Scribner's magazine. / Volume 12, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 966 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 AFR7379-0012 /moa/scri/scri0012/

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Scribner's magazine. / Volume 12, Note on Digital Production 0012 000
Scribner's magazine. / Volume 12, Note on Digital Production A-B

Scribner's magazine. / Volume 12, Issue 1 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 966 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 AFR7379-0012 /moa/scri/scri0012/

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

Scribner's magazine. / Volume 12, Issue 1 Commentator Scribner's commentator Charles Scribner's Sons New York July, 1892 0012 1
Scribner's magazine. / Volume 12, Issue 1, miscellaneous front pages i-2

SCRIBNERS NAGAZINE PUBLISHED NONTHLY WITH ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUNE XII JULY - DECEMBER CHAIRLES SCRIBNERS SONS NEW YORK SAMPSON LOW MARSTON & Co. IJ1~UTED LONDON COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY Ci~ui~u~s Sc1unNEI~s SONS. TROW DIRECTORY PRIN~ING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY NEW YORK ( / 7 1 CONTENTS OF ScRIBNERS MAGAZINE. VOLUME XII. JULYDECEMBER, 1892. AMERICAN TREATMENT OF WOMEN, AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. See Poor in Great Cities. AN ASSISTED PROVIDENCE. See Stories of a West- ern Town. AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPNESS, APPLES OF GOLD With frontispiece You Must Learn to Forget, re- produced in color from an aquarelle painted for Scam- I~ER S MAGAZINE by L. Marchetti. ART OF RAVENNA, THE With frontispiece The Mausoleum of Galla Placidia Ravenna, and other drawings, by E. H. Blashfield. ARTIST AS A DOGMATIST, THE AS ONE HAVING AUTHORITY, . Illustrated by W. T. Smedley. ATHLETE AND PEDAG~AUE ATTAINMENT OF THE HIGHEST NORTH, THE. See Historic Jloments. AUSTRALIA. See Racing In. BESETMENT OF KURT LIEDERS, THE. See Stories of a Western Town. BUFFALO, THE LAST OF THE Drawings by Ernest E. Thompson and 0. H. Bacher. BLIND, THE EDUCATION OF THE Illustrated. CASE IN POINT, A, CENTAUR, THE. See CuSrins. CERTAIN NEW INSTINCTS CHICAGOS PART IN THE WORLDS FAIR. See. Worlds Fair at Chicago. CHILDRENS RIGHTS CITY SQUARE, THE EVOLUTION OF A, Drawings by V. Perard. CRITICAL VALUE OF POPULARITY, THE, CRUISERS AND BATTLE-SHIPS. See Launching. DEAF AND DUMB, THE EDUCATION OF THE, With illustrations. DECORATION OF ~THE EXPOSITION, THE. See The Worlds Fair at Chicago. DEPTHS OF THE SEA, THE Drawings by Charles Copeland and A. Zenope. See Ice- bergs; also Sea and Land, and Depths of the Sea, Vol. XI. DEUCALION OF TAHITI, THE DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PA- CIFIC. See Historic .tjloments. EDUCATION OF THE BLIND. See Blind. EDUCATION OF THE DEAF AND DUMB. See Deaf and Dumb. PAGE 396 MARGARET SUTTON BRIsCoE, E. H. a,nd E. W. BLASHFIELD, H. C. BUNNER, 789 677 37 . . . 394. . . . 201. 1 GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL, MRS. FREDERIC R. JONES, GEORGE A. HIBBARD, 267 373 323 658 KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN, . . 242 SAMUEL PARSONS, JR., . . . 107 Superintendent of Parks, N. Y. City. 393 WALTER B. PERT, . . N. S. SHALER, . . 463 77 261 CONTENTS. ETHER, THE FIRST CAPITAL OPERATION UN- DER THE INFLUENCE OF. See Historic ifoments. FACE OF FAILURE, THE. See Stories of a Western Town. FLY-BOOKS, GETTING OUT THE, With a headpiece and initial by the author. FOR THE CROSS FREE ART FRENCH ART I. CLASSICAL PAINTING With reproductions from works of Lesueur, Claude, Chardin, and Wattean. Ii ROMANTIC PAINTING, With reproductions of pictures by G~ricault, Dela: croix, Millet, Corot, Diaz, Rousseau, and Couture. III. REALISTIC PAINTING With reproductions of pictures by Courbet, Cazin, Vollon, LHermitte, Beraud, Manet, Degas, Bonnat, Ribot, Bastieu-Lepage, Bonvin, and Baudry. GALLERY IN POLITICS, THE GENERAL READER, THE GRAND CANAL, THE. See Great Streets of the World. GREAT STREETS OF THE WORLD. Vi THE NI~VSKY PROSPdKT, With frontispiece The Emperor of Russia Blessing the Waters of the Neva at Epiphany, and other drawings by Ilya Efimovitch R~pin. VII. THE GRAND CANAL Drawings by Alexander Zezzos. See also Great Streets, VoL XI. GU~RINS CENTAUR With frontispiece I Have Followed the Currents Un- der the Branches, and other drawings by C. Delort. HISTORIC MOMENTS. IV. THE RESUMPTION OF SPECIE PAYMENT, V. DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PACIFIC, With illustration from a photograph. VI. THE ATTAINMENT OF THE HIGHEST NORTH, VII. THE FIRST CAPITAL OPERATION UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ETHER, VIII. THE TRIUMPHAL ENTRY INTO BERLIN Wsth a full-page illustration from the paintiAg by W. Camphausen. See also Historic Afornents, VoL XI. HOMER HOUSE OVER THE WAY, THE HOW I SENT MY AUNT TO BALTIMORE. A TRUE STORY HUGO, VICTOR, CONVERSATIONS AND OPINIONS OFFROM UNPUBLISHED PAPERS FOUND AT GUERN- SEY With frontispiece Victor Hugo, from the portrait by S. Panneker, and reproductions of contemporary prints and drawings by W. J. Baer, and from photographs. ICEBERGS Illustrated by. W. L. Taylor. See Depths o~f the Sea; also Sea and Land, and Sea Beaches, Vol. XI. INCLINATIONS AND CHARACTER, INDIAN WHO IS NOT POOR, THE Drawings (from photographs) by Irving R. Wiles and V. P& ard. See also The Land of Poco Tiempo, Vol. X., 760. JACK-IN-THE-BOX JEFFERSON IN UNDRESS, THOMAS, LACK OF FAITH IN LITERATURE, A, LAUNCHING CRUISERS AND BATTLE-SHIPS, Illustrated by Carlton T. Chapman. LIMITATION OF IMAGINATIVE WRITERS, A, LOCAL LOYALTY PAGE LEROY MILTON YALE, GEORGE I. PUTNAM, W. C. BROWNELL. ISABEL F. HAPGOOD, 27 751 32~~ 431 604 394 131 301 HENRY JAMES, MRS. JAMES T. FIELDS 531 224 J. K. UPTON 124 Ex~Asst. Secy. of the Treasury. SIDNEY DILLON 253 D. L. BRAINARD, . . . 385 Lieutenant U. S. Army. DANIEL DENISON SLADE, M.D., . 518 ARCHIBALD FORBES, . . . 781 ANDREW LANG, CHARLES E. CARRYL, CHARLES STEWART DAVISON, OCTAVE UZANNE, N. S. SEALER, C. F. LUMMIS, T. R. SULLIyAN, PAUL LEICESTER FORD,. WILLIAM J. BAXTER, U. S. Navy. 500 96 249 558 181 657 361 211 509 260 488 790 525 iv CONTENTS. LONDON POOR. See Poor in Great Cities. MAKING OF THE WHITE CITY, THE. See The Worlds Fair at Chicago. MISS DANGERLIES ROSES MISS LATYMER With a full-page illustration by W. T. Smedley. MONEY AND CULTURE, MORALS AND PRINCIPLES,. MOTHER EMERITUS. See Stories of a Western Town. MURAL PAINTINGS IN THE PANTHEON AND HOTEL DE VILLE OF PARIS, THE, Illustrations from the cartoons of Puvis de Chavannes Jean Paul Laurens, Gervex, Bonnat, and others. N~VSKY PROSPEKT. See Great Streets of the World. NEWSPAPER BOOK NOTICE, THE NORWEGIAN PAINTERS With reproductions of representative pictures by Arbo, Hans Dali, and others. NUDE IN ART, THE With full-page drawings by the authors. PERFECT PERSON IN FICTION, THE, PESSIMISM IN LITERATURE PlANNER MARES, THE PICTURESQUENESS IN COMMON SPEECH, POINT OF VIEW, THE. American Treatment of Women, 396. And the Pursuit of Happiness, 789. Artist as a Dogmatist, The, 394. Athlete and Pedagogue, 131. Certain New Instincts, 658. Critical Value of Popularity, The, 393. Deucalion of Tahiti, The, 261. Free Art, 129. Gallery in Politics, The, 394. General Reader, The, 131. Inclinations and Character, 657. Lack of Faith in Literature, A, 260. POOR IN GREAT CITIES, THE. IV. AMONG THE POOH OF CHIcAGo Drawings by Otto H. Bacher, H. T. Schladerrnund, and Ella P. Morrill. V. A RIVERSIDE PARISH Illustrated by Hugh Thomson. VI. A SCHOOL FOR STREET ARABS Illustrated by Irving R. Wiles. See also Poor in Great Cities, Vol. XI. PROVISION FOR AGE, A PUEBLO INDIANS. See Indian Who Is Not Poor. RACiNG IN AUSTRALIA Drawings by Birge Harrison, C. Broughton, and V. P~rard. RAVENNA. See Art of RESIDENCE IN THE DISTRICT. A RESUMPTION OF SPECIE PAYMENT, THE. See Historic Afoments. R1VERSIDE PARISH, A. See Poor in Great Cities. SALEM KITT~REDGE, THEOLOGUEHIS SECULAR EXCURSION. PART 1.-il SPONGE AND SPONGERS OF THE FLORIDA REEF Drawings by V. Pdrard, Carlton T. Chapman, and 0. H. Bacher, from photographs by Moffat Bros., Key West, Fla. STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN Illustrated by A. B. Frost. 1 THE BESETMENT OF KURT LIEDERS, II. THE FACE OF FAILURE HI. TOMMY AND THOMAS IV. MOTHER EMERITUS V. AN ASSISTED PROVIDENCE PAGE THOMAS NELSON PAGE, GEORGE A. HIBBARD, WILL H. Low, H. H. BOYRSEN, WILL H. Low and KENYON Cox, MARTHA MCCULLOCH WILLIAMS, 650 731 130~ 526 661 792 756 741 262 658 117 527 Limitation of Imaginative Writers, A, 790. Local Loyalty, 525. Money and Culture, 130. Morals and Principles, 526. Newspaper Book Notice, The, 792. Perfect Person in Fiction, The, 262. Pessimism in Literature, 658. Picturesqueness in Conimon Speech, 527. Provision for Age, A, 263. Residence in the District, 395. Wanted an English Mot, 528. Womens Portion, 791. JOSEPH KIRKLAND, 3 WALTER BESANT, EDMUND R. SPEARMAN,. SIDNEY DICKINSON, 149 475 263 577 395 BLISS PERRY, KIRK MUNROE, 419, 591 639 OCTAVE THANET. 135 346 449 628 684 CONTENTS. ST. PETERSBURG. See Great Streets of the World, Tke Nivsky Prosptikt. STREET ARABS, A SCHOOL FOR. See Poor in Great Cities. STREETS. See Great Streets. TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY, THE: WHAT SHALL ITBE9 . Drawings by Ernest Flagg and V. Pirard. TOMMY AND THOMAS. See Stories of a Western Town. TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE, THE, lllnstrated by Chester Loomis. TRIUMPHAL ENTRY INTO BERLIN, THE. See Historic Afoments. UNDER POLICE PROTECTIONAN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF THE LATE CHIEF OF THE RUSSIAN POLICE, VENICE. See Great Streets of the World, The Grand Canal. WANTED AN ENGLISH MOT2. WEST INDIAN SLAVE INSURRECTION, A, WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. WOMENS PORTION WORLDS FAIR AT CHICAGO, THE. I. THE MAKING OF THE WHITE CITY With frontispiece In the Worlds Fair Grounds at ChicagoThe Electrical B~ilding from the Lake, and other illustrations by T. Smedley. II. CHICAGOS PART IN THE ~1ORLDS FAIB, III. DECORATION OF THE EXPOSITION, THE, Illustrations from sketches for cartoons by Weir, Cox, Blashfield, Reinhart, Shirlaw, Simmons, Beckwith, Reid, and Dodge. WRECKER, THEChapters XXIV.-.XXV., and Epilogue. (Begun in August, 1891concluded.) With a full-page illustration by W. L. Metcalf. PAGE JOHN BIGELOW, DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT, . . 232 SOPHIE RADFORD DE MEISSNER, . 772 GEORGE W. CABLE, MRS. BURTON HARRISON, 528 709 170 791 399 551 692 H. C. BUNNER, FRANKLIN MACVEAGH, F. D. MILLET,. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON and LLOYD OSBOURNE, . 57 POETRY 287 A LITTLE PARABLE ANNE REEVE ALDRICH, . 248 A SHADOW OF THE NIGHT THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH, . 683 AFTER THE BATTLE EDGAR MAYHEW BACON, . 150 AUTUMN AND THE AFTER-GLOW EDITH M. THOMAS 474 BETROTHAL 590 DEATH AT DAYBREAK ANNE REEVE ALDRICH,. . 387 EBEN PYNCHOTS REPENTANCE EDWARD S. MARTIN, . . . 721 With ornamental borders by F. G. Attwood. FADED PICTURES WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY, . 148 FANTASY GRAHAM R. TOMSON, . . 770 HER LAST WORD LIZETTE WOODWOETH REESE, . 372 IN A GALLERY JULIA C. R. DOER, . 779 With a full-page reproduction of Simon de Voss portrait of himself at Autwerp. IN A MEDICEAN GARDEN GRACE ELLERY CHAuNING, . 517 IN MARBLE PRAYER JULIA C. R. DOER, . 123 INSOMNIA EDITH M. THOMAS 360 LOVES LINK AGNE~ LEE, . . . . . 720 ONE, TWO, THREE, H. C. BUNNER~ . . . . 750 SUN IN THE WILLOWS HARRISON S. MORRIS, . . . 169 SURE ANNA C. BRACKETT, . 300 THE VIRGIN ENTHRONED: SONNET FOR A PICTURE 781 TO TROJAN HELEN~ W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN, . 116 TWO BACKGROUNDS EDITH WHARTON 550 VILLON FRANCIS B. GUMMERE, . . . 576 WEITE EDITHA STORY RE-TOLD, . . . . THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH, . . 33 WOOD-SONGS ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY, . 499 vi K,jV, THE MAUSOLEUM OF GALLA PLACIDIARAVENNA, ENGRAVED BY C. I. BUTLER. L)NAWN RY E. H. DLABHFIELD. 1

Joseph Kirkland Kirkland, Joseph The Poor In Great Cities. IV. Among The Poor Of Chicago 3-27

SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. JIJLY, 1892. AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. By Joseph Kirkland. CHICAGOS plague-spots are rather red than black; blotches marking excess rather than insufficiency. Vice and crime are more characteristic of a new, young, busy, careless, prosper- ous city than is any compulsory, inevit- able misery. An English philanthropist who lately visited Hull House (Rev. Mr. Barnett, Warden of Toynbee Hall) re- marked, in taking his leave, that the prevalent dirt and flagrant vice in Chi- cago exceeded anything in London ; but that he had seen scarce any evidence of actual want. The West is the paradise of the poor. And the purgatory of the rest of us, adds some fine lady who agonizes over the servant problem. Well, even if this were true (which it is not), it would be better than the reverse. The paradise of the rich, based on the purgatory of the poor, has endured long enoughin the older lands. How the other half lives, in Chi- cago, is pretty much as it chooses.~~ Americans born, and the better nat- ures among the foreign born (supposing them to have physical strength), can se- lect their own kind of happiness. If they choose the joy which springs from sobriety, they can have it in plenty. If they prefer the delight of drink, that also is abundant. A solid devotion to work and saving gives a house and lot, a comfortable and well-taught family, and a good chance for children and grandchildren, who will take rank among the best, employing laborers of their own, and perhaps, alas! looking back Familiar Scene in an Underground Lodging. with mortification on their laboring an- cestors. An equally solid devotion to drink gives vice, crime, want, and (what we shonld call) misery; but this is a free country. The latter class, like the former, are exercising their inalienable right of self-government. They abso- copyright, 1892, by charles Scribners Sons. All rights reserved. Vot. XII. No. 1. 4 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. lutely do not want our cleanliness, our savings-accounts, our good clothes, books, schools, churches, society, prog- ress, and all that, unless they can have them without paying the pricetemper- ance ; and they cannot so have them. Half of the other half belong strictly to the first-named class, a tenth to the last-named, and the rest pursue a mid- dle course. Some rise from the middle to the upper; the others live along, hav- ing ups and downs and furnishing the recruits to keep up the numbers of the lower, the submerged tenth which, happily, has not the faculty of maintain- ing itself by direct reproduction. The city has no East End, White- chapel, or Mulberry Street region; no locality given over to great hives of helplessness, since there is no quarter which was built up for fine residences or business blocks and afterward de- serted and turned over to baser uses. The most ancient house in town (but one) is not fifty years old, and the aver- age scarcely twenty. Therefore the no trace in the new, spacious mart on the edge of the Grand Prairie. Rooms are sublet to individuals and families, yet it is not in tall, huge rookeries built for the purpose, but in smaller, lower structures, outside the limits of the Great Fire, which destroyed the whole middle district----cleared it of weeds to make way for a sturdier and healthier growth. If ever the time comes when the sky-scraping structures of to-day are deserted by the uses for which they are now occupied because they are in the geographical and busi- ness centre of the city, then there may be in Chicago gigantic human hives of wretchedness such as exist in London and New York. But as Chicago can spread north, south, and west, it is dif- ficult to imagine a state of things when the present business district sball not be what it is. The lay of the land is against lo- cal congestion. The river, with its main stem running east and west and its sprawling branches running north and tenement-house evil, as it is known in south, trisects the whole plain into New York and London, shows almost North Side, South Side, and West Side. A Chicago Underground Lodging. AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. These in turn are dissected into small- er patches by the railways, which come to the very centre of population, and radiate thence in all directions except due east, where the lake maintains a glorious ventilation, moral and mate- rial. There is no Sailors Quarter, no place where Jack ashore hastens to spend in a week the savings of a year; gets drunk as soon as possible, and stays drunk as long as possible, to balance his weeks or months of enforced abstinence. The sailors here have only a week or less afloat at one stretch, and they spend, every winter, several months on shore, when they go mining or lumbering or pursuing whatever calling suits their fancy. Many of them are family men good, sturdy fellows, not distinguish- able from the average of intelligent tradesmen. For depth of shadow in Chicago low life one must look to the foreign ele- naents,* the persons who are not only of * Of Chinamen there are about two thousand in chicago, living, as a general rule, in one quarter of the citySouth Clark Street, adjoining the line occupied by the Lake fihore and eastern Illinois Railways, running eastward alien birth but of unrelated bloodthe Mongolian, the African, the Sclav, the semitropic Latin. Among them may be found a certain degree of isolation, and therefore of clannish crowding; also of contented squalor, jealous of inspec- tion and interference. It is in the quar- and southward. and the Rock Island, running westward. Of Italians Chicago has many thousands, part of whom live in the South Clark Street neighborhood, and a larger number only a few squares away, on the West Side, across the south branch of the river. Besides the light common labor of street-cleaning, scavengering, etc., they control, practically, all the great fruit-business of the city, and some of them are getting rich at it. Yet the homes of the majority are among the most lowly and squalid in the city. Educated Italians of the upper classes are handsomely housed in some of the fashionable streets. The Poles and Bohemians inhabit a southwestern quarter, where their impossible names occupy the sign-boards and their unbeantiful faces strike the eye and haunt the memory. They are hard workers and not extravagant, and though crowded they are not congested, though poor they are not in want. The colored pebple have done and are doing remarkably well, considering the disadvantages and discouragements under which they live. They are not largely the supporters of the grog-shops. Their be- setting sin is gambling. They are industrious rather than hard-working, docile rather than enterprising, and economical rather than acquisitive. There are impedi- ments to any accumulation such as their white neighbors engage in. For instance, suppose one of them to invest his savings in a Building Society, he would find, when his lot was ready for him, that he would be unwelcome to his neighbors of a lighter skin. Even as a renter he is only acceptable in regions devoted to his race. As one of them said to me~ obody thinks a colored man fit for anything above being a porter. Still, as I said, there is a very perceptible advance in the race; and it shows but little of poverty or dependence, and still less of crime. 5 Sunday Afternoon in the Italian Quarter. 6 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. ters inhabited by these that there are down many steps; hence the name of to be found the worst parts of Chicago, the locality, The Dive. I once saw the most unsavory spots in their moral men carrying into one of the darkened and material aspects. entrances here an immense bunch of V green bananas, which hung down between them like the grapes of Esheol in the old primer. One can only fancy the atmosphere in which this wonderful fruit would hang to ripen, and hope that the ripening pro- cess is one of exhalation, not of inhalation, during the week or more which must elapse before it appears, yellow and mellow, to be sold from the way si d e fruit-stand, or be dragged slowly about the streets in the wagons attend- ed by the dark-skinned ped- lers as they troll forth, in the sonorous Italian tones, Banano-o! Fi, Ri, Ba- nano-o-o-o ! A bad state of things exists under the shadow of this via- duct, and under the inclined planes by which the traffic of each street it crosses is raised to its level. This is easy to believe, but it is hard to im- agine just how filthy, how squalid, how noisome, how abhorrent it all is. Walking along between inhabited houses and the brick abut- ments of the raised way is like walking between the walls of a sewerlike it to every sensesight, smell, hearing, and feeling. Twelfth Street is encumbered by a The adjacent buildings are mostly of long viaduct, reaching from Wabash woodsmall, low, rotten, and crowded. Avenue, westward, across the south In no case have I found one family oc- branch of the river, ending on the west cupying more than two roomsoften side very near the starting-point of the only one. Here and there would b& Great Fire of 1871. The viaduct nearly seen an attempt at cleanliness of floor fills the street, and from it one looks and bedclothing, but nowhere even a into the second stories of the taller pretence of sweeping of halls and stair- houses, and over the roofs of the short- ways, or of shovelling out of gutters er. One has there the advantages for and other foul conduits. What squalor, observation possessed by the fabled filth, crowding! The constant feeling of devil on two sticks. This is the hab- the visitor is, how dreadfully wretched itation of the Italian proletariat, these peopleought to be. To get to the main floors of these Ought to be, but are not. They are squalid habitations one must climb chiefly the lower class of Italians, born AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. 7 and bred, probably, to the knowledge of actual hunger, which here they must rarely feel. I went among them re- cently; there were scarcely any men visible ; the swarms were chiefly of wom- en and children. The men were away, largely, no doubt, attending to the fruit business and scavenger work which have been mentioned. The women were universally caring for their innu- merable children, and these latter, es- pecially the boys, played, shouted, ca- reered about the halls and stairways, yards and roofs, in uncontrolled freedom and gayety. Two or three of them had found a great turnip, or some such vege- table, and split it in pieces, which they displayed in a row on a board beside a gutter; no pretence of having any customersit was merely the exhibition of an in- herited instinct for keeping an Italian fruit-stand! In the corner of a squalid hallway, just outside of the ma- ternal door (there not being an inch of spare room within) a bright - eyed little girl had ar- ranged a quite respectable im- itation of a floor-bed (both cov- erlet and stuffing being rags), and on it lay a dirty, dilapidated, flaxen - haired doll. The girls instinct, too, was showing itself. Within the room the mother, with head bound up, as is the universal custom of her kind, was attending to some duties; a child of two or three years sat staring at the intruder, and on the floor stood a wash-tub over which was bending (and really working) a mite of a girl not more than six years old. Her little arms could scarcely reach the grimy liquid in the bottom of the tub, but she did the best she could, and up and down the tin wash - board sounded her tiny knuckles, handling some dingy, dripping stuff or other, she scarce- ly pausing to look up and notice who had opened the door. Here were a few men, more women, and most children; but no young un- married women. One wonders where are the grown girls. They are not in service in private families; such a thing is unknown here; and they are not adapted to the business of shop-girls. It is to be hoped that they are engaged in the innumerable handicrafts that pre- vail; paper-box and paper-bag mak- ers, tobacco-handlers, book-folders and stitchers, etc. The Hull House ladies say that they marry early in their teens, and that many of them do bits of plain sew- ingthe mere finishing of trouser-legs, etc.at wonderfully low rates, and in wonderfully large quantities, often in the so - called sweat - shopss of the tailoring trade. The clothing of all has been (apparently) bought at Chicago second-hand clothing stores; or, if im- The Dive ported from Italy, has a common and familiar aspect, which anew illustrates the levelling and averaging hand of mod- ern commerce and intercourse, whence it comes that all mankind is growing to look alikeeach individual to be a composite photograph~~ of all the rest. 8 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. Every person, of whatever sex or age, is clothed sufficiently for decency and for warmth; and seems to be provided with all food necessary to sustain life, though perhaps not the rudest health. Emerging on a second-story balcony at the back of one of these Italian houses one comes upon a long vista of house rears and tumble - down back - sheds, squalid beyond conception. Neighbor- ing windows are filled with faces peer- ing out with interest and amusement at the stranger. Here and there are bits of rope stretched from one nail to an- otherfrom house to shed, from fence to banister, from window-sill to door- postcarrying forlorn arrays of washed clothing. Each is the effort of some lowly woman to preserve a little clean- liness in the garments of herself and her household. At least a forlorn hope is keeping up the battle against vileness. On a hot summer night every roof and every balcony in sight is covered with sleeping men, women, and children, each with only a single blanket or cov- erlet for all purposes of protection and decency. All winter the cook-stove of each family supplies warmth to the lit- tle household. (The cheapest coal is al- ways to be had at $3 a ton or less.) The Bad Lands~~ is a quarter more repellent because more pretentious than The Dive, but, being the abode of vice and crime rather than of poverty, it can be properly omitted here. Women of the town are not molested so long as they stay within doors, except on oc- casion of the frequent rows, fights, rob- beries, and murders. The men about are, if possible, more repulsive than the women. Some have showy clothes, more are bums, wrecks of humanity; slouch- ing, dirty, sneaking, hangdog tramps. They do not want work, could not get it if they wanted it, and could not do it if they got it. All they want is a dime a day. With that they can get a great big schooner of beer and a chance at the free-lunch counter. They sleep on the floor till the place closes up, and then crawl into some doorway or hallway, or go to the police station for a bunk. One recognizes Chinatown by the cu- rious signs over the shops. The Chi nese are industrious and economical and peaceablenever molest anybody who lets them alone. Opium they take just as our people take whiskey, and it does not seem to hurt them any more. But when the police find them taking in whites as well as Chinamen, they run them in. It is death, and worse than death, to the others, especially to women. In a typical Chinese shop all is scrupulously neat and clean. It seems as if, by some magic, the smoky, dusty atmosphere of Chicago had been excluded from this unique interior, which looks like the inside of a bric4t- brac cabinet, with bright colors, tinsel and shining metals. On the walls are colored photographs, showing the pro- prietors beautifully dressed in dove- colored garments. In a kind of shrine stands a Joss table or altar, with what is probably a Confucian text hanging over it, and lying on it some opium pipes. In a room behind the shop a fan-tan game is going on upon a straw-matted table, around which gather interested Celestials three deep. In the shop is a freshly opened importation, barrels and boxes of Chinese delicacies, pickled fish of various kinds, with the pungent odor which belongs to that kind of food the world round and the seas over. The men are clothed in heavy, warm cloth, cut in Chinese fash- iongreat, broad cloaks, loose trousers, felt-soled shoes, etc.but in American felt hats. At 406 Clark Street, in the very midst of all that is alien to our better nature, rises the Clark Street Mission. Here are daily gathered, in a free kindergar- ten, some scores of the little unfortu- nates whom a cruel fate has planted in this cesspooL It is a touching sight; they are so innocent as yet, mere buds springing up in the track of a lava- stream. There is a cr& he here as well as kindergarten, and tiny creatures, well fed and cared for, swing in ham- mocks, or sit, stand, walk, or creep all about in charge of kind devoted young women. Curiously enough, many of the little ones are born of Arabian mothers. There are some hundreds of Arabs housed near by. The attendant thinks they are Christian converts, in charge w 10 of church folk who were formerly nus- sionaries in Arabia. The women are occupied in peddling small wares and trinkets, which they carry about in packs and baskets.* In the same hail are evening and Sunday religious meet- ings; and not long ago there was a series of midnight prayer-meetings held here, with how much success I do not know. The whole enterprise is in charge (and at the charge) of the great Womans Christian Temperance Union. This is an institution of wonderful strength and beauty; a giantess, throned in in- telligence and honor; stretching her strong hands toward the weak, sinking thousands of the submerged tenth, and all who are on the edge of the sub- mergence. The W. C. T. U. num- bers 200,000 members in all, of whom 16,000 are in Blinois, and their activity is tireless, their ability wonderful. It is one of the phenomena marking the elevation of the sex under the sunshine of Western freedom and prosperity. The building, planned, erected, and paid for by this body, is just completed, and is the most perfect and (as it should be) the most sightly of all Chicagos new sky-scrapers. It is named Temper- ance Temple; its cost is $1,100,000. Most of its spare room is already en- gaged, and it will earn rentals amount- ing to $200,000 a year. * A year ago I met a party of Arabians on the San Juan River, in Nicaragua, and they too were peddling trinkets carried in packs and baskets. AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. The Pacific Garden Mission has a large hall, opening directly on Yan Bu- ren Street, within five hundred feet of the Grand Pacific Hotel, yet within a scarcely greater distance of some of the worst of the bad districts of the city. The Dive is only half a mile south of it, and The Levee, The Bad Lands, Chinatown, etc., are still nearer. The single big room is vast and dingythe latter characteristic in- separable from every apartment in Chi- cago which is not the object of con- stant, laborious cleaning and renovation. The walls are covered with Scripture texts in large letters, Blessed are ye poor, for yours is the kingdom of God, etc. Welcome, God is love, and other cheering mottoes are em- bossed in Christmas greens over the platform. A little collection of hymns is upon each seat, and notices of the hours of services are suspended in vari- ous places, among the rest some an- nouncing the Salvation Army meetings. No effort at ornament for ornaments sake appears anywhere; nor any out- ward gayety to suggest inward joy and peace. Colonel Clark is the moving and controlling spirit of the Mission, as well as its chief money supporter. The Hull House Cr~cte or Day Nursery. meetings on Sunday are often full to the doors ; a few front seats being filled by the workers and particular friends, and the rest by the chance- comers, gathered from adjacent slums to hear the music and look on at the 10 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. of church folk who were formerly mis- sionaries in Arabia. The women are occupied in peddling small wares and trinkets, which they carry about in packs and baskets.* In the same hall are evening and Sunday religious meet- ings; and not long ago there was a series of midnight prayer-meetings held here, with how much success I do not know. The whole enterprise is in charge (and at the charge) of the great Womans Christian Temperance Union. This is an institution of wonderful strength and beauty; a giantess, throned in in- telligence and honor; stretching her strong hands toward the weak, sinking thousands of the submerged tenth, and all who are on the edge of the sub- mergence. The W. C. T. U. num- bers 200,000 members in all, of whom 16,000 are in minois, and their activity is tireless, their ability wonderfuL It is one of the phenomena marking the elevation of the sex under the sunshine of Western freedom and prosperity. The building, planned, erected, and paid for by this body, is just completed, and is the most perfect and (as it should be) the most sightly of all Chicagos new sky-scrapers. It is named Temper- ance Temple; its cost is $1,100,000. The Pacific Garden Mission has a large hail, opening directly on Van Bu- ren Street, within five hundred feet of the Grand Pacific Hotel, yet within a scarcely greater distance of some of the worst of the bad districts of the city. The Dive is only half a mile south of it, and The Levee, The Bad Lands, Chinatown, etc., are still nearer. The single big room is vast and dingythe latter characteristic in- separable from every apartment in Chi- cago which is not the object of con- stant, laborious cleaning and renovation. The walls are covered with Scripture texts in large letters, Blessed are ye poor, for yours is the kingdom of God, etc. Welcome, God is love, and other cheering mottoes are em- bossed in Christmas greens over the platform. A little collection of hymns is upon each seat, and notices of the hours of services are suspended in vari- ous places, among the rest some an- nouncing the Salvation Army meetings. No effort at ornament for ornaments sake appears anywhere; nor any out- ward gayety to suggest inward joy and peace. Colonel Clark is the moving and controlling spirit of the Mission, as well as its chief money supporter. The w Most of its spare room is already en- meetings on Sunday are often full to gaged, and it will earn rentals amount- the doors; a few front seats being ing to $200,000 a year. filled by the workers and particular friends, and the rest by the chance- * A year ago I met a party of Arabians on the 5an com ers, gathered adjacent Juan River, in Nicaragua, and they too were peddling from slums trinkets carried in packs and baskets. to hear the music and look on at the Hall Hause Criche er Day Nursery. AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. 11 devotional exercises. It is one of the simply religious efforts to elevate the debased and reform the bad, by offer- ing to them Christ and him crucified; by the direct interposition of heaven it mnst sneceed, but withont snch miracle it cannot. The news of salvation no longer surprises and charms the world, for the world has ceased to fear the opposite. One is reminded of the plaint made two hundred years ago by the French missionaries sent to the savages of this very region (their skin was red in those days) when they said, in effect: Surely we are in nowise to be compared with the Holy Apostles; yet the world must have changed since they went forth among the heathen who heard them gladly, and, rejoicing to receive the glorious news of salvation, flocked forward, one and all, demand- ing baptism. Here we sail the floods and scale the mountains in pursnit of one poor savage, if haply we may pre Temperance Temple. Bnilt by the Womans Christian Temperance Union. 12 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. vail to save him from the wrath to come, and in most cases his salvation is changed to backsliding as soon as our backs are turned. To the same general effect is the conclusion reached by the religious workers of to-day, who say these beings are in nowise fit subjects for a merely religious minis- try. I once told a young musician (a Scan- dinavian) at the Pacific Garden Mis- sion that I was then in search of the very poor and miserable, the helpless- ly wretched, and asked him where they were to be found. He asked where I had been, and on telling him that I came fresh from The Dive, The Bad Lands, Biler Avenue, Niggertown, Chinatown, etc., he asked if these were not poor enough. I said they were rather vicious, drunken, and de- praved than poor; that I wanted to find the poverty that springs from mis- fortune rather than that from drink. To this he impulsively gave the preg- nant answer: There is none. You might find one or two others in five hundred, but it is drink in the case of all the rest. And so it goes. Such is the evidence of the experts, the philanthropists, the missionaries, and the senses themselves. There are sixty saloons in two blocks of this dreadful Dismal Swamp; each sa- loon pays $500 a year of city license alone; pays its United States Govern- ment license for selling spirits, beer, and tobacco; pays for all its stock in trade, its rent, its wages, and expensesthrives like a Canada thistle on the barren soil of its environment. Five hundred dol- lars for license, $500 for rent, $1,000 for wages and expenses, and $1,500 for stock in trade makes $3,500. The sums paid by these poor must reach $4,000 a year, on the average, to each saloon; and sixty saloons gives $240,000 a year, all in one street, within a distance of two Russian Jews at Shelter House. 9 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. 13 squares. Verily the savings of the rich are as nothing compared with the wast- ings of the poor. Beer is the alleviation and perpetuation of poverty. I also asked the young musician about the condition of his fellow-Scan- dinavians, where their poor could best be studied. He replied that there were none. Individual helplessness was cared for by individual charities and the churches. That is what might be expected. The Scandinavian immigra- tion has been, on the whole, the finest addition to the Northwest. They are largely agriculturists, are temperate, industrious, strong, frugal, and hardy. Not seldom do great colonies of them go on cheap excursions back to visit the Fa- therland. They pass through Chicago men, women, and childrenwith bands playing and flags flying; they cross the sea and spend some time at the old home, spreading the news of Western freedom and plenty, and then return with many recruits and with fresh relish for the Greater Scandinavia they are building among us. Those who do re- main in the cities are helpers worth having. The girls make the best house- servantsstrong, intelligent, respectful, and self-respecting; and the men, though not blameless in the matter of drink, yet are not among the willing slaves to it. On the whole, they see the alterna- tive presented to themthe two kinds of happiness already spoken ofand make what seems to us the wisest choice between them. The servants, as cooks and second girls, earn from three to five or six dollars a week besides their board and lodging, and the demand for such as have anything like a fair Another Group at Shelter House. 14 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. knowledge of their business is always ahead of the supply. They dress well, save money, and spend immense sums in helping their friends here and in the Fatherland. In the North Division, near the great gas-works, exists a large colony which of old earned the name of Lit- tle, Hell and which presents features of deep shadow with gleams of growing lighta dark cloud with a silver lining. Many of the men are gas-work laborers, doing hard duty, earning large wages, and drinking deep draughts. They are of three racesIrish, German, and Scan- dinavianthe first-named the most able and the most turbulent. The wages earned since the works were started, if they had been wisely used, would have bought the entire plant; would have vested every dollar of the vast and prof- itable stock in the workers. The latter would now be the capitalists. But that is a mere truism. The wage-earners of the whole country would be the capital- ists if it were not that they have pre- ferred to take their joy drop by drop. The bright lining of the dark cloud hovering about the gas-works is the Unity Church Industrial School and Boys Club near by, and the Saint Jamess Church and Central Church (Swings) Missions, not far away. The former (which I happen to know most about) was started in 1876 by the wom- en of Robert Collyers church, in an effort to do something for the poorest and most neglected children, the diffi- culty being that this class was soon supplanted by a better class, less in need of help people more anxious for what they could get than what they could learn. The others, children of the drunken and vicious, were always hardest to reach and to keep hold of. From this grain of mustard-seed has grown a great tree. The excellent and benevolent Eli Bates bequeathed to the enterprise $20,000, which was used for the construction of a brick building having all the appliances for an indus- trial school, and there the worthy Unity Church people spend time and money to good purpose. There are classes in various branches, and a large and well- kept cr~che. A noticeable feature of this lay mission is the Boys Club, where, for several months every year, meetings have been held on several evenings each week to give the youth of the neigh- borhood rational and wholesome fun with some incidental instruction. The boys range from eight to sixteen years old, and were at the start a hard lot. Yet they always had some traits of good feeling. The young women teachers always found them easier to manage than did the men. And even when dis- cipline had to be maintained by force, the majority was sure to be on the side of law and order. As far as possible, the boys are made to manage their own games and exercises, showing some- times a good deal of ability. They number, on ordinary evenings, about sixty, the picnic aggregate reaching to a hundred and fifty. The older boys are workers during the daytime; the younger, attendants on public and pa- rochial schools. There is but little want among the families. Their houses are small and not crowded together; but the house- holds occupy generally only two or three rooms each. Whether influenced by the various missions near by, by the paving and im- provement of streets, or by other causes, or partly by the one and partly by the others, the place is losing its old char- acter, and even its ugly sobriquet is almost forgotten. In Chicago the fashion and the larger part (though not by any means all) of the wealth of the city are on the South Side , and North Side,~~ where also the deepest poverty and deg- radation are to be found. On the great West Side are the industrious and prosperous workers, with their tens of thousands of labor- bought homes. It may be a new idea to the denizens of older cities that laborers should, cans and do own their dwelling-places, both land and building. Far more than half the homes in Chicago are so owned and occupied. The chief part of real-estate speculation is the buying of suburban acres and subdividing and selling them in lots to thrifty workmen. Purchase for the sake of putting up houses to AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. 15 rent as dwellings (except in the case of flats) is now extremely rare. The chief agent in this homestead movement is to be found in the numerous building so- cieties, * wherein the mechanic deposits his savings as they accrue, and then when he wishes to build his home he draws from the society whatever he may have laid up, and borrows from it what he may need in addition, paying a pre- mium in addition to the usual interest. (This premium and interest inure to the benefit of the other depositors.) Mem- bership in a building society, and the hope of a bit of ground all his own, are wonderful incentives to temperance in the man and economy in the wife. And when the lot is selected, how he clings to it! Beer and whiskey are forgotten. Even schooling and some other good and proper cares are apt to be post- vate fireside, and the lamp in the win-. dow, he is in peril of his life. On the West Side are also, especially in winter, the unemployed; some of whom could not find work if they would, some would not if they could, and some, when they can and do work, make the omnipresent saloon their savings-bank; a bank which takes in good money but pays out only false tokens. I recently accompanied one of the Volunteer County Visitorss on her walk in search of the people who should be helped by charity, public or private. We walked through a half - mile of street lined with the crowded habita- tions of the poor. At the farther end of it are visible the moving trains of the Fort Wayne Railway, and above and be- yond these the masts and funnels of poned. A city of such homes is safe shipping. Being just outside the old from anarchy. As for any wielder of burnt district, its houses are of wood, torch and dynamite, as soon as he steps ancient, squalid, dilapidated. There is forth into the light of the humble pri- not more than about one saloon to every * See the article on Building and Loan Associations, street corner, therefore this is far from in SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE for June, 1889. an infested region. It is chiefly oc A Waif at the Mission Dormitory. 16 AMONG THE P00k OF CHICAGO. cupied by Italians, who are not, as yet, the sots and terrors of the social sys- tem, and do not seem likely ever to be- come so. Groups of them are idling about, well enough dressed, but low- browed and ill-favored, looking with apparent surliness on visitors come to spy out the nakedness of the land. Within the houses we find the families crowded into two small rooms each, or thereabouts; and in those two rooms are all the operations of existence to be carried on in each case. Sleeping, eat- ing, cooking, washing, ironing, sickness, child - bearing, nursing, living, dying, and buryingthese considerations force themselves on the mind and suggest dismal pictures as one fancies a life so spent. Yet as to mere room, warmth, shelter, dryness, and convenience, the inhabi- tants are better accommodated than is the campaigning soldier in his tent, having no furniture, clothing for night or day, or other appliances for comfort, except those he can carry with him from camp to camp in addition to his arms and accoutrements. But women and children are not soldiers. Camp miser- ies would kill them ; one who has suf- fered such privation can scarcely feel the proper degree of pity for these crea- tureswarm, dry, fat, clothed, safe, at leisure and at liberty. The poorest and most wretched house- hold we found that day was that of an old soldier, a gray-haired man of education and (at some time) of intelligence, once a lieutenant in a volunteer regiment. He was wounded at the battle of Fair Oaks. There he lies, grimy and ver- min-infested, in a filthy bed, with a young grandchild beside him in like condition, and a drunken virago of a woman, ramping and scolding in the two rooms which constitute the family abode. She is quite the most repulsive being yet met with. A little inquiry develops the fact that this man was in the Soldiers Home at Milwaukee (and could return there to remain, if he wished), well fed, clothed, and cared for, The Bad Lands AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. 17 and that he left there because: You the choice before him, and the light see you cant stand it to be kept down shining on the parting of the ways, will all the time, and moved back and forth, takeis takingthe one those devoted and here and there, whether you like it young women are making so inviting to or not. And he moved his black paws his footsteps. back and forth, and here and there, on It is not charity that Hull House of- the dingy bedclothes, to indicate how fers, any more than it is precept. True, the Home deprived him of his freedom there are some cases which arise, out- his liberty to pass his time in the side the business of the House, where living death which his present condi- public or private beneficence is turned tion seems to the onlooker, toward deserving helplessness. But that is not strictly Hull House work. The latter consists in bestowing friend- ship and sympathy, the sisterly heart, hand, and voice, on all who are willing to come within its sweet and pleasant influence. With characteristic wisdom and good feeling the Board of the grand Chicago Public Library (free to all) has placed one of its sub-stations in the reading- room of Hull House; and in that large, handsome, well-lighted apartment ap- plications for books are taken, and the books are delivered and returned, all quite without expense of any kind to the reader. The building which contains the lib- rary and reading-room has been added to the Hull House structures by the liberality of Edward B. Butler. The same building contains a studio in which drawing - classes are held each even- ing, and an admirably fitted art-exhibit room in which some of the best pict- ures in Chicago are shown from time to time. The humanitarian side of the Hull House activity is maintained by the Nursery, the Kindergarten, the Diet Kitchen, the District Nursing, and the Industrial Classes. Its activities are multiform that they may meet the needs, not alone of the enterprising nor yet the poor, but of its neighborhood as a whole. That it has met such a need is shown by the fact that the weekly membership of its club and classes is nine hundred. Chicagos Hull House~~ is already widely known as the Toynbee Hall of the West, though the parallelism be- tween the two i~istitutions is far from absolute and complete. In the first place, Hull House was started and is carried on by women, with only the oc- casional and exceptional helpwelcome though it isof the other sex. Then, too, the system is as different as are the conditions in which the two institu- tions are placed. Its best service in stimulating the intellectual life of the neighborhood has been in the establish- ment of its college - extension classes, which have grown into what is practi- cally an evening college, with thirty courses weekly and a membership of one hundred and fifty to two hundred students of a high order. In a widely different sphere is its strictly philanthropic worth. Yet, even here, Hull House is not a mission, since no especial religion is inculcated and no particular social reform is announced as the object of its being. If people in the humbler classes of its visitors learn there to live good, clean, temperate lives, it is through the demonstration of the enduring beauty and gayety of such a life as contrasted with the lurid and fleeting joys of the other. Hull House parlors, class - rooms, gymnasium, lib- rary, etc., are the rivals of the swarming grog-shops. Nobody, not even the orna- ments of the college-extension classes, is more welcome than the poor fellow who has begun to feel that he can no longer struggle against poverty and drink, and nobody is less pointed at, preached at, or set upon than he. The choice is open to him, right hand or left hand as he sees fit, and it surely seems as if no sane human being could hesi- tate. At least the boy growing up with VOL. XII.2 The Cr~che, or Day-Nursery, is surely as bright, sunny, and pretty a room as any ever devoted to that angelic pur- pose. Two little, low tables, two dozen little, low chairs, each holding a pathetic little figure, dear to some mothers heart, and a young lady as busy (and some- times as puzzled) as a pullet with a 18 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. brood of ducklingsthese are the dra- matis personw. It is luncheon time, and with much pains the babes have been brought to reasonable order, side by side, each restless pair of hands joined in a devotional attitude far from symbolic of the impatient being behind them. One small creature remains re- bellious, and stands against the wall in tearful protest. The guardian angel explains that the small creature misses its mother, whereupon a visitor lifts it in his arms, and all is peace. The Crl~che was only started last year, and has flourished greatly. The num- bers vary from twenty - five to thirty, being governed by a curious law the prevalence of house - cleaning! When many mothers can find jobs of scrub- bing (which, by the way, earns a dollar and a half a day), then many babies are the helpless beneficiaries of the good offices of Hull House. But the benefit is not a gift; Hull House gives out no alms; every child is paid for at five cents a day. The Sewing-Class is, if possible, a still more beautiful sight. Twenty or thirty little girls are gathered about low tables sewing away for dear life, and sitting among them are several young soci- ety women, guiding the immature hands and thoughts. It is proudly said that no social pleasures are allowed to stand in the way of this philanthropic duty. From an admirable pamphlet entitled Hull House: A Social Settlement, I condense the following sketch of labors and efforts: Monday Evenings: Social Club, thirty girls. Debating Club, thirty young men. (The two clubs join later in the evening.) Athletic Class. Drawing Class. Greek Art Class. Mathematics Class. English Composition Class. Tuesday Evening: Working Peoples Social Science Club. (Addresses and discussions led by judges, lawyers, and business men.) Gymnasium. Drawing Class. Cooking Class. American His- tory. Reading Party. Ca~sar. Latin Grammar. Political Economy. Mod- ern History. And so on through the week. The noticeable varieties of interest include (besides the branches already named) Singing, Needlework, Diet Kitchen, Bi- ology, Shakespeare, Lilies and Ferns, Victor Hugo, German Reception, Chem- istry, Electricity, Clay Modelling, Eng- lish for Italians, Womens Gymnastics, etc. This vast curriculum is only for the evenings; the mornings and after- noons and the Sundays have their own programmes; and it may well be imag- ined that no business establishment goes far beyond this beehive of benevo- lence in orderly bustle and activity. Hull House is fairly supplied with means. The use of the property it oc- cupies is freely and generously bestowed upon it by Miss Helen Culver, to whom the property was devised by the late Charles J. Hull, whose old family resi- dence it was. Then, too, the needs of the institution are wonderfully small compared with the ever-widening and deepening sphere of its influence. Miss Jane Addams and Miss Ellen Gates Starr are the young women whose hearts conceived it, whose minds planned it, and whose small hands started it and have managed it thus far. One of the young women had some private means of her own; and such is the sway of their gentle influence among those who know them that when they are told that money must come, lo! it appears. And, what is more, when they are forced to admit that their strength unfortunately not superabundant has reached its limit, other young helpers are at hand and the work never flags. There exist in Chicago other benevo- lent institutions whose very number and variety preclude description. The City Directory contains the addresses of 57 asylums and hospitals, 28 infirmaries and dispensaries, 41 missions, 60 tem- perance societies, lodges, etc., and thirty- seven columns of secret benevolent as- sociations, camps, lodges, circles, etc. The city is honeycombed with philan- thropic associations in all .magnitudes, shapes, and forms, from the ancient and honorable Relief and Aid (which won deathless fame after the Great Fire) down to the latest Working-Girls Luncheon Club, the Ursula, instituted by the graduates of an advanced school to provide and furnish, at cost, mid-day meals in the business districts for their U AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. 19 toiling sisters. (There are several such clubs, and more are forming.) Every- one of the hundreds of churches is a centre of charitable effort. It becomes a net-work so all-pervading that one wonders that any should slip through, after all, and perish of want, as occasion- ally happens, nevertheless. What is known as the Poor Jews Quarter (as contradistinguished from the splendid homes of their richer co-re- ligionists) lies near the western end of Twelfth Street Bridge, and to the south- ward of the West Side Italian quarters already spoken of. Certainly it is not the abode of ease, luxury, and elegance; its odors are not those of flowery meads, its architecture is not marked by either massiveness or ornamentation, its streets and alleys are not grassy (though they look as if they might be fertile under proper cultivation), and its denizens are more remarkable for number than for attractiveness. On the other hand, the region is still less suggestive of a Ghetto, according to any prevailing tradition of those abodes. Children, ranging from infancy to ado- lescence, and from invalidism to rude health, throng the sidewalks. Many of these children have never seen a tree or a blade of grass. In our summer country excursions, said a lady of Hull House, we have much pleasure in watching themthey kneel down some- times so as to study the grass and feel it with their hands. Yet the sidewalk seems to furnish a tolerable substitute for the grass-plat, and the passer-by has to edge close to street or fence to keep clear of the flying rope, turned by two girls, while a little string of others are awaiting their turn to jump, each one who trips taking the place of one of the turnersjust as is done by their richer fellow-mortals, better fed and better dressed, but perhaps not more joyous and unregretful. In the midst of this swarming colony __ risestall, large, handsome, and solid the Jewish Training School, under the management of a strong band of the solid Israelites of the city (representing, of course, solid millions of money) and the superintendency of Professor Ga- briel Bamberger. Fifty thousand dol lars a year is wisely and economically expended here, and eight hundred chil- dren and youths, of both sexes, and all races and religions, are taught and cared for. The classes in drawing and clay-modelling are especially notable. Not far away is the Shelter House of the Society in Aid of Russian Refu- gees. There the members of this un- fortunate class find surcease of their woes and persecutions in a blessed har- bor of temporary refuge, whence they are scattered to various employments and chances to earn an honest living, free from imperialism, officialism, priest- craft, and military service. They are a sturdy-looking set, and will not be long in learning that their greatest ill-treat- ment is turned to their greatest good luck when they arrive at the Shelter House, as they are doing at the rate of more than ten a day. They are sub- merged no longer. When the back streets of Chicago are undergoing their spring cleaning, the mass of mud collected for removal in this quarter is incredible. The piles along the street-side are as high as they can be made to stand erect, and as close together as they can be. This is the accumulation of the months of December to March inclusive the months when snow, frost, and short days impede the work so that a dollar laid out does perhaps not forty cents worth of good. Then, too, the cold renders the vile deposit less hurtful to health, and the moisture and the frost keep it from flying about in the form of dust. The main streets are cleaned even when there is snow on the ground.* One characteristic development of business-like philanthropy in Chicago is in the Liberty Bell and Friendship buildings for the accommodation of working-men. They are not germane to the subject of poverty, except to show its absence, prevention, or alleviation. The first-named was an experiment in the direction of furnishing to working-men good accommodations at rates almost * Even in well-swept London the streets are neglected in winter. In one street is the hody of a dead dog, and near by two dead cats, whichile as thongh they had slain each other; all three have been crnshed flat by the traffic which has gone over them, and they, like everything else. are frozen and harmless.Labor and Life of the People, vol. ii., p. 96, London, 1892. 20 AMONG THE POOL? OF CHICAGO. nominaL A man is there offered a bath, a shave, and the use of a laundry (both provided with hot and cold water and soap), and a clean bed in a clean and ventilated room, all for ten cents. The whole main floor is devoted to a waiting- room with chairs and tables. In this room one sees from fifty to one hundred men, old and young, taThing, smoking, reading newspapers, and the place is filled with the hum of conversation. In one corner is a group discussing work and wages; in another the younger fel- lows have made their newspapers into balls which they toss one to another. There is no drinking, no singing, and no boisterous mirth. They take their pleasure sadly, according to their wont, as Froissart remarks concerning their far-away ancestors. From the profits earned by the Lib- erty Bell the Friendship has been built. There things are more hand- somely done. Not only are there no beds in tiers, as at the other place; but each is entirely inclosed in a locked space, eight feet high, and protected by charged electric wires, so that the tenant and all his belongings are safe from in- trusion or theft. The same accommoda- tions (in more elegant form) are offered as in the former place, and the entire charge is fifteen cents. The originator of the pleasant and profitable scheme is now abroad, looking for further knowl- edge wherewith to provide further im- provements. At each place a good meal is served, in a restaurant attached, at an addi- tional charge of ten cents. The savings of the men are accepted and cared for by the concern, and they amount to a very considerable sum. The men are largely dock-workers, sailors waiting for the opening of the lakes, mechanics out of a job, workers at light trades and callings about town, etc. All are com- fortably clothed and quite free from any marks of want. This is a pleasant aspect of the labor situation; but it is to be remembered that here we have only the able-bodied single men, the class which is last to feel the griping hand of poverty. Wom- en and children, the difficult and dis- tressing element in the social problem, are in all this left out of the account. The dock-laborers among these men the largest class earn from twenty to twenty-five cents an hour. On the North Side (275 Indiana Street), is the Home for Self-supporting Wom- en, which, as its name implies, does a service for the other sex somewhat simi- lar to that offered to men at the Friend- ship. For obvious reasons the difficul- ties in dealing with the stronger sex are greatly magnified when the weaker is in question. Yet, great or small, those difficulties are braved, and, to a large extent, conquered. Better entertain- ment must be (and is) provided; larger charges must therefore be imposed, and that on individuals whose wages are smaller. Still the enterprise is nearly self-supporting, and when kindly fate shall inspire some rich and benevolent friend of woman to pay off a $10,000 mortgage on the realty of the Home, then its net income will overtake its outgo, and even in time exceed it, mak- ing its devoted ministers (all women) able to extend its influence in an ever- increasing ratio. Meantime the annual reports are written in an admirable style of good-humored naThet~ which shows that work and worry cannot daunt or sadden those whose hearts are in their business. It is a most worthy and successful effort at the best kind of help; but it still leaves untouched the problem of family helplessnessthe soft, elastic, unbreakable bond which binds the hands and feet of mothers. Near the centre of business are two institutions for the care of homeless newsboys, bootblacks, and other young street workers, the Waifs Mission and Training School and the News- boys Home. The former has a school, a dining-room and kitchen, a dormitory with fifty beds, a bath-room, a gym- nasium, a printing-office, etc., and its plan includes military drill (with a brass band formed among the boys them- selves), instruction in the printing busi- ness, and the finding of places for boys old enough to enter steady employment. Its patrons and managers include judges of court, business men and capitalists, and a board of charitable women. The number of boys accommodated is lim- ited to the number of beds. An institution somewhat analogous to 1 0 DRAWN BY OTTO H. BACHER. In a Sweat-shop. 22 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. this is the Illinois School of Agricult- ure and Manual Training for Boys, placed on three hundred acres of farm- ing land at Glenwood, not far south of the city limits. Until this school was started (1887) there was absolutely no place to which a boy could be sent who was thrown upon the world by any of the lamentable casualties to which every community is subjectorphanage, de- sertion, forced separation from drunken or criminal parents. The courts of cer- tain counties make use of this as a ref- uge for such boys, and allow a certain small monthly stipend for each; but this is necessarily far short of the abso- lute requirements of proper subsistence, clothing, and education, and more money than the school has yet received could be well used in it. The boys are pro- vided with homes, chiefly with farmers, and the average outlay for each, up to the time when he is so provided for, is only about 60. The future life of the boy is kept in view and recorded; al- most always with results that justify the efforts. The Newsboys and Bootblacks Home is the oldest of the institutions of its class. It cares for some fifty or sixty boys, giving them decent sustenance and protection at lowest cost, and also providing for their amusement when circumstances permit. Some philan- thropic persons object to these refuges of the human waifs and strays on the ground that they encourage boys to run away from their families. To this there seem to be two possible answers first, that every lodge, circle, hospital, asylum, and refuge runs to some extent against the family relation, not even excepting the fashionable clubhouses next, that the boys in the missions have perhaps found a better home than they left; that the change for them is a step upward, not downward. As far as one can see, it is a change from the gutter to the mission. The sweat-shop is a place where, sep- arate from the tailor-shop or clothing- warehouse, a sweater (middleman) assembles journeymen tailors and nee(lle-women, to work under his super- vision. He takes a cheap room outside the dear and crowded business centre, and within the neighborhood where the work-people live. Thus is rent saved to the employer, and time and travel to Laundry and Bath at the Liberty Bell. w AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. 23 the employed. The men can and do work more hours than was possible un- der the centralized system, and their wives and children can help, especially when, as is often done, the garments are taken home to finish. (Even the very young can pull out basting- threads.) This finishing is what re- mains undone after the machine has done its work, and consists of felling the waist and leg-ends of trousers (paid at one and one-half cent a pair), and, in short, all the felling necessary on every garment of any kind. For this service, at the prices paid, they cannot earn more than from twenty-five to forty cents a day, and the work is largely done by Italian, Polish, and Bohemian women and girls. The entire number of persons em- ployed in these vocations may be stated at 5,000 men (of whom 800 are Jews), and from 20,000 to 23,000 women and children. The wages are reckoned by piece-work, and (outside the finish- ing ) run about as follows: Girls, hand-sewers, earn nothing for the first month, then as unskilled workers they get $1 to $1.50 a week, $3 a week, and (as skilled workers) $6 a week. The first-named class consti- tutes fifty per cent. of all, the second thirty per cent., and the last twenty per cent. In the general work men are only employed to do button-holing and pressing, and their earnings are as fol- lows: Pressers, $8 to $12 a week; underpressers, $4 to $7. Cloak op- erators earn $8 to $12 a week. Four- fifths of the sewing-machines are fur- nished by the sweaters (middlemen) also needles, thread, and wax. The sweat-shop day is ten hours; Liberty Bell. 24 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. but many take work home to g~t in over- time; and occasionally the shops them- selves are kept open for extra work, from which the hardest and ablest workers sometimes make from $14 to $16 a week. On the other hand, the regular work - season for cloakmaking is but seven months, and for other branches nine months, in the year. The average weekly living expenses of a man and wife, with two children, as es- timated by a self-educated workman named Bisno, are as follows: Rent (three or four small rooms) $2; food, fuel, and light, $4; clothing, $2, and beer and spirits, $1. The first matter complained of is the wretchedness of the quarters. The pro- posed remedy for this is the establish- inent by clothiers of outlying workshops which shall be clean, light, and ventilat- edin other words, not sweat-shops. A city ordinance enacts that rooms pro- vided for workmen shall contain space equal to five hundred cubic feet of air for each person employed; but in the average sweat-shop only about a tenth of that quantity is to be found. In one such place there were fifteen men and women in one room, which con- tained also a pile of mattresses on which some of the men sleep at night. The closets were disgraceful. In an adjoin- ing room were piles of clothing, made and unmade, on the same table with the food of the famiiy. Two dirty little children were playing about the floor. The second complaint regards the public good. It is averred, with ap- parent reason, that clothing should not be exposed to contamination and possi- ble infection in rooms not set apart for working-rooms, especially in private houses, where members of the family, young and old, may quite possibly be ill of dangerously contagious fevers and other complaints. The danger of con- tagion from the hands of the workman himself is multiplied in proportion as the tenement is crowded where the gar- ments are taken for work. Another complaint, urged with much feeling, is that when the workers set up a Union shop of their own, where they did the very best work at prices as low as those charged at the sweat- shops, but (by saving the profits of a middleman) were able to give more to the workers, they were deliberately and confessedly frozen out by the with- holding of patronage by the clothing firms, and this after having been in prosperous and peaceable operation for two years. The sweaters could not force down wages as low as they wished, because the workers in the Union shops were doing so well. Therefore they got the employing firms to refuse work to the mens own establishment, and throw it all into the middlemans hands. A firm of employers for whom the association had worked two years were instrumental in this incredible cruelty. It is said by the workmen that they were driven to their action by othersin the business, for when the little co-operative concern applied for work, they were referred to an association of the employing firms, and were there ab- solutely refused. The sweating system has been in operation about twelve years, during which time some firms have failed, while others have increased their production tenfold. Meantime certain sweaters have grown rich; two having built from their gains tenement-houses for rent to the poor workers. The wholesale cloth- ing business of Chicago is about $20,- 000,000 a year. Mr. Bisno, the workman to whom I have alluded, has been led by his reading toward Socialism (very far from Anarch- ism), and he thinks that poverty and drink are parent and childpoverty the parent. A talk with him would be an en- lightenment to any person who had not already adequate knowledge of the mean- ing of the short phrase A good days work. He would get a new idea of the unusual ability, mental and manual, the unflagging speed, the unwearied appli- cation which go to the earning of a days wages of the higher grades. He thinks that he could not maintain such speed without some liquid stimulus, in which other equally good workers think he is mistaken. (At the same time he is ex- tremely moderate.) He says that beer is sold at five cents the measured pint (yielding two-and-a-half glasses), and that it is freely brought into the sweat- shops, wherein, in fact, the workers are entirely independent of personal control, w AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. 25 their work alone being subject to inspec- tion and criticism. The inspection is close and constant, and failure entails the doing over of the job. Spoiling (such as tearing while ripping spoiled seams) leads to deductions from pay. The lat- ter is very rare. Division of labor is good; scatter- ing of workers from great groups into smaller groups is good; employment of women in their own homes is good; pre- vention of theft is good, and cheapness of garments is good. Unwholesome at- mosphere, moral and material, is bad; insufficient wages is bad; possibility of infection is bad, and child - labor is (usually) bad. How shall the good be preserved and the bad cured or allevi- ated? At the head-quarters of the West Side police one is in the near neighborhood of the Anarchist Riot of 1886. In that building the police force was mustered and formed for its march out to the an- archist meeting-place, 500 feet distant; and there 67 of the police, killed and wounded, were laid when brought back a few minutes later. The messenger in attendance is one of the severely wound- ed, now too much shattered to do more than light tasks about the station. Con- versation with some of the men at this station has led me to a new appreciation of the magnitude of the issues then and there fought out, and the finality of the settlement arrived at. A lieutenant of police recently said to me: The whole thing is played out. They will never make another experi- ment. There is no interest in anarchy or socialism any more, and no meetings to speak of. They do get together, some of them, at Twelfth Street Turner Hall, but youd never know that they had ever planned a riot or loaded a bomb. No; they have no connection with hardship and poverty. They can always get their beer, and thats the main thing with them. These quiet and unassuming officers of law and order know that they did their duty, and think that their success was a foregone conclusion. They do not know that though other stronger~~ governments could have put down an- archy by force of arms, and hanged or VOL. XII.4 shot the insurgents by martial law, yet this is perhaps the only government on earth which could have met such a movement by the ordinary police power, and then have given the guilty a long, public trial before a jury of their peers, and have relied on a verdict of conviction, a judgment of death, and the deliberate execution of that judgment. Mr. Joseph Greenhut (himself a So- cialist, somewhat out of sympathy with the alleviation of poverty, its absolute cure being, in his view, possible by changes in the constitution of society), furnishes many statistics showing the riding rates of wages earned in some hundreds of trades and callings, from which the following are selected: Per diem. Bricklayers, stone-cutters, and stone-masons $4 00 Plasterers 3 50 to $4 00 Carpenters 2 50 to 2 80 Bridge-builders 2 50 to 3 25 Ship-carpenters and caulkers 2 00 to 3 50 Machinists, blacksmiths, and wagon-makers 2 00 to 2 50 Pattern-makers and horse-sho- ers 275to 350 Engineers 2 00 to 5 00 Grain-trimmers 2 75 to 3 50 Lumber-shovers 3 00 to 6 00 Sewer-builders 2 00 to 3 00 Plumbers, gas-fitters, painters, photographers, printers, etc 2 00 to 3 50 Boot- and shoe-makers, cigar- makers, millers, stereotypers and electrotypers, copper, tin, and sheet-iron workers, brass finishers, upholsterers, etc 1 75 to 3 00 Iron and steel mill-workers, japanners, etc 1 50 to 6 00 Tailors and suit-makers 1 00 to 3 00 Type-founders, furriers, book- binders, furniture-workers, distillers, brewers, etc 1 50 to 3 00 Sailors (with board) 1 50 to 2 00 Farmers 1 50 to 3 00 Coopers, fish-packers, gravel- roofers, freight-house men, laundrymen, makers of iron and lead pipe, wire-goods, vault-lights, etc 1 50 to 2 50 Brick-makers 1 00 to 3 00 Planing-mill hands 1 25 to 2 25 Harness-makers, musical in- strument-makers 1 25 to 3 00 Market-menAce-wagon men,etc 1 50 to 2 75 Packing and slaughter-house men 125to 400 Lumber-yard hands 1 25 to 1 50 Dock laborers 1 00 to 2 00 Confectioners, millinery and straw-goods makers, hair- workers, etc 1 00 to 3 00 AMONG THE POOR OF CHICAGO. Per diem. Female clerks $1 00 to $2 75 Glove and mitten-makers.... 60 cents to 3 00 Drug clerks Telegraph and telephone operators Bakers and barbers Stablemen Teamsters Dressmakers Office stenographers and type. writers By the week. $12 00 to $25 00 10 00 to 10 00 to 9 00 to 9 00 to 6 00 to 20 00 14 00 15 00 12 00 15 00 600to 2000 Mr. Greenhut estimates the immi- grant nationalities (including their chil- dren) composing Chicago as follows: Germans, 400,000; Irish, 210,000; Sclavonians, 100,000; Scandinavians, 110,000; English, Scotch, and Welsh, 80,000; French Canadians, 15,000 ; Ital- ians, 15,000; French, 5,000; Colored, 13,000 ; and Chinese, 2,000. all around were made as there were men in the saloon. From a large number of sources it was learned that it is the custom with the Polish labor- ers the violation of which means disgrace for each man on pay-night to treat all his fellows, the bartender and contractor included, and for the two latter, when it comes their turn, to treat the men. It is needless to say that the contractor and bar- tender rarely have to pay for what they set up to the crowd. The possible remedy for this state of thingsif there be any remedyis out- side the province of the present essay. Suffice it to say here, that the non-expert observer, however sympathetic, is prone to feel that any effort at relief of the chosen miseries which does not strike at the cause of the choice, is futile. A late issue of the Chicago Tribune had the following suggestive paragraph: WORK WAITING FOR UNEMPLOYED. No one doubts but that the drink- bill of Chicagoestimated at $1,000,000 a week, of which three-fourths comes from the pockets of the poorwould change into prosperity, practically, all the adversity of the unfortunate classes, just as the drink - bill of Russia $1,000,000 a daywould supplant fam- ine by abundance. Much poverty comes from drink that does not come from drunkenness. A man may spend in drink the total profit on his earnings, the total surplus above necessary outgoes, and it mayusually doesamount to an m- surance fund which, well invested, would form a respectable fortune during his prosperous years. Then, when old age, sickness, or accident befalls, he is penni- less. His poverty springs from drink; no matter if he never was drunk in his life. The man who drinks up what he might save is as short-sighted as the husbandman who should needlessly eat up his seed-wheat. Paying off~~ is often done in saloons, in which the paymaster may or may not be interested. It is a vile and hurtful practice. A late article in a Chicago paper contains the following words on this theme: Contractor Piatkiewicz said some of his work- men habitually spent for liquor half their earnings, and that on one pay-night, several years ago, he recollected that out of a total of $480 due his men, the chips in the basket gave to the saloon-keeper $200. To add to this, he said that as many treats THE STATEMENT ABOUT CHICAGOS ARMY OF IDLE MEN REFUTED. The statement that there are 30,000 to 50,000 laboring men out of employment to-day in Chicago is false, said Oscar Kuehue yesterday. Mr. Kuehue is the General Agent of the German Be- uevolent Society and is in a position to know. I could have furnished, he continued, during the month of March, employment to 300 or 400 more men than I did, if I had had the men to fill the ap- plications that came into my office. Farmers from within a radius of thirty miles of Chicago come to me to supply them with farm-laborers, and when I tell them that 1 havent men for them, and cant get the sort of men they want, they ask in surprise where these 50,000 unemployed in Chicago are. At oue oclock this afternoon there were thirty farm- ers in my office after laborers. They would have employed fifty men, but I had to disappoint them. The truth of the matter is that there is no excuse for the idleness of an energetic young man who is not married. He can get work if he wants it. For a married man there is more excuse. He is not free to move about as the unmarried man is, and is more limited in his choice of occupatious. We find it more difficult to get work for men of families. There is some chosen poverty which is not necessarily connected with drink. Many instances arise in the minds of men and women who are trying to do their philanthropic duty. The pitiable man is he who cannot get work to do, and in so far as this article on poverty in the West does not present the harrowing pictures of want elsewhere, it must be accounted for in the same way as was the shortness of the celebrated chapter on Snakes in Iceland. Work and wages, seed-time and harvest, have not yet failed in the land. And the art of making the wise 26 GETTING OUT THE FLY-BOOKS. 27 choice of possible joys, though not yet fully learned, is gaining ground. The overwhelming tendency of modern life is toward the cities. It al- most seems as if they would have to be walled about in order to keep in the country the proportionsfour-fifths at least which must remain there in or- der to provide food for all. Everything done to alleviate the condition of the poor in great cities works in the direc- tion of bringing more into them; and no argument or persuasion, or more solid consideration of betterment, pre- vails to get them out after once im- mersed in the pleasurable excitement of gregarious existence; they would rather starve in a crowd than grow fat in quietudeespecially if the crowd is sprinkled with aromatic charity. Humanity, like other semifluids, moves in the line of least resistance and most propulsion. Idleness drifts toward where commiseration and alms- giving are most generous and unques- tioning; love of drink toward where beer and liquor are most plentiful The free soup-kitchen is a profitable neigh- bor for the saloon. Labor is a blessing in disguise; and a free gift is often a disguised curse. Then is a part of the prevalent phil- anthropic feeling, though coming from the noblest part of our nature, tainted with sentimentality and sensationalism? Is it, to a certain extent, the vagary of good men and women who, consciously or unconsciously, regard physical labor as only a necessary evil? Is it part of the new creed which sees in drink not the cause but the consequence of want and misery? Quien sabe? At any rate, if any statement should be made of the Western aspect of the matter, as it am pears to men who regard duly paid toil as the condition of well-being, which statement did not present this possi- bility as at least an obtruding suspicion, it would be false and defective. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread was not a curse but a bless- ing, and so shall be until a dreary Utopia prevail, competition giving place to com- bination, mankind being beaten up into an omelet, and excelling and excellence no more. By Leroy Milton Yale. HEN spring seems still afar off, when nights are sharp and patch- es of snow lie about, in spite of the frost the maple feels the sweet juices in all its fibres. The same nameless influence touches the angler, his blood moves, he has no more choice than the budding tree. He must see his fly-books. Every article of his outfitcreel, hobnail, or rodhas its charm to rouse memory or quicken imagination; but in the book is hidden the subtlest spell of alL Move but a fly from its folds and up swarm the recollections and the dreamsrec- ollections of a past in which all joy is fresh, all disappointment forgotten, dreams of a future filled much more abundantly. Not dreams alone. To the observant angler running brooks GETTING OUT THE FLY-BOOKS.

