when Ann said she must he home, Paul rose quickly and made as thmou~h lie would go with her, hut Goody Corey would not let him, and herself went with Ann. And she did practise her devilish arts upon my poor child all the way home, and when my l)0O~ child got on the door-stone she burst open time door, and came in as though all the witches were after her, and she hmath not been herself since. She hiath ever since been grievously tor- mented, being set upon now by Goody Corey, 26 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. and now by Olive, being choked and twisted about until I thought she would die, and so I fear she will, unless they be speedily put in chains. It seemeth flesh and blood cannot en- dure it. Mercy Lewis is just come in, and she saw Goody Corey and Olive upon her when she opened the door. Hathorne. This evil work must be stopped at all hazards, and this monstrous brood of witches gotten out of the land. Parris. Yea, verily, although we have to reach under the covenant for them. [Screams. Hutchins. Oh, your worships, my poor child will have no peace until they be chained in prison. Hathorne. They shall be chained in prison before the sun sets. I will at once go forth and issue warrants for the arrest of Martha Corey and her daughter. [Mare violent screams and loud voices over- head. Parris. Would it not be well, good Master Hathorne, for us to see the afflicted maid be- fore we depart? Hutchins. Oh, I pray you, sirs, come up stairs to my poor childs chamber and see yourselves in what grievous torment she lies. She hath often called for Minister Parris, say- ing they dared not so afflict her were he there. Hathorne. It would perchance be as well. Lead the way, if you will, Widow Hutchins. [Exeunt. Screams continue. Enter Nancy Fox and Phmbe Morse stealthily from other door. Phcebe carries her rag doll. Nancy. Massy sakes, hear them screeches! Phabe (clinging to Nancy). Oh, Nancy, wont they catch us too? Im afraid! Nancy. They cant touch us; were witches too. Phabe. Massy sakes! I forgot we were witches. Nancy. Hear that, will ye? Aint she a-ketch- in it? Phabe. Nancy, do you suppose its the pin I stuck in my doll makes Ann screech that way? Nancy. Most likely tis. Stick in another, and see if she screeches louder. Phabe. No, I wont. Ill pull the pin out; twas this one in my dolls arm. (Pulls out pin and flings it on the floor.) I wont have Ann hurt so bad as that if Olive did give her the cape. Why dont she stop screeching now, Nancy? Oh, Nancy, somebodys coming! I hear somebody at the door. Crawl under the bedquick! quick! [Phmbe gets down and begins to crawl un- der the bed. Nancy tries to imitate her, but cannot bend herself. Nancy. Oh, massy! Ive got a crick in my back, and I cant double up. What shall I do? (Tries to bend.) I cant; no, I cant! Tis like a hot poker. Massy! what 11 1 do? Phabe. Youve got to, Nancy. Quick! the latch is lifting. Quick! quick! Ill push you. No; Ill pull you. Here! [Pulls Nancy down upon the floor, and rolls her under the bed; gets under her- self just as the door is pushed open. Enter Giles Corey in great e citement. Giles (running across the room, and listening at the door leading to the chamber stairs). Devil take them! why dont they put an end to it? Why do they let the poor lass be set upon this. way? Screeching so you can hear her all over Salem Village! There! hear that, will ye ? Out upon them! Widow Hutchins! Widow Hutchins! Cant you give her some physic? Shant I come up there with my musket? Why dont they find out who is so tormenting her, and chain her up in prison? Tis some witch or other. Oh, Id hang her; Id tie the rope myself. Poor lass! poor lass! [The door is pushed open, and Giles starts back. Enter John Hathorne, Minister Parris, and Widow hutchins. Giles. Good-day, Widow Hutchins. Shall I go lip there with my musket? Parris. I trow there be too many of thy household up there now. Giles. Id lay about me till I hit some of em. Ill warrant I would. Oh, the poor lass! hear that! Parris. She is a grievous case. Giles. I heard the screeches out in the wood, and I ran in thinking I might do somewhat. I would Martha were here. Ill be bound shed~ laugh and scoff at it no longer! Hathorne. Laugh and scoff, say you? Giles. That she doth. Martha acts as if the devil were in her about it. She doth nothing but laugh at and make light of the afflicted children, and saith there be no witches. She would not even believe twas aught out of the common when our ox and cat were took strangely. If she were herself a witch she could be no more stiff-necked. Parris. Doth she go out after nightfall? Giles. That she doth, in spite of all I can say. She bath no fear that an honest~ gospel woman should have in these times. She went out last~ night, and I was so angered that I c~iarged her with galloping a broomstick home. Hathorne. Did she deny it? Giles. She laughed as she is wont to do. She- even made a jest ont, when I could not when I would go to prayer, and the words staid be-- yond my wits. I would she could be here now, and hear this Parris. Perchance she doth. Giles. Ill warrant shed lose somewhat of her stiff-neckedness. Hear that! Cant ye chain up the witch thats tormenting the poor lass~ 1st Goody Osborn? Hathorne. The witch will be chained and in. prison before nightfall. Come, Minister Par- ris, we can do no good by abiding longer here. Methinks we have sufficient testimony. Parris; Verily the devil bath played into our hands. [They turn to leave. Hutchins. Oh, your worships, ye will use good speed for the sake of my poor child. Giles. Ay, be speedy about it. Put the bag- gage in prison as soon as may be, and load her down well with irons. Hathorne. I will strive to obey your com- mands well, Goodman Corey. Good- day, Widow Hutchins; your daughter shall soon find relief. Parris. Good-day, Widow Hutchins, and be- of good cheer. [Exeunt Hathorne and Parris, while~ Widow Hutchins courtesies. HEY, BLACK CAT! HEY, MY PRETTY BLACK CAT! 28 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Giles. Well, I must even be going too. I have my cattle to water. I but bolted in when I beard the poor lass screech, thinking I might do somewhat. But good Master Hathorne will see to it. Hear that! Do ye go up t.o her, widow, and mix her up a bowl of yarb tea, till they put the trollop in l)risoll. Im off to water my cattle, then (levil take me if I dont give the sheriffs a hand if they need it. Goody Osborns house is nigh mine. Good - day, widow. [Exit Giles. Hutchins (laughing). Give the sheriffs a hand, will he? Perchance he will, but I doubt me if tis not a fisted one. He sets his life by Goody Corey, however he rate her. (A scream from above of Mother! Mother!) Yes, Ann, Im coming, Im coining! [Exit. Pheebe (crawls out from under the bed). Now, Nancy, weve got a chance to run. Come out, quick! Oh, if Uncle Corey had caught us here! Nancy. I cant get out. Oh! oh! The rhen- matiz stiffened me so I couldnt double up, and now it has stiffened me so I cant undouble. No, tis not rheumatiz, tis Goody Bishop has bewitched me. I cant get out. Phcebe. You must, Nancy, or somebody 11 come and catch us. Here, Ill pull you out. [Tags at Nancys arms, and drags her out, groaning. Nancy. Here I am out, but I cant undouble. Ill have to go home on all-fours like a cat. Oh! oh! Phabe. Give me your hands and Ill pull you up. Think you tis witchcraft, Nancy? Nancy. I know tis. Tis Goody Bishop in her fine silk hood afflicts me. Oh, massy! Phabe. There, you are up, Nancy. Nancy. I aint half undoubled. Phcebe. You can walk so, cant you, Nancy? Oh, come, quick! I think I hear somebody on the stairs. (Gatches up her doll and seizes Nancys hand.) Quick! quick! Nancy. I tell ye I cant go quick; I aint un- doubled enough. Devil take Goody Bishop! [Exit, hobbling and bent almost double, Phtebe urging her along. (Jurtain falls. ACT III. The Meeting - house in Salem Village. Enter People of Salem Village and take seats. The Afflicted Girls, among whom are Ann Hutch- ins and Mercy Lewis, occupy the front seats. Nancy Pox and Phmbe. Enter the mnagis. trates John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin with Minister Parris, escorted by the Marshal, Aids, and foar Constables. They place them- selees at a long table in front of the pulp it. Hathorne (rising). We are now prepared to enter upon the examination. We invoke the blessing of God tipon our proceedings, and call upon the Marshal to produce the bodies of the accused. [Exeunt Marshal and Constables. Afflict. ed Girls twist about and groan. Great excitement among the people. Enter Marshal and Constables leading Martha and Olive Corey in chains. Giles follows. The prisoners are placed facing the assembly, with the Constables holding their hands. Giles stands near. The Afflicted Girls make a great clamor. Ann. Oh, they are tormenting! They will be the death of me! I will not! I will not! Cites. Hush your noise, will ye, Ann Hutch- ins! Parris. Peace, Goodman Core~1 Ilathorne. Martha Corey, you are now in the hands of authority. Tell me now why you hurt these persons. Martha. I do not. I pray your worships give me leave to go to prayer. Hathorne. We have not sent for you to go to prayer, but to confess that you are a witch. Martha. I am no witch. I am a gospel wo- man. There is no such thing as a witch. Shall I confess that I am what dothi not exist? It were not only a lie, but a fools lie. lliferey. There is a black man whispering in her ears. Hathom-ne. What saith the black man to you, goodwife? Martha. I pray your worships to ask the maid. Perchance, since she sees him, she can also hear what lie saith better than I. liathorne. Why do you not tell how the devil comes in your shape and hurts these maids? Martha. How can I tell how? I was never acquaint with the ways of the devil. I heave it to those wise maids who are so well acquaint to tell hoxv. Perchance he hath whispered it in their ears. Afflicted Girls. Oh, there. is a yellow bird! There is a yellow bird perched on her head! Hathorne. What say you to that, Goodwife Corey? Martha. What can I say to such folly? Hathorne. Constables, let go the hands of Martha Corey. [The Constables let go her hands, and im- mediately there is a great outcry from the Afflicted Girls. Afflicted Girls. She pinches us! Hold her hands! Hold her hands again! Oh! oh! Ann. She is upon me again! She digs her fingers into my throat! Hold her hands! Hold her hands! She will be the death of me! Giles. Devil take ye, ye lying trollop! Tis a pity somebody had not been the death of ye before this happened! Hathorne. Constables, hold the hands of the accused. [Constables obey, and at once the afflicted are quiet. liathorne. Goodwife Corey, what do you say to this? Martha. I see with whom we have to do. May the Lord have mercy upon us! Hathorne. What say you to the charges that yotir husband, Giles Corey, hathi manya time brought a,ainst you in the presence of wit- nessesthat you hindered him when he would go to prayer, causin~ the words to go from him strau~ely; that you xvem-e out after nightfall, amid did ride home on a broomstick; and that you scoffed at these maids and their affliction, as if you weme a witch yourself? Cites. I said not so! Martha, I said it not so! Hathorne. What say you to your husbands charge that you did afflict his ox and cat, GILES COREY, YEOMAN. 29 causing his ox to fall in the yard, and the cat to be strangely sick? Udes. Devil take the ox and the cat! I said not that she did afflict them. Hathorne. Peace, Goodman Corey; you are now in court. .2lfartha. I say, if a gospel woman is to be hung as a witch for every stumbling ox and sick cat, tis setting a high value upon oxen and cats. Cites. I would mine had all been knocked in the head, lass, and me too! Ilathorne. Peace! Ann Hutchins, what saw you when Goodwife Corey went home with you through the wood? Ann. Hold fast her hands, I pray, or she will kill me. The trees were so full of yellow hirds that it sounded as if a mighty wind passed over them, and the hirds lit on Goody Coreys head. And black beasts ran alongside through the bushes, which did break and crackle, and they were at Goody Corey and me to go to the witch dance on the hill. And they said to bring Olive Corey and Paul Bayley. And Goody Corey told them how she and Olive would presently come, but not Paul, for he never would sign the book, not even though Olive trapped him by the arts they had taught her. And Goody Corey showed me the book then, and besought me to sign, and go with her to the dance. And when I would not, she and Olive also afflicted me so grievously that I thought I could not live, and have done so ever since. Hathorne. What say you to this, Goodwife Corey? 2Ifartha. I pray your worship believe not what she doth charge against my daughter. Gorwin. Mercy Lewis, do you say that you have seen both of the accused afflicting Ann Hutchins? Mercy. Yes, your worship, many a time have I seea them pressing her to sign the book, and afflicting when she would not. Corwin. How looked the book? iWercy. Twas black, your worship, with blood- red clasps. Uorwin. Read you the names in it? ilfercy. I strove to, your worship, hut I got not through the Cs; there were too many of them. Hcethorne. Let the serving - woman, Nancy Fox, come hither. [Nancy Fox makes her way to the front. Hathorne. Nancy, I have heard that your mistress afflicts you. Nancy. That she doth. Hathorne. In what manner? Nancy. She sendeth me to bed at first candle- light as though I were a babe; she maketh me to wear a woollen petticoat in winter-time, though I was not brought up tot; and she will never let me drink more than one mug of cider at a sitting, and I nigh eighty, and needing ont to warm my bones. Gorwin. Hatli she ever afflicted you? Your replies be not to the point, woman. Nancy. Your worship, she hath never had any respect for my understanding, and that hath greatly afflicted me. Hathorne. Hath she ever shown you a book to sign? Nancy. Verily she hath; and when I would not, hath afflicted me with sore pains in all my bones, so I cried out, on getting up, when I had set awhile. Hathorne. Hath your mistress a familiar? Nancy. Hey? Hathorne. Have you ever seen any strange thing with her? Nancy. She hath a yellow bird which sits on her cap when she churns. Hathorne. What else have you seen with her? Nancy. A thing like a cat, only it went on two legs. It clawed up the chimbly, and the soot fell down, and Goody Corey set me to sweeping ont up on the Lords day. Cites. Out upon ye, ye lying old jade! Hathorne. Silence! Nancy, you may go to your place. Phmbe Morse, come hither. [Phmbe Morse approaches with her apron over her face, sobbing. She has her dolt under her arm. Hathorne. Cease weeping, child. Tell me how your aunt Corey treats you. Ilath she ever taught you otherwise than you have learn- ed in your catechism? Phabe (weeping). I dont know. Oh, Aunt Corey, I didnt mean to! I took the pins out of my doll, I did. Dont whip me for it. Hathorne. What doll? What mean you, child? Phcebe. I dont know. I didnt stick them in so very deep, Aunt Corey! Dont let them hang me for it! Hathorne. Did your aunt Corer teach you to stick pins into your doll to torment folk? Phcebe (sobbing convulsively). I dont know! I dont know! Oh, Aunt Corey, dont let them hang me! Olive, you wont let them! Oh! oh! Gorwin. Methinks twere as well to make an end of this. Hathorne. There seemeth to me important substance under this froth of tears. (To Phmbe.) Give me thy doll, child. Phabe (clutching the doll). Oh, my doll! my doll! Oh, Aunt Corey, dont let them have my doll! Martha. Peace, dear child! Thou must not begrudge it. Their worships be in sore distress just now to play with dolls. Parris. Give his worship the doll, child. Hast thou not been taught to respect them in authority? [Phcebe gives the doll to Hathorne, whim- pering. Hathorne, Corwin, and Par- ris put their heads together over it. flathorne (holding up the doll). There be veri- ly many pins in this image. Goodwife Corey, what know you of this? Miartha. Your worship, such a weighty mat- ter is beyond my poor knowledge. flathorne. Know you whence the child got this image? kiartha. Yes, your worship. I myself made it out of a piece of an old homespun blanket for the child to play with. I stuffed it with lambs wool, and sewed some gi-een ravelhings on .its head for hair. I made it a coat out of my copperas-colom-ed petticoat, and colored its lips and cheeks with pokeberries. Hathorne. Did you teach the child to stick in these pins wherewith to torment folk? 2lfartha. It availeth me naught to say no, your worship. Jiercy (screams). Oh, a sharp pain shoots 30 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. through me when I look at the image! Tis through my arms! Oh! Hathorne (examining the doll). There is a pin in the arms. Ann. I feel sharp pains, like pins, in my face; oh, tis dreadful! Hathorne (examining the doll). There are pins in the face. Phcebe ~sobbing). No, no! Those are the pins I stuck in for Aunt Corey. Dont let them hang me, Aunt Corey. Parris. That is sufficient. She has confessed. Hathorne. Yes, methinks the child hath con- fessed whether she would or no. Goodwife Corey, Phmbe hath now plainly said that she did stick these pins in this image for you. What have you to say? Miartha (courtesying). Your worship, the mat- ter is beyond my poor speech. [Hathorne tosses the doll on the table, Phmbe watching anxiously. Hathorne. Go to your place, child. Phabe. I ~ra~ft my doll. Parris. Go to thy place as his worship bids thee, and think on the precepts in thy cate chism. [Phmbe returns sobbing. Afflicted Girls. Oh, Goody Corey turns her eyes upon us! Bid her turn her eyes away! Ann. Oh, I see a black cat sitting on Goody Coreys shoulder, and his eyes are like coals. Now, now, he looks at me when Goody Corey does! Look~away! look away! Oh, lam blind! I am blind! Sparks are coming into my eyes from Goody Coreys. Make her turn her eyes away, your worships; make her turn her eyes away! Hathorne. Goody Corey, fix your eyes upon the floor, and look not at these poor children whom you so afflict. 3liartha. May the Lord open the eyes of the magistrates and ministers, and give them sight to discover the guilty! Parri8. Why do you not confess that you are a witch? lfartha (with sudden fervor). I am no witcL There is no such thing as a witch. Oh, ye wor- shipful magistrates, ye ministers and good peo- ple of Salem Village, I pray ye hear me speak for a moments space. Listen not to this testi- mony of distracted children, this raving of a poor lovesick, jealous maid, who should be treated softly, but not let to do this mischief. Ye, being in your fair wits and well acquaint with your own knowledge, must know, as I know, that there be no witches. Wherefore would God let Satan after such wise into a company of His elect? Hath He not guard over His own precinct? Can He not keep it from the power of the Adversary as well as we from the savages? Why keep ye the scouts out in the fields if the Lord God hath so forsaken us? Call in the scouts! If we believe in witches, we believe not only great wickedness, but great folly of the Lord God. Think ye in good faith that I verily stand here with a black cat on my shoulder and a yellow bird on my head? Why do ye not see them as well as these maids? I would that ye might if they be there. Black cat, yellow bird, if ye be upon my shoulder and my head, as these maids say, I command ye to appear to these magistrates! Otherwise, if I have signed the book, as these maids say, I swear unto ye that I will cross out my name, and will serve none but the God Almighty. Most worshipful magistrates, see ye the black cat? See ye any yellow bird? Why are ye not afflicted as well as these maids, when I turn my eyes upon ye? I pray you to con- sider that. I am no saint; I wot well that I have but poorly done the will of the Lord who made me, but I am a gospel woman, and keep to the faith according to my poor measure. Can I be a gospel woman and a witch too? 1 have never that I know of done aught of harm whether to man or beast. I have spared not myself nor minded mine own infirmities in tasks for them that belonged to me, nor for any neighbor that had need. I say not this to set myself up, but to prove to you that I can be no witch, and my daughter can be no witch. Have I not watched nights without number with the sick? Have I not washed and dressed new-born babes? Have I not helped to make the dead ready for burial, and sat by them until the cock crew? Have I ever held back when there was need of me? But I say not this to set myself up. Have I not been in the meeting-house every Lords day? Have I ever staid away from the sacrament? Have I not gone in sober apparel, nor wasted my hus- bands substance? Have I not been diligent in my household, and spun and wove great store of linen? Are not my floors scoured, my brasses bright, and my cheese-room well filled? Look at me! Can I be a witch? Ann. A black man bath been whispering in her ear, telling her what to say. Hathorne. What say you to that, Goody? Martha. I say if that be so, he told me not to his own advantage. I see with whom I have to do. I pray you give me leave to go to prayer. Hathorne. You are not here to go to prayer. I much fear that your many prayers have been to your master, the devil. Constables, bring forward the body of the accused. [Afflicted Girls shriek. Constables lead Olive forward. Martha is led to on~ side. Martha. Be of good cheer, dear child. Giles. Yes, be not afraid of them, lass; thy father is here. Hathorne. Silence! Olive Corey, why do you so afflict these other maids? Olive. I do not, your worship. Ann. She is looking at me. Oh, bid her- look away, or she will kill me! Olive. Oh, Ann, I do not! What mean you, dear Ann? Hathorne. I charge you, Olive Corey, keep your eyes upon the floor. Giles. Look where you please, lass, and thy old father will uphold thee in it; and I only wish your blue eyes could shoot pins into the lying hussies. Hathorne. Goodman, an ye disturb the peace again, ye shall be removed from court. Ann Hutchins, you have seen this maid hurt you? Ann. Many a time she hath hurt me nigh to death. Olive. Oh, Nnn, I hurt thee? Ann. There is a flock of yellow birds around her head. [Olive moves her head involuntarily, and~ looks up. THERE IS A FLOCK OF YELLOW BIRDS AROUND HER HEAD. 32 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Afflicted Girls. See her look at them! Hat/wine. What say you to that, Olive? Olive. I did not see them. Jiathorne. Ann Jiutchins, did you see this maid walking in the wood with a black man last week? Ann. Yes, your worship. Hathorne. How did he go? Ann. In black clothes, and he had white hair. Hat/wine. How went the accused? Ann. She went in her flowered petticoat, and the flowers stood out, and smelt like real ones; her kerchief shone like a cobweb in the grass in the morning, and gold sparks flew out of her hair. Goody Corey fixed her up so with her devilish arts to trap Paul Bayley. flathorne. What mean you? Ann. To trap the black man, your worship. I knew not what I said, I was in such torment. ilathorne. Olive Corey, did your mother ever so change your appearance by her arts? Olive. My mother bath no arts, your worship. Ann. Her cheeks were redder than was com- mon, and her eyes shone like stars. Hathorne. Olive, did your mother so change your looks? Olice. No, your worship; I do not know what Ann may mean. I fear she be ill. Hat/wine. Mercy Lewis, did you see Olive Corey with the black man? lllercy. Yes, your worship; and she called out to inc to go with them to the dance, and Ii should have the black man for a partner; and when I would not she afflicted me, pulling my hair and pinching me. Hathorne. How appeared she to you? Aliercy. She was dressed like a puppet, finer than I had ever seen her. Hat/wine. Olive, what did you wear when you walked with the black man? Olive. Your worship, I walked with no black man. Ann. There he is now, standing behind her, looking over her shoulder. Hathorne. What say you to that, Olive? Olive (looking in terror over her shoulder). I see no one. I pray you, let my father stand near me. Parris. Nay; the black man is enough for you. Giles (forcing his way to his daughter). Here I be, lass; and it will go hard if the hussies can see the black man and old Giles in one place. Where be the black man now, jades? Hathorinte (angrily). Marshal! Gorwin (interposing). Nay, good Master Ha- tliorne, let Goodman Corey keep his standing. The maid looks near swooning, and albeit his manner be rude, yet his argument bath some- what of force. In truth, he and the black man cannot occupy one place. Mercy Lewis, see you now this black man anywhere? Mercy. Yes, your worship. Gorwin. Where? Marcy. Whispering in your worships ear. Parris. May the Lord protect his magistrates from the wiles of Satan, and maintain them in safety for the weal of his afflicted people! Hathorne. This be going too far. This be presumption! Who of you now see the black man whispering to the worshipful esquire Jon- athan Corwin? Alercy. He is gone now out of the meeting- house. Twas but for a moment I saw him. Gorwin. Speak up, children. Did any other of ye see the black man whispering to me? Afflicted Girls. No! no! no! (orwin. Mercy Lewis, you say of a truth you saw him? Mercy. Your worship, it may have been Min- ister Parriss shadow falling across the platform. Gorwin. This is but levity, and hath naught to do with the trial. Ilathorne. We will proceed with the exami- nation. Widow Eunice Hutchins, produce the cape. [Widow Hutchins comes forward, holding the cape by a corner. Ilathoinne. Put it over your daughters shoul- dcis. Hutchins. Oh, your worships, I pray you not! It will kill her! Ann. Oh, do not! do not! It will kill me! Ohm, mother, do not! Oh, your worships! Oh, Minister Parris! Parris. Why put the maid to this needless agony? Gorwin. Put the cape over her shoulders. [Widow Hutchins approaches Ann hesi- tatin.qly, and throws the cape over her shoulders. Ann sinks upon the floor, shrieking. Ann. Take it off! Take it off! It burns! It burns! Take it off! Have mercy! I shall die! I shall die! Hathorne. Take off the cape; that is enough. Olive Corey, what say you to this? This is the cape you gave Ann Hutchins. Olive. Oh, mother! mother! Martha (pushing forward). Nay, I will speak again. Ye shall not keep me from it; ye shall not send me out of the meeting-house! (The af- flicted cry out.) Peace, or I will afflict ye in ear- nest! I will speak! If I be a witch, as ye say, then ye have some reason to fear me, even ye most worshipful magistrates and ministers. It might happen to ye even to fall upon the floor in torment, and it would ill accord with your offices. Ye shall hear me. I speak no more for myselfye may go hang meI speak for my child. Ye shall not hang her, or judgment will come upon ye. Ye know there is no guile in her; it were monstrous to call her a witch. It were less blasphemy to call her an angel than a witch, and ye know it. Ye know it, all ye maids she hath played with and done her little kindnesses to, ye who would now go hang her. That cape that cape, most worshipful magistrates, did the dear child earn with her own little hands, that she might give it to Ann, whom she loved so much. Knowing, as she did, that Ann was poor, and able to have but little bravery of apparel, it was often on her mind to give her somewhat of her own, albeit that was hut scanty; and she hath toiled overtimes at her wheel all winter, and sold the yarn in Salem, and so gained a penny at a time wherewithal to buy that cape for Ann. And now will it hang her, the dear child? Dear Ann, dost thou not remember how thou and my Olive have spent days together, and slept together many a night, and lain awake till dawn talking? Dost thou not remember how thou couldst go nowhere without Olive, FATH]3~Rt FATHF~ 1 34 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. nor she without thee, and how no little junket- ing were complete to the one were the other not there? Dost thou not remember how Olive wept when thy father died? Mercy Lewis, dost thou not remember how my Olive came over and helped thee in thy work that time thou wert ailing, and how she lent thee her shoes to walk to Salem? Oh, dear children, oh, maids, who have been playmates and friends with my dear child, ye will not do her this harm! Do ye not know that she bath never harmed ye, and would die first? Think of the time when this sickness, that is nigh to madness, shall have passed over, and all is quiet again. Then will ye sit in the meeting-house of a Lords day, and look over at the place where my poor child was wont to sit listening in her little Sabbath best, and ye will see her no more, but will say to yourselves that ye have murdered her. And then of a week-day ye will see her no more spinning at her wheel in the doorway, nor tending the flowers in her garden. She will come smiling in at your doors no more, nor walk the village street, and ye will always see where she is not, and know that ye have murdered her. Oh, poor children, ye are in truth young, and your minds, I doubt not, sore bewildered! If I have spoken harshly to ye, I pray ye heed it not, except as concerns me. I wot well that I am now done with this world, and I feel already the wind that bloweth over Gallows Hill in my face. But consider well ere ye do any harm to my dear child, else verily the day will come when ye will be more to be pitied than she. Oh, ye will not harm her! Ye will take back your accusation! Oh, worshipful magistrates, oh, Minister Par- ris, I pray you have mercy upon this child! I pray you mercy as you will need mercy! [Falls upon her knees. Hathorne. Rise, woman; it is not now mercy, hut justice that has to be considered. Parris. In straits like this there is no mercy in the divine will. Shall mercy he shown Sa- tan? Gorwin. Mercy Lewis, is it in truth Olive Corey who afflicts you? Mercy (hesitating). I am not so sure as I was. Other Afflicted Girls. Nor I! nor I! nor I! Mercy. Last time I was somewhat blinded and could not see her face. Methinks she was something taller than Olive. Ann (shrieks). Oh, Olive is upon me! The sun shines on her face! I see her, she is chok- ingme! Ohi!oh! Mercy (to Ann). Hush! If she be put away, youll not get Paul Bayley; Ill tell you that for a certainty, Ann Hutchins. Ann. Oh! oh! she is killing me! Mercy. I see her naught; tis a taller pci-son who is afflicting Ann. (To Ann.) Leave your outcries, or I will confess to the magistrates. [Ann becomes quiet. Gorwin. Ann Hutchins, saw you in truth Olive Corey afflicting you? Ann (sullenly). It might have been Goody Corey. (orwin. Mercy Lewis, saw you of a certainty Olive Corey walking in the wood with a black man? Mercy. It was the wane of the moon; I might have been mistaken. It might have been Goody Corey; their carmiage is somewhat the same. tjorwin. Give me the cape, Widow Hutchins. (Widow Hutchins hands him the cape, he puts it over his shoulders.) Verily I perceive no great inconvenience from the cape, except it is an ill fit. [Takes it off and lays it on the table. The two magistrates and Minister Parris whisper together. Hathorne. Having now received the testimo- ny of the afflicted and the witnesses, and duly weighted the same according to our judgment, being aided to a decision, as we believe, by the divine wisdom which we have invoked, we de- clare the damsel Olive Corey free and quit of the charges against her. And Martha Corey~ the wife of Giles Corey, of Salem Village, we commit unto the jail ma Salem until Giles. Send Martha to Salem jail! Out U~Ofl ye! Why, ye be gone clean mad, magistrates and ministers and all! Send Martha to jail! Why, she must home with me this night and get supper! How think ye I am going to live and keep my house? Load Martha down with chains in jail! Martha a witch! Then, by the Lord, she keeps His company overmuch for one of her trade, for she goes to prayer forty times a (lay. Martha a witch! Think ye Goodwife Martha Corey gallops a broomstick to time hill of a night, with her decent petticoats flapping? Who says so? 1 would I had my musket, and hed not say so twice to Giles Corey. And let him say so twice as tis, and meet my fist, an he dares. I be an old man, but I could hold my own in my day, and there be some of me left yet. Who says so twice to old Giles Corey? Martha a witch! Verily she could not stop praying long enough to dance a jig through with the devil. Martha! Omit upon ye, ye lying devils tool of a parson, that seasons mur- der with pm-ayer! Out upon ye, ye magistrates! your hands be redder than your fine trappings! Martha a witch! Ye yourselves be witches, and serving Satan, and he a-tickling in his sleeve at ye. Send Martha in chains to Salem jail, ye will, will ye? (Forces his way to Martha, and throws his arm around her.) Be not afraid, good lass, thy man will save thee. Thou shalt not go to jail! I say thou shalt not! Ill cut my way through a whole kings army ere thou shalt. Ill raise the devil myself ere thou shalt, and set him tooth and claw on the whole brood of them. Ill (One of the afflicted shrieks. Gihes turns upon them.) Why, devil take ye, ye lying hussies, ye have done this! Ye should be whipped through the town at the tail of a cart, every one of ye. Ye ill - favored little jades, puling because no man will have ye, and putting each other imp to this d mis- chief for lack of something better. Out upon ye, ye little Mercy (jumping up and screaming in agony.) Oh, Gihes Corey is upon me! He is afflicting me gm-ievously! Oh, I will not! Chain him! chain 1dm! chain him! Ann. Oh, this is womse than the others This is dreadful! Hes strangling me! I Ohyourworships! Ohhelp !help! [Falls upon the floor. Afflicted Girls. Chain him! chain him! GILES COREY, YEOMAN. 35 Hathorne. Marshal, take Giles Corey into custody and chain him. [Marshal and Constables advance. Ta6leauCurtain falls. ACT IV. The living-room in Giles Coreys house. Nancy Fox and the child Pho~be Morse sit be8tde the hearth; each has her apron over her face, weep- ing. Pha6e (sobbing). Iwant my AuntCorey andmy Uncle Corey. Why dont they come? Oh, deary me! [Phcebe jumps up and runs to the window. Nancy. See you anybody coming? Phcebe. There is a dame in a black hood com- ing past the popple - trees. Oh, Nancy, come quick; see if it be Aunt Corey! Nancy. Where he my spectacleswhere be they? (Runs about the room searching.) Oh Lord, whats the use of living to be so old that youre scattered all over the house like a seed thistle! Having to hunt everywhere for your eyes and your wits whenever you want to use em, and having other folks a-meddling with em! Where be the spectacles? They he not in the cupboard; they be not on the dresser. Where be they? I trow this be witch-work. I know well enough what has become of my good horn spectacles. Goody Bishop hath witched them away, thinking they would suit well with her fine hood. I know well that I Phabe (sobbing aloud). Oh, Nancy, it is not Aunt Corey. It is only Goodwife Nourse. Nancy. May the black beast catch her! Be you sure? Phabe. Yes; she is passing our gate. Oh, Nancy, what shall we do? what shall we do? Nancy. I would that I had my fingers in old man Hathornes fine wig. I would yank it off for him, and fling it to the pigs. A-sending master and mistress to jail, and they no more witches than I be! Phabe. Oh, Nancy, be we witches? They have not sent us to jail. Nancy. I know not what we be. My old head will not hold it all. It is time they came home. There is not a crumb of sweet-cake in the house, and the stopple is so tight in the cider- barrel that I cannot stir it a peg. [Weeps. Phahe. Nancy, did they send Aunt Corey and Uncle Corey to jail because I stuck the pins in my doll? Nancy. I know not. I tell ye my old head spins round like a flax-wheel; when I put my finger on one spoke, tis another one. These things be too much for a poor old woman like me. It takes folks like their worships the mag- istrates and Minister Parris to deal with black men and witches, and keep their wits in no need of physic. Ph e. Oh, Nancy, I know what I will do! Oh, tis well I snatched my doll off the meet- ing-house table that day after the trial, and ran home with it under my apron! (Runs to the settle, takes up the doll, which is lying there, and kisses it.) Here is one kiss for Aunt Corey, here is another kiss for Aunt Corey, here is another, and another, and another. Here is one kiss for Uncle Corey, and here is another kiss for Uncle Corey, and here is another, and another, and XOL. LXXXVINo. 5113 another. There, Nancy! will not this do away with the pin pricks, and they be let out of jail? Nancy. I know not. My old head bobs like a pumpkin in a pond. I would master and mistress were home. These be troublous times for an old woman. I would I could stir the stopple in the cider-barrel. Look again, and see if mistress be not coming up the road. Phcebe. It is of no use. I have looked for a whole week, and she has not come in sight. I want my Aunt Corey! Nancy, have I not done away with the pin pricks? Tell me, will she be not let out of jail? Oh, theres Paul coming past the window! Hes got home! Olive! Olive! Enter Paul Bayley. Phcobe runs to him. Phabe. Oh, Paul, theyve put Aunt Corey and Uncle Corey in Salem jail while you were gone! Cant you get them out, Paul, cant you? Paul. Where is Olive? Phcebe. She is in her chamber. She stays there all the time at prayer. Olive! Olive! Paul is come. [Calls at the foot of chamber stairs. Paul. Olive! Olive comes slowly down the stairs and enters. Paul (seizing her in his arms). Oh, my poor lass, what is this that hath come to thee? Olive. This is what thou feared when we parted, Paul, and more. Paul. I but heard of it as I came through Salem on my way hither. Oh, tis devilish work! Olive. They let me loose, but father and mother are in Salem jail. Paul. Poor lass! Olive. Can you do naught to help them, Paul? Paul. Olive, I will help them, if there be any justice or unclouded minds left in the colony. Olive. Thou art in truth here, Paul; it is thy voice. Paul. Whose voice should it be, dear heart? Olive. I know not. For a week I have thought I heard so many voices. The air seemed full o~ voices a-calling me, but I heeded them not, Paul. I kept all the time at prayer and heeded them not. Paul. Of course thou didst not. There were no voices to heed. Olive. Sometimes I thought I heard birds twittering, and sometimes I thought there was something black at my elbow, and in the night- time faces at my window. Paul, was there aught there? Paul. No, no; there was naught there. Birds and black beasts and faces! This be all folly, Olive! Olive. They saw a black man by my side in the meeting-houseAnn saw him. She ci-ied out that the cape I gave her put her to dreadful torment. Can I have been a witch unknow- ingly, and so done this great evil to my father and mother? Tell me, Paul. Paul. Call up thy wits, Olive! I tell thee thou art no witch. There was no black man at thy side in the meeting-house. Black man! I would one would verily lay hands on that lying hussy. Thou art no witch. [Phcebe rushes to Olive, and clings to her, sobbing. 36 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Pho2be. You are not a witch, Olive. You are not. If Ann says so I will pinch her and scratch her. I will! yes, I willI will scratch her till the blood runs. You are not a witch. I was the one that got them into jail. I stuck pins into my doll, but I have made up for it now. Theyll be let out. Dont cry, Olive. Nancy. Dont you fret yourself, Olive. I trow theres no witch-mark on you. Its Goody Bishop in her fine silk hood thats at the bottom ont. I know, I know. Perchance Paul could loose the stopple in the cider - barrel. I am needful of somewhat to warm my old bones. This witch - work makes them to creep with chills like long snakes. Olive. They say my mother will soon be hanged, and I perchance a witch, and the cause of it. I cannot get over it. (ilfoves away from them.) If I be a witch, I shall hurt thee, as I perchance have hurt them. [Weeps. Paul. Olive Corey, what is that? Olive (looking up). What? What mean you, Paul? [Nancy and Phcebe stare. Paul. There, over the cupboard. Is it Yes, tiscobwebs. I trow I never saw such a sight in Goodwife Coreys house before. Olive. I will brush them down, Paul. Paul (looking at the floor). And I doubt me much if the floor has been swept up this week past, and the hearth is all strewn with ashes. I trow Goodwife Corey would weep could she see her house thus. Olive. I will get the broom, Paul. Paul. I know well thou hast not spun this last week, that the cream is too far gone to he churned, and the cheeses have not been turned. Nancy. Tis so, Paul; and theres no sweet- cake in the house, either. Paul. Thou art no such housewife as thy mother, Olive Corey! One would say she had not taught thee. I trow she was a good house- wife, and notable among the neighbors; but this will take from her reputation that she hath so brought thee up. I trow could she see this house twould give her a new ache in her heart among all the others. Olive. I will mind the house, Paul. Paul. Ay, mind the house, poor lass! Know you, Olive, that there is a rumor abroad in Salem that your father will refuse to plead, and will stand mute at his trial? Olive. Wherefore will he do that? Paul. I scarcely know why. Has he made a will, twill not be valid were he to plead at a criminal trial; there will be an attainder on it. They say that is one reason, and that he thinks thus to show his scorn of the whole devilish work, and of a trial that is no trial. Olive. What is the penalty if he stand mute? Paul. Tis a severe one; but he shall not stand mute. Phabe. Oh, Paul, get Aunt Corey out of jail! Cant you get Aunt Corey out of jail? Nancy. Perchance you could pry up the hook of the jail door with the old knife. It will be dark to-night. There is no moon until three oclock in the morning. Olive. Paul, think you not that my fathers sons.in-law might do somewhat? They are men of influence. Their wives are but my half-sis- ters, but they are his own daughters. I mar- vel they have not come to me since this trouble. Paul. Olive, his sons-in-law have sent in their written testimony against him and your mother. Olive. Paul, it cannot be so! Paul. They have surely so testified. There is no help to be had from them. I have a plan. Olive. All is useless, Paul. His sons-in-law, his own daughters husbands, have turned against him! There is no help anywhere. My mother will soon be hanged. Minister Parris said so last night when he came. And he knelt yonder and prayed that I might no longer practise witchcraft. My father and mother are lost, and I have brought it upon them. Talk no more to me, Paul. Paul. Then, perchance your mother be a witch, Olive Corey. Olive. My mother is not a witch. Paul. Doth not Minister Parris say so? And if he speak truth when he calls you a witch, why speaks he not truth of your mother also? I trow, if you be a witch, she is. Olive. My mother is no witch, and I am no witch, Paul Bayley! Paul. Mind you stick to that, poor lass! Now, I go to Boston to the Governor. There lies the only hope for thy parents. Olive. Think you the Governor will listen? Oh, he must listen! Thou hast a masterful way with thee, Paul. When wilt thou start? Oh, if I had not thee! Paul. I would I could make myself twenty- fold twixt thee and evil, sweet. I will get Goodman Nourses horse and start to-night. Olive. Then go, go! Do not wait! Paul. I will not wait. Good-by, dear heart. Keep good courage, and put foolish fancies away from thee. [Embraces her. Olive (freeing herself). This is no time for love-making, Paul. I will mind the house well and keep at prayer. Thou needst not fear. Now, haste, haste! Do not wait. Paul. I will be on the Boston path in a half- hour. Good-by, Olive. Please God, Ill bring thee back good news. [Exit Paul. [Olive stands in the door watching him depart. Phcebe steals up to her and throws her arms around her. Olive turns suddenly and embraces the child. Olive. Come, sweet; while Paul sets forth to the Governor, we will go to prayer. Nancy, come, we will go to prayer that the Governor may lend a gracious ear, and our feet be kept clear of the snares of Satan. Come, we will go to prayer; there is naught left for us but to go to prayer! Tableau Uurtain falls. ACT V. Six weeks later. Giles Coreys cell in Salem jail. It is early morning. Giles, heavily chained, is sleeping upon his bed. A noise is heard at the door. Gihes stirs and raises himself. Giles. Yes, Martha, Im coming! (Noise con- tinues.) Im coming, Martha! (Stares around the cell.) God help me, but I thought twa~s Martha calling me to supper, and tis a month since she died on Gallows Hill. I verily thought that I smelt the pork frying and the pan- cakes. GILES COREY, YEOMAN. 37 Cites. Make sure they be strong, else it will verily go hard with the hussies. They will screech louder yet, and be more like pin- cushions than ever. Art sure they be strong? Twere a pity such guileless and tender maids should suffer, and old Giles Coreys hands be rough. He hath hewn wood and handled the plough for nigh eighty years with them, and now these pretty maids say he hurts their soft flesh. In truth, they must be sore afflicted. Prithee are the chains well riveted? I thought last night one link seemed somewhat loose as though it might be forced, and old Giles Corey hath still some strength; and hath he witch- craft, as they say, it might well make him stronger. Be wary about the chains for the sake of those godly and tender maids. [Exit Guard~ Giles takes the dish of por- ridge and eats. Cites (making a wry face). This be rare por- ridge; it be rare enough to charge the cook ont with witchcraft. It might well have been scorched in some hell-fire. I trow Martha would have flung it to the pigs. I verily thought twas Martha calling me to supper, and I smelt the good food cooking, and Martha hung a month since on Gallows Hill. Whos that at the door now? Guard opens the door and Paul Bayley enters. Giles takes another spoonful of porridge. Paul. Good-day, Goodman Corey. Cites. Taste this porridge, will ye. Paut (tastes the porridge). Tis burned. Cites. It be rare food to keep up the soul of an old man who hath set himself to undergo what I have set myself to undergo. But it mat- ters not. I trow old Giles Corey may well have eat all his life unknowingly to this end, and hath now somewhat of strength to fall back upon. He needs no dainty fare to make him strong to undergo what he hath set himself. How fares my daughter? Paul. As well as she can fare, poor lass! I saw her last evening. She is now calmer in her mind, and she goeth about the house like her mother. Cites. Her mother set great store by her. She would often strive in prayer that she should not make an idol of her before the Lord. Paul. Goodman, it goes hard to tell you, but I had an audience yesterday again with Gov- ernor Phipps, an twas in vain. Cites (laughing). In vain, say ye twas in vain? Why, I looked to see the pardon sticking out of your waistcoat pocket! Why went ye again to Boston? Know ye not that this whole land is now a bedlam, and the Governors and the mag- istrates swell the ravings? Seek ye in bedlam for justice of madmen? It is not now pardon or justice that we have to think on, but death, and the best that can be made out oat. Know ye that my trial will be held this afternoon? Paul. Yes, Goodman Corey. - Cites. Sit ye down on this stool. I have much I would say to ye. [Paul seats himself on a stool. Giles sits on his bed. The door is opened and the Guard, bringing a Cites. Master Bayley, ye have been long dish of porridge, enters; he sets it on ~, ~. a-courting my daughter. Do ye propose in beside the bed, then examines Giless ~ .~001 good faith to take her to wife? chains. Paul. With the best faith that be in me. Cites. Then I tell ye, man, take her speedily take her within three weeks. Paul. I would take her with all my heart, goodman, would she be willing. Cites. She must needs be willing. Why, devil take it! be ye not smart enough to make her willing? It will all go for naught if she be not willing. Tell her her father bids her. She hath ever minded her father. Paul. I will tell her so, goodman. Cites. Tell her tis the last command her father gives her. If she say no, hear it yes. Do not ye give it up if ye have to drag her to t. Why, she must not be left alone in the world. It be a hard world. Old Giles hath gone far in it, and found it ever a hard world. Verily it be not cleared any more than the woods of Massa- chusetts. It be hard enough for a man~ a young maid must needs have somebody to hold aside the boughs for her. Wed her, if she will or no. I have somewhat to show ye, Master Bayhey. (Draws a document from his waistcoat.) See ye this? [Paul takes the document and e amines it. Cites. See ye what tis? Paul. It is a deed whereby you convey all your property to me, so I be Olives husband. Wherefore? Cites. It be drawn up in good form. It be duly witnessed. You see that it be all in good form, Paul. Paul. I see. But wherefore? Cites. It will stand in law; there will be no getting loose from it. It be a good and trusty document. Butso be it that this afternoon I stand trial for witchcraft, and plead guilty or not guilty, this same good and trusty document will be worth less than the parchment tis writ on. Tis so with the law. There will be an at- tainder oat. My sons-in-law that testified to the undoing of Martha and me will have their share, and thou and Olive perchance have naught in this bedlam. I bear no ill will tow- ard my sons-in-law and my daughters, who have been put up by them to deal falsely with Martha and me, but I would not that they have my goods. I bear no ill will; it becometh not a man so near death to bear ill will. But they shall not have my goods; I say they shall not. There shall be no attainder on this document. I will stand mute at my trial. Paul. Goodman Corey, know you the pen- alty? Cites. I trow I know it better than the cate- chism. Tis to be pressed beneath stone weights until I be dead. Paul. I say you shall not do this thing. What think you I care for your goods? Ill have naught to do with them, nor will Olive. This is madness! Cites. Tis not all for the goods. I would Olive had them, and not those foul traitors; but tis not all. Were there no goods and no at- tainder, I would still do this thing. Paul, they say that Martha spake fair words when they had her there on Gallows Hill. Paul. She spake like a martyr at the door of heaven. 38 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Giles. Did they let her speak long? Paul. They cut her short, Minister Parris saying, Let not this firebrand of hell burn longer. Giles. Then they put the rope to her neck. Martha had a fair neck when she was a maid. Did she struggle much? Paul. Not much. Giles. Then they left her hanging there a space. It was a wet day, and the rain pelted on her. I remember it was a wet day. The rain pelted on her, and the wind blew, and she swung in it. I swear to thee, lass, I will make amends! I will suffer twenty pangs for thy one. Paul. Tis not you who should make amends. Giles. I tell ye I did Martha harm. When she chid my folly and the folly of others, I did bawl out at her, and say among folk things to her undoing, though I meant it not as they took it. Now I will make amends, and the King himself shall not stop me. Martha was a good wife. I know not how I shall make myself seemly for the court this afternoon. My coat has many stitches loose in it. She was a good wife. I will make amends to thee, lass; I swear I shall make amends to thee! I will come where thou art by a harder road than the one I made thee go. Paul. It was not you, goodman. You over- blame yourself. Those foul-mouthed jades did it, and those bloodthirsty magistrates. Giles. I tell ye I did part ont. I was wroth with her that she made light of this witch-work over which I was so mightily wrought up, and I said words that they twisted to her undo- ing. Verily, words can be made to fit all fan- cies. Twere safer to be muteas Ill be this afternoon. Paul. Goodman Corey, you must not think of this thing. There is still some hope from the trial. They will not dare murder you too. Giles. There be some things in this world folks may not bear, but there be no wickedness theyll stick at when they get started on the way to t. Tis death in any case, and what would ye have me do? Stand before their mad worships and those screeching jades, and plead as though I were before folk of sound mind and understanding? Think ye I would so humble myself for naught? Paul. But Olive! I tell you twill kill her! There may be a chance yet, and you should throw not away however small a one for Olives sake. She can bear no more. Giles. There is no chance, and if there were I tell ye if I had a hundred daughters, and every one such a maid as she, and every -one were to break her heart, I would do this thing I have set myself to do. There be that which is beyond human ties to force a man, there be that which is at the root of things. Paul. We will have none of your goods, I tell you that, Giles Corey! Giles. Goods. The goods be the least of it! Old Giles Corey be not a deep man. I trow he hath had a somewhat hard skull, but when a man draws in sight of death he bath a better grasp at his wits than he bath dreamed of. This be verily a mightier work than ye think. It shall be not only old Giles Corey that lies pressed to death under the stones, but the back- bone of this great evil in the land shall be broke by the same weight. I tell ye it will be so. I have clearer understanding, now I be so near the end ont. They will dare no more after me. To-day shall I stand mute at my trial, but my dumbness shall drown out the clamor of my accusers. Old Giles Corey will have the best ont. Tis for this, and not for the goods, I will stand mute; for this, and to make amends to Martha. Paul. Giles Corey, you shall not die this dreadful death. If death it must be, and it may yet not be, choose the easier one. Cues. Think ye I cannot do it? (Rises.) Mas- ter Paul Bayley, you see before you Giles Corey. He be verily an old man, he be over eighty years old, but there be somewhat of the first of him left. He bath never had much power of speech; his words have been rough, and not given to pleasing. He bath been a rude man, an unlettered man, and a sinner. He hath brawled and blasphemed with the worst of them in his day. He bath given blow for 1)10w, and I trow the other mans cheek smarted sorer than old Giless. Now he be a man of the covenant, but he be still stiff with his old ways, and bath no nimbleness to shunt a blow. Old Giles Corey bath no fine wisdom to save his life, and no grace of tongue, but he bath power to die as he will, and no man bath greater. Paul. Goodman Corey, I [Guard opens the door. Guard. Here is your daughter to see you, Goodman Corey. Giles. Tell her I will see her not. What brought her here? I know. Minister Parris bath sent her, thinking to tempt me from my l)lan. I will see her not. Olive (from without). Father, you cannot send me away. Giles. Why come you here? Go home and mind the house. Olive. Father, I pray you not to send me away. Paul. If you be hard with her, you will kill her. Giles. Come in. Enter Olive. Olive. What is this you will do, father? Giles. My duty, lass. Olive. Father, you will not die this dreadful death? Giles. That will I, lass. Olive. Then I say to you, father, so will I also. The stones will press you down a few hours space, and they will press me down so long as I may live. You will be soon dead and out of the pains, but you will leave your death with the living. Giles. Then must the living bear it. Olive. Father, you may yet be acquitted. Plead at your trial. Giles. Work the bellows in the face of the north wind. Oh, lass, why came you here? Tis worse than the stones. Talk no more to me, good lass; womenkind should meddle not with mens plans. But promise me you will wed with Paul here within three weeks. Olive. I will never wed. Giles. Ye will not, hey? Ye will wed with Master Paul Bayley within three weeks. Tis the last command your father gives thee. GILES COREY, YEOMAN. 39 Olive. Think you I can wed when you Giles. Ay, I do think so, lass, and so ye will. Olive. Father, I will not. But if you plead I will, I promise you I will. Usles. I will not, and you will. Lass, since you be here, I pray you set a stitch in this seam in my coat. I would look tidy at the trial, for thy mothers sake. Hast thou thy huswife with thee? Olive. Yes, father. [Olive threads a needle, and standing beside her father, sets the stitch; weeps as she does so. Giles. Know you every tear adds weight to the stones, lass? Olive. Then will I weep not. [Miends. Giles. Be the child and the old woman well? Olive. Yes, father. Giles. Look out for them as you best can. And see to t the little maids linen chest is well filled, as your mother would have. [Olive breaks off the thread. Giles. Be the stitch set strong? Olive. Yes, father. Cites (turning and folding her to his arms). Oh, my good lass, the stones be naught, but this cometh hard, this corneth hard! Could they not have spared me this? Olive. Father, listen to me, listen to me Giles. Lass, I must listen to naught but the voice of God. Tis that speaks, and bids me do this thing. Thou must come not betwixt thy father and his God. Olive. Father! father! tides. Go, Olive, I can bear no more. Tell me thou wilt wed as I command you. Olive. As thou wilt, father! father! but I will love no man as I love thee. Giles. Go, lass. Give me a kiss. There, now go! I command thee to go! Paul, take her hence. I charge ye do by her when her father be dead and gone, as ye would were he at thy elbow. Take her hence. I would go to prayer. [Exeunt Paul and Olive. Olive (as the door closes). Father! father! Giles Corey stands alone in cell. Curtain falls. ACT VI. Three weeks later. Lane near Salem overhung by blossoming apple-trees. Enter Hathorne, Corwin, and Parris. Gorwin. Tis better here, a little removed from the field where they are putting Giles Corey to death. I could bear the sight of it no longer. Ilathorne. You are fainthearted, good Master Corwin. Gorwin. Fainthearted or not, tis too much for me. I was brought not up in the shambles, nor bred butcher by trade. Parris. Your worship, you should strive in prayer, lest you falter not in the strife against ~ Satan. Corwin. I know not that I have faltered in any strife against Satan. Parris. Perchance tis but your worships del. icate frame of body causeth you to shrink from this stern duty. Hathorne. This torment of Giles Coreys can last but a little space now. He bath still his chance to speak and avert his death, and he will do it erelong. They have increased the weights mightily. Fear not, good Master Cor- win, Giles Corey will not die; erelong his old tongue will wag like a millwheel. tiiorwin. I doubt much,good Master Hathorne, if Giles Corey speak. And if he does not speak, and so be put to death, as is decreed, I doubt much if the temper of the people will stand more. There are those ~ho have sympathy with Giles Corey. I heard many murmurs in the streets of Salem this morning. Hathorne. Let them murmur. Parris. Ay, let them murmur, so long as we wield the sword of the Lord and of Gideon. Enter first Messenger. Hathorne. Here comes a man from the field. How goes it now with Giles Corey? Jfessenger. Your worship, Giles Corey has not spoken. Parris. And he bath been under the weights since early light. Truly such obstinacy is marvellous. [Exit Messenger. Ilathorne. Satan gives a strength beyond human measure to his disciples. Enter Olive and Paul Bayl~y, appearing in the di stance. Olive wears a white gown a white bonnet. lint home. Who is that maid coming in a bride bonnet? tijorwin. Tis Coreys daughter. I marvel that Paul lets her come hither. Tis no place for her, so near. Master Hathorne, let us with- draw a little way. I would not see her distress. I am somewhat shaken in nerve this morning. [Corwin, Hathorne, and Parris exeunt at other end of lane. Olive (as she and Paul advance). Who were those men, Paul? Paul. The magistrates and Minister Parris, sweet. Olive. Are they gone? Paul. Yes, they are quite out of sight. Oh, why wouldst thou come here, dear heart? Olive. Thou thinkest to cheat me, Paul; but thou canst not cheat me. Three fields away to the right have they dragged my father this morning. I knew it, I knew it, although you strove so hard to keep it from me. Ill be as near my fathers death.bed on my wedding-day as I can. Paul. I pray thee, sweetheart, come away with me. This will do no good. Olive. Loyalty doth good to the heart that holds it, if to no other. Think you Ill forsake my father because tis my wedding-day, Paul? Oh, I trow not, I trow not, or Id make thee no true wife. Paul. It but puts thee to needless torment. Olive. Torment! torment! Think of what he this moment bears! Oh, my father, my father! Paul Bayley, why have I wedded you this dreadful day? Paul. Hush! Thy father wished it, sweet- heart. Olive. I swear to you Ill never love any other than my father. I love you not. Paul. Thou needst not, poor lass! Olive (clinging to him). Nay, I love thee, but I hate myself for it on this day. 40 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Paul (caressing her). Poor lass! Poor lass! Olive. Why wear I this bridal gear, and my father over yonder on his dreadful death-bed? Why could you not have gone your own way and let me gone mine all the rest of my life in black apparel, a-mourning for my father? That would have beseemed me. This needed not have been so; it needed never have been so. Paul. Never? I tell thee, sweet, as well say to these apple blossQms that they need never be apples, and to that rose-bush against the wall that its buds need not be roses. In faith, we be far set in that course of nature, dear, with the apple blossoms and the rose-buds, where the be- ginning cannot be without the end. Our own motion be lost, and we be swept along with a current that is mightier than death, whether we would have it so or not. Olive. I know not. I only know I would be faithful to my poor father. But twas his last wish that I should wed thee thus. Paul. Yes, dear. Olive. He said so that morning before his trial. Oh, Paul, I can see it now, the trial! I have been to the trial every day since. Shall I go every day of my life? Perchance thou may often come home and find thy wife gone to the trial, and no supper. I will go on my wedding- day; my father shall have no slights put upon him. I can see him stand there, mute. They cry out upon him and mock him and lay false charges upon him, and he stands mute. The judge declares the dreadful penalty, and he stands mute. Oh, my father, my poor father! I tell ye my father will not mind anything. The Governor and the justices may command him as they will, the afflicted may clamor and jibe as they will, and I may pray to him, but he will not mind, he will stand mute. I tell ye there be not power enough in the colony to make him speak. Ye know not my father. He will have the best of it. Paul. Thou speakest like his daughter now. Keep thyself up to this, sweet. The daughter of a hero should have some brave stuff in her. Thy father does a greater deed than thou know. est. His dumbness will save the colonies from more than thou dreamest of. Twill put an end to this dreadful madness; he himself hath foretold it. [A clamor is heard. Olive. Paul, Paul, what is that? Paul. Naught but some boys shouting, sweet. Olive. Twas not. Oh, my father, my father! Paul. Olive, thou must not stay here. Olive. I must stay. Who is coming? [Paul and Olive step aside. Enter second Messenger. Hathorne, Corwin, and Parris advance to meet him. Hathorne. How goes it now with Giles Corey? Messenger. Your worship, Giles Corey hath not spoken. Hathorne. What! Have they not increased the weights? Messenger. They have doubled the weights, your worship. Parris. I trow Satan himself hath put his shoulder under the stones to take off the strain. [Exit Messenger. Hathorne. Tis a marvel the old tavern- brawler endures so long, but hell soon speak now. Garwin. Hush, good master, his daughter can hear. Hathorne. Let her then withdraw if it please her not. Ill warrant he cannot bear much more; he will soon speak. Parris. Yea, he cannot withstand the double weight unless his master help him. [Corwin speaks aside to Paul and motions him to take Olive away. Paul takes her by the arm. She shakes her head and will not go. Ilathorne. I trow twill take other than an un- lettered clown like Giles Corey to stand firm under this stress. Hell speak soon. Parris. Yea, that he will. He can never hold out. He bath not the mind for it. Ilathorne. It takes a man of finer wit than he to undergo it. He will speak. Oh yes, fear ye not, he will speak. Olive (breaking away from Paul). My father will not speak! Ilathorne. Girl! Olive. My father will not speak. I tell ye there be not stones enough in the provinces to make him speak. Ye know not my father. My father will have the best of ye all. Enter third Messenger, running. Hathorne. How goes it now with Giles Corey? Messenger. Giles Corey is dead, and he has not spoken. Olive clings to Paul as curtain falls. A CHRISTMAS PARTY. BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. IN 188 the American Consul at Venice was occupying the second story of an old palace on the Grand Canal. It was the story which is called by Italians the piano nobile, or noble floor. Beneath this piano nobile there is a large low ground, or rather water, floor, whose stone pavement, only slightly above the level of the canal outside, is always damp and often wet. At the time of the Consuls residence this water- floor was held by another tenant, a dealer in antiquities, who had partitioned off a shallow space across its broad front for a show-room. As this dealer had the ground-floor, lie possessed, of course, the principal entrance of the palace, with its broad marble steps descending into the rippling wavelets of the splendid azure street outside, and with the tall slender poles, irregularly placed in the water, which bore testimony to the aristocracy of the venerable pile they

Constance Fenimore Woolson Woolson, Constance Fenimore A Christmas Party. A Story 40-57

40 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Paul (caressing her). Poor lass! Poor lass! Olive. Why wear I this bridal gear, and my father over yonder on his dreadful death-bed? Why could you not have gone your own way and let me gone mine all the rest of my life in black apparel, a-mourning for my father? That would have beseemed me. This needed not have been so; it needed never have been so. Paul. Never? I tell thee, sweet, as well say to these apple blossQms that they need never be apples, and to that rose-bush against the wall that its buds need not be roses. In faith, we be far set in that course of nature, dear, with the apple blossoms and the rose-buds, where the be- ginning cannot be without the end. Our own motion be lost, and we be swept along with a current that is mightier than death, whether we would have it so or not. Olive. I know not. I only know I would be faithful to my poor father. But twas his last wish that I should wed thee thus. Paul. Yes, dear. Olive. He said so that morning before his trial. Oh, Paul, I can see it now, the trial! I have been to the trial every day since. Shall I go every day of my life? Perchance thou may often come home and find thy wife gone to the trial, and no supper. I will go on my wedding- day; my father shall have no slights put upon him. I can see him stand there, mute. They cry out upon him and mock him and lay false charges upon him, and he stands mute. The judge declares the dreadful penalty, and he stands mute. Oh, my father, my poor father! I tell ye my father will not mind anything. The Governor and the justices may command him as they will, the afflicted may clamor and jibe as they will, and I may pray to him, but he will not mind, he will stand mute. I tell ye there be not power enough in the colony to make him speak. Ye know not my father. He will have the best of it. Paul. Thou speakest like his daughter now. Keep thyself up to this, sweet. The daughter of a hero should have some brave stuff in her. Thy father does a greater deed than thou know. est. His dumbness will save the colonies from more than thou dreamest of. Twill put an end to this dreadful madness; he himself hath foretold it. [A clamor is heard. Olive. Paul, Paul, what is that? Paul. Naught but some boys shouting, sweet. Olive. Twas not. Oh, my father, my father! Paul. Olive, thou must not stay here. Olive. I must stay. Who is coming? [Paul and Olive step aside. Enter second Messenger. Hathorne, Corwin, and Parris advance to meet him. Hathorne. How goes it now with Giles Corey? Messenger. Your worship, Giles Corey hath not spoken. Hathorne. What! Have they not increased the weights? Messenger. They have doubled the weights, your worship. Parris. I trow Satan himself hath put his shoulder under the stones to take off the strain. [Exit Messenger. Hathorne. Tis a marvel the old tavern- brawler endures so long, but hell soon speak now. Garwin. Hush, good master, his daughter can hear. Hathorne. Let her then withdraw if it please her not. Ill warrant he cannot bear much more; he will soon speak. Parris. Yea, he cannot withstand the double weight unless his master help him. [Corwin speaks aside to Paul and motions him to take Olive away. Paul takes her by the arm. She shakes her head and will not go. Ilathorne. I trow twill take other than an un- lettered clown like Giles Corey to stand firm under this stress. Hell speak soon. Parris. Yea, that he will. He can never hold out. He bath not the mind for it. Ilathorne. It takes a man of finer wit than he to undergo it. He will speak. Oh yes, fear ye not, he will speak. Olive (breaking away from Paul). My father will not speak! Ilathorne. Girl! Olive. My father will not speak. I tell ye there be not stones enough in the provinces to make him speak. Ye know not my father. My father will have the best of ye all. Enter third Messenger, running. Hathorne. How goes it now with Giles Corey? Messenger. Giles Corey is dead, and he has not spoken. Olive clings to Paul as curtain falls. A CHRISTMAS PARTY. BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. IN 188 the American Consul at Venice was occupying the second story of an old palace on the Grand Canal. It was the story which is called by Italians the piano nobile, or noble floor. Beneath this piano nobile there is a large low ground, or rather water, floor, whose stone pavement, only slightly above the level of the canal outside, is always damp and often wet. At the time of the Consuls residence this water- floor was held by another tenant, a dealer in antiquities, who had partitioned off a shallow space across its broad front for a show-room. As this dealer had the ground-floor, lie possessed, of course, the principal entrance of the palace, with its broad marble steps descending into the rippling wavelets of the splendid azure street outside, and with the tall slender poles, irregularly placed in the water, which bore testimony to the aristocracy of the venerable pile they A CHRISTMAS PARTY. 41 guarded. One could say that these blue wands, ornamented with heraldic de- vices, were like the spears of knights; this is what Miss Senter said. Or one could notice their strong resemblance to barbers poles; and this was what Peter Senter always mentioned. Peter Senter was the American Consul, and his sister Barbara was the Consuless; for she kept house for her brother, who was a bachelor. And she not only kept house for him, but she assisted him in other ways, owing to her knowledge of Italian. The Consul, a man of fifty-sev- en, spoke only the language of his native place, Rochester, New York. That he could not understand the speech (gibber- ish, he called it) of the people with whom he was supposed to hold official relations did not disturb him; he thought it patri- otic not to understand. There was a vice- consul, an Italian, who could attend to the business matters, and as for the rest, wasnt Barbara there, Barbara, who could chatter not only in Italian, but in French and German also, with true fem- inine glibness? (For Peter, in his heart, thought it unmasculine to have a poly- glot tongue.) He knew how well his sis- ter could speak, because he had paid her bills during the six years of her education abroad. These bills had been large; of course, therefore, the knowledge must be large as well. Miss Senter was always chronically an- noyed that she and her brother did not possess the state entrance. As the palace was at present divided, the tenants of the noble floor descended by an outside stair- way to a large inner court, and from this court opened the second water-door. Their staircase was a graceful construction of white marble, and the court, with the blue sky above, one or two fretted balconies, and a sculptured marble well-curb in the centre, was highly picturesque. But this did not reconcile the American lady to the fact that their door was at the side of the palace; she thought that by right the gondola of the Consul should lie among the heraldic poles on the Grand Canal. But, in spite of right, nothing could be ___ done; the antiquity-dealer held his prem ~ ises on a long lease. Miss Senter, there- fore, disliked the dealer. Her dislike, however, had not prevent- ed her from paying a visit to his establish- ment soon after she had taken possession of the high-ceilinged rooms above. For she was curious about the old palace, and wished to see every inch of it; if there had been cellars, she would have gone down to inspect them, and she was fully determined to walk all over the roof. The dealers name was Pelbam; Z. Pel- ham was inscribed on his sign. How he came by this English title no one but himself could have told. He was sup- posed to be either a Pole or an Armenian, and he spoke many languages with equal fluency and incorrectness. He appeared to have feeble health, and he always wore large arctic overshoes; he was short and thin, and the most noticeable expression of his plain small face was resignation. Z. Pelham conducted the Consuless through the dusky space behind his show-room, a vast, low, open hall with massive squat columns and arches, and the skeletons of two old gondolas decaying in a corner. At the back he opened a small door, and pointed out a flight of stone steps going up steeply in a spiral, enclosed in a cir- cular shaft like a round tower. It leads to the attic floor; her Excellency wishes to mount? he inquired, patiently. For, owing to the wares in which he dealt, he had had a large acquaintance with eccen- tric characters of all nations. Certainly, replied Miss Sen ter. Car- mela, you can stay below, if you like, she said to the servant who accompanied her. But no; Carineha also wished to mount. Z. Pelliam preceded them, therefore, carry- ing his small oil-lamp. They went slow- ly, for the steps were narrow, the spiral sharp. The attic, when they reached it, was a queer, ghostly place; but there was a skylight with a ladder, and the Consul- ess carried out her intention of travers- ing the roof, while Mr. Pelham waited calmly, seated on the open scuttle door. Carmela followed her mistress. She gave little cries of admiration; there never were such wonderful ladies anywhere as those of America, she declared. On the way down, the stairs were so much like a corkscrew that Miss Senter, feeling dizzy, was obliged to pause for a moment where there was a landing. Isnt there a secret chamber ? she demanded of the dealer. Z. Pelham shook his head. I have not one found. Try again, said Miss Senter, laugh- ing. Jll make it worth your while, Mr. Pelhiam. 42 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Z. Peiham surveyed the walls, as if to see where he could have one built. His eye passed over a crack, and raising his lamp, he showed it to the Consuless. One time was there a door, opening into the rooms of her Excellency. But it opens not ever now. It is covered on in- side. Oh, that isnt a secret chamber, an- swered Miss Senter; we have doors that have been shut up at home. What I want is something mysteriousbehind a picture, or a sliding panel. Partly in return for this expedition to the roof, and partly because she had a liking for wood-carvings, Miss Senter purchased from Mr. Pelham shortly after- wards his best antique cabinet. It was eight feet high, and its whole surface was beautifully sculptured in odd designs, no two alike. Within were many ingenious receptacles, and, better than these, a con- cealed drawer. You see I have my secret chamber, after all, said the Con- suless, making a joke. And there was a best even to this better, for, after the cabinet had been placed in her own room, Miss Senter discovered within it a second hiding-place, even more perfectly con- cealed than the first. This was delightful, and she confided to its care all her loose money; she thought with disgust of the ugly green safe, built into the wall of Pete& s Rochester house, where she was obliged to keep her gold and silver when at home. Not only was Miss Senters own room in the old palace handsomely fur- nished, but all the others belonging to the apartment were rich in beautiful things. The Consuless had used her own taste, which was great, and her brothers for- tune, which was greater, deferring to him only on one point, namely, warmth. In Peters mind the temperature of his Rochester house remained a fixed stand- ard, and his sister therefore provided in every room a place for a generous open fire, while in the great drawing-room, in addition to this fire, two large white Vienna stoves, like monuments, were set up, hidden behind screens. As this salon was eighty feet long and thirty feet high, it required all this if it was to be used used by Peter at leastin December, Jan- uary and February; for the Venetian winter, though short, is often sharp and raw. On Christmas eve of their third year in Venice this drawing-room was lighted for a party. At one end, concealed by a curtain, stood a Christmas tree; for there were thirty children among their invited guests, who would number in all over fifty. After the tree had bestowed its fruit, the children were to have a dance, - and an odd little projection like a very narrow balcony high on the wall was to be occupied by five musicians. These musicians would have been much more comfortable below. But Miss Senter was sure that this shelf was intended for mu- sicians; her musicians therefore were to sit there, though their knees would be well squeezed between the wall and the balustrade. Fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, which was an early one on account of the children, the Consuless appeared. She found her brother stand- ing before the fire, surveying the room with his hands behind him. Doesnt it look pretty l said the sis- ter, with pride. For she had a greaffaithi in all her pots and pans, carvings and tapestries. Any one, however, could have had faith in the chandeliers of Venetian glass, from which came the soft radiance of hundreds of wax candles, lighting up the ancient gilding of the ceiling. Well, Barly, you know that person- ally I dont care much for all these second- hand articles you have collected, replied Peter. And you havent got the room very warm, after all; only 6O~. How- ever, I can stand it if the supper is all rightplenty of it, and the hot things really hot; not lukewarm, you know. We can trust Giorgio. But Ill go and have a final word with him, if you like, answered Miss Senter, crossing the beautiful salon, her train sweeping over the floor behind her. The Consuless was no longer young (the days when Peter had paid those school bills were now far distant), and she had never been hand- some. But she was tall and slender, with pretty hands and feet, a pleasant expres- sion in her blue eyes, and soft brown hair, now heavily tinged with silver. Her brothers use of Barly was a grief to her. She had tried to lead him towards the habit of calling her Barbe, the French form of Barbara, if nickname lie must have. But lie pronounced this Bob, and that was worse than the other. On her way towards the kitchen the Consuless canie upon Carmeha. Carmela was the servant who had the general over- sight of everything excepting the cook- ing. For Giorgio, the cook, allowed no interference in his department; in the kitchen he must be C~esar or nothing. Carmela was not the housekeeper, for Miss Senter herself was the housekeeper. VOL. LXXXVI.No. 5114 MADEMOI5ELLE NEED GIVE HERSELF NO UNEASINESS. But the American would have found her task twenty times, fifty times more diffi- cult if she had not had this skilful little deputy to carry out all her orders. Car- mela was said to be middle-aged. But 44 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. her short slender figure was so erect, her little face so alert, her movements were so brisk, and her small black eyes so bright, that she seemed full of youthful fire; in fact, if one saw only her back, she looked younger than Assunta and Beppa, who were Venetian girls of twenty. Carmela was always attired in the French fashion, with tight corsets, a plain black dress fit- ting like a glove round her little waist, and short enough to show the neat shoes on her small feet; over this black dress there was a jaunty white apron with pock- ets, and upon her beautifully braided shining dark hair was perched a small spotless muslin cap. The younger ser- vants asserted that the slight pink tint on the tidy little womans cheeks was arti- ficial. However that may have been, Carmela, as she stood, was the personifi- cation of trimness and activity. Untir- ing and energetic, she was a wonderful worker; Miss Senter, who had been much in Italy, appreciated her good fortune in having, secured for her Venetian house- keeping such a coadjutor as this. Car- mela was scrupulously neat, and she was even more scrupulously honest, never ab- stracting so much as a pin; she econo- mized for her mistress with her whole soul, and kept watch over every detail; she told the truth, she swept the corners she dusted under everything; she worked conscientiously, in one way and another, all day long. Even Peter, who did not like foreign servants, liked Carmela; lie said she was so spry ! Is everything ready? inquired Miss Senter as she met her deputy. Yes, signorina, everything, answer- ed Carmela, briskly. She was looking her very best and tightest, all black and white, with black silk stockings showing above her little high-heeled shoes. As she spoke she l)ut her hands in their black lace mitts in the pockets of her apron, and, niiddle-aged though she was said to be, she looked at that moment like a smart French soubrette of the stage. I am going to the kitchen to have a word with Gior~io, said the Consuless, passing on. If the signorina permits, I carry the train, answered Carmela, lifting the sat- in folds from the floor. Thus they went on together, mistress and maid, through various rooms and corridors, until finally the kitchen was reached. It was a large, lofty place, brilliantly lighted, for Giorgio was old and needed all the radiance that could be obtained to aid his failing sight. He was a small man with a melancholy countenance. But this melancholy was an accident of expression; in reality, old Giorgio was cheerful and amiable, with a good deal of mild wit. He was the most skilful cook in Venice. But his health had failed some years before, and lie had now very little strength; the Con- sul, who liked good dinners, paid him high wages, and gave him a young as- sistant. Well, Giorgio, all promises well, I trust ? said Miss Senter as she entered, her steps somewhat impeded by the tight- ness with which Carmela held back her train. The Consul is particular about having the hot things really hot, and constantly renewed, as it is such a cold night. The three men from Florian s will have charge of the ices and the other cold things, and will do all that is neces- sary in the supper-room. But for the hot dishes we depend upon you. Giorgio, who was dressed entirely in white, bowed and waved his hand. Ma- denioiselle need give herself no uneasi- ness, he said in French. For Giorgio bad learned his art in Paris, and when- ever Carmela was present he invariably answered his mistress in the language of that northern capital, even though her question had been couched in Italian; it was one of his waysand he had but few of standing up, as it were, against the indefatigable little deputy. For, clever though Carmela was, she had never been out of her native land, and could speak no tongue but her own. Are you feeling well, Giorgiol con- tinued Miss Senter. I see that you look pale. I am afraid you have been doing too much. Where is Luigi l (Luigi was the cooks assistant.) He has gone home; ten minutes ago. I let him go, as it is a festival. He is young, and we can be young but once. Chc vuolc! In addition, all was done. No, said Miss Senter, who was now speaking French also; there is still much to do, and it was not wise to let Luigi go. You are certainly very tired, Giorgio. Let not mademoiselle think of ~ said the old man, straightening himself a little. But I shall think of it, said Miss -w A CHRISTMAS PARTY. 45 Senter, kindly. Carmela, she contin- ued, speaking iiow in Italian, go to my room and get my case of cordials. Carmela divined that the cordial was for the cook. And the signorinas train? she said. Surely I cannot leave it on this dirty floor! Will not the signo- rina return to the drawing-room to take her cordial? Ehit is not for her? It is for Giorgio? A man? A man to be faint like a girl? Ha, ha! it makes me laugh ! Go and get it, repeated Miss Senter, taking the train over her own arm. She knew that Carinela did not like the cook. Jealousy was the one fault the hard- working little creature possessed. She has tried to make me dismiss Giorgio more than once, she said to her brother, in confidence; hut I always pretend not to see the feeling that influences her. It is only Giorgio she is jealous of; she gets on perfectly well with Luigi, and with Assunta and Beppa, while for Ercole she can never do enough. She is devoted to Ercole Giorgio had not taken up the slur cast upon his immaculate floor. All he said was, Comme elle est mdchante ! with a shrug. Where is Ercole? said Miss Senter, while she waited. He is dressing, answered Giorgio. He makes himself beautiful for the oc- casion. Ercole was the chief gondolier, a tall athletic young man of thirty, handsome and clever. Miss Senter had chosen Er- cole to assist her with the Christmas tree. The second gondolier, Andrea, was to be stationed at the end of the little quay or riva down below, outside of their own water-door; for here on the small canal were the steps used by arriving and de- parting gondolas, and here also floated the handsome gondola of the Consul, with its American flag. The two gondoliers also had picturesque costumes of white (woollen in winter, linen in summer), with blue collars, blue stockings, blue caps, and long fringed red sashes, the combination representing the American national colors. To-night Ercole, having to appear in the drawing-room, was mak- ing a longer stay than usual before his little mirror. Carmela returned with the cordial- case. Ah, yes, our cook is palepale as a young virgin ! she commented, as Miss Senter, unlocking the box, poured into one of the little glasses it contained a generous portion of a restorative whose every drop was costly. Giorgio, taking off the white linen cap which covered his gray hair, made a bow, and then drank the draught with much appreciation. It is true that I am pale, he remarked, slyly, in Italian. I might, perhaps, try some rouge? And then the Consuless, to avert war hastily bore her deputy away. Half an hour later the guests had ar- rived; they included all the Americans in Venice, with a sprinkling of English, Italians, and Russians. The grown peo- ple assembled in the drawing-room. And presently they heard singing. Through the anterooms came the children, enter- ing with measured step, two and two, led by three little boys in Oriental cos- tumes. These three boys were singing as follows: We three Kings of Orient are, Bearing gifts weve travelled from far, Field and fountain, moor and mountain, Following yonder star. Here, from the high top branch of the Christmas tree which rose above the con- cealing curtain, blazed out a splendid star. And then all the procession took up the chorus, as they marched onward: Oh, star of wonder, Star of might, Star with royal Beauty bright! Ercole, who was behind, the curtain, now drew it aside, and there stood the tree, blazing with fairy-lamps and glitter- ing ornaments, while beneath it was a mound composed entirely of toys. The children behaved well; they kept their ranks and repeated their carol, as they had been told to do, ranging themselves meanwhile in a half-circle before the tree. We three Kings of Orient are, chanted the three little Kings a second time, though their eyes were fixed upon a magnificent box of soldiers, with tents and flags and cannon. The carol finish- ed, Miss Senter, with the aid of her gon- dolier, distributed the toys and bonbons, and the room was filled with happy glee. When Ercole had detached the last package of sweets from the spark- ling branches lie disappeared. His next duty was to conduct the musicians up to their cage. Miss Senter had allowed an hour for 46 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the inspection and trial of the toys before the dancing should begin. It was none too much, and the clamor was still great as this hour drew towards its close, so great that she herself was glad that the end was near. Looking up to see wheth- er her musicians had assembled on their shelf, she perceived some one at the drawing-room door; it was Carmela, hid- ing herself niodestly behind the porti~re, but at the same time unmistakably beck- oning to her mistress as soon as she saw that she had caught her eye. Miss Sen- ter went to the doorway. Will the signorina permit? A sur- prise of Ercoles, whispered Carmela, eagerly, standing on tiptoe to reach her mistresss ear. He has dressed himself as a clown, and he is of a perfection! He has bells on his cap and his elbows, and if the signorina graciously allows, lie will come in to amuse the children. A clown ! answered Miss Senter, hesitating. I dont know; he ought to have told me. He has been dancing to show me. And oh! so beautifully, with bounds and leaps. He makes of himself also a statue, pursued Carmela. But I cannot have any buffoonery here, you know, said Miss Senter. It would not do. Buffoonery! Surely the signorina knows that Ercole has the soul of a gentle- man, whispered Carmela, reproachfully. And it was true that Miss Senter had al- ways thought that her chief gondolier pos- sessed a great deal of natural refinement. Will the signorina step out for a mo- ment and look at him? pursued the dep- uty, her whisper now a little dejected. If he is to be disappointed, poor fellow, may he at least have that pleasure? The idea of the gondoliers disappoint- ment touched the amiable American. She turned her head and glanced into the drawing-room; all was going on gayly; no one had missed her. She slipped out under the porti~re, and followed Carmela to a room at the side. Here stood the gondolier. He wore the usual white dress and white mask of a clown, and, as the Cousuless entered, he cut a splendid caper, ringing all his bells. I had no idea that you were such a skilful acrobat, Ercole, said his mistress. Ercole turned a little somerset, gave a high jump, and came down in the attitude of the Mercury of John of Bologna. Why you are really wonderful ! said Miss Senter, admiringly. And now he was dancing with butter- fly grace. Miss Senter was won. But if I let you come in, Ercole, I hope you will re- member where you are? she said, warn- ingly. Can you breathe quite at ease in that mask? The gondolier opened his grotesque painted lips a little to show that he could part them. Yes, I see. Now listen; in the draw- ing-room you must keep your eye on me, and if at any time you see me raise my hand - so you must dance out of the room, Ercole. For the sign will mean that that is enough. But, dear me! theres one thing we havent thought of; who is to see to the musicians upstairs, and to go back and forth, telling them what to play ? I can do that, said Carmela, who was now all smiles. Does the signorina wish me to take them up? They are all ready. They are waiting in the wood- room. The wood-room was a remote store- room for fuel; it was detached from the rest of the apartment. Why did you put them there ~ inquired Miss Senter, astonished. They are musiciansyes; but who knows what else they may be? Thieves, perhaps ! said the deputy, shrewdly. Get them out immediately, and take them up to the gallery, said Miss Senter. And tell them to play something lively as a beginning. Carmela, quick as usual, was gone be- fore the words were ended. Now, Ercole, wait until you hear the music. Then come in, said the Consul- ess. She returned to the drawing-room, making a motion with her hands as she advanced, which indicated that her guests were to move a little more towards the walls on each side, leaving the centre of the room free. And then, as the music burst out above, Ercole came bounding in. His dress was ordinary: Miss Senter was vexed anew that he had not told her of his plan, for if lie had, she could have provided a perfectly fresh costume. But no one noticed the costume; all eyes were fixed upon the gambols; for, keeping time to the music, he was advancing up the room, dancing, bounding, leaping, turn- w r4 A SMALL CHILD PERCHED ON EACH OF HIS SHOULDERS. 48 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. ing somersets, arid every now and then attentions, pinching his legs to see if striking an attitude with extraordinary they were real. skill. He was so light that his white Come, children, this will be a good linen feet made no sound, and so graceful time for our second song, said Miss Sen- that the fixed grin of his mask hecame ter, making a diversion. Take bands, annoying, clashing as it did with the now, in a circle; yesround the clown, beauty of his poses. This thought, how- if you wish. Therethats right. She ever, came to the elders only; for to the signalled to the music to stop, and then, children, fascinated, shouting with de- beginning, led the little singers herself: light, the broad red smile was an impor- Though were here on foreign shores, taut part. We are all devotion Its our gondolier, explained Miss To our land of Stars and Stripes, Senter. Its Ercole, she had whispered Far across the ocean. to her brother. Yankee doodle doodle doo, You are always so fortunate in ser- Yankee doodle dandy, vants, said Lady Kay. That little ~- Buckwheat cakes are very good, man you have, Carmela, she is a miracle And sos molasses candy. for an Italian. Singing this gayly to the well-known Four times the clown made his pyro- fifelike tune, round and round danced technic progress up and then down the the children in a circle, holding each long salon, never repeating the same others hands, the English and Italians pose, but always giving something new; generously joining with the little Amer- then, after a final tremendous pigeon- icans in praise of the matutinal cakes wing, he let his white arms fall, and his which they had never seen; the Con sul- white head droop on his breast, as if say- ess had drilled her choir beforehand, and ing that he was taking a moment for re- they sang merrily and well. The first pose. four lines of this ditty had been composed Yes, yes; give him time to breathe, by Peter himself for the occasion. children, cried Peter. Ill tell you I hear you haf written this vurra fine what, he added, to Sir William Kay; piece l said a Russian princess, address- Ive never seen a better performance on ing him. any stage. And he slapped his leg in Oh no answered the Consul I confirmation. The Consul was a man only wrote the first four lines; the chorus whose sole claim to beauty lay in the fact is one of our national songs, you know. that he always looked extremely clean. But those first four linestheir sen- He was meagre and small, with very short timent ees so fine, so speerited ! legs, but he was without consciousness of Well, theyre neat, Peter admitted, these deficiencies; in the presence of the modestly. Apollo Belvedere, for instance, it had The clown, having recovered his breath, never occurred to him to draw compari- cut a caper. Instantly Yankee Doodle sons. Nature, however, will out in some came to an end, and the children all way, and from childhood Peter Senter stopped to watch him. had had a profound admiration for feats Tell them to play a waltz, said Miss of strength, vaulting, tumbling, and the Senter to Carmela, who was in waiting like. Ill tell you what, he repeated to at the door. The deputy must have flown Sir William; Ill have the fellow exhib- up the little stairway leading to the gal- ited; Ill start him at my own cost. Here lery, for the waltz began in less than a all this timetwo whole yearshe has minute. Then Ercole, selecting a pretty been our gondolier, Ercoly has and no- American child from among the group, thing more; for I hadnt a suspicion that began to dance with her in the most he had the least talent in this line. But, charming way, followed by all the little sir, hes a regular high - flier! And A ones, two and two. Those who could Number One ! waltz, did so; those who could not, held Meanwhile the children were crowding each others hands and hopped about. closely round their clown, and peering Supper followed. The hot things were up in order still to see his grin, which smoking and delicious, and the supplies was now partly hidden, owing to his constantly renewed; old Giorgio was evi- drooped head; the three Kings of Orient, dently on his mettle. It was the gondo- especially, were very pressing in their her, still in his clowns dress, who brought A CHRISTMAS PARTY. 49 in these supplies and handed them to the waiters from Florians. You need not do that, Ercole said Miss Senter, in an undertone; these men can go to the kitchen for them. Ercole bowed: it would not bave been respectful to reply with his grinning lin- en lips. But he continued to fill the same office. Perhaps Giorgio wont have Florians people in the kitchen 1 the Consuless re- flected. As soon as supper was over, the chil- dren clamored for their clown, and he came bounding in a second time, and, af- ter several astonishing capers, selected a beautiful English child with long golden curls and led a galop, followed again by all the others, two and two. Peter, his mind still occupied with his project of taking the young Italian to America as a star performer. moved from point to point, in order to get different views of him. One of these stations was in the doorway, and here Carmela spoke to him in a low tone, and asked him to come to the outer hall. He did not understand her words; but he comprehended her gesture and followed her. She was talk- ing angrily, almost spluttering, as she led the way. But her talk was lost on her master, who, however, opened his eyes when he saw four policemen stand- ing at his outer door. What do you want here ? he said. This is a private residence, and you are disturbing a Christmas party. The chief officer told his tale. But Peter did not comprehend him. You should have gone to the Con- sulate, he went on. The Consulate, you knowRiva Skevony. The vice- consul wont be there so late as this; but youll find him early to-morrow morn- ing, sure. The policemen, however, remained where they were. Theres no making them understand a word, said Peter to himself, in irrita- tion. Here, you go and call my sis- ter, he said to Carmela, who, in her wrath over this intrusion, stood at a dis- tance swallowing nothing in a series of gulps that made her throat twitch. Lets see; sister, thats sorelly. Sorelly ! he repeated to Carmela. Sorelly ! The enraged little deputy understood. And she got Miss Senter out of the draw- ing-room without attracting notice. The master wishes to see the signorina, she ~aid, in a concentrated undertone. I burn with indignation, for it is an inso- lent intrusion; it is an insult to his ex- cellency, who no doubt is a prince in his own country. But they would not go, in spite of all I could say. Nor would they tell me their errandbrutes ! And with her skirts quivering, she led the way to the outer hall. Find out what these men want, Bar- ly, said Peter when his sister ap- peared. And then the chief officer again told his story. Mercy ! said Miss Senter, how dread- ful! Somebody was killed, Peter, about seven oclock this evening, in a cafd near the Rialto, and they say they have just found a clew which appears to track the assassiii to this very door! And they wish to search. What an absurd idea! With the whole place crowded and blazing with lights, as it is to-night, a mouse couldnt hide, said Peter. Tell them so. They repeat that they must search, said Miss Senter. But if you will ex- ert your authority, Peter, make use of your official position, I am sure we need not submit to such a thing. Peter, however, was helpless without his vice-consul; he had no clear idea as to what his powers were or were not; he had never informed himself. Carmela, greatly excited, had drawn Miss Senter aside. There was a sixth man with those musicians ! she whisper- ed. I saw him. He did not play, but he sat behind them. And he has only just gone. Five minutes ago. Miss Senter repeated the information to the chief officer. The officer imme- diately detached two men to follow this important clew; he himself, with the third, would remain to go through the apartment, as a matter of form. As the rooms are all open and light- ed, said Miss Senter in English to her broth er, it will only take a few minutes, if go they must, and no one need know anything about it. But whom shall we send with them? If we call Ercole it will attract attention; and Florians men, who were due at another place, have al- ready gone. We could have Andrea come up. But no; Giorgio will do best of all. Call Giorgio to go with these men, she added in Italian to Carmela. 50 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Let me conduct them, answered the deputy. Yes, on the whole, she will be better than any one, said Miss Senter to Peter. She is so angry at what she calls the in- sult to you, and so excited about the mys- terious person who was with the musi- cians, that she will bully them and hurry them off to look for him in no time. They can begin with a peep into the draw- ing-room; Ill tell them to keep them- selves hidden. She turned and explain- ed her idea in Italian to the officer; they could glance into the drawing-room first, and then Carmela would take them through all the other rooms; the Consul, though he had the power of refusal, would permit this liberty in the cause of justice. Their search, however, would be unavailing; under the circumstances, it was impossible that any one should have taken refuge there, unless it was that one extra man who had been admit- ted with the musicians to the gallery. And he was already gone. Perhaps he only pretended to go? suggested the officer. With permis- sion, I will lock this door. And he did so. They went to the drawing-room, the policemen moving quietly, close to the wall. When the last anteroom was reached, the two men hid themselves be- hind the tapestries that draped the door, and making loop-holes among the folds, peeped into the ballroom. For it was at that moment a ballroom. The children had again taken up their whirling dance round Ercole, and the gondolier, who had now a small child perched on each of his shoulders, was singing with them in a clear tenor, having caught the syl- lables from having heard theni shouted about fifty times: Yankee dooda dooda doo, Yankee dooda dandee, Barkeet cakar vera goo, Arso molarsa candee. Miss Senter had sent Peter back to his guests. She herself, standing between the tapestries as though she were looking on from the doorway, named to the hid- den policeman, as well as she could amid the loud singing within, all the persons present, one by one. Finally her list came to a close. And that is Mr. Bar- low, the American who lives at the Da- nieli; and the one near the Christmas tree is Mr. Douglas, who has the Palazzo Dario. And the tall, large gentleman with silver hair is Sir William Kay. That is all, except the clown, who is our gon- dolier, and the five musicians up in the gallery; can you see them from here? If not, Carmela can take you up. And then she thought, with a sudden little shudder, that perhaps the officers idea was not, after all, impossible; perhaps, indeed, that extra man had only pretend- ed to go! The policeman signified that this was enough as regarded the drawing-room; they withdrew softly, and waited outside the door. Now take them through all the other rooms, Carmela, whispered the Consul- ess. Be as quiet about it as you can, so that no one need know. And when they have finally gone, come and stand for a moment between these curtains as a sign. If, by any chance, they should discover any one The signorina need not be frightened; I saw the man go myself! And he could not have re-entered without my know- ledge. As for these beasts of police- men And Carmelas eyes flashed, while her set lips seemed to say, Trust me to hustle them out ! Run up first and tell the musicians to play the music I sent them, said the Consuless. And then she rejoined her guests. For the next dance was to be a Vir- ginia reel, and some of the elders were to join the children; the two lines, when arranged, extended down half the length of the long room. It began with great spirit, the clown and the three Kings of Orient dancing at the end of the file. It is really Sir Roger de Coverley, an English da~~ce, said Lady Kay to the Rus- sian princess, who was looking on from the chair next her own. But the Sen- ters like to call it a Virginia reel, they are so patriotic. And we never coptra- dict the Senters, you know, added the English lady, laughing; we let them have their way. It seems to me a vurra good way,~ answered the princess, who was a plain- looking old woman with a charming smile. I have nowhere seen so many reech toyees (here she glanced at the costly playthings heaped on a table near by). Nor haf I, in Italy, seen so many tings to eat. With so moche champagne. Yes, they always do that, answered w A CHRISTMAS PARTY. 51 the baronets wife. They are very lav- ish. And very kind. Miss Senter herself was dancing the reel. Once she thought there was a qua- ver in the music, and glancing up quick- ly towards the gallery, she perceived the heads of the policemen behind the play- ers. The players, however, recovered themselves immediately, and upon look- ing up again a moment afterwards, she saw with relief that the sinister appari- tion had vanished. Ten minutes later the trim little figure of the deputy ap- peared between the tapestries of the door- way. Miss Senter, still dancing, nodded slightly, as a signal that she perceived her, and then Carmela, with an answering nod and one admiring look at Ercole, dis- appeared. After all, now that there had been a suspicion about that extra man, it u;as a comfort to have had the apartment searched; it woul~1 make the moment of going to bed easier, the American lady reflected. It was now half past eleven. By mid- night the last sleepy child had been car- ried down the marble stairway, the music ceased, and the musicians departed. The elders, glad that the noise was over, re- mained half an hour longer; then they took leave. Only Lady Kay and her hus- band were left; they had waited to take a closer look at Miss Senters Christmas present to her brother, which was a large and beautifully executed copy of Tinto- rettos Bacchus and Ariadne, from the Anticollegio of the Doges Palace. It had been placed temporarily on the wall behind the Christmas tree. How exquisite ! said Lady Kay, with a long sigh. You are most fortunate, Mr. Senter. Oh yes. Though I dont quite know what they will think of it in Rochester, New York, answered Peter, chuckling. Sir William and his wife intended to walk home. When it was cold they pre- ferred to walk rather than to go to and fro in a gondola; and as they were old residents, they knew every turn of the in- tricate burrowing chinks in all the quar- ters that serve as footways. When they took leave at one oclock, Peter and Miss Senter, with American friendliness, ac- companied them to the outer door. Peter was about to open this door when it was swung back, and a figure reeled inEr- cole. He had taken off his clowns dress, and wore now his gondoliers costume; VOL. LxXXYI.No. 5115 but this costume was in disorder, and his face was darkly red, a purple red. Why, Ercole, is it you? What is the matter? said Miss Senter, as he staggered against the wall. Oh, her Excellency the Consuless, I have been beaten! Beaten! Where have you been? I thought you were down at the landing with Andrea, said Miss Senter. The antiquity-dealer suffocates, mut- tered Ercole. And Giorgiodead ! This dead (morto) even Peter under- stood. Dead! What is he saying, Barly ? The man is saying, Mr. Senter, that an antiquity-dealer is suffocating, and that somebody he calls Giorgio is dead, trans- lated the pink-cheeked, portly Lady Kay, in her sweet voice. Its your gondolier, isnt itthe one who played the clown so nicely? What a pity! He has been drinking, I fear. While she was saying this, Sir William was leading Ercole further away from the ladies. Yes, he is drunk, said Peter, looking at him. Too bad! We must have help. Lets see; Andrea is down at the landing. Ill get him. And you call Giorgio, Barly. Here Ercole, held by Sir William, gave a maddened cry and threw his head about violently. Oh, dont leave my husband alone with him, Mr. Senter, said Lady Kay, alarmed. Hes a very powerful young man, and his eyes are dreadful. To me he looks as if he were mad. Those somer- saults have affected his head. And the gondoliers eyes were indeed strangely bloodshot and wild. Miss Sen- ter had hurried to the kitchen. But Gior- gio was not there. She came back, and found Ercole struggling with the Eng- lishman and her brother. Let me try, she said. I am not afraid of him. Ercole, she continued, speaking gently in Italian, go to your room now, and go to bed quietly; every- thing will be all right to-morrow. Ercole writhed in Sir Williams grasp. The antiquity-dealer! And Giorgio dead! Where is Giorgio, Barly? said Peter, angrily, as he helped Sir William in secur- ing the gondolier. And where are the other servants? Wheres Carmela? Find them, and send one down to the landing for Andrea and the other for Giorgio. Quick ! 52 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Oh, Peter, Ive been, and I couldnt find Giorgio or any one. Carmela was in your bedroom not long ago, said Lady Kay, watching the gondoliers contortions nervously; she helped me put on my cloak. Miss Senter ran to her bedroom, her train flying in the haste she made. But in a moment she was back again. There is no one there. Oh, where are they all? Ercole, hearing her voice, peered at her with his crimsoned eyes, and then break- ing loose suddenly, he came and caught hold of her arm. The antiquity-room. 1 Viii she come? Peter and Sir William dragged him away by main force. Phe gentlemen, then. Will they come? said the gondolier, hoarsely. And again freeing himself with two strokes of his powerful arms, he passed out (for the door was still half open), and began to descend the outside staircase. Oh, thank Heaven, he has gone! Oh, lock the door ! cried the two ladies to- gether. We must follow him, Mr. Senter, said Sir William. He is plainly mad from drink, and may do some harm. Yes; and down there Andrea can help us, answered Peter; and the two gentlemen hastened down the staircase. It was a very long flight with three turns. The court below was brilliantly lighted by many wall lamps. I dont like my husbands going down, said Lady Kay, in a tremor, as she stood on the landing outside. If they are going to seize him, the more of us the better; dont you think so? For while they are holding him, you and I could run across and get that other man in from the riva. But Miss Sen ter was not there. She had rushed back into the house, and was now calling with all her strength: Giorgio! Carmela! Assunta! Beppa ! There was no answer, and seized with a fresh panic by the strangeness of this silence, she hastened out again and joined Lady Kay, who was already half-way down the stairs. The gondolier had not turned towards the water entrance; he had crossed the court in the opposite direction, and now he was passing through a broad low door which led into the hall on the ground-floor be- hind the show-room of Z. Pelham, throw- ing open as lie did so both wings of this entrance, so that the light from the court entered in a broad beam across the stone pavement. My dear, dont go in! Oh, Peter, stop! stop ! cried the two ladies, as they breathlessly descended the last flight. But Peter and Sir William had paid no attention. Quickly detaching two of the lamps from the wall, they had followed the madman. The other gondolier! gasped Lady Kay. And the two women ran swiftly to the water-door and threw it open, Miss Senter calling, in Italian, Andrea! come instantly I The little riva along the small canal was also brightly lighted. But there was no one there. And opposite there was only a long blank wall. Oh, we must not leave them a mo- ment longer ! said Lady Kay. And again they rushed across the broad court, this time entering the dark water- story; for it was hetter to enter, dreadful though it was, than to remain outside, not knowing what might be happening within. Ercole meanwhile had made his way into Mr. Pelbams show-room, and here lie had struck a match and lighted a candle. As he had left the door of the show-room open, those who were without could see him, and they stopped for a mo- ment to watch what he would do next. It was now a group of four, for the ladies had joined the other two, Miss Senter whispering to her brother, Andrea isnt there. The gondolier bent down, and began to drag something across the floor and out to the open space behind. Here ! he said, turning his purple face towards their lamps. I can no more. And he sat down suddenly on the pavement, and let his head and arms fall forward over his knees. Peter and Sir William, giving their lamps to the ladies, were approaching cautiously, in order to secure him while he was quiet, when they saw, to their hor- ror, two human legs and feet protruding from the object which he had dragged forth. Why, its the second - hand dealer; its Z. Pell]am ! said Peter, in fresh cx- citement. I know his arctics. Bring the lamp, Barly. Quick ! The two la~lies came nearer, keeping one eye upon Ercole. Peter and Sir William with some difficulty cut the A CHRISTMAS PARTY. 53 rope, and unwound two woollen cover- lids and a sheet. Within, almost suffo- cated, with his hands tied behind him, was the dealer. I suppose he did this, whispered Lady Kay to Miss Senter, her pink face white, as she indicated the motionless gondolier. Sir William lifted the dealers head, while Peter loosened his collar. Now will Excellencies look for Gior- gio? muttered Ercole, without changing his position. He says now will you look for Gior- gio, translated Lady Kay. That he tells his crimes shows that lie really is mad, she added, in a whisper. No; I think he has come to for the moment, thats why he tells, said Peter, hastily rubbing Z. Pelhams chest. Ask him where we shall look, Barly; ask while hes lucid. Where must we look for Giorgio, Ercole? quavered Miss Senter, her Ital- ian coming out with the oddest pronun- ciation. Back stairs, answered the gondolier. Back stairs, he says, translated Lady Kay. There are no back stairs, replied Peter. Ill put this coverlid under his back. That will make him breathe better said the Englishman, his sympathies roused by the forlorn plight of the little dealer, whose carefully strapped arctic shoes gave ironical emphasis to his helplessness. Meanwhile Miss Senter, saying Yes, there are stairs, had run across the pave- ment with her lamp, found the door at the back of the hall, and opened it. Z. Pelham began to breathe more regularly, although he had not yet opened his eyes. Sir William drew him further away from the gondolier, and then he and Peter hastened across and looked up the spiral. It goes to the attics, explained Miss Senter. You two stand here at the bottom with one lamp, and Sir William and I will go up with the other, said Peter. Keep your eye on Ercole, Barly, and if he so much as moves, come right up and join us. Wait an instant, said the English- man. Stay here with Mr. Senter, Ger- trude. Making a detour so as not to rouse the gondolier, he entered the an- tiquity-dealers show-room and tried to open the outer door. But it was locked, and the key was not there. No use, he said, coming hurriedly back; I had hoped to get help from outside to watch him while we go up. Now remember, Gertrude, you and Miss Senter are to come up and join us instantly if he leaves his place. And then he and Peter ascended the winding steps, carrying one of the lamps. Round and round went the gleam of their light, and the two ladies at the bottom, standing with their skirts caught up ready to run, watched the still form of the gondolier in the dis- tance, visible in the gleam of the candle burning in the show-room. It seemed an hour. But a full minute had not gone when Peters voice above cried out: Its Giorgio! Good God! Killed! Bring up the other light. And the two ladies rushed up together. There on the landing lay the poor old cook, his eyes closed, his face ghastly, his white jacket deeply stained with blood. Miss Senter, who was really attached to the old man, began to cry. He isnt quite dead, said Peter, who had been listening for the heart. But we must get him out of this icy place. Then well tie up Ercolywe can use that rope-and after he is secured, I can go for help. Here, you take his head and shoul- ders, Sir William; you are the strongest. And Ill take his body. Barly can take the feet. It will be difficult, said the English- man. These steep stairs But Peter, when roused, was a veritable little lion. Come on, he said; we can do it. Please go down first and see if Ercole is still quiet, begged Miss Senter of Lady Kay. And the English woman, who now had both lamps, went down and came back in thirty seconds; she never knew how she did it. He has not stirred,~~ she said. And then old Giorgio was borne down, and out to the brilliantly lighted court beyond. Now, said Peter, whose face was bathed with great drops of perspiration, well first secure him, and he indicated Ercole by pointing his thumb backward over his shoulder towards the water-story, and then Ill go for a doctor and the police. ,~ But as lie spoke, coming out of the door upon his hands and knees, appeared Z. Pelham, who, as soon as he saw the 54 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. cooks prostrate body, called back hoarse- ly, in Italian, Ercole, get my brandy flask. Oh, dont call him ! said Lady Kay, in terror, clapping a fold of her skirt tightly over the dealers mouth and hold- ing it there. He is mad, quite mad Mr. Pelbam collapsed. Good heavens! Gertrude, dont suf- focate the poor creature a second time, said Sir William, pulling his wife away. Z. Pelham, released, raised his head. Ercole has been bad beat, and that makes him not genteel, he explained. Ercole, bring my brandy flask, he call- ed again in Italian, and the effort he made to break through his hoarseness brought out the words in a sudden wild yell. My voice a little deranged is, he added, apologetically, in English. They could now hear the steps of the gondolier within, and the ladies moved to a distance as he appeared, walking un- steadily, the flask in his hand. Not dead ? he said, trying to see Giorgio. But his eyes closed convulsively, and as soon as the dealer had taken the flask, down he went, or half fell, on the pave- ment as before, with his head thrown forward over his knees. Sir William placed himself promptly by his side, while Peter ran within to get the rope. Z. Pelham, uncorking the flask, poured a little brandy between Giorgios pale lips. You have all mistake, he said to Sir William as he did this. Ercole was bad beat by a third partee who was done it allme, and he, and this died cook; a third partee was done it all. And he chafed the cooks temples with brandy. A third party? said Peter, who had returned with the rope. Who? I know not; they knocked me from behind. It was lightning to me, in my head also, answered Z. Pelham, going on with his chafing. Come here, Barly, said Peter, taking command. Say what I tell you. Dont be afraid; Sir William and I will grab him if he stirs. Say, Ercoly, who hurt you? Ercole, who hurt you? said Miss Senter, tremulously. Non so. Un demonjo, answered the gondolier, his head still on his knees. He says he doesnt know. A demon, said Lady Kay. Ask when it happened. It was after he had taken the pre- sents from the tree, translated Lady Kay again. He was struck, dragged down the back stairs, gagged, and left in the antiquity-room. He has only just now been able to free himself. How could he act the clown, then? pursued Peter. He says he hasnt been a clown, or seen a clown. Oh, Peter, it was some one else, disguised! Who could it have been? cried Miss Senter, running away as if to fly up the staircase, and then in her terror running back again. The cooks eyes had now opened. He says see what is stoled, said Mr. Pel- ham, administering more brandy. Mr. Pelham was seated, tailor fashion, on the pavement, his feet in their arctics under him. Giorgio knows something about it too, said Peter. Ask him, Barly. But Miss Senter was incapable of speak- ing; she had hidden her face on Lady Kays shoulder, shuddering. The clown with whom she had talked, who had danced all the evening with the children, was an assassin! A strange and savage murderer! Ill do it, said the Englishman. And bending over Giorgio, he asked, in correct, stiff Italian, Do you know who hurt you? A tall dark man. I never saw him before, answered the cook, or rather his lips formed those words. He stabbed me after he had struck down Ercole. Now he is again gone, soliloquized Z. Pelham, as Giorgios eyes closed; I have fear this time he is truly dead ! And he chafed the cooks temples anew. Its all clear now, said Peter, and Ercoly isnt mad; only hurt in some way. So Ill go for help at once. Oh, Peter, you always get lost ! moaned his sister. And it was true that the Consul almost invariably lost his way in the labyrinth of chinks behind the palace. Ill go, said the Englishman. Its not very late (he looked at his watch); I shall be sure to find someone.~~ You must let me go with you, my dear, urged Lady Kay. In three minutes they were back with two men: Ive brought these two, and theres a doctor coming. And I sent word to the police, said the Englishman. And following very soon came a half- A CHRISTMAS PARTY. 55 dressed youth, a young American doctor, who had been roused by somebody. The cook was borne up the stairway and into the salon, where the chandeliers were shedding their soft radiance calmly, and where all the fairy-lamps were still burn- ing on the Christmas tree; for only twen- ty minutes had passed since the host and his guests had left the room. Behind the group of the two men from outside, who with Peter and the doctor were carrying Giorgio, came Sir William leading the gondolier, who seemed now entirely blind, while Z. Pelham followed, last of all, on his hands and knees. This old man has a deep cutdone with a knife; he has lost a good deal of blood; pretty bad case, said the doctor. Your gondolier has been dreadfully beaten about the head; but it wont kill him; he is young and strong. This third man seems to be only sprained. Get me something for baiidages and compresses, and bring cold water. Get towels, Barly, said the Consul. Oh, Peter, Im afraid to go, said Miss Senter, faintly. The man may still be hidden somewhere. And I know he has murdered Carmela and the other servants too! Peter ran to his own chamber, and came back with a pile of towels, a sheet from his bed, a large jug of water, and a scissors. Now, doctor, you stay here and do what you can for all three, he said, as he hurried round the great draw- ing-room, locking all the doors but one. And the ladies will stay here with you. The rest of us will search the whole apartment immediately. Lock this last door as soon as were out, will you ? Oh, Peter, dont go ! cried his sister. Let those two men do it. Or wait for the police. My dear, pray consider, said Lady Kay to her husband; if any one is hid- den, it is some desperate character But the Englishman and Peter were already gone, and the ladies were left with the doctor, who, comprehending every- thing quickly, locked the last door, and then hurried back to the cook. Old Giorgios mind was now wandering; he uttered incoherently, and seemed to be 9 m suffering greatly. The gondolier, his head enveloped in wet towels, was lying in a stupor on one of the sofas. Z. Pel- ham quietly tied up his own sprained an- kles with a portion of the torn sheet, and then assisted with much intelligence in the making of the bandages which the doctor needed for Giorgio. Sir William, Peter, and the two men from outside began with the kitchen; no one. The pantries and store-rooms; no one. The supper-room; no one. The bed- rooms; no one. The anterooms and small drawing-room; no one. As the whole house was still brightly lighted, this did not take long. They now crossed to four rooms on the north side; no one. Then came a large store-room for linen. This was not lighted, so they took in a lamp; no one. Theres a second door here, said Sir William, perceiving one of those masked fiat portals common in Italy, which are painted or frescoed so exactly like the wall that they seem a part of it. It opens into a little recess only a foot deep, said Peter, going on with the lamp to a second store-room. No one could possibly hide there. Now after we have finished on this side, there is only the wood-room left; that is off by itself in a wing. The Englishman had accompanied his host. But having a strong bent towards thoroughness, he was not satisfied, and he quietly returned alone and opened that masked door. There, flattened against the wall, not clearly visible in the semi- darkness, was the outlines of a womans figure. His exclamation brought back the others with the lamp. It was Carmela. She stood perfectly still for an instant or two, so motionless, and with such bright eyes staring at them, that she look- ed like a wax figure. Then she sprang from her hiding-place and made a swift rush down the corridor towards the out- er door. They caught her. She fought and struggled dreadfully, still without a sound. So frantic were her writhings that her apron and cap were torn away, and the braids of her hair fell down and finally fell off, leaving only, to Peters astonishment, a few locks of thin white haii in their place. It took the four men to hold her, for she threw herself from side to side like a wild-cat; she even dragged the four as far as the anteroom nearest the drawing - room in her des- perate efforts to reach that outer door. But here, as she felt herself at last over- powered, a terrible shriek burst from her, her face became distorted, her eyes rolled up, and froth appeared on her lips. 56 HARPER$ NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. The shriek, an unmistakably feminine one, had brought the doctor and the two ladies from the drawing-room. A fit, exclaimed the doctor as soon as he s~iw the froth. Here, get open that tight dress. He unbuttoned a few buttons of the black bodice, and tore off the rest. Gracious! corsets like steel ! He took out his knife, and hastily cutting the cash mere across the shoulders, he got his hand in and severed the corset srrings. Now, ladies, just help me to get her out of this harness. And with trembling fingers Lady Kay and Miss Senter gave their aid, and after a moment the whole edificefor it was an edificesank to the floor. What was left was an old, old woman, small and with- ered, her feeble chest rising and falling in convulsions under her coarse chemise, and the rest of her little person scantily covered with a patched, poverty-stricken under-skirt. Oh, poor creature ! said Lady Kay, the tears filling her eyes as all the ribs of the meagre wasted body showed in the straining, spasmodic effort of the lungs to get breath. Bring something to cover her, Barly, said Peter. And Miss Senter, forgetting her fears, ran to her room, and brought back the first thing she could finda large white shawl. All right now; shes coming to, said the doctor. The convulsions gradually ceased, and Carmelas eyes opened. She looked at them all in silence as she sat, muffled in the shawl, where they had placed her. Finally she spoke. The Consul is too late, she said, with mock respect. The Consuless also. Did they admire the dancing of the clown? A fine fellow that clown! You need not hold me, she added to the two men from outside, who were acting as guards. I have nothing more to do. My son is safe, and that was all I cared for. They will nev- er find him; he is far from here now. He is very clever, and he has, besides, to help him, all the money which the Consuless so kindly provided for him by keeping it in a secret drawer, whose secret every Italian, not an idiot, knows. But the Consuless has always had a sin- gular self-conceit. I had only to men- tion that extra man with the musicians poor little Tonio the tailor it wasand she swallowed him down whole. I could have got away myself if I had cared to. But I waited, in order to keep back the alarm as long as possible; I waited. Oh yes, I helped all the ladies to put on their cloaks; I helped this English lady- ship to put on hers last of all, as she knows. When their Excellencies went down to the water-story, I then tried to go; but I found that they could still see the staircase, so I came back. What matters it? They may do with me what they please. For myself I care not. My son is safe. On her old cheeks, under the falling white hair, were still the faint pink tinges of rouge, and from beneath the wretched petticoat came the two young-looking high-heeled shoes. She folded her thin hands on her lap, and refused to say more. Assunta and Beppa were found in the wood-room, gagged and bound like the others, but not hurt. And in the morn- ing the Consuls gondola was discovered floating out with the tide, and within it Andrea in the same helpless state. The man, who was an ex-convict, a burglar, suspected of worse crimes, after commit- ting the murder at the caf6, had fled to the palace. Here he and his intrepid little mother had invented and carried out the whole scheme in the one hour which had followed the distribution of the presents from the tree, before the dancing began. Carmela had even left the house to obtain a clowns costume from a dealer in masquerade dresses who lived near by. And she had herself opened for her sons use the disused door which led to the spiral steps. That son was never caught. His mo- ther, who had worked for him indefatiga- blyworked so hard that her hands were worn almost to clawswho had support- ed him and supplied him, who had made herself young and active like a girl, though she was seventy-four, in order to be able to send him moneyhis mother, who had allowed herself nothing in the world but the few smart clothes necessary for her disguise, who was absolutely hon- est, but who had stolen for him three thou- sand francs from the secret drawer, and had stood by and aided him when he beat, stabbed, and gagged her fellow-servants this mother was not arrested. She should have been, of course. But somehow, very strangely, she escaped from the palace be- fore morning. SOME TYPES OF THE VIRGIN. 57 Old Giorgio was never able to work again. But as Peter pensioned him handsomely, he led an easy life, while Ercole became a magnate among gondo hers. It was not until three years afterwards, in Rochester, New York, that Peter sur- rounded by Z. Peihams entire collection (which he had purchased, though think- ing it hideous, at large prices), confessed to his sister that he had connived at Car- melas escape. Somehow I couldnt stand it, Barly. That thin white hair and those poor old arms of hers, and that wretched, wasted, gasping little chest in prison! SOME TYPES OF THE VIRGIN. BY THEODORE CHILD. FOR the purposes of piety, of culture, and of the love of beauty, it is pro- posed in the following pages to present to i~he contemplative reader a few supreme types of the Virgin, according to the ideals of certain painters of the fifteenth century. In the profusion of pictures which this theme has produced, the selec- tion of half a dozen examples might at first sight seem to be a task of unsur- mountable difficulty, and the choice itself necessarily arbitrary. In order at once to soften the possible severity of criticism, let it be stated that the scope of the pres- ent essay is limited. Its plan eliminates those more primitive paintings where ma- terial or plastic beauty is absent, though beauty of expression, of character, and of sentiment is often present with singular intensity. It eliminates also the work of imitators, and of those painters who were so far removed from the spirit of medi~e- val Christianity that the Virgin could no longer be to them a source of spontaneous inspiration. The types chosen were cre- ated at an epoch when the means of art were perfect, or approaching perfection. The painters who created them were es- sentially inventors of beauty. The pic- tures reproduced remain as landmarks in the history of human culture; and the very inadequate comments of the accom- panying text are offered with all humil- ity in the hope that they may be found suggestive of culture to sympathetic souls. In art, as in all human creations, there is nothing absolutely isolated and with- out antecedents. Not that the idea of progress can be fitly introduced into the imaginative order, so far as the essential personality of the artist is concerned; otherwise the artists of each succeeding generation would be able to take advan- tag~e of the iesthetic experience of their predecessors, and so necessarily surpass them. We know, on the contrary, that the true artist depends upon himself, and is surety for himself alone; his own works are all that he can promise and bequeath to the future; he cannot teach others to become great; he cannot hand down the lessons of his own experience, unless it be in a few technical artifices, which are of small importance when we are considering the spiritual personality. In the study of the truly great artists we are not concerned with classification by order of superiority or of inferiority; we find ourselves in presence of inventors who are the great and rare geniuses, and of imitators who may often have a cer- tain personality, power, and charm, but who do not introduce a thoroughly new note into art. The inventors are all great, but great in such different ways that the establishment of comparisons can generally result, only in rhetorical exercises. In the art of painting, Fra Angelico, Lippo Lippi, Mantegna, Bellini, Perugino, Botticelli, Michael Angelo, Le- onardo, M~mlinc, suggest themselves as consummate types of revealers of new visions of nature, or, in other words, of inventors of beauty. But what good can come of an attempt to compare and clas- sifv these men? It suffices to know that they were inventors of beauty, and to as- certain the kind of beauty formulated by each one of them; and then, if such be our inclination, we may intensify our enjoy- ment of that beauty by studying and comprehending it in its relations to the history of human thouoht and noble plea- sure. It is from this point of view espe- cially that we may say, in speaking of the manifestations of art, that they are never absolutely without antecedents. The in- vention of beauty appears, on the contra- ry, to be an operation of singular and mysterious complexity, defying ultimate

Theodore Child Child, Theodore Some Types of the Virgin 57-71

SOME TYPES OF THE VIRGIN. 57 Old Giorgio was never able to work again. But as Peter pensioned him handsomely, he led an easy life, while Ercole became a magnate among gondo hers. It was not until three years afterwards, in Rochester, New York, that Peter sur- rounded by Z. Peihams entire collection (which he had purchased, though think- ing it hideous, at large prices), confessed to his sister that he had connived at Car- melas escape. Somehow I couldnt stand it, Barly. That thin white hair and those poor old arms of hers, and that wretched, wasted, gasping little chest in prison! SOME TYPES OF THE VIRGIN. BY THEODORE CHILD. FOR the purposes of piety, of culture, and of the love of beauty, it is pro- posed in the following pages to present to i~he contemplative reader a few supreme types of the Virgin, according to the ideals of certain painters of the fifteenth century. In the profusion of pictures which this theme has produced, the selec- tion of half a dozen examples might at first sight seem to be a task of unsur- mountable difficulty, and the choice itself necessarily arbitrary. In order at once to soften the possible severity of criticism, let it be stated that the scope of the pres- ent essay is limited. Its plan eliminates those more primitive paintings where ma- terial or plastic beauty is absent, though beauty of expression, of character, and of sentiment is often present with singular intensity. It eliminates also the work of imitators, and of those painters who were so far removed from the spirit of medi~e- val Christianity that the Virgin could no longer be to them a source of spontaneous inspiration. The types chosen were cre- ated at an epoch when the means of art were perfect, or approaching perfection. The painters who created them were es- sentially inventors of beauty. The pic- tures reproduced remain as landmarks in the history of human culture; and the very inadequate comments of the accom- panying text are offered with all humil- ity in the hope that they may be found suggestive of culture to sympathetic souls. In art, as in all human creations, there is nothing absolutely isolated and with- out antecedents. Not that the idea of progress can be fitly introduced into the imaginative order, so far as the essential personality of the artist is concerned; otherwise the artists of each succeeding generation would be able to take advan- tag~e of the iesthetic experience of their predecessors, and so necessarily surpass them. We know, on the contrary, that the true artist depends upon himself, and is surety for himself alone; his own works are all that he can promise and bequeath to the future; he cannot teach others to become great; he cannot hand down the lessons of his own experience, unless it be in a few technical artifices, which are of small importance when we are considering the spiritual personality. In the study of the truly great artists we are not concerned with classification by order of superiority or of inferiority; we find ourselves in presence of inventors who are the great and rare geniuses, and of imitators who may often have a cer- tain personality, power, and charm, but who do not introduce a thoroughly new note into art. The inventors are all great, but great in such different ways that the establishment of comparisons can generally result, only in rhetorical exercises. In the art of painting, Fra Angelico, Lippo Lippi, Mantegna, Bellini, Perugino, Botticelli, Michael Angelo, Le- onardo, M~mlinc, suggest themselves as consummate types of revealers of new visions of nature, or, in other words, of inventors of beauty. But what good can come of an attempt to compare and clas- sifv these men? It suffices to know that they were inventors of beauty, and to as- certain the kind of beauty formulated by each one of them; and then, if such be our inclination, we may intensify our enjoy- ment of that beauty by studying and comprehending it in its relations to the history of human thouoht and noble plea- sure. It is from this point of view espe- cially that we may say, in speaking of the manifestations of art, that they are never absolutely without antecedents. The in- vention of beauty appears, on the contra- ry, to be an operation of singular and mysterious complexity, defying ultimate 58 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. analysis, but nevertheless permitting the notation of certain concomitant and con- ducive circumstances which the genius of the inventor resumes, dominates, and makes the foundation or starting - point of his own creations. Thus these crea- tions, though entirely personal and uli- precedented, are still connected intimate- ly with the past; they are never sudden and without transition; from a lofty point of view the chain of art and of culture is one and without a break. As we scan the boundless realms of art, we discern a succession of tendencies and ideals culmi- nating in typical works. An examina- tion of these tendencies and ideals reveals the influence exercised on the arts by re- ligious, political, social, and intellectual conditions. Furthermore, we trace the influence of nation upon nation and of race upon race, and threading our way through a maze of phenomena, we succeed in establishing a co-ordination of facts which forms what we call the philosophy of art. But the more earnest our re- search and the more penetrating our re- flection, the more quickly do we accustom ourselves to the perpetual deception of dashing the last effort of our analysis against the blind wall of the inexplicable, whether we call it nature, genius, or beau- ty. At one time, as Dante says in his Purgatory,~~ Lo Cirnabue thought alone to tread Tue lists of painting; now doth Giotto gain The praise, and darkness on his glory shed. Why is this so? Why was Cimabue glorious for a while, and then at another time reft of his glory? What enabled Giotto to shed darkness on tfie glory of Cimabue? That the ideal of beauty varies with the aspirations of mankind in different ages of the worlds history is a fact evident to the ordinarily reflective mind. We have only to think of the figures in which art has materialized the noblest personifica- tions of human yearnings and human hopes, Buddha and Christ, Minerva and the Virgin. The positive testimony of patristic lit- erature, and more particularly of St. Augustine, tells us that the Christians had no veritable portrait of Christ, and that this absence of an authentic model left free course to the imagination of the artists, and gave place to infinite varie- ties. Thus the type of Christ, at what- ever epoch and in whatever degree it was fixed by the early Christians, was purely ideal, and the sublimest expression of that ideal was not achieved until after fifteen centuries of essays, when Leonardo made that drawing for his Last Supper now in the Brera Gallery at Milan. In the same way the early Christians possessed no portrait of the Virgin. The type of the Mother of God seems, however, to have been subject to less variation than the type of Christ, at any rate, in the paintings of the catacombs, and in all probability it was originally conceived after the somewhat vague ideal of the Roman matron. Now the essential attribute of the Vir- gin, as of the ideal Roman matron, was chastity, which, as St. Ambrose says, made the beauty of her body to be, as it were, the image of the beauty of her soul. To paint such an ideal was, we may pre- sume, the ambition of the early Christian artists. The accidents of history, how- ever, prevented the adequate realization of this ideal, and for many centuries separated Christian art from beauty. When at length Christianity triumph- ed, and comparatively calm and happy days followed the terrible times of perse- cution ~nd martyrdom, the thread of ar- tistic tradition had been lost; almost all the monuments of antique sculpture which we possess at the present day were buried beneath the ruins of the palaces and temples which they once adornedruins that were the work of the Emperors Theodosius and Honorius and of Gregory the Great, who, in their ardent hatred of paganism, destroyed everything that could preserve the souve- nir of a religion which deified matter and worshipped beauty. Thus all trace of classical tradition gradually vanishes from Christian art; beauty disappears, and the figures lose all suggestion of the antique ideal; but at the same time the expressions become more precise, the spiritualistic and ascetic character of Christianity grows more marked, and the ensemble of many of the early works, so rough and barbarous in detail, is often of striking and impressive eloquence. Indeed, we may note this curious fact, that the most primitive works of Chris- tian art, executed under the influence of souvenirs of antiquity, are artistically superior to those produced later, when the classical traditions and classical means had been forgotten, and when the artists were wholly absorbed in aspira- tions towards a new ideal of mysticism. To follow the development of the type of the Virgin through early Latin art, and through the monuments of the em- blematic and hieratic art of Byzantium, would lead us into archaeological by- paths where the reader would have small pleasure in following us. Let it suffice to note that the earliest representations of the Virgin represent her without the infant Christ, and not as a mother, but as a young woman, beautiful according to the ideas of antiquity, standing with one hand on her bosom, and her head raised heaven wards It was not until after the Council of Ephesus, held in 431, that she was represented as a mother. Towards the middle of the fourth century, when the types of Christian art began to be fixed with some precision, and with the approbation of the doctors and fathers, the Gentile or Greek element appears to have predominated; and as Greek ideas esteemed woman to be an inferior crea- ture, the early painters avoided represent- ing a woman as the mother of God. It VOL. LXXXVI.~NO 511.6 reqnired combined Jewish and Eoman influences to impose the idea of the equal- ity of woman and of man, which is the basis that Christianity gives to the fain- ilyan idea which the Jews readily re- ceived, being prepared thereto by the im- portance that they attributed to leo-iti- mate filiation, and which the Ilomans with their admirable legal instinct, had foreseen as a social truth. This detail is of interest, inasmuch as if the Greek idea of the inferiority of woman had prevailed, the history of European art and the his- tory of Christianity and society in Eu- rope would have been other than it is. By the absence of that exquisite element of sympathy and consolation, the human maternity of the Virgin, civilization would have been deprived of one of its mightiest levers, and sentiment one of its most delicate chords. How mysterious is the process of senti- mental and ~sthetic education which di- rected human admiration successively to the paintings of the catacombs; to the mosaics of Byzantium; to the grossly symbolic Virgins of Margaritone (1216 THE vIRGIN. GIOVANNI BELLINI (LONDON). 60 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 1293); to the coldly hieratic Virgins of Cimabue (12401302); to the Madonnas of Giotto (12661336), no longer enibar- rassed by rigid tradition, not strikingly beautiful from the plastic point of view, but already living, inspired, impressive, and sympathetic; to the severely beauti- ful Madonnas of Mantegna (14311506); and to the sweetly or mysteriously hu- man Madonnas of Lippo Lippi (1412 1469), Perugino (14461523), Leonardo (14521519), and Raphael (14831520)! Be- tween Giotto and Leonardo how great the distance! It would be fastidious to remind the reader in detail of the incidents which marked the period of the Renaissance in Italy, and of the stages by which the means of expressing the new thought of humanity were found successively in po- etry, in sculpture, and in painting. But for the moment we are not concerned with the means. Our business is rather with ideas. For many centuries Euro- pean humanity lived unfamiliar with plastic beauty; the conventional figures of Byzantine art were found adequate to the wants of the mediawal imagination during some eight hundred years; and then one day humanity demanded some- thing different from the stiff and ugly figures of Cimabue, and even from the more natural figures of Giotto, so full of beauty of character, gesture, and atti- tude. In the beginning of the thirteenth century a Madonna painted by Cimabue, now in the Church of Santa Maria No- vella at Florence, was carried to its desti- nation by a triumphal procession, with blowing of trumpets and amidst the ac- clamations of the people. At that time it was considered a miracle of art, al- though we find it hardly distinguishable from the hieratic and unbeautiful works of the preceding epoch. On the other hand, towards the end of the fifteenth century, we find Leonardo painting Ma- donnas with an ineffable smile and an indescribable expression of disdainful vo- luptuousness, types of plastic beauty and of fascinating expression which art has never since equalled. Meanwhile at Flor- ence, in Urnbria, and in northern Italy, Lippo Lippi, Botticelli~ Perugino, Raphi- ael, Mantegna, and Bellini, to mention only the names of the greatest inventors, had elaborated types of feminine beauty personified in the Madonna, each one pe- culiar to the artist who painted it, and each a perfect and eternal exemplar of human comeliness, comparable with the exemplars left by the ancient Greek sculp- tors, and yet entirely different. For one thing that strikes us immediately in the art of the Renaissance is the marked indi- viduality of the works as compared with the abstract form and perfect complete- ness of the art of Greece, where Phidias, Scopas, and Praxiteles were, perhaps, not so much the inventors and chiefs of the schools which bear their names, but rath- er the most illustrious representatives of the ideas and tendencies which character- ize those schools. This individuality is characteristic of the modern spirit in art, as it is charac- teristic of that intellectual movement to which the general and vague name of Renaissance has been attached, and which is still working out its ends at the present day. It is by its intellectual qualities, by the elements of soul which it contains, by its mirrored image of the yearnings and aspirations of noble humanity, as well as by its incomparable materializations of plastic beauty, that the painting of the fifteenth century fascinates and consoles us still. In the type of the Virgin which the painters of that epoch created we have at once unsurpassed ideals of femi- nine beauty and expression, and in those ideals we can read the many formative influences which the soul of the age in- fused into the soul of the painter. Each great Madonna, we may say, represents a state of soul: the mystic and tender soul of the painters of Siena; the com- plex intellectuality of the soul of Botti- celli; the seductive grace of the soul of Raphael, more intelligent than creative: the epicurean refinement of the soul of Leonardo, with its exquisite sense of beauty and its indefatigable observation of the mysteries of voluptuous expression; the classical metempsychosis of Man- tegna, who seems to have resumed that tradition of primitive Christianity which identified the Virgin with the ideal Ro- man matron, if not with Minerva herself. who, of all the Greek goddesses that mi- grated in the train of the conquerors from Paulus Emilius down to Sylla, was. found most sympathetic to the moral aspirations of the compatriots of Cicero. What education of mind and eye ac- companied and promoted the evolution of painting between the austere and ugly Virgins of Cimabue and the incompara- bly suave and beautiful Virgins of Bel- lini and Perugino? Every-day erudition will immediately suggest such influences as the rediscovery of antiquity, the revival of learning, the restoration to honor of an idealized paganism, and the dream of a possible reconciliation between paganism and Christianity. All these elements are to be taken into account, together with others more subtle and particular, nota THE VIRGIN. LIPPO LIPPI (FLORENCE). 62 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. bly the influence of the poets, both in point of sentiment and in point of mate- rial observation. We have already called attention to the attitude of the early Christians tow- ards the Virgin so long as the Greek ideas as to the inferiority of woman pre- vailed. Let us now bear in mind the ideas concerning woman which we find expressed in the Arthurian cycle, in the romances of Chivalry, and in that Pro- ven~al love poetry which owed its new spirit to Christianity, to Chivalry, to Crusading zeal, and to Arabic imagina- tion. In the creation of this poetry, clas- sical taste and erudition played no part; it sang, in the vulgar tongue, novel thoughts and modes of feeling which had sprung into being from the chaos that followed the wreck of Roman civiliza- tion; above all things, it celebrated love not as a mere physical emotion, after the manner of the amorists of Greece and Rome, but as an unselfish and ennobling enthusiasm full of reverence, a habit of joy, a state of soul which may be com- pared with the mania of love described by Plato in his PhaBdius as a perma- nent ecstasy of the spirit where love led the way to heaven and raised a man above himself. Chivalrous Love, as we find it personified in Pierre Vidals Vi- sion,~~ so charmingly versified by J. A. Symonds, is a youthful knight in the bloom of beauty among the fields of May, riding a white horse, attended by Loyal- ty for a squire, and by Modesty and Mercy for handmaidens: A youth as fair as moridug, tall, But slender, with a smiling mouth, And laughing eyes, and musical Low voice that murmured like the South What time the winds of April blow On banks of moss where violets grow, Attired in armor clean and white, With flower-emblazoned robe, and wreath Of roses on his helm so bright, Bestrode a steed milk-white beneath The saddle-bows embossed with blaze Of jasper and of chrvsoprase. It is the love which Dante sings in the Vita Nuova, in that noble phrase, Love that withdraws my thoughts from all vile things; for Dante, the master- singer of modern Europe, proceeds from the Proven~al love poets. During a cen- tury and a half the singers of Toulouse, Aix, arid ArIes, and the language of Pro- vence, gave vocal utterance to the spirit of the modern world and culture to tIme south of Europe, and when Arnaud de Marveil, Arnaud Daniel, Folquet, Pierre Vidal, and Sordello had ceased to sing, their mantle fell upon a more noble, in- tellectual, and profound race of poets, amongst whom were Piero delle Vigne, Guido Guinicelli, and Guido Cavalcanti, the forerunners of Dante and Petrarch. It is only by the study and appreciation of this early Italian poetry, which has been rendered accessible to English read- ers in the admirable translations of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and also by the study of Dante himself, that we can hope to ac- quire a fuller and more subtle apprecia- tion of Italian painting of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, with its wealth of allegory, its depth of meaning, and its grave sentimental suggestiveness. For Dante, Italian, the common speech, was a virgin soil, and as an em- inent critic has remarked, The restric- tive conditions under which the poet in a formed language of literature (not to speak of a dead language) has to labor, did not oppress him. He was free to in- vent and to select, without avoidance of stereotyped phrase or submission to con- ventional canons of what the critics call pure taste. So, too, those painters who. like Dantes friend Giotto, abandoned the galvanized traditions, the dead language of Byzantine art, and sought to paint and express themselves nobly in the com- mon speech of art inspired by nature and directed by the intellect, worked on a virgin soil, and during the fourteenth century they formulated in prodigious encyclopaBdic frescoes the knowledge, the hopes. and the fears of mediaBval Europe, marking out the paths in which the thoughts and dreams of men were des- tined for centuries to linger. The beauty of these works, inspired by a mystic and ascetic Christianity, it is not our purpose to examine, for it is a beauty of expressive composition and of synthetic sentiment rather than a beauty of exquisite form and personal types. The pursuit of absolute beauty begins with the Florentine naturalist painters of the fifteenth century, Masolino, Masac- cio, and Lippo Lippi, and is continued by Botticelli, who especially personified that pagan admiration and that vague dream of a reconciliation between pagan- ismn and Christianity which emancipated the painting of the Renaissance from the exclusive service of ascetic Christianity, THE VIRGIN. SANDRO BOTTICELLI (FLORENCE). 64 HARPERS NEW and restored mankind to the earthly par- adise of the joy of beauty from which the monastic spirit had expelled it. To pre- tend that Lippo Lippis Madonnas are impressed with divinity would be vain; they are living virgins; they are real mothers, with frankly individual fea- tures; virgins and mothers having the grace, the modesty, the vivacious timidi- ty, the discreet joyfulness, of the women whom. the painter admired and compre- hended. These virgins he clad in fair garments; he adorned their beads with dainty kerchiefs and simple jewels; he placed them, enthroned or in adoration, in architecture of sunny marble or in landscapes full of roses, with gentle saints and bright cherubs to accompany them; and the impression that Lippos Madon- nas give is that of smiling and abundant MONTHLY MAGAZINE. joy, the joy of living, the joy which was characteristic of the ardent painters poetic and ex- pansive nature. The Madon- nas of Lippo are charming im- ages of chaste beauty, full of human kindness and human sympathy, essentially and whol- ly human. Far different are the Madon- nas of Botticelli, the student and the illustrator of Dante. Indeed, as we examine the van- ous Madonnas by Botticelli in the galleries of London, Berlin, Paris, and Florence, we cannot fail to be struck by the ardor of emotion that seems to have ani- mated the painter in his search of the perfect type of beauty re- alized in the Crowning of the Virgin, of which the head is reproduced in our engraving. The construction of the head of the Virgin is essentially the same in all Botticellis pictures, but the fleshly mask and the expression vary, and the final charm of each one remains an undecipherable puzzle. We feel that this Madonna is an inti- mate vision of the ideal woman who imparadised the paint- er s soul; so Dante speaks of Beatrice, the object of surpass- ing desire, as quella che ira- paradisa Ia mm mente. We marvel at the mouth, at the eyes, at the eyelids, at the sweep of the brows, at the thick golden-threaded hair, at the splendor of the draped head over which angels hold a crown, at the beautiful color of the flesh,which suggests asouvenir of the Vita Nuova: She hath that paleness of the pearl thats fit In a fair woman, so mnch and not more; She is as hi,~h as Natnres skill can soar~ l3eanty is tried by her comparison. To say anything in presence of great works of art seems impertinent, for their peculiar virtue is to fill us with silent admiration in which the soul communes with itself. So Boccaccio records in his will, when he bequeathed to the Lord of Padua a Madonna by Giotto, the beauty of which the ignorant do not understand, but before which the masters of art re- main mute with astonishment (in cujus pulchritudinem ignorantes non intelli w THE VIRGINANDREA MANTEGNA (VERONA). SOME TYPES OF THE VIRGIN. 65 aunt, magistri autem artis stupent). It century, a minuteness which must not be is a mistake characteristic of the literary confounded with mere painstaking real- malady to believe that thought and senti- ism, which is content with representation ment exist for the purpose of bein~, ex- without selection. An illustration from pressed. Nevertheless, whether in the the literary dom am will help us, perbaps case of Botticelli or of the less subtle nat- to understand the spirit of the noble, uralist painters like Lippo Lippi, or like Ghirlandajo, who has materialized the incidents of the life of the Virgin in a series of admirable frescoes, one may be allowed to call attention to the singular intensity and minuteness of the imagina- tive vision of the painters of the fifteenth naturalist painters. Let us reflect for a moment how rare in classical writings are precise and vivid descriptions, how generally vague are tbe epithets of Ho- mer and of Virgil, and how glad we are to find in the twelve books of the Odys- sey the evocation of details of human in- THE VIRGIN. rIETRO PERUGINO (LOUVRE). 66 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. cident like the episode of Nausicaa or the return of Ulysses. Now let us turn to Proven~al poetry, where Pierre Vidal de- scribes his Master Love riding on a milk- white steed with the embroidered glove of Mercy on his casque, or to Italian po- etry, with its abundance of detail, that contributes to the realization in the read- ers mind of a precise vision. Let us re- member, for instance, Dantes description in the Vita Nuova of his first meeting with Beatrice: Her dress on that day was of a most noble color, a snbdued and goodly crimson, girdled and adorned in such sort as best suited with her tender age. At that moment I say most truly that the spirit of life which~ hath its dwelling in the secretest chamber of the heart, be- gan to tremble so violently that the least pulses of my body shook therewith; and in trembling it said these words: Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabi- tur mihi. These words, which bear the indubitable stamp of truth, describe the impression produced upon a Florentine boy of nine by a girl of eight years of age. We may remember, too, all Dantes minute description of his emotions in presence of Beatrice, the beauty of Be- atrices smile, her gentle and pure looks, when she saluted him with so virtuous a bearing that he seemed then and there to behold the very limits of blessedness. Then, again, we may recall the vivid no- tation of the apparition of Love, the lord of terrible aspect, who bears sighs and tears and comforting words to his servant Dante in his sleep, at one time in the light habit of a traveller coarse- ly fashioned, and at another time in the figure of a youth in very white rai- ment. Also the vision of the transla- tion of Beatrice to Paradise, when Dante saw the angels, like a rain of manna in a long flight flying back heavenward, having a little cloud in front of them, after which they went and said Hosan- na! Such passages might be multi- plied from Dante and from other early Italian poets in illustration of the process of externalizing and making personal the imaginings of passion. As the poets worked, so worked the painters; and, among the greatest of them, what we call their naturalism or realism was more truly intensity of fervent imagination; an earnest determination to record and to make other people see exactly what they saw; a state of soul in which their ideal appeared to them with the lucidity and precision of detail that we remark in Dantes verse pictures. The type of the Virgin elabomated by Mantegna suggests by its severe dignity the antique prototype of Minerva. Divid- ed in his allegiance between pagan and Christian subjects, Mantegna treated both with the same sentiment of dramatic pas- sion and the same heroic dignity of ex- pression. The charm of his figures is comparable only to that of Hellenic art. The head of the Virgin reproduced in our engraving is of a grandeur of con- ception and a purity of execution such that it can take its place in the memory of cultured humanity side by side with the finest statues of antiquity. Like the Virgins of Mantegna, those of the great. Venetian painter Giovanni Belhini d~ not bear any evident stamp of those com- plex poetic and religious influences which filled the souls of the Tuscan painters of whom we have just been speaking. His Madonnas are refined types of womanly beauty, rendered with peculiar tenderness and poetic charm, types of dreamy but glorious maternity, familiar yet supreme- ly noble, thins contrasting with the Ma- donnas of the Floren tines and of tl e Umbrians, in which the character of vir- ginity is given the preference over that of maternity. Bellinis pupil and rival, Titian, painted his Madonnas in the same spirit, accentuating their maternity ratli- er than their virginity, and creating n~ type of beauty most radiant, but less pure and less calmly noble than that of Bellini. Returning now to central Italy and to Umbria, we come to the Virgins of Perugino, who was the inventor of a type of feminine beauty which he has impressed upon the mind of humanity by the repetition of it in very numerous works. Umbria was the home of those Sienese painters who refused to sacrifice their delicate and mystic ideal to the naturalist and somewhat pagan ideal which the Florentines owed to the study of antique forms and ideas and to the scientific progress of their art; it was a country of ardent and narrow piety, populated by fanatical and turbulent men, who provided the Pope with his most loyal condottieri and his stoutest soldiers; it was the province of St. Francis of Assisi and his happy faith. Educated in the local traditions of mystic piety, Perugino worked according to his THE VIRGIN WITH THE GOLDFINCH. RAPHAEL (FLORENCE). 68 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. genius, and even outworked his genius, as we may read in his biography. Tak- ing as his model an actual local type which still persists in the country, he painted women with round and grave faces, seriously closed lips, sombre eyes surmounted by purely pencilled brows, hair simply arranged without any of that fantastic splendor of coiffure which some of the great Florentines affected. Such are the immaterially beautiful Vir- gins and saints that people Peruginos pictures, seated or standing in fresh and limpid light that reminds one of the glad earth, and yet suggests the golden bright- ness of ParadIse. modelled at once with strength and sweetness, and expressing by the mere dreamy languor of their eyes, by the tender melancholy of an in- clined head, by the pathetic grace of silent lips, an indescribable nuance of pious resignation, as it were the nostalgic and patient expectation of flowers of Paradise blooming upon earth, pure, beautiful, tender, radiant, and yet not of this world. But, it may be asked, how can this thing be? If Perugino copied an actual local type, how can the representation of that type give the impression of a being other than of this world? If we could answer this question, we should have solved the greatest mystery of artistic creation, namely, what is the vital prin- ciple of a work of art. No critical anal- ysis can reach this secret, any more than chemical analysis can surprise the vital principle of works of animate nature. We can observe, examine, describe, and admire them, but we cannot ultimately explain. In painting his Virgins and saints, Peruginos soul and the soul of his country reflected themselves into the artistic representation; for the artist, like the poet, is not wholly his own master, but the servant of the Muses, if we may be allowed to employ the language of myth. In other words, we must admit an element of unconsciousness, of inspi- ration, of destiny in the great artist, an element which defies analysis, and which we vaguely call genius or soul. It is, thanks to the presence in Peruginos work of an abundance of these mysteri- ous qualities of soul, that we find in them charms and beauties which, doubtless, he himself never perceived, while those who come after us will find new charms which are unsuspected by us. Thus the signification of great works of ad is inexhaustible, and their suggestiveness lasting; there is an element of life in them which their creators cannot know. The type of the Virgin created by Perugino is one and the same in all the varieties of air and attitude which the painter has imagined; it is a type which Perugino formulated and revealed to men; it is an invention of beauty. Raph- ael, on the other hand, whose genius was essentially intelligent and assirnil a- tive, can scarcely be said to have invent- ed a new type, one of those besetting faces which root themselves in the mem- ory with the forcefulness of individual reality, one of those vivid visions of fem- ininity which, when once fixed upon canvas, continue to haunt the dreams of cultured humanity for centuries, if not forever. In his many Madominas Raphael has depicted several types, some resem- bling those created by his master Perugino, others influenced by the models of the Tuscan school, and others again inspired by the surroundings of his glorious ex- istence at Rome. Raphaels Madonnas, like the painters genius, are constantly being transformed, according as age and circumstances modify his impressions. He is not a genius of power, but rather of grace and of sweetness; lie fascinates by the completeness of his realization of an ideal, without marked profundityan ideal of purely representative art, all the interest of which consists in the beauty of the group, the human charm of the fig- ures, the precision of the expression, and the linear harmony of the composition. Such is the interest of the Virgin with the Goldfinch, in the Tribuna at Flor- ence, of which the head is reproduced in our engraving, one of the most exquisite of Raphaels Madonnas painted under Florentine influences. This Madonna is not a mother, but simply a happy and smiling virgin, the elder sister of the robust and joyous children who play around her knees, a maiden with limpid eyes and candid brow, on which the most subtle critic can find nothing to read but virginity and innocence. It is vain to accuse Raphael, as did certain of his con- temporaries, of not having sufficient the- ological virtue, inasmuch as he painted Virgins that were too humanly adorable. Raphael conformed his painting to his ideas and his sentiments. He expressed his soul, just as Lippo Lippi, Botticelli, 69 SOME TYPES OF THE VIRGIN. Mantegna, Bellini, and Perugi- no expressed their souls, each one differently, and in a man- nei~ characteristic of his more or less complex personality; and as re~ards each one of them, the degree of our admi- ration and sympathy depends upon the temperament and cul- ture of our own souls. Of all the inventors of beau- ty which the Renaissance l)ro- duced, the most subtle is Leo- nardo da Vinci. As the age of Pericles is summed up in Phidias and Plato, so the gen- ius of the Renaissance is incar- nated in Dante and Leonardo, who were at once the promoters and the representatives of a whole civilization. Leonardo was the man of prodigious gen- ins who came at the time when paintin~ was ready to receive its definitive formula, and who created that formula. Gifted with incomparable powers of observation and an exquisite sentiment of beauty, he accom- plished miracles of execution that have never been surpassed, amongst which are his beauti- ful and profane Madonnas,with THE vIRGINLEONARDO DA vixci (LONDON). their unfathomable smile, their noble, tender, and slightly dis- dainful air-Madonnas that appeal to the will suffice that the reader who contem- highly cultured soul and to the epi- plates the smiling Virgin reproduced in curean intellect rather than to time mys- our engraving remember that Leonardo tic and religious soul that delights in was a painter of portraits superior to all; that art which is always struggling to cx- that he modelled faces more skilfully than press thoughts beyond itself, thoughts of any man before or since; that through- another world that none has seen. But out his life he sought to render that mys- Leonardo is no longer a cheerful objec- terious revelation of a movement in the tive painter, like many of his great Flor- soul, the magic ripple of a smile; that entine predecessors; on the contrary, his his dominant passions were curiosity and work is full of spirituality, but of a sort the love of beauty. This latter passion of pagan spirituality that sets philosophy he satisfied by the constant, attentive, above Christianity, and stamps his pro- and profound study of nature, not after ductions with something mysterious and the fashion of those realists who are con- enigmatical, which made him seem to his tent with representation, but with a pa- contemporaries to be the possessor of tience, a delicacy, a comprehension, and some unholy and secret wisdom. The a discrimination or selection that make pictures and the drawings of Leonardo his works eternal marvels. are of inexhaustible suggestiveness. They The last type of beauty which it comes ~ have provoked some of the most admira- within our plan to consider is that of the ble pages of creative criticism ever writ- Flemish painter Hans Memlinc, whose ten, so that it would be impertinent for Madonna in the National Gallery of Lon- us to attempt here to say again what has don forms the subject of our illustration. been already said by our masters. It Memnlinc (143595 about) is the last of 70 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. those celebrated masters of the school of Bruges who created a national Flemish art, which grew up simultaneously with but quite independently of the art of Italy. He claims our attention because, of all the painters of the North, he alone created a type of feminine beauty that was unknown before him and disappeared with him. His Madonnas, clad in rich and jewelled brocades, are not merely portraits of the earthly princesses of his time; they are in- carnations of that nobleness, purity, and charm which Memliuc loved. Full of that reverence for women which is char- acteristic of the Germanic mind, and which contributed, together with chivalry and Christianity, to form that new aspect of love already noticed in connection with Dantes Vita Nuova, Meinline made the Madonna an emblem, and in painting the beauty of her person he sought also to paint the beauty of the ideal feminine soul of northern Europe. She is a princess of pearllike purity of skin, with white hands and delicate fin- gers, and a visage that indicates abso- lute purity of heart. And as Memlinc lived in an age when allegory was currently read and the language of symbols was famil- iar to all, he has made every feature of his princess elo- quent with edifying signification. The high forehead of the Virgin and the wide archingbrows, the spacious fore- head which her locks enclose, are emblematic of her intellectual power; the long hair points to the fulness of her life ; the slender figure and small mouth tell of her purity; the limpid eyes with their downcast lids sym- bolize her devout- ness, and the bowed head her humility. And, as Guido Ca- valcanti says in one of his sonnets Lady she seems of such high hecison As makes all others graceless in her sight. Thus we see that the Virgin gradu- ally became, in ad- dition to her purely religious or divine attributes, the supreme personification of the physical as well as of the moral beauty of the modern woman. The pic- tures of the Virgin fixed the type with THE ~IRGJN. HANS MEMLINO (LoNnoN). NOURMADEE. 71 which feminine beauty was for centuries to conform, and gradually the Madonna came to be regarded as the actual dispenser of beauty itself. So the legend records that in one of the conversations which Anne of Brittany had with her patron St. Anne, the duchess asked a particular gift for the ladies of her province. The saint grant- ed her the gift of chastity, and since that time no Breton woman has ever failed in her duties. The duchess then asked her patron to add the gift of beauty to that of chastity; but St. Anne became much em- barrassed, and ended by confessing that beauty was not of her domain. The Queen of Heaven alone disposes of the unique and rare gift of beauty, excellent among all gifts. St. Anne, however, after reflection, was able to grant the Breton ladies, to whom she could not accord that gift which the Virgin had reserved for herself, the additional privilege of accom- plishing by chastity alone what others ac- complish by beauty. THE POET MIETZY MOHAMMED-ALT TO HIS FRIEND ABOU-HASSEM IN ALGEZIRAS. HASSEM, greeting! Peace be thine ( ) With thee and thine be all things well! Give refuge to these words of mine. The strange mischance which late befell Thy servant must have reached thine ear; Rumor has flung it far and wide, With dark additions, as I hear. When They-Say speaks, what ills hetide So lend no credence, 0 my Friend, To scandals, fattening as they fly. Love signs and seals the roll I send: Read thou the truth with lenient eye. In Yiissufs garden at Tangier This happened. In his cool kiosk We sat partaking of his cheer Thou knowst that garden by the Mosque Of Irma; stately palms are there, And silver fish in marble tanks, And scents of jasmine in the air We sat and feasted, with due thanks NOURMADEE. BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRIcH.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Aldrich, Thomas Bailey Nourmadee 71-76

NOURMADEE. 71 which feminine beauty was for centuries to conform, and gradually the Madonna came to be regarded as the actual dispenser of beauty itself. So the legend records that in one of the conversations which Anne of Brittany had with her patron St. Anne, the duchess asked a particular gift for the ladies of her province. The saint grant- ed her the gift of chastity, and since that time no Breton woman has ever failed in her duties. The duchess then asked her patron to add the gift of beauty to that of chastity; but St. Anne became much em- barrassed, and ended by confessing that beauty was not of her domain. The Queen of Heaven alone disposes of the unique and rare gift of beauty, excellent among all gifts. St. Anne, however, after reflection, was able to grant the Breton ladies, to whom she could not accord that gift which the Virgin had reserved for herself, the additional privilege of accom- plishing by chastity alone what others ac- complish by beauty. THE POET MIETZY MOHAMMED-ALT TO HIS FRIEND ABOU-HASSEM IN ALGEZIRAS. HASSEM, greeting! Peace be thine ( ) With thee and thine be all things well! Give refuge to these words of mine. The strange mischance which late befell Thy servant must have reached thine ear; Rumor has flung it far and wide, With dark additions, as I hear. When They-Say speaks, what ills hetide So lend no credence, 0 my Friend, To scandals, fattening as they fly. Love signs and seals the roll I send: Read thou the truth with lenient eye. In Yiissufs garden at Tangier This happened. In his cool kiosk We sat partaking of his cheer Thou knowst that garden by the Mosque Of Irma; stately palms are there, And silver fish in marble tanks, And scents of jasmine in the air We sat and feasted, with due thanks NOURMADEE. BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRIcH. 72 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. To Allah, till the pipes were brought; And no one spoke, for Pleasure laid Her finger on the lips of Thought. Then, on a sudden, came a maid, With tambourine, to dance for us Allah ii Allah! it was she, The slave-girl from the Bosporus That Yiissuf purchased recently. Long narrow eyes, as black as black! And melting, like the stars in June; Tresses of night drawn smoothly back From eyebrows like the crescent moon. She paused an instant with bowed head, Then, at a motion of her wrist, A veil of gossamer outspread And wrapt her in a silver mist. Her tunic was of Tiflis green Shot through with many a starry speck; The zone that claspt it might have been A collar for a cygnets neck. None of the twenty charms she lacked Demanded for perfections grace; Charm upon charm in her was packed Like rose leaves in a costly vase. Full in the lanterns colored light She seemed a thing of Paradise. I knew not if I saw aright, Or if my vision told me lies. Those lanterns spread a cheating glare; Such stains they threw from bough and vine As if the slave-boys, here and there Had spilt a jar of brilliant wine. And then the fountains drowsy fall, The burning aloes heavy scent, The night, the place, the hourthey all Were full of subtle blandishment. Much had I heard of Nourmadee The name of this fair slenderness Whom Yiissuf kept with lock and key Because her beauty wrought distress In all mens hearts that gazed on ih And much I marvelled why, this night, Yiissuf should have the little wit To lift her veil for our delight. For though the other guests were old Grave, worthy merchants, three from Fez (These mostly dealt in dyes and gold), Cloth merchants two, from Mekinez Though they were old and gray and dry, Forgetful of their youths desires, My case was different, for I Still knew the touch of spring-time fires. And straightway as I looked on her I bit my lip, grew ill at ease, And in my veins was that strange stir Which clothes with bloom the almond-trees. O Shape of blended fire and snow! Each clime to her some spell had lent The North her cold, the South her glow, Her languors all the Orient. Her scarf was as the cloudy fleece The moon draws round its loveliness That so its beauty may increase The more in being seen the less. And as she moved, and seemed to float So floats a swan in sweet unrest, A string of sequins at her throat Went clink and clink against her breast. And what did some sly fairy do But set a mole, a golden dot, Close to her lipto pierce men through! How could I look and love her not? Yet heavy was my heart as stone, For well I knew that love was vain; To love the thing one may not own! I saw how all my peace was slain. Coffers of ingots Yi~tssuf had, Houses on land, and ships at sea, And I-alas! was I gone mad, To cast my eyes on Nourmadee! 74 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. I strove to thrust her from my mind; I bent my brows, and turned away, And wished that Fate had struck me blind Ere I had come to know that day. I fixed my thoughts on this and that; Assessed the worth of Yiissufs ring; Counted the colors in the mat And then a bird began to sing, A bulbul hidden in a bough. From time to time it loosed a strain Of moonlit magic that, somehow, Brought comfort to my troubled brain. But when the girl once, creeping close, Half stooped, and looked me in the face, My reason fled, and I arose And cried to Y~issuf from my place: 0 Yiissuf, give to me this girl! You are so rich and I so poor! You would not miss one little pearl Like that from out your countless store! This girl? What girl? No girl is here! Cried Yiissuf with his eyes agleam; Now, by the Prophet, it is clear Our friend has had a pleasant dream ! (And then it seems that I awoke And stared around, no little dazed At finding naught of what I spoke: The guests sat siient and amazed.) Then Yiissufof all mortal men This YiThsuf has a mocking tongue Stood at my side, and spoke again: 0 Mirtzy, I too once was young. With mandolin or dulcimer Ive waited many a midnight through, Content to catch one glimpse of Her. And have my turban drenched with dew. By Her I mean some slim Malay, Some Andalusian with her fan (For I have travelled in my day), Or some swart beauty of Soudan. No Barinecide was I to fare On fancys shadowy wine and meat; No phantom moulded out of air Had spells to lure me to her feet. O Mirtzy, be it understood I blame you not. Your sin is slight! You fled the world of flesh and blood, And loved a vision of the night! Sweeter than musk such visions be As come to poets when they sleep! You dreamed you saw fair Nourmadee? Go to! it is a pearl I keep! By Allah, but his touch was true! And I was humbled to the dust That I in those grave merchants~ view Should seem a thing no man might trust. For he of creeping things is least Who, while he breaks of friendships bread, Betrays the giver of the feast. Good friends, Im not that man ! I said. 0 XYissuf, shut not Pardons gate! The words I spake I nowise meant. Who holds the threads of Time and Fate Sends dreams. I dreamt the dream he sent. I am as one that from a trance Awakes confused, and reasons ill; The world of men invites his glance, The world of shadows clainis him still. I see those lights among the leaves, Yourselves I see, sedate and wise, And yet some finer sense perceives A presence that eludes the eyes. Of what is gone there seems to stay Some subtlety, to mock my pains: So, when a rose is borne away, The fragrance of the rose remains ! Then Yiissuf laughed, Abdallah leered, And Melik coughed behind his hand, And lean Ben-Auda stroked his beard As who should say, We understand ! VOL. LXXX VI--No. 5117 A5 wHO SHOULD SAY, WE UNDER5TAND! And though the fault was none of mine, As I explained and made appear, Since then Ive not been asked to dine In Yiissufs garden at Tangier. POSTSCRLPTUM. FAREWELL, 0 Hassem! Peace be thine! With thee and thine be always Peace! To Virtue let thy steps incline, And may thy shadow not decrease! Get wealthwealth makes the dullards jest Seem witty where true wit falls flat; Do good, for goodness still is best But then the Koran tells thee that. Know Patience here, and later Bliss; Grow wise, trust woman, doubt not man; And when thou dinest outmark this Beware of wines from Ispahan! FANS MAMMY. BY EVA WILDER McGLASSON. 7~ HEY were taking some one to jail 1 again, half the men and boys of the village, as usual, attending the sheriff. Tobe Wayne let the legs of his chair down and called his wife. Aw, Nancy! She came to the door of the unpainted two:storied house where they lived, and stood leaning on her broom under a bower of cucumber-vines, a heavy towel bound over her brows. Whats wantin? she asked. She was a thin wonian, past thirty, with a Jewish cast of features, the nos- trils long and oblique, an over-brilliant color in the hollow cheeks. Look n-yender, gestured Tobe, point- ing to the village, which lay below them in a. hollow of the hill-side. Jedgin by the whoopin and hollerin, I wouldnt wonder ef they was runnin in some of the Gilliland tribe. Somersets too hot to hold any of the gang since they lynched them two fellers last week; may hey fetched em here fer safety. Mrs. Wayne fortified her eyes from the sun as she stared down toward the jail, a little one - roomed structure built of two-inch planks laid surface to surface, its door spanned with bolts that were like drawn swords, its roof so low that the tassels of the September corn field beside it dabbled its shingles with gold. Jest makes a person sick, she said,

Eva Wilder McGlasson McGlasson, Eva Wilder Fan's Mammy. A Story 76-85

And though the fault was none of mine, As I explained and made appear, Since then Ive not been asked to dine In Yiissufs garden at Tangier. POSTSCRLPTUM. FAREWELL, 0 Hassem! Peace be thine! With thee and thine be always Peace! To Virtue let thy steps incline, And may thy shadow not decrease! Get wealthwealth makes the dullards jest Seem witty where true wit falls flat; Do good, for goodness still is best But then the Koran tells thee that. Know Patience here, and later Bliss; Grow wise, trust woman, doubt not man; And when thou dinest outmark this Beware of wines from Ispahan! FANS MAMMY. BY EVA WILDER McGLASSON. 7~ HEY were taking some one to jail 1 again, half the men and boys of the village, as usual, attending the sheriff. Tobe Wayne let the legs of his chair down and called his wife. Aw, Nancy! She came to the door of the unpainted two:storied house where they lived, and stood leaning on her broom under a bower of cucumber-vines, a heavy towel bound over her brows. Whats wantin? she asked. She was a thin wonian, past thirty, with a Jewish cast of features, the nos- trils long and oblique, an over-brilliant color in the hollow cheeks. Look n-yender, gestured Tobe, point- ing to the village, which lay below them in a. hollow of the hill-side. Jedgin by the whoopin and hollerin, I wouldnt wonder ef they was runnin in some of the Gilliland tribe. Somersets too hot to hold any of the gang since they lynched them two fellers last week; may hey fetched em here fer safety. Mrs. Wayne fortified her eyes from the sun as she stared down toward the jail, a little one - roomed structure built of two-inch planks laid surface to surface, its door spanned with bolts that were like drawn swords, its roof so low that the tassels of the September corn field beside it dabbled its shingles with gold. Jest makes a person sick, she said, FANS MAMMY. 77 fretfully, the way things go yere. Id jest natchelly die in my tracks ef my sis- ter Milly was to come visitin me when they was shootin and scrappin bout them Gillilands. Shed jest bundle me right back to Missoura with her, so she would. Suddenly she exclaimed: Its a wo- man, Tobe! Theyre puttin her in the calaboose right now! Cant you see her har streamin over her face, black ez a crow? Quit thet shufflin your feet. I low I heerd her holler. Her husband had started down the path, and she called after him, Hurry on back, and tell me whats the matter. As Wayne came upon the heels of the crowd, a little winded with his down-hill run, the sheriff was just withdrawing his key from the heavy padlock which hung against the rough door, red with rust, pulsing a little, like a heart newly torn from some living thing. Whats goin on? panted Wayne, mopping his kindly, middle - aged face with a blue shirt sleeve. The man addressed wadded together several long crinkled hairs of fine-cut. Got a lady in yender, he answered, adjusting his jaws. Drunk n diso- dely. Young-lookin thing, but mean ez they make em, I reckon. Ben wandr- in around kentry fer a week er so. Well, I got to git back to the mill; were loadin a car, and jest left everything. Kinduh pity fer the child, aint it ? What child ? said Wayne, blankly. Hem. Little gyrl bout two year old. Cute ez a young patridge. Head o har like a passel o pine shavings. Y George! hyear thet woman scritch ! The lady in the calaboose did not seem to be resigning herself to the situation with anything like passivity. There was a noise as of weak hands beating on the heavy walls, and through the small grated window under the eaves came the sharp sound of a woman~ s cries. My baby ! she wept. Curse you! I dont ask you to leave me out. I haint no place to go to ef you did. But my baby !she cant git her breath in yere. She aint well, I tell yeli! Her throats sore. Take her out of this wet hole. Oh God, make em take her out-the brutes Pooty rough, said the man at Waynes elbow, his tone cheerfully corn- miserating. Hunh, Wayne ? Waynes face had flushed. Why dont some o you listen? he demanded. Thet place aint fit fer a dog, much less a baby. Hyere you, Beasley ! He caught the sheriffs arm as that official was strutting by, swinging his keys, his lips pursed in an important whistle. Onlock thet calaboose and give me the kid. Ill keep it tell the womans free. Thirty days? All right. Ill take the kid home. Beasley clapped him argumentatively on the shoulder. See hyere, he said; youre doing the talkin, Tobe, but your wife wont like no such Wayne frowned. Taint the young- sters fault. All right, conceded Beasley, with a lofty brow. Mis Wayne aint half a woman ef she dont come down on you like a thousand of brick. He opened the door a little. Hyere you !quit your foolishness! Hyeres Tobe Wayne 11 keep the young un fer you. The sobs ceased on a sud- den. Who ? said a subdued, half-challen- ging voice within. Tobe Wayneman keeps the livery- stable. There was a pause. Ast him to come in yere a minute. Shes asleep. Ill give her to him myself ef hell come yere. Step in, Wayne, said the sheriff, yielding to this. He cast the door wider, and the nearer throng caught a glimpse of a dark interior, a mattress in a corner of the floor, a crouching figure, and a lifted face, handsome and haggard, with sunken, reckless eyes. Wayne stepped forward, hesitating. Wait a second, breathed the woman, clutching at the little form on her breast. Its awful hard to give her up. Fan! Fan ! ~Quit yer gapin, commanded Beas- ley to the men and boys who were en- croaching on the threshold. He slammed the door with an instinct which was half pity for the miserable scene inside, and half pride in his legal prerogative. Look like yall aint nothin better to do than Say, look a-here, Robbins! Ef you got anything to say, you say it out loud, and quit yer mutterin. Youre a bigger man than me, but ef you was big ez thet knob yender I wouldnt take nothin off yeli. Thats all right, Jones! I aint a-pickin no quarrel. Ef youre his friend, you want to take him away. Hes got too much aboard. Ef it wasnt fer his 78 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. family Id run him in He drew up Wayne stopped on the door-step, lii~ with a sudden remembrance of his pris- face working. oner. She was taking more time than Nancy, he said, thet poor woman needful to her farewell, and Beasley down yender, she ga me this babyto-- turned his attention rather abruptly to to keep. We aint never hed nare one the door. of our own, Nance He broke off, ap- Wayne was just coming out. His face palled at his wifes face. I felt sor- had a strange look. He was carrying a ry fer her ! he hurst out, apologetically. rag~ ed lit tie girl against his shoulder, It was this way. He went over the and though she struggled and screamed tale, stammering. Iu uly aimed to keep he appeared unaware of it, hut kept the baby tell her mammy got loose, hut glancing hack across the downy gold of sheshe told me to keep her, Nancy the baby head. she The woman had fallen face downward Let her down, said his wife, mdi- upon the striped mattress. cating the child. The little one rubbed Remember! she muttered, turning a her eyes, and stumbling forward, caught little with a compelling gesture; remem- at Mrs. Waynes skirts. her what you promised. Mammy ! she fretted, burying her small flushed face. I aint your mammy, said Mrs. Wayne, stepping back. You better take her in the house, Tobe neighbors all spy- in around. I never looked to hey no beggars young un load- ed off on me like this. I dont know what Ill say whea Milly comes. Ef I had ary child o my own, dead er livin, Id shet the door on this stray youve fetched in! I wouldnt take no sech slight off yeh, Tobe Wayne ! She began to sway a little, lifting her face and tug- ging at the neck-band of her gown. But the Lords hand is slack to me, and I cant say a word ef you-us wants to keep this foundlin! Ill do my best by her, but Ill hate the sight of her! I will ! She leaned, gasping, against the door. Unly, when my sister comes, I wont promise what shell say. Shell never let her two babie mix with sech ez this! You THE SHERIFF, cant blame her; she feels awful near to mean unly sister. Wayne looked a little mdi,,- Mrs.Wayne had finished sweeping, and nant. She dont go out of her way to was going round in a listless way, whack- show it, never writin ing dust from the sitting-room furniture His wife cut in angrily, her face aflame. with a turkey wing. She wasnt never no hand to write! I God a mercy ! she exclaimed, as got a letter from her a little better than a her husband toiled up the garden path, year ago, didnt I? Shes got her house carryin,,, a burden which at once disclosed and her babies to tend to. And to think its nature by the bush of bright hair I never even saw her man! She married nestled on his neck and the torn little out in Missoura, and done well, but I halnt shoes hanging over his arm. ever got resignated to it. She named it in her letter thet she laid out to visit me right soon. Seems like Ill die unless I git to see her. When she comes, aid Wayne, Ill onder- take to explain Youll hey it to do cried his wife. She made no scruple at letting the communi- ty see her dissatisfaction in the child thus quar- tered upon her. Fan was a living reproach to her, and Waynes grow- in~ fondness for the baby was a scourge in her side. One day in October Fan was playing in the weedy garden, tramping the fallen beech leaves to dust, her hair flying over a knit blue scarf. Little fellers thriv- in, aint she ? called a neighbor woman, pass- ing in the road. Shes picked up wonderful since you got her in hands, Mis Wayne. Mrs. Wayne glanced rigidly at the child, sternly suppressing a sense of pride in her prettiness. I do my best, she ubmitted,in a sacrificial tone. Laws, we all feel fer yeh ! grunted the other woman, who was old, a limp black cotton gown hollowing to her lean- ness, her face so wrinkled it seemed as if overlaid with a corded brown mask. Laws, yes, m Gret mercy Fans mammy got out o jail and left the ken- try! Sh& d a made you trouble Mis Wayne! Folks tell as money opened thet calaboose door. Well, men is the mischief! ye cant ever place em. Mrs. Wayne looked a little whiter. Nom, you cannot, she a.greed. Ef Id a daughter, shed never marry the ___ best man goin. Id never of let my sis- ter Milly marry, unly she went visitin our kin out West and married without sayin by yr leave. Shes happy ez they make em; her mans right trusty, and makes her a good livin. Mrs. Wing gave ear with the respect- ful tolerance of one who submits to the present under hope of future benefits. As the other paused, she dragged her sun- bonnet over her wasted face. Reckon I better be travlin. she an- nounced, and then, with an air of remem- brance, she wheeled about. Oh, say! I like to forgot to ast you fer a little mite of snuff, to do me till night. Mrs. Wayne took her melancholy eyes off the little Kentucky hamlet in the hol- low below her, its piles of lumber look- ing like blocks of silver in the pale sun. I dont dip, she said. Tobe heve a notion a,,jn it, so I never took it up. The old woman gave a mutter of dis- appointment, and then smiled malicious ly, with the over-expressiveness of tooth- less lips. GOD ~ MERcY! 80 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. I wouldnt give up my conifert fer no male man ]ivin. Youre too easy with Tobe. He aint treated you white about thet child thar. He knows more about it than lie lets on. Beasley lowed to my son-in-law ez thet woman in the calaboose hollered after Tobe sornethin about remernbrin her, and a promise hed give her, and I dont know what all. I jest said ef twas my man Id waiit to know it. Tobe Wayne neednt to set hissef Dont yeh pass a word agin him said Mrs. Wayne, speaking thickly. The crimson in her cheeks had faded, as if a new anguish at her heart had drunk it like wine. Ef Ican hear with him She broke off suddenly and turned into the house. But the others hint rankled in her like a poisoned thorn which corrupts the blood and taints the healthy tissues. Fans beauty hurt her. Fans sweet shrill voice stung her. I dont know what to do, she groan- ed. I cant ask no one. Ill hey to wait till Milly comes. She began more than all to fear a lurking tenderness for Fan, which, nourished on suspicion, yet threatened to bloom in her breast like a bright consummate flower that drinks beauty from a briery stalk. One morning as she came in from milking, her hands stiffened with the De- cember chill, Fan ran before her, caus- ing a little frothy milk to spill fiom the bucket. With a quick impulse of anger, Mrs. Wayne smote the little thing smartly across the cheek. Take thet ! She lifted her hand for a second blow, but something stayed her. Fan reeled back, her fingers grasping the air, and the fear in her blue eyes pierced the womans soul. Fan! she cried, snatching her up, I didnt go to do it! Dont dror up thet way, honey! I aint aimin to smack you pore little soul. Fan gave a smothered sound, as much a sob as a scared laugh. Mammy, she stammered,with a half- stifled remembrance. Mrs. Wayne held her close, and her childless heart lost its pain against the little soft form. Ill be your mammy, Fan, she was about to say. Her husbands step sound- ed outside, and she put the child down gently, but with the old feeling. Wayne had a vaguely troubled air as he came in. He stood in the door, and glanced down in the valley, where the small green and yellow houses sat be- neath the forked tops of the barren trees. The river was very high. It looked like a stream of seething coffee, and lie knew, from the swirling edges of the cur- rent and its convex middle, that it wan still rising. A boy was driving a white cow along the lower road, whistling as he went, and now and then blowing warmth into his~ red fists. Dark clouds leaned over the cliffs be- yorid the Cumberland. It was well on toward nightfall, and to his right he saw the station agent running down the tracks. with the red switch-light. Its time fer the local freight, he mut- tered. Oh Lord, I hope shell do ez she promised! I hope shell go up the road on it! He came in and looked at Fan, who sat at meat, in a hi~h chair of old fashion, its narrow back spotted with gilt grapes. She was eating a boiled egg with both hands, and her dimpled cheeks were- streaked with yellow, but she looked very sweet to Wayne, in her checked gingham apron. You keep her mighty tidy, he said to his wife. A gleam of motherly satisfaction leaped to Mrs.Waynes eyes, and was blotted out in coldly drooping lids. I do my best, she sighed. I aint. goin to hey her feel thet shes differnt. from other children. I mean she shall hey ez good a Christmas ez the next, so L do. Im dressin her a doll-baby right. now. Its clothes all come off. Im hevin awful work keepin it hid. Shes all over the place, Fan is.~, Waynes face expressed content and a. new enthusiasm. Howd it do to git up a Christmas. tree ? he suggested. Too much trou- ble? Mrs. Wayne brushed the fluttering curls; out of Fans eyes. I could fix one np right pretty with pop-corn and red peppers, she said. ~Hev Jones got in them Noahs arks lie laid off to git ? Wayne seemed to remember something unpleasant. I never stopped in the store to-day, he said. Look like I ben too fretted to~ think. He leaned forward. Y see- Fans mammy His wife started, and her big eyes ques- tioned him. Shes hangin round again, and You ben talkin with her, Tobe ? Well, Iifs this way. She came beggin to see Fan, and II His wife was on her feet. You better tell her to take the child, she said, in a smothered sort of voice. Wayne looked at her trembling lips, and appeared to nerve himself. Nancy, he faltered, mebbyef I could make out totell yeh But the woman held out her hands with a piteous sort of appeal. No! she panted, no, Wayne, dont you tell me nothin. Thars things I couldntbear. She buried her cold fingers in Fans curls. Sometimes I almost hate her as it is ! The next day had the damp chilliness common to midwinter in southern Ken- tucky. The valley road was so deep in wine-colored mud that the feet of way- farers were red wat shod, as if they bad crossed a fresh battle-ground. Fan was running back and forth on the covered porch, and the sound of her little feet conveyed an intimate sense of cheer to Mrs. Wayne. Keep thet hood tied on you, Fan ! she called, as she sewed pink netting bags for Fan~s Christmas tree. There was only a little bitterness in her pleasure as she wrought. I aint ~oin to take it out of her, she considered. I wont hey them Wilkins young ones crowin over Fan with their fine contrapshuns and bought candy. She sewed on, banishing from her mind the dark vision of Fans par- entage. Suddenly it came over her that for some time she had not heard Fans steps on the rattling floor. Perhaps she was sitting down on the damp steps, taking cold. Mrs. Wayne got up and looked abroad, suddenly growing aghast with a great fear. Fan was gone. There was no one in sight on the barren hill-side. A freight train was rounding the curve, moving so slowly that its brown cars seemed merely a portion of the clay bank, slinking listlessly along behind the en- gine. It grew lucidly plain to Mrs. Wayne that it would be useless to call. Fan was gone. The miserable mother had stolen her. She had claimed her own and borne it off to a heritage of shame and want. All the bitterness and remorse in Mrs. Waynes soul strove to- gether and shaped themselves into an obscure prayer. You never ga me no child ! she said, setting her face hard against the sky. Id of died to feel a little head agin my LITTLE FELLERS THEIVIN. breast. Id of worked and starved and prayed to raise it right. But you gave Fall to thet mean woman instead o me. Oh, Fan! ef I lied you back Id own lip ez I love yeh, no differ whose you are. The whole world seemed to evade her as she gazed at its familiar details. The mill stacks were black fin~ers pointing derisively up at the swollen clouds. Everything was changed and darkened. The earth was a bleak wild in which people loved only to lose, and men de- ceived, and wretched women wandered on and on in the gloom, blinded with bangin~ hair, dragging after them little children who sobbed for cold and hun- ger. She aint used to it, said Mrs. Wayne that night as she leaned on her husbands shoulder and stared out into the darkness. Oh, Tobe! theres her little bed, with the quilt IL- pieced fer Millys babies, and the the little night -gownd hangin on post. Waynes voice was rather husky. Dont take on so, he advised, with gruff tenderness. I got men scourin the kentry. Youyougot to think a heap of Fan, didnt yeh? He felt her tremble, and then draw away. Yes, Tobeunly The Christmas tree Wayne had cnt lay in a corner of the cow-shed, distilling its balsamic smells above the fragrance of the, hay which hung down from the loft in webs of greenish silver. Mrs. Wayne went out and looked at it. To-morrows Christmas, she ponder- ed, weeping. And thars her doll and the rest; but she aint hyere no more. Shes starved and froze. Oh, Fan! I cant hey it soI cant The stars stole out that night with glad faces, as if they knew it was the YOU BETTER TELL HER TO TAKE THE CHILD, SHE 5AID. FANS MAMMY. 83 time of joy on earth, as if they remem- got a scratch. Hand ber in, Jones. He bered what festival men were about to laughed as Mrs. Wayne snatched Fan. keep. Wayne went out with the men. The men who had been scourin~ the Mrs. Wayne, wrapping Fan in a blank- bresh for Fan came back empty-handed, et, heard their voices as they slammed and Mrs. Wayne shut her doors and gave the gate. over the last hope. But toward mid- Pore thing said one; she must night, as she lay in her bed, there came a great knocking at the door. Wayne started up, fumbling for his clothes. Go on to the door, stammered his wife; mebby they Oh, Tobe, quit a-foolin with them clothes! Strike a light, cant yeh? Ill open to em my- self Weve got her, called one of the men outside. Thar a woman jest got knocked off the trestle by number eight. She never knowed what strek her, I reckondead ez a nail. The baby aint a flung the baby over before the train caught her. Mrs. Wayne breathed hard. They were going down to see herFans main- my, the unknown woman who had shad- owed her life. She put Fan in bed, and watched the heavy eyes close restfully as the little limbs yielded to the warmth; Then she clad herself hastily and threw a cloak over her head, shutting the door. It was very dark. The river, far be- low, steamed with mist which trailed up- ward in white shapes, like spirits of the WATcHING. 84 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. dead. The wind chopped round upon her with a shriek, and on down the hill she saw, through the haze, moving pink- ish blurs, the lanterns of the men. Stum- bling through the night she made her way behind them. The lights became motionless. The men were stopping be- low the trestle, and as she drew nearer she cau~ht their voices. Must a ben hidin up in the boom- house, said one. I low she was try- in to git to Somerset when the train got her. Well, take a-hold here, Summers. Mrs. Wayne pushed the men aside and came closer. Wayne, standing on the tracks above, made a sharp exclamation: Nancy! Keep her back, some of you ! It was too late. The lanterns cast a bright glow on the dead face against the clay bank, striking a purple bloom from a loose lock across the white cheek. Mrs. Wayne stood staring. And then, very slowly, as if her strength had failed, she fell on her knees beside the silent figure, and stretched both hands over the poor face, as if to hide it from the world. Milly ! she whispered Milly ! The men hung back, full of sheepish con jecture. Wayne lifted his wife. I hoped youd never know, he said. She made me promise not to tell. She left her man a year back. The oldes child is with his folks. She got reckless, and he broke off delicately. She was bringin Fan to you when they put her in jail. But she couldnt bear to hey you know. She gave her to me, but the mother in her couldnt rest and so she stole her back. He drew his wife away. Come, Nancy. ~ The woman hung on him, tearless. My heart aches, she breathed. My WE WE GOT HER.~ LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 85 Milly! Tobe, I never rightly knowed you till now. How good you are The woman whose erring pilgrimage was run lay under her shawl. The lan- terns painted the tracks as with red arrows plunged into the bosom of the night. The trestle, standing to the left was like the lean ribs of a starved animal, and the mens faces were grotesquely picked out in black and scarlet. But, as in the days of Hei-od the King, a white star shook overhead in the quiet sky, and despite the pain and sin of the grief-worn earth, its pure ray foretold an- other Christmas morning. LE REVEILLON: A ChRISTMAS TALE.* BY FERDINAND FABRE. Y BOUT the year 1842 onr family lived at Bddarieux, Rue de la Digne. With us, Thursday was invariably a fete-day. Only think of it On these Thursdays neither my friend Gaffarot nor myself would attend the college; and then, too, Thursday was the day when Pascalette used to come to work at our house. Ali! this Pascalette, with her tall and supple figure, her pale little face somewhat long, but very regular in its features; and with her thick bands of hair, whose black- ness was lighted up by a fine white ray which charmingly parted them. I cer- tainly liked the little one; but it was Gaffarot, three years my senior, who be- sieged her, petted her, and devoured her with his eyes. Pascalette, who was eighteen years old, was the pious daughter of Mathias Pascal, bell-ringer of St.-Alexandre. My aunt Ang~le, impressed for years by her ex- cellent bearing in church, her assiduity in the performance of all the offices, even of those novenas of Ste.-Philom~ne and of St. Fran~ois Xavier which were not of obligation, had engaged her services reg- ularly once a week. My poor aunt this all came from her bothering herself with more sewing than her fingers, a trifle stiffened by reason of threescore years, could manage to get through with unaided. Her reputation for sanctity had brought her into regular relations with nearly all the curates of the canton. Those pious souls, overflow- ing, under their breath, in a stream of chatter loud enough in the aggregate to __ deafen one, mingled here and there with many prayerful exclamations, had re- peatedly groaned over the poverty of * R~veillonthe name given to a repast which is eaten after the Midnight Mass on Christmas morn- ing. JAeire r~veillonto make r~veillonis the rule among the poorest classes in France. their sacristies, where the silken vest- ments were laughing, where the muslin surplices were showing numberless rents, where even the communion cloths (cor- poraux) were, from long usage, begin- ning to fall to pieces. It was not strange that my aunt, much moved, had prom- ised to mend every rent, and to have everything put into good condition. One can easily guess, with twenty parishes all around us, how after that the packages must have rained at our premi~re, Rue de Ia Digne. My mother, who fairly adored her sis- ter, was not altogether free from a cer- tain weariness on such occasions. These arrivals were more abundant on Monday, which was market-day with us, than on any other day of the week. My mother never breathed a word; but my father, fuming at heart, would give voice to a groan from time to time, finally escap- ing for fear that he might not be able to hold his peace to the end. That dear and worthy man! his situation towards his sister-in-law, Angde, was so delicate! Ang~le had invested her whole fortune some fifty thousand francsin the enter- prises of my father, who was the master- builder of the town; and my father, who would have been seriously inconven- ienced to return fifty thousand francs, if my aunt Ang~le had chosen to become offended, used every effort to avoid a rupture. So much consideration, without exag- gerating her vanity as a devote, had cer- tainly in time rendered the woman niore exacting. In the house she governed people and things, and this simply, naive- ly, for our good, as she never tired of repeating to us. To give one instance: After each meal, our last mouthful swallowed and my fa- ther safely gone, my aunt would marshal