Leroy Milton Yale Yale, Leroy Milton Getting Out The Fly-Books 27-33

GETTING OUT THE FLY-BOOKS. 27 choice of possible joys, though not yet fully learned, is gaining ground. The overwhelming tendency of modern life is toward the cities. It al- most seems as if they would have to be walled about in order to keep in the country the proportionsfour-fifths at least which must remain there in or- der to provide food for all. Everything done to alleviate the condition of the poor in great cities works in the direc- tion of bringing more into them; and no argument or persuasion, or more solid consideration of betterment, pre- vails to get them out after once im- mersed in the pleasurable excitement of gregarious existence; they would rather starve in a crowd than grow fat in quietudeespecially if the crowd is sprinkled with aromatic charity. Humanity, like other semifluids, moves in the line of least resistance and most propulsion. Idleness drifts toward where commiseration and alms- giving are most generous and unques- tioning; love of drink toward where beer and liquor are most plentiful The free soup-kitchen is a profitable neigh- bor for the saloon. Labor is a blessing in disguise; and a free gift is often a disguised curse. Then is a part of the prevalent phil- anthropic feeling, though coming from the noblest part of our nature, tainted with sentimentality and sensationalism? Is it, to a certain extent, the vagary of good men and women who, consciously or unconsciously, regard physical labor as only a necessary evil? Is it part of the new creed which sees in drink not the cause but the consequence of want and misery? Quien sabe? At any rate, if any statement should be made of the Western aspect of the matter, as it am pears to men who regard duly paid toil as the condition of well-being, which statement did not present this possi- bility as at least an obtruding suspicion, it would be false and defective. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread was not a curse but a bless- ing, and so shall be until a dreary Utopia prevail, competition giving place to com- bination, mankind being beaten up into an omelet, and excelling and excellence no more. By Leroy Milton Yale. HEN spring seems still afar off, when nights are sharp and patch- es of snow lie about, in spite of the frost the maple feels the sweet juices in all its fibres. The same nameless influence touches the angler, his blood moves, he has no more choice than the budding tree. He must see his fly-books. Every article of his outfitcreel, hobnail, or rodhas its charm to rouse memory or quicken imagination; but in the book is hidden the subtlest spell of alL Move but a fly from its folds and up swarm the recollections and the dreamsrec- ollections of a past in which all joy is fresh, all disappointment forgotten, dreams of a future filled much more abundantly. Not dreams alone. To the observant angler running brooks GETTING OUT THE FLY-BOOKS. 28 GETTING OUT THE FLY-BOOKS. have indeed been books, and their stones have preached him sermons, the notes whereof lie in the pages of these same fly-books. Said a witty friend: It is extraor- dinary with what contempt your true angler looks upon any method which will really catch fish. The wit pierces near the heart of the matter. Any method which will only catch fish? Yes. The true angler is not he whose pole is but the weapon of his predatory instinct. The love of the art must be above the greed of prey. With the bois- terous fisherman and the picnicker with a fishing-rod we have no concern. But among actual sportsman - like anglers the manifestations of the enjoyment of the recreation are as various as tem- peraments. Each exaggerates some of its pleasures, but he best realizes them whose rod is a divining wand, who has the widest sympathy with the outer world, whether it touch him through his scientific insight, his artistic sensi- bility, or that nameless poetic feeling which longs for the sunshine, the wind, and the rain. We may for a moment envy him who tells of great game taken from some far-off lake, but our hearts go out to him who bids us share his little brook when the Sanguinaria is in bloom. It is curious to observe how surely this note of sympathy with nature was struck four hundred years ago by Dame Juliana Berners, and how it reap- pears as a leading motive in the best of angling books all the way down to our day, whether Walton discourses to his scholar or Norris is fly-fishing alone. Curious, too, is the vein of moralizing which runs through the elder Eng- lish writers on angling, whether from the fashion of the time or from direct imitation of Dame Juliana, their model in so many things else. Although crit- icism denies the authorship of The Treatyse of Fysshynge wyth an Angle to the Dame, one cannot doubt as he reads it that it is the work of some ecclesiastic, who naturally would give first place to the only field sport per- missible in those days to the cloth. It was almost an inspired foresight which placed the work in such connection that it would be read only by gentyll and noble men and kept out of the hondys of eche ydle persone whyche wolde de- sire it yf it were enpryntyd alone by itself . . . to the entent that the for- sayd ydle persones whyche sholde haue but lytyll mesure in the sayd dysporte of fysshyng sholde not by this meane utterly dystroye it. The words in which the duties of an angler are expressed are as serious as in our day are deemed suitable to a marriage service or the installation of a pastor. Would that they all, from I charge and requyre you in the name of alle noble men, to the closing benediction, And all those that done after this rule shall haue the blessynge of god and saynt Petyr, whyche he theym graunte that wyth his precyous blood vs boughte, were burnt with the plumers wire into the memory of every greedy and ill-man- nered angler. An evidence of the solace thai is found in angling is the fact that out of the troublous times of King and Parlia- ment have come down to us at least three works on the art. Walton, who mourned his monarch slain, Venables, whose disastrous West India campaign brought him to disgrace and the Tower, and the Cromwellian trooper, Richard Franck, wandering abroad, all consoled themselves with the rod and writing of its joys. Perhaps the chastening of sorrow joined with the gentle art to sweeten that charming letter which the Royalist Walton prefixed to the book of the Roundhead Venables. Charming books both have written, and one wishes that the same could be said of Franck, for he was a better naturalist and all- round fisherman than either of them. But whatever may have been in his con- troversial heart, there is little of sweet- ness and light in his style. Now to the fly-books. There is no reason why the fly-fisher should con- temn his brother of the bait-rod. Often quite the reverse, if real angling skill be laid in the balance. The anglers circle is quite wide enough for everyone who fishes in the true spirit, whether he casts his fly over the costliest of salmon pools or anchors his punt across the head of a gudgeon swim. But there is room also for a proper regret that he who uses bait alone has never had opened GETTING OUT THE FLY-BOOKS. to him all the delights of his pastime. Many places cannot be really fished with a fly. It is a legitimate matter of choice to decline to fish such places, but let the refusal be really from love of sport and not from priggish affectation. There is good ground for Franciss hint that the degree of Master in Angling should be given only to a proficient in all its branches. The advantages of the fly are ob- vious enough. It is always ready, bait must be procured for each occasion. I wish, said a lady one day, that you would teach my husband to use the fly, for I observe that when you desire to go a-fishing, you go, but he raises the whole village for four days to collect his baits. Besides, it is a gratification to avoid giving pain, even if slight, to living bait. A still greater practical advantage is that the fly does not mor- tally wound any fish, and such as (by reason of size or for any other cause) are not wanted for the basket, may be re- turned to the water unharmed. Un- harmed? Probably entirely so. In bait- fishing many an undesired fish is bas- keted because wounds of its gills or gullet make its survival improbable if it were returned to the water. But a fly is not swallowed unless a bait has been added to it. It goes no farther than the mouth, andby trout at least is instantly recognized as a decep- tion, and if it has not been fastened at the moment of seizure, is immediately rejected. That the presence of a hook in the mouth of predatory fish causes little, if any, pain becomes more prob- able the more their behavior is watched. Their mouths being their only prehen- sile apparatus, we should expect these parts to be but slightly sensitive to pain, and such seems from observation to be really the case. Such fish often seize and swallow others so protected with spines that the angler handles them with great caution. Most anglers of experience have seen a fish take a fly repeatedly, or take a second while still 9 struggling to be free of the first, so that it was perhaps landed by two an- glers at once. I have knowledge of a bluefish taking off three large hooks baited for striped bass and coming to gaff on a fourth, when all four were re covered from its mouth. For experi- ments sake, the writer once caught, un- hooked and returned to the water the same trout four times within a few minutes (it being plainly visible all the time), and finally drove it out of the pool with a stick lest it should swallow the bait and be destroyed if it were al- lowed another opportunity. It may be said that in these two instances hunger overcame the fear of pain. But what shall be said of another experience of the writer, when, after playing a grilse for some minutes and losing him, anoth- er cast brought to the fly a fish which proved to be the same one. The fly was fast in his lower jaw, while in his upper jaw a fresh and bleeding tear half an inch in length showed whence it had just broken away. To the negative advantage of pain avoided we may add the positive one that fly-fishing is for many reasons the most interesting form of angling. Fish take the artificial fly best when feed- ing upon the natural insects, which diet (as has been shown experimentally for trout at least) gives weight and strength more rapidly than any other. They are then more inclined to sport, they fight harder, and, it may be added, are more valued for the table. The grat- ification is enhanced by the greater del- icacy of tackle made possible by the flexibility and elasticity of the rod ne- cessary to fly-casting, and it is certain- ly a greater pleasure to outwit the game by a clever imitation of a fly than by an actual gross lump of food. But the es- sential charm, we think, lies beyond the mere use of a fly, for trolling a fly is scarcely less lethargic than any other trolling, while minnow-casting is nearly as delightful as fly-casting. The gentle but continuous activity of fly- fishing gives it interest; the endeavor to put the fly accurately and delicately just where the angler would have it makes it as absorbing as any trial of marksmanship. The fascinating sus- pense of waiting for the rising fish. (There is one under the azalea bush!) Out goes the fly toward the marked spot. (A yard more, and gently, or it is hung up.) The breathless seconds as it sweeps down over it, the restraint of the space of a hearts beat before the * 29 30 GETTING OUT THE FLY-BOOKS. turn of the wrist, and then the struggle. These are the charms of fly-fishing the bait-fisher cannot share. There must always be differences of taste as to what kind of fly-fishing is the highest branch of the art. In Eng- land and America trout-fishing has gen- erally been put into the first place. Certainly nowhere can the skilful an- gler more fully bring into play all his resources. The game is small com- pared to a salmon, for instance; but the trout of much - fished waters be- comes possessed of a knowledge, a cun- ning and a wariness which are worthy of all respect, and the overcoming of which adds a mental exercise to the many other charms of this variety of angling. On asking an experienced friend which he thought the more en- joyable, salmon- or trout-fishing, I got the answer, They cannot be com- pared. Trout-fishing is like a sym- phonyall is harmony. One can en- joy the sky, the air, the trees, the water, the tackle and the fish; but when one is fast to a salmon, it is circus all the time. This answer touches the essen- tial difference; the gentle exercise typ- ical of angling is replaced by a more laborious occupation and the calm en- joyment by a struggle. To me, at least, no such struggle has left such charming memories as have some hours of trout-fishing (what pictures they are !), when the capture was of so little moment that only the choicest fish went into the creel. The expression, Salm- on-fishing spoils one for everything else, has often a truth beyond the speakers intent Any fishing which makes the capture of the fish, or of any particular fish, important, is so far spoiled as a recreation. Besides, the planning and the commercial de- tails essential to securing salmon-fish- ing go far to remove it from the do- main of sport to that of business. Here, side by side, lie the book of salmon flies and a box of tiny duns and spinners for dry-fly fishing. In them- selves they embody the contention of theories: up-stream or down-stream fishing, close imitation or colorology, sunk-fly or dry-fly. Warm discussion, earnest disputes, hot words almost (strange accompaniments of the gentle art ), have been stirred up by them, and all needlessly. The dissension is more about names than facts. Under the one title of fly-fishing have been confused fly-fishing proper and what, for the sake of a name, I have called feather-baiting. In both the lure is similar as to materials and structure, but the latter method in its principles and practice resembles fly - fishing proper no more than it does minnow - casting. In fact, the fly-minnow, or Alexan- dra, would serve very well as a type of this style of fishing. Between the two styles are many intermediate shades, but typical examples only are taken for illustration. By fly - fishing proper I mean the method of the purist as practised, let us say, upon a Hampshire chalk-stream, with water clear and fine. As nearly as painstaking search for materials and exactness in tying can avail, his flies are reproductions in size, shape, and color of the actual insects usually found upon the stream to be fished. They are indeed marvels of delicate imitation. Upon the finest of casting lines he places usually but one fly, in order that it may float down stream in the most natural manner possible. Nor will he indulge in any aimless casting, any chuck-and-chance-it work, as he would style it. Patiently he awaits the rising of a, feeding fish, marks its place as accurately as he can, gets well below and casts his fly, still dry, as lightly as he is able, above the point marked and allows it to float without tug or strain jauntily down stream until it passes over the fish. If it is not taken it is dried by a few casts in the air and again put over the fish. If it is taken, there can be little doubt, not only from theory but from comparative experi- ments, that it is taken for the natural fly of which it is the avowed counter- feit. This is, I think, fly-fishing in the strict sense of the term. In such streams, with fish made wary by long experience, to use coarse flies, to cast carelessly, or even to fish down stream, would probably put every neighboring fish off its feed or drive it to the shelter of its hold. In our wilder waters such nicety is not yet necessary, and may even be less successful than less exact- GETTING OUT THE FLY-BOOKS. 31 ing methods. But where it is applic able, the writer can testify that it adds to the other pleasures of fly-fishing the charm that always attends delicacy of manipulation and certainty of aim. Note the differences between this kind of fly - fishing and the feather- baiting. Take a salmon - fly, for in- stance. It is a combination in a con- ventional shape, of colors the result of experience or experiment which resembles nothing which the maker ever saw in nature, and if, as some maintain, it is taken by the salmon, because it has seen something like it, that something was certainly not a nat- ural fly. The salmon-fly is usually cast as accurately and delicately as may be, of courseacross the current, and swings in a curve down to the fish, half or wholly submerged. Coming in such a manner it may possibly be taken for a larva, hardly for a fly, whatever be its color. What is true of the salmon- fly is at least equally true of all large flies which are intended to be worked sink and draw. While this method cannot in strictness be considered fly- fishing, there can be no doubt of its success. Trout are often so wild as to have no suspicion of guile, when they will seize any object which attracts their attention. If the water is big, turbulent, or turbid, only a large and showy lure will be visible. There were some pools in the Nipigon in its less frequented days, where the best suc- cess attended, not salmon-flies even, but bass-flies of extraordinary gaudiness and of a size to merit Fosters name of the American half-ounce. What they took the fly for, if for anything in particular, may be a matter of doubt; probably simply as a prey which might furnish food. More recently an ac- quaintance has told me that in a sea- son of low water, when disappointment had been universal, he had good success in this river with the use of midge-flies and light casts. This question, why the fly of th~ V salmon-fly type is taken, has been much discussed in connection with salmon- fishing. Formerly the belief, that salm- on never fed while in fresh water, complicated the inquiry. The con- trary being now well established, it is altogether probable that the fly is seized for examination as possible food. There is a curious difference between the ordinary behavior of a trout and a salmon. As a rule, a trout which takes a small fly apparently in mis- take for a living insect, rejects it al- most instantly if it can. The salmon, on the contrary, usually starts for his hold with the fly in his mouth to ex- amine it there, possibly because of a habit acquired while feeding upon crustacea in the sea. Whether a fresh-run fish takes a fly, or any given fly, on account of its resemblance in the water to some kind of food known at sea, is one of the open questions. But after the fish have been some time in fished water they become usually much more wary. It is interesting to watch their behavior, which seems sometimes to be the result of simple curiosity, or possibly of a halting be- tween hunger and a timidity born of experience. For instance, casting over a pool in which the fish were easily seen, I have had a pair lying near each other rise cautiously to inspect each new fly; rarely would they come twice to the same one. The keen-eyed gaffer in his wrath, as they circled around each and retired, exclaimed, Confound them! They dont mean to take it; they start from the bottom with their mouths shut. After a fish has run the gauntlet of a score or two of pools it becomes very knowing and few flies will move it. I recall a suc- cess with a fly tied with the avowed purpose of presenting an outr6 coin- bination which would certainly be un- familiar. It is hard, as has been said, to be sure whether in such cases it be curiosity or chastened greed that excites the fish. In some cases it must certainly be the latter. For in- stance, for a week the many and tanta- lizingly visible occupants of the Hos- pital poolill-omened nameresisted all the blandishments of my friend and myself, when one evening unexpectedly they began rising very cautiously, fol- lowing the fly as it went down stream, and only touching it as it was being drawn up for the back cast, as if the evi- dence of its departure excited them irre- sistibly to embrace a last chance. But 32 GETTING OUT THE FLY-BOOKS. whatever this motive be, it probably ac- gathered by the suifrages of universal counts for multitudes of instances in experience, and to it from year to year which somebodys fancy, tied on the others are elevated. But the steady spot, brings up fish after all the stand- way in which these standard patterns ard favorites have proved worthless. displace the special ones from their own This success of the aforesaid fancies is strongholds forces one to believe that too often for this occasion only. the latter had usually little else than But there again are instances which tradition and local pride in their favor. lead to the belief that the fish some- Exceptionally, some peculiarity of light times rises through anger, aversion, or and water will give a real advantage to a desire to attack and drive away the fly. a local favorite, and when this advantage Here it is possible that a resemblance is associated with some singularity of is seen to something which has else- color or structure, it is quite possible where been an annoyance. Sometimes that the fly may resemble something the reason of the anger is evident, as known as food or as an enemy to the when a heavy male salmon makes open- salmon. But if one takes a dozen or jawed rushes at the casting-line which twenty approved standard patterns he holds his mate captive. But ordinarily cannot fail to notice that every one has the reason of the attraction or annoy- some peculiarityas brilliancy, striking ance excited by a fly must be merely a color, or strong contrastthat makes matter of conjecture. A friend of the it an object likely to attract attention writer, a very skilful and observant an- in the water. gler, relates the following instance: On The pleasures of fly-fishing are not one of those depressing days in which confined to those who have access to salmon are very abundant, plainly visi- trout brooks and salmon rivers. The ble and absolutely indifferent to the widespread black bass readily takes the anglers solicitation, he laid down his fly, and many humbler fish, such as rod and for experiments sake dragged chub and sunfish, give good sport if the or floated over the head of an accessible tackle be suitably light. Indeed, almost fish various salmon-flies fastened to a any fish that feeds near the surface will cord. One fly after another passed ap- take the moving sunken fly, whether in parently unnoticed, certainly unheeded, fresh or salt water. The resources of until the Jock Scott was used. Then the fisherman are much increased in the fish seemed to be uneasy. The ex- the South by the use of the fly in shal- periment was repeated several times, low bays, harbors, and lagoons. Game and as often as this fly came over him fish of large size and excellent quality his ordinary indifference gave place to are thus taken in abundance. In the disturbance; he would move himself, North the pollack, the various herrings, often turning his head away or moving shad, and white perch are among the sidewise, until the fly had passed. most interesting of the fish to be so ta- Whether this dislike was due to a re- ken. Young bluefish in tideways give semblance of the fly to something else, excellent sport, but their teeth are so or to a recollection of an unpleasant destructive that a material stouter than struggle with si~ich a fly, can only be featherssuch as bright-colored flan- guessed. The sporting of salmon with nelis needed to form the lure, if it is leaves which float down stream, and with to last. the appearance of which they must be The fly - books are still full of un- quite familiar, seems to be due to pure touched heads of discourse, yet let frolic, like the circling walk-arounds us close them with but this remark: of leaping trout sometimes seen in an that he who ties his own flies and makes eddy. his own rods and tackle will have a About sjecial flies this article has keener personal interest in his pastime nothing to say. Out of the enormous and give it an additional pleasure which list of special patterns of salmon-flies he may enjoy in the long winter even- pertaining to various rivers, a certain ings when the weary man craves a light peerage of general flies has been amusement. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich. A STORY RE~TOLD.* ABOVE an ancient book, with a knights crest In tarnished gold on either cover stamped, She leaned, and reada chronicle it was In which the sound of hautboys stirred the pulse, And masques and gilded pageants fed the eye. Though here and there the vellum page was stained Sanguine with battle, chiefly it was love The stylus heldsome wan-cheeked scribe, perchance, That in a mouldy tower by candle-light Forgot his hunger in his madrigals. Outside was winter; in its winding-sheet The frozen Year lay. Silent was the room, Save when the wind against the casement pressed Or a page rustled, turned impatiently, Or when along the still damp apple-wood A little flame ran that chirped like a bird Some wrens ghost haunting the familiar bough. With parted lips, in which less color lived Than paints the pale tea-rose, she leaned and read. From time to time her fingers unawares Closed on the palm; and oft upon her cheek The pallor died, and left such transient glow As might from some rich chapel window fall On a girls cheek at prayer. So moved her soul, From this dull age unshackled and divorced, In far moon-haunted gardens of romance. But once the wind that swept the palsied oaks, As if new-pierced with sorrow, came and moaned Close by the casement; then she raised her eyes. See ScRIENERS MAGAZINE for January, 1888. WHITE EDITH.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Aldrich, Thomas Bailey White Edith - A Story Re-Told 33-37

By Thomas Bailey Aldrich. A STORY RE~TOLD.* ABOVE an ancient book, with a knights crest In tarnished gold on either cover stamped, She leaned, and reada chronicle it was In which the sound of hautboys stirred the pulse, And masques and gilded pageants fed the eye. Though here and there the vellum page was stained Sanguine with battle, chiefly it was love The stylus heldsome wan-cheeked scribe, perchance, That in a mouldy tower by candle-light Forgot his hunger in his madrigals. Outside was winter; in its winding-sheet The frozen Year lay. Silent was the room, Save when the wind against the casement pressed Or a page rustled, turned impatiently, Or when along the still damp apple-wood A little flame ran that chirped like a bird Some wrens ghost haunting the familiar bough. With parted lips, in which less color lived Than paints the pale tea-rose, she leaned and read. From time to time her fingers unawares Closed on the palm; and oft upon her cheek The pallor died, and left such transient glow As might from some rich chapel window fall On a girls cheek at prayer. So moved her soul, From this dull age unshackled and divorced, In far moon-haunted gardens of romance. But once the wind that swept the palsied oaks, As if new-pierced with sorrow, came and moaned Close by the casement; then she raised her eyes. See ScRIENERS MAGAZINE for January, 1888. WHITE EDITH. 34 WHITE EDITH. The light of dreams still fringed them while she spoke: I pray you tell me, does this book say true? Is it so fine a thing to be a queen? As if a spell of incantation dwelt In those soft syllables, before me stood, Colored like life, the phantasm of a maid Who in the childhood of this wrinkled world Was crowned by error, or through dark intent Made queen, and for the durance of one day The royal diadem and ermine wore. In strange sort worefor this queen fed the starved, The naked clothed, threw open dungeon doors; Could to no story list of suffering But the full tear was lovely on her lash; Taught Grief to smile, and black Despair to hope; Upon her stainless bosom pillowed Sin Repentant at her feetlike Him of old; Made even the kerns and wild-men of the fells, Drawn thither sniffing pillage in the air, Gentler than doves by some unknown white art, And saying to herself, So, I am Queen! With lip all tremulous, reached out her hand To the crowds kiss. What joy to ease the hurt Of bruis~d hearts! As in a trance she walked That live-long day. Then night came, and the stars, And blissful sleep. But ere the birds were called By bluebell chimes (unheard of mortal ear) To matins in their branch-hung priories Ere yet the dawn its gleaming edge lay bare Like to the burnished axes subtle edge, She, from her sleeps caresses roughly torn, The meek eyes blinking in the torches glare, Upon a scaffold for her glory paid The roses on her cheek. For it befell That from the Northland there was come a prince, With a great clash of shields and trailing spears Through the black portals of the breathless night, To claim the sceptre. He no less would take Than those same roses for his usury. What less, in faith! The throne was rightly his Of that sea-girdled isle: so to the block Forthwith the ringlets and the slender throat. A touch of steel, a sudden darkness, then Blue Heaven and all the hymning angel-choir! W No tears for herkeep tears for those who live To mate with sin and shame, and have remorse At last to light them to unhallowed earth. Hers no such low-hung fortunes. Once to stand WHITE EDITH. 35 At her souls height in that celestial air, With no hoarse raven croaking in ones ear The coming doom, and then to have lifes rose Struck swiftly from the cheek, and thus escape Loves death, black treason, friends ingratitude, The pang of separation, chili of age, The grief that in an empty cradle lies, And all the unspoke sorrow women know That were, in truth, to have a happy reign! Has thine been happier, Sovereign of the Sea, In that long-mateless pilgrimage to death? Or thine, whose beauty like a star illumed Awhile the dark and angry sky of France, Thy kingdom shrunken to two exiled graves? Sweet old-world maid, a gentler fate was yours! Would he had wed your story to his verse Who from the misty land of legend brought Helen of Troy to gladden English eyes. Theres many a queen that lived her grandeur out, Gray-haired and broken, might have envied you, Your Majesty, that reigned a single day! All this, between two heart-beats, as it were, Flashed through my mind, so lightning-like is thought. With lifted eyes expectant, there she sat Whose words had sent my fancy over-seas, Her lip still trembling with its own soft speech, As for a moment trembles the curved spray Whence some winged melody has taken flight. How every circumstance of time and place Upon the glass of memory lives again ! The bleak New England road; the level boughs Like bars of iron across the setting sun; The gray ribbed clouds piled up against the West; The windows splashed with frost; the fire-lit room, And in the antique chair that slight girl-shape, The auburn braid about the saintly brows Making a nimbus, and she white as snow! Dear Heart, I said, the humblest place is best For gentle soulsthe thrones foot, not the throne. The storms that smite the dizzy solitudes Where monarchs sitmost lonely folk are they ! Oft leave the vale unscathed; there dwells content, If so content have habitation here. Never have I in annals read or rhyme Of queen save one that found not at the end The cup too bitter; never queen save one, 36 WHITE EDITH. And sheher empire lasted but a day! Yet that brief breath of time did she so fill With mercy, love, and holiest charity, As more rich made it than long drawn-out years Of such weed-life as drinks the lavish sun And rots unflowerd. Straight tell me of that queen! Cried Edith: Brunhild, in my legend here, Is lovelywas that other still more fair? And had she not a Siegfried at the court To steal her talisman ?that Siegfried did. Yet Kriemhild wed him. Was your queen not loved? Tell me it all I,, With chin upon her palm She listened, ever in her ardent eyes The sapphire deepening as I told the tale Of that girl-empress in the dawn of Time A flower that on the vermeil brink of May Died, with its folded whiteness for a shroud; A strain of music that, ere it was mixed With baser voices, floated up to heaven! Without was silence, for the wind was spent That all the day had pleaded at the door. Against the rosy sunset the gaunt oaks Stood black and motionless; among the boughs The sad wind slumbered. Silent was the room, Save when from out the crumbling apple branch Came the wrens twitter, faint, and fainter now, Like a birds note far heard in woodlands dim. No word was spoken. Presently a hand Stole into mine, and rested there, inert, Like some new-gathered snowy hyacinth, So white and cold and delicate it was. I know not what dark shadow crossed my heart, What vague presentiment, but as I stooped To lift the fragile fingers to my lip, I saw it through a mist of strangest tears The thin white hand invisible Death had touched! w THE ART OF RAVENNA. By E. H. and E. W. Blashfield. THE traveller who to-day goes from Rome to Florence by rail, through the noble mountains of Tuscany and Um- bria, bridges in a seven-hours journey a gap of ten centuries in the history of art. He leaves behind him the temples and arches, the Yaticans marble popu- lation of half-nude gods and heroes; he comes to medi~eval towers, to saints and virgins, and the frescoed folk of the four- teenth century swathed in their heavy VOL. XII.5 garments. The abrupt transition be- wilders him, the sudden change in his artistic surroundings is almost inexplic- able. How did it come to pass? The gods and athletes did not all die at once, nor the saints spring fully armed with attribute and symbol from the brain of Giotto ; surely there was some inter- mediate period of anticipation and rec- ollection when these incongruous ele- ments were slowly fused together, and

E. H. Blashfield Blashfield, E. H. E. W. Blashfield Blashfield, E. W. The Art Of Ravenna 37-57

THE ART OF RAVENNA. By E. H. and E. W. Blashfield. THE traveller who to-day goes from Rome to Florence by rail, through the noble mountains of Tuscany and Um- bria, bridges in a seven-hours journey a gap of ten centuries in the history of art. He leaves behind him the temples and arches, the Yaticans marble popu- lation of half-nude gods and heroes; he comes to medi~eval towers, to saints and virgins, and the frescoed folk of the four- teenth century swathed in their heavy VOL. XII.5 garments. The abrupt transition be- wilders him, the sudden change in his artistic surroundings is almost inexplic- able. How did it come to pass? The gods and athletes did not all die at once, nor the saints spring fully armed with attribute and symbol from the brain of Giotto ; surely there was some inter- mediate period of anticipation and rec- ollection when these incongruous ele- ments were slowly fused together, and 38 THE APT OF RAVENNA. the Arts, who illus- trates for all time the name of her asylum. In those days iRavenna was still a port; but the sea, which made her greatness, has by receding de- stroyed her politi- cal importance, thus leaving her to hold the more surely, in her slow decay, the build- ings of a time which she alone among cities fully representsa time when pictorial Christian art had just emerged from her prenatal con- dition of the cata- combs into the light of imperial favor, and the ar- chitecture of the Roman was begin- ning to be that of the Christian. Thus iRavenna be- came the splendid reliquary which preserved the dry bones of antique art, to be quick- ened by the breath of the Renaissance. A unique link in the chain, she is the anomaly of Italian towns a when some dim projection of the mcdi- city of antitheses; of pure water in the ~eval saint stood side by side with a fast- midst of poisonous marshes, of impreg- fading memory of the antique demi-god. nable refuge among treacherous mo- To find the vanished centuries that rasses. wrought this transformation, one must Saved and lifted to high fortune by ride northeast for seven hours more to her submerged territory, when all Italy the Adriatic marshes. elsewhere sunk under the waves of bar- Fourteen hundred years ago, when It- barian invasion; guarded, not besieged, aly flamed behind the horsemen of Al- by the pestilence which walked without aric, the Emperor Honorius fled to the her walls, she is antithetical even in su- strongest city in the land, Ravenna; perficial appearance, and until our own and with his corrupt and motley court times. Without are mean streets and went one noble fugitive, the genius of rough fa~ades; within, color and splen A Ravennese Gentleman. (Interior of San Apollinare Nuovo.) THE ART OF RAVENNA~ 39 dor; advanced radicalism to-day has usurped the stronghold of Greek hier archy; upon her friezes are The gaunt and wasted faces of the Byzantine wom- en, and in her thoroughfares are the most beautiful of Italian girls. Ravenna is the end of the old, the be- ginning of the new. Toward Rome all ancient history tends, from Rome all modern history springs; but here for a brief moment the broad current of his- tory was dammed up into this little space, then ebbing away, even as the Adriatic has done, it left Ravenna full of strange, stranded monuments of a time that has elsewhere been swept out upon the tide into the ocean of oblivion. Among the graves of the buried past, the sarcoph The Tribune of the Princesses in St. Vitalius. 40 THE ART OF RAVENNA. agi of exarchs, captains, and priests, which lie scattered in the churches and the streetswaifs from the shipwreck of Italy when Alaric burst upon her are the sepulchres and effigies of three rulers who epitomize the art - history of the city: of Galla Placidia, the con- quered Roman princess, who subjugated in her turn and married her captor, and preserved to iRavenna what remained of old-time splendor; of Theodoric the Ostrogoth, who infused the vigor of the north into worn-out forms; of Justin- ian the Emperor, who dowered the city with the art heritage of the Greek. The mausoleum of Placidia and the Baptis- tery represent the first of the three groups into which the buildings of the city fall; those remains of the Theodo- sian epoch being followed by the works of the Ostrogothic period, San Apolli- nare Nuovo and the tomb of Theodoric; while the last group, that of Justinian, boasts San Vitale and St. Apollinaris in the Fleet. The little mausoleum of Placidia may claim a first visit. There, for eleven hundred years, her body sat upright in jewelled cerements in her sarcophagus, and was the very type of her citys mission. For in IRavenna an- tique art grew rigid, swathed away in the embalming-cloths of conventionality, gilded and stiffened, mummied within the stone-walls till eight centuries hav- ing rolled by the spirit of antiquity arose again and the chrysalis was forgotten, even as Gallas actual body crumbled in fire and ashes at a moment when the Renaissance had attained its full strength.* The little church is under the invocation of Saints Nazarius and Celsus, is only forty-six feet long by forty broad, and upon the outside might be taken for some house in which the workmen were wont to lay away their tools at night. Inside it is as if one had crept into the heart of a sapphire. Bluethe blue that glistens jewel-like on the peacocks neckis the prevailing color, with great gold disks and drink- ing stags and dull red borderings. Here one may put on the robe of a catechumen and be of a church which, tiny as is the building, stands erect at its full height, omnipotent over conquerors and con- quered, among pagans to be dispersed and barbarians to be converted. Upon its vaults and friezes, as upon the leaves of a missal, Christianity has written in jewelled letters for all men to read, and in the midst of a tottering world this new handwriting on the wall appeared to the Belshazzar of the Roman decadence. To read it to-day some of Eleve centuries Galla sat in state, diademed and jewelled, in the darkness; but in 15IT some children peering throuch an aperture in her sarcophagus, wishing to see betterf thrust in a lighted brand, and she was burnedrobes, cypress-wood chair, and alla strangely grotesque ending of this grim memorial; for, with nfl its beauty, her little church stands as a monume t to three invasions, and to the beginning of such slanghter, mis- ery, and depopulation as the world has not seen before or since. The Column of St. Mark. DRAWN BY E. H. BLASHFIELD. ENGRAVED NY T. H. HEARD. Way fDr the PrWfact. 42 THE ART OF RAVENNA. the historical conditions of the time must be studied. The earlier Ca~sars and the founders of the Church had alike been in their graves for nearly four cen- turies; but the Roman empire had de- cayed and fallen, while the persecuted Church of Christ had arisen, though with a strangely altered spirit, to a mighty stature. These mosaic pictures expressed the momentous changes of their time, and a new art was announced in their forms and colors. Of the epoch which, reach- ing from about 400 A.D. to 565, includes the buildings of Galla, Theodoric, and Justinian, Byzantium was the real the- atre, Ravenna only an echo, but an echo which has come to us clear and distinct, while the voice of the parent city has been almost lost in the tumult of the crusades and of the Turkish conquest. The age was one of disintegration, yet one in which particles were beginning to crystallize into new and lasting shapes the blood of the empire, poisoned by luxury and tyranny, was drained by the sword of the sectary within, of the bar- barian without. Theologians massacred each other for the difference of a letter in the alphabet; the factions of the chariot races slew one another in the hippodrome and divided the whole city into two camps, while the Goth waited upon the frontier to destroy the survi- vors. Thousands of men, smitten with a strange madness, left family and coun- try and fled to the desert, to starve and pray and see visions, far from all human ties and duties. It was an age of saints and school- men, of petty emperors and great gen- erals. Ravenna, and Ravenna alone, has preserved it for us in the traces of that strange civilization of Constantinople which lingered on for a thousand years till the sword of the Moslem gave the death-blow to what had been so long in dying. Rome was no more, and with the founding of Constantinople a new order of things began. The city which rose upon the Bosphorus inherited the vices but not the virtues of paganism; the military spirit, the religious tolera- tion, the perfect administration of an- tique Rome disappeared. Outside, the barbarian was more frequently bribed than driven from the frontier, alternately betrayed and defended by venal gener- als. The city, unmindful of its danger, abandoned itself to its passion for brawl- ing and chattering. The strife of the ri- val chariot factionsthe greens and the blues filled the streets with bloody tumult and shook the throne itself. Only second in popular interest were the religious dissensions, and all classes, from the Emperor to the fisherman, joined in these struggles. The subtle Greek intellect ever given to word- spinning seized upon the dogmas of the new faith, tore them to shreds, pieced them together again, broidered them over with new devices, and, like Penel- ope of old, spent days and nights in weaving and ravelling the tangled web of theology. The Sophists rose to life again in the heresiarchs and churchmen, and there came no new Socrates to si- lence them. Disputation grew deadly. What had been mere difference of opin- ion with those who were but seekers after truth, became matter of life and death with those who arrogantly claimed to have found the truth. The annals of the time are filled with these fierce outbursts of sectarian ha- tred, mad riots, o~cumenical councils packed with armed ruffians, and savage Nitrian monks, where, after the inevita- ble violence and bloodshed, a heavy bribe to the Emperors cook or chief eunuch settled the doctrinal point at issue. For the Emperor was grand in- quisitor in matters of faith, the Empress not inactive, and more than once, to quote the words of Cyril, the holy Vir- gin of the court of heaven found an ad- vocate in the holy Virgin of the court of Constantinople. The citizen who had left far behind him the days of the palestra and the academy, now decked in curiously em- broidered garments and loaded with jewels passed his time in the circus, an eager partisan of the greens or blues, tarred on his favorite bishop in the hotter strife of the synod, applauded some popular preacher in the churches, or, stripped of his adornments, walked barefoot in penitential procession. The schools of philosophy were closed, and human reason, lulled to sleep by forrnulce, dreamed fitfully or muttered incoherently in nightmare creed quar V Yesterday and to-day. Altar front of fifth century in San Francescostill serving for the daily mass. [Printed in American fliustration of To-day, Vol. XI.] 4zt THE ART OF RAVENNA. rels. The Church was the great career open to ambition, and human energy rushed impetuously into the new chan- neL The artists were now enlisted in its service. Through its first centuries of faith and charity Christian dogma was so simple, its ideal so constantly present in mens minds, that no palpable image was needed to explain the one or recall the other; but in the later days of dogmatic definition, when the Church- men were tying up their faith in ortho- dox packets, the artists were required to label them with all the quaint figures of ecclesiastical heraldry. Pictures are the books of the ignorant, said St. Augustine, and to teach the ignorant the Church used them, clothing the teach- ing, as did her founder, in the garb of symbolism, a language that could be un- derstood by the barbarian and the slave. But in what material should these eter- nal truths be expressed? Painting and sculpture were pagan and aristocratic, governed entirely by antique tradition devils inhabited the statues of heathen gods, and before the image of the Em- peror many a Christian had gone to mar- tyrdom. There remained a minor art unpolluted by heathen worship, used for merely decorative purposes to ornament a fountain, line a niche, or enliven a pave- ment. This could be safely employed without evoking comparisons in the In the Quarter of the Fleet. THE ART OP RAVENNA 45 minds of the less devout or more artistic worshippers. Just as a converted heathen slave might rise from one church dignity to another, until he ascended the bishops throne, so mosaicat first, a cheerful household decorationwhen Christianized, became solemnhieratic, exchanged its dress of simple colors for a gorgeous robe of purple and gold, climbed to church-wall and dome, and there set forth the mysteries of the faith and the glories of heaven. Yet this new art was pagan in form and feeling; as the fathers of the Church imitated the language of Plato and Seneca, so the Christian artist borrowed the imagery of paganism for the service of his faith. It was the spirit of antiquity that animated him; its serenity, its cheer- ful acceptance of inevitable law, its keen sense of the beauty of life were strong within him as he carved the sarcophagus or decorated the apse. There were no images of suffering or punishment, no crucifixion, no last judgment, not even a martyrdom, though the young Church was still ruddy from her baptism of blood. When later the art that had its humble origin in the night of the catacombs flourished in an imperial city on the walls of mighty basilicas its spirit was unchanged. The conversion of Rome had left it unconverted. Greek example, Greek modera- tion still guided the artists hand, for the true artist is ever half a pagan. So, fraught with a new meaning, the imagery of paganism found ready welcome within the Church. Here we still see the vintage trodden out by loves, only now it is the vintage of the Lord; the winged funeral genii become guardian angels of Ambassadors to C oar. the Christians tomb; the crown of the Emperor the re- ward of the blessed; the palm of the victorious athlete the martyrs emblem. The goddesses yield their attributes the dove becomes the visible sign of the Holy Spirit; Junos peacock the symbol of immortality ; Dianas stag the hart of the Psalmist; and as in these same mosaics the Magi bring gifts to the Mother of God, so each dethroned goddess pays tribute to the new Queen of Heaven. Dianas crescent, Minervas serpent, lie beneath her feet; Cybele gives the chair of state, Circe the aureole, Juno the matrons veil and 46 THE ART OF RAVENNA. crown, Flora her roses and lilies, and Isis places the Divine Child in Marys arms. Here even are the heroes of Greek myth, chosen for some likeness to the founder of Christianity: Mercury leading the spirits of the departed; Orpheus, who descended into hell to save a soul, and who draws all men to him by the power of music; Hercules, who came into the world to punish the wicked, to deliver the oppressed, to do the tasks and bear the burdens of others. In this Chris- tianized Pantheon the only purely new symbols are the fish, the monogram of Christ, the cross, the ship struggling through the waves, and the lamb. The good shepherdloveliest figure of all was a precious heritage from Greece. When later historic scenes were in- troduced the same antique spirit char- acterized them. The artists childhood might have thrilled at his grandfathers tales of the blood and martyrdom of Diocletians time; his eyes might have looked with pride at the marks of tor- ture for the faith existent upon the limbs of some old house-servant, yet when he made his cartoon for the mosaic he put upon it Daniel among the lions, the sacrifice of Isaac, the children un- harmed amid the flames, but no more intemperate or realistic allusion to the persecutions which filled the records of the Church. Tradition was strong within him, and the artist of Ravenna had not lost its dignity and self-restraint. Outside the mad controversialists might riot Donatist ruffians clubbing to death in default of the steel their creed for- bade themsticks and stones a-flying; but in- side the arches of the Baptistery, at his quiet work, the artist in- stinctively resisted the bigotry and intoler- ance of his epoch. Only one ominous fig- ure in the tomb of Placidia shows the schisms that were di- viding the Church the figure of the Say- iour burning the her- etical books. By an unconscious irony it is placed directly oppo- site the benign image of the Good Shepherd, and the two conflict- ing aspects of Chris- tianityits bitter in- tolerance and its loving charityconfront each other in this narrow space. The sun of Greek art was setting, but it still shone upon Ravenna. The mosaic- ist of San Apollinare saw about him in the streets the stiff- robed Byzantines; but he had seen, too, the pagan temples with their friezes and tympana, and their figures clad in sim- ple sweeping draperies, so that his long Tne Crypt of San Francesco. V THE APT OF RAVENNA. procession of virgins and martyrs moved in measured harmonies like the ephebo~ and canephor~e of the Parthenon. The grand white - robed angels, the brown- locked, beardless Christ of the apse were calm and stately, line and mass were still noble; beauty had passed away, but an- tique dignity had survived the sack of Rome, and in a fallen Greece the mem- ory of the Zeus at Olympia had not yet quite faded. But it was only a tradition, not a liv- ing reality. Tradition taught the artist a certain grandeur of composition, a conventional position of head and hands, a good treatment of the general lines of the drapery; but it could do no more for him. There was no body under the drapery, no muscles to move the head or raise the hands. The face was a weak- ened copy of the antique type, the era- niuin shrunken and elongated; the great Rain-bound Under the Porch of St. Viteline. DRAWN BY E. H. BLASHFIELD. ENGRAVED BY H. WOLF. A Votive Offeringto St. Vitelius. Costume of Byzantine Empress of sixth century. THE ART OF RAVENNA. 49 hollow eyes and pinched lips had no life in them. They could not move. What Medusa of decadence had stricken these people to stone? what had so changed the type, so utterly transformed the ideal of the artist? Where were the ath- letes, the gods, the goddesses, he loved so well, and how came these hollow-eyed wraiths in their place? Was it inca- pacity of the artist or degeneracy of the models? It was both, as the history and conditions of Byzantium tell us. The Greek of Pericless day, when he carved a god or an athlete, went to the gymna- sium or palestra and found his model in the youths who flashed by in the foot- race; watched the evenly developed muscles strain and rise and fall in the tug of the wrestling bout; talked with the panting ephebos as he scraped the dusty oil from the limbs that were to be translated into marble. He found the long folds of his drap- eries in the sweep of the proces3ion, his faun or Bacchante in the rhythmical changes of the choragic dance, and his fellow-citizens were his best models; his work was patriotic, ethical; art was yet in the service of religiona grate- ful service, for the gods of that religion were idealized and deified mortals. In superior strength and beauty was their godhood made manifest, and these es- sential attributes could be expressed in marble. Thus to the Greek the statue of his god was at once ethical and ~esthetic. Ethicalfor the Hermes of the pakestra spoke eloquently to the Greek youth: Exercise, be temperate, be patient, give your country a good soldier. 2Esthetic for the Greek had a love for the beauty of the human body unique in the history of art, and as beauty was to him the visible expression of the good, so a well-developed body was the high- est form of beauty. Compare these con- ditions with those of Byzantium in the sixth century. Of the Byzantine ar- tist was required something which can- not be expressed by form or color. A new religion had arisen, which, far from honoring the body, regarded it as an instrument of shame and deg- radation, its corporal instincts as temp- tations of the devil, its strength and beauty as a snare; the flesh was to be moriified by fasting and penance. VOL. XII.6 To the fathers of the Church it was a sin to frequent the baths or throw the discus; better in unwashed sanctity to throw stones at heretic Arians. Greek temperance, Roman self - control had yielded to the fanaticism which filled the desert with many a Laura, emptying the camp and the gymnasium. The world was changed, the hardy legionary had become the gilded soldier of Honoriuss palace or the undisciplined Gothic mer- cenaryservant to-day, master to-mor- row; the calm athlete, with limbs bronzed in the healthful sun of the pala~stra, was replaced by the maccrated ascetic, black- ened and burned in the scorching African desert, and the tranquil beauty of the Greek statue gave way to the self-tor- turing genufiections of Stylites upon his pillar. The body was to be reduced till it became a semi-transparent envelope for the soul, a slender bond to hold the aspiring spirit to earth, and the plastic arts soon felt the influence of this as- ceticism. The artists were required to give tangible form to the new ideaL To this task they were inadequate; ex- pression, dramatic movement, strong personality they could not achieve; they could only diminish and attenuate. The body had to be covered, and they soon forgot how the members of this covered body were put together. Costume, too, had become stiff and formaL Instead of the clinging draperies of antiquity, that showed the muscles under their folds, the Byzantines loaded themselves with heavy robes of gold embroidery, or when they wore thin tis- sues covered them with whole Bible stories in needlework that falsified all natural lines. The simple mantle shrank to a cape or scarf, clumsy and stiff with jewels, and the swathed body became a mere prop for a mass of brocade and gems. Under such conditions the artists soon forgot the lessons of the past; each new figure was but a weakened copy of some forerunners copy, and, as at Mount Athos or in modern Russia, art-work was taught by certain well-known and un- changeable formuhe. But while art be- came degraded in form it grew glorious in color. This color was the gift of the East to the western world; oriental sub- tlety filled the intellectual atmospherea 50 THE ART OF RAVENNA. oriental color-feeling dominated the aes- thetic sense, and the sun of Greek art, which rose white and clear in the East, set in the purple and crimson that live upon the walls of IRavenna. After Gallas mausoleum and the Bap- tistery, also of the Theodosian epoch, and which was repaired as early as 451 A.D., in the history of Ravenna we follow the fortunes of those Goths who were the eastern brothers of Placidias Ataulf, and come to San Apollinare. The ba- silica lifts its ugly front of blackened brick, flanked by a simple round tower, and giving no hint of its interior beauty. Within it is difficult to con- ceive of anything more delightful to the eye than its gold scroll-work upon blue, its dull red upon gold. There are in the world few richer decorations than the frieze of saints and virgins moving across the solemn color of the church. It is a three-aisled, round- arched basilica, the friezes filling mag- nificently the place which developed in- to the triforium in later churches, while panels of mosaic cover the walls between the windows of the clear-story. New St. Apollinaris it is called. It was new nearly fourteen hundred years ago, and, as it rose, course upon course, above the house-tops, it saw in the distance the masts of the galleys in the port of Clas- sis, where later the bell-tower of the other church built to the same saint took their place. When Theodoric the heretic raised this golden house for his Arian bishops, Martinnot Apollinarisreceived the dedication, and in violet tunic still heads the procession of the saints. It was four hundred years later that fear of the Sar- acen caused the removal of the patrons bones from the Classis, and gave a new name to the church. In the earlier times, when its flooring was being laid, the sound of the purple shoes of the Em- perors of the West had hardly died away from the pavement of Ravenna, and after the Ostrogoths, when they were to come again on the feet of the exarchs of that Justinian and Theodora, who still blaze upon the walls of San Vitale. A little later and the floor of our basilica heard a very different tread, and rang to the mailed heels of Charlemagne. Seiz- ing both the shadow and the substance the great Charles took the crown and the prestige at Rome, the columns and the bass-reliefs at Raveuna; as guarded by Frankish soldiers wain after wain laden with the spoils of Theodorics palace, the white oxen of Emiia straining at the yoke, creaked away toward Ingel- heim and Aix-la-Chapelle. Franks and even Lombards were, however, still in the future when the Greek workmen on their scaffolding above the capitals stood before the growing frieze, labo- riously building with little cubes of gold and color this Palatium of Theo- done, this Classis with its towers and ships, shaping the magi and add- ing one virgin after another till the whole tale of twenty-two stood proces- sional and complete, facing the saints and patriarchs of the other side. He was a real artist this Greek, for he was of a real art epoch. When he worked upon the friezes, somewhere about the year 560, the founder of the church, Theodoric, had been long laid away under the giant monolith which covers his tomb, and his land had passed into the hand of the Byzantine Justinian, in whose city of Constantinople a true art- growth was stirring. There, in the new capital of the world, ideas as new as the city were springing up, and the nation was in that state of agitation and fer- ment at all times productive of great re- sults for good or evil. A double evolution was being accom- plished. From the theological counter- currents, the ideas of bishopsGreek, Latin, and Africanthe evolution of dog- ma; from the art experience of East and Westthe arcades of Spalato and of Syr- ia and the color-feeling of the oriental the evolution of a new architecture. The Greek had become master again in art. For five hundred years he had served the Roman, and now in throwing away his livery of service he threw away, too, all that false ornament which the Roman had borrowed from him, and falsified in the borrowing. The Greek was master once more, and he determined that his architectural ornament should be what it had always been in his time of free- domstructural. Not that he meant to raise temples and propylt3ea; he served a new God, and the new service had new needs, for which the vault of the Roman THE ART OF RAVENNA. 51 was admirably fitting. The arch, there- fore, he kept, and made the ruling prin- ciple. But the heavy cornices, which once under a roof protected nothing from arain which did not fall; the super- imposed orders, with their pediments and colonnettes, stuck unmeaningly up- on structural masonry he rejected un- hesitatingly, substituting surfaces with but slight projections, lightly though richly carved, where the columns were true weight-bearers, and there were no useless members. In color, too, he was an innovator. The ancient Greek, simple in his taste and restricted by comparative poverty, used delicately painted stuccoes upon his buildings. The wealthy Roman, quar- rying from the whole known world, replaced them with costly marbles, which he collected from the ends of the earth. The polished columns and in- crusted slabs would admit of no less lustrous fellowship in decoration; by the side of their splendid depth of tone stucco and painting in fresco looked poor and cheap. It was necessary to find a wall-covering equally rich and powerful in which the figures of saints, angels, and emperors, and the composi- tions from Bible history could be rep- resented. The chemistry of the earth had given the marbles, with their end- less variety. The Greek set to work the chemistry of the laboratory. With antimony, copper, tin, etc., he made slabs of glass almost as various as the marbles; then cutting them into little cubes he produced with them the richest artificial color in the world. Our Greek artist had thus risen supe- rior to the decadent citizens about him; perhaps he had stood in the crowd at the completion of Saint Sophia, and had heard Justinian exclaim, Solomon, I have outdone thee. Indeed, in that great church, with its wide reposeful curves and spaces, its cupola, its simple round arches springing directly from the capitals, its long rows of polished columns, he had given the typical ex- ample of an architecture which was to deeply influence the most solemn church interior in Italythat of Saint Marks of Veniceand to impress the German feeling so strongly as to give its own name of Byzantine to many a Rhenish church for many a century to come. So it is not enough to accredit Justinian with his great code and pandects, or even with the exploits of those prac- tically pious smuggler missionaries, the good old gentlemen who came journey- ing home from the far East with silk- worms packed in their walking-sticks. Besides the lawyer and manufacturer we recognized in him the art patron of the black-browed, close-curled artisan who stood upon the scaffold of this church. The patron of him, and of his many- sided brethren who busied themselves in the provision of art for all men: making costumes, Christian in their swathing of the body from head to foot, Greek in the transparency of their many-wrinkled tissue; making sculpture, which western monks borrowed long after they had become architects and builders for them- selves; providing eight centuries of Madonnas painted by receipt till Giotto tore up the prescription and made one for himself. Ravennas was an age of decadence, the end of the Roman empire; but it was also an age of beginnings of art propaganda, and the Greek artisan was the first of a series of proselytizers extending to Manuel Chrysoloras in the fifteenth century. San Vitale, founded 526, consecrated in 547, and supposed to be a derivation from the golden Tem- ple of Antioch, built by Constantine, is a typically Byzantine building and the antecedent of the church which Charle- magne raised at Aix-la-Chapelle. To the architect as builder it is interesting as the first western domed churchthe dome raised by Greek workmen long after Italy had forgotten the cunning which curved the cupola of the Pantheon and vaulted the baths of Caracalla. To the architect as decorative artist, and to all men, it is beautiful by reason of the wonderful mosaics which cover its choir from arch to pavement. It is hard to say enough of their unique color, which is not silvery and gray, like that of modern schools of painting; not tender like the IJmbrian, or warm and golden like that of the great Venetians, but deep, glowing, and solemn, like the tone of a bell or the thunder of an or- gan. There are the gold of Byzantium, the purple of Ca~sar, the blues and greens of the chariot factions. The walls glisten 52 THE ART OF RAVENNA. with a sheen like that on a peacocks neck, or the wings of a moth butterfly with tawny red like the rind of a pome- granate, the blue of the Persian tur- quoise melting imperceptibly into green, and orange glowing into red or darken- ing into purple. Even the delicate col- umns, coiffed with strange capitals, are more like Indian ivory than marble. To call it all an Aladdins cave would be to suggest the hard glitter of gems; this is rather a soft and solemn splendor. Still the place shines with gold, and may have suggested jewels to the imagina- lions of northern conquerors. The Korseman of Caisars Varangian Guard, as he looked into the royal mausoleum in the old times, when against the deep-toned mosaic Placidiass sarcopha- gus still glittered with its covering of silver plates, may well have thought that here indeed was the dwarfs work, here the dragons treasure, here the gnomes cavern of Scandinavian tradi- tion; and the crusading minnesinger may have echoed in his song of the Venus- berg his memories of the rich vaulting of St. Vitalius. In the discreet and skil- ful use of gold and in the toning of large masses these early mosaics far surpass those of St. Marks at Venice. Among the latter, many of the fifteenth and six- teenth centuries make spots upon their vast gold backgrounds, while even the earlier ones lack the dignity of the ex- amples at Ravenna. Gold predominates there also, but in smaller masses than at Venice, next comes dark blue, then a green, neither warm nor cold, graduated with a yellower green, a very beautiful creamy white, dull red, and a fine pur- plish brown follow in lesser quantities. The curious blunting of all angles by the little cubes, and the consequent lines of reflected light emphasizing the archi- tecture is a not altogether pleasing, but noticeable and essential effect in mosaic work. It is not too much to say that no decorative wall-covering can equal mosaic. In the first place, it is prac- tically imperishable; Michael Angelo affirmed that oil-painting was for women, and only fresco for men; but his master, Ghirlandajo, said well that mosaic was the true painting for eternity. The frescoed people of Lippi and Gozzoli flake and drop from the walls; the pan- els of the cinque-cento crack, and the tempera breaks away; the canvases of Giorgione and Tintoretto blacken and moulder, but Justinian and Theodora, upon the choir of San Vitale, shine as brightly as if Belisarius were still afield, and Varangers yet in harness guarding the palace of Constantinople. If you go up into the galleries you will find the cubes not a whit less fresh than those you buy now at Murano. Again, this glass pasteopaque, semi- opaque, and transparentis equalled in depth and richness by nothing ex- cept the finest stained glass. Lastly, in their bed of cement, made with pow- dered travertine and linseed-oil, the little cubes cannot be laid so that their faces shall be upon a perfectly level plane; the result is the varied tonality pro- duced by a thousand different degrees of reflection, giving an indescribable richness of surface; while the actual gradations are remarkable, masses which from below seem smooth spots of color, proving to be exquisite modulations running through twenty or more shades of green, or blue, or brown.* The main body of San Vitale has been restored in the true spirit of seventeenth-century bungling, and the painted rose gar- lands of the dome, a proof of how far human beings can be unperceiving of the fitting, moulder away in the damp- ness from the water which now and then rises stealthily upon the flooring of the church, as if it would reflect in homage the columns which, with their anchor- carved capitals are spoils from some an- tique temple of Neptunefoul water, however, and befitting the stricken fort- unes of the god. But the choir is splen- did from top to pavement, not an inch un- covered. With the instinct of true artists, who knew that in mosaic work it was all or nothing, and that no ordinary pigment could stand beside it, they have clothed the whole in a glittering jewelled mail, flowing over every jut and angle, the soft * During our last visit to Ravenna we were fortunate enough to climb to the very dome of thellaptistery, where workmen were putting supporting-irons into loosened portions of the mosaic. Seen close at hand, these mo- saics were wonderful in their freedom of treatment. The color was used almost as in a huge sketch painted with a full brush, and was, in the flesh tones, suggestive of the best Pompeian fresco work. In the great pictures of Theodora and Justinian at San Vitale, which we also examined on a scaffolding, and which are a centurylater. the handling is more serr6, the colors deeper and more solemn, but less atmospheric. THE ART OF RAVENNA. 53 color of which is yet an impenetrable ar- mor, hard enough to utterly resist the tooth of time, which has so gnawed the other portions of the church. On either side of the high altar the reflected gold of the vestments and groundwork glows dully like smoulderiug embers; indeed it is the final smouldering of antique art, from which a brand shall be snatched for the rekindling. But this glorious color ends by going to the head, like strong wine, and provoking all sorts of impossible analogies. Outside Ravenna dykes stretch be- tween fat rice-tields, where Sidonius s frogs still croak in the stagnant water; VOL. XIL7 Santa Maria in Portofuori, away out among the swamps, raises its towers, once a light-house to the Roman ships, still a Christopher to the devout peas- ant, and three miles of the old Flamin- ian way bring one to the church of St. Apollinare in Classethe last building of the great age of Ravenna. Less well preserved than its namesake of the city, it nevertheless has splendid mosaics, is big, solemn, utterly lonely, and cold with the damp of twelve hundred win- ters. In the apse and upon the tribune are saints, angels, and the faithful sheep of the church; and in the medallions Vittoria and Teresa. Types of the women of Ravenna, to-day. 54 THE ART OF RAVENNA. above the nave arches are the one hun- dred and thirty archbishops of Ravenna, a ghostly synod, still throning it over dead Christian quarrels, and sole sur- vivors of a busy port whose bits of sculptured marble are found in every cubic yard of the marsh mud. The bishops look down upon huge sar- cophagi, that seem to go processionally about the church, and in the spring upon the poisonous water which in- vades the nave, and with the scummy surface of its gilded pools appears to mock the color of the mosaics. There was none of the warm smell of incense and of candle-smoke in the bare basil- ica, and in spite of the sun that shone still through upper windows to comfort the grim bishops, all seemed so chill and earthy that one was glad to get away as the shadows climbed the yet ruddy tower, and the great, lonely church began to cover its rough brick- work with a cobwebby white robe of fever mist. After Justinian seven centuries of oblivion followed for Ravenna, when the greatest name of the Italian mid- dle ages, that of Dante, illustrated her again. He died here in exile, and the Piazza of San Francesco, where he lies buried, epitomizes iRavennaGreek, medi~eval, and Republican. There, in the pleasant sunlight under the Gothic arches, are the sarcophagi of early Christians, dispossessed now and ten- anted by Ravennese lords of the Middle Ages; opposite is the accredited house of Francesca da iRimini; Lord Byrons window is just beyond; at ones right is the tomb of Dante, and at ones left, loaded with wreaths, a memorial tablet to Mazzinithe Divine Comedy, Childe Harold, and the epop6e of modern Italian independence! Could one ask for richer suggestiveness of art and history? Under the church of San Francesco is a fine crypt, the stairs descend into deep green water, and in the transparent in- tervals of its scum-flaked surface the columns are seen going down into what looks a home for water - snakes and ugly crawling things. Within the church the paper roses of to-day decorate an altar of the fifth cen- tury with its beardless, Plniebus-like Christ, while opposite are splendid sarcophagi. These early Christian sarcophagi of Ravenna are a feature of the city; they stand in the streets and in the churches, and there are many at San Apollinare in Classe with the mo- tives of the mosaics re- peated upon them doves, stags, and lambs all enlaced in a tangle of vine and acanthus. We made several visits to IRavenna, and a pleasant web of modern interest Quel Pretini Those Priestlings. THE APT OF RAVENNA. 55 was interwoven with its antiquities, thanks to Mariano. We had not been fifteen minutes in the city the last time before Mariano constituted himself onr body-servant. He was thirteen years old, an orphan, a student in the life-class, a future sol- dier, and a present lover, telling us that he adored a young lady in the mantua- making business. He knew every sacristan in town, and the pretty girls who could be induced to sit for their portraits; never an old capital or inscription was found in re- pairing some church or house but he heard of it at once and hurried us there. Once in a church he was a good Catho- lic, like every Italian, but not ultra-de- vout. Quci pretini those priest- hugs, he said with a grin, as the pretty curly-haired acolytes filed up the aisle at Saint Francis. Take him altogether, with his republicanism, his dilettanteism, and his infant gallantry, he was young Havenna epitomized. He understood very well the difference between antique, early Christian, and cinque-cento, and talked to us glibly of Francesca da Rim- mi, Justinian, Byron, and Anita Garibaldi all at once. Anita is the heroine of IRa- venna. Flying with her husband in 1849 from the Austrian soldiery, she died of exposure and fa- tigue, and was bur- ied in the pine wood. The cabin where she breathed her last is religiously shown by the people, and they have erected a large monument to her in the city. The ap- pearance of Raven- nese streets is poor, almost miserable. There are a few IRe- naissance palaces, for Venice gave a sec- ond season of prosperity to the town, and it is still about the columns of Saint Mark that the city life centres. One of them was suggestive; a stone bishop stood at the top, below sat a workingman reading his paper, and behind him, plastered upon the shaft, were bill-posters urging all to vote for Cipriani, a candidate who had been in the galleys for his political opinions. The IRavennese, said an Italian ac- quaintance, are un popolo cattivo, which we read to be radical republi- can. We sat often in the large but dingy cafe by these columns, where Ma- riano ordered two-cent cups of coffee, with luxurious anticipativeness and con- fidence in our solvency, repaying us by much harmless gossip and by point- ing out the handsomest woman in the city. This was not an easy selection to make either, for in IRavenna we saw more lovely women than anywhere else in Italy; not occasional beauties as in other towns. They seemed to go about in threes and fours, all handsome, of a noble, round- chinned, straight-nosed type. Often and again when some door of church or bap- tistery was opened to us, a lovely dark head showed itself against a halo of gold mosaic, like a visible Madonna waiting to unlock for us Para- dise itself, instead of the gates of a Raven- nese basilica. With its art and its peo- ple, its dead past and its living mem- ories, one would will- ingly in the record of the Italian cities linger over the gor- geously emblazoned page whiii bears the name of IRavenna lAntica ; but, how- ever hurried, no lover of art should forego at least one visit to its churches, which, like the agate and onyx of the desert, rough-crusted and ugly without, are within all glorious. w DRAWN BY W. L. METCALF. That kind of an accident, naid hePage 69. By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. CHAPTER XXIV. business. I was so extraordinarily for- tunate as to find, in an old newspaper, A HAED BARGAIN. a report of the proceedings in Lyall v. The Cardiff illiutual Accommodation~ THE ship which thus appeared before Banking Co. I confess I fail entirely the castaways had long tramped the to understand the nature of the busi- ocean, wandering from one port to an- ness, the judge had remarked, while other as freights offered. She was two Trent was being examined in chief ; a lit- years out from London, by the Cape of tie after, on fuller information They Good Hope, India, and the Archipelago; call it a bank, he had opined, but it and was now bound for San Francisco seems to me to be an unlicensed pawn- in the hope of working homeward round shop; and he wound up with this ap- the Horn. Her captain was one Jacob palling allocution: Mr. Trent, I must Trent. He had retired some five years put you on your guard ; you must be very before to a suburban cottage, a patch of careful, or we shall see you here again. cabbages, a gig, and the conduct of In the inside of a week the captain dis- what he called a Bank. The name am posed of the bank, the cottage, and the pears to have been misleading. Bor- gig and horse; and to sea again in the rowers were accustomed to choose Flying Scud, where he did well and gave works of art and utility in the front high satisfaction to his owners. But shop; loaves of sugar and bolts of the glory clung to him; he was a plain broadcloth were deposited in pledge; sailor-man, he said, but he could never and it was a part of the managers duty long allow you to forget that he had to dash in his gig on Saturday evenings been a banker. from one small retailers to another, and His mate, Elias Goddedael, was a to annex in each the bulk of the weeks huge viking of a man, six feet three and takings. His was thus an active life, of proportionate mass, strong, sober, in- and to a man of the type of a rat, filled dustrious, musical, and sentimentaL He with recondite joys. An unexpected ran continually over into Swedish mel- loss, a law- suit, and the unintelligent odies, chiefly in the minor. He had commentary of the judge upon the paid nine dollars to hear Patti; to hear bench, combined to disgust him of the Nilsson, he had deserted a ship and two Copyright, 1891, by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. All rights reserved. VOL. XII.8 THE WRECKER.