Ferdinand Fabre Fabre, Ferdinand Le Reveillon: A Christmas Tale 85-115

LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 85 Milly! Tobe, I never rightly knowed you till now. How good you are The woman whose erring pilgrimage was run lay under her shawl. The lan- terns painted the tracks as with red arrows plunged into the bosom of the night. The trestle, standing to the left was like the lean ribs of a starved animal, and the mens faces were grotesquely picked out in black and scarlet. But, as in the days of Hei-od the King, a white star shook overhead in the quiet sky, and despite the pain and sin of the grief-worn earth, its pure ray foretold an- other Christmas morning. LE REVEILLON: A ChRISTMAS TALE.* BY FERDINAND FABRE. Y BOUT the year 1842 onr family lived at Bddarieux, Rue de la Digne. With us, Thursday was invariably a fete-day. Only think of it On these Thursdays neither my friend Gaffarot nor myself would attend the college; and then, too, Thursday was the day when Pascalette used to come to work at our house. Ali! this Pascalette, with her tall and supple figure, her pale little face somewhat long, but very regular in its features; and with her thick bands of hair, whose black- ness was lighted up by a fine white ray which charmingly parted them. I cer- tainly liked the little one; but it was Gaffarot, three years my senior, who be- sieged her, petted her, and devoured her with his eyes. Pascalette, who was eighteen years old, was the pious daughter of Mathias Pascal, bell-ringer of St.-Alexandre. My aunt Ang~le, impressed for years by her ex- cellent bearing in church, her assiduity in the performance of all the offices, even of those novenas of Ste.-Philom~ne and of St. Fran~ois Xavier which were not of obligation, had engaged her services reg- ularly once a week. My poor aunt this all came from her bothering herself with more sewing than her fingers, a trifle stiffened by reason of threescore years, could manage to get through with unaided. Her reputation for sanctity had brought her into regular relations with nearly all the curates of the canton. Those pious souls, overflow- ing, under their breath, in a stream of chatter loud enough in the aggregate to __ deafen one, mingled here and there with many prayerful exclamations, had re- peatedly groaned over the poverty of * R~veillonthe name given to a repast which is eaten after the Midnight Mass on Christmas morn- ing. JAeire r~veillonto make r~veillonis the rule among the poorest classes in France. their sacristies, where the silken vest- ments were laughing, where the muslin surplices were showing numberless rents, where even the communion cloths (cor- poraux) were, from long usage, begin- ning to fall to pieces. It was not strange that my aunt, much moved, had prom- ised to mend every rent, and to have everything put into good condition. One can easily guess, with twenty parishes all around us, how after that the packages must have rained at our premi~re, Rue de Ia Digne. My mother, who fairly adored her sis- ter, was not altogether free from a cer- tain weariness on such occasions. These arrivals were more abundant on Monday, which was market-day with us, than on any other day of the week. My mother never breathed a word; but my father, fuming at heart, would give voice to a groan from time to time, finally escap- ing for fear that he might not be able to hold his peace to the end. That dear and worthy man! his situation towards his sister-in-law, Angde, was so delicate! Ang~le had invested her whole fortune some fifty thousand francsin the enter- prises of my father, who was the master- builder of the town; and my father, who would have been seriously inconven- ienced to return fifty thousand francs, if my aunt Ang~le had chosen to become offended, used every effort to avoid a rupture. So much consideration, without exag- gerating her vanity as a devote, had cer- tainly in time rendered the woman niore exacting. In the house she governed people and things, and this simply, naive- ly, for our good, as she never tired of repeating to us. To give one instance: After each meal, our last mouthful swallowed and my fa- ther safely gone, my aunt would marshal 86 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. us - my mother, myself, Pascalette, and Gaffarot, whenever he happened to be there on a Thursdayinto her own cham- ber to return thanks. Oh, the surprise! Oh, the consolations of it! For there, on a small table decorated with a snow-white napkin, lay exposed, night and day, a magnificent reliquary of gilded wood, with a convex glass which, a little dimmed, would stare at us like a great blinking eye. What an enormous place my aunt Ang~les reliquary occupied in my boy- hood! Come, let us kneel before it for a moment. This famous reliquary used to be held in great veneration, not only in our fam- ily. but also among the devotees, male and female, of our town. Who so atten- tive as these, particularly on Saturdays, when my father, absorbed in paying off his workmen, could not stay himself to repel the invasion! And who so faithful in coming to recite the rosary at our house! Perhaps it might chance that even M. Rudet de Portiragnes, succursa- listc* of St-Louis, the most be]oved and most respected priest of B~darieux, would come climbing up our stairway! All this made my aunt very proud; and it was not rare that, the beads having beea once thrust back into the pockets of the faithful, she would lose her head, intoxicated with the pattering rain of the Ave Marias. Totally disregarding the presence of M. lAbb6 Rudet de Porti- ragnes upon whom should naturally have fallen the honor of the discourse my aunt would open her mouth to favor the habitu~s of the chamber, now trans- formed into an oratory, with a few words of edification. It goes without saying that my mother, Pascalette, and myself were accounted among the faithful and most regular at- tendants in this tiny sanctuary of my aunt Ang~le. Why should I not, too, make a clean breast of it? A hundred times, along with my inseparable friend Gaffarothis real name being Rouquier de Cazilhachave I served as acolyte, as sacristan, indeed, to this extraordinary officiant iii petticoats; lighted for her the tapers around the shrine their light throwing upon the slender little columns of its pedestal a blaze equal to that of a July sun beating down on our garden borderings in the fulness of their growth. * Curate of a chapel of ease. This aunt of mine, in spite of her age, had kept in her throat a delicate little voice, fresh and chirpy as that with which the tomtits twitter in the osier grounds along the Orb. She had never aspired higher than les louarmges du Seigneur the praises of the Lordand by a special favor to her, the Lord had preserved this voice of hers fresh, pure, and without the slightest quaver. AIm! one must have heard with what magic her fine singing tongue, perfect in its tone, sure of its as a musician might say, levelled all difficulties, made light of them, charm- ed them away! The matter constantly touched upon in these instructions in a corner was the history of the marvellous reliquary, which under the strain of a religious exal- tation wherein, alas ! human weakness found a certain footholdmy dear amid well-beloved aunt used to call her osten- soir in other words,her mnonstrance. When, weighing each syllable, this inde- fatigable preacher in soft cambric would pronounce these words, Mon Os - ten- soir, with a propulsion of voice both fervent and solemn, we, the hearers, were bound to succumb, drop to our knees, adore! AIm! if only in this supreme, al- most divine moment she had felt the courage with which the priest celebrates at the altar, herself to raise the mon- strance over our humiliated heads, and to pronounce something like a Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus ! but the courage! she did not have that! But suppose we turn to the historical side of our matter. The precious reliqua- ry, crowded with the bones of holy men and women enough to burst the glass which could scarcely keep them in, had been introduced into our town by Dom Can- mette, Benedictine of the Abbey of Ville- magne-sur-Mare, not far from Bddarieux. Ever since that horrible epoch of the Revolutionbeginning with which my aunt had formed the habit of accumula- ting the rs in the word horrible, over which she stammered while trembling the treasure had passed through various fortunes. In 1807 it had belonged to Madame Ia Baronne Yolande de Servi~s; in 1814, to the Marquis Justinien Buzai~d de Cam pillergues; in 1819, to Madame ha Comtesse Vironique de Cazilhac; amid, finally, to the daughter of this last, Made- moiselle Marie-Anne de Cazilhac, who, through her marriage with a manufac ALL TUIS MADE MY AUNT VERY PROUD. 88 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. turer of Bddarieux, one Frdddric Ron- Our escapades took more frequently quier, had brought it to him. From the this direction, because we had always be- latters hand it had reached my aunt, fore us the chance of finding Pascalette Save in the single case of the unhappy filling her basket among the vines. For Frdddric Rouquier, dying in 1838, wife- myself, I confess it freely, that Pascalette less, ruined, insolvent, leaving five or- touched me less than the clairettes and phans in abject misery, Doni Canmettes the verdails, on which I fed greedily. reliquary, or rather my aunts, had Things went differently, I might as well proved an inexhaustible fountaja of mer- admit, when my friend was in question; cies and benedictions for all to whom the for he, although greedy as a shark, and privilege of possession had been gracious- armed with teeth fit to grind the granite ly accorded. Madame Ia Baronne Yo- of Roc-Rouge, did not touch a single lande de Servi~s had been deluged by this grape, having no other thought than to flood; the Marquis Justinien Buzard de help Pascalette fill her basket. Now and Campillergnes had beea deluged; and, then, across the thick purples, I could finally, in her turn, Madame la Comtesse hear these two laughing; I could even Y~ronique de Cazilhac had been deluged. sometimes see them lean towards one an- Beyond all doubt, added my aunt other, and peck at each other like two lit- one day, gaining boldness, Mademoiselle tle birds sitting on the edge of their nest. Marie-Anne de Cazilbac had suffered mis- But how did my friend Philippe fortunes, in spite of the presence at her Rouquier de Cazilhac get his nickname hearth of a perfect cohort of saints and of Gaffarot? This is well worth ex- saintesses. But who dares affirm that plain ing. God, whose designs are impenetrable, did Up to 1839, our chief Bddarieux indus- not make her expiate her m6salliance? try was fed with wool either from the When one is noble, one should wed with Spanish frontier or from that of Italy. a noble. Heaven has thus willed it, so Perpignan at one end, Monaco at the that Somebodies shall not be confounded other, were vast depots from which our with Nobodies. However, our prayers manufacturers came forth full-handed. rising before my ostensoir have appeased About this time a veritable revolution an irritated God. Remember with what broke out with us. It was no longer the interest and affection the five orphans of sheep from the pastures of the Canigou Rouquier de Cazilhac inspire our whole or the Ventoux which provided us with town. Not a day passes without some fleeces, but the distant flocks of South charitable soul seeking out, in their nest in America. I well remember those enor- the Faubourg St-Louis, the Ilirondelles mous bales from the Rio de la Plata, [Swallows], as Bddarieux calls the little black, dusty, torn into shreds by the girls of Marie-Anne, light and airy as so winds from everywhere, which blocked many birds. I need not speak of Phi- the entrances to the factories. lippe, my nephews friend. You often These same packages, greasy, matted, meet him here, and I would have you foreign as they were although they know his appetite equals his good looks, could not be so easily managed as the Let us thank God for his gifts I, softer bales from Spain or Italy were not without a certain positive value of There was no denying that my friend their own. It sometimes happened to Philippe Rouquier de Cazilhac was gifted Philippe and myself while wandering with superb health. Straight, firm, wiry, about the town but more often while and well set on his four limbs, like a racing across the faubourg to stop in young horse before he feels the humilia- front of the open dye - houses, and to lion of the girth and the bit, he used to peep into the singular cookery which was sweep before us outstripping the wind, going on there with these arrivals from Even now I blush when I remember the La Plata. In those days we happened to number of times it happened to me that I be somewhat under a cloud at the college, ould not keep up with him, either in our and, in order to kill time with ease, we wild races through the town, or in our interested ourselves pretty much in every- expeditions into the suburbsas far as thing. Roc-Rouge, for instance, where old Ma- What sauces of a brownish color, thias Pascal owned a vineyard glistening sticky, and muddy with disgusting ooze, in clairettes and verdails. overflowed from those vats in boiling! 0 z 0 0 0 ~J2 0 0 0 90 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. slowly lest it should be damaged, a brand- new and perfect fleece. Un fort u ii a tel y, these skins, exhibit- ing a splendor and richness unknown to us, were not free from defects. In the pampas, on whose grasses they had pas- tured, scouring them quite as freely as Philippe and myself were in the habit of scampering from the Roc - Rouge to the Roc-de- Tentajo, the beasts of the Argen- tine Republic had tangled their fleeces in the thorns of thick- ets, from which they had not escaped without wounds and stains. Thorns were there of every kind; burdocks with a thou- sand hooked teeth; briers with a hun- dred claws; burrs, sometimes as thick as nuts, sometimes drawn out to almost microscopic fineness. So it happened that the poor of B~da- rieux were kept busy in extracting the ~ gaffarots this being the name given to all such trash as outraged these envoys from South America. It was a sight worth seeing, the rage with After having discharged through sub- which the good people precipitated them- terranean conduits their miry broth, the selves on the cargo from the moment of vats became filled with clear water; and its arrival. Only think of it! Certain with this limpid stream tumbling them women skilled in seizing the pests could over and over, the skins ended with be- earn as much as ten cents a day! coming washed, cleaused, and purified. Thanks to the favor of the manufactur- Dieu! what glistening wool, whiter than ers of the town, old friends of his father, the snow on Mount Caroux! I once the skins flowed upon my friend Philippe opened wide my eyes, dazzled, I can tell and the old bonne Christine Duval. This you, when, by the aid of a long-handled Christe to give her the name she was pitchfork, a dyer suddenly fished up, and loved byset the little Rouquier de Ca- TO THE BLAcKBOARD! M. DE rORIIIRAGNEs COMMANDED. LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 91 zilhac children, Marguerite, Claire, and Marthe, to extracting the gaffarots. Little Marie alone, being only four years old, was not permitted to work. She used to watch her sisters working, while amus- ing herself with the toys which M. 1Abb~ de Portiragnes, as skilled a joiner as he was a good priest, had fashioned with his own hands on his own lathethe lathe of his ancestors, indeed, for he had brought it back with himself in the year 1817 of the Emigration. Give me some gaffarots! let me have some gaffarots ! Philippe used to shout, with his stentorian and joyous voice, into the ears of the manufacturers when he met them on the street. No words, as written, can possibly give an idea of the singular manner, always absolutely unforeseen, with which my friend would hurl into the air this very simple word gaffarot. By modulation beyond all rules, not to speak of common- senseeven in music, it seems to me, there should be place for a little good sense these three syllables, launched from his young Gargantuan throat, became a kind of chant of a finished extravagance. Gaf-fa-rot ! Gaf-fa-rot ! he amused himself with crying, of evenings, as he brought down with mighty strokes of a long pole the bats which, most numer- ous at Bddarieux, and flying very low at dusk, mostly haunted the environs of St. - Alexandre, near the belfry where Pasca- lette lived with her father the bell-ringer. By stress of hearing this unique word repeated, vociferated, howled into its ears, the town had finally inflicted it upon Philippe as a nickname. From that day the son of Marie - Anne de Cazilhac, sprung from one of the oldest families of the country, and from Frdddric Rouquier, clothed by the grace of Louis XVIII. with the title of Comte de Cazilhac, was known everywhere only by this nick- name of Gaffarot. But this Philippe de Rouquier de Ca- zilhiac, whom M. lAbb4 Rudet de Porti- ragnes spoiled, whom my father did not like at all, and whom I idolized, had a __ noble litany of queer nicknames. If I hap __ pen to know how they came to fasten that of Gaffarot upon him, I certainly am equally aware why they surnamed him Great Snatcher of Sausages, Chitter- lings, and Puddings. In our country we hang our sausages, chitterlings, and VOL. LXXXVI.No. 511.S puddings to the small beams jutting out from the ceiling; and, little as it suited Philippe, leaner, longer draw~i out, than a reed, to raise himself on this toes, he would always snatch what Vest suited his sisters at home. It is for my brood of 5wallows ! It is for my nest of Swallows ! his voice would be heard ringir~g out as he made his escape. Such rapes on the winghe always went for them as straight to the mark as a martin chasing gnats for his brood were not to everybodys taste. I must hasten to make it plain that the manufac- turers themselves always manifested an extreme indulgence towards my friends pranks. It was altogether another thing, however, with the shopkeepers, the arti- sans, and all the small-fry of bourgeois in process of development. While these jeered at Gaffarot, belabored him over the shoulders with their broomsticks, or summoned at the least provocation the commissary of police Rouvier, or Griinn the gendarme, les Riches this word Rich with a capital letter, if you please did not take over-kindly to the rogueries of the son of Fr6d6ric Rouquier de Cazi- Ihac, their old-time rival in the woollen trade. Alas! so many follies could not but end ill! On the ground-floor of an ancient house, at the entrance of the Rue du Vi- gnal, there lived in those days a cobbler, Gaspard Tourlas by name. This man, shut up in a miserable shop, lived by mending the students shoes. I never knew how Philippe came to fasten his grip on poor Gaspard. The fact is, he never allowed the poor man any peace. One day smashing in his window-panes, made of oiled paper, to ask the hour; the next, dumping into the gutter the shoes spread out on the sill of his little window; at other times, introducing himself into the shop under the pretext of some patching for the Swallows or for Christe, and tumbling everything in it topsy-turvy! At last Gaspards patience ran out. At the risk of losing the patronage of Christe, of the Swallows, perhaps even that of M. lAbb6 de Portiragnes, he car- ried his plaint before the Principal. M. le Principala very small man, with a little bald head rising from out of a very scraggy neck, with a face orna- mented with great round gold-rimmed 92 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. spectacleslistened gravely to the good man~s woes. And as it happened that complaints against Philippe had been raining down from the four corners of the town until he had become saturated with them, M. le Principal opened wide his mouthwhich operation always pro- duced upon me the effect of a rusty lock to declare: Make yourself easy, Gaspard. Gaf- farot, of whom I have grown weary, will soon hear news from me! And great Heaven! what news it was! The bomb burst on the last Thursday in September, a few days before our re- turn to the college, which had been fixed for October 1st. On that Thursday, as usual, Philippe and I were at Rue de Ia Digne. At that moment my friend was making himself very attentive to Pasca- lette, who was ironing a communion cloth. For my part, I was listening to my aunt Ang~le, who, after having made a pack- age of my text-books and copy-books, much neglected during the holidays, be- gan to take me to task. Make a good resolution, at least, she told me, to show better work this year than the last, for if.. Here our door opened, not without a certain clatter, and M. lAbbd de Porti- ragnes burst upon us. My aunts phrase remained suspended. What is the matter, then, Monsieur le Curd ? she inquired, anxiously. The matter is, mademoiselle, that Monsieur le Principal Ponyadoux refuses to receive Philippe at the reopening. Philippe expelled from college ! Refusal is equivalent to an expul- sion. What has he done? The same old follies about the town, follies assuredly blameworthy, but which M. F~libien Ponyadoux has characterized as criminal; although such qualifica- tion I myself find excessive. You know Gaspard Tourlas, of Rue du Vign all The cobbler owned a magpie. Yesterday Philippe inadvertently knocked down the bird with a blow of his stick, believing, I am quite sure, that he was only beating down a bat. No doubt this was bad, very bad; but I cannot perceive in it a motive sufficient to disgrace a man pub- licly. I myself was not guiltless of cer- tain little scrapes in my infancy and first youth; which did not prevent me, how- ever, from serving, later on, as an officer in the Army of the Princes, of being at- tached, in 1821, to the Maison rouge of the King, and, as a crown, of becoming a good priest through Gods infinite grace. Perhaps, Monsieur lAbbd, if it would only please you to insist a little with M. le Principal clucked my aunt gently devoutly would be the better word. No. Moreover, I could never learn to agree with M. Fdlibien Ponyadoux, imbued as he is with the deplorable rev- olutionary spirit of our day. Would you believe, mademoiselle, that after I had tried to make him understand that Philippe de Cazilhac, of noble blood, born for the career of arms, which calls for temper and courage, could not be com- pared with the sons of our factory people, timid souls caring only for gain, he an- swered me in these words, altogether in- credible At college, all the pupils are equal? Add to this, mademoiselle, that during our entire interview he never ceased calling Philippe who is legiti- mately the Comte de Cazilbacby his odi- ous nickname of Gaffarot. I felt myself outraged, and had it not been for my soutane, I would have cuffed this inon- sieur. Oh, Monsieur lAbbd ! cries Philippe, stirred to his heartstrings by this out- burst of the good priest of St. -Louis. He leaps from his chair by the side of Pascalette, throws himself upon M. de Portiragnes neck, embracing him with an effusion which quickly brought tears into the eyes of us all. Dont begin by borrowing trouble, at least, my dear boy, the Abbd said, a prey to profound emotions. Bddarieu x, which insists on judging thee by thy childish tricks, will soon learn from what family thou issuest, and of what thou art capable. Au! M. de Fdlibien de Ponyadoux re- fuses thee his professors, does he? Let him keep them! During these holidays we have been busying ourselves together over mathematics, for which Godwho wills that thou shalt follow the career of arms, the glorious career of thy raceap- pears to have so specially gifted thee. I myself, formerly, had a liking for figures, and even now I have not lost a taste for them. Come, Philippe, Bezout, whose pages we turned over yesterday, is wait- ing for us.... And, my son, he adds, turning round to me, and giving my ear a gentle and very friendly twitch, why LE Rl~VEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 93 dost thou not join us in our lessons? This would mean for thee so much gain over the enemy... He broke into himself here, and began looking at my aunt with eyes so attentive, so charged with things that lay hidden below the surface, that, touched to the soul, she could not keep from crying out, Then, Monsieur lAbb6, you have news ? Yes, mademoiselle, I have; and good, very good news, too. You are already aware that Monseigneur the Archbishop of Paris honors me with some marks of friendsIiip.... Remind me, later on, to read you a letter which I received this morning.... For the moment content yourself with learning that our Martinet, and our dear Swallows of the Faubourg, will not be long kept from spreading their wings for flight towards better cli- mates. . . . Chut! chut! chut!. We had scarcely reached the street when M. Rudet de Portiragnes, rubbing his hands briskly enough to bruise the skin, began repeating to us, Chut! my children, chut! While the Dean of St. -Alexandre, the respectable Abbd Michelin, was lodged in a spacious house, most healthy and with the best exposure, the good curate of St. - Louis lived in a mean tumble-down ruin wholly turned from the east, immediately in the rear of the high buildings of the hospital. In spite of his threescore years and ten, already well struck, M. Rudet de Portiragnes, tall, dry, meagre, had pre- served undiminished both the suppleness and the vigor of his limbs. Here were Gaffarot and I still toiling on the second floor when the dear old priest, having al- ready reached the third and opened the door of his workshop, was waiting for us! What a veritable lumber-room was this workshop! There was the turning- lathe, with its flexible margelle of ash, its solid wheels, its wheels with spokes, its bands crossing and recrossing, all pass- ing over a drum, hooked to the ceiling. Then a bench crowded with chisels, gouges. Then, on every side, strewn about on the floor, were billets of wood, some already bitten by the tool, others in the rough. Here and therealmost as they had looked on Roc-Rougewere great branches still garnished with their green and shining leaves. These shrubs had the air of having pushed their roots through the gaps of this frightfully bro- ken floor. In one corner four planks, badly piled up and in various stages of staining by time and dirt, leaned against the wall. To the blackboard ! M. de Porti- ragnes commanded. Seating himself on a very high stool, he turned over the pages of a book al- ready open on the bench, which, as it rested there, appeared to be living an altogether separate existence from the twenty material objects heaped around it. Are we ready, Philippe ? Yes, Monsieur lAbb~, he answered, with a certain peevish weariness, which gave no indication that his heart was in the work. We were at fractions, were we not? I... dont remember very well... In truth, since thou wilt in a few days be free from thy holidays, and from this time our lessons will follow each other regularly, why should we not take up the arithmetic from the beginning? Now, notation and numeration interest thy friend much more than fractions, of which he is not likely to have heard. As you please, Monsieur lAbb& In saying this, Philippes fingers let go the bit of chalk which they were care- lessly holding. The little piece in falling was shivered to atoms. The professor considered his pupil for a moment. Ah, ~d! say then, little one, thou art not much disposed to work to-day? It is because.... Complete thy thought. Yes, yes, Monsieur lAbb6, you would have done well to box the ears of that Ponyadoux when he called me Galfa- rot. M. de Portiragnes pushed Bezout to one side, jumped from his lofty stool, and clasped Philippes hands in both his own. My dear child, he said, I am pleased with this generous transport of thy soul. It is altogether worthy of a gentleman. A gentleman ought not to tolerate the slightest imputation on his honor; for our honor is abused, it is wounded, when an attempt is made to turn it into ridicule. But regret nothing; I have longer arms than thou thinkest, and that Principal will receive his re- ward, as it is written in the Holy Scrip- tures: Receperunt mercedern snain. 94 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. And now, you two go and amuse your- selves! I have been forgetting that to- day is Thursday; and that anyway we are still in the holidays. I am unwilling to rob you of your last eight days. Next week we shall resume our course---that is to say, if it shall be absolutely neces- sary. . Then, Monsieur lAbb6, you have a hope that perhaps it will not be absolutely necessary... . Gaffarot burst out vehe- mently, his eyes dilating, his nostrils quiv- ering; rearing up like a young colt at the first prick of the spur. Chut!... Oh, Monsieur lAbb6, you who so dearly love my sisters, and who love me so much, if you would tell me what there is in that letter of Monseigneur the Arch- bishop of Paris ! he implored. Chut! chut! If you will only tell me what that letter contains, I promise to behave well in the town; I shall redouble my efforts to, study arithmetic; and I shall enter lEcole militaire, where you are so anx- ious for me to go. M. de Portiragnes climbed back upon his stool, shut up Bezout, touched with his toe the lathe, and the drum at the ceiling began to rumble noisily. I am turning the dozen pieces of a little doll-house for the Swallows. I have no time to lose. I must have everything ready by Christmas, or, at the furthest, by New-Years day. The Swallows must have their toys and their little pres- ents. Splinters of wood, too roughly detach- ed, flew to the ceiling. This object which now thou seest without shape, nmy Philippe, is going to be a flagon. Christe will be very content with it! In that letter, Monsieur lAbb~, my friend insisted, dominated by his one idea, is there anything about my uncle, Armand de Cazilhac? Yes . . . . there is question of thy granduncle.... But, come, off with you both..., above all, ehut I He abandoned his post, himself to open the door of the workshop, and forthwith shut it upon our heels. Those poor little Swallows! Men so called them because they were brown and had black eyes; but, above all, be- causebeing lodged under the very eaves of an old house in Faubourg St. -Louis, belonging to Antoine Gignac, sacristan of the parishthe real swallows in flying back to their nests would fan them with their wings. And then, to make the pic- ture complete, the little girls themselves, at certain times, could be heard uttering sharp little cries, chirping and twittering enough to make folks in truth sometimes confound them with the birds. You ought to have heard, among her sisters, Marguerite Guite, as they called herMarguerite, rather tall, dainty, growing up as lithe as a young osier! It was not the solitary note of the swallows which she held in that fresh tuneful throat of hers, but a whole choir of nightingales. If Philippe felt transports which did not permit him to keep in his seat whenever Pascalette, commanded by my aunt, began the sub tuum. . . . be- fore Dom Caumettes reliquary, I cannot say that I felt myself altogether at my ease when, by chance, I heard Margue- rites voice in the anthemor even when she would speak to me. Oh! this Marguerite Rouquier de Cazi- lhac, when I summon up her image after so many years! Few days passed without some one of our house going to visit the Swallows. To-day, it was my mother; to-morrow, my aunt; the next day, our good Marion, who invariably carried on her arm a basket bursting with good things. I was one in all these expeditions, which most frequently took place after the letting out from school of the town boys; that is, towards half past four. My people used to take me up in passing the door of the college, and then we went on our way. What joy! what raptures! But all this joy, all these raptures, were doubled if, instead of my mother or Marion, it hap- pened to be my aunt Ang~le who led the party. For my mother used to kiss the Swallows tenderly, inquire after their welfare, and then bear me off with her to work. Old Marion would put her basket in Christes hands, interest herself for a moment or so with the Swallows busy in picking out the gaffarots, and then carry me back to work. With my aunt how different! My aunt Angble, overburdened with practices of devotion, had, for years, asso- ciated Christe with her perpetual adora- tions, with her novenas, with her tri- duums, and it was rare indeed that with LE R]~VEJLLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 95 her we did not remain at least an hour at the Faubourg to pray. God must surely put His seal, Christe, on the happiness of these children. He cannot but do it, my good aunt used to say, after having lavished the most ami- able caresses on the Swallows, who would be prettily holding out their arms, or rather their wings, from the very moment of her coming in. And with these words my aunt would constrain Christe into a chamber near by, where the two at once fell on their knees. It was my business to stay behind to watch over the little creatures, and to guard theni; and you can imagine how this vigilance and the guardianship filled my heart. Marguerite used to amuse herself at times turning over the pages of my books, and archly reproaching me, now for a torn page in my Latin grammar, now for my corrections of translations very badly kept, I admit, and all scrib- bled over. One afternoon, what was my aunts surprise not to speak of my own to find, on mounting to the Swallows, not one in the nest! Only Christe was there, bnsy in arranging the few skins from La Plata, and putting in a little order every- where. Oh! Mademoiselle Ang~le! Mademoi- selle Ang~le ! she screamed out on per- ceiving us. What has become of the little ones? inquired my aunt, uneasily. Are they sick? I tremblingly tried to inform myself. Quite the contrary, she replied, joy- ously, while offering us chairs. Philippe did not come to-day, I stam- mered, and yet to~day is Thursday. and Pascalette. . . Philippe is at Monsieur lAbbds with his sisters. M. lAbb~ was here awhile ago, and insisted on carrying away the whole flock to show them the parsonage ! There must be something new, then, my aunt insisted, sharply. Mademoiselle, M. lAbb~ will tell you all, Meanwhile, mademoiselle, learn from my mouth that M. le Vicomte de Cazilhac finds himself a little ill, that the gout has brought him to a standstill, and that, at this blessed moment, he may have adopted all my children ! God has indeed blessed our prayers! May He be praised ! M. lAbh6 does not hide his pleasure either. At last, he told me the Lords arm has been stretched, and has beaten , ,, down the pride of the impious . Like the cedars of Libanus, inter- rupted my aunt, whose preachings before Dom Caumettes reliquary had somewhat familiarized her with the holy text. Curiosity was burning into my soul. Christe, do you happen to know M. le Vicomte de Cazilhac? I asked, with incredible audacity. If I know him!... Well, I know him better than did the King, who would not have made him Peer of France, and given him thirty-six places, if he had known, as I know, of what bad wood the man was made She interrupted herself here to address my aunt. Besides, mademoiselle, M. lAbb6 must have told you about M. le Vicomte. Not a word, Christe, not a word. M. lAbb6, who is a saint, always fears to forget himself in pronouncing some rash judgment.... In fact, he has always exhibited an extraordinary reserve. Well, since the children are not here to bother me, mademoiselle, I am going to give you some details on M. le Vicointe Arinand de Cazilhac. The first time I ever set eyes on the man was in Edin- burgh, in Scotland . . . . that was about 1801 or 1802. Hold! I was nursing at that time the mother of our Martinet and our little Swallows. He was a poor-look- ing man of about thirty years, lean, with eyes always roaming restlessly in his head, as if they were trying to see on twenty different sides at once. He didnt live with us. I suppose he found our way of living too poor; for, in spite of his thinness, the man had an appetite! One day there was a great discussion be- tween the two brothers. The two spoke so loudly that, from our little apartment in that foreign country, I could hear them shout at one another like deaf people. My master, M. le Comte Michel, was all for going back to France only with the King! He, M. le Vicomte Armand, was for re- turning at once, and taking service nuder Bonaparte.... In brief, they parted by the ears. What a misfortune ! purred softly my aunt Ang~le. I do not want to deny some credit to the man. On our return, he received us very well indeed at Paris, in his magnifi 96 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. cent h6tel, Rue de Varenne. The same as to-day, he had no end of fat places, be- ginning with that of Senator. They used to tell me, for that matter, that that Bo- naparte, from sheer good-nature, freely allowed those who knew how to become his friends, to put money into their pock- ets! . . . But here they quarrelled again. And why, Christe l Mon Dieu, mademoiselle, the charac- ters of those two men could not accord. If one of them wanted to shout Gee! straightway the other called Ho! You might have believed they acted that way on purpose. For instance, M. le Vicomte would have been glad that his brother, along with all the other ~migr~s who crowded the Tuileries, should go to see theKingoften enough, in fact, to weary him. On his side, M. le Comte, who was proud, and who might believeconsider- ing his services in Bretagne during the emigrationthat they should reasonably occupy themselves about him, refused to budge a step. They threw hard stones at each other, these brothers. Finally we quit Paris. The very day of our depart- ureit was in the morning when we left M. le Vicomte had been named Peer of Fiance, and nous autresthe rest of us nothing! What ingratitude ! exclaimed my aunt. Think of the condition in which we found Cazilbac! The castle, a ruin; the domain, a fallow field; without taking into account that the people around about used to hold picnics on the property of M. le Comte. As to the chapel, those brig- ands of the Revolution had not left one stone upon another. .. . It was Madame Ia Comtesse and Marie-Anne who wept over all this! If there had only been silver in the purse! But we arrived down there drained of 4cus, as poor as Job on his dunghill. If only the soil, put once more into condition, should serve one day to feed us, that was our one hope ! It was then that, in this heap of stones, pierced everywhere like an old sieve, one fine evening after having chased the hares on the Escandorguchere comes up, with his game-bag bulging out, Fr6- d~ric Rouquier, a rich manufacturer of B~darieux. Rouquier had no need of his dogs to find out a pretty girl at our house, and discovering M. le Comtes troubles, he loaned him sums, first to build him up, next to pull him down. This man, whose business moved according to his will, in making these advancesal ways advances was possessed by one fixed idea. An idea which ruined the Cazilhacs, my aunt groaned. You may well say that, mademoiselle! In short, you know what came of it all. When M. le Comte found himself en- tangled in debt, just like a little bird caught in lime, he could see no way to refuse his daughter to the manufacturer of B~darieux.... and he capable, per- haps, of sending him stamped paper! However, it must be acknowledged, with the true frankness of a good Christian woman, that this Rouquier was a splendid man, and that Marie-Anne, after three visits, began to pay him the greatest at- tention. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak, my good Christe ! This marriage succeeded in breaking at once the relations which, from a dis- tance, had existed between the two bro- thers. It was no use for M. le Comte Mi- chel to take his precautions, and obtain from the King, whom he went to Paris expressly to see, that Fr~d~ric Rouquier should be called, for the future, Rouquier de Cazilhac, and that he should one day inherit the title of Count. On hearing this, Vicomte Armand, of bluer blood than the King, turned red like a turkey- cock, and, from that day, would not even hear our names mentioned. You can judge from this if the man was badhe who was one of Bonapartes parvenus ! Lord! Lord! at deaths terrible hour, send him repentance ! my aunt sighed. Only consider this, mademoiselle, that in marrying Marie-Anne de Cazilhac, this manufacturer of B6darieux had been nursing several schemes in his head, and particularly this one, to obtain, through the protection of the Peer of France, who was to be his uncle, the contracts of fur- nishing cloth for the armies. When one hasnt a drop of noble blood in ones veins, there is no great harm, is there, in wishing to remain what one is? There is always the proverb, Shoemaker, stick to thy last !, But guess what happened. M. Rouquier de Cazilbac and his wifeafter having spent, through a whole winter in Paris, more money than they could afford to spendthought the time had come to knock at the door of the Rue deVarenne. Our manufacturer, besides having had his ideas set back for months, had de LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 97 layed, until the very last second, to open his heart about it to Marie-Anne, for fear of troubling Marie-Anne, who was am us- ing herself famously with the distractions of Paris, and who seemed to have wholly forgotten her uncle. The upshot was that, after knocking at M. le Vicomtes door, and being made to wait one whole hour in his saloon, here comes a valet to tell them that M. le XTicomte would re- ceive with pleasure Mademoiselle Marie- Anne de Cazilhac; that he did not know M. Frdd~ric Rouquier, and that he would not see him. Is it possible? my aunt asked, sadly. Is it possible? I repeated all to my- self. Our starlings, with beaks very long now, and with their wings broken by the blow which also cut short all hopes for the army contracts, ought to have reflect- ed, and cut down their expenses. But do starflngs ever reflect? Are they ever able to turn away from tidbits? M. Rou- quier, either from sympathy with his wife, a dear giddy-pated little creature; or from pride towards M. le Comte and Madame la Comtesse, did not wish to be- gin saving. The end came at last. As the spending of crowns makes one unfit for work, one fine morningwith a fam- ily around him which increased every year, without care how they were to be fedlie found himself in B6darieux, which lie had filled with his noise, stripped, mademoiselle, with pockets as empty as those of a little Saint-John of a colpor- teur. Ah! the poor unhappy man Mademoiselle, when a man has a for- tune, he must keep an eye on it, and not spend all his life on his knees before his wife, even though she is as pretty a wo- man as was my poor Marie-Anne, who was more beautiful than the most beauti- ful star in the sky. God does not want that!. . With these last words, Christes voice had grown faint. Tears, crowding gently on one another, had all at once cut short her clear and sprightly talk. Finally, she began again, we were __ ruined, ruined, from top to bottom. . Here her emotion choked her, and she remained for a time speechless. Oh, my Christe! my aunt stam- mered, her face ~hed in tears. Christe, still lefting her eyes flow free- ly, recovered speech. First, M. le Comte died. .. . after him Madame la Comtesse . . . . next came Marie-Anne.... then M. Rouquier.... At this point steps echo on the stairs ... perhaps it is Philippe coming up... the door opens. . . . it is M. lAbb6 Rudet de Portiragnes. What! in tears! in tears! lie ex- claimed, joyously. Mademoiselle Ang~le set me on the chapter of our troubles, murmured the old nurse of Marie-Anne de Cazilhac, and you understand . . But we are celebrating a fete-day, my good Christe; and we should rejoice in the Lordgaudiamus in Domino... I do not see my children, she cried, breaking without scruple into the sacred text already begun. Dont bother yourself about them. The childrenor call them your children, because Heaven, which has given you a big heart, has made them yours-have shown famous appetites. You ought to have seen how their little tongues, nimble as cats, licked up the grape marmalade. But where are they now? At Mademoiselle Ang~less. Philippe having spoken of going to the Rue de la Digne, the four little ones hooked them- selves on to him, and he was forced to take them along. If I had only known Made- moiselle Ang~le was here. . . Pascalette is at the house to - day, my aunt kindly explained, and you al- ready know that she understands how to spoil children. Ah! yes, she understands that, I interrupted, timidly. And, all at once, catching a longer - breath, I made bold to add Pascalette goes every Saturday to do her work at Giscardet the confectioners and she never leaves there without hav- ing her pockets well stuffed with bonbons for the Swallows. That may be all so, but I am going to see what has become of my Swallows, old Christe burst out. She buckled on her sabots with one twist of her hand, and was off. Mademoiselle, M. de Portiragnes said, gravely, with one arm extended tow- ards the door which had closed I de- clare to you, in verity, that the woman just now descending those stairs is a saint. Besides, from what you are going to learn, you will see that Heaven has heard her prayer to grant it. 98 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Quick, quick, Monsieur le Cure! Oh, speak quickly ! My aunts voice, stirred to its depths, bore in its tones both the fervor of a prayer and the tender interest of a good woman. Your admirable charity, mademoi- selle, towards the children of the Comte Rouquier de Cazilhac, has certainly given you the right to know all; and you shall learn everything. Here M. lAbbi looked at me. I felt a horrible fear of being driven away, and so run the risk of hearing nothing. And as I did not wish to be separated from my aunt, I caught hold of one of her hands and pressed it, and clung to it with all my might. M. de Portiragnes smiled on me, and then pointed to a chair: Sit down there, and be wise. Seated with her hands crossed on her knees, assuming her habitual position during the sermon in our church of St. - Alexandre, my aunt Ang~le waited. See- ing M. de Portiragnes standing erect, im- mobile, of a sudden oppressed by thoughts which printed on his forehead wrinkles deep like wounds, she said to him, gently, Then, Monsieur lAbb~, to-day must be for you a fete-day. Yes, mademoiselle, M. le Vicomte Ar- mand de Cazilhac, who during a long life has refused to know God, has repented. It is our duty to rejoice at this triumph of grace. No doubt, Monseigneur the Arch- bishop of Paris... Assuredly it must have been Mon- seigneur Aifre who gave the last blow of the axe to that cedar haughtier than the cedars of Libanus. But, ah! mademoi- selle, your prayers and those of Christine, and those of all well-wishers to the chil- dren of Marie-Anne de Cazilhac, had al- ready shaken the tree to its very roots. . And you have hopes? Mademoiselle, in December, by rea- son of the snows which often hinder the march of the lazy mail-coach, especially in my rude country of Rouergne, it takes a letter not less than six days to make the trip from Paris to B~darieux; and consequently I cannot tell you if any- thing new has happened at Rue de Va- renne since last week. In any event, al- though I do not feel altogether without a certain solicitude, I comfort myself in repeating this phrase of his Grace: Ex- pect no more letters. God is shaping tue affairs of your orphans. If anything should reach me, of which you need to be apprised, I shall telegraph.. .. I know very well that at this season the fogs might delay a telegram, but Talorde, the manufacturer, who has big dealings with Paris, received a telegram this morning. Therefore, no news, good news, as they say.~~ And to what decision, Monsieur le Cur6. do you think M. he Vicomte has come concerning Philippe and his sisters? Up to this time M. de Portiragnes had remained standing, partly before my aunt, who seemed a bit confused, be it said, by his curiosity; partly before the fireplace, in which two brands smoked end to end; and partly, in truth, in front of me, who, still dreading expulsion, tried desperately in curling up to make myself as small as a grain of millet. Now he took a seat and installed himself. So much the bet- tei, I thought. By this time I was trembling all over, and harassed by unspeakable dread: I might, perhaps, have ended by quitting the room without being in the least con- scious of what I was doing. In order that everything may be made clear to you, mademoiselle, I am going to begin a little further back. I must claim your indulgence if I have to speak somewhat about myself. I doubt not that the intervention of a personage as high in rank in the Church as his Grace the Archbishop of Paris appears to you a very simple and natural thing. First, let me tell you how long I have known Monseigneur Aifre, who is of Rouergais origin, like myself. In 1817, when I was an officer in the Garde Royale, two young Sulpiciens used to come, every now and then, to see me at the barracks at the Quai dOrsay. Their names were Louis de Solier and Denis Aifre. The merit which these little abb~s already exhibited was destined, later on, to push them rapidly along the ecclesiastical career; the former is to-day Bishop of Mize Val; the latter, Arch- bishop of Paris. It was Solier, a distant cousin of mine, who brought to me his fellow-student Aifre, born at St. -Roma- du-Tazor, in the Rouergnenot far from the domain which, bef~e the Revolution, had belonged to my family. As my heart never knows how to do anything LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 99 by measure, I had formed a very ardent affection for those young men, and I re- turned their visits with usury. I did this so often and so well that one night I did not return to the barracks, but remained at St.-Sulpice. At the very moment of the opening of the door of the seminary to go away, a voice from above calling me rang in my ears. I shut the door, and rushed back to my friends. God was thinking of B~darieux, where you were destined to do so much good, breathed my aunt Ang~le. Naturally when, after the death of Count iRouquier de Cazilhac, I saw our five orphans stripped of everything, ex- posed perhaps some day to begging their bread, I had but one thought-to save them from that poverty which, with most men, is an end to all dignity and all vir- tue. I whisper this to you: mademoi- selle, it is not without some show of rea- son that the wretch who is precipitated to the bottom of the hell here below ac- cuses the justice of God. What was to be done, however, about our little brood of orphans shivering in their nest? I thought of my classmates of St. -Sulpice, and wrote to them at Paris, where their position, already elevated in the clergy, had created for them relations which might be put to account. For in- stance, I knew that an uncle of my cousin De Solier, the Baron Aristide de Solier who, like Armand de Cazilhac, had come back into France under the Consulate lived with him on terms of the closest friendship. Oh! if this Baron de Solier was marked out to be an instrument of deliverance! Urged by a certain hope, I wrote a letter to my cousin Louis. It was a very full letter, in which the un- merited misfortunes of our Martinet and of our Swallows were detailed at great length; and in which I ventured for the first time to claim our family ties, ending with these words: Take up the sling of David, and smite Goliath to your feet. How beautiful that is! God in Heaven! how beautiful that is ! my aunt could not keep from murmuring. As I sat there, how my tongue burned to repeat, How beautiful that is! I held in check, however, the tumult of my ad- miration; and, as I seemed to be forgotten by both, I continued to play dead man. M. de Solier, who is charity itself, entertains upon the subject of the Nobili- tythat other salt of the earthcertain ideas of mutual defence and protection, in which I share. So that not only did M. de Solier catch fire, but lie communicated his flame to his friend Denis Aifre, and just as, in other days, he had brought my Rouergais compatriot to my caserne on the Quai dOrsayhe leads him this day to my work in behalf of the children of Marie-Anne de Cazilhac. ... God is great! God is good! God is potent ! Yes, mademoiselle, God is indeed om- nipotent; but the demon, that rebel of this earths first days, rests always on his arms, and it has taken years to drag from his clutches Vicomte Armand de Cazilhac. At last, the gout aiding us, the sinner has amended. He has listened to the Arch- bishop, his shepherd, who will not accord him the favor of the last sacraments un- less he fulfil his duty towards his nieces children, who are his own, yes, wholly his own.... And now it remains only for us mademoiselle, to implore the Divine Mercy, that it shall deign to complete the work already begun. He rose, and with his arms lifted tow- ards heaven, he exclaimed, solemnly: Auxilium a Domino qui fecit ecelum et terrainour help is in the name of the Lord, who hath made heaven and the earth. My aunt and I were prostrate on the floor. Henceforth, M. IRudet de Portiragnes ceased to keep watch over Philippe. He threw the reins on the boys neck, and let him go his own road. In the good mans dazzled imagination, the Martinet of the Faubourg was surely going to become rich, very rich, and he hardly thought it worth the while to rob him of the last hours of liberty in his native air. Why bother him any longer about Bezouts Arithmetic, when to-morrow, with the little Swallows, his sisters, he might fly away to Paris? Either the Vicointe would die of this attack of the gout, or God, touched by his edifying inclinations, would prolong his days. In the one case, he could not help leaving an immense fortune to his natural heirs; in the other, he would certainly adopt them.. .. The good abb6 takes to rubbing his hands to- gether, and repeating twenty times a day: God is the source of every good! God is the source of every good Unfortunately, the cur6 of St-Louis Vor. LXXXVJ.No. 5119 100 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. had chosen the very worst of times to let the rapacious Martinet of the Faubourg leave his nest. With us, at this season the last of December is signalized by a mighty and all-pervading holiday air. In our atmosphere, becoming all at once clearer, Christmas and the New -Year seem to be kissing each other. What joy everywhere! Striking the pointed flints of our streets, my aunt Ang~les metal- buckled galoshes, bearing her to the Ad- vent exercises, gave out notes infinitely more musical than M. Fdlibien Ponya- douxs violin that gentleman being at once the Principal of the College of B& darieux and its professor of music. But it was the shops, dull, sad, and shutter-closed half of the time, which took up new life. It would have done you good if you could have seen at Feriets- next to St. -Alexandrethe sweet-smell- ing packages of licorice sticks, and the enormous carob beans spread out on those brand-new layers of straw. And there at Planis the pastrymans, what tarts could be found for the asking; what oulettes; what pompons, running all over with cream or with mince-meat, or with sug- ared marmalade! And one would have done wrong to miss peeping into Giscar- det the confectioners, Place du March6. What sugar-plums there at Giscardets, of a hundred colors; what crisp, round, and red almonds, scooped into plates dec- orated with gold bands as broad as your finger!... Philippe and I amused ourselves in passing long moments in rapt contempla- tion of these accumulated sweetmeats, from which only a window separated us. Heavens! I would willingly have put my teeth into some of those dainties; and it was not rare, when I had succeeded in extracting two or four sous, here and there, sometimes from my mother, other times from my auntI took good care never to ask my father, always disposed, for full paternal answer, to let fly a box on the earto see me stalking fearlessly into Giscardets. And I pray you at this point to re- member that, ourselves excepted, about the whole Bddarieux world cordially de- tested Gaffarot. One afternoon I thought myself war- ranted in buying two dozens of pralines as large as walnuts. We had seated our- selves on the parapet of the Perspec- tive, a little off from the walk, to divide the windfall. There were six shares in all to be parcelled out: the four Swallows, the Martinet, and myself. Four pralines to each one! I counted out twenty pra- lines to Philippe, and straightway I be- gan cracking my own. But I could see all at once, with half an eye, that my friend was slipping his portion into that of his sisters. Thou art not fond of them, then ? I asked him. I am very fond of them, on the con- trary, he answered; but if I dont eat them, instead of four, each Swallow will have five. This was very, noble, but it was des- tined to turn out ill. I do not know how it came about whether it was that the Swallows had found my pralines toothsome, or whether the Martinet, having once put his beak into them, had shared in their tastebut from the time of that partition, my friend carried but one idea in his head: to re- new the delights of his sisters and him- self. From old time he had known the demoiselles Giscardet, three old maids, very devout, always dressed in black, and I can see them stillfaithful attendants at my aunts chapel. Under the pretext of acquainting these ladies with the pre- cise hour of the Rosary at Mademoi- selle Ang~le Ticardshour which, be it said, they already knew quite wellGaf- farot would, from time to time, insinuate himself into the confectionery, spread his little news, make a tour of the counter, and escape with his jaws puffed up with some bonbon caught on the wing. He practised these thefts mainly on Satur- days, Pascalettes day at the Giscardets. In this way he killed two birds with one stone: one being to coo with Pascalette a minute; the other. to snatch a handful of pastilles, two or three berlingots, fragments of Montelimort nougat enough in the aggregate to enrage the three old maids, who were as miserly, despite their piety, as so many ants. One day, however, the situation nar- rowly escaped becoming tragical. Pas- calette was there, and Philippe-confused no doubt by the presence of the little one of the belfry carried matters with too high a hand. This day, while cracking jokes with the demoiselles Giscardet, sad gossips under all their discreet little airs he slipped into his pocket a cornucopia of sugar-plums, adorned with pink and white LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 101 favors. Let me say, in some excuse of my friend, that Giscardet was at the time unpacking a box which had just come from Montpellier, and that the sugar- plums, scattered loose about the counter, upon the two cases, even on the chairs, put temptation everywhere. Now as ill luck would have it, precise- ly at this moment when Gaffarot was forgetting himself, Griinn the gendarme, Griinn the stoniest-hearted official in our Bddarieux brigade, happened to be in the confectionery, haggling over a cornuco- pia of sugar-plums which he intended, on Christmas eve, to empty into the wooden shoes of his little brats. Grijun witnessed the deed; and in a flash, from an old-time habit he had of catching hold of people on the least provocation, he had seized my friend by the collar. He had never liked Philippe, and, on account of his very pranks, he was just then engaged in keeping a strict watch over him. You can imagine the scandal! In a moment, everybody was in the air! As for the gendarme, rendered furious by the epithet imbecile which Philippe, in the scuffle, committed the grave error of throwing at his head, he would have ended by taking him to the belfry, otherwise known as the prison, if Pascalette had not shown herself what she wasa girl whose heart knew how to find a voice on occasion. It is I, she cried, who made signs to M. Philippe de Cazilhac she always called him de Cazilhac to take those drag~es for his sisters. Thou! squeaked together the three devout Giscardets, who, without any sign of protest, would have allowed Gaffarot to be carried to the belfry. Thou !echoed the confectioner, as- tou nded. I have what I earned to-day to pay for my Christmas gift to the Swallows of the Faubourg. If my work to-day isnt enough, I have some savings at home. Thy days work suffices, my child, Giscardet said to herthe man being a hundred times more tender-hearted than his sisters, although he was rarely met at church, either on Sundays or fete-days. In order to soothe Grfinn, whose appe- tite for game was by this time whetted, he allowed him a rebate on his purchase, and dismissed him with an enormous piece of nougat for himself. That same night. after the ceremony of the Rosary, while I was putting out the tapers around Dom Caumettes reliquary, my aunt, all in a tremble, narrated to me the affront at the confectionery, which the demoiselles Giscardet had brought to her piping hot. Mom Diem ! exclaimed my aunt, as she extended her arms towards her osten- soir Mom Dieu! when shall it please Thee to take pity on us, and to send us the happy deliverance for which we pray ? Yes, this was bound to end ill. At Bddarieux an old custom exacted that eight days before Christmas the bells of the two parishes of the town should be set to ringing lustily, beginning from nightfall. They were superb, these great bursts of sound, caught up and sent back from afar by the Roc-Rouge, the Roc-de-Tentajo next taking them up to roll them in echoes along the valley of the Orb. They had given to this re- sounding melody of the bells the pretty name of nadalfrom dies natalis, day of the Nativity, as had been explained to us by M. Rudet de Portiragnes, who, being very learned, would have liked to teach us everything. It wa~ the last evening of these festive peals. The weather being rather keen, the wooden shoes and galoshes of Bddari- ciens, hurrying along to gather provisions to celebrate worthily the festival, were clattering on the hardened earth of the streets. Philippe and I happened to be seated on the parapet of the Perspective, extracting such joy as we might from a franc piece which had dropped into my purse from my mothers rather saving pocket. All the same, count and combine just as much as thou pleasest, thou and I are not going to have a famous rii~veillou with thy twenty sous, my friend was explain- ing. He had scarcely spoken when a shad- owsmall, narrow, thinwhich we had barely noticed coming and going under the plane-trees of the deserted promenade, bounded towards us. Gaffarot, said a voice which gave me a chill, to pay thee for thy hundred tricksabove all, that last one of thine at the Giscardetsthou wouldst deserve twenty cuffs rather than twenty sons. Suppose you try to give me one of those cuffs now; come, Monsieur he Prin- cipal, Philippe retorted, standing straight 102 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. as an I before M. Fdlibien Ponya- doux. If thou wast not a child ! If that child did not make you afraid ! Exasperated by this bravado, M. Ponya- doux raised his hand; but he straight- way let it fall inert, frightened perhaps by Gaffarots attitude as, planted stiffly, lie awaited the first blow. Whence did my friend get so much courage? What happiness! M. le Principal, a sensible man in spite of his severity towards his pupils, took himself away. Philippe was about to follow him, with a wild desire to excite him still more, to provoke him. But Philippe loved me from his heart, and I succeeded in hold- ing him back. Nevertheless, to my great regret, I could not prevent himwhile our enemy was effacing himself behind the plane-trees, trying to gain the college with great strides from pursuing him with that voice of his, half piercing, half comical, in which in the old days he would roar out Gaffarot! Gaffarot ! Now he armed himself with a verse of an ancient romance in which M. F~libien Ponyadoux, with his violin at his shoul- der, had the tender habit of accompany- ing Madame Ludargie Ponyadoux Loves joy lasts a moment; Loves grief lives a lifetime . . I scarcely remember how we found our- selves suddenly on the Place au Bl~, in front of the stall of Cayol, pork-seller, butcher, dealer in eatables of all kinds, and from all lands.... Oh! those mag- n ificent young turkeys from Lacansee .... those chickens from Caussignojauls, all too fat with grain .. . . Oh! those enormous pullets of Voulause, with their necks oat-stuffed, and coaxed down un- der one wing, altogether peaceful here, with their flesh blown out like a flower, awaiting the tooth of some rich man to let themselves be eaten as if that could afford them any pleasure! Just look at that one ! Philippe, with one finger extended, whispered in my ear. That same turkey, in fact, struck me as being an extraordinary bird. I shall maintain, however, that it did not in the least excite my appetite. Try to take it all in if you can! Placed slanting, so as to produce the best effect in the eyes of customers, this fowl exhibited every- whereon the breast, down the back, along the inferior spaces which I do not even pretend to know how to call by their namescertain great round spots, at some places brown, at others as black as soot. But that beast is spoiled, I tell him. Stupid! va! those black spots are truffles. Hast thou never eaten truffles? Never in all my life. Well, when I was little, I used to taste them, and often too. . . . my father loved them to adoration.. . . thou know- est not how good truffles are, and how - their flavor improves a fowl.... At this moment Cayol pushes out his arm to draw the bird from the stall. We follow him and it with our eyes. See! there in the rear of the shop, alive with people filling their baskets for the rave- illon of this night, Cayol is showing the turkeyour turkey !to Madame Ludar- gie Ponyadoux; puts it under her nose; turns it over and over before her eyes, pressing a finger on each truffle to dis- play it! Madame ha Principale, being in height twin with her husband, but quite plump and very jovial, raises herself on tiptoe to see; hesitates; chatters; swells her cheeks in bargaining, just as if she is going to sing Love~s joy . . . . in brief, pinches an arm of her bonne Ernes- tine Pag~swhich signal is a command and amuses herself meanwhile in test- ing a bunch of thrushes hanging from a nail near the counter. Queer, isnt it, when M. Ponyadoux gets to making ready for r~vcillon ~ Phi- lippe sneers in my ear. Yes, it is high time that, when M. Ponyadoux puts himself.... I was say- ing, somehow won over, without too well knowing why, to my friends indignation. At this point Madame la Principales servant, who had just come up to open her basket, which she had left in the door- way of the butchers shop, so as not to disturb the people at the sides, softly pushes the turkey into it. . . . That wor- thy Ernestine! how often, when put on dry bread for a blurred translation out of all sense, or for a lesson badly recited, she had sweetly managed to pass some- thing nice to eat into my hands! I am not at all sorry that she is going to enjoy a little feast after the Midnight Mass. . She leaves her basket and goes back to her mistress, still coveting the thrushes, catching hold of their beaks, blowing into the little feathers on their breasts, which rise under her breath.... and beginning once more to bargain. LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 103 Oh! what an event! what a frightful event! Philippe had planted his claw on the handle of the college basket; had, by sheer force of his anger, managed to lift it; had carried it away without being seen; and here we were flying across the Rue de Ferhe, with his wings stretched out like the awful martin that he was; I, at a less rapid rate, but swiftly enough, for all that, from fear of the gendarme Griinn, whom I had noticed among the purchas- ers at Cayols. A man stops me on the Place du Panol. I at once recognize Gaspard Tourlas, the cobbler of Rue du Vignal. See here; can that Gaffarot have been at his old tricks ?he is running like the wind, he asks me. Do not believe it, Gaspard; do not be- lieve it. We are running so as not to miss the Midnight Mass with the Swal- lows. . . Gaspard leaves me, and I scamper off towards Faubourg St. -Louis. As I am crossing the vestibule, and pre- paring to climb the stairs, Philippe, hid- den behind the heavy folds of the front door, seizes my arm. Wait a moment, he whispers; Christe is up there with my sisters. Well, what harm is in that ? I ask. Thou hast forgotten . . . . with my basket ? Thou must return at once that basket to Cayol. Come! come with me! He holds me fast and forces me to fol- low him. Where art thou going ? To Gignacons. I know that Antoine Gignacsacristan of the Parish of St. -Louis, and owner of the house where the Martinet and the Swallows are nesting has a jackass known as Gignacon, his own being a diminutive of his masters name. In our Civenol country the ass is the b~2te arnie friend-beastof the hearth, and is gen- erally known by the name of the family to whom it belongs. I allow myself to be led into a little stable in the rear of an alley. Gignacon, standing on his four hoofs, with his neck craned towards a bundle of fresh clover, turns himself around for a moment to look at us curi- ously. This is too much for Philippe, who, trying to keep from laughing, bursts into a roar. Clover for Gignacon, who does not move from his straw ! he cried. Thou seest he is enjoying his r~veillon toothe rascal. With these words he takes to scattering about some vine cuttings piled up against the wallcuttings from Antoine Gignac s vineyard at Roc-de-Tentajoand makes an enormous hole in the heap, into which he buries Madame Ludargie Ponyadoux s basket. Now we can go up stairs, he ex- claims, charmed with his scheme. I, for one, am not going up stairs. What art thou going to do, then? Instead of taking me with her as she does every year to St. -Alexandre, my mo- tlier gave me leave to go to-night with Christe, with thy sisters and thyself, to the Midnight Mass at St. -Louis; but if thou dost not take back that turkey, I shall.... And M. Ponyadoux will eat those truffles 1. The truffles belong toM. Ponyadoux. But see here, didnt M. Ponyadoux a little while ago, on the Perspective, threat- en me?Yes or no Yes; but even if he had beaten~thee, the turkey belongs to him, since he paid for it. That truffled turkey is my vengeance; and I am for revenge. . . . As for thee, thou canst do just as thou pleasestgo away or stay; it is all the same to me. He gave a double turn to the stable lock, put the key into his pocket, suspect- ing evidently, from the temper I had shown, some attempt at rape on my part; and without troubling himself about me, scaled the stairs four steps at a time. This desertion made me furious. Oh! weakness of a too tender heart !after a moment I felt that I was crying. I am not so sure that my waistcoat did not re- ceive some of the drops. And Philippe, whom I had loved so much, and he had loved me so little! My legs weakened under me; and, in- stead of going away, as I had proclaimed, not without a certain pridehaving, as I confess, foolishly thought the sacrifice easy for my soul, though it had been made captive on every sideI ended by seating myself on the first step of the stairway. There, with the back resting against the wooden baluster, I listened to the bells from St. -Alexandre and St.- Louis, answering unto each other iu the dry and frosty air of the night, and filling 104 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the town and the Faubourg with their joyous peals! After a little while I began thinking how the Swallows, the four Swallows, were going to attend the Midnight Mass, and how happy I would have been if I could have gone there with them, espe- cially with Marguerite, so pretty, so fresh Marguerite, lovelier than Ste.-Philom~ne in her shrine above the altar of her privi- leged chapel. A sob here cut short my voice, for, without in the least suspecting it, I had really been talking aloud. How could it be otherwise? For Philippe, it was Pas- calette of the belfry; but for me it was Marguerite of the Faubourg.... But they are talking up there. Heavens! they are coming down. . . . I find myself as by a miracle delivered from my fears, and I run to throw myself in front of the Swallows. On the first land- ing, here, I find myself face to face with Philippe, who is carrying Marinette in his arms. My sisters want to hear the No~ls he tells me, and although it is hardly elev& i oclock, yet we are starting for the Midnight Mass.. . . Art thou coining? See here! big cry-baby ! Yes, yes, I am coming. At the door we are joined by Guite, who has run down the stairs more nimbly than Clairette and Marthon. She wears a gay little air of her own, which be- comes her charmingly, and in the dark- ness her eyes shine more brightly than any two stars in the sky. Christe arrives with Clairette and Marthon clinging to her skirts. I dare take Marguerite by the arm, which I boldly draw under my own. We throw ourselves into the streets. Bless me! with what teeth the air bites into our faces! It must have been snow- ing up there on Canoux Peak. Who would have believed that Gaffa- rotthat scoundrel, that thief, as I have heard him called a hundred times, principally by M. Fdlibien Ponyadoux who could have imagined that such a Gaffarot would not once let Marinette put her little feet down on the ground, and that he kept her closely pressed to his breast as far as St. -Louis! He loved all his sisters, but it was the youngest whom he always called Sceurettc--and with such tenderness in the voicewho seemed to nestle nearest to his heart. Christe having once told him that Man- nette was the living picture of his dead mother, I am inclined to believe that, in loving darling Maninette, it was his dead mother whom he was really loving. How refined, and at the same time smiling, was the attitude of those ador- able Swallows of the Faubourg as they sat in the church, where the light seemed to float from the walls and the arched roof; where No~ls, those joyous carols sung both in patois and in French, rose, came down again, and passed out with the sweep of a stormy wind as far as the hollows of the Valley of the Orb! Here and there, Guite, Clairette, and even little Marthon, lent their delicate notes to the hurricane; and I can swear to you, these notes were real bird-whisthings, which I had not the slightest trouble to follow amid the crazy tremblings of the old men and women, the squeakings of the young girls, and the jerks which burst from the throats of the young men, like so many gunshots. Through this tempestuous concert the fluted voice of Marguerite de Cazilhac passed without stain; and, I maintain it, this voice, preserving itself in the tumult which it was crossing, purer, lighter, and daintier than an arrow with all its plumes spread outI found no trouble in detect- ing it, following it, in -how shall I ex- press what I mean? making my soul drunken within me. Here M. le Curd Rudet de Portiragnes, who is officiating, comes out from the sacristy and stands before the High Altar. The carols cease immediately. La Mcsse de Minuit is beginning. Christe, do you commune? Philippe asked in a low tone. Yes, she murmured. He pointed to Marinette asleep on a chair, where he had placed her between himself and me. Dont ~trouble yourself about Man- nette, he said; I am going to put her to bed. I shall hear another mass during the day. Go, my Philippe, go; I shall join you after Communion.~~ As my friend was raising his Sccurettc, I whispered in his ear, If thou wouldst give me the stable key, I would go out too, and take the Ponyadoux basket back to Cayols. His only answer was a punch with the elbow, hard enough to throw me back LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 105 into my ..t.... I shall certainly be black and blue in my right side to-mor- row. When, at the Elevation, we had to prostrate ourselves, Marguerite knelt next to me, but neither Claire nor Marthe moved. Marthe was sleeping soundly, and Claires eyes were fluttering. It was high time for M. de Portiragnes to reach the Communion. He opened the hostia and turned to his assistants. Christe, with her two hands crossed, her head bent down, beating her breast under her ker- chief with rude blows of mea culpa, went towards the crowded table. It was certainly a very wicked thing which I did at this moment. I ought to have been praying there, kneeling under the uplift- ed hand of the celebrant as it blessed that army of communicants. Oh yes, to pray and kneel! Instead, I was chatter- ing with Guite, who was nothing loath to join me in a game of tongue. Thou seest, she told me, we are going to have our r~veillon as soon as we get home. R~veilion! . . . r~z,cillon, with what? First, thy aunt Ang~le has brought us an apple pie; and then, M. lAbbd has sent us all sorts of bonbons, and pretty little sabots which he made himself to amuse us. How nice that is! Yes. M. lAbbd has made, on his lathe, a whole doll-house, with furniture, for my sisters And hasnt he made anything for thee? He has promised me something, but I dont know what it will be. But. ... I have twenty sous.... and if thou needst them to buy anything Wasnt I proud to be able to make this offer! Come, my children, whispered old Christe to us, whom we had not heard when she came back, and who had had time to recite an Act of Thanksgiv- ino. I tell you, on reaching the Quai de lOrb, I was put into a famous fright. Turning the corner of the street, the win- dows of the Swallows appeared so bright- ly illuminated that I began asking myself whether Philippe had not set fire to the house. Who knows? perhaps he had gone back to Gignacon to get the basket and putting a candle too near the sprigs. . . . Poor fellow! suppose, after all, lie had returned the basket to M. le Principal, I thought. Quick! quick ! cried Christe, hasten- ing the steps of Claire and Marthe, who were two little sleepy-heads. Then she added: Your brother, always anxious about you, has lighted up M. lAbbds chips.... Cheer up! you shall soon be warming yourselves, little ones, and eating cakes. If you believe me, M. lAbbds chips were burning brightly. There, at the back of the hearth, between two great andirons, was something else besides burn- ing coals scattered on every side. The spit ! Christe exclaimed, stupe- fied. There it is ! answered Gaffarot, laughing. My child, where didst thou get that turkey ? Dont bother yourself about that de- tail, Christe, he answered, with a calm- ness that was positively frightful. But my dear boy... We have a truffled turkeythats the main thing. Truffles! piped Guite, holding out her little beak. Yes, migrtonne, truffles, as in our fathers day. Thou hast not forgotten the truffles l Have I? And thou wilt eat them with plea- sure Oh yes ! she answered, with a smack- ing of the tongue, the red tip of which came out to caress her lips. See here, Philippe, I must know__ began again the old servant, a prey to painful suspicions. She placed herself stolidly before the fireplace, as though resolved not to per- mit the bird to be taken from the spit be- fore knowing whence it had come. But, with an incomparable grace which cut my heart in two, Guite, a lover of truffles, which she had tasted in her infancy, threw herself on the old bonnes neck, crying, Oh, little mother, good little mother, do let us make r~veillon. So much more reason to believe, I break in, if my aunt has given us an apple pie, that my mother, while we were at St.-Louis, may easily have left here a truffled turkey. Dost thou think so? Christe asked, much comforted at the thought. 106 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Pardi! if he thinks so!. .. shouted that awful Gaffarot. What I had been saying there was truly rascally. But what was there to do in such an extremity as that in which I found myself? Marguerite de Cazilhac my Guitedid so long for truffles! The table is spread in a turn of the hand. With the exception of Marie and Marthe, who are dozing in a corner everybody is seated. Christe, blessing with her whole heart my mother, who had provided this exceptional r~veillon for her Swallows and her Martinet, places on the table the turkey, crisp and yellow like gold; and Philippe seizes his knife. At the first plunge, the truffles, as large as nuts, tumble into the dish . Oh! oh ! Guite chirrups. Oh! oh ! Clairon chimes in. Oh ! I hear voices outside .. .. on the stairs and my second oh! refuses to come out. Arent truffles splendid ? Swallow Marguerite twitters, while her little beak works unceasingly. I smile at her, but I cannot for my life imagine why my knees are feverishly knocking against each other under the ta- ble, and why my feet will not keep still.... Is this remorse? Or is it fear 2 Vian! here our door bursts open under a violent push. Griinn and Cayol throw themselves on Philippe, whom they jerk to his feet rudely. Here is my truffled turkey ! the butcher howls, as he puts his hand on the table. To prison ! the gendarme growls, ferociously. While we are all crying out, the poor old bonne shrieks in a voice more pier- cing even than that of the Swallows, all of them awake now and terrified; than my own voice, choked by the conscious- ness of my crime. For if I had only de- nounced that wretched Gaffarot, Christe would have at once carried the turkey, all roasted as it was, to M. Ponyadoux, and obtained his pardon. Even while we are lamenting, Griinn and Cayol are dragging Philippe down the stairs. Faith! I am pretty well disenchanted with Marguerite de Cazilhac, and after that odious lie of mine, too, about my mothers possible gift, which I could not help telling Christe I slip to the door, which had remained open, creep to the landing, lose myself in the darkness, and vanish. Two lamp-reflectors, red and smoky, blink from the parapets of the bridge. Their light is not enough to dissipate the thick shadows.. . . My head is a brazier, from which I feel light cinders drop upon my burning cheeks. No matter, I follow at a distance; I keep on following. At intervals I can catch sight of my un- happy friend between his two execution- ers, and also at intervals I can hear his voice. Once I distinctly hear these words shouted out at the top of his lungs: It was only a joke, that; it was only a joke. What is to be done? At times I feel a desperate inclination to throw myself on Grfinn and Cayol.... But this bold- ness of my heart, loving both Philippe and Marguerite dearly, does not survive this thought: If I stir, if I only show myself, they may seize me as an accom- plice in the theft of the truffled turkey, and put me also in prison.... And I stop outright, filled with a sudden ter- ror I escape from the snuffy re- flectors, and wish that, instead of this light snow, snow was falling in whole sackfuls, as we say at home. On leaving the bridge, I catch sight of the group turning to the right along Rue de Rempart. I at once throw myself to the left, toward the Planol, to gain, by the lower streets, the entrance to the belfry. If I can only get there before Philippe is locked up, I may succeed in preventing the outrage. Mathias Pascal, bell-ringer and jailer, certainly loved his bottle too much; but, in spite of his drunken habits, in spite, too, of his terrible occupation of shutting up and keeping under lock and key all the thieves of Thhdarieux and its environs, the old man had preserved a character mild, peaceful, and very hu- mane. . .. Oh! if only Pascalette would be there!. I race; I gallop.... I dont know how it happens that I have this courage, but I surely have the devils own courage. I dash up the wind- ing stairs of the belfry, and rush into Pascals in a gale capable of carrying everything before itself. Well, what is it? growls the jailer, who is sitting at the table with a half-full demijohn of white wine before him, and a mat overflowing with roasted chestnuts. LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 107 His eyes, more flaming than the re- flectors of the bridge, look at me in a way to pierce through and through me, andI am ashamed to acknowledge it here I stand before him as great a cow- rd as before. Come, boy, what dost thou want with me, anyway ? he thunders out, rising from his chair with an effort. My aunt Ang~le has need of Pasca- lette, I bnrst out, not knowing what I am saying. Pascalette?.... She is at church; and see here, as for thyself, rascal, leave me to empty my glass in peace. I leave him to empty his glass. Oh yes, I leave him, and find myself in the street. If I had staid a second longer with the old curmudgeon, I would not, while going down the belfry stairs, have touched elbows with my friend Philippe, with that horrible Cayol, with that abominable Griinn. They grazed me in passing, and then shut themselves up behind the black hole of the door. I feel, at this moment, so bitter a despair that I have to clap my two hands on my mouth to keep from screaming out. Then, all out of breath and urged by the sting of a pinching grief, I enter St.-Alexandre- crammed, stuffed like an eggand work my way to Pascalettes cbair, which is in St.-Josephs Chapel. So much the worse if my mother or my aunt, seated ia this chapel, happen to see me! Pascalette is there, I see. She is singing a hymn. VOL. LXXXYI.No. 511.i 0 Come, come, right off, I tell her. How pale thou art! she whispers. I cannot speak. . . . I seize one of her hands. She follows me. What has happened, then ? she asks, as we are stepping into Rue St. -Alexandre. With my arm raised, I show her, above the lighted window of the sacristy, above the windows of her fathers room, also lighted, a third window, from which can be perceived a vague light crossed by iron bars. HERE 15 MY TRUFFLED TURKEY 1 108 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. The prison? she questions, panting. Philippe, thy Philippe, is there. Grand Dieu! Under the fine hail, for now it is hail- ing instead of snowing, I tearfully tell herI am weeping with both my eyes more plentifully than a watering - pot through all its holesthe adventure of M. le Principal Edlibien Ponyadouxs truffled turkey. Grand Dieu ! she keeps on repeat- ing always Grand Dieu ! Look! there are Griinn and Cayol just going away; they have locked him up. The gendarme and butcher withdraw, rubbing their hands. Doubtless the ras- cals are satisfied with their pretty work! I am not going to leave M. Philippe de Cazilhac up there, she exclaims, with her arms uplifted, in her turn, towards the prison window, now darkened, and losing itself in the wall of the belfry. I see well enough, my good Pasca- lette, that thou canst not leave Philippe de Cazilhac up there. He will get out, she declares with a resolute gesture. I mount the stairs behind her; sudden- ly we find ourselves before Mathias Pas- cal, in the act of gulping down a bumper of clear white wine. Is the Mass over ? the bell-ringer mumbles. They are only at the second Mass, answers Pascalette, who, without the least confusion and with her usual ease, is opening a chest, from which she draws a glass and a bottle, which she puts into my hand. Stop! what art thou doing there ?, the jailer demands, making an effort to clei~r his eyes, which have become singu- larly small and lachrymose. I know what is going on here, and I am going to take a mouthful of nut-water to M. Philippe de Cazilhac, to give him courage. He must have been badly frightened. But... You remember, I hope, the time his father made you foreman in his thread factory ? That M. Rouquier was a good ....... As for GatVarot. . . . lie isnt worth the four shoes of a dog!... Did Grfinn tell you whether he was going to let him go soon? To-morrow morning, after M. lAbbd de Portiragnes has paid Cayol. Pascalette, every bit as calm as when she is sewing at our house, takes a pewter lamp from the mantel, lights it at her fathers lamp; and thenfrom the table where it had been left a little while ago picks up a big key, armed with three great teeth, very bright and much worn by constant use. Thou knowest how to open the door? comes in a thick vOice from the jailer, who, vainly trying to get up, tumbles back into his chair, as full as a goat. Pascalette vouchsafes not a word. With the lamp in her hand she goes out. I follow her, sufficiently embarrassed, I confess, with my own load; for it would be very easy for me to break something on these little corkscrew stairs. What strength, after all, lies in this daughter of the bell-ringer of St-Alex- andre! She has scarcely turned the enor- mous key in the lock when the prison door yields. We catch sight of Philippe. He is tranquilly seated in a corner, on a wooden bench, his right hand resting on his right knee, his head raised. Is Grijun there? he calls out. Griinn has gone to bed, the little one replies, as she deposits her lamp on a stool. At this lie jumps up, squeezes Pasca- lette in his armsand not with dead arms either, I warrant youpresses her, kisses her once more, when suddenly... . he is no longer there!... Ah! Martinet of the brood! Off with thee, Martinet of the brood! What a cunning gypsy is this Pasca- lette of Mathias Pascal! And when one remembers that she was simply a little seamstress, and by the day, not the most skilful either in Thhdarieux, I assure you, those kisses of Philippe snatched in a rush, his precipitate flight-all this happening in the twinkling of an eye, tooought to have stunned her, as certainly it had stu- pefied me. Not a bit of it! The oil as it comes out from the press is not calmer at the bottom of the jar than was my aunts pretty seamstress after my friends disappearance. She took up again the pewter lamp with fingers which did not in the least tremble, while mine were involuntarily beating the g~n& ale on my waistband, closed the door slowly, and once more we descended the stairs. The jailer, with his two arms opened out on the table, his head fallen on the board, was snoring with full nostrils like a trombone. IS GHUNN THERE? HE CALLS OUT. 110 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. I am going to see Christe, to cheer her a little, his daughter told him. Christe? hiccoughed the drunkard, half-opening his bleared eyes. Yes she must be having trouble enough with her Swallows, I suppose.. We were not five minutes in going from the belfry of St. -Alexandre to An- toine Gignacs, but I had a profound conviction that Pascalette was much more bent on seeing Philippe than on cheering Christe, with her Swallows. I was not without a little worry of my own. While stretching my legs along the streets, I kept on asking myself whether my friend, whom Griinn might try to seize again at his house, had really gone home. What road had he taken in making his escape? Might he not be hidden in some corner of the town? Or might he not have saved himself by crossing the country towards the Roe-Rouge or the Roc-Tentajo? We go in. Oh, happiness! Philippe is there. He has a very peaceful air; he holds Marinette in his arms, just as when he carried her to the Midnight Mass; and from time to time he kisses her baby forehead. Marinette is sleeping; and so is Marthe under the mantel-piece, where the cinders have all died out, or nearly so. Guite and Clairette are busily engaged in putting away in a cupboard the remains of the r~veillort, which had no sooner commenced than it had ended. Now and then the poor little ones would draw out their handkerchiefs from the pockets of their taffeta apronsa gift from my aunt Ang~heto wipe the tears from their eyes. Pascalette seizes the plates and dishes from their hands and herself arranges them in their places, with a homelike air which it did ones heart good to see. That truffled turkey, which, scarce perch- ed, had taken to flight! I cannot refrain from directing towards it, wherever it may be, a look of anger, of hatred. Oh, thou turkey ! I apostrophize it vehemently thou turkey of Cayol and of M. Ponyadoux! thou infamous bird And where is Christe ? Pascalette at last finds time to ask. That gendarme had no sooner taken my brother away than she flew to St.- Louis to tell the story to iVI. lAbbd Marguerite, half-crying, explains. But at this very moment I hear steps on the stairs. Ah! here she is. Christe, coming in~ at the sight of Phi- lippe, raises a loud cry. My child! my child ! she sobs. She embraces again and again my friend, who does not cease to repeat to her: Dont be anxious, Christe.... it is all right. . . . it is nothing. . As for me, I am not altogether pleased to hear Philippe speaking in so easy a fashion; for, after all, to steal from a butcher a basket which dont belong to you, that is something, I should say. ... I was not able to talk with M. lAbbd, Christe mumbled. M. lAbbd is obliged to be with the choir until af- ter the third Mass, which will not end for seven or eight hours. . . . But Antoine Gignac, the sacristan, took down every- thing from my mouth, and informed M. lAbbd while serving the second Mass.. M. lAbb6 sent me word not to trouble ourselves... . that he would settle our affairs this morning with Cayol and with Griinn. . . Even while mumbling these phrases, each instant interrupted by want of breath, the good old servant had caught hold of Marie, and was undressing her. This one having been put into her warm and soft little hole, Marthe and Claire worn out by so long and stormy a vigil, and asking for nothing bettergained, at a gesture from Christe, their own nests. Marguerite alone protested against the order, and obtained the favor of not leaving her brother until M. de Porti- rigness arrival, which event would not be for some hours yet, as the clocks finger scarcely pointed to four. Because I had smiled two or three times at Guite, and Guite had politely returned my smiles, did it come into my head that Marguerite de Cazilhac refused to go to bed on my account? No; at Bddarieux we have not gone so far as that! However, this Pascalette of the belfry keeps an eye over everything. She under- stands that we cannot get through with this interminable night without being warm, and straightway kindles the fire. Philippe had not burned up all the sticks and chips of M. lAbbd de Portiragnes; so she heaps up two armfuls at the back of the chimney, and sets them blazing. Old Christe, a prey to tragic thoughts as I also; and as Marguerite, without doubt let Pascalette work without a word of protest. We range ourselves around the old womanPhilippe and Pascahette to her right; Guite and I to her left. What LE REVEILLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 111 peace! If the dry boughs had not crackled just a little, it might be imagined that everything was dead in the house. At times little indistinct noises one might believe them to be long whistlings reached us from the chamber in which Marie, Marthe, and Claire are sleeping; perhaps the three Swallows are dream- ing of their brother in prison, and are sighing. Ah! if M. de Portiragnes comes, we shall surely hear him in this silence. But just now, when the fire has cheered us up a bit, we take to chattering, Philippe rather briskly with Pascalette, I more quietly with Guite. Christe, who has left us to listen for deliverance, continues to keep a padlock on her lips, from which not a sound is allowed to filter. She does not withdraw her ear, which is now glued to the door, or rather to the baluster of the stairway. All this time I am get- ting off, and not without effort, an occa- sional word to Guite, half-envying the ease with which Gaffarot is rambling on with Pascalette. I find myself wonder- ing, Suppose if, instead of M. lAbb6 de Portiragnes, it turns out to he Gr~inn whom we shall see coming in ! Good! after having prattled away for some time with much difficulty on my side, I at last find a subject. I begin nar- rating to Guite the History of Thomas Arm~ly, a shepherd of B~z~nes near B~darieux, whom they guillotined the other day at Montpellier for having as- sassinated a man in his village. I am at that point where Arm~ly is leaving his prison for the scaffold. I am holding Marguerite under the horror of the situa- tion, for she is trembling all over, when I chance to see the window-panes bright- ening little by little. The day was breaking. It was high time, because, as I remember, I was hav- ing much ado to keep Thomas Armd- lys head rolling on that scaffold; and I would have certainly fallen sound asleep if Marguerite, interested by the horrihle story, had not repeatedly nudged me, calling out, And what after that l One time even, as my words hesitated to crawl out, this curious Swallow, to waken me, pinched me hard enough to draw the blood. With one movement Guite and I rush to the window, from which we pull back the curtain eagerly. How lovely is our Valley of the Orb! Laces of hoar-frost everywhere on the trees down therein M. Fabregats garden, and on the banks of the river, which seems to be shivering. Look, Guite, at that immense carriage on the bridge, drawn by four horses; it is as large and high as a house. Surely the like of it has never been seen at Bida- rieux. Come! a door creaks. Who knows hut what it may be M. lAbb~? We turn around; it is Philippe, who has just open- ed one of the doors of the cupboard, and, without the least scruple, has seized a wing of the turkey, and is devouring it with an appetite truly wolfish. I was very hungry, my Christe, he says, by way of excusing himself. Thou knowest well, my Christe, that such a night as this must leave a cave in a man~ he adds, laughing. Eat, eat, my children; eat all of you the old servant, as good as a saint in hea- ven, insists. While busying herself spreading the cloth, she keeps on calling out, cheerily: Never mind; never mind; we shall pay Cayol for that truffled turkey of his. Christe, who refuses to seat herself, would not touch a morsel. So, without her, we sat down, and, I tell you, among us all there was not a single bad tooth. Gaffarot swallowed ravenously meat and truffles all together. As for Guite, it was chiefly the truffles which she fancied; she picked out the daintiest with her fork, and swallowed them delicately with soft little chirpings. Pascalette maintained what seemed an excessive reserve, if one remembers that she was the daughter of old Mathias Pas- cal of the belfry. For myself, I was finding much trouble in getting away with the back of the bird, the whole of which Christe had generously distributed to me. The truth is, I could not for the life of me relieve myself of subtle appre- hensions, of a certain inexplicable sad- ness, and I felt my stomach strangely re- bellious. I do not know why, but as the daylight was making itself hroader and clearer over Thidarieux, I would gladly have turned my hack on Antoine Gi- gnacs hovel to creep into our home, where Grilun had never set foot! I kept on thinking, hugging the thought all to my- self, egotistically, It is a good thing, anyway, to have an Aunt Ang~le, and to keep honest, very honest, under her direction !... 112 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Heavens! they are brawling on the stairs But that is not M. de Porti- ragness deep voice; one might rather take it to be Cayols squeaking notes. Christe starts up; she runs towards the door to double-lock it. She does not get there in time. .. . Griinn enters, escorted by that horrible butcher. Ah! thou rogue of a Gaffarot, so thou didst slip out of our hands like an eel, the gendarme, who, perhaps, has been en- joying his r~veillou in the bosom of his family, calls out banteringly. Come~ quick, to thy prison! And dont count on Pascalette this time to save thee Pascalette didnt save me; it was I myself who escaped, Philippe retorts. The Commissionnaire will judge thy affair. . . . For the present, pick thyself up and follow me. Monsieur Grijun! Monsieur Griinn ! pleads Christe, who has fallen on her knees at the gendarmes feet, and is rais- ing her clasped hands to him. Let me alone! If you had watched over your children.... Monsieur Grfinn! Monsieur Grijun ! Guite repeats, her eyes flowing like brooks. Pascalette has an idea: she turns to Cayol. Come, now, you know well enough 7 that you will be paid for the turkey.... I am not so very sure of that! the butcher stammers. Neither NE. le Curd of Saint-Louis nor Mademoiselle Ang~l.e Ticard will suf- fer you to lose one sou. . . . In any event, I have saved up thirty-five francs, and.... Oh! in that case.... Cayol inter- rupts, beaming. Nothing of the kind, the gendarme growls from under his bristling red mus- tache. But if Pascalette pays me the price of my bird, which is fifteen francs.... There has been a crime, and every crime demands punishment.... En route, Gaffarot. My name is not Gaffarot, and I shall not budge from here so long as you call me out of my name, my friend boldly replies. Thou thinkest, then, young thief that thou art, that I shall put on mittens be- fore laying my clutches on thee ? the gendarme sneers, by this time rendered furious. He advances to seize Philippe, who, with a sudden movement, jumps to the other side of the table, catches up the great knife which had just served to carve the turkey, and raising it to the full stretch of his arm, his eyes blazing, and pale as death: If you touch me, I will kill you ! Help! help! we all cry out with Christe, who has thrown herself on Phi- lippe to disarm him. I am coming! we hear a voice an- swering on the stairs, the full, rich voice of NE. de Portiragnes. It is the bon Dicu I the old ser- vant mutters as, exhausted, she falls into a chair, while still holding Philippe by both arms. M. lAbbd enters. Behind him marches a personage, dressed in a l~vitca long brown coatand wearing a very broad- brimmed hat, with a little queue frisking under its wide wings. We are all eying this grand and solemn personage, and not one of usand, for that matter, neither Griinn nor Cayolhazards a word. But while we are standing there dumb through surprise, NE. lAbbd has not lost a minute. Already informed by Antoine Gignac of the adventures of the night, he has at once guessed that something ter- rible has been passing here; and he takes the knife away from Philippes hands, who yields it, and, as though ashamed of having been discovered on old Christes knees, has quickly put himself on his feet. Nobody seeming anxious to speak, this Pascalette of the belfrythe longest head and also the best-poised tongue in the housetells the whole story from the be- ginning to the end. But, come, this is only a boyish jest 1, NE. lAbbd decides. The personage with the long coat takes one step toward the butcher. At what do you value your turkey? he asks him. Fifteen francs. Here are twenty francs for you, and off with you ! He drops a gold louis into his hand. As a louis dor was a novelty in Bdda- rieux in 1842, Cayol, without more ado, slips away. The personage next addressed himself to Griinn: Jam happy to believe, gendarme, that it is not your intention to take root in NE. le Comte Philippe de Cazilhacs house. LE RtWEJLLON: A CHRISTMAS TALE. 113 Only just now he was calling M. le Cointe Philippe de Cazilhac ~ Gaffarot! .... Although filled with astonishment, Griinn, wishing to do honor to the mili- tary discipline of the Bddarieux brigade, roars out with his gruffest air: Look you, man of the gray queue, I have the right to call for your papers, and unless you are very anxious that I should not take you to the belfry with young Gaffarot there, I advise you to tell me who you are. With all my heart, good gendarme. I am M. Ahbert Ducardannoy, the inten- dant of M. le Vicomte Armand de Cazi- lhac, peer of France. You are? M. le Vicomte has commissioned me to find his grandnephew and grandnieces here in Bddarieux. Now, if you feel yourself tempted by the cordon of the brigadier of the gendarmerie, you have only to retire. Ah! monsieur. merci! thanks ! If you will be so good as to recommend me to M. le Vicomte de Cazilhac, peer of France.... I have seven children..., of whom six are girls!... Get you gone! Griinn inclines himself obsequiously, and vanishes. The excitement may be easily guessed. It was wonderful. The whole town was on its feet. The Bedariciens were swarm- ing, pressing, pushing, fighting to get in front of the H6tel du Nord, at Bdndzechs, where M. Alibert Ducardannoy had just descended, accompanied by two persons, a man and a woman servants beyond questionby a postihion, and a guide. A mighty carriage it was, with two compart- ments of six cushions each, a very lofty seat, and a canvas covering which resem- bled the roof of a house. In true verity, never have I seen such a carriage on our roads, one simpleton remarks. Nor I, a second chimes in. It is the mail-coach, friends, cries old Gaspard Tourlas, whose feet are touch- ing the wheels of the vehicle. Ah, blockhead ! somebody proclaims with an air of incredulity. The poste passes by Lad~ne; it does not pass by B6darieux. When one is a peer of France like M. le Vicomte Armand de Cazilhac, one can have it pass wherever one pleases. M. he Vicomte de Cazilhac ! questions little M. Ponyadoux, who is lost in the crowd, with his nose in the air, and mak- ing full use of his glasses. The college cobbler draws M. he Prin- cipal aside into a corner in Bdndzechs coach-house. Well? M. Edlibien Ponyadoux asks. Well, Gaffarot and his sisters are going to Paris. Their granduncle, who is rich like the sea, and who, besides, is a peer of France, has adopted them. This is what gendarme Griinn has just told me; he knows it all. What happens is very fortunate, for we all love those charming Swallows of the Faubourg. As for Philippe de Cazi- lhac, he is a little giddy-headed, and I had even thought it proper to discipline him at home for a while, but I would have taken him back at Easter. . . . As you make his shoes, I authorize you to re- peat this to M. lAbbd de Portiragnes. I may some day have need of M. le Vicomte de Cazilhacs protection.... Oh! Monsieur he Principal, I am so afraid I shall lose M. lAbbd de Porti- ragness custom.... Cayol must have told Madame ha Principale that it was I who denounced Gaffarot to Griinn.... I met him at the Panol, running at full speed..., with a basket.... You are certainly an ass, Gaspard, and I scarcely know what keeps me also from withdrawing my custom, as well as that of the college, from you. It was ten oclock in the forenoon when a large chest had been carried up to the third floor of sacristan Gignacs bar- racks, and-in presence of the Swallows, the Martinet, Christe, M. lAbbd de Porti- ragnes, my aunt Ang~le, my mother, Pas- calette, and myself Thdr~se, M. he Vi- comtes housekeeper, and Joseph had proceeded to unpack. They brought out all manner of furs, and woollen wraps, to preserve M. le Cointe Philippe and his sisters from the cold during the journey from Bddarieux to Paris. Amazement made all eyes as round as saucers, espe- cially those of the little girls, when Th~r~s~ wished to try on the rich costumes, bought a little by guess, since she had no other measure than the childrens ages. Are they not pretty ? Christe ex- claimed. And then, turning towards M. de Portiragnes, Monsieur lAbb~, may God bless you for.... 114 IIAIIPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Chut! Christine, chut! interrupted the good priest, who was very fond of this particular word. Come, come! M. Ducardannoy in- terrupted; we must not forget that we leave to-morrow on the stroke of nine. M. le Vicornte wishes to have his nephew and nieces with him on New-Years day, and with all the snow which covers the iRouergne and the Auvergue, we shall have no time to lose. Not a voice was raised in protest against this brusque rape. The children, mightily pleased with the gewgaws which they were seeing for the first time, laughed gleefully; and Philippe, gay with the gayety of his beloved sisters, laughed also. Some sadness, however. made itself felt among 115. My aunt AngMes features and those of my mother appeared troubled, and at times Pascalette, engaged with Thdr~se in prinking the Swallows, would bend her head to hide her tears. As for poor old Christe, she was busy looking off to the right, to the left, and into space; she had the air of one having been sud- denly startled out of sleep, and who yet lives in the world of her dreams. Are we ready ? M. Rudet de Porti- ragnes asks, as lie glances at the clock. Yes, Monsieur lAbb6, Th6r~se an- swers him, as she fastens a last pin in the rather loose corsage of Margn.erite de Cazilhacmy adorable Guitelovely as an angel. Let us go to vespers; in a moment we shall hear the last bell. In admiring what God has just done for the Cazilhac family, my people will learn to love and serve Him better. We go out all together,but silence reigns among usalways the fruit of a sadness mingled with happiness. The next morning, at the hour fixed the day before, the mighty carriage was standing before the door of the Swal- lows and of the Martinet. The quay was taken by storm, and the postilion had some trouble to keep at a distance the curious, who were taking their chances of being crushed under the horses hoofs. Wonderful to tell! B6darieux, which yes- terday would have suffered the orphans of the Faubonrg to perish with hunger and cold, to-day, touched to the heart in one instant, is heaping up luncheons for the dear children of the good Christe! As soon as the little ones, helped by Th6r~se and Joseph, had clambered into their compartments, it was a struggle who would first hand them up some dainties THE NEXT MORNING THE MIGHTY CARRIAGE ~A5 5TANTIING BEFORE THE DOOR OF THE 5WALLOW5 AND OF THE MARTINET. CRAZY WIFES SHIP. 115 in fruit or in pastry. Even the three demoiselles Giscardet, formerly so nig- gardly with their bonbons, are having their hands full of sugar-plums, which W they let escape from their curved fingers, a shower of sweetness, as they tu.mble them into the Swallows laps. And all those baskets filled with fruit! Cayol is here with a sausage a yard long, wrapped up in silver-paper. Philippe, merry to the end, seizes the object and hurls it straight at the head of the old cob- bler Gaspard Tourlas, who, planted well in front, is laughing with open mouth. But the postilion is now gathering in his reins, and the horses are impatiently pawing the ground. Allons! let us start ! M. Alibert Ducardannoy speaks with authority. What embraces, and with what tears! But, to be frank to truthfulness, Pasca- lettes tears, when Philippe clasped her in his arms, troubled me more deeply than those of my aunt or my mother; than those of M. lAbb~ de Portiragnes; or than even my own, for that matter. Poor and pretty Pascalette! She tore my soul. I am not sure whether, at the mo- ment when her friend released her, she would not have fallen to the ground if I had not caught her. Come! come ! M. Alibert Ducardan- noy repeats, hurrying Christe, who could not decide to leave my aunt AngZ~le. With each one now seated in place, the carriage begins to move. Philippe, who had not forgotten to embrace me warmly, thrusts his head out of the door of his compartment, and leaves with the B6dariciens, screaming Bon voyage! bon voyage ! a superb vision of thumb to nosea vision worthy of his best days! The coach, dashing around the angle of the quay, disappears from all eyes. CRAZY WIFES SHIP. BY H. c. BUNNER. J CANT see for the rain. Whothat I there going up the hill? Why, I thought you knew most everybody on the island by this time! Id have thought youd known her, anyway. Why, thats old Mis Bintthe aunt of all that tribe of Bints that live just near Calais. No, Mr. WoglQm, that isnt the least bit what I was looking for. That isnt pam leaf anyway, not what we used to call pam leaf. Why, now, its strange you dont know Mis Bint and you so well ac- quainted around here too. Why, you had ought to write her up in some of your papers hadnt he, Mr. Woglom? Its quite some of a story, if only anybody knew how to fix it up the right way, sost it would go in the newspapers. Why, I should have thought youd have remark- ed her mourning! I could not help remarking her mourn- ing now, at all events. I watched her struggling up the bleak island hillside, passing in and out of sight among the scraggly pines; and such a grimly fan tas- tic figure, so swathed and swaddled and hung about and decked on with crape and stiff old-fashioned black stuffs, I had never before seen. Her veil projected on each side of her head as though her big old - fashioned bonnet were rigged out VOL. LXXXYJ.No. 511.i 1 with stun-sail booms. The wind buffeted her; the rain drenched her in angry little spats, first to starboard and then to port, but she tacked steadily on up the hill, with all her voluminous garments flapping bravely, as stiff and black as sheet-iron. I was watching her through the one clear pane in the window of Mr. Wogloms gen- eral store. Tarpaulins, rubber boots, sou - westers, fishing-tackle, scap-nets, school- books, suspenders, overalls, garden tools, horse medicine, mosquito - netting, lan- terns, and other general - store stock, in- cluding the accursed lottery ticket, which is for sale in Maine everywhere where anything is sold, filled up the rest of the window. I was waiting for the squall to blow over. Miss Cynthiana Lovejoy, who accommodated me with board and lodg- ing during my stay on the island, had happened in and was casually examining the new invoice of calicoes from New York, in search, Mr. Woglom confiden- tially told me, of a pattern which she had wanted for at least a generation, and which had been two generations out of the market. Now what year was it, do you re- member, Mr. Woglom, when Obed Bints ship was lost in that gale when the big whale come ashore? No, I dont mean

H. C. Bunner Bunner, H. C. Crazy Wife's Ship. A Sketch 115-119

CRAZY WIFES SHIP. 115 in fruit or in pastry. Even the three demoiselles Giscardet, formerly so nig- gardly with their bonbons, are having their hands full of sugar-plums, which W they let escape from their curved fingers, a shower of sweetness, as they tu.mble them into the Swallows laps. And all those baskets filled with fruit! Cayol is here with a sausage a yard long, wrapped up in silver-paper. Philippe, merry to the end, seizes the object and hurls it straight at the head of the old cob- bler Gaspard Tourlas, who, planted well in front, is laughing with open mouth. But the postilion is now gathering in his reins, and the horses are impatiently pawing the ground. Allons! let us start ! M. Alibert Ducardannoy speaks with authority. What embraces, and with what tears! But, to be frank to truthfulness, Pasca- lettes tears, when Philippe clasped her in his arms, troubled me more deeply than those of my aunt or my mother; than those of M. lAbb~ de Portiragnes; or than even my own, for that matter. Poor and pretty Pascalette! She tore my soul. I am not sure whether, at the mo- ment when her friend released her, she would not have fallen to the ground if I had not caught her. Come! come ! M. Alibert Ducardan- noy repeats, hurrying Christe, who could not decide to leave my aunt AngZ~le. With each one now seated in place, the carriage begins to move. Philippe, who had not forgotten to embrace me warmly, thrusts his head out of the door of his compartment, and leaves with the B6dariciens, screaming Bon voyage! bon voyage ! a superb vision of thumb to nosea vision worthy of his best days! The coach, dashing around the angle of the quay, disappears from all eyes. CRAZY WIFES SHIP. BY H. c. BUNNER. J CANT see for the rain. Whothat I there going up the hill? Why, I thought you knew most everybody on the island by this time! Id have thought youd known her, anyway. Why, thats old Mis Bintthe aunt of all that tribe of Bints that live just near Calais. No, Mr. WoglQm, that isnt the least bit what I was looking for. That isnt pam leaf anyway, not what we used to call pam leaf. Why, now, its strange you dont know Mis Bint and you so well ac- quainted around here too. Why, you had ought to write her up in some of your papers hadnt he, Mr. Woglom? Its quite some of a story, if only anybody knew how to fix it up the right way, sost it would go in the newspapers. Why, I should have thought youd have remark- ed her mourning! I could not help remarking her mourn- ing now, at all events. I watched her struggling up the bleak island hillside, passing in and out of sight among the scraggly pines; and such a grimly fan tas- tic figure, so swathed and swaddled and hung about and decked on with crape and stiff old-fashioned black stuffs, I had never before seen. Her veil projected on each side of her head as though her big old - fashioned bonnet were rigged out VOL. LXXXYJ.No. 511.i 1 with stun-sail booms. The wind buffeted her; the rain drenched her in angry little spats, first to starboard and then to port, but she tacked steadily on up the hill, with all her voluminous garments flapping bravely, as stiff and black as sheet-iron. I was watching her through the one clear pane in the window of Mr. Wogloms gen- eral store. Tarpaulins, rubber boots, sou - westers, fishing-tackle, scap-nets, school- books, suspenders, overalls, garden tools, horse medicine, mosquito - netting, lan- terns, and other general - store stock, in- cluding the accursed lottery ticket, which is for sale in Maine everywhere where anything is sold, filled up the rest of the window. I was waiting for the squall to blow over. Miss Cynthiana Lovejoy, who accommodated me with board and lodg- ing during my stay on the island, had happened in and was casually examining the new invoice of calicoes from New York, in search, Mr. Woglom confiden- tially told me, of a pattern which she had wanted for at least a generation, and which had been two generations out of the market. Now what year was it, do you re- member, Mr. Woglom, when Obed Bints ship was lost in that gale when the big whale come ashore? No, I dont mean 116 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Isaac Bint; I mean Obed Bint, Isaacs sonthe young manthat is, he wouldnt be so dreadful young to-day if hed lived most fifty now, I should think. Mr. Woglom, that aint any more pam leaf than Im pam leaf. Sixty-seven? Well, now, I wouldnt have thought it was so far back as sixty- seven. Lands sake, how time does go! Yes, thats something like the pattern, but tisnt just it. Only I cant draw at all, I could draw that pattern for you just as clear as day. Well, now, it doesnt seem so long. But I guess youre right, Mr. Woglom. That was just the year that I bought the first piece of magenta poplin I ever saw, off your father. My, I thought I was made! Father, he used to call it my whale dress, because he paid for it out of the money he made off that whale. It came ashore right on his beach. Tb at was a real bad storm, Mr. Wog- loin, if you recollect. Let me seethere was Obed Bints boat, and Plum DaViss boat, and the two Daw brothers, their boat, and that man who lived on Three Acre Island, what was his name, now? oh, yes, Wilkinson well, there was his boat, too; not a one of them came back. Every one of those boats was lost in that gale.. At least, not a one of them ever came in. Awful, want it? Well, now, what I was going to tell you about Mis Bint that was so queer was just this, and I thought you might make sort of a story of it, if you could only fix it up some way sost it would read well. It was this way. Obed, he married just before he made his first trip on his own boat married a girl he met at Eastport the year he went over there to go to a dancing-school they had theretwant much of a concern, I guess, but it was the best they was. She was a real nice little thing, and pretty too, and clever to every- body. She made friends with lots of people. I remember it was real gay on the island that year; there was two or three other young married couples too. Well, ks I was telling you, that big whale my! he was a monstrous big thing that whale came up on our beach the same gale Obed Bints boat was lost in. And of course we had to attend to the whale right off, and cut him up be- fore hed spoil, andI dont knowbut it took quite some time, and in consequence we didnt get over to see Mis Bint as much as we had ought to; twant that we didnt want to; but there was the whale, dont you see? Dear me, Mr. Woglom, I can remem- ber that magenta dress just the same as if it was yesterday! I remember how I bought it off your father on this very counter. I remember just what he says when he sold it to me. Says he, Youll look just like that piny bed up to Widow Piersons when you get that on, says he. Why, it want no more like the color of pinies than nothing at all. Your father hadnt what folks call an eye for color, Mr. Woglom. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes! I know! I had that magenta dress on the first day that I ever looked across the cove from my fathers house to the mea- dow lot under the light- house, and saw Mis Bint and Obeds wife setting there looking out to sea as if theys expecting some~thing. My great-grandmother, my fathers grandmother, that is, she was alive then, and she was a real queer old lady. Shed sit in an old splint-bottom chair by the chimney all day long and never say a wordonly set bolt-upright and smoke an old corn-cob pipe just like a man. I dont know what made me speak to her when I saw Mis Bint and Obeds wife settin there under the light- house, but I did, somehow. Says I, Granny, theres Mis Bint and Obeds wife under the light-house looking out to sea. What do you think theyre looking for? says I. Crazy wifes ship, says she, short, just like that, and she didnt say another thing that day. That was a way she had; she didnt often say anything, but when she did say something she was real curious. I dont know whether it was an old- fashioned saying or something she made up herself, but it gave mb a real sort of a turn. And that afternoon I went over to Mis Bints, that is, my mother and I did. They lived quite a piece away on the other side of the cove, but our two families h~14 always been first-rate friends, and my father had taught Obed Bint all he knew about navigation. Well, you may imagine it took us all aback when old Mis Bint met us at the gate, and we saw right away that she want going to let us in. That was the first time I ever saw or heard of neighbors quarrelling on the islandIve seen enough since, but I was only a young slip of a girl then, and CRAZY WIFES SHIP. 117 it did seem perfectly dreadful to me. Mis Bint she talkedoh, she talked quite violently, and reproached us for not com- ing sooner, and as much as said she want- w ed to have done with us for good and all. My mothershe was a very proud wo- man she never answered her back at all, but she just took me by the hand and told me to come along, and we started for home. I didnt dare say anything; I was most too frightened to speak. And mo- ther she didnt say a word, but just walk- ed right on leading me by the hand as if I was a baby. Going back we met old Mr. Starbuck, the one who used to live in the red house down by the Point. He was about the only near neighbor the Bints hadbe- tween em I guess they owned pretty much all that end of the island. Hello! says he, when he saw my mother. Been to call on me? What do you mean, Mr. Starbuck? says my mother, for she didnt know what to make of his asking such a question. Why, he says, I supposed youd been to my house. I understand folks aint admitted anywheres else in this neighborhood. We didnt understand him just then, but we did when we got down to the vil- lage and heard the talk that was going on. You never heard anything so queer in all your life. It was a real nine-days wonder, as the saying is. It seemed that old Mis Bint had picked a quarrel with everybody on the island, on one pretext or another, so that there want one that she hadnt, so to speak, shut her doors on. Dreadful queer behavior! With one it was one thing and with another it was something different, but it all came to pretty much the same in the end she want on speaking terms with hardly a soul in the place, and there she was, liv- ing up on the Point with not a neighbor to go near her, mewed up all alone there with Melindy that was Obeds wifes name. Everybody was sorry for the poor little clever creature, for Mis Bint want a cheerful woman the best of times, and when she was vexed, my! she was vexed. But then, of course, we couldnt do anything, she kept Melindy so close wouldnt let her stir anywheres without her, and it got so at last that she wouldnt hardly let her go out at all. Of course we all made out that the loss of her son had turned her mind, afid people was all the more sorry for Melindy on that account. She pined away dread- fully too; lost all her good looks, and got real peaked. For one thing, her mother - in - law would never let her wear mourning, nor Mis Bint wouldnt wear a stitch of black herself. Thats what made folks say she was crazy first off; for though theres lots of people here who wont wear mourning clothes on principle, old Mis Bint come from Calais, and she was a Bint by birth, too, before she married Isaac Bint; and all those Bints, the whole stock of them, were just sot on dressing all out in black, every cousin that died. She was real par- ticular about her dress, Mis Bint was. I think folks was generally more particu- lar in those days. I know there aint any patterns nowadays like that old pam- leaf pattern; not so nice, that is, to my taste. Of course Mis Bint didnt drop out like that without being considerable miss- ed. Melindy was kind of new to the town, but her mother-in-law was a good deal looked up to. She was a great house- keeper for one thing, and when there was anything going onI mean sociably weddings and funerals, for instance, peo- ple always use to a sort of depend on Mis Bint. And then she was a master-hand at nursing sick folks and taking care of young children, and altogether people missed herquite some. Mr. Woglom, if you cant show me those dress goods yourself, dont bother to put that boy of yours at it, for you just might as well not. I dont believe he knows gingham from goose-grease. Let me see, I guess it must have been two-three years, maybe four, that I found out the rights of the matter, and just accidentally, as you might say. The light-house I was telling you about was away at the far end of the Point, and no- body hardly ever went there, except, of course, the man who kept the light, and he was a Portugee or somethingsome kind of a foreigner anyway, and didnt talk much English. But ever since she began to act so queer, old Mis Bint had made a regular practice of going down there and setting with her daughter-in- lawoh, my! for hours at a time, and every day, too, in all sorts of weather. I dont believe anybody knew about it, though, except our folks, for you could see them where they sat from our kitchen 118 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. window, but not from much of any place else. And as for my mother, from the day old Mis Bint spoke sharp to her to the day of her death, she never mention- ed the name of Bint, and you may believe I wouldnt have dared to mention it to her. The way it happened was this, and it was kind of funny. I had a little green parrot about that long. A sailor uncle of mine brought it to me from Java, some- wheres in the tropicsmy uncle Hiram, one of my mothers folks; he died young, and I guess there aint anybody remem- bers him now, without its me, and I dont believe Id ever think of him if it want for that parrot. It was a cute little thing, and I set a heap by it, though it couldnt talk, and it was dreadful mischievous. It died, in the end, of swallowing a needle- book. Well, as I was saying, that bird got loose one awful bleak day in Novem- ber, and ran right along the shore of the cove, and made straight to Bints place, and me after it, youd better believe, run- ning just as hard as I could tear. And you wouldnt have thought a little thing could get over such a lot of ground so amazing fast. It was clean over in Mis Bints cow-pasture before I caught it, and then I started for home real frightened, for I didnt know what my mother would say to me if she ever knew Id been any- wheres on land belonging to the Bints. She was dreadful strict sometimes, my mother was. Well, just by good luck, nobody saw me, and I come back by the short - cut across the Point under the light-house. And would you believe it, just as I got under that sand bank there with the swal- lows nests in ityou can see em from herethat dratted parrot got away from me again; and I was so tuckered out what with the running and the fright and the disappointment and all thatit sounds kinder foolish now, dont it ?I just laid right down there on the sand and cried as if I was going to cry my eyes out. And while I was lying there and crying fit to break my heart, the first thing I knew I heard peoples voices talk- ing on the bank above me. I couldnt see them, and at first I thought it was some of our folks come after me, and I was worse scared than ever, and just laid quiet, not knowing what to do. Then I recognized Mis Bints voice and Melin- dys, though, as I say, I hadnt spoken a word to either of them in three - four years, but you may fancy it sent a real cold chill down my back when I heard old Mis Bint say, in a perfectly peaceful, cam, natural way, just as I am talking to you now: No, deane; Obed cant get in on that wind. Hell most likely lay to on tother side of South Island, and come up with the tide in the morning. But hell come in the morning sure, wont he, ma? says Melindy; and it gave me an awful funny creepy feeling to hear her, for she talked a sort of innocent, something like a little child. Oh yes, says old Mis Bint. Obed will come in the morning sure. Youd better be thinking of getting a good break- fast for him. Yes, says Melindy; picked-up cod- fish. Obed always was great for picked- up codfish. Well, if I was scared before, I was scared worse than ever now. Why, it was just the unnaturalest thing that you ever could form a notion of, setting there and hearing those two women talking about getting breakfast for a man who had been lying four years at the bottom of the sea. It most made my blood run cold; but of course I didnt dare to stir, and I just had to set there and listen while they laid out the breakfast they was going to get ready for himpicked- up codfish and mock mince-pie and I dont know what all. And then they talked about how soon hed be rested enough to feel like taking a journey up the river to Bucksport to pay a visit to his uncle John. My! his uncle John d been dead two years. I dont know what it was I did at last that attracted their attention. I guess I must have coughed or something, because Mis Bint she called out suddenly, Whats that? and looked over the sand bank and saw me. I wasnt so scared then but what I got straight up and started to run. But Mis Bint she just came down and caught me by the arm, and walked me quite a ways down the beach before she said a word. Then she talked right close to my ear sost I could hear her, but Me- lindy couldnt. You think Im a lunatic, she says. Yes, maam, I says. I didnt know what to say, but I was a real truthful child. Well, I aint, says Mis Bint. Im as sane as you are. But shes an idiot, THE MYSTERY. 119 and shes been so ever since the night of the big gale; and Ive kep up the delusion in her mind that Obeds coming home, says she. Ive encouraged her in it, be- w cause if I didnt she wouldnt live a week. Then she looked at me real hard for a minute, and then she said: Thats whyl dont want folks around. Youre John Lovejoys daughter, aint you? says she. Yes, maam, says I. XATel1, says she, youve seen the af- fliction the Lords visited upon me. Now what you going to do? Tell folks? Then I spunked up. I guess she knew I would. Mis Bint, says I, I guess our folks aint meddled with your affairs very lately, and I dont think, says I, that were going to begin now, I told her. And with that I walked away. I was real mad. And do you know, it was the funni- est thing. I hadnt gone more than a hundred yards when what should I see but that parrot a-hopping along in front of me, heading for home across the sand. He was dreadful little, but I could see him a long ways off; he was such a bright green against the beach, and the day was kinder gray too, sost he showed up quite some. It was a green something like that pattern, Mr. Woglom, but with more yel- low into it. And I never did say one word about it for the longest time. But maybe three- four years after that Melindy fell kind of sick, and they had to send for a doctor, and then somehow it all came out. But it didnt do any harm, I guess, for Melindy want sick long. She died that January, and the first boat that got through the ice to the mainland that spring old Mis Bint went over on it to Eastport, and when she come back she had the greatest lot of mourning clothes that I guess most any woman ever had. Shes taken some of it off since then, and they dont wear skirts so full now, so you dont notice it so much, but still she wears considerableenough to notice, I should think. But they do say shes a great deal more sociable now though, my! I dont know. I aint spoken to her since. No, Mr. Woglom, concluded Miss Cynthiana, as she felt the edge of the last piece of calico between her thumb and her forefinger, you neednt trouble yourself to show me anything more. I dont be- lieve youve got the real pam leaf any- way. Though I was in hopes you might have had it, youve talked so much of get- ting it for me so i~nany times. Does Mis Bint buy her mourning of you now, or does she still go to Eastport for it? But want it curious, my finding that parrot again that way? Between the legs of a pendent pair of wading-boots I peered out of the dripping window, looking at the crest of the storm- swept hill, and caught a last glimpse of the gaunt black figure tacking against the wind, funereal and lonely. THE MYSTERY. BY JITLIAN HAwTHORNE. SINCE thine I am, 0 Love, my love art thouj Though naught am I, save what thou art in me. Yet how possessed of all can nothing be (For Love is all, as all who love may know)? Or how shall Life (for life from love doth grow) Find joy in Death, which holds my life in fee? To shadow how may substance wedded be, And with its fulness that stark void endow? Nay, but if Love be all, and life be love, Then shadow, death, and I alike are naught. Because Love loves, I am: and Light creates Shadow, which vouches substance: in me move All I am noteven as the splendor brought On ethers void shows Phoebus at our gates.

Julian Hawthorne Hawthorne, Julian The Mystery. A Sonnet 119-120

THE MYSTERY. 119 and shes been so ever since the night of the big gale; and Ive kep up the delusion in her mind that Obeds coming home, says she. Ive encouraged her in it, be- w cause if I didnt she wouldnt live a week. Then she looked at me real hard for a minute, and then she said: Thats whyl dont want folks around. Youre John Lovejoys daughter, aint you? says she. Yes, maam, says I. XATel1, says she, youve seen the af- fliction the Lords visited upon me. Now what you going to do? Tell folks? Then I spunked up. I guess she knew I would. Mis Bint, says I, I guess our folks aint meddled with your affairs very lately, and I dont think, says I, that were going to begin now, I told her. And with that I walked away. I was real mad. And do you know, it was the funni- est thing. I hadnt gone more than a hundred yards when what should I see but that parrot a-hopping along in front of me, heading for home across the sand. He was dreadful little, but I could see him a long ways off; he was such a bright green against the beach, and the day was kinder gray too, sost he showed up quite some. It was a green something like that pattern, Mr. Woglom, but with more yel- low into it. And I never did say one word about it for the longest time. But maybe three- four years after that Melindy fell kind of sick, and they had to send for a doctor, and then somehow it all came out. But it didnt do any harm, I guess, for Melindy want sick long. She died that January, and the first boat that got through the ice to the mainland that spring old Mis Bint went over on it to Eastport, and when she come back she had the greatest lot of mourning clothes that I guess most any woman ever had. Shes taken some of it off since then, and they dont wear skirts so full now, so you dont notice it so much, but still she wears considerableenough to notice, I should think. But they do say shes a great deal more sociable now though, my! I dont know. I aint spoken to her since. No, Mr. Woglom, concluded Miss Cynthiana, as she felt the edge of the last piece of calico between her thumb and her forefinger, you neednt trouble yourself to show me anything more. I dont be- lieve youve got the real pam leaf any- way. Though I was in hopes you might have had it, youve talked so much of get- ting it for me so i~nany times. Does Mis Bint buy her mourning of you now, or does she still go to Eastport for it? But want it curious, my finding that parrot again that way? Between the legs of a pendent pair of wading-boots I peered out of the dripping window, looking at the crest of the storm- swept hill, and caught a last glimpse of the gaunt black figure tacking against the wind, funereal and lonely. THE MYSTERY. BY JITLIAN HAwTHORNE. SINCE thine I am, 0 Love, my love art thouj Though naught am I, save what thou art in me. Yet how possessed of all can nothing be (For Love is all, as all who love may know)? Or how shall Life (for life from love doth grow) Find joy in Death, which holds my life in fee? To shadow how may substance wedded be, And with its fulness that stark void endow? Nay, but if Love be all, and life be love, Then shadow, death, and I alike are naught. Because Love loves, I am: and Light creates Shadow, which vouches substance: in me move All I am noteven as the splendor brought On ethers void shows Phoebus at our gates. DO SEEK THEIR MEAT FROM GOD. BY CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS. ONE side of the ravine was in dark- ness. The darkness was rich and soft, suggesting thick foliage. Along the crest of the slope tree-tops came into view great pines and hemlocks of the an- cient unviolated forestrevealed against the orange disk of a full moon just rising. The low rays slanting through the move- less tops lit strangely the upper portion of the opposite steep-the western wall of the ravine, barren, unlike its fellow, bossed with great rocky projections, and harsh with stunted junipers. Out of the slug- gish dark that lay along the ravine, as in a trough, rose the brawl of a swollen, obstructed stream. Out of a shadowy hollow behind a long white rock, on the lower edge of that part of the steep which lay in the moon- light, came softly a great panther. In common daylight his coat would have shown a warm fulvous hue, but in the elvish decolorizing rays of that half~hid- den moon he seemed to wear a sort of spectral gray. He lifted his smooth round head to gaze on the increasing flame, which presently he greeted with a shrill cry. That terrible cry, at once plaintive and menacing, with an undertone like the fierce protestations of a saw beneath the file, was a summons to his mate, de. daring that the hour had come when they should seek their prey. From the lair behind the rock, where the cubs were being suckled by their dam, came no im- mediate answer. Only a pair of crows, that had their nest in a giant fir - tree across the gulf, woke up and croaked harshly their indignation. These three summers pastthey had built in the same spot, and had been nightly awakened to vent the same rasping complaints. The panther walked restlessly up and down, half a score of paces each way, along the edge of the shadow, keeping his wide-open green eyes upon the rising light. His short, muscular tail twitched impatiently, but he made no sound. Soon the breadth of confused brightness had spread itself further down the steep, dis- closing the foot of the white rock, and the bones and antlers of a deer which had been dragged thither and devoured. By this time the cubs had made their meal, and their dam was ready for such enterprise as must be accomplished ere her own hunger, now grown savage, could hope to be assuaged. She glided supplely forth into the glimmer, raised her head, and screamed at the moon in a voice as terrible as her mates. Again the crows stirred, croaking harshly; and the two beasts, noiselessly mounting the steep, stole into the shadows of the forest that clothed the high plateau. The panthers were fierce with hunger. These two days past their hunting had been wellnigh fruitless. What scant prey they had slain had for the most part been devoured by the female; for had she not those small blind cubs at home to nourish, who soon must suffer at any lack of hers? The settlements of late had been making great inroads on the world of ancient forest, driving before them the deer and smaller game. Hence the sharp hunger of the panther parents, and hence it came that on this night they hunted together. They purposed to steal upon the settlements in their sleep, and take tribute of the enemies flocks. Through the dark of the thick woods, here and there pierced by the moonlight, they moved swiftly and silently. Now and again a dry twig would snap beneath the discreet and padded footfalls. Now and again, as they rustled some low tree, a pewee or a nuthatch would give a star- tled chirp. For an hour the noiseless journeying continued, and ever and anon the two gray sinuous shapes would come for a moment into the view of the now well-risen moon. Suddenly there fell upon their ears, far off and faint, but clearly defined against the vast stillness of the Northern forest, a sound which made those stealthy hunters pause and lift their heads. It was the voice of a child crying crying long and loud, hopelessly, as if there were no one by to comfort it. The panthers turned aside from their formercourse and glided toward the sound. They were not yet come to the outskirts of the settlement, but they knew of a soli- tary cabin lying in the thick of the woods a mile and more from the nearest neigh- bor. Thither they bent their way, fired with fierce hope. Soon would they break their bitter fast. Up to noon of the previous day the

Charles G. D. Roberts Roberts, Charles G. D. Do Seek Their Meat From God. A Sketch 120-124

DO SEEK THEIR MEAT FROM GOD. BY CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS. ONE side of the ravine was in dark- ness. The darkness was rich and soft, suggesting thick foliage. Along the crest of the slope tree-tops came into view great pines and hemlocks of the an- cient unviolated forestrevealed against the orange disk of a full moon just rising. The low rays slanting through the move- less tops lit strangely the upper portion of the opposite steep-the western wall of the ravine, barren, unlike its fellow, bossed with great rocky projections, and harsh with stunted junipers. Out of the slug- gish dark that lay along the ravine, as in a trough, rose the brawl of a swollen, obstructed stream. Out of a shadowy hollow behind a long white rock, on the lower edge of that part of the steep which lay in the moon- light, came softly a great panther. In common daylight his coat would have shown a warm fulvous hue, but in the elvish decolorizing rays of that half~hid- den moon he seemed to wear a sort of spectral gray. He lifted his smooth round head to gaze on the increasing flame, which presently he greeted with a shrill cry. That terrible cry, at once plaintive and menacing, with an undertone like the fierce protestations of a saw beneath the file, was a summons to his mate, de. daring that the hour had come when they should seek their prey. From the lair behind the rock, where the cubs were being suckled by their dam, came no im- mediate answer. Only a pair of crows, that had their nest in a giant fir - tree across the gulf, woke up and croaked harshly their indignation. These three summers pastthey had built in the same spot, and had been nightly awakened to vent the same rasping complaints. The panther walked restlessly up and down, half a score of paces each way, along the edge of the shadow, keeping his wide-open green eyes upon the rising light. His short, muscular tail twitched impatiently, but he made no sound. Soon the breadth of confused brightness had spread itself further down the steep, dis- closing the foot of the white rock, and the bones and antlers of a deer which had been dragged thither and devoured. By this time the cubs had made their meal, and their dam was ready for such enterprise as must be accomplished ere her own hunger, now grown savage, could hope to be assuaged. She glided supplely forth into the glimmer, raised her head, and screamed at the moon in a voice as terrible as her mates. Again the crows stirred, croaking harshly; and the two beasts, noiselessly mounting the steep, stole into the shadows of the forest that clothed the high plateau. The panthers were fierce with hunger. These two days past their hunting had been wellnigh fruitless. What scant prey they had slain had for the most part been devoured by the female; for had she not those small blind cubs at home to nourish, who soon must suffer at any lack of hers? The settlements of late had been making great inroads on the world of ancient forest, driving before them the deer and smaller game. Hence the sharp hunger of the panther parents, and hence it came that on this night they hunted together. They purposed to steal upon the settlements in their sleep, and take tribute of the enemies flocks. Through the dark of the thick woods, here and there pierced by the moonlight, they moved swiftly and silently. Now and again a dry twig would snap beneath the discreet and padded footfalls. Now and again, as they rustled some low tree, a pewee or a nuthatch would give a star- tled chirp. For an hour the noiseless journeying continued, and ever and anon the two gray sinuous shapes would come for a moment into the view of the now well-risen moon. Suddenly there fell upon their ears, far off and faint, but clearly defined against the vast stillness of the Northern forest, a sound which made those stealthy hunters pause and lift their heads. It was the voice of a child crying crying long and loud, hopelessly, as if there were no one by to comfort it. The panthers turned aside from their formercourse and glided toward the sound. They were not yet come to the outskirts of the settlement, but they knew of a soli- tary cabin lying in the thick of the woods a mile and more from the nearest neigh- bor. Thither they bent their way, fired with fierce hope. Soon would they break their bitter fast. Up to noon of the previous day the DO SEEK THEIR MEAT FROM GOD. 121 lonely cabin had been occupied. Then its owner, a shiftless fellow, who spent his days for the most part at the corner tavern, three miles distant, had suddenly grown disgusted with a land wherein one must work to live, and had betaken himself with his seven-year-old boy to seek some more indolent clime. During the long lonely days when his father was away at the tavern the little boy had been wont to visit the house of the next neighbor, to play with a child of some five summers who had no other playmate. The next neighbor was a prosperous pioneer, being master of a substantial frame house in the midst of a large and well-tilled clear- ing. At times, though rarely, because it was forbidden, the younger child would make his way by a rough wood road to visit this poor little disreputable playmate. At length it had appeared that the five-year- old was learning unsavory language from the elder boy, who rarely had an oppor- tunity of hearing speech more desirable. To the bitter grief of both children, the companionship had at length been stopped by unalterable decree of the master of the frame house. Hence it had come to pass that the little boy was unaware of his comrades depart- ure. Yielding at last to an eager long- ing for that comrade, he bad stolen away late in the afternoon, traversed with end- less misgivings the lonely stretch of wood road, and reached the cabin only to find it empty. The door, on its leathern hinges, swung idly open. The one room had been stripped of its few poor furnishings. After looking in the rickety shed, whence darted two wild and hawklike chickens, the child had seated himself on the hack- ed threshold, and sobbed passionately with a grief that he did not fully compre- hend. Then seeing the shadows lengthen across the tiny clearing, he had grown afraid to start for home. As the dusk gathered, he had crept trembling into the cabin, whose door would not stay shut. When it grew quite dark he crouched in the inmost corner of the room, desperate with fear and loneliness, and lifted up his voice piteously. From time to time his lamentations would be choked by sobs, or he would grow breathless, and in the ter- rifying silence would listen hard to hear if any one or any thing were coming. Then again would the shrill childish waihings arise, startling the unexpectant night, and piercing the forest depths even to the ears of those great beasts which had set forth to seek their meat from God. The lonely cabin stood some distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile, back from the highway connecting the settlements. Along this main road a man was plodding wearily. All day he had been walking, and now as he neared home his steps be- gan to quicken with anticipation of rest. Over his shoulder projected a double-bar- relled fowling - piece, from which was slung a bundle of such necessities as he had purchased in town that morning. It was the prosperous settler, the master of the frame house. His mare being with foal, he had chosen to make the tedious journey on foot. The settler passed the mouth of the wood road leading to the cabin. He had gone perhaps a furlong beyond when his ears were startled by the sound of a child crying in the woods. He stopped, low- ered his burden to the road, and stood straining ears and eyes in the direction of the sound. It was just at this time that the two panthers also stopped, and lifted their heads to listen. Their ears were keener than those of the man, and the sound had reached them at a greater distance. Presently the settler realized whence the cries were coming. He called to mind the cabin; but he did not know the cabins owner had departed. He cher- ished a hearty contempt for the drunken squatter; and on the drunken squatters child he looked with small favor, espe- cially as a playmate for his own boy. Nevertheless, he hesitated before resum- ing his journey. Poor little devil 1 he muttered, half in wrath. I reckon his precious fathers drunk down at the Corners, and him crying for loneliness ! Then he reshoul- dered his burden and strode on doggedly. But louder, shriller, more hopeless and more appealing, arose the childish voice, and the settler paused again, irresolute, and with deepening indignation. In his fancy he saw the steaming supper his wife would have awaiting him. He loathed the thought of retracing his steps, and then stumbling a quarter of a mile through the stumps and bog of the wood road. He was foot-sore as well as hun- gry, and he cursed the vagabond squatter with serious emphasis; but in that wail- ing was a terror that would not let him go on. He thought of his own little one I 122 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. left in such a position, and straightway his heart melted. He turned, dropped his bundle behind some bushes, grasped his gun, and made speed back for the cabin. Who knows, he said to himself, but that drunken idiot has left his youngster without a bite to eat in the whole miserable shanty? Or maybe hes locked out, and the poor little beggars half scared to death. Sounds as if he was scared ; and at this thought the set- tler quickened his pace. As the hungry panthers drew near the cabin, and the cries of the lonely child grew clearer, they hastened their steps, and their eyes opened to a wider circle, flaming with a greener fire. It would be thoughtless superstition to say the beasts were cruel. They were simply keen with hunger, and alive with the eager passion of the chase. They were not ferocious with any anticipation of battle, for they knew the voice was the voice of a child, and something in the voice told them the child was solitary. Theirs was no hideous or unnatural rage, as it is the custom to describe it. They were but seeking with the strength, the cunning, the deadly swiftness given them to that end, the food convenient for them. On their success in accomplishing that for which nature had so exquisitely designed them depend- ed not only their own, but the lives of their blind and helpless young, now whimpering in the cave on the slope of the moonlit ravine. They crept through a wet alder thicket, bounded lightly over the ragged brush fence, and paused to reconnoitre on the edge of the clearing in the full glare of the moon. At the same moment the settler emerged from the darkness of the wood road on the oppo- site side of the clearing. He saw the two great beasts, heads down and snouts thrust forward, gliding toward the open cabin door. For a few moments the child had been silent. Now his voice rose again in pit- iful appeal, a very ecstasy of loneliness and terror. There was a note in the cry that shook the settlers soul. He had a vision of his own boy, at home with his mother, safe - guarded from even the thought of peril. And here was this lit- tle one left to the wild beasts! Thank God! Thank God I came ! murmured the settler, as he dropped on one knee to take a surer aim. There was a loud re- port (not like the sharp crack of a rifle), and the female panther, shot through the loins, fell in a heap, snarling furiously and striking with her fore paws. The male walked around her in fierce and anxious amazement. Presently, as the smoke lifted, he discerned the set- tler kneeling for a second shot. With a high screech of fury, the lithe brute sprang upon his enemy, taking a bullet full in his chest without seeming to know he was hit. Ere the man could slip in another cartridge the beast was upon him, bearing him to the ground and fix- ing keen fangs in his shoulder. With- out a word, the man set his strong fin- gers desperately into the brutes throat, wrenched himself partly free, and was struggling to rise, when the panthers body collapsed upon him all at once, a dead weight which he easily flung aside. The bullet had done its work just in time. Quivering from the swift and dreadful contest, bleeding profusely from his man- gled shoulder, the settler stepped up to the cabin door and peered in. He heard sobs in the darkness. Dont be scared, sonny, he said, in a reassuring voice. Im going to take you home along with me. Poor little lad, Iii look after you if folks that ought to dont. Out of the dai-k corner came a shout of delight, in a voice which made the set- tlers heart stand still. Daddy, daddy, it said, I knew youd come. I was so frightened when it got dark I And a little figure launched itself into the set- tlers arms, and clung to him, trembling. The man sat down on the threshold and strained the child to his breast. He re- membered how near he had been to disre- garding the far-off cries, and great beads of sweat broke out upon his forehead as he thought. Not many weeks afterwards the settler was following the fresh trail of a bear which had killed his sheep. The trail led him at last along the slope of a deep ravine, from whose bottom came the brawl of a swollen and obstructed stream. In the ravine he found a shallow cave behind a great white rock. The cave was plainly a wild beasts lair, and he entered circumspectly. There were bones scat- tered about, and on some dry herbage in the deepest corner of the den he found the dead bodies, now rapidly decaying, of two small panther cubs. (J2 H 0 H rJ2 0 0 H H H z z 0 Cf2 0 0 z ?32 0 H VOL. LXXXVINo. 51112 %~ygc~:!~x ~ _ _ __ I Z~ Ad~ ~ ~ - ~ 117 ~ ____ C) __ ___ 7 ~j ~i 1 7 _ i{)) ~ LOL~D BATEMAN: A BALLAD. HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED DRAWINGS WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. GilD BATEMAN HE WAS A NOBLE LORD, LA NOBLE LORD OF HIGH DEGREE, HE SHIPPED HIMSELF ON BOARD A SHIP, SOME FOREIGN COUNTRY HE WOULD GO SEE. HR SAILED EAST, AND HE SAILED WEST, UNTIL HE CAME TO PROUD TURKEY WHERE HE WAS TAKEN AND PUT TO PRISON, UNTIL HIS LIFE WAS ALMOST WEARY. BY ANNE THACKERAY RITCHIE. ONE of the heads which rise out of my witches caidron, as I look back at the people I have known, is that of George Cruikshank, very like a kings head in Macbethgrim, characteristic, with a half-simple, half-adventurous ex- pression, and the strangest whiskers and mustacl~ios~those wonderful whiskers, my father calls them. Unlike the shapes that usually rise out of the caldrons of witches, this is a full-length figure which comes before me, with military legs and straps. When Mr. Cruikshank came into the room he used to appear to us sudden- ly, as if he had just leaped off a charger. I have also a confused recollection of once driving to his house, which was surround- ed by shade trees. Inside, it was all crowd- ed with books and curtains and furniture, and still further darkened by the shadow of some impending trouble, which my fa- ther, as was his way, was trying to ward off. I am afraid that in Mr. Cruikshanks COMMENT.

Comment by Anne Thackeray Ritchie Ritchie, Anne Thackeray, Comment by Lord Bateman. A Ballad. 124-130

%~ygc~:!~x ~ _ _ __ I Z~ Ad~ ~ ~ - ~ 117 ~ ____ C) __ ___ 7 ~j ~i 1 7 _ i{)) ~ LOL~D BATEMAN: A BALLAD. HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED DRAWINGS WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. GilD BATEMAN HE WAS A NOBLE LORD, LA NOBLE LORD OF HIGH DEGREE, HE SHIPPED HIMSELF ON BOARD A SHIP, SOME FOREIGN COUNTRY HE WOULD GO SEE. HR SAILED EAST, AND HE SAILED WEST, UNTIL HE CAME TO PROUD TURKEY WHERE HE WAS TAKEN AND PUT TO PRISON, UNTIL HIS LIFE WAS ALMOST WEARY. BY ANNE THACKERAY RITCHIE. ONE of the heads which rise out of my witches caidron, as I look back at the people I have known, is that of George Cruikshank, very like a kings head in Macbethgrim, characteristic, with a half-simple, half-adventurous ex- pression, and the strangest whiskers and mustacl~ios~those wonderful whiskers, my father calls them. Unlike the shapes that usually rise out of the caldrons of witches, this is a full-length figure which comes before me, with military legs and straps. When Mr. Cruikshank came into the room he used to appear to us sudden- ly, as if he had just leaped off a charger. I have also a confused recollection of once driving to his house, which was surround- ed by shade trees. Inside, it was all crowd- ed with books and curtains and furniture, and still further darkened by the shadow of some impending trouble, which my fa- ther, as was his way, was trying to ward off. I am afraid that in Mr. Cruikshanks COMMENT. LORD BATEMAN: A BALLAD. 125 life there were many catastrophes, which not all his delightful powers over the spir- its and fairies of the world of fancy were sufficient to avert. Who does not know his realm of fays and pucks, and the weird sprites of the bottle, and the but- glars and goblins and bold desperadoes out of Ainsworth and Oliver Twist? But, best of all, I think, among the playfellows he conjured into our nursery we loved Lord Bateman. From our earliest child- hood we lived in his adventurous com- pany. The noble lord, pointing his toes and brandishing his cane, the proud young Porter, and Sophia, as depicted by the artist, were our daily companions. Nor can I remember the time when Lord Bateman was not; but I never knew that my father had also made pictures to the familiar ballad, nor was it until the other day, when Mrs. Leslie Stephen sent them to me, that I ever saw the sketches. This lady happened to be nursing her children through some infantine illness, and in their nursery stood a table which had also stood in my own sisters nursery be- fore, and which had been dragged for- ward to suit the convenience of the little invalids. By some accident the table went over with a crash, and an unsus- pected drawer fell out, all stuffed full of papers and odds and ends. Among them were these present pictures, which had emerged into the daylight after over a quarter of a century of seclusion. The little table had once been in my fathers bedroom, and the drawings must have been put away there by himself years and years before, and remained undiscovered until Mrs. Leslie Stephen came upon tbem, wondering at the odd chance that con- veyed them straight to her from her old friends hands. She sent them on to me, and I in turn recognized the familiar figures. Here was Sophia, with added details, waving her broidered and coroneted handkerchief. Here was Lord Bateman in his travelling coronet and costume, with piles of luggage. Here was the proud young Porter, with some faint likeness to Gruffanuff in the Rose and the Ring, or to the Jeames of early days. Here was the wedding ceremony. His lordships sudden squint seemed but a proper retribution for his very equivocal conduct. The colors were so bright, so merry, and so fresh, and the drawings so easy and delicate, that they most certain- ly must have belonged to the time when my father was still in all the enjoyment of life and good spirits. I showed the pictures to Mr. Osgood, the representative of Messrs. Harper over here, and I asked him if they could not be reproduced in the pages of HARPERS MAGAZINE, where the history of the brave Boudin had al- ready been so faithfully rendered. He was kindly interested in my wishes, and made the necessary arrangements with Messrs. Harper to carry them out. So much for the little history of how the drawings now given came into our possession. The small mystification concerning the ballad itself is curious as showing how completely the trace of a mans work can be lost in a comparatively short space of time, with people still alive to remember the facts. There are certain riddles in literature which turn up from time to time, from the authorship of Junius to that of the Tin Trumpet, and one of these concerns the modern version of the lov- ing ballad of Lord Bateman and the delightful notes which are appended to George Cruiksh anks illustrations. These have been variously ascribed to Mr. Dick- ens, to my father, and to George Cruik- shank himself. My own impression (for which I have absolutely no foundation) is that the notes sound like Mr. Dickenss voice, and the ballad like my own fa- thers. The original ballad is a very old one, very much longer and cruder than in Cruikshanks version, and is to be found, so I am told, in the British Mu- seum, printed upon long narrow slips, such as used to be the fashion when bal- lads were hawked about the streets with the last dying speeches and confessions and other cheerful ephemera which took the place of the sensational newspaper headings of to-day. Mr. Charles Johnson, who knows more than anybody almost about my fathers early writings, writing to the Athenwum for January 21, 1888, says: The literary part of the work has been ascribed to each of the two greatest novelists of our time, William Makepeace Thackeray and Charles Dickens. It seems strange that there should be any doubt as to which of these two great writers took part in Cruikshanks version of the ballad, but so it is; various stories are told, and may be thus summarized: Mr. Hamilton says w that Cruikshank first sang the ballad at Cruikshanks memory was entirely at a dinner of the Antiquarian Society, at fault in many more important matters; which both Dickens and Thackeray were that Mr. Sala entirely rejects Cruikshanks present. Thackeray said, I should like version, and says that Thackeray in all to print that ballad with illustrations. probability revised and settled the words But Cruikshank objected, saying he was of the ballad, and made them fit for going to illustrate it himself. Mr. Ham- publication. . ... Indeed, so far as is ilton further says that Dickens furnished known, Mr. Johnson says, Dickens humorous notes to Cruikshanks version. and Cruikshank never worked together .... Cruikshank himself gives evidence, after the completion of Oliver Twist in having said that Dickens wrote the 1838; on the other hand, in 1839, when notes. On this testimony, which should this little volume appeared, Thackeray be conclusive, one can only remark that was working with Cruikshank. Th& IN THIS PRISON THERE GREW A TREE, o THERE IT GREW ROTH STOUT ANO STRONG, WHERE HE WAS CHAINED EY THE NIGGLE, UNTIL HIS LIFE WAS ALMOST GONE. o TELL HIM TO SEND ME A SLICE OF BREAD, AND A BOTTLE OF THE BEST WINE, AND NOT FORdETTING THE FAIN YOUNG LADy, WHO DID RELEASE HIM WHEN CLOSE CONFIN 0. AWAY AWAY WENT THIS YOUNG PROUD PORTER, AWAY AWAY, AND AWAY WENT HE, UNTIL HE CAME TO LORD BATEMANS CHAMBER, DOWN ON HIS BENDED KNEES FELL HE. letter - press of Cruikshanks comic al- Thackerays copy seldom rhyme. The manacs for 39 and 40 had been writ- principal variations in the Cruikshank ten entirely by Thackeray. Then he version are snch as result from a change goes on: My strongest argument comes of the spelling to suit the supposed char- last. There lies before me as I write a acter of the singer, and the editors at- scrap-book containing, partly in Thack- tempts at making the second and fonrth erays own writing and partly roughly lines in each verse rhyme; one of the printed on common paper, the famous rhymes, indeed, Northumbcrlee, suggests history of Lord Bateman, profusely ii- a device of the author of Little Billee. p lustrated by Thackeray himself. The * When up he jumps. Theres land, I see; ballad is the same, verse for verse, as Theres Jerusalem and Madagascar, Cruikshanks version, but the lines in And North and South Amerikee. Noxv SEVEN LONG YEARS ARE DONE AND PAST, AND FOURTEEN DAYS WELL KNOWN TO THEE, SHE PACER!) UP ALL HEN GAY CLOATHING, AND SWORE LORD BATEMAN SHE WOULD GO SEE. BUT WHEN SHE CAME TO Loao BATEMANS CASTLE So BOLDLY SHE RANG THE BELL, (TEE WHOa THERE, WHOSE THERE CEY D THE PROUD POE- WHOS THERE COME TELL UNTO ME. o IS THIS LORD BATEMANS CASTLE, OR IS HIS LORDSHIP HERE WITHIN, o YES, 0 YES, CRIED THE YOUNG PORTER, HES JUST NOW TAKEN HIS NEW BRIDE IN. WHAT NEWS WHAT NEWS, MY PROUD YOUNG PORTER WHAT NEWS HAST THOU BROUGHT UNTO ME. THERE IS THE FAIREST OF ALL YOUNG CREATURES, THAT EER MY TWO EYES DID SEE. SHE HAS GOT RINGS ON RVERV FINGER AND ROUND ONE OF THRM SHE HAS GOT THERE, AND AS MUCH GAY CLOATHING ROUND HER MIDDLE As WOULD BUY ALL NORTHUMBESLEE. SHE RIDS YOU SEND HER A SLICE OF BREAD AND A BOTTLE OF THE BEST WINE, AND NOT FORGETTING THE FAIR YOUNG LADY, WHO DID RELEASE YOU WHEN CLOSE CONFIND. LORD BATEMAN HE THEN IN A PASSION FLEW, AND BROKE HIS SWORD IN SPLINTERS THREE, SAYING I WILL GIVE ALL MY FATHERS RICHES, THAT IF SOPHIA HAS CROSSED THE SEA. THEN UP SPOKE THE YOUNG BRIDES MOTHER, WHO NEVER WAS HEARD TO SPEAK SO FREE, YOULL NOT FORGET MY ONLY DAUGHTER THAT IF SOPHIA RAS CROSSED THE SEA. 4~1) Elsewhere Mr. Johnson justly notices A lucky chance (sohe says) brought the great resemblance in the idea and here this afternoon Mr. Trueman, Who scheme of Lord Bateman to the notes was a great friend of Cruikshanks, and appended to my fathers early poem of who possesses the finest collection of his Timbuctoo. works. I took the opportunity of pro- I also wrote to Mr. Lionel Oust, of the pounding to him the question of Lord British Museum, asking him if he could Bateman. He says that it has at differ- discover anything for me. His answer ent times been ascribed to Dickens, Thack- contains a curious corroboration of Mr. eray, and Cruikshank himself, or that Johnsons views. Thackeray wrote the poem and Dickens L ((iY~J~-~ --Z~ the notes. Mr. Trueman is convinced from his own observation that the whole thing was written hy Thackeray for Cruik- shank, with whom he was on terms of great friendship at the time. Moreover, in the years 39 and 40 the two were working together for the very publisher who published Lord Bateman, which makes it more probable, as Dickens had no connection with that publisher.... Mr. Trueman also instanced the curious story of the ballad of The Three Sailors of Bristol City, to illustrate your fathers practice of inventing ballads off-hand and neglecting them altogether afterwards. One dear old friend tantalizingly tells me that Cruikshank once told him all about it but what he told him he cannot re- call. Another old friend, Miss Georgina Hogarth, to whom I also applied, knowing that she was more likely than anybody to be able to help me, says that her im- prcssion is that Charles Dickens wrote the notes to help Mr. Crnikshank, although she has no certain recollection on the matter. So the little secret remains mys- terious and self-contained, but, happily, here are the pictures for us all to enjoy. A CAMEO AND A PASTEL. BY BRANDER MATTHEWS. 1.THE CAMEO. absorb the blood which lay in little pools W upon the pale pavement. There the glad- ROME, AUG. 722. iators had been fighting but a moment THE dining-room had been built apart before, to entertain the guests at the ban- from the house. It stood in the gar- quet; and having given strong proofs of den amid box-trees cut into threatening their skill and of their courage, they had shapes of wild beasts, and beside a cypress been dismissed, and were now behind the clipped to suggest a dark green serpent house, out of sight, one trying to stanch coiling itself tightly about the brown his wounds, the other stiff in death and trunk of the tree. With its white mar- carried by his comrades. ble walls it crowned the brow of the hill This is a brave feast, Gaius Cilnius, that here sloped away to the bank of the said the guest who lay above the host on placid brook below. It was open only to the couch ~t the right. I have not had the north, but the westering sun shone such good entertainment since that tri- through its windows, and left the long nmph of C~esar when the Amazons con- shadows of the tall poplars athwart the tended with the lionesses. tessellated pavement. The twelfth hour The Numidian did not fight ill, the of the day was near, and still the banquet host admitted. was prolonged. I never saw a more skilful stroke Upon the three wooden conches which than that with which he got under the formed three sides of a square in the cen- guard of the Gaul, returned the guest tre of the room there reclined nine Ro- on the right, a full-blooded, thick-necked mansfor the iver of the feast had borne man, with a face hardened by exposure. in mind the saying of Varro that those He had as much strength as skill invited should never be more in number added one of those who were reclining on than the Muses nor less than the Graces. the couch on the left. I saw his sword Like his guests, the host had removed his come out at the back of the Gaul. shoes and his toga. He wore a light A clean thrust, by Jove ! the first short-sleeved tunic, with the two broad speaker rejoined; and he gave it under perpendicular stripes of purple which de- disadvantage also, for the Gaul had al- noted a knight. His face was dignified ready cut off two of the fingers of his and kindly. His manner suggested that right hand. he was entertaining men of distinguished Then it was a feat indeed ! said a ability, but perhaps of inferior rank. He young man on the couch with the Sena- was crowned with a chaplet of dark i vy, tor; a feat worthy of commemoration not unbecoming to his closely cropped in verse. And we have three poets here head. now. Which of you will immortalize The guests wore wreaths of roses upon the gladiator ? their oiled locks, most of them, although Publius Vergilius there, the ivy- one, whose white tunic bore the single crowned Senator remarked, is ever at dark stripe of a Senator, had preferred the work on his epic. He carries it always crown of ivy leaves. The couches where- on his mind, for he has scarce said a word on they reclined were of wood thickly to us to-night, from the egg to the ap- incrusted with ivory, and made easier by ples. many cushions covered with light silks. The grave-visaged man whom he ad- The guests leaned on their left elbows, dressed smiled tolerantly, and turning to and ate with their right hands only. At the guest at his side, he said, Such a the end of the course silent servants subject suits rather the satire than the brought water in silver bowls and proffer- epiceb, Quintus Horatius ? ed linen napkins that the fingers might There are those who would write an be washed, while another attendant wiped epic in twenty-four books on the life and the low wooden table with a thick cloth, adventures and death of a mouse re- In the open space before the table and sponded the guest thus invoked. This the couches other slaves were casting afternoon at the bath, while I was anx- down saffron-dyed sawdust, that it might ious for my game of ball, there came a

Brander Matthews Matthews, Brander A Cameo and a Pastel 130-135

A CAMEO AND A PASTEL. BY BRANDER MATTHEWS. 1.THE CAMEO. absorb the blood which lay in little pools W upon the pale pavement. There the glad- ROME, AUG. 722. iators had been fighting but a moment THE dining-room had been built apart before, to entertain the guests at the ban- from the house. It stood in the gar- quet; and having given strong proofs of den amid box-trees cut into threatening their skill and of their courage, they had shapes of wild beasts, and beside a cypress been dismissed, and were now behind the clipped to suggest a dark green serpent house, out of sight, one trying to stanch coiling itself tightly about the brown his wounds, the other stiff in death and trunk of the tree. With its white mar- carried by his comrades. ble walls it crowned the brow of the hill This is a brave feast, Gaius Cilnius, that here sloped away to the bank of the said the guest who lay above the host on placid brook below. It was open only to the couch ~t the right. I have not had the north, but the westering sun shone such good entertainment since that tri- through its windows, and left the long nmph of C~esar when the Amazons con- shadows of the tall poplars athwart the tended with the lionesses. tessellated pavement. The twelfth hour The Numidian did not fight ill, the of the day was near, and still the banquet host admitted. was prolonged. I never saw a more skilful stroke Upon the three wooden conches which than that with which he got under the formed three sides of a square in the cen- guard of the Gaul, returned the guest tre of the room there reclined nine Ro- on the right, a full-blooded, thick-necked mansfor the iver of the feast had borne man, with a face hardened by exposure. in mind the saying of Varro that those He had as much strength as skill invited should never be more in number added one of those who were reclining on than the Muses nor less than the Graces. the couch on the left. I saw his sword Like his guests, the host had removed his come out at the back of the Gaul. shoes and his toga. He wore a light A clean thrust, by Jove ! the first short-sleeved tunic, with the two broad speaker rejoined; and he gave it under perpendicular stripes of purple which de- disadvantage also, for the Gaul had al- noted a knight. His face was dignified ready cut off two of the fingers of his and kindly. His manner suggested that right hand. he was entertaining men of distinguished Then it was a feat indeed ! said a ability, but perhaps of inferior rank. He young man on the couch with the Sena- was crowned with a chaplet of dark i vy, tor; a feat worthy of commemoration not unbecoming to his closely cropped in verse. And we have three poets here head. now. Which of you will immortalize The guests wore wreaths of roses upon the gladiator ? their oiled locks, most of them, although Publius Vergilius there, the ivy- one, whose white tunic bore the single crowned Senator remarked, is ever at dark stripe of a Senator, had preferred the work on his epic. He carries it always crown of ivy leaves. The couches where- on his mind, for he has scarce said a word on they reclined were of wood thickly to us to-night, from the egg to the ap- incrusted with ivory, and made easier by ples. many cushions covered with light silks. The grave-visaged man whom he ad- The guests leaned on their left elbows, dressed smiled tolerantly, and turning to and ate with their right hands only. At the guest at his side, he said, Such a the end of the course silent servants subject suits rather the satire than the brought water in silver bowls and proffer- epiceb, Quintus Horatius ? ed linen napkins that the fingers might There are those who would write an be washed, while another attendant wiped epic in twenty-four books on the life and the low wooden table with a thick cloth, adventures and death of a mouse re- In the open space before the table and sponded the guest thus invoked. This the couches other slaves were casting afternoon at the bath, while I was anx- down saffron-dyed sawdust, that it might ious for my game of ball, there came a A CAMEO AND A PASTEL. 131 fellow who forced me to hear a long poem he had written yesterday while standing on one foot! It is not enough to find a good sub- ject, said the third poet, who was a young man with a faded expression; we must also make sure of a publisher whose scribes will not betray us by their carelessness. My last elegy was sent forth with a thou- sand errors that the dullest slave should not have been allowed to make. I know nothing of scribes, Sextus Aurelius, the thick-necked man declared; I like the sword and the spear more than the style. But it is indisputable that we have no such slaves as we used to have in the old days. The knaves are careless now and insolent. If I were a poet, and they mangled my verses, I would have the blundering rascals sent to frigid Molsia; they would not make the same mistake twice. There are punishments nearer at hand, said the Senator, and swifter. When the cook of Vedius Pollio three times failed to stew the lampreys to his masters taste, the fellow was thrown into the fish-pond, and I doubt not that the lampreys found him to their taste. There is no need thus to punish your tricliniarch, Gaius Cilnius, declared the poet with the serious face, as he helped himself from the new dish the attendant then presented. For here is a feast or- dered to perfection. The slave is worthy of his master,is he not, Quintus Hora- tius ? By Bacchus, replied the poet thus addressed, he understands his art as well as a Greek rhetorician understands the art of speech. He persuades us al- though we have no appetite. But the credit for his labors is due to the friend who chose him. And the fellow is not to be praised for this beaker of glass, red as the ruby and as cunningly carved, the third poet interposed; nor for this silver cup, he added, taking the vessel from the hand of an attendant, who filled it to the brim with Falernian. Is this the very goblet in which Cleopatra dissolved her pearl,when she drank to the health of Antony ? The host smiled, and responded: You have hit the mark with a chance arrow, Sextus Aurelius. That is indeed the gob- let of Cleopatra. It was sent to me from Alexandria by the friend who bought me also the beakers of red glass. VOL. LXXXYI.No. 511.i 3 The chief course of the dinner was now attained, and the slaves removed the tables from the room. The guests wash- ed their hands again. Then there was silence for a little space, out of respect to the gods, while the salted meal was of- fered on the family altar, and while the libations of wine were poured solemnly upon the hearth to the sound of stately music. When this ceremony had been duly performed, the second tables were brought in, with cakes of many kinds and all manner of fruits, while fresh snow was packed about the vessels containing the wine. While the guests were enjoying the lighter dishes with which the banquet came to an end, a livelier strain of music swelled forth, as though some new enter- tainment was about to be presented. That is a Gaditanian air, if I mistake not, said the poet who had been addressed as Sextus Aurelius. Have you a dancer to show us ? asked the thick-necked man, with a certain sug- gestion of eagerness in his voice. Two, the host responded. Trust Gains Cilnius to give us good measure, interjected one of the other poets. There are two Gaditanian girls, twin sisters, of whom report speaks favorably, the Senator remarked. It is rumored that they have a perfect mastery of the strange dances of their own country. Even Ca~sar commended them when they danced before him. Are these they? They are the same, answered the host, modestly; two Gaditanian slave girls. I have never seen them, but I thought it might interest you to compare their art with that of the dancers we have beheld so often in Rome. Nothing so helps digestion as to end a dinner with a dance, said Quintus Ho- ratius, with a smile of humorous antici- pation. As the guests settled back on the couches to behold the sport at their ease, the host gave a signal, and the music swelled out again, with strange, broken rhythms. Suddenly there sprang into the open space before the men two dark-eyed girls, one from each side of the broad portal. They met in the centre of the space, and grasped each other by the right hand and swung around, and then, as the music 132 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. abruptly stopped, they stood still before the spectators, poised, each on one foot, in a graceful and captivating attitude. They were beautiful girls, both of them, scarce sixteen,lithe, slender ,sinewy, with bronzed skins and thick dark hair. Their flow- ing garments, almost transparent, clung to their persons, falling in sweeping folds, but never reaching the saffron-dyed saw- dust that covered the pale pavement. Then, as the music struck up again, they began to dance, swaying in time, re- treating one from the other, advancing with provocation, keeping step faultlessly to the tune, and bending their bodies in unison with the enervating rhythm. A heightened color came into the cheek of the thick-necked guest, and the eyes of the Senator took on a deeper glow. Decorous at first, the sisters gained freedom as the dance went on, and with the quickening music they added fervor to their pantomime. So potent was the charm of their motions that not a word was spoken, while the dance rose to its climax with gestures as significant as they were graceful. After a while the music slackened, and the dance became more languorous, as though the girls were caught up in a dream. Then, with a sharp return of the former rapidity, the dancers flashed across the floor again and were gone. The Senator sank back on the couch, while the poets and the other guests ap- plauded. Then, while the servant whose duty it was threw perfumes over the few embers on the hearth, the diners made ready for the symposium by casting dice to discover who should be king of the feast. When the dancers withdrew, night was about to fall. From the hut of a slave hidden in the hollow of the hill before the opening at the end of the dining-room a thin spiral of blue smoke curled softly upward in the darkening twilight, made visihle by a final shaft of the expiring sunset. 11.THE PASTEL. NEW YORK, AD. 1892. Against the wall at the further end of the studio hung a huge sheet, broad enough to have been taken from the great bed of Ware. It was bleached by the hard glare of the lime-light directed from the gallery at the back of the paint- ers workshop over the doorway leading to his smaller studio, where the supper was already set out: Almost touching the pendent drapery, but a little tQ the left, were four chairs for the musicians who were to accompany the Spanish wo- man. For the gyrations of the dancer a hollow semicircle of floor space had been left in front of the sheet, and bent rows of folding-chairs filled the rest of the long room. The carved coffers had been pushed back against the side walls under the worn tapestries and the tarnished em- broidery of old altar-cloths. Vessels of brass, of copper, of baked clay, of delft, of twisted glass, stood on the larger cabi- nets. A panoply of arms, wherein could be seen a creese, a yataghan, an old flint- lock musket, a Springfield rifle, a bowie- knife, and two Arapaho arrows, was set on the wall over against a portrait of the owner of the studio, in Japanese costume, lovingly painted by a former pupil. There were other pictures here and there out of the way; and thrust in a corner on an easel, carefully hidden by a shabby velvet robe, was the unfinished portrait of one of the ladies who were giving the en- tertainment. Pendent from the ceiling by a cord was a stuffed sea-gull with out- stretched wings, swaying softly to and fro as the floor trembled under the foot- steps of the arriving guests. It was nearly midnight, and for half an hour or more the guests had been gathering, greeting one another, and set- tling down in little groups, nntil now the studio was beginning to be crowded, and the late-comers found it hard to place themselves. Some of those first to arrive had come leisurely from betarded dinners, and some of those last to arrive had come hurriedly from the opera, hasten- ing away before the tenor had sung his death-song. They were all well dressed, and they all seemed gay and eager for amusement, with an air as of people out in expectation of an unconventional en- tertainment. They were fairly represent- ative of the well-to-do dwellers in a great city. Among them were many men and women of fashion, some of them having no other claim to distinction than the accident of their social position, and some of them leaders of society not only, but also in philanthropy and in citizen- ship. There were men of letters, two or three essayists, three or four novelists, and a poet or two. There were artists, some of them friends of the painter in A CAMEO AND A PASTEL. 133 whose studio the dance was to take place. There was a clever young actor, with his pretty young wife. There were half a dozen statesmentwo of them high in the councils of the nationwho had come on from Washington speciafly to be pres- ent at the affair. There were pretty women a plenty, with diamonds agleam on their bosoms and in their hair. There was the thin young lady who had aroused public opinion against the dirty streets of the city; there was the young married woman who took time from society to do her duty as head of a school for the train- ing of nurses; there was the plump widow who wrote clever articles on music and the drama; and there was the beautiful dark woman who had just been forced to seek a divorce from a brutal nobleman unable to appreciate her. There were young women and old who thought they had done their whole duty by the world when they looked charming and smiled at the compliments paid to them. Above the chatter of many tongues could be heard the clear voice of one of the men from Washington, who had once been an attache in Madrid. Why is she so late, this Andalusian caperer? She doesnt finish at the theatre till nearly eleven, said the handsome wo- man to whom he had spoken; but she promised to dance as little as she could this evening and to take no encores so as to save herself fresh for us. A novelist who had just arrived from Italy leaned over and asked the young lady by his side: Its a new act, isnt it, this having a dancer come here at mid- night to give a private performance? Sh& s done it two or three times for us this winter, the young lady answered. You know the theatre where she ap- pears is so common that we cant go there; and so, you see, if she didnt come to a studio now and then, why, nobody would see her. Then there was a sudden parting of the little group of men gathered about one of the hostesses near the door. Four musicians entered and took the seats re- served for them. They were swarthy and dark-eyed; one of them was a fine- looking fellow with a shrewd smile hov- ering about his sensual mouth. He was the leader, and played the guitar; his companions had, one a mandolin, and two of them violins. With the appear- ance of the musicians there was an in- stant stir all over the studio, and people settled into their places and made room for one another, and turned their attention to the coming entertainment. The young men who had been standing inside the reserved semicircle, bending over and chatting with the ladies on the front row, now squatted on the floor and sat cross- legged. The hush of expectancy was broken as the dancer entered, walking with a free and feline tread. Amid loud applause, clapping of hands, and tapping of fan sticks, she took the seat that had been set for her in the centre of the open space, close to the sheet, against which her black shadow was cut out boldly by the lime- light that now brightened. She sat still for a few seconds, until the musicians struck up a wailing and riotous rhythm. She threw back her scarf and arose from her chair. The music swelled languor- ously and louder, and then she began to dance, coming forward a little, until by chance her shadow was under the shadow of the bird with outstretched wings. She was a daringly handsome woman, of superb health, of intense vitality, of unfailing grace, of undeniable charm due not only to the dark deep eyes, made darker and deeper by kohl lines below and above, and not only to the full red lips and the dazzling white teeth they re- vealed when they parted; not only to the flash of the glance even, nor to the sudden delight of the smile; but rather to some intangible, invisible, indisputable potency of sex which lent irresistible fascination to irregular features. In repose the face was heavy and sad; but a smile transfig- ured it almost beyond recognition. It was a Spanish face, no doubt, but with more than a hint of the gypsy or of the Moor. The neck and arms, more decorously cov- ered than those of most of the ladies who were looking on, were browned, and the thick fingers of both hands were encased with a dozen diamond rings. Her dress, which fell a little below the knee, was of yellow satin, decked with an abundance of black lace. She wore a rose in the heavy braids of her midnight hair. Her dance was like her beauty, irregu- lar and irresistible. It was Spanish in essence, perhaps gypsy at times, with haunting memories of the Orient. It began with a Moorish swaying of the body and a bold swing of the hips, preceding a few simple steps to the right and to the 134 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. left, a few bending turns, now one way and now the other, taken with easy flexi- bility, in strict time to the lilt of the tune the musicians kept playing. Often the suppleness of the torso was as important as the swiftness of the feet. It was a strange and startling performance, and its fascination was as strange as the dancer herself. As a dance it was voluptuous, and yet decent; full of suggestion to some, and yet devoid of offence to all who were ignorant as to the symbolic possibilities of primitive pantomime. As it went on, the ladies watched it with eager enjoyment, following every move- ment of arm, of body, and of foot. The men leaned forward with a tenser inter- est. with a gaze that never relaxed, and sometimes with a tightened breathing. At any unexpected twist of the dancers body or unusually artful feat there were incipient cheers and loud cries of Oll~ ! At last the music died away and the dancing ceased. She bowed again and again as the plaudits rang out, accepting them with a hesitancy that seemed almost shy. Then she sat down, breathless and hot. Two or three of the men who had been sitting on the floor on the front line of spectators got on their feet and went forward with compliments, which she re- ceived with purely professional gratitude. She accepted congratulations on her skill with a heartiness which was perhaps per- fu nctory. In repose the expression of her countenance was almost sombre, until it was illuminated by her swift smile. The guests who had seen her before compared this performance with those preceding. One young man informed a young girl that she did not dance as freely as she used. You see, some fel- low told her she had heart-disease, so she spares herself now. I always sing out Oll~! as loud as I can, and as often too, to try and get her excited a little and to keep her up to her work. I think some of the married women might go up and talk to her, said the young lady; she looks so timid I feel almost as if I ought to get presented to her, so as to encourage her a little. Side by side at the rear of the studio, standing clear of the last row of chairs, were a poet and a novelist. Do you suppose she really cares for the applause and the compliments, asked the novelist, or is that brilliant smile of hers part of the performance? I dont know, the poet responded. She seems to take to it kindly. Do you see how she turns again and again to that mandolin - player at her right, and how he looks at her with a calm air of propri- etorship? Oh yes, the novelist returned; they say hes her husbandbut then they will say anything. Then the music started again, a low, throbbing, pathetic air this time, and as some of the audience recognized it, there was an outbreak of applause. The Span- iard arose and put on a black felt hat, which she pulled down over her eyebroWs, and she reached down and picked up a long cane or pilgrims staff. The dancer was now to appear as a singer. The song was simple and dramatic; and the singing was varied by much pantomime, by an attempt to express its emotion histrion- ically, by an obvious dramatic effort. The end of every stanza brought an odd little chorus, to the notes of which the performer walked in time with an inde- scribable swagger, irredeemably common, but never vulgai~ in the lower sense of the word. At the end of the final stanza the music was prolonged, and the walk around became a dance, like the first and yet unlike it, not the same and yet a va- riation of the same theme. It had more freedom than its predecessor and a wilder abandon, as if the gypsy or the Moor was overpowering the Spaniard. As it went on there were frequent clappings of hands and shouts of Oll~, as though the spec- tators also were waking up. The young man who had been talking to the young lady found himself by the side of the visitor from Washington who had once been an attachd at Madrid. I suppose you have seen better than this in Spain? he asked, doubtfully. I have seen much the same thing, was the answer. Nothing more grace- ful; nothing more fascinating. Ahi, but you justwait till after supper, cried the young man, enthusiastically. The poet overheard this, and moved away. He delighted in the light and the color of the thing, in its movement and rhythm, in the aroma of luxury, in the unconventionality of the entertain- ment; but his conscience smote him. Do you see the shadow of that bird, asked the novelist, descending on the dancer like a spirit of purity? And if you will look over here at the right of HOW UN McLEAN WENT EAST. 135 the drapery, you can catch sight of the death-mask of Shakespeare looking on at these revels with sightless eyes as if he enjoyed them. I feel like a barbarian of the lower empire, the poet responded. I shall be ready soon for the gladiators, and I dont doubt I should hesitate whether to turn my thumb down or not. The music ceased suddenly, and the dancer, after bowing once and again, dropped into her chair, visibly panting. Two ladies went forward together to ex- press their pleasure at her perfprmance. The young man who accompanied them borrowed one of their fans, and sinking on his knees by the side of the dancer, he began to fan her. HOW UN McLEAN WENT EAST. BY OWEN wISTER. I. IF you set out to herd into one place some of every sort of mankind that is found on the Shoshone Indian Reserva- tion, you will gather a very various flock indeed. A sun-dance accomplishes this handsomely; but I think the only other event that will do it is a visit from the bishop. The bishop is in the sincere es- timation of all people not only a good man, but a man. This somehow counts for more in Wyoming, and they respect him and come to look at him. Hence it happened that one Sunday morning in late July he stood in the church at the agency and held the Episcopal morning service for some brightly glittering army officers and their families; some white soldiers and some black; some bread-win- ners, including the agency doctor, the post trader, the government scout, and three gamblers who lacked other occupa- tion; the waiter-girl from the hotel, and the stage-driver, who was there because she was; a couple of festooned chiefs in beautiful blankets; a little bench of squatting rag-bag Indian children, per- fectly quiet, but otherwise just as wicked as white infants are, which seems aston- ishing when you consider what is being done at Washington to make them good; also some Eastern visitors at the post; and Sabina Stone, the commanding offi- cers new hired girl, and with her, Lin McLean, a cow-puncher. To Mr. McLean the service had so far passed swiftly and unnoted. He had re- cently come down Wind River from the round-up, and had his pay. When a cowboy has his pay, there are many people who take an interest in him. The three gamblers had done this, but they did not know Mr. McLean could play cards, and he was even now fat with their money. He was a complete specimen of his lively and peculiar class. Cow-punch- ers are not a race, as are the crackers of Georgia, or the farmers of New England, or the Tennessee mountaineers, but a hap- hazard pack of young men and boys. They are town-bred and country-bred, and shuffled together in the game of adven- ture from Cape Cod to Los Angeles. They are often widely unlike in speech and education as well as appearance, but they have in common, besides a certain vocabulary, that utter irresponsibility which comes from taking destiny on a jocular basis, and not having a wife. They gallop over the face of the empty earth for a little while, and those whom rheumatism or gunpowder does not over- take, are blotted out by the course of em- pire, leaving no trace behind. A few wise ones return to their birthplaces, marry, and remain forever homesick for the desert sage-brush and the alkali they once cursed so heartily. A few, wise but less so, take a squaw to wife and supinely draw her rations from the government, while she cuts the wood, digs the irriga- tion ditches, and bears them half-breeds with regularity. It has been said that Lin McLean had not paid attention to the service this Sun- day morning because he was sitting next to Miss Sabina Stone. The little melo- deon in the corner, played by one of the ladies at the post, had finished accom- panying a slim chorus in the hymn, and now it tapered off into those few closing chords so dear to organists, while the bishop paused before his address, resting his keen eyes quietly on the people. He was dressed in a plain suit of black with a narrow black tie. This was because the Union Pacific Railroad, while it had de- livered him correctly at Rawlins, had de

Owen Wister Wister, Owen How Lin McLean Went East. A Story 135-147

HOW UN McLEAN WENT EAST. 135 the drapery, you can catch sight of the death-mask of Shakespeare looking on at these revels with sightless eyes as if he enjoyed them. I feel like a barbarian of the lower empire, the poet responded. I shall be ready soon for the gladiators, and I dont doubt I should hesitate whether to turn my thumb down or not. The music ceased suddenly, and the dancer, after bowing once and again, dropped into her chair, visibly panting. Two ladies went forward together to ex- press their pleasure at her perfprmance. The young man who accompanied them borrowed one of their fans, and sinking on his knees by the side of the dancer, he began to fan her. HOW UN McLEAN WENT EAST. BY OWEN wISTER. I. IF you set out to herd into one place some of every sort of mankind that is found on the Shoshone Indian Reserva- tion, you will gather a very various flock indeed. A sun-dance accomplishes this handsomely; but I think the only other event that will do it is a visit from the bishop. The bishop is in the sincere es- timation of all people not only a good man, but a man. This somehow counts for more in Wyoming, and they respect him and come to look at him. Hence it happened that one Sunday morning in late July he stood in the church at the agency and held the Episcopal morning service for some brightly glittering army officers and their families; some white soldiers and some black; some bread-win- ners, including the agency doctor, the post trader, the government scout, and three gamblers who lacked other occupa- tion; the waiter-girl from the hotel, and the stage-driver, who was there because she was; a couple of festooned chiefs in beautiful blankets; a little bench of squatting rag-bag Indian children, per- fectly quiet, but otherwise just as wicked as white infants are, which seems aston- ishing when you consider what is being done at Washington to make them good; also some Eastern visitors at the post; and Sabina Stone, the commanding offi- cers new hired girl, and with her, Lin McLean, a cow-puncher. To Mr. McLean the service had so far passed swiftly and unnoted. He had re- cently come down Wind River from the round-up, and had his pay. When a cowboy has his pay, there are many people who take an interest in him. The three gamblers had done this, but they did not know Mr. McLean could play cards, and he was even now fat with their money. He was a complete specimen of his lively and peculiar class. Cow-punch- ers are not a race, as are the crackers of Georgia, or the farmers of New England, or the Tennessee mountaineers, but a hap- hazard pack of young men and boys. They are town-bred and country-bred, and shuffled together in the game of adven- ture from Cape Cod to Los Angeles. They are often widely unlike in speech and education as well as appearance, but they have in common, besides a certain vocabulary, that utter irresponsibility which comes from taking destiny on a jocular basis, and not having a wife. They gallop over the face of the empty earth for a little while, and those whom rheumatism or gunpowder does not over- take, are blotted out by the course of em- pire, leaving no trace behind. A few wise ones return to their birthplaces, marry, and remain forever homesick for the desert sage-brush and the alkali they once cursed so heartily. A few, wise but less so, take a squaw to wife and supinely draw her rations from the government, while she cuts the wood, digs the irriga- tion ditches, and bears them half-breeds with regularity. It has been said that Lin McLean had not paid attention to the service this Sun- day morning because he was sitting next to Miss Sabina Stone. The little melo- deon in the corner, played by one of the ladies at the post, had finished accom- panying a slim chorus in the hymn, and now it tapered off into those few closing chords so dear to organists, while the bishop paused before his address, resting his keen eyes quietly on the people. He was dressed in a plain suit of black with a narrow black tie. This was because the Union Pacific Railroad, while it had de- livered him correctly at Rawlins, had de 136 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. spatched his surplice towards Denver, But she went riding with him up Trout where there is another bishop who has Creek in the cool of the afternoon. Out surplices of his own. of the Indian tepees, scattered wide And he arose, and came to his father, among the fiat levels of sage - brush, smoke rose thin and gentle, and van- ished. They splashed across the many little running channels which lead water through that thirsty soil, and though the clean blue range of mountains came no nearer, behind them the post, with its white fiat buildings and green trees, dwin- dled to a toy village. My! but its far to everywheres here, exclaimed Sabina, and its little youre sayin for yourself to-day, Mr. McLean. Ill have to do the talking. Whats that thing now, where them rocks are ? Thats Little Wind River Canon,~~ said the young man. Feel like goin there, Miss Stone? Why, yes. It looks real nice and shady like, dont it? Lets. So Miss Stone turned her pony in that direction. When do your folks eat supper? in- quired Lin. Half past six. Oh, weve lots of time ! Come on. How many miles per hour do you figure that cayuse of yourn can travel? Lin asked. What are you a-talking about, any- way? Youre that strange to-day, said the lady. Only if we try fer to make that cafion, I guess youll be late agin fer set- tin the Colonels table, Lin remarked, fixing her with a suave smile. That is, if yer horse aint good fer twenty miles an hour. Mine aint, I know. But Ill do my best to stay with yu Youre the teasingest man said Miss Stone, pouting. I might have knowed it was ever so much further nor it looked. Well, I aint sayin I dont want to go, if yu was desirous of campin out to- night. Mr. McLean! Indeed and Id do no such thing ! and Sabina giggled. A sagelien rose under their horses~ feet, and hurtled away heavily over the next rise of ground, taking a final wide sail out of sight. Somethin like them partridges used to, said Lin, thinking aloud, and certain woods between Lynn and Salem rose be- fore his memory. Partridges? inquired Sabina,at a loss. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. The bishop told the story of that surpass- ing parable, and then proceeded to draw from it a discourse fitted to the drifting destinies in .whose presence he found himself for one solitary morning. Lin McLean was set on a new course of thought by the history of the youth who took his journey into a far country. He had followed every word of the narrative, and it seemed to him that this was liker things in the world than what they usu- ally gave you out of the Bible. The bishop noticed the cow-punchers brown face and eyes wide open, and felt he had secured one good listener. But Lin was no longer listening at all. At the verse about the elder brother hearing sounds of music and dancing, lie had wondered whether they still had the dances at Phcenix Hall, in Swampscott, Massachusetts; and his thoughts filled with memories of win- ter and summer, of blue salt water, and of Thanksgiving day. Swampscott was where they had lived before breaking up their home and going to board in Boston. It was very hot in church, for the sun had been during the last thirty-three days blazing down against the plain. The two Indian chiefs went to sleep. But Lin sat in the same alert position till the sermon ended, though he had not heard a word of it since the parable. After that, offi- cers, Indians, and all the people dispersed through the bald dry heat to their dwell- ings. The cow-puncher rode beside Sa- bina in silence. What are you studying over, Mc- Lean? inquired Sabina, a trifle sharply. She was a pretty girl. Oh, nothin, replied her admirer. I guess Ill be late for settin the Colonels table. Good-by, said Sabina, quickly, and swished her whip across the pony, who scampered away with her along the straight road across the plain to the post. Lin caught up with her at once, and made his peace. Only, protested Sabina, I aint used to gentlemen taking me out and well, same as if I was a collie-dog. May- be its Wind River politeness. HOW UN MCLEAN WENT EAST. 137 Then a new idea occurred to him, all complete in a moment. I wonder if youll be settin the Colonels table when I come back? he said. Im goin East to-morrow. East to Boston. Miss Stone was astonished, and in- quired if he had not intended to go for a visit to Lander, only sixteen miles away. This had been his intention, he said, but circumstances had changed his plans. These circumstances he did not reveal, but frowned mysteriously when he al- luded to them; and she, being new in the country, was impressed, and supposed they existed and were of importance. They came home quickly. she a little sorry she was to lose him. I hope nothing aint happened to your folks? she said. I aint got folks, replied Lin, bar- rin a brother. I guess hes takin good care of himself. Dont you correspond ? Well, I guess we would if there was anything to say. There aint ben. Sabina thought they must havequar- relied. ~ said Lin. I just thought Id have a look at this Western country. Frank, he thought dry-goods was good enough fer him. And so were both sat- isfied, I expect. And thats eight years now. Whoop ya ! he suddenly sang out, and fired his six-shooter at a jack- rabbit, who strung himself out fiat and flew over the earth. Both dismounted at the parade-ground gate, and he kissed her when she was not looking, upon which she very properly slapped him, and he took the horses to the stable. He sat down to tea at the hotel, and found the meal consisted of black potatoes, gray tea, and a giittering dish of fat pork. But his appetite was good, and also he remarked to himself that inside the first hour he was in Boston he would have steamed Duxbury clams. The next morning the other passengers entered the stage with resignation, know- ing the thirty-six hours of evil that lay before them. Lin climbed up beside the driver. Dont get full, Lin, said the clerk, putting the mail-sacks in at the store. My plans aint settled that far yet, replied Mr. McLean. Leave it out of them, said the voice of the bishop, laughing, inside the stage. It was a cool fine air. Gazing over the huge plain down in which lies Fort Wash- a-kie, Lin heard the faint notes of the trumpet on the parade-ground, and took a good-by look at all things. He watched the American flag grow small, saw the circle of steam rising away down bythe hot springs, looked at the bad lands beyond, red and lavender tinted, and chemical in their un- healthy baldness. Across that spreading distance Indians trotted at wide spaces, generally two large bucks on one small pony, or a squaw and pappoose, a huddling stack of particolored rags. Presiding over the whole, rose the mountains to the west, serene, lifting into the clearest light. Then once again came the now tiny music of the trumpet. When do yu figure on comm back ? inquired the driver. Oh, Ill just look around back there for a spell, said Lin. About a month, I guess. He had seven hundred dollars. At Lander the horses are changed; and dur- ing this operation Lins friends gathered and said, where was any sense in going to Boston, when you could have a good time where you were? But Lin remain- ed sitting safe on the stage and said no, no. Towards evening, at the bottom of a little dry gulch some eight feet deep, the horses decided it was a suitable place to stay. It was the bishop who persuaded them to change their minds. He told the driver to give up beating, and unharness. Then they were led up the bank, quiver- ing, and a broken trace was spliced with rope. Then the stage was forced on to the level ground. the bishop proving a strong man, familiar with the gear of vehicles. The next afternoon the stage put its passengers down on the railroad platform at Rawlins. The bishop was going West to Green River. His surplice had passed him on the up stage during the night. When the reverend gentle- man heard this, he was silent for a very short moment, and then laughed vigor- ously in the baggage-room. I can understand how you swear sometimes, he said to Lin McLean; but Icant, you see. Not even at this. The cow-puncher was checking his own trunk. Good-by and good luck to you, con- tinued the bishop, giving his hand to Lin. And look heredont you think you might leave that getting full out of your plans ? 138 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Lin gave a slightly shamefaced grin. I dont guess I can, sir, he said. Im givin yu straight goods, yu see, he added. Thats right. But you look like a man who could stop when hed had enough. Try that. Youre man enough and come and see me whenever were in the same place. He went to Green River; and there were several hours for Lin to wait. He walked up and down the platform till the stars came out and the bright lights of the town shone in the saloon windows. Over across the way piano music sounded through one of the many open doors. Wonder if the professors there yet? said Lin, and he went across the railroad tracks. The bartender nodded to him as he passed through into the back room. In that place were many tables, and the fiat clicking and rattle of ivory counters sounded pleasantly through the music. Lin did not join the stud - poker game. He stood over a table at which sat a deal- er and a player, very silent, opposite one another, and whereon were painted sun- dry cards, numerals, and the colors red and black in squares. Also the legend Jacks pay was clearly painted. The player placed chips upon whichever in- signia of fortune he chose, and the dealer slid cards (quite fairly) from the top of a pack that lay held within a skeleton case made with some claxhped bands of tin. Sometimes the players pile of chips rose high, and sometimes his sumptuous pillar of gold pieces was lessened by one. It was very interesting and pretty to see. Lin had much better have joined the game of stud-poker. Presently the eye of the dealer met the eye of the player. After that slight incident the players chip pile began to rise, and rose steadily, till the dealer made admiring comments on such a run of luck. Then the player stopped, cashed in, and said good-night, having nearly doubled the number of his gold pieces. Five dollars worth, said Lin, sitting down in the vacant seat. The chips were counted out to him. He played with un- important shiftings of fortune until a short while before his train was due, and then, sii~gularly enough, lie discovered lie was one hundred and fifty dollars be- hind the game. I guess Ill leave the flyer go without me, said Lin, buying five dollars worth more of ivory counters. So that train, miscalled the flyer, came and went, removing eastward from Rawhins Mr. Mc- Leans trunk, which he had checked for Omaha. During the hours that followed, his voice grew dogged, and his remarks brief- er, as he continually purchased more chips from the now surprised and sympa- thetic dealer. This man had human feel- ings. He was not like his kinsman who presides at Monte Carlo, with a voice of polished stone. But while sympathy, perhaps, is a pleasant thing, no amount of it seems to change the luck. It was really wonderful how steadily Lin lost just as ste~lily as his predecessor had won after that meeting of eyes early in the evening. When Lin was three hundred dollars out, his voice began to clear of its husk- iness, and a slight humor revived and sparkled in his eye. When his seven hundred dollars had gone to safer hands, and he had nothing left at all but some silver fractions of a dollar, his robust cheerfulness was all back again. He walked out and stood among the railroad tracks with his hands in his pockets, and laughed at himself in the dark. Then his fingers came on the trunk check, and he laughed loudly. His baggage by this time must be getting near Laramie. To- morrow it would be dumped down at Omaha. This reminded him of his ticket for that place. Im goin East all right, he solilo- quized, kicking the rail. Notyet though, I aint a-goin. Nor I wont go to Wash- a-kie neither, you bet, to have em laff. And over yonders Boston. He pointed, stretching his arm full length. Had he seen another man going on in this fash- ion alone in the dark among side-tracked freight cars, he would have pitied the poor fool. And I guess Boston 11 have to get along without me fer a spell, too, continued Lin. I aint a-goin to show up plumb broke like the feller did after eatin with the hogs the bishop told about. No, sir; you bet! His father was a jim dandy, that hog chaps. Hustled around and set him up when he come back home. Frank, hed say to me, How do you do, brother? and hed be wearin a good suit of clothes, and No, sir; you bet Lin watched the great head-light of a freight train bearing slowly down into Rawhins from the wilderness. Rawlins HOW LIN MCLEAN WENT EAST. 139 is the end of a division, consequently many things took place when this train reached the coal-shute. One locomotive moved to a well-earned repose, and an- other backed to tackle a nights work. Also there were bumpings, jigglings of lanterns, and further bumps. Hello, Lin! A face was poked out of the window of the caboose. VOL. LXXXVI.No. 51114 Hello ! responded Mr. McLean, per- ceiving above his head Honey Wiggin, a good friend of his whom he had thought to he dead. They had not met for three years, when Honey had worked for the Bar-Circle-Zee. Each was pleased to see the other, but carefully concealed it. The cow-puncher considers reticence a proper thing for a man. But from the mere UrON WHICH 5HE VERY PROPERLY SLAPPED HIM. 140 HAIRPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. undertone in their voices you could have sunlight, a gleam of dismay shot over known it was good friends who were Lins face, and he ducked his head out speaking. of sight of the window, but immediately Where re yer bound? said Honey. raised it again. Then he leaned out, East, said Lin. waving his arm with a certain defiant Better jump in here, then. Were vigor. But the bishop on the platform goin west over the 0. It. and N. failed to notice this performance, though Guess I will, said Lin. it was done for his sole benefit. Nor So it was not very long before the dis- would Lin explain to the inquisitive Wig- tance between Mr. McLean and Boston, gin what the matter was. Therefore, instead of being 2238 miles, became 2239, very naturally, Honey drew a conclusion and steadily increased, for himself, looked quickly out of the window, and being disappointed in what IT. he expected to see, remarked sulkily, D& These two sat for a while, making few yu figure I care what sort of a lookin observations and far between, as their girl is stuck on yu in Green River ? way is between whom flows a current of And upon this, young Lin laughed s& old-time understanding.. Mutual whiskey loudly that his friend told him he had and silence can express much friendship, never seen a man get so foolish in three and eloquently. years. What are you doin at present? Lin By-and-by they were in Idaho, and inquired, said good-by to the train hands in the Prospectin. caboose, and came to Little Camas and Now prospecting means hunting gold, so among ~ mountains near Feather and is the fourth and greatest of the learn- Creek. Here the berries were of several ed professions, tending directly whither sorts, and growing riper each day; and indirectly tend the other three. Once the bears iu the timber above knew this, it was practised by Paracelsus, Cornelius and came down punctually with the Agrippa, Roger Bacon, and other pro- season, making variety in the otherwise found scholars. These men made much even life of the prospectors. It was now use of chemicals, and things that smell August, and Lin sat on a wet hill making bad, and thought the crucible pretty mud pies for sixty days. But the phi- nearly indispensable. To-day, the broad- losophers stone was not in the wash at er doctrine of railroad stocks prevails, that placer, nor did Lin gather gold-dust But the brokers still occasionally use sufficient to cover the nail of his thumb. things that smell bad, and gold is made Then they heard of an excitement at without being earned just as readily as Obo, Nevada, and hurrying to Obo, they ever the alchemists made it. The Rocky made some more mud pies. Mountain method of prospecting is by Now and then, eating their fat bacon means of the gold-pan or the quartz- at noon, Honey would say, Lin, wherre crusher. It contains hopes and fears, yu goin ? and is full of interest. And Lin always replied, East. This So Lin McLean listened to the talk of became a signal for drinks. his friend Honey Wiggin as the caboose Is not Nevada a beautiful name? The trundled through the night. He saw him- imagination rises at it, and snowy peaks self in a vision of the near future enter with depths of purple below them, and a bank and thump down a bag of gold- streams gleaming down through the steep dust. Then he saw the new clean money pines, all crowd into the minds eye. But the man would hand him in exchange; the preposterous truth is that no place in bills with round zeroes half covered by this world contains more square miles of being folded over, and heavy, satisfactory thd abomination of desolation. The de- gold pieces. And then he saw the blue posits from long-vanished waters have water that twinkles beneath Boston. lacquered the face of Nevada with ugh- Through the open windows of the ca- ness. Not even will the sage-brush come boose great dull red cinders rattled in, to help the wastes of vast sand and small and the whistles of distant Union Pacific stones. Miles on miles of paltry ignoble locomotives sounded over the open plains ridges and flats reach eternally on, and ominous and long, like ships at sea. As it is poor consolation, while making mud the train moved into Green River in the pies, to know you are in the bottom of an HOW LIN McLEAN WENT EAST. 141 ancient inland sea, and may study fan-deltas and successive lake benches all day long, if you choose. The sun beats down as on a roof of zinc, fierce and dull. A clump of bad lands would be an oasis. Rising a little, rolling, then fallin,, a little, the mean pitiful landscape varies never a whit, but stretches on from no- where to nowhere with persist- ence unflagging. There is niuch gold in Nevada, but Lin and Honey did not find it. Prospecting of the sort they did, besides proving unfruitful, is not comfortable. Now and again, losing patience, Lin would leave his work and stalk about and gaze down at the scattered men who perpetually stooped or knelt in the water. Passing each busy prospector, Lin would read on every broad upturned pair of overalls the same label, Levi~ Strauss, No. 2, with a picture of two lusty horses hitched to one of these garments, and vainly struggling to split them asunder. Lin remembered he was wearing a label just like that too, and when he considered all things he laue,hed to himself. Then, hav- ing stretched the ache out of his long legs, he would return to his ditch. As autumn wore on his feet grew cold in the mushy gravel they were sunk in. He beat off the sand that had stiff- ened on his boots, and hated Obo, Nevada. But he held himself ready to say East whenever he saw Honey coming along with a bot- tle. The cold weather put an end to this adventure. The ditches froze and filled with snow, through which the sordid gravel heaps showed in a dreary fashion; so the two friends drifted south- ward. Near the small new town of Mesa Arizona, they sat down again in the dirt. It was milder here, and when the sun shone, never quite froze. But this part __ of Arizona is scarcely more grateful to the eye than Nevada. Also, Lin and Honey found no gold at all. Then in January, even though the sun shone, it quite froze one day. Whatll we do? Honey inquired. THE BISHOP. Have to hustle for a job; a good payin job, responded the hopeful cow- puncher. And he and Honey went to town. Lin found a job in twenty-five minutes, becoinin~ assistant of the apothecary in Mesa. Established at the drug store, he made up the simpler prescriptions. He had studied practical pharmacy in Boston between the ages of thirteen and fifteen and besides this qualification, the apoth- ecary had seen him when he first came into Mesa and liked him. Lin made no mistakes that he or any one ever knew of; and, as the mild weather began, he materially increased the apothecarys business by persuading him to send East 142 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. for a soda-water fountain. The ladies of the town clustered around this entertain- ing novelty, and while sipping vanilla and lemon bought knickknacks. And the geTitlemen of the town discovered that whiskey with soda and strawberry syrup was delicious, and produced just as corn- petent effects. A group of them were generally standing in the shop and shak- ing dice to decide who should pay for the next, while Lin administeredto each glass the necessary ingredients. Thus money began to come to him a little more steadily than had been its wont, and he divided with the penniless Honey. But Honey found fortune quickly too. Through excellent card-playing he won a pinto from a small M~xican horse-thief, who came into town from the south, and who cried bitterly when he delivered up his pet pony to the new owner. The new owner, being a man of the world and agile on his feet, was only slightly stabbed that evening as he walked to the dance- hall at the edge of the town. The Mex- ican was buried on the next day but one. The pony stood thirteen two, and was as lone,, as a steamboat. He had white eyelashes, pink nostrils, and one eye was bright blue. If you spoke pleasantly to him, he rose instantly on his hind legs and tried to beat your face. He did not look as if he could run, and that was what made him so valuable. Honey trav- elled through the country with him; and every gentleman who saw the pinto and heard Honey became anxious to get up a race. Lin always sent money for Wig- gin to place, and he soon opened a bank account; while Honey, besides his racing- bridle, bought a silver-inlaid one, a pair of forty-dollar spurs, and a beautiful sad- dle richly stamped. Every day (when in Mesa) Honey would step into the drug store and inquire, Lin, where re yu goin l But Lin never answered any more. He merely came to the soda-water fountain with the whiskey. The passing of days brought a choked season of fine sand and hard blazing sky. Heat rose up from the ground and hung heavily over man and beast. Many insects sat out in the sun rattling with joy; the little tearing river grew clear from the swollen mud, and shrank to a succession of standing pools; and the fat, squatting cactus bloomed ev- rywhere into butter-colored flowers big as tulips in the sand. There were arte- sian wells in Mesa, and the water did not taste very good; but if you drank from the standing pools where the river had been, you repaired to the drug store al- most immediately. A troop of wander- ing players came dotting along the rail- road, and reaching Mesa, played a brass band up and down the street, and an- nounced the powerful drama of East Lynnc. Then Mr. McLean thought of the Lynn marshes that lie between there and Chelsea, and of the sea that must look so cool. He forgot them while fol- lowing the painful fortunes of the Lady Henrietta; but going to bed in the back part of the drug store, he remembered how he used to beat everybody swimming in the salt water. Im goin, he said. Then he got up, and striking the light, he inspected his bank account. Im sure goin, he repeated, blowing the light out, and I can buy the fatted calf myself, you bet ! for he had often thought of the bishops story. You bet ! he remarked once more, in a muffled voice, and was asleep in a minute. The apothecary was sorry to have him go, and Honey was deeply grieved. Id pull out with yer, he said, only I can do business round Yuma and west- ward with the pinto. For three farewell days Lin and Honey roved together in all sorts of places where they were welcome, and once more Lin rode a horse and was in his native ele- ment. Then he travelled to El Paso, and so through Denver to Omaha, where he was told that his trunk had been sold for some months. Besides a suit of clothes for town wear, it had contained a buffalo coat for his brothersomething scarce to see in these days. Frank 11 have to get along without it, he observed, philosophically, and took the next East-bound train. If you journey in a Pullman from Mesa to Omaha without a waistcoat, and with a silk handkerchief knotted over the collar of your flannel shirt instead of a tie, wearing, besides tall, high-heeled boots, a soft gray hat with a splendid brim, a few people will notice you, but not the majority. New MQxico and Col- orado are used to these things. As Iowa with its immense rolling grain encom- passes you, people will stare a little more, for youre getting near the East, where HOW LIN McLEAN WENT EAST. 14& theyre still provincial. But when at Chicago you seat yourself in the North Shore Limited in an atmosphere of good gloves and patent lea- ther, your appearance will have become welinigh audi- ble in the civilized silence. There were ladies in that velvet Wagner car for Bos- ton who looked at Lin for thirty miles at a stretch; and by the time Albany was reached the next day, one or two of them thought he was the most attractive-looking man they had ever seen. Whereas, beyond his tall- ness, and eyes that seemed the property of a not highly conscientious wild animal, there was nothin~, remarka- ble about him except stage effect. The conductor had been annoyed to have such a passenger; but Lin trou- bled no one, and was ex- tremely silent. People who tried to chat with him in the smoking compartment gave up after getting a couple of quiet monosylla- bles. At Springfield he sent a telegram to his bro- ther at the great dry-goods establishment of Shimmins and Bibbs. The train be- gan its homestretch after Worcester, and whirled and swung through new stations with old names. They flashed on Lins eyes as he sat with his hat off and his forehead against the win- dow, looking: Wellesley. Then, not long after, River- side. That was the Charles River, and Lin could not remember whether the picnic woods were above the bridge or below. West Newton; New- tonville; Newton. Fanenils next, he said aloud in the car, as the long-forgot- ten, every-day fact shot into his recollec- tion. The traveller in the seat in front said, Beg pardon ? but turning won- dered at the all-unconscious Lin, with his forehead against the glass. Soon they were running in the darkness between high walls, but the cow-puncher never moved, though nothing could be seen. When the porter announced Boston, he started up, and followed like a sheep in the general exodus. Down on the platform, he moved along with the slow crowd till some one touched him, and wheeling rounds he seized both his bro- thers hands, and swore a good oath. There they stood-the long brown fel- low with the silk handkerchief knotted over his flannel shirt, greeting tremen- dously the spruce civilian, who had a LIN McLEAN. 144 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. rope-colored mustache and bore a faint- hearted resemblance to him. The story was plain on its face to the passers - by; and one of the ladies who had come in the car with Lin turned twice, and smiled gently to herself. But Frank McLeans heart did not warm. He felt that what he had been afraid of was true; and he saw he was being made conspicuous. He saw men and women stare in the station, and he saw them staring as he and his Western brother went through the streets. Lin strode along, sniffing the air of Boston, looking at all things, and making it a stretch for his sleek companion to keep step with him. Frank thought of the refined friends lie should have to intro- duce his brother to; for he had risen with his salary, and now belonged to a small club where the paying - tellers of banks played cards every night, and the head clerk at the Parker House was pres- ident. Perhaps he should not have to reveal the cow-puncher to these shining ones. Perhaps the cow-punchier would not stay very long. Of course lie was glad to see him again, and he would take him to dine at some obscure place this first evening. But this was not Lins plan. Frank must dine with him, at the Parker House. Frank demurred, say- ing it was he that should be host. And,~ he added, they charge up high for wines at Parkers. Then for the twentieth time he shifted a sidelong eye over his brothers clothes. Youre goin to take your grub with me, said Lin. Thats all right, I guess. And there aint any no about it, you bet! Things is not the same like as if father was livia(bis voice softened) and here to see me come home. Now Im good for several dinners with wines charged up high, I expect, nor it aint nobody in this world, barrin just Lin McLean, that Ive any need to ask fer anything. Mr. McLean, says I to Lin, can yer spare iiie some cash? Why, to be sure, you bet! and well start off with steamed Duxbury clams. The cow- puncher slapped his pocket, where the coin niade a muffled chinking. Then lie said, gruffly, I suppose Swarnpscotts there yet? Yes, said Frank. Its a dead little town, is Swampscott. I guess Ill take a look at the old house to-morrow, Lin pursued. Oh, thats been pulled down since eighty I forget the year they im- proved that block. Lin regarded in silence his brother, who was speaking so jauntily of the first and last home they had ever had. Eighty - twos when it was con- tinued Frank. So you can save the trouble of travelling away down to Swampscott. I guess Ill go to the graveyard, any- way, said the cow-puncher in his offishi voice, and looking fixedly in front of him. They came into Washington Street, and again the elder McLean uneasily sur- veyed the youngers appearance. But the momentary chill had melted from the heart of the genial Lin. After to-morrow, said he, laying a hand on his brothers shoulder, yu can start any lead yu please, and I guess I can stay with yu pretty close, Frank. Frank said nothing. He saw one of the members of his club on the other side of the way, and the member saw him, and Frank caught diverted amazement on the members face. Lins hand weighed on his shoulder, and the stress became too great. Lin, said he, while youre running w4h our crowd, you dont want to wear that style of hat, you know. It may be that such words can in some way be spoken at such a time, but not in the way that these were said. The frozen fact was irrevocably revealed in the tone of Franks voice. The cow-puncher stopped dead short, and his hand slid off his brothers shoul- der. Youve made it plain, he said evenly, slanting his steady eyes down into Franks. Youve explained your- self mighty well. Run along with your crowd, and Ill not bother yu more with comm round and causin yu to feel ashamed. Its a heap better to under- stand these things at once, and save making a fool of yourself any longern yu need to. I guess there aint no more to be said, only one thing. If yu see me around on the street, dont yu try any talk, fer Id be liable to close yer jaw up, and maybe yud have more of a job ex- plainin that to yer crowd than youve had makin me see what kind of a man Ive got fer a brother. Frank found himself standing alone be- fore any reply to these sentences had oc- curred to him. He walked slowly to his HOW LIN MCLEAN WENT EAST. 145 club, where a friend joked him on his glumness. Lin made a sore failure at amusing himself that nigbt, and in the bright hot morning lie got into the train for Swampscott. At the graveyard he saw a woman lay a bunch of flowers on a mound, and after kneeling, pass out weeping to her- self. The thought came to him that nobody did that for the grave where he aimlessly loitered. All day he hung about the little town, looking at the houses and the water where he used to swim, loath to go away, yet only growing dull- er as the hours passed. Yu dont be- long any more, Lin, he said at length, and found his way back to Boston. The next morn- ing, determined to see the sights, he was in New York, and drifted about to all places, night and day, till his money was mostly gone, and hothing to show for it but a somewhat pleasure-beaten face, and a deep hatred of the crowded, scrambling East. So he suddenly bought a ticket for Rawlins, Wyoming, and escaped from the city that seemed to numb his good- humor. When, after three days, the Missouri lay behind him and his holiday, lie stretched his legs and took heart to see out of the window the signs of approach- ing desolation. And when, on the fourth day, civilization was utterly emptied out of the world, he saw a bunch of cattle, and galloping among them his spurred and booted kindredand his manner took on that alertness a horse shows on turn- YOUVE EXPLAINED YOURSELF MIGHTY WELL. ing into the home road. As the stage took him towards Wash-a-kie, old friends turned up every fifty miles or so, sham- bling out of a cabin or a stable, and say- ing, in casual tones, Hello,Lin,where re yu been at ? At Lander there got into the stage another old acquaintancethe Bishop of Wyoming. He knew Lin at once, and held out his hand, and his greeting was hearty. It took a week for my surplice to catch up with me, he said, laughing. Then, in a little while, How was the East l First rate, said Lin, not looking at him. He was shy of the conversations taking a moral turn. But the bishop had no intention of revertingat any rate i146 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. just nowto their last talk at Rawlins, and the advice he had then given. I trust your friends were all well ? he said. I guess they was healthy enough, said Lin. I suppose you found Boston much changed? Its a beautiful city. Good enough town for them that likes it, I expect, Lin replied. The bishop was forming a notion of what the matter must be, but he had no notion whatever of what now revealed itself. Mr. Bishop, the cow-puncher said, was that about that fellow you told about thats in the Bible somewheres? fellers come home to his folks, and they well there was his father saw him com- in He stopped, embarrassed. Then the bishop remembered the wide- open eyes, and how he had noticed them in the church at the Agency intently watching him. And, just now, what were best to say he did not know. He looked at the young man gravely. Have yu got a Bible ? pursued Lin. For, excuse me, but Id like yu to read that onced. So the bishop read, and Lin listened. And all the while this good clergyman was perplexed how to speakor if indeed to speak at this time at allto the heart of the man beside him for whom the parable had gone so sorely wrong. When the reading was done, Lin had not taken his eyes from the bishops face. How long has that there been wrote? he asked. He was told about how long. Mr. Bishop, said Lin, I aint got good knowledge of the Bible, and I never figured it to be a book much on to facts. And I tell you Im more plumb beat about its having that elder brother, and him being angry, down in black and white two thousand years ago, thanthan if Id seen a man turn water into wine, fer Id have knowed that aint so. But the elder brother is factsdead sure facts. And they knowed about that, and put it down just the same as life two thousand years ago 1 Well, said the bishop, wisely ignor- ing the challenge as to miracles, I am a good twenty years older than you, and all that time Ive been finding more facts in the Bible every day I lived. Lin meditated. I guess that could be, he said. Yes; after that yuve been a-readin, and what I know fer myself that I didnt know till lately, I guess that could be. Then the bishop talked with exceeding care, nor did lie ask uncomfortable things, or moralize visibly. Thus he came to hear how it had fared with Lin his friend, and Lin forgot altogether about its being a parson he was delivering the fulness of his heart to. And come to think, he concluded, it werent home I had went to back East, layin round them big cities where a man cant help but feel strange all the week. No, sir! yu can blow in a thousand dollars like I did in New York, and it 11 not give yu any more home feelin than what cattle has, put in a stock-yard. Nor it wouldnt have in Bos- ton neither. Now this country here (he waved his hand toward the endless sage- brush), seem it onced more,I know where my home is, and I wouldnt live nowheres else. Only I aint got no father watch- ing fer me to come up Wind River. The cow-puncher stated this merely as a fact, and without any note of self-pity. But the bishops face grew very tender, and he looked away from Lin. Know- ing his manfor had he not seen many of this kind in his desert diocese ?he forbore to make any text from that last sentence the cow - puncher had spoken. Lin talked cheerfully on about what he should now do. The round-up must be somewhere near Du Noir Creek. He would join it, and by-and-by take up some land and have a ranch of his own. As they got out at Fort Wash-a-kie, the bishop handed him a small book, in which he had turned several leaves down, carefully avoiding any page that related of miracles. You need not read it through, you know, he said, smiling; just read where I have marked, and see if you dont find some more facts. Good-by and always come and see me. The next morning he watched Lin rid- ing slowly out of the post towards Wind River, leading a single pack-horse. By- and-by the little moving dot went over the bridge. And as the bishop walked back into the parade-ground, thinking over the possibilities in that untrained manly soul, he shook his head sorrow- fully. PASTELS IN PTWSE. BY MARY E. WILKINS. IN THE MARSH-LAND. FAR over in the east is the marsh-land. Naught passes through it but the windthe wind bent on strange ends or a bird winged and swift, like a soul; but there are no souls in the marsh-land. No foot of man sounds the deep pools; no boat cleaves the thick grasses. The pools gleam red; the grass is coarse and thick as the hail of a goat; it is flung here and there in shaggy fleeces tinged with red, as if from slaughter. Over in the east the sun stands low; his red rays color the mist like wine. The flags threaten in the wind like spears, but no heroes wield them. There is no man in the marsh-land, in whose deep poois could be found death, whose thick grasses could moor a boat forever. It is a lonely place, and only my thought is there, striving to possess it all with wide vision. Over the marsh-land stray odors from border flowers, but there is no sense to harbor them. Over the marsh-land the sound-waves float, but there is no tongue to awaken them to speech and no ear to receive them. In the marsh-land is God, without the souls in which alone He shines unto His own vision; in the marsh-land is God, a light without His own darkness. The marsh-land is a lonely place; there is no man there. Only my thought is there, holding what it can encompass of God. CAMILLAS SNUFF-BOX. HERE is Camillas snuff-box. There were shouts in the street, and the torches flared. Camilla was borne along in her sedan - chair to the rout. Her delicate yellow face, as full of fine lines as a Chinese ivory carving, was seen through the window. She wore a velvet turban, and her head nodded ever as if in a wind. The bearers shouted; the torches flared; red flames flickered in rosy smoke. Ca- milla was borne along to the rout in her sedan-chair. Camilla opened her snuff-box; her slen- voL. LXXXVJ.No. 511.I 5 der fingers, pointed like ivory bodkins, stirred up the pungent snuff; her nostrils were as fine and fleshless as old ivory. Camillas time of love was past; she went to the rout with only painted roses in her cheeks, and she took a pinch of snuff. The bearers shouted; the night was full of dark winds, which bent the rad flames of the torches. Camillas snuff-box was of fine silver- work, and her name was on the lid. Her lover had given it to her; but her lover was long since dead, and the memory of his kisses no longer made her heart sweet. Camilla was old, and her time of love was past. She took a pinch of snuff from her silver snuff-box, as she went to the rout in her sedan-chair, with her palsied head nodding like a Chinese toy in a cabinet. The bearers shouted; but their shouts have long since died away. The night was full of dark winds; but tile winds went down. Long ago the torches burnt out. Long ago Camilla went no more to routs, her head ceased nodding, and her funeral procession went out of sight, in a black file, down the city street. Long ago Camillas grave was forgotten, and there was no love left for her on the earth. But here is her snuff-box. ShADOWS. THE black dog runs across the meadow, with his shadow at his side as fleet as lie. Let him speed as lie may, he cannot outspeed his shadow. There is light in the world. It is spring. The grass is young, and the west wind blows. The banks of the brook are yellow with cowslips. The grasses all lean east when the west wind blows, and their shadows overlie them. Now the cowslips darken under a shadow. There is light in the world. The apple-trees cast their blossoms in their dark circles of shadow. The birds fly singing overhead, and their silent shadows glide beneath them over the meadow. There is light in the world. Half the farm-house roof glistens in the morning sun, and half is purple with