Robert Louis Stevenson Stevenson, Robert Louis Lloyd Osbourne Osbourne, Lloyd The Wrecker 57-77

By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. CHAPTER XXIV. business. I was so extraordinarily for- tunate as to find, in an old newspaper, A HAED BARGAIN. a report of the proceedings in Lyall v. The Cardiff illiutual Accommodation~ THE ship which thus appeared before Banking Co. I confess I fail entirely the castaways had long tramped the to understand the nature of the busi- ocean, wandering from one port to an- ness, the judge had remarked, while other as freights offered. She was two Trent was being examined in chief ; a lit- years out from London, by the Cape of tie after, on fuller information They Good Hope, India, and the Archipelago; call it a bank, he had opined, but it and was now bound for San Francisco seems to me to be an unlicensed pawn- in the hope of working homeward round shop; and he wound up with this ap- the Horn. Her captain was one Jacob palling allocution: Mr. Trent, I must Trent. He had retired some five years put you on your guard ; you must be very before to a suburban cottage, a patch of careful, or we shall see you here again. cabbages, a gig, and the conduct of In the inside of a week the captain dis- what he called a Bank. The name am posed of the bank, the cottage, and the pears to have been misleading. Bor- gig and horse; and to sea again in the rowers were accustomed to choose Flying Scud, where he did well and gave works of art and utility in the front high satisfaction to his owners. But shop; loaves of sugar and bolts of the glory clung to him; he was a plain broadcloth were deposited in pledge; sailor-man, he said, but he could never and it was a part of the managers duty long allow you to forget that he had to dash in his gig on Saturday evenings been a banker. from one small retailers to another, and His mate, Elias Goddedael, was a to annex in each the bulk of the weeks huge viking of a man, six feet three and takings. His was thus an active life, of proportionate mass, strong, sober, in- and to a man of the type of a rat, filled dustrious, musical, and sentimentaL He with recondite joys. An unexpected ran continually over into Swedish mel- loss, a law- suit, and the unintelligent odies, chiefly in the minor. He had commentary of the judge upon the paid nine dollars to hear Patti; to hear bench, combined to disgust him of the Nilsson, he had deserted a ship and two Copyright, 1891, by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. All rights reserved. VOL. XII.8 THE WRECKER. 58 THE WRECKER. months wages; and he was ready at any time to walk ten miles for a good concert or seven to a reasonable play. On board he had three treasures: a can- ary bird, a concertina, and a blinding copy of the works of Shakespeare. He had a gift, peculiarly Scandinavian, of making friends at sight: an elemental innocence commended him; he was without fear, without reproach, and without money or the hope of making it. Holdorsen was second mate, and berthed aft, but messed usually with the hands. Of one more of the crew, some image lives. This was a foremast hand out of the Clyde, of the name of Brown. A small, dark, thickset creature, with dogs eyes, of a disposition incompara- bly mild and harmless, he knocked about seas and cities, the uncomplaining whip- top of one vice. The drink is my trouble, ye see, he said to Carthew, shyly; and its the more shame to me because Im come of very good people at Bowling down the waer. The letter that so much affected Nares, in case the reader should remember it, was ad- dressed to this man Brown. Such was the ship that now carried joy into the bosoms of the castaways. After the fatigue and the bestial emo- tions of their night of play, the ap- proach of salvation shook them from all self-control. Their hands trembled, their eyes shone, they laughed and shouted like children as they cleared their camp; and some one beginningto whistle Marching Through Georgia, the remainder of the packing was con- ducted, amidst a thousand interrup- tions, to these martial strains. But the strong head of Wicks was only partly turned. Boys, he said, easy all! Were going aboard of a ship of which we dont know nothing; weve got a chest of specie, and seeing the weight, we cant turn to and deny it. Now, sup- pose it was some kind of a Bully Hayes business! Its my opinion wed better be on hand with the pistols. Every man of the party but Hemstead had some kind of a revolver; these were accordingly loaded and disposed about the persons of the castaways, and the packing was resumed and finished in the same rapturous spirit as it was begun. The sun was not yet ten de- grees above the eastern sea, but the brig was already close in and hove to, before they had launched the boat and sped, shouting at the oars, toward the passage. It was blowing fresh outside with a strong send of sea. The spray flew in the oarsmens faces. They saw the Union Jack blow abroad from the Fly- ing Scud, the men clustered at the rail, the cook in the galley door, the captain on the quarter-deck with a pith helmet and binoculars. And the whole familiar business, the comfort, company, and safety of a ship, heaving nearer at each stroke, maddened them with joy. Wicks was the first to catch the line and swarm on board, helping hands grabbing him as he came and hauling him across the rail. Captain, sir, I suppose? he said, turning to the hard old man in the pith helmet. Captain Trent, sir, returned the old gentleman. Well, Im Captain Kirkup, and this is the crew of the Sydney schooner Currency Lass, dismasted at sea Janu- ary 28th. Ay, ay, said Trent. Well, youre all right now. Lucky for you I saw your signal. I didnt know I was so near this beastly island, there must be a drift to the southard here; and when I came on deck this morning at eight bells, I thought it was a ship afire. It had been agreed that, while Wicks was to board the ship and do the civil, the rest were to remain in the whale- boat and see the treasure safe. A tackle was passed down to them; to this they made fast the invaluable chest, and gave the word to heave. But the unexpected weight brought the hand at the tackle to a stand; two others ran to tail on and help him; and the thing caught the eye of Trent. Vast heaving! he cried sharply; and then to Wicks: Whats that? I dont ever remember to have seen a chest weigh like that. Its money, said Wicks. Its what? cried Trent. Specie, said Wicks; saved from the wreck. THE WRECKER. 59 Trent looked at him sharply. Here, let go that chest again, Mr. God- dedael, he commanded, shove the boat off, and stream her with a line astern. Ay, ay, sir! from GoddedaeL What the devils wrong? asked Wicks. Nothing, I daresay, returned Trent. But youll allow its a queer thing when a boat turns up in mid-ocean with half a ton of specieand everybody armed, he added, pointing to Wicks pocket. Your boat will lay comfort- ably astern, while you come below and make yourself satisfactory. 0, if thats all I said Wicks. My log and papers are as right as the mail; nothing fishy about us. And he hailed his friends in the boat, bidding them have patience, and turned to follow Captain Trent. This way, Captain Kirkup, said the latter. And dont blame a man for too much caution; no offence intended; and these China rivers shake a fellows nerve. All I want is just to see youre what you say you are; its only my duty, sir, and what you would do your- self in the circumstances. Ive not al- ways been a ship-captain: I was a ban- ker once, and I tell you thats the trade to learn caution in. You have to keep your weather - eye lifting Saturday nights. And with a dry, business-like cordiality, he produced a bottle of gin. The captains pledged each other; the papers were overhauled; the tale of Topelius and the trade was told in ap- preciative ears and cemented their ac- quaintance. Trents suspicions, thus finally disposed of, were succeeded by a fit of profound thought, during which he sat lethargic and stern, looking at and drumming on the table. Anything more? asked Wicks. What sort of a place is it inside? inquired Trent, sudden as though Wicks had touched a spring. Its a good enough lagoona few horses heads, but nothing to mention, answered Wicks. rye a good mind to go in, said Trent. I was new rigged in China; its given very bad, and Im getting frightened for my sticks. We could set it up as good as new in a day. For I daresay your lot would turn to and give us a hand? You see if we dont! said Wicks. So be it then, concluded Trent. A stitch in time saves nine. They returned on deck; Wicks cried the news to the Currency Lasses ; the foretopsail was filled again, and the brig ran into the lagoon lively, the whale- boat dancing in her wake, and came to single anchor off Middle Brooks Island before eight. She was boarded by the castaways, breakfast was served, the baggage slung on board and piled in the waist, and all hands turned to upon the rigging. All day the work contin- ued, the two crews rivalling each other in expense of strength. Dinner was served on deck, the officers messing aft under the slack of the spanker, the men fraternizing forward. Trent appeared in excellent spirits, served out grog to all hands, opened a bottle of Cape wine for the after-table, and obliged his guests with many details of the life of a financier in Cardiff. He had been forty years at sea, had five times suffered shipwreck, was once nine months the prisoner of a pepper rajah, and had seen service under fire in Chinese rivers; and the only thing he cared to talk of, the only thing of which he was vain, or with which he thought it possible to in- terest a stranger, was his career as a money-lender in the slums of a seaport town. The afternoon spell told crnelly on the Currency Lasses. Already exliaust- ed as they were with sleeplessness and excitement, they did the last hours of this violent employment on bare nerves; and when TTent was at last satisfied with the condition of his rigging, ex- pected eagerly the word to put to sea. But the captain seemed in no hurry. He went and walked by himself softly, like a man in thought. Presently he hailed Wicks. Youre a kind of company, aint you, Captain Kirkup? he inquired. Yes, were all on board on lays, was the reply. Well, then, you wont mind if I ask the lot of you down to tea in the cabin? asked Trent. Wicks was amazed, but he naturally ventured no remark; and a little after, 60 THE WRECKER. the six Currency Lasses sat down with Trent and Goddedaci to a spread of marmalade, butter, toast, sardines, tinned tongue, and steaming tea. The food was not very good, and I have no doubt Nares would have reviled it, but it was manna to the castaways. God- dedael waited on them with a kindness far before courtesy, a kindness like that of some old, honest countrywoman in her farm. It was remembered after- wards that Trent took little share in these attentions, but sat much absorbed in thought, and seemed to remember and forget the presence of his guests al- ternately. Presently he addressed the China- man. Clear out! said he, and watched him till he had disappeared in the stair. Now, gentlemen, he went on, I un- derstand youre a joint-stock sort of crew, and thats why Ive had you all down; for theres a point I want made clear. You see what sort of a ship this isa good ship, though I say it, and you see what the rations aregood enough for sailor-men. There was a hurried murmur of ap- proval, but curiosity for what was com- ing next prevented an articulate reply. Well, continued Trent, making bread pills and looking hard at the middle of the table, rm glad of course to be able to give you a passage to Frisco; one sailor-man should help an- other, thats my motto. But when you want a thing in this world, you gener- ally always have to pay for it. He laughed a brief, joyless laugh. I have no idea of losing by my kindness. We have no idea you should, Cap- tain, said Wicks. We are ready to pay anything in reason, added Carthew. At the words, Goddedael, who sat next to him, touched him with his el- bow, and the two mates exchanged a significant look. The character of Cap- tain Trent was given and taken in that silent second. In reason? repeated the captain of the brig. I was waiting for that. Reasons between two people, and theres ouly one here. Im the judge; Im reason. If you want an advance you have to pay for it he hastily cor rected himself If you want a passage in my ship, you have to pay my price, he substituted. Thats business, I be- lieve. I dont want you; you want me. Well, sir, said Carthew, and what is your price? The captain made bread pills. If I were like you, he said, when you got hold of that merchant in the Gilberts, I might surprise you. You had your chance then; seems to me its mine now. Turn abouts fair play. What kind of mercy did you have on that Gil- bert merchant? he cried, with a sud- den stridency. Not that I blame you. Alls fair in love and business, and he laughed again, a little frosty giggle. Well, sir? said Carthew, gravely. Well, this ships mine, I think? he asked sharply. Well, Im that way of thinking me- self, observed Mac. I say its mine, sir! reiterated Trent, like a man trying to be angry. And I tell you all, if I was a driver like what you are, I would take the lot. But theres two thousand pounds there that dont belong to you, and Im an honest man. Give me the two thousand thats yours, and Ill give you a passage to the coast, and land every man-jack of you in Frisco with fifteen pounds in his pocket, and the captain here with twenty-five. Goddedael laid down his head on the table like a man ashamed. Youre joking, cried Wicks, purple in the face. Am I? said Trent. Please your- selves. Youre under no compulsion. This ships mine, but theres that Brooks Island dont belong to me, and you can lay there till you die for what I care. Its more than your blooming brigs worth! cried Wicks. Its my price anyway, returned Trent. And do you mean to say you would land us there to starve? cried Tommy. Captain Trent laughed the third time. Starve? I defy you to, said he. Ill sell you all the provisions you want at a fair profit. I beg your pardon, sir, said Mac, but my case is by itself. Im working I THE WRECKEI?. 61 me passage; I got no share in that two thousand pounds nor nothing in my pockut; and Ill be glad to know what you have to say to me? I aint a hard man, said Trent. That shall make no difference. Ill take you with the rest, only of course you get no fifteen pound. The impudence was so extreme and startling, that all breathed deep, and Goddedael raised up his face and looked his superior sternly in the eye. But Mac was more articulate. And youre what ye call a British sayman, I suppose? the sorrow in your guts! he cried. One more such word, and I clap you in irons! said Trent, rising glee- fully at the face of opposition. And where would I be while you were doin ut? asked Mac. After you and your rigging too! Ye ould puggy, ye havent the civility of a bug, and Ill learn ye some. His voice did not even rise as he uttered the threat; no man present, Trent least of all, expected that which followed. The Irishmans hand rose suddenly from below the table, an open clasp-knife balanced on the palm; there was a movement swift as conjuring; Trent started half to his feet, turning a little as he rose so as to escape the table, and the movement was his bane. The missile strnck him in the jugular; he fell forward, and his blood flowed among the dishes on the cloth. The suddenness of the attack and the catastrophe, the instant change from peace to war and from life to death, held all men spellbound. Yet a moment they sat about the table staring open- mouthed upon the prostrate captain and the flowing blood. The next, Godde- dad had leaped to his feet, caught up the stool on which he had been sitting, and swung it high in air, a man transfigured, roaring (as he stood) so that mens ears were stunned with it. There was no thought of battle in the A = Currency Lasses; none drew his wea- pon; all huddled helplessly from before the face of the baresark Scandinavian. His first blow sent Mac to ground with a broken arm. His second dashed out the brains of Hemstead. He turned from one to another, menacing and trumpeting like a wounded elephant, ex- ulting in his rage. But there was no counsel, no light of reason, in that ecs- tasy of battle; and he shied from the pursuit of victory to hail fresh blows upon the supine Hemstead, so that the stool was shattered and the cabin rang with their violence. The sight of that post-mortem cruelty recalled Carthew to the life of instinct, and his revolver was in hand and he had aimed and fired before he knew. The ear - bursting sound of the report was accompanied by a yell of pain ; the colossus paused, swayed, tottered, and fell headlong on the body of his victim. In the instant silence that succeeded, the sound of feet pounding on the deck and in the companion leaped into hear- ing; and a face, that of the sailor Hol- dorsen, appeared below the bulkheads in the cabin doorway. Carthew shat- tered it with a second shot, for he was a marksman. Pistols! he cried, and charged at the companion, Wicks at his heels, Tommy and Amalu following. They trod the body of Holdorsen underfoot, and flew up-stairs and forth into the dusky blaze of a sunset red as blood. The numbers were still equal, but the Flying Scuds dreamed not of defence, and fled with one accord for the fore- castle scuttle. Brown was first in flight; he disappeared below unscathed; the Chinaman followed head-foremost with a ball in his side; and the others shinned into the rigging. A fierce composure settled upon Wicks and Carthew, their fighting second wind. They posted Tommy at the fore and Amalu at the main to guard the masts and shrouds, and going themselves into the waist, poured out a box of cartridges on deck and filled the chambers. The poor devils aloft bleat- ed aloud for mercy. But the hour of any mercy was gone by; the cup was brewed and must be drunken to the dregs; since so many had fallen, all must fall. The light was bad, the cheap revolvers fouled and carried wild, the screaming wretches were swift to flatten themselves against the masts and yards or find a momentary refuge in the hang- ing sails. The fell business took long, but it was done at last. Hardy the 62 THE WRECKER. Londoner was shot on the foreroyal yard, and hung horribly suspended in the brails. Wallen, the other, had his jaw broken on the maintop-gallant cross- trees, and exposed himself, shrieking, till a second shot dropped him on the deck. This had been bad enough, but worse remained behind. There was still Brown in the forepeak. Tommy, with a sudden clamor of weeping, begged for his life. One man cant hurt us, he sobbed. We cant go on with this. I spoke to him at dinner. Hes an awful decent little cad. It cant be done. Nobody can go into that place and mur- der him. Its too damned wicked. The sound of his supplications was perhaps audible to the unfortunate be- low. One left, and we all hang, said Wicks. Brown must go the same road. The big man was deadly white and trembled like an aspen; and he had no sooner finished speaking than he went to the ships side and vomited. We can never do it if we wait, said Carthew. Now or never, and he marched toward the scuttle. No, no, no! wailed Tommy, clutch- ing at his jacket. But Carthew flung him off, and stepped down the ladder, his heart ris- ing with disgust and shame. The Chinaman lay on the floor, still groan- ing; the place was pitch dark. Brown ! cried Carthew, Brown, where are you? His heart smote him for the treacher- ous apostrophe, but no answer came. He groped in the bunks; they were all empty. Then he moved toward the forepeak, which was hampered with coils of rope and spare chandlery in generaL Brown! he said again. Here, sir, answered a shaking voice; and the poor invisible caitiff called on him by name, and poured forth out of the darkness an endless, garrulous ap- peal for mercy. A sense of danger, of daring, had alone nerved Carthew to enter the forecastle; and here was the enemy crying and pleading like a fright- ened child. His obsequious Here, sir, his horrid fluency of obtestation, made the murder tenfold more revolting. Twice Carthew raised the pistol, once he pressed the trigger (or thought he did) with all his might, but no explo- sion followed; and with that the lees of his courage ran quite out, and he turned and fled from before his victim. Wicks sat on the fore-hatch, raised the face of a man of seventy, and looked a wordless question. Carthew shook his head. With such composure as a man displays marching toward the gallows, Wicks arose, walked to the scuttle, and went down. Brown thought it was Car- thew returning, and discovered himself, half crawling from his shelter, with another incoherent burst of pleading. Wicks emptied his revolver at the voice, which broke into mouse-like whimper- ings and groans. Silence succeeded, and the murderer ran on deck like one possessed. The other three were now all gathered on the fore-hatch, and Wicks took his place beside them without question asked or answered. They sat close, like children in the dark, and shook each other with their shaking. The dusk con- tinued to fall; and there was no sound but the beating of the surf and the oc- casional hiccup of a sob from Tommy Hadden. God, if there was another ship! cried Carthew of a sudden. Wicks started and looked aloft with the trick of all seamen, and shuddered as he saw the hanging figure on the royal yard. If I went aloft, Id fall, he said sim- ply. Im done up. It was Amalu who volunteered, climbed to the very truck, swept the fading horizon, and announced nothing within sight. No odds, said Wicks. We cant sleep. . Sleep! echoed Carthew; and it seemed as if the whole of Shakespeares Macbeth thundered at the gallop through his mind. Well, then, we cant sit and chitter here, said Wicks, till weve cleaned ship; and I cant turn to till Ive had gin, and the gins in the cabin, and whos to fetch it 2 I will, said Carthew, if any one has matches. Amalu passed him a box, and he went w THE WRECKER. 63 aft and down the companion and into the cabin, stumbling upon bodies. Then he struck a match, and his looks fell upon two living eyes. Well? asked Mac, for it was he who still survived in that shambles of a cabin. Its done; theyre all dead, an- swered Carthew. Christ! said the Irishman, and fainted. The gin was found by the elbow of the dead captain; it was brought on deck, and all hands had a dram, and attacked their farther task. The night was come, the moon would not be up for hours; a lamp was set on the main- hatch to light Amain as he washed down decks; and the galley lantern was taken to guide the others in their grave- yard business. Holdorsen, Hemstead, Trent, and Goddedael were first dis- posed of, the last still breathing as he went over the side; Wallen followed; and then Wicks, steadied by the gin, went aloft with a boathook and succeed- ed in dislodging Hardy. The China- man was their last task; he seemed to be light-headed, ta]]~ed aloud in his un- known language as they brought him up, and it was only with the splash of his sinking body that the gibberish ceased. Brown, by common consent, was left alone. Flesh and blood could go no farther. All this time they had been drinking undiluted gin like water, three bottles stood broached in different quarters; and none passed without a gulp. Tom- my collapsed against the mainmast; Wicks fell on his face on the poop lad- der and moved no more; Amalu had vanished unobserved. Carthew was the last afoot; he stood swaying at the break of the poop, and the lantern, which he still carried, swung with his movement. His head hummed; it swarmed with broken thoughts; mem- ory of that days abominations flared up and died down within him, like the light of a lamp in a strong draught. And then he had a drunkards inspiration. There must be no more of this, he thought, and stumbled once more below. The absence of Holdorsens body brought him to a stand. He stood and stared at the empty floor, and then re membered and smiled. From the cap- tains room he took the open case with one dozen and three bottles of gin, put the lantern inside, and walked preca- riously forth. Mac was once more con- scious; his eyes haggard, his face drawn with pain and flushed with fever; and Carthew remembered he had never been seen to, had lain there helpless, and was so to lie all night, injured, perhaps dy- ing. But it was now too late; reason had now fled from that silent ship. If Carthew could get on deck again, it was as much as he could hope; and casting on the unfortunate a glance of pity, the tragic drunkard shouldered his way up the companion, dropped the case over- board, and fell into the scuppers help- less. CHAPTER XXV. A BAD BARGAIN. WITH the first color in the east, Car- thew awoke and sat up. A while he gazed at the scroll of the morning bank and the spars and hanging canvas of the brig, like a man who wakes in a strange bed, with a childs simplicity of won- der. He wondered above all what ailed him, what he had lost, what disfavor had been done him, which he knew he should resent, yet had forgotten. And then, like a river bursting through a dam, the truth rolled on him its instantaneous volume; his memory teemed with speech and pictures that he should never again forget; and he sprang to his feet, stood a moment hand to brow, and began to walk violently to and fro by the com- panion. As he walked he wrung his hands. GodGodGod, he kept saying, with no thought of prayer, ut- tering a mere voice of agony. The time may have been long or short; it was perhaps minutes, perhaps only seconds, when he awoke to find him- self observed, and saw the captain sit- ting up and watching him over the break of the poop, a strange blindness as of fever in his eyes, a haggard knot of cor- rugations on his brow. Cain saw himself in a mirror. For a flash they looked upon each other, and then glanced guil- tily aside; and Carthew fled from the eye of his accomplice, and stood lean- ing on the taifrail. 64 THE WRECKER. An hour went by, while the day came brighter, and the sun rose and drank up the clouds: an hour of silence in the ship, an hour of agony beyond narration for the sufferers. Browns gabbling prayers, the cries of the sailors in the rigging, strains of the dead Hemsteads minstrelsy, ran together in Carthews mind, with sickening iteration. He neither acquitted nor condemned him- self: he did not think, he suffered. In the bright water into which he stared, the pictures changed and were repeated: the beresark rage of Goddedael; the blood-red light of the sunset into which they had run forth; the face of the bab- bling Chinaman as they cast him over; the face of the captain, seen a moment since, as he awoke from drunkenness into remorse. And time passed, and the sun swam higher, and his torment was not abated. Then were fulfilled many sayings, and the weakest of these condemned brought relief and healing to the others. Amalu the drudge awoke (like the rest) to sick- ness of body and distress of mind; but the habit of obedience ruled in that simple spirit, and appalled to be so late, he went direct into the galley, kindled the fire, and began to get breakfast. At the rattle of dishes, the snapping of the fire, and the thin smoke that went up straight into the air, the spell was lift- ed. The condemned felt once more the good dry land of habit under foot; they touched again the familiar guide- ropes of sanity; they were restored to a sense of the blessed revolution and return of all things earthly. The cap- tain drew a bucket of water and began to bathe. Tommy sat up, watched him awhile, and slowly followed his exam- ple; and Carthew, remembering his last thoughts of the night before, hastened to the cabin. Mac was awake; perhaps had not slept. Over his head Goddedaels ca- nary twittered shrilly from its cage. How are you? asked Carthew. Me arrums broke, returned Mac; but I can stand that. Its this place I cant abide. I was coming on deck anyway. Stay where you are, though, said Carthew. Its deadly hot above, and theres no wind. Ill wash out this and he paused, seeking a word and not finding one for the grisly foulness of the cabin. Faith, Ill be obliged to ye, then, replied the Irishman. He spoke. mild and meek, like a sick child with its mother. There was now no violence in the violent man; and as Carthew fetched a bucket and swab and the stew- ards sponge, and began to cleanse the field of battle, he alternately watched him or shut his eyes and sighed like a man near fainting. I have to ask all your pardons, he began again pres- ently, and the more shame to me as I got ye into trouble and couldnt do nothing when it came. Ye saved me life, sir; yere a dane shot. For Gods sake, dont talk of it! cried Carthew. It cant be talked of; you dont know what it was. It was nothing down here; they fought. On deckO, my God! And Carthew, with the bloody sponge pressed to his face, struggled a moment with hysteria. Kape cool, Mr. Cartew. Its done now, said Mac; and ye may bless God yere not in pain and helpless in the bargain. There was no more said by one or other, and the cabin was pretty well cleansed when a stroke on the ships bell summoned Carthew to breakfast. Tommy had been busy in the mean- while; he had hauled the whaleboat close aboard, and already lowered into it a small keg of beef that he found ready broached beside the galley door; it was plain he had but the one idea to escape. We have a shipful of stores to draw upon, he said. Well, what are we staying for? Lets get off at once for Hawaii. Ive begun preparing already. Mac has his arm broken, observed Carthew; how would he stand the voyage? A broken arm? repeated the cap- tain. That all? Ill set it after break- fast. I thought he was dead, like the rest. That madman hit out like and there, at the evocation of the battle, his voice ceased and the talk died with it. After breakfast the three white men went down into the cabin. Ive come to set your arm, said the captain. w THE WRECKER. 65 I beg your pardon, Captain, re- plied Mac; but the firrst thing ye ~ got to do is to get this ship to sea. Well talk of me arrum after that. 0, theres no such blooming hur- ry, returned Wicks. When the next ship sails in yell tell me stories! retorted Mac. But theres nothing so unlikely in the world, objected Carthew. Dont be deceivin yourself, said Mac. If ye want a ship, divil a onell look near ye in six year; but if ye dont, ye may take my word for ut, well have a squadron layin here. Thats what I say, cried Tommy; thats what I call sense! Lets stock that whaleboat and be off. And what will Captain Wicks be thinking of the whaleboat? asked the Irishman. I dont think of it at ~ said Wicks. Weve a smart-looking brig under foot; thats all the whaleboat I want. Excuse me ! cried Tommy. Thats childish talk. Youve got a brig to be sure, and what use is she? You darent go anywhere in her. What port are you to sail for? For the port of Davy Joness Lock- er, my son, replied the captain. ~ This brigs going to be lost at sea. Ill tell you where, too, and thats about forty miles to windward of Kauai. Were going to stay by her till shes down; and once the masts are under, shes the Flying Scud no more, and we never heard of such a brig; and its the crew of the schooner Currency Lass that comes ashore in the boat, and takes the first chance to Sydney. Captain, dear, thats the first Chris- tian word Ive heard of ut ! cried Mac. And now, just let me arrum be, jewel, and get the brig outside. Im as anxious as yourself, Mac, returned Wicks; but theres not wind enough to swear by. So lets see your arm, and no more talk. The arm was set and splinted; the body of Brown fetched from the fore- peak, where it lay stiff and cold, and committed to the waters of the lagoon; and the washing of the cabin rudely finished. All these were done crc mid- day; and it was past three when the first cats-paw ruffled the lagoon, and the wind came in a dry squall, which presently sobered to a steady breeze. The interval was passed by all in fe- verish impatience, and by one of the party in secret and extreme concern of mind. Captain Wicks was a fore-and- aft sailor; he could take a schooner through a Scotch reel, felt her mouth and divined her temper like a rider with a horse; she, on her side, recog- nizing her master and following his wishes like a dog. But by a not very unusual train of circumstance, the mans dexterity was partial and circum- scribed. On a schooners deck he was Rembrandt or (at the least) Mr. Whist- 1cr; on board a brig he was Pierre Gras- son. Again and again in the course of the morning he had reasoned out his policy and rehearsed his orders; and ever with the same depression and weariness. It was guesswork; it was chance; the ship might behave as he expected, and might not; suppose she gybed, he stood there helpless, a rider without bit or spur, beggared of all the proved resources of experience. Had not all hands been so weary, had he not feared to communicate his own misgivings, he could have towed her out. But these reasons sufficed, and the most he could do was to take all possible precautions. Accordingly he had Carthew aft, explained what was to be done with anxious patience, and visited, along with him, the various sheets and braces. I hope Ill remember, said Car- thew. It seems awfully muddled. Its the rottenest kind of rig, the captain admitted: all blooming pock- et handkerchiefs! And not one sailor- man on deck! Ah, if shed only bccn a brigantine, now! But its lucky the passage is so plain; theres no mamien- vring to mention. We get under way before the wind, and run right so till we begin to get foul of the island; then we haul our wind and lie as near southeast as may be till were on that line; bout ship there and stand straight out on the port tack. Catch the idea? Yes, I see the idea, replied Car- thew, rather dismally, and the two in- competents studied for a long time in 66 THE WRECKER. silence the complicated gear above their heads. But the time came when these re- hearsals must be put in practice. The sails were lowered, and all hands heaved the anchor short. The whale- boat was then cast adrift, the upper topsails and the spanker set, the yards braced up, and the spanker - sheet hauled out to starboard. Heave away on your anchor, Mr. Carthew. Anchors gone, sir. Set jibs. It was done, and the brig still hung enchanted. Wicks, his head full of a schooners mainsail, turned his mind to the spanker. First he hauled in the sheet, and then he hauled it out, with no result. Brail the damned thing up! he bawled at last, with a red face. There aint no sense in it. It was the last stroke of bewilder- ment for the poor captain, that he had no sooner brailed up the spanker than the schooner came before the wind. The laws of nature seemed to him to be suspended; he was like a man in a world of pantomime tricks; the cause of any result, and the probable result of any action, equally concealed from him. He was the more careful not to shake the nerve of his amateur assist- ants. He stood there with a face like a torch; but he gave his orders with aplomb; and indeed, now the ship was under way, supposed his difficulties were done. The lower topsails and courses were then set, and the brig began to walk the water like a thing of life, her fore- foot discoursing music, the birds flying and crying over her spars. Bit by bit the passage began to open and the blue sea to show between the flanking breakers on the reef; bit by bit, on the starboard bow, the low land of the islet began to heave closer aboard. The yards were braced up, the spanker- sheet hauled aft again; the brig was close-hauled, lay down to her work like a thing in earnest, and had soon drawn near to the point of advantage, where she might stay and lie out of the la- goon in a single tack. Wicks took the wheel himself, smell- ing and swelling with success. He kept the brig full to give her heels, and began to bark his orders: Ready about. Helms a-lee. Tacks and sheets. Mainsail, hauL And then the fatal words: Thatll do your mainsail; jump forrard and haul round your foreyards. To stay a ship is an affair of knowl- edge and swift sight; and a man used to the succinct evolutions of a schooner will always tend to be too hasty with a brig. It was so now. The order came too soon; the topsails set flat aback; the ship was in irons. Even yet, had the helm been reversed, they might have saved her. But to think of a stern-board at all, far more to think of profiting by one, were foreign to the schooner-sailors mind. Wicks made haste instead to wear ship, a manceuvre for which room was wanting, and the Flying Scud took ground on a bank of sand and coral about twenty minutes before five. Wicks was no hand with a square- rigger, and he had shown it. But he was a sailor and a born captain of men for all homely purposes, where intellect is not required and an eye in a mans head and a heart under his jacket will suffice. Before the others had time to understand the misfortune, he was bawling fresh orders, and had the sails dewed up, and took soundings round the ship. She lies lovely, he remarked, and ordered out a boat with the starboard anchor. Here! steady! cried Tommy. You aint going to turn us to, to warp her off? I am though, returned Wicks. I wont set a hand to such tomfool- ery for one, replied Tommy. Im dead beat. He went and sat down doggedly on the main hatch. You got us on; get us off again, he added. Carthew and Wicks turned to each other. Perhaps you dont know how tired we are, said Carthew. The tide8 flowing! cried the cap- tain. You wouldnt have me miss a rising tide? 0 gammon! theres tides to-mor- row! retorted Tommy. THE WRECKER. 67 And Ill tell you what, added Car- thew, the breeze is failing fast, and the sun will soon be down. We may get into all kinds of fresh mess in the dark and with nothing but light airs. I dont deny it, answered Wicks, and stood awhile as if in thought. But what I cant make out, he began again, with agitation, what I cant make out is what youre made of! To stay in this place is beyond me. Theres the bloody sun going down and to stay here is beyond me! The others looked upon him with horrified surprise. This fall of their chief pillarthis irrational passion in the practical man, suddenly barred out of his true sphere, the sphere of action shocked and daunted them. But it gave to another and unseen hearer the chance for which he had been waiting. Mac, on the striking of the brig, had crawled up the companion, and he now showed himself and spoke up. Captain Wicks, he said, its me that brought this trouble on the lot of ye. Im sorry for ut, I ask all your pardons, and if theres any one can say I forgive ye, itll make my soul the lighter. Wicks stared upon the man in amaze; then his self-control returned to him. Were all in glass houses here, he said; we aint going to turn to and throw stones. I forgive you, sure enough; and much good may it do you! The others spoke to the same pur- pose. I thank ye for ut, and tis done like gentlemen, said Mac. But theres another thing I have upon my mind. I hope were all Prodestans here? It appeared they were; it seemed a small thing for the Protestant religion to rejoice in! Well, and thats as it should be, continued Mac. And why shouldnt we say the Lords Prayer? There cant be no hurt in ut. He had the same quiet, pleading, childlike way with him as in the morn- ing; and the others accepted his pro- posal, and knelt down without a word. Knale if ye like! Ill stand. And he covered his eyes. So the prayer was said to the accom- paniment of the surf and seabirds, and all rose refreshed and felt lightened of a load. Up to then they had cher- ished their guilty memories in private, or only referred to them in the heat of a moment and fallen immediately silent. Now they had faced their remorse in company, and the worst seemed over. Nor was it only that. But the petition Forgive us our trespasses, falling in so apposite after they had themselves forgiven the immediate author of their miseries, sounded like an absolution. Tea was taken on deck in the time of the sunset, and not long after the five castawayscastaways once morelay down to sleep. Day dawned windless and hot. Their slumbers had been too profound to be refreshing, and they woke listless, and sat up, and stared about them with dull eyes. Only Wicks, smelling a hard days work ahead, was more alert. He went first to the well, sounded it once and then a second time, and stood awhile with a grim look, so that all could see he was dissatisfied. Then he shook himself, stripped to the bufl clambered on the rail, drew himself up and raised his arms to plunge. The dive was never taken. He stood in- stead transfixed, his eyes on the hori- zon. Hand up that glass, he said. In a trice they were all swarming aloft, the nude captain leading with the glass. On the northern horizon was a fin- ger of gray smoke, straight in the wind- less air like a point of admiration. What do you make it? they asked of Wicks. Shes truck down, he replied; no telling yet. By the way the smoke builds, she must be heading right here. What can she be? She might be a China mail, re- turned Wicks, and she might be a blooming man-of-war come to look for castaways. Here! This aint the time to stand staring. On deck, boys! He was the first on deck, as he had been the first aloft, hauled down the ensign, bent it again to the signal-hal- yards, and ran it up, union down. 68 THE WRECKER. Now hear me, he said, jumping into his trousers, and everything I say you grip on to. If thats a man- of-war, shell be in a tearing hurry; all these ships are what dont do nothing and have their expenses paid. Thats our chance; for well go with them, and they wont take the time to look twice or to ask a question. Im Cap- tain Trent; Carthew, youre Goddedael; Tommy, youre Hardy; Macs Brown; AmaluHold hard! we cant make a Chinaman of him! Ah Wing must have deserted; Amalu stowed away; and I turned him to as cook, and was never at the bother to sign him. Catch the idea? Say your names. And that pale company recited their lesson earnestly. What were the names of the other two? he asked. Him Carthew shot in the companion, and the one I caught in the jaw on the maintop-gallant? Holdorsen and Wallen, said some one. Well, theyre drowned, continued Wicks; drowned alongside trying to lower a boat. We had a bit of a squall last night: thats how we got ashore. He ran and squinted at the compass. Squall out of nor-nor-west-half-west; blew hard; every one in a mess, falls jammed, and Holdorsen and Wallen spilt overboard. See? Clear your blooming heads! He was in his jacket now, and spoke with a feverish impatience and contention that rang like anger. But is it safe? asked Tommy. Safe? bellowed the captain. Were standing on the drop, you moon-calf! If that ships bound for China (which she dont look to be), were lost as soon as we arrive; if shes bound the other way, she comes from China, dont she? Well, if theres a man on board of her that ever clapped eyes on Trent or any blooming hand out of this brig, well all be in irons in two hours. Safe! no, it aint safe; its a beggarly last chance to shave the gallows, and thats what it is. At this convincing picture fear took hold on all. Hadnt we a hundred times better stay by the brig? cried Carthew. They would give us a hand to float her off. Youll make me waste this holy day in chattering! cried Wicks. Look here, when I sounded the well this morning there was two foot of water there against eight inches last night. Whats wrong? I dont know; might be nothing; might be the worst kind of smash. And then, there we are in for a thousand miles in an open boat, if thats your taste ! But it may be nothing, and anyway their carpenters are bound to help us repair her, argued Carthew. Moses Murphy! cried the captain. How did she strike? Bows on, I be- lieve. And shes down by the head now. If any carpenter comes tinker- ing here, wherell he go first? Down in the forepeak, I suppose! And then, how about all that blood among the chandlery? You would think you were a lot of members of Parliament dis- cussing Plimsoll; and youre just a pack of murderers with the halter round your neck. Any other ass got any time to waste? No? thank God for that! Now, all hands! Im going below, and I leave you here on deck. You get the boat cover off that boat; then you turn to and open that specie chest. There are five of us; get five chests, and divide the specie equal among the fiveput it at the bottom and go at it like tigers. Get blankets, or canvas, or clothes, so it wont rattle. Itll make five pretty heavy chests, but we cant help that. You, Carthew dash me !You, Mr. Goddedael, come below. Weve our share before us. And he cast another glance at the smoke, and hurried below with Carthew at his heels. The logs were found in the main cabin behind the canary cage; two of them, one kept by Trent, one by God- dedaeL Wicks looked first at one, then at the other, and his lip stuck out. Can you forge hand of write? he asked. No, said Carthew. Theres luck for youno more can I ! cried the captain. Hullo! heres worse yet, heres this Goddedael up to date; he must have filled it in before supper. See for yourself: Smoke ob- served. Captain Kirkup and five THE WRECKER. 69 hands of the schooner Currency Lass. ~ Ah! this is better, he added, turning to the other log. The old man aint written anything for a clear fortnight. Well dispose of your log altogether, Mr. Goddedael, and stick to the old mansto mine, I mean; only I aint going to write it up, for reasons of my own. You are. Youre going to sit down right here and fill it in the way I tell you. How to explain the loss of mine? asked Carthew. You never kept one, replied the captain. Gross neglect of duty. Youll catch it. And the change of writing? re- sumed Carthew. You began; why do you stop and why do I come in? And youll have to sign anyway. 0! Ive met with an accident and cant write, replied Wicks. An accident? repeated Carthew. It dont sound naturaL What kind of an accident? Wicks spread his hand face-up on the table, and drove a knife through his palm. That kind of an accident, said he. Theres a way to draw to windward of most difficulties, if youve a head on your shoulders. He began to bind up his hand with a handkerchief, glancing the while over Goddedaels log. Hul- lo! he said, Thisll never do for us this is an impossible kind of a yarn. Here, to begin with, is this Captain Trent trying some fancy course, least- ways hes a thousand miles to southard of the great circle. And here, it seems, he was close up with this island on the sixth, sails all these days and is close up with it again by daylight on the eleventh. Goddedael said they had the deuces luck, said Carthew. Well, it dont look like real life thats all I can say, returned Wicks. Its the way it was, though, argued Carthew. So it is; and what the better are we W for that, if it dont look so? cried the captain, sounding unwonted depths of art criticism. Here! try and see if you can tie this bandage; Im bleeding like a pig. As Carthew sought to adjust the hand- kerchief, his patient seemed sunk in a deep muse, his eye veiled, his mouth partly open. The job was yet scarce done when he sprang to his feet. I have it, he broke out, and ran on deck. Here, boys! he cried, we didnt come here on the eleventh; we came in here on the evening of the sixth, and lay here ever since becalmed. As soon as youve done with these chests, he added, you can turn to and roll out beef and water breakers; itll look more shipshapelike as if we were getting ready for the boat voyage. And he was back again in a moment, cooking the new log. Goddedaels was then carefully destroyed, and a hunt be- gan for the ships papers. Of all the ago- nies of that breathless morning, this was perhaps the most poignant. Here and there the two men searched, cursing, cannoning together, streaming with heat, freezing with terror. News was bawled down to them that the ship was indeed a man-of-war, that she was close up, that she was lowering a boat; and still they sought in vain. By what ac- cident they missed the iron box with the money and accounts, is hard to fancy; but they did. And the vital documents were found at last in the pocket of Trents shore-going coat, where he had left them when last he came on board. As he fingered them, Wicks smiled for the first time that morning. None too soon, said he. And now for it! Take these for me; Im afraid Ill get them mixed if I keep both. What are they? Carthew asked. Theyre the Kirkup and Currency Lass papers, he replied. Pray God we need em again! Boats inside the lagoon, sir, hailed down Mac, who sat by the skylight do- ing sentry while the others worked. Time we were on deck, then, Mr. Goddedael, said Wicks. As they turned to leave the cabin, the canary burst into piercing song. My God! cried Carthew, witn a gulp, we cant leave that wretched bird to starve. It was poor Godde- daels. Bring the blooming thing along! cried the captain. And they went on deck. 70 THE IVRECKE1?. An ugly brute of a modern man-of- war lay just without the reef, now quite inert, now giving a flap or two with her propeller. Nearer hand, and just with- in, a big white boat came skimming to the stroke of many oars, her ensign blowing at the stern. One word more, said Wicks, after he had taken in the scene. Mac, youve been in China ports? All right; then you can speak for yourself. The rest of you I kept on board all the time we were in Hong-Kong, hoping you would de- sert; but you fooled me and stuck to the brig. Thatll make your lying come easier. The boat was now close at hand; a boy in the stern-sheets was the only of- ficer, and a poor one plainly, for the men were talking as they pulled. Thank God, theyve only sent a kind of a middy! ejaculated Wicks. Here you, Hardy, stand forard! Ill have no deck hands on my quarter-deck, he cried, and the reproof braced the whole crew like a cold douche. The boat came alongside with perfect neatness, and the boy officer stepped on board, where he was respectfully greeted by Wicks. You the master of this ship ? he asked. Yes, sir, said Wicks. Trent is my name, and this is the Flying Scud of HulL You seem to have got into a mess,~~ said the officer. If youll step aft with me here, Ill tell you all there is of it, said Wicks. Why, man, youre shaking! cried the officer. So would you, perhaps, if you had been in the same berth, returned Wicks; and he told the whole story of the rotten water, the long calm, the squall, the seamen drowned; glibly and hotly; talking, with his head in the lions mouth, like one pleading in the dock. I heard the same tale from the same narrator in the saloon in San Francisco; and even then his bearing filled me with suspicion. But the offi- cer was no observer. Well, the captain is in no end of a hurry, said he; but I was instructed to give you all the assistance in my power, and signal back for another boat if more hands were necessary. What can I do for you? 0, we wont keep you no time, replied Wicks, cheerily. Were all ready, bless youmens chests, chrono- meter, papers and alL iDo you mean to leave her? cried the officer. She seems to me to lie nicely; cant we get your ship off? So we could, and no mistake; but how were to keep her afloats another question. Her bows is stove in, re- plied Wicks. The officer colored to the eyes. He was incompetent and knew he was; thought he was already detected, and feared to expose himself again. There was nothing further from his mind than that the captain should deceive him; if the captain was pleased, why, so was he. All right, he said. Tell your men to get their chests aboard. Mr. Goddedael, turn the hands to to get the chests aboard, said Wicks. The four Currency Lasses had waited the while on tenter-hooks. This wel- come news broke upon them like the sun at midnight; and Hadden burst into a storm of tears, sobbing aloud as he heaved upon the tackle. But the work went none the less briskly for- ward; chests, men, and bundles were got over the side with alacrity; the boat was shoved off; it moved out of the long shadow of the Flying Scud, and its bows were pointed at the pas- sage. So much, then, was accomplished. The sham wreck had passed muster; they were clear of her, they were safe away; and the water widened between them and her damning evidences. On the other hand, they were drawing nearer to the ship of war, which might very well prove to be their prison and a hangmans cart to bear them to the gallowsof which they had not yet learned either whence she came or whither she was bound; and the doubt weighed upon their hearts like moun- tains. It was Wicks who did the talking. The sound was small in Carthews ears, like the voices of men miles away, but the meaning of each word struck home to him like a bullet. What did you say your ship was? inquired Wicks. THE WRECKER. 71 Tempest, dont you know? re- turned the officer. Dont you know? What could that mean? Perhaps nothing: perhaps that the ships had met already. Wicks took his courage in both hands. Where is she bound? he asked. 0, were just looking in at all these miserable islands here, said the officer. Then we bear up for San Francisco. 0, yes, youre from China ways, like us? pursued Wicks. Hong-Kong, said the officer, and spat over the side. Hong-Kong. Then the game was up; as soon as they set foot on board they would be seized; the wreck would be examined, the blood found, the lagoon perhaps dredged, and the bodies of the dead would reappear to testify. An im- pulse almost incontrollable bade Car- thew rise from the thwart, shriek out aloud, and leap overboard; it seemed so vain a thing to dissemble longer, to dally with the inevitable, to spin out some hundred seconds more of agonized suspense, with shame and death thus visibly approaching. But the indomi- table Wicks persevered. His face was like a skull, his voice scarce recogniz- able; the dullest of men and officers (it seemed) must have remarked that tell- tale countenance and broken utterance. And still he persevered, bent upon certi- tude. Nice place, Hong-Kong? he said. Im sure I dont know, said the of- ficer. Only a day and a half there; called for orders and came straight on here. Never heard of such a beastly cruise. And he went on describing and lamenting the untoward fortunes of the Tempest. But Wicks and Carthew heeded him no longer. They lay back on the gun- nel, breathing deep, sunk in a stupor of the body: the mind within still nimbly and agreeably at work, measuring the past danger, exulting in the present relief, numbering with ecstasy their ul- timate chances of escape. For the voy- age in the man-of-war they were now safe; yet a few more days of peril, ac- tivity, and presence of mind in San Fran- cisco, and the whole horrid tale was blotted out; and Wicks again became Kirkup, and Goddedael became Carthew men beyond all shot of possible sus- picion, men who had never heard of the Flying Scud, who had never been in sight of Midway Reef. So they came alongside, under many craning heads of seamen and projecting mouths of guns; so they climbed on board somnambulous, and looked blind- ly about them at the tall spars, the white decks, and the crowding ships company, and heard men as from far away, and answered them at random. And then a hand fell softly on Car- thews shoulder. Why, Norrie, old chappie, where have you dropped from? All the worlds been looking for you. Dont you know you~ve come into your kingdom? He turned, beheld the face of his old schoolmate Sebright, and fell uncon- scious at his feet. The doctor was attending him, a while later, in Lieutenant Sebrights cabin, when he came to himself. He opened his eyes, looked hard in the strange face, and spoke with a kind of solemn vigor. Brown must go the same road, he said; now or never. And then paused, and his reason coming to him with more clearness, spoke again: What was I saying? Where am I? Who are you? I am the doctor of the Tempest, was the reply. You are in Lieutenant Sebrights berth, and you may dismiss all concern from your mind. Your troubles are over, Mr. Carthew. Why do you call me that? he asked. Ah, I rememberSebright knew me! 0! and he groaned and shook. Send down Wicks to me; I must see Wicks at once! he cried, and seized the doctors wrist with uncon- scious violence. All right, said the doctor. Lets make a bargain. You swallow down this draught, and Ill go and fetch Wicks. And he gave the wretched man an opiate that laid him out within ten minutes and in all likelihood preserved his reason. It was the doctors next business to attend to Mac; and he found occasion, while engaged upon his arm, to make the man repeat the names of the Flying 72 THE WRECKER. Scuds. It was now the turn of the cap- tain, and there is no doubt he was no longer the man that we have seen; sud- den relief, the sense of perfect safety, a square meal and a good glass of grog, had all combined to relax his vigilance and depress his energy. When was this done? asked the doctor, looking at the wound. More than a week ago, replied Wicks, thinking singly of his log. Hey? cried the doctor, and he raised his head and looked the captain in the eyes. I dont remember exactly, faltered Wicks. And at this remarkable falsehood, the suspicions of the doctor were at once quadrupled. By the way, which of you is called Wicks? he asked easily. Whats that? snapped the cap- tain, falling white as paper. Wicks, repeated the doctor; which of you is he? Thats surely a plain question. Wicks stared upon his questioner in silence. Which is Brown, then? pursued the doctor. What are you talking of? what do you mean by this? cried Wicks, snatching his hall-bandaged hand away, so that the blood sprinkled in the sur- geons face. He did not trouble to remove it. Looking straight at his victim, he pur- sued his questions. Why must Brown go the same way? he asked. Wicks fell trembling on a locker. Carthew told you, he cried. No replied the doctor, he has not. But he and you between you have set me thinking, and I think theres something wrong. Give me some grog, said Wicks. Id rather tell than have you find out. Im damned if its half as bad as what any one would think. And with the help of a couple of strong grogs, the tragedy of the Flying Scud was told for the first time. It was a fortunate series of accidents that brought the story to the doctor. He understood and pitied the position of these wretched men, and came whole- heartedly to their assistance. He and Wicks and Carthew (so soon as he was recovered) held a hundred councils and prepared a policy for San Francisco. It was he who certified Goddedael unfit to be moved in the sick bay, and smuggled Carthew ashore under cloud of night; it was he who kept Wickss wound open that he might sign with his left hand; he who took all their Chile silver and (in the course of the first day) got it converted for them into portable gold. He used his influ- ence in the wardroom to keep the tongues of the young officers in order, so that Carthews identification was kept out of the papers. And he ren- dered another service yet more impor- tant. He had a friend in San Francisco, a millionaire; to this man he privately presented Carthew as a young gentle- man come newly into a huge estate, but troubled with Jew debts which he was trying to settle on the quiet. The millionaire came readily to help; and it was with his money that the wrecker gang was to be fought. What was his name, out of a thousand guesses? It was Douglas Longhurst. As long as the Currency Lasses could all disappear under fresh names, it did not greatly matter if the brig were bought, or any small discrepancies should be discovered in the wrecking. The identification of one of their num- ber had changed all that. The small- est scandal must now direct attention to the movements of Norris. It would be asked how he, who had sailed in a schooner from Sydney, had turned up so shortly after in a brig out of Hong- Kong; and from one question to an- other all his original shipmates were pretty sure to be involved. Hence arose naturally the idea of preventing danger, profiting by Carthews new- found wealth, and buying the brig un- der an alias; and it was put in hand with equal energy and caution. Carthew lived alone in lodgings under a false name, picked up Bellairs at random, and com- missioned him to buy the wreck. What figure, if you please? the lawyer asked. I want it bought, replied Carthew. I dont mind about the price. Any price is no price, said Bellairs. Put a name upon it. THE WRECKER. 73 Call it ten thousand pounds then, ~ if you like! said Carthew. In the meanwhile, the captain had to walk the streets, appear in the con- sulate, be cross-examined by Lloyds agent, be badgered about his lost ac- counts, sign papers with his left hand, and repeat his lies to every skipper in San Francisco: not knowing at what moment he might run into the arms of some old friend who should hail him by the name of Wicks, or some new enemy who should be in a position to deny him that of Trent. And the lat- ter incident did actually befall him, but was transformed by his stout coun- tenance into an element of strength. It was in the consulate (of all untoward places) that he suddenly heard a big voice inquiring for Captain Trent. He turned with the customary sinking at his heart. You aint Captain Trent! said the stranger, falling back. Why, whats all this? They tell me youre passing off as Captain TrentCaptain Jacob Trenta man I knew since I was that high. 0, youre thinking of my uncle as had the bank in Cardiff, replied Wicks, with desperate aplomb. I declare I never knew he had a nevvy! said the stranger. Well, you see he has! says Wicks. And how is the old man? asked the other. Fit as a fiddle, answered Wicks, and was opportunely summoned by the clerk. This alert was the only one until the morning of the sale, when he was once more alarmed by his interview with Jim; and it was with some anxiety that he attended the sale, knowing only that Carthew was to be represented, but neither who was to represent him nor what were the instructions given. I suppose Captain Wicks is a good life. In spite of his personal appearance and his own known uneasiness, I suppose he is secure from apoplexy, or it must have struck him there and then, as he looked on at the stages of that ins~ne sale and saw the old brig and not very valuable cargo knocked down at last to a total stranger for ten thousand pounds. It had been agreed that he was to avoid Carthew, and above all Carthews lodging, so that no connection might be traced between the crew and the pseudonymous purchaser. But the hour for caution was gone by, and he caught a tram and made all speed to Mission Street. Carthew met him in the door. Come away, come away from here, said Carthew; and when they were clear of the house, Alls up ! he added. 0, youve heard of the sale then? said Wicks. The sale! cried Carthew. I de- clare I had forgotten it. And he told of the voice in the telephone, and the maddening question: Why did you want to buy the Flying Scud? This circumstance, coming on the back of the monstrous improbabilities of the sale, was enough to have shaken the reason of Immanuel Kant. The earth seemed banded together to defeat them; the stones and the boys on the street appeared to be in possession of their guilty secret. Flight was their one thought. The treasure of the Cur- rency Lass they packed in waist-belts, expressed their chests to an imaginary address in British Columbia, and left San Francisco the same afternoon, booked for Los Angeles. The next day they pursued their re- treat by the Southern Pacific route, which Carthew followed on his way to England; but the other three branched off for Mexico. EPILOGUE: TO WILL H. Low. DEAR Low: The other day (at Maui- in the neat, little, toy-like church, set hiki of all places) I had the pleasure to with pews after the manner of Europe, meet Dodd. We sat some two hours and inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the VOL XII.9 114 THE WRECKER. style (I suppose) of the New Jerusalem. The natives, who are decidedly the most attractive inhabitants of this planet, crowded round us in the pew, and fawned upon and patted us; and here it was I put my questions, and Dodd answered me. I first carried him back to the night in Barbizon when Carthew told his story, and asked him what was done about Bellairs. It seemed he had put the matter to his friend at once, and that Carthew took it with an inimitable lightness. Hes poor, and Im rich, he had said. I cannot afford to smile at him. I go somewhere else, thats all somewhere thats far away and dear to get to. Persia would be found to answer, I fancy. No end place, Per- sia. Why not come with me? And they had left the next afternoon for Constantinople, on their way to Tehe- ran. Of the shyster, it is only known (by a newspaper paragraph) that he re- turned somehow to San Francisco and died in the hospital. Now theres another point, said I. There you are off to Persia with a millionaire, and rich yourself. How come you here in the South Seas, run- ning a trader? He said, with a smile, that I had not yet heard of Jims last bankruptcy. I was about cleaned out once more, he said; and then it was that Carthew had this schooner built, and put me in as supercargo. Its his yacht and its my trader; and as nearly all the ex- penses go to the yacht, I do pretty well. As for Jim, hes right again; one of the best businesses, they say, in the West, fruit, cereals, and real estate; and he has a Tartar of a partner Nares, no less. Nares will keep him straight, Nares has a big head. They have their country places next door at Saucelito, and I stayed with them time about, the last time I was on the coast. Jim had a paper of his ownI think he has a notion of being senator one of these daysand he wanted me to throw up the schooner and come and write his edi- torials. He holds strong views on the State Constitution, and so does Mamie. And what became of the other three Currency Lasses after they left Car- thew? I inquired. Well, it seems they had a huge spree in the city of Mexico, said Dodd; and then Hadden and the Irishman took a turn at the gold fields in Vene- zuela, and Wicks went on alone to Valparaiso. Theres a Kirkup in the Chilean navy to this day, I saw the name in the papers about the Balma- ceda war. Hadden soon wearied of the mines, and I met him the other day in Sydney. The last news he had from Venezuela, Mac had been knocked over in an attack on the gold train. So theres only the three of them left, for Amula scarcely counts. He lives on his own land in Maui, at the side of Hale-a-ka-la, where he keeps Godde- dads canary; and they say he sticks to his dollars, which is a wonder in a Kanaka. He had a considerable pile to starli with, for not only Hemsteads share but Carthews was divided equal- ly among the other fourMac being counted. What did that make for him alto- gether? I could not help asking, for I had been diverted by the number of calculations in his narrative. One hundred and twenty - eight pounds nineteen shillings and eleven pence halfpenny, he replied, with Thats leaving out what little he won at Van John. Its something for a Ka- naka, you know. And about that time we were at last obliged to yield to the sblicitations of our native admirers, and go to the pas- tors house to drink green cocoanuts. The ship I was in was sailing the same night, for Dodd had been beforehand and got all the shell in the island; and though he pressed me to desert and return with him to Auckland (whither he was now bound to pick up Carthew) I was firm in my refusaL The truth is, since I have been mixed up with Havens and Dodd in the de- sign to publish the latters narrative, I seem to feel no want for Carthews so- ciety. Of course I am wholly modern in sentiment, and think nothing more noble than to publish peoples private affairs at so much a line. They like it, and if they dont, they ought to. But a still small voice keeps telling me they will not like it always, and perhaps not always stand it. Memory, besides, sup- THE WRECKER. 75 plies me with the face of a pressman (in the sacred phrase) who proved alto- gether too modern for one of his neighbors, and Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum nos precedens, as it were, marshal- ling us onr way. I am in no haste to be that mans successor. Carthew has a record as a dane shot, and for some years Samoa will be good enough for me. We agreed to separate, accordingly; but he took me on board in his own boat with the hard-wood fittings, and entertained me on the way with an ac- count of his late visit to Bntaritari, whither he had gone on an errand for Carthew, to see how Topelins was get- ting along, and, if necessary, to give him a helping hand. Bnt Topelius was in great force, and had patronized andwellout-manomvred him. Carthew will be pleased, said Dodd; for theres no doubt they op- pressed the man abominably when they were in the Currency Lass. Its dia- mond cut diamond now. This, I think, was the most of the news I got from my friend London; and I hope I was well inspired, and have put all the questions to which you would be curious to hear an an- swer. But there is one more that I daresay you are burning to put to myself; and that is, what your own name is doing in this place, cropping up (as it were uncalled-for) on the stern of our poor ship? If you were not born in Ar- cadia, you linger in fancy on its mar- gin; your thoughts are busied with the flutes of antiquity, with daffodils, and the classic poplar, and the foot- steps of the nymphs, and the elegant and moving aridity of ancient art. Why dedicate to you a tale of a caste so modern ;full of details of our bar- baric manners and unstable morals ; full of the need and the lust of money, so that there is scarce a page in which the dollars do not jingle ;full of the unrest and movement of our century. so that the reader is hurried from place to place and sea to sea, and the book is less a romance than a panorama ;in the end, as blood-bespattered as an epic? Well, you are a man interested in all the problems of art, even the most vul- gar; and it may amuse you to hear the genesis and growth of The Wrecicer. On board the schooner Equator, almost within sight of the Johnstone Islands (if anybody knows where these are) and on a moonlit night when it was a joy to be alive, the authors were amused with several stories of the sale of wrecks. The subject tempted them; and they sat apart in the alleyway to discuss its possibilities. What a tangle it would make, suggested one, if the wrong crew were aboard. But how to get the wrong crew there? I have it! cried the other; the so-and-so affair! For not so many months before, and not so many hun- dred miles from where we were then sailing, a proposition almost tanta- mount to that of Captain Trent had been made by a British skipper to some British castaways. Before we turned in, the scaffolding of the tale had been put together. But, the question of treatment was, as usual, more obscure. We had long been at once attracted and repelled by that very modern form of the police novel or mystery story, which consists in begin- ning your yarn anywhere but at the beginning, and finishing it anywhere but at the end; attracted by its pecu- liar interest when done, and the pecu- liar difficulties that attend its execu- tion; repelled by that appearance of insincerity and shallowness of tone, which seems its inevitable drawback. For the mind of the reader, always bent to pick up dews, receives no impression of reality or life, rather of an airless, elaborate mechanism; and the book re- mains enthralling, but insignificant, like a game of chess, not a work of human art. It seemed the cause might lie partly in the abrupt attack; and that if the tale were gradually approached, some of the characters introduced (a~ it were) beforehand, and the book started in the tone of a novel of man- 76 THE WRECKER. ners and experience briefly treated, this defect might be lessened and our mys- tery seem to inhere in life. The tone of the age, its movement, the mingling of races and classes in the dollar hunt, the fiery and not quite unromantic struggle for existence, with its changing trades and scenery, and two types in particular, that of the American handy- man of business and that of the Yankee merchant sailorwe agreed to dwell upon at some length, and make the woof to our not very precious warp. Hence Dodds father, and Pinkerton, and Nares, and the Dromedary picnics, and the railway work in New South Wales the last an unsolicited testimonial from the powers that be, for the tale was half written before I saw Carthews squad toil in the rainy cutting at South Clifton, or heard from the engineer of his young swell. After we had in- vented at some expense of time this method of approaching and fortifying our police novel, it occurred to us it had been invented previously by some one else, and was in facthowever pain- fully different the results may seem the method of Charles Dickens in his later work. I see you staring. Here, you will say, is a prodigious quantity of theory to our halfpenny worth of police novel; and withal not a shadow of an answer to your question. Well, some of us like theory. After so long a piece of practice these may be indulged for a few pages. And the answer is at hand. It was plainly de- sirable, from every point of view of con- venience and contrast, that our hero and narrator should partly stand aside from those with whom he mingles, and be but a pressed-man in the dollar hunt. Thus it was that London Dodd became a student of the plastic arts, and that our globe-trotting story came to visit Paris and look in at Barbizon. And thus it is, dear Low, that your name appears in the address of this epilogue. For sure, if any person can here ap- preciate and read between the lines, it must be youand one other, our friend. All the dominos will be transparent to your better knowledge; the statuary contract will be to you a piece of an- cient history; and you will not have now heard for the first time of the dan- gers of IRoussillon. Dead leaves from the Bas Breau, echoes from Lavenues and the Rue Racine, memories of a com- mon past, let these be your bookmark- ers as you read. And if you care for naught else in the story, be a little pleased to breathe once more for a mo- ment the airs of our youth. THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. By N. S. Shaler. Living Crinoid. Showing at the top the arms which branch from the ca- lyx which encloses the body cavity and at the base the root- like processes which attach it to the bot- tom. spaces of the sea have shared with the vaster realms of the en- circling heavens the manifold excnrsions of t h e imagination, ever since man began to speculate concerning the unseen parts of nat- ure. The poet and the philosopher whose paths upon the land most often lie far apart, have alike sought to tread over the hidden ocean floors. For a time the spaces of the sky, because they are more visible than the sub- merged realm, were the favorite field for specu- lation. The Greeks, by far the most richly en- dowed in constructive imagination of any of the ancient peoples, gave little thought to the regions beneath the sea. The true love of the deep, and interest in its hid- den regions, is a matter of modern days. The people of northern Europe have felt these motives more strongly than those of any other lands. The Scandi- navians were the first navigators of our race who learned the pleasure which comes to those who break into an un- known sea; a thousand years ago they dared in frail barks the fierce tempests of the North Atlantic; led thereto by no clearly defined purpose of conquest or propagandism, but inspired, it would seem, by the pleasure of dangerous cruis- ing. It is principally among the people who share this Scandinavian blood that we find that vivid interest in all that per- tains to the ocean which has led to some of the most learned and interesting in- quiries of modern science; researches which have created the branch of learn- ing which is termed thalasography, or the description of the ocean. The study of the ocean depths is an extremely difficult inquiry: we know far more concerning the form of the moons surface, though that sphere is a quarter of a million miles away, than we can ever hope to learn of the shape of the ocean-floors. There are few in- struments as yet devised which can give us any considerable information as to the conditions at any great depth below the surface. A century ago the only apparatus of submarine research was the plummet, by which the navi- gator, to learn the position of shallows, sounded for the depth of at most a few hundred feet. A little tallow on the bottom of the lead brought up some fragments of the sea - floor, and showed whether it was sandy, muddy, or covered with fragments of shells. A hundred years ago nothing was known as to the greater depths of the ocean. The lines to which the sounding leads were attached were limited in length to about six hundred feet; when the bot- tom was not found with them the ves- sel was said to be off sounding. The depth beneath her keel was then left to conjecture. With the modern in- crease in curiosity concerning the ocean, the lines were lengthened and the weights increased, so that some information began to be received as to the deeper parts of the sea. But there were many and serious difficul- ties encountered in these explorations. The lines had to be of considerable size to sustain the heavy plummets, and the friction of these cords on the water, though not noteworthy in shal- lows, became very great when a mile or more of depth was encountered. In the abysmal portions it required hours for the weight to drag the hemp- en rope to the bottom, and a yet lon- ger time to lift it again to the ships deck. In very deep water so slow was the descent of the weight, that it was not easy to tell when it had attained the ocean-floor. Moreover as the ocean waters are often pervaded by currents