Mary E. Wilkins Wilkins, Mary E. Pastels in Prose: In the Marsh-Land, Camilla's Snuff-Box, Shadows, Death 147-148

PASTELS IN PTWSE. BY MARY E. WILKINS. IN THE MARSH-LAND. FAR over in the east is the marsh-land. Naught passes through it but the windthe wind bent on strange ends or a bird winged and swift, like a soul; but there are no souls in the marsh-land. No foot of man sounds the deep pools; no boat cleaves the thick grasses. The pools gleam red; the grass is coarse and thick as the hail of a goat; it is flung here and there in shaggy fleeces tinged with red, as if from slaughter. Over in the east the sun stands low; his red rays color the mist like wine. The flags threaten in the wind like spears, but no heroes wield them. There is no man in the marsh-land, in whose deep poois could be found death, whose thick grasses could moor a boat forever. It is a lonely place, and only my thought is there, striving to possess it all with wide vision. Over the marsh-land stray odors from border flowers, but there is no sense to harbor them. Over the marsh-land the sound-waves float, but there is no tongue to awaken them to speech and no ear to receive them. In the marsh-land is God, without the souls in which alone He shines unto His own vision; in the marsh-land is God, a light without His own darkness. The marsh-land is a lonely place; there is no man there. Only my thought is there, holding what it can encompass of God. CAMILLAS SNUFF-BOX. HERE is Camillas snuff-box. There were shouts in the street, and the torches flared. Camilla was borne along in her sedan - chair to the rout. Her delicate yellow face, as full of fine lines as a Chinese ivory carving, was seen through the window. She wore a velvet turban, and her head nodded ever as if in a wind. The bearers shouted; the torches flared; red flames flickered in rosy smoke. Ca- milla was borne along to the rout in her sedan-chair. Camilla opened her snuff-box; her slen- voL. LXXXVJ.No. 511.I 5 der fingers, pointed like ivory bodkins, stirred up the pungent snuff; her nostrils were as fine and fleshless as old ivory. Camillas time of love was past; she went to the rout with only painted roses in her cheeks, and she took a pinch of snuff. The bearers shouted; the night was full of dark winds, which bent the rad flames of the torches. Camillas snuff-box was of fine silver- work, and her name was on the lid. Her lover had given it to her; but her lover was long since dead, and the memory of his kisses no longer made her heart sweet. Camilla was old, and her time of love was past. She took a pinch of snuff from her silver snuff-box, as she went to the rout in her sedan-chair, with her palsied head nodding like a Chinese toy in a cabinet. The bearers shouted; but their shouts have long since died away. The night was full of dark winds; but tile winds went down. Long ago the torches burnt out. Long ago Camilla went no more to routs, her head ceased nodding, and her funeral procession went out of sight, in a black file, down the city street. Long ago Camillas grave was forgotten, and there was no love left for her on the earth. But here is her snuff-box. ShADOWS. THE black dog runs across the meadow, with his shadow at his side as fleet as lie. Let him speed as lie may, he cannot outspeed his shadow. There is light in the world. It is spring. The grass is young, and the west wind blows. The banks of the brook are yellow with cowslips. The grasses all lean east when the west wind blows, and their shadows overlie them. Now the cowslips darken under a shadow. There is light in the world. The apple-trees cast their blossoms in their dark circles of shadow. The birds fly singing overhead, and their silent shadows glide beneath them over the meadow. There is light in the world. Half the farm-house roof glistens in the morning sun, and half is purple with 148 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. shadow. The shadow of the chimney smoke floats like a cloud over the mea- dow. There is light in the world. Anne stands in the doorway. Her yel- low hair and her blue gown gleam true in clear light, but she thinks of her lover, and shadows follow her thoughts. Oh, my lover has gone on a journey! Should he lose his way! Should thieves waylay him to harm him! Should his feet falter! Should evil befall him, my lover Anne stands in the doorway. Her yellow hair and her blue gown gleam true in clear light, but her thoughts cast shadows. There is love in her heart. DEATH. THERE is a little garden full of white flowers before this house, before this little house, which is sunken in a green hillock to the lintel of its door. The white flowers are full of honey; yellow butterflies aud bees suck at them. The unseen wind comes rushing like a pres- ence and a power which the heart feels only. The white flowers press together before it in a soft tumult, and shake out fragrance like censers; but the bees and the butterflies cling to them blowing. The crickets chirp in the green roof of the house unceasingly, like clocks which have told off the past, and will tell off the future. I pray you, friend, who dwells in this little house sunken in the green hillock, with the white flower-garden before the door? A dead man. Passes he ever out of his little dwelling and down the path between his white flower-bushes? He never passes out. There is no chimney in that grassy roof. How fares he when the white flowers are gone and the white storm drives? He feels it not. Had he happiness? His heart broke for it. Does his heart pain him in there? He has forgot. Comes ever anybody here to visit him. His widow comes in her black veil, and weeps here, and sometimes his old mother, wavering out in the sun like a black shadow. And he knows it not? He knows it not. He knows not of his little prison-house in the green hillock, of his white flower- garden, of the winter storm, of his broken heart, and his beloved who yet bear the pain of it, and send out their thoughts to watch with him in the wintry nights? He knows it not. Only the living know? Only the living. Then, then the tombs be not for the dead, but the living! I would, I would, I would that I were dead, that I might be free from the tomb, and sorrow, and death smell. Whoever drinks of this well will ) the northward of be healed of whatever malady he has, and Hispaniola lies the will seem always young. It is not re- island of Bimini. ported that women and men who drink It may not be one of this fountain will be always young, of the spice islands, but that they will seem so, and probably but it grows the to themselves, which simply means, in best ginger to be our modern accuracy of language, that found in the world, they will feel young. This island has. In it is a fair city, never been found. Many voyages have and beside the city been made in search of it in ships and in a lofty mountain,at the imagination, and Liars have said they~ the foot of which is have landed on it and drunk of the water, anoblespringcalled but they never could guide any one else the Eons Juvcntu- thither. In the credulous centuries when tis. This fountain has a sweet savor, as of these voyages were made, other islands. all manner of spicery, and every hour of were discovered, and a continent much the day the water changes its savor and its more important than Bimini; but thes&

Editor's Study Editor's Study 148-154

148 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. shadow. The shadow of the chimney smoke floats like a cloud over the mea- dow. There is light in the world. Anne stands in the doorway. Her yel- low hair and her blue gown gleam true in clear light, but she thinks of her lover, and shadows follow her thoughts. Oh, my lover has gone on a journey! Should he lose his way! Should thieves waylay him to harm him! Should his feet falter! Should evil befall him, my lover Anne stands in the doorway. Her yellow hair and her blue gown gleam true in clear light, but her thoughts cast shadows. There is love in her heart. DEATH. THERE is a little garden full of white flowers before this house, before this little house, which is sunken in a green hillock to the lintel of its door. The white flowers are full of honey; yellow butterflies aud bees suck at them. The unseen wind comes rushing like a pres- ence and a power which the heart feels only. The white flowers press together before it in a soft tumult, and shake out fragrance like censers; but the bees and the butterflies cling to them blowing. The crickets chirp in the green roof of the house unceasingly, like clocks which have told off the past, and will tell off the future. I pray you, friend, who dwells in this little house sunken in the green hillock, with the white flower-garden before the door? A dead man. Passes he ever out of his little dwelling and down the path between his white flower-bushes? He never passes out. There is no chimney in that grassy roof. How fares he when the white flowers are gone and the white storm drives? He feels it not. Had he happiness? His heart broke for it. Does his heart pain him in there? He has forgot. Comes ever anybody here to visit him. His widow comes in her black veil, and weeps here, and sometimes his old mother, wavering out in the sun like a black shadow. And he knows it not? He knows it not. He knows not of his little prison-house in the green hillock, of his white flower- garden, of the winter storm, of his broken heart, and his beloved who yet bear the pain of it, and send out their thoughts to watch with him in the wintry nights? He knows it not. Only the living know? Only the living. Then, then the tombs be not for the dead, but the living! I would, I would, I would that I were dead, that I might be free from the tomb, and sorrow, and death smell. Whoever drinks of this well will ) the northward of be healed of whatever malady he has, and Hispaniola lies the will seem always young. It is not re- island of Bimini. ported that women and men who drink It may not be one of this fountain will be always young, of the spice islands, but that they will seem so, and probably but it grows the to themselves, which simply means, in best ginger to be our modern accuracy of language, that found in the world, they will feel young. This island has. In it is a fair city, never been found. Many voyages have and beside the city been made in search of it in ships and in a lofty mountain,at the imagination, and Liars have said they~ the foot of which is have landed on it and drunk of the water, anoblespringcalled but they never could guide any one else the Eons Juvcntu- thither. In the credulous centuries when tis. This fountain has a sweet savor, as of these voyages were made, other islands. all manner of spicery, and every hour of were discovered, and a continent much the day the water changes its savor and its more important than Bimini; but thes& EDITORS STUDY. 149 has a scientific basis, and has no relation to the old absurd belief in Bimini. We thank goodness that we do not live in a credulous age. II. The world would be in a poor case in- deed if ithad not always before it some ideal or millennial condition, some panacea, some transmutation of base metals into gold, some philosophers stone, some foun- tain of youth, some process of turning discoveries were a disappointment, be- charcoal into diamonds, some scheme for cause they were not what the adven- eliminating evil. But it is worth men- turers wanted. They did not understand tioning that in the historical evolution that they had found a new land in which we have always got better things than the world should renew its youth and we sought or imagined, developments on begin a new career. In time the quest a much grander scale. History is strewn was given up, and men regarded it as one with the wreck of popular delusions, but of the delusions which came to an end in always in place of them have come reali- the sixteenth century. In our day no zations more astonishing than the wildest one has tried to reach Bimini except fancies of the dreamers. Florida was a Heine. Our scientific period has a proper disappointment as a Bimini, so were the contempt for all such superstitions. We land of the Ohio, the land of the Missis- now know that the Fons Juverttutis is in sippi, the Dorado of the Pacific coast. every man, and that if actual juvenility But as the illusions, pushed always west- cannot be renewed, the advance of age ward, vanished in the light of common can be arrested and the waste of tissues day, lo! a continent gradually emerged, be prevented, and an uncalculated length with millions of people animated by con- of earthly existence be secured, by the in- quering ambition of progress in freedom; jection of some sort of fluid into the sys- an industrial continent, covered with a tem. The right fluid has not yet been net-work of steel, heated by steam, and lighted by electricity. What a spectacle of youth on a grand scale is this! Chris- topher Columbus had not the slightest conception of what he was doing when he touched the button. But we are not sat- isfied. Quite as far from being so as ever. The popular imagination runs a hard race with any possible natural de- velopment. Being in possession of so much, we now expect to travel in the air, to read news in the sending mind before it is sent, to create force without cost, to be transported without time, and to make everybody equal in fortune and happiness to everybody else by act of Congress. Such confidence have we in the power of a resolution of the people and by the people that it seems feasible to make wo- men into men, oblivious of the more im- portant and imperative task that will then arise of making men into women. Some of these expectations are only Bimi- nis of the present, but when they have vanished there will be a social and in- discovered by science, but millions of peo- dustrial world quite beyond our present ple thought that it had the other day, and conceptions, no doubt. In the article of now confidently expect it. This credulity woman, for instance, she may not become 150 HAIRPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the being that the convention expects, but there may appear a Woman of whom all the Aspasias and Helens were only the faintest types. And although no progress will take the conceit out of men, there may appear a Man so amenable to ordinary reason that he will give np the notion that he can lift himself up by his boot-straps, or make one grain of wheat two by calling it two. III. NE of the Biminis that have always been looked for is an American Litera- ture. There was an impression that there must be such a thing somewhere on a continent that has everything else. We gave the world tobacco and the potato, perhaps the most important contri- butions to the content and the fatness of the world made by any new country, and it was a noble ambition to give it new styles of art and literature also. There seems to have been an impression that a literature was something indigenous or ready-made, like any other purely native product, not needing any special period of cultivation or development, and that a nation would be in a mortifying position without one, e en before it staked out its cities or built any roads. Captain John Smith, if he had ever settled here and spread himself over the continent, as he was capable of doing, might have taken the contract to furnish one, and we may be sure that he would have left us nothing to desire in that direction. But the vein of romance he open- ed was not followed np. Other prospectings were made. Holes, so to speak, were dug in New Eng- land, and in the middle South, and along the fron- tier, and such leads were found that again and again the certainty arose that at last the real Amer- ican ore had been discov- ered. Meantime a cer- tain process called civil- ization went on, and cer tam ideas of breadth entered into our conceptions, and ideas also of the histor- ical development of the expression of thought in the world, and with these a comprehension of what America really is and the difficulty of putting the con- tents of a bushel measure into a pint cup. So, while we have beea expecting the American Literature to come out from some locality, neat and clean, like a nugget, or, to change the figure, to bloom any day like a century-plant, in one striking, fragrant expression of American life, behold something else has been pre- paring and maturing, larger and more promising than our early anticipations. In history, in biography, in science, in the essay, in the novel and story, there are coming forth a hundred expressions of the hundred aspects of American life; and they are also sung by the poets in notes as varied as the migrating birds. The birds perhaps have the best of it thus far, but the bird is limited to a small range of performances while he shifts his singing-boughs through the climates of the continent, whereas the poet, though a little inclined to mistake aspiration for inspiration, and va~,ueness of lon~in~,, for subtlety, is experimenting in a most hopeful manner. And all these writers, while perhaps not consciously American or consciously seeking to do more than their best in their several ways, are am- mated by the free spirit of inquiry and expression that belongs to an independent nation, and so our literature is coming to have a stamp of its own that is unlike any other national stamp. And it will EDITORS STUDY. 151 have this stamp more authentically and from the Roman Saturn alia. There was be clearer and stronger as we drop the no harm in this. It showed the power self-consciousness of the necessity of of the beloved holiday to adapt all that being American. was sweet and picturesque to its own uses. But, all the same, the dullest reader IV. has at last got it into his head, together In these holidays the reader is un- with the customs of Christmas-time of pressed by the quantity of Christmas every nation under heaven, and he be- literature. A good deal of it is merely gins to think that the kind editor who decorative, and brought out annually like annually reproduces the old properties the well - used hangings, wreaths, and might take something for granted. The evergreen mottoes. It is taken down mass of this decorative reading has be- after New -Years and stored away for come enormous, and also ineffective, so next seasons use. The amount of it is that the wish is expressed that the lumber amazing. It was fresh once and signif- might be cleared away and a fresh start icant, until the newspapers year after made. If the entire contents of the year were padded with it, and it began Christmas numbers of various journals to have the familiar aspect of ball decora- and periodicals in one year could be tions and church trimmings. Somehow gathered into volumes and indexed, and literature does not bear repetition like deposited in public libraries to stay, there variegated lanterns and flags and flowery would be experienced a public relief, and wreaths. As a matter of experience though the maiden may not tire of the hanging mistletoe and its sweetly feared chances, she loses her interest in the same fable about it thrust under her eyes year after year. The ecclesiastical revival of mediievalism was both pious and pictu- resque, and the descriptions of Christmas and New-Years games and ceremonies it brought with it were eagerly read a dozen or twenty times, but they finally palled on the reader. There was a limit to the excitement of hauling in the Yule-log a piece of timber not recognized in the Westand burning one side of it, and cartiiig it away for the next year. As a rule, there is nothing that republicans like better to read about than castles and moats and mediieval merrymakings, and boars heads on trenchers, and waits singing under balconies on snowy morn- ings. There was a fine flavor about all this that seemed to enliven a provincial Christmas to a high point of jollity. But to have these descriptions, with profuse il- lustrations, laid upon ones breakfast table every Christmas morning, even when va- ried with a little modern slang, has be- come wearisome even to those most dis- posed towards a medireval life. To be sure, the interest was a little revived when the scribes began to trace the ori- gins of so many of the Christmas festivi- the material would be just as safe as it is ties to pagan sources, to show that the now, subject as it is to typographical green, laden, and lighted tree did not errors in its constant reproduction, and come out of Jordan, but from the ante- be available to students. Christmas has Christian German forests, and many of now got such an impetus in the world the diverting mummeries and processions that it would probably go on all the more 152 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. blithely after it had cast off this gradual- ly accumulated burden. But there is another class of Christmas literature which could not be so disposed of, the future of which it is not so easy to predict. It is that which relates the day to humanity at large, and not seldom strikes the false note of sentimentality. Perhaps the spirit of the day cannot be diffused in a callous world without that exaggeration of pathos which goes beyond unmanufactured sentiment. The world is not always touched to finest issues by the finest conceptions, and something is to be said for the writer who makes you cry, and pulls a dollar for the poor out of your stingy pocket, even though his meth- ods will not bear the scrutiny of the critic; and when you read his tale over again after you have lost your dollar (which you are benefited by giving), you discover that the story was somewhat pinchbeck. There is no doubt that the pathetic Christmas story, whatever its literary faults, has played an important part in encouraging charity and softening the feelings of the world toward the poor and the ~u nfortu- nate in the holiday season. The cases of misery ~nd last-crust despair; of the most angelic small children crushed by parent- al vice and cruelty; of sinful old cur- mudgeons whose weak eyes exuded spir- ituous liquor; of rasping, unforgiving, martinet step-mothers ; of belated hus- bands accustomed to come home stag~er- ing, for whom a light was always kept burning in the window; of long-alienated brothers; of misers who lived in garrets, with bags of dollars hidden under the dirty coverlets of beds on the floor; of hard-hearted rich uncles who never tipped anybody, and even swore at their fright- ened little nieces ; of virtuous families who sat tearful and uncomplaining by a fireless hearth (or in America by an empty cook-stove) on Christmas eve, with no food in the house and no prospect of anywith all these and hundreds of similar cases the sympathizin~, public is familiar. They are all real and true. But the strange part of it is, in the stories, that always between curfew and dawn of this favored day some- thing almost miraculous happens. Some- times it is the arrival of a hamper of pro- visions and a check (there is usually no- thing mean about the author of the story, who may never have drawn a real check in his life), and an offer of employment to the head of the house; or the sweet children who are in tears because they have no clothes to wear to Sunday-school melt the hearts of their cruel parents; or the old curmudgeon begins to drink wa- ter; or the step-mother, on a Christmas impulse, clasps the children to her heart as her very own; or the belated husband comes earlier than usual, uproariously jolly, but perfectly sober, having stopped on his way at the Home Endeavor and bought a heaping basket of good things, with toys for the children, and a dress pattern for the wife, who is almost broken- hearted for joy; or the rich uncle, having despatched gifts to all his near kin, goes to bed and sleeps as he has not slept for years; or the bell rings, and a letter is brought in by the postman, who slaps his frosted fingers before he can open his poucha letter with a large remittance from a renegade brother who was lost years before in a shipwreck on Samoa; or the miser, touched by the visit of a lit- tle girl soliciting money for orphans, gives her two gold pieces, and then puts on his best clothes, which have been long folded in a chest, and goes out to a restaurant and orders the best din- ner ofwell, the dinner is described; or the alienated brothers meet, are allbroken up by the Chrismas spirit, shake hands, em- brace (if not in America), drink a bottle of old wine together, and call each other Bob and Sam, which they have not done since they were little boys together on the old hill farm. Always in these stories, not later than the midnight stroke of twelve usually, the oppor- tune an gel appears, tears of joy begin to flow, misery flies away, and hatred melts into love. Or the abounding spirit takes another form of manifestationthat of jollity, of exuberant self-satisfaction, EDITORS STUDY. 153 of whimsical marionnette behavior, in which humble misery is turned into a source of merriment, the candles are stuck into bottles, the negus is drunk out of a tin dip- per, the fiddle is played for jigs, and in the light of the universal spirit poverty and unloveliness van- ish as if they had been only shad- ows. These are beau- tiful stories, even with their impos- sible characters and improbable conversions. Is there any harm in them? Do they not aid in diffusing the feeling of brotherhood, of a common hu- manity? Do they not stimulate charity, and arouse the interest of the prosper- ous in the condition of the unfortunate? Doubtless, for it is a queer world, and needs to have its sluices of pity opened by a spade. But why not write the story of the day after Cbristmas, and the day after that, and see what becomes of our charac- ters and our situations when the miracu- lous interpositions are over, and affairs have settled into the old ruts? Or sup- pose there were story reports of misery and poverty not relieved, of alienations not ended, of hard hearts that did not soften? Would these be any the less true? Is it any good, in the long-run, to represent the Christmas spirit as a little maudlin? And suppose again that this optimistic and jovial literature has had an excellent effect in emphasizing Christmas, and in melting the world for twenty-four hours in the year into compassion, has it not become a trifle stale, and lost its moving power, just as the preposterous goodness of infants in the Sunday-school books has become a source of mirth to the unsym- pathizing? The most emotional preacher may play upon the harp of a thousand strings~ once too many times. Looking at this subject on its literary instead of its ethical side, and seeing the vast vol- ume of this sort of writing, does not the thought come that for its own sake there is also a necessity for truth in literature? The invented story, the work of pure im agination, is governed by the same law of verity as the report of an actual occur- rence. It must not give a false view of life. The writer himself becomes demor- alized, and wanders off into ways of sen- timentality, and falls into sloughs of pathos, if his intellectual veracity loses its nerve. As soon as it is perceived that he is manufacturing pathos, that his sym- pathy is maudlin, and his situations and his characters theatrical, his power over the reader is gone. And the pessimist who thinks it his duty to represent only the worst in life goes as much astray in this matter as the optimist who excludes from his picture everything but the best. The test of the truth of this is that the great mass of Christian literature is no longer believed; it has lost its hold upon the minds of the majority of readers, whose sympathies are no longer stirred to good deeds by the tales, and who only smile when they come to the Christmas tag on the end of the story. This is partly because the vein once so popular, when it was fresh, has been so long worked that the effect now is only mo- notony; even the children who have so long been delighted to see the bears come out of the woods and eat up the wicked children, would now like a change, and either see the bears eat up some good children, or the children eat up the bears; and partly because a generation enlight- ened on social problems demands a more robust treatment of the subject. Perhaps a more vigorous, a less sentimental holi- day fiction would make more active and purposeful the sweet spirit of the day in good-will and charity. V. It is the tendency of all humanitarian- ism to run to excess, to degenerate into want of moral fibre, to lose its virtue in a nerveless sentimentality. One is remind- ed of a sacred picture by an artist of the impressionist school which a witty woman of Hartford was obliged to characterize as a Unitarian Madonna! But it is to be noted that while the merely humanitari- an literature of Christmas grows flabby, the Good Tidings side of it. the angelic message, preserves its clear and inspiring note. That can still be said and sung, and touch hearts and open purses. It is still the proclamation of an unselfish brotherhood. The Star in the Heavens does not grow dim. di - ~ Ii~ IQ /7/) ii It THE DANCING MAN OF THE PERIODDrawn by GEORGE flU MAURIER. Been dancin at all ? Dancin? Not I! Catch me dancin in a house where there aint a smokin~room! Im off, directly r I ~~~2

George Du Maurier Du Maurier, George The Dancing Man of the Period 154-155

di - ~ Ii~ IQ /7/) ii It THE DANCING MAN OF THE PERIODDrawn by GEORGE flU MAURIER. Been dancin at all ? Dancin? Not I! Catch me dancin in a house where there aint a smokin~room! Im off, directly r I ~~~2 CHARLIE WHITTLERS CHRISTMAS PARTY. I MET them just after I came to town to English sparrows which built in the eaves. practise law. They were en~aoed in what He must have detected me looking at his they termed journalism. Philologically the unusually shabby appearance, his old patent- name was appropriate, for they lived literally leather pumps, once the pride of his college from day to day. They could have secured days, now worn into holes, his threadbare coat, positions which would have uiaintaiued them and his faded hat; for he said, suddenly, at least henry could, for he was a man of My dear hoy, I will give you a hint in parts, and has made his mark since in another domestic economy: always wear your shabbi- profession but what did they want with est clothes the day before a ball; they will positions? They were journalists, and were make your others look new next day. bound to be famous or die. I suppose that When I arrived, the following evening,J dis- together they made sixty dollars a month oheyed Charlies injunction. I did not ring, some monthsand spent a hundred, or as for a good reason. The bell had long since much more as they could, disappeared, carried off, Charlie declared later, When we make ten dollars we live on it, by Henry in a wild attempt to rival Samson said Henry. one Saturday night when Mrs. McDnffy had When we make fifty dollars we give a locked the door on hini. ball, said Charlie. I was trying to arouse Mrs. MeDuffy, said But they were richtwo of the richest men Henry. I ever knew. Certainly Charlie was. He al- You aroused her, said Charlie. ~ If it ready owned one of the great newspapers, had not been for my presence of mind, she which he was going to make eclipse the Thun- would have turned us out into the street. derer. He only had not got possession of it If it had not been for your presence of yet. They lived in a brownstone palace; the body, I would have turned her out, said little back third-story room at Mrs. MciDaffys Henry. was only temporary quarters which they occa- Charlie shook his head mournfully. pied for convenience. It was there that they You have no idea what a time I have keep- invited me the day before Christmas, to open lug the peace, he said. I have told Mrs. the festivities with eggnog and a little supper. MeDuffy lies enough on his account to take a Dont ring or knock; jnst walk right up to thousand years of purgatory. the third floor, said Charlie. We have our And enough on your own account to take apartments in the third story for the light and two thousand, said Henry. air. Nothing like pure air for pure reasoning, But I am anticipating. This was told me and clear light for clearness of expression. after I got up to the apartments. When I ar- He went off talking about the beauties of rived at the house, not liking the look of the nature to be studied from his windows, by dark passage and narrow stairs shown by the which he must have meant the sky, and the little smoky lamp, I knockedknocked not

Editor's Drawer Editor's Drawer 155-164

CHARLIE WHITTLERS CHRISTMAS PARTY. I MET them just after I came to town to English sparrows which built in the eaves. practise law. They were en~aoed in what He must have detected me looking at his they termed journalism. Philologically the unusually shabby appearance, his old patent- name was appropriate, for they lived literally leather pumps, once the pride of his college from day to day. They could have secured days, now worn into holes, his threadbare coat, positions which would have uiaintaiued them and his faded hat; for he said, suddenly, at least henry could, for he was a man of My dear hoy, I will give you a hint in parts, and has made his mark since in another domestic economy: always wear your shabbi- profession but what did they want with est clothes the day before a ball; they will positions? They were journalists, and were make your others look new next day. bound to be famous or die. I suppose that When I arrived, the following evening,J dis- together they made sixty dollars a month oheyed Charlies injunction. I did not ring, some monthsand spent a hundred, or as for a good reason. The bell had long since much more as they could, disappeared, carried off, Charlie declared later, When we make ten dollars we live on it, by Henry in a wild attempt to rival Samson said Henry. one Saturday night when Mrs. McDnffy had When we make fifty dollars we give a locked the door on hini. ball, said Charlie. I was trying to arouse Mrs. MeDuffy, said But they were richtwo of the richest men Henry. I ever knew. Certainly Charlie was. He al- You aroused her, said Charlie. ~ If it ready owned one of the great newspapers, had not been for my presence of mind, she which he was going to make eclipse the Thun- would have turned us out into the street. derer. He only had not got possession of it If it had not been for your presence of yet. They lived in a brownstone palace; the body, I would have turned her out, said little back third-story room at Mrs. MciDaffys Henry. was only temporary quarters which they occa- Charlie shook his head mournfully. pied for convenience. It was there that they You have no idea what a time I have keep- invited me the day before Christmas, to open lug the peace, he said. I have told Mrs. the festivities with eggnog and a little supper. MeDuffy lies enough on his account to take a Dont ring or knock; jnst walk right up to thousand years of purgatory. the third floor, said Charlie. We have our And enough on your own account to take apartments in the third story for the light and two thousand, said Henry. air. Nothing like pure air for pure reasoning, But I am anticipating. This was told me and clear light for clearness of expression. after I got up to the apartments. When I ar- He went off talking about the beauties of rived at the house, not liking the look of the nature to be studied from his windows, by dark passage and narrow stairs shown by the which he must have meant the sky, and the little smoky lamp, I knockedknocked not 156 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. once, but twenty times, without the slight- est result. The twenty-first time, however, was a thunderer. It created a stir somewhere below, for from the basement I heard a voice which told that Mrs. MeDuffy was aroused. An who is that thryin to break the door down now ? she shouted as she climbed the stairs. I prepared for the worst; but it was worse even than I expected. She was a stout and grizzled Irish woman, whose absent eye was said to have been lost in a conflict with the lamented MeDuffy, who had, however, come off from the m~l~e worse than his spouse, as he had disappeared and had never been heard from agaiu, a fact which gave Henrys designation of him as the departed a pecul- iarly appropriate significance. An is it breakin the door down intoirly yere afther ? she asked as she advanced, war in her voice and in her garments. She was evidently just out of the kitchen, as I discov- ered with more senses than that which noted the yellow cake dough on her brawny arms. My civil answer mollified her somewhat; but on my askin~ if my friends lived there, she burst out again Live here,is it? Yi s, an that they do, an Bridget McDuffy is the wan as knas it, too! An lives on the fat of the lan, they do; an gits it out of may, they do, too; may a poor widdow, or as good as wan, an not a tin-cint pace o their money has I sane for three months; an they pramisin to pay me every wake, an a-drinkin an a-guzzlin them- selves upstairs as full as St. Patliricks well, an borryin all o me best glasses an spoons, an niver the manners to say waust to may, Mrs. MeDuffy, will ye walk in an wet ye whistle? This and mach more, till I reached the third floor, where I announced myself by falling up three steps. I found Charlie in his shirt sleeves, and with the seat of his breeches rather out, but with a shiny new beaver on the back of his head, presiding over a lar~e bowl of egg- nog made in the wash-basin, whilst Henry was preparing something over a not very lar~e fire. One or two other fellows were already assembled, and, in default of chairs, were lying on the bed, and were being entertained by reminiscences of Mrs. MeDuffy, evidently called forth by the sound of her voice below. So Cerberus cau0ht you ? said Henry as I entered. By Jove! when I heard you tumble, I thought she was flinging you down the steps. Why, Henry ! said Charlie, reproachfully. Then to us. She really has a beautiful tem- per. She is a little ruffled this evening, owing to the way Henry approached her on a small domestic matter. He stirred in the whiskey. Approached her ! said Henry. If you had bought the things instead of buying that beaver to put on your empty head, I should not have had to go to her. What do you fel- lows think of my giving him the money to get up the ball, and his spending it all in a beaver hat and silk handkerchiefs ! Charlie protested that a beaver hat and silk handkerchiefs were the first necessity for a gentleman who was going to give a supper to an Irish lord on Christmas eve. Besides, didnt I get the eggs and whiskey? he asked. Yes; but wheres the supper? asked Henry. I bet you this hat against your best pair of breeches I get it yet, said Charlie. Done, said Henry. I will wear that hat to church to-morrow. I told her we were going to have an Irish lord to sup with us, said Charlie, and I would have got everything all right if Henry had not spoilt it. Lord McCarthy, of Castle McCarthy, County Kerry, Irelandwasnt that the name I gave ? He addressed Henry. Mrs. McI)uffy came from County Kerry; but rather young. Some years ago, I may observe. Well, you had better go and get some coal from her; for this fire is going out, I may ob- serve, said Henry, straightening up. Where are the slats ? asked Charlie. Arent there still four left ? Yes; but there are no more slats to spare. The bed feels like a gridiron now. Better men than you have (lied on a grid- iron, said Charlie. What a sybarite you are ! He stirred in more whiskey. Why not sleep on the floor? That is the natural place to sleep, anyhow. No, Ill be hanged if I do, said Henry. And I suppose we could not spare another chair ? He gazed over at Henry doubtfully; but Henry shook his head positively. Why, then you must go dowim stairs and get it, he said, cheerfully. Down stairs! Where? We havent any coal down-stairs. We have not! Why, of course we have! Do you suppose we are going to let an old Irish woman sleep with her coal - cellar literally bulging with coal whilst we have no fire ? entertaining a real live Irish lord too! Suppose we borrow some froum Pestler, suggested Henry. Pestler was the little apoth- ecary next door. But Charlie was shocked. Borrow of a demned petty tradesman, and the night before Christmas, too ! he exclaimed. Where is your pride? Besides, I borrowed some from hium last week. Go down and get some coal. I3ut Henry was obdurate. He told him to go and get it himself; which Charlie proceed- ed to do. What are you going to bring it up in ? asked Henry. Wimy, this, said Charlie, stripping the pil- low-case from the only pillow left with that article on it. He disappeared down the stairs, and a little later we heard a smash as of a door breaking, and a minute afterwards we heard him coming hastily back up the steps, evident- ly with a burden on his l)ack. Suddenly there was another sound: the voice of Mrs. McDuffy broke on the air. An where is he? the thievin, burglin vil- lain! Let me get at him. Ill fix him. Break- EDITORS DRAWER. 157 in down me house an robbin me under me very eyes ! She caine stamping up the stairs. Charlie quickened his steps, but she was evi- dently gaining on him. Suddenly there was the most tremendous crash. The pillow-case parted in the middle, and the whole load rolled down the steps, nearly carrying Mrs. McDnffy with it. Charlie hounded into the room with a single lump in his hand, and with the upper half of the slip, which he had saved. Dont lock the door, Henry; Mrs. McDnffy will be up directly to call on ns, he said, his face glowing with excitement. Mrs. McDuffy was indeed already there. The next instant she nearly knocked the door from its hinges. She evidently believed it locked. Charlie flung it wide open, and stood full iii it. Why, is that you, Mrs. McDnffy l he asked, in a tone of pleased surprise, holding out his yet grimy hand. Yis, and yis, and yis, it is Mrs. McDuffy, and if ye dont kna her, I mane to make ye kna her, panted the enraged landlady,her fists clinched and her arms akimbo. She paused for breath. It was Charlies opportunity. Know you! Why, of course I know you, Mrs. McDuffy, said he, in the blandest of tones. I have got a drop of the Irish in me meself (which was true if he was talking about whiskey). Me mither was Irish, ye kna (dropping into the brogue). 11cr farther was a Doherty, from County Kerry, and I never for- gets the pretty Irish face wanst I says it. I was thinkin of coomin down to ask ye if ye would not faiver us by coomin up an joinin us. Sure I was just sayin to me friend here, if ye want to say the prettiest Irish woman this side of the say, its down-stairs she is, says I, an maybe we kin git her to come up, says I. An Ill joust stale down, says I, an break into her coal-box, says I, an fling a pace or two down the steps, says I, an that will fetch her up, says I, to say what the divil is the mather av it, says I, and ye kin say how pretty she is yourself, says I. Mrs. McDuffy took down her arms, and told him to git away wid his Irish blarney not that wanst she had not had her looks as well as the best of them before so much throuble caine upon her. Throuble, is it? An throuble indade you have had, Mrs. McDnffy, sai(l Charlie; but it hasnt touched yer looks. Sure its your own darther folks takes you for anytime. Why, my friend here was just sayin to me: Who is that likely Irish leddy that let me in the door down-stairs? An is she a girl or is she mar- ned? says he. An if shes u)arried,is she a widow? says he. And I says to him: If she was a widow, do ye think shed be so long, says I, an me in the house too? says I. But coom in. Id like to inthroduce ye to me friend Lord McCarthy, av Castle McCarthy, County Kerry, Ireland. Ye knows all about the Mc- Carthys, I knows, Mrs. MeDuffy. You was a Doherty; and Toim was, says my mither to me wanst toim was, Charlie, me boy, when the Dohertys could muster five hundred shila- leys in Kerry. This was too much for Mrs. MeDnify. She came in smiling and blushing; and an hour later, at a table which she had spread with her own hands, and loaded from her own kitchen, her health was proposed by Henry, and was drunk vociferously by all; and Charlie, dress- ed in his new beaver lint and Henrys best breeches, responded in the best Irish speech I ever heard. THOMAS NELSON PAGE. AFTER THE DINNERDRAWN un W. H. HYDE. I tell you, Jay, Christmas isnt what it used to he. I cant get out of it now for less than $250. Right you are, my boy. Absence used to make the heart grow fonder, but its presents does the business now. 158 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. CHRISTMAS AT ZENITH CITY. EXTENSIVE preparations for the appropri- ate observation of the glad holiday-time had been in progress for several days, and when upon Christmas eve the beanty and chivalry of Zenith City assembled in the Methodist Church, it was to face a long and entertaining programme. The invocation by the Rev. Mr. Harps was followed by a song by the glee club. Other nnmbers consisted of recitations by the chil- dren, an accordion solo by Jack Howcome, asoi)g, familiarly known as One-eyed Riley, by Judge Begad, an excellent imitation of the howling of a pack of coyotes, by Dr. Slade, a ghost-dance by Alkali Ike, a reading by Miss Lillie Begad, a song, The Man who Slept with his Boots On, by Cnrly Corkright, and a real- istic portrayal of his skill in getting the drop on a fellow-man, by Hank Bitters, formerly of Texas. A unique and unannounced number on the programme was an address by a total stranger, who desired to establish in onr midst a new order which he called a Coterie of Content. He was clad in an eye-sorea robe of bed- ticking which flowed down his person like a cataractlarge lambent hands trimmed with fingers, and a mouth which, strictly speaking, resemhled the place whence an every-day mouth had dropped out. At the request of himself he mounted the rostrum, an d began his address, interspersing his remarks with appropriate gestures which he extracted froni the pockets of his robe, and waved in the air from time to time with an almost electrical effect. Briefly, he entertained an elaboration of the venerable theory that man, no matter what he himself may think abont it, really wants hut little here below, nor wants that little long. The less a man has the less he wants, contended the stranger, and the less lie wants the less lie really iieeds; and so on to a coi- siderahle length. Where he would have de- honched eventually I do not know, for pres- ently Alkali Ike arose and demanded in the name of the Reform Committee that the speak- er turn oft his breath instead of blowing it ont. This yere theory, said Isaac, in the course of his remarks, is pizonons, for, if persisted in to the hitter end, it wonld find this yere in- telligent community wearin tails, and rnnnin wild with the cattle. We are assembled yere to celebrate Christmas eve and not to listen to the voice of a ghost of the late lamented Grange Party. The speaker will oblige the community by giving an exhihition of a gen- tleman trying to beat the mile record walkin. The stranger promptly thrnst himself into outer darkness, and the distribution of pres- ents followed, under the auspices of Judge Begad, who impersonated Santa Clans. Many of the presents were costly and ap- propriate. The Rev. Mr. Harps received a magnificent silver-plated pearl-handled re- volver and fonrteen pairs of slippers and moc- casins from his congregation. Mrs. Hank Bit- ters presented her husband with a huckskin bag containing eight hundred assorted collar- buttons. The gift of Miss Ducky Bircher, the alto of the glee club, to Mr. Huggins, the tenor, was a lovely corn-popper tastefully decorated with blue ribbon. The gentleman took the hint, and proposed upon the following evening. The city marshal received a quart bottle of Jockey Club. Deacon Trask was presented with a useful and unique gift in the form of a long-handled contribution-box, with a der- ringer monnted on it in such a manner that it could be discharged by a slight pressure of the collectors finger. The whole was the joint invention of Alkali Ike and Hank Bitters, who in days agone had had considerable experience along various Arizona stage lines. There were other gifts the nature of which I do not now recall. I received my present last of all. There was a hush of expectancy as, in response to the invitation of Judge Begad, I stepped upon the rostrum to pluck my gift from the tree with my own hands. During the evening I had earnestly regarded a large gunny-bag which depended from a sturdy limb nearly at the back of the tree, with its bottom resting on the floor, and which some one had whisper- ed contained my present. The bag was about six feet long and seemed to be well filled, and in my innocence I peopled its interior with a new suit of store clothes, an overcoat and hat, and perhaps a trunk to keep them in on week- days, telling myself that at last my sturdy editorial warfare for the good of the town had won appreciation. With lialipy heart and beaming smile I ad- vanced and l)ulled the end of the bow-knot which bound the bag to the hon oh.. Th ebag took a step or two and turned around, and the other side where it had been held together by hasting-thread popped open, and Mrs. MeKor- kendale, a plain woman who had already buried seven husbands, stepped out and em- braced me with a cooing gurgle. The audience shouted with glee. The Rev. Mr. Harps raised his hands as if in benedic- tion. And I Well, I went away as grace- fully as I could rid the back window, heaving my coat in the arms of the lady. I recalled how Mrs. MeKorkendale had previously shot one gentleman distressingly in the leg, and broken the back of another, both of whom-had scorne(l her love, and in the gray of the Christ- mas morn I rode swiftly away in the direction of Lake Titicaca, and was not heard of for three weeks. At the end of that time I returned to find Mrs. MeKorkendale engaged to a new-coiner, and my newspaper, under the reign of the foreman, energetically advocating the cause of the Greenback party, with which I had long been at war. TOM P. MORGAN. A WISE YOUNG WOMAN. ESTELLE. I am going shopping for Christmas presents to-morrow. Pont you want to go too? MABIL. No. [cant say I do. Fact is, Ive made all my purchases. Did it before the holiday rush began. ESTELLE. When did you go I MABEL. About the middle of last January. A GUESSING MATCH. WHEW! Did you ever see such gorgeous- ness! Alice has certainly outdone herself this time, soliloquized .Jack Ford as he opened the parcel and carefully drew from its tissue- paper wrappil)gs the elaliorately embroidered Christmas gift. I dont go much on fancy-work, but this is a hummer and no mistake, continued Jack, as he held the silken trifle at arms-length and examined it critically. Dear little girl; she made that herself, too; every hit of it. Isnt she a darling! Theres more work on that than on one of my halance sheets. Its a beau- tiful thing; but and Jacks jaw dropped three inches. What the deuce is it, any- way? H-u-in; that wont do. I must find out before I write and thank her for it. It would never do to have her think that I didnt recog- nize what it was intended for at once. Oh, mother! Oh, girls! Come in here a moment; I want to sho~v you something! he called loudly. Mrs. Ford was the first to enter the room in response to her son~ call for assistance, hut the other members of the family quickly fol- lowed her, and formed a group around the table where the present was displayed in all its rainbo~v splendor. What do you think of that? asked Jack, proudly. Its very pretty. That stuff must have costI-------dontkno w Ii ow- much a yard. Its one of the most exquisite mouchoir-cases I ever saw, said Mrs. Ford, admiringly. A nn)uchoir-case? Isnt it a little too large for that ? inquired he, dubiously. Of course it is. Its to hold your slippers, cried Lily, the eldest sister, in a tone of entire conviction. Jack frowned. Such a use seemed like desecration. No, it isnt. I guess its to put neckties in, hazarded another expert. Yes; or gloves, or writing-paper, oror photographs, suggested the Baby, who was always hound to have her say. Oh, well; hut which ? cried Jack in de- spair. Oh, never mmd ; its perfectly sweet, any- way. What difference does it make l respond- ed the feminine chorus. But I want to know what its for ! Ask Alice. Id like to see myself. Do you mean to say you cant tell me N-o, admitted the girls. We hare told you what we think it is. Oh, I could guess, myself! cried Jack, scornfully. Perhaps its to hold pipes or cigars. Maybe its a dress-shirt shield. How would it do for souvenir spoons or hair- brushes? Might be for collars and cuffs, eli? Couldnt use it for a chair cushion or a sofa pillow, could I? Must lie a dictionary cover, or a wall-pocket, dont you thimik ? Sure it isnt a niatch-safe in disguise? Oh, you girls dont seeni to have a reasonable idea anuong you! Never mninil; run along now. Go and talk about whos engaged and who isnt. Ill figure this out niyself. Hang it all! what good are sisters to a fellow anyway ! HARRY ROMAINE. 160 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. A NEW SCHEME. I REPRESENT the Ne Plus Ultra Christmas Present Insurance Company, said the brisk young agent as he stepped into Mr. Gazzams office and attracted that gentlemans attention. What on earth is that ? asked Gazzani. I never heard of such a thing before. I suppose not, sir, for the company is one of very recent organization. It comes~ how- ever, to fill a long-felt want. What is its object? Does a policy in yonr company guarantee its holder a Christmas present ~ No, sir; that is not it. Ill explain. You have, no doubt~ received Christmas presents from your wife. Yes. Your wife has credit at the various stores in the city, and consequently the presents she buys are likely to be charged, instead of paid for at the time of purchase. Well? It frequently happens that a husband, under these circumstances, has to pay for his own present when the quarterly bills come in. Of course he doesnt always have to do so, and it is this uncertainty which makes a policy in our company valuable. We will engage, sir, to pay for the presents your wife buys for you, if she neglects to do so. With a policy issued by us in your pocket, you can enjoy anything your wife gives you on Christmas, serene in the thought that in any event you will not have to pay for it. Shall I quote you pre- miums ? Not now. Ill think over it. Call again. Wia. H. Sivrrzu. CHRISTMAS AT THE PETERS FARM. - Hzazs merry Christmas come again, ud all my childrens home: Sams in from New York city, nd Corneels come down from Rome; Amanda and her young uns, and my darter Susans boys, Arrived last night at ten oclock with trunks nd bags, nd noise Enough to last the hull year through, nd plenty more to spare. But whats the odds? Noise aint the worst of ills we have to bear. I had a gift for every one this mornin on the tree Nd what I gave em was the sort as used to come to me Long years ago, when pa an ma was managin the place. Bnt, Lord! they didnt please the kids thats jndgin by their face. Id apples an hard cider till you couldnt hardly rest, And all the presents that I gave was of the very best. I got em at the village store for fifty cents in cash, Nd fifteen pecks o winter wheat, a keg o sour mash, Two loads o hay, some butter, and a promise of some eggs The cost was pretty heavy for a man with shaky legs. But as I thought it over, why, I didnt really mind, As long as theyd be happy nd be pleased with what theyd find; Which I dont think my grandsons was, because their city ways Has played old hob with Christmas as twas had in my youn~ days. Amandas boy, Ulysses, when he got his worsted mitts, Looked madder than a hatter in his very mad. dest fits; Nd when my grandchild Bobbie got a handsome rubber ball That whistled when you squeezed it, he began to kick and squall. Same way with Sams small family, includin of his wife I never seen a woman so upset in all my life When what I had for her came ontjest why, I do not know, For my wife used to beam when I gave her a calico. In fact, in twenty presents that I bought and gave away, Not one of em seemed pleasin, an it sort of spoiled my day. Nd what is worse, theyve brought me down some fancy sort of jugs- They called em Royal Woostershirethe handles looked like hugs; Nd slathered on the sides of em two great green dragons sit. Sam brought a watch - chain made o gold that doesnt seens to fit The old mans waistcoatsort o makes me look too kind of loud, Nd altogether the result dont seem to make me proud. I sort of cant help thinkin that the things theyve brought to me Are worth three times as much as mine for them upon the tree, Nd when I see em actin like as though they wasnt glad To get the things I got emwhy, it makes me mighty sad; It makes me pine for Christmas with its tree old.fashioned ring, When gifts was incidental, nd the season was the thing. JOHN KENDEICK BANGS. Z~z ~ ~ CD 0 CD CD-p ~ 0 -CD- 0~ - 0 CD - CD CD CD- CD CD CD CD- CD CD 0 CD CD~ CD CD CD CD 0 CD~ 0 CD- CD CD- CD CD CD 162 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. A CHRISTMAS CARD. I HAVE no purse of gold, my dear, With which to buy you dainty things; The purse is empty, and the gold Has flown away as if on wines; So, sveetest wife in all the world, Tho you possess the greater part, Ill ~i ye to you on Christmas day Another fraction of my heart. K. D. w. IT CALLS FOR SYMPATHY. MR. TADDLES. What was in that package which was stolen from yon on your way home ? Mus. TADDLES. If I must tell, it was a box of cigars I had bought for your Christmas gift. Are you sorry ? MR. TADDLES. Yes, dear, very sorryfor the thief. FOR THE REHABILITATION OF CHRISTMAS. CHRISTMAS, said my old friend the Major to me one night at the Club Christnias is not what it used to be. It is being spoiled by the lavishness of those who interchan~e pres- outs where formerly they interchanged remeni- brances. And the lIar(lest part of it is that the children have become infected by the ex- travagant spirit of the age. That is quite true, I replied, with a sigh. My small son shed a pailful of tears last Christmas morning because Santa Claus, in whom lie still fondly believes, had left him a four-dollar traiu of cars, for which he must himself furnish the motive power, instead of a forty-dollar outfit, including a nickel-plated engine, eight cars with real brakes, fifty feet of track, and provision for real steam. Thats it exactly, returned the Major, shaking his head sadly ; and my little girl, who was glad enough two years ago to get a small wax doll that could shut its eyes and say papa if it was slapped on the back, was very much upset last Christmas because the lace on a second doll was not point, and her conver- sation not phono,,raphically extensive. As I say, its bad enou~h that this beautiful season should be ruined for us babies of maturer years, but that the sweetness of it for the real babies should be diluted by the gall of unfulfilled ex- pectation is a crying shame ~vhich must be remedied. Well, must is a stron~ word, Major, said I. ~ What do you propose to dogive in to the expectations of the little ones, and buy them solid silver rattles and gold tea sets for their dollies ? Not a bit of it. The children will lapse back into their old-time enjoyment of Christ- inns if it only brings them a cau(hied apple, if we old folks will only reform ourselves, said the Major, wisely. When a small boy sees his father made the recipient of a handsome solid silver smoking-set,he naturally expects to find something proportionally magnificent for Jaimself; and it is this building high of the juvenile expectancy that I shall nip in the bud by declining myself to receive any such gifts hereafter. Then you mean to limit your refornis to your own household ? I queried. I may have to, retnrned the Major. But if I can hell) myself I shall not be so utterly selfish as to do anything of the sort. I intend to form myself into time nucleus of a club, to join which I shall invite you and such other friends as uuuny think well of its object, which is to restore to the Christmas season its old- time and highly delectable simplicity. It shall be against the rules of the clnb for any member to give to or to receive from any but his own wife a present of a value exceeding ten dollars, nor shall members of the club give each other presents at all, except according to a method to be prescribed by Tue. Which is ? This. Once a year we shall meet, and such members as may desire to give presents to oth- ers shah signify their desire, stating what it is they expect to give and the cost thereof. Then the governors of the club shall be constitnte(l into a sort of clearing-house association, and the value of each mans receiluts in gifts shall be placed to his credit, the value of his gifts given shall be placed to his debit, and a bal- ance struck. If there is a balance in his favor, he is expected to make that balance over to the club as a sort of fine for his l)arsimony; if he has evinced a desire to give more than he re- ceives, we grant him the satisfaction of doing so. He can pay the excess into the club treasury just as he would have to pay for any other privilege; if he conies out even, he pays nothing. But what becomes of the money so accu- mulated ? I asked. When the committee makes its report, and the money is collected, the Major explained, the rules shall provide that twenty-five per cent. of the total shall be expended in presents for each member of the club, each present to be exactly the same, and its cost to be regu- lated by the appropriation. And the other seventy-five per cent.? Ab, there is the great point in my scheme said the Major, with a beaming suiile, and I think it will add largely to the success of the undertaking. Here lie paused, apparently to give emphasis to his point, and then he whispered: I should devote that to a big club dinner, with plum - pudding, roasted pig, mince - pie, and every other Christmas dish known to cu- linary science. Are you with me And I, after a fe~v moments of deep thought, in which I carefully weighed all the pros and cons of thuis temptimug scheune, reaching the comforting conclusion that by being with the Major I could save ninety per cent. of my annual Yule-tide expenditure, reached out, and grasping the Majors hand firmly in mine, re- plied, Major, I am! [See The Ueexpected Gueste.3 WELL, YOLT HOAIE[Y-IIEAD D IMPOSTOR, WHAT WOULD YOURS BE?

Harper's new monthly magazine. / Volume 86, Issue 512 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 994 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABK4014-0086 /moa/harp/harp0086/

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

Harper's new monthly magazine. / Volume 86, Issue 512 International monthly magazine Harper's monthly magazine Harper & Bros. New York January, 1893 0086 512
Julian Ralph Ralph, Julian The Old Way To Dixie 165-185

H VRP ERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. VoL. LXXXVI. JANUARY, 1893. THE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. BY JULIAN RALPH. T was quite by accident that I heard, while in St. Louis, that I could go all the, way down the Mississippi to New Orleans in one of a fleet of packets that differ in no material way from hose which figure in a score of ante bel- hon novels like Uncle Toms Cabin, and which illuminate our Northern notions of life in the South when its planters basked in the glory of their feudal importance. I could see the mighty river during a journey as long as that from New York to Liverpool; could watch the old-fash- ioned methods of the Simon Pure negro roustabouts at work with the freight; could gossip and swap stories with the same sort of pilots about whom I had read so much; could see many a slumbering Southern town unmodernized by rail- roads; could float past plantations, and look out upon old-time planters man- VOL. LXXXVI.No. 512.i 6 sions; and could actually see hard winter at St. Louis merge into soft and beauteous spring at Vicksburg, and become summer with a bound at New Orleans. More wonderful than all besides, I could cast my lines off from the general world of to-day to float back into a past era. there to loaf away a week of utter rest, undisturbed by a telegraph or telephone, a hotel elevator or a clanging cable-car, surrounded by comfort, fed from a good and generous kitchen, and at liberty to forget tile rush and bustle of that raging monster which the French call the fin de sicle. And how many do it? I asked. Very few indeed, was the reply; not as many on the best boat in a sea- son as used to take passage for a single trip. The boats are not advertised; the world has forgotten that they are still running. The only company that maintains these. boats is the old Anchor Line, and there are no departures for New Orleans except on Wednesdays; but this was Saturday, the sailing day for Natchez, only 272 miles from the end of the route, and there- fore serving well for so bold an experi- ment. I packed up at the Southern Hotel, and was on board the City of Providence, Captain George Carvell, master, an hour before five oclock, the advertised sailing hour. The strange, the absolutely charm- ing disregard for nineteenth-century bus- tle was apparent in the answer to the very first question I asked. Does she start sharp at five oclock? No, not sharp; a little dull, I expect. The City of Providence lay with her landing-planks hoisted up ahead of her like the claws of a giant lobster. She was warped to a wharf-boat that was heaped with barrels, boxes, and bags, and copyright, 1892, by Harper and Brothers. All rights reserved. No. DXII. alive with negroes. At a rough guess I should say there were 125 of these black laborers, in every variety of rags, like the beggars who come to town in the old nursery rhyme. Already they inter- ested me. Now they would jog along roll- ing barrels aboard with little spiked sticks, next they appeared each with a bundle of brooms on his shoulder, and in another two minutes the long, zigzagging, shambling line was metamorphosed into a wriggling sinuosity formed of soap- boxes, or an unsteady line of flour-bags, each with ragged legs beneath it, or a procession of baskets or of bundles of laths. As each one picked up an article of freight, an overseer told him its desti- nation. The negro repeated this, and kept oii repeating it, in a singson~ tone, as lie shambled along, until one of the mates on the boat heard him and told him where to put it down, the study of the mate being to distribute the cargo evenly, and to see that all packages sent to any given landing were kept together. It seemed to me that all the foremen and mates were selected for their conscien- tious intention to keep their hands in their trousers pockets under all circuni- stances, for their harsh and grating voices, and for their ability to say a great deal and not have a word of it understood by your humble servant, the writer. The roustabouts looked all of one hue from their shoes to the tops of their heads. Their coffee-colored necks and faces match- ed their reddish-brown clothes, that had been grimed with the dust of everything known to man; which dust also covered their shoes and baie feet, and made both appear the same. When a huddle went off the boat empty-handed they looked like so many big rats. They loaded the Providences lower deck inside and out; they loaded her upper deck whei-e the chaii-s for the passengers had seemed t~ be supreme; and then they loaded the roof over that deck and the side spaces until her sides were sunk low down near th~ rivers surface, and she bristled at every point with boxes, bales, agricultural im- plements, brooms, carriages, bags, and, as~ the captain remarked, Heaven only knows what she aint got aboard her. The mates roared, the negroes talked all the time, or sung to rest their mouths, the boat kept settling in the water, and the mountains of freight swelled at every l)oint. It was well said that twenty or- dinary freight trains on a railroad would not carry as much freight as was stowed aboard of her, and I did not doubt the man who remarked to me that when such a boat, so laden, discharged hei- cargo loose- ly at one place, it often made a pile big-~ ger than the boat itself. 4 ROU5TABOIJTS. * THE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. The City of Providence was one of a long line of Mississippi boats edging the broad, clean, sloping levee that fronts ~- busy St. Louis. She was by far the largest and handsomest of the packets; but all are of one type, and that is worth describing. They are, so far as I remem- ber, all painted white, and are very broad and low. Each carries two tall black funnels, capped with a bulging ornamental top, and carrying on rods swung between 167 in front of the Texas. The pilot-house is always made to look graceful by means of an upper fringe of jig-saw ornament, and usually carries a deers head or pair of antlers in front of it. We would call it enormous; a great square room with space in it for a stove, chairs, the wheel, the pilots, and, in more than one boat that I saw, a sofa or cushion laid over the roof of the gangway from below. The sides and back of the house are made the funnels the trade-mark of the coin- pany cut out of sheet-ironan anchor or an initial letter, a fox or a swan, or what- ever. There are three or four stories to these boats: first the open main-deck for freight and for the boilers and engines; then the walled-in saloon-deck, with a row of windows and doors cut alternate- ly close beside one another, and with profuse ornamentation by means of jig- saw work wherever it can be put; and, last of all, the Texas or officers quar- ters, and the bureau, or negro passen- gers cabin, forming the third story. Most of the large boats have the big square pilot-house on top of the Texas, but others carry it as part of the third story principally of sliding vindow - sashes. The front of the house, through which the pilots see their course, is closable by means of a door hinged into sections, and capable of being partially or fully opened as the state of the weather permits. The wheel of one of these great packets is very large, and yet light. It is made as if an ordinary Eastern or Northern wheel had been put in place and then its spokes had grown two feet beyond its rim, and had had another rim and handles added. There are many sharp bends in the river and I afterward often saw the pilots using both hands and one foot to spin the big circle, until the rudder was hard over on whichever side they wanted it. THE TEXAS These Mississippi packets of the first and second class are very large boats, and roominess is the most striking char- acteristic of every part of them. They look light, frail, and inflammable, and so they are. The upright posts that rise from the deck of such a boat to support the saloon - deck are mere little sticks, and everything above them, except the funnels, is equally slender and thin. These boats are not like ours at any point of their make-up. They would seem to a man from the coast not to be the handi- work of ship-builders; indeed, there has been no apparent effort to imitate the massive beams, the peculiar knees, the freely distributed bright-work of polished brass, the neat, solid joiner- work, or the thousand and one tricks of construction and ornament which distin- guish the work of our coast boat-build- ers. These river boatsand I include all the packets that come upon the Missis- sippi from its tributariesare more like the work of carpenters and house-build- ers. It is as if their model had been slowly developed from that of a barge to that of a house-boat, or barge with a roof over it; then as if a house for passengers had been built on top of the first roof, and the Texas and bureau had followed on the sec- ond roof. Pictures of the packets scarce- ly show how unlike our boats these are, the difference being in the methods of workmanship. Each story is built merely of sheathing, and in the best boats the doors and fanlights are hung on with- out frames around them; all loose and thin, as if they nev- er encountered cold weather or bad storms. All the boats that I saw are as nearly alike in all respects as if one man had built them. I was told that the great packets cost only $70,000 to $100,- 000, so that the mere enginS in a first-class Atlantic coast river or sound boat is seen to be of more value than one of these huge packets, and a prime reason for the difference in con- struction suggests itself. But these great, comfortable vessels serve their purpose where ours could not be used at all, and are altogether so useful and appropriate, as well as picturesque and attractive to an Eastern man, that there is not room in my mind for aught than praise of them. It was after six oclock when the long- shore hands were drawn up in line on the wharf-boat and our own crew of forty roustabouts came aboard. To one of these I went and asked how many men were in the long brown line on shore. Dam if I know, boss, said the semi- barbarian, with all the politeness he knew, which was none at all, of word or man- ner. It occurred to me afterwards that since everybody swears at these ronsta- bouts, an occasional oath in return is scarcely the interest on the profanity each one lays up every year. In a few moments the great island of joiner-work and freight crawled away from the levee and out upon the yellow, rain-pelted river, with long-drawn gasps, e ROU5TABOUT5 GETTING UNDER WAY. THE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. as if she were a monster that had been asleep and was slowly and regretfully waking up. How often every one who has read either the records or the ro mances of our South and West has heard of the noise that a packet ~ends th~~ougl~ the woods and over the swamps to strike terror to the soul of a runaway darky who has never heard the sound, or to ap- prise waiting passengers afar off that their boat is on its way! It is nothing like the puff! puff! of the ordinary steam motor; 169 was a chair and a marble-topped wash- stand, a carpet, and there were curtains on the glazed door and the long window that formed the top of the outer wall. The supper-bell rang, and I stepped into the saloon, which was a great chamber, all cream-white, touched with gold. The white ribs of the white ceiling were close together over the whole saloons length of 250 feet, and each rib was upheld by most ornate supports, also white, but hung with gilded pendants. Colored fanlights it is a deep, hollow, long-drawn, regular let in the light by day, and under them breathinglazy to the last degree, like other fanlights served to share the brill- the grunt of a sleeping pig that is dream- iant illumination in the saloon with the ing. It is made by two engines alter- state-rooms on either side. At the for- nately, and as it travels up the long pipes ward end of the saloon were tables spread and is shot out upon the air it seems not and set for the male passengers. At the to come from the chest of a demon, but other end sat the captain and the married from the very heels of some cold-blooded, ladies and girls, and such men as came half-torpid, prehistoric loafer of the alli- with them. The chairs were all white, gator kind. To the river passenger in like the walls, the table-cloths, and the his bed courting sleep it is a sound more aprons of the negro servants, who stood soothing than the patter of rain on a like bronze statues awaiting the orders of farm-house roof. the passen~ers. The supper proved to I had been in my state-room, and found be well cooked and nicely served. As it the largest one that I had ever seen on the fare to New Orleans was about the a steamboat. It had a double bed in it, same as the price of a steerage ticket to and there was room for another. There Europe, it was pleasant to know that the THE SALOON OF A MT55I55IPrI STEAMBOAT. HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. meals, which were included in the bar- cove brid~ed across by a counter. Match- gain, were goin~, to be as admirable as ing it, on the otber side of the boat, was everything else. the office of Mr. 0. W. Moore, the clerk. After supper I was asked to ~,o up into the pilot-house, then in charge of Louis Moan and James Parker, both veterans ~on tbe river, both good story-tellers, and as kindly and pleasant a pair as ever lightened a journey at a wheel or in a cabin. That night, when a dark pall hung all around the boat, with only here and there a yellow glimmer showing the pres- ence of a house or government light ashore, these were spectral men at a shadowy wheel. In time it was possible to see that the house was half as big as a railroad car, that Captain Carvell was in a chair smokin,, a pipe, that the gray sheet far below was the river, and that there was an indefinable something near by on one side which the pilots had agreed to regard as the left-hand shore. They said right and left, and spoke of the smoke-stacks as chimneys. But over and through and around the scene came the periodic gasp-shoo-whoofrom the great smoke-stacks, as gusts of wind on a bleak shore would sound if they blew at regular intervals. Back in the blaze of light in the cabin I saw that the women had left their ta- bles, and were gathered around a stove at their end of the room, precisely as the men had done at theirs. The groups were 200 feet apart, and showed no more inter- est in one another than if they had been on separate boats. I observed that at the right hand of the circle of smoking men was the neatly kept bar in a sort of al To Mr. Moore I offered to pay my fare, but he said there was no hurry, he guess- ed my money wonld keep. To the bar- tender I said that if he had made the ef- fervescent draught which I drank before supper I desired to compliment him. Thank you, sir, said he; you are very kind. How pleasant was the discovery that I made on my first visit to the South, that in that part of our Union no matter how humble a white man is he is instinc- tively polite! Not that I call a bartender on a Mississippi boat a humble personage; he merely recalled the general fact to my mind. The boat stopped at a landing, and it was as if it had died. There was no sound of running about or of yelling; there was simply deathlike stillness. There was a desk and a student-lamp in the great cabin, and, alas for the unities! on the desk lay a pad of telegraph blanks~the mark of the beast. But they evidently were only a bit of accidental drift from wide-awake St. Louis, and not intended for the pas- sengers, because the clerk came out of his office, swept them into a drawer, and invited me to join him in a game of tiddledywinks. He added to the calm pleasures of the game by telling of a Kentucky girl eleven feet high, who stood at one end of a very wide ta- ble and shot the disks into the cnp from both sides of the table without changing her position. I judged from his remarks that she was simply a tall girl who played well at tiddledywinks. No man likes to be beaten at his own game, the tools for 170 5ALOON ORNAMENT. SALOON ORNAMENT. THE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. 171 which he carries about with him. Even princes of the blood royal show annoyance when it hap- pens. I slept like a child all night, and mentioned the fact at the breakfast table, where the men all spoke to one another and the clerk addressed each of us by name as if we were in a boarding-house. Every one smiled when I said that the boats noise did not disturb me. Why, we tied up to a tree all night, said the clerk, and did not move a yard until an hour ago. At this breakfast we had a very African - looking dish that somehow sug- gested the voudoo. It ap- peared like a dish of exag- gerated canary seed boiled in tan-bark. Dat dere, said my waiter, is sumping you doan git in no hotels. Its jambullade. Dey done make it ob rice tomatoes, and brekfus bacon or ham; but ef dey put in oysters place ob de ham, its de lines in de lan. I had not been long enongh in the atmosphere of Mississippi travel to avoid worrying about the loss of a whole night while we were tied up to the shore. There had been a fog, I was told, and to pro- ceed would have been dangerous. Yet I was bound for New Orleans for Mardi-gras, and had only time to make it, according to the boats schedule. But I had not fathomed a tithe of the mysteries of this river travel. Its too bad were so late, I said to Mr. Todd, the steward. We aint late, said he. I thought we laid up overnight, I said. So we did, said lie. But that aint goin to make any difference; we dont run so close to time as all that. Don~t get excited, ~ said Captain Car- veIl. You are going to have the best trip you ever made in your lifo. And if we keep a-layin up nights. all youve got to do is to step ashore at Cairo or Memphis or Natchez and take the cars into New Orleans quickern a wink. You caa stay with us till the last minute be- fore youve got to he in New Orleans, and then the cars 11 take you there all right. I only wish it was April stead of Febru- ary. Then you leave a right cold climate in the North, and you get along and see flowers all a-blooming and roses a-blush- ing. Why, sir, Ive been making this run thirty-nine years, and I enjoy it yet. THE rILOT. 172 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Come up in the pilot - house, said Mr. Moan. Bring your pipe and to- bacco and your slippers, and leave em up there, sos to make yourself at home. Youre going to live with us nigh on to a week, you know, and you ought to be friendly. It was by this tone, caught from each officer to whom I spoke, that I, all too slowly, imbibed the calm and restful spir- it of the voyage. Nothing made any dif- ference, or gave cause to borrow trouble not even hitching up to the river-bank, now and then, for a night or two. We had been at Chester for nearly an hour. The clerk went ashore, visiting, and disappeared up the main street. We were to take on 500 barrels of flour, and for a long while these had been jolting and creaking and spurting out little white wisps of powder as the black crew rolled them aboard. The pilot remarked, as he looked down at the scene, that when we came to leave we would not really get away, because we must drop dowii to a mill half a mile down stream, and then to a warehouse farther along, and then, if there are any other stops near by, some one will run down with a flag, or a white handkerchief, and call us. I alone was impatientthe only curse on the happy condition. In the middle of a lifetime of catching trains and riding watch in hand I found that I did not know how to behave or how to school myself for a natural, restful situation such as this. I felt that I belonged in the xvorld, and that this was not it. This was dreamlandan Occidental Arabia. True, we were moved by steam, we lifted the landing-stages by steam, and swung red farm wagons to the hurricane-deck and blew whistles, all by steam; but it was steam hypnotized and put to sleep. Could I not hear it snore through the smoke-stacks whenever the engineer dis- turbed it? As we swung away from Chester, Mr. Moan pointed across the river and said: Thats Claraville over there. Its a tidy place. Been that way since I was a boy. It dont grow, but it holds its own. I harbored the hope that I would ap- preciate that remark, and the spirit which engendered it, in five days or so of life on the lazy boat. Even then I could see that it was something to hold one s own. It was an effort, and perhaps a strain. It is more than we men and women are able to do for any length of time. We pushed high up a stony bank at a new place. Again the clerk went ashore, and this time the captain followed him. Another wabbling stream of flour-barrels issued from a warehouse and rolled intc~ the boat. I think I began to feel less forced resignation and more at ease. I was drifting into harmony with my sur- roundings. It was still a little strange that the voices on shore were all using English words. Spanish or Arabic would have consorted better with the hour. As a happy makeshift a negro came out and sat on a barrel and played a jews-harp. He was ragged and slovenly, and was the only black man not at work; but per- haps a man cannot work steadily and d~ justice to a jews-harp at the same time. He turned his genius upon a lively tune, and the serpentlike stream of barrels be- gan to flow faster under the negroes hands, as if it were a current of molasses and the music had warmed it. The church bellsfor it was Sundaybroke upon the air at a distance; at just the right distance, so that they sounded soft and religious. The sun was out. Only one other thing was neededtobacco. When I went to get my pipe, the youngest of the ladies in the saloon was at the piano, and A Starry Night for a Ramble was trickling from her fingers ends. I dropped into a chair to listen, and to think how prone the Southern folk are to insist upon a recognition of caste in every relation of life. First, the captain at the head of all, then the ladies and their male escortsthese were the aris- tocrats of the boat. The lonely male pas- sengers were the middle class, graciously permitted to sleep on the saloon-deck. Finally, the negro passengers and the petty officers were sent up above, to quar- ters far from the rest. But the young lady saw me sitting there, and the musie stopped. She left the piano stool with a flirt of her skirt; not a violent motion of the whole back of her dress, as if she was really put out by my intrusion, but just a faint little snap at the very tail of the eloquent garment. How many lan- guages women have! They have one of the tongue, like ours; one of the silent, mobile lips, as when school - girls talk without being heard; one of the eyes; one of their spirits, that rise into vivacity for those they love or seek to please, and 4 THE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. 173 that sink into moodiness or languor near those they dont care for; and finally, this of the skirts. But that was only a faint whip of the very tail of the skirt, down by the hem. It hinted to me that we were to become acquainted soon. There was plenty of time; I would not hurry it. I went to my great comfortable room and experimented with the locked door which was opposite the entrance. It opened, and led out upon the outer deck, past all the other state-room doors. That was exquisite. It was like part of a typi- cal Southern home, with the parlor open- ing out on a veranda over a river. I was reminded of the first true Southern house I ever stopped at, in the Bine Ridge Moun- tains. There were two long arms in front of the main building, and the rooms in these arms had a door and a window at each end. I was enraptured with my good fortune until night came, when I discovered that neither window sported a catch and neither door had a lock. I might as well, I might better, have been put to bed in the fields. All the stories of murder I had heard during the day and they were plentycame back, and sat on the edge of the bed with me. I com- plained in the morning, and the proprie- tor langhed, and said there was not a lock on a door in the county. They murdered there, but they did not rob. That was a consolation. The Mississippi proved not so unlike a Northern river as might have been ex- pected. The Hudson is as wide in some places, and I have seen parts of Lake On- tario with just such shores. Fields of grain ran to the edge of the bluff, and here and there were houses and patches of trees. The Illinois side was a long reach of wooded bluff. The water itself was mud. As Senator Ingalls is quoted as saying, it was too thick for a bever- age and too thin for food. Everywhere the yellow water, running the same way as the boat, seemed to outstrip our vessel. Everywhere it was dotted with logs, twigs, and little floating islands of the wreckage of the cottonwood thickets of Dakota and Montana, perhaps of the forests at the feet of the Rocky Mountains. That was the main peculiarity of the riverthe pres- ence of thousands of tons of ddbris float- ing behind, beside, and ahead of the steam- boat. Here and there we saw a govern- ment light, a little lantern on a clean / IS FIXED FOR LIFE, B055, IF DE GOv- ERMENT DONE HOLD OUT. white frame-work, suggesting an immacu~ late chicken-coop. Men who live in near- by houses get ten or fifteen dollars a month the lights being of two gradesfor light- ing them every night and putting them out every morning. Mr. Moan told of a negro down below where we were wh& gets fifteen dollars a month for keeping a difficult light, and who, on being asked how he was getting along, replied that it was money enough for the keep of his wife and himself. Is fixed for life, boss, he said, if do goverment done hold out. I noted with keen pleasure that neither Pilot Moan nor Pilot Parker blew the whistle as the boat was backed off the mud at a landing. In New York they would surely whistle and shriek good-by. In France they would blow all the time. The Mississippi plan is better. There they 174 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 4 4- whistle only when approaching a land- ing, to notify the labor. For miles and miles we floated out iu the channel and were alone in the world we and the distant bhie hills, the thin bare forests, and the softly speeding stream. Not a house or a fence or a ploughed acre was in sight. What a country ours is! How much room it offers to future peoples They are not hurrying they who have so much more at stake than we on that boat. Why, then, needed we to hurry? When a house or a village hove in sight, it was not always wooden, as in the West. Often the warehouses, the mills, and even the manor-houses were of stone or brick. Some of these places were inaccessible to so big a boat as the Providence, but from its decks could be seen little waggle-tailed stern-wheelers puffing and splashing up to them for freight. At one stop which we did make, Captain Carvell ordered a barge pushed out of the way sos we shant make a bungle- some landing, lie said. The nearest great landing- stage, a long gang-plank hung by the middle from a sort of derrick, and capa- ble of connecting the boat with a hill or a fiat sur- face, was let down on the bank. The unavoidable flour-barrels came head foremost along a wooden slide this time, and adarky on the boat sang an in- cessant line, Somebody told me so, as a warn- ing to the men below that another and another bar- rel was coming. They are fond of chanting at their work, and they give vent to whatever comes into their heads, and then repeat it thousands of times, perhaps. It is not always a pretty sen- tence, but every such re- f rain serves to time their movements. 0 Lord God! you know you done wrong, I have heard a negro say with each bag that was handed to him to lift upon a pile. Been a slave all yo days; you aint got a penny saved, was another refrain; and still another, chant- ed incessantly, was: ~Whos been here since Is been gone? Big buck nigger with a derby on. They are all nig- gers once you enter the Southern coun- try. Every one calls them so, and they do not often vary the custom among themselves. These roustabouts are nothing like as forward as the lowest of their race that we see in the North. Presumably they are about what the field hands of slavery times were. They are dull-eyed, shambling men, dressed like perambula- ting rag-bags, with rags at the sleeves up and down the trousers, at the hems of their coats, and the rims of their caps and hats. A man who makes six changes ~Zzz1F ~1 4 A MISSISSIPPI STEAMBOAT CAPTAIN. TIlE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. 175 of his working attire every year by con- yellow - clad novels. Any one of them tract with a tailor would be surprised at would break up an opera troupe. They how long these men keep their clothes, rasp at the darkies in their business Some wear coats and vests and no shirts; voices, with a Run up the plank, nigger; some wear overcoats and shirts and no now, then, nigger, get wood and then vests; some have only shirts and trou- they turn and speak to the passengers in ersshirts that have lost their buttons, their Sunday shore-leave voices, as gently perhaps, and flare wide open to the trou- as any men can talk. ers band, showing a black trunk like Mr. Halloran, an up - river pilot of oiled ebony. They earn a dollar a day, celebrity who was studying the lower but have not learned to save it. They river, told me that lie remembered when are very dissipated, and are given to carrying knives, which the mates take away from the most unruly ones. The scars on many of their bodies show to what use these knives are too often put. Whos dat talkin bout cut- tin out some ones heart? I heard one say as he slouched along in the roustabout line. Ef dars goin to be any cuttin, I want to do some. Though they chant at their work, I seldom saw them laugh or heard them sing a song, or knew one of them to dance during the voyage. The work is hard, and they are kept at it, nrged constant- ly by the mates on shore and aboard, as the Southern folks say that negroes and mules always need to be. But the roustabouts faults are exces- sively human, after all, and The consequence of a sturdy belief that they need sharper treatment than the rest of us leads to their being urged to do more work than a white man. There were nights on the Providence when the land- ings ran close together, and THE MATE OF A ~ississirri BOAT NOW, THEN, NIGGER. the poor wretches got little or no sleep. They tote all the freight aboard and back to land again on it was the custom for the mates to hit their heads or shoulders. and it is crush- lazy negroes on the head with a billet of ing work. Whenever the old barbaric wQod, and knock them stiff. The instinct to loaf, or t~ move by threes at other negroes used to laugh (presumably one m.an s work, would promptthem, one as the sad-faced man langhed when the of the mates was sure to spy the weakness photo~rapher clapped a pistol to his head and roar at the culprits, and said, Smile, yon, or Ill shoot The mates showed no actual unkind- you ). When the felled negro came to, ness or severity while I was on that boat. the others would say, Lep up quick an But they allon all the boatshave fear- git to work, nigger; de mates a-coming. some voices, such as we credit to pirate They do not urge the help with cord- chiefs on low, rakish, black boats in wood nowso the mate of the Providence 176 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. told me because the negroes get out warrants and delay the boat. I have said that the blacks all call themselves ni~,gers. The rule has its exceptions. I went ashore at a planta- tion called Sunnyside, and saw a cheery old aunty standing near a cabin door- way from out of which pickaninnies were tumbling like ants out of an ant-hill. How many children have you got, auntyl I inquired. I aint got none yere, she said; mines all out in de fiel. Dese yer two is my firanchillen; de oders Im takin car of fer de ladies ob de neighborhood. There was a fine barber shop and wash- room on the packet, and the barber and I often conversed, with a razor between us. He asked me once how I liked my hair trimmed, and I said I always left that to the barber. Dats crect, said he; you kin leave it to me safely; and you kin bet Im more dan apt to do it in de mos fashionablest manner. Then he turned, and called to his assistant, a coal-black boy who was working his way to New Orleans. Hey, dere! you ni~ger! Git me a high stool outen de pantry. How you spect Is gwine cut de gemmens har ef I doan hab no stooll I mentioned the fact that the rousta- bouts were working very hard. Dat dey is, said the barber. We call em roosters on de ribber, but rousabout is more correc. Dey wuk hard night an day, an dey git mo kicks dan dollars. Ef I got rejuced sos I had to do manual labor, Id go to stealin fo Id be a rooster. Certain su I would, cause dey couldnt wuk a man no harder in de penitent- shuary ef he got caught dan dey do on dese boats. At supper on the second night I began to find fault with the custom of separa- ting the ladies and the gentlemen by the length of an enormous saloon. The gulf between the men and women was yet as wide as ever. There they sat at their separate table. Later they would make a ring around a stove of their own, or retire to an especial saloon called the nur- sery, which spans and shuts off the whole back end of the boatthe most at- tractive part of our Northern steamboats. There were four women on this boat and a little baby girl. The tiny woman, though only four years old, had been to visit me during the afternoon, and had told me her own peculiar version of Cin- derella. Poor little tot! She was with a man and woman whom she called papa and mamma, but they made the cruel mistake of telling everybody that she was a little orphan waif, the child of a pauper, and that they had adopted herthe last thing, one would think, that they would noise abroad. I wondered whether her name might not be Cinderella, and that led me to tbink that I did not know even the name of the youngest of the grown wo- men, who, by-the-way, was only eighteen or nineteen, with ~jet hair, coal - black laughing eyes, and a smiling mouth set with pearls. She was perfectly formed, and being beautiful, was also amiable, for tbere can be no true beauty in a woman who is not sunny-hearted. It was she who played the piano for the womenun- til a man listened. Perhaps another time I may be able to enjoy such a restful THE CHICAGO MAN. * THE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. 177 break in my life to the uttermost, and not draw comparisons or seek faults to find, yet on this second night I was unable to help recalling the only other trip I had then made on a Southern river. It was on the Ohio. Half the passengers were Kentuckians. As soon as the boat started, a negro roustabout was hired to fiddle in the saloon, and every man sought a part- ner and fell to waltzing. It was idyllic; it was a snatch of Arcadian life, of Brit- tany or Switzerland imported to America. A young Kentuckian, who introduced W himself to me and then to all the women, kindly introduced them all to one an- other and then to me. That was better than this Mississippi plan of putting a whole boats length between the sexes. It sug~ested a floating synagogue. We stopped at Cairo on the second morning out, and were pulling away from there while I ate my breakfast. I told Captain Carvell that I was sorry to have missed seeing that important town, but I found that, as before, my regrets were groundless. Nothing is missed and nothing makes any difference on that phenomenal line. You wont miss Cai- ro, said the captain; we are going up a mile to get some pork, and down half a mile to get some flour. We shall be here some hours yet. I ate a leisurely break- fast, saw the town to my hearts content, and was back on the boat an hour before it got away for good. A railroad train whizzed along above the levee like a mes- senger from the world of worry and un- rest, and I looked at it as I have often THE MAN FROM PROVIDENCE. looked at a leopard caged in a menagerie. It could not get at me, I knew. The beautiful black-eyed girl had kept in the ladies end of the saloon, wrapped up in Cinderella, the Chicago mans tiny daughter, but on this day, as I was on the upper deck, I could not help seeing her mount the ladderlike stairs to the pilot-house. It is amazing that four wo- men and half a dozen men should have been together so long and not become ac- quainted. To be sure, I could have follow- ed the pretty brunette to the pilot-house and been introduced by one of the pilots; but there was no hurry. Besides, at the time, a young commercial traveller from Providence was telling me of his uncer- tainty whether or not he was in love. The subject of his doubts was a young lady whose portrait lie carried in a locket which he kept opening incessantly. I spent much time every day in the pilot-house. I heard very much about the skill and knowledge the river-pilots calling required, but I saw even more than I heard. This giant river does not impress those who study it with its greatness so much as with its eccentrici- ties. It runs between banks that are called earth, but act like brown sugar; that cave in and hollow out, and turn into bars and islands, iii a way that is almost indescribable. Islands in it which were on one side one year are on the other side another year. Channels which the steamboats followed last month and for years past are now closed. Bars no one ever saw before suddenly lift above the surface. Piloting on the Mis- sissippi is a business no one ever learns. It is a continual subject of study. It is the work of years to understand the gen- eral course of the channel, and then the knowledge must be altered with each trip. The best pilot on the river, if he stops ashore a few months, becomes greener than a new hand. The pilots riot only report their new experiences for publica- tion in the newspapers, but they make notes of remarkable changes, and drop them into boxes on the route for the guid- ance of others in the business. In the lower part of the river, below Tennessee, the whistle of a boat may often be heard between twelve and fifteen hours before tire boat reaches the point where the sound came. This is because of the manner in which the river doubles upon itself. A town which may be only four or five miles across one of these loops will hear the boat, but the distance around tire bend, and the stops the boat makes, may allow a prospective passenger to do a days business before he boards the vessel. Nothing could be more primitive than many of tire boat-landings. The vessels THE AWFUL BORE. w THE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. simply run their nozzles agin the shore, as John Hay has sung that they did. Villages, planters depots or mills, are found on the edge of a rude bank, and the boats run up close as they can and lower the stages. The darkies tumble up and down the bluff, the spectators line its edge. There is no staircase, pier, or wharf-boat, sea-wall, or anything. If there was, it is a question whether it would last out a single season. I seldom looked lone, at such a bank that I did not see a piece of it loosen and crumble and fail into the rushing, yellow river. dinary river. Any one may see Islan Number Ten, and call to mind its excit- ing part in the late war; but it had n@ part in it, for old Island Number Ten dis- appeared years ago, and this is a new one, not on the site of its predecessor. Yet the true Island Number Ten bore very an- cient, heavy timber, and many fine plan- tations. The new one is already tim bered with a dense growth of cane and saplings. At Fort Pillow we saw the river~ s most stupendous ravages of that particular time. The famous bluff, fifty feet high at least? Son~ietimes it was only a ton that fell in; sometimes it was a good fraction of an acre. Captain Carvell told me that once he was looking at as noble and large a tree as he ever saw in his life, standing inshore and away from the edge of a bluff. Suddenly the land slipped away from around it, and it fell and crashed into his steamboat. At many and many stopping-place the pilots call to mind where the banks were when they began pilotin~, and always they were far out in the present stream. One pointed out to me an eddy over the wreck of a steam- er that sunk while warped to the shore. She was now in the middle of the extraor was sliding down in great slices and bites and falling into the river. One great mound was in the water, another had fallen just behind it, and these had car- ried the trees that were growing in the earth flat down in the mixed - up dirt. But beyond these a huge slice many rods long and many yards thick was parting from the bluff and leaning over toward the water, with huge trees still standing on it, and reaching their naked roots out on either side like the fingers of drown- ing men. Below, at what is called Cen- tennial Cut-off, the eccentric river has re- versed its original direction. It used to form a letter S, and now it flows down ROUSTABOUTS UNLOADING A M1551551PP1 BOAT. 180 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. the central curve of the S where it used to flow northward. The two loops are grown with reeds, and form a vast am- phitheatre, at the sides of whicli, five miles off, one sees the distant banks coy- ~red with big timber. Still farther dowii the river, in places where the men of the River Commission had been at work, we saw the banks cut at an angle like a natural beach, and sheathed with riprap. In places the wa- ter is said to have got under the sheath- ing and melted the work away, but there was no disposition among the navigators I was with to criticise the government work, so great has beeii the continually increasing improvement of the water- way. We saw few of those snags which were once as common as the dollars of a millionaire, but we did see many places where the crews of the snag-boats had been at work. The men chop down the trees so that when the bank caves the trees and their roots will both float off separately. If left to pursue the wicked ways of inanimate things, the trees would be carried out into the stream to sink butt downward, and project their trunks up to l)ierce the bottom of the first boat that struck one. The government boats have done splendid work at pulling up snags. It is said that their tackle is strong enough for any snag they ever find, and that they could pull up the bottom of the river, if necessary.~ Down on the Mississippi State and Ar- kansas shores we began to note the con- sequences of former high stages of water. The water-marks were often half-way up the cabin and warehouse doors, and tales were told of families that take to the sec- ond stories of their houses on such occa- sions, not forgetting to put their poultry and cattle on rafts tied to trees, to keep them until the flood subsides. It was on the third day that I became acquainted with the beautiful nun like pianist. I found her in distress among the firkins and brooms and hoxes on the upper deck, among which the boats cat had fled from the too violent endearments of little Cinderella. My hands and those of the pianist met in the dark crannies of the freight piles, and we fell to laughing, and became so well acquainted that soon afterward she dropped into a chair beside me. In fifteen minutes she had told me her name, age, station, amusements, love affairs, home arrangements, tastes, hopes, and religious belief. The manner of the narrative was eveii more peculiar than the matter. Her mother, then on board with her, was an Arkansas widow who kept a hotel to which commercial travel- lers repaired in great force, and at which so I judged from what the young wo- man had imbihedthicy paid their way with quite as much slang as cash. As I have seen such girls before in my travels n the Southwest, and have always found theni different, in a. marked way, from the girls in large towns, I will try to repeat what I jotted down of her observations. Youre married, aint you? She was a pretty girl, as I have said, and she had large deep black eyes. ~hese she set, as she spoke, so as to give a searching glance that showed her to be expectant of a denial of niy happy state, yet confi- dent she was right. I knew it. Well, the married kind are the worst that come to our hotel. My mother keeps a hotel at , you know; the cap- tains told you, I suppose. Its a vil- lage; but I know a few things. The band plays Annie Rooney where I live, but it aint up to me, for I know Coin- rades, and Maggie Murphys Home, and the very latest songs the boys bring to the house. That Providence fellers in love, aint he? Well, I say, I thought it was either love or dyspepsia that was ailing him. Say, do you believe in pshaw! I was going to ask if you believed in love, but of course youre married, and youve got to say yes. I always call rats when I bear of anybody being in love. Aint it dull on this boat? I never see such men. I believe if a woman knocked em down they wouldnt speak to her. Youre the only one that aint glued to the bar; you and Admiral Farragut; thats what I call the captain. Hes nice aint he? I think hes too cute. I love old men, I do. A pause, and a rapt expression of a face turned upon the river-bank as if in enjoyment of the tame scenery. Say! whats the latest slang in New York? The boystravellers that stop at our house, you knowaint brought in anything new in a long while. Youre from New York, aint you? Cant help it, can you? My! what a jay-bird Id look like in New York! Well, you neednt get scared. I aint a-going. Im going to stay where Im on top. Bob Ingersoll lives in New York, dont he? Hes im 4 THE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. 181 mense, aint he? No, I see you aint stuck on him. Well, neither am I, and Im going to tell you the truth. Every- body my way is crazy to read everything he writes and says, bnt Im going to stick to my little old Bible till a good deal VOL. LXXXYJ.No. 512.i 7 smarter man than he is comes along. If I was Ingersoll, and knew for sure that I was right, I wouldnt stump the coun- try to try and take away the comfort of every poor old widow and young girl and decent man; because our belief in religion DECK OF A MISSISSIPPI BOAT YOU RE MARRIED, AINT you? 182 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. is close on to all that most folks has in this world. I spoke of my surprise that she should believe in religion and not in love. Say! said she; I help run a hotel, and I agree with everybody that comes alongfor the price. But I aint in a hotel now, and youre married, and Ill give myself away. I made fun of love, but, gee whiz! I didnt mean it. I reckon a girl dont fool you talking that way. Im in love, right smart in love, too; up to my neck. Mv mother hates him. You see, we used to he well off, and fathers people were way up, and mother keeps in with all her old friends. Theyre all as poor as we, but theyre proudern Lucifer, and motherd ruther wed marry poor quality folks than see us rich and happy if our husbands were common stock. Well, I want to do whats right, but what must I go and do but fall in love with a German. H& s a civil engineer, and he was laying out a railroad aiid come to our house. Youd think he was a chump to look at him, but, say! lies just splen- did. Ma saw what was going on, and she ordered me not to write to him. I told him that, and he said for us to run away. Oh, hes immense, if he is a Ger- man. I let on I was real angry. I told him I was going to mind my mother, and he shouldnt put such ideas in my head. I scared him pale; but I liked him all the better; he was so cut up. But lie said All right, and we dont writeexcept he writes to my aunt, and I see the letters. We are waiting two years till Im twenty- one, and Im telling ma I love him three times a day so as to get her used to it. Shes praying for everything to happen to Jake, but, say! it takes more than prayer to kill a German, dont it? Our remarkable t~te-& -t~te was inter- rupted by the announcement of dinner, and we put the length of the cabin be- tween us. I never more than bade her the time of day, as the Irish say, after that, for it seemed more profitable to divide my time between the pilot-house and the towns ashore. At Columbus, Kentucky, we saw the first true Southern mansion, with its great columns in front and its wide ball through the middle. We began to make many stops in mid- stream to deliver the mail by a yawl, manned most skilfully by the second mate and several roustabouts. At Slough, Kentucky, we saw cotton fields and corn fields opposite one another, and felt that we were truly in the South. At every village the houses were emptied and the levee was crowded. Darkies were in profuse abundance, and forty were idle to every one who worked. Every woman and girl, white and black, had put on some one bright red garment, and the historic yellow girls made no more effort to hide the fact that they were chewing tobacco or snuff than the old negresses did to con- ceal the pipes that they smoked. Down and down we went with the cur- rent, and no longer noticed the deep snor- ing of the engine, or thought of the rush- ing world to the north and east. The table fare remained remarkably good, the nights rests were unbroken; never did I stop marvelling that the boat was not crowded with the tired men of business, to whom it offered the most perfect relief and rest. The hotel-keeper and her frank and beautiful daughter got off at a pictu- resque town fronted by great oaks. The daughter waved her hand at the pilot- house and called out, Ta-ta. There was mild excitement and much blowing of whistles when we passed our sister-boat the City of Monroe-the prize Anchor liner from Natchez. Hark! said the first mate in his so- ciety voice. Stop talking. Listen to her wheels on the water. Its music. Its for all the world like walnuts drop- ping off a tree. When she made her first big run the roustabouts got up a song about her: Did ye hear what the Monroe done? As the days went by it was apparent that the woods extended along both sides of the turbid river, with only here and there a clearing for a town or farm or house. The population does not cling to the shore ; it is too often overflowed. At Pecan Point (pecan is pronounced pecarn along the river) we saw the first green grass on February 23d, and the first great plantation. It was, as we have all read, a great clearing, a scatter- lug of negro cabins, and then the big mansion of the planter, surrounded by tidy white houses in numbers sufficient to form a village. Here a darky put a history of his life into a sentence. Being asked how he got along, he said: Oh, fairly, fairly, suh. Some days deres chicken all de day, but mo days deys only feathers. We saw the first cane- * THE OLD WAY TO DIXIE. 183 brake in great clumps, and as each cane The wheel was spun round, the boat was clad with leaves from top to bottom, turned into a new course, and presently the distant effect was that of thickets of the search-]ight was thrown upon the green bushes. We saw many little plan- very timber-studded reef they soughtas tations of a few acres each, usually with a flue an exhibition of knowledge, experi- government river light on the bank, and ence, and skill as I ever witnessed. consisting of a couple of acres of corn We now had Mississippi on the left and as much more of cotton. We learned and Arkansas on the right, and saw the that in this way thousands of negroes first commercial nionuments of the great have kept themselves since the war. We industry in cotton seed and its varied saw their log huts, their wagons, and the products. This was at Helena, Arkansas, inevitable mule, for a mule and a shot- and already, two days after Washing- gun are the first things that are bought, tons birthday, the weather had become by whites and blacks, in this region. so hot that the shade ~as grateful. The Memphis proved an unexpectedly lively negroes warmed to their incessant, labo- town, with a main street that was rather rious work, and the black processions to Western than Southern. Here the freight and from the shore at the frequent land- from and for the boat w~as handled in ings became leaping lines of garrulous surprisingly quick time, by means of an toilers. The river becomes very wide, endless belt railway something like a often miles wide, in long reaches, and tread mill. We left the dancing lights of at one part the boats officers pointed to the city, and moved out into a pall of where it is eating its way inland, and smoke suspended in fog, and then I saw said that a mile in the interior snags are how well and thoroughly the men in the found sitting up in the earth, far beneath pilot-house knew the mighty river. After the roots of the present trees, as they did a run of a few miles the captain declared in the old bottom, showing either that it unsafe to go farther. The electric the river was once many times wider search-light was thrown in all directions, than now, or that it has shifted to and but only illuminated a small circle closed fro as it continues to do. in by a fog-bank. In absolute, black To tell in detail what we saw and did darkness the pilot and the captain dis- during two more days; how we saw green cussed the character of the shores, to hit willows and then dogwood and jasmine in upon a hard bank with heavy timber to bloom, or even how Captain Carvell got which it would be safe to tie up. They out his straw hat at Elmwood, Mississippi, agreed that some unseen island across the would require a second article. We often stream and lower down would serve best. heard the familiar cry of Mark twain, Look out for the bar just above which Samuel D. Clemens took as his there, said the captain. nom dc plume, and a line about that may Yes, said the pilot; I know where be interesting. The Providence, laden she ~ down till her deck touched the water, A RAFT OF LOGS. 184 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. drew a little more than four feet, and though the river has a depth of 80 to 120 feet, there are places where bars made it necessary to take soundings. Whenever this was done a negro on the main-deck heaved the lead, and another on the sec- ond deck echoed his calls. These are the cries I heard, and when the reader under- stands that a fathom, or six feet, is the basis of calculation, he will comprehend the system. These, then, were the cries: Five feet. Six feet. Nine feet. Mark twain (12 feet). A quarter less twain (10-i feet)that is to say, a quarter of a fathom less than two fathoms. A quarter twain (13 feet). Mark three (18 feet). A quarter less three. A quarter three (19k feet). Deep four. No bottom. The tows that we saw were too peculiar to miss mention. On this river the loads are towed before instead of behind. The principle underlying the custom is that of the wheelbarrow, and is necessi- tated by the curves in this, the crookedest large river in the world. The barges and fiats are fastened solidly ahead of the tug-boat iii a great fan-shaped mass, and the steamer backs and pushes and grad- ually turns the bulk as if it had hold of the handles of a barrow in a crooked lane. We saw a famous boat, the Wilson, from Pittsburg, come along behind a low black island. It proved to be a tow of large, low, uncovered barges, thirty of them, each carrying 1000 tons. She was there- fore pushing $105,000 worth of freight, for the coal sells in New Orleans at $3 50 a ton. The work of propelling these tows is so ingenious that the pilots are handsomely paid. They cannot drive their loads; they merely guide them, and a mistake or bad judgment in a bend niay cost thousands of dollars through a wreck. The barges are made of merely inch-and- a-half stuff, cost $700 each, and are seldom used twice. They are sold to wreckers. This is in the region where the levees, that are said to have cost $150,000,000, line the river-side through whole States mere banks of earth such as railways are built on where fillings are required. Some of these are far away from the water, and some are close beside it; some are earthy, some are grassy, and some are heaped up with banks of Cherokee roses that blossom in bouquets of hundreds of yards in length. These are the levees into which the crawfish dig and the water eats, and we read of crevasses that follow and destroy fortunes or submerge coun- ties. But they are mere iucidents in the laziest, most alluring and refreshing, jour- ney that one tired man ever enjoyed. 4 w PROLETARIAN PARIS. BY THEODORE CHILD. I. FROM the fashionable boulevard east- ward to the great manufacturing and commercial quarters of Paris the transi- tion is easy and rapid. We have only to follow the main thoroughfare as far as the Bastille, and to wander along the great arteries like the Rue Montmartre, the boulevards de Strasbourg and S6basto- pol, the faubourgs du Temple, St. -Mar- tin, St.-Antoine, and the labyrinth of old and new streets between the principal boulevards and the Seine. In the elegant quarters of Paris, where more or less refined materialism reigns triumphant, we have a tendency to for- get the serious aspect of Paris. We are struck rather by the superficial and agree- able phases of the life of the capital which constitutes such an amusing show, and which even M. Ernest Renan admits to be a good furnace wherein to consume that surplus of life which is not absorbed by science and philosophy. In this elegant Paris we remark that virtue is never aggressive, and although solemnly cele- brated once a year at the French Acade- my on the occasion of the distribution of the Monthyon prizes, virtue, we feel sure, is not appreciated. Nay, more, the prizes which the Academy awards for the encouragement of virtue are so small that they are practical approbations of vice, while the speeches made by the em- inent Academicians who are selected to record the virtuous achievements of the laureates are generally so full of para- dox and delicate persiflage that none can mistake the poor esteem in which the austere practice of virtue is held. Nevertheless, we must not pay too much attention to the bilateral and del- iquescent utterances of Academic wits, even though they may be grave philos- ophers and profound thinkers in their more serious moments. Without virtue no commonwealth can prosper. With- out stability, peace, and order no city can achieve riches and splendor. In reality Paris has been much calum- niated by the Parisians themselves, and there are no more active slanderers of the capital than the journalists. At least so it would appear, for the newspaper re- ports about Paris are constantly alarm- ing, and yet the prosperity of the city goes on increasing. But the readers of news- papers do not perhaps understand the special conditions of the journalistic in- dustry; they do not bear in mind that the journalist esteems a fact not in vir- tue of its importance, but of its novelty. From years end to years end a million and a half of people work in Paris eight or ten hours a day. This is an impor- tant fact, but it is not new, and so the newspapers do not mention it. A score of politicians meet and draw up a crazy manifesto, and immediately the fact, be- ing new, is telegraphed to the ends of the earth. The man who reads the newspa- pers without comprehending the princi- ples of journalism, gathers erroneous ideas, impairs his digestion, and renders himself conversationally tiresome, be- cause when he arrives in Paris and ac- quires more exact notions of reality, he proceeds to marvel at the calmness of the population, the activity of business of all kinds, and the prosperity of the city in general. Furthermore, the foreign critics of French affairs rarely make allowance for the difference between the diapason of their own country and that of Paris where in political controversy, for in- stance, to call an adversary an assassin is a comparatively innocent pleasantry, while in literary controversy such terms of abuse as scoundrel and idiot are the usual accompaniment of the preliminary amenities which lead up to a bloodless duel. The Parisians are so democratic that Hottentot ladies and dethroned kings can circulate freely in the streets without at- tractino~ the slightest attention. Even Oscar Wilde, in the palmy days of his vestimen tary eccentricity, passed unno- ticed in the streets of Paris. In proleta- rian and in elegant Paris alike there is complete liberty of locomotion; the city belongs to the citizens, and its beauties and conveniences are for the common joy of rich and poor. We are therefore free to wander and to observe the prodigious contrasts of the monster. The scene is laid at tIme entrance of the bridge over the Seine close to Notre Dame. In the background are the un- mense buildings of the H6tel Dieu, the

Theodore Child Child, Theodore Proletarian Paris 185-198

PROLETARIAN PARIS. BY THEODORE CHILD. I. FROM the fashionable boulevard east- ward to the great manufacturing and commercial quarters of Paris the transi- tion is easy and rapid. We have only to follow the main thoroughfare as far as the Bastille, and to wander along the great arteries like the Rue Montmartre, the boulevards de Strasbourg and S6basto- pol, the faubourgs du Temple, St. -Mar- tin, St.-Antoine, and the labyrinth of old and new streets between the principal boulevards and the Seine. In the elegant quarters of Paris, where more or less refined materialism reigns triumphant, we have a tendency to for- get the serious aspect of Paris. We are struck rather by the superficial and agree- able phases of the life of the capital which constitutes such an amusing show, and which even M. Ernest Renan admits to be a good furnace wherein to consume that surplus of life which is not absorbed by science and philosophy. In this elegant Paris we remark that virtue is never aggressive, and although solemnly cele- brated once a year at the French Acade- my on the occasion of the distribution of the Monthyon prizes, virtue, we feel sure, is not appreciated. Nay, more, the prizes which the Academy awards for the encouragement of virtue are so small that they are practical approbations of vice, while the speeches made by the em- inent Academicians who are selected to record the virtuous achievements of the laureates are generally so full of para- dox and delicate persiflage that none can mistake the poor esteem in which the austere practice of virtue is held. Nevertheless, we must not pay too much attention to the bilateral and del- iquescent utterances of Academic wits, even though they may be grave philos- ophers and profound thinkers in their more serious moments. Without virtue no commonwealth can prosper. With- out stability, peace, and order no city can achieve riches and splendor. In reality Paris has been much calum- niated by the Parisians themselves, and there are no more active slanderers of the capital than the journalists. At least so it would appear, for the newspaper re- ports about Paris are constantly alarm- ing, and yet the prosperity of the city goes on increasing. But the readers of news- papers do not perhaps understand the special conditions of the journalistic in- dustry; they do not bear in mind that the journalist esteems a fact not in vir- tue of its importance, but of its novelty. From years end to years end a million and a half of people work in Paris eight or ten hours a day. This is an impor- tant fact, but it is not new, and so the newspapers do not mention it. A score of politicians meet and draw up a crazy manifesto, and immediately the fact, be- ing new, is telegraphed to the ends of the earth. The man who reads the newspa- pers without comprehending the princi- ples of journalism, gathers erroneous ideas, impairs his digestion, and renders himself conversationally tiresome, be- cause when he arrives in Paris and ac- quires more exact notions of reality, he proceeds to marvel at the calmness of the population, the activity of business of all kinds, and the prosperity of the city in general. Furthermore, the foreign critics of French affairs rarely make allowance for the difference between the diapason of their own country and that of Paris where in political controversy, for in- stance, to call an adversary an assassin is a comparatively innocent pleasantry, while in literary controversy such terms of abuse as scoundrel and idiot are the usual accompaniment of the preliminary amenities which lead up to a bloodless duel. The Parisians are so democratic that Hottentot ladies and dethroned kings can circulate freely in the streets without at- tractino~ the slightest attention. Even Oscar Wilde, in the palmy days of his vestimen tary eccentricity, passed unno- ticed in the streets of Paris. In proleta- rian and in elegant Paris alike there is complete liberty of locomotion; the city belongs to the citizens, and its beauties and conveniences are for the common joy of rich and poor. We are therefore free to wander and to observe the prodigious contrasts of the monster. The scene is laid at tIme entrance of the bridge over the Seine close to Notre Dame. In the background are the un- mense buildings of the H6tel Dieu, the 186 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. great hospital, and the tall roofs of the barracks, where soldiers and policemen are lodged by the thousand. In the mid- dle distance, behind a curtain of trees and shrubs, stands the colossal statue of Charlemagne, Carolus Magnus, the great King of the Franks, the man of iron. To the right is the storied fa9ade of Notre Dame. In the foreground are Bi- jou and the P~re La Gloire, rag-pickers, chiffonnicrs or biffins, as they call them- selves. The wealth of Paris is so boundless that the rubbish and refuse of the city is worth millions. There are more than fifty thousand persons who earn a living by picking up what others throw away. Twenty thousand women and children exist by sifting and sorting the gather- ings of the pickers, who collect every day in the year about 1200 tons of merchan- dise, which they sell to the wholesale rag-dealers for some 70,000 francs. At night you see men with baskets strapped on their backs, a lantern in one hand, and in the other a stick with an iron hook on the end. They walk along rapidly, their eyes fixed on the ground, over which the lantern flings a sheet of light, and what- ever they find in the way of paper, rags, bones, grease, metal, etc., they stow away in their baskets. In the morning, in front of each house, you see men, women, and children sifting the dust-bins before they are emptied into the scavengers~ carts. At various hours of the day you may remark isolated rag - pickers, who seem to work with less method than the others and with a more independent air. The night pickers are generally novices; men who, having been thrown out of work, are obliged to hunt for their living like the wild beasts. The morning pickers are experienced and regular workers, who pay for the privilege of sifting the dust- bins of a certain number of houses and of trading with the results. The rest, the majority, are the coureurs, the run- ners, who exercise their profession freely and without control, working when they please and loafing when they please. They are the philosophers and advent- urers of the profession, and their chief ob- ject is to enjoy life and meditate upon its problems. Such men are Bijou and the P~re La Gloire. The latter works with consider- able regularity, and lives in the Quartier Mouffetard with a vast colony of rag- pickers, who are, for the most part, the ernploy~s as well as the tenants of a mas- ter rag - picker. The Pare La Gloires specialty, when he works, is paper and rags. Bijon, on the other hand, consid- ers these articles too cumbersome, and prefers to collect cigar stumps and frag- ments of cigarettes, for which there is a regular market in the poor quarters of the capital. As we see him, with his cap pulled down over his eyes, he has just come up the stairs from a quiet corner of the quay, where he has been sorting his harvest of m~gots, or stumps, separating the various qualities, and preparing his wares for sale to the special dealers. His pockets are full of tobacco, and his clothes emit a smell of stale smoke nun- gled with various perfumes of unwashed- ness and misery. Nevertheless, his man- nei~s are those of a free and independent citizen; he has stopped to talk politics with the Pare La Gloire; his dominant idea is liberty. Indeed, Bijou esteems his own liberty so dearly that he has never consented to compromise it even so far as to have a domicile of any kind. In summer he sleeps on the benches of the public promenades or under the bridges of the Seine. In winter he makes the round of the night refuges, staying in each one the maximum of time permit- ted by the rules and then passing to an- other one. Both Bijou and the Pare La Gloire drink the most deleterious and scarifying alcohol that was ever distilled; they live in filth and often in the deepest misery; but they enjoy the priceless priv- ilege of liberty, and altogether their ex- istence is not without a certain prestige. They play a r6le in the life of Paris, and the nature of their occupation reveals to them the disenchantment of Parisian ex- istence, the crumpled newspaper, the bro- ken bust, the faded bouquet, in contrast with the splendor of wealth, the beauty of youth, and the fascinations of fame, which they are ab}e to contemplate as well as those whom fortune has favored more highly, for Bijou picks up cigar stumps under the tables of the Cafe de la Paix, and the P~re La Gloire sifts the dust-bin of the Baron de Rothschild. II. Of misery in Paris there is no lack, but it is not obtrusive as in certain cities like London, for instance. In the districts of Grenelle, Montparnasse, Le 4 BIJOU AND THE P]~RE LA GLOIRE. 188 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. CITIZEN COUSIN. Maine, Montrouge, PlaisanCe, Gentilly, Maison Blanche, La GlaCi~re, the strug- gle for life is hard indeed, and the ma- terial Conditions in whiCh the workino- people live are very wretched. The pro- miscuity of the tenement-houses is too horrible to be described. In the district of the Gobelins, the Boulevard Arago, the banks of the Bi~vre, and the Rue Mouffetard, side by side with the labori- ous population we find great colonies of bohemians, d~class~s, people who have missed fortunes coach, and who are tired of life. In this part of the city live many iag-pickers, swarms of Italians who make plaster casts or serve as models for artists, a certain number of nihilist refugees, and poor Russian and Wallachian students. The aspect of humble Paris on the left bank of the Seine is strangely disheart- ened, unstrung, full of silence and de- spair. On the right bank of the Seine the citadel of labor and poverty seems, on the contrary, full of life and energy. Charonne, Menilmontant, Belleville, La Villette, La Chapelle, Clignancourt, Mont- martre, Les Epinettes, Batignolles, each district formerly an independent village with its central street, have become amal- gamnated into one vast centre of popula- tion, traversed by endless streets and broad avenuesRue des Pyr~ndes, Rue de Crimie, Rue Ordener, Rue Curial, Rue Marcadet, Rue de Belleville, Rue Ober- kampf, Chaussde Clignancourt, Avenue de la Rdpublique, Boulevard de Ia Cha- pelle, Boulevard de Belleville, etc. In these quarters are concentrated two-thirds of the population of Paris. On these heights, that form, as it were, a crown above rich Paris, some of the houses con- tain as many as two hundred inmates, and the streets are so crowded that you cannot see the pavement except at night. Here are the reservoirs of poverty and of energy that burst and flood Paris in days of revolution; here are the inexhaustible reserves of cheap labor that make the wealth of manufacturing Paris. What swarms of people! What a fer- mentation of various activity! What a perpetual straining and struggling! And yet, with all that, there is no obvious sad- ness and very little obtrusive discontent. On the contrary, the people are gay and much given to witticisms and levity; they enjoy the bustle and animation of their surroundings; and they have only to walk a few yards in any direction to find those broad shady avenues and those fine nrban parks which the traditions of Haussmann have extended even to the poorest quarters of the city. Witness the parks of the Buttes Chaumont and Mont- souris, the tree - planted squares, the in- numerable gardens and airy spaces that have been reserved in the Inost thickly populated districts, to say nothing of the green mounds of the fortifications, where the proletarian youths and maidens love to rusticate and record in mural inscrip- tions their exploits and their plighted troth. Nowadays the ebullient populations of Montmartre and Belleville, the electors of Gambetta, seem to take less interest in politics than formerly; the organ izatioll of the working-mens party, of the an- archists, and of the revolutionary clubs has been broken up by internal divisions. The people, too, are rather tired of sweep- ing claims and universally destructive 4 / ~ PROLETARIAN PARIS. 189 programmes, having learnt by experi- ence that there is little to be gained by howling with the demagogues. Now and then you hear of some meeting where the young local politicians make wild speech- es, and where some dreamer possessed by a fixed idea stands on his feet, unrolls his scrap of manuscript, and, with the vio- lence of hallucination, expresses his im- perious desire that all children should become acquainted with the code of the laws of the land Je veux que les en- fants apprennent le code. But the great agitators, the survivors of the Commune, the evil ~eniuses who led the mob during the disasters of 1871, the theorists and viejiles barbes of the empire what has become of them? Most of them have disappeared or retired from active service. The famous cit- izen Jules Allix, for instance, who pointed the cannon from Belleville in 1871, is now a peace- ful and somewhat crazy old gen- tleman, who, since the amnesty restored him to the free enjoy- ment of life in the capital, has been teaching little girls to read in the school of Mile. Barbe- rousse. Allix is quite a historical char- acter according to his own ac- count, and an excellent example of the queer semi-intellectual and ill-balanced fanatics who have caused so much harm to France with their vain theories and their sinister doings. This thin, waxen-faced, gray-bearded old man with drooping eyelids and eager gray eyes, that acquire a strange visual obliquity when lie begins to talk about his ex- ploits and his aspirations, is a victim of the pride of science, and an exaniple of how danger- ous a thing is a little learning. In 1840, at the age of twenty- two, he came to Paris as a law- yers clerk, and instead of at- tending to his business, lie pro- ceeded to invent a system of teaching people to read in fif- teen hoursa system so mar- vellous that the Pope made all sorts of advances to Allix, wish- ing him to go to Rome and ex- plain it. But Allix refused bluntly, being convinced that the Jesuits were behind the Pope. The Jesuits, he will tell you, wished to get hold of me. Thanks to my method of teaching to read, I was a force. They were afraid of this force, and wished to monopolize it in order to be masters of the world. In 1848 Alhix entered the field of mili- tant politics with Victor Considdrant and the Phalansterians. After the coup detat of 1851, seeing many friends in exile, he began to conspire against the empire. I was the origin of the affair of the Hip- CITIZEN JULE5 ALLIX AND 1115 PORTFOLIO. 190 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. podrome, he goes on to say. I was the origin of the affair of the Opdra Comique, which very nearly succeeded, and caused me to be banished for eight years, which I spent in Brussels and Jersey. Then I came back to Paris and began to organize the Commune. It was I who found the formula. What! have they elaborated a formula of government? exclaimed Thiers, with surprise. Thiers! I know not why I mention him, for he was a scoundrel. Yes, monsieur, we had our formula of government, and if it had not been for the war, we should have suc- ceeded. After 1871 I was condemned to ten years imprisonment in a fortified place, unc enccintc fort iJhi~c, and as Paris is a fortified place, I thought I might as well remain there. This plan I carried out by remaining hidden, first of all in the Rue de Turenne, and then at Neuilly, where I staid for six years in the same room, not daring to show myself even at the window, for the janitor, of course, did not know that I was in the house. Dur- ing these six years I evolved my plan for the canalization of the Seine, about which I will give you my pamphlets, monsieur. And citizen Jules Allix opens his vo- luminous portfolio, and from bundles of papers he extracts Plan cinquante et uni~ime A. Canalisation de la Seine. Pro- jet brevetd du citoyen Jules Allix. As for myself, continues the vague apostle of mischief, I have no pride. I have neither pride nor modesty. I ani speaking to you as a public man, but that is only one of the phases of my activity. I am at once doctor, philoso- pher, lawyer, and inventor. I am fa- miliar with science, mysticism, asceti- cism, magnetism. I know life and death, the past, the present, and the future. I am a revolutionist and a benefactor of humanity, and vice-president of the Wo- mens League. Yes, and with all these qualities and all these titles to glory, citizen Jules Allix is an usher at twenty dollars a month in Mlle. Barberousses school for little girls, near the Hotel de Ville, and he is much respected in the neighborhood by the humble parents whose daughters he teaches to read by the very excel- lent method which the Jesuits wished to monopolize. So MIle. Barberousses lit- tle school prospers in a modest way, and towards noon the man who has refused millions, and been the cause of many of the horrors and disasters of the Commune, may be seen trotting along the street car- rying a milk-can and two plates of meat, his own dinner and that of Mlle. Bar- berousse, which he has bought at a cheap cook shop at the corner of the street. III. In the morning and in the evening the animation in the great faubourgs of Paris and in the streets that descend from the heights towards the city is most curious. In the morning the populace, men and women, ~irls and boys, swarms down to conquer Paris and to earn its bread; in the evening it turns its back upon Paris and regains the heights. Each movement produces a thronging of human forms that passes all description. In a street like the Rue Oberkampf, for instance one may see this swarm of human bees in all the intensity and fulness of its life and variety. The street is a r~sum6 of popu- lar Paris, with its houses like pigeon-cotes, each family narrowly lodged in an ex- iguous box, its shops where everything is neatly displayed according to the tradi- tions, the shelled pease on a black cloth, which sets off the freshness of their green color, the meat ~with artistic arabesques cut in the fat, the shoes in goodly order, and the cheap newspapers, the songs and ballads, strung up daintily in symmetrical rows. On the facades are innumerable signs, and on the door - posts are signs, plates, and inscriptions above inscrip- tions, indicating the whereabouts in the house of this and that modest manufac- turer, who lives, labors, and raises a fam- ily in a room no bigger than a horse-box. How nicely everything is ticketed and arranged! In art, in literature, in life and its organization, the French have a remarkable daintiness and completeness. Each man to his trade and each thing in its place seems to be their motto, and let it be at once evident what is each mans trade and what the place of each thing. See the omnibus as it comes down the street; its model has been carefully stud- ied and approved ne varietur by the Prefecture of Police; the coachman wears a hat and jacket of one shape, and the conductor a cap and jacket of another shape, while at the stations the control- lers wear yet a third variety of uniform; and the result is a certain reposeful neat- ness and a grateful absence of surprises. The movements of this omnibus, and the 4 PROLETARIAN PARIS. 191 action of the driver and the conductor, in all circumstances, have been foreseen and set forth in minute rules and regulations. ~ There is no country in the world where there are more rules and regulations than in France. The French like to be regu- lated, and in spite of all the vain talk of recent years about liberty and equality, the latter is the aim of none. Look at the dress of the French. The ideal seems to be a uniform of some kind that will distinguish one man from another. The deputies and journalists carry volumi- nous portfolios under their arms; the poets, who command untamable flocks of unforeseen images and countless throngs of striking epithets, affect long hair, strange hats, flowing cravats, and gen- eral singularity of dress; the employ6s of the banks and financial establishments wear distinctive liveries ; the working- men all have some peculiarity of costume which at once indicates their occupation. The people are not the slaves of fashion, like the upper and middle classes; they devise their costume according to their own taste, and with a view to conven- ience. The carpenter wears a loose blouse, brown or blue velvet trousers, tight round the ankles, very large around the thighs, and girt with a splendid scar- let sash. The locksmith wears a short light-blue jacket, as neatly fitted as that of a Spanish bull-fighter, while across his shoulder is strung by a broad strap the box of tools. The butcher wears a white apron, a violet or pale rose shirt that leaves the arms bare, and a trousseau of knives hanging at his girdle. Then there are the market porters, with immense white felt hats; the coal - dealers from Auvergne, with their green velvet trou- sers; the furniture - makers, with black aprons ; the sewer-men, the chimney- sweeps, the coal-heavers, the masons, the nietal - workers, the grocers, all wearing a special dress or some detail of dress that makes them immediately recogniz- able. In vain the Belle Jardini~re and a doz- en other vast stores offer ready - made clothes for the million, jackets cut by machinery, and suits of aggravating uni- foimity. The Parisian working-man will only wear such clothes on great occa- sions, like a funeral or a marriage, or on Sundays, when he tries to ape tIme mid- dle classes. A marriage is always a great event in popular Paris, and whether it be that of a working - man, of a shopkeeper, or of a well-to-do manufacturer who gives a handsome dowry to his daughter, it at- tracts the attention of the whole neigh- borhood. In order to get duly married in popular Paris there are three formalities which tradition has made absolutely indispen- sablegoing to the town-hall for the civil marriage, going to church for the re- ligious marriage, and going to the Bois. In closed carriages or in open landaus, in omnibuses or breaks drawn by three or four horses, according as the wedding is more or less distinguished, the party rides out to the Bois de Boulogne, makes the tour of the lakes, and halts at the Cafe de Ia Cascade or at the cheaper cafes outside the gates at Suresnes. The programme is invariable. While the coachmen take a CITIZEN JTJLE5 ALLIX RETURNING FROM THE coox sHor. 192 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. drink, the cortege visits the cascade, that little artificial Switzerland which the genius of M. Aiphand has concentrated within a space of two hundred square yards. The bride, the bridegroom, the bridemaids, the groomsmen, the parents, and the guests climb up the steps and pass along the gallery under the cascade, whose waters form a liquid crystal cur- tain, through which is seen the magnifi- cent panorama of the plain of Longchamps and the soft hills of Suresnes and Saint- Cloud. Then follows further driving in the fine avenues of the Bois, the Avenue des Champs Elysdes, and the boulevards, and so to the various restaurants of dif- ferent grades that make a specialty of wedding feastsGillet, Lemardelay, Vd- four, or the more modest restaurants of the environs and of the faubourgs. The table has a joyous aspect in all these es- tablishments; it is laid with art and served with apparent abundance, whatever the price may be; and the wedding guests are joyous and noisy until order is called for the speeches and songs. In a popular Parisian wedding the bride has to sing her little song like the rest. The poet of the family recites some verses, and every- body has something to say, to sin~, or to do, insomuch that a wedding dinner is often merely a pretext for eloquence and amateur histrionic talent. Are not the Gauls essentially artists and orators, as Julius Cmesar remarked centuries ago? The great day for popular weddings in Paris is Saturday. On that day the stu- dent of character, physiognomy, gesture, and expression has only to wander about the main thoroughfares of the capital and go and sit at the cafds of Suresnes or at the Cafd de la Cascade in order to see a more varied and amusing collection of human creatures in their best clothes than can be seen anywhere else in the world. IXT. The life of Paris is so inexhaustible a theme that we might write about it from one years end to another, as the Pari- sians themselves do in their newspapers and books. Military Paris, political Paris, studious Paris, artistic Paris, religious Pariseach and all abound in types, sug- gestions, and interest. Perhaps, however, popular Paris is least known to the for- eigner, and therefore we may do well to pay a visit to one of those modest house- holds of the manufacturing quarters to which we have already briefly referred, choosing amon~st the most comfortable rather than amongst the most miserable. In the Rue Vieille du Temple, the centre of the manufacture of those miscellane- ous objects known as articles de Paris~7 at the corner of the Rue Barbette, is a gray old house built in the seventeenth century. At the end of a dark passage is a small court-yard, where the janitor and his wife dwell in a dismal den, over the door of which is written the tradi- tional inscription, Parlez au concierge. We mount an old-fashioned staircase, and on the fifth fiat, on a door framed in a very thick wall, we read these words, painted in white on a small black plate: A. SALOMON, FABRIQUE DR PATINS A ROUlETTES ET JOURTS. Old M. Salomonhe is seventy-three years of ageall smiles, opens the door, and introduces us into his manufactory of roller-skates and toys. We pass through the dining-room, which is comfortably furnished. On the walls are a crayon portrait of M. Salomons mother, who won a Monthyon prize for virtue in her day, and died at the age of 105, a portrait of M. Salomon himself, and a colored photograph of Mlle. Salomon in the cos- tume of a ballet-dancer. The buffet and the table are covered with caskets in the form of Swiss chalets, which open and reveal queer little dolls drawing-rooms furnished with toy chairs and sofas up- holstered in blue, rose, and tinsel, with mirrors on the walls, and all the acces- sories of elegance and comfort. Other chalet caskets are surrounded by gardens. These are specimens of the productions of the establishment. We lift up a curtain and enter the workshop, which is also the bedroom. It is a low garret, with a window occupying an entire side. In one corner is a bed; in another corner a wash-stand;. in the centre a little cast-iron stove, that serves both for heating and for cooking pur- poses; and the rest of the room is taken up by a treadle lathe and work-tables, while the walls are covered with tools, shelves, and unmounted pieces of toys and chalets, all ready sawn into shape. Ma- dame Salomon sits at a table varnishing a chalet casket; old Salomon resumes his work of mounting roller-skates;~ by the side of the bed, which is strewn with 4 w z 0 w 0 0 Q z 194 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. costumes, bandboxes, and bright-colored muslin, Mile. Rachelor Checliel, as she is familiarly calledis busy disentangling a bundle of ribbons and tinsel braid. Chechel is a bony, angular, and homely woman of about thirty, a ballet - dancer by profession. While Paul Renouard makes his draw- ing of this curious and touching interior, we gossip hour after hour about all sorts of things. We discuss horticulture & pro- ~08 of the nasturtiums and sweet-pease that are planted in pots on the window- sill, together with a box of barley that is grown for the cats benefit. For more than a year the cat has been sick. Inflammation of the stomach, mon- sieur, says Madame Salomon, kissing the cats face ecstatically. Poor pussy cannot digest. Is there no remedy, madame? No monsieur. Every morning we give him two eggs and some milk, but lie is beyond hope; we shall lose him soon. How old is he? Only eight years. Alas! he will die young; but he will have had a pleasant life as long as it lasted, and been a fine tomcata fine, dear, darling tomcat. It will be a cruel blow to us to lose him. And Madame Salomon once more kiss- es the poor lean cat, Chechel joins in the chorus of lamentations, and the emaciated animal receives more ecstatic caresses. In order to interrupt the current of dismal thoughts produced by the incident of the cats malady, I draw out old Salo- mon, who in his day was a sort of Han- lon-Lee, a circus tumbler and a dancer, and who, like all artists, is gifted with a considerable dose of vanity. He tells us about his ddbut at Paris at the old Cirque, and how one day that he wore a very pretty Bohemian costume he noticed in the greenroom during the entracte a gentleman holding a sheet of paper at which everybody was looking. He ap- proached, and recognized his own portrait. The ~entleman asked him if he would like to have it, and handed it to him, after signil)g it with the initials P. D. It was Paul Delaroche, monsieur,~~ adds old Salomon, with pride, as he con- cludes his story. But I have the por- trait no longer. Somebody took it. Did you know Meyerbeer? I ask. No, monsieur; Meyerbeer was before my time. And then, when one is young, one does not pay attention. I knew Per- rot very well. He was the last of the great dancers. Nowadays there are no male dancers left. There are acrobats, men with strong legs; but the dancer ought not to make a display of his strength; his aim should rather be to show his gracefulness; on the stage he ought not to look like a man, but like something vapory. Que voulcz-vous, Monsieur Salomon ? I said. The old and good traditions are no longer observed. No, monsieur; modern dancing has been ruined by the Italian system. The pupils are allowed to dance at liberty too soon. A dancer ought to work at least two years at the bar, making all the movements and gaining perfect elasticity before he dances on the floor at liberty without holding the bar. With the Ital- ian system you get excellent sujets, who execute all the steps well, but who go no further, and who never become artists. Chechel, who has just returned from a tour in the provinces, where she has been dancing at Lihle and at the Grand Thda- tre de Valenciennes is as ardent as her old father in defending the classical dance. Meanwhile she goes on unravelling the pretty confusionthat she has on her knees, and winds up carefully each length of rib- bon and of tinsel that can be used again. Chechel, who figures on play-bills as Mile. Rachel Mistral, premi~re dan- sense, is as interesting a character as her old father. She is an impresario on a small scale, and provides ballets for the provincial theatres, together with dan- cers, costumes, music, and all. Lately, she tells us, she mounted ten ballets in one month. Good heavens ! I exclaimed. And how do you manage it, mademoiselle? To begin at the beginning, how do you start? I start with a musician, monsieur. I say to him, Play me this and play me that; and when he plays a few measures that please me I say, Note that and note that; and so I combine a little score, with adagios, pizzicatos, variations, and the rest. Then I go to an agency and engage two second dancers and eight coryph~es, and thus form my company, with myself as premi~re and maitresse de ballet. Then we rehearse, and I teach the women their variations and get their costumes ready, and we go wherever I have an engage- ment. You make your costumes yourself? 4 PROLETARIAN PARIS. 195 Yes, monsieur; for the provinces it would be impossible otherwise. I could not afford to buy the costumes. I pro- vide everything at so much a week. No, it is not an easy life. Things do not always go on smoothly. And the wo- men I have to take with me gracious heavens, monsieur, you cannot imagine what trouble I have sometimes And turning to her mother, who has finished her chalet-coifrets and is now busy making artificial flowers, Chechel continues: You remember, mamma, la Bugeaud, that pretty little girl who was so beauti- fully made and so innocent-looking? Al- coholic, mamma, morphinomaniac, and full of vices that I cannot name. Thereupon Mlle. Rachel entered into minute details about this girl drinking a bottle of gin a day, that one being a thief, and another one scandalizing everybody by her amorous caprices. Then she de- scribed her own life in the provincesthe humble furnished lodgings where she cooks her own food on a portable petro- leum-stove; the desertion of the dancers whom she has to replace by her own ef- forts ; the cold theatres, the coughs and bronchitis, the managers who fail and do not payall the thousand and one woes and disappointments of the lower walks of the theatrical profession, where a pro- digious sum of efforts is necessary in or- der to earn a ridiculously small profit. All this Rachel relates gayly as she un- ravels her ribbons. And with all that, adds Madame Salomon, it is not like the Opdra, where there are as many off nights as working nights. No comtinues Rachel; we have to dance every night, and every night a dif- ferent ballet. In the provinces the pub- lic at the theatre is the same every night. so that we are obliged to vary. To me it is all one, but the others, you know, they get mixed up sometimes and cannot re- member their variations; and then, while I am dancing, I have to prompt them, saying adagio, or pizzicato variation, or Come on; it is the coda. The coda, you know, is the end. You must be worn out after a month or two of work like thata fresh ballet every night, rehearsals in the afternoon performance in the evening, to say no- thing of looking after your women and their costumes. Yes, monsieur, it is hard work; but I am accustomed to it. I eat well. Mamma has taught me to like good food. I do not drink as much as one bottle of wine in a whole month, and never a spot of liqueur of any kind. My feet, too, are al- ways in good order. My forte is pointes. My great toe nail is double the natural thickness, and I never have to cut it. And mamma has taught me a dodge for the feethave you not, mamma? Oui, ma cocote, replies the mother, addressing Mlle. Rachel as if she were still a baby. An excellent system, mon- sieur. It is a state secret; do not reveal it. I rub her feet with horse fat melted in a ham-marie. I rub her spinal column with horse fat too, and thenproot!... she jumps as high as the ceiling. Ah! monsieur, exclaims old Salo- mon with enthusiasm, ma flue cest du feu, quand elle ne danse pas elle est malade (when she does not dance she is sick). Mean while, Madame Salomon, with her spectacles on, because she is making mourning flowers - oh! otherwise she would need no spectacles, although she is seventy years of age, but the black is difficult to see - Madame Salomon con- tinues to make black daisies, cutting the pompons with scissors, dipping the tops into a gallipot of black gum, and then into a box containing glistening scales of black gelatine, to make the grain of the heart of the flower. How busy you seem, Madame Salo- mon I I say. I must make haste. I have to finish the gross by to-morrow night. It is the first time I have made mourning flow- ers. Did you make those roses too ? I asked, pointing to some artificial roses stuck in a potato fixed on the point of an iron stand beside her. Yes, but they are very ordinary. I know all kinds of rosesMar~chal Niel, Souvenir de Ia Malmaison, tea-roses any variety you like to name I can make. I have a diploma from the ex-Qucen of Spain appointing me purveyor to her ex- Majestys court, but we are none the richer for that. It was during the em- pire. I had an establishment of my own then, whereas now I have to work for others. ~ And the daisies? They are mourning flowers for Italy; 0 z z z 0 0 z r~i z 0 PROLETARIAN PARIS. 197 here are some gray half-mourning flowers for Belgium; the death of Prince Bau- douin has made the business very lively this winter. Ah! if the Queen of Eng- land would only die, what a demand there would be for mourning flowers! I could not make enough. In the mental excitement produced by this thought the old lady sneezes. God bless you, mem~re! says Rachel. Oui, ma cocote, merci, replies Ma- dame Salomon, as she continues her little story. I make these daisies for three francs a gross. A regular worker would make a gross in a single day. I take two days, working about six hours each day, because I have to do the cooking for Bibi [her husband] and Chechelso I earn only five cents an hour. These flowers, monsieur, are worth, at the trade price, about three cents each. The cost of the material, of course, has to be calcu- lated. I do not furnish the material. All that is bought wholesale. The petals are cut out and stamped by machinery; the gelatine for the grain, the aniline colors for dyeing, the wire stalks, the fine nain- sook, the wireall the raw material costs money. Toys, artificial flowers, roller-skates how many industries find shelter beneath this humble roof! Old Salomon manu- factures roller-skates, but besides that he is curator of the skates at the Op6ra, and professor of skating at the Opera. It is he, too, who paints the character heads at the Opera. His connection with the Op4ra is the glory and consolation of his whole existence. Unfortunately there is only one piece in which M. Salomons services are i~eed- ed, namely, Le Proph~te, where there is a skating scene in the ballet. Whenever Le Proph~ite is produced, Madame Salomon explains, papa re- ceives twenty-five francs for repairing the skates. And a franc and a half, fixed pay- ment, for attendance, adds the old man. The repairs, continues the old lady, cost always five or six francs, and the rest, fourteen or fifteen francs, is for us. ifteen francs are fifteen francs. We are 9 ~ot rich. And the character heads? That, monsieur, is an art, begins old Salomon. You need sentiment and experience. The epiderm must be seen through the color. In the opera of Le VOL. LxxXYI.No. 512.i 8 Mage I have twenty-four heads to paint in seventeen minutes. You dont say so! Twenty-four heads in seventeen minutes! Then you have to look sharp, eli? And do you give skating lessons at the Op6ra all the time? I give a lesson once a week, monsieur. The administration does not exact many lessons. All that is required is that when- ever Le Prophhte is played I shall have in readiness sixty - eight good skaters knowing the figures of the ballet. Ah! when they do play Le Prophhte I have my hands full. In the sixty-eight pairs of skates that are used I have no less than 4000 screws to look after, monsieur 4000 screws! Queue responsabilit~, mon- sieurquelle responsabilihi ! And the toys, Monsieur Salomon? Oh, that is a trade I never leatnt. I began en amateur, and although I have never given any information to anybody, my name is in the trade directory. We must remember, too, that the wholesale dealers have helped us a good deal, remarks Madame Salomon. The busy season is from July to November. Papa puts the toys together. I varnish them. I have always been complimented on my varnishing. And so Abraham and AnaYs and their daughter Rachel live happily and labori- ously, earning little, but content with littlethe old couple, like Philemon and Baucis, never addressing one another without some term of endearment; the middle-aged daughter gay, laborious, and happy like her parents, earning her liv- ing, and helping her mamma and her pep& e ch~ri when the times are hard, as they must be sometimes, for Le Pro- pht-te has not been played at the Op6ra for two years, foreign courts do not go into mourning every winter, and there are seasons when the wholesale dealers do not buy chalet-caskets by the gross. However, as conservateur des patins, professeur de patinage, and painter of character heads at the Opera, old Salomon is entitled to draw an annual salary of some eighty dollars, and to put on his cards, just like Mlle. Mauri or Ma- dame Krauss, A. Salonion (de lOp~ra). In the spectacle of Parisian life this slender and agile old man has his r6le to play, and he is happy in playing it. HORACE CHASE. BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. CHAPTER I. T Asheville, North Carolina, in the A year 1873, the spring had opened with its accustomed beauty. But one day there came a pure cold wind which swept through the mountain valley at tremen- dous speed from dawn to midnight. People who never succumb to mere com- fort did not relight their fires. But to the Franklin family comfort was a god- dess, and they would never have thought of calling her mere; delightful was their word, and Ruth would probably have said delicious. The fire in Mrs. Franklins parlor, therefore, having been piled with fresh logs at two oclock as an offering to this deity, was now, at four, sending out a ruddy glow. It was a fire that called forth Ruths highest approba- tion when she came liX, followed by her dog, Petie Trone, Esq. Not that Ruth had been facing the blast; she never went out from a sense of duty, and for her there was no pleasure in doing bat- tle with things that were disagreeable for the sake merely of conquering them. Ruth had come from her own room, where there was a fire also, but one not so generous as this, for here the old- fashioned hearth was broad and deep. The girl sat down on the rug before the blaze, and then, after a moment, she stretched herself out at full length there, with her head resting on her arm thrown back behind it. Its a pity, Ruth, that with all your little ways you are not little yourself, remarked Dolly Franklin, the elder sister. Such a whalelike creature sprawled on the floor isnt endearing; it looks like something out of Gulliver. Its always so, observed Mrs. Frank- lin, drowsily. Its the oddest thing in the worldbut people never will stay in character; they want to be something dif- ferent. Dont you remember that when- ever poor Sue Inness was asked to sing, the wee little body invariably chanted, Heres a health to King Charles, in as martial a voice as she could summon? Whereas Lucia Lewis, who is as big as a grenadier. always warbles softly some such thing as Call me pet names, dearest. Call me a bird. Bird! Mastodon would do better. Mastodon, Ruth commented. It is evident, His Grand, that you have seen Miss Billy to-day Ruth was not a whale, in spite of Dollys assertion. But she was tall, her shoulders had a marked breadth, and her arms were long. She was very slender and supple, and this slenderness, togeth- er with her small hands and feet, took away all idea of majesty in connection with her, tall though she was; one did not think of majesty, but rather of girlish merriment and girlish activity. Girlish indolence as well. Mrs. Franklin had once said: Ruth is either running, or jumping, or doing something in such haste that she is breathless; or else she is stretched out at full length on the carpet or the sofa, looking as though she never intended to move again ! The girl had a dark complexion with a rich color, and hair that was almost black; her slender face was lighted by blue eyes, with long thick black lashes which made a dark fringe round the blue. The persons who liked Ruth thought her beautiful; they asserted that her counte- nance had in it something which was cap- tivating. But others replied that though her friends might call her captivating if they pleased, since that word denotes merely a personal charm, they had no right to say that she was beautiful; for. as r~gards beauty, there are well-defined rules, and, with the sole exception of the eyes, the face of the second Miss Franklin transgressed every one of these canons. Ruths features were without doubt ir- regular. And especially was it true that her mouth was large. But the lips were exquisitely cut, and the teeth very white. Regarding her appearance as a whole, there was one fact (which had not yet been noticed), namely, that no man ever found fault with it; the criticism came always from feminine lips. And these critics spoke the truth. But they forgot. or rather they did not see, some of the compensations. There were people not a few, even in her own small circle, who did not look with favor upon Ruth; it was not merely, 0 they asserted, that she

Constance Fenimore Woolson Woolson, Constance Fenimore Horace Chase. A Novel 198-211

HORACE CHASE. BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. CHAPTER I. T Asheville, North Carolina, in the A year 1873, the spring had opened with its accustomed beauty. But one day there came a pure cold wind which swept through the mountain valley at tremen- dous speed from dawn to midnight. People who never succumb to mere com- fort did not relight their fires. But to the Franklin family comfort was a god- dess, and they would never have thought of calling her mere; delightful was their word, and Ruth would probably have said delicious. The fire in Mrs. Franklins parlor, therefore, having been piled with fresh logs at two oclock as an offering to this deity, was now, at four, sending out a ruddy glow. It was a fire that called forth Ruths highest approba- tion when she came liX, followed by her dog, Petie Trone, Esq. Not that Ruth had been facing the blast; she never went out from a sense of duty, and for her there was no pleasure in doing bat- tle with things that were disagreeable for the sake merely of conquering them. Ruth had come from her own room, where there was a fire also, but one not so generous as this, for here the old- fashioned hearth was broad and deep. The girl sat down on the rug before the blaze, and then, after a moment, she stretched herself out at full length there, with her head resting on her arm thrown back behind it. Its a pity, Ruth, that with all your little ways you are not little yourself, remarked Dolly Franklin, the elder sister. Such a whalelike creature sprawled on the floor isnt endearing; it looks like something out of Gulliver. Its always so, observed Mrs. Frank- lin, drowsily. Its the oddest thing in the worldbut people never will stay in character; they want to be something dif- ferent. Dont you remember that when- ever poor Sue Inness was asked to sing, the wee little body invariably chanted, Heres a health to King Charles, in as martial a voice as she could summon? Whereas Lucia Lewis, who is as big as a grenadier. always warbles softly some such thing as Call me pet names, dearest. Call me a bird. Bird! Mastodon would do better. Mastodon, Ruth commented. It is evident, His Grand, that you have seen Miss Billy to-day Ruth was not a whale, in spite of Dollys assertion. But she was tall, her shoulders had a marked breadth, and her arms were long. She was very slender and supple, and this slenderness, togeth- er with her small hands and feet, took away all idea of majesty in connection with her, tall though she was; one did not think of majesty, but rather of girlish merriment and girlish activity. Girlish indolence as well. Mrs. Franklin had once said: Ruth is either running, or jumping, or doing something in such haste that she is breathless; or else she is stretched out at full length on the carpet or the sofa, looking as though she never intended to move again ! The girl had a dark complexion with a rich color, and hair that was almost black; her slender face was lighted by blue eyes, with long thick black lashes which made a dark fringe round the blue. The persons who liked Ruth thought her beautiful; they asserted that her counte- nance had in it something which was cap- tivating. But others replied that though her friends might call her captivating if they pleased, since that word denotes merely a personal charm, they had no right to say that she was beautiful; for. as r~gards beauty, there are well-defined rules, and, with the sole exception of the eyes, the face of the second Miss Franklin transgressed every one of these canons. Ruths features were without doubt ir- regular. And especially was it true that her mouth was large. But the lips were exquisitely cut, and the teeth very white. Regarding her appearance as a whole, there was one fact (which had not yet been noticed), namely, that no man ever found fault with it; the criticism came always from feminine lips. And these critics spoke the truth. But they forgot. or rather they did not see, some of the compensations. There were people not a few, even in her own small circle, who did not look with favor upon Ruth; it was not merely, 0 they asserted, that she HORACE CHASE. 199 was heedless and frivolous, caring oniy for her own amusement, and sacrificing everything to that, for of many young persons this could be said; but in addition they maintained that hers was a disposi- tion in its essence self-indulgent; she was indolent, she was fond of luxuries, she was even fond of good eating an odd accusation to be brought against a girl of that age. In this case also the charges were made by feminine lips. And again it may be added that while the critics spoke the truth, or part of the truth, they did not, on the other hand, see some of the compensations. Why do you say. poor Sue Inness, His Grand ? inquired Dolly, in an ex- postulating tone. Why do people al- ways say poor so - and - so of any one who is dead? It is an alarmingly pity- ing word, as though the unfortunate de- parted must certainly be in a very bad place. Here is something about the Bishop, said Mrs. Franklin, who was reading a Raleigh newspaper in the intervals of conversation. Her tone was now ani- mated. He has been in Washington, and one of his sermons was But she was interrupted by her daugh- ters, who united their voices in a chant as follows: Mother Franklin thinks, That General Jackson, Jared the Sixth, Macaroon custards, And Bishop Carew, Are per-fec-tion Mrs. Franklin made no reply to these Gregorian assertions (which she had of- ten heard before), save the remark, You have torn your skirt, Ruth. Oh, please dont look at me over your glasses, His Grand. It spoils your pro- file so, answered Ruth; for Mrs. Frank- lin was surveying the skirt with her head bent forward and her chin drawn sharp- ly in, so that her eyes could be brought to bear upon the rent over her specta- cles. She now drew off these aids to vision impatiently. Whether I look through * them or over them doesnt matter; you and Dolly are never satisfied. I cannot read the paper without my glasses; do you wish me to know nothing of the news of the world ? Well tell you, responded Dolly, go- ing on busily with her knitting. For instance, to-day: Genevieve has had all the paint cleaned and all the windows washed; she is now breathing that right- eous atmosphere of cold tireless bleak- ness and soap which she adores. Miss Billy Breeze has admired everything that she can think of, and she has written an- other page about the primeval world; now she Here the door which led to the entrance hall was opened with a jerk by Rinda, a large, very plump negro girl, who bounced in, ejaculated Lady! with delight, and then bounced out to act as usher for the incoming guest. Billy herself, probably, said Mrs. Franklin. Ruth, are you stretched out there under the plea that you are not yet fully grown? But Ruth did not deeni it necessary to leave her couch for Miss Billy Breeze. Hail, Billy ! she said, as the visitor en- tered. Mother thinks that I ought to be seated politely on the sofa; will you please imagine that I am there l Oh, certainly, replied Miss Breeze in a conciliatory tone. Miss Breeze lived under the impression that all the mem- bers of this family quarrelled with each other incessantly; when she was present, therefore, she did her best to smooth over their asperities. It is rather good for her, you know, she said reassuringly to Mrs. Franklin; for it is a windy day, and Ruth is not robust. Then to Ruth: Your mother naturally wishes you to look your best, my dear. Do you, His Grand ? inquired Ruth. Because if you do, I must certainly stay where I am, so that I can tuck under me very neatly this rip in my skirt, which Miss Billy has not yet seen. Petie Trone, Esq., shake hands with the lady. The dog, a small black and tan terrier, was re- posing upon the rug beside Ruth; upon hearing her command, he rose, trotted across to the visitor, and offered a tiny paw. Dear little fellow, said Miss Breeze, bending, and shaking it gently. His Grand must allow that he looks extremely well. For the circle of friends had ended by accepting the legend (invented by Ruth) that Mrs. Franklin was Petie Trones grandmother, or His Grand. The only person who still held out against this title was Genevieve; Mrs. Franklin the younger thought that the name was 200 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. ridiculous. In her opinion, her husbands family were incomprehensibly silly about their pets. Miss Willielmina Breeze was thirty- five, but no one would have thought so from her fair pink and white complexion, her slender figure, and gentle, innocent eyes. From her earliest years she had longed to hear herself called Wilhel- mina. But the longing was almost never gratified; the boyish name given to her in joke when she was a baby had clung to her with the usual fatal tenacity. Miss Billy, have you seen mother to- day ? Dolly inquired. Not until now, answered the visitor, surprised. Well, then, have you thought of mas- todons ? Certainly I have; and if you your- self, Dolly, would think more seriously of the subjectI mean the whole subject of the primeval worldyou would soon be as fascinated with it as I am. Ima- gine, continued Miss Breeze imagine one of those vast extinct animals, Dolly, lifting his neck up a hill to nibble the trees on its top! And birds as large as chapels flying through the air! Proba- bly they sang, those birds. What sort of voices do you suppose they had ? You see, His Grand, that she has thought of mastodons commented Dol- ly. Your unexpected mention of them, therefore, is plainly the influence of her mind acting upon yours from a distance the distance of the Old North Hotel. Have you really thought of them, dear Mrs. Franklin? And do you believe there can be such a thing as the con- sciousI mean, of course, unconscious influence of one mind upon another, act- ing from a distance ? inquired Miss Billy, her face betraying some excitement. No, no; its only Dollys nonsense,~~ answered Mrs. Franklin. Its easy to say nonsense, His Grand. But how, then, do you account for the ut- terances of my planchette ? demanded Dolly, wagging her head triumphantly. Dolly, the second of Mrs. Franklins three children, was an invalid. The Franklins, as a family, were tall and dark, and Dolly was tall and dark also; her face, owing to the pain which frequently assailed her, was thin, worn, and wrin- kled. She sat in a low easy-chair, and beside her was her own especial table, which held what she called her jibs.. These were numerous, for Dolly occupied herself in many ways. She sketched, she carved little knickknacks, she played the violin, she made lace, she worked out chess problems, and she knitted; she also scribbled rhymes which her family called poetry. The mantel-piece of this parlor was adorned with a hanging which bore one of her verses, stitched in old English text, the work of her mothers needle: 0 Fire! in these dark frozen days So glorious is thy red, So warm thy comfort, we forget The violets are dead. The family thought this beautiful. Dollys verses, her drawing and wood- carving, her lace-making and chess, were amateurish; her violin - playing was at times spirited, and that was the utmost that could be said of it. But her knit- ting was remarkable. She knitted no- thing but silk stockings, and these, when finished, had a wonderful perfection. Dolly was accustomed to say of herself that in the toes of her stockings was to be found the only bit of conscience which she possessed. When she mentioned planchette, her mother frowned. I do not approve of such things, Dolly. Yes, because you are afraid, chuc- kled Dolly, gleefully. Oh, anything that dear Mrs. Frank- ]in does not approve of murmured Miss Billy. Mrs. Franklin rose. His Grand is fleeing ! Dolly cried. I musts make the salad dressing, mustnt I? Ruth will not touch Zoes dressing. Billy, Mr. Chase is to dine with us to - day, informally; dont you want to stay and help us entertain him? added the mistress of the house as she left the room. Dolly, suggested Ruth, from her place on the rug, now that mother has gone, set planchette to work, and make it tell us secrets; make it tell us whether Miss Billy understands the true charac- ter of Achilles Larue, she added, laugh- ing. She does not; I can tell her that with- out planchette, replied Dolly. Only one person in the world has ever fully understood Achilleshad the strength to do itand he died. Yes, I know; I have heard Mr. Larue speak of that one friend. said Miss Billy, HORACE CHASE. 201 regretfully. How unfortunate it was that he lost him! Yes, baddish. And the term is quite 4 in his own line, commented Dolly. For with him it is never warm, but warmish; the bluest sky is bluish; a June day, fairish; a twenty-mile walk, longish. In this way he is not committed to ex- travagant statements. When he is dead, he wont be more than deadish. But hes that now. When Mrs. Franklin returned, she said: Ruth, go and change your dress, and take Miss Billy with you; but take her to my room, not yours. For of course you will stay, Billy? I dont think Id better; Im not dressed for the evening; and I said I should be back, answered Miss Breeze, hesitatingly. To whom did you say it? To the Old North? Run along, said Mrs. Franklin, smiling. If it is shoes you are think- ing of, as yours are muddy, Ruth can lend you a pair. That she cannot, remarked Dolly. Buy Ruth six pairs of new shoes, and in six days all will be shabby. But you can have a pair of mine, Miss Billy. When she was left alone with her eld- er daughter, Mrs. Franklin said: Poor Billy! She is always haunted by the idea that she may possibly meet Achilles Larue here. She certainly will not meet him at the Old North, for he never goes near the place, in spite of her gentle in- vitations. But here there is always a chance, and I never can resist giving it to her, although in reality it is folly; he has never looked at her, and he never will. No. But you need not be anxious about her, replied Dolly; she has the happy faculty of living in illusions day after day. She can go on hopefully ad- miring Achilles to the last moment of her life, and I dare say she even thinks that he has a liking for her, little as he shows it. She has occult reasons for this belief; she would find them in a kick ! Goose ! said Mrs. Franklin, dismiss- ing Billys virginal dreams with the ma- rons disillusioned knowledge. Arent Why? Jam tidy as Jam, mother. going to put on your velvet, Dolly? Nothing more is necessary in my case. And it was true that the elder Miss Frank- lin, without either beauty or health, was always a personification of charming neat- ness; from her smooth hair to her feet, all was rigidly orderly and rigidly plain. Oh, go, go! answered her mother, impatiently. Dolly screwed up her mouth, shook her head slowly, and laid her work aside; then she rose, and with her cane walked towards the door. On her way she stopped, and bending, kissed her mothers fore- head. Some of these days, mother, I shall be beautiful. It will be during one of our future existences somewhere. It must be so, dear; you have earned it for me by your loving pity here. Nothing could exceed the tenderness of her tone as she said this. Mrs. Franklin made no response be- yond a little toss of her head, as though repudiating this account of herself. But after Dolly had left tfie room, a moisture gathered in the mothers eyes. Ruth had conducted Miss Billy to her own chamber. But Mrs. Franklin said I was to go to her room, did she not? suggested the guest. She doesnt mind; she only meant that Bob is here somewhere,~~ answered Ruth, as she opened the windows and threw back the blinds, for the afternoon was drawing towards its close. Miss Billy took off her bonnet, and af- ter a moments thought hung it by its crown on a peg; in that position it did not seem possible that even Bob could make a resting-place within it. Bob was young and very small. He was beauti- ful or devilish according to ones s view of flying-squirrels. But whether you liked him or whether you hated him, there was always a certain amount of interest in connection with the creatui~e, because you could never be sure where he was. Miss Billy, who was greatly afraid of him, had given a quick look towards the tops of the windows and doors. There was no squirrel visible. But that was small com- fort. Bob could hide himself behind a curtain ring when he chose. One of the blinds came swinging to with a bang, and Ruth, reopening the window, strug- gled with it again. There is Mr. Hill coming along the back street on Daniel, she said, pausing. He is beckoning to me! What can he want? You will find shoes in the closet, Miss Billy, and dont wait for me. I am going down to speak to him. Away she flew, running light- ly at full speed through the upper hall 202 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. and down the back stairs, closely followed by Petie Trone, Esq. Miss Billy closed the window and stood there for a moment looking out. Pres- ently she saw Ruth at the stone wall which separated the little garden from one of the outlying streets of the mountain village. She also recognized (with dis- approving eyes) the unclerical hat of the Rev. Malachi Hill, who had stopped his horse in the road outside. He was talking to Ruth, who listened with her chin resting on her hands on the top of the wall, while the wind roughened her hair and blew out her skirt like a balloon. Miss Billy, after making her own prepa- rations for the evening, seated herself by the fire to wait; for, after some indeci- sion, she had decided to wait. No one could make Ruth tome in one moment before it pleased her to do so. It seemed better, therefore, not to raise inquiries as to where she was, lest her mother shoufd be rendered uneasy by her imprudence in being out bareheaded at that hour. Miss Billy was always troubled, even on the smallest occasion, by three or four differ- ent ideas as to the best course to pursue. Now that she had decided, she looked about the room. The necessary articles of furniture were all set back closely against the wall, in order that the central space of the large chamber should be left entirely free. Ruth did not like little thingssmall objects of any kind which required dusting, and which could be easily upset. Miss Billy, who adored little things, and who lived in a grove of them, thought the room far too bare. There was nothing on the mantel-piece; there were no souvenirs, or photographs of friends; there was not even a wall-cal- endar. With Miss Billy, the removal of the old leaf from her poetical calendar and the reading of the new one each morning was a solemn rite. When her glance reached the toilet table, the same surprise which she had often felt before rose anew. The table itself was plain and unadorned, but on its top was spread out a profuse array of toilet articles, all of ivory or crystal. That a girl who was incorrigibly careless about almost every- thing should have and insist upon having so many dainty and richly beautiful ob- jects for her personal use in her own room seemed remarkable. Give Ruth her bath in scented water, and all these ivory and crystal things to use when she dresses, and she is perfectly willing to go about in a faded, torn old skirt, a hat en- tirely out of fashion, shabby gloves, and worn-out shoes; in short, looking any- how ! mused Billy. Down-stairs Mrs. Franklin was receiv- ing another visitor. After Dollys de- parture, Rinda had made a second irrup- tive entrance, with the announcement, Genlem ! and Mr. Anthony Etheridge came in. Etheridge was a strikingly handsome man, who appeared to be about fifty-eight. He entered with light step and smiling face, and a flower in his coat. Ah, Commodore, when did you re- turn? said Mrs. Franklin, giving him her hand. Two hours ago, answered Etheridge, bowing over it gallantly. You are looking remarkably well, my dear madam. Hum-ha ! These last syllables were not distinct; Etheridge often made this little sound, which was not an ahem; it seemed intended to express merely a general en- joyment of existencea sort of overflow of health and vitality. Only two hours ago? You have been all day in that horrible stage, and yet you have strength to pay visits? Not visits; a visit. You are alone? Only for the moment; Dolly and Ruth are dressing. We are expecting some one to dine with usa new ac- quaintance, by-the-way, since you left; a Mr. Chase. Yes, Horace Chase. I knew he was in Asheville. I should like to kick him out ! Why so fierce? said Mrs. Franklin, going on with her lamp-lighters. For the making of lamp-lighters from newspapers was one of her not exactly pastimes, kill- times rather. Of course I am fierce. We dont want fellows of that sort here; he will upset the whole place. What brought him ? He has not been well, I believe~~ (Thats one comfort! They never are, interpolated Etheridge), and he was ad- vised to try mountain air. In addition, he is said to be looking into the railroad affairs. Good heavens! Already? The one solace I got out of the war was the check it gave to the advance of those rails west- ward; and they have moved so slowly since that I have been in hopes that the locomotives would not get beyond Old Fort, at least in my time. Why, Dora, w HORACE CHASE. 203 this strip of mountain country is the most splendid bit of natural forest, of nature undraped, which exists to-day between the Atlantic Ocean and the Rockies 4 Save your eloquence for Genevieve, Commodore. Hum-ha! Mrs. Jared, eh ? Yes; she knew Mr. Chase when he was a little boy; she says she used to call him Horrie. As soon as she heard that he was in Asheville she revived the acquaintance, and then she introduced him to us. Does she like him I asked Etheridge, with annoyance in his tone. I dont know whether she likes him or not; but she is hoping that he will do something for Ashevillesomething that will increase the value of property here. It is intelligent of Mrs. Jared to be thinking already of their new purchase that house of theirs with those fields be- hind it, said Etheridge, softening a little. Perhaps if I owned land here I should take another view of the subject myself. You too, Dorayou might make some- thing. No; we have no land save the little garden, and the house is dreadfully dilap- idated. Personally I may as well con- fess that I should be glad to see the rail- road arrive; I am mortally tired of that long jolting stage-drive from Old Fort; it nearly kills me each time I take it. And I am afraid I dont care for nature un- draped so much as you do, Commodore; I think I like draperies. Of course you do! But when you- and by you I mean the nation at large when you perceive that your last acre of primitive forest is forever gone, then you will repent. And you will begin to cul- tivate wildness as they do abroad, poor creaturesplant forests and guard em with stone walls and keepers, by Jove! Horace Chase appears here as the pioneer of spoliation. He may not mean it; he does not come with an axe on his shoul- der exactly; he comes, in fact, with bak- ing-powder; but thats how it will end. Havent you heard that it was baking- powder? Surely you have heard of the powder itselfthe Bubble? I thought so. Well, thats where he made his first moneythe Bubble Baking-Powder; and he made a lot of it, too. Now he is in other things; some of the Willoughbys of New York have gone in with him, and together they have set up a new steam- ship company, with steamers running Souththe Columbian Line. Yes, Genevieve has explained it to us. But as he does not travel with his steamers round his neck, there remains for us, inland people as we are, only what he happens to be himself. And that is nothing interesting. Not interesting, eh ? said Etheridge, rather gratified. To my mind he is not. He is ordi- nary in appearance and manner; he says yes, ma~am,~ and no, maam, to me, as though I were a great-grandmother! In short, I dont care for him, and it is solely on Genevieves account that I have in- vited him. For she keeps urging me to do it; she is very anxious to have him like Asheville. He has already dined with us twice to meet her. But to-day he comes informally a chance invitation given only this morning (and again given solely to please her), when I happened to meet him at the Cottage. How old is the wretch? I dont know. Forty-four or forty- five; perhaps older. Quite impossible, then, that Mrs. Ja- red should have known him when he was a boy; she was hardly born at that time, commented Etheridge. What she means, of course, is that she, as a child herself, called him Horrie. Mrs. Franklin did not answer, and at this moment Dolly came in. Yes, I am well, she said, in reply to the visitors greeting; we are all well and lazy. The world at large will never be helped much by us, I fear; we are too contented. Have you ever noticed, Com- modore, that the women who sacrifice their lives so nobly to help humanity sel- dom sacrifice one small thing, and that is a happy home? Either they do not possess such an article, or else they have spoiled it by quarrelling with every in- dividual member of their families. Now, Dolly, no more of your sar- casms. Tell me rather about this new acquaintance of yours, this bubbling cap- italist whom you have invented and set up in your midst during my unsuspecting absence, said Etheridge. You need not think, Commodore, that you can make me say a word about him, answered Dolly, solemnly; for I read in a book only the other day that a tend- ency to talk about other persons instead of ones self was a sure sign of advancing 204 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. age. Young people, the book goes on to say, are at heart interested in nothing on earth but themselves and their own affairs; they have not the least curiosity about character or traits in generalthat is, about other people. I immediately made a vow to talk of nothing but myself here- after. Anything you may wish to hear about me I am ready to tell you. Dolly was now attired in a velvet dress of dark russet hue, like the color of autumn oak leaves; this tint took the eye away some- what from the worn look of her thin face. The dress, however, was eight years old, and the fashion in which it had been made originally had never been altered. Your book forgot that talk about peoplethat is, gossipmay be nothing but a refuge, said Mrs. Franklin. I always pour forth a flood of it myself to drown out egotists, or those persons who hold like grim death to subjects that bore me. When you gossip, then, I shall know that I bore you, said Etheridge, rising. I mustnt do so now; I leave you to your Bubble. Mrs. Jared, I suppose, will be with you this evening? I ask because I had thought of paying her a how-do- you-do visit later. Pay it here, Commodore, suggested Mrs. Franklin. Perhaps you would like to see her Horrie yourself? Greatly, greatly. I am glad to meet any of these driving speculators who come within my reach. For it makes me contented for a month afterward contented with my own small means-to see how yellow they are! Not a man jack of them who hasnt a skin like guinea gold. Upon this point the Com- modore could enlarge safely, for no color could be fresher and finer than his own. After he had gone, Mrs. Franklin said: Imagine what he has just told methat Genevieve could not possibly have known Horace Chase when he was a boy, because she is far too young! And then mother and daughter joined in a merry laugh. It would be fun to tell him that she was forty on her last birthday, said Dolly. He would never believe you; he would think that you fibbed from jea- lousy, answered Mrs. Franklin. As you are dressed, I may as well go and make ready myself, she added, rising. I have been waiting for Ruth; I cannot imagine what she is about. This is what Ruth was about: she was rushing up the back stairs in the dark, breathless. When she reached her room she lit the candles hastily. You still here, Miss Billy? I supposed you had gone down long ago. She stirred the fire into a blaze, and knelt to warm her cold hands. Such fun! I have made a call! And I have made an engagement for us all this evening. You can never think what it is. Nothing less than a fancy-dress procession at the rink for the benefit of the Mission. A man is carry- ing some coslumes across the mountains for an exhibition at Knoxville; his wagon has broken down, and he is obliged to stay here until it is mended. Mr. Hill has made use of this for the Mission. Isnt it a splendid idea? He has been rushing about all the afternoon, and he has found twenty persons who are willing to appear in fancy dress, and he himself is to be one; he is to be an Indian chief, in war- paint and feathers. In war-paint and feathers? Oh ! Yes. It seems that he has a costume of his own. He had it when he was an insurance agent, you know, before he en- tered the ministry; he was always fond of such things, he says, and the costume is a very handsome one; when he wore it, he called himself Big Moose. Big Moose! It must be stopped,~~ said Miss Billy, in a horrified voice. For Miss Billy had the strictest ideas regard- ing the dignity of the clergy. On the contrary, I told him that it was noble, declared Ruth, breaking into one of her intense laughs. Her laugh was not loud, but when it had once begun, it seemed sometimes as if it would never stop. At present, as soon as she could speak, she announced, Well all go. Do not include me, said Miss Billy, with dignity. I think it shocking, Ruth. I do indeed. Oh, youll be there, said Ruth, springing up, and drawing Miss Billy to her feet. Youll put on roller-skates yourself, and go wheeling off first this way, then that way, with Achilles Lame. And as she said this she gleefully forced her visitor across the floor, now in along sweep to the right, now to the left, with as close an imitation of skating as the cir- cumstances permitted. While they were thus engaged, Mrs. Franklin opened the door. What are you doing? Ruthnot dressed yet ? HORACE CHASE. 205 Im all ready, His Grand, responded Ruth, running across the room and pour- ing water into the basin in a great hurry. 4 I have only to wash my hands (here she dashed lavender into the water) Ill be down directly. And we shall all admire you in that torn dress, said her mother. Never mind, His Grand; Ill pin it up. Nobody will see it at dinner, under the table. And after dinner my cloak will cover itfor we are all going out. Going out this windy evening? Nev- er! Are you ready, Billy? And Ruth, you must come as you are, for Mr. Chase is already here, and Rinda is bringing in the soup. Never fear, His Grand. Ill come. And come she did, two minutes later, just as she was, save that her wind-rough- ened hair had been vaguely smoothed, and fastened down hastily with large hair-pins placed at random. Owing to her hurry she had a brilliant color; and seeing, as she entered, the disapprov- ing expression in her mothers eyes, she was seized with the idea of making for her own amusement a stately sweeping courtesy to Horace Chase; this she ac- cordingly did, carrying it off very well, with an air of majesty just tempered at the edges with burlesque. Chase, who had risen, watched this salutation with interest. When it was over, he felt it incumbent upon him to go through, in addition, the more com- monplace greeting. How do you do, Miss Ruth? he said, extending his hand. And he gave the tips of her fingers (all she yielded to him) three distinct shakes. Then they went to dinner. CHAPTER II. THE meal which followed was good; for Zoe, the cook, was skilful in her old- fashioned, limited way. But the dinner service was ordinary; the only wine was a little dry catawba; Rindas ideas of waiting, too, were primitive. The Frank- lins, however, had learned to wait upon themselves. They had the habit of re- maining long at the table; for, whether they were alone or whether they had a guest, there was always soup, there was always a salad, there were always nuts and fruit, followed by coffee four courses therefore, in addition to the two which VOL. Lxxxvl.No. 51219 the younger Mrs. Franklin considered all that was necessary for the body. A serious rice pudding, Genevieve no doubt is enough for the body, as you call it, Dolly had once said. But we think of the mind also; we aim at brill- iancy. And no one ever scintillated yet on tapioca and stewed prunes. Mrs. Jared Franklin is well, I hope? Chase asked, when the last course Was reached. He was not fond of nuts or figs, but he was playing his part, accord- ing to his conception of it, by eating at intervals one raisin. Quite well; thanks. I have never known her to be ill, replied Dolly. Mr. Chase, I am going to suggest some- thing; as mother and my sister-in-law are both Mrs. Jared, and as mother has no burning desire to be called old Mrs. Franklin just yet, why dont you say Mrs. G. B. when you mean the younger matron? Chase would never have thought of calling either one or the other a matron, his idea of the word being the female superintendent of a public institution. G. B.are those her initials? he said. Yes, of course; G. for Genevieve, or Gen, as I used to call her. And B. for Beatrice: isnt that love- ly? Our own names, unfortunately, are very common Ruth, Dolly, and Jared; Genevieve has taken pity upon the Jared, and changed it to Jay. Mother, how- ever, actu~vlly likes the name Jared! She is weak enough to be proud of the fact that there have been six Jared Franklins in the direct line from eldest son to father, going back to colonial days. People are very sorry for this delusion of hers; they have told her repeatedly that the colonial period was unimportant. Genevieve, in particular, has often explained to her that modern times are far more interesting. I guess there isnt much question about that, is there? said Chase. No doubt they did the best they could in those old days. But they couldnt do much, you see, because they had nothing to work with, no machinery, no capital, no combinations; they couldnt hear any- thing until long after it had happened, and they couldnt go anywhere except on horseback. Ive always been glad I didnt serve my time then. Slow life You must find Asheville rather slow? remarked Dolly. It is more than slow, Miss Franklin; 206 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. it has stopped entirely. But it has great natural advantagesI have been surprised to see how many. I like new enterprises, and Ive been thinking about something. Here he paused and ate one more raisin, balancing it for a moment upon the palm of his hand before he swallowed it. Ive been thinking of picking up that railroad at Old Fort and pushing it right through to this place, and on to Tennessee; a branch, later, to tap South Carolina and Georgia. That isnt all, however. He paused again. Then with a glance which rested for a moment on each face, and finally stopped at Mrs. Franklins, What do you say, he added, with a hospitable smile, to my making a big watering- place of your hilly little village? Asheville watered? What next ! said Dolly. The next is that the stock wont be, replied Chase, laughing. I mean, the stock of the company that undertakes the affair, if it does undertake it. Youd bet- ter apply for some right off; all of you. Shall I tell you how the thing strikes me, while you are finishing your nuts? Well, then, this is about it. The whole South is a hot place in summer, ladies; from Baltimore down to the end of Florida and Louisiana they simply swelter from June to October, and always must swelter. If you will look at a map you can see for yourselves that the only region where the people of all this big section can get fresh air during the heated term, with- out a long journey for it, is this one line of mountains, called Alleghanies in the lump, but in reality including the Blue Ridge, the Cumberlands, your Smokies and Blacks, and others about here. For a trip to the Southern sea-coast isnt much relief: a hot beach is about the hottest place I know. Now, then, what is the best point among these mountains? The Alleghanies lie this way. (He made the Alleghanies with a table - spoon.) Th~n there is the Blue Ridge. (A nut-cracker.) And here you get your Smokies and so forth. (Almonds taken hastily from a dish and arranged in a line.) And Ill just indicate the Cum- berlands with this orange. Very well. Now where are the highest peaks of these lines? Let us follow the range down. Do we find them in Pennsylvania? No, sir. Do we find them in Virginia. We do not. Are they over there among the Cumberlands? Not by a long shot. Where are they, then? Right here, ladies, at your own door; right here, where I make a dot this minute. And taking a pencil from his pocket, he made a small mark on the table-cloth between the spoon and the nut-cracker. In this neighbor- hood, he went on, emphasizing his state- ment by pointing his pencil at Miss Billy, there are thirteen peaks nearly seven thousand feet high. It seem to me, there- fore, that in spite of all the jokes about talking for buncombe, the talk for Bun- combe has not been half tall enough yet. For this very Buncombe County is bound to be the favorite watering-place for over twelve millions of people. Watering - places ? commented Dol- ly. Well, we have the two rivers, the French Broad and the Swannanoa. But the Swannanoa is small; if the millions should all drink at once, it would soon go dry. I meant summer resort, Miss Frank- lin, not watering-place, said Chase, in- wardly entertained by the quickness bor- dering on the sharp with which the sickly one, as he called her, always took him up. Though there are sulphur springs near by too: I have been out to look at them. And it isnt only the Southerners who will come here, he went on; Northerners will flock also, when they understand what these moun- tains are. For, in comparison with them, the Catskills are flea-bites, and the Whites a suburb. Here everything is absolutely wild; you can shoot because there are all sorts of things to shoot, from bears down. And then theres another pointfor I havent got to the bottom of the sack yet. This mountain valley of yours, be- ing 2400 feet above the sea, has a won- derfully pure dry air, and yet, as it is so far south, it is not cold; its winter cli- mate, therefore, is as good as its summer, and even better. So heres the situation: people who live in hot places will come here from June to October, and people who live in cold places will come from October to June. He returned the orange and the almonds to their dishes, replaced the table-spoon and nut-cracker, and then, looking at Mrs. Franklin, he gave her a cheerful nod. Thats it, maam; thats the whole in a nutshell. Ruth gravely offered him an empty almond shell. Well have something better than that, Miss Rutha philopena. And tak HORACE CHASE. 207 ing a nut-cracker, he opened several al- monds. Finding a double kernel, he gave her one of the halves. Now, if I win, I should be much favored if you would make me something of worsteda tidy is the name, I think. Ruth began to laugh. Well, then, a picture-frame of cones varnished. And now the other ladies joined in Ruths merriment. We must decline such rare objects, said Mrs. Franklin. But we have our own small resources, Mr. Chase. And leading the way back to the parlor, she showed him the mantel-cover with Dol- lys verse. Why, thats beautiful, Miss Frank- un, said Chase, with sincere admiration, when lie had read the lines. I didnt know you could write poetry. Ok yes, answered Dolly. I think in elegies as a general thing, and I make sonnets as I dress. Epics are nothing to me, and I turn off triolets in no time. But I dont publish, Mr. Chase, because I dont want to be called a minor poet. Here Rinda came in like a projectile, carrying a large box clasped in her arms. Jess lef! Spress 1 she exclaimed ex- citedly. Express ? repeated Mrs. Franklin, trying to make out the address without her glasses. Read it, Ruth. Ruth looked at the label, and then broke into another laugh. She had hardly recov- ered from the preceding one, and Chase, with amusement, watched her start off again. But he soon found himself sur- rounded by laughers a second time. Why, whats wrong with it? he ask- ed, seeing that it was the label which ex- cited their mirth. And in his turn he examined it. Miss Ruth Franklin, Loin- my Dew, Asheville? Thats right, isnt it? Isnt Lommy Dew the name of your place? Rinda meanwhile, wildly curious, had been opening the box by main force with the aid of the poker. She now uncovered a huge cluster of hot-house roses packed in moss. Flowers? Who could have sent them? said Mrs. Franklin, surprised. She had no suspicion of her present guest; her thoughts had turned towards some of their old friends at the North. But Ruth, happening to catch the look in Chases eyes as he glanced for an instant at the blossoms, not so much admiringly as crit- ically, exclaimed: You sent them, Mr. Chase. How per- fectly lovely! Im afraid theyre not much, Chase answered. I thought they~d send more. He had wished to show that he appre- ciated the invitations to LHommedieu, and as, according to his idea, it was the young lady of the family to whom it was proper to pay such attentions, he had or- dered the box to be sent to Ruth rather than to Mrs. Franklin or Dolly. Ruths laugh had stopped; her eyes had softened. She was passionately fond of hot-house flowers, and now both her hands together could hardly encircle even the stems alone of these superb roses, whose gorgeous masses filled her arms as she raised them. With a quick movement she buried her face in the soft petals. But, I say, what was wrong with this? asked Chase a second time, as he again looked at the label. LHommedieu is a French name began Dolly. But Ruth interrupted her: It is an ugly old French name, Mr. Chase, and as it is pronounced, in America at least, exactly as you wrote it, I think it might as well be spelled so too. At present, however, this is the waythe silly way. And holding her flowers with her left arm, she detached her right hand, and scribbled the name on the edge of the Raleigh paper. Ah ! said Chase, looking at it. I dont speak French myself. I thought perhaps it had something to do with dew. And frowning a little, a frown of atten- tion, he spelled the word over. An old negro woman, her head covered with a white kerchief folded like a tur- ban, now came swiftly in with the coffee- tray. It was Zoe the cook, tired of wait- ing for Rinda, who, still in the parlor, was gazing with friendly interest at the roses. Lawdy, ef I aint clean ferget ! remarked the waitress to the company in general. You clar out, good-fer-nuttn nigger, muttered Zoe in an angry undertone. With the coffee, or rather behind it, a lady entered. I was hoping that you would come in, Genevieve, said Mrs. Franklin. Just in time for coffee, added Dolly, cordially. 208 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Thanks; I do not take it at night, Genevieve answered. This was a dialogue often repeated in one form or another, for Dolly kept it up. The younger Mrs. Franklin did not like evening dinners, and Dolly even main- tained that her sister-in-law thought them wicked. She sees a close connection between a late dinner with coffee after it, and the devil. The Franklins had al- ways dined at the close of the day, for the elder Jared Franklin, having been the editor of a daily paper, had found that hour the most convenient one. The edi- tor was gone; his family had moved from the North to the South, and life for them was changed in many ways; but his hab- it of the late dinner they had never al- tered. The younger Mrs. Franklin greeted Chase cordially. Dolly listened, hoping to hear her call him Horrie. But Gene- vieve contented herself with giving him her hand and some frank words of wel- come. Genevieve was always frank. And in all she said and did, also, she was abso- lutely sincere. She was a beautiful wo- man with golden hair, fair skin, regular features, and ideally lovely eyes; her tall figure was of Juno-like proportions; her hands were rather large, but perfect in shape. Chase admired her, that was evi- dent. But Dolly (who was noting this) had long ago discovered that men always admired her sister-in-law. In addition to her beauty, Genevieve had a sweet voice and an earnest, half-appealing way of speaking. She was appealing to Chase now. There is to be an entertainment at the rink to-night, Horace, for the bene- fit of the Mission; wont you go? I hope so. And, mamma, that is what I have come over for, to tell you about it and beg you to go also. She had seated her- self beside Chase; but as she said these last words she put out her hand and laid it affectionately on Mrs. Franklins shoulder. I believe I am to have the pleasure of spending the evening here? Chase an- swered, making a little bow towards his hostess. But if mamma herself goes to the rink, as I am sure she will, then wont you accompany her? The Mission and the Colored Home, Horace, are But here Chase, like a madman, made a wild leap, and grasped the top of Miss Billys head. Quick as his spring had been, Ruths was quicker. She pulled his hands away. Dont hurt him! Dont I The squirrel, however, was not under Chases fingers; he had already escaped, and running down the front of Miss Billys dress (to her unspeakable terror), he now made another long leap, and landed on Dollys arm, where Ruth caught him. What in creation is it? said Chase, who had followed. A bird? Or a mouse ? Mouse! said Ruth,indignantly. Its Bob, my dear little flying-squirrel; I saw him on the cornice, but I thought he would fly to me. Its amazing that any one can possibly be afraid of the darling, she added, with a reproachful glance tow- ards Miss Billy, who was still trembling. I had him when he was nothing but a baby, Mr. Chasehe had fallen from his nestand I have brought him up myself. Now that he is getting to be a big boy, he naturally likes to fly about a little. He cannot be always climbing his one little tree in the dining-room. He is so soft and downy. Look at his bright eyes. Here she opened her hand so that Chase could see her pet. Would you like to hold him for a moment? Oh, Ill look at you holding him, answered Chase. Hallo! heres anoth- er. For Petie Trone, Esq., his jealousy roused by his mistresss interest in the squirrel, had come out from under the sofa, and was now seated on his hind legs at the edge of her dress. Wouldnt you like an owl? Chase suggested. Or a possum? A coon might be tamed, if caught young. Ruth walked away, offended. This made him laugh still more as he returned to his place beside Genevieve. She is only eighteen, murmured the younger Mrs. Franklin, apologetically. Her words were covered by a rapturous Genlem ! from Rinda at the door. For Rinda was always perfectly delighted to see anybody; when, therefore, there were already two or three guests, and still an- other appeared, her voice became uproari- ~ ous in its glee. The new-coiner was An- thony Etheridge. How fortunate ! said Genevieve. For it makes another for our little char- ity party. There is to be an impromptu entertainment at the rink, Commodore, for the benefit of the Mission, and main- HORACE CHASE. 209 ma is going, I hope. Wont you accom- pany her? Let me introduce Mr. Chase, a very old friend of mine. Mr. Chase, Commodore Etheridge. Happy to meet you, said Chase, rising in order to shake hands. Genlem ! called Rinda again; this time fairly in a yell. The last genlem was a slender man, not quite forty years of age, who came in with his overcoat on. Thanks; I did not take it off, he said, in answer to Mrs. Franklin, because I knew that you were all going to the (here Ruth gave a deep cough) because I thought it possible that you might be going to the rink to-night, he went on, changing the form of his sentence, with a slight smile; and in that case I hoped to accompany you. Yes ~ said Genevieve, mamma is going, Mr. Larue. I only wish I could go also. The cheeks of Miss Billy Breeze had become flushed with rose - color as the new-coiner entered. Noticing instantly the change he had made in his sentence when Ruth coughed, she at once divined that the girl had gone, bareheaded and in the darkness, to his residence during that absence before dinner in order to secure his presence for the frolic of the evening. Ruth had, in fact, done this very thing, for nothing amused her so much as to watch Billy herself when La- rue was near her. The girl was now wicked enough to carry on her joke a lit- tle longer. I am so sorry, Miss Billy, that you do not care to go. Miss Billy passed her handkerchief over her mouth and tried to smile. Her eyes opened and closed rapidly; she was, in fact, winking to keep back tears. And then Mrs. Franklin, who was al- ways kind-hearted, came to the rescue. Did you tell Ruth that you could not go, Billy? Change your mind, my dear; change it to please me. Oh, if you care about it, dear Mrs. Franklin, murmured Billy, escaping, and hurrying happily up the stairs to put on her wraps. The rink was a large, bare structure of W wood, with a circular arena for roller- skating. This evening the place was lighted, and the gallery was occupied by the colored band. The members of this band, a new organization,had volunteered their services with the heartiest good-will. It was true that they could play (with- out mistakes) but one selection, namely, The lone starry hours give me, love, but they arranged this difficulty by play- ing it first softly, then as a solo on the cornet, then fortissimo with drums; by means of these alternations it lasted throughout the evening. Nearly the whole village was present; the prome- nade was crowded, and there were skaters on the floor below. The Rev. Malachi Hill was distributing programmes, his face beaming with pleasure as he sur- veyed the assemblage. Presently he came to the party frOm LHommedieu. Pro- grammes, Mrs. Franklin? Programmes, gentlemen ? He had written these pro- grammes himself in his best handwriting. The performance will soon begin, he explained. The procession will skate round the arena five times, and after- wards most of the characters will join in a reel Here some one called him, and he hastened off. Chase, who had received a programme, looked at it in a businesslike way. Christopher Columbus, he read aloud, Romeo and Juliet, the Muses, Calli- ope, and and others, he added, glan- cing down the list. His Calliope had rhymed with hope, and a gleam of inward entertainment showed itself for one instant in the eyes of Etheridge and Larue. Ruth saw this scintillation; instantly she crossed to Chases side, as he still studied the pro- gramme, and bending to look at it, said, Please, may I see too ? Oh! I thought you had one, said Chase, giving her the sheet of paper. The Muses, read Ruth again, aloud. Cally - ope, Terp - sy - core, and others. And then, standing beside her new ac- quaintance, she glared at the remainder of the party defiantly. Mrs. Franklin was so much overcome by this performance of her daughters that she was obliged to turn away to con- ceal her laughter. What possesses herthe witch ! ask- ed Etheridge, following. It is only because she thinks I dont like him. He has given her those mag- nificent roses, and so she intends to stand up for him. I never know whom she will fancy; she always has the most un- expected ideas. Do look at her now I am afraid you have spqiled her, commonted Etheridge, but joining in the 210 HARPER$ NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. mothers laughter himself, as he caught a glimpse of Ruth starting off, with high- held head and firm step, to walk with Chase round the entire promenade. Owing to this sudden departure, Miss Billy Breeze found herself unexpectedly alone with Larue. She was so much ex- cited by this state of things that at first she could hardly speak. How many times during this very month had she arranged with herself exactly what she should say if such an opportunity should appear! Her most original ideas, her most beautiful thoughts (she kept them written out in a memoiandum - book), should be summoned to entertain him. The moment had come. And this is what she actually did say: Oh (gig- gle), how pretty it is, isnt it? (Giggle.) Really a most beautiful sight. So in- teresting to see so many persons, and all so happy, is it not? I dont know when Ive seen anything lovelier. Yes, indeed lovely. But 1 hope you wont take cold, Mr. Lame. Really, now, do be care- ful. One takes cold so easily; and then it is sometimes so hard to recover. With despair she heard herself going on with these inanities. I hope you are not in a draught? Colds are so tiresome. And now, with a louder burst from the band, the procession issued from an im- provised tent at the end of the building. First came Christopher Columbus at the head; then Romeo and Juliet; the Muses, three and three; George Washington and his wife, accompanied by Plato and a shepherdess; other personages followed, and all were mounted on roller - skates, and were keeping time to the music with dignity. Then the rear was closed by an American Indian in a complete cos- tume of copper-colored tights, with toma- hawk, war-paint, and feathers. This Indian, as he was alone, was con- spicuous; and when he had skated into the brighter light, there came from that part of the audience which was nearest to him a faint sound of glee. The sound, however, was instantly suppressed. But it rose again as he sailed majestically on- ward, in long sweeps to the right and the left, his head erect, his tomahawk bran- dished; it increased to mirth which could not be stifled. Laughter met him as he came up, and followed him as he receded, until it had grown into one continuous roar. For nature having given to this brave very slender legs, the costume- maker had supplied a herculean pair of calves, and these appendages had shifted their position, and were now adorning the front of each limb below the knee, the chieftain meanwhile remaining un- conscious of the accident, and continu- ing to perform his part with great stateli- ness at the end of the skating line. The procession passed round the arena three times. Ruth, with her hands dropping helplessly by her side, laughed until her mother came to see to her. Mrs. Frank- lin herself was laughing so that she could hardly speak. But Ruths laughs sometimes were almost dangerous, they took such complete possession of her. Give her your arm and make her walk up and down, said the mother to Etheridge. And Etheridge took the girl under his charge. Chase, who had grinned silently each time the unsuspecting Moose, came into view, now stepped down to the skating- floor as he approached on his fourth cir- cuit, and stopped him. There was a short conference, and then, amid fresh peals of mirth, Big Moose looked down, and for the first time discovered the aspect of his own knees. Chase had signalled to the band to stop. Ladies and gentlemen,~~~ he said, this Indian was not aware of his attractions. (Applause.) But now that he knov~ s what they are, he will take part in the reel (which he had not intended to do), and he will take part as he is! For the benefit of the Mission, ladies and gentle- men. The hat will be passed immediately afterwards. Signing to the musicians to go on again, he conducted the chief to the space which had been left free for the reel, and then, when the other couples had skated to their places, he led off with his companion in a sort of quickstep (as he had no skates); and it is safe to say that North Carolina had never beheld so original a dance as that which followed (to the inexhaustible Starry Hours played as a jig). Chase and the Indian led and re-led. Finally Chase, with his tall hat tilted back on his head, and his face extremely solemn, balanced with his partner, taking so much pains with re- markable fancy steps, which were imme- diately imitated by the Indians embossed legs, that the entire audience was weak from its continuous mirth. Then re- moving his hat, Chase made the rounds, THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 211 proffering it with cordial invitation to all: For the Mission, ladies and gentlemen. ~ for the Indians Mission. The Indian, on his way home later (in his clergymans attire this time), was so happy that he gave thanks. He would have liked, indeed, to chant a gloria. For the Mission was very near his heart, and from its beginning it had been so pain- fully fettered by poverty that several times he had almost despaired. But now that magic hat had brought into the struggling little fund more than it had ever dreamed of possessing; for under- neath the dimes and the quarters of Ashe- ville had lain a fat roll, a veritable Golconda roll of greenbacks. But one person could have given this roll, name- ly, the one stranger, Horace Chase. [TO BE CONTINUED.] THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS. JJarize. BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. SCENE: Mrs. Willis Campbells drawing-room. I. MRS. CAMPBELL, CAMPBELL, DR. LAWTON. Dr. Lawton: Then truth, as I un- derstand you, Mrs. Campbell, is a female virtue. Mrs. Campbell: It is one of them. Dr. Lawton: Oh! You have sev- eral ? Mrs. Campbell: Legions, Dr. Law- ton. Dr. Lawton: What do you do with them all? Mrs. Campbell: Oh, we just keep them. You may be sure we dont waste them on men. What would be the use, for instance, of always telling Willis the truth? He wouldnt believe it, to begin with. Campbell: You had better try me once, Amy. My impression is that its the other thing I cant get away with. And yet Im a great deal more accustomed to it! Mrs. Campbell: That is neither here nor there. But what I say, and what I insist, is that the conventional lies that people tell are just as much lies as any just as wicked, and altogether unneces- sary. Why should I send word to the door that Im not at home, or that Im engaged, when Im not, merely to get out of seeing a person? Campbell: Because you are such a liar, my love. Dr. Lawton: No! Excuse me, Camp- bell! I dont wish to intercept any little endearments, but really I think that in this case Mrs. Campbells sacrifice of the truth is a piece of altruism. She knows how it is herself; she wouldnt like to be in the place of the person she wants to get out of seeing. So she sends word that she is not at home, or that shes en- gaged. Mrs. Campbell: Of course I do. Wil- liss idea of truth would be to send word that he didnt want to see them. Dr. Lawton, laughing: I havent the least doubt of it. Campbell: Well, you hoary-headed impostor, what would yours be? Dr. Lawton: Mine? I have none! I have been a general practitioner for for- ty years. But what time did you ask me for, Mrs. Campbell? Mrs. Campbell: Seven. I dont see whats keeping them all. Campbell: Tue women are not com- ing. Mrs. Campbell: Why? Campbell: Because they said they were. Truth is a female virtue. Mrs. Campbell: I must say, I dont see why theyre so late. I cant under- stand, when every woman knows the anxiety of a hostess, how any one can be late. Its very heartless, I think. Mrs. Campbell is in dinner dress; she remains tranquilly seated on the sofa while she speaks, but the movement of her alternate- ly folded and expanded fan betrays the agi- tation of her spirits. Dr. Lawton, loun- ging at large ease in a low chair, regards her with a mixture of admiration and sci- entific interest. Her husband walks up and down with a surcharge of nervous energy which the husband of a dinner- giver naturally expends when the guests are a little late. Campbell: They will probably come in a lumpif they come at all. Dont be discouraged, Amy. If they dont, I shall