N. S. Shaler Shaler, N. S. The Depths Of The Sea 77-96

THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. By N. S. Shaler. Living Crinoid. Showing at the top the arms which branch from the ca- lyx which encloses the body cavity and at the base the root- like processes which attach it to the bot- tom. spaces of the sea have shared with the vaster realms of the en- circling heavens the manifold excnrsions of t h e imagination, ever since man began to speculate concerning the unseen parts of nat- ure. The poet and the philosopher whose paths upon the land most often lie far apart, have alike sought to tread over the hidden ocean floors. For a time the spaces of the sky, because they are more visible than the sub- merged realm, were the favorite field for specu- lation. The Greeks, by far the most richly en- dowed in constructive imagination of any of the ancient peoples, gave little thought to the regions beneath the sea. The true love of the deep, and interest in its hid- den regions, is a matter of modern days. The people of northern Europe have felt these motives more strongly than those of any other lands. The Scandi- navians were the first navigators of our race who learned the pleasure which comes to those who break into an un- known sea; a thousand years ago they dared in frail barks the fierce tempests of the North Atlantic; led thereto by no clearly defined purpose of conquest or propagandism, but inspired, it would seem, by the pleasure of dangerous cruis- ing. It is principally among the people who share this Scandinavian blood that we find that vivid interest in all that per- tains to the ocean which has led to some of the most learned and interesting in- quiries of modern science; researches which have created the branch of learn- ing which is termed thalasography, or the description of the ocean. The study of the ocean depths is an extremely difficult inquiry: we know far more concerning the form of the moons surface, though that sphere is a quarter of a million miles away, than we can ever hope to learn of the shape of the ocean-floors. There are few in- struments as yet devised which can give us any considerable information as to the conditions at any great depth below the surface. A century ago the only apparatus of submarine research was the plummet, by which the navi- gator, to learn the position of shallows, sounded for the depth of at most a few hundred feet. A little tallow on the bottom of the lead brought up some fragments of the sea - floor, and showed whether it was sandy, muddy, or covered with fragments of shells. A hundred years ago nothing was known as to the greater depths of the ocean. The lines to which the sounding leads were attached were limited in length to about six hundred feet; when the bot- tom was not found with them the ves- sel was said to be off sounding. The depth beneath her keel was then left to conjecture. With the modern in- crease in curiosity concerning the ocean, the lines were lengthened and the weights increased, so that some information began to be received as to the deeper parts of the sea. But there were many and serious difficul- ties encountered in these explorations. The lines had to be of considerable size to sustain the heavy plummets, and the friction of these cords on the water, though not noteworthy in shal- lows, became very great when a mile or more of depth was encountered. In the abysmal portions it required hours for the weight to drag the hemp- en rope to the bottom, and a yet lon- ger time to lift it again to the ships deck. In very deep water so slow was the descent of the weight, that it was not easy to tell when it had attained the ocean-floor. Moreover as the ocean waters are often pervaded by currents 78 THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. of considerable velocity which move in various directions, the thick cord in its downgoing would often flex, now this way and now that, and thus give very exaggerated records of the depth at any point The most important of these diffi- culties encountered in exploring the depth of the sea, have, through the skill of the American and English ex- plorers of thalassal problems, been overcome. The lead is no longer hung on a rope, but is attached to a fine steel wire which, because of its tenuity and smoothness, slips easily through the water; the weight is so ar- ranged that when it strikes the bottom it is at once detached from the wire which is thus easily wound back to the drum from which it was lowered, while the plummet itself is left to be entombed in the strata forming on the sea-floor. Although these very clever inventions, as well as the complicat- ed and beautiful machinery, by which the miles of delicate wire may be low- ered and hoisted in the rolling sea, have made it possible for a proper- ly equipped exploring ship to deter- mine, in a tolerably accurate manner, the depth of water at any point, the in- formation which is gained even by very numerous soundings, though valuable, is very meagre. Let us fancy that the atmosphere was as impenetrable to vision as the depths of the ocean, and that creatures which dwelt above it should seek to learn the shape of the land by means of a few thousand sound- ings disposed in lines here and there, so as to give what we may term sec- tions, over the surface of the terra firma. We can easily imagine that the information would be very incomplete. Such a gorge as the Grand Cafion of Colorado would have but a bare chance to be unnoted; a volcanic peak like IEtna, though it rises two miles above its base, would most likely escape ob- servation. If our imagined super-terrestrial be- ings should limit their inquiries to the facts developed by the plummet, they would have but the most general no- tions as to the form of the surface they were exploring. We can conceive them using the other aids in their research which have been used by the explorers of the deep sea: the dredge, a con- trivance like a scoop, which is dragged over the bottom, so as to collect a sam- ple of the deposits which are forming there, and of the state of the surface over which it passed. A few thousand essays with this instrument would cer- tainly give some notion as to the nature and variety of the organic forms which people the coast of this sphere, and are contributing their bodies to its dust on sea-floor and land. Yet we readily fancy that these observations would af- ford but an inadequate basis on which to construct a picture of the hidden realm. So, too, the thermometers which give us the ranges of temperature in the depths, and the instruments which collect wa- ter from the various levels of the sea, in order that it may be subjected to chemical analysis, though they provide us with valuable information, do not give us anything like the accurate data for determining the climatology of the ocean-floors that we have secured from the land. Similar observations on the land made by beings in the upper air, even if they were applied only to the natural wildernesses of the earth, would afford only details which would require exceeding skill to frame into important and trustworthy general views. This skill has fortunately been allotted to the naturalists who have prosecuted the modern studies concerning the oceans: no department of modern science has so well combined the daring of the man of action with the patient labor of the closet student; hardly any other has so profited by the advance in the mechanic arts. The methods of the students of the deep sea may indeed serve as a model of the scientific re- search which is so characteristic of our century, for they combine in an admirable way patience in difficult in- quiry with skill in interpretation. The affirmed results, at least those which are likely to prove interesting to the general student, are among the most fascinating chapters in the history of the earth. The student who from the familiar studies of the land surfacestudies which we are all insensibly making in the daily experiences of our ordinary THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. 79 probably including more than half the oceanic area, which for a great time, perhaps since organic life has tenanted this sphere, has been always in the con- dition of deep sea. Accepting this view as to the toler- able permanence of land and sea with the greater assurance, because it has slowly won its way to belief over the previous opinions and prejudices of students, we are prepared to find that the conditions of the ocean-bottom are in many regards entirely unlike those of the land. It is easy to see that the shape of the land is mainly determined by a contest between the down - wear- ing action of the water which falls up- on its surface as rain or snow, or is swung against it in tides and waves, and the uprising movement which lifts the mass of the continent and wrinkles the underlying rocks into mountain folds. Rivers and glaciers have battled with these ascending masses of strata, they have carved out the valleys and gorges which fret the land in every di- rection; even the plains which appear to feel little of this erosive action generally owe their horizontal aspect to the fact that the wearing agents have done their most effective work in these areas. We readily perceive that all this mighty livescomes to the margin of the sea, is naturally led to the opinion that the ocean - floors have a form essentially like that of the continental fields. At the shore he finds the mountains and valleys of the land passing by a gradual decline of the surface below the level of the water. The emerged mountain- tops often form a fringe of islands ex- tending some distance from the coast- line, and the valleys are prolonged as deep bays which penetrate far into the land. Thus the land and the sea ap- pear to be blended in a way that very naturally leads to the supposition that the ocean-floor is merely an inundated portion of its coast, differing from the dry parts only in certain minor feat- ures, such as river - valleys which are due to actions peculiar to the land. Naturalists for a long time adopted this popular view concerning the con- ditions of the sea-bottom. Observing that the greater part, if not the whole, of the land was made up of sediments which had been accumulated on the sea- floor, naturalists were led to the idea that sea and land had often changed places; no part of the earth for any long period escaping from the invasions of the deep. Gradually, with the advances in knowledge concerning the history of the earth, these students have been driven to other views. While they are thus forced to allow that the continents have been subjected to great altera- tions of form, a part of their surface from time to time sinking beneath the sea while other por- tions which had long been under water rose above its surface, they find good evidence that, as a whole, the seas and lands have not changed places but that the greater oceans have been permanent features in the physiogno- my of this planet. There is doubtless a debatable area next the shores of each continent, machinery of flowing rivers and beat- which is now won to the realm of ing waves has no place in the depths the land and now to the domain of the of the sea. It is true that the ocean waters, but there remains a vast field, has great streams upon its surface, Diagram showing the Position of s Deep-sea Dredge as the Line is Paid Out from the Stern of the Ship. The letters G, G, etc., show the position end effect of the weight which is used to bring the dredge into the proper ettitude. 80 THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. some of which, for certain parts of their courses, move with the speed of the larger rivers, but these swift currents are superficial things, they rarely if ever touch the bottom except where they come upon the shores of conti- nents or islands, but flow upon a base of deep-lying nearly motionless water. While everywhere upon the land, even in the most arid regions, there are oc- casional rains, and for a time the tor- rents do their appointed work of wear- ing away the surface of the earth, the deeper ocean - floors are practically al- ways the seat of deposition, that is, they are receiving contributions of sedi- ment from the rivers of the land, from the waves and tides of the shores, from the vast amounts of dust thrown out of volcanoes as well as that which falls from the celestial spaces. In a word the land is characteristically the place where the strata are in the course of destruction, and the sea-floor the la- boratory where these materials are sep- arated from the water, partly by gravi- ty and partly by the growth of organic forms, and built again into compact rocks. The result of these differences in conditions is, that while the land is carved into innumerable valleys which mark the process of its destruction, the sea-floor is prevailingly horizontal, for that is the shape which the growing deposits assume as they are deposit- ed. But there are yet other influences which serve to give to the sea - floor a uniform aspect. Chief among these we must reckon the prevailing absence of true mountains in the fields which are covered by the ocean waters. Al- though these vast realms contain nu- merous elevations, some of which are of magnificent proportions, it seems tolerably certain that true mountains that is, elongated heights produced by the folding of rocks into ridges and furrowsdo not occur in the abysmal portions of the ocean. The evidence of this lack of moun- tains in the deep seas, though inferen- tial, is very satisfactory in its nature. We note that the average depth of the sea, as determined by many thousand soundings as well as by the speed with which the waves caused by earthquakes travel over their basins, is about fifteen thousand feet, while the portion of the marine fields where the depth exceeds twenty thousand feet is extremely lim- ited, and the most profound abyss yet encountered in sounding is only about twenty-eight thousand feet below the surface. In the land we find many hundred peaks which exceed fifteen thousand feet in height, and some score which rise twenty thousand feet above the sea level. There are indeed several considerable areas of moun- tainous country where extensive fields attain a greater height than the aver- age depth of the sea. It is thus at once plain that if mountains developed in the ocean-floor as freely as they do on the land there would be a great number of them rising above the plane of the seas, but the fact is that there is not a single distinct mountain peak rising above the water level at any great distance away from the margins of the continents. All the numerous islands of the wide oceans are either coral reefs or the summits of volcanic cones. It is furthermore evident that if mountains grew upward from the sea- floor they would attain the surface of the water without being subjected to any erosion, which has robbed the ele- vations of the land of a great part of their height. If we carefully examine any of the great mountainous peaks of the continents we find that they have been much worn away by the rivers, tor- rents, frost or glaciers, which have al- ways operated upon them, but moun- tains growing upon the sea-floor would be safe from these assaults until they rose above the surface of the water. We would on this account expect to find them even more abundant and of loftier forms in the marine areas than on the parts of the earths surface which rises above the sea. We are therefore force~1 to the conclusion that mountains do not form upon the sea- floor, or if they develop there they at- tain no such dimensions as they ex- hibit upon the land. Although the deeper sea-floors prob- ably lack mountains, they are not with- out striking reliefs which if they could be seen would present all the dignity w THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. 81 which their size gives to the Himala- yas or Andes: the difference is that these elevations are not true mountains but volcanic peaks sometimes isolat- ed, again accumulated in long narrow ridges but all made up of matter poured out from craters or through great fis- sures in the crust. So numerous are these heaped masses of lava and other ejections from these vents that there is hardly any considerable area of the oceans where they do not rise above the surface; there are indeed thousands of these volcanic peaks distributed from pole to pole. Yet it is likely that only a small part of these elevations attain the surface of the ocean. Probably the greater part of them remain buried be- neath the sea, and are only imperfectly perceived when the sounding lead indi- cates an elevation of the bottom. Thus on the floor of the North Atlantic there is evidently a long irregular chain of these elevations extending from the Icelandic group of islands southward to the Azores. If an explorer could view this part of the sea - bottom he would probably find that the line of craters was as continuous as that ex- hibited by the volcanoes of the Andes. In the invisible landscape of the sea- floor volcanoes play the part of moun- tains on the laud. It seems indeed clear that these elevations, due to the action of the earths interior fires, are in their way as characteristic of the deeper seas as the mountains are of the land portion of the continents: the volcanic field is so essentially marine that of the hundreds of vents that have been in activity within the his- toric period not one is situated more than three huudred miles from the mar- gin of the sea. Besides the volcanic peaks the sea- bottom in certain parts of the tropics and in the regions near to the equa- torial realm which are swept over by warm ocean currents is beset with the singular elevations formed by coral reefs. Next the shore these reefs take on the form of long submerged walls, sometimes many hundred miles in length and only a hundred feet or so in height. To the eye they would ap- pear as singularly regular and artificial terraces, their crests on an exact level for a considerable part of their length. Here and there the wall would present port-like openings through which the streams of the tides and rivers find en- trance and egress. The reefs of the deeper sea present a very different as- pect, they are generally in the form of very lofty cones rising steeply from the depths of the ocean to the height of a few feet above the level of the water. On their tops there is generally a shal- low cup - shaped depression of a few score feet in depth bounded by the low flat wall of the living reef of coral sand which had been formed along the shore. The origin of these deep atoll sea-reefs is not yet perfectly un- derstood. Mr. Darwins explanation, long considered satisfactory but now brought into doubt, was to the effect that they were produced wherever a mas- sive coral growth was formed around the flanks of a slowly down-sinking isl- and, the polyps building their lime- stone wall upward as the peak lowered into the depths of the sea. Dr. John Murray, the well-known oceanographer, has recently shown that these basin- shaped reefs may be formed wherever shallows are produced in situations where they are swept over by a warm marine current. The upward growth of the coral tends to form a cap upon the shoal which extends upward to near the level of low tide. Attaining this altitude, the central part of the mass begins to dissolve away, and the process of solution continues until a basin is formed, while on the outside margin of the reef the polyp communi- ties continue to grow, and from the debris which they afford under the beat- ing action of the waves the ring-like isl- and is formed. Although there might be cases in which the elaborate hypothe- sis of Mr. Darwin is applicable, there can be no doubt that by far the greater part of the atolls have developed in the manner indicated by Dr. Murray. Yet another singular feature in the topography of the oceans is found in the great shelf-like shallows which usu- ally border the margins of the conti- nents. These remarkable features are best known along the coasts of the North Atlantic, perhaps for the reason that there alone is the form of the bot 82 THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. tom well known. In going from New York to Liverpool, the traveller for the first hundred miles of his east- ward course passes over a portion of the sea where the water rarely exceeds Calys, Arms, and a Part of the Stem of a Metacrinusone of the Sea Lilies. A representative of a group which abounded in the early geological periods, but which is rare in the seas of the present time. five hundred feet in depth, the bottom slopes gradually toward the central por- tion of the ocean, at the rate of about five feet to the mile. There are occa- sional broad swales on the nearly level floor, but as a whole it is much more nearly plain than any similarly exten- sive part of the prairie land of the Mis- sissippi Valley. This gradual descent toward the deep sea is terminated by an abrupt slope where the bottom plunges at the rate of from ten to one hundred feet to the mile, from the crest of the submerged plain to the abysmal depths of the ocean. Unlike most of the submarine topog- raphy it is possible for us to get a clear idea as to the general character of this part of the sea-bottom from certain portions of the dry land which have recently been elevated above the watery envelope. While it is true that nearly if not quite all parts of the con- tinents have been formed on the ocean- floor, the greater portion of the land surface has been so much warped by mountain building, and made uneven by stream action that the original im- press of the marine conditions has been entirely lost. In the southern por- tion of North America, from Virginia through the lowlands of the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi and a part of Texas and Louisiana, we have a portion of this shelf, which was formed when the shore was farther inland and when the area in question was below the level of the sea, constituting a por- tion of the continental deposits such as is now submerged along our shores. Like that part of the submarine plain which is still under water, this lowland of the southern Atlantic coast-lands is extremely level with a slight dip toward the ocean depths, and a faintly undu- lating surface, the irregularities not usually causing a difference of altitude in one square mile of more than five or six feet. Examining into the materials which compose this emerged portion of the continental shelf, we find that they consist in part of detritus which the waves and rivers have worn away from this land, and conveyed a little way from the ancient shore, together with quantities of fossils which in their life- time drew their solid parts from the sea-water. Although nowhere else do we find any other so perfect and extensive a fragment of the continental shelf lying above the level of the sea, there is here and there about the great lands evidence that this is the common nat- ure of these deposits. We may there- fore conclude that they are mainly made up of sediments brought to the sea from the neighboring hills and plains of the land. Until within recent times geologists have generally held to the opinion that the lands and seas had occasionally changed positions, so that the conti- nental areas were from time to time lowered into the deep, and the floors of the abysmal seas, by a similar alternat- ing movement, lifted into the realm of the air. The researches of IDr. Murray and others appear to indicate that this alternation of relations does not occur. Nowhere on the land have we yet found clear evidence going to show the exist- ence of any deposits such as are formed in the abysmal regions of the ocean. The students of the subject are now 9 fi THE DEPTHS OP THE SEA. 83 coming to believe that, while the conti- nents have been subjected to frequent oscillations, portions of the surface of each becoming depressed to a moder- ate depth beneath the ocean while other parts are extended farther into the field of waters, these great lands are never deeply submerged, and that correspond- ingly the abysmal realms are never con- verted into dry land. This view finds much support in the fact that each of the continental areas has a somewhat peculiar assemblage of life which is evi- dently continued in unbroken succes- sion throughout the greater part of the time which is recorded in the pages of the great stone book whose leaves are the strata of the successive formations. As the past is the index to the future, we may anticipate in the future of this ancient though still youthful sphere, that geographers will often have to re- frame the charts of land and sea, but it is doubtful if they will ever delineate as continents those portions of the sphere which are now in the deeper parts of the ocean. We have now considered the princi- pal topographic features of the sea- floors, and have noted the fact that they consist mainly of extensive plains with gentle slopes toward the deep water extending for some distance from Tomopteris. A curious worm-like animal inhabiting the surface of tropical seas. the shore, and terminating in steeper slopes which lead down into deeper water: broad undulating fields in the bottoms of abysmal depths: volcanic peaks generally grouped in long ranges, and lastly the shore walls and steep cap I I Globergerina. A member of the Foraminifera, a group of lowly an- imals which live in the superficial parts of the warm open sea, and whose remains fall in great quantities to the bottom. (Much magnified.) topped cones of the deep sea coral-reefs or isles. We will therefore turn our attention to the organic forms which people this vast realmforms so nu- merous and varied, that we can only consider their more important aspects, limiting ourselves in the discursive in- quiry to those features which seem to throw light on the general history of life. The first matter to be noted is that now, as in all the past ages of the earth, the creatures which tenant the sea are in organization much inferior to those dwelling on the land. This is true, not only of the organic forms as a whole, but essentially so of every separate group of animals and plants. Thus in the vegetable kingdom, the truly marine species contain no true flowering forms; none which have de- vised the functionally and structural- ly separated parts of root, stem, and leaves, or which combine their offices to afford the well - ordered life of the familiar vegetation of the land. Al- though the sea-floor is generally coy- If 84 THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. ered by a coating of detritus far richer in the elements of plant growth than the surface of the land, it does not serve the sea-plants as a soil; they send no roots into it; they take no nourish- ment from it, but derive all their sus- tenance from the water which envel- opes their stems and fronds. Although there are many diverse forms of marine vegetables, the species are generally small and weak structures, only one group, the itliacrocystis, is known to attain any great bulk. This tenant of the Pacific and Antarctic Oceans, has a stem extending from the bottom of the sea to the crown which floats at the surface of the water, and the plant may have the length of one thousand feet or more. Remarkable as is this structure it is lowly organized, and does not deserve to be compared with our more highly developed land plants, which, in every feature by which we measure superiority, are far above their kindred of the sea. Although the animal forms of the deep are proportionally far more diver- sified, and attain to relatively higher states of life than the plants of that realm, they are also much inferior to their relatives of the land. Each of the great types has its representatives among the marine forms, and certain of them, as for instance the group of ani- mals commonly known as radiates, to which the polyps and star fishes belong, are, with some trifling exceptions of species which live in fresh water, con- fined to the sea. But all the mammals, birds, and insects, the groups which contain the intelligent animals, are es- sentially the creations of the conti- nents; the few members of the series which have developed close and perma- nent relations with the ocean, such as the whales, penguins, and rare marine insects, have clearly been derived from characteristic land forms, which, in the rude struggle for existence, have been forced to resort for subsistence to the sea. The greater part of the higher life avoids the sea, for it is to them a place of death. Nothing is clearer than the fact that all our laud animals have been derived from parent stocks which had their origin in the waters; it is not so cer tam as to plants, but it is probable that they, too, were first nurtured in the sea. In the land areas these great groups of animal and vegetable organisms at- tain their perfection. The articulates and vertebrates are at their best above the level of the waters, and in them alone do we find intellectual species. How does it come about that though the deep has been the cradle of these varied creatures it has not been the place of their fuller development? The answer is plain, and in it we shall find some most important teaching. A com- mon view of the action of natural selec- tion is that, given a full measure of in- crease and a fair share of variation, the struggle for existence will bring about a steadfast gain in the fitness of a form for the duties of life in its proper sta- tion, and that in time almost any meas- ure of advance may be attained. But the failure of the marine forms to win their way to the organic and intellec- tual successes of the higher life is suf- ficient evidence that time and struggle, infinite toil and pain, ceaseless life and death will not alone enable life to win the upward way. Many other condi- tions, which, in a question-begging man- ner, we term the influences of environ- ment, must enter into the inconceivably complicated equation which determines the fate of living beings. The struggle for existence has been as bitter in the seas as upon the land, it might well be maintained that it is far more intense in the water than in the animal realm, and it has endured for a far greater time. What, then, is the reason for the lagging behind of the marine life? It may well be that this slow ad- vance, or rather, we should term it, this widespread failure of the aquatic life in all that regards elevation in structure and function, is due to many different causes, but there is one cause which may, of itself, perhaps, in large part, account for the tardy evolution of the inhabitants of the sea. This is the im- perfect nature of the breathing process which is inevitable in all truly aquat- ic animals. Marine animals necessar- ily depend for their process of respira- tion on the small amount of air which is dissolved in the water, a part of which they appropriate by means of 0 THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. 85 their gills. The result is that in proportion to their size a gill- bearing animal, at best, has not the tenth part of the access to oxygen which is enjoyed by the ordinary land forms. Now, on the amount of this gas which comes in contact with the blood depends the share of nervous energy and muscular power of an an- imal: the force which pro- pels their bodies or their brains is as much a matter of com- bustion as that which is generated in a steam boiler. This respiratory process is necessarily slow in all gill-breathers, which take the air from the exceeding dilution in water where it does not constitute one hundredth of the mass, as com- pared with lung - breathers where the oxygen can be supplied as rapidly as needed. There is another condition of the sea which has, doubtless, much retarded the ad- vance of its tenants ; the greater part of its life dwells in utter darkness. At one hundred feet in depth the vertical sun yields only a twilight, and below one thousand feet it is perpetual night. As a large part of intellectual life de- pends upon the knowledge acquired by sight, we easily perceive that the utter darkness of the deeper sea is most un- VOL. XII.1O Suggestions concerning Submarine Volcanoes, Corel Reefs, and Voinseic Islands. In the foreground the upward growth and lateral enlarge- anent of volcanic cones is indic, ted. The largest of these has heen levelled off and occupied hy an atoll. In the dis- tance a volcano, still active, is in a state of slight eruption. 86 THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. favorable to the development of intelli- gent beings. With this understanding of the gen- eral limitations of marine life we are ence. The only marine animals which have been observed to have any dis- tinct marks of intelligence are the forms which have the habit of resort- 0 Sketch showing the Arrangement for Dredging in the Deep Sea. The dredge is seen in the foreground. The fringed tassels are intended to entangle objects which rest upon the bottom. The drum-like piece of apparatus is a set of springs intended to prevent the breaking of the line by sudden strains. not surprised to find that the animals of the sea are almost completely lack- ing in habits of an intellectual order. Save in a few forms, as, for instance, the species of fish which weave a rude nest of sea - weed, they make no construc- tions such as are so commonly produced by land animals. They rarely emit any sound in the nature of a sexual call; they never dwell in organized com- munities of a social sort; the sexes rarely if ever mate, even for a season. With them life in general has not risen above the plane of mere exist- ing to the shore, especially the seals, which are descended from the land ani- mals in the kinship of our bears and dogs; and are, in fact, not properly to be classed as marine animals, at least, in their more essential qualities. There seems to be not sufficient nervous en- ergy to spare from the ceaseless tur- moil of the combat which goes on among these creatures of the sea, to afford the basis for intellectual devel- opment. All the small share of force which these creatures with their scanty supply of oxygen can engender goes THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. 87 to the labor of flight and chase; the ited section is upon or near the bottom, ceaseless struggle to obtain food or to and within a short distance of the top avoid falling a prey to their enemies. of the water; yet the whole of this deep Although the mental processes of these section is open to certain groups of be- creatures of the deep are limited, their ings, and has a share of occupants. The physical growth is marvellously vigor- result is that, to each square mile of ous, and creates an amazing variety of ocean surface, there are usually many forms, which are so far hidden below times the number of individual beings the veil of the waters that even the which we find in an equal area of the eager search of the naturalists has but land. As each of these creatures dies, imperfectly disclosed them. even if it live out its term of existence, The immediate conditions of aquatic its bodily parts become the food of life differ in many important ways many hungry mouths which are exactly from those of the land. In the latter adapted to the task of bringing its car- realm the weight of the animal or cass back to the living state. Some- plant is not sensibly diminished by the thing of this same speedy conversion buoyancy of the air ; the result is that of the dead to the uses of life is seen the creatures have in all cases to dkvell upon the land, but what we see there mainly on the surface; even the most affords but an imperfect image of the volant of the birds and insects spend swiftness with which the translation the greater part of their life on the goes on in the sea. surface of the ground. The result is The movements of the organic ma- that the quantity of these land forms chinery in the deeper seas, unlike those which can find a place for existence is of the land, are unaffected by the pro- determined by the room afforded by a cess of seasons. In the shallow water shallow zone next the soil; the depth next the shore the summers heat and of this stratum is practically limited winters cold have some effect upon between the bot- tom of the true soil and the top of the vegetation which occupies its field; in other words the stra- tum occupied by organic life on the dry land is limited in thick- ness to a few score feet, and in the vast treeless regions is but a foot or two in vertical e x t en t. In the oceans, however, because the greater part of the creatures may freely float or swim in the water, the realm which living Antennarius. things A creature related to our shore goose-fish, but adapted to live in water of a depth of a can occu- hundred fathoms. py is vastly great- er. It may extend from the surface their tenants. In winter, at least in downward to the depth of four miles or high latitudes, fishes, with rare excep- more. It is true that the most inhab- tions, especially the schooling species, 88 THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. desert the shores, and many mollusks migrate into deeper waters; but in the profounder sea, where neither day nor Figure of a Free Polyp Community related to the Sea Fana. Each little serration on the leaflets of the frond-like body is a separate individual. night, summer or winter, bring any pause to the contest of life or any change in its conditions from age to age since these abyssal regions became first ten- anted by organismsthe contest has been without any of these pauses of the winter sleep, which on the land is evident, even in the tropics and in high latitudes. This continuity in the organic histo- ry of marine creatures makes it possi- ble for a number of singular communi- ties of animals to develop in its waters, the like of which are unknown in the re- gions which are enveloped by the air. In the latter region all the animal species consist of separate individuals which may be associated in intellectual communities and colonies, such as those of the bees and ants, or in the herds of the herbivora or the flocks of birds; but in no case do we find them united by a physical bond. It is otherwise in the sea. There, many groups con- sist of individuals which are knit to- gether in the manner of the polyps and sponges ; the several animals of- ten to the number of millions com- bining their bodies to form vast or- ganic associations, which may build the monumental structures of the fringing, or atoll reefs. This structural union in the life of the marine animals is par- alleled on the land in the plants where many separate buds are associated in a single bush or tree, but none of the land animals have any such union of their bodies ; such associations are pos- sible in plants, even in regions where there is winter cold, because they be- come essentially lifeless while the frigid conditions prevail. It is easy to see that it would be quite impossible for the more highly organized animal creatures to enter on such combinations in the open air. Another peculiarity in the environ- ment of aquatic animals depends on the capacity of water for floating sub- stances. All these forms on the land have to be endowed with the power of moving that they may seek their food, but in the sea the water floats the food to many waiting mouths, and the creat- ures may dwell fixed to the same place on the bottom from their birth to their death, waiting patiently for the cur- rents to bring them their nourishment. All the corals and sponges, and nearly half the mollusks, obtain their supply of food in this manner; perhaps one- half of the marine species trust to this chance of gathering their aliments from the passing water. THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. 89 For a century or more naturalists have known a great deal concerning the marine organisms which dwell in the shallow water next the shore. They long ago learned the amazing richness of these littoral forms. The census of species amounts now to more than one hundred thousand distinct forms it is, however, of late that they have ascertained that the deeper parts of the ocean-floors have also an abundant and varied peopling. Although the study of the abysmal life of the seas is views concerning the origin and history of organic life. These creatures of the abysmal regions of the ocean appear mainly to have been derived, by a pro- cess of variation, from those which once inhabited the shallower waters next the shore. The greater part of these shore dwellers are exceedingly intolerant of the enormous pressure of the deeper waters, as well as of the low tempera- ture and total darkness which exist there. Certain forms have, however, acquired the ability to withstand these A Group of Fiohes of Peculiar Form such as Inhabit Moderate Depths in the Sea. The bottom form is a flounder, with both eyes on the same side of the head to fit it for lying flat upon the bottom. Tho third from the base of the picture is provided with fringed appendages which attract the atten- tion of its prey, and bring them so near that they may be captured in one leap. but just begun, and the knowledge which has been gained is probably but a small part of that which will be gath- ered during the coming years, the re- sults of the inquiries, in many ways, are not only most interesting, but in the highest degree important in shaping our peculiar conditions, as generation by generation through the g~eologic ages they have crept away from the realms of fierce combat next the shores, to the less contested fields of the open and deeper seas. Through all the geologic ages this selection of especially pre 90 THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. pared groups for the singular stations or habits of the ocean depths has been going on, with the result that the life of those dark and pressure-burthened regions are now tenanted by eminent- ly peculiar animals, by species which ever surprise the student who is accus- tomed alone to the forms which dwell near the shores. One of the most striking features connected with the animals of the deep seas, is the frequency with which we find there living species which remind us of kinds which in former geologic peri- ods dwelt in the coastal districts of the oceans. It seems that many of these ancient creatures, when they no longer could hold their own against the more highly organized and developed animals which inhabited the favored stations next the shores, shrunk away into the deep water, and in that undesired part of the world found an asylum, where, amid the changeless environment, they have dwelt for ages, unaltered. Thus the vast profounds of the deep have become a sort of almshouse, where- unto antiquated forms have retired be- fore the overwhelming pressure which the newer and higher life ever imposes upon its ancestors. From the results of the relatively trifling explorations which have, as yet, been made, there seems good reason to hope that in time we may win from the deep the nearest living representations of many creat- ures which once occupied a large place in the seas, but now have abandoned the fields of more active combat, which are usually the seat of the greatest ad- vance. In the profounder seas the inverte- brate life appears to have a larger share than is secured by the vertebrcc, or back- boned animals; yet there are a num- ber of fishes known in these depths, and it seems likely that these tenants of the deep sea may be numbered by thou- sands of species. Among the finned tenants of the profounder parts of the ocean, we find the most startling depart- ures from the types with which we are familiar in coastal waters. In general shape they differ little from their kin- dred which dwell in the sunlit shal- lows. The differences are largely in the mechanism of the senses, especially of the eyes. These organs undergo sur- prising variations with reference to the enduring of the darkness of these deeps. In certain of the species the sight not only fails, but the visual ap- paratus entirely disappears; in others the eyeballs become very much en- larged and the nervous apparatus in- creased, and are evidently arranged to catch mere glimpses of light. As it is certain that no trace of sunlight can ever penetrate through the deep which overlies the realm where these animals dwell, the adaptation of these eyes to the needs of different vision at first ap- peared to be a very inexplicable mat- ter. Some recent discoveries provide us 6 / Figure of a Sponge, such as Inhabitu the Deeper Parts of the Sea. THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. 91 with what seems to be an adequate ex- planation of the enigma. It has been found that certain of the denizens of the deep sea-floors have phosphorescent parts of their bodies which serve to give light in the manner in which it is yielded by the fa- miliar fire-flies and glowworms. The end secured by these light- giving p a r t s is probably the attraction of the sexual mates of the creatures. In the utter darkness of the ocean this in- dispensable end could be at- tained in no other way; even the fishes appear to have this beautiful provision for avoiding the most serious evils of the darkness in which they are com- pelled to exist. It is evident that the fishes with large eyes would also have a decided advantage in the pur- suit of food, for their keen vis- ion would enable them to discern the glimmer of the phosphorescent light for some distance through the still, clear water. The difficulty comes in the case of those fishes which under the same general conditions of existence in darkness, combined with the same need of food, and of finding their mates, have not only failed to better their sight, but have abandoned it altogether. There is, perhaps, no other simple instance in which we may so well perceive the car- dinal difficulty which the extreme se- lectionist encounters in his effort to explain all the complications of the or- ganic world by the single hypothesis to the conditions of utter darkness after long ages of experience in the realms of light ; under circumstances which, so far as we can perceive, are ab solutely identical, the creatures enter upon widely divergent paths of varia- tion. The lesson we may read in these facts seems plain ; it is to the effect that environment alone is not compe- tent to determine the way followed by a species in its process of change. In the sunlit regions of the surface of the open oceans, even in the under water of the sea, down to the utmost depths to which the light penetrates, we have a zone of waters in which the va- riety of form is very limited, and the greater part of them belong to the lower orders of being. From this part of the sea few fishes have been obtained, for the creatures . like to dwell only where there is an abundance of varied food. In this zone the most in- teresting forms are the low- ly protozoa whose bodies, to the eye, appear as mere bits of translucent jelly, essen- tially unorganized, but which secrete shapely shells, showing that the apparent simplicity which they pre- sent to our eyes is due to our imperfect knowledge of them. Dwelling in myriads of the survival of the fittest. Here are in the superficial parts of the sea, these two groups of like creatures introduced foraminifera, as they are termed, sink at Sternoptyx Diaphana. A fish of singular form from the open sea, and possibly inhabiting the greater depths. A Member of the Genus Scopetus. Showing the large eyes common in fishes which swim in the depths of the sea to which the light of the sun does not penetrate. The eyes are probably specially adapted to perceiving the phosphorescent glow of various animals. Suggestions as to the History of a Sunken Ship. In parts of the sea near the shore where the accumula- tion of sediment is rapid. Of the two ships upon the bot- tom that in the foreground must have come to rest cen- turies hefore the other. death to the bottom, over which they accumulate a thick coating of minutely divided limestone powder, forming a layer of ooze as unsubstantial as the finest snow. A large part of the North Atlantic, particularly that vast level tract beneath the central por- tion of the sea, known as the telegraphic pla- teau, because it was crossed by the first tele- graphic cable which was laid, is covered with this chalk-like substance. Along with these shelly bits derived from animals which have dwelt near the surface, there goes into the waste which accumulates on tbe floor, the re- mains of creatures which dwelt upon the bot- tom ; thus it comes about that the fossils which we find in any stratum may have been nurtured under very various conditions: in part they may have dwelt on the floor of the deep sea, in the cold and dark waters of these regions and, in part, in the tropical climate of its surface. We have already alluded to the coldness of the water which is found at great depths beneath the surface of even the warmest parts of the open oceans. Wher- ever in such situations examinations of the temperature at the bottom have been THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. 93 made it has been found to be very near the freezing point. There seems to be but one possible explanation of this singular fact, which is the fol- lowing, viz.: On the surface of the oceans there is a system of warm cur- rents, such as the Gulf Stream, which flow in great volume from the tropics toward the poles. These tides of wat- er have to be, in some manner, re- turned to the tropical districts. In part this is effected by certain counter currents which set southward along the surface of the sea; but the volume of these superficial movements flow- ing toward the tropics is small as corn- pared with the streams which flow over the surface into the circumpolar seas. The principal return or compensating movement of the water appears to be brought about by a massive drift of the fluid which has been chilled nearly to the freezing point in high latitudes and then creeps, probably with extreme slowness, along the bottom until it may attain the equator. There, very gradu- ally, it rises and takes the place of the part of the sea-water which has been driven away by the currents moving toward the arctic and antarctic regions. The prime movers of the superficial streams, like that which flows from the Gulf of Mexico to the North Atlan- tic, are the trade-winds * and thus it comes about that the really arctic cli- mate of the deep sea-floors of all the open oceans is caused by these wonder- ful permanent winds. On the bottom of all the seas there is constantly gathering a coating of ma- terials derived from the bodies of ani- mals and plants which perish there, or which fall down upon the floor from the higher parts of the water; with this is niingled, more or less finely divid- ed rocky matter. If the portion of the submarine surface where the accumu- lation is making is near the coast line, these several mineral substances may be derived from the land and brought into the sea by the rivers or dragged away from the beaches by the reflux of the tides. In high latitudes the ice- bergs raft off from the land quantities of stony fragments which, when the ice is melted, fall swiftly to the bottom. * See The Instability of the Atmosphere, Vol. II., p. 191. VOL. XILI1 But this importation of detritus from the continents can effect but a small portion of the ocean-floors: it is prob- able that the greater part of the sedi- ment, other than that derived from or- ganic remains which come to rest on these surfaces, is thrown out from vol- canoes. The amount of these ejections from active craters is very great. It seems certain that in a little over a cen- tury the volcanoes of the Javanese dis- trict alone have cast into the sea not less than one hundred and fifty cubic miles of dust and pumice. As this matter contains a good deal of gas in the form of small vesicles, it may float to a great distance and undergo much chemical change before it finally comes to rest on the ocean-floor. Each bit of this pumice or ash may indeed jour- ney all the world about before it is de- cayed and falls to pieces or is weighted down by the small animals and plants which adhere to its surface. The quantity of this igneous matter which is cast into the sea is probably far greater than that brought down to the deep by all the rivers, and in volume, the contribution is probably only ex- ceeded by that which is worn from the shores of the sea itself by the action of the waves and tides. In the endless procession of fragments which are brought to the ocean-floor by the very varied actions which lead, in time, all things down to its depths, there perhaps to await their far-off resurrec- tion into continents which are yet to be, we must reckon the remains of man himself; the debris of his body and his sxts which strew that portion of the earth hidden from our eyes by the sea. There is a rather common, but erroneous notion, to the effect that a human body, or even a ship, will not sink to the bottom of the profounder abysses of the oceans, but will, on ac- count of the density of the waters at a great depth, remain suspended at some distance above the surface of the earth. This is an error. No other fate awaits the drowned sailor or his ship than that which comes to the marine creat- ures who die on the bottom of the sea; in time their dust all passes into the great storehouse of the earth even as those who receive burial on the land. 94 THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. However deep the sea, it is but a few hours before the body of a man who finds his grave in the ocean is at rest upon the bottom; it there receives the same swift service from the agents which, in the order of nature, are ap- pointed to care for the dead, as comes to those who are reverently inhumed in blessed ground. All save the hard- est parts of the skeleton are quickly taken again into the realm of the liv- ing, and even those more resisting por- tions of the body, in time are, in large part, appropriated by the creatures of the sea-floor, so that before the dust re- turns in the accumulating water to the firm set earth it may pass through an extended cycle of living forms. The fate of animal bodies on the sea- floor is well illustrated by the fact that beneath the waters of the Gulf Stream, where it passes by southern Florida, there are, in some places, quantities of bones, apparently those of the manitee, or sea-cows, a large herbivorous mam- mal, which, like the seal, has become adapted to aquatic life; these creatures plentifully inhabit the tropical rivers which flow into the Caribbean Sea, and are, though rarely, found in the streams of southern Florida. At their death they drift out into the open water and are swept away to the northward by the ocean current. For some weeks, per- haps, the carcasses are buoyed up by the gases of decomposition which are retained by their thick, oily skins; as these decay and break the bodies fall to the bottom. When the dredge brings up fragments of their skeletons we find the bits bored through and through, like insect-eaten wood, by the many animals which are fitted to consume them. It is evident that in a short time these bones become reduced to powder. It is otherwise with the ships which founder in the deep sea. They doubt- less remain for centuries as monuments of the strange doings of the masterful creature of the land. Whatever the atti- tude of the craft when it is overwhelmed by the waters it is likely that a moment after it descends below their surface, it rights itself, assuming the position it occupies when sailing in quiet wa- ters. The weight of the ballast neces sarily brings it into this position. In this attitude the vessel falls steadfastly, but not very swiftly, until it strikes the bottom. It may require in the average depth of the sea, which is about three miles, a quarter of an hour or more be- fore an ordinarily laden wooden vessel finds its long resting place. The blow with which it comes upon the sea-floor is not likely to dismast the vessel or to wreck its hull; the shock usually comes upon mud - like materials, suffi- ciently yielding to give a little to the blow, so that the violence of the con- tact is diminished and the upright po- sition and integrity of the hulk is main- tained. As soon as the sunken wreck is at rest we may imagine that it becomes the subject of careful inquiry on the part of a host of hungry creatures who await such windfalls from above. Pen- etrating the spaces of the hold they make avail of all that can serve them as food. More slowly certain forms, which bore in wood, will honeycomb all the timber until the beams and planks are reduced to mere shells. At the same time a host of species which have the habit of attaching their living skeletons to any firm support, crust over and festoon with their bod- ies all the external parts of the wreck, and serve to bind the frail structure to- gether. In the course of time the fab- ric becomes a mere ghost of a ship, it holds together only because the ocean is perfectly motionless and its parts are buoyed up by the water about them. In the course of ages the weight of the incrustation increases so that at last some part is borne down and through the shock which this causes the shadowy relict may at once melt in- to dust. We must conceive a somewhat differ- ent fate for the modern iron ships which find their last haven in the quiet waters of the ocean-floor. Because of their greater weight they will fall more swiftly and strike with greater violence on the bottom. They are, on this ac- count, more likely to be ruined by the last blow they are to receive. More- over their iron sides and beams afforl no food to the marine animals; never- theless they are attacked by the seal THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. 95 waters and their decay probably pro- t ceeds so rapidly, and the gravitative energy of their metallic parts is so great, that they more quickly fall into ruins, which can hardly be as pictur- esque as those of the older type of ves- sels. It is doubtful if the wrecks of any of the modern men-of-war which have foundered at sea will hold to- gether for fifty years, while those sunk during the action of Trafalgar may en- dure for centuries in the grim sem- blance of battle ships. The idea that ships are likely to be buried in the accumulations which are forming on the deeper sea-floor, rests upon a mistaken conception as to the speed with which sediments are laid down at a distance from the shore. These deposits of the open oceans are so slowly made that we must decree it ex- cessive to suppose that a depth of a sin- gle inch can be formed in a thousand years. It is likely that in no case, save near the coast line, or in the rare places where the showers of volcanic waste bring an unusually large amount of detritus, can a ship be buried in the ac- cumulating strata so as to be preserved in a recognizable form. If the creat- ures of the far future, to whom it may be given to scan the rocks which are now forming and are hereafter to be uplifted into dry land, are to find a trace of their remote ancestors in the deposits, they will secure it, not by find- ing the hulks of great vessels, proba- bly not from the bones of men or the common implements which serve them in seafaring, but from the objects com- posed of glass, or more likely those made of the rarer metals such as gold and platinum. Of the vast wreckage of an iron warship such as the Cap- tain, which sunk in the Bay of Biscay, the hulk, great guns, shot, and shell, the timber and all the forms of its crew will probably disappear before they are entombed in the slowly gathered strata. The geological remainder will perhaps be the coal of her fuel store, the gold of the watches and trinkets and the massive glass objects which abound in such a ship; in all but a small, and little indicative, part of what went to the bottom of the sea when the vessel foundered. It has, to many persons, been an in- teresting speculation as to the aspect of the countless wrecks which have been swallowed up by the North Atlan- tic since the churn of waters has been ploughed by the keels of ships. Their number is probably to be reckoned by the tens of thousands, and the greater part of them lie in a comparatively small part of that field. If we count this portion of the Atlantic which is most peopled with wrecks as having an area of 3,000,000 square miles and esti- mate the total number of such ruins within this space as 30,000 we would have an average of one sunken ship for each hundred square miles of surface. If all these crafts were at once sailing over the surface of the sea we should, from the deck of any one of them, be likely to note the masts of several others. But as they lie on the floor of the ocean the greater part of them are probably reduced to low mounds of rubbish, so that if the ocean-floor were converted into dry ground, and we crossed it in a railway, seeing the fields as we do the prairies, it would require an attentive eye to discern the exist- ence of many of these remains. It is a singular, and perhaps some- what humiliating fact, that the most conspicuous and indelible record which man is making in the strata now form- ing on the sea-floor is written in the bits of coal and ash which are cast from our steamships as they pursue their way over the ocean. The quan- tity of this debris is very great, and un- like the wrecks it is very evenly scat- tered along the paths followed by our steam marine. It is likely that already in the track of our transatlantic com- merce, not a square rod would fail to give a trace of this waste from our coal- burning engines. As this material is not attacked by the marine animals, and is very little affected by the other agents of decay, it will doubtless be very perfectly preserved in the strata which are to bear the records of our time. In the eventual formation of a deposit containing a notable quantity of cinders, it may be that our succes- sors in the far hereafter will interpret our, perhaps otherwise, unrecorded ways of voyaging. THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. By Charles F. Carryl. T was a shabby, three- story house on the shady side of fifty, and on the north side of the street. Judged by its dimen- sions, it might have been called small for its age; viewed from without, its appearance was thor- oughly disreputable; considered as to its probable interior, it suggested din- giness and a possible prevalence of rats, and regarded as a dwelling, it might have been promptly set down as a house not to be gone into except un- der compulsion. Closed blinds, in the rhomboidal stages of decay, hung askew at the windows, shutting in the various rooms from the sunlight and the air; ramshackle iron railings, rusty and loose in the sockets, ran along the line of the area and straggled, all awry, up the steps, and the front door shame- lessly displayed to passers-by a sullen- looking coat of blotchy varnish, blis- tered and weather-beaten by the suns and storms of many years. As if to emphasize its repellent features it was flanked upon one side by a respectable dwelling, smart in all the glory of well- painted walls and brass door-fittings, and upon the other by a tall apart- ment-house that dwarfed its three- story neighbor into a squat ugliness that brought all its obtrusive shabbi- ness into strong relief. Young Doctor Ledyard, gazing across the street at it from his office window, reflected professionally upon its prom- ise as a sort of hot-house for the rapid propagation of ills of the typhoid school, speculated as to the probable percentage of contagion in its mil- dewed wall-papers, and drew appalling deductions concerning the drainage from the appearance of sodden damp- ness that clung to the outer bricks. In the earlier stages of this sort of in- ferential diagnosis he had awaited, with placid confidence, the outcome of these assumed morbific conditions; but prac tice is slow in materializing from the- ories, and at the end of three years occupancy of his present quarters he was still without a single summons for medical aid from the premises over the way. With his attention thus drawn from time to time to the unsightly dwelling, Ledyard had gradually become aware of a certain air of stealth that marked the movements of its occupants and those of a solitary visitor whom he had observed, at infrequent intervals and invariably after nightfall, furtively en- tering, or cautiously emerging from, its uninviting portal. The occupants were evidently but two in number, a master of the house above stairs and a maid-of-all-work below, a frowsy, mid- dle - aged woman who issued from the lower door but once a day, and, after a brief absence, returned carrying vari- ous small parcels wrapped in the ochre- colored straw paper peculiar to grocers shops of the cheaper class. The vis- itor, so far as could be observed, was a heavily built man of seafaring as- pect, who uniformly entered the house through the lower door, and as in- variably made his exit from the upper one about an hour later. On several occasions, when Ledyard chanced to notice his arrival, he thought he de- tected a suspicious bulge in the set of the visitors pilot-coat, that suggested the carriage of concealed freight; but with this peculiarity he had no con- cern, and, beyond an occasional sur- mise as to the motive of his repeated visits, gave the matter no particular thought. In the course of time, how- ever, certain eccentricities of habit on the part of the occupant of the house attracted his attention, and eventually aroused his curiosity in a marked de- gree. The man was apparently a foreigner, small in stature and sallow in complex- ion, with an amplitude of coat-tail and an upward curl in the toes of his boots that suggested early associations with I