William Dean Howells Howells, William Dean The Unexpected Guests. A Farce 211-225

THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 211 proffering it with cordial invitation to all: For the Mission, ladies and gentlemen. ~ for the Indians Mission. The Indian, on his way home later (in his clergymans attire this time), was so happy that he gave thanks. He would have liked, indeed, to chant a gloria. For the Mission was very near his heart, and from its beginning it had been so pain- fully fettered by poverty that several times he had almost despaired. But now that magic hat had brought into the struggling little fund more than it had ever dreamed of possessing; for under- neath the dimes and the quarters of Ashe- ville had lain a fat roll, a veritable Golconda roll of greenbacks. But one person could have given this roll, name- ly, the one stranger, Horace Chase. [TO BE CONTINUED.] THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS. JJarize. BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. SCENE: Mrs. Willis Campbells drawing-room. I. MRS. CAMPBELL, CAMPBELL, DR. LAWTON. Dr. Lawton: Then truth, as I un- derstand you, Mrs. Campbell, is a female virtue. Mrs. Campbell: It is one of them. Dr. Lawton: Oh! You have sev- eral ? Mrs. Campbell: Legions, Dr. Law- ton. Dr. Lawton: What do you do with them all? Mrs. Campbell: Oh, we just keep them. You may be sure we dont waste them on men. What would be the use, for instance, of always telling Willis the truth? He wouldnt believe it, to begin with. Campbell: You had better try me once, Amy. My impression is that its the other thing I cant get away with. And yet Im a great deal more accustomed to it! Mrs. Campbell: That is neither here nor there. But what I say, and what I insist, is that the conventional lies that people tell are just as much lies as any just as wicked, and altogether unneces- sary. Why should I send word to the door that Im not at home, or that Im engaged, when Im not, merely to get out of seeing a person? Campbell: Because you are such a liar, my love. Dr. Lawton: No! Excuse me, Camp- bell! I dont wish to intercept any little endearments, but really I think that in this case Mrs. Campbells sacrifice of the truth is a piece of altruism. She knows how it is herself; she wouldnt like to be in the place of the person she wants to get out of seeing. So she sends word that she is not at home, or that shes en- gaged. Mrs. Campbell: Of course I do. Wil- liss idea of truth would be to send word that he didnt want to see them. Dr. Lawton, laughing: I havent the least doubt of it. Campbell: Well, you hoary-headed impostor, what would yours be? Dr. Lawton: Mine? I have none! I have been a general practitioner for for- ty years. But what time did you ask me for, Mrs. Campbell? Mrs. Campbell: Seven. I dont see whats keeping them all. Campbell: Tue women are not com- ing. Mrs. Campbell: Why? Campbell: Because they said they were. Truth is a female virtue. Mrs. Campbell: I must say, I dont see why theyre so late. I cant under- stand, when every woman knows the anxiety of a hostess, how any one can be late. Its very heartless, I think. Mrs. Campbell is in dinner dress; she remains tranquilly seated on the sofa while she speaks, but the movement of her alternate- ly folded and expanded fan betrays the agi- tation of her spirits. Dr. Lawton, loun- ging at large ease in a low chair, regards her with a mixture of admiration and sci- entific interest. Her husband walks up and down with a surcharge of nervous energy which the husband of a dinner- giver naturally expends when the guests are a little late. Campbell: They will probably come in a lumpif they come at all. Dont be discouraged, Amy. If they dont, I shall 212 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. be hungry enough, by-and-by, to eat the whole dinner myself. Mrs. Campbell: That is a mans idea; you think that the great thing about a dinner is to get it eaten. Dr. Lawton: Oh, not all of us, Mrs. Campbell ! Airs. Campbell: Well, I will except you, Dr. Lawton. C~ampbell: And what is a womans idea of a dinner, I should like to know? Mrs. Campbell: To get it over. Campbell: In this instance, then, I think youre going to fail. I see no pros- pect of your getting it over. The people are not coming. I guess you wrote Thurs- day when you meant Tuesday; didnt you, Amy? Your Tuesdays always look like Thursdays, anyway. Mrs. Campbell: Now, Willis, if you begin your teasing ! Campbell: Well, what I want you to do is to tell them what you really think of them when they do come. I dont want any hollow-hearted pretence that it isnt at all late, and that you did not ex- pect them before, and all that kind of thing. You just say, Yes, you are rather behind time; and, No, I didnt write half past seven; I wrote seven. With all your devotion to truth, Ill bet you wouldnt dare to speak it once. Mrs. Campbell: What will you bet? Come, now! Dr. Lawton will hold the stakes. Campbell: Ah, I should have to pay, whichever lost, and Lawton would pocket the stakes. Dr. Lawton: Try me ! C~ampbell: Id rather not. It would be too expensive. A ring is heard; and then voices below and on the stairs. The spell is broken! I hear the sten- torian tones of my sister Agnes. Mrs. Campbell: Yes, it is Agnes; and now theyll all come. She runs out to the space at the top of the stairs which forms a sort of passageway between the drawing-room and library. Oh, Agnes! Im so glad to see you! And Mr. Roberts ! She says this without, and the shock of kisses penetrates to the drawing- room, where Campbell and Dr. Lawton remain. Mrs. Roberts, without: Amy, Im quite ashamed of myself! Im afraid were late. I think Edwards watch must be slow. Mrs. Campbell, without: Not at all! I dont believe its seven yet. Ive only just got into my gown. Campbell: It is a female virtue, ~ Doctor ! Dr. Lawton: Oh, theres no doubt of its sex. Mrs. C~ampbell, without: Youll find Willis in the drawing-room with Dr. Lawton, Mr. Roberts. II. ROBERTS, CAMPBELL, DR. LAWTON. Campbell, as Roberts meekly appears: Hello, Roberts! Youre late, old fel- low. You ought to start Agnes dressing just after lunch. Roberts: No, Im afraid its my fault. How do you do. Dr. Lawton? I think my watch is losing time. Campbell: You didnt come your old dodge of stealing a garroters watch on your way through the Common? That was a tremendous exploit of yours, Rob- erts. Dr. Lawton: And you were at your best that night, Campbell. For a little while I wasnt sure but truth was a boy. Campbell: I dont believe old Bemis has quite forgiven Roberts to this day. By-the-way, Bemis is late, too. Wouldnt have helped much to grab his watch to- night, Roberts. Hold on! Thats his voice, now ! As Mr. Bemis enters: Good-evening, Mr. Bemis. Roberts and I were just talking of that night when you tried to garrote him in the Common, and he got away with your watch. III. MR. BEMIS AND THE OTHERS. Mr. Bemis, reluctantly: Oh! very good. Ha, ha, ha! Roberts, cringingly: Ha, ha, ha! Capital ! Mr. Bemis: Talking of watches, I hope Im not late. Campbell: About half an hour. Mrs. Campbell, re-entering and giving her hand: Dont believe a word of it, Mr. Bemis. Youre just in time. Why, even Aunt Mary is not here yet! Aunt Jllfary Crashaw, without: Yes, I am, my dearhalf-way up your ridicu- lous stairs. Mrs. Campbell: Oh, Aunt Mary ! She runs out to meet her. w Campbell, to Dr. Lawton: You see! she cant tell the truth even by acci- dent. Roberts: What in the world do you niean, Willis ? Campbell: Sh! Its a bet. To Mrs. Crashaw, coming in with his wife: You are pretty well blown, Aunt Mary. Ix-. MRS. CRASHAW, MRS. CAMPBELL, AND THE OTHERS. Mrs. Crashaw: Blown? I wonder Im alive to reproach Amy for these stairs. Why dont you live in a fiat? Campbell: I am going to put in an elevator here, and you can get stuck in it. Mrs. Crashaw: I dare say I shall, if you put it in. What a frightful experi- ence! I shall never forget that night. How dye do, Edward? She shakes hands with Roberts and Mr. Bernis. How do you do, Mr. Beinis? I know how Dr. Lawton does, without asking. YOL. LXXXYJ.No. 51220 Dr. Lawton, gallantly: All the bet- ter for Mrs. Crashaw: Dont say, for seeing me! We may be chestnuts, doctor, but we neednt speak them. To Mrs. Camp- bell: Are you going to have the whole elevator company, as usual ? Mrs. Campbell: Yesall but Mr. and Mrs. Miller. I asked them, but they had an engagement. Airs. Crashaw: So much the worse for them. Mrs. Curwen will be very much disappointed not to seeMrs. Miller. The men laugh. She shakes her fan at them. You ought to be ashamed to provoke me to say such things. Well, now, since Im here, I[ wish the others would come. Im rather hungry, and its late, isnt it? Mrs. Campbell: Not at all! I dont see why you all think its late. Im sure its very early. Ah, Mrs. Curwen 1 She advances upon this lady, who enters with her husband behind her. So glad you could come. And Mr. Curwen! I didnt hear you coming I OH, AUNT MARY! 214 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. V. MR. AND MRS. OIJRWEN AND THE OTHERS. Mrs. Curwen: That proves you didnt eavesdrop at the head of the stairs, my dear. We were quarrelling all the way up to this threshold. After Id answered it, I mislaid your invitation, and Mr. Cur- wen was sure we were asked for Wednes- day. But I knew better. As it is, Im afraid were rather late. Mrs. Campbell, forcing a laugh: We rarely sit down before eight. Oh, Mrs. Bemis! How do you do, Mr. Bemis? She greets young Mr. and Mrs. Bern is with effusion, as they come in with an air of haste. VI. YOUNG MR. AND MRS. BEMIS AND THE OTHERS. Mrs. Bemis: Oh, I know were fright- fully late! Bemis: Yes, its quite shockincr Mrs. Campbell: Not at all! Really, I think it must be a conspiracy. Every- body says they are late, aud I dont know why. Campbell: I do; but I dont like to tell. Dr. Lawton: Much safer, my dear boy! Much! Mrs. G1ampbell, ignoring this passage: If I should make you wait, just to show you that it was early, I dont think it would be more than you deserve. Campbell: Probably, if you did that, Miss Reynolds would get here too soon. Mrs. Campbell: Yes; and shes usu- ally so prompt. Mrs. Curwen: Im beginning to have the courage of my convictions, Mrs. Camp- bell. Are you sure you didnt say half past? Mrs. Campbell: Im sure I cant say. Very likely I may have done so in your note. But I dont see why we are so in- flexible about dinner engagements. I think we ought to give people at least three-quarters of an hours grace, instead of that wretched fifteen minutes that keeps everybodys heart in their mouth. The door-bell sounds. Ali! Thats Miss Reynoldss ring, and ~31ampbell: We are saved! I was afraid we were going to be thirteen at table. Mrs. Roberts: Thirteen! What do you mean, Willis? Campbell: Why, one from twelve, you know. Mrs. Roberts: Oh, yes. The others laugh. Airs. Campbell: Dont notice him, Agnes. Hes in one of his very worst ways to-night. Mrs. Roberts: But I dont see what the joke is Mrs. Campbell: Neither do I, Ag- nes. I A Ghostly Voice, as of an asthmatic spectre speaking through an imperfectly attached set of artificial teeth, makes itself heard from the library: Truth crushed to earth will rise again. For Gods eternal years are hers-errrckckcr crcreeck Mrs. Crashaw: Good heavens, Wil- lis, what in the world is that? The Voice: This is the North America Companys perfected phon ograph, invent- ed by Thomas A.crcrcreeeeck ---ckckNew Jersey. This cylinder wascrcr elocutionist eeeeck Cullen Bryant Truth crushed toer- crckck Campbell: Dont be alarmed, Aunt Mary. Its just a phonograph that I had got in to amuse you after dinner. It dont seem to be exactly in order. Perhaps the cylinders got dry, or Jim hasnt got quite the right pressure on Mrs. Crashaw: Is Jini in there? Mrs. Campbell: Yes; Agnes has lent him to us to-day. I adore boys, and Jim has been angelic the whole afternoon. Mrs. Roberts: Oh, youre too good, Amy Mrs. Crashaw: I dont wonder lies been angelic, with a thing like that to play with. I should be angelic myself. Why cant we go and be amused with it a little before dinner, Willis? The Others, respectively: Oh, yes. Do. By all means. I never heard one before. We really cant wait. Let us hear it now, Mr. Campbell! Do make him, Mrs. Campbell. Campbell: Well, all right. Ill go with you He stops, feeling himself significaiitly clutched by the wrist, arid arrested in mid-career, by Mrs. Campbell. Or, Jim can show it off. It 11 do him so much good. Ill let Jun. The guests follow one another out with cries of real and simulated interest, and Campbell turns to his wife: What in the world is it, Amy? w THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 215 VII. too, Amy. Now, if you could get the dinner on in about ten minutes, we should MR. AND MRS. CAMPBELL. be just right. But youve told them all they were so early that theyll believe the delay is all yours. Mrs. Campbell: They wont believe Mrs. Campbell: What is it? I shall die, Willis Campbell: Well, speak first. Mrs. Campbell: Somethings happen- ed to the dinner, I know. And Im afraid to go and see. The cooks so cross Gampbell: Well, shall Igo? Mrs. Campbell: And if you keep up this teasing of yours, youll simply kill me. Gampbell: Well, I wont, then. But its very lucky your guests are belated anything of the kind! They know bet- ter. But I dont dare Jane, the waitress, appearing through the portibre of the drawing-room: Din- ncr is ready, Mrs. Campbell. Mrs. Campbell: 01], well, then, do get them started, Willis! Dont forget, its young Mrs. Bemis youre to take down not Mrs. Curwen. WHAT IN THE WORLD IS IT, AMY? 216 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Campbell: Oh, no! I shant forget that. I hope Mrs. Curwen wont. Hello! Theres another ring. Who in the world is that? Mrs. Campbell: Sh! If that horrid, squeaking phonograph The Phonograph, from the library: Truth crushed to earth will Mrs. Campbell: Good gracious! I cant hear a word. Hark! Its Miss Reyn- olds talking with some one in the recep- tion-room, and it sounds likebut it cant beno, it cantitit isyes! And thats his voice too, Willis! What does it mean? Am I losing my five senses? Or am I simply going stark, staring mad? Campbell: You dont say the Millers have come I Mrs. Campbell: The Millers? No! Who cares anything about the Millers? Sli ! She listens. Campbell, listening: Why, its the Belforts ! Mrs. Campbell: How can you dare to say it, Willis? Of course its the Bel- forts. Hark ! She listens. Campbell, listening: But I thought you said they declined, too. Mrs. Campbell: They did. Its some frightful mystery. Be still, do, Willis ! Campbell: Why, Im not making any noise. Its the froufrou of that dress of yours. Mrs. Campbell: Its your shirt bosom. You always will have them so stiff; and you keep breathing so. Campbell: Oh, well, if you dont want me to breathe Mrs. Campbell, desperately: It doesnt matter. It wouldnt help now if you nerer breathed again. Dont joke, Wil- lis! I cant bear it. If you do, I shall scream. Gampbell: I wasnt going to joke. Its too serious. What are you going to (10 ? Mrs. Campbell: I dont know. We must do anything to keep them from find- ing out that they werent expected. Campbell: But how do you suppose its happened, Amy? Mrs. Campbell: I dont know. They meant to decline somewhere else and ac- cept here, and they umixed the letters. Its always happening. But be still now! Theyre coming up, and all we can do is to keep them in time dark as well as we can. You must help me, Willis. Campbell: Oh, theres nothing I like better than throwing dust in peoples eyes. Its my native element. Mrs. c1ampbell: Of course it puts tIme table all out, and weve got to rearrange the places, and think who is going to take out who again as soon as we can get rid of them. Be making up some pretext, Willis. Weve got to consult together, or else we are completely lost. Youll have to stay and keep talking, while I run down and make them put another leaf into the table. I dont believe theres room enough now, and Im not certain about the quails. The cook said she didnt believe they were all nice. How can peo- ple be so careless about notes! I think its really criminal. There ought to be something done about it. If people wont read their notes over they ought to be told about it, and Ive the greatest mind to say at once that they sent a refusal, and I wasnt expecting them. It would serve them right. Campbell: Yes, and it would be such a relief to your feelings. I wish you would do it, Amy. Just for once. Mrs. Campbell: I shall have to take the table-clotlm off if I put another leaf in, and the whole thing has got to be me- arranged, decorations and everything; and Id got tIme violets scattered so care- lessly. Now I shall just fling them on. I dont care how they look. Im com- pletely discouraged, and I shall just go through it all like a stone. Campbell: Like a precious stone. You are such a perfect little brick, Amy. Mrs. Campbell: I guess you wouldmmt like it yourself, Willis. And the Be~forts are just the people I should have liked to do my best before, and now their being here spoils everything. Campbell, smiling: It is a complica- tion Mrs. Campbell: Oh, yes, giggle, do! I suppose youd expect me to be logical, as you call it, with my dying breath. Campbell: No, I shouldnt, Amy; but I know youd be delightful under any circumstances. You always get there just the samne, whetlmer you take the steps or not. But take a brace now, dear, and youll come out all right. Tell them the truth and Ill stand by you. I dont want any better fun. He slips behind his wife, who gives him a ghastly glance over her shoulder as tIme Belforts enter the room with Miss Reynolds. VIII. THE BELFORTS, MISS REYNOLDS, AND THE OAMPBELLS. Mrs. Campbell: Oh, how do you do, Maria? She kisses Miss Reynolds, and then, with gay cordiality, gives her hand to Mrs. Belfort. Im so glad to see you! She shakes hands with Belfort. So kind of you to come. Miss Reynolds: Im sorry to be a lit- tle late, Amy; but better late than never, I suppose. Mrs. Belfort: Im not so sure of that. Dear Mrs. Campbell! I wish you would be quite frank ith me ! Mrs. Campbell: Late? Frank? What do you mean, both of you? You know youre never late, Maria; and why should I be frank with you, Mrs. Belfort? Campbell: What do you take us for? Mrs. Belfort, holding Mrs. Campbells hand clasped between both of hers: For the very nicest and kindest people in the world, who wouldnt let me have the mortification of deranging them on any \~ I I M 50 GLAD TO SEE you! 218 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. account. Did you expect us this even- ing? Mrs. Campbell: Expect you? What a strange question! Why in the world shouldnt we expect you ? Campbell: What an extraordinary idea ! Mrs. Belfort: Because I had to hurry away from Mrs. Millers tea when I went home to dress, and when I told her we were coming here to dinner, she said, Oh, you are going, then? in such a way that, though she covered it up afterwards, and said she didnt mean anything, and she didnt know why she had spoken, I felt sure there must be some misunder- standing, and Eve come quite ready to be sent away again if there is. Didnt you get my note? Mrs. Campbell: Your note? Why, of course I did I Mrs. Belfort: Then its all right. Such a relief! Now I feel that I can breathe freely again. Mr. Belfort: I assure you, Mrs. Campbell, its a relief to me, too. Ive never seen my wife of quite so many minds as shes been for the last hour and a half. She was quite encyclopedic. Campbell: Oh, I know how that is, my dear boy. Ive known Mrs. Camp- bell change hers as often as an unabridged dictionary in great emergencies. Mrs. Belfort :- But really, the only thing for us to do was to come, as I felt from the beginning, in spite of my doubts what to do. I thought I could depend upon you to send us away if we werent wanted; but if we were, and didnt come, you couldnt very well have sent for us. Mrs. Campbell, gayly: Indeed I should Campbell, gallantly: The dinner would have been nothing without you. Mrs. Belfort: I dont know about that, but Im sure we should have been nothing without the dinner. We were so glad to come. I waited a little while about answering, till I could see whether we could be free of a sort of provisional engagement we had hanging over us. Even after we got here, though, Id half a mind to run away, and weve been catechising poor Miss Reynolds down in the reception - room till she wouldnt stand it any longer, and so here we are. Mrs. Campbell: And Im perfectly delighted. If you had yielded to any such ridiculous misgiving, I should never have forgiven you. Im sure I dont know what Mrs. Miller could have The Phonograph in the library: Truth crushed to earth will crcr-r-r-r ckckcr Mrs. Belfort: A phonograph! Oh, have you got one? I must hear it! Campbell: Well, wont you come into the library? My nephew is in there, driving everybody mad with it. Hell be perfectly delighted with a fresh vic- tim. Mrs. Belfort: And I shall be charm- ed to offer myself up. Come, Miss Reyn- olds. Come, Roger. C~ampbell: Yes, come niong, Bel- fort. He leads the way to the door, and then adroitly slips back to his wife, who has abandoned herself wildly upon the sofa. Ix. CAMPBELL AND MRS. CAMPBELL. Mrs. Campbell: Well, now, what are you going to do, Willis? Campbell: Im not going to do any- thing. I havent been flying in the face of Providence. If ever there was a wo- man offered a clean and safe way out! But since you preferred to remain in this labyrinththis Black Forest of improba- bilities- Mrs. Campbell: Oh, dont torment me, Willis! Dont you see that her tak- ing it that way made it all the more im- possible for me to tell her of the blunder she had committed? I simply couldnt do it, then. Campbell: I dont see how you could help doing it, then. Mrs. Campbell: When she behaved so magnanimously about it, and put her- self in my power? I would sooner have died, and she knew it perfectly well. Thats the reason she was so magnani- mous. You wouldnt have done it your- self after that. But its no use talking about that now. Weve got to do some- thing, and youve got to think what wo shall do. Now think ! Campbell: What about ? Mrs. Campbell: Oh, dont tease, dear- est! About the troubleand who shall take out who-and the quails. You know what ! Campbell: Well, I think if we leave those people alone much longer, theyll all come out here and ask if they werent THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 219 mistaken in supposing they were expect- ed. Mrs. Camp bell, whimpering Oh, there you go! How perfectly heartless ! x. MRS. ROBERTS AND THE cAMPBELLS. Mrs. Roberts, showing herself at the door: Amy, dear, what is the matter? Didnt you tell me the Belforts were not coming? Is that whats keeping you out here? I just knew it was! Mrs. Campbell: Yes, Agnes; but do go back to them, and keep them amused. Willis and I are trying to think what to do. Ive got to rearrange the whole table, you know, and Im not sure whether therell be quails enough to go round. Mrs. Roberts: Dont worry about that, Amy. I wont take any, and Ill give Edward a hint about them. Campbell: And Roberts is capable of asking you before the whole company why you dont want him to take quail. Theres nothing like Roberts for presence of niind and any little bit of finesse like that. No, it wont do for the whole con- nection to fight shy oi~ quail. Mrs. Bel- fort has got her suspicions roused, and shed be on to a thing of that kind like lightning. Shes got the notion that she wasnt expected, somehow, and shes been making it hot for Amytrying to get her to own up, and all that. If it hadnt been for me, Amy would have owned up, too. But I kept my eye on her, and she lied out of it like a little man. Mrs. ~1ainpbell: It isnt so, Agnes. He wanted me to tell the truth about it, as he calls it Mrs. Roberts: What an idea! You might as well have died at once. I dont see what you could have been thinking of, Willis ! Mrs. Campbell: Yes, he cant under- stand yet why I shouldnt, when Mrs. Belfort asked me if there wasnt some mistake, and literally threw herself on my mercy. She had no business to do it, and I shall always think it was taking a mean advantage; but I wasnt going to let myself be outdone in magnanimity. I shouldnt have thought she would be capable of it. Mrs. Roberts: It wasnt very nice; but I suppose she was excited. We mustnt blame her, and you did the only thing that any human creature could do. I m surprised at Willis; or, rather, Im not surprised. Campbell: Well, dont let it keep you away from our other guests, Agnes. Mrs. Campbell: Oh, yes; do go back to them, Agnes, dear! I have got to ar- range all over again now, about whos to go out with who, you know. I shall want you to let Edward take Mrs. Cur- wen, and Airs. Roberts: Oh, Amy, you know Id do anything for you, especially in a case like this; but I cant let Edward take Mrs. Curwen out. I dont mind her flirt- ing; she does that with every one; but she always gets Edward to laughing so that it attracts the attention of the whole table, and Campbell: Thats a very insignificant matter. Ill take out Mrs. Curwen, my- self Mrs. Campbell: No, indeed you wont! You always get her laughing, and thats a great deal worse. Campbell: Well, well, I wont, then. But we can settle all that afterwards. Mrs. Campbell: No, well settle it now, if you please; and I dont want you to go near Mrs. Curwen. Shell be sure to see that theres something wrong from the delay, and shell try to find it out, and if she should I shall simply perish on the spot. Shell try to get round you and make you tell, and I want you to promise me, Willis, on your bended knees, that you wont let it out. Shes insufferable enough as it is, but if she got to sym- patliizing with me, or patronizing me about such a thing, as shed be sure to do, I dont know what I should do. Will you promise? Campbell: Oh, I promise. Look out you dont tell her yourself, Amy! But now Ive got to see that theres enough to eat, under this new deal, and the great question is about the quail, and Ive thought how to manage that. Ill just run down to the telephone, and send to the club for them. We can have them here inside of a half-hour, and never turn a feather. Airs. Campbell: Oh, Willis, you are inspired. Well, I shall always say that when there is any real thinking to be done But hurry back, do, dear, and Agnes and I will be trying to settle who shall take out Oh, Im afraid you wont get back in time to help us! It takes so long to telephone the simplest thing. 220 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Campbell: Ill be back in one-quarter of a second. He rushes out, brushing by Mrs. Crashaw, who enters at the same moment from the library. XI. MRS. CRASHAW AND THE OTHER LADIES; THEN CAMPBELL. Jfrs. Crashaw: Amy, child, what in the world has happened? What are you staying out here away from your com- pany for? Wheres Willis going? Whats Agnes doing here? Its perfectly scanda- lous to leave all those people alone Mrs. Campbell: Oh, Aunt Mary, if you only knew, you wouldnt scold us! Dont you see the Belforts have come? Mrs. Crashaw: Yes, of course theyve come, and after they declined; I under- stand that. But its only a matter of two plates more at the table Mrs. Campbell: Oh, is it? And am I to let him go down with her? The whole affair has got to be planned over, and another leaf put in, and the table re- arranged, and I dont know what all. Mrs. Roberts: And Willis has gone down to telephone to the club for more quails. Mrs. Crashaw, to Mrs. Campbell: You dont mean that you only got just quails enough ? Mrs. Campbell, indignantly: A dinner for ten is not a dinner for twelve. I may not have kept house so long as you, Aunt Mary, but Im not quite a child ! At this critical moment Campbell returns. Well, will they send them ? Campbell: Yes, yes. Its all right. I couldnt get the club, just now; Central was busy; but Ive primed Greens man, down below, and hell call them up in a minute. He understands it. I thought Id hurry back and see if I could be of use. Well, have you got things all straight? Mrs. Crashaw: No; weve spent the time in getting them crookeder, if possi- ble. Ive insinuated that Amy didnt know how to order her dinner, and shes told me Im an old woman. I am an old woman, Amy, and you mustnt regard me. I think my minds going. She kisses Mrs. Campbell, who clasps her in a forgiving embrace. Mrs. Campbell: Mines gone, Aunt Mary, or I never could have taken any- thing amiss from you! I dont see how I shall live through it. I dont know what to do; it seems to get worse every mo- ment. Mrs. Crashaw: Why, you dont sup- pose the Belforts suspect anything, do you ? Mrs. Campbell: Thats the worst of it. I thought I ought to let the Millers know who had failed when I asked them so late; and the Belforts were there at tea this afternoon, and Mrs. Miller let out her surprise that they were coming. So, of course, I had a double duty. Campbell: But, thank goodness, she was equal to it, Aunt Mary. Ive had to do some tall lying in my time, but I never soared to the heights that Amy reached with the Belforts, in my palmiest days. Mrs. Crashaw: Well, then, if she con- vinced them that their suspicions were wrong, its all right; and if the quails ai-e coming from the club, I dont see what there is to worry about. We must be thankful that you could get out of it so easily. Mrs. Campbell: But were not out of it. The table has to be rearranged, but I can have that done now somehow, while were waiting for the quails. The great thing is to manage about the going out. It happens very fortunately that if I tell all the other men whom theyre to take out, Mr. Belfort cant suppose that he was an after-thought. But I cant seem to make a start with a new arrangement, in my own mind. Campbell: Youve used up all your invention in convincing the Belforts that they were expected. Good gracious, here s Dr. Lawton! What do you want here, you venerable opprobrium of science? XII. DR. LAWTON AND THE OTHERS. Dr. Lawton, standing at ease on the threshold of the drawing - room: No- thing. I merely got tired of hearing the praises of truth chanted in there, and came out here fora little change. Campbell: Well, you cant stay. Youve got to go back, and help keep the Belforts from supposing they werent ex- pected, if it takes all your hoarded wis- dom as a general practitioner for forty years.,~ Mrs. Campbell: Oh yes; do go back, doctor Dr. Lawton: What has been the treat- ment up to the present time? THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 221 Campbell: The most heroic kind. Amy has spared neither age nor sex, in the use of whoppers. You know what she is, doctor, when she has a duty to perform. Dr. Lawton: But whoppers, as I un- derstand, are always of one sex. They may he old; they often are, I believe; but they are invariably masculine. Campbell: Oh,that doesnt prevent wo- mens using them. They use all of us. Dr. Lawtort: Well, then, theres no need of my going back on that account. In fact, I may congratulate Mrs. Campbell on the most complete success. The Belforts are thorough- ly deceived. Mrs. Campbell, with tremulous eagerness: Oh, do you think so, doctor? If I could only believe that, how happy I should be! Dr. Lawton: You may be sure of it, Mrs. Campbell. Bel- fort doesnt count, of course? Mrs. Crashaw: Of course not; men will believe anything thats told them. Dr. Lawton: And I dont allude to him. But Mrs. Belfort got me to one side as soon as she saw me, and told me she had been afraid there was something wrong, but Mrs. Camp- bell had assured her that she had got her note of acceptance, and now she was going to give her whole mind to the phonographs beautiful rendering of Bryants poem on truth. Mrs. Roberts: There, Amy, you see theres no reason to worry about that I Mrs. Crashaw: No; the only thing now is to get your dinner on the table, child, and let us eat it as soon as possi- ble. Campbell: Yes, if Lawtons telling the truth. The Ladies: Willis! Dr. Lawton: Dont mind him, ladies! The experiences of his early life in Cali- fornia, you know, must have been very unfavorable to a habit of confidence in his fellow-meu. I pity him. XIII. MRS. cURWEN AND THE OTHERS. Mrs. Curwen, appearing with young Mr. Bemis: Dr. Lawton, I wish you would go and brine, your daughter here. Shes flirting outrageously with my hus- band. In making this accusation, Mrs. OH, I DAIIE SAY HE wON T MIND.~~ 222 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Curwen casts the eye of experienced co- quetry at young Mr. Bemis, who laughs foolishly. Dr. Lawton: Oh, I dare say he wont mind; he must be so used to it. Mrs. Curwen: What do you mean Dr. Lawton? What does he mean, Mr. Campbell ? Gampbell: I couldnt imagine, for the life of me. Mrs. Curwen: Can you tell, Mrs. Campbell ? Mrs. Campbell: Oh, I never tell such thinos. Mrs. Curwen: What mysteries Well, can you tell what makes Mrs. Bel- fort so uncommonly gay, this evening? She seems to be in the greatest spirits, laughing with everybody Mr. Bemis pare, and Mr. Roberts. Mrs. Campbell: Mrs. Belfort? Mrs. Gurwen: Yes. She seems a little hysterical. I wonder if anythings happened ? Mrs. Campbell, sweeping the circle of hei confidants with a look of misery: What could have happened? Dr. Lawton: Its merely the pleasure of finding herself in your company, Mrs. Curwen. Mrs. Curwen: Oh, thank you, Dr. Lawton. I know that I scatter sunshine in my path, but not to that extent, I think. With winning appeal: Oh, what is the cat in the meal, doctor? To young Mr. Bemis, archly: Do make them tell me, Mr. Bemnis! Young Mr. Bemis, with the air of ep- igram: Im sure I dont know. He chokes with flattered laughter. Mrs. Curwen: How cruel of you not even to try ! She makes eyes at young Mr. Bemis, and then transfers them rapid- ly to Campbell: Wont you just whis- per it in my ear, Mr. Campbell? Mrs. Rob- erts, you cant imagine what nice tImings your husbands been saying to me! I didnt know he paid compliments. And now I suppose hes devoting himself to Mrs. Belfort. Perhaps it was that made her so lively. He began at once. Hes so amusing. I envy you having such a husband always about. Young 2VIir. Bemis, in the belief that he is saying something gallant: Im sure were none of us so hard-hearted as to envy you, Mrs. Curwen. Mrs. Curwen: Oh, thank you, Mr. Bemis! I shall really be afraid to tell Mr. Curwen all you say. She laughs, and Campbell joins her, even under the reproachful gaze of his wife and sister. Mrs. Curwen turns coaxingly to him: Do tell! Campbell: Tell what? Mrs. Curwen: Well She pauses thoughtfully, and then suddenly adds, whos going to take me out to dinner. Mrs. Campbell, surprised into saying it: Why, its all disarranged now by the Belforts She stops, and a thrill of dismay at her self-betrayal makes itself apparent in the spectators. Mrs. Curwen, with clasped hands: Dont say by the Belforts coming un- expectedly! Oh, dear Mrs. Campbell, I know how to pity you! That very thing happened to me last winter. Only, it was Mrs. Miller who came after shed de- clined; she said Mr. Miller wouldnt come without her. But why do you mind it? We all went out pell - mell. Such fun! But it must have taken all Mr. Campbells ingenuity to keep them from suspecting. Campbell: More, too. I was no- where. Mrs. Curwen, with caressing deference to Mrs. Campbell: Of course you were not needed. But isnt it shocking how one has to manage in such an emergency? I really believe it would be better to tell the truth sometimes. Dont you ? Mrs. Campbell: Its all very well telling the truth if they dont suspect anything. But when people tax you with their mistakes, and try to make you own up that theyve blundered, then of course you have to deny it. Mrs. Roberts: You simply have to. Mrs. Crashaw: Theres no other way, in that case, even if youd prefer to tell the truth. Mrs. Curwen: Oh, in that case, yes, indeed. Poor Mrs. Campbell! I can im- agine how annoying it must have been; but I should have liked to hear you get- ting out of it! What did you say? Im so transparent, people see through me at once. Campbell: Are yon ? Dr. Lawton: Dont you think you e a little hard on yourself, Mrs. Curwen ? Mrs. Curwen, with burlesque meekness and sincerity: No, not the least. Its simple justice. Mr. Curwen enters with Roberts. You can ask my husband if you dont believe me. Or no, Ill put the case to him myself. Fred, dear, if people THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 223 whom I didnt expect to dinner, came, could I keep them from discovering that they werent expected? You know how awkward I am about such thingslittle fibs, and all tbat? XLV. ROBERTS, ~UR~EN, AND THE OTHERS THEN THE BELFORTS. Curwen: Well, I dont know Mrs. Curwen, shaking her fan at him during the general laugh: Oh, what a wicked husband! You dont believe I could fib out of such a thing, do you, Mr. Roberts ? Roberts, gallantly: If I knew what the thing was? Mrs. Curwen: Why, like the Bel- forts Oh, poor Mrs. Campbell! I didnt mean to let it out! Mrs. Campbell: Oh, it doesnt matter. Would you like to go arid tell the Bel- forts themselves? Or, you neednt go: theyre coming here. Mrs. Belfort, returning from the libra- ry, followed by her husband and the eld- er Mr. Bemis: How perfectly the phono- graph renders that piece, Mr. Campbell! Ive never heard anything like it. C~ampbell: Its all in practice. You wouldn~t hear anything else here, Mrs. Belfort. Its my favorite poem. And Im happy to find that Mrs. Curwen likes it as much as I do. Mrs. Curwen: I adore it! The Phonograph, within: Truth crushed to earth will rise again. Campbell: Every time! But I wish Jim would change the cylinder. Ilike a little van A Sound from the regions below, some- thing like, Woor, roor, roor; woor, roor, roor ! and then a voice: Hello! Is that you, Central? Well, give me two hundred and forty-one, please! Yes, two, four, one: Iroquois Club. Yes! What? Yes, Iroquois Clubtwo forty-one. Well, hurry up! Is that you, Iroquois? Yes? Busy? Well, that wont work. I dont care if you are busy. Youve got to take my message, and take it right away. Hear ~ that? Campbell: Hear it? I should think they could! That confounded fool has left the closet door open ! He rushes out and down the stairs, while the others as- sume various attitudes of sympathy and dismay, and Mrs. Curwen bows herself into her fan, and the voice below con- tin ues. The Voice: Well, why dont you send them quails you promised half an hour ago? What? Who is it? Its Mr. Camp- bell. C, a, in, Cam, m, e, I, mel, Camp- bell. One hump! What? Oh, hump yourself! Its Mr. Cam Campbells voice from below: Why the deuce dont you shut that closet door? Shut it! Shut it! We can hear you all over the house, the way you yell. Dont von know how to use a telephone? Shut that door, anyway The Voice: Oh, I beg your pardon, sir Ididntthink about the door. Ididnt know it was open. All right, sir. There is the sound of a closing door, and then, as Campbell rejoins his guests with a flushed face, the woor-roor-rooring of the electric bell begins again. Iroquois! Is this Iroquois? No, I dont want you; I want Iroquois. Well, is that Iroquois now? The words are at first muffled; then they grow more and more distinct, in spite of the intervening door. Yes, quails! A dozen roast quails. You got the order half an hour ago. Theres a lot of folks come that they didnt expect, and they got to have some more birds. Well, hurry up, then! Good-by! Woor-roor ! C~ampbell, amidst the consternation of the company, while Mrs. BelfQrt fixes his wife with an eye of mute reproach: Now, my dear, this is so awful that no- thing can be done about it on the old lines. Mrs. Campbell: Yes; I give it up. Mrs. Belfort, I tried my very best to keep you from suspecting, and even when you did suspect, Im sure you must say that I did all I could. But fate was against me. Mrs. Curwen: Oh, poor Mrs. Camp- bell! Must you own up? Mrs. Belfort: But I dont understand. You got my note of acceptance, didnt you? Mrs. ~7ampbell: But it wasnt a note of acceptance: it was a note of regret Mrs. Belfort: Indeed it was not ! Mrs. Campbell: I knew just how it had happened as soon as I saw you this evening, and I determined that wild horses should not get the truth out of me. Campbell and Dr. Lawton ex- change signals of admiration. You must have been writing two notes, de- clining somewhere else, and then got them mixed. Its always happening. 224 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Campbell: Its one of the commonest things in the world-on the stage; and ever since a case of the kind happened to Mrs. Campbell down at the Shore, one summer, shes known how to deal with it. Airs. Belfort: But I didnt write two notes and get them mixed. I wrote but one, to tell Mrs. Campbell how very glad I was to come. Do you happen to have kept my note? Mrs. Campbell: They are all here in this desk, and running to it, and pull- ing it open-here is yours. She reads: Dear Mrs. Campbell, I am very sorry to be so late in answering. An out-of- town engagement for the tenth, which has been hanging over us in a threaten- ~ way for the past fortnight Mrs. Campbell turns the leaf, and continues reading in a murmur that finally fades into the silence of ntter dismay. Campbell: Well, my dear ? Mrs. Crashaw: What in the world is it, child? Mrs. Roberts: Amy ! Jtifrs. Curwen: Oh, not another mys- tery, I hope! Campbell: Go on, Amy, or shall I Mrs. Campbell, reading desperately on: -for the past fortnight, is happily off at last, and I am very glad indeed to ac- cept your kind invitation for dinner at seren on that day, for Mr. Belfort and myself She lets her hands, with the letter stretched between them, fall dra- matically before her. Campbell: Well, my dear, there seems to be a pretty clear case against you, and unless you can plead mind- transferrence, or something like that Mrs. Roberts: Im sure its mind- transferrence, Amy! Ive often been through the same experience myself. Just take the opposite of whats said. Mrs. Campbell, ii~ a daze: But I dont see Yes, now I begin to remember how it must have been-how it was. I know now, but I dont know how I can ever forgive myself for such carelessness, when Im always so particular about notes Campbell: Yes, Ive even heard you say it was criminal to read them careless ly. I can bear witness for you there. Mrs. Roberts: Im sure I could too, Amy, in a court of justice. Mrs. Campbell: Yes, I was just go- ing out when your note came, Mrs. Bel- fort, and I read the first page-down to for the past fortnight and I took it for granted that the opening regret meant a refusal, and just dropped it into my desk and gave you up. Its inexcus- able, perfectly inexcusable! Im quite at your feet, Mrs. Belfort, and I. shall not blame you at all if you cant forgive me. What shall I say to you? Mrs. Belfort, amiably: Nothing. my dear, except that you will let me stay, now Im here ! Mrs. Campbell: How sweet you are! You shall live with us Campbell: Truth crushed to eartb! Its perfectly wonderful! Mrs. Campbell cant get away from it when she tries her best. She tells it in spite of herself. She supposed she wasnt telling it when she said there was no mistake on your part; but she was. Well, it is a feminine vir- tue, doctor. Dr. Lawton: Unquestionably. I think that it came into the world with woman. YES, QUAILS! THE ROMANCE IN THE LIFE OF HEFTY BURKE. 225 Airs. Campbell, with mounting cour- age: Yes, a pretty predicament I should l~ave been in, Willis, if I had taken your advice, and told the truth, as you call it, in the beginning. But now we wont wait any longer. The quails will come in their own good time. My dear, will you give Mrs. Belfort your arm? And Mr. Belfort, will you give me yours ? Mrs. Curwert: And all the rest of us Mrs. Campbell: Oh, you can come out pell-mell. Mrs. Curwen: Oh, dear Mrs. Camp- bell THE ROMANCE IN THE LIFE OF HEFTY BURKE. BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. EFTY BURKE was a young man H of honest countenance and godlike figure, by some nus chance in the Fourth Ward, instead of in a more exclusive neighborhood, where he would later in life have been able to show off the godlike figure in a frock- coat. Having been born on the East River front, lie had followed the river for a livelihood ever since, and could swim when other children of his age were learning to walk about alone. This fact had been demonstrated only by acci- dent, but was vouchied for by those who had seen him at the age of three jump out of his fathers arms over the railing of an excursion-boat, and paddle around in the water until dragged out of it at the end of a boat-hook. At the age of twenty-five he was mak- ing small sums of money by backing himself to win in swimming races, and had been given numerous medals for saving life. This latter recreation he re- garded only as a divertisement. He did not make a business of it, and it was not to him a matter of serious moment, like the winning of long-distance champion- ships. But neither of these performances made him wealthy, and it was most neces- sary that he should become so in order that he might marry Miss Mary Casey, the daughter of the janitor of the Mount Blanc Flats. Hefty was very much in love with her, and had urged her to mar- ry him and live on the little money he could earn, but Miss Casey was a thought- ful young person, and thoroughly appre- ciated her own value. She wished hini to show his love by appreciating it also. w It is sometimes difficult to express the magnitude of ones love by ones wages, and Hefty found this true, but Miss Casey saw no excuse in it. They had been en- gaged for over a year. But while it was difficult for him to earn money, it was as easy for him to drag a drowning man from death to the pier-head as for you to guide a blind man from one sidewalk to the other, or a girl across a ballroom, and his manner in do- ing the one thin was as matter-of-fact, and as little self-conscious, as yours would probably be in performing the other. If the drowning person struggled, he ducked her, if it chanced to be a woman; or, if it were a man, drew away an arms-length and trod water until he had posed his vic- tim properly, when he would strike him once between the eyes, and then slip him over his shoulder like a bag of meal, and sweep in with him to a firm moor- ing. There was not, accordingly, the least hesitation in the moveriients of Mr. Burke when the daughter of Sefior Juan Alva- rez failed to place her foot on the lower rung of the accommodation-ladder, and sank between the port side of the tramp steamer Liverpool and the Liverpools long-boat. There was no one remaining in the Liverpools long-boat to go after her, because her father, who had rowed it over from the slip, had mounted the ships ladder first, and was trying to bal- ance himself oii it, and at the same time hold the long-boat back against a turn- ing tide that strove to wrench it out of his hands. Mr. Burke was at this mo- ment tacking around the stern of the steamer in a cat-boat. There was no time to go about and chase the broad white hat that rose for an instant at the foot of the ladder, so when lie heard the father scream he dropped his sheet and tiller and dived over the boats rail to leeward, leaving her reeling and careening im- potently in the wind. The broad straw hat rose once more at the steamers bow and sank again, but Mr. Burke was in close pursuit now, going hand after hand even faster than the current, with his head under water, and turning his mouth to the surface at each fifth stroke to gasp

Richard Harding Davis Davis, Richard Harding The Romance in the Life of Hefty Burke. A Story 225-235

THE ROMANCE IN THE LIFE OF HEFTY BURKE. 225 Airs. Campbell, with mounting cour- age: Yes, a pretty predicament I should l~ave been in, Willis, if I had taken your advice, and told the truth, as you call it, in the beginning. But now we wont wait any longer. The quails will come in their own good time. My dear, will you give Mrs. Belfort your arm? And Mr. Belfort, will you give me yours ? Mrs. Curwert: And all the rest of us Mrs. Campbell: Oh, you can come out pell-mell. Mrs. Curwen: Oh, dear Mrs. Camp- bell THE ROMANCE IN THE LIFE OF HEFTY BURKE. BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. EFTY BURKE was a young man H of honest countenance and godlike figure, by some nus chance in the Fourth Ward, instead of in a more exclusive neighborhood, where he would later in life have been able to show off the godlike figure in a frock- coat. Having been born on the East River front, lie had followed the river for a livelihood ever since, and could swim when other children of his age were learning to walk about alone. This fact had been demonstrated only by acci- dent, but was vouchied for by those who had seen him at the age of three jump out of his fathers arms over the railing of an excursion-boat, and paddle around in the water until dragged out of it at the end of a boat-hook. At the age of twenty-five he was mak- ing small sums of money by backing himself to win in swimming races, and had been given numerous medals for saving life. This latter recreation he re- garded only as a divertisement. He did not make a business of it, and it was not to him a matter of serious moment, like the winning of long-distance champion- ships. But neither of these performances made him wealthy, and it was most neces- sary that he should become so in order that he might marry Miss Mary Casey, the daughter of the janitor of the Mount Blanc Flats. Hefty was very much in love with her, and had urged her to mar- ry him and live on the little money he could earn, but Miss Casey was a thought- ful young person, and thoroughly appre- ciated her own value. She wished hini to show his love by appreciating it also. w It is sometimes difficult to express the magnitude of ones love by ones wages, and Hefty found this true, but Miss Casey saw no excuse in it. They had been en- gaged for over a year. But while it was difficult for him to earn money, it was as easy for him to drag a drowning man from death to the pier-head as for you to guide a blind man from one sidewalk to the other, or a girl across a ballroom, and his manner in do- ing the one thin was as matter-of-fact, and as little self-conscious, as yours would probably be in performing the other. If the drowning person struggled, he ducked her, if it chanced to be a woman; or, if it were a man, drew away an arms-length and trod water until he had posed his vic- tim properly, when he would strike him once between the eyes, and then slip him over his shoulder like a bag of meal, and sweep in with him to a firm moor- ing. There was not, accordingly, the least hesitation in the moveriients of Mr. Burke when the daughter of Sefior Juan Alva- rez failed to place her foot on the lower rung of the accommodation-ladder, and sank between the port side of the tramp steamer Liverpool and the Liverpools long-boat. There was no one remaining in the Liverpools long-boat to go after her, because her father, who had rowed it over from the slip, had mounted the ships ladder first, and was trying to bal- ance himself oii it, and at the same time hold the long-boat back against a turn- ing tide that strove to wrench it out of his hands. Mr. Burke was at this mo- ment tacking around the stern of the steamer in a cat-boat. There was no time to go about and chase the broad white hat that rose for an instant at the foot of the ladder, so when lie heard the father scream he dropped his sheet and tiller and dived over the boats rail to leeward, leaving her reeling and careening im- potently in the wind. The broad straw hat rose once more at the steamers bow and sank again, but Mr. Burke was in close pursuit now, going hand after hand even faster than the current, with his head under water, and turning his mouth to the surface at each fifth stroke to gasp 226 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. for a breath of air. And when down below him he saw, turning and twisting in the sharp undercurrent, a slim white figure, he dived for it and brought it up firmly under his arm, and struck out con- fidently for the anchor-chain that stretch- ed above his head a few rods further back, quivering in the current. He reached it with a few quick strokes, and threw his arm over it and hung there, breathing heavily, and shaking the damp hair from his eyes. He saw the men of the Liver- pool tumbling into the long-boat, and three tugs making toward him with fierce shrieks of their whistles, and the passen- gers on a lumbering ferry-boat crowded at the rail and pointing him out. It is al- niost as difficult to drown in the upper bay as in Madison Square, and Mr. Burke, knowing this, concerned himself not at all with the approaching aid, but turned his eyes with careless interest to the face beside his own. The broad straw hat had been wrenched away, and the long hair loosened, and the smooth oval face pressed against his was still warm through the water which ran from it. It was a differ- ent face from any which Mr. Burke had known. He would have classed its owner had he been asked to give a guess at her nationality, as a foreigner, and more par- ticularly as Eyetalian, Italians being to him a generic term for all those peo- ple not born between the East and North rivers. But he admitted mentally that it was a very beautiful face. The lashes were longer than any he had ever seen and the lips smaller, and the skin a warm- r~ browner tint, which made the clinch- ed teeth under the parted lips more white by contrast. It reminded him of a pic- ture he knew in the cathedral, but he could not recall just then where lie had seen it. 1~he face was so delicate and beautiful that he instinctively moved his own away from it, and relaxed his hold round the girls body, and as her head sank back on his shoulder he gave a short lau~h, and wondered with a grini smile what Mary Casey would say if she could see him then. One of the men in the long-boat lifted her up gently, and her father seized. her and caressed her and moaned and wept over her, chattering in a soft unknown tongue. Hefty had nev- er before seen a man of his age weep, and he observed it with interest, as he pulled himself up over the bow of the boat. The captain of one of the three tugs leaned over the low rail and recognized Hefty with a wave of his hand. I bet on it it was you, he said. And then added, looking down at his shoulder with a languishing smile, Whos your friend Mr. Burke reddened fiercely at this, and did not answer; but whether he had blush- ed from anger or embarrassment he could not tell. He still felt the touch of the girls face against his own, and as he became conscious of this, he rubbed his cheek hastily with the back of his hand, as a tribute of fidelity to Miss Casey, who had not been there to see. He sailed back to the slip in his recov- ered cat-boat with a strange sensation of excitement and unrest. He had never feat excited when he had saved other people, and lie attributed his feeling so at this time to the embarrassingly fervid grati- tude of the queer little father, or to the white liquor he had given him from a long-necked flask. It was awful hot stuff, he argued, and he certainly did take on about it. Might have been her mother from the way he took on. Then he said For- eigners, briefly, as though that explain- ed it all, and went up to the tenement to change his wet clothes. There was really no necessity for his sailing out to the Lirerpool again. He knew that quite well as he beat uncer- tainly about in the wind. He knew the girl had recovered, for she had opened her eyes before he had left the boat, and had smiled up at her father, so there was absolutely no reason for his returning. Still, he argued, her father had asked him to do so, had, indeed, entreated him to let them see him again. Perhaps it was only his excitable Southern manner and meant nothing. And then again he would r~ot like them to go away thinking he had been ungra- cious and rude. They had asked him to come back to dinner, and it was even l)Ossible that they might at that moment be waiting for him. His hand pushed the tiller away, and then drew it back with a jerk, and threw the boat into the wind again. He would not go back. What right had he to go calling on strange girls, and foreigners at that? But as soon as he had determined he had no right to show this interest in an un- known woman, and that he would sail on to the pier, he put the boat sharp- ly about, and headed it directly for the him,was an English tramp steamer, char- steamer. It seemed as if the boat did tered to carry sewing-machines and other not go fast enough, and in order that he manufactured articles to a port in Colom- might not again change his intention bia, a South American republic, as they he thought of the race he had on with further explained. Sefior Alvarez was IRobinson for the next Tuesday, and had the owner of the cargo, and his daughter just determined that the stakes were not accompanied him for his better compan- large enough, and that he would demand ionship and for a sight of the great city more money, when the sail of his cat- of New York. Mr. Burke, in turn, told boat fluttered in the wind, and left him at them proudly of some of its wonders, and the foot of the Liverpools ladder. volunteered to show them its sights. They were very glad to see him, and He thought they should certainly see he felt satisfied that he had come, and Central Park before they left, and take so expressed himself, and his pleasure in in a dance at the Terrace Garden. He finding that the young girl was not at all would also be pleased to get them seats the worse in health for her journey un- for the play then running at Niblos der the water. She said nothing to this,. ~which was, so he understood, a piece but smiled npon him from beneath the worth seeing. His advances were re- lou~,, lashes with dark sleepy eyes. Her ceived with polite consideration, but the father seemed to be a very pleasant little seflor regretted, in bad English but with man for a foreigiier, with a great deal perfect grace, their immediate departure. of manner, which compared favorably They had been lying for the past fort- with that of the Frenchman who taught night at the pier-head, and had hut that all the fashionable dances for fifty cents morning anchored in the basin, to be in an hour, and for nothing to those who readiness to start with the tide at mid- formed classes of six or over, at Sorleys night. Mr. Burke received this informa- Terrace Garden. Mr. Burke could not tion dumbly. He could not tell why, but remember having met with such plea- he felt strangely hurt at their so soon go- sant people before. They ate in the cap- ing away. It was as if they had not only tams cabin in company with two of the rejected him, but his rising feelings of ships mates, who were men of doubtfnl friendliness and hospitality. But then nationality, and who said but little, but he answered himself, it could mean no- who regarded Mr. Burke closely, and thing to him whether they went or came. (1 rank frequently from the long-necked And yet when the dinner was over he bottle. The Liverpool, so they informed was loath to go. He stood on the deck and BURKE wATcHED HER WITH DEEP INTEREST. - CA7~~ -~ pointed ~ith his hand to the statue of Liberty on Bedlows Island. Thats something youse oughtr see, he said, but I guess youve been over it. No? Its a great bit of work inside, with stairs all the way up. You wouldnt think how big it is from here. Why, mor n a dozen men can stand on the ledge round the hand. If you like, he added, consciously, Ill sail you over there. He looked at the sefiorita as he spoke, and she glanced at her father, and he looked doubtfully at Burke, at which the young man reddened, and then the Spaniard, seeing this, told his daughter that she should go of course, that it was most courteous of the brave gentleman who had risked his life for her. He him- self could not attend them, as there were clearing - papers to sign and a crew to choose. The sun was sinking over the Jersey 4 fiats when they turned and headed back to the steamer. The girl sat silently iu the cross seat amidships, with one hand trailing in the water and with the other shading her eyes. She wore a light dress, open at the throat, and she had thrown a black lace scarf over her head and shoulders, with one end hangin~,. It served her for both head-dress and shawl, and though Mr. Burke condemned it as fantastic, he admitted that it was more becoming to her than Miss Caseys flat hat would have been. They had passed the last two hours together, stopping to rest on the grass around the base of the statue, and watching the boats of differ- ent make pass and repass the little island. It had seemed to Burke as if it were ali their own, as if the two of them had been cast adrift there, and that the rest of the world had gone on with its worries and business and making of money and keep- I AM NOT GOOD AT 5AYING THINGS. [See page 211.] THE ROMANCE IN THE LIFE OF HEFTY BURKE. 229 ing of engagements without their caring or knowing. He looked with contempt 4 upon the big ferry-boat that had to move on schedule time, and listened with a feeling of pity to the hoarse warnings of the tugs, and all the other whistles and bells that told of work and hurry. The strange girl at his side filled him with a feeling of distance from it all, her soft lazy voice and slow speech, as she picked out and formed her sentences, quieted and soothed, and yet unsettled him. The places and things of which she spoke were so widely different from what he knew, and appeared, as she told of them, as though they must be so much richer and fuller and more plentiful. A land where it was always noon, with trees and flow- ers and clear skies, and where no one worked; where the earth furnished food freely, and where the men seemed to do nothing all day but sit and smoke in the open squares; where the nights were filled with music and dancing, and every one sat out-of-doors while the band played on the plaza. Yes, said Burke, breathing heavily, and staring down with a troubled look at the dark eyes of the girl stretched on the seat below him. It sounds as if Id like it. It aint like this, is it? he said, with a wave of his hand as a great flat scow, laden with freight cars, pushed past them with a panting tug at her side. Au, yes; but, however, said the girl, slowly, you have that. She raised her arm from her side and stretched it out, with her long slim fingers pointing at the great bronze statue which stood out black against the red glow of the sunset. How? said Burke; have wot? I dont understand. The girl rested her chin on her hand, and looked past him at the statue. Her lids closed heavily, so that he could hard- ly see her eyes. She shook her head. You have liberty, she said, as though she were speaking to herself, and free- dom; you have it all. You have no ty- rants in your country. It is all free and open and noble. With us there is no law. We are afraid to speakwe are afraid She stopped and closed her lips as though W to compel herself to silence. Burke watched her with a deep inter- est, which he believed was in what she said, but which was in the fact that she had said it. He waited for her to con- tinue, but she remained silent. VOL. LXXXVI.No. 51221 Wot do you mean ? lie asked, softly. Whos hurting you in Colombia? We do not live in Colombia, she said. Oh yes, the boat goes there, but our own homethe home I spoke of to youis in Ecuador. There is peace in Colombia; but now with us there is war and revolution, and men are shot in the streets because they will not suffer to be robbed. She stopped again, and held her hands before her face. Shot in the street, eh ? said Mr. Burke, gravely. Wot! Dont the po- lice stop em? It is a revolution, said the girl, im- patiently. My people have been strug- gling for many years against oppression. My uncle, she said, consciously, should be Presid~nt of Ecuador, but now be- cause Gonzales has the army with him my uncle cannot take his place, but hides in the mountains without a home. They hunt him like a bandit. They have turn- ed his house into a barracks for Gonzales soldiers. I myself saw their tents and horses in the gardens where I have walk- ed many times. It is all confiscateyou understand ? Yes, said Burke, shaking his head solemnly. I read it in the papers. I read there was fighting going on down there; but I didnt take no notice to it, ifs so far away, he added, apologetically. So far away ! the girl repeated, with quick offence. Do not men love their homes everywhere they may be? And love their free life, and tobe masters? I and my people have had no home for years; my uncle, chosen of the people, is driven from the city by a paid military; by a man who robs the rich and taxes the poortaxes the salt they eat. Mr. Burke reddened slowly. Huh he said, fiercely. He does, hey? Well, wot are all your men doing all this time? The girl gave him a quick look of ap- proval. She leaned forward, with her eyes fixed on his. They do the best they can, she said, slowly. They are poor, but not so poor but when they get the guns and the cannons and the pow- der, like all that Gonzales has, they will not be poor no more. She opened her clasped arms, and threw her hands out with a quick impulsive gesture. Then the brother of my dear father, she whis- pered, will come back at the head of the army to the people who have given him their vote, and those inside will 230 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. open the gates, and he will march in and drive Gonzales away, and Gonzales will die, and there will be peace again and freedom, and no more taxes, nor steal- ing, nor assassinations. The tears came to her eyes, and ran slowly down her cheeks, but she did not touch them. Ah, yes, we have brave men, she said, raising her head proudly, and nodding at him. Burke shifted his hand on the tiller and looked away. And brave women, I guess, he said. I wish, he began I wish I could do something, he concluded, impotently. The girl smiled quickly, and straight- ened her head and shoulders. Yes, I did not do wrong to speak to you, she said, considering him with grave, ~ eyes. You do understand it. You are brave; yes, you are brave, and you now know what it is that we suffer. Mr. Burke made no answer, but looked past and beyond her. She seemed to have forgotten him in the thoughts which her words had brought back to her, and sat, with her chin on her hand, gazing stead- ily across the water. It was all new to him, and he let himself go for the ~time, and did not try to shake off the hold the girl had laid upon him. Mary Casey and her yellow hair and proud nose, that was borne in air as the daughters of a janitor should be, grew familiar and common- place; her complainings and upbraidings returned to him with a jar, and he com- pared, unwillingly enough, her love of the gossip of the tenement and of the corner flirtations, and her envy of other girls more fortunate in richer young men, with this queer beautiful girl, who treated him as a hero, and whose life seemed mixed up with danger and the making of Pres- idents. He remembered with fresh re- gret the lack of appreciation Miss Casey had shown when he helped make a Pres- ident by acting as window-man at the last election. He was sure this girl would have better understood the importance of that service. Sefior Alvarez received them at the head of the accommodation - ladder, and bade Burke make the boat fast. You will remain to eat with us, he said. Burke did not argue with himself this time, but told himself that this was for the last time, and that he would never again see these strange people who had come so suddenly into his life. The moon rose early that night, and by the time they came out upon the deck had spread its light over the river and softened the red and green lights at the yards of the many steamers anchored about them. It had turned the deck white and the ratlines and cordage black, and threw their shadows before them as they walked. The Jersey shore lay like a black frame to the picture, broken by blocks of blazing lights at the ferries which glowed like open fireplaces against the dark background of the city. And to the north the Battery showed a curve of lamps, and high above it rose the Bridge like a great spiders web, dotted with a double row of stars. But Burke saw no- thing of this; he was thinking of the hot, restless country with the queer name, many miles away, of which he had but just learned, and yet for which he felt a fierce turmoil of sympathy. Though it was so late, the men were still lowering cases and boxes from the main-deck into the open hatch with the aid of a creaking derrick, and the three stood on the bridge and watched them in silence. A mate, with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, directed them in a low voice and in a strange tongue, and the moonlight gave to the men and their work a strange and unfamiliar aspect. The derrick swung short of the ?hatch, and stopped with a jerk, and the box it had lifted shook free from the rope about it, and came down, turning over in the air. There was a warning cry from the mate, and a crash as the box struck. It burst into a dozen pieces, and there tum- bled out upon the moonlit deck a scat- tered mass of glittering sabres. Seiior Alvarez uttered a quick foreign oath, and threw himself in front of Burke, as though to shut the sight from him; but Burke only turned toward the girl and smiled in sympathy. The smile, more than any- thing else, seemed to startle the little Spaniard, and he glanced quickly at his daughter for a word of explanation. I have told him, she said. I have told him much, and he guesses the rest. You have guessed? Yes, said Alva- rez, fiercely; what have you guessed? Burke shrugged his shoulders irreso- lutely. Its no business of mine, he said. I only wish it was, he added. He turned away, while the father and daughter spoke to each other quickly in their own language. Then the Spaniard THE ROMANCE IN THE LIFE OF HEFTY BURKE. 231 turned and surveyed Burke with steady deliberation. You are a brave young man, he be- gan, slowly, and speaking with soft in- tentness. You have shown us to-day that you think of other lives before your own: is it not so? You have done very much for me: what will you do more? He paused, dramatically, and held out his arms. Burke regarded him with a troubled countenance. What do you mean? he asked. Come with us, urged Alvarez, quick- ly. That is what I mean. Come with us. My daughter, she has told me what you know. She did wrong to tell you, perhaps. We shall see. Perhaps no; per- haps she has done well. Come with us and I will make you a captain. You will have many men under your command, and much of glory and reward, and when my brother is in the capital again, you will be a man with many titles to honor, and a home for yourself with beautiful gar- dens about it. We need brave men. You are a brave man. Will you come? The girl moved slowly to her father, and stood beside him, with one hand resting on his shoulder, and looked at Burke from un- der the shadow of the black mantilla. He could see her eyes shining in the moonlight. They neither invited nor re- pelled him, but questioned him earnestly. There was a moments pause, and then Burke shook himself and laughed weak ly. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stood slouching, with his chin thrown out, and smiling bitterly at the great buildings around Bowling Green. Well? said the older man, with sharp suspicion in his voice. You neednt think that You cant understand, said Burke. I am not good at saying things, he added, impo- tently. Wot I mean is, he began again, you wouldnt understand, even if I was to tell you. You have seen much, said the Span- iard, slowly. You know more than any man in this country knows. My daugh- ter, she has told you why we come; you see for yourself why we come. His voice rose to a sharp climax of excite- ment and suspicious fear. I make no more promises. I command you. You understand,you must go with us; you must go. We cannot trust you to leave behind. Burkes hands came out of his pockets with a jerk. Wot, he growled, sav- agely. You cant trust me, cant you? Why not? Wot do you know of wot Ive got to do, of wot Id like to do if I had my way? Im promised. I have given my word to do something else. Id like to fight and row with the best of you for you and for the lady there. But but Im not free. I have got my work cut out for me where I am. Ive got to stay here. You have got to stay here, repeated the Spaniard, suspiciously. Yet you are a young man. You cannot have family or much business. You take your plea- sure swimming and sailing in your boat in this bay. I have been informed so of you since you were here this morning. All these people know of you. They say you are very brave, and that you are free. They all say good of you, but now you know too much than is good for you. You shall come with me. Burke gave the girl a troubled glance and shook his head. Cant you un- derstand? he asked; and then he said, straightening himself and trying to give an air of importance to what he was about to say, Im engaged. Engaged what is that? demanded the Spaniard, quickly. I am engaged to get married to a young woman. Ive got to stay at home and take care of her. The Spaniard regarded him closely for a moment with evident incredulity, and then burst into a laugh which mocked him. Oh, he said, it is that, is it? It is a young woman. It is .always a young woman. You have here honor, money, and much renown, and great good to do, and you remember this young woman. Let me not keep you, he cried, with a sudden change of manner. Let us not detain you from her any more. You are no doubt impatient to be back. He bowed with exaggerated courtesy, and, with an air of relief and amusement, moved backwards to the foot of the lad- der. Let us not keep you, he said, laughing. Burke observed him with a sick feeling of rage at the injustice of it, and then raised his eyes slowly to those of the girl. She had turned from them, and was stand- ing erect and motionless, with her hands resting on the polished rail and gazing 232 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. steadily at the shore. She must surely understand, Burke thought. Perhaps, interrupted the mocking voice of the father, perhaps it is that you do not desire to go for war. Fight- ing, it is true, is full of danger. He laughed and bowed again, motioning with a wave of the hand toward the top of the ladder. Burke turned and looked at him, with his shoulders bent and his head lowered. It reminded the Spaniard suddenly of a bull he had seen in the ring after the matadors had tormented it, and just be- fore it had plunged forward and hurled a man lifeless against the Presidents box. He straightened himself, and fell back a step. Perhaps, he said, quick- ly, there is something I do not compre- hend. You will pardon me, but I mis- understood. Burke regarded him steadily for some short time, and then turned away with- out having heard what he had said. He slipped his cap from his head, and moved a step nearer the girl. It isnt that I am afraid of the fightingyou know that, he said but that I am afraid of some- thing else. He stopped and stood with his eyes fixed so earnestly on the girls face that she seemed to feel them, and her shoulders moved slightly as though the cool night air had made her tremble. I am afraid of breaking my promise thats given, he said. He waited a mo- ment, but the girl did not move, or show by any sign that she had heard him. I cant do that, he begged. His voice was full of doubt and trouble. I cant do that, can I ? The girl still stood motion- less, and then shrugged her shoulders slightly, and turned out the palms of her hands. Burke drew a long breath, and straightened himself resolutely. Good-by, said Burke. She put her hand out slowly, and bare- ly touched it to his own, and then walked the short length of the bridge away from him. He went down the ladder and over the side without looking back again, and dropped into his boat. He had gone up the ladder so proudly that morning, and now the world and all the worlds ways seemed ajar and devious, and his reason neither applauded him for having made a sacrifice, nor assured him that he had done well. As his boat rounded the bow of the steamer, a row-boat shot out from under her side, and its solitary occupant pulled off with short quick strokes for the shore. It was the sudden sight of Burkes boat and the sail looming white in the moon- light that had startled him, and Burke, recognizing this, called to him to stop. The oarsman answered with a quicker pull on the oar, and bowed his head as if to hide his face from observation. Burke shortened sail, and in a moment drew up at the row-boats side. Oh, its you, is it? he said. You was Mr. Big Marks. Mr. Marks was the proprietor of a sail- ors lodging-house, who robbed his lodgers, and as a return helped them to rob their vessels; who smuggled in a small way, and even, it is said, was not too proud to stoop to inform on other gentlemen who smuggled in a larger way. Give me your rope, said Mr. Burke. Ill tow ye in. The man in the boat sat motionless. You neednt mind me, Hefty, he said, humbly. I am just rowing about; I can get in by myself. Mr. Burke regarded him with steady scrutiny. Youre lying, he said; give me that rope. Wot was ye doing under the bow of that steamer? and, he con- tinued, angrily, wot did you try to get away from me so fast for ? Mr. Marks threw him his painter, and crawled over the side of the cat-boat. One of my men, he began, glibly enough, is on the Liverpool; hes a Swede thats a regular customer of mine when- ever hes in port. I just rowed out to see him off. They get away in an hour or two. In an hour, corrected Burke. He looked back at the steamer with heavy eyes, and seemed for the moment to have forgotten his sudden animosity towards his prisoner. Seeing which, Mr. Marks lit a cigar, and offered another with a propi- tiatory smile to Mr. Burke. Its good, he said; its never seen no customhouse. Im not smoking, said Burke, grimly. Training again, hey I asked Mr. Marks, pleasantly. Well, my money is on you this time, and every time. There aint none of them as can touch you--. thats what I say. Burke made no reply to this, but gazed at his companion with stern inquiry and with troubled eyes. He did not speak again until they reached the wharf, and then, as Mr. Marks started away with a V THE ROMANCE IN THE LIFE OF HEFTY BURKE. 233 hasty good-night, he called sharply after him: Come back here. I want you. Mr. Marks hesitated, and then turned, and waited with evident uneasiness. Youll come and take a drink, said Burke. Mr. Marks fingered the cigar in his hand nervously. Id like to, Hefty, he said, but another time. Ive got to see a man at the place. Ive got an ap- pointment with him. Some other night hey ? Got to hurry now. Ill go with you, said Burke, stead- ily. Mr. Marks looked at him for the first time with sharp scrutiny, and laughed a low, comfortless laugh. He was a fat, oily person, with a face reddened by drink and the wind of the river. Burke tow- ered beside him as they walked along, his face set and miserable. From one place to another and from one street corner to the next the two men walked and halted. Sometimes to speak to an acquaintance, sometimes to order something to drink, which both left untasted on the bar. As the hour wore on the nervousness of the older man became obvious, and at last, in a saloon near the Battery, he slipped quickly through a side entrance and ran into the night. The next moment Burke was at his side. Here, you had better not try that on, he growled, and dropped into step again. Mr. Marks stopped and drew a long breath. Well, you make me tired, Burke, he said, desperately. It was his first sign of rebellion, and Burke wel- comed it. What are you after, hey? Marks demanded. What is it going to be? Youre stopping all my fun, he went on, fiercely, and you dont seem to be getting anything out of it yourself. What do you want of me, anyway? What are you trailing me all over the pla~ for ? They were out at the end of a pier and quite alone. Burke looked about him carefully, and then turned toward the water where the Liverpool lay, a black dim outline in the moonlight. The night mist was rising and it was growing colder. The place was quite deserted. Oh ,said Burke, with unaffected care- lessness, I dont know wot you are up to, and Ill stay by you till I do. Thats all. Mr. Marks regarded him with fierce suspicion, and broke the silence at last with an angry oath. I suppose you want me to dividehey? he cried, vi- ciously. He looked at his watch, and snapped the lid with a sharp click. Its that or letting it all go, he said. Curse you for a meddling fool ! He stamped his feet and clinched his fat hands impo- tently. Id have been aboard her by this time if it hadnt been for you. Burke raised his eyes slowly toward the steamer, and saw that the smoke was coming out of the Liverpools funnel in a thick black cloud. It gave his heart a sudden sharp wrench, and he glanced about him with a look which sobered his companion instantly. See here, Hefty, my lad, he whined, in a low, conciliatory tone, weve got to work quick if were going to stop her. Theyve got the anchors up now, most like. Here, he exclaimed, with an ap- parent burst of generosity, Ill tell you what Ill do. Ill go halves with you thats three thousand dollars sure. Three thousandthink of that. Its a fortune. Burke regarded him with a look of slow amazement. Three thousand dollars, he said, stupidly. Yes, easy that, begged the other. Theres twelve thousand dollars worth of stuff on her altogether, counting the Hotchkiss guns and the ammunition. The informer gets half. Thats law. Theres no getting out of that. Its law. Theyve got to give it to you, and its honest money too. What right have them half-breeds coming up here involv- ing us Americans in their revolu- tions? Its against the courtesy of na- tionsthats what it is. I read it all up, and I know what Im givin ye. They cant do it. Look at the Alliance case, and the Mary Miller. Levy got five thousand dollars for giving her away, and Id have pulled six thousand out of this if youd let me alone. Well, speak up; what do you say? Burke was leaning forward, with his eyes staring into those of his companion. He was breathing heavily. Wot are you going to do ? he asked, quietly. His voice was low and uncertain. Marks caught him familiarly by the sleeve. Do? he asked, trembling with excitement ; go to the Washington and tell the captain what we know. Shes at her slip there beyond the fire-boat. He 234 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. can stop her before she reaches the lower bay, and he may if he believes what we say. And he has got to believe me, be- cause one of the crew give me all the figures, and where they got the stuff, and who paid for it. Its Alvarez himself, the brother to the one they run out of the countryhim as wants to be President. Come ! he cried, frantically, and dancing from one foot to the other in his excite- ment. But Burke stood still, regarding him stupidly. Three thousand dollars. For me, he said. I dont understand. Hully gee ! cried the other. Dont I tell you we get half! The government gets one-half the cargo and the informer gets the rest. Thats the law. Think of it-three thousand dollars! Why, man alive, you can marry on that; and its good money too, come by honest for serv- ing your country. Old man Casey will be proud of you, Heftyandand Mary too, hey, she Shut up! said Burke, savagely. He glanced with ~ troubled look to where the revenue - cutter Washington lay at the end of the Barge Office dock. It was so very near. He stood rigid, breathing quickly, and with only his fingers work- ing at his side. The other watched him with evil, wide-open eyes. Then Burke gave a short gasp of relief, and reaching out suddenly, caught Marks by the sleeve. Come with me, he sald, steadily. Come over here and sit down. Sit down? Like hell, cried the oth- er, fearfully. What ails you? Dont you see shes got steam on now? Shell be out of the river before Youre not going to the Washing- ton, said Burke. Youre not going to give nothing away. You are going to stay here with me. Theres - theres friends of mine on board that boat. Theyre not hurting you, and youre not going to hurt them, nor interfere with them neither see? Youll stay right here. Mr.Markss face was black, and the muscles working with excitement and the fear of losing what he already con- sidered his. I mean, said Burke, firm- ly, that youre going to stay here un- til that boat gets out of the harbor, till she gets clean off. Do you understand? Thats wot I mean. Oh, said the other, softly, thats what you mean, is it ? He jerked his sleeve away, and his arm rose suddenly in the air, and Burke caught it by the wrist and tripped him up with a quick jerk that threw him heavily over on his back. Burke threw himself on his chest and wrenched at the knife in his hand. You would, would you, he said, un- der his breath. Give it updo you hear? Give it up, he growled, or Ill The fat little man beneath him groan- ed and struggled helplessly under his weight. Let me up, he gasped, Im chokinglet me up. Burke tossed the knife into the river, and settled his fingers carefully round the others throat. Lie still, he whispered. If you yell or nothing Ill choke the life out of you and leave you lying here But even as he uttered this fearful threat Mr. Burke raised his eyes to the bay, and gave a soft low cry. The smoke was pouring in a black mass from the funnel of the Liverpool, and as he watched her she started slowly forward, as a sled slides over the ice, and then moved more and more swiftly until the smoke stood out in a straight line and she grew less and less distinct, until, af- ter passing the base of the great statue of Liberty, she disappeared into the mist and out of his sight forever. The man beneath him groaned feebly and cursed him under his breath. You can get up, said Burke, gently, with his eyes still staring into the mist. Shes gone now. It was two months after this that the Herald announced the termination of the civil war which for the past year had de- vastated Ecuador, and the complete vic- tory of General Alvarez. The despatch concluded briefly: The final surrender of Gonzales was hastened by the loss of the ship of war Don Manuel, which was blown up by dynamite as she lay in the harbor. The bomb was placed under her stern by a young Irish American,~who swam four miles in the cross-fire of the fort and the ships of war for that pur- pose. His name is Burke. He has been rewarded by President Alvarez with a place under the new administration. Big Marks,when he read this, press- ed his fingers tenderly around his throat. That man, he said, robbed me of six thousand dollars ; but Miss Casey said nothing, for she had married Adams, who chops tickets on the elevated road. PENSIONS: THE LAW AND ITS ADMINISTRATION. BY EDWARD F. WAITE. ISthepensionlistarollofhonor~ All patriotic citizens agree that it ought to be; but as there are not a few who doubt that it is, a candid examination of our pension system seems timely. During the fiscal year ending June 30, 1891, the United States paid on account of pensions $118, 548,959 71, nearly one- third the total ordinary disbursements for the year. The appropriation for the current year* is $133,473,085, and the estimate for 18923 is $144,956,000. An item so large must of course be an influential factor in determining the fis- cal policy of the government. Systems of revenue must be so adjusted as to make provision for it, and in the regulation of the currency the annual outpouring of such a sum into general circulation is an important consideration. A branch of our national administration so vast in its transactions and so far-reaching in its effects ought, it would seem, to be well understood by our citizens in its history and development as well as in its present state. But such is not the fact. The subject has not engaged the careful at- tention of students: intelligent citizens who are well informed upon the tariff and the currency have but a vague and general knowledge of the pension sys- tem. This field has been abandoned quite too far to those who have occupied it from partisan or pecuniary motives. The increased expenditures arising from the pension legislation of the Fifty-first Con- gress have attracted general notice, and there is reason to believe that the people are at last disposed to inform themselves concerning the chief item in the nations annual budget. The pension system of the United States, whichincluding the appropria- tion for the current yearhas taken from the Treasury more than a billion and a half of dollars (over 94 per cent. having been paid out since 1861), had its rise A~ugust 26, 1776, in a resolution of the Continental Congress providing that every commissioned officer, non-com- missioned officer and private soldier who * This paper was prepared during the fiscal year ending June 30, 1892. In that year the actual pay. ments for pensions exceeded $139,000,000, more than two-fifths of the total ordinary disbursements. shall lose a limb in any engagement, or be so disabled in the service of the Unit- ed States of America as to render him incapable of afterwards getting a liveli- hood, shall receive during his life or the continuance of such disability the one- half of his monthly pay from and after the time that his pay as an officer [or soldier] ceases. The monthly pay of a captain of infantry in active service was $26~, and that of a private was $6~. The benefits of the resolution were also ex- tended to officers, marines, and seamen serving upon armed vessels. Claims were to be adjusted through the legisla- tive bodies of the States where the appli- cants resided, which were authorized to make proportionate allowances in cases of less than total disability. In 1782 a maximum pension of $5 per month was granted to disabled privates and non-com- missioned officers in lieu of half-pay. On account of the inability of Congress to raise money by taxation, the States, in 1785, undertook the payment of pensions, until the adoption of the Constitution made it possible for the general govern- ment to perform this function. Since the original resolution of 1776 pension legislation has been voluminous, and down to the revision of the pension laws in 1873 may be justly termed chaot ic. This paper will attempt only to out- line some of the general features. In or- der to do this the more clearly the various grants of pensions may be divided into four classes, viz.: I. Pensions based upon disability in- curred in service, or the death of the sol- dier from such cause. II. Pensions based upon service and indigence, without regard to the origin of existing disability, or the cause of the soldiers death. III. Pensions based upon service only. IV. Pensions based upon disability, without regard to the origin of such dis- ability or the pecuniary circumstances of the beneficiary. Disability, within the meaning of the pension laws, may be defined as the effect of any disease, wound, or injury, by rea- son of which a person is at a disadvan- tage in the performance of ordinary un- skilled manual labor, as compared with

Edward F. Waite Waite, Edward F. Pensions: The Law and Its Administration 235-244