Charles E. Carryl Carryl, Charles E. The House Over The Way 96-107

THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. By Charles F. Carryl. T was a shabby, three- story house on the shady side of fifty, and on the north side of the street. Judged by its dimen- sions, it might have been called small for its age; viewed from without, its appearance was thor- oughly disreputable; considered as to its probable interior, it suggested din- giness and a possible prevalence of rats, and regarded as a dwelling, it might have been promptly set down as a house not to be gone into except un- der compulsion. Closed blinds, in the rhomboidal stages of decay, hung askew at the windows, shutting in the various rooms from the sunlight and the air; ramshackle iron railings, rusty and loose in the sockets, ran along the line of the area and straggled, all awry, up the steps, and the front door shame- lessly displayed to passers-by a sullen- looking coat of blotchy varnish, blis- tered and weather-beaten by the suns and storms of many years. As if to emphasize its repellent features it was flanked upon one side by a respectable dwelling, smart in all the glory of well- painted walls and brass door-fittings, and upon the other by a tall apart- ment-house that dwarfed its three- story neighbor into a squat ugliness that brought all its obtrusive shabbi- ness into strong relief. Young Doctor Ledyard, gazing across the street at it from his office window, reflected professionally upon its prom- ise as a sort of hot-house for the rapid propagation of ills of the typhoid school, speculated as to the probable percentage of contagion in its mil- dewed wall-papers, and drew appalling deductions concerning the drainage from the appearance of sodden damp- ness that clung to the outer bricks. In the earlier stages of this sort of in- ferential diagnosis he had awaited, with placid confidence, the outcome of these assumed morbific conditions; but prac tice is slow in materializing from the- ories, and at the end of three years occupancy of his present quarters he was still without a single summons for medical aid from the premises over the way. With his attention thus drawn from time to time to the unsightly dwelling, Ledyard had gradually become aware of a certain air of stealth that marked the movements of its occupants and those of a solitary visitor whom he had observed, at infrequent intervals and invariably after nightfall, furtively en- tering, or cautiously emerging from, its uninviting portal. The occupants were evidently but two in number, a master of the house above stairs and a maid-of-all-work below, a frowsy, mid- dle - aged woman who issued from the lower door but once a day, and, after a brief absence, returned carrying vari- ous small parcels wrapped in the ochre- colored straw paper peculiar to grocers shops of the cheaper class. The vis- itor, so far as could be observed, was a heavily built man of seafaring as- pect, who uniformly entered the house through the lower door, and as in- variably made his exit from the upper one about an hour later. On several occasions, when Ledyard chanced to notice his arrival, he thought he de- tected a suspicious bulge in the set of the visitors pilot-coat, that suggested the carriage of concealed freight; but with this peculiarity he had no con- cern, and, beyond an occasional sur- mise as to the motive of his repeated visits, gave the matter no particular thought. In the course of time, how- ever, certain eccentricities of habit on the part of the occupant of the house attracted his attention, and eventually aroused his curiosity in a marked de- gree. The man was apparently a foreigner, small in stature and sallow in complex- ion, with an amplitude of coat-tail and an upward curl in the toes of his boots that suggested early associations with I THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. 97 Houndsditch and the Minories; and his observable habits supplemented these somewhat unprepossessing pe- culiarities with a certain furtiveness of movement that vaguely pointed at doings without the pale of the law. Quite consistently with these habits he invariably kept himself housed until nightfall, at which hour Ledyard re- peatedly saw him stealthily appearing in his doorway and, from its shadow, casting a reconnoitring glance up and down the street, sometimes withdraw- ing slightly as people passed, and never actually emerging until the coast was fairly clear. This singular pre- caution frequently kept him hovering in his doorway for many minutes, with Ledyard an interested spectator from his office window; occasionally it re- sulted in his final withdrawal and the closing of the door. In grotesque ac- cord with these mamieuvres, the errand that called him forth seemed absolute- ly purposeless and trivial It con- sisted in a hurried shuffle down the street, followed by an almost immedi- ate return on Ledyards side of the way; and here, pausing on the curb, the foreigner would scan the entire front of his own dwelling with an air of extreme solicitude, then hurrying across the street, would let himself in with a latch-key and finally vanish from sight for another twenty - four hours. All this was done with an indescribable sneakiness of movement that caused Ledyard eventually to invest him with a sort of malodorous mystery, and his suspicions that the man was engaged in illegal practices of some description were strongly reinforced by an inci- dent that occurred during his observa- tion of his habits. Ledyard had concluded, from seeing light shining through the closed blinds of a room on the second floor, that this was the apartment occupied by the shady master of the house, and he was glancing across at it from his bedroom window one stormy night when a sud- den furious blast of wind swept through the street, and getting a hold on one wing of the blind, tore it open and swnng it back with a crash against the side of the house. The window was without shade or curtain, and the in- tenor of the room, well lighted, was instantly exposed to view, revealing to Ledyards gaze the occupant on his knees, engaged in sorting over a num- ber of small packages that lay about him on the floor. The view, however, was but momentary. The man sprang to his feet, instantly turned out the light, and, a moment after, Ledyard heard him drawing to and securing the blind. In this desultory observation of his apparently disreputable neighbor, Led- yard had casually noticed the marked contrast afforded by the occupant of the well - appointed dwelling immedi- ately adjoining the house over the way. He was a prosperous - looking man, large in person and with a clean- shaven, florid face that gave him the appearance of a well-nourished come- dian; and it was his custom to come forth from his respectable doorway with a sort of parade that invited, or rather defied, attention as distinctly as the stealthy manner of his shabby neighbor seemed to shun it. Ledyard, whose mind was somewhat too much upon other persons concerns, set him down as a man of affairs from his con- stant habit of appearing with an over- coat and umbrella, and with a large valise of the kind known as a dress- suit case, as if his calls out of town were frequent and imperative. The ad- dress of a letter, inadvertently left by the postman at Ledyards door, had in- formed him that this gentlemans name was Glade; of the foreigners name he remained in ignorance until the occur- rence of the singular adventure about to be related. Ledyard had returned to his office late one evening and was solacing him- self with a pipe, prior to turning in for the night, when his servant announced a caller; no name being given, and no message except that the business was urgent. The visitor, upon being shown into the office, proved to be a remark- ably plain-featured woman of middle age, so poorly attired that Ledyard at once set her down as one of the gratu- itous patients occasionally allotted to him by the local dispensary. He was, consequently, somewhat surprised when she stated, without preamble and with 98 THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. singular abruptness of manner, that Mr. Kriecher was out of his mind. Kriecher? said Ledyard, inquir- ingly. The woman responded to this query by a sidelong jerk of her head toward the house over the way, and Ledyard, thus enlightened, recognized in her the foreigners maid-of-all-work. Replying to his further inquiries, she went on to say with her former abruptness that after ailing for a few days her employer had taken to his bed, and that being forbidden to go to his room unless summoned, she had heard him, from be- low stairs, talking to himself incoher- ently; also that, not knowing of any rel- ative or friend who could be called in, she had assumed the responsibility of going for a doctor. This concise state- ment was supplemented by the blunt remark, Its a fever. Of course its a fever, said Ledyard, with a glow of indignation at this tardy corroboration of his diagnosis. He ought to have had it months ago; and with this expression of resentment at the slow materialization of the overdue malady, he selected one or two specif- ics from his office - shelf and followed the woman across the street. It seemed to him quite in accord with the air of mystery that appeared to invest the house that the woman took him in through the lower en- trance, explaining, by way of apology, that the upper door could be opened only with a pass-key which Kriecher always kept about his person; and a pronounced disrelish for the business in hand suddenly asserted itself when he was bluntly told how to find his pa- tients room, and then was left to make his own way up-stairs. The main hall- was dimly lighted by a small oil lamp burning on a table, and Ledyard, noise- lessly ascending the next flight, found himself at the door of Kriechers room. He paused for a moment, listening to the muttered ravings of the sick man within, and then, softly pushing open the door, entered. Kriecher was tossing about on a huge, old-fashioned post bedstead, curtained with musty and faded hangings, and Ledyards practiced glance detected at once in the mahogany-colored flush upon his face, the suffusion of his eyes and the restless tremor of his hands upon the coverlet, all the symptoms of the delirium of typhoid. The sick mans gaze became instantly fixed with an ex- pression of intense apprehension upon his visitor, and he made a motion as if to leave the bed, but Ledyard restrained him, quietly but firmly, explaining at the same time his errand. Then dis- solving some hydrate of chloral in a tumbler of water he induced him to swallow the sedative. The effect was not immediate, of course, and Ledyard seated himself beside the bed to await the result, meanwhile surveying with considerable interest the apartment about which he had so frequently spec- ulated. The room was dingy and uninviting to the eye, and was pervaded by a close and stuffy atmosphere which Ledyard sniffed with strong professional disap- probation. The appointments were scant in number and of such hetero- geneous character as to convey the im- pression to the casual observer of hav- ing been selected at random from the stock of a dealer in second-hand goods, the only article of furniture at all out of the common run being an enormous wardrobe that stood like a fixture close up against the side wall of the house. A cheap carpet, worn to the warp, cov- ered the floor, and the walls were hung with a flock-paper of singularly hideous pattern, both conveying an indescrib- able suggestion of mouldiness that quite accorded with Ledyards premoni- tions concerning the premises. During the few minutes devoted to this cursory inspection his patient had succumbed to the quieting draught, and he found himself confronted with the problem of the next step to be taken. The situation was sufficiently em- barrassing. The disease, while not con- tagious, was certainly endemic and re- quired either the immediate removal of the patient or a prompt restoration of proper sanitary conditions in his pres- ent quarters. The first of these alter- natives promised a task of discouraging proportions with a certain element of pecuniary risk, while the other held such possibilities of ramifying compli- cations as to render its immediate ac 0 THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. 99 complishment extremely doubtful, and neither commended itself to a physi- cian not particularly interested in the sick man, and knowing nothing what- ever of his connections or of his re- sources. Under these circumstances, a few minutes reflection pointed out to Ledyard the wisest course to take. He determined, in short, to call in a male nurse who lived near enough at hand to be immediately accessible, and, leav- ing him in temporary charge of the sick man, to go at once to one of the commissioners of Charities and Cor- rection and surrender the case to the care of that department. Kriecher was reasonably certain to remain under the influence of the chloral for an ensuing hall-hour at least, and Ledyard stole softly down-stairs, briefly explained his purpose to the servant below, and then hurried away in search of the nurse. The man was not at home; and this accident, as the sequel proved, was the means of bringing upon Ledyard the most startling episode of his profes- sional life. There was no time for de- lay and he returned at once to his office, despatched his man after another nurse living far uptown, and then hurried across the street to Kriechers house. The maid-of-all-work, who had appar- ently remained on sentry duty at the lower door during the entire period of his absence, reported everything qui- et, and ascending to the sick-room he found Kriecher still sleeping heavily. It was now very late, and Ledyard, in- wardly imprecating the unlucky chance that had imposed upon him the neces- sity of a night-watch, drew the bed- curtains, opened one of the windows and pushed back the blind, and lower- ing the light to a mere glimmer, seated himself between the window and the bed and resigned himself to the weary duty of awaiting the arrival of the nurse. Perhaps nothing is more soporific in its effect, even upon the most appre- hensive watcher, than the peculiar si- lence of a sick-room; and in this case the remote isolation of the servant in the lower story contributed a sense of solitude almost as absolute as though Ledyard had been the solitary occupant of the house. Not even the ticking of a clock disturbed the stillness, and be- yond the scarcely audible respiration of the sick man, or the occasional dis- tant rumble of a vehicle, not a sound broke the air. Apart from the neces- sity of combating drowsiness, the situa- tion was a depressing one, and Ledyard tried to meet the first and to enliven the other by again fixing his attention upon the contents of the room. It was during this somewhat forlorn diversion that he found his thoughts reverting again and again with unac- countable persistence to the wardrobe standing against the walL With the singular fascination peculiar, under cer- tain circumstances, to inanimate ob- jects, this ungainly article of furniture gradually concentrated his attention upon itself until he presently found his thoughts riveted with a sort of fatu- ous intensity upon its keyhole. This, a narrow slit in a circular disk of metal, indicated a patent lock of some descrip- tion, and Ledyard began surmising that here was probably the lock-up of some sort of illegal deviltry, there being no sign elsewhere of the array of packages which the incident of the open blind had once exposed to view. Thus re- fiseting, he was reminded of the hour by the toll of a distant church clock striking one. Following up this diver- sion of his thoughts he began drowsily calculating how soon the nurse might be expected to arrive, and this kind of rumination being sedative in effect he presently fell into a doze. Weary as he was, Ledyard slept lightly, the sense of responsibility prob- ably serving as a bar to profound slum- ber; but he repeatedly lost conscious- ness and as frequently roused himself to sufficient alertness to turn his eyes to the bed beside him. He was vaguely aware, during one of these waking mo- ments, of the sound of footsteps pass- ing up the steps of the adjoining house, followed by the reverberation of a clos- ing door, but the impression conveyed was so faint that it was instantly ob- literated by the lapse into unconscious- ness that ensued. This desultory napping was accom- panied, like the sleep of fever, by a con- stant succession of fantastic dreams in which the wardrobe played a migratory part, moving weirdly about the room, 100 THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. and occasionally yawning like a huge maw and revealing horrors of unspeak- able quality that repeatedly brought Ledyard to his waking senses with that indescribable fluttering of the heart that follows sudden emergence from the realms of nightmare. These re- curring visions were extremely vivid, and seemed to lose something of their grotesque improbability in the peculiar atmosphere of his surroundings. Con- sequently, when he was presently awak- ened from one of these fitful slumbers by the sound of a voice, he sat mo- tionless in his chair, uncertain as to whether some one had actually spoken or whether he had been startled by the mere phantasy of a dream. All was perfectly silent, save for the measured respiration of the sick man, but to Ledyards excited fancy the air seemed to be fairly vibrating with the echoes of the sound that had aroused him from his sleep. The voice had spoken three times, calling Kriechers name in a hard, metallic tone, with a quality as resonant as if the word had been shouted through a speaking-trum- pet, and the impression of its actual utterance was so distinct that he await- ed its repetition with every faculty ~t its utmost tension. At this moment of alert apprehension, as his gaze searched every part of the darkened room, a new and most unpleasant development ar- rested his attention. The light of the moon, low in the southern sky, streamed in through the opened window, and falling upon the wardrobe against the wall, brought it out in strong relief from the surrounding obscurity, and in this luminous revealment he became aware that its door was noiselessly opening outward. It would be unfair to Ledyard to state that his own unwholesome specu- lations, and the train of distorted im- agery that had followed in his dreams, had actually affected his mental re- sources; but under the peculiar influ- ences of the situation it certainly oc- curred to him that this ungainly arti- cle of furniture had suddenly assumed a ghostly volition of its own, and he received this apparently supernatural manifestation with a bristling sensa- tion at the back of his scalp and a pro- nounced development of goose-flesh. His common - sense, however, immedi- ately banished this gruesome idea by assuring him that the seeming phenom- enon was readily attributable to an im- perfectly fastened lock or some equally commonplace cause, and it was there- fore a rude shock to his nerves when this comforting conclusion was abruptly dispelled in its turn by a startling reve- lation. A presence in the wardrobe announced itself by the apparition of a face, dimly discernible in the obscurity of the interior as though it had been floating, bodiless, in the air. Ledyards first idea was that a burg- lar was concealed in the wardrobe, and he sat for a moment absolutely ap- palled by the thought of being con- fronted with such an emergency, and conscious that the pulsations of his heart were distinctly audible in the dead silence of the room. The distress- ing suspense that followed this impres- sion was, however, of brief duration. The face was advanced to the aperture of the door, like that of a IRuthven seeking the rays of the moon, and as the light fell upon it, Ledyard recog- nized the broad, smooth features of Glade, the occupant of the adjoining house. The eyes, for a moment, sur- veyed the room, the curtained bed, and his own motionless figure as he sat in his chair; then the face was withdrawn and the door was noiselessly closed. The thought of this apparently re- spectable citizen hiding himself, like a thief in a pantry, seemed so preposter- ous that, for a moment, Ledyard was inclined to doubt the evidence of his own senses and to treat the matter as the delusion of a demoralized imagina- tion; but reflection immediately con- nected the apparition with the incident of the calling voice and gave it sub- stance and reality. An unpleasant in- ference at once suggested itself: Glades concealment in his neighbors room, and his interrupted attempt to communi- cate with him, pointed unmistakably to some sort of unholy alliance between the two men. Following this conclu- sion, there suddenly arose in Ledyards mind the contingency of Glades emer- gence from his place of concealment, accompanied by such disquieting re THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. 101 flections as to the possible results that his manhood was not proof against the strain thus put upon it, and he left the room, stole noiselessly down the stairs, and explaining to the servant below that he would presently return, went out into the street. The time when Kriecher might be expected to awake from his enforced sleep had already passed, and Ledyard, having assumed the responsibility of looking after him until his plans for relief could be carried out, was unwill- ing to entirely desert his post. He ac- cordingly crossed the street and began walking back and forth along the block, glancing up at the dimly-lighted win- dow of Kriechers room as he passed and repassed the house, trusting that this somewhat remote surveillance would temporarily suffice to apprise him of any immediate need of his ser- vices. His mind at first was in a whirl of agitation at what he naturally con- sidered an escape from an awkward trap; but as his brain cooled and re- covered its poise under the freshening influence of the night air, he recalled the fact that no overt act had been committed, and that his surmises had, after all, received their alarming color- ing largely from the one element of mystery that enveloped the adventure. Here a question of his duty in the mat- ter obtruded itself. He had in full meas- ure the scruples of his craft against the revelation of awkward secrets learned in the privacy of the sick-room, and a re- cent appointment to the police medical staff had, curiously enough, developed in him an extreme caution about carry- ing cock-and-bull stories to that depart- ment; but it seemed fairly debatable whether professional reticence, in a case lying quite without his own clientUe and not of his own seeking, should stand between presumed malefactors and the law. These reflections chased one another through his mind in a confused jostle for consideration until there presently emerged from the rack one thought which confronted him as an emergency to be met at once. This was the unde- niable reality of a concealed presence in the apartment of a man too ill either to approve of or denounce it, and it seemed to him that, in this case, the helpless and friendless condition of the patient perhaps gave the physician an unusual latitude in the matter of dis- cretion. Thus reasoning, he was con- sidering the propriety of reporting at the nearest police station the details of his recent experience, when he became aware that a male figure, barely dis- cernible in the obscurity, was standing at the lower door of Kriechers house apparently awaiting admittance. Dis- turbed as he was by his recent experi- ence, he found this sudden presence, unheralded by any observable approach, singularly startling; then, surmising that the nurse had probably arrived unnoticed, he crossed the street, and as the figure became more distinctly discernible he recognized the seafaring man whose skulking visits he had so frequently noticed in the past. The servant stood in the doorway speaking with him in an undertone, and as Led- yard came up she said, Its Captain Trent, sir, and withdrew into the hall, leaving the two men together. Are you the doctor? said the new-coiner, facing about and speaking rather abruptly. I am, replied Ledyard, with equal directness. Are you a friend of Mr. Kriecher? The seafaring man received this in- quiry with a half laugh. Im as near a friend as hes likely to have, he said. Whats the matter with him? Typhoid, said Ledyard, much ag- gravated by neglect and delay. As the case stands, hes in a bad way. As he said this, the stranger, advancing slightly from the shadow of the door- way, brought his person well within the range of a street - lamp standing opposite the adjoining house, and Led- yard, observing him closely, saw that he was a man of perhaps thirty-five or thereabouts, of the conventional sailor type and exceedingly muscular in build. His face, in bright relief in the radiance of the lamp, showed clear-cut, regular features, tanned and roughened by ex- posure to the weather; and Ledyard noticed that he had dark, extremely brilliant eyes, that were scanning his own countenance in turn with a direct steadiness of gaze singularly at variance 102 THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. with his preconceived idea of the mans furtive habits. His appearance, on the whole, was rather prepossessing than otherwise, and Ledyard, hastily sur- mising that he might be sufficiently in Kriechers confidence to offer some ex- planation of what had occurred, deter- mined to make a confidant of him. He accordingly asked him to step into the hallway, and, closing the door, told him, with the single reservation of his rec- ognition of Glade, the facts of his ex- traordinary experience. The Captain, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, listened with apparent interest, but with such an inscrutable expression on his face that Ledyard was quite unable to determine whether he knew the solution of the mystery or not. At the point where Ledyard, with some embarrassment, confessed his retreat, he interrupted him to ask if he had drawn apart the curtains and looked at Kriecher before leaving the room, and upon his replying in the neg- ative, relapsed into his former atten- tive silence. With this exception he made no comment or inquiry until the story was ended, when he punctuated its conclusion by remarking The devil!~ with much emphasis. Ledyard was disappointed by this indifferent reception of his budget of marvels and, somewhat chagrined, went on to unfold his plan for transfer- ring the charge of his patient; but here Trent broke in upon him sharply. That wont do, he exclaimed. Ill take care of him myself. Id do as much as that for a sick dog. Lets go up and have a look at him. There was something about this con- temptuous dismissal of the gruesome features of the affair that brought the color to Ledyards face as he recalled his late somewhat precipitate flight from the room; but he had a guilty consciousness that his patient certainly needed looking after by this time, and he therefore acceded to the proposal without demur, and the two men went together softly up the stairs. As they reached the landing just out- side Kriechers door Ledyard was as- tounded at seeing that the room was perfectly dark, and his heart sank with a misgiving that something had gone wrong during the parley in the hall be- low. Trent, however, promptly pro- duced a pocket lantern, and, sliding the cover, turned a slender stream of light from its bulls-eye through the door- way. As this miniature search-light illumined the bed, both men saw at a glance that it was vacant, with the dis- ordered coverings thrown in a heap against the foot-board; and then, as the slender cone of radiance was thrown upon every portion of the room in turn, it became evident that Kriecher had disappeared, and the wardrobe was exposed to view with its door tightly closed. This preliminary survey hav- ing been completed, Trent entered the room, lighted the gas, and silently pocketing his lantern turned an inquir- ing eye upon the discomfited doctor. Ledyards response was prompt and to the point There can be no devil- ish hallucination about the sick man, he exclaimed, and his life depends up- on my finding him at once and getting him back into bed. Quite right, said Trent, in his quick, decided way. Well look him up, and again producing his revelatory lantern, a search through the house was begun. To Ledyards relief this proved to be an extremely simple matter, as they presently discovered that, with the ex- ception of Kriechers room, the entire house above the basement floor was ab- solutely unfurnished. A search through bare rooms and empty closets is soon accomplished, and in ten minutes the two men had explored every nook and corner from the attic down, and found themselves in the main hall with the now thoroughly frightened servant, without having discovered a trace of the missing patient. In this dilemma Ledyard immediately conjectured that Kriecher, in his de- lirium, had wandered out into the street, and he proposed a search in that direction, suggesting, as a last resource, the sending out of a general alarm through the police; but here Trent laid his hand upon the doctors arm and pointed significantly to the door, and Ledyard, following this indication with his eyes, saw that a long, heavy bolt run- ning longitudinally along the stile was THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. 108 shot into the socket on the jam above. This silent evidence against exit was un- answerable, and Ledyard, with an un- pleasant crawling sensation running up and down his spine, turned a startled look upon his companion and then caught desperately at his last straw the windows. All shut and as tight as battened hatches, replied Trent, quite coolly. I looked at every one of them as we went along. My good woman, he contin- ued, addressing the servant without waiting for any reply from Ledyard, do you go below and stay there until we call you up, and as the woman disap- peared down the lower stairs he turned again, with a strange light in his eyes, and added: And now, doctor, if your nerves are in good order well look up your ghost. Ledyard, thus abruptly recalled from his professional solicitude to the almost forgotten episode of the wardrobe, felt that never in his life had he received a more distasteful invitation; but there was a cool composure in Trents man- ner of making the proposition that led him to fancy the man was perfectly in- formed as to what lay before him. Rather vaguely relying upon this sur- face indication of confidence, he made a sign of acquiescence and followed the sailor up-stairs with a thrilling sense of an impending crisis of no ordinary quality. The room was as they had left it, with the gas burning brightly and with the impress of Kriechers body still discern- ible in the bed, as though appealing to them to look up his vanished person- ality. Trent, with a grim saggestive- ness of the burglar in his methods, went to work with extraordinary readi- ness. Placing his lantern on a chair he took a revolver from his pocket and handed it to Ledyard without a word; then, diving into another pocket he produced a sort of dwarf crowbar flat- tened out at each extremity into a broad claw. This he inserted into the crev- ice of the wardrobe door, threw his weight upon it, and with a powerful wrench snapped the lock. As the door swung open he stepped quickly back into an attitude of alert preparation, but to Ledyards intense relief nothing emerged. The interior of the wardrobe was exposed to viewquite empty, save for a few articles of shabby clothing hanging limp and flat against its sides. Ledyard confidently expected to see Trents eyes again turned upon him in mocking inquiry, but, to his surprise, the sailor stood motionless with his gaze riveted upon the empty interior before him. Twice he muttered something to himself and Ledyard caught the words panel and lockers of the brig; then, without turning his eyes, he said abruptly: What was the face like? Ledyard hesitated for a moment be- fore replying, and Trent repeated his question with an angry stamp of his foot. It was a face I had seen before, said Ledyard. Whose? said Trent, imperatively. It was the face of Glade, said Led- yard, not venturing upon further delay; the face of the man who lives next door. Trent turned and stared hard at him for an instant as if not comprehending this reply; then a dark flush overspread his face and with an oath he sprang into the wardrobe and hurled himself against the paneling at the back. The frail wood splintered with a crash at the impact, and, as it gave away, he disappeared through the opening as though he had been thrown from a cata- pult. The next moment Ledyard heard him calling for the lantern, and spring- ing, in his turn, into the wardrobe he turned the gleam of its light through the broken paneL For an instant there was revealed to him, on a door beyond, a bright disk of light, with the figure of Trent, furiously plying his crowbar, appearing and vanishing upon its mar- gin with the fantastic abruptness of a slide in a magic-lantern. Then came the sharp metallic snap of a broken lock, and as the door swung open, the intervening vista became dimly dis- cernible with the stalwart form of the sailor outlined in silhouette against the luminous background of a lighted room. Trent instantly stepped forward into the light, and Ledyard, drawn by the mere volition of association with the others movements, passed through the splintered panel and found himself in the adjoining house. 104 THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. Although this sudden change of en- vironment was sufficiently startling, Ledyard immediately realized what had occurred, the whole affair being, in- deed, readily comprehensible. He and Trent had simply passed through a sec- ond wardrobe, standing, like Kriechers, close against the side of the room, and concealing an opening through the par- ty-wall that separated the two houses; but what this covert connection might presage excited, at the moment, no in- terest in his mind, his attention being diverted by his peculiar surround- ings and by Trents extraordinary con- duct. The floor of the room was strewn with an infinite variety of small mo- rocco-covered and paper boxes of every conceivable shape, all empty, and with their covers scattered about in every direction. Trent, entirely ignoring Led- yards presence, stood motionless for a moment, surveying this litter with di- lated nostrils and with a gleam of fury in his eyes; then apparently following up, with the confident tenacity of a bloodhound on a trail, whatever purpose had taken possession of him, he pulled open drawer after drawer in the various articles of furniture, trampling, in his search, the boxes under foot into shape- less wrecks as though they had been animate objects of his wrath. Ledyard, closely observing him, conjectured that he had expected to find Kriecher, in a freak of delirium, hiding in his own wardrobe, and that something in the appearance of the panel, coupled with the admission of Glades appearance, had revealed to him the existence of a concealed means of communication; but while this theory explained Trents indifference to the account of the call- ing voice and the apparition of the face, and, moreover, took the edge from the fine display of courage which had so im- pressed Ledyard, it utterly failed to ac- count for his sudden outbreak of fury at the discovery. Here, however, Led- yards speculations, and his half-formed intention of hazarding an inquiry, came abruptly to an end. Trent had suddenly paused in his rummaging operations, and appeared to be listening intently to some sound that had caught his ear, and in the lull that ensued a sibilant whispering in the hall became distinct- ly audible through the half-open door. To Ledyards astonishment, Trent, with the unhesitating boldness which had characterized all his movements, at once strode out of the room and demanded, with angry peremptoriness, informa- tion as to the whereabouts of the master of the house. The reply, in a confused treble of feminine voices, was to the ef- fect that Mr. Glade had hurriedly gone out about ten minutes before, taking with him an unknown visitor with whom he had been heard quarrelling in his room. Trents only comment was a frightful oath, followed by the sound of his heavy tread hastily descending the stairs, and the next moment the echoing slam of the outer door pro- claimed his exit into the street. Ledyard instantly realized the awk- ward position in which he was placed by this unlooked-for desertion, and his first impulse was to follow Trents ex- ample and leave the house at once; but this intention was frustrated in its in- ception by the sudden appearance in the doorway of two dishevelled and extremely agitated maids. Ledyards appearance, equipped as he was with a dark-lantern and a revolver, was not reassuring, and the women, uttering shrieks of horror, fled tumultuously up- stairs, while Ledyard, thoroughly de- moralized by this encounter, hastily laid his house-breaking outfit on the floor and made a precipitate retreat through the broken panel The advent- ure had assumed an aspect that prom- ised the most serious consequences, and heartily imprecating the folly that had led him to connect himself with it, he rushed through Kriechers desert- ed room, hurried down the stairs, and ran through the lower hall out into the street. Here he found his man and the now useless nurse listening open- mouthed to the servants confused re- cital of details, and hastily instructing them to remain on the spot till his re- turn, he went direct to the nearest po- lice station. Feeling perfectly convinced that a man in Kriechers condition must nec- essarily collapse before going very far, Ledyards first care was to have a gen- eral alarm sent out instructing patrol- THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. 105 men to look for an escaped patient de- lirious from typhoid fever. This pro- fessional duty having been discharged, his next step was to give the sergeant all the details of the concurrent circum- stances. The officer, at first lending a somewhat indifferent ear to the recital, presently called in two sharp-featured detectives to hear the particulars, and Ledyard observed that the three fre- quently exchanged significant glances of intelligence as the story progressed. The necessary formalities of noting down the names and descriptions of the parties concerned, the street num- bers of the houses, and the hours of the night marking the several events having been completed, the sergeant dryly remarked that an hour ago would have done just as well, and sup- plemented this expression of opinion by advising the doctor to go home to bed. It was two oclock, and Ledyard began to realize that he was footsore and weary. He therefore made his way home, dismissed his guards, and tum- bled into bed utterly fagged out. On the day but one following this adventure Ledyard was much refreshed by coming across the following article in his morning newspaper: BREAK-UP OF A SMUGGLING SYNDICATE. The revenue officers, on information supplied by the police, report the dis- persal of the smuggling agency which has for so long defied all their attempts at discovery, and which, doubtless, has supplied the market with large quanti- ties of lace, jewellery, and other readily concealable contraband goods of excep- tional value. Unfortunately no seizure of property was effected, and the prin- cipals, excepting one man, escaped and have thus far eluded all attempts to trace them. The captured man, an undersized foreigner named Kriecher, was found ill in the street, having ap- parently been abandoned by his com- rades, and died in hospital early this morning of typhoid fever, presumably accelerated by the exposure incidental to his attempt at flight. The methods employed by the gang were unusual and not devoid of a cer tam grotesque cleverness. The smug- gling proper was evidently managed with remarkable adroitness by a sea- faring dare - devil named Trent. The empty cases discovered give no clue to the source of supply on the other side of the water, but estimates as to the probable value of the contents indicate a considerable amount of capital em- barked in the enterprise. But the pict- uresque features of the game are those which marked the distribution of the contraband material after it had been landed at this port, it having been evl- dently well known to the parties to the scheme that the marketing of high- grade goods, except by the regular im- porters, is an extremely ticklish under- taking. The missing links in the chain of evidence have been supplied in part by several servants employed on the premises who are under detention by the revenue authorities. The plan resorted to was the utili- zation of two adjoining dwellings, one, intentionally squalid, being occupied by the foreigner already referred to, and the other by a well-appearing fel- low named Glade, who seems to have had a certain mercantile standing, and whose rdle was that of travelling agent for various nebulous foreign houses. The contraband goods having been de- livered to the foreigner, were by him transferred to his confederate in the adjoining house through an opening in the intervening wall, ingeniously concealed by clothes-presses built up against the sides of the rooms thus connected. Duplicate keys to the presses, a sliding panel in the opening, and a speaking-tube to announce readi- ness for action, completed the equip- ment. The conveyance of the goods into the first house was effected by Trent with extraordinary boldness, by the simple device of wrapping the parcels in coarse straw-paper, and handing them on successive mornings to Kriech- ers servant, at an obscure shop where her small marketing was done. Thus convoyed by butter, eggs, and cheese, the contraban4 material was safely housed, and the most vigilant watch upon the agents premises would have failed to detect any delivery of goods. 106 THE HOUSE OVER THE WAY. The sale was subsequently effected in distant cities by the simple device of carrying the articles to such points in an ordinary travellers valise. It was the hand of disease that pointed out to the eye of the law this well-laid plan of fraud, and wrought its downfall The occupant of the humbler dwelling having been stricken down by a fever, which produced de- lirium, his showier neighbor attempted to communicate through the tube, and, failing to elicit a reply, reconnoitred, with the result of discovering his con- dition. It is the theory of the police that, in this emergency, either deter- mining to take advantage of the others helpless condition by decamping with the spoil in hand, or fearing the un- earthing of the plot, Glade was pack- ing up the stock for removal when he was interrupted by the unexpected ap- pearance of the invalid who entered a violent protest. In this dilemma he probably played upon the delirious fancy of his companion and induced him to fly from some imaginary dan- ger, afterward abandoning him in the street. In any event, the departure was discovered by the inopportune ar- rival of the nautical dare-devil, who, in a vigorous search for the patient, came upon the concealed passage, of which he had apparently, and probably for prudential reasons, been kept in igno- rance, his conduct indicating that he had no previous knowledge of Glades connection with the business. Finding that he had been hoodwinked he burst like a cyclone through the panel into the adjoining house, and discovering that the spoil was gone, started off af- ter the fugitives, presumably with hom- icidal intent, and has not since been heard of. The exasperating part of the whole affair is the fact that the contraband material might have been secured, and the trio of smugglers bagged, but for the absolutely fatuous conduct of a physician who had been called in to attend the sick man. This gentleman, whose name we suppress from motives of hardly merited consideration, ap- pears to have behaved with an utter lack of reflection and presence of mindwhich borders upon imbecility. It is a mat- ter of record, taken down from his own lips, that while sitting in Kriechers room awaiting the arrival of a nurse who was to assume charge of the sick man, he not only heard Glade calling through the tube to his confederatc but also subsequently saw him open the door of the clothes-press and leisurely survey the apartment. Furthermore, by his own admission, voluntarily made in subsequently reporting these occur- rences to the authorities, he had from his own dwelling, directly opposite the premises in question, frequently no- ticed suspicious actions on the part of Kriecher, and had speculated, with a strong affirmative bias, on the probabil- ity of his being engaged in illegal prac- tices of some description. It will hardly be credited that, under these impelling circumstances, a practising physician, presumably equipped with brains and other deducing paraphernalia, found the simple expedient of promptly re- porting these suspicious incidents to the police so indefinitely presented to what he was pleased to call his mind, that he delayed action until the last of the gang had disappeared. We are inclined to suspect, from the precipit- ancy with which the doctor retreated at Glades appearance, that the young gentlemans nerves were so unstrung by his adventure that he was incapable of utilizing that best of all prompters common-sense. Ledyard did not preserve the news- paper. THE EVOLUTiON OF A CITY SQUARE. By Samuel Parsons, Jr. DO not know why it is that city squares are generally treated as mere open spaces of greensward with shade- trees dotted over them. Poverty of designing ability, probably, and lack of knowl- edge of what might be done to beautify such places will entirely suf- fice to account for this baldness of treat- ment. In the minds of many people ma- ples and elms, Norway spruces and ar- bor-vita~s make up a nursery catalogue of ornamental trees; and as Norway spruces and arbor-vitees generally come to grief in city squares, there remain only maples and elms. It is a pity that so much ignorance and thoughtlessness are rife in this respect, for there are city squares all over the country that might be greatly improved by the application of a little lawn - planting intelligence. When a portion of a city is improved there are always spaces of ground at the junctions of streets, plots of irregular shape, triangles, etc., that could be readily made to lend an elegant air to the neighborhood by the judicious use of a few trees, shrubs, and flowers. I do not wish by this to convey the idea that I would limit the area of city squares to that of such small spaces. Far from it. I believe the allotment for public squares should be of the most liberal characterten, twenty, fifty acreses- pecially if this allotment can be made before the ground of the city is largely built on. I will even go further and say that it will pay to establish these large squares or parks long after the city has attained important magnitude. Mr. Andrew H. Green and other leading promoters of park interests will, I am sure, bear me out in this statement. It goes, of course, without saying that it will pay from a sanitarian and sesthetic point of view, but it will also pay in the rise of value of adjacent land caused by the establishment of a park. Nero was not such a reckless spendthrift as ap- pears at first sight, when he made a great park of hundreds of acres right in the centre of densely populated old Rome. There might readily have been genuine statesmanlike forethought and sagacity in what must have seemed at the time a reckless exercise of power. Doubtless many old rookeries situated adjacent to this park must have disappeared, and stately palaces appeared in their stead. What a charming place, more- over, this great park must have been, situated in the midst of picturesque Rome of the first century. It was doubtless arranged with fine taste, too, for Nero, or his architects, seem to have had sound ideas concerning the decoration of parks and villas, and a fine appreciation in some cases of the treatment that retains natural effects. But I did not intend to digress to the consideration of great parks. Even in these liberal days we are fortunate if we can get, in the midst of a great city, a number of small breathing-places of two or three acres, half an acre, or a few hundred square feet of greensward. Then, as I have said, there are often vacant places, triangles, and irregular spaces, not suited for building lots, that seem to be left unoccupied, perforce, as we might say. It is of these more lim

Samuel Parsons, Jr. Parsons, Samuel, Jr. The Evolution Of A City Square 107-116

THE EVOLUTiON OF A CITY SQUARE. By Samuel Parsons, Jr. DO not know why it is that city squares are generally treated as mere open spaces of greensward with shade- trees dotted over them. Poverty of designing ability, probably, and lack of knowl- edge of what might be done to beautify such places will entirely suf- fice to account for this baldness of treat- ment. In the minds of many people ma- ples and elms, Norway spruces and ar- bor-vita~s make up a nursery catalogue of ornamental trees; and as Norway spruces and arbor-vitees generally come to grief in city squares, there remain only maples and elms. It is a pity that so much ignorance and thoughtlessness are rife in this respect, for there are city squares all over the country that might be greatly improved by the application of a little lawn - planting intelligence. When a portion of a city is improved there are always spaces of ground at the junctions of streets, plots of irregular shape, triangles, etc., that could be readily made to lend an elegant air to the neighborhood by the judicious use of a few trees, shrubs, and flowers. I do not wish by this to convey the idea that I would limit the area of city squares to that of such small spaces. Far from it. I believe the allotment for public squares should be of the most liberal characterten, twenty, fifty acreses- pecially if this allotment can be made before the ground of the city is largely built on. I will even go further and say that it will pay to establish these large squares or parks long after the city has attained important magnitude. Mr. Andrew H. Green and other leading promoters of park interests will, I am sure, bear me out in this statement. It goes, of course, without saying that it will pay from a sanitarian and sesthetic point of view, but it will also pay in the rise of value of adjacent land caused by the establishment of a park. Nero was not such a reckless spendthrift as ap- pears at first sight, when he made a great park of hundreds of acres right in the centre of densely populated old Rome. There might readily have been genuine statesmanlike forethought and sagacity in what must have seemed at the time a reckless exercise of power. Doubtless many old rookeries situated adjacent to this park must have disappeared, and stately palaces appeared in their stead. What a charming place, more- over, this great park must have been, situated in the midst of picturesque Rome of the first century. It was doubtless arranged with fine taste, too, for Nero, or his architects, seem to have had sound ideas concerning the decoration of parks and villas, and a fine appreciation in some cases of the treatment that retains natural effects. But I did not intend to digress to the consideration of great parks. Even in these liberal days we are fortunate if we can get, in the midst of a great city, a number of small breathing-places of two or three acres, half an acre, or a few hundred square feet of greensward. Then, as I have said, there are often vacant places, triangles, and irregular spaces, not suited for building lots, that seem to be left unoccupied, perforce, as we might say. It is of these more lim 108 THE EVOLUTION OF A CITY SQUARE. ited spaces that I wish to speak, and of the methods by which they can be most readily evolved into attractive city squares. The large parks can take care of themselves better, but these small parks are too often neglected and unde- veloped. When we come, however, to the actual improvement of these small squares, we generally find the work too zealously pursued in the way of plant- ing large trees, and the apparently minor details of grading, securing good green- sward and attractive shrubs neglected. The thickly planted trees, in a few years, deform and destroy each other, and in- stead of grass, noxious weeds occupy the densely shaded spaces. I have found fifty feet a good limit to fix for the set- ting out of large shade trees, such as elms and maples, not only for city squares, but for all road-side and lawn planting. The old idea of common, in a back-country village, has unfortunately been too frequently applied, with little development, to the construction of city squares ; but the city squares should, in reality, be a highly developed common, built on definite artistic principles, and not on the cow-path theory, and the hap- hazard system of planting. I should say, moreover, at the outset, that I do not intend to lay down any strict rules, but rather to suggest principles of work- ing. Even in New York and its sub- urbs differences of climate and soil may affect the planting and arrange- ment of walks, etc., in ways hard to foresee. It is, however, necessary to choose il- lustrations somewhere, by which may be indicated the way in which city squares should be evolved out of primary con- ditions. The cases chosen are meant to be merely typical, and in order to have them within reach of many of those who are likely to read these pages I have selected certain city squares in the busi- est part of lower New York. The native soil of this portion of New York is so barren and sandy, and the neighbor- hood so crowded and dusty, that only extremely rugged and vigorous plants will grow there at all. All evergreens, all beeches, oaks, and a hundred other trees fail here entirely. You can de- pend, therefore, on the certainty that plants used in these parks are capable of thriving in almost any soil or climate north of Charleston and east of the Rocky Mountains. The parks I am go- ing to consider have been, as will appear, laid out on a definite artistic theory; maps have been made, proper drainage lines established, and the desired com- binations of trees and shrubs, grass and flowers, carefully studied. The first illus- tration I have taken is Jeannette Park, which most New Yorkers will remem- ber as Coenties Slip, an old inlet run- ning between regular docks up from the East River, not far from the foot of Broad Street. It was a well-known spot in colonial times, and much business was done thereabouts by the old Dutch burghers. A celebrated hostelry stood there long before the Revolution, and in quite recent times it will be remem- bered as a busy place for loading and unloading produce, and for huckstering of all sorts. It has been always a quaint, historic neighborhood, in the midst of busy, unceasing trade. The time at length arrived, however, when the old slip came to be thought something of a nuisance. Busy people were annoyed at being obliged, on their way along South Street, to make a con- siderable detour around the head of the slip. Sundry drunken sailors and other reckless folks, moreover, had a way, it was said, of falling overboard in the slip, as it suddenly yawned across their path along the docks. In a word, the bene- fit of the inlet to shipping was found to be overbalanced by its general in- convenience. Finally, therefore, the slip was filled up with ordinary dumping ma- terial. But thrifty citizens passing by were still not pleased when they were con- fronted by an open stony waste covered with pedlers wagons, trucks, and booths for the sale of sundry and various arti- cles. In one way and another, therefore, pressure was brought to bear on the public authorities to induce them to lay out the territory in question as a park. It had many advantages for this pur- pose. The neighborhood was a crowded one, with many business houses, drink- ing shops, etc., and hereabouts also dwelt many longshoremen and other poor folk. No park existed for a long distance to the east, and to the north DRAWN BY V. PERARD. ENGRAVED BY W. B. WITTE. Jeannette Park New York City. 0 110 THE EVOLUTION OF A CITY SQUARE. there was nothing until you came to the City Hall. Daily travel from other parts of the city was incessant and crowded. For beauty of outlook noth- ing could surpass this spot down town except the Battery. Fresh breezes blew across it, and vessels passed and re- passed, and the quiet or tossing water made a panorama of great and abiding interest. The slip and surrounding streets be- longed to the city, so that it was not necessary, as in most cases of park- making, to have a bill passed in the Legislature at Albany authorizing the city to take, condemn, and pay for the required land. A few thousand dollars was secured by the passage of a bill at Albany permitting the allowance of a sum of money in the budget of expenses of the park Department, fixed yearly by the Board of Estimate and Apportion- ment. This apparently simple operation, however, involved several years of de- lay. The newspapers, of course, lent most efficient aid in creating the neces- sary amount of agitation in favor of the project, and finally the work was fairly commenced. In 1886, as Superintend- ent of Parks in New York City, it be- came my duty to lay out and actually construct and plant this Coenties Slip Park. Previous to this time the slip had been merely filled up with a lot of crude material of a most promiscuous char- acter, and a stone coping and walk of ce- ment concrete constructed around it. The first thing I undertook in con- nection with the future work was the preparation of a complete plan of the walks, lawns, and planting. This I studied out with much care, and the final result was only attained after fre- quent and long discussions with the engi- neers of the department and the com- missioners. I remember one of the commissioners, for a long time, insisted on making the park an open square, without fence or railing. He wanted it laid out with two straight walks cut- ting diagonally across, thus saving a few feet of travel for specially hurried pas- sers-by. This discussion partly grew out of the fact that Union Square and several other parks of the city (which, by the bye, had winding and not straight paths),were denuded of fences and the public seemed satisfied. I contended, however, that this park, and indeed most other parks, required some sort of fence to prevent the ubiquitous dog and other animals from dashing recklessly about and de- stroying shrubs and flowers irretrievably. It seemed to meand much experience of my own, as well as that of other com- petent experts proved this impression correctthat every park, whether small or large, ought to have an enclosure of some kind. Aside from the protection from marauders thus afforded, a fence masked throughout with a border line of trees and shrubs suggested to the loiterer on the park-benches and walks a grateful sense of seclusion and quasi ownership. Even the tramp could feel, as long as he sat upright and behaved himself, that here were grass, flowers, and trees made, as it were, into an ex- clusive picture for himself alone. I finally secured the adoption of my idea of fence and winding boundary walks by dint of taking two of the Park Commissioners to Coenties Slip and there readily convincing them of the correctness of my views. The birds- eye view given on p. 109 shows clearly how the park was laid out. The fence was of iron, about four feet high, and six to twenty feet inside winds a sinuous path thirteen feet wide. This extend- ed around the entire park, thus secur- ing the greatest possible central lawn space, and broad, park-like effect. In either of the four corners a heavy plan- tation of trees and shrubs was arranged, in order to mask the square look of the park. One corner had a group of five Lombardy poplars among the shrubs. These, as their final dimensions were lofty, were intended to shut out the ob- jectionable Elevated Railway close by. In another corner, among shrubs, was an American linden, in another an Ameri- can elm, and in still another, always growing among shrubs, some Lombardy poplars again, used to mask a different view of the Elevated Railway. Between these corners, along the fence, and grow- ing out of shrubs, but never nearer than fifty feet, were set American elms, Nor- way maples, and American lindens; and over on the main central lawn space were single shade - trees of the same THE EVOLUTION OF A CITY SQUARE. 111 kinds and large groups of combined shrubs and trees. These several groups on both sides of the walks were so dis- posed as to mass together solidly in ap- pearance and suggest the idea of walks winding at certain points through a single mass of shrubs and trees. This was the general theory of the plan adopted by the Park Board, and the next thing was to commence the work of actually constructing or evolving from a very primitive condition the park prop- er. In most cities of the country it would have been now only necessary to trench or plough the soil, and, after grad- ing, to spade in a liberal supply of ma- nure. It was not so with Jeannette Park, recently thus named after the daughter of the late James Gordon Bennett. IRub- bish filled up the slip, that is, crude earth, brickbats, coarse sand, and the very miscellaneous materials character- izing an ordinary dumping-ground. It was necessary, therefore, to transport to the spot the actual soil in which the grass and plants must grow. But even the top soil of lower New York was so sandy and unfertile that it was out of the question to use it for park-making. On looking around the outskirts of New York carefully, I de- cided that the best artickS of the kind I could secure, within reasonable distance, would be found in Brooklyn, the soil there being heavier and richer than that of any part of Manhattan Island. I tried New Jersey, but finally obtained what I wanted, for a satisfactory price, just across the river from Jeannette Park. With this material the park was filled from two to three feet deep. Wherever trees and shrubs were to be set, there the rich mould was most lib- erally used; for a rich soil of considera Canal Street Park New York. 112 THE EVOLUTION OF A CITY SQUARE. ble depth is specially necessary where the smoke and dust of a crowded city tend continually to clog and impede the growth of grass and plants. I should have said, however, that one portion, viz., the walks of the park, staked out in accordance with the map, were, of course, not filled with rich mould. It may seem unnecessary to note so evi- dent a matter, but such mistakes are often made, and much excellent mould is thus wasted. Along the walk -bor- ders bluestone curbs were set, about a foot deep, and showing two inches above the surface of the walk. These curbs were cut and set along the curving paths with much difficulty and expense. It has not been my practice to use these curbs in city squares, as any worn places on the walk-borders can be readily and inexpensively repaired from time to time with fresh sod, and a less artificial effect produced. The commissioners, however, in this case, insisted on using curbing, and I certainly could not say it was positively bad practice, only cx- pensive, and not really necessary. After the curbs were set, or, to speak more exactly, just before they were set, the walks were filled in with a foot of stone of various sorts, broken, wherever neces- sary, into pieces one, two, and three inches in diameter. On top of this came sand, and then asphalt blocks shaped like large bricks, and made of asphalt and gravel mixed and pressed in moulds. This kind of walk has the advantage of being easily repaired, but is apt, unless laid with great care, on a properly grad- ed foundation, to look and be uneven. The grading of the surface of the park was, perhaps, the most difficult part of the work to carry out successfully. Drainage had to be considered, the best conditions for the plants secured, and withal a general artistic effect attained. Wherever the trees and shrubs were to stand, the ground being intentionally raised for the natural effect desired, and the proper depth of soil, there was, of course, a swelling or slightly rolling surface developed. This was subdued Abingdon Square, New York, THE EVOLUTION OF A CITY SQUARE. 113 as much as possible in the central lawn, so as to secure breadth of effect and simplicity of treatment. I have dwelt on the character of the trees, but that of the shrubs was also interesting. Shrubs are not generally found on public squares, why, I do not know. Doubtless simple ignorance and lack of interest in lawn-planting are sufficient causes to assign. Nothing can be more brilliant and attractive in its way than a fine collection of trees and shrubs on a city park situated like that on Coenties Slip. Evergreen shrubs fail in such places. We have seen, also, that the best effects are often obtained by planting trees and shrubs together, although some trees may and should be planted singly, a little away from the shrub groups; but remember that you must, if you wish to have groups of mingled trees and shrubs thrive, plant them out at the same time. If shrubs are set out alongside trees, after the roots cf the trees have had possession of the ground ten or fifteen years, the shrubs, if they live, will soon assume a sorry shape. The reader should visit Jeannette Park in summer, if only to note the variety and beauty of the coloring and form of the shrub leaves and flowers. Beauty of leaf is, I think, evidently more valuable than that of flower; for leaves last all summer, and sometimes throughout the autumn. Look at this purple berberry! What could be finer in the way of color- ing, although it does not blaze from afar like its neighbor. This neighbor, the golden elder (Sambucus nigra aurea), is, in June, a great mass of molten goldof concentrated sunlight, with picturesque shadows and outlines. This color, more- over, lasts nearly all summer. If you plant this charming shrub, dont forget to prune it more or less every winter or early spring, otherwise it will become straggling and sparsely supplied with leaves, and, worst of all, lose its beauty of coloring. The mainstay, the staple of shrub- planting in New York, however, has been the privet, and by preference the Cal- ifornia privet (Ligustrurn ovabjolium). It will grow where scarcely anything but a honey-locust or osage orange would thrive, and is far more clean, elegant, VOL. XII.13 and effective as a shrub than either of them. I respect the honey-locust grown as a tree, but not cut back to a shrub. On the other hand, the privet must be cut back occasionally, or it will grow leggy and thin, altogether an unsatis- factory -looking object. In Jeannette Park are dozens of California privets, vigorous and bright and shining of leaf. They help to mask the corners, and also form an important part of the groups upon the lawn. Among the large shrubs used were the weigela and red-stemmed dogwood (Cornus .sanguinea), two ex- cellent shrubs, under most conditions, in city parks. The brilliant red- or purple-leaved Prunus Pissardi has also done well here, as it has in other parts of New York; but it has not been em- ployed in general culture long enough to judge of its ultimate success. The Forsythia viridissima also does well in this park, and in spring droops pendu- lous masses of small golden bells; and in fall the Hydran yea paniculata grandi- flora sends out splendid great trusses of compound flowers, which are first white, then purple, and finally crimson. Rho- dotypus lcerrioides, a hardy shrub from Japan, was also frequently used, and pre- sented an elegant appearance, with its light - green, crinkled foliage. Two of the best shrubs in Jeannette Park, or anywhere else, especially in barren dis- tricts, are the American thorns (Cratw- gus coccinea and Crus-galli). The leaves of these thorns are dark green, shining, and individual in character, and in size they equal that of most small trees. The Loniceras, or standard honeysuc- kles, have done well in Jeannette Park, especially Lonicera fragrantissima, which is rich looking and remarkably effective in its coloring and drooping masses. Be- sides these large-growing shrubs, there were used smaller growing ones that bordered the groups of large kinds, such as Kerria Japonica, Thunbergs barberry, the snow-berry (Symphoricarpos race- mosus), and the other Symphoricarpos, the Indian currant, botanically defined as vulgaris or glomeratus. The finest of these shrubs is Thunbergs barberry. Its masses and outlines are particularly picturesque, and the small, dark green leaves are hardy and effective in a great variety of exposures. In several isolated 114 THE EVOLUTION OF A CITY SQUARE. positions, standing generally just a little shrubs as to secure some genuine effect apart from the main groups, was a note- of breadth and distance. On few parks I worthy shrub, with large and effective of the country, whether large or small, leaves, Viburnum Sieboidji. This great, does this effect appear in any satisfactory dark, glistening shrub, with ridged, cnn- manner, and one reason for this is that kled, and rugged-looking leaves, attracts so few shrubs are used. It is like leav- the eye at once. It is little known and ing off a painters palette some funda- used, but should not be neglected. mental and important color, and expect- This list does not, of course, include ing him to produce a well-composed and all the shrubs that would be likely to painted picture. succeed in Jeannette Park; but they are The proper place to see Jeannette Park all excellent and reliable, and I have at its best is on the nearest part of the learned by much experience and many Elevated Railway, where the cars round mishaps that a short list of shrubs and the sharp curve. Here the jewel-like, trees is a good list to employ, richly decorative effect of the park is I must not forget to point out the spread out in a birds-eye view, and be- beauty of the summer decoration of this yond, a few yards away, rolls the East park. There are coleuses, red and yel- River, with its varied shipping and in- low, geraniums, pyrethrums, etc., wind- cessantly dancing waves. Think what ing in and out and round about the a boon this park becomes to the tired shrub groups in bands of vivid color, laborer and his wife and children as diversified by flanking masses of great they linger on the park benches enjoy- purple- and green-leaved caunas. The ing the river breeze on an evening of use of the beautiful varieties of cannas, some stifling August day. I have cho- green-leaved, bronzed-leaved, and red, sen Jeannette Park as a special illustra- that have been sent over lately from tion, because I consider it an excellent France and elsewhere, cannot be too instance of the genuine lawn-planting highly commended for the desired sub- results that can be attained in what tropical effects in city parks. Another may be called the smallest lawn space, most effective subtropical plant is the where such effects can be readily accom- Aliusa Enseta, with its great, broad plished. Understand, there is, I think, leaves, growing often eight or ten feet a limit to this vista treatment. You high from the base to the tip of the must not make your landscape-garden- actual leaf. This species is better than ing effects petty. The Japanese may ililiusa Cavendishii, the commonly known give such work their own peculiar charm banana-tree, not only on account of its of treatment, but it is in the Japanese beautiful red midrib, but because it way, and this way has no real relation stands up better against high winds. It to any of our park work. The brilliant, is a good idea to plant these musas in jewel-like effect of the bedding is, I the middle of a group of cannas, as the think, specially suited to parks situated tendency of the unsupported leaves of as Jeannette is, among crowded houses the Musas to beat about and tear in on three sides. In large rural parks, high winds, on account of their great like the Central, in New York, and the size, is thus diminished. The combina- Prospect, in Brooklyn, little or no bed- tion of the great musa leaves with those ding should be employed, for in essence of the cannas is very.effective from the bedding is artificial and unsuited to rural similarity of their coloring and outline, surroundings. From either corner of Jeaunette Park There are other small parks in New you catch long vistas between shrubs, York that are so much smaller than surrounded by flashing bands of color Jeannette, that for many years it was bedding, back to solid masses of shrubs not thought best to open them to the and towering trees in the opposite diag- public for fear of the ravages of the onal corner near the Elevated Railway. multitude. One of the best features of The park consists of about two-thirds of Mr. A. S. Hewitts reign as Mayor was an acre of land, and is just large enough his persistent advocacy of the opening to enable the planter to so grade his of these small parks in the interest of ground and so dispose his trees and the crowded tenements that surrounded THE EVOLUTION OF A CITY SQUARE. 115 them. He accomplished his purpose of opening these parks during his term of office, and to him is chiefly due the credit of giving to the public the use of the following small squares and triangles: Jackson Square, Abingdon Square, Ca- nal Street Park, Duane Street Park, and Christopher Street Park. Of these Canal Street Park is the largest, and Duane Street Park the smallest, their size vary- ing from one-third to one-ninth of an acre. They are all on the west side of town, and are situated between Duane Street and Fourteenth Street. The treat- ment of these parks by Mr. Calvert Vaux and myself was made very simple. It consisted of a bordering plantation of trees and shrubs arranged on the prin- ciples applied in Jeannette Park. Fortu- nately fences already existed around the plots. The walks either wound around the outskirts along the fence, leaving a border for planting of five or ten feet, as in Jackson Square, or they cut diagonal- ly across the long narrow parks, leaving a comparatively large lawn space on one side. In Jackson Square the central space was made a great bouquet of brill- iant flowers and leaves, in the middle musas and cannas, and round them bril- liant, glowing acalyphas, coleuses, and geraniums. The effect of this park was extremely decorative, with the central showy bedding, flanked and nested as it were among masses of trees and shrubs. The neighborhood of this park is re- spectable but populous, and it is won- derful on a warm evening to see the dense masses of people that crowd the park benches and smooth asphalt walks. At Canal Street Park the length of the main lawn space was such as to secure something in the nature of a vista, and with this was associated the same jew- el - like effect of bedding and the same charm of trees and shrubs. Abingdon Square has been so long crowded with fine trees that a winding walk ending in a little plaza, and bordered by a few shrubs and little bedding was all that could be satisfactorily done. Shrubs and flowers would not thrive in such deep shade. At Duane Street a diag- onal walk has been introduced, swelling out to a considerable width at one point between the three entrances. Beyond this there are only three small bits of green grass on either side, a few shrubs along the fence, and a small flower-bed; but even this is a boon to the crowded neighborhood. In Christopher Street Park the shade from old trees was so dense that only a bordering plantation of shrubs could be secured, and these were mostly privets. No bedding would thrive in such shade. A diagonal walk has been made here, with the usual widening at one point, where children can play and their elders walk about a bit with more freedom. Along the en- tire length of this path park benches were arranged. These benches with foot-rests we have been accustomed in New York to place in the grass, thus securing more space on the walks for both grown people and children. It will be readily seen from what I have said that in several of these small city parks we have had to contend with many unfavorable conditions. The parks could have been treated more success- fully in some cases if we could have started de novo, as we did in the case of Jeannette Park. There is another interesting experi- ence we have had with these small parks, and that is the perfection with which we have been able to maintain them. Be- fore Mr. Hewitt carried through his en- terprise of opening them, it was deemed impossible that the public would be able to use them without utter destruc- tion coming daily to the shrubs, flowers, and grass. The mere friction of the passing multitude, it was thought, would ruin the grass borders. Three years of experience has, however, proved this be- lief to be a fallacy. People, as a rule, treat the place with respect, and often themselves reprimand grown-up people and children who seem to be likely to injure the grass or flowers. There is actually a guard set by the neighbors, and, to our surprise, the grass and flowers look as well as they do in Cen- tral Park. It is, of course, comparatively expen- sive to keep these small parks in order, for one gardener is obliged to spend nearly his whole time in the summer on each one of them, mowing, watering, cul- tivating plants, and, above all, sweeping and gathering up litter. This last item occupies much time daily in the small 116 TO TROJAN HELEN. parks of a crowded city. There must be also a police-officer on guard most of the time. But no tax-payer in a great city like New York could, I think, grudge this expense if he would take the trouble to visit one of these small parks and see the peopleespecially the women and the little onesenjoying the grass and flowers. New York is singularly lacking in grass and trees, and these small parks are therefore green oases, in the midst of piles of brick and mortar, that are in- valuable. If a large city, in the early days of its growth, would only set aside numerous open spaces at the junction of avenues, and establish a comprehensive and intel- ligent scheme of treatment, it would find in the early future great profit in the way of health and adornment. In nearly every city in the United States these small squares could be established and treated in an approved manner more readily than in New York. The land would be less expensive, and the conditions more favorable. There should be, as lately suggested in Garden and Forest, a great National Park Associa- tion, and similar branch associations in every town and city in the country. These associations could then exert a powerful influence on the authorities in the way of securing the adoption of proper and liberal methods of park-making. TO TROJAN HELEN. By W. G. van Tassel Sutpben. THY heart is a restless sea, Scourged white by windy whips; A fathom deep Lies dreamless Sleep With Silence at her lips. Thy heart is a garden sweet Wherein all greenness grows. Whose blood was shed That burns so red The blush upon the rose? Thy heart is a desert voice That ever lureth men, Unrecking scath, Upon a path That turneth not again. Thy heart is a palace fair, Where all the world is guest; With one, strait room Where none may come Save he who loveth best. Thy heart is the worlds desire For which men strive in vain. Yet thy love lost Were worth the cost Anothers heart to gain.

W. G. Van Tassel Sutphen Sutphen, W. G. Van Tassel To Trojan Helen 116-117

116 TO TROJAN HELEN. parks of a crowded city. There must be also a police-officer on guard most of the time. But no tax-payer in a great city like New York could, I think, grudge this expense if he would take the trouble to visit one of these small parks and see the peopleespecially the women and the little onesenjoying the grass and flowers. New York is singularly lacking in grass and trees, and these small parks are therefore green oases, in the midst of piles of brick and mortar, that are in- valuable. If a large city, in the early days of its growth, would only set aside numerous open spaces at the junction of avenues, and establish a comprehensive and intel- ligent scheme of treatment, it would find in the early future great profit in the way of health and adornment. In nearly every city in the United States these small squares could be established and treated in an approved manner more readily than in New York. The land would be less expensive, and the conditions more favorable. There should be, as lately suggested in Garden and Forest, a great National Park Associa- tion, and similar branch associations in every town and city in the country. These associations could then exert a powerful influence on the authorities in the way of securing the adoption of proper and liberal methods of park-making. TO TROJAN HELEN. By W. G. van Tassel Sutpben. THY heart is a restless sea, Scourged white by windy whips; A fathom deep Lies dreamless Sleep With Silence at her lips. Thy heart is a garden sweet Wherein all greenness grows. Whose blood was shed That burns so red The blush upon the rose? Thy heart is a desert voice That ever lureth men, Unrecking scath, Upon a path That turneth not again. Thy heart is a palace fair, Where all the world is guest; With one, strait room Where none may come Save he who loveth best. Thy heart is the worlds desire For which men strive in vain. Yet thy love lost Were worth the cost Anothers heart to gain. THE PlANNER MARES. By Martha McCulloch Williams. summer lay ripe and heavy along the hill- tops. A hot shimmer- ing splendor filled the valleys at noontide. White woolly clouds sailed slow athwart a sky, blue, intense, palpitant with vivid light. All the streams were shrunk to bare threads of bright water. No bird sang, save here and there a languid note, just after dawn. But the crows were noisier than ever. Their caw-cawing filled all the air as they flew so straight, so swift, over the cornfields just beginning to yellow. They flew high, too, and for the most part to southward. Riah Gants eyes followed them a little enviously. Ef only I had the wings o them burreds, he said to himself. Id mighty soon find out what the news was. Yet throughout his seventy years IRiah had been noted as a slow, patient, incurious man. He was tall and lean, with deep-set blue eyes, and a fleece of white beard rippling down over the homespun shirt that was his only upper garment. There were grass-stains all over his copperas trousers, and a thick powdering of red earth upon the coarse boots into which they were thrust. Al- together he looked a working farmer to whom news of what went on outside his own fences must be supremely un- important. In one hand he carried a bridle, in the other a small basket of coarse salt. The field he had just en- tered was perhaps forty acres in extent, a smiling level of native blue grass, set here and there with clumps of sassafras, crab-apple, and wild thorn. Upon three sides a semicircle of sharp-wooded hills inclosed it. On the fourth a gray bluff rose perpendicularly forty feet in air, but so far away from the pastures edge as to proclaim a wide stream at its foot. The bed of it was so deeply worn as to make access from that side impossible. And only a goat could go safe over the hills, except at the path down which Riah Gant had just scrambled to this lower level. Notwithstanding, he looked about him apprehensively and started visibly when no living creature save a vanish- ing crow met his eye. I wonder ef theyregone, er jest a-layin in the shade! he said aloud, then whistled low and clear, peering sharply about from under the shelter of his hand. A rush of frolic hoofs, a chorus of whinnys answered him. From every hand galloped a mare, sleek, saucy, with tossing mane, with streaming tail, head daintily upheld, and hoofs that spurned the entanglement of tall grass. Black, gray, chestnut, silver-roan, dappled bay, a thought too stout to be thoroughbred~ yet fine of line, with flat clean legs and perfect action, they crowded upon him, nipping one at the other, thrusting ta- per muzzles under his arms, over his shoulders, whinnying a welcome as he walked toward the salting place. A minute later each was eagerly licking up her allotted portion from a bare spot of earth. Riah Gant eyed them with af- fectionate apprehension. All here safe an heartybut God knows fer how long, he said, walking slowly among them, patting flank or shoulder or arch- ing crest, till he reached a big black creature, evidently the mother and mon- arch of the herd. She wore a bell and had a frisking foal at foot, a yearling filly muzzling in the salt beside her. A lively batting of ears greeted her mas- ter, who stopped three feet away to say, So yere full o fight yit Pianner, spite o bein twenty years old. An a sightly critter too, ye wouldnt be wuth three days purchase, ef I took ye outer here whar them blue-coats cant find ye. The gray ones wouldnt spar ye neither wherfo lay low old gal, dont neigh too loud and raise no ruction. Remember how long weve been together; were old now, an I want us to see the last o one another.

Martha Mcculloch Williams Williams, Martha Mcculloch The Pianner Mares 117-123

THE PlANNER MARES. By Martha McCulloch Williams. summer lay ripe and heavy along the hill- tops. A hot shimmer- ing splendor filled the valleys at noontide. White woolly clouds sailed slow athwart a sky, blue, intense, palpitant with vivid light. All the streams were shrunk to bare threads of bright water. No bird sang, save here and there a languid note, just after dawn. But the crows were noisier than ever. Their caw-cawing filled all the air as they flew so straight, so swift, over the cornfields just beginning to yellow. They flew high, too, and for the most part to southward. Riah Gants eyes followed them a little enviously. Ef only I had the wings o them burreds, he said to himself. Id mighty soon find out what the news was. Yet throughout his seventy years IRiah had been noted as a slow, patient, incurious man. He was tall and lean, with deep-set blue eyes, and a fleece of white beard rippling down over the homespun shirt that was his only upper garment. There were grass-stains all over his copperas trousers, and a thick powdering of red earth upon the coarse boots into which they were thrust. Al- together he looked a working farmer to whom news of what went on outside his own fences must be supremely un- important. In one hand he carried a bridle, in the other a small basket of coarse salt. The field he had just en- tered was perhaps forty acres in extent, a smiling level of native blue grass, set here and there with clumps of sassafras, crab-apple, and wild thorn. Upon three sides a semicircle of sharp-wooded hills inclosed it. On the fourth a gray bluff rose perpendicularly forty feet in air, but so far away from the pastures edge as to proclaim a wide stream at its foot. The bed of it was so deeply worn as to make access from that side impossible. And only a goat could go safe over the hills, except at the path down which Riah Gant had just scrambled to this lower level. Notwithstanding, he looked about him apprehensively and started visibly when no living creature save a vanish- ing crow met his eye. I wonder ef theyregone, er jest a-layin in the shade! he said aloud, then whistled low and clear, peering sharply about from under the shelter of his hand. A rush of frolic hoofs, a chorus of whinnys answered him. From every hand galloped a mare, sleek, saucy, with tossing mane, with streaming tail, head daintily upheld, and hoofs that spurned the entanglement of tall grass. Black, gray, chestnut, silver-roan, dappled bay, a thought too stout to be thoroughbred~ yet fine of line, with flat clean legs and perfect action, they crowded upon him, nipping one at the other, thrusting ta- per muzzles under his arms, over his shoulders, whinnying a welcome as he walked toward the salting place. A minute later each was eagerly licking up her allotted portion from a bare spot of earth. Riah Gant eyed them with af- fectionate apprehension. All here safe an heartybut God knows fer how long, he said, walking slowly among them, patting flank or shoulder or arch- ing crest, till he reached a big black creature, evidently the mother and mon- arch of the herd. She wore a bell and had a frisking foal at foot, a yearling filly muzzling in the salt beside her. A lively batting of ears greeted her mas- ter, who stopped three feet away to say, So yere full o fight yit Pianner, spite o bein twenty years old. An a sightly critter too, ye wouldnt be wuth three days purchase, ef I took ye outer here whar them blue-coats cant find ye. The gray ones wouldnt spar ye neither wherfo lay low old gal, dont neigh too loud and raise no ruction. Remember how long weve been together; were old now, an I want us to see the last o one another. 118 THE PLANNER MARES. Pianner was in a reckless mood. Re- gardless of her master she rushed squealing at a beautiful, sleek chestnut, who stood guard over her salt, daintily tasting it now and then, and ready to do battle for it with all corners. She met the assault, with a lightning wheel that planted both heels hard and fair upon Pianners quarter. Instantly iRiah was between the combatants, had seized the aggressors foretop, bridled her, and was saying, Consarn ye sassy old pie- tur, fightin must be in the aar. The sound of loose stones rolling away from a hasty foot on the path made him turn in fright to face a slen- der, sun-burned young fellow, whose weather-stained slouch hat, pulled low over his eyes, shadowed without con- cea]ing the sunshine of his face. His gray cavalry uniform was torn and faded, but the grace of gentle blood shone through and redeemed it. Three feet away from the elder man he stopped and bared his head, and said, courteous- ly: Good-day, sir. You seem to have plenty of mighty fine stock. Im mor- tal afeared I wont have it long, Riah Gant said, with half a groan. The ex- pected had happened. A soldier had crept into this equine paradisedesola- tion must follow as day follows night. rm afraid you wont indeed, the new- comer responded, that is, not if our friends in blue stumble on them. Bet- ter sell me that chestnutshe looks like the wind could hardly catch her. I will give you both your pockets full of good Confederate money for her. Riah Gant fell back a pace saying, huskily, Who are ye, young feller ? whut are ye a-talkin about? Dont you know thems the Pianner mares? The young soldier laughed outright, saying, Im John Grayat your ser- vicemost times I do business in Mr. Forrests critter company. Just now my especial segment of it, Napiers com- mand, is investigating the possibility of crossing the Cumberland, to have a bit of fun with Colonel Mason who is keep- ing house on the other side. Be ye right shore now, ye aint no spy? Upon my honor, nomerely a scout, detailed to follow this creek of yours to its junction with the river, in hope of finding there shoal water that we can ford. Stranger hereabout, I reckon! Never set foot here before. Never heard on em? Who? Themthe Pianner mares, with an impatient wave of his hand. Never! Whats their history? Dont know as theyve got any. That thar black critter was foaled the day I fust seen er pianner, so I named her arter it. Shes brought me leven colts, nine on em mares, an Gray Pian- ner, an Mary Pianner, an Pianner Sil- ver-tail, an June Pianner, aint fer be- hind thar mammy. Fust an last thars been the rise o forty Pianners, an not -one ever fetched me less n three hun- dred, cash. Here you see whuts left on emwhut Ive hid away in this creek- parster, tryin to save em fer my grim - sons. Have you no sons? Three, leastways, I had. Toms in the Foteenth, with Lee in Virginny; Bills in the Forty-second, at Port Hud- son, the last I heard on im; an Jim, well! he married into Kaintuck, an his wifes folks is fer union. They tole im ter stay out an let the yothers settle it, but I ses ter him, Jim, I fit at Orleans with ole Hickory, ef ye dont want me ter be shamed o ye, git up an fight fer whut ye says the right, so he up an raised er company, an is Capn Gant, as big an blue er Yankee as any o the rest. Hes somewhere tords Chatty- noogy now, so wharever thars any fightin ye see, thar may be news fer me. What is Jims regiment? Eighth Kaintucky Cavalry. Did you ever happen ter run up agin em? The gray-coat nodded. Put up a pretty good fight? Id hate powerful bad fer Jims company to tuck tail an run for nothin. Well, they made it interesting for us, the scout said, with a smile, adding, after a minute, Maybe youll see Jim before long. I hear the regiment has been ordered back to help Mason hold the outpost. How far is it from here? A matter o ten miles, not countin the river. Are ye right shore thars goin ter be a fight? THE PlANNER MARES. 119 Cant say certain, it looks like it. Why do you ask? Fer this reason; when my boys went off I took thar famblies to take keer onJims as well as the rest. Be- tween em they muster seven boys from twelve to fifteen, an the last one of em, crazy ter jine the cavalry an leave me with nary plough-boy. Every rascal of em can shoot an ride like fun, so I promised em if theyd stay an thar was ever a fight in hahn distance of us, Id take em all to see it. Wouldnt you take a shot or two? I dont know as we could, ye see Betty swars she aint goin to be lef be- hindshe Jims daughter, jest seven- teenan the pizenest little rebel of the lot. Ef this here war lasts much longer, Im afeard shell be totin of er gun her- self. Shes jest crazy now fer the boys ter go. Good for Betty, wish there were more like her. But does she disown her father? young Gray asked, strok- ing the glossy rump of the nearest mare. Riah Gant smiled grimly as he an- swered, No, she says Paps pap no matter what happens, but I reckon Fust Leftenant Ware o Jims company knows pretty much her opinion of Lincoln- ites, an how little use shes got fer em. Im right down sorry now that the gal aint a boy. If she was shed be a sol- dier right. Why, sir! shes got a copy o Hardees ticktacks, an fetches them boys down here on Sunday evenins, mounts em baar-back, and drills em like er major. Its right down pretty, now it is, ter see em goin by twos, by fours, left wheel an right face, an break ranks, an so on. Its hard to tell which likes it best, the boys or the critters. The soldier pulled off his hat and bowed low, saying, Major Betty, I sa- lute you. Some day I hope to see you not at the head of the Pianner mares. A word of caution though to you, sir. What you have told me is very interest- ing, but it would not be quite harmless if I were the spy I might so easily be. You have taken me on trust, to prove that I deserve it, I will tell you that we cross the river at dark and hope to sur- prise the outpost before the moon rises. A dull pallor showed in Riah Gants face. He fingered the reins of Pianners bridle nervously for a minute, then said, looking down as he spoke, Be ye shore Jims regiment is thar? Not a bit; if we were I think we would ride some other way to-nighL In fact it is to get there ahead of him that we are hurrying so, the young sol- dier said, saluting and turning away. Riah Gant put out a detaining hand. Come long to the houseI reckon you aint had a square meal in a crows age, he said, nubridling Pianner as he spoke. I am hungry, thats a fact. A steady diet of roasting ears is apt to leave a fellow with a haunting memory of fried chicken, hot biscuit, and the rest of it, young Gray said, smiling, but really I doubt if there is time. Well, a cold snacks bettern nothin Betty wont be many minutes fixin that fer ye, so git yer critterI see ye lef him up thar top o the hillan come along, the old man said, with his hands on the top rail of the fence, over which the next minute he clambered slow and heavily. Five minutes of breathless climbing brought them out into the orchard, that ran down to the wooded hilltop. A ripe heavy fragrance filled the air of it, the aroma of yellow horse apples, deep red sweetings, and streaked fall pippins, that covered the ground under the gnarled bending trees. Tall weeds grew either side the path. A big white mas- tiff dashed through them, put his paws on his masters breast, and tried to lick his face. Down, Bulge! down, sir! Whar is Betty? You two aint never very fer apart, the old man said, pat- ting the big creatures head. As if in answer to the question a wagon came in view piled high with apples and driven by a slim, dark-eyed girl, in a home-spun frock. She stood bolt up- right upon the whiffie-trees, dangerously near the heels of the two shaggy mules. A cloud of stout lads ran after, their arms flying like windmills as they tossed apple after apple upon the heap. At sight of the old man they set up a shout, Cider, grandpap! cider! Say, maynt we beat some ef Bettyll go with us to the creek? Theyre fraid to go without mefraid to drive the wagon here count o yellow-jacket nests, the girl added, then perceiving the young 120 THE PLANNER MARES. stranger she grew rosily silent, yet held her perch behind the team. Betty, I want youthe rest on ye go down to the creek with the wagin, the old man called. The girl came for- ward, half-shy, half-eager, and returned young Grays salute with a little old- fashioned courtesy. Hes one o our hungry soldierstend to him while I feed his critter, Riah Gant said, then as the two went through the back door into the big square log houseI dont know as ever I sot eyes on a likelier couple then them two. Bettys mother was away visiting in Kentucky. The two aunts safe in the weaving house at the other side of the yard. Most days, indeed, found them therethere were so many boys to clothe besides the grandfather and the little flock of slaves. And homespun was quite the only wear in this debata- ble land where soldiering was all the trade that thrived. Bettys frock was outgrown. She had shot up amazingly since last spring. It ended well above the ankle, and showed a glimpse of home-knit stocking above the awkward shoes of her grandfathers own cobbling. But that mattered little beside a face full of fire and sweetness, set about with wind-blown tendrils of moist, dark shining hair. Young Gray watched her with tender, vague delight, breathed through with a sort of pity for Fust Leftenant Ware. Something in this face recalled another that he had kissed at the parting under Mississippi magnolias. What if she had spurned him for doing his duty as he saw it? He was at once too much a soldier, a gentleman, not to recognize and honor the honest convictions of a foe. Some- how he had a great longing to make this child-woman understand that war is for a day and love for all time. But he spoke to her only of external things of camp, and march, the fortunes of war, the tricksy humors of a partisan~s raiding. She heard him with eyes far more eloquent than his tongue, saying at last with a little shiver, Ah! what it is to be a soldier! It is better, much better, to be a woman, he said, bending to kiss light- ly her small, sun-burned hand. Three hours after he rode away, Bet- ty, sitting with her chin in her hand upon the stone piazza steps, heard the beat of many hoofs, cut through, as it were, accented, with the tinkle of a bell Turning she saw her grandfather mount- ed upon the chestnut, June Pianner with the old mare haltered and trotting beside him as though she trod on air. Behind him rode her one brother, her six cousins, barefoot, in shirt - sleeves, but each with a gun over his shoulder. Intuitively she understood. They were riding off to the fight. Yesterday she, too, would have gone, and dashed with mad rejoicing through the hottest lead- en hail. Now her heart fluttered, sank, at the bare thought. She held one hand hard above it, as her grandfather called softly, Betty? Well, sir? going up to the chest- nuts head. Oh! I say, Betty, just you keep Pianner here in the stable, will ye? We had to fetch the bell to git the rest outer the parster. Betty nodded. Yes, I know. Riah Gant looked at her amazed. For three hours he had been steeling himself against her pleadings to go along, and here she was not even asking why, or wherefore, of this sudden exodus. Peering sharply into her eyes, he asked, Be ye sick, Betty? Pears like ye are feverish in the color o your cheeks. No, I am well, perfectly. What must I do whilewhile you are gone ? Say nothin to nobody, white or black, about whar your grandpap is, ncr when ner how he went. Git yer aunt Sue an Melindy ter arguin bout infant baptism thatll keep em from bein oneasy; leave Bulge loose, an go to sleep as soon as ye can to-night. Id rather sit up, Betty said, sub- missively, then sprang to the pommel, flung her arms tight about her grand- fathers neck, laid her cheek to his for one brief second, then slid down, caught Pianners bridle and hurried away, with no look backward at the motley horse- men who rode straight out into the sun- set. The moon rose that night at ten oclock. At nine as the bugle was sound- ing Horse and Away, Sergeant Gray rode into the partisans camp. A mighty THE PlANNER MARES. 121 merry lot of ragged rebels it was, fel lows of infinite jest, laughing, singing, leaping over the camp-fires, in which their supper of green corn had just been roasted. In front of them the river ran broad and shallow, with a clamor of ripples under-voicing the million katy- dids. Four miles on the hither side lay the outpost, a stockade crowning a lofty hill, at whose foot nestled a strag- gling county town. Stores of all sorts had been accumulated there, arms, mu- nitions, clothes, medicines. To secure or destroy them was what urged Colonel Napier to the desperate undertakinga cavalry charge upon breast-works with a superior force behind them. He listened to the scout with spark- ling eyes, flung his hat in air and said aloud, Were in luck, boyswe are un- expectedly reinforced. A hubbub of excited murmurs ran through the camp. A minute later the rebel yell rang through the soft star- light, as Riah Gant and his troop came out of the dusk beyond. Colonel Na- pier wrung the old mans hand, shouted Forward and keeping his new ally well at his bridle-rein plunged at once into the stream. All got safely over it, climbed the bank opposite and walked their horses in slow silence along the sandy river road. Then somehow the walk became a trot, the trot a dead run, that swept in pickets and sentries as chaff before a whirlwind, that spread a cloud of horsemen with lightning of gun-fire and thunder of hoofs, up and down till it swelled over the sleeping stockade, before drowsy drummers could beat three bars of the long roll. Panic fell on the defenders. Such audacity must mean all Forrests division, twelve thousand strong. Col- onel Mason, half-dressed, flung down his sword despairingthe low beams of the rising moon fell in ghostly silver on the white signal of surrender. It was a bloodless victory, more sur- prising to the victors than even to the vanquished. After it Bedlam broke out. All the dark silent houses woke to life and light, and blossomed gardenwise in- to red, white and red. Women wrapped themselves in the flag-folds to smile ec- statically from lighted windows. Men bared their heads at the sight, and em- braced one another in the street. For eighteen months almost, their eyes, their hearts, had hungered for it. Now they were drunken with joy as with new wine. And Riah Gant was the hero of it all. Colonel Napier himself said the sight of the rugged old fellow with the brave boys at his back was better than a thou- sand men. The prisoners, even, as they were paroled came around to look curi- ously at himmany to shake his hand. They got a heart-warm grip, too. Ive got a boy in blue, little as yed think it from the company I keep, he said, to Colonel Mason and his staff who had been granted full honors of war. The blue-coat smiled grimly. Now that he had seen the slenderness of the force whose impetuous onset had overwhelmed him, rage and shame possessed him. He had surrendered to less than half of his own force, and must stand idly by, while the railway bridge flamed red against the night. The track was torn up, the rails bent and twisted on heaps of blazing ties. He must watch, too, the breaking against tree-trunks of the arms his men had polished so carefully, see his field-battery spiked, his maga- zine despoiled, the stores so carefully gathered go up in a pillar of flame and smoke. Colonel Napier knew but too well he could not hold what he had won. All the night was a babel of shouts and laughter and swift destruction and horsemen galloping to and fro. In the town no eye closed; every door was open, and fair women ran to their gates, eagerly offering wine, coffee, fruit, food to their deliverers. Joy en- dured for the night if weeping came with the morning, whose first faint light showed the gray horsemen headed south, clothed, armed, mounted with the spoil of their foes. Well to the columns head came the Pianner mares, all tricked out in cap- tured trappings, their young riders brave in blue and brass. Riah Gant, even, riding at Colonel Napiers elbow, had wrapped himself in blue from the chill of dawn. Young Gray was with the advance guard at the very front, erect, alert, open-eyed, though full half the troopers dropped heavily over the saddle-bow fast asleep. 1 122 THE PlANNER MARES. The first level sunbeams shot athwart the clear valley and showed him far ahead a faint rustle of dust, out of which a half-minute later, he caught the gleam of carbines, the clank of sword and stirrup, and over all the red, white, and blue streaming gallantly in the breeze. Swiftly, swiftly it all came on so swiftly, indeed, that though the advance guard fell back at the trot, the new-comers were close behind when the main body was reached. Oh, then was a stirring sight. The bugle blew fall in, platoons close order, to right, to left, the horsemen formed, rank upon rank, a centaur each, yet a fitted part of wars dread machine. Riah Gant looked long and close at the attacking column. His eye was still as keen as when it had sped its bullets at Pakenham and his red - coats. Hits right down awkward, it is now, thats Jim, sures youre born, he said, nod- ding toward the tall Federal command- er. An all his regimint behind him, too. If somethin dont happen, I dont see what well do. Something did happen. Out from the blue ranks came a low, exultant, com- plaining whinny. Each Pianner mare answered it, then, spite of curb, or rein, or frantic spurring, ran hard as she could lay leg to earth toward the spot whence it came. Who can explain a panic? One min- ute, and all about, fields, roads, hill-side, were full of flying troopers, men who but last night rode unquailing into the very jaws of death. The valley rung with clamor, shouts, shrieks, rattle of carbine volleys, roll of drum and trumpet, a lit- tle later death-cries of horse and man. In vain Colonel Napier sought to stem the tide of flight and chase; in vain his brave lieutenants flung themselves be- fore the fugitives, swearing, praying, be- seeching. Dropping shots were all that answered, the sheets of fire from their pursuers that emptied saddles by the dozen grew more deadly all the while. Ten minutes of itand the stars and stripes flew victorious over a blood- stained field. Colonel Napier had es- caped to fight and die upon another. Young Gray lay smiling with wide blue sightless eyes still grasping the colors he had caught from the hand of their flying bearer. So I{iah Gant found him, a sight to melt the hardest heart. He touched his sons sleeve, not in sup- plication, but with a tinge of authority, as he said, Youll bury him so, Jim. Twas him won ye the fight. So indeed it proved. Jim pushing across country to relieve the threatened outpost had overridden his horse and halted at his fathers house in search of a fresh one. There he found only Pi- anner, whose call to her mates bore such unlooked-for fruit. They made a grave for young Gray in the Gant burying-ground, and laid the flag he died for folded above his breast. First Lieutenant Warea Captain now rode head of the guard of honor that followed his gallant foe. Over the open coffin he said to Betty, standing white and tearless on the other side, Must I bury these with him? or send them to her, nodding toward the girls pic- tured face, he held in his hand. We found them next his heart, he went on, this and the testament with Laure outside. Betty held out her hand. When the picture was placed in it, she laid it, face down, against the dead mans cheek. Send the book backshe will need comfortbut let him have the picture,~~ she said, very low. Captain Ware looked at her through misty eyes. There was something new, rare, wonderful in her face. Bending, he took her into his arms, and tears of joy, of tender grief, of love and reconciliation fell from two pairs of eyes upon the flowers in the open coffin. (Canterbury, 1891.) By Julia C. 1?. Dorr. So still, so still they lie As centuries pass by, Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer; They never lift their eyes In sudden, sweet surprise; The wandering winds stir not their heavy hair; Forth from their close-sealed lips Nor moan, nor laughter, slips, Nor lightest sigh to wake the entranc6d air! Yet evermore they pray! We creatures of a day Live, love, and vanish from the gaze of men; Nations arise and fall; Oblivions heavy pall Hides kings and princes from all human ken, While these in marble state, From age to age await The rolling thunder of the last amen! Not in dim erypts alone, Or aisles of fretted stone, Where high cathedral altars gleam afar; And the red light streams down On mitre and on crown, Till each proud jewel blazes like a star; But where the tall grass waves Oer long-forgotten graves, Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar! Dost Thou not hear and heed? 0, in Earths utmost need Wilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create? Not for themselves they pray Whose woes have passed for aye; For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait! Thou Sovereign Lord of All, On whom they mutely call, Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate! IN MARBLE PRAYER.

Julia C. R. Dorr Dorr, Julia C. R. In A Marble Prayer 123-124

(Canterbury, 1891.) By Julia C. 1?. Dorr. So still, so still they lie As centuries pass by, Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer; They never lift their eyes In sudden, sweet surprise; The wandering winds stir not their heavy hair; Forth from their close-sealed lips Nor moan, nor laughter, slips, Nor lightest sigh to wake the entranc6d air! Yet evermore they pray! We creatures of a day Live, love, and vanish from the gaze of men; Nations arise and fall; Oblivions heavy pall Hides kings and princes from all human ken, While these in marble state, From age to age await The rolling thunder of the last amen! Not in dim erypts alone, Or aisles of fretted stone, Where high cathedral altars gleam afar; And the red light streams down On mitre and on crown, Till each proud jewel blazes like a star; But where the tall grass waves Oer long-forgotten graves, Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar! Dost Thou not hear and heed? 0, in Earths utmost need Wilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create? Not for themselves they pray Whose woes have passed for aye; For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait! Thou Sovereign Lord of All, On whom they mutely call, Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate! IN MARBLE PRAYER. THE RESUMPTION OF SPECIE PAYMENT. By J. K. Upton. N the first Monday of December, 1874, the Congress of the United States con- vened to find the country still suffer- ing from the finan- cial panic of the previous year, aris- ing, it was generally believed, from the redundant circulation of the irredeem- able legal tender notes of the Govern- ment, of which there was then outstand- ing $382,000,000. Besides these notes there was also outstanding of fractional notes convertible into the legal tenders $44,000,000 and of national bank notes, redeemable in lawful money, $354,- 000,000. Gold was quoted at 112. Both Houses of Congress were in control of the Republican party, and the Chief Executive was of the same politi- cal faith. There was a general feeling through- out the country that to avoid further disaster, a parity of value between the notes of the Government and gold coin should be established in some way, and that it should be maintained as long as the notes should be kept in circulation, and naturally to the party in power the country looked for the legislation nec- essary to that end. As to the steps to be taken, individual views were so di- verse, even within party lines, that evi- dently only through party discipline could any effective measures be accom- plished. A committee was therefore appointed by a caucus of Republican Senators, to draft the necessary legis lation. The committee consisted of Senators John Sherman (Chairman), William B. Allison, George S. Bout- well, Roscoc Conkling, George F. Ed- munds, Thomas W. Ferry, F. T. Fre- linghuysen, Timothy 0. Howe, John A. Logan, Oliver P. Morton, and Aaron A. Sargent. It agreed upon a bill provid- ing for the redemption of the frac- tional notes in silver halves, quarters, and dimes; for the repeal of the limit to the issues of national banks; for the retirement of United States notes to an amount, each month, equal to eighty per cent. of any additional issues of national banks, until the United States notes outstanding should be reduced to $300,- 000,000, and for the redemption of these notes in coin upon their present- ation for that purpose in sums of not less than fifty dollars at the New York Sub-treasury, on and after January 1, 1879. What disposition should be made of the notes redeemed after the minimum limit should have been reached, whether they should be reissued or cancelled and retired, was a question on which the Committee could come to no agreement. Before that matter could become of practical importance, however, the na- tional banks must necessarily increase their circulation about $100,000,000 to bring about the retirement of the United States notes to the limit in question, and this was not likely to happen for several years, so no particular evil could result in leaving the question open for future legislation. To carry into effect the provisions of HISTORIC MOMENTS:

J. K. Upton Upton, J. K. Historic Moments. IV. The Resumption Of Specie Payment 124-129

THE RESUMPTION OF SPECIE PAYMENT. By J. K. Upton. N the first Monday of December, 1874, the Congress of the United States con- vened to find the country still suffer- ing from the finan- cial panic of the previous year, aris- ing, it was generally believed, from the redundant circulation of the irredeem- able legal tender notes of the Govern- ment, of which there was then outstand- ing $382,000,000. Besides these notes there was also outstanding of fractional notes convertible into the legal tenders $44,000,000 and of national bank notes, redeemable in lawful money, $354,- 000,000. Gold was quoted at 112. Both Houses of Congress were in control of the Republican party, and the Chief Executive was of the same politi- cal faith. There was a general feeling through- out the country that to avoid further disaster, a parity of value between the notes of the Government and gold coin should be established in some way, and that it should be maintained as long as the notes should be kept in circulation, and naturally to the party in power the country looked for the legislation nec- essary to that end. As to the steps to be taken, individual views were so di- verse, even within party lines, that evi- dently only through party discipline could any effective measures be accom- plished. A committee was therefore appointed by a caucus of Republican Senators, to draft the necessary legis lation. The committee consisted of Senators John Sherman (Chairman), William B. Allison, George S. Bout- well, Roscoc Conkling, George F. Ed- munds, Thomas W. Ferry, F. T. Fre- linghuysen, Timothy 0. Howe, John A. Logan, Oliver P. Morton, and Aaron A. Sargent. It agreed upon a bill provid- ing for the redemption of the frac- tional notes in silver halves, quarters, and dimes; for the repeal of the limit to the issues of national banks; for the retirement of United States notes to an amount, each month, equal to eighty per cent. of any additional issues of national banks, until the United States notes outstanding should be reduced to $300,- 000,000, and for the redemption of these notes in coin upon their present- ation for that purpose in sums of not less than fifty dollars at the New York Sub-treasury, on and after January 1, 1879. What disposition should be made of the notes redeemed after the minimum limit should have been reached, whether they should be reissued or cancelled and retired, was a question on which the Committee could come to no agreement. Before that matter could become of practical importance, however, the na- tional banks must necessarily increase their circulation about $100,000,000 to bring about the retirement of the United States notes to the limit in question, and this was not likely to happen for several years, so no particular evil could result in leaving the question open for future legislation. To carry into effect the provisions of HISTORIC MOMENTS: THE RESUMP TION OP SPECIE PA YMENT. 125 the bill, the Secretary of the Treasury was authorized to use any surplus cash in tbe Treasury, not otherwise appro- priated, and to sell, at not less than par in coin, either of the classes of bonds authorized to be issued by the refund- ing act of July 14, 1870, and to use the proceeds thereof for such redemption purposes. The bill as prepared was accepted by the Senate Finance Committee as its own, and reported to the Senate by its Chairman, Senator Sherman, who ex- plained its provisions, pressing it to a passage before the adjournment for the holidays. In the House the bill was passed without debate, and as in the Senate by a strict party vote. It be- came a law January 14, 1875, and the redemption of the fractional notes was begun a few months later. Upon the incoming of the new ad- ministration on March 4, 1877, Senator Sherman, who alone had advocated the passage of the resumption measure in Congress, was called to administer the affairs of the Treasury. He found that the legal tenders had been considerably reduced in conse- quence of the bank issues, and a large portion of the fractional notes redeemed in silver, but that no steps had been taken toward accumulating the required fund for the redemption of the notes in coin, on and after January 1, 1879; also that under a contract with certain bank- em the Treasury was issuing four and one half per cent. bonds for refunding pur- poses. The Secretary promptly secured the consent of these parties to allow no outstanding bonds to be called against $15,000,000 of bonds sold, thus creating at once a reserve to that extent for the redemption of the notes. The prompt- ness of the measure and the success with which it was attended greatly en- couraged the friends of the adminis- tration and brought dismay to the prophets of evil who could see nothing in the future but bankruptcy and ruin should resumption be accomplished. The action of the Secretary greatly strengthened public credit, and during the summer he sold $25,000,000 of four per cents. at par, making $40,000,000 of solid gold accumulated specifically to meet the redemption of the notes. In addition thereto there was in the Treas- ury at least $20,000,000 which also could be used with safety for like pur- pose, increasing the available fund to $60,000,000. As the banks were in- creasing their issues the outstanding United States notes by the time fixed for their redemption would probably be reduced to $300,000,000, the minimum limit fixed by law. The Secretary be- lieved that with the reserve of forty per cent. ($120,000,000) he could with safe- ty undertake to redeem all the notes which would be presented for that pur- pose. Half of the necessary fund was already on hand, and the withdrawal of the gold from the channels of com- merce had created no disturbance. Five months had sufficed for accomplishing this much; seventeen months remained in which to accomplish the rest. Gold was at 103. There was in the outlook only the promise of a successful resump- tion. But a war sprung up in the Orient, threatening to involve all the great powers of Europe, depressing pub- lic securities in the London market, and creating unexpected demand for gold. Then came the clamor at home for the remonetization of silver, and the pay- ment of public obligations in silver dol- lam then worth about ninety-five cents in gold. More than seventy-five mil- lion dollars of our securities returned from London to New York in one week, causing gold to be shipped to meet their payment. In October Congress met in special session, and on the first day thirteen bills were presented for the absolute repeal of the resumption act, and one of them passed the House without divi- sion. The local fall elections were ad- verse and discouraging. No hope or encouragement came from the utter- ances of the opponents of the adminis- tration, and meanwhile a new party had sprung into existence, having the re- peal of the resumption act the prime article in its declaration of principles. Its supporters, drawn from both great parties, were numerous and noisy. In the ranks of the dominant party little unanimity prevailed. Many stanch advocates of resumption in and out of that party did not believe that the end could be accomplished under existing 126 THE RESUMP TION OF SPECIE PA YMENT. laws and methods. Each had a plan of his own, and rather than see success achieved in any other way preferred that resumption should be a failure. The four and a half per cent. bonds were quoted below par, and the Secre- tary, not to disturb the market, sus- pended all further sales for resumption. In December the Secretary, in an in- terview with the Finance Committee of the Senate was asked: Do you think the resumption act had better be re- pealed? The Secretary unhesitating- ly replied, I think not. Half of the fund has already been accumulated, a year remains in which to accumulate the rest. Repeal the act, inflation will follow and either repudiation will result or the long weary agony and struggle toward resumption will be renewed. Gold can be obtained, if not by sale of four per cents, then by four and a halvesif not by these then by fives, which can be sold to-day, if necessary, in sufficient amounts for the purpose. It is useless to take any steps backward. If resumption is ever to be accomplished, now is the time. A long interview followed, but the Secretary had pitched the tune, and no effort on the part of the Committee could get him away from the key. His utterances showed his purpose. His courage, determination, and resources were well known, but they only in- creased the bitterness of his opponents. A little later the House Committee on Banking and Currency had an inter- view with a delegation of New York bankers. The Committee was known to be unfriendly to resumption, and the interview was to be secret. It leaked out, however, that these bankers also were either opposed to resumption or did not believe it practicable at so early a date. One of the most prominent of them declared that he would give $50,000 for a place at the head of the line at the Sub-Treasury on the day the redemption of the legal tenders in coin should be undertaken, that he might obtain gold for the depreciated notes. The attitude and belief of these men had a dispiriting effect on the country. They were not alone, however, in their opinions. Even Hon. Hugh McCul- loch, whose recommendations as Sec retary of the Treasury in 1865 had brought about the first step toward specie resumption, declared that he should be much surprised if the reserve could be accumulated in the time speci- fied, and he represented the convictions of many eminent financiers. On April 1, 1878, the same Committee had an interview with the Secretary of the Treasury. The members desired to know what he intended to do about resumption. They soon found out. He proposed, if let alone, to redeem in coin the legal tender notes, on and after January 1, 1879, as required by law. As Secretary of the Treasury there could be no other course for him to pursue. To that end he proposed to sell $50,000,000 of bonds at once to increase that redemption fund; more if necessary could be sold later. He did not, however, anticipate any such con- tingency. Already there was under control of the Treasury $70,000,000 of these notes to the credit of public of- ficers and other depositors. The na- tional banks must take care of another $70,000,000, as part of their legal re- serve, thus tying their hands and mak- ing $140,000,000 of the notes which need not be considered. The remainder was scattered over the country among forty million people, and could not be presented in any amounts likely to em- barrass the Treasury. Besides, in his opinion, when gold could be obtained for the notes nobody would want it. He was not afraid with the reserve of forty per cent. to undertake the redemp- tion. Statistics showed that the Bank of England, when it resumed specie pay- ments in 1822, had a reserve of but twenty-three percent.; that State banks, although their circulation was only lo- cal, under ordinary circumstances main- tained their paper at par, generally with a reserve of less than thirty-three per cent. If an extraordinary emergency should arise there was still the power of the Secretary to sell bonds for coin, and Congress also could make such fur- ther provisions as the times demanded. Sufficient unto him were the evils of the day. These evils he proposed to cure. He did not care what the New York Cashiers had said. He only wanted to know what Congress proposed to do. If THE RESUMP TION OF SPECIE PA YMENT. 127 the resumption act was to be repealed, the sooner it was known the better. To every question of the Committee he gave a complete and satisfactory reply, though evidently the questions had been pre- pared with a view to his discomfiture. He accepted tables offered by the Com- mittee and with the new light turned upon them brought out facts to sustain his position to the evident dissatisfaction of the questioners. From his avowed purpose to sell bonds and resume spe- cie payments he could not be turned, nor would he admit of any doubt of his ability to do so. The publication of the interview cleared up the atmosphere at once and confidence became general that, if let alone, he could sell the bonds and that he would undertake resumption. Ten days later, Congress not repeal- ing the act, he went to New York and sold $50,000,000 of four and one-half per cents at 101 net, the proceeds to be used for the redemption of the notes. Any further doubt of the ability of the Secretary to accumulate the coin re- quired was set at rest. The negotiation was generally well received. The Senate refused to pass the House bill repealing the resumption act, but an act was approved, May 31, 1878, suspending the further retirement of the notes, leaving outstandir~g $346,- 681,016, and authorizing the reissue of the notes after redemption, indicating a purpose to retain the legal tenders as a part of the permanent circulation of the country; thus settling, for the time, at least, a most vexatious question. A period of comparative rest followed. Business began to adjust itself to the new conditions and to reach out in every direction. The opponents of resump- tion, however, admitted only temporary defeat. The fund might be accu- mulated, but when the stress was re- moved, gold would flee the country, the fund would be depleted, and, as the re- deemed notes could be reissued, the Treasury would be at the mercy of the mob who would throng its doors de- manding gold when there was no gold to give. To these prognostications the Secre- tary gave ho heed, but at once began to set his house in order for the great event of resumption. He authorized gold to be purchased for notes by the several as- say offices, and ordered interest on the public debt to be paid in coin only at New York, leaving other branches of the Treasury to pay in notes or not at all, and supplemented this order by an arrangement with the New York Clear- ing-house under which that institution agreed to accept notes in payment of all Government checks or drafts passing through its hands for collection after January 1, 1879, thus doing away almost entirely with the necessity of gold for coin interest payments amounting to $100,000,000 per annum. But the law required the duties on imports to be paid in coin, and the Secretary had no power to waive this provision. Should resumption be maintained there would be an absurdity in requiring importers of New York City, before paying their duties, to first present their legal tender notes at the Sub-Treasury for redemp- tion, then to take the coin therefor across the street to the Custom House, ouly to be returned to the Sub-Treasury at close of business, and it would work an injustice to importers at other ports who did not have the privilege of ob- taining coin of the Government for their notes, with which to liquidate custom dues. So the Secretary, after due notice to Congress of his purpose, issued in- structions to customs officers to re- ceive the notes in payment of duties, on and after January 1, 1879, the notes to be redeemed by the Government whenever necessary. Long before the end of the year the contracting parties had placed the $50,- 000,000 in the Treasury as agreed upon. Owing to the act of May 31, 1878, the amount of outstanding notes was $46,- 000,000 more than the Secretary at first anticipated, but for redemption pur- poses he would likely have in all about $135,000,000 in gold, very nearly the forty per cent. of the outstanding notes as originally determined upon. The op- ponents of resumption, baffled in their efforts, could hardly be made to believe that in the vaults of the Sub-Treasury in New York lay this enormous accumula- tion of treasure. The Hon. Thomas Ewing, of the House Committee on Banking and Currency, who had so per- sistently questioned the Secretary, vis 128 THE RESUMPTION OF SPECIE PAYMENT. ited the vaults and, to satisfy himself in the matter, handled bag after bag of the actual gold. This doubt was shown in the market by the continued gold pre- mium. Not till December 18th did this premium cease, and even after that date gold was only nominally at par. No one would give it for paper, dollar for dollar, except for convenience and in small amounts. Congress adjourned for the Christmas holidays, and immediately thereafter the air was full of rumors of a combination in New York for a run upon the Sub-Treas- ury on the opening of the new year. The rumor was persistent, but its source unknown. The alarm in New York was so great that the president of the Na- tional Bank of Commerce in that city, who was also chairman of the Clearing- house Committee, at three oclock, r. M., on the 30th, with the advice of other bankers, sent the Secretary, by special messenger, an urgent request for the transfer to his bank on the following day from the Sub-Treasury of $5,000,000 in gold in exchange for a like amount in United States notes, to enable the banks, he said, to meet their coin disburse- ments at the end of the year. To this there could be but one reply. The Treasury had no power to make the transfer, even if it desired to do so. At the time no publicity was given to the request, but coming as it did on the eve of resumption from one so competent to judge of the necessities and demands of the hour, it gave the Treasury officials cognizant of the matter no little uneasi- ness. Even the Secretary evinced more apprehensions of possible danger than he had shown during the most discour- aging events of the winter previous. He could not believe that danger existed, but if it did not why should such men on the ground and thoroughly conversant with all current movemehts, show such alarm? The movement was a secret one and its extent unknown. The year, however, closed with no un- expected excitement, but with unpleas- ant forebodings. The first day of Jan- uary was Sunday and no business was transacted. On Monday anxiety reigned in the office of the Secretary. Hour after hour passed; no news came from New York. Inquiry by wire showed all was quiet. At the close of business came this message from the Sub-Treas- ury: $135,000 of notes presented for coin$400,000 of gold for notes. That was all. Resumption was accomplished with no disturbance. By five oclock the news was all over the land, and the New York bankers were sipping their tea in absolute safety. Thirteen years have since passed and the redemption fund still remains intact in the Sub-Treasury vaults. The predic- tion of the Secretary has become history. When gold could with certainty be ob- tained for the notes, nobody wanted it. The experiment of maintaining a limited amount of United States notes in circu- lation, based upon a reasonable reserve in the Treasurypledged for that purpose, and supported also by the credit of the Government, has proved generally satis- factory, and the exclusive use of these notes for circulation may become, in time, the fixed financial policy of the Government HISTORY repeating itself fulfils its pro- verbial function, now that something like a Copyright bill has been passed, in the ef- forts of the producing artists to have the duty on works of art by foreign artists im- ported to this country repealed. As in the case of International Copyright, we have here a class of men, who for the sake of an- alogy, may be called manufacturers of the article protected, clamoring to have the protection removed; and in like manner we have the sage legislator virtually informing this producer that it is his duty to prevent him from committing suicide. The whole question seems to any thinking man con- versant with the interests at stake to verge on the ridiculous; but this state of affairs has continued since, early in 1882, the So- ciety of American Artists, through Mr. Perry Belmont, called the attention of our law- makers to the fact that the duty on works of art, then ten per cent., was iniquitous and unnecessary. The effort apparently called attention to the existence of an opportunity, for the almost immediate result was an in- crease of the duty to thirty per cent. To follow the devious ways of the tax, opposed by continued effort on the part of the not easily discouraged artists, would be too long, and with only passing reference to the grotesque person who announced in Congress that as long as his voice could be raised against it, no repeal of the tax on whiskey and art could be had, we may leave the ancient history of the movement against the tax, which after a promise in the Ways and Means Committee, of its total abolition VOL. XIL14 at the time of the McKinley bill, has been reduced to fifteen per cent. A new era seems, however, to have dawned with the recent Congress of the National Art Association at Washington. This Congress, though not the first con- certed movement on the part of our ar- tists, is numerically and strategetically the most important. The National Art Asso- ciation, formed chiefly for the propaganda in behalf of Free Art, together with a num- ber of delegates from the Free Art League, a prior organization, met at Washington on the 16th of May, and after passing resolu- tions similar to those already submitted, arranged for a hearing before the Commit- tees of the Senate and the House of Repre- sentatives. During a long and enthusiastic session the Congress listened to much prac- tical advice from Senator Wolcott, of Col- orado, Representative Henry Cabot Lodge, of Massachusetts, and from various artists and men of prominence interested in the movement. The unanimity of sentiment and the force of argument displayed must, before long, have some effect even on the indurated intelligence of those legislators who now refuse to see the difference be- tween the production of a flannel shirt and a work of art, and sooner or later the cause must triumph. The cause can at any rate be left on its merits from an economic and rational standpoint, but it seems fitting in this place to say a word from a point of view which will hardly come up in dis- cussion before the Ways and Means Com- mittee. THE POINT OF VIEW.

Free Art The Point Of View 129-134

HISTORY repeating itself fulfils its pro- verbial function, now that something like a Copyright bill has been passed, in the ef- forts of the producing artists to have the duty on works of art by foreign artists im- ported to this country repealed. As in the case of International Copyright, we have here a class of men, who for the sake of an- alogy, may be called manufacturers of the article protected, clamoring to have the protection removed; and in like manner we have the sage legislator virtually informing this producer that it is his duty to prevent him from committing suicide. The whole question seems to any thinking man con- versant with the interests at stake to verge on the ridiculous; but this state of affairs has continued since, early in 1882, the So- ciety of American Artists, through Mr. Perry Belmont, called the attention of our law- makers to the fact that the duty on works of art, then ten per cent., was iniquitous and unnecessary. The effort apparently called attention to the existence of an opportunity, for the almost immediate result was an in- crease of the duty to thirty per cent. To follow the devious ways of the tax, opposed by continued effort on the part of the not easily discouraged artists, would be too long, and with only passing reference to the grotesque person who announced in Congress that as long as his voice could be raised against it, no repeal of the tax on whiskey and art could be had, we may leave the ancient history of the movement against the tax, which after a promise in the Ways and Means Committee, of its total abolition VOL. XIL14 at the time of the McKinley bill, has been reduced to fifteen per cent. A new era seems, however, to have dawned with the recent Congress of the National Art Association at Washington. This Congress, though not the first con- certed movement on the part of our ar- tists, is numerically and strategetically the most important. The National Art Asso- ciation, formed chiefly for the propaganda in behalf of Free Art, together with a num- ber of delegates from the Free Art League, a prior organization, met at Washington on the 16th of May, and after passing resolu- tions similar to those already submitted, arranged for a hearing before the Commit- tees of the Senate and the House of Repre- sentatives. During a long and enthusiastic session the Congress listened to much prac- tical advice from Senator Wolcott, of Col- orado, Representative Henry Cabot Lodge, of Massachusetts, and from various artists and men of prominence interested in the movement. The unanimity of sentiment and the force of argument displayed must, before long, have some effect even on the indurated intelligence of those legislators who now refuse to see the difference be- tween the production of a flannel shirt and a work of art, and sooner or later the cause must triumph. The cause can at any rate be left on its merits from an economic and rational standpoint, but it seems fitting in this place to say a word from a point of view which will hardly come up in dis- cussion before the Ways and Means Com- mittee. THE POINT OF VIEW. 130 THE POINT OF VIEW. Art has been compared to a chain, every link of which reaches from a point of de- parture to one of arrival, and this compari- son makes the art of one country absolutely dependent on that of another. No refer- ence to Greece or Rome, to Italy, Holland, France, or England is necessary to make this obviously true; and those who watch the growth of Art in this countrythat which we are fain to call our Renaissanceneed not be reminded of our debt of gratitude to Europe, and to France in particular. It is France which has received and cared for, has instructed in form, color, and taste the major part of the men who, in our annually recurring exhibitions, have drawn and hold a constantly increasing number of inter- ested men and women. It is France that (during these long years that we have treat- ed her art as she has, from a possibly mis- taken economic standpoint, treated our pork) is now instructing and helping for- ward the students who will continue and improve on the work of their predecessors. It is France who, for years to come, while the Louvre shall stand and her ateliers may perfect, will give to all students, as she has given in the past, with largesse and gen- erosity. Of this we may be sure, for in France sentimentdespised sentimentis mighty, and it is only on a lower plane than that of Art that a French economist would consider it consistent with his dignity to think of reprisals. This, then, is the situa- tion: on the one hand a magnificent hos- pitality to all those who come in the name of art; on the other, numbers availing themselves of the best system of art educa- tion yet devised, prizes founded here to en- able the recipient to enjoy these privileges, honors competed for and received in schools and exhibitions there, with, to be just, the fu- tile gratitude of the benefited as the only recompense. This is the point of view of sentiment; but as the sentiment of patriot- ism has force among us, should we not re- flect that our national honor forbids us to ask for bread, and in return offer a stone? Mn. PARDRIDGE, th6 Chicago plunger who recently made a million dollars in a single day, is quoted as observing that a mans financial success is not always de- pendent on his education. What Mr. Par- dridge calls education is more accurately expressed by the word culture ; for of course a man has got to have education of a very definite quality before he can hope to find any profit in balancing himself on the edge of the Chicago wheat pit. Education is trained development; and the country- store boy whose mind runs on trading, and who makes gradual progress from peddling mouse-traps to swapping railroads, gets edu- cation that is quite as distinct, though prob- ably not as broad, as if he were in special training to become a college president. The thing he usually doesnt get is culture; and Mr. Pardridge is probably right in thinking that the sort of education that gives culture is a factor of no particular im- portance in most processes of money-mak- ing. But his remark in its inverted form is just as true and just as important, to wit, that the sort of education that merely results in money-making is of no particular impor- tance in the promotion of culture. A man may get ever so much culture and never get rich; and a man may get ever so rich and never achieve culture enough to speak polite English, or know good poetry from bad. Now, a money-maker who has no culture is liable to be hard put to it to get his mon- eys worth out of life; and the upshot of his embarrassments usually is, that not being fitted by education to enjoy the things that give pleasure to cultivated minds, he either takes up with less innocent amusements, or else sticks to business because it is the only thing he likes to do. At best he di- vides his time between money-making and the cultivation and enjoyment of that won- derfully remunerative animal, the horse. When the money has been made in a busi- ness of large speculative possibilities, there are disadvantages about going on, merely for amusement, after one has won enough. Many men could speak eloquently of the disadvantages of being driven by defective culture to buy and sell wheat for occupa- tion. And yet it is very awkward, too, to be very long of culture and very short of mon- ey. Culture does not make grinding pov- erty easier to bear, but rather the reverse; for though it is true that people of the highest culture can be happy on moderate incomes, it is also true that cultivated tastes mean cultivated wants, and an income on THE POINT OP VIEW. 131 which an uncultured person could live hap- pily might be below the minimum indis- pensable to the comfort of another person whose carefully cultivated wants had be- come necessities. It remains a question, which has had to be pondered for a large proportion of the youth who have just passed or are just about to pass the examinations preliminary to en- tering college, whether it is wiser to try first to make sure of having money or of having culture. The usual verdict (of the in medjo tutissimus order) is that one should first seek culture and get a taste of it, at least while he is young; then, if all other things ~re subsequently added unto him, his enjoy- ment of them will be so much the more in- telligent. So long, however, as the other things are lacking, he should not incur culture enough to put him at a disadvan- tage in his efforts to attain them. A per- fectly safe college, in the estimation of anxious contemporary parents, is one where one s son will not learn so much that he cannot make his living when he gets out. It might not be quite fair to say that it is the glory of the modern college president that his college is safe, but it is true enough that it has been thought expedient of late years to take special pains to dispel the notion that college training impairs the business faculty. Mother of College Presidents was the title of an American college that could call herself Mother of Railroad Presidents now with equal truth, and even greater pride. But in these days when college presidents are men of affairs and railroad presidents are men of culture, it is no unnatural exploit for the same alma mater to mother them both. Tmn~E are, I am told, few persons who receive more gratuitous advicewhich, for the most part, is held to be worth about what it coststhan editors of newspapers; and perhaps I am about to offer another instance in point. But I cannot resist the impression that they are making their jour- nals, especially the great dailies, almost impossible to read, partly by the inordinate amount submitted to their readers, and still more by the manner in which it is sub- mitted. I know that the criticism is not new, and I know the usual answerthat a newspaper is made up of an assortment to suit all tastes, and that each class of read- ers can and will choose what is really of interest. But the answer is only partly true. There is much in the contents of any considerable newspaperthe greater part oftenthat is meant for the general reader, and it is precisely this portion that is grow. ing in volume and diffuseness beyond all reason. If one compares it with the por- tion meant for special classes, the differ- ence is very marked. The commercial and financial reports are not padded or diffuse, nor are the articles commenting on them. Even sporting events get themselves re- corded with a directness and compactness, unless, indeed, they happen to be of such importance that the general reader is sup- posed to be interested in them, and then they are apt to suffer inflation. In other words, wherever a distinct class, known to have clear notions of what it wants, is addressed, it is served rationally. Why in the name of mental hygiene should not the wants of the general reader, myself, for example, so far as they can be known, be treated with the same intelligent re- spect? Of course, there is necessarily a certain vagueness about some of these wants. No editor can be expected to know whether I want my reading served with sauce piquante or accompanied by pieces ~ cries. But there can be no doubt that I, with every other fairly intelligent reader, do like my news told me in generally sim- ple English, and with a decent sense of the relative importance of an earthquake in Cal- ifornia and an elopement in a village of Central New York, a days session of Con- gress or a duel between two insignificant Americans on foreign soil. I am persuaded that the Great morning newspaper that will undertake to address its readers with a reasonably constant assumption that they are persons of common sense, with time and energy and eyesight that they do not care to waste, will achieve certainly a novel and possibly a great success. A cxnctmnn that has been sent out to Harvard graduates, asking for money to put some new athletic fields in order, is accom- panied by a picture of the new grounds as they are going to be. All of Harvards play-grounds in present use do not include more than fifteen acres available for sports. 132 THE POINT OF VIEW. The new fields are just about a hundred acres roomier than the old, and when they are laid out and planted, and built upon as the picture shows, with ball-fields, race- tracks, grand stands, boat-houses, and va- rious supplementary temples to Hercules and Diana, they will bear exceedingly sig- nificant testimony to the growing disposi- tion in this country, at this time, to seek a sound physical foundation for the intellec- tual superstructure. The Greeks built that way, and for centuries there has been a col- lege-bred conviction that the way in which the Greeks did things was the right way. All the American colleges recognize now the educational usefulness of the work that is done with brain and muscle in the open air, and provide for it as they can. It is not to be wondered at if, in the last two months of the college year, the tendency toward athletics seems almost too strong, and the provision for it too ample. Then it is that respectable middle-aged fogies come out of their holes and cry aloud that physical education has entirely got the bet- ter of the intellectual department. When spring has fairly cleared her throat and found her voice, her call is all but irresisti- ble, and nothing less than the prospect of an indispensable pecuniary settlement on Saturday night avails to keep rightly con- stituted individuals indoors. It is particu- larly potent with undergraduates and legis- lators, and from class-rooms and State-house halls comes the same moan about the diffi- culty of getting a quorum. It is so pleasant at this season to sit on a bench in the sun and see good men strike at balls and run bases, or to stand on a moving platform car and shriek at oarsmen on a river, or even to wave a bat or toil at an oar-handle ones- self, that the athletic proceedings supple- mentary to education really do get an inor- dinate amount of attention. It is natural enough that any calamitous-minded prophet who contrives to avoid the spell of the sea- son, should heap dust on his head and reite- rate, all through June, that the last has be- come not merely first, but the whole pro- cession. It is a comfort to be able to assure such. protestants that there are figures, veracious and undeniable, which prove, in spite of all delusive signs, that the intellectual end of education was never so highly prized as now. Price is not an accurate measure of value, but often it is the most reliable measure to be had, and, at all events, it is good enough for purposes of comparison. When the price of the highest grade of in- tellectual education goes up because the demand has exceeded the supply, it is a pretty sure symptom that intellectual edu- cation is not being neglected. That, in a way, is what has happened in the Americaii colleges. Term bills have not increased,. but college presidents wish they had, and that the resulting aggravation of income was available to meet the increasing cost of professors. New universities in the West, strong in position and in the amplitude of their endowments, have sent successive emissaries eastward, charged to spare no ex- pense in procuring the most distinguished pedagogical talent that is open to consider- ations of pecuniary enlargement and in- creased opportunities of usefulness. The result is that, this year, a high-grade base- ball player can be hired for less money than a high-grade professor, and that some pro- fessors are in honorable possession of in- comes that actually take away one of the immemorial reproaches of the pedagogical profession, since they would be considered amply remunerative of the services of an accomplished French cook. So, whatever may be the feelings of the fogies as they read of crowded ball-games and boat-races on rivers swarming with yachts, for this year at least they may as well hold their peace. So long as pro- fessors are notoriously in demand at the highest prices ever offered, the fogies can- not hope to get anybody to believe that the intellectual end of education is neg- lected. a -V DRAWN BY C. DELORT. ENGRAVED BY F. A. PETTIT. I HAVE FOLLOWED THE CURRENTS UNDER THE BRANCHES. The Centaur, page 230.

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Scribner's magazine. / Volume 12, Issue 2 Commentator Scribner's commentator Charles Scribner's Sons New York August, 1892 0012 2
Octave Thanet Thanet, Octave Stories Of A Western Town. I. The Besetment Of Kurt Lieders 135-148

SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. AUGUST, 1892. No. 2. STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. By Octave Thanet. 1.THE BESETMENT OF KURT LIEDERS. A SILVER rime glistened all down the street. There was a drabble of dead leaves on the sidewalk which was of wood, and on the roadway which was of macadam and stiff mud. The wind blew sharply, for it was a De- cember day and only six in the morning. Nor were the houses high enough to furnish any independent bulwark; they were low, wooden dwdllings, the tallest a bare two stories in height, the major- ity only one story. But they were in good painting and repair, and most of them had a homely gayety of geraniums or bouvardias in the windows. The house on the corner was the tall house. It occupied a larger yard than its neigh- bors ; and there were lace curtains tied with blue ribbons for the windows in the right hand front room. The door of this house swung back with a crash and a woman darted out. She ran at the top of her speed to the little yel- low house farther down the street. Her blue calico gown clung about her stout figure and fluttered behind her, reveal- ing her blue, woollen stockings and felt slippers. Her gray head was bare. As she ran tears rolled down her cheeks and she wrung her hands. Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, lieber Herr Je! One near would have heard her sob, in too distracted agitation to heed the motorneer of the passing street-car who stared after her at the risk of his car, or the tousled heads behind a few curtains. She did not stop until she almost fell He wiped dishes as he did everything, neatly, slowly. Page 144. against the door of the yellow house. Her frantic knocking was answered by a young woman in a light and artless costume of a quilted petticoat and a red flannel sack. Oh, gracious goodness! Mrs. Lie- ders! cried she. Thekla Lieders rather staggered than walked into the room and fell back on the black haircloth sofa. There, there, there, said the young Copyright, 1S92, by Charles Scribners Sons. All rights reserved. VOL. XII. 136 STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. woman while she patted the broad was pretty bad worn and soso I just shoulders heaving between sobs and run and jumped and ketched it in my short breath, what is it? The house hands, and being Im so fleshy it couldnt aint afire? stand no more and it broke! And, oh! Oh, no, oh, Mrs. Olsen, he has done hehe kicked me when I was try to it again! She wailed in sobs, like a come near to git the rope off his neck; child. and so soon like he could git his breath Done it? Done what? exclaimed he swore at me Mrs. Olsen, then her face paled. Oh, And you a helping of him! Just my gracious, you dont mean hes killed listen to that! cried the hearer in- himself dignantly. Yes, hes killed himself, again. So I come here for to git you and And hes dead? asked the other in Mr. Olsen to help me git him down an awed tone. stairs, cause he is too heavy for me to Mrs. Lieders gulped down her tears, lift, and he is so mad he wont walk Oh, not so bad as that, I cut him down, down himself. he was up in the garret and I sus Yes, yes, of course. Ill call Carl. suspected him and I run up andoh, Carl! dost thou hear? come! But did he was there, a choking, and he was so you dare to leave him, Mrs. Lieders? Part of the time she spoke in English, part of the time in her own tongue, gliding from one to another, and neither party observing the transition. Mrs. Lieders wiped her eyes saying: Oh, yes, Danke sch6n, I aint afraid cause I tied him with the rope, righd good, so he dont got no chance to move. He was make faces at me all the time I tied him. At the remem- brance, the tears welled anew. Mrs. Olsen, a little, bright tinted woman with a nose too small for her big blue eyes and chubby cheeks, quivered with indig- nant sympathy. Well, I did nefer hear of sooch a mean He swore at me. acting man! seemed to her the most nat mad! He swore at me andhe kicked ural expression; but the wife fired, at me when II says: Kurt, what are once. you doing of? Hold on till I git a No, he is not a mean man, she knife, I saysfor his hands was just cried, no, Freda Olsen, he is not a dangling at his side; and he says not- mean man at all! There aint nowhere tings cause he couldnt, he was most a better man than my man; and Carl gone and I knowed I wouldnt have time Olsen, he knows that. Kurt, he always to git no knife but I saw it was a rope buys a whole ham and a whole barrel STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. of flour, and never less than a dollar of tance, especially on the garret windows. sugar at a time! And he never gits Three times, she answered, not remoy- drunk nor he never gives me any bad ing her eyes, onet he tooked Rough on 137 talk. It was only he got this wanting to kill himself on him, sometimes. Well, I guess Ill go put on my things, said Mrs. Olsen, wisely declin- ing to defend her position. You set right still and warm yourself, and well be back in a minute. Indeed, it was hardly more than that time before both Carl Olsen, who worked in the same furniture factory as Kurt Lieders, and was a comely and after- witted giant, appeared with Mrs. Olsen ready for the street. He nodded at Mrs. Lieders and made a gurgling noise in his throat, expected to convey sympathy. Then, he coughed and said that he was ready, and they started. Feeling further expression demanded, Mrs. Olsen asked: How many times has he done it, Mrs. Lieders? Mrs. Lieders was trotting along, her anxious eyes on the house in the dis Rats and I found it out and I put some apple butter in the place of it, and he kept wondering and wondering how he didnt feel notings, and after a while I got him off the notion, that time. He wasnt mad at me ; he just said: Well, I do it some other time. You see! but he promised to wait till I got the spring house cleaning over, so he could shake the carpets for me; and by and by he got feeling better. He was mad at the boss and that made him feel bad. The next time it was the same, that time he jumped into the cistern Yes, I know, said Olsen, with a half grin, I pulled him out. It was the razor he wanted, the wife continued, and when he come home and says he was going to leave the shop and he aint never going back there, and gets out his razor and sharps it. I knowed what that meant and I told him I got to have some bluing and If they could not get along decently they would better partPage 141. 138 STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. wouldnt he go and get it? and he says, Mrs. Lieders, but he said it was for to You wont git another husband run so shave him, and I got him to promise to free on your errands, Thekia, and I let the barber shave him sometime, in- says I dont want none; and when he was gone I hid the razor and he couldnt find it, but that didnt mad him, he didnt say notings; and when I went to git the supper he walked out in the yard and jumped into the cistern, and I heard the splash and looked in and there he was trying to git his head under, and I called, For the Lords sake, papa! For the Lords sake! just like that. And I fished for him with the pole that stood there and he was sorry and caught hold of it and give in, and I rested the pole agin the side cause I wasnt strong enough to hist him out; and he held on whilest I run for help And I got the ladder and he clum out, said the giant with another grin of recollection, he was awful wet! That was a month ago, said the wife, solemnly. He sharped the razor ouct, said stead. Here, Mrs. Olsen, you go righd in, the door aint locked. By this time they were at the house door. They passed in and ascended the stairs to the second story, then climbed a narrow, ladder-like flight to the gar- ret. Involuntarily they had paused to listen at the foot of the stairs, but it was very quiet, not a sound of move- ment, not so much as the sigh of a man breathing. The wife turned pale and put both her shaking hands on her heart. Guess hes trying to scare us by keeping quiet ! said Olsen, cheerfully, and he stumbled up the stairs, in ad- vance. Thunder ! he exclaimed, on the last stair, well, we aint any too quick. In fact Carl had nearly fallen over the master of the house, that enterpris- ing self - destroyer having contrived, None of the boys came to see him, except Carl Oloen. Page 142. STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. 139 pinioned as he was, to roll over to the Well, I think you had ought to be very brink of the stair well, with the ashamed of yourself, Mr. Lieders ! plain intent to break his neck by plung- Mrs. Olsen burst out, in a tremble be- ing headlong. tween wrath and exertion, shaking her In the dim light all that they could little, plump fist at him. see was a small, old man whose white But the placid Carl only nodded, as hair was strung in wisps over his pur- in sympathy, saying, Well, I am sorry plc face, whose deep set eyes glared like you feel so bad, Mr. Lieders. I guess the eyes of a rat in a trap, and whose we got to go now. very elbows and knees expressed in their Mrs. Olsen looked as if she would cramps the fury of an outraged soul. have liked to exhort Lieders further; When he saw the new-comers he shut but she shrugged her shoulders and his eyes and his jaws. followed her husband in silence. Well, Mr. Lieders, said Olsen, I wished youd stay to breakfast, mildly, I guess you better git down- now youre here, Thekla urged out of stairs. Kin I help you up? her imperious hospitality; had Kurt No, said Lieders. been lying there dead, the next meal Will I give you an arm to lean on? must have been offered, just the same. No. I know, you aint got time to git Mr. Wont you go at all, Mr. Lieders? Olsen his breakfast, Freda, before he No. has got to go to the shops, and my Olsen shook his head. I hate to tea-kettle is boiling now, and the cof- trouble you Mr. Lieders, said he in his feell be readyI guess you had better slow, undecided tones, please excuse stay. me, with which he gathered up the little But Mrs. Olsen seconded her hus- man into his strong arms and slung him bands denial and there was nothing left over his shoulders, as easily as he would sling a sack of meal. It was a vent for Mrs. Olsens bubbling indignation to make a dive for Lie- derss heels and hold them, while Carl backed down-stairs. But Lie- ders did not make the least resistance. He allowed them to carry him into the room in- dicated by his wife, and to lay him bound on the plump feather bed. It was not his bedroom, but the sacred spare room, and the bed was part of its luxury. Thekla ran in, first, to remove the embroid- ered pillow shams and the dazzling, silken crazy quilt that was her choicest possession. Safely in the bed, Lieders opened his eyes and looked from Thekla but to see them to the door. one face to the other, his lip curling. No sooner did she return than Lieders You cant keep me this way all the time. spoke. Aint you going to take off I can do it in spite of you, said he. them ropes? said he. Hang himself? stammered LossingPage 146. 140 STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. Silence. Thekia, brushing a few tears from her eyes, scrutinized the ropes again, before she walked heavily out of the room. She turned the key in the door. Directly a savory steam floated through the hall and pierced the cracks about the door; then Theklas foot- steps returned; they echoed over the uncarpeted boards. She had brought his breakfast, cooked with the best of her homely skill. The pork chops that he liked had been fried, there was a napkin on the tray, and the coffee was in the best gilt cup and sau- cer. Heres your breakfast, papa, said she, trying to smile. I dont want no breakfast, said he. She waited, holding the tray, and wistfully eying him. Take it way, said he, I wont touch it if you stand till doomsday, les- sen you untie me! Ill untie your arm, papa, one arm; you kin eat that way. Not lessen you untie all of me, I wont touch a bite. You know why I wont untie von, papa.~~ Starving will kill as dead as hang- ing, was Liederss orphic response to this. Thekla sighed and went away leaving the tray on the table. It may be that she hoped the sight of food might stir his stomach to rebel against his dogged will; if so she was disappointed, half an hour went by during which the statue under the bedclothes remained without so much as a quiver. Then the old woman returned. Aint you awful cramped and stiff:, papa? Yes, said the statue. Will you promise not to do yourself a mischief, if I untie you? Thekla groaned, while the tears started to her red eyelids. But youll git awful tired and it will hurt you if No, it was not fair to theeI know that nowPage 141. Not till you promise you wont do it. STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. 141 you dont get the ropes off, soon, papa! I know that! He closed his eyes again, to be the less hindered from dropping back into his distempered musings. Thekla took a seat by his side and sat silent as he. S~wly the natural pallor returned to the high forehead and sharp features. They were delicate features and there was an air of refinement, of thought, about Liederss whole person, as differ- ent as possible from the robust comeli- ness of his wife. With its keen sensi- tiveness and its undefined melancholy it was a dreamers face. One meets such faces, sometimes, in incongruous places and wonders what they mean. In fact, Kurt Lieders, head cabinet maker in the furniture factory of Lossing & Co., was an artist. He was, also, an incom- parable artisan and the most exacting foreman in the shops. Thirty years ago he had first taken wages from the senior Lossing. He had watched a modest industry climb up to a great business, nor was he all at sea in his own estimate of his share in the firms success. Liederss workmanship had an honesty, an infinite patience of detail, a daring skill of design that came to be sought and commanded its own price. The Lossing art furniture did not slander the name. No sculptor ever wrought his soul into marble with a more unflinching conscience or a purer joy in his work than this wood-carver dreaming over sideboards and bed- steads. Unluckily, Lieders had the wrong side of the gift as well as the right; was full of whims and crochets, and as unpractical as the Christian mar- tyrs. He openly defied expense, and he would have no trifling with the laws of art. To make after orders was an insult to Kurt. He made what was best for the customer; if the latter had not the sense to see it he was a fool and a pig and some one else should work for him, not Kurt Lieders, begehr! Young Lossing had learned the busi- ness practically. He was taught the details by his fathers best workman; and a mighty hard and strict master the best workman proved! Lossing did not dream that the crabbed old tyrant who rarely praised him, who made him VOL. XIJ.16 go over, for the twentieth time, any im- perfect piece of work, who exacted all the artisan virtues to the last inch, was secretly proud of him. Yet, in fact, the thread of romance in Liederss pro- saic life was his idolatry of the Lossing Manufacturing Co. It is hard to tell whether it was the Lossings or that intangible quantity, the firm, the busi- ness, that he worshipped. Worship he did, however, the one or the other, per- haps the both of them, though in the~ peevish and erratic manner of the sav- age who sometimes grovels to his idols and sometimes kicks them. Nobody guessed what a blow it was to Kurt when, a year ago, the elder Los- sing had died. Even his wife did not connect his sullen melancholy and his gibes at the younger generation, with the crape on Harry Lossings hat. He would not go to the funeral, but worked savagely, all alone by himself, in the shop, the whole afternoon breaking down at last at the sight of a carved panel over which Lossing and he had once disputed. The desolate loneliness of the old came to him when his old master was gone. He loved the young man, but the old man was of his own generation; he had known how things ought to be and he could understand without talking. Lieders began to be on the lookout for signs of waning consideration, to watch his own eyes and hands, drearily wondering when they would begin to play him false; at the same time because he was unhappy he was ten times as exacting and per- emptory and critical with the younger workmen, and ten times as insolently independent with the young master. Often enough, Lossing was exasperat- ed to the point of taking the old man at his word and telling him to go if he would, but every time the chain of long habit, a real respect for such faith- ful service, and a keen admiration for Kurts matchless skill in his craft, had held him back. He prided himself on keeping his word; for that reason he was warier of using it. So he would compromise by giving the domineering old fellow a good, stiff, rowing. Once, he coupled this with a threat, if they could not get along decently they would better part! Lieders had an- 142 STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. swered not a word; he had given Los- sing a queer glance and turned on his heel. He went home and bought some poison on the way. The old man is gone and the young feller dont want the old crank round, no more, he said to himself, Thekla, I guess I make her troubles, too; Ill git out! That was the beginning of his tam- pering with suicide. Thekla, who did not have the same opinion of the trou- ble, had interfered. He had married Thekla to have someone to keep a warm fireside for him, but she was an ignor- ant creature who never could be made to understand about carving; he felt sorry for her when the baby died, the only child they ever had; he was sorrier than he expected to be on his own ac- count, too, for it was an ugly little creat- ure, only four days old, and very red and wrinkled; but he never thought of confiding his own griefs or trials to her. Now, it made him angry to have that stupid Thekla keep him in a world where he did not wish to stay. If the next day Lossing had not remembered how his father valued Lieders, and made an excuse to half apologize to him, 1 fear Theklas stratagems would have done little good. The next experience was cut out of the same piece of cloth. He had re- lented, he had allowed his wife to save him; but he was angry in secret. Then came the day when open disobedience of Lossings orders had snapped the last thread of his patience. To Liederss aggrieved If you aint satisfied with my work, Mr. Lossing, I kin quit, the answer had come instantly, Very well, Lieders, Im sorry to lose you, but we cant have two bosses here; you can go to the desk. And when Lieders in a blind stab of temper had growled a prophesy that Lossing would regret it, Lossing had stabbed in turn: Maybe, but it will be a cold day when I ask you to come back. And he had gone off without so much as a word of re- gret. The old workman had packed up his tools, the pet tools that no one was ever permitted to touch, and crammed his arms into his coat and walked out of the place where he had worked so long, not a man saying a word. Lie- ders didnt reflect that they knew noth ing of the quarrel. He glowered at them and went away sore at heart. We make a great mistake when we suppose that it is only the affectionate that de- sire affection, sulky and ill-conditioned souls often have a passionate longing for the very feelings that they rebel. Lieders was a womanish, sensitive crt- ure under the surly mask, and he was cut to the quick by his comrades apa- thy. There aint no place for old men in this world, he thought, theres them boys I done my best to make do a good job, and some of em Ive worked overtime to help; and not one of em has got as much as a good-by in him for me 1 But he did not think of going to poor Thekla for comfort, he went to his grim dreams. I git my property all straight for Thekla, and then I quit, said he. Perhaps he gave himself a reprieve un- consciously, thinking that something might happen to save him from himself. Nothing happened. None of the boys came to see him, except Carl Olsen, the very stupidest man in the shop who put Lieders beside himself, fifty times a day. The other men were sorry that Lieders had gone, having a genuine workmans admiration for his skill, and a sort of underground liking for the un- reasonable old man because he was so absolutely honest and a fellow could always tell where to find him. But they were shy, they were afraid he would take their pity in bad part, they wait- ed a while. Carl, honest soul, stood about in Lie- derss workshop, kicking the shavings with his heels for half an hour, and grinned sheepishly, and was told what a worthless, scamping, bragging lot the boys at Lossings were, and said he guessed he had got to go home now; and so departed, unwitting that his presence had been a consolation. Mrs. Olsen asked Carl what Lieders said; Carl answered simply, Say, Freda, that man feels terrible bad. Meanwhile Thekla seemed easily sat- isfied. She made no outcry as Lie- ders had dreaded, over his leaving the shop. Well, then, papa, you dont need git up so early in the morning no more, if you aint going to the shop, was her STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. 143 only comment; and Lieders despised the mind of woman more than ever. But that evening, while Lieders was down town (occupied, had she known it, with a codicil to his will), she went over to the Olsens and found out all Carl could tell her about the trouble in the shop. And it was she that made the excuse of marketing to go out the next day that she might see the rich widow on the hill who was talking about a china closet, and Judge Trevor, who had asked the price of a mantel, and Mr. Martin, who had looked at side- boards (all this information came from honest Carl); and who proposed to them that they order such furniture of the best cabinet-maker in the country, now setting up on his own account. He, simple as a baby for all his doggedness, thought that they came because of his fame as a workman, and felt a glow of pride, particularly as (having been pre- pared by the wife, who said, You see it dont make so much difference with my Kurt bout de prize, if so he can get the furniture like he wants it, and he always know of the best in the old country ) they all were duly humble. He accepted a few orders and went to work with a will; he would show them what the old man could do! But it was only a temporary gleam; in a little while he grew homesick for the shop, for the sawdust floor and the familiar smell of oil, and the picture of Lossing flitting in and out. He missed the care- less young workmen at whom he had grumbled, he missed the whir of ma- chinery, and the consciousness of rush and hurry accented by the cars on the track outside. In short, he missed the feeling of being part of a great whole. At home, in his cosey little improvised shop, there was none to dispute him, but there was none to obey him either. He grew deathly tired of it all. He got into the habit of walking around the shops at night prowling about his old haunts like a cat. Once the night watchman saw him. The next day there was a second watchman engaged. And Olsen told him very kindly, mean- ing only to warn him, that he was sus- pected to be there for no good purpose. Lieders confirmed a lurking suspicion of the good Carls own, by the clouding of his face. Yet he would have chopped his hand off rather than have lifted it against the shop. That was Tuesday night, this was Wednesday morning. The memory of it all, the cruel sense of injustice, returned with such poig-. nant force that Lieders groaned aloud. Instantly, Thekla was bending over him. He did not know whether to laugh at her or to swear, for she began fumbling at the ropes, half sobbing. Yes, I knowed they was hurting you, papa; Im going to loose one arm. Then I put it back again and loose the other. Please dont be bad! He made no resistance and she was as good as her word. She unbound and bound him in sections, as it were; he watching her with a morose smile. Then she left the room, but only to return with some hot coffee. Lieders twisted his head away. No, said he, I dont eat none of that breakfast, not if you make fresh coffee all the morning; I feel like I dont eat never no more on earth. Thekla knew that the obstinate nat- ure that she tempted was proof against temptation; if Kurt chose to starve, starve he would with food at his elbow. Oh, papa, she cried, helplessly, what is the matter with you?~~ Just dying is the matter with me, Thekla. If I cant die one way I kin an- other. Now Thekla, I want you to quit crying and listen. After Im gone you go to the boss, young Mr. Lossingbut I always called him Harry because he learned his trade of me, Thekla, but he dont think of that nowand you tell him old Lieders that worked for him thirty years is dead, but he didnt hold no hard feelings, he knowed he done wrong bout that mantel. Mind you tell him. Yes, papa, said Thekla, which was a surprise to Kurt; he had dreaded a weak flood of tears and protestations. But there were no tears, no protesta- tions, only a long look at him and a contraction of the eyebrows as if Thek- la were trying to think of something that eluded her. She placed the coffee on the tray beside the other breakfast. For a while the room was very stilL Lieders could not see the look of re 144 STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. solve that finally smoothed the per- plexed lines out of his wifes kind, sim- ple old face. She rose. Kurt, she said, I dont guess you remember this is our wedding-day; it was this day, eighteen year we was married. So! said Lieders, well, I was a bad bargain to you, Thekla; after you nursed your father that was a cripple for twenty years, I thought it would be easy with me; but I was a bad bar- gain. The Lord knows best about that, said Thekia, simply, be it how it be, you are the only man I ever had or will have, and I dont like you starve your- self. Papa, say you dont kill yourself, to-day, and you will eat your break- fast! Yes, Lieders repeated in German, a bad bargain for thee, that is sure. But thou hast been a good bargain for me. Here! I promise. Not this day. Give me the coffee. He had seasons, all the morning, of wondering over his meekness, and his agreement to be tied up again, at night. But still, what did a day matter? a man humors womens notions; and starv- ing was so tedious. Between whiles he elaborated a scheme to attain his end. How easy to outwit the silly Thekla. His eyes shone, as he. hid the little, sharp knife up his cuff. Let her tie me! says Lieders, I keep my word. To-morrow I be out of this. He wont git a man like me, pretty soon! Thekia went about her daily tasks, with her every-day air; but, now and again that same pucker of thought re- turned to her forehead; and, more than once, Lieders saw her stand over some dish, poising her spoon in air, too ab- stracted to notice his cynical observa- tion. The dinner was more elaborate tknn common, and Thekla had broached a bottle of her currant wine. She grave- ly drank Liederss health. And many good days, papa, she said. Lieders felt a queer movement of pity. After the table was cleared, he helped his wife to wash and wipe the dishes as his custom was of a Sunday or holiday. He wiped dishes as he did everything, neatly, slowly, with a careful delibera.. tion. Not until the dishes were put away and the couple were seated, did Thekla speak. Kurt, she said, I got to talk to you.~~ An inarticulate groan and a glance at the door from Lieders. I just got to, papa. It aint righd for you to do the way you been doing for so long time; efery little whiles you try to kill your- self; no, papa, that aint righd! Kurt, who had gotten out his pencils and compasses and other drawing tools, grunted: I got to look at my work, Thekla, now, I am too busy to talk. No, Kurt, no, papa the hands holding the blue apron that she was em broidering with white linen began to tremble; Lieders had not the least idea what a strain it was on this reti- cent, slow of speech woman who had. stood in awe of him for eighteen years, to discuss the horror of her life; but he could not help marking her agitation. She went on, desperately: Yes, papa, I got to talk it oud with you. You had ought to listen, cause I always been a good wife to you and nefer refused you notings. No. Well, I aint saying I done it cause you been bad to me, everybody knows we aint had no trouble. But everbody what dont know us, when they read how you tried to kill yourself in the papers, they think it was me. That always is so. And now I never can any more sleep nights, for you is always maybe git up and do something to yourself. So now, I got to talk to you, papa. Papa, how could you done so? Lieders twisted his feet under the rungs of his chair; he opened his mouth, but only to shut it again with a click of his teeth. I got my mind made up, papa. I thought and I thought. I know why you done it; you done it cause you and the boss was mad at each other. The boss hadnt no righd to let you go Yes, he had, I madded him first; I was a fool. Of course I knowed more than him bout the work, but I hadnt no right to go again him. The boss is all right. Yes, papa, I got my mind made up like most sluggish spirits there was an immense momentum about Theklas STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. 145 mind, once get it fairly started it was not to be diverted you never killed yourself before you used to git mad at the boss. You was afraid he would send you away; and now you have sent yourself away you dont want to live, cause you do not know how you can git along without the shop. But you want to get back, you want to get back more as you want to kill yourself. Yes, papa, I know, I know where you did use to go, nights. Now she changed her speech unconsciously to the tongue of her youth it is not fair, it is not fair to me that thou should treat me like that, thou dost belong to me, also; so I say, my Kurt, wilt thou make a bar- gain with me? If I shall get thee back thy place wilt thou promise me never to kill thyself any more? Lieders had not once looked up at her during the slow, difficult sentences with their half choked articulation; but he was experiencing some strange emotions, and one of them was a novel respect for his wife. All he said was: Taint no use taThing. I wont never ask him to take me back. Well, you aint asking of him. I ask him; I try to git you back. I tell you, it aint no use, I know the boss, he aint going to be letting womans talk him over; no, hes a good man, he knows how to work his busi- ness himself! But would you promise me, Kurt? Liederss eyes blurred with a mild and dreamy mist; he sighed softly. Thek- la, you cant see how it is. It is like you are tied u~, if I dont can do that; if I can then it is always that I am free, free, to go free, to stay. And for you, Thekla, it is the same. Theklas mild eyes flashed. I dont believe you would like it so you wake up in the morning and find me hanging up in the kitchen by the clothes-line! Lieders had the air of one consider- ing deeply. Then he gave Thekla one of the surprises of her life; he rose from his chair, he walked in his shuffl- ing, unheeled slippers across the room to where the old woman sat; he put one arm on the back of the chair and stiffly bent over her and kissed her. Lieber Herr Je! gasped Thelka. Then I shall go, too, pretty quick, that is all, mamma, said he, Thekia wiped her eyes. A little pause fell be- tween them and in it they may have both remembered vanished, half-forgot- ten days when life had looked differ- ently to them, when they had never thought to sit by their own fireside and discuss suicide. The husband spoke first; with a reluctant, half - shamed smile, Thekla, I tell you what, I make the bargain with you; you get me back that place I dont do it again, less you let me; you dont git me back that place you dont say notings to me. The apron dropped from the withered, brown hands to the floor. Again there was silence; but not for long; ghastly as was the alternative, the proposal of- fered a chance to escape from the terror that was sapping her heart. How long will you give me, papa? said she. I give you a week, said he. Thekla rose and went to the door; aa she opened it a fierce gust of wind slashed her like a knife, and Lieders ex- claimed, fretfully, what you opening that door for, Thekla, letting in the wind? Im so cold, now, right by the fire, I most cant draw. We got to keep a fire in the base-burner good, all night or the plants will freeze. Thekla said confusedly that some- thing sounded like a cat crying. And you talking like that it frightened me;. maybe I was wrong to make such bar- gains Then dont make it, said Lieders, curtly, I aint asking you. But Thekla drew a long breath and straightened herself, saying, Yes, I make it, papa, I make it. Well, put another stick of wood in the stove, will you, now you are up? said Lieders, shrugging his shoulders, or Ill freeze in spite of you! It seems to me it grows colder every minute. But all that day he was unusually gentle with Thekla. He talked of his youth and the struggles of the early days of the firm; he related a dozen tales of young Lossing, all illustrating some admirable trait that he certainly had not praised at the time. Never had he so opened his heart in regard to his own ideals of art, his own ambitions. And Thekla listened, not always compre 146 STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. hending but always sympathizing; she was almost like a comrade, Kurt thought afterward. In the morning, he was surprised to have her appear equipped for the street, though it was bitterly cold. She wore her garb of ceremony, a black, alpaca gown, with a white crocheted collar neatly turned over the long black, broad- cloth cloak in which she had taken pride for the last five years; and her quilted black silk bonnet was on her gray head. When she put up her foot to don her warm overshoes Kurt saw that the stout ankles were encased in white stockings. This was the last touch. Gracious, Thekla, cried Kurt, are you going to market this day? It is the coldest day this winter! Oh, I dont mind, replied Thekla, nervously. She had wrapped a scarf about her and gone out while he was getting into his own coat, and conning a proffer to go in her stead. Oh, well, Thekla she aint such a fool like she looks! he observed to the cat, say, pussy, was it you out last night? The cat only blinked her yellow eyes and purred. She knew that she had not been out last night. Not any better than her mistress, however, who at this moment was hailing a street-car. The street-car did not land her any- where near a market; it whirled her past the lines of low wooden houses into the big brick buildings with their arched windows and terra cotta orna- ments that showed the business streets of the growing Western town, past these into mills and factories and smoke-stained chimneys. Here, she stopped. An acquaintance would hard- ly have recognized her, her ruddy cheeks had grown so pale. But she trotted on to the great building on the corner from whence came a low, inces- sant buzz. She went into the first door and ran against Carl Olsen. Carl, I got to see Mr. Lossing, said she breath- lessly. There aint nothing No, Gott sei dank, but I got to see him. It was not in Carls way to ask ques- tions; he promptly showed her the office and she entered. She had not seen young Harry Lossing half a dozen times; and, now, her anxious eyes wan- dered from one dapper figure at the high desks, to another, until Lossing advanced to her. He was a handsome man, she thought, and he had kind eyes, but they hardened at her first timid sentence: I am Mrs. Lieders, I come about my man Will you walk in here Mrs. Lieders? said Lossing. His voice was like the ice on the window-panes. She followed him into a little room. He shut the door. Declining the chair that he pushed to- ward her she stood in the centre of the room, looking at him with the plead- ing eyes of a child. Mr. Lossings, will you please save my Kurt from killing himself? What do you mean? Lossings voice had not thawed. It is for you that he will kill him- self, Mr. Lossing. This is the third time that he has done it. It is because he is so lonesome now, your father is died and he thinks that you forget, and he has worked so hard for you, but he thinks that you forget. He was never tell me till yesterday; and thenit was it was because I would not let him hang himself Hang himself? stammered Los- sing, you dont mean Yes, he was hang himself, but I cut him, no I broke him down, said Thekla, accurate in all the disorder of her spirits; and forthwith, with many tremors, but clearly, she told the story of Kurts despair. She told, as Lieders never would have known how to tell, even had his pride let him, all the mans devotion for the business, all his per- sonal attachment to the firm; she told of his gloom after the elder Lossing died, for he was think there was no one in this town such good man and so smart like your fader, Mr. Lossing, no, and he would set all the evening and try to draw and make the lines all wrong, and, then, he would throw the papers in the fire and go and walk out- side and he say, I cant do nothing righd no more now the old mans died; they dont have no use for me at the shop, pretty quick! and that make him feel awful bad! She told of his home- sick wanderings about the shops by STORIES OF A WESTERN TOWN. 147 night; but he was better as a watch- man, he wouldn~t hurt it for the world! He telled me how you was hide his dinner-pail, onct for a j9ke and put in a piece of your pie, and hoW you climbed on the roof with the hose when it was afire. And he telled me if he shall die I shall tell you that he aint got no hard feelings, but you didnt know how that mantel had ought to be, so he done it righd the other way, but he hadnt no righd to talk to you like he done, no- how, and you was all righd to send him away, but you might a shaked hands, and none of the boys never said nothing nor none of them never come to see him, cept Carl Olsen, and that make him feel awful bad, too! And when he feels so bad he dont no more want to live, so I make him promise if I git him back he never try to kill himself again. Oh, Mr. Lossing, please dont let my man die! Bewildered and more touched than he cared to feel, himself, Lossing still made a feeble stand for discipline. I dont see how Lieders can expect me to take him back again, he began. He aint expecting you, Mr. Lossing, its me! But didnt Lieders tell you I told him I would never take him back? No, sir, no, Mr. Lossing, it was not that, it was you said it would be a cold day that you would take him hack; and it was git so cold yesterday, so I think, Now it would be a cold day to-morrow and Mr. Lossing he can take Kurt back. And it is the most coldest day this year! Lossing burst into a laugh, perhaps he was glad to have the Western sense of humor come to the rescue of his compassion. Well, it was a cold day for you to come all this way for noth- ing, said he. You go home and tell Lieders to report to-morrow. Kurts manner of receiving the news was characteristic. He snorted in dis- gust: Well, I did think he had more sand than to give in to a woman! But after he heard the whole story he chuckled: Yes, it was that way he said, and he must do like he said; but that was a funny way you done, Thekla. Say, mamma, yesterday, was you look out for the cat or to find how cold it been? Never you mind, papa, said Thekla, you remember what you promised if I git you back? Liederss eyes grew dull; he flung his arms out, with a long sigh. No, I dont forget, I will keep my promise, butit is like the handcuffs, Thekla, it is like the handcuffs! In a second, however, he added, in a changed tone, But thou art a kind jailer, mamma, more like a comrade. And no, it was not fair to theeI know that now, Thekla. FADED PICTURES. By William Vaughn Moody. ONLY two patient eyes to stare Out of the canvas: all the rest, The warm green gown, the small hands pressed Light in the lap, the heapy hair, That must have made the sweet, low brow So earnest, centuries ago, When some one saw it change and glow All faded. Just the eyes burn now. I dare say people pass and pass Before the blistered little frame, And dingy work, without a name, Shut in behind its bit of glass: But Iwell, I left Raphael Just to come drink these eyes of hers, To think away the stains and blurs, And make all whole again and welL Only for tears the head will bow, Because there on my hearts last wall, Not one tint left to tell it all, A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.

William Vaughn Moody Moody, William Vaughn Faded Pictures 148-149

FADED PICTURES. By William Vaughn Moody. ONLY two patient eyes to stare Out of the canvas: all the rest, The warm green gown, the small hands pressed Light in the lap, the heapy hair, That must have made the sweet, low brow So earnest, centuries ago, When some one saw it change and glow All faded. Just the eyes burn now. I dare say people pass and pass Before the blistered little frame, And dingy work, without a name, Shut in behind its bit of glass: But Iwell, I left Raphael Just to come drink these eyes of hers, To think away the stains and blurs, And make all whole again and welL Only for tears the head will bow, Because there on my hearts last wall, Not one tint left to tell it all, A picture keeps its eyes, somehow. THERE are several riverside par- ishes east of London Bridge, not counting th.e ancient towns of Dept- ford and Greenwich, which formerly lay beyond London, and could not be reck- oned as suburbs. The history of all these parishes, till the present century, is the same. Once, southeast and west of Lon- don, there stretched a broad marsh cov- ered with water at every spring-tide; here and there rose islets overgrown with brambles, the haunt of wild fowl innumerable. In course of time, the city having grown and stretching out long arms along the bank, people be- gan to build a broad and strong river- wall to keep out the floods. This river- wall, which still remains, was gradually extended until it reached the month of the river and ran quite round the low coast of Essex. To the marshes suc- ceeded a vast level, low-lying, fertile region affording good pasture, excellent dairy farms, and gardens of fruit and vegetables. The only inhabitants of this district were the farmers and the farm-hands. So things continued for a thousand years, while the ships went up the river with wind and tide, and down the river with wind and tide, and were moored below the Bridge, and dis- charged their cargoes into lighters, which landed them on the quays of London Port, between the Tower and the Bridge. As for the people who did the work of the Portthe loading and VOL. XIL17 the unloadingthose whom now we call the stevedores, coalers, dockers, lightermen, and watermen, they lived in the narrow lanes and crowded courts above and about Thames Street. When the trade of London Port in- creased, these courts became more crowded; some of them overflowed, and a colony outside the walls was estab- lished in St. Katherines Precinct be- yond the Tower. Next to St. Katherines lay the fields called by Stow Wappin in the Wose, or Wash, where there were broken places in the wall, and the water poured in so that it was as much a marsh as when there was no dyke at alL Then the Commissioners of Sew- ers thonght it would be a good plan to encourage people to build along the wall, so that they would be personally interested in its preservation. Thus arose the Hamlet of Wapping, which, till far into the eighteenth century, consisted of little more than a single long street, with a few cross lanes, inhabited by sailor-folk. At this time ----it was toward the end of the six- teenth centurybegan that great and wonderful development of London trade which has continued without any ces- sation of growth. Gresham began it. He taught the citizens how to unite for the common weal; he gave them a Bourse; he transferred the foreign trade of Antwerp to the Thames. Then the service of the river grew apace J3~ ~kv~F& ~r ~& cfCtrlt.

Walter Besant Besant, Walter The Poor In Great Cities. V. A Riverside Parish 149-169

THERE are several riverside par- ishes east of London Bridge, not counting th.e ancient towns of Dept- ford and Greenwich, which formerly lay beyond London, and could not be reck- oned as suburbs. The history of all these parishes, till the present century, is the same. Once, southeast and west of Lon- don, there stretched a broad marsh cov- ered with water at every spring-tide; here and there rose islets overgrown with brambles, the haunt of wild fowl innumerable. In course of time, the city having grown and stretching out long arms along the bank, people be- gan to build a broad and strong river- wall to keep out the floods. This river- wall, which still remains, was gradually extended until it reached the month of the river and ran quite round the low coast of Essex. To the marshes suc- ceeded a vast level, low-lying, fertile region affording good pasture, excellent dairy farms, and gardens of fruit and vegetables. The only inhabitants of this district were the farmers and the farm-hands. So things continued for a thousand years, while the ships went up the river with wind and tide, and down the river with wind and tide, and were moored below the Bridge, and dis- charged their cargoes into lighters, which landed them on the quays of London Port, between the Tower and the Bridge. As for the people who did the work of the Portthe loading and VOL. XIL17 the unloadingthose whom now we call the stevedores, coalers, dockers, lightermen, and watermen, they lived in the narrow lanes and crowded courts above and about Thames Street. When the trade of London Port in- creased, these courts became more crowded; some of them overflowed, and a colony outside the walls was estab- lished in St. Katherines Precinct be- yond the Tower. Next to St. Katherines lay the fields called by Stow Wappin in the Wose, or Wash, where there were broken places in the wall, and the water poured in so that it was as much a marsh as when there was no dyke at alL Then the Commissioners of Sew- ers thonght it would be a good plan to encourage people to build along the wall, so that they would be personally interested in its preservation. Thus arose the Hamlet of Wapping, which, till far into the eighteenth century, consisted of little more than a single long street, with a few cross lanes, inhabited by sailor-folk. At this time ----it was toward the end of the six- teenth centurybegan that great and wonderful development of London trade which has continued without any ces- sation of growth. Gresham began it. He taught the citizens how to unite for the common weal; he gave them a Bourse; he transferred the foreign trade of Antwerp to the Thames. Then the service of the river grew apace J3~ ~kv~F& ~r ~& cfCtrlt. 150 A RIVERSIDE PARISH. where one lighter had sufficed there were now wanted ten; Wappin in the Wose became crowded Wapping; the long street stretched farther and far- ther along the river beyond Shads Well; beyond Ratcliff Cross, where the red cliff came down nearly to the river bank; beyond the Lime-house; be- yond the Poplar Grove. The whole of that great city of a million souls, now roadside taverns and gardens for the thirsty Londoner on a summer even- ing; here were placed many almshouses, dotted about among the gardens, where the poor old folks lengthened their days in peace and fresh air. But Riverside London was a far dif- ferent place ; here lived none but sail- ors, watermen, lightermen, and all those who had to do with ships and shipping, called East London, consisted, until the with the wants and the pleasures of the end of the last century, of Whitechap- sailors. Boat-builders had their yards el and Bethual Green, still preserving along the bank ; mast-makers ; sail- something of the old rusticity; of Mile makers; rope-makers; block-makers; End, Stepucy and Bow, and West Ham, there were repairing docks dotted about hamlets set among fields, and market- all down the river, each able to hold one gardens, and of that long fringe of ship at a time, like one or two still re- riverside streets and houses. In these maining at Rotherhithe; there were rural hamlets great merchants had their ship-building yards of considerable im- country-houses; the place was fertile; portance; all these places employed a the air was wholesome; nowhere could vast number of workmencarpenters, one see finer flowers or finer plants ; caulkers, painters, riggers, carvers of the merchant-captainsboth those at figure-heads, blockmakers, stevedores, sea and those retiredhad houses with lightermen, watermen, victuallers, tav- garden-bowers and masts at Mile End em-keepers, and all the roguery and Old Town. Captain Cook left his wife ribauderie that always gather round and children there when he went sailing mercantile Jack ashore. A crowded round the world; here, because ground suburb indeed it was, and for the most was cheap and plentiful, were long rope- part with no gentle-folk to give the peo- walks and tenter-grounds; here were ple an example of conduct, temperance, DRAWN BY HUGH THOMSON. 152 A RIVERSIDE PARISH. and religion. At best the master-mari- ners, a decorous people, and the better class of tradesmen, to lead the way to church. And as time went on the bet- ter class vanished, until the riverside parishes became abandoned entirely to mercantile Jack, and to those who live by loading and unloading, repairing and building the ships, and by showing Jack ashore how fastest and best to spend his money. There were churches Wapping, St. George in the East, Shad- well, and Limehousethcy are there to of attendance could not be enforced, so much the worse for them. Though Jack kept out of church, there was some religious life in the place, as is shown not only by the presence of the church, but also by that of the chapel. Now, wherever there is a chapel it indicates thought, independence, and a sensible elevation above the reckless, senseless rabble. Some kinds of Nonconformity also indicate a first step toward educa- tion and culture. He who now stands on London Bridge Their first yearning is for fineryPage 166. this day; but Jack and his friends enter not their portals. Moreover, when they were built the function of the clergy- man was to perform with dignity and reverence the services of the church ; if people chose not to come, and the law and looks down the river, will see a large number of steamers lying off the quays; there are barges, river steamers, and boats ; there are great ocean steamers working up or down the river; but there is little to give the stranger even 153 A RIVERSIDE PARISH~ a suspicion of the enormous trade that is carried on at the Port of London. That Port is now hidden behind the dock gates; the trade is invisible unless one enters the docks and reckons up the ships and their tonnage, the warehouses and their contents. But a hundred years ago this trade was visible to any who chose to look at it, and the ships in which the trade was carried on were visible as ~vell. Below the Bridge, the river for more than a mile, pursues a straight course with a uniform breadth. It then bends in a northeasterly direction for a mile or so, when it turns southward, passing Deptford and Greenwich. Now, a hun- dred years ago, for two miles and more below the bridge, the ships lay moored side by side in double lines, with a nar- row channel between. There were no docks; all the loading and the unload- ing had to be done by means of barges and lighters in the stream. One can hardly realize this vast concourse of boats and barges and ships; the thou- sands of men at work; the passage to and fro of the barges laden to the waters edge, or returning empty to the ships side; the yeo~heave-Oh of the sailors hoisting up the casks and bales and cases; the shouting, the turmoil, the quarrelling, the fighting, the tumult upon the river, now so peaceful. But when we talk of a riverside parish we must remember this great concourse, be- cause it was the cause of practices from which we suffer to the present day. Of these things we may be perfecily certain. First, that without the pres- ence among a people of some higher life, some nobler standard, than that of the senses, this people will sink rapidly and surely. Next, that no class of per- sons, whether in the better or the wors- er rank, can ever be trusted to be a law unto themselves. For which reason we may continue to be grateful to our an- cestors who caused to be written in large letters of gold, for all the world to see 154 A RIVERSIDE PARISH. once a week, Taus SAITH THE LORD, Thou shalt not steal, and the rest: the lack of which reminder sometimes cans- eth, in Nonconformist circles, it is whis- pered, a deplorable separation of faith and works. The third maxim, axiom, or self-evident proposition is, that when people can steal without fear of conse- quences they will steaL All through the last century, and indeed far into this, the only influence brought to bear upon the common people was that of author- ity. The master ruled his servants ; he watched over them; when they were young he had them catechised and taught the sentiments proper to their station; he also flogged them soundly; when they grew up he gave them wages and work; he made them go to church regularly; he rewarded them for indus- try by fraternal care; he sent them to the almshouse when they were old. At church the sermons were not for the servants but for the masters; yet the former were reminded every week of the Ten Commandments, which were not only written out large for all to see, but were read out for their instruction ev- ery Sunday morning. The decay of authority is one of the distinguishing features of the present century. But in Riverside London there were no masters, and there was no authority for the great mass of the people. The sailor ashore had no master; the men who worked on the lighters and on the ships had no master except for the day; the ignoble horde of those who supplied the coarse pleasures of the sailors had no masters; they were not made to do anything but what they pleased; the church was not for them ; their children were not sent to school; their only mas- ters were the fear of the gallows, con- stantly dangled before their eyes at Ex- ecution Dock and on the shores of the Isle of Dogs, and their profound respect for the cat o nine tails. They knew no morality; they had no other restraint; they all together slid, ran, fell, leaped, danced, and rolled swiftly and easily adown the Primrose Path; they fell into a savagery the like of which has never been known among English-folk since the days of their conversion to the Chris- tian faith. It is only by searching and poking among unknown pamphlets and forgotten books that one finds out the actual depths of the English savagery of the last century. And it is not too much to say that for drunk- enness, brutality, and igno- rance, the Englishman of the baser kind touched about the lowest depth ever reached by civilized man during the last century. What he was in Riverside London has been disclosed by Colquhoun, the Police Magistrate. Here he was not only a drunkard, a brawler, a torturer of dumb beasts, a wife-beater, a profli- gatehe was also, with his fellows, engaged every day, and all day long, in a vast systematic organized depre- dation. The people of the riverside were all, to a man, river pirates; by day and by night they stole from the ships. There were often as many as a thousand vessels lying in the river; there were many hundreds of boats, barges, and light- ers engaged upon their cargoes. They practised their robberies in a thousand ingenious ways; they weighed the an- chors and stole them; they cut adrift lighters when they were loaded, and when they had floated down the river e~. A RIVERSIDE PARISH. 155 they pillaged what they could carry and left the rest to sink or swim; they waited till night and then rowed off to half-laden lighters and helped them- selves. Sometimes they went on board the ships as stevedores and tossed bales overboard to a confederate in a boat be- low; or they were coopers who carried under their aprons bags which they filled with sugar from the casks; or they took with them bladders for stealing the rum. Some waded about iu the mud at low tide to catch anything that was thrown to them from the ships. Some obtained admission to the ship as rat- catchers, and in that capacity were able to carry away plunder previously con- cealed by their friends ; some, called scuffle-hunters, stood on the quays as porters, carrying bags under their long aprons in which to hide whatever they could pilfer. It was estimated that, tak- ing one year with another, the depie- dations from the shipping in the Port of London amounted to nearly a quarter of a million sterling every year. All this Her bowsprit and figurehead stick ost over the streetPage 158. 156 was carried on by the riverside people. But, to make robbery successful, there must be accomplices, receiving-houses, fences, a way to dispose of the goods. In this case the thieves had as their accorn- plices the whole of the population of the quarter where they lived. All the pub- lic-houses were secret markets attended by grocers and other tradesmen where the booty was sold by auction, and, to escape detection fictitious bills and ac- counts were given and received. The thieves were known among themselves by fancy names, which at once indicated the special line of each and showed the popularity of the calling; they were bold pirates, night plunderers, light horse- men, heavy horsemen, mud-larks, game lightermen, souffle-hunters and gangs- men. Their thefts enabled them to live in the coarse profusion of meat and drink, which was all they wanted; yet they were always poor because their plunder was knocked down for so little; they saved nothing; and they were al- ways egged on to new robberies by the men who sold them drinks, the women who took their money from them, and the honest merchants who attended the secret markets. I dwell upon the past because the present is its natural legacy. When you read of the efforts now being made to raise the living, or at least to prevent them from sinking any lower, remem- ber that they are what the dead made them. We in- herit more than the wealth of our ancestors; we inherit the consequences of their misdeeds. It is a most ex- pensive thing to suffer the people to drop and sink; it is a burden which we lay upon posterity if we do not continually spend and be spent in lifting them up. Why, we have been the best part of two thousand years in recovering the civiliza- tion which fell to pieces when the Roman Empire decayed. We have not been fifty years in dragging up the very poor whom we neglected and left to them- selves, the gallows, the cat, and the press-gang only a hundred years ago. And how slow, how slow and sometimes hopeless, is the work! The establishment of river police and the con- struction of docks have cleared the river of all this gentry. Ships now enter the docks; there discharge and receive ; the labor- ers can carry away nothing through the dock-gates. No apron allows a bag to be hidden; policemen stand at the gates to search the men; the old game is gone what is left is a surviving spirit of lawlessness ; the herding together; the hand-to-mouth life; the love of drink is the chief attainable pleasure ; the ab- sence of conscience and responsibility; and the old brutality. What the riverside then was may be learned by a small piece of Rotherhithe in which the old things still linger. Small repairing-docks, each capable of holding one vessel, are dotted along the A RIVERSIDE PARISH. DRAWN BY HULiM 158 A RIVERSIDE PARISH. street; to each are its great dock-gates keeping out the high tide, and the quays and the shops and the care-takers lodge; the ship lies in the dock shored up by timbers on either side, and the workmen are hammering, caulking, painting, and scraping the wooden hull; her bowsprit and her figurehead stick out over the street. Between the docks are small two-storied houses, half of them little shops trying to sell some- thing; the public-house is frequent, but the Humors of Rateliff High- way are absent; mercantile Jack at Rotherhithe is mostly Norwegian and has morals of his own. Such, however, as this little village of Rotherhithe is, so were Wappin in the Wose, Shad- well, Ratelifi, and the Lime-house a hundred years ago, with the addition of street fighting and brawling all day long; the perpetual adoration of rum; quarrels over stolen goods; quarrels over drunken drabs; quarrels over all fours; the scraping of fiddles from every public-hou5e~ the noise of singing, 159 A RiVERSIDE PARISH. feasting, an4 dancing, and a never~end ing, 5~ii~beginning debauch, all hushed and quietas birds cower in the hedge at sight of the kestrelwhen the press- gang swept down the narrow streets and carried off the lads, unwilling to leave the girls and the grog, and put them aboard His Majestys tender to meet what fate might bring. The construction of the great docks has completely changed this ,quarter. The Precinct of St. 1I~ by the Tower has almost entirely disappeared, being covered by St. liatherines Dock; the London Dock has reduced Wapping to a strip covered with warehouses. But the church remains, so frankly pro- claiming itself of the eighteenth cen- tury, with its great churchyard. The new Dock Basin, Limehouse Basin, and the West India Docks, have sliced huge cantles out of Shadwell, Lime- house, and Poplar; the little private docks and ~0at~building yards have dis- appeared; here and there the dock re- mains, with its river gates gone, an ancient barge reposin0 in its black mud; here and there may be found a great building which was formerly a warehouse when ship~building was still carried on. That branch of industry was abandoned after 1868, when the sbip- wrights struck for lower wages. Their action transi3~rred the ship~buildiflg of the country to the Clyde, and threw out of work thousands of men who had been earning large wages in the yards. Before this unlucky event Riverside London had been rough and squalid, but there were in it plenty of people earning good wages~skilled artisans, good craftsmen. Since then it has been next door to starving. The effect of the shipwrights strike may be illus- trated in the history of one couple. The man, of Irish parentage, though born in Stepucy, was a painter or dec- orator of the saloons and cabins of ships: he was a highly skilled workman of taste and de~terity: he could not only paint but he could carve: he made about three pounds a week and lived in comfort. The wife, a decent Yorkshire woman whose manners were very much above those of the Riverside folk, was a few years older than her husband: they had no children. During the years of fatness they saved nothing; the hus- band was not a drunkard, but, like most workmen, he liked to cut a figure and 160 A RIVERSIDE PARISH. to make a show. So he saved little or nothing. When the yard was finally closed he had to cadge about for work. Fifteen years later he was found in a single room of the meanest tenement- house: his furniture was reduced to a bed, a table, and a chair: all that they had was a little tea and no moneyno money at all. He was weak and ill with trudging about in search of work: he was lying exhausted on the bed while his wife sat crouched over the little bit of fire. This was how they had lived for fifteen yearsthe whole time on the verge of starvation. Well, they were taken away; they were persuaded to leave their quarters and to try another place where odd jobs were found for the man, and where the woman made friends in private families for whom she did a little sewing. But it was too late for the man; his privations had destroyed his sleight of hand, though he knew it not; the fine workman was gone; he took painters paralysis and very often when work was offered his hand would drop before he could begin it; then the long years of tramping about had made him restless; from time to time he was fain to borrow a few shillings and to go on the tramp again, pretending that he was in search of work; he would stay away for a fortnight, marching about from place to place, heartily enjoying the change A RIVERSIDE PARISH. 161 and the social evening at the public- houses where he put up. For, though no drunkard, he loved to sit in a warm bar and to talk over the splendors of the past. Then he died. No one, now looking at the neat old lady in the clean white cap and apron who sits all day in the nursery crooning over her work, would believe that she has gone through this ordeal by famine, and served her fifteen years term of starvation for the sins of others. The Parish of St. Jamess, T{atcliff, is the least known of IRiverside London. There is nothing about this parish in the Guide-books; nobody goes to see it. Why should they? There is noth- ing to see. Yet it is not without its romantic touches. Once there was here a cross the Rateliff Cross but no- body knows what it was, when it was erected, why it was erected, or when it was pulled down. The oldest inhabi- tant now at IRateliff remembers that there was a cross herethe name sur- vived until the other day, attached to a little street, but that is now gone. It is mentioned in Dryden. And on the Queens accession, in 1837, she was pro- claimed, among other places. at IRateliff Crossbut why, no one knows. Once the Shipwrights Company had their hall here; it stood among gardens where the scent of the gillyflower and the stock mingled with the scent of the tar from the neighboring rope-yard and boat-building yard; in the old days, many were the feasts which the jolly shipwrights held in their hall after ser- vice at St. Dunstans, Stepney. The hall is now pulled down, and the Com- pany, which is one of the smallest, worth an income of less than a thousand, has never built another. Then there are the Rateliff Stairsrather dirty and dilapi- dated to look at, but, at half-tide, afford- ing the best view one can get any where of the Pool and the shipping. In the 162 A RIVERSIDE PARISH. good old days of the scuffle-hunters and the new church; it is a large, solid, and the heavy horsemen, the view of the substantial house, built early in the last thousand ships moored in their long century, when as yet the light horsemen lines with the narrow passage between and lumpers were no nearer than Wap was splendid. History has deigned to speak of Ratcliff Stairs. Twas by these steps that the gallant Willoughby em- barked for his fatal voyage ; with flags flying and the discharge of guns he sailed past Greenwich, hoping that the king would come forth to see him pass. Alas! the young king lay a dying, and Willoughby himself was sailing off to meet his death. The parish contains four good houses, all of which, I believe, are marked in Roques map of 1745. One of these is now the vicarage of ping. The walls of the dining-room are painted with Italian landscapes to which belongs a romance. The paint- ings were executed by a young Italian artist. For the sake of convenience he was allowed by the merchant who then lived here, and employed him, to stay in the house. Now the merchant had a daughter, and she was fair; the artist was a goodly youth, and inflaminable as the poet says, their eyes met; pres- ently, as the poet goes on, their lips met; then the merchant found out what was going on, and ordered the young Smoking Concert at the Tee-to-turn St. Jamess RatoliffPege lOT. A RIVERSIDE PARISH. man, with good old British determina- tion, out of the house; the young man retired to his room, presumably to pack up his things. But he did not go out 163 The third great house is one of the few surviving specimens of the mer- chants warehouse and residence in one. It is now an old and tumble - down of the house; instead of that, he hanged himself in his room. His ghost, natural- ly, continued to remain in the house, and has been seen by many. Why he has not long ago joined the ghost of the young lady is not clear, unless that, like many ghosts, his chief pleasure is in keeping as miserable as he possibly can. The second large house of the parish is apparently of the same date, but the broad garden in which it formerly stood has been built over by mean tenement- houses; nothing is known about it; at present certain Roman Catholic sisters live in it and carry on some kind of work. place. Its ancient history I know not. What rich and costly bales were hoisted into this warehouse; what goods lay here waiting to be carried down the Stairs, and so on board ship in the Pool ; what fortunes were made and lost here one knows not. Its ancient history is gone and lost, but it has a modern history. Here a certain man began, in a small way, a work which has grown to be great; here he spent and was spent; here he gave his life for the work, which was for the children of the poor. He was a young physician; he saw in this squalid and crowded neigh- DRAWN BY HUGH THOMSON. Lightermen after Dinner Putting off to Work from Ratcliff Stairs. A RIVERSIDE PARISH. 165 borhood the lives of the children need- lessly sacrificed by the thousand for the want of a hospital; to be taken ill in the wretched room where the whole fam- ily lived was to die; the nearest hos- pital was two miles away. The young physician had but slender means, but he had a stout heart. He found this house empty, its rent a song. He took it, put in half a dozen beds, constituted himself the physician and his wife the nurse, and opened the Childrens Hos- pitaL Very soon the rooms became wards; the wards became crowded with children; the one nurse was multiplied by twenty ; the one physician by six. Very soon, too, the physician lay upon his death-bed, killed by the work. But the Childrens Hospital was founded, and now it stands, not far off, a stately building with one of its wardsthe Heckford Wardnamed after the phy- sician who gave his own life to save the children. When the house ceased to be a hospital it was taken by a Mr. Dawson, who was the first to start here a club or the very rough lads. He, too, gave his life for the cause, for the illness which killed him was due to overwork and neglect. Devotion and death are therefore associated with this old house. The fourth large house is now de- graded to a common lodging-house. But it has still its fine old stair~case. The Parish of St. Jamess, iRatcliff, consists of an irregular patch of ground having the river on the south, and the Commercial Road, one of the great arte- ries of London, on the north. It contains about seven thousand people, of whom some three thousand are Irish Catho- lics. It includes a number of small, mean, and squalid streets; there is not anywhere in the great city a collection of streets smaller or meaner. The peo- ple live in tenement-houses, very often one family for every roomin one street, for instance, of fifty houses, there are one hundred and thirty families. The men are nearly all dock-laborersthe descendants of the scuffle-hunters, whose traditions still. survive, perhaps, in an unconquerable hatred of government. The women and girls are shirt-makers, tailoresses, jam-makers, biscuit-makers, match-makers, and rope-makers. In this parish the only gentle-folk are VOL. XII 18 the clergy and the ladies working in the parish for the Church; there are no substantial shopkeepers, no private residents, no lawyer, no doctor, no pro- fessional people of any kind; there are thirty-six public-houses, or one to every hundred adults, so that if each spends on an average only two shillings a week, the weekly takings of each are ten pounds. Till lately there were forty- six, but ten have been suppressed; there are no places of public entertainment, there are no books, there are hardly any papers except some of those Irish papers whose continued sufferance gives the lie to their own everlasting charges of Eng- lish tyranny. Most significant of all, there are no Dissenting chapels, with one remarkable exception. Fifteen chapels in the three parishes of Ratcliff, Shad- well, and St. Georges have been closed during the last twenty years. Does this mean conversion to the Anglican Church? Not exactly; it means, first, that the people have become too poor to maintain a chapel, and next, that they have become too poor to think of relig- ion. So long as an Englishmans head is above the grinding misery, he ex- ercises, as he should, a free and inde- pendent choice of creeds, thereby vin- dicating and asserting his liberties. Here there is no chapel, therefore no one thinks; they lie like sheep; of death and its possibilities no one heeds; they live from day to day; when they are young they believe they will be always young; when they are old, so far as they know, they have been always old. The people being such as they are so poor, so helpless, so ignorantwhat is done for them? How are they helped upward? How are they driven, pushed, shoved, pulled, to prevent them from sinking still lower? For they are not at the lowest depths; they are not criminals; up to their lights they are honest; that poor fellow who stands with his hands readyall he has got in the wide worldonly his handsno trade, no craft, no skillwill give you a good days work if you engage hiju; he will not steal things; he will drink more than he should with the money you give him; he will knock his wife down if she angers him; but he is not a criminal. That step has yet to be 166 A RIVERSIDE PARISH. taken; he will not take it; but his chil- dren may, and unless they are prevent- ed they certainly will. For the London- born child very soon learns the meaning ~ of the Easy Way and the Primrose Path. We have to do with the people ignorant, drunken, helpless, always at the point of destitution, their whole thoughts as much concentrated upon the difficulty of the daily bread as ever were those of their ancestor who roamed about the Middlesex Forest and hunted the bear with a club, and shot the wird-goose with a flint-headed arrow. First there is the Church work; that is to say, the various agencies and machinery directed by the vicar. Per- haps it may be a new thing to some American readers to learn how much of the time and thoughts of our An- glican beneficed clergymen are wanted for things not directly religious. The church, a plain and unpretending edi- fice, built in the year 1838, is served by the vicar and two curates. There are daily services, and on Sundays an early celebration. The average attendance at the Sunday morning mid. day service is about one hundred; in the evening it is generally double that number. They are all adults. For the children another service is held in the Mission Room. The average attendance at the Sunday schools and Bible classes is about three hundred and fifty, and would be more if the vicar had a larger staff of teachers, of whom, however, there are forty-two. The whole number of men and women engaged in organized work connected with the Church is about one hundred and twenty-six. Some of them are ladies from the other end of London, but most belong to the parish itself; in the choir, for instance, are found a barber, a postman, a care-taker, and one or two small shopkeepers, all liv- ing in the parish. When we remember that Ratcliff is not what is called a show parish, that the newspapers never talk about it, and that rich peo- ple never hear of it, this indicates a very considerable support to Church work. In addition to the church proper there is the Mission Chapel, where other services are held. One day in the week there is a sale of clothes at very small prices. They are sold rather than given, because if the women have paid a few pence for them they are less willing to pawn them than if they had received them for nothing. In the Mis- sion Chapel are held classes for young girls and services for children. The churchyard, like so many of the London churchyards, has been convert- ed into a recreation ground, where there are trees and flower-beds, and benches for old and young. Outside the Church, but yet connect- ed with it, there is, first, the Girls Club. The girls of IRatcliff are all working- girls; as might be expected, a rough and wild company, as untrained as colts, yet open to kindly and considerate treat- ment. Their first yearning is for fin- ery; give them a high haJ~ with a flaring ostrich feather, a plush jacket, and a fringe, and they are happy. There are seventy-five of these girls; they use their club every evening, and they have various classes, though it cannot be said that they are desirous of learning any- thing. Needlework, especially, they dis- like; they dance, sing, have musical drrn, and read a little. Five ladies who work for the church and for the club, live in the club-house, and other ladies come to lend assistance. When we con- sider what the homes and the com- panions of these girls are, what kind of men will be their husbands, and that they are to become mothers of the next generation, it seems as if one could not possibly attempt a more useful achieve- ment than their civilization. Above all, this club stands in the way of the great- est curse of East Londonthe boy and girl marriage. For the elder women there are Mothers Meetings, at which two hundred attend every week; and there are branches of the Societies for Nursing and Helping Married Women. For general purposes there is a Parish Sick and Distress Fund; a fund for giv- ing dinners to poor children; there is a frequent distribution of fruit, vege- tables, and flowers, sent up by people from the country. And for the children there is a large room which they can use as a play-room from four oclock till half-past seven. Here they are at least warm; were it not for this room they would have to run about the cold streets; A RIVERSIDE PARISH. 167 here they have games and pictures and toys. In connection with the work for the girls, help is given by the Met- ropolitan Association for Befriending Young Servants, which takes charge of a good many of the girls. For the men there is one of the insti- tutions called a Tee-To-Tum Club, which has a grand cafe open to everybody all day long; the members manage the club themselves; they have a concert once a week, a dramatic performance once a week, a gymnastic display once a week; on Sunday they have a lecture or an address, with a discussion after it; and they have smaller clubs attached for foot-ball, cricket, rowing, and swim- ming. For the younger lads there is another club, of one hundred and sixty mem- bers; they also have their gymnasium, their foot-ball, cricket, and swimming clubs; their classes for carpentry, wood- carving, singing, and shorthand; their savings bank, their sick club, and their library. Only the better class of lads belong to this club. But there is a lower set, those who lounge about the streets at night, and take to gambling and bet- ting. For these boys the childrens play-room is opened in the evening; here they read, talk, box, and play baga- telle, draughts, and dominos. These lads are as rough as can be found, yet on the whole they give very little trouble. Another important institution is the Country Holiday; this is accomplished by saving. It means, while it lasts, an expenditure of five shillings a week; sometimes the lads are taken to the sea- side and live in a barn; sometimes the girls are sent to a village and placed about in cottages. A great number of the girls and lads go off every year a hopping in Kent. Add to these the temperance societies, and we seem to complete the organized work of the Church. It must, however, be remembered that this work is not confined to those who attend the ser- vices or are Anglican in name. The clergy and the ladies who help them go about the whole parish from house to house; they know all the people in every house, to whatever creed they be- long; their visits are looked for as a kind of right; they are not insulted even by the roughest; they are trusted by all; as they go along the streets the children run after them and hang upon their dress; if a strange man is walk- ing with one of these ladies they catch at his hands and pufl at his coat-tails we judge of a man, you see, by his companions. All this machinery seems costly. It is, of course, far beyond the slender resources of the parish. It de- mands, however, no more than 850 a year, of which 310 is found by different societies and the sum of 500 has to be raised somehow. There are, it has been stated, no more than seven thousand people in this par- ish, of whom nearly half belong to the Church of Rome. It would therefore almost seem as if every man, woman, and child in the place must be brought under the influence of all this work. In a sense all the people do feel the influence of the Church, whether they are Anglicans or not. The parish sys- tem, as you have seen, provides every- thing; for the men, clubs; for the wom- en, nursing in sickness, friendly coun- sel always, help in trouble; the girls are brought together and kept out of mischief and encouraged in self-re- spect by ladies who understand what they want and how they look at things; the grown lads are taken from the streets, and, with the younger boys, are taught arts and crafts, and are trained in man- ly exercises just as if they were boys of Eton and Harrow. The Church ser- vices, which used to be everything, are now only a part of the parish work. The clergy are at once servants of the altar, preachers, teachers, almoners, leaders in all kinds of societies and clubs, and providers of amusements and recreation. The people look on, hold out their hands, receive, at first indif- ferentlybut presently, one by one, awaken to a new sense. As they receive they cannot choose but to discover that these ladies have given up their luxuri- ous homes and the life of ease in order to work among them. They also discover that these young gentlemen who run the clubs, teach the boys gymnastics, boxing, drawing, carving, and the rest, give up for this all their eveningsthe flower of the day in the flower of life.~ 168 A RIVERSIDE PARISH. What for? What do they get for it? Not in this parish oniy, but in every parish the same kind of thing goes on and spreads daily. Thisobserveis the last step but one of charity. For the progress of charity is as follows: First, there is the pitiful dole to the beggar; then the bequest to monk and monastery; then the founding of the almshouse and the parish charity; then the Easter and the Christmas offerings; then the gift to the almoner; then the cheque to a society; nextlatest and bestpersonal service among the poor. This is both flower and fruit ofcharity. One thing only remains. And before long this thing also shall come to pass as well. Those who live in the dens and witness these things done daily must be stocks and stones if they were not moved by them. They are not stocks and stones; they are actually, though slowly, moved by them; the old hatred of the Church you may find it expressed in the workingmans papers of fifty years ago is dying out rapidly in our great towns; the brawling is better; even the drinking is diminishing. And there is another perhaps an unexpected result. Not only are the poor turning to the Church which befriends them, the Church which they used to deride, but the clergy are turning to the poor; there are many for whom the condition of the people is above all other earthly considerations. If that great conflict long predictedof capital and labor ever takes place, it is safe to prophecy that the Church will not desert the poor. Apart from the Church what machin- ery is at work? First, because there are so many Catholics in the place, one must think of them, It is, however, difficult to ascertain the Catholic agen- cies at work among these people. The people are told that they must go to mass; Roman Catholic sisters give din- ners to children; there is the Roman League of the Crossa temperance as- sociation; I think that the Catholics are in great measure left to the chari- ties of the Anglicans, so long as these do not try to convert the Bomans. The Salvation Army people attempt nothingabsolutely nothing in this par- ish. There are at present neither Baptist, nor Weslyan, nor Independent chapels in the place. A few years ago, on the ap- pearance of the book called the Bit- ter Cry of Outcast London, an attempt was made by the last-named body; they found an old chapel belonging to the Congregationalists, with an endow- ment of 80 a year, which they turned into a mission hall, and carried on with spirit, for two years mission work in the place; they soon obtained large funds, which they seem to have lavished with more zeal than discretion. Presently their money was all gone and they could get no more; then the chapel was turned into a night-shelter. Next it was burned to the ground. It is now rebuilt and is again a night-shelter. There is, however, an historic monu- ment in the parish with which remains a survival of former activity. It is a Quaker meeting-house which dates back to 1667. It stands within its walls, quiet and decorous; there are the chapel, the ante-room, and the burial-ground. The congregation still meet, reduced to fifty; they still hold their Sunday-school; and not far off one of the fraternity carries on a Creche which takes care of seventy or eighty babies, and is blessed every day by as many mothers. Considering all these agencieshow they are at work day after day, never resting, never ceasing, never relaxing their hold, always compelling the peo- ple more and more within the circle of their influence; how they incline the hearts of the children to better things and show them how to win these better thingsone wonders that the whole par- ish is not already clad in white robes and sitting with harp and crown. On the other hand, walking down London Street, Ratcliff, looking at the foul houses, hearing the foul language, see- ing the poor women with black eyes, watching the multitudinous children in the mud; one wonders whether even these agencies are enough to stem the tide and to prevent this mass of people from falling lower and lower still into the hell of savagery. This parish is one of the poorest in London; it is one of the least known; it is one of the least visited. Explorers of slums seldom come here; it is not fashionably mis- SUN IN THE WILLOWS. 169 erable. Yet all these fine things are done here, and as in this parish so in every other. It is continually stated as a mere commonplaceone may see the thing advanced everywhere, in thought- ful papers, in leading articles that the Church of Rome alone can produce its self-sacrificing martyrs, its lives of pure devotion. Then what of these parish-workers of the Church of Eng- land? What of that young physician who worked himself to death for the children? What of the young men not one here and there but in dozens who give up all that young men mostly love for the sake of laborious nights among rough and rude lads? What of the gentlewomen who pass long years give up their youth, their beauty, and their strengthamong girls and women whose language is at first like a blow to them? What of the clergy themselves, always, all day long, living in the midst of the very poorhardly paid, always giving out of their poverty, forgotten in their obscurity, far from any chance of promotion, too hard-worked to read or study, dropped out of all the old scholarly circles? Nay, my brothers, we cannot allow to the Church of Rome all the unselfish men and women. Father Damien is one of us as well. I have met himI know him by sighthe lives, and has long lived, in Riverside London. SUN IN THE WILLOWS. By Harrison S. Morris. THE waning sun, through willow lattices, Looked down a dewy dingle of the hills; Crossed here a quiet pool with little thrills Of radiance gainst the eddies when the breeze Tranquilly touched them; sloped away through trees And sheav6d uplands; touched the windowed mills To sudden glory; leapt two swampy rills; And last lay in the green wheat at his ease: A lazy, winking journey full of whims, With dew to cool his feet, and pictures set Each way about him: Ah, the sweetest yet, Seen from an orchard when the twilight mellows, Was nigh a shadowy water where the willows Webbed all his golden face with tiny limbs!