PENSIONS: THE LAW AND ITS ADMINISTRATION. BY EDWARD F. WAITE. ISthepensionlistarollofhonor~ All patriotic citizens agree that it ought to be; but as there are not a few who doubt that it is, a candid examination of our pension system seems timely. During the fiscal year ending June 30, 1891, the United States paid on account of pensions $118, 548,959 71, nearly one- third the total ordinary disbursements for the year. The appropriation for the current year* is $133,473,085, and the estimate for 18923 is $144,956,000. An item so large must of course be an influential factor in determining the fis- cal policy of the government. Systems of revenue must be so adjusted as to make provision for it, and in the regulation of the currency the annual outpouring of such a sum into general circulation is an important consideration. A branch of our national administration so vast in its transactions and so far-reaching in its effects ought, it would seem, to be well understood by our citizens in its history and development as well as in its present state. But such is not the fact. The subject has not engaged the careful at- tention of students: intelligent citizens who are well informed upon the tariff and the currency have but a vague and general knowledge of the pension sys- tem. This field has been abandoned quite too far to those who have occupied it from partisan or pecuniary motives. The increased expenditures arising from the pension legislation of the Fifty-first Con- gress have attracted general notice, and there is reason to believe that the people are at last disposed to inform themselves concerning the chief item in the nations annual budget. The pension system of the United States, whichincluding the appropria- tion for the current yearhas taken from the Treasury more than a billion and a half of dollars (over 94 per cent. having been paid out since 1861), had its rise A~ugust 26, 1776, in a resolution of the Continental Congress providing that every commissioned officer, non-com- missioned officer and private soldier who * This paper was prepared during the fiscal year ending June 30, 1892. In that year the actual pay. ments for pensions exceeded $139,000,000, more than two-fifths of the total ordinary disbursements. shall lose a limb in any engagement, or be so disabled in the service of the Unit- ed States of America as to render him incapable of afterwards getting a liveli- hood, shall receive during his life or the continuance of such disability the one- half of his monthly pay from and after the time that his pay as an officer [or soldier] ceases. The monthly pay of a captain of infantry in active service was $26~, and that of a private was $6~. The benefits of the resolution were also ex- tended to officers, marines, and seamen serving upon armed vessels. Claims were to be adjusted through the legisla- tive bodies of the States where the appli- cants resided, which were authorized to make proportionate allowances in cases of less than total disability. In 1782 a maximum pension of $5 per month was granted to disabled privates and non-com- missioned officers in lieu of half-pay. On account of the inability of Congress to raise money by taxation, the States, in 1785, undertook the payment of pensions, until the adoption of the Constitution made it possible for the general govern- ment to perform this function. Since the original resolution of 1776 pension legislation has been voluminous, and down to the revision of the pension laws in 1873 may be justly termed chaot ic. This paper will attempt only to out- line some of the general features. In or- der to do this the more clearly the various grants of pensions may be divided into four classes, viz.: I. Pensions based upon disability in- curred in service, or the death of the sol- dier from such cause. II. Pensions based upon service and indigence, without regard to the origin of existing disability, or the cause of the soldiers death. III. Pensions based upon service only. IV. Pensions based upon disability, without regard to the origin of such dis- ability or the pecuniary circumstances of the beneficiary. Disability, within the meaning of the pension laws, may be defined as the effect of any disease, wound, or injury, by rea- son of which a person is at a disadvan- tage in the performance of ordinary un- skilled manual labor, as compared with 236 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. a perfectly sound person; or would be, if compelled thus to earn a living. Laws granting pensions of the first class have, as a rule, antedated the service in which the pensionable disability might be incurred, and have been designed to encourage enlistments; while with a par- tial exception in 1780, hereafter referred to, those providing for the other classes have always followed the service on which the right to pension is predicated. Although the Supreme Court has held that the first did not constitute a con- tract, it is evident that so far as they offered inducements to voluntary enlist- ment, they are of a quasi contractual character; while pensions of the other classes are, in their legal aspect, pure gratuities. Class 1.The resolve of August 26, 1776, remained the basis of the pension rights of Revolutionary soldiers until the act of April 10, 1806, which repealed all previous legislation on the subject, and pensioned all persons unable to procure a subsistence by manual labor on ac- count of known wounds received dur- ing service in the Revolution, granting half-pay to commissioned officers, and $5 per month to others. Invalid pensions on account of disability incurred after the Revolution, began with the act of April 30, 1790, creating The Military Establishment of the United States, and promising pensions to officers and enlist- ed men who should be wounded or dis- abled in the regular service, at rates fixed under rules to be established by the President, not to exceed half-pay for com- missioned officers, and $5 per month for others. This provision was extended by subsequent enactments to volunteer troops raised for special purposes, including the war of 1812, the Florida and Mexican wars, and the late rebellion. In 1816, rates for disabilities of the highest de- gree were graduated from $17 per month for first lieutenants, down to $8 for noii- commissioned officers and privates. By appropriate legislation, officers and en- listed men in the navy and marine corps were kept on a substantial equality, with respect to pension, with those who served in the army. No important changes were made in the invalid pension laws until the act of July 14, 1862, which provided that all officers and enlisted men dis- abled since March 4, 1861, by reason of any wound received, or disease contracted while in the service of the United States and in the lin~e of duty, should receive pension proportionate to the degree of their disabilities, the highest rate for total disability being fixed at $30 per month for lieutenant-colonels and all officers of higher rank in the army and marine corps, and captains and other officers of corresponding degree in the navy; and at gradually decreasing sums for lesser officers, down to $8 per month for enlisted men. A few years later pensioners for disability incurred prior to March 4, 1861, were placed on the same footing as to rates with pension- ers under the act of 1862. The rates established in the latter act have con- tinued to be the totals of the respective ranks. But the term is misleading; it has never been restricted to cases of total inability to perform manual labor, though for a few years the rates of 1862 were the highest granted in any instance. A class of specific disabilitiesi. e., disabilities of fixed degree for which special rates are expressly provided by law arose under the act of July 4, 1864, which granted $25 per month for loss of both hands, or the sight of both eyes, and $20 for loss of both feet, in cases where the total of the pensioners rank was a less sum. Since 1864 a great number of laws have been enacted affecting rates of pensionall in the direction of increased liberality; and many additions have been made to the specific class. The lowest strictly specific rate now allowed is $30 per mouth for total deafness, or loss of a hand or foot; and the highest is $100, for loss of both hands. By Pension Office usage the total~ rates prescribed in 1862 are given for anchylosis of the wrist and equivalent disabilities. There is obvious difficulty in comparing a gun- shot wound in the head, or a case of heart - disease, or partial loss of sight, with a stiff wrist, yet this is precisely the sort of problem presented in the rating of the great majority of disabilities. For non - specific disabilities greater than total, there are allowed rates varying from $10 to $24. On June 30, 1891, in- valid pensioners under laws prior to the act of June 27, 1890, and under special acts of Congress, were drawing 134 differ- ent rates, varying from $1 to $100. Of 419,046 such pensioners, 20 were drawing $1 per month; 17,036, $2; 62,318, $4; 83,- 299, $8; 46,097, $12; 20,246, $24; 14,834, PENSIONS: THE LAW AND ITS ADMINISTRATION. 237 $30; 3210, $36; 3161, $72; and 36, $100. The average monthly rate was $15 16; while among 676,160* pensioners of all classes it was $11. In 1780 the Continental Congress grant- ed half-pay for seven years to the widows of officers dying in the Revolutionary ser- vice. But the system of pensions to wid- oxvs and orphans really began under the act of June 7,1794, which gave a half-pay pension for five years to widows, or, if no widow survived, to the children under sixteen years of age of officers who should thereafter die of wounds while still in the service. The act of April 16, 1816, extended this allowance to widows and minor children (under sixteen, which has remained the limit of pensionable age) of officers and enlisted men dying, after discharge, of wounds received in action. No provision was made for cases where the soldier died of disease until 1848, when a ave-years half-pay pension was granted to widows and minor children of officers and enlisted men who died, of either wounds or disease, during service in the Mexican war. By later statutes there were included cases where the sol- diers died at any time after discharge by reason of disabilities incurred in the war, and the pensions were continued for a term of five years. In 1858 they were confirmed to widows for life or until re- marriage. In 1866 and 1868 widows whose right to pension accrued after the Revolution and prior to the rebellion were granted equal rates with those pensioned under acts passed since March 4, 1861. It will be observed that the early pen- sions to widows and orphans were con- fined to cases in which the soldier held an officers commission. Half-pay pen- sions to widows of enlisted men began during the war of 1812, when special in- ducements were needed to secure enlist- ments. Legislation of this sort was re- stricted to widows of volunteers and militia-men until 1848, when it was ex- tended to widows of regular army sol- diers who died of disabilities incurred in the Mexican war. Its benefits did not embrace the regular army equally with. volunteers until 1853, in which year the soldiers of all wars since 1790 were placed on the same footing with respect to the pensioning of their widows. * The total number of pensioners on the roll June 30,1892, was 8Th,604. It will doubtless ex- ceed a million at the close of the present fiscal year. VOL. LXXXYI.No. 51222 The act of July 14, 1862, above referred to, was the foundation of the colossal pension system of the last thirty yeal-s. The rebellion had been in progress more than a year, and the end was not yet in sight. Troops were needed, and it had become evident that if citizens were to be induced to voluntarily leave their homes and expose themselves to the per- ils of active service, more liberal provi- sion must be made for the families to which they might never return. It was accordingly enacted that if any officer or enlisted man had died since March 4, 1861, or should thereafter die, by reason of any wound received or disease con- tracted while in the service of the United States and in the line of duty, his widow should receive the total pension of his rank, to continue during life or until re- marriage; and if no widow survived, or in case of her remarriage, a like pension was granted to his minor children. In 1868 these pensions were increased by two dollars per month for each minor child; and in 1886 the eight-dollar rate of wid- ows, minors, and other pensionable de- pendents of enlisted men whs increased to twelve dollars. Dependent relatives of soldiers, other than widows and children, were first pen- sioned under the act of July 14, 1862, which gave the mother, in case no widow or minor child survived, the same pen- sion which a widow, had there been one, would have received; and a like provi- sion was made for orphan minor si\ters. Fathers and orphhn brothers were in- cluded in similar legislation in 1866 and 1868. The dependence contemplated by these statutes might be partial only, but must have existed at the date of the sol- diers death. Under the act of June 27, 1890, it is sufficient that a parent shall be in dependent circumstances at the time of applying for pension, without regard to his condition when the son died; but pen- sion under this act begins at the date of filing the application, instead of from the soldiers death, as in cases established un- der former laws. Class 11.Pensions of the second class were first granted nearly thirty-five years after the close of the Revolution, by the act of March 18, 1818, which provided that every officer, soldier, sailor, and marine who served nine months in the Revolu- tion, and who was or should become in need of assistance from his country for 238 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. support, should be pensioned for life, of- ficers at *20 per month, and enlisted men at $8. There was no further legislation of this general character until the act of June 27, 1890, which grants to the widow of every officer and enlisted man who served ninety days or more in the war of the rebellion a pension of $8 per month, with *2 additional for each child of the soldier under sixteen years of age, in case she is without other means of support than her daily labor. When the widow dies or remarries, the right survives to the minor children, as under former laws, and pension is continued during life to children who are insane, idiotic, or otherwise permanently helpless. Class 111.On October 21, 1780, the Continental Congress resolved that the officers who shall continue in the service to the end of the war shall..., be entitled to half-pay during life, to commence from the time of their reduction. In 1783, at the instance of the officers of General Washingtons army, this half-pay for life was commuted to full pay for five years. In 1828, officers who served in the Revo- lutionary army as provided in the reso- lution of 1780, and enlisted men who per- formed like service, were granted their full monthly pay, no officer, however, being entitled to higher pay than that of captain. By the act of June 7, 1832, equal benefits were extended to those who had served two years in the Revolution; and one who served a term or terms in the whole less than the above period, but not less ~than six months, was authorized to receive out of any unappropriated mon ey in the treasury, during his natural life, each according to his term of service an amount bearing such proportion to the annuity granted to the same rank for the service~ of two years, as his term of ser- vice did to the term aforesaid. This latter provision is interesting as embodying the principle contended for by the advocates of the cent-a-day bill which was intro- duced in the Fifty-first Congress. An ad- ditional stipend of $100 a year, granted in 1864, completed the measure of the na- tions bounty to the boys of 76. The last Revolutionary soldier borne upon the pension roll died in 1869. A service pension was first granted to widows in 1836, by legislation which gave to the widows of persons entitled under the act of June 7, 1832, the same pensions which the husbands drew or might have drawn, provided marriage took place before the expiration of the last period of service. This was the first allowance of pension of any sort to the widows of Revolutionary soldiers after the seven years half-pay of 1780 to the widows of officers, nor were children of these soldiers ever pensioned in their own right except by special acts of Congress. The limitation as to marriage was from time to time moved forward, and repeal- ed altogether in 1853. In 1867 the addi- tional annuity of $100 given to Revolu- tionary veterans in 1864 was extended to their widows, and in 1878 all widows of soldiers who served fourteen days in the Revolution or were in any engagement were pensioned at $8 per month. Twenty widows of this class were still on the roll at the close of the last fiscal year. In 1871 pensions of $8 per month were granted to surviving soldiers of the war of 1812, without regard to rank, who served sixty days in that war or had been honor- ably mentioned in a resolution of Con- gress for service therein, and who had not espoused the cause of the late rebel- lion, and to their widows in cases where marriage occurred prior to the end of the war. In 1878 the requisite term of ser- vice was reduced to fourteen days or par- ticipation in an engagement, and the lim- itation as to the date of marriage was removed. In 1887 a like provision was made for survivors of the war with Mex- ico and their widows, sixty days service being required, or engagement in a battle, or honorable mention in a resolution of Congress. This was made applicable, however, only to persons who were or should become sixty-two years of age, or subject to any disability Enot incurred while voluntarily abetting the late rebel- lion] or dependency equivalent to some cause prescribed or recognized by the pen- sion laws of the United States as a suffi- cient cause for the allowance of a pen- sion. This apparent restriction may seem to bring the law within our second class; but when it is remembered that persons who were twenty-three years old at the close of the Mexican war were six- ty-two in 1887, it will be seen that the act granted practically a mere service~~ pen- sion. At any rate, such has been its ef- fect in its administration. Class IV.The only pensions of this class, for disability without regard to its origin or the pecuniary circumstances of PENSIONS: THE LAW AND ITS ADMINISTRATION. 239 the applicant, are granted by the act of June 27, 1890, which provides that all persons who served ninety days or more n the military or naval service of the United States during the late war of the rebellion, and who have been honorably discharged therefrom, and who are now or may hereafter be suffering from a mental or physical disability of a perma- nent character, not the result of their own vicious habits, which incapacitates them for the performance of manual la- hor in such a degree as to render them unable to earn a support, shall..., be placed upon the list of invalid pension- ers of the United States, and be entitled to receive a pension not exceeding twelve dollars per month, and not less than six dollars per month, proportioned to the degree of inability to earn a support. This act is substantially the same as the so - called dependent bill, vetoed by President Cleveland in 1887, save in three particulars: the earlier bill pro- vided for a uniform rate of $12 per month, excepted cases where the disabil- ity was due to the soldiers gross care- lessness, as well as those where it re- sulted from his vicious habits, and extended its benefits only to those who were dependent upon their daily labor for support. In his veto message Mr. Cleveland construed this last provision as requiring not that the applicant should be wholly dependent upon his daily la- bor, but only that labor should be ne- cessary to his support in some degree. This construction was fully warranted by that which had been given to the Revolutioiaary dependent act of 1818, and by the existing practice of the Pen- sion Bureau in the claims of dependent relatives. In the administration of the act of June 27, 1890, actual dependence on manual labor for support, in any de- gree, is not deemed a requisite. To all pensions granted prior to the rebellion, it was essential that the soldier should have been honorably discharged from the service. Under post-rebellion laws this has been necessary for pensions of our second, third, and fourth classes, but not for those of the first class. A __ soldier who deserted during the late war in the face of the enemy and was drummed out of the service, or an officer who was cashiered for embezzlement or cowardice, stands on an equal footing, with respect to pension for disability incurred in the service, with his comrades who served honorably from Bull Run to Appomattox. Early legislation fixed the commence- ment of pensions at the date of the ter- mination of service, and a limitation of two years for the filing of claims was es- tablished. This limitation was soon re- moved, and the pension was made to com- mence at the date of the completion of the proof. This was the law until the act of July 14, 1862, which dated pensions of the first class from the discharge of the soldier when the claim should be filed within a year after discharge; otherwise from the filing of the application. The limitation was afterwards extended to three years, and later to five; and it was provided that no claim not prosecuted to a successful issue within five years after the date of filing should be allowed ex- cept upon record evidence from the War or Navy Department of the disability on which it was based. All these checks were swept away by the arrears acts of 1879, which granted pension from the dis- charge or death of the soldier in all late war claims of the first class which had been or should thereafter be allowed, provided that application should be filed prior to July 1, 1880; otherwise, from the date of the application. This limita- tion was in turn removed with respect to the claims of widows in 1888. Service0 pensions, requiring little or no proof be- yond that furnished by the official rec- ords, have been made to commence from the dates of the several acts by which they have been granted. In 1887 Commissioner Black thus sum- marized the results of an inquiry into the pension systems of the European governments: Two bases have been rec- ognized out of which a claim for pension might rightfully arise in the case of al- most every civilized power. The first is the mere fact of service of the state in a military capacity, and the second is disablement in that service. The service to be the basis of pension must have been of a very great lengthrarely less than ten, and oftener of twenty-five and thirty years. A noticeable feature in all of these pension systems is that they were manifestly prepared only fo~ regu- lar service troops, although no discrimi- nation is made between the regular ser- vice troops and the war levies.... No instance can be found where pension is allowed for services dishonorably termi 240 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. nated or marked by a dishonorable rec- ord.... The foreign pension codes are based upon this idea of. .. . the right of the state to demand the service of every man capable of bearing arms, without re- gard to any other than a disability pen- sion, and that the pension itself is a mark of extreme honor, reward of long service, or distinguished ability. The foreign systems have but one class of pensions in common with our ownthose for dis- ability incurred in the service. In its other branches our system is unique. Our service pensions do not at all correspond to the service pensions of other governments, ours being for brief and of- ten merely nominal service, while theirs are for long and actual service. Our re- tirement on pay of officers and enlisted men of the regular army is more closely analogous to the foreign service pen- sion than are the pensions grouped above in the third class. The principle which is the basis of pen- sions for disability incurred during ser- vice and in the line of duty is too plain to need statement here, and justifies itself at once to all right-thinking minds. Such pensions honor both the nation and the beneficiary. Annuities after long and faithful service are obviously wise in countries where standing armies are re- 4uired, as furnishing an incentive to such service. But the sentiment of gratitude affords the only legitimate reason that can be urged for any of our service~~ pension laws since the resolution of October 21, 1780. To this sentiment has been added as a ground for our pen- sions of the second class, in which the indigence of the beneficiary is a requisite, the consideration that the nations de- fenders and their dependents ought not to be abandoned to want, or the humilia- tion of alms, from whatever cause their need may have arisen. But the principle upon which pensions of the fourth class were granted by the act of June 27, 1890, is not so clear. So far as relief is given under this law to needy persons, or to those who are suffering from disabilities probably due to military service, but not provable to be soand it was the exist- ence of. many such cases that furnished the chief argument for the measurethe principles above cited apply. But another group of pensioners is being added to the rolls under this act, those who are not in needy circumstances, and whose disabili ties are not even colorably due to military service. On what principle are these pensioned for their disabilities? If from gratitude, why discriminate in rates ac- cording to the degree of the disability? Would not length or character of service be the proper criterion? If the well-to-do business man, who served ninety days in the commissary department, sustains to- day a serious and permanent injury while exercising his favorite horses, why should he receive an expression of public grati- tude, if he choose to ask for it, to which he would have had no title yesterday? And why should he have $12 per month, while his coachman, who served four years at the front, injured in the same accident, but only half so severely, can get but $6? One year after the passage of the act of June 27, 1890, 391,431 invalid claims had been filed under its p~Ovi- sions, of which 236,362 were in lieu of pen- sions or applications under previous laws, the remaining 155,069 coming from new claimants. How many of these claims have been made by men who are far from indigent, and whose disabilities are in no wise due to service in the army or navy, let the reader judge from his own obser- vation. Some curious anomalies have arisen un- dem this latest experiment in pension legis- lation. Men who, after serving under the stars and bars, enlisted in the Union army, are rewarded by a grateful nation for wounds received while bearing arms against her. The thrifty bounty-jumper who entered the service with a concealed disability, which, after three months of wearing the blue, he used to secwre his dis- charge, may, upon a full showing of the facts, receive a pension for that very dis- ability. A woman who served a term in a penitentiary for poisoning her husband now claims a pension on account of his military service and death, and no reason is known why she may not have it. The current of ever-increasing liberali- ty which has flowed through our pension legislation may also be traced in the ad- ministration of the laws. In the earlier years there were some attempts to throw about the adjudication of claims certain judicial safeguards, which gradually fell into disuse. An act of 1792 provided for the attendance of each applicant and the production of his evidence before the United States Circuit Court of his dis- trict, and the court was required to make PENSIONS: THE LAW AND ITS ADMINISTRATION. 241 a personal examination of the disability, and forward the papers to the Secretary of War with a report and recommenda- ion. The following year it was enacted that whereas the act last referred to was found by experience inadequate to prevent the admission of improper claims to invalid pension, and not to contain a sufficient facility for the allowance of such as may be well founded, therefore all evidence relative to invalids (the requisite evidence being minutely prescribed) should be taken upon oath or affirmation before the judge of the dis- trict in which such invalids reside, or before any three persons specially author- ized by commission from said judge; and this evidence was to be transmitted to the Secretary of War for final action. This office of the courts came to be dis- charged in a perfunctory way, and by degrees evidence submitted in pension claims assumed a wholly ex parte char- acter. Proceedings of this sort always open the door to fraud, and it is only saying that citizens of the pensionable classes have not maintained among them- selves a higher level of integrity than prevails among their fellows, to say that fraud and imposition have here found a peculiarly inviting and profitable field. In the debate on the Revolutionary ser- vice pension act of 1832 the extensive frauds committed under former acts were referred to as matters of common knowledge. The compiler of the first digest of pension laws, in 1854, a late chief clerk of the Pension Office, attrib- uted to the chaotic state of pension legis- lation, and to the ex parte system of ad- judicating claims, the perpetration of innumerable frauds against the govern- ment. In 1872 Commissioner J. H. Baker said, in his annual report: . So long as pensions are to be granted upon evidence which (except record evidence) is purely ex parte, so long frauds will continue to exist.... In our system the record of the soldier is too meagre at best, and during the late war the hospital records were illy kept, very frequently, as the experience of the office daily shows, so indefinite as to be utterly worthless in determining the origin and character of the alleged pensionable disability; hence the law authorizes a resort to parol evide~ice.... in which the government has not exer- cised the right of cross-examination, and upon which a decision could not be had in any court of justice. General Baker suggested that a special pension court should be established in each congres- sional district, in which there should be opportunity for open cross-examination of witnesses. In his report for the fiscal year ending June 30, 1875, Commissioner H. M. Atkinson said: The development of frauds of every character in pension claims has assumed such a magnitude as to require the serious attention of Con ......... From the nature of the system under which the right to pension is de- termined under existing laws, viz., upon ex parte evidence, the successful prose- cution of many fraudulent claims cannot be prevented, even though the utmost caution be exercised. The lapse of time since the war, and the consequent unre- liability of parol proof relating to facts at this remote date from their occur- rence, afford the most forcible argument for the adoption of a more thoroughly organized system of adjudicating these claims. By actual test in cases taken from the files of this office it is shown that a large percentage of the affidavits filed in support of claims for pension are signed and sworn to without being read over to affiants, and without their having a full and proper knowledge of the con- tents, though accompanied by a certifi- cate of the magistrate before whom they are executed that the witnesses have been fully informed of the purport. In his report of 1876 Commissioner John A. Bentley presented a forcible indictment of the ex parte system, and recommend- ed a plan by which testimony should be taken viva voce in all cases, and subject- ed to proper tests. A measure known as the sixty surgeons bill, embodying this recommendation, was introduced in Congress, but failed of passage. In 1878 he said, I am convinced that a great number of persons have been pensioned who have no just title, and that the number of that class is being constantly increased in the settlements which are now going on. In 1879 he presented a table showing that in 500 cases dropped from the rolls since July 1, 1876, there were 3084 false affidavits out of 4397 af- fidavits in all, and 92 forgeries. More than half a million dollars had been paid to these pensioners before the frauds were discovered. He said in 1880, The number of frauds discovered year after year, when it is considered that the at- 242 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. tention of the office was attracted to them through accident or some suspicious cir- cumstance, or by the statement of a volun- teer informer, is very great, and renders it certain that but a very small percent- age of the frauds committed come to the knowledge of the office. In 1862 the Commissioner of Pensions was authorized to detail a clerk, with power to administer oaths, for the per- sonal investigation of cases of suspected fraud. Such special investigation was found necessary and effective in a grow- ing number of cases, and additions to the force of employ~s assigned to this duty were made from time to time. In 1882 it was greatly augmented, and the special agents or examiners instead of making their headquarters in Washington, as be- fore, were stationed in different parts of the country, each with a definite district. A marked increase in the quantity and thoroughness of the work performed by this branch of the Pension Bureau was thus effected. Commissioner Dudley said, in his report of 1883: The means taken to prevent the successful consummation of fraud are reasonably efficient to that end, and it may be easily demonstrated, I think, that such claims [i.e., claims with- out merit] are, to be found mostly in our rejected files. If it be doubted whether the rejected files have gathered in so large a proportion of the unworthy claims as this opinion would indicate, it is at least safe to say that instances of gross fraud have become comparatively rare. The ratio of the cases specially investigated in any year to the whole number of pend- ing claims is always very small. Of those that are tested in this way, it is probable that few dishonest ones pass the ordeal successfully; and it is certain that the presence throughout the country of agents of the government charged with the de- tection of violations of the pension laws has a deterrent effect upon those who would otherwise resort to fraudulent prac- tices. On June 30, 1891, there were 110 spe- cial examiners in the field. Not only are cases of suspected fraud referred to them, but also many cases of probable merit in which the evidence filed by the applicant does not warrant allowance, and there is reason to believe that a more explicit show- ing of the facts would establish their mer- it, the government thus practically under- taking to supply the deficiencies in the prosecution of the case by the claimant and his agents. The benefit of this pro- cedure to worthy claimants is apparent from the fact that during the last fiscal year over two thousand claims were ad- mitted after special investigation, most of which must have been rejected if settled upon the original ex parte evidence. And it is a fact indicative of either a high average of merit in the pension claims of the present day, or great liberality on the part of the Bureau, or both, that the pro- portion of specially investigated cases finally allowed during the last two years to those rejected was eight to one. The question of the sufficiency of evi- dence is obviously an individual one in every claim, but this general statement may be ventured, that the requirements of the Pension Bureau have since the late war undergone a steady reduction. That this Bureau has been, on the whole, as honestly and intelligently conducted as any administrative branch of the govern- ment, no one who is conversant with the facts will deny; but an effective public sentiment has demanded a constant liber- alization of the process of adjudicating claims, just as it has by legislation in- creased rates, removed limitations, and cre- ated new groups of pensioners. No course has been open to the officials of the Bu- reau but compliance, and though all safe- guards that the people will tolerate are still retained, thousands of pension claims are annually allowed upon evidence which would not draw one dollar from the pock- et of a prudent business man, however anxious to satisfy all just demands. A prima facie case is made out in every instance, to be sure; but there is generally a very high degree of probability that the affidavits exceed the real knowledge of the witnesses concerning the facts in question. It is notorious that a great proportion of the ex parte affidavits in pension cases, even when made by men who in ordinary business are distinguish- ed for strict integrity, are made with shameful lack of care and scruple. State- ments are drawn up by the agents of ap- plicants containing such averments as the exigencies of the case demand, and in numberless instances these are signed by persons who not only have no knowledge of the facts recited, but are not even awai-e of the contents of the writing; while many magistrates habitually take acknowledg- ments of pension affidavits without ad- w PENSIONS: THE LAW AND ITS ADMINISTRATION. 243 ministration of the oath. If this prevail- ing laxity could have any excuse, it would lie in the fact that some of the matters * required to be proved, especially those elating to symptoms of disease shown by the applicant in the service, or from time to time since discharge, are such that an ordinary memory cannot retain them with certainty; and witnesses, fearing that a just claim may fail through their forgetfulness, are ready to blindly assent to the averments of the parties in inter- est, or at best assume as an original and positive recollection what they should know to be a mere untrustworthy impres- sion. But there is no excuse. The sanc- tion of an oath should be no less in an ex parte pension affidavit than in a court. proceeding. It must not be supposed that reckless swearing in pension claims is more prev- alent among ex-soldiers than other classes of citizens. The average comrade or offi- cer is neither a more scrupulous nor a more unscrupulous witness than the aver- age neighbor or family physician. If pension legislation has been too lav- ish, and the administration of the laws too loose, the responsibility lies upon the whole country. In the solicitude with which they have regarded the soldier vote our law-makers have but reflected the sentiments of their constituents; and the tendency toward a wide-open pol- icy in the adjudication of claims has been in accordance with the manifest will of the people. In numerous com- munities throughout the land respectable citizens believe that they have among them some flagrant instance of dishonest pension; and yet information of supposed fraud is rarely volunteered except when prompted by motives of personal hostil- ity, and even when sought is denied or given with reluctance. There is a grow- ing conviction that the government is being shamefully plundered through the pension system; and the existence of this beliefwhatever the factwith acquies- cence in the supposed abuse, cannot but have a most demoralizing influence on the public conscience. It is all too easy at best to regard the national Treasury as a publicgrab-bag; and the sight of A drawing with impunity, year after year, a stipend from the government known or even believed to be obtained by dis- honest means, is a most potent incentive to B to try his hand at the same trick. Hardly less deplorable is the gradual lowering in the general esteem of the veterans of the late war as a class. The suspicion is abroad that a mercenary spir- it, incompatible with that lofty sense of honor which the popular imagination would fain attribute to its military he- roes, is spreading among them. This sus- picion may be unjust, but its increasing prevalence is no less sure than it is un- fortunate. For years to come our pension system must be an impressive object - lesson to rising generations of Americans, and to those who come to us from other lands. Should they learn from it that here the citizen owes no duty to the state for which he may not demand compensation in hard cash? Or, scattering abroad its bounty with a generous but discriminating hand, should it teach that while the nation will not forsake her true defenders in their time of need, nor look on with cold in- difference when they are handicapped in the race of life by the lasting infirmities of camp and field, her real debt to them is not to be reckoned in dollars, but in boundless gratitude and honor? It is not probable that any backward step will ever be taken in pension legisla- tion, nor that in the administration of the laws the lines will ever be more close- ly drawn than public sentiment shall re- quire. If in the unparalleled munificence of our pension system there lurk serious evils, there seems to be no remedy save through an awakening of the public conscience and a shaking off of that easy-going acquiescence in abuses which is one of the most conspicuous vices of the American character. Reckless legis- lation may thus be prevented in the fu- ture, and a more just and honest distri- bution of the nations bounty under pres- ent laws may be secured. Let the great and rich Republic be lib- eral even lavish, in comparison with less-favored nationswith her deserving veterans; she will never do too much for them. But let her not forget that if she is blind to the plain distinctions between truth and falsehood, need and greed, gen- uine military service and holiday cam- paigning, this is not liberality, but prodi- gality, which brings reproach upon her- self and unmerited discredit upon every worthy soldier who accepts her aid. THE REFUGEES. A TALE OF TWO CONTINENTS. BY A. CONAN DOYLE. PART 1.THE OLD WORLD. CHAPTER I. THE MAN FROM AMERICA. was the sort of window which was common in Paris about the end of the seventeenth cen- tury. Itwashigh, mullioned with a broad transom across the centre, and above the mid- dle of the transom a tiny coat of arms three caltrops gules upon a field argent let into the diamond-paned glass. Outside there projected a stout iron rod, from which hung a gild- ed miniature of a bale of wool which swung and squeak- ed with every puff of wind. Beyond that again were the houses of the other side, high, narrow, and prim, slashed with diagonal wood-work in front, and topped with a bristle of sharp gables and corner turrets. Between were the cobble- stones of the Rue St. Martin and the clat- ter of innumerable feet. Inside, the window- was furnished with a broad bancal of brown stamped Spanish leather, where the family might recline and have an eye from behind the cur- tains on all that was going forward in the busy world beneath them. Two of them sat there now, a man and a woman, but their backs were turned to the spec- tacle, and their faces to the large and richly furnished room. From time to time they stole a glance at each other, and their eyes told that they needed no other sight to make them happy. Nor was it to be wondered at, for they were a well-favored pair. She was very young, twenty at the most, with a face which was pale, indeed, and yet of a brilliant pallor, which was so clear and fresh, and carried with it such a sugges- tion of purity and innocence, that one would not wish its maiden grace to be marred by an intrusion of color. Her features were delicate and sweet and her blue-black hair and long dark eyelashes formed a piquant contrast to her dreamy gray eyes and her ivory skin. In her whole expression there was somnethiiig quiet and subdued, which was accentua- ted by her simple dress of black taffeta, and by the little jet brooch and bracelet which were her sole ornaments. Such was Ad~le Catinat, the only daughter of the famous Huguenot cloth-merchant. But if her dress was sombre, it was atoned for by the magnificence of her companion. He was a man who might have been ten years her senior, with a keen soldier face, small well-marked fea- tures, a carefully trimmed black mus- tache, and a dark hazel eye which might harden to command a man, or soften to supplicate a woman, and be successful at either. His coat was of sky-blue, slashed across with silver braidings, and with broad silver shoulder - straps on either side. A vest of white calamanco peep- ed out from beneath it, and knee-breeches of the same disappeared into high polish- ed boots with gilt spurs upon the heels. A silver-hilted rapier and a plumed cap lying upon a settle beside him completed a costume which was a badge of honor to the wearer, for any Frenchman would have recognized it as being that of an officer in the famous Blue Guard of Louis the Fourteenth. A trim dashing soldier he looked, with his curling black hair and well - poised head. Such he had proved himself before now in the field, too, until the name of Amory de Catinat had become conspicuous among the thou- sands of the valiant lesser noblesse who had flocked into the service of the King. They were first cousins, these two, and there was just slkfficient resemblance in the clear-cut features to recall the rela- tionship. De Catinat was sprung from a noble Huguenot family, but having lost

A. Conan Doyle Doyle, A. Conan The Refugees. A Tale of Two Continents 244-277

THE REFUGEES. A TALE OF TWO CONTINENTS. BY A. CONAN DOYLE. PART 1.THE OLD WORLD. CHAPTER I. THE MAN FROM AMERICA. was the sort of window which was common in Paris about the end of the seventeenth cen- tury. Itwashigh, mullioned with a broad transom across the centre, and above the mid- dle of the transom a tiny coat of arms three caltrops gules upon a field argent let into the diamond-paned glass. Outside there projected a stout iron rod, from which hung a gild- ed miniature of a bale of wool which swung and squeak- ed with every puff of wind. Beyond that again were the houses of the other side, high, narrow, and prim, slashed with diagonal wood-work in front, and topped with a bristle of sharp gables and corner turrets. Between were the cobble- stones of the Rue St. Martin and the clat- ter of innumerable feet. Inside, the window- was furnished with a broad bancal of brown stamped Spanish leather, where the family might recline and have an eye from behind the cur- tains on all that was going forward in the busy world beneath them. Two of them sat there now, a man and a woman, but their backs were turned to the spec- tacle, and their faces to the large and richly furnished room. From time to time they stole a glance at each other, and their eyes told that they needed no other sight to make them happy. Nor was it to be wondered at, for they were a well-favored pair. She was very young, twenty at the most, with a face which was pale, indeed, and yet of a brilliant pallor, which was so clear and fresh, and carried with it such a sugges- tion of purity and innocence, that one would not wish its maiden grace to be marred by an intrusion of color. Her features were delicate and sweet and her blue-black hair and long dark eyelashes formed a piquant contrast to her dreamy gray eyes and her ivory skin. In her whole expression there was somnethiiig quiet and subdued, which was accentua- ted by her simple dress of black taffeta, and by the little jet brooch and bracelet which were her sole ornaments. Such was Ad~le Catinat, the only daughter of the famous Huguenot cloth-merchant. But if her dress was sombre, it was atoned for by the magnificence of her companion. He was a man who might have been ten years her senior, with a keen soldier face, small well-marked fea- tures, a carefully trimmed black mus- tache, and a dark hazel eye which might harden to command a man, or soften to supplicate a woman, and be successful at either. His coat was of sky-blue, slashed across with silver braidings, and with broad silver shoulder - straps on either side. A vest of white calamanco peep- ed out from beneath it, and knee-breeches of the same disappeared into high polish- ed boots with gilt spurs upon the heels. A silver-hilted rapier and a plumed cap lying upon a settle beside him completed a costume which was a badge of honor to the wearer, for any Frenchman would have recognized it as being that of an officer in the famous Blue Guard of Louis the Fourteenth. A trim dashing soldier he looked, with his curling black hair and well - poised head. Such he had proved himself before now in the field, too, until the name of Amory de Catinat had become conspicuous among the thou- sands of the valiant lesser noblesse who had flocked into the service of the King. They were first cousins, these two, and there was just slkfficient resemblance in the clear-cut features to recall the rela- tionship. De Catinat was sprung from a noble Huguenot family, but having lost THE REFUGEES. 245 his parents early, he had joined the army, and had worked his way without __ influence and against all W odds to his present posi- tion. His fathers young- er brother, however, find- ing every path to fortune barred to him through the persecution to which men of his faith were already subjected, had dropped the de which implied his noble descent, and had taken to trade in the city of Paris, with such success that he was now one of the richest and most promh nent citizens of the town. It was tinder his roof that the guardsman now sat, and it was his only daughi- ter whose white hand lie held in his own. Tell me, Ad~1e, said he, why do you look troubled l I am not troubled, Amory. Come, there is just one little line between those curving brows. AL, I can read you, you see, as a shepherd reads the sky. It is nothing, Amory, but But what ? You leave me this evening. But only to return to- niorro And must you really, really go to-night ? It would be as much as my commis- sion is worth to be abseut. Why, I um on duty to-morrow morning outside the Kings bedroom! After chapel-time Ma- jor de Brissac will take my place, and then I am free once more. Ah, Amory, when you talk of the King and the court and the grand ladies, you fill me with wonder. And why with wonder l To think that you who live amid such splendor should stoop to the humble room of a mercer. Ab, but what does the room con- tain ? There is the greatest wonder of all. VOL. LXXXVI.No. 51223 That you who pass your days amid such people, so beautiful, so witty, should think me worthy of your love, me, who am such a quiet little mouse, all alone in this great house, so shy and so backward! It is wonderful! Every man has hAs own taste, said hercousin, stroking the tiny hand. It is with women as with flowers. Some may prefer the great brilliant sunflower, or the rose, which is so bright and large that it must ever catch the eye. But give me the little violet which hides among the mosses, and yet is so sweet to look upon, and sheds its fragrance round it. But still that line upon your brow, dearest. ~TELL ME, ADftLE, WHY DO YOU LOOK TROUBLED? 246 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. I was wishing that father would return. And why? Are you so lonely, then l Her pale face lit up with a quick smile. I shall not be lonely until to-night. But I am always uneasy when he is away. One hears so much now of the persecution of our poor brethren. Tut! my uncle can defy them. He has gone to the provost of the Mercer Guild about this notice of the quartering of the dragoons. Ah, you have not told me of that. Here it is. She rose and took up a slip of blue paper with a red seal dan- gling from it which lay upon the table. His strong black brows knitted together as he glanced at it. Take notice, it ran, that you, Th& - ophile Catinat, cloth-mnercer of the Rue St. Martin, are hereby required to give shelter and rations to twenty men of the Languedoc Blue Dragoons under Captain Dalbert until such time as you receive a further notice. [Signed] De Beaupr~ (Commissioner of the King). De Catinat knew well how this method of annoying Huguenots had been prac- tised all over France, but lie had flattered himself that his own position at court would have insured his kinsman from such an outrage. He threw the paper down with an exclamation of anger. When do they come Father said to-night. Then they shall not be here long. To-morrow I shall have an order to re- move them. But the sun has sunk be- hind St. Martins Church, and I should already be upon mmiy way. No, no; you must not go yet. I would that I could give you into your fathers charge first, for I fear to leave you alone when these troopers may come. And yet no excuse will avail me if I am not at Versailles. But see, a horse- man has stopped before the door. He is not in uniform. Perhaps lie is a messen- ger from your father. The girl ran eagerly to the window, and peered out, with her hand resting upon her cousins silver-corded shoulder. Ah ! she cried, I had forgotten. It is the man from America. Father said that he would come to-day. The man from America ! repeated the soldier, in a tone of surprise, and they both craned their necks from the wiiidow. The horseman, a sturdy, broad-shoul- dered young man, clean - shaven ann crop-haired, turned his long swarthy face and his bold features in their direction as he ran his eye over the front of the house. He had a soft-brimmed gray hat of a shape which was strange to Parisian eyes, but his sombre clothes and high boots were such as any citizen might have worn. Yet his general appearance was so un- usual that a group of townsfolk had al- ready assembled round him, staring with open mouth at his horse and himself. A battered gun with an extremely long barrel was fastened by the stock to his stirrup, while the muzzle stuck up into the air behind him. At each holster was a large dangling black bag, and a gayly colored red slashed blanket was rolled up at the back of his saddle. His horse, a strong - limbed dapple - gray, all shiny with sweat above, and all caked with mud beneath, bent its fore knees as it stood, as though it were overspent. The rider, however, having satisfied him self as to the house, sprang lightly out of his saddle, and disengagiiig his gun, his blanket, and his bags, pushed his way unconcernedly through the gaping crowd and knocked loudly at the dooi~. ~Who is he, then ? asked De Catinat. A Canadian? I am almost one myself. I had as many friends on one side of the sea as oii the other. Perchance I know him. There are not so many white faces yonder, and in two years there was scarce one from the Saguenay to Nipissing that I had not seen. Nay, lie is from the English prov- inces, Amory. But he speaks our toii gue.. His mother was of our blood. And his name Is AmosAmosah, those names Yes, Green, that was it - Amos Green. His father and miiie have done much trade together, and miow his somi, who, as I understand, has lived ever in the- woods, is sent here to see somethiiig of memi and cities. Ahi, my God! what can have happened now A suddeii chorus of screams and cries. had broken out from the passage beneath, with the shouting of a man and the sound of rushing steps. In an instant De Cati- nat was half-way down the stairs, and was staring in amazemnent at tIme scene in the hall bemieathi. Two mnaids stood, screaming at the pitch of their lungs, at either side. In w THE REFUGEES. 247 the centre the old man-servant Pierre a stern old Calvinist, whose dignity had never before been shaken, was spinnin~ w round, wavin~ his arms, and roaring so that he might have been heard at the Louvre. Attached to the gray worsted stocking which covered his fleshless calf was a fluffy black hairy ball, with one little red eye glancin~ up, and the gleam of two white teeth where it held its giip. At the shrieks, the young stranger, who had gone out to his horse, came rushing back, and l)lucking the creature off, he slapped it twice across the snout, and plunged it head-foremost back into the leather ba~ from which it had emerged. It is nothing, said he, speaking in excellent French; it is only a hear. Ah, my God ! cried Pierre, wiping the drops from his brow. Ah it has aged me five years! I was at the door, bowing to monsieur, and in a moment it had me from behind. ft was my fault for leaving the ba~ loose. The creature was but pupped the day we left New York, six weeks come Tuesday. Do I speak with my fathers friend, Monsieur Cati- nat ? No, monsieur, said the guardsman, from the staircase. My uncle is out, but I am Captain de Catinat at your service, and here is Mademoiselle Catinat, who is your host- ess. The stranger ascended the stair, and paid his greetin~,s to them both with ~he air of a man who was as shy as a wild deer, and yet who had steeled himself to carry a thing through. He walked with them to the sitting-room, arid then in an instant was gone a~ain, and they heard his feet thudding upon the stairs. Presently he was back, with a lovely glossy skin in his hands. The bear is for your father, made- moiselle, said he. This little skin I have brought from America for you. It is but a trifle, and yet it may serve to make a pair of moccasins or a pouch. AdMe gave a cry of delight as her haiids sank into the depths of its softness. She might well admire it, for no king in the world could have had a finer skin. Ah, it is beautiful, monsieur, she cried; and what creature is it; and where did it conie from ? It is a black fox. I shot it myself last fall up near the Iroquois villages at Lake Oneida. She pressed it to her cheek, her white face showing up like marble against its absolute blackness. I am sorry my fa- ther is not here to welcome you, mon THE MAN FROM AMERICA. 248 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. sieur, sbe said; but I do so very heart- ily in his place. Your room is above. Pierre will show you to it, if you wish. My room? For what ? Why, monsieur, to sleep in And must I sleep in a room De Catinat laughed at the gloomy face of the American. You shall not sleep there if you do not wish, said lie. The other brightened at once, and stepped across to the further window, which looked down upon the court-yard. Ab, he cried. There is a beech-tree there, mademoiselle, and if I might take my blanket out yonder, I should like it better than any room. In wiuter, indeed, one must do it, but in summer I am smnoth- ered with a ceiling pressing down upon me. You are not from a town, then ? said De Catinat. My father lives in New Yorktwo doors from the house of Peter Stuyvesant, of whom you must have heard. He is a very hardy man, and lie can do it, but I even a few days of Albany or of Sche- nectady are enough for me. My life has been in the woods. I am sure that my father would wish you to sleep where you like and to do what you like, as long as it makes you happy. I thank you, mademoiselle. Then I shall take my things out there, and I shall groom uly horse. Nay, there is Pierre. I ani used to doing it myself. Theu I will come with you, said De Catinat. for I would have a word with you. Until to-morrow, then, Ad~1e, fare- well Until to-in orrow, Amorv. The two young men passed down stairs together, and the guardsman follo wed the American out into the yard. You have had a long journey, he said. Yes from Rouen. ~Are you tired ? No; I am seldom tired. Remain with the lady, then, until her father comes back. Why do you say that ? Because I have to go, and she might need a protector. The stranger said nothing, but lie nod- ded, and throwing off his black coat, set to work vigorously rubbing down his travel-stained horse. CHAPTER II. A MONARCH IN DESHABILLE. IT was the morning after the guardsman had returned to his duties. Eight oclock had struck on the great clock of Versailles, and it was almost time for the monarch to rise. Through all the long corridors and frescoed passages of the monster pal- ace there was a subdued hum and rustle, with a low muffled stir of preparation. for the rising of the King was a great state function in which many had a part to play. A servant with a steaming sil- ver saucer hurried past, bearing it to Monsieur de St. Quentin, the state barber. Others, with clothes thrown over their arms, bustled down the passage which led to the antechamber. The knot of guards- men in their gorgeous blue and silver coats straightened themselves up and brought their halberds to attention, while the young officer, who had been looking wistfully out of the window at some courtiers who were lau~hing and chat- tin~ on the terraces, turned sharply upon his heel, and strode over to the xvhite and gold door of the royal bedroom. He had hardly taken his stand there before the handle was very gently turned from within, the door revolved noiselessly upon its hinges, aiid a man slid silently through the aperture, closing it again be- hind him. Hush ! said lie, with his finger to his thin, precise lips, while his whole clean- shaven face and high-arched brows were an entreaty and a warning. The King still sleeps. The words were whispered from one to another amomig the group who had assem- bled outside the door. The speaker, who was Monsieur Bontems, head valet de chainbre, gave a sign to the officer of the guard, amid led him into the window al- cove from which lie had lately come. Good-nmornin~, Captain de Catinat, said lie, with a mixture of familiarity and respect in his manner. Good-morning, Bontems. How has the King slept ?, Admirably. But it is hAs time. Hardly. You will not rouse him yet? In seven and a half minutes. The valet pulled out the little round watch which gave the law to the man who was the law to twenty millions of peo w THE HEFUGEES. 249 pie. Who commands at the main guard ? Major de Brissac. And you will be here? For four hours I attend the King. Very good. He gave rue some in- structions for the officer of the guard, when he was alone last night after the petit coucher. He bade me to say that Monsieur de Vivonne was not to be ad- mitted to the grand lerer. You are to tell him so. I shall do so. Then, should a note come from her you understand me, the new one Madame de Maintenon? Precisely. But it is more discreet not to mention names. Should she send a note, you will take it and deliver it quietly when the King gives you an op- portunity. It shall be done. But if the other should come, as is possible enoughthe other, you under- stand me, the former Madame de Montespan. Ah,that soldierly tongue of yours, Captain! Should she come, I say, you will gently bar her way, with courteous words, you understand, but on no account is she to be permitted to enter the royal room. ~Very good, Bontems. And nowwe have but three minutes. He strode through the rapidly increasing group of l)eople in the corridor with an air of pioud humility, as befitted a man who, if he was a valet, was at least the king of valets by being the valet of the King. Close by the door stood a line of footmen, resplendent iii their powdered wigs, red plush coats, and silver shoul- dei-kn ots. Is the officer of the oven here? ask- ed Boutems. Yes, sir, replied a functionary who bore in front of him an enamelled tray heaped with pine shavings. The opener of the shutters ? Here, sir. The remover of the taper ? Here, sir. Be ready for the word. He turned the handle once more, and slipped into the darkened room. It was a large square apartment, with two high windows upon the further side, curtained across with priceless velvet hangings. Through the chinks the morn- ing sun shot a few little gleams, which widened as they crossed the room to break in bright blurs of light upon the primrose-tinted wall. A large arm-chair stood by the side of the burned-out fire, shadowed over by the huge marble man- tel-piece, the back of which was carried up, twining and curving into a thousand arabesque and armorial devices until it blended with the richly painted ceiling. In one corner a narrow couch with a rug thrown across it showed where the faith- ful Bontems had spent the night. In the very centre of the chamber there stood a large four-post bed, with curtains of Gobelin tapestry looped back from the pillow. A square of polished rails sur- rounded it, leaving a space some five feet in width all round between the enclosure and the bedside. Within this enclosure, or ruelle, stood a small round table, cov- ered over with a white napkin, upon which lay a silver platter and an enam- elled cup, the one containin~ a little Fron- tiniac wine and water, and the other bear- ing three slices of the breast of a chicken, in case the King should hunger during the night. As Bontems passed noiselessly across the room, his feet sinking into the moss- like carpet, there was the heavy close smell of sleep in the air. and lie could hear the long thin breathing of the sleeper. He passed through the opening in the rails, and stood, watch in hand, waiting for the exact instant when the iron routine of the court demanded that the monarch should be roused. Beneath him, from under the costly green cover- let of Oriental silk, half buried in the fluffy Valenciennes lace which edged the l)illo~v, there protruded a round black bristle of close-cropped hair, xvith the pro- file of a curving nose and petulant lip outlined against the white background. The valet snapped his watch, and bent over the sleeper. I have the honor to inform your Majesty that it is half past ei~ht, said he. Ah ! The King slowly opened his large dark-brown eyes, made the sign of the cross, and kissed a little dark reli- quary which lie drew from under his night-dress. Then he sat up in bed, and blinked about him with the air of a man who is collecting his thoughts. Did you give my orders to the officer of the guard, Bontems? lie asked. 250 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Yes, sire. WI is on duty? Major de Brissac at the main guard, and Captain de Catinat in the corridor. De Catinat! Ah, the young man who stopped my horse at Fontaineblean. I remember him. You may give the signal, Bontems. The chief valet walked swiftly across to the door and threw it open. In rush- ed the officer of the ovens and the four red-coated, white- wigged footmen ready- handed si lel) t-footed, each intent upon his own duties. The one seized upon Bontemss rug and couch, and in an in- stant had whipped them off into an ante- chamber; another had carried away the en eas meal and the silver taper-stand; while a third drew back the great cur- tains of stamped velvet and let a flood of light into the apartment. Then, as the flames were already flickering among the pine shavings in the fireplace, the officer of the ovens placed two round logs cross- wise above them, for the morning air was chilly, and withdrew with his fellow- servants. They were hardly gone before a more august group entered the bedchamber. Two walked together in front, the one a youth little over twenty years of age, middle-sized, inclining to stoutness, with a slow, pompous bearing, a well-turned leg, and a face which would have been comely enough in a masklike fashion, but which was devoid of any shadow of expression, except perhaps of an occa- sional lurking gleam of mischievous ha- mor. He was richly clad in plum-colored velvet, with a broad band of blue silk across his breast, and the glittering edge of the order of St. Louis protruding from under it. His companion was a man of forty, swarthy, dignified, and solemn in a plain but rich dress of black silk with slashes of gold at the neck and sleeves. As the pair faced the King there was sufficient resemblance between the three faces to show that they were of one blood, and to enable a stranger to guess that the older was Monseigneur, the younger brother of the King, while the other was Louis the Dauphin, his only legitimate child, and heir to a throne to which in the strange workings of Provi- dence neither he nor his sons were des- tined to ascend. Strong as was the likeness between the three faces, each with the curving Bour hon nose, the large full eye, and the thick Hapsburg nnder lip, their common heritage from Anne of Austria, there was still a vast difference of temperament and character stamped upon their features. The King was now in his six-and-fortieth year, and the cropped black head w-as already thinning a little on the top, and shadiig away to gray over the temples. He still, however, retained mu icli of the beauty of his youth, tempered by the dig- nity and sternness which increased with his years. His dark eyes were full of expression, and his clear - cut features were the delight of the sculptor and the painter. His firm and yet sensitive mouth and his thick, well-arched brows gave an air of authority and power to his face, while the more subdued expres- sion which was habitual to his brother marked the man whose whole life had been spent in one long exercise of defer- ence and self-effacement. The Dauphin, on the other hand, with a more regular face than his father, had none of that quick play of feature when excited, or that kingly serenity when composed, which had made a shrewd observer say that Louis, if he were not the greatest monarch that ever lived, was at least the best fitted to act the part. Behind the Kings son and the Kinos brother there entered a little group oP notables and of officials whom duty had called to this daily ceremony. There was the grand master of the robes, the first lord of the bedchamber, the Duc du Maine, a pale youth clad in black velvet, limping heavily with his left leg, and his little brother, the young Comte de Tou- louse, both of them the illegitimate sons of Madame de Montespan and the King. Behind them, again, was the first valet of the wardrobe, followed by Fagon, the first physician, Tehier, the head surgeon, and three pages in scarlet and gold who bore the royal clothes. Such were the par- takers in the family entry, the highest honor which the court of France could aspire to. Bontems had poured on the Kings hands a few drops of spirits of wine catching them again in a silver dish and the first lord of the bedchamber had presented the bowl of holy water, with which he made the sign of the cross, muttering to himself the short office of the Holy Ghost. Then, with a nod to his brother and a short word of greeting to w THE REFUGEES. 251 the Dauphin and to the Duc dii Maine, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat in his long silken night-dress, his 41 little white feet dangling from beneath ita perilous position for any man to as- sume, were it not that be had so heart- felt a sense of his own dignity that be could not realize that under any circum- stances it might be compromised in the eyes of others. So lie sat, the master of France, and yet the slave to every puff of wind, for a wandering draught had set him shivering and shaking. Monsieur de St. Quentin, the noble barber, flung a purple dressing - gown over the royal shoulders, and placed a long many-curled court wig upon his head, while Bontems drew on his red stockings and laid before him his slippers of embroidered velvet. The monarch thrust his feet into them, tied his dressing-gown, and passed out to the fireplace, where he settled himself down in his easy-chair, holding out his thin delicate hands towards the blazing logs, while the others stood round in a semicircle, waiting for the grand lever which was to follow. How is this. messieurs? the King asked, suddenly, glancing round him with a petulant face. I am conscious of a smell of scent. Surely none of you would venture to bring perfume into the presence, knowing, as you must all do, how offensive it is to me. The little group glanced from one to the other with protestations of inno- cence. The faithful Bontems, however, with his stealthy step, had passed along behind them, and had detected the of- fender. Mv lord of Toulouse, the smell comes from you, he said. The Cointe de Toulouse, a little ruddy- cheeked lad, flushed up at the detection. If you please, sire, it is possible that Mademoiselle de Grammont may have wet my coat with her casting-bottle when we all played together at Marly yesterday, he stammered. I had not observed it, but if it offends your Majesty- Take it away! take it away ! cried the King. Pah! it chokes and stifles ___ me! Open the lower casement, Bontems. No; never heed, now that he is gone. Monsieur de St. Quentin, is this not our shaving morning ? Yes, sire; all is ready. Then why not proceed? It is three minutes after the accustomed time. To work, sir; and you, Bontems, give word for the grand lever. It was obvious that the King was not in a very ~ood bumor that morning. He darted little quick questioning glances at his brother and at his sons, but whatever complaint or sarcasm may have trembled upon his lips, was effectually stifled by De St. Quentins ministrations. With the nonchalance born of long custom, the official covered the royal chin with soap, drew the razor swiftly round it. and spoI)ged over the surface with spirits of wine. A nobleman then helped to draw on the Kings black velvet haut - de - cbausses, a second assisted in arranging tbemn, while a thuird drew the night-gown over the shoulders, and handed the royal shirt, xvhiich had beei~ warming before the fire. His diamond - buckled shoes, his gaiters, and his scarlet inner vest were successively fastened by noble courtiers, each keenly jealous of his own privilege, and over the vest was placed the blue ribbon with tIme cross of the Holy Ghost in diamonds, and tbat of St. Louis tied with red. To one to xvliom the sight was new, it might have seemed strange to see the little man, listless, passive, with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the burn- ing logs, while this group of men, each with a historic name, bustled round him, adding a touch here and a touch there, like a knot of children with a favorite doll. The black under-coat was drawn on, the cravat of rich lace adjusted, the loose overcoat secured, two Ii andkerchiefs of costly point carried forward upon an enamelled saucer, and thrust by separate officials into each side pocket, the silver and ebony cane laid to hand, and the monarch was ready for the labors of the day. During the half-hour or so which had been occupied in this manner there had been a constant opening and closing of the chamber door, and a muttering of names from the captain of the guard to the attendant in charge, and from the at- tendant in charge to the first gentleman of the chamber, ending always in the ad- mission of some new visitor. Each as he entered bowed profoundly three times, as a salute to majesty, and then attached himself to his own little clique or coterie, to gossip in a low voice over the news, the weather, and the plans of the day. Gradually the numbers increased, until by the time the Kings frugal first 252 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. breakfast of bread and twice - watered wine had been carried in. the large square chamber was quite filled with a throng of men, many of whom had helped to make the epoch the most illustrious of French history. Here, close by the King, was the harsh but energetic Louvois, all- powerful 1)0W silIce the death of his rival Colbert, discussing a question of military organ ization with two officers, the one a tall and stately soldier, the other a strange little figure, undersized and mis- shapen, but bearing the insignia of a Marshal of France, and owning a name which was of evil omen over the-Dutch frontierfor Luxembourg was looked upon already as the successor of Coudd, even as his companion Vanban was of Tu- renne. Beside them, a small white-haired clerical with an austere face, P~re La Chaise, confessor to the King, was whis- pering his views upon Jansenisni to the portly Bossuet, the eloquent Bishop of Meaux, and to the tall thin young Abbd de Fdndlon, who listened with a clouded brow, for it was well known that his own opinions were tainted with the heresy in question. There, too, was Le Brun, tile paillter, discussino~ art in a small circle which contained his fellow-workers Ver- rio and Laguerre, the architects Blondel and Le N6tre, and the sculptors Girar- don, Puget, Desjardins, and Coysevox, whose works had done so much to beau- tify tile new palace of the King. Close to the door, Racine, with his handsome face wreathed in smiles, was chatting with the poet Boilean and the architect Mansard, the three laughing and jesting with the freedom which was natural to the favorite servants of the King, the only subjects who might walk unannounce(l and without ceremony into and out of his chamber. What is amiss with him this morn- ing? asked Boilean. in a xvhisper, nod- ding his head in the direction of tIme royal group. I fear that his sleep has not improved his temper. He becomes harder and Ilarder to amuse. said Racine, shaking his head. I am to be at Madame de Maintenons room at three to see whether a page or two of the Ph~dre may ilot work a change. My friend,~ said the architect, do you not think that madame herself might be a better consoler than your Ph~dre ? Madame is a wonderful woman. She has brains, she has heart, she has tact sIle is admirable. And vet she has one gift too many. And that is? Age. Pooh! What matter her years wimen she can carry them like thirty? What an eye! What an arm! And besides, my friends, he is not himself a boy any longer. All, but tllat is another timing. A mans age is an incident, a wo- mans a calamity. Very true. But a young man con- sults his eye, and an older man his ear. Over forty, it is the clever tongue which wins; under it, the pretty face. AIm, you rascal! Then you have made up your mind that five-and-forty years with) tact will hold the field against nine-amId-thirty with beauty. Well, when your lady has won, she will doubtless re- member who were the first to pay court to her. But I think that you are wrong, Ra- cine. Well, we shall see. And if you are wrong- Well, what then? Therm it may be a little serious for you.~~ And why? The Marquise de Montespan has a memory. Her influence may soon be nothing more. Do not rely too much upon it, my friend. When tile Fontanges came up from Provence, with her blue eyes and her copper hair, it was in every mans mouth timat Montespan Imad had liner day. Yet Fontanges is six feet under a church crypt, and the Marquise spent two hours with time King last week. She has won once, and may again. Ah, but this is a very different rival. Tlmis is no slip of a country girl, but the cleverest woman in France. Pshaw, Racirme, you know our good master well, or you should, for you seem to have been at Imis elbow since the days of the Fronde. Is he a man, think you, to be ammmused forever by sermons, or to spend his days at the feet of a lady of that age, watching her at her tapestry- work, and fondling her poodle, when all time fairest faces and brightest eyes of France are as thick in his salons as the tulips in a Dutch flower bed? No, no; it w THE GRAND LEVER~~ OF THE KING. 254 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. will be the Montespan, or if not she, some younger beauty. My dear Boilean, I say again that her sun is setting. Have you not heard the news? Not a word. Her brother Monsieur de Vivonne, has been refused the cut rae. Impossible! But it is a fact. And when? This very morning. From whom had you it? From De Catinat, the captain of the guard. He had his orders to bar the way to him. Ha! then the King does indeed mean mischief. That is why his brow is so cloudy this morning, then. By my faith, if the Marquise has the spirit with which folk credit her, he may find that it was easier to win her than to slight her. Ay; the Mortemarts are no easy race to handle. Well, Heaven send him a safe way out of it! But who is this gentleman His face is somewhat grimmer than those to which the court is accustomed. Ha! the King catches sight of him, and Lou- vois beckons to him to advance. By my faith, he is one who would be more at his ease in a tent than under a painted ceil- ing. The stranger who had attracted Ra- cines attention was a tall thin man, with a high aquiline nose, stern fierce gray eyes, peeping out from under tufted brows, and a countenance so lined and marked by age, care, and stress of wea- ther that it stood out amid the prim courtier faces which surrounded it as an old hawk might in a cage of birds of gay plumage. He was clad in the sombre- colored suit which had become usual at court since the King had put aside frivol- ity and Fontanges, but the sword which hung from his waist was no fancy rapier, but a good brass-hilted blade in a stained leather sheath, which showed every sign of haviug seen hard service. He had been standing near the door, his black- feathered beaver in his hand, glancing with a half-amused, half-disdainful ex- pression at the groups of gossips around him; but at the sign from the minister of war he began to elbow his way for- ward, pushing aside in no very ceremoni- ous fashion all who barred his passage. Louis possessed in a high degree the royal faculty of recognition. It is years since I have seen him, but I re- member his face well, said he, turning to his minister. It is the Comte de Frontenac, is it not ? Yes, sire, answered Louvois; it is indeed Louis de Buade, Comte de Fronte- nac, and formerly Governor of Canada. We are glad to see you once more at our lever, said the monarch, as the old nobleman stooped his head and kissed the white hand which was extended to him. I hope that the cold of Canada has not chilled the warmth of your loyalty. Only death itself, sire, would be cold enough for that. Then I trust that it may remain to us for many long years. We would thank you for the care and pains which you have spent upon our province, and if we have recalled you, it is chiefly that we would fain hear from youi own lips how all things go there. And first, as the af- fairs of God take precedence of those of France, how does the conversion of the heathen prosper ? We cannot complain, sire. The good fathers, both Jesuits and Rdcollets, have done their best, though indeed they are both rather ready to abandon the affairs of the next world in order to meddle with those of this. What say you to that, father ? asked Louis, glancing, with a twinkle of the eyes, at his Jesuit confessor. I say, sire, that when the affairs of this world have a bearing upon those of the next, it is indeed the duty of a good priest, as of every other good Catholic, to guide them right. That is very true, sire, said De Fron- tenac, with an angry flush upon his swarthy cheek; but as long as your Majesty did me the honor to intrust those affairs to my own guidance, I would brook no interference in the performance of my duties, whether the meddler were clad in coat or cassock. Enough, sir, enough ! said Louis, sharply. I had asked you about the missions. They prosper, sire. There are Iro- quois at the Sault and the mountain Hu- rons at Lorette, and Algonquins along the whole ri ver ci~tes from Tadousac in the East to Sault Ia Marie, and even the great plains of the Dakotas, who have all tak- en the cross as their token. Marquette has passed down the river of the West to w THE REFUGEES. 255 preach among the Illinois, and Jesuits have carried the gospel even to the war- of the Long House in their wigwams I may add, your Majesty, said P~i~e La Chaise, that in leaving the truth thei~e, they have too often left their lives with it. Yes, sire, it is very tine, cried De F iontenac, cordially. Your Majesty has many brave men within his domains but none braver than these. They have come back up the Richelien River fiorn the Iroquois villages with their nails gone, their fingers torn out, a cinder where their eye should be, and the scars of the pine splinters as thick upon their bodies as the fleurs-de-lis on yoiider cur- tain. Yet, with a month of nursing from the good Ursulines at Montreal, they have used their remaining eye to guide them back to the Indian country once more, where even the dogs have been fright- ened at their haggled faces and twisted limbs. And you have suffered this? cried Louis, hotly. You allow these iiifa- nious assassins to live? I have asked for troops, sire. And I have sent some. One regiment. The Carignan-Sali~re. I have no better in my service. But more is needed, sire. There are the Canadians themselves. Have you not a militia? Could you not raise force enough to punish these rascal- ly murderers of Gods priests? I had al- ways understood that you were a soldier. De Frontenacs eyes flashed, and a quick answer seemed for an instant to tremble upon his lips, but with an effort the fiery old man restrained himself. Your Ma- jesty will learn best whether I am a sol- dier or not, said he, by asking those who have seen me at Seneffe, Muihausen, Salzbach, and half a score of other places where I had the honor of upholding your Majestys cause. Your services have not been forgot- ten. It is just because I am a soldier and __ have seen something of war that I know how hard it is to penetrate into a country much larger than the Lowlands, all thick with forest and bog, with a savage lurk- ing behind every tree, who, if lie has not learned to step in time or to form line, can at least bring down the running can bou at two hundred paces, and travel three leagues to your one. And then when you have at last reached their villages, and burned their empty wigwams and a few acres of maize fields, what the better are you then? You caii but travel hack again to your owii laud with a cloud of unseen men lurking behind you, and a scalp-yell for eveiy stragglei~. You are a soldier yourself, sire. I ask you if such a war is an easy task for a handful of soldiers, with afew certsitaires straight from the plough, and a few courewrs des bois whose hearts all the time are with their traps and their beaver-skins. No, no; I am sorry if I spoke too hastily, said Louis. We shall look into the matter at oui council. Then it warms my heart to hear you say so, cried the old Governor. There will be joy down the long St. Lawrence, in white hearts and in red, when it is known that their great father over the waters has turned his mind towards them. And yet you must not look for too much, for Canada has been a heavy cost to us, and we have many calls in Europe. Ah, sire, I would that you could see that great land. When your Majesty has won a campaign over here, what may come of it? Glory, a few miles of land, Lux- embourg, Strasburg, one niore city in the kingdom; but over there, with a tenth of the cost and a huiidredth part of the force, there is a world ready to your hand. It is so vast, sire, so rich, so beautiful! Where are there such hills, such forests, such rivers! And it is all for us if we will but take it. Who is there to stand in our way? A few nations of scattered Ind- ians and a thin strip of English farmers and fishermen. Turn your thoughts there, sire, and in a few years you would be able to stand upon your citadel at Quebec, and to say there is one great empire here from the snows of the North to the warm South- em gulf, and from the waves of the ocean to the great plains beyond Marquettes river, and the name of this empire is France, and lien king is Louis, and lien flag is the fleurs-de-his. Louiss cheek had flushed at this ambi- tious picture, and lie had leaned forward in his chaii~, with flashing eyes, but he sank back again as the Governor con- eluded. On my word, Count, said he, yoa 256 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. have caught something of this gift of Ind- ian eloquence of which we have heard. But about these English folk. They are Huguenots, are they not? For the most part. Especially in time North. Then it might be a service to Holy Church to send them packing. They have a city there, I am told. NewNew-- How do they call it? New York, sire. They took it from the Dutch. ~Ah. New York. Aiid have I not heard of another? BosBos Boston, sire That is the name. The harbors might be of service to us. Tell me, now, Fronte- nac, lowering his voice so that his words might be audible only to the Count, Lou- vois, and time royal circle, what force would you need to clear these people out? One regiment, two regiments, and per- haps a frigate or two ? But the ex-Governor shook his grizzled head. You do not know them, sire, said he. They are a stern folk, these. We in Canada, with all your gracious help, have found it hard to hold our own. Yet these men have had no help, but only hinderance, with cold and (lisease, aimd bar- ren lands, and Indian wars, hut they have thriven and multiplied until the woods thin away in front of them like ice in time sun, and their church bells are heard where but yesterday the wolves were howling. They are peaceful folk, and slow to war, but when they have set their hands to it, though they may be slack to begin, they are slacker still to cease. To put New England into your Majestys hands, I would ask fifteen thousand of your hest troops and twenty ships of the line. Louis sprang impatiently from his chair, and caught up his cane. I wish, said he, that you would imitate these people who seem to you to be so formi- dable, in their excellent habit of doing things for themselves. Time matter may stand until our council. Reverend fa- tlier, it has struck the hour of chapel, and all else may wait until we have paid our duties to Heaven. Taking a missal from the hands of an attendant, lie walked as fast as his very hi~h heels would per- mit him towards the door, the court form- ing a lane through which he might pass, and then closing up behind to follow him in order of precedence. CHAPTER III. THE HOLDING OF THE DOOR. WHILST Louis had been affording his court that which lie had openly stated to be the highest of human pleasuresthe sight of the royalfacethme young officer of the guard outside had been very busy pass- ing on tIme titles of the numerous applicants for admission, and exchanging usually a smile or a few words of greeting with them, for his frank handsome face was a well-known one at tIme court. With his merry eyes and his brisk bearing, he looked like a maim who was on good terms with fortune. Indeed, lie had good cause to be so, for she had used him well. Three years ago he had been an unknown subaltern bush fighting with Algonquins and Iroquois in the wilds of Canada. An exchange had brought him back to France and into the regiment of Picardy, but the lucky chance of having seized tIme bridle of the Kings horse one winters day in Fontainebleau when the creature was plunging within a few yards of a deep gravel-pit had done for him what ten campaigns might have failed to ac- complish. Now as a trusted officer of the Kings guard, young, gallant, and popular, his lot was indeed an enviable one. And yet, with the. strange perver- sity of human nature, lie was already surfeited with the dull if magnificent routine of the Kings household, and look- ing back with regret to the rougher and freer days of his early service. Even there at the royal door his mind had turned away from the frescoed passage and the groups of courtiers to the wild ravines and foaming rivers of the West, when suddenly his eyes lit upon a face which lie had last seen among those very sceiies. Ah, Monsieur de Frontenac ! he ci~ied. You cannot have forgotten me. What! De Catinat! Ah, it is a joy indeed to see a face from over the wa- ter! But there is a long step between a subaltern in time Carignan and a cap- tain in the Guards. You have risen rap- idly. Yes; and yet I may be none the hap- pier for it. There are times when I would give it all to be dancing down the La- chine Rapids in a birch canoe, or to see the red and the yellow on those hill-sides once more at the fall of the leaf. Ay, sighed De Frontenac. You w THE REFUGEES. 257 know that my fortunes have sunk as yours have risen. I have been recalled, and De La Barre is in my place. But there will be a storm there which such a man as he can never stand against. With the Iroquois all dancing the scalp- dance, and Dongan behind them in New York to whoop them on, they will need me, and they will find me waiting when they send. I will see the King now, and try if I cannot rouse him to play the great monarch there as well as here. Had I but his power in my hands, I should change the worlds history. Hush! No treason to the captain of the guard, cried De Catinat, laughing, while the stein old soldier strode past him into the Kings presence. A gentleman very richly dressed in black and silver had come up during this short conversation, and advanced, as the door opened, with the assured air of a man whose rights are beyond dispute. Captain de Catinat, however, took a quick step forward, and barred him off from the door. I am very sorry, Monsieur de Vi- vonne, said he, but you are forbidden the presence. Forbidden the presence! I? You are mad ! He stepped back with gray face and starin~ eyes, one shaking hand half raised in protest. I assure you that it is his order. But it is incredible. It is a mistake. Very possibly. Then you will let me past. Mv orders leave me no discretion. If I could have one word with the Klinox Unfortunately, monsieur, it is impos- sible. Only one word. It really does not rest with me, muon- smeur. Time angry nobleman stamped his foot. and stared at the door as though he had some thoughts of forcing a passage. Then turning on his heel, lie hastened away down the corridor with the air of a man who has come to a decision. There, now, giumbled De Catinat to himself, as lie pulled at his thick dark mustache, he is off to make some fresh mischief. Ill have his sister here pres- ently, as like as not, and a pleasant little choice between breaking my orders and making an enemy of her for life. Id rather hold Fort IRichehien against tIme Iroquois than the Kings door against an angry woman. By my faith, here is a lady, as I feared! Ab, Heaven be praised! it is a friend, and not a foe. Good-niorn- ing, Mademoiselle Nanon. Good-morning, Captain de Catinat. The new-coiner was a tall graceful brunette, her fresh face and sparkling black eyes the brighter in contrast with her plain dress. I am on guam~d, you ~ee. I cannot talk with you. I cannqt reniernber having asked nionsieur to talk with me. Ah, but you must not pout iii that pretty way, or else I cannot help talking to you, whispered tIme captain. What is this in your hand, then ? A note froni Madame de Maintenon to the King. You will hand it to him, will you not? Certainly, mademoiselle. And how is madame, your mistress? Oh, her director has been with her all the morning, amid his talk is very, very good; but it is also very, very sad. We are not very cheerful when Monsieur Godet has been to see us. But I forget monsieur is a Huguenot, and knows no- thing of directors. Oh, but I do not trouble about such differences. I let the Sorbonne aimd Ge- neva fight it out between them. Yet a man in ust stand by his fanmily, you know. AIm! if monsieur could talk to Ma- danme de Maintenon a little! She would convert hun. I would rather talk to Mademoiselle Nanon, but if--- Ohm ! There was an exclamation a whisk of dark skirts, and the soubrette had disappeared down a side passage. Along the broad lighted corridor was glidimig a very stately and beautiful lady. tall, graceful, and exceedingly haughty. She was richly clad in a bodice of gold- colored camnlet and a skirt of gray silk trimmed with gold and silver lace. A hamidkerchief of priceless Genoa point half hid and Imaif revealed hem beautiful throat, and was fastened in fromit by a cluster of pearls, while a rope of the same, each one worth a bourgeoiss income, was coiled iii and out through liner luxuriant Imair. The lady was past her first youth, it is tiue, but the magnificent curves of her queenly fl~ure, time purity of her com- plexion, time brightness of her deep-lashed blue eyes, and the clear megularity of her 258 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. features enabled her still to claim to be the most handsome as well as the most sharp-tongued woman iii the court of France. So beautiful was her bearing, the carriage of her dainty head upon her proud white neck, and the sweep of her stately walk, that the young officers fears were overpowered in his admiration, and he found it hard, as he raised his hand in salute, to retain the firm countenance which his duties demanded. Ah,it is Captain de Catinat, said Madame de Montespan, with a smile which was more embarrassiimg to him than any frown could have been. Your humble servant, Marquise. I am fortunate in finding a friend here, for there has been some ridiculous mistake this morn ii)~X I am concerned to hear it. It was about my brother, Monsieur de Vivonne. It is almost too laughable to mention, but he was actually refused ad- mission to the lever. It was my misfortune to have to re- fuse him, madame. You, Captain de Catinat? And by what right? She had drawn up her superb figure, and her large blue eyes were blazing with indignant astonishment. The King~s order, madame. The King! Is it likely that the King would cast a public slight upon my fam- ily? From whom had you this prepos- terous order? ~Direct from the King through Bon- tems. Absurd! Do you think that the King would venture to exclude a Mortemart through the mouth of a valet? You have been dreaming, Captain. I trust that it may prove so, ma- dame. But such dreams are not very fortu- nate to the dreamer. Go, tell the King that I am here, and would have a word with him. Impossible. madame. And why? I have beemi forbidden to carry a message. To carry any message ? Any from you, madame. Come, captain, you improve. It only needed this insult to make the thing com- plete. You may carry a message to the King from any adventuress, from any de- cayed governess she laughed shrilly at her description of her rival but none from Fran~oise de Mortemart, Marquise de Montespan ? Such are my orders, madame. It pains me deeply to be compelled to carry them out. You may spare your protestations, Captain. You may yet find that you have every reason to be deeply pained. For the last time, do you refuse to carry my message to the King ? I must, madame. Then I carry it myself. She sprang forward at the door, but be slipped in front of her with outstretched arms. For Gods sake, consider yourself, madame ! he entreated. ~Other eyes are upon you. Pah! Canaille ! She glanced at the knot of Switzers, whose sergeant had drawn them off a few paces, and who stood open -eyed, staring at the scene. I tell you that I will see the King. No lady has ever been at the morn- ing lever. Then I shall be the arst. You will ruin me if you pass. And none the less, I shall do so. The matter looked serious. De Catinat was a man of resource, but for once he was at his wits end. Madame de Monte- spans resolution, as it was called in her presence, or effrontery, as it was termed behind her back, was proverbial. If she attempted to force her way, would lie yen- ture to use violence upon one who only yesterday had held the fortunes of the whole court in the hollow of her hand, and who, with her beauty, her wit, arid her energy, might very well be in the same position to-morrow? If she passed him then, his future was ruined with the King, who never brooked the smallest de- viation from his orders. On the other hand, if lie thrust her back, lie did that which could never be forgiven, and which would entail some deadly vengeance should she return to power. It was ami un- pleasant dilemma. But a happy tim ought flashed into his mind at the very moment when she, with clinched hand and flash- ing eyes, was on time point of niaking a fresh attempt to pass him. If madame would deign to wait, said he, soothingly, the King will be on his way to the chapel in an instant. It is not yet time. I think the hour has just gone. And why should I wait like a lackey ? w THE REFUGEES. 259 It is but a moment, madame. No, I shall not wait. She took a step forward towards the door. But the guardsmans quick ear had aught the sound of moving feet from within, and he knew that he was mastei~ of the situation. I will take madames message, said lie. Ah, you have recovered your senses! Go, tell the King that I wish to speak with him. He must gain a little time yet. Shall I say it through the lord in waiting ? No; yourself. Publicly? No, no; for his private ear. Shall I give a reason for your re- quest ? Oh, you madden me! Say what I have told you, and at once. But the young officers dilemma was happily over. At that instant the double doors were swung open, and Louis ap- peaied in the opening, strutting forwards on his high-heeled shoes, his stick tap- ~)ing, his broad skirts flapping, and his courtiers spreading out behind hun. He stopped as he came out, and turned to the captain of the guard. You have a note for me? Yes, sire. The monarch slipped it into the pocket of his scarlet under-vest, and was advan- cing once more when his eyes fell upon Madame de Montespan standing very stiff and erect in the middle of the passage. A dark flush of anger shot to his brow, and lie walked swiftly past her without a word; but she turned and kept pace with him down the corridor. I had not expected this honor ma- dame. said he. ~Nor had I expected this insult, sire. An insult, madame? You forget yourself. No; it is you who have forgotten mc, sire. You intrude upon me. I wished to hear my fate from your own lips, she whispered. I can bear to be struck myself, sire, even by him who has my heart. But it is hard to hear that ones brother has been wounded through the mouths of valets and Hu- guenot soldiers for no fault of his, save that his sister has loved too fondly. It is no time to speak of such things. When can I see you, then, sire? In your chaniber. At what hour? At four. Then I shall trouble your Majesty no further. She swept hilni one of the graceful courtesies for which she was famous, and turned away dowii a side passage with triumph shining in hei~ eyes. Her beauty and her spirit had never failed her yet, and now that she had the monarchs prom- ise of an interview, she never doubted that she could do as she had done before, and win back the heart of the man, how- ever much against the conscience of the king. CHAPTER IV. THE FATHER OF HIS PEOPLE. Louis had walked on to his devotions in no very charitable frame of mind, as was easily to be seen from his clouded brow aiid compressed lips. He knew his late favorite well, hei~ impulsiveness, her audacity, her lack of all restraint when thwarted or opposed. She was capable of making a hideous scandal, of turning against him that bitter tongue which had so often made him laugh at the expense of others, perhaps even of making some public exposure which would leave him the butt and gossip of Europe. He shud- dered at the thought. At all costs such a catastrophe must be averted. And yet how could he cut the tie which hound them? He had broken other such bonds as these; but the gentle La Valli~re had shrunk into a convent at the very first glance which had told her of waning love. That was true affection. But this woman would struggle hard, fight to the bitter end, before she would quit the po- sitioii which was so dear to her. She spoke of her wrongs. What were her wrongs? In his intense selfishness, nur- tured by the eternal flattery which was the very air he breathed, lie could not see that the fifteen years of her life which lie had absorbed, or the loss of the husband whom he had supplanted, gave her any claim upon him. In his view lie had raised her to the highest position which a subject could occupy. Now lie was weary of her, and it was her duty to re- tire with resignation, nay, even with grat- itude for past favors. She should have a pension, and the children should be cared for. What could a reasonable woman ask for more? And then his motives for discarding 260 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. her were so excellent. He turned them over in his mind as he knelt listening to the Archbishop of Paris reciting the mass and the more lie thought, the more lie ap- proved. His conception of the deity was as a larger Louis, and of heaven as a more gorgeous Versailles. If he exacted obe- dience from his twenty millions, tben lie niust show it also to this one who bad a right to demand it of him. On the whole, his conscience acquitted him. Bnt in this one matter lie bad been lax. From the first corning of his gentle and forgiv- ing young wife from Spain, lie had never once perniitted her to be without a rival. Now that she was dead, the matter was no better. One favorite had succeeded an- other, and if De Moatespan had held her own so long, it was rather froni her au- dacity thaii from his affection. But now Father La Chaise and Bossuet were ever reminding him that he had topped the summit of his life, and was already upon that downward path which leads to the grave. His wild ontbnrst over the un- happy Fontanges had rep esented the last flicker of his passions. The time had come for gravity and for calm, neither of which was to be expected in the company of Madame de Mon tespan. But lie had found out where they were to be enjoyed. From the day when De Moritespan had introduced tue stately and silent widow as a governess for his cliii- dren, he had found a never-failing and ever-increasing pleasure in her society. In the early days of her corning he had sat for hours in the rooms of his favorite, watching the tact and sweetness of tern- per with which her dependent controlled the mutinous spirits of the petulant young IDuc du Maine and the mischievous little Comte de Toulouse. He had been there nominally for the purpose of superintend- ing the teaching, but lie had confined hiniseif to admiring the teacher. And then in time lie too had been drawn into the attraction of that strong sweet nature, and had found himself consulting her upon points of conduct, aiid acting upon her advice with a docility which he had never shown before to minister or mis- tress. For a time he had tliouTht that her piety and her talk of principle might be a mere mask, for he was accustonied WITH A to hypocrisy all round him. It was surely unlikely that a womaii who was still beautiful, with as bright an eye arid as graceful a figure as any in his court, could, after a life spent in the gayest cir- cles, preserve the spirit of a nun. But on this point lie was soon undeceived, for when his owii language had become warmer than that of friendship, lie had been met by an iciness of manner and a brevity of speech which had showii him that there Was one woman at least in his dominions who had a higher respect for herself than for him. And perhaps it was better so. The placid pleasures of friendship were very so othiing after the storms of passion. To sit in her room e~ery afternoon, to listen to talk which was not tainted with flattery, amid to hear opinions which were not framed to please his ear, were the occupations now of his happiest hours. And then her influence over him was all so good! She spoke of his kingly duties, of his example to his subjects, of his preparation for the world beyond, and of the need for an effort to * THE OLD HUGUENOT STOOD UP GESTURE OF DESPAIR. THE REFUGEES. 261 snap the guilty ties which he had formed. She was as good as a confessora con- fessor with a lovely face and a perfect ____ arm. And now he knew that the time had come when he must choose between her and De Montespan. Their influences were antagonistic. They could not con- tinue together. He stood between virtue and vice, and he must choose. Vice was very attractive too, very comely, very witty, and holding him by that chain of custom which is so hard to shake off. There were hours when his nature sway- ed strongly over to that side, and when he was tempted to fall back into his old life. But Bossuet and Pare La Chaise were ever at his elbows to whisper en- couragement, and, above all, there was Madame de Maintenon to remind him of what was due to his position and to his six-and-forty years. Now at last he had braced himself for a supreme effort. There was no safety for him while his old favorite was at court. He knew him- self too well to have any faith in a last- ing change so long as she was there ever waiting for his moment of weakness. She must be persuaded to leave Ver- sailles, if without a scandal itcould be done. He would be firm when he met her in the afternoon, and make her understand once for all that her reign was forever over. Such were the thoughts which ran through the Kings head as he bent over the rich crimson cushion which topped his prie-dieu of carved oak. He knelt in his own enclosure to the right of the al- tar, with his guards and his immediate household around him, while the court, ladies and cavaliers, filled the chapel. Piety was a fashion now, like dark over- coats and lace cravats, and no courtier was so worldly - minded as not to have had a touch of grace since the King had taken to religion. Yet they looked very bored, these soldiers and seigneurs, yawn- ing and blinking over the missals, while some who seemed more intent upon their devotions were really dipping into the latest romance of Scud6ry or Calpernedi, cunningly bound up in a sombre cover. The ladies, in deed, were more devout, ahd T were determined that all should see it, for each had lit a tiny taper, which she held in front of her on the plea of lighting up her missal, but really that her face might be visible to the King, and inform him that hers was a kindred spirit. A few VOL. LxxxvI.No. 51224 there may have been, here and there, whose prayers rose from their hearts, and who were there of their own free will; but the policy of Louis had changed his noblemen into courtiers and his men of the world into hypocrites, until the whole court was like one gigantic mirror which reflected his own likeness a hundredfold. It was the habit of Louis, as he walked back from the chapel, to receive petitions or to listen to any tales of wrong which his subjects might bring to him. His way, as he returned to his rooms, lay partly across an open space, and here it was that the suppliants were wont to as- semble. On this particular morning there were but two or threea Parisian, who conceived himself injured by the provost of his guild, a peasant whose cow had been torn by a huntsmans dog, and a farmer who had had hard usage from his feudal lord. A few questions, and then a hurried order to his secretary disposed of each case, for if Louis was a tyrant himself, he had at least the merit that he insisted upon being the only one within his kingdom. He was about to resume his way again, when an elderly man, clad in the garb of a respectable citizen, and with a strong deep-lined face which mark- ed him as a man of character, darted for- ward, and threw himself down upon one knee in front of the monarch. Justice, sire, justice ! he cried. What is this, then? asked Louis. Who are you and what is it that you want? I am a citizen of Paris, and I have been cruelly wronged. You seem a very worthy person. If you have indeed been wronged you shall have redress. What have you to com- plain of? Twenty of the Blue Dragoons of Lan- guedoc are quartered in my house, with Captain Dalbert at their head. They have devoured my food, stolen my prop- erty, and beaten my servants, yet the magistrates will give me no redress. On my life, justice seems to be ad- ministered in a strange fashion in our city of Paris ! exclaimed the King, wrath- fully. It is indeed a shameful case, said Bossnet. And yet there may be a very good reason for it, suggested P~re La Chaise. I would suggest that your Majesty should ask this man his name, his busi 262 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. be greater if there were no temple, as they call their dens of heresy, within your do- minions. My grandfather has promised them protection. They are shielded, as you well know, by the edict which he gave at Nan tes. But it lies with your Majesty to undo the mischief that has been done. And how? By recalling the edict. And driving into the open arms of my enemies two millions of my best arti- sans and of my bravest servants. No, no, father, I have, I trust, every zeal for mother-church, but there is some truth in what De Frontenac said this morning of the evil which comes from mixing the af- fairs of this world with those of the next. How say you, Louvois? With all respect to the church, sire, I would say that the devil has given these men such cunning of hand and of brain that they are the best workers and traders in your Majestys kingdom. I know not how the state coffers are to be filled if such tax-payers go from among us. Al- ready many have left the country and taken their trades with them. If all were to go, it would be worse for us than a lost campaign. But, remarked Bossuet, if it Were once known that the Kings will had been expressed, your Majesty may rest assured that even the worst of his subjects bear him such love that they would hasten to come within the pale of holy church. As long as the edict stands, it seems to them that the King is lukewarm, and that they may abide in their error. The King shook his head. They have always been stubborn folk, said he. Perhaps, remarked Louvois, glan- cing maliciously at Bossuet, were the bishops of France to make an offering to the state of the treasures of their sees, we might then do without these Huguenot taxes. All that the church has is at the Kings service, answered Bossuet, curtly. The kingdom is mine, and all that is in it, remarked Louis, as they entered the Grand Salon in which the court as- sembled after chapel, yet. I trust that it may be long before I have to claim the wealth of the church. We trust so, sire, echoed the eccle ness, and why it was that the dragoons were quartered upon him. You hear the reverend fathers ques- tion. My name, sire, is Catinat, by trade I am a merchant in cloth, and I am treated in this fashion because I am of the Re- formed Church. I thought as much ! cried the con- fessor. That alters matters, said Bossuet. The King shook his head and his brow darkened. You have only yourself to thank, then. The remedy is in your hands. And how, sire? By embracing the only true faith. I am already a member of it, sire. The King stamped his foot angrily. I can see that you are a very insolent here- tic, said he. There is but one church in France, and that is my church. If you are outside that, you cannot look to me for aid. My creed is that of my father, sire, and of my grandfather. If they have sinned it is no reason why you should. My own grandfather erred also before his eyes were opened. But he nobly atoned for his error, murmured the Jesuit. Then you will not help me, sire? You must first help yourself. The old Huguenot stood up with a gesture of despair, while the King con- tinued on his way, the two ecclesiastics, on either side of him, murmuring their approval into his ears. You have done nobly, sire. You are truly the first son of the church. You are the worthy successor of St. Louis. But the King bore the face of a man who was not absolutely satisfied with his own action. You do not think, then, that these people have too hard a measure? said he. Too hard? Nay, your Majesty errs on the side of mercy. I hear that they are leaving my kingdom in great numbers. And surely it is better so, sire; for what blessing can come upon a country which has such stubborn infidels within its boundaries ? Those who are traitors to God can scarce be loyal to the King, remarked* siastics. Bossuet. Your Majestys power would But we may reserve such topics for THE REFUGEES. 263 ladies, the glitter of jewels, the flirt of painted fans, and the sweep of plume or aigrette. The grays, blacks, and browns of the mens coats toned down the mass of color, for all must be dark when the King was dark, and only the blues of the officers uniforms, and the pearl and gray of the musketeers of the guard, remained to call back those early days of the reign when the men had vied with the women in the costliness and brilliancy of their wardrobes. And if dresses had changed~ manners had done so even more. The old levity and the old passions lay doubt- less very near the surface, but gri~ve faces and serious talk were the fashion of the hour. It was no longer the lucky coup at the lansquenet table, the last comedy of Moli~re, or the new opera of Lully about which they gossiped, but it was on the evils of Jansenism, or the ex- pulsion of Arnauld from the Sorbonne, on the insolence of Pascal, or on the comparative merits of two such popular preachers as Bourdalone and Massillon. So, under a radiant ceiling and over a many-colored floor, surrounded by im- mortal paintings, set thickly in gold and ornament, there moved all these nobles and ladies of France, all moulding them- selves upon the one little dark figure in their midst, who was himself so far from being his own master that he hung bal- anced even now between two rival wo- men, who were playing a game in which the future of France and his own destiny were the stakes. our council - chamber. Where is Man- sard? I must see his plans for the new wing at Marly. He crossed to a side ~ table, and was buried in an instant in his favorite pursuit, inspecting the gigantic plans of the great architect, and inquiring eagerly as to the progress of the work. I think, said Pare La Chaise, draw- ing Bossuet aside, that your Grace has made some impression upon the Kings mind. With your powerful assistance, fa- ther. Oh, you may rest assured that I shall lose no opportunity of pushing on the good work. If you take it in hand, it is done. But there is another who has more weight than I. The favorite, De Montespan ? No, no; her day is gone. It is Ma- dame de Maintenon. I hear that she is very devout. Very. But she has no love for my order. She is a Sulpitian. Yet we may all work to one end. Now if you were to speak to her, your Grace. - With all my heart. Show her how good a service it would be could she bring about the ban- ishment of the Huguenots. I shall do so. And offer her in return that we will promote lie bent forward and whis- pered into the prelates ear. What! He would not do it! And why? The Queen is dead. The widow of the poet Scarron ! She is of good birth. Her grand- father and his were dear friends. It is impossible ! But I know his heart, and I say it is possible. You certainly know his heart, father, if any can. But such a thought had never entered my head. Then let it enter and remain there. If she will serve the church, the church will serve her. B~it the King beckons, and I must go. The thin dark figure hastened off through the throng of courtiers, and the great Bishop of Meaux remained stand- ing with his chin upon his breast, sunk in reflection. By this time all the court was assem- bled in the Grand Salon, and the huge room was gay from end to end with the~anger with which he had sprung up when silks, the velvets, and the brocades of the the King refused his plaint, and the keen CHAPTER V. CHILDREN OF nELIAL. THE elderly Huguenot had stood silent after his repulse by the King, with his eyes cast moodily downwards, and a face in which doubt, sorrow, and anger con- tended for the mastery. He was a very large, gaunt man, rawboned and haggard, with a wide forehead, a large fleshy nose, and a powerful chin. He wore neither wig nor powder, but Nature had put her own silvering upon his thick grizzled locks, and the thousand puckers which clustered round the edges of his eyes, or drew at the corners of his mouth, gave a set gravity to his face which needed no device of the barber to increase it. Yet, in spite of his mature years, the swift 264 HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. fiery glance which he had shot at the Youre not a very pretty ornament to royal court as they filed past him with the Kings pathway, cried the other, with many a scornful smile and whispered a hideous oath. Who are you, to turn gibe at his expense, all showed that he up your nose at the Kings religion, curse had still preserved something of the you ? strength and of the spirit of his youth. The old Huguenot shot a glance of He was dressed as became his rank, plain- anger and contempt at them, and was ly and yet well, in a sad - colored brown turning to go, when one of them thrust kersey coat with silver - plated buttons, at his ribs with the butt end of his halberd. knee - breeches of the same, and white Take that, you dog ! he cried. woollen stockings, ending in broad-toed Would you dare to look like that at the black leather shoes cut across with a great Kings guard? steel buckle. In one hand he carried his dhildren of Belial, cried the old low felt hat, trimmed with gold edging, man, with his hand pressed to his side, and in the other a little cylinder of paper were I twenty years younger you containing a recital of his wrongs, which would not have dared to use me so. he had hoped to leave in the hands of the Ha! you would still spit your yen- Kings secretary. om, would you? That is enough, Andrd! His doubts as to what his next step He has threatened the Kings guard. Let should be were soon resolved for him in a us seize him and drag him to the guard- very summary fashion. These were days room. when, if the Huguenot was not absolutely The two soldiers dropped their halberds forbidden in France, he was at least looked and rushed upon the old man, but, tall upon as a man who existed upon suffer- and strong as they were, they found it no ance, and who was unshielded by the easy matter to secure him. With his laws which protected his Catholic fellow- long sinewy arms and his wiry frame, subjects. For twenty years the strin- he shook himself clear of them again and gency of the persecution had increased again, and it was only when his breath until there was no weapon which bigotry had failed him that the two, torn and could employ, short of absolute expul- - panting, were able to twist round his sion, which had not been turned against wrists, and so secure him. They had him. He was impeded in his business, hardly won their pitiful victory, however, elbowed out of all public employment, before a stern voice and a sword flashing his house filled with troops, his children before their eyes, compelled them to re- encouraged to rebel against him, and all lease their prisoner once more. redress refused him for the insults and It was Captain de Catinat, who, his assaults to which he was subjected. Every morning duties over, had strolled out on rascal who wished to gratify his personal to t