Harrison S. Morris Morris, Harrison S. Sun In The Willows 169-170

SUN IN THE WILLOWS. 169 erable. Yet all these fine things are done here, and as in this parish so in every other. It is continually stated as a mere commonplaceone may see the thing advanced everywhere, in thought- ful papers, in leading articles that the Church of Rome alone can produce its self-sacrificing martyrs, its lives of pure devotion. Then what of these parish-workers of the Church of Eng- land? What of that young physician who worked himself to death for the children? What of the young men not one here and there but in dozens who give up all that young men mostly love for the sake of laborious nights among rough and rude lads? What of the gentlewomen who pass long years give up their youth, their beauty, and their strengthamong girls and women whose language is at first like a blow to them? What of the clergy themselves, always, all day long, living in the midst of the very poorhardly paid, always giving out of their poverty, forgotten in their obscurity, far from any chance of promotion, too hard-worked to read or study, dropped out of all the old scholarly circles? Nay, my brothers, we cannot allow to the Church of Rome all the unselfish men and women. Father Damien is one of us as well. I have met himI know him by sighthe lives, and has long lived, in Riverside London. SUN IN THE WILLOWS. By Harrison S. Morris. THE waning sun, through willow lattices, Looked down a dewy dingle of the hills; Crossed here a quiet pool with little thrills Of radiance gainst the eddies when the breeze Tranquilly touched them; sloped away through trees And sheav6d uplands; touched the windowed mills To sudden glory; leapt two swampy rills; And last lay in the green wheat at his ease: A lazy, winking journey full of whims, With dew to cool his feet, and pictures set Each way about him: Ah, the sweetest yet, Seen from an orchard when the twilight mellows, Was nigh a shadowy water where the willows Webbed all his golden face with tiny limbs! WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. By Mrs. Burton Harrison. I. FROM Mrs. Ferdinando Berkeley, of Princess Royal Street, Belhaven, Vir- ginia, to her married daughter, Mrs. F. Faulkland, of Mount Eagle, near Charlestown, Virginia. 3rd February, 1803. My dearest girl will, I know, acquit me of intentional neglect in missing the last post. At length I have an opportu- nity to sit down and devote an evening to telling you our news; and, by good luck, the waggoner who is to take the bundle of linen and fustian I chose for you, will leave Clagetts Tavern to-mor- row morning. Indeed, I could hardly rest, last night, for thinking my dearest Peggy might worry a little at not hear- ing from home, which would be bad for her and for my sweet precious new grandsonlittle rogue, that keeps his mamma away from us, when her broth- er Billy is about to present his family with a bride. To think, my dear, that your Brothers day is set, the seventh, next Tuesday! Oh! may the Almighty shower his blessings on the Pair. We oar entire household, except the llttle onesare (if we are spared) to go over to Maryland to the wedding, which is all very well; but after a weeks frolick- ing, the bridal party comes here, and then, Peggy, pity me. Such nice man- agers the Stuarts are, and old Mrs. 5, who will of course accompany her daughter, famed far and wide for her housekeeping; I shall be in a ter- rible pucker with them, and no Peggy to help me with the whipt creams and drest dishes! Ah! my dear, I owe your good man a grudge for taking youthe flower of my flock away; but there, I am not in earnest I never think of your match but with gratitude to God, and love to your Partner. One thing only is wantingwere you but near mebut the thought then strikes me, that you might have been as far re- moved and with an Indifferent Hus- bandthis reflection hushes all my re- gret. I am contentmore than con- tentI am happy, thankfull. Old Mrs. Stuart is vaunted all over her State for her turtle-soup; and I need not tell you, childyou have seen your good father pish and pshaw over ours and push away his plate, often enough poor Penny is not at her best in turtle- soup. However, If I have to sit up all the night before, and make some pre- text to run out of the room just before

Mrs. Burton Harrison Harrison, Burton, Mrs. When The Century Came In 170-180

WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. By Mrs. Burton Harrison. I. FROM Mrs. Ferdinando Berkeley, of Princess Royal Street, Belhaven, Vir- ginia, to her married daughter, Mrs. F. Faulkland, of Mount Eagle, near Charlestown, Virginia. 3rd February, 1803. My dearest girl will, I know, acquit me of intentional neglect in missing the last post. At length I have an opportu- nity to sit down and devote an evening to telling you our news; and, by good luck, the waggoner who is to take the bundle of linen and fustian I chose for you, will leave Clagetts Tavern to-mor- row morning. Indeed, I could hardly rest, last night, for thinking my dearest Peggy might worry a little at not hear- ing from home, which would be bad for her and for my sweet precious new grandsonlittle rogue, that keeps his mamma away from us, when her broth- er Billy is about to present his family with a bride. To think, my dear, that your Brothers day is set, the seventh, next Tuesday! Oh! may the Almighty shower his blessings on the Pair. We oar entire household, except the llttle onesare (if we are spared) to go over to Maryland to the wedding, which is all very well; but after a weeks frolick- ing, the bridal party comes here, and then, Peggy, pity me. Such nice man- agers the Stuarts are, and old Mrs. 5, who will of course accompany her daughter, famed far and wide for her housekeeping; I shall be in a ter- rible pucker with them, and no Peggy to help me with the whipt creams and drest dishes! Ah! my dear, I owe your good man a grudge for taking youthe flower of my flock away; but there, I am not in earnest I never think of your match but with gratitude to God, and love to your Partner. One thing only is wantingwere you but near mebut the thought then strikes me, that you might have been as far re- moved and with an Indifferent Hus- bandthis reflection hushes all my re- gret. I am contentmore than con- tentI am happy, thankfull. Old Mrs. Stuart is vaunted all over her State for her turtle-soup; and I need not tell you, childyou have seen your good father pish and pshaw over ours and push away his plate, often enough poor Penny is not at her best in turtle- soup. However, If I have to sit up all the night before, and make some pre- text to run out of the room just before WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. 171 the dinner is announced, I will (if I live) see ours rightly flavoured, when old Mrs. Stuart comes. Your sister Finetta, for a wonder, has come down off of her high horse, and offered to ma]~e the cus- tards and jelly-cake. Little Jack says: I wish it were sister Peggys jelly- cake, and I bid the child run and play, for if Finetta heard that, away would fly all our chances of a helping hand from her! I almost wish I could stay away from the wedding and have my mind at Ease for preparations. But Billy makes a point of my going; and, with Ludilla and Finetta on the front seat of the chariot, and Tom a-horseback, we are (if we are spared) to set out on Mon- day next. But here I am, forgetting to tell you why the affair is at the last so hurried up. You have not forgotten that your future sister Juliana has en- joyed a fine name as a flirt, and has been blowing hot and cold on Billys flame for many months, & even after she wore his ring, woud never Name the Day. Poor Billy was too proud to let me know his suffring; but who can deceive a mothers fond eyes? I saw him mope at home, and then ride away to Maryland, return from thence more cheerful, & again fall into the Blues. This was repeated, till I must needs take a tuck in the back of his waistcoats, every one, and his coats hung as if upon a rack. His beautiful hair went rough, and his cheeks lost their roseate bloom. Finetta gibed her brother, you may be sure, and advised him to give up Prince Georges County, and look about him in Belhaven for a Fair. Next came the rumour, just before Christmas, that Miss Juliana Stuart was to wed with her neighbour, Colonel Crespigny, whom you have heard of as a great fortune, the match of the county. Twill be never known what a time I had with Billy then! Shut ~ip in his room staring at the wall, or on horse- back riding so hard that he lamed the gray filly which is not yet cured (and a pretty scolding he got from your papa, who, Finetta says, in his heart thinks the filly worth two Miss Juliana Stuarts !). At last Master Billy got the invitation to spend Christmas week with Cousin John Thornton at Buck Ridge, near An- napolis, & fine doings they had. (Id warrant Jack Thornton, for all his fifty years, to foot it with the youngest beau in the party!) Pretty Miss Juliana being one of the belles present, she and Billy made it up; and Billy now vows Col.. onel Crespigny was never more than a well-wisher to his sweetheart, & that it was ridiculous for any one to say other- wise. (He forgets his own jealousy, my dear!) I must remark to you, Peg- gy, that I did not think the Stuarts would consent to the speedy marriage that Billymethinks wiselyinsisted on. My son, although as everybody knows the handsomest, sweetest, dearest young fellow; the best rider and dancer in the town, has little beyond a genteel competency and his prospects from your fathers sister Ariana, now residing in the city of Bath, England; & Miss An- ana Berkeley, it is equally well known, is of a captious temper and apt to take fits of changing her mind when least expected. Col: Crespigny, on the other hand, has a fine old place and manor- house, and his crops and negroes are prodigiously valuable, they say. Little Juliana, who is so soon to be gathered to my Maternal arms, has, however, led her parents quite a dance; and perhaps they are pleased to see her safely set- tled. Little puss! She has written to me a vastly pretty note, that makes me forgive her coquetting with my Billy. And after all, do we not every day see the greatest toasta and flirts around us marry and make the best of wives to those whom they have kept in suspense until the very Nuptial Hour! You, Peg- gy, were not of that sort. Never shall I forget your coming to me after Mr. Faulkland carried off the ring for you at the Culpepper Tournament and courted you the same evening, saying, He is the only man I ever could have chosen to be my lord! Finetta is so sharp with her would-be suitors, that I doubt me she will ever make any selection; and little Lucilla is too young to talk about beaux and weddings yet a while, thank goodness! I must tell you, child, that Lucilla, at fifteen turned, is begin- ning to improve mightily in shape and complexion. Billy and Tom declare she will beat Sister Finetta hollow, but that none can come up to Sister Peggy. If 172 WHEN THE CENTUI? Y CAME IN. ft were not for her unfortunate red hair, ing your dear father in a good humour which alas! nothing can remedy! I about our large expenses, my hands have kept Susans Sally combing it for have been full! Of course you will want hours with tbe lead comb; it has been to hear first about our dresses. I have washed in medicated waters; and yet it got me a grave-coloured Sattin, nearly remains the samebrown in the shade, puce, I will enclose a scrap to let you but, when the sun strikes it, as red as see the colourand with the old Mech- the sorrels mane. Cousin Priscilla lin lace, it will have to be first days and Randolph, who has just returned from second days best, too, I reckon; for Baltimore, brought us word that the there are Finetta & Little Lu. to fit out. latest style there is to wear the hair Finetta has bought herself a new White close and glossy like a Sattin cap. Lutestring, a lavender gauze, a cross- Those ladies whose locks will not yield barrd Blue Lutestring, and two new to smoothing with the brush, oil and po- dimity frocks for morning. She has a made them freely. Finetta, ~vho always beautiful Rideding-dress near the colour seeks the latest mode, wore hers so to of your Great Coat, but a Casimer. She a party, last week; and I have tried to has some notion of getting a plain inns- persuade Lucilla that this is her chance lin; she has made up her worked one to hide the defects of nature at the wed- fashionably, & it is very pretty. The ding. I coaxed her into the Chamber, Ladies now wear a Lace Veil and two yester-day, and made her stand still, while Long White feathers in the hair, the veil I put onguents on her hair, and forced it pinned upa handsome head dress, and to lie smooth. At last twas of a rich, the newest; so of course Finetta has dark colour that nobody would dream one, besides a wreath and bunch of of calling by that odious word red; and, flowers; & you see she is smartly fixt. for once, I breathed free about my poor Tom vext her by saying she was going dears appearancewhen in came Tom to set her cap for CoL Crespigny, and from riding, and laught at her, and Finetta bridled and coloured furiously. cried out, Little Lus head looks like Then saucy Tom said if Col. C knows the mahogany knob on your chest of what is good for him he will chuse drawers, mother I Out ran Lucila in little Lu., who is so good natured she a passion, washt her hair in hartshorn, will let you pull her hair; and I said No and when she came down tossing her more nonsence like that, Tom. Ill not locks like a Shetland poney, Ill own to have Lu. snatched up and carried off by you, child, I gave her a smart scolding a husband like Peggy was at sixteen! and bid her take her own stubborn way. Which I tell you, my dear, repenting it When my precious grandsons (bless their for if ever girl was blessed in a kind heartsI keep little Urbans curl, till I generous spouse tis you; and well may can get a locket fit to put it inyou will old Penny say: Husbands like Marse find a nice batch of horse-cakes and Frank Faulkland dont grow on bushes sugar-candy in the bundle for him, with by de way. Lu. is vastly set up with grandmas love) get big enough to have two new white muslins over blue and their own way, you will understand some pink silk slips, and a white dimity with of the trials of a mothers lot! birds eye dots of cherry. I wanted a Here I am wandring away from the new pelisse for her, but the bills this wedding, which is to be a grand affair, year will be so large, I darent propose the Stuart house full, and every house it, even to your dear generous papa. in the neighbourhood crowded with You know he has taken a lease of Claire- guests. My Billy is in such a state I mont for Billy and his wife. Since old hardly think he knows whether he walks Mr. Mason died the place has been in or flies, & Mother must always be ready the market to rent. Mr. George Will- to hear his raptures. He has given iam Carter, who married Mary Turber- Juliana a set of pearls, necklace, brooch, ville, writ up from Westmoreland to and spray, and has bought the tiniest have it purchased for him, but the ex- little ring, I protest twould fit a fairy. ecutors would not consent, and Mr. Oh! Peggy, what with ordering dam- Carter, tis said, is too Aristocratic to ties, and drilling the servants, and keep- live on rented land. My poor Billy, WHEN THE C~ENTUR Y CAME IN. 173 unless his aunt Ariana helps him, can- not be so choice. There is a good house, good wat~r, gardens, ice-house, stable, poultry-yardI doubt if Miss Juliana, although she did not, like you, have the bar of a town education, will raise many fowls. Your papa kindly promises to do their marketing for them, and you know what a fine hand he is. They need only send a servant twice a week to town, and Billy will keep up the farm, which is small, but in fair condition. I am gossiping on, my Peggy, as if you were in the Chamber with your little mother chattering in your ear. I must thank you, love, for the pickles, the best I ever ate, and I am proud of your getting over that trick of over-spicing. I could always trust my Peggy to conquer her worst faults. Oh! my dear, I drop into bed this night, weary, but thanking the Almighty for my two childrens blest lots. If I were to chuse through the world Id have se- lected dear Mr. Faulkland, and Billys happiness is mine. If Finetta could only curb her tongue and temper a lit- tle bit (I know her heart is right) I should have nothing else to ask. Tom and Lu. and the little ones are so well- grown and good, and no woman, not even you, Peggy, had ever such a Part- ner as mine is. Kiss my babys for me; Finetta will write directly after The Event. God bless all my dear ones, prays their affectte. S. BERKELEY. P.S.Pray tell Harriet from me that her children are well, and in good places, and that she may trust me to take care of them. My servants have been un- commonly well this winter, except old Dilsey; and a Doctor the old woman called on, in my absence at your house, bled, blistered and salivated her so that when I returned she had hardly any pulse. I was obliged to give her a quan- tity of Madeira wine, and take great care of her & she is now hearty. Cous- in Potts is about to try Electricity for her rheumatism, having exhausted all other remedies. It frights me to think of such a daring thing. Do, my dear, keep using the bark powder for your teeththey were always extreamely del- icate. Pray do not omit my affectte Compts to your husbands Aunt Griffin, should she conic to visit you ; although, fortunately, the roads between you are so bad. I must not Cloase without tell- ing you that poor old Mrs. Giddy died of a Consumption, and we have Lost our neighbour Mrs. Jones, who hanged herself, while deranged, by tyeing a handkerchief to a Tester of the Bed- stead. Mrs. Rose has a Beautiful Boy, and would like the pattern of your dar- ling nurselings caps. H. From Miss Berkeley, of Princess Roy- al Street, Belhaven, to her Sister, Mrs. F. Faulkland, of Mount Eagle. 23rd February, 1803. Well, my dear Peggy, as we wrote you, the great Affair is over, and I take pen in hand to give you fuller particu- lars of an Occasion where you were sen- sibly mist, and often reverted to, by En- quiring Friends. The Stuarts gave a splendid entertainment, all the rooms open and drest with laurel and crows foot garlands, wax-candles by hundreds, on the supper-tables a profusion of pine- apples, oranges, Cocoa-Nuts and other rare West Indian fruits, besides sweets, & oysters, crabs, salads, turkeys, wines and punches. The greatest display of Glass and Plate I ever beheld. (I won- der if any of it was borrowd or hired for the occasion!) The bride came down the stairs and joined with Brother Billy at the foot, and the bridesmaids followed, among them Lu. and I, and walked in to the big saloon and stood before the parson in a semi-circle. They call our new sister a beauty, and beauty she may be in Prince Georges, but she is not up to Beihaven standard, in my opinion! She has a little pale face, and big dark eyes, and so much brown hair it is too heavy for her head. Billys pearl spray was its only ornament, ex- cept a camellia behind one ear; and she wore a plain square of Blond for a veiL Her dress was white Sattin, of course not as good a quality as yours, my dear, if that will comfort youand her figure is like a thread-paper. We danced till 174 WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. morning, Brother Billy leading in the reel with the bridemy partner Colonel Crespigny, whom you may have heard of, a neighbour of the Stuarts, and a mon- strous fine young maii. He asked Lit- tle Lu. to dance a minuet with him, to the childs great discomfiture, and I fan- cied her head would be quite turned. Next day, there was a dinner for all the gentry of the neighbourhood. We sat down at three oclock & did not rise till six; the same profusion; & I thought our little mother would feel put out of countenance by Mrs. Stuarts table. But Lord! when you came to taste the calls foot jelly, it was poor stuff, Ill warrant you! And the Blanc Mange eggs in the hens nest hardly seasoned, & half melted! The brides-cake was fine to look at, iced by the Confectioner in Washington with a sugar Cupid in a Cage on top, and a sugar couple stand- ing before Hymens altar under it. I took a bit to sleep on (they teased me next day to know if I dreamed of any Colonel, but of course thats nonsense, child); and I broke off a crumb or two to see what Prince Georges could do in the way of black cake. Bless me, Peg- gy, it was not a patch on yours! The icing had no orange-flower water in it no blanched almondsconceive of such a thing! And this they call the model housekeeping of Maryland! Julianas second days dress was pink- ish lavender brocade with pigeon bertha and ruffles of white silk muslin. I wore my cross-barred lustring, and Lu. wore her other muslin. Papa, who, all the way driving over in the chariot, had fretted, vowing and protesting he would leave for home the next morning after the wedding early, as he could not abide junketing among a lot of idle people, joked and told stories, touchd glasses with all the gentlemen, & was the life of the party. Between ourselves and the Church clock, he was in no hurry to get home! You wont believe it, Peggy, our papa danced the reel with fat Mrs. Stuart, aud cut the pigeon wingyes! and a lively one. He skipped into the air! Thursday, our Papa & Mama returned to Belhaven, but I was prevailed on to stay, and they kept little Lu. because, forsooth, I suppose they feared me be- ing homesick. CoL Crespigny brought his horses for me to ride; & on Friday, gave us a dining at h~s Mansion which is truly elegant. He is a tall dark man, a little reserved in manner, a bachelor of two - and - thirty. Any one can see twas the merest folly to talk of his car- ing for Billys Juliana. Well, my dear, to make a long story short, we stayed out the week, and then the bride and groom and wedding party came over to Bel- haven, our chariot sent again for us, the rest riding or driving as they fan- cied. Col. Crespigny would have little Lu. and me mounted on his horses, while some of the elders took our places in the chariot. It was clear, mild weather, a touch of Spring in the air, and our ride delightful. (You must know the Colonel, Peggy. He is about Mr. Faulklands hight and build, but less gay and off-hand than your spouse.) Now, for the celebrations of the week. The town is very gay, and I tell you we have no cause to blush for Bel- haven entertainments. A party every night, abundance of costly viands, Mrs. Swanns supper being set forth on a new service of glass that cost her three hundred dollars in Philadelphia; and Mrs. Tylers old English plate all on her table at once. Oh! my dear, such an odd affair. Miss Kitty Dicksons wedding, of which so much has been saidthe town is in a Hubbub over it. Last Thursday was the day set, but the bridegroom did not come! The cakes were made, the supper drest; every- thing ready but the Gentn, a very im- portant part of it, at Miss Kittys age, especially. You may guess the gossip this occasioned. Such ridiculesuch triumph in the Malicious! Though that family are not my first favourites, it put me out of conceit with Human Nature. The bridegroom, Mr. Pearse, neither came nor sent word; and for days the Dicksons were in the utter- most perplexity. At last, on the follow- ing Thursday, he came, and with him his Sisters. It seems they mistook the day! And now, everybody flocks again to the house and the nuptials take place duly, Miss Kitty inist dayWhite Sattin and crape; 2nd dayWhite Lutestring and muslin. At the 1st days entertainment a prodigious com WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. 175 pany of married gents & Ladies. 2nd day, all the young genteel people in the town. Both suppers were superb pyramids three hands high, and every- thing renewed for the second supper. Mr. Pearse, about whom the Dicksons had so much pother, is, now they have got him, homely enough to scare the crows in his own cornfields. Rumour hath it that your old friend Louisa Beckwith is to marry Johnny Boyd, the little broken-backed man; there is no doubt husbands are scarce when little Johnny gets picked up. Almost every family of our acquaintance has called upon Mrs. Billy, and we have had four large dinner companies for them, and evening entertainments too, & they have been much invited out. Mama is on her feet greatly, but keeps in good health, and old Penny has done won- ders in the cooking. Brother Tom was a subscriber to this years Birth night Ball, and he came off with great ap- plause, every one seemd pleased with his Gaiety and Candour, though he speaks his mind so freely. Little Lu. has contrived to see a good deal of the goings-on, spite of our intentions to keep her in. I confess the girl is much improved in looks. Peggy, dont you Honour brightchild, ever feel that youd give your ears to be back in all our gayeties, instead of away off there, mewed up with your husband and Babys in the country? You that was lately so full of life and animation? Ah! well, child, perhaps youre right (for I can hear you answer No). Me- thinks I can sometimes understand it. But enough of thisI have promised Col. Crespigny to ride with him to- morrow to Washington to call on Mrs. Law. She is in the midst of the fash- ionable whirl, and I have seen her little. That city was never so gay since the Government was fixt there, but for rea- sons you know of, we prefer Belhaven society. Our Papa, spite of his kinship with the President, hath so strong a dislike to what he calls Mr. Jeffersons scandalous low notions about putting us all on a par with the lower classes, he will not hear of our waiting on the Ladies at The Palace. He, and the other Federalists in town, still feel deeply the slight put upon the British Ambassadors lady at the banquet in December, when the President gave his right and left to Mrs. Madison and Mine. Yrujo, and forsook Mistress Merry to shift for herself! Nothing is heard discust in Washington, but the question of this or that ofilcial ladys precedence, and the turmoil is fatiguing to us who know our places, and fret not at imaginary Slights. Oh, my dear! CoL Crespigny is a Republican, the friend and Crony of Mr. Madison, the Secretary of State, & also of Genl. Smith and M. Jerome Bona- parte, whose young wife, late the beau- tiful Miss Patterson of Baltimore, is producing such a sensation, politically and otherwise, in Court circles this season. Imagine my fear lest the sub- ject of Politicks should come up at our Board when Papa might not be in a mood to keep the Peace. Tho the Col. is most kind and considerate, he cannot know, nor can we always warn him, that certain questions of States- manship are to our Parent like a red Rag to the Bull. I gave him a hint of this in telling him that our papas Sis- ter Ariana had removed to take up her abode in England because of her ob- jection to the filthy Democrats, as she is pleased to style certain of our Presidents supporters; and he laught, saying the Ladies were ever virulent in Party warfare, though not always cer- tain as to their Premises. And now, my child, Adieu. If I have succeeded in amusing you by my talk, I shall not regret the time thus spent. We have twenty people to sup here to- night, and the card-tables out after- wards. Our papas friend, the good Chief-Justice Marshall, hath promised to ride down from Washington, and lie in Princess Royal Street. I must hasten to assist mama, who with the family, including our new sister, desires to be warmly remembered to Mr. Faulkland and yourself. I remain your Ever At- tachd FINETTA BERKELEY. P.S.Do not think I mean anything by my talk about the Colonel. And pray, for Mercys sake, dont let Mr. Faulkland see this scrawl. Mama de- sires me to add that, should little Urban 176 WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. catch the Mumps (which, she says, may Heaven forefend), she hath a wonderful new remedy of Dr. Dicks.. Do not cut your short gown by the pattern you took away. I have a newer fashnd one for you. Little Lu. hath just run in to show me a nosegay of Cape jasmines and geranium leaves that Col. Crespigny hath fetched her from his glass-houses. You will say perchance that he is most anxious to please even this little one, but indeed, it is all in the fancy of the Gossips from whom our Society is not altogether Free. From Miss Lucilla Berkeley, of Prin- cess Royal Street, to Mrs. F. Faulkland, at Mount Eagle: 6th March, 1803. Th~R SISTER PEGGY: I have been cry- ing my eyes out, so that I can scarce see to dip my quill into the ink-pot; and yet I must write you, this post, be- cause even our dearest little mama is not let into my room till I give up, and Susans Sally has promised to get this letter to you someway, and oh! my Hart aches for you, Sister Peggy. Coud you but sit beside me on the sopha, and let me rest my head upon your breast, and tell you all, it would Ease my Pain, I think. But, you will be wondring what has happend, unless (which is not likely) Mama has writ to you, ere this. How shall I tell you, sis- ter, that I, your little Lu. the tomboy, the Red Headed Woodpecker as Bro. Tom calls me, have got a Suitora grand gentleman who has the ill-luck to displease our Papa in Pollyticks. (Mama says I am not careful in my Spelling, & I tried that word two ways, but it does not yet seem right.) Ever since Bro. Billys and Sis. Julianas Wedding, I have known that the great Colonel Crespigny, who I danced with in the minuet, has been coming over here to Belhaven to see poor little Me, for he told me so, & I dard not tell Sister Finetta nor yet Mama, for I feard their laughter. He is so big and kind, Sister, and his dark eyes made my Hart go pit-a-pat, and it seemd so great a thing to have a Suitor and such an onebefore I was six- teen, that I kept the secret close. One day, when I met him on the Stairs, and he whisperd something in my ear, I went straightway to the old nursery, and put away my London doll Aunt Ariana sent me (and which I nurst and drest only a sennight since) till Baby Pen can be trusted to handle it. A week later, he came again, and when we went from the Blue Parlour in to tea, he slipped (in passing) a bit of paper in my hand. That paper burnt a hole in my pocket, Sister, till I got a chance to light my bed-room candle, and read it when I went up-stairs. I will write out what it said, for I learned it by Hart, although Papa has sent it back to him. SONNET TO ALMIRA. The wandring exile on a foreign shore By adverse fortune destind to remain, Each long lost pleasure fondly traces oer, And sighs to tread his native soil again. So I, when banishd from Almiras smiles, Nor crowded scenes nor silent shades can please; Fond hope alone the tedious day beguiles, Fond Hope alone, my drooping heart can ease. Oft when I seek the solitary grove Imagination holds her to my sight; Or thro the meadows pensive as I rove When darkning shades proclaim the ap. proach of night; In fancy still, I gaze upon her charms, And long with soft desire to clasp her in my Arms. There, Sister, woud you ever believe that I am Almira? Tis so beauti- fully writ, no copper plate coud be finer; and where he tells how he seeks the solitary grove, it makes me want to weep for sympathy. But oh! I am not telling you the worst & at any mo~ ment I may be told to snuff my candle out. The last time the Col. drank tea with our parents, it appears he had the ill-fortune to engage in an argument, Playful on his side, Heated on our Papas, about the Position (Sister Fin- etta said) of the President towards Eng- land. He took the Presidents part; Papa waxed more and more scornful, shooting his usual arrows of disdain at our Cousin Jeffns habit of dress, his slippers without heels, his ill fit Cloathes, his homely waysCol. C. defending the Pdt.; this went on, till our Papa flew WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. 177 into one of his rages Wee all know and do not mind, because they so soon Blow --N By. Mama and Sister Finetta inter- posed, and led Col. C. into another room, to hear Sister play upon the harpsichord, but Papa has never for- got, nor forgivn the Incident and Its Cause. Yesterday ah! Sister as I come to this, my tears brake out afresh My suitor came, arrived at the house & (so Mama says) made a formal offer for my hand! Papa, most polite and cold (you know how he can be, his wig pushed a little crooked, his lips curling, his eyes like blue steel), refused, with- out a moments delay, and in language so couched that CoL C., as a gentleman, could but bow (though very pale, poor dear) & get again upon his horse the groom was holding in the street, & ride clattering away. I saw him from the upstairs hall-window seat (where I sat darning Papas silk hose), and tho I did not know the reason, my Hart misgave me all was over. Then Papa sent for all the familythe Elders I meanin the chocolate-panelled study where his books stay, & told me I must never think or speak of Col. Crespigny again. Then I burst into loud crying and flung myself in Mamas arms, who was trem- bling there, looking with her pitiful kind eyes at Papa, and I vowed I would love the Col. and none other, till I die. At which, our father rose, and ordered me to keep my bed-room till I knew my- self for a head-strong impertinent little Baggage, & was ready to ask his pardon and promise what he required. Next, a strange thing happened, Sister, that I cannot understand. Sister Finetta, whose face I chancd to see grow red, then pale and stern, stept out from the rest, and put her arm around my waist. She that never caresses anyone! She led me away up to my room, and kissed me in silence ere she shut the door. Next, Mama came in and, crying, told me it was all a sad business, sadder than I knew. That she too (altho not for my fathers reasons), counseld me to give CoL Crespigny up. That, until I promised, she must leave me to myself; and then she kissed me like the An- gle that she is, and went out and lockt the door. Without supper (wh. I could not eat), I cried myself to sleep. To- day I ate a mouthful of the break- fast brought me by Susans Sally; and since I am writing this to you, that I began last night and writ till cautioned by Papas voice outside my door, to go to bed. Sister Peggy, you will (I know you, I can hear your gentle questions that always made us confess everything) inquire if I am sure of my own feelings for Col. Crespigny, I that was a child when you saw me last. In answer, I say, ask Yourself what if they had wanted you to give up your Francis af- ter that night he Courted you? Yes, I do love him, I shall always love him and honour him before all men. I would follow him to the Lands End, I think. Andtheres some one coming up the stairsoh! write to them, Sis- ter, you that can move Papa if any one. The persontwas a servant asking if I would have refreshments (I know the little mother sent up those iced maids- of-honour of which I usually ask for three, but I cannot swallow now)has gone, and I resume. A little while ago, I took down from the shelf the sweet annual, bound in pink and gold, Affec- tions Offering, that you used to read in Company with Mr. Faulkland dur- ing your betrothal. Strange, passing strange, that it should have opened at these lines: With plaintive courage, lo! the turtle dove Laments the fate of his departed love. His mate, once lost, no comfort now he knows, His little breast with inward anguish glows, Nor lawns nor groves his throbbing heart can charm, Nor other love his languid bosom warm; Oppressed with grief, he yields his latest breath And proves at last his constancy in death; A proper lesson to the fickle mind, An emblem apt of tenderness refined, Affection pure and undissembled love, Which absence, time, nor death can eer re- move. Then like the dove let constancy and truth And spotless innocence adorn your youth; In every state the same blest temper prove, Be fixt in friendship and be true to love. Sister, as I write these words, so ap- plicable to my condition, my tears re- fuse to be staunchedOh! Sister, what shall I dopity me, help me. Could you but comebut what do I ask, con- sidering the Distance, the State of the 178 WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. Roads, your Young Infants, etc. No, I must be Brave. Write then, and I await your Counselbut remember, I cannot resign my noblemy manly C. Do you think, perchance, he could be induced to become a FederalistIn truth I can- not see the difference between them and the Others Papa chuses to despise. Yr. ever loving and alflictd, L. BERKEIJEY. P.S.I believe I could promise that he would make no further allusion to the President, or to England. P.S. N0 2.I broke off here, to receive a visit from my dear and honoured Mama, who came at the wish of my Papahe having slept well and re-considered his Action of last night. Oh! dear Sister, you would never believe what our parent has conveyd to me. I dare not com- mit it to paper lest the Curious shoud chance to read itlet Peggy, who knows us all, divinebut I am now convincd that in fixing my affectns on Cot C., I am wronging Anotherone innocent of Intention, a Victim of Circumstance. As by a Lightning-Flash, I saw what my self - willed determination to have my own way in this matter would en- tail Immediately, I sought out my Papa, who was sitting, as Before, in the little chocolate room, reading a Journal which I observed to be Upside Down, while his hand shook, & his eye when he turnd it upon me was velvet-soft and loving. Our blessed mother went up to him, and with an arm around his neck, placed my hand in his. Our child is worthy of herself, husband, she said in the sweet voice that sounds ever like a flute. She hath promised to re- nounce what will cause more unhappi- ness to others than it can, now, bring happiness to her. Oh! Sister, when our parents gathered me into their Em- brace, I felt like the Lamb that has been Lost and Found againI can not now write more! Forget what I have said that was foolish or headstrong. Love me always, and believe that I will be true to my promise to papa, and only you shall know what it Costs me to submit. IV. From Ferdinando Berkeley, Esquire, of Princess Royal Street, Belhaven, to his daughter, Mrs. Faulkland, at Mount Eagle. 11th October, 1803. Mv DEAR: I shall send this under cover to your good husband that he may consult his Judgment about delivering it you or No. I conceive that the ten- derness of the female nature, nay, my Peggys nature in especial, will make as severe to endure what I have to com- municate, as tis cruel to me to write it. My child, the Almighty hath laid a heavy hand upon our once happy house- hold. The newspapers will have in- formed you of the pestilential fever that has mysteriously appeared in Belhaven. As I was in the act of preparing to send my Family to the country, I meant to forbear writing to you until they were safely away. But Gods will be done your dear mother is laid low with the pestilence, and 2 of the servants, as well as your brother Tom. The chil- dren, I have sent out to my son Will- iams seat, Clairemont, where Juliana will take faithful care of them. Finetta alone remains in town, for Lucilla, al- though most unwilling to be parted from her mother, has also gone, by my express command. Finetta, at ordinary times, so difficult to controul, has now, I am pleased to say, developed a spirit of helpfulness and courage that makes her invaluable to her poor mother. There is so much misery attending this dreadful Calamity in the town, that while my dear ones continue to hold their own, I will not repine against the decree that has smitten us. My Dr. Girl may Join her prayers with ours for the preserva- tion of our sufferers. I can write no more at present. My Complmts to your Spouse. Lucilla will keep you informd, or William or Juliana, as the malady progresses. From, my dr. Margaret, your loving and anxious Father, F. BERKELEY. Pray inform your faithful Harriet Your L. that her children are well. WHEN THE CENTURY CAME IN. 179 V. From Miss Lucilla Berkeley, at Claire- mont, to Mrs. Faulkiand, at Mount Eagle. 18th October, 1803. God be praised, Peggy dearest, that our little Mother is said to be on the mend. Tom has been very Low, but he and our Mama owe their lives under God to Sister Finettas care. Oh, that I were suffered to be with them, to be of service. I, whose poor life, clouded by disappointment, is of so little use to anyone! While our Family is passing from under the pillar of cloud, people have dyed all around our house. The burials are frequent, the streets desert- ed. Marks of distress and depopulation on every side. If twoud please God to send a heavy rain and severe frost after it, perhaps it might be checkt. What a mellancholy situation is our poor friend Mrs. Cracrofts; she has lost, poor Lady, both her Husband and her Daughter, Miss Betsey. What will be the end! Our hopes give way to Apprehensions, and yet Mama is bet- ter, and Tom is out of danger, and the two maids are improving. Thank you, Sweet Sister, for the last letter about my own affairs, that seem little now, beside this great Publick calamity. I have bowed to my Earthly Fathers, as to my Heavenly Fathers will, but he whom you know of (so Juliana has heard from Maryland) has not ceased to hope that affairs may change in his Favour. Ah! what a selfish girl am I, to write of this now. Forgive me, Sister dear. Write to me again. Brother Billy and Juliana and our children are well as well can be. Tell Harriet hers are well, and I am your affectnte. I open this to say a messenger has come from town. Bad news, alas! Sister Finetta, the Brave & Strong, has been stricken down. I will keep the letter open till to-morrow to tell you what be- tides. Tuesday Morng. Sister Finetta very ill, our mother still mending. Tom, poor brother, has a relapse. I must Close to catch the post. The Doctor says Sister F. has it in a worse form than any of the rest. God pity us all! L. From Mrs. William Berkeley, of Clairemont, near Belhaven, to Mrs. Faulkland, Mt. Eagle. 25th October, 1803. My dear Sister Margaret will compre- hend when I tell her that I feel my in- adequacy to fitly represent the cherished members of her family whose place I as- sume to take in Writing this. My own Mr. Berkeley hath gone for a ride upon his bay mare to get rid (so he says) of the blue devils in his brain. He began a letter to you. But his fingers were all thumbs, and he gave up the task. Never have I seen his chearful Coun- tenance so overspread with gloom, as since rendering the last sad offices to his departed brother Tom. That ami- able and estimable youth will indeed deeply mourned. We can but trust be that he is now happy in the Enjoyment of the Everlasting Felicity of Heaven. Your Beloved Mother, spite of her trials, continues to improve. And God be praised, Sister Finetta yesterday (it is hoped) passed the turning-point of her malady, and will now recover. Be- neath these encircling Clouds of Gloom it is my pleasing duty to inform you of the unexpected happiness of our little Pet, Lucilla, whose rare sweetness and beauty hath endeard her to me as to all that know her. When your Sister Fin- etta lay (as it was believed) upon her death bed, she called your Father to LUCILLA. her side & in feeble accents prayd him to grant her the boon of withdrawing his Opposition to Lucillas Alliance with CoL Crespigny. This, upon the assur- ance from me (who was fortunate to be so far in the Cols confidence as to bear proper witness) of his unaltered fidelity to the lady of his Love, was freely and tenderly granted by your Papa, which promise twoud seem, afforded at once to the sufferer, a Calm, proving to be the precursor of Healthy Sleep. I have myself writ the summons to the Anx 180 AFTER THE BATTLE. ious Lover to meet Ludila under her brothers and my Roof. And if you will pardon the selfish thoughts of per- sonal joy at such a Time, I would fain be first to convey the news that our Aunt Ariana at Bath, England, has presented your brother with her hand- some dwelling and estate, Shannon Hill, twenty miles hence in Fauquier County, whither we shall in due time remove, and your brother be releasd from the discomfort of rented land, which he has borne in silence, as befits his noble self. Trusting that the white-winged Dove of Peace and Happiness will henceforth unfurl her wings upon our Family, & with mine and my Mr. Berkeleys most affect. respectful Compl.mts to your husband, and kisses to your Pets, be- lieve me, Your attachd, faithful friend and Sister, JULIANA BERKELEY. VII. A FRAGMENT. From Miss Lucilla Berkeley, to Mrs. Faulkiand, Mount Eagle. CLAIREMONT, 28th October, 1803. Sister mine, my heart overflows in these few lines to tell you that He has come. Am I wrong, amid all the sor- row still lingring oer my home and dear ones, to be so hap. . AFTER THE BATTLE. By Edgar Mayhew Bacon. WHERE the tawny tiger-lilies in the marshy meadow bloom And the tangled rushes wither by the red and sluggish rill, There is silence all unbroken; there are secrets all unspoken That the trembling grass is hiding from the hilL Where the mystic firs in cluster on the rocky hillside stand, Where the vines empurpled masses in the sunsets passion glow, Lo! the bird-notes are a-dying and the troubled wind is sighing For the secret that the meadow must not know. Over meadow, over mountain, in a city by the sea, There are wives and mothers waiting; there are sweet hopes growing cold; There are eyes that watch in anguish, there are loving hearts that languish For the secret that shall nevermore be told.

Edgar Mayhew Bacon Bacon, Edgar Mayhew After The Battle 180-181

180 AFTER THE BATTLE. ious Lover to meet Ludila under her brothers and my Roof. And if you will pardon the selfish thoughts of per- sonal joy at such a Time, I would fain be first to convey the news that our Aunt Ariana at Bath, England, has presented your brother with her hand- some dwelling and estate, Shannon Hill, twenty miles hence in Fauquier County, whither we shall in due time remove, and your brother be releasd from the discomfort of rented land, which he has borne in silence, as befits his noble self. Trusting that the white-winged Dove of Peace and Happiness will henceforth unfurl her wings upon our Family, & with mine and my Mr. Berkeleys most affect. respectful Compl.mts to your husband, and kisses to your Pets, be- lieve me, Your attachd, faithful friend and Sister, JULIANA BERKELEY. VII. A FRAGMENT. From Miss Lucilla Berkeley, to Mrs. Faulkiand, Mount Eagle. CLAIREMONT, 28th October, 1803. Sister mine, my heart overflows in these few lines to tell you that He has come. Am I wrong, amid all the sor- row still lingring oer my home and dear ones, to be so hap. . AFTER THE BATTLE. By Edgar Mayhew Bacon. WHERE the tawny tiger-lilies in the marshy meadow bloom And the tangled rushes wither by the red and sluggish rill, There is silence all unbroken; there are secrets all unspoken That the trembling grass is hiding from the hilL Where the mystic firs in cluster on the rocky hillside stand, Where the vines empurpled masses in the sunsets passion glow, Lo! the bird-notes are a-dying and the troubled wind is sighing For the secret that the meadow must not know. Over meadow, over mountain, in a city by the sea, There are wives and mothers waiting; there are sweet hopes growing cold; There are eyes that watch in anguish, there are loving hearts that languish For the secret that shall nevermore be told. View of the End of a Glacier at the Head of a Greenland Fiord. During the recent greater extension of the ice the stream filled all the valley enclosed in the field of view and overtopped the neighboring mountains. ICEBERGS. By N. S. Shaler. M UC H has been said by optimists concerning the many advantages which arise from the simple but most exceptional fact that, while all oth- er substances contract, water expands in passing from the fluid to the solid state. The consequences of this pecu- liarity are indeed not overstated by those VOL. XJJ.19 who take an excessively pleasant view of mans relations to the world about him, for the simple reason that it is not easy to exaggerate the beneficial effects which arise from them. If water did not depart from the general law that sub- stances occupy less space in their sol- id than in their liquid form, the ice on

N. S. Shaler Shaler, N. S. Icebergs 181-201

View of the End of a Glacier at the Head of a Greenland Fiord. During the recent greater extension of the ice the stream filled all the valley enclosed in the field of view and overtopped the neighboring mountains. ICEBERGS. By N. S. Shaler. M UC H has been said by optimists concerning the many advantages which arise from the simple but most exceptional fact that, while all oth- er substances contract, water expands in passing from the fluid to the solid state. The consequences of this pecu- liarity are indeed not overstated by those VOL. XJJ.19 who take an excessively pleasant view of mans relations to the world about him, for the simple reason that it is not easy to exaggerate the beneficial effects which arise from them. If water did not depart from the general law that sub- stances occupy less space in their sol- id than in their liquid form, the ice on 182 ICEBERGS. our seas and lakes would, as fast as it formed, sink to the bottom, so that all the oceans and other water-basins in high latitudes would normally be frozen to their floors, except when the sum- mers heat had melted a thin layer next the surface. If it were really worth the while to theorize concerning things which are out of the present order of nature, we might easily show that such a condition of affairs would make the earth essentially unfit for the uses of civilization. It will, however, be more profitable to consider the points which the pessimist might take, if his ever- smiling adversary pressed the profit arising from the fact that water ex- pands in freezing too far for patience to endure, to show, in a word, the list of considerable disadvantages which arise from this law, which serve indeed, in some part, to countervail the ble~sings it brings to us. In his argument he would have to depend in the main upon ing islands almost invisible, adds much to the risks of navigation. These ice- masses not only endanger vessels, but they chill the waters of the sea in such a measure that, by the cold and misty air which sweeps thence upon the land, extensive regions, like the island of New- foundland, are made unfit for agricult- ure. These migrations of icebergs are manifestly due, in the main, to the fact that ice floats; if it sunk, whatever other costs this condition entailed, there would be no wandering ice-fields in the seas. To understand the conditions which lead to the existence, even in midsum- mer, of floating islands of ice within the warm northward-setting waters of the Gulf Stream, it is necessary for us to consider many facts concerning the natural history of ice, and the physical condition of the regions from which these bergs are derived, as well as that of the districts through which they View at a Part at the Coaat of Greenland. Showing small ~laciers and floating iceber,,s. In the foreground are masses of rock dropped from floating bergs. the dangers which arise from the ice which drifts from either pole into the parts of the sea which ships need to traverse, bringing with them an atmos- phere of fog, which, rendering the float- journey to the central portions of the North Atlantic; fortunately for our purpose all these facts are very inter- e~ting, and some of them are of the most picturesque features which the DRAWN BY W. L. TAYLOR. View of the Extremity of e Greenlend Glacier. Showing tlie ice cave from which emerges e sub-glacial river. The peeks in the backgrOUnd are composed of ice much fissured by the irregularities of the surface over which it is moving. 184 ICEBERGS. aspects of this world afford. The biog- raphy of an iceberg brings us in con- tact with the frozen regions abont the poles, and with the marvellous ocean currents which transport the tropical waters to those regions, and with those other streams which send, in retnrn, waters of nearly freezing temperatnre down toward the equator. The simpler phenomena of freezing and frozen water, which we shall incidentally have to con- sider, are attractive parts of the science of physics, for the reason that they are easily comprehended and are well illus- trated by familiar and personal experi- ences. The ice which travels from the Arctic regions toward the equator consists of two very different kinds of masses; the difference being so plain that they are invariably recognized by all observers; in part they are made up of flat or tab- ular masses, which seldom if ever have a thickness of more than one hnndred feet even before they have begnn their journey to lower latitudes. Though limited in depth these fields of floe-ice, as they are commonly termed, often have a great horizontal extension. Near the southern extremity of Greenland they often have an area which is to be measured by square miles. Though interesting, these floes have less econo- mic or geogr hic importance than the group of. true icebergs, for the reason that they do not journey so far from their point of origin, and rarely come into the ordinary paths of commerce. The true icebergs differ from the ice- floes in that they are vastly thicker and do not have the same table-like tops, but are serrate at their summits. It is impossible to determine by actual meas- urement the depth of the ice in the true berg, but we know from the spe- cific gravity of frozen water that only about one-seventh to one-ninth of their mass rises above the level of the sea, and we can safely infer from the extent of the emerged portion that their bases are often two or three thousand feet below the surface of the ocean. This estimate, though it does not need con- firmation, is fairly proved by the fact that many bergs have been observed to run aground in water of this depth. View at the Mouth of a Greenland Fiord. Showing the steep precipitous character of the coast, with a number of small bergs floating from the inlet. DRAWN BY W. L TAYLOR. View at the End of a Glacier ahowing an Iceberg juat ready to Separate. ERGRAVCU BO ~. H. DELORME. 186 ICEBERGS. These great variations in the propor- tions of bergs and floes afford a fair presumption that there is some essen- tial difference in the origin of these two classes of ice-islands. A glance at the processes by which ice is made in high latitudes will show us that this hypoth- esis is amply justified. When the Arctic explorers or the whalers make their way to the fringe of small settlements which lie upon the western margin of Greenlandthe only part of that vast area which is ever in- deed greenthey usually begin to en- counter the floe - ice, and as they go northward it increases in thickness and in the extent to which it obstructs the surface of the sea, so that the ships are compelled to creep through the rifts between the ice-fields, the narrow lanes of water which, now opening, now clos- ing, afford most perilous and difficult ways to the higher north. Finally, where the western shoulder of Green- land and Grinnell Island narrow the passage which leads into the Arctic Sea, the ice is so firmly held together that it has never been found sufficiently fissured to afford room for the passage of the smallest boats. Thence on to the long - sought, but apparently inac- cessible Pole, the sea is covered with a connected sheet of ice, the upper surface of which is exceedingly rough and hum- mocky, so that it is impassable for sledges. The vast region covered by this sheet of floe-ice, which probably has a depth of one hundred feet or more, has been termed the Pakeocrystic Sea, or the Sea of Ancient Ice. It is clear that its envelope of frozen water is but a more consolidated area of sheet or floe accumulationsin other regards exactly like the fields which float out of Davis Strait and move down the coast of Labrador until they invade the Straits of Belle Isle, and through this channel penetrate into the Gulf of St. Lawrence or crowd into the inlets of northern Newfoundland. It is evident that the origin of thi floe-ice is as follows, viz. In the long winter of high latitudes the surface of the sea, wherever it is not affected by View on the Coast of Greenland. Showing small bergs intermingled with floe-ice, with polar bears in foreground. ICEBERGS. 187 the warm waters of the south, freezes so that a considerable depth of ice is made. A single winter will often ac- cumulate it to a thickness of ten feet or more. In the short summer this ice only in part melts away and the next season adds still more to it. When the sheet breaks up into separate fields, these masses, often square miles in area, are set in motion by the tidal cur- rents or the strong winds; they collide with each other and with the shore, and by these accidents the cakes of ice are shoved over and under each other, thus thickening the floes in a very rapid manner, for as soon as these cakes of ice come to rest in their new position they are soldered together so that the floe is a solid mass which may drift away for great distances in the control of the winds or the shallow currents of the sea. So massive are they, indeed, and so vast in number and area, that but for the nature of the current sys- tems of the North Atlantic, they might greatly embarrass the main line of ship travel between the northern parts of Eu- rope and those of the northern Unit- ed States and Canada; but the direc- tion. of their southward migration is, as we shall now note, greatly affected by the ocean currents. All the superficial parts of the west- ern Atlantic, except the portion of its area next the coast of America, are pervaded by a slow movement which sets the water toward the Poles. This current is due to the Gulf Stream, which, emerging from the tropics as a deep, narrow, swift-moving tide skirts the southern coast of the United States, gradually widens like an opened fan, diminishing in depth and losing its velocity as it comes toward the Arctic Circle. Although the speed of its northward going is here slight, it has sufficient energy to push back the floe-ice which may be driven south- wardly by the winds, and thus limit its excursions to the American shore. Set- ting out into the Atlantic from Davis Strait, there is, however, a strong stream of Arctic water, which in part slips under the Gulf Stream tide, and in part flows on the surface of the sea next the Labrador coast. In this southward- setting current the floe-ice drifts with a speed of about a mile an hour down the American shore nntil it attains the mouth of the St. Lawrence. The Lab- View showing Large Berg with ice Arch. The overhanging ledge to the right of hhe arch shows a former see-level on the face of the berg, and indicates that the mass has recently slightly changed its position in the water. View of a Large Berg. Showing the effect of melting in developing the columnar strnctnre of the ice. ENGRAVED BY B. H. DELORME. DRAWN BY W. L TAYLOR. ICEBERGS. 189 rador current, as this southward-mov- ing water is called, would, but for cer- tain accidents of geography, send this floe-ice much farther to the southward than it now does. If Newfoundland and Nova Scotia should disappear, so that there could be a nearly straight shore from Greenland to Massachusetts Bay, it is likely that these floes would in large quantities attain to the coast of New England, and give to the shore lands of that part of the continent the sub-Arctic and inhospitable climate of the islands of the eastern St. Lawrence. This shore-current bears few true ice- bergs with the floe-ice, for the reason, as we shall see more clearly hereafter, that these greater ice-islands are formed altogether on the Greenland shores, and, pressed to the eastward by the prevail- ing winds, do not come into that super- ficial, shore-skirting, Labrador current. Moreover, any stray bergs that may find their way against this margin of the mainland are almost certain to take the ground in the shallows over which the current passes and so be arrested in their journey. The character of the ice-floes, as well as the steadfastness of their southward journeys, are well shown by the singular experiences of a part of the crew of the exploring ship Polaris, who, in 1872, were forced to abide for several months on these ice-rafts. The ship was in close quarters in the ice-pack of Baffins Bay, and was pinched between the floes with ev~ry prospect of being crushed like an egg-shell between the moving masses; the crew, with supplies of provisions and boats, were encamped, in two separate parties, on the ice near the distressed vesseL A sudden change in the move- ments of the ice caused the floes to sepa- rate, and one of the parties was swiftly borne away from the ship, which, in- deed, they thought had sunk from the strains she had received in the squeez- ing between the packs of ice. The for- lorn party, consisting of a score of sail- ors, several Esquimaux men, two wom- en, and several children of that people, drifted away to the southward, and for the time between October 15th and April 29th found refuge in the floe - ice, and were carried onward toward the open Atlantic. As they came into the wider VOL. XJL20 waters the waves swept over the flat surface of the ice and broke the original wide field into small patches, each a few acres in extent, so that they had from time to time to select a new refuge. Their sufferings were considerable, but with the courage and hopefulness char- acteristic of our sailors, they undaunk edly met their difficulties, each dutifully caring for the other, so that when res- cued by a passing ship every member of the party was alive. The chronicle of this wonderful adventure is one of the most picturesque stories of bitter experience and fortitude which the lit- erature of Arctic adventure affords. In the regions about the Southern Pole, because of the vast area of ice which is gathered there, the climate in summer is much less calculated to melt ice than in the region about Greenland. The extension of this ice-cap is caused by the failure of the warm currents from the tropics to attain the Antarctic Circle; this is brought about by the absence of any distinct land-bounded pathway of the waters, as exists in the North Atlantic lands, which, in a way, serves to confine the Gulf Stream and lead it to the Arctic regions. Moreover, the southern currents, which are divert- ed toward the Antarctic Sea, are less strong than those which flow north- wardly from the equatorial parts of the oceans. Owing to the frigid condition of the summer climate of the southern ice-district, and the absence of warm water to melt the ice, the floes of that region are thicker and form more ex- tended fields than those with which explorations of the Greenland district have made us acquainted. Fortunate- ly there are in the Antarctic district no such strong currents as those which sweep down the shores of Labrador to convey these packs of ice to the parts of the sea which are most traversed by shipping; they are only encountered by the whalers or the rare explorers who have attained to these lonely waters of the far southern seas. We have now completed our general account of the simpler and least important of the groups of floating ice-fields. We have next to examine into the processes which lead to the formation of the far grander masses, the true icebergs. 190 ICEBERGS. We have already noted the fact that icebergs differ from floes in that they are far greater in depth; it is also char- acteristic of them that they are com- posed of a dark blue variety of ice, which is generally much more solid than that of the floes. The berg-ice has also the peculiar feature that it tends to rift in a vertical direction, which gives their crests the striking and beautiful outlines so characteristic of them where they have been much de- cayed by long exposure to the warm air of the region of the sea to which they attain near the end of their journeys. To understand these peculiar features it is again necessary for us to consider the regions where these ice-masses are formed. It is now well known that all true bergs and in this class are in- cluded all the floating masses which find their way down to the line now fol- lowed by the transatlantic steamers have their origin in the glaciers of high latitudes. Those which beset the path- way of ships moving from Europe to America are all cradled in Greenland. All the lands north and west of Spitz- bergen are more or less occupied by fields of perpetual snow, which, slowly descending the valleys, is by pressure and by its forward movement crowded into pure translucent ice; all the little cavities containing vesicles of air, which gives to snow or powdered ice its white color, become closed as the air escapes in the onward journey of the stream. In more southern climes, as in Norway and Switzerland, these glaciers in their descent meet a climate suffi- ciently warm to melt them away before they attain the level of the sea; but in the greater part of the lands within the Arctic Circle there is an annual average temperature below the freezing-point, so that any glacier which is formed moves on until it thrusts its extremity into the sea. For a time after the slow- moving stream of ice enters the ocean waters, its height causes it to continue to rest on the bottom; but when it penetrates to a certain depth of the sea, a depth depending on the thickness of the ice- sheet, the buoying action brought about by the relative lightness of the ice tends to lift it from the bed over which it has ploughed. As ice, though easily mobile under pressure, as the movements of the glaciers themselves clearly show, is very brittle to any cross strain, such as this tendency to float im- poses, the extremity of the ice-stream is continually broken away, forming de- tachable masses. The resistance of the ice to fracture causes the projecting ex- tremity of the glacier to hold together for a little distance beyond the point where the weight of the mass alone would hold it upon the bottom. When the berg separates from the parent mass the rupture is attended by a violent movement, often causing a loud thun- dering noise which may be heard for many miles. The rebound of the newly freed mass from the bottom and the firm-set glacier whence it came, causes it to swing violently, so that it sends great waves sweeping from its base out into the sea, which, though on a larger scale, are like those produced when a ship is launched. The Esquimaux are so familiar with this process of separ- ating bergs from the land-ice that when they hear the roar which it causes they say the glacier is calving, or giving birth to its young. By this savage de- scription they seem to indicate, in the manner common to primitive peoples, their sense of the activity which exists in the glacial streams as well as that perception of life in nature which, though a common feature with unciv- ilized people, disappears with the ad- vance in culture. Greenland is the great source whence the icebergs of the North At- lantic are calved, and the physical conditions of the country make it ad- mirably fitted to be the breeding-place for those monsters of the deep. Until very recently our knowledge of this country was limited to the southern ex- tremity of the island and the narrow strip along the western shore, where there are a few villages which are visi- ble from a ships deck. The eastern shore is so blocked by floe-ice that few mariners have seen the mainland for more than a hundred miles beyond its southernmost part. It has long been known, however, that along the whole coast-line the glaciers descend to the heads of the inlets or fords which plen ICEBERGS. 191 tifully intersect the shore. Both on the east and the west the ice-streams are so deep and massive that they over- ride the whole marginal portion of the country, hiding its irregularities in the vast sheet of the glacier, which sweeps into the sea until it attains a depth where the ice breaks off and floats away in the form of icebergs. The greatest of these ice - fronts, that of the Hum- boldt Glacier, faces the water in the up- per part of Baffins Bay with a contin- uous precipice of ice, having a length of about fifty miles. So far as is yet known, this is the greatest of the Green- land berg factories, but it is possible that even greater protrusions of the cen- tral glacial field may occur on the east- ern coast. There has long been much natural curiosity concerning the aspect of the interior district of Greenland, for nat- uralists have felt that we should there secure much valuable information con- cerning the conditions which existed during the glacial period over a larger part of northern Europe and North America. Many travellers have as- cended the ice-streams for a little dis- tance, and have looked inland apparent- ly upon fields of snow. IRecently some bold travellers, properly equipped for travelling over the ice, made their way to the eastern shore of Greenland, and started on a hazardous journey with the western shore for their destination. After passing for some miles over a portion of the glacier, which was much broken by crevassesdue probably to the existence of irregularities in the floor of rock over which it was moving they gradually ascended until they came upon a vast, unbroken surface of ice, which was apparently as level as a frozen sea, and which stretched away beyond the field of vision. This por- tion of the continental glacier, the first ever seen by civilized man, rose gently until, by the barometers, it apparently attained a height of about a mile above the sea. Theifee it declined with a grade so slight as to be invisible to the eye until near the western shore, when it descended more steeply, and was broken by rifts, as the travellers found it at the outset of their journey. This vast arch of ice doubtless occupies all the surface of Greenland except the narrow belt next the shore, mainly on the southern and western coasts, where the higher land is now left bare. It would be most interesting to consider the gen- eral conditions of this wonderful gla- cier, with reference to the state of af- fairs during the last frozen period, for there can be little doubt that we have in the region beheld by these hardy ex- plorers a very true picture of a con- tinental ice-sheet; but for our imme- diate purpose we need only to note the immense extent of this ice - field, its great depth, and the speed with which it moves from the interior toward the sea. So far we have but imperfect data concerning the rate at which the high northern glacier passes from the land into the sea; but it is clear that the movement is much more rapid than in the case of the relatively small ice- streams of the Alps. In the valley glaciers of Switzerland, Norway, or the Himalayas, the speed of the flow does not exceed on the average more than three feet per diem. At the berg-mak- ing fronts of Switzerland it probably amounts on the average to more than thirty feet per day; that is a strip about half a mile wide would be fed into the sea in the short summer season, and if the flow was maintained during the whole year, there would be a field nearly two miles wide discharged as floating ice along the whole front of the streams which attain the sea. There is no sat- isfactory basis on which to estimate the linear extent of the glacial front on the Greenland shore, but it is probably not less than two hundred and fifty miles. If this be the size, we may reck- on that somewhere near five hundred square miles of icebergs is each year set afloat along the shores of the isl- and. Supposing tiu~t the original area of these masses was one - fourth of a square mile, this supply would provide for a yearly fleet of two thousand bergs, from which throng the ice which our Atlantic ships encounter is derived. The history of these bergs, after they have become separated from their par- ent glaciers, has not yet been carefully traced. It is evident that a large part of them never attain to any considerable distance from the shores from which 192 ICEBERGS. they were discharged. Those which are launched in the inlets are apt to be retained by the shores and melt before they escape to the sea; of those which start on their journey many become stranded on the shallows, and break into small pieces, so that they are rap- idly melted; yet others, including probably nearly all which are formed on the eastern shore of Greenland, are re- tained near their place of origin by the action of the wind and the marine cur- rents. It does not seem likely that more than one or two hundred large icebergs make their way each year in the only practicable path that can take them be- yond the Arctic Circlethat which is afforded by the current which sets out of Davis Strait, and down the Labrador shore, and then eastward into the At- lantic. Although we have as yet but little decided information concerning this ocean-stream, save that afforded by the movements of the berg and floe, we can readily see how it affects the jour- ney of these wandering fragments from the vast Greenland glaciers. Though somewhat inconstant, this current is a tolerably steady stream, setting south through the wide channel which separ- ates the shores of Greenland from those of the many islands which beset the northeast coast of the American conti- nent. By this southward-moving water the ice is propelled out into the open sea. The stream continues to the south, but widens and diminishes in the en- ergy of its flow. It shortly comes in contact with the Gulf Stream, which it somewhat affects, and by which it is much affected. As we have already noticed, a part of the southward-setting current passes down along the shore of Labrador as a superficial stream of no great width or speed. Another, and perhaps the larger part, flows beneath the Gulf Stream, and in time joins the great, slow-moving procession of Arc- tic waters which, following the bottom of the deeper sea, in the end attain the equatorial district. For a considerable distance southeast of Greenland there are thus two distinct currents in the ocean watersa lower, moving south- wardly, and an upper, or superficial stratum, creeping toward the north. The thin floe - ice, floating altogether within a hundred feet of the surface, is beaten back against the Labrador shore by the surface stream; but the ice- bergs, because of their greater depth, are driven forward by the under-cur- rent in a southwardly direction. Owing to this peculiarity we sometimes may observe the bergs ploughing their way through vast fields of floe-ice as stead- fastly as a steamship when it breaks its way in the new-formed ice of a har- bor. This southward journey of the bergs is facilitated by the action of the prevailing winds, which, in this re- gion, in the spring and summer, often blow with great energy from the north- west. A berg one hundred feet high and a mile long spreads a vast surface to these winds, and is slowly but effectually impelled by them in the manner of a sailing ship. From the time the berg is launched into the sea it is constantly wasting; unlike the floe-ice, which receives im- portant accessions in freezing weather, the berg, on account of its depth, which brings the greater part of the mass into water above the freezing-point, stead- fastly diminishes in volume; the little ice-sheet which may form around the water-line does not affect the size of the mass, yet this process of melting goes on but slowly. In the first part of its journey it is always in water which is at about the freezing-point. Most per- sons are familiar with the fact that cakes of ice will float for a long time in very cold water, and can thus imagine that icebergs may journey a long way in the Arctic seas with but little loss in bulk. It is when they come in contact with the waters of the Gulf Stream that the dissolving process begins to go on in a rapid manner. The under-running cold current, which moves southward toward the central parts of the Atlantic, seizing on the great surface of the bergs which extends downward it may be to one or two thousand feet below the surface of the seaurges these masses of ice against the relatiVely shallow and slow - running warmer tide. As they go to the south the energy of the im- pelling stream constantly diminishes, for the reason that the flow from the Arctic, no longer confined within the channel between Greenland and the ICEBERGS. 193 mainland of North America, slackens, while with each stage of the movement - of the bergs toward the equator the strength of the Gulf Stream flow be- comes augmented. In this way it comes about that, in the latitude of the New- foundland banks, or shoals, the floating masses attain a position where there is a balance between the effects of the diverse currents, and, as a result of this, the icebergs lie idly in the sea or drift about in the varying winds until they melt away. The bergs from the North Atlantic nursery of ice, from the glaciers of southern and western Greenland, have their limit of migration set by this cu- rious equation of the currents which prevail in these waters. If the south- ward-setting current were as strong in that region as it is on the west coast of North America, there is no reason why these vast and slow-moving ice-isl- ands should not attain too near the tropics; as it is, they are rarely if ever found much south of the Newfoundland banks or much east of the meridian. There are reports that in certain rare instances considerable bergs have been seen nearly as far west as the mouth of the Bay of Fundy and as far south and east as the Azores, but these stories lack verification and may be only sailors yarns; if true, it is probably to be ex- plained by the fact that in a period of long-continued and strong northwest- erly winds any deep bergs, which on account of their depth projected high above the water, were urged far to the southward and eastward of their nor- mal course. Allowing for such rare ac- cidents, the fact remains that the ice- bergs of the North Atlantic have their southward and eastward extension de- termined with admirable accuracy, and in a way to show the observer how beau- tifully the physical conditions are ad- justed in the waters of that tumultu- ous sea. The fact that icebergs can maintain themselves so long when they are float- ing with their upper parts bathed in the warm water of the superficial por- tions of the sea, and the deeper portions of their masses in a fluid which is a lit- tle above the point where ice melts, is due to certain circumstances which we shall now have to note with some care. The icebergs, as they slowly melt, chill the water about them to very near the freezing - point. This very cold state extends, in the case of large masses, to the distance of some miles from the face of the ice - cliffs. Next the berg the temperature is always but a shade above that of a vessel in which there is just enough water to float fragments? of ice. Only a very small part of this cooled portion of the sea is derived from the melting berg; in the main it con- sists of that portion of the ocean which has been deprived of its heat by the contact with the glacial mass. Here we must consider the fact that the pro- cess of melting ice calls for a great deal of heat. If we take a cubic foot of the frozen water and put it over a regulated fire, as, for instance, that of a gas-flame, we observe that it requires a much longer time to melt the mass than it would to bring an equal amount of ice- cold water to near the boiling - point. If we conduct the experiment in a more careful way, we may easily determine that, starting with a block of ice at a temperature just a fraction of a degree below the freezing-point, it takes more units of heat to bring it to a point where it becomes molten than is neces- sary to raise its temperature after it is molten to 740 F. This heat, which the water hides away in the process of melt- ing, is so great that it much affects not only the history of icebergs, but all the phenomena of the seasons in countries where a thick envelope of snow gathers during the winter season. It is this peculiar absorption of heat which makes it so difficult for the warm sun of spring to clear away the frostwork of winter and to fit the earth for the uses of veg- etation. In the case of the icebergs the process of their melting requires that some cubic miles of the relatively warm ocean waters, having a temperature of, say 500 F., shall come in contact with the ice before an ordinary berg will be dissolved. As long as the icebergs are rapidly pushed forward by the action of the un- dercurrent which urges them through the superficial layer of warm water, the portions of their masses which are ex- posed to the northward-setting stream 194 ICEBERGS. rapidly melt, because they are by their motion ever brought into contact with fresh fields of warm water, the cold por- tion of the ocean which they have chilled being left behind. But, as we have al- ready noticed, the rate of this motion steadfastly decreases until they finally cease to travel over the surface, and meet only such water as the winds or the gentle northward - setting current sends against them. In a certain meas- ure they provide by their own action for a slight current movement which promotes their melting. The water next their sides, being chilled by con- tact with the ice, becomes a little heav- ier than that of the surrounding sea, and so tends to sink into the depths, its place being taken by the warmer fluid which flows in over the surface. If water became continuously heavier as it cooled, all the way down to the freezing - point, this action would be much more effective than it is; but among the many extraordinary features of this substance we have to note that it is the densest at about 390 F., ex- panding a little if the heat is decreased below that temperature. Consequent- ly this circulatory movement just de- scribed is not strong. The protection of the bergs from melting is also promoted by the fleet- like manner in which they occupy large areas of the sea. They are generally found in troops, which may number scores, or even hundreds, of separate masses; the result is that vast areas of the ocean have their superficial waters so cooled down by the southernmost in- dividual bergs that the greater part of the group have little chance to come in contact with warm water; it is only slowly, as the advanced bergs are melted, that the more northern masses are ex- posed to a temperature high enough to affect them in any considerable meas- ure. In much the same way the aggre- gation of the icebergs hinders the air from affecting them by its warmth; the atmosphere is chilled by the cold sea and the ice with which it comes in con- tact, and the result is that thick fogs are formed, which send off the rays of the sun and convert the regions about the bergs into a natural ice-house well fitted to preserve them from the effects of the more southern realm into which they have journeyed. In fact, a fleet of icebergs takes its native climate with it as it goes; it is enveloped by conditions of its own making as perfectly as if they were designed for the end which they attain. The effect of the close order, which is such a common feature of the berg fleet, is so important in their history that we must consider the way in which it is brought about. As is easily seen, the cause is found in the landlocked nature of the waters whence they are derived. In the winter the region about the West Greenland glaciers is occupied by a sheet of floe-ice strong enough to retain the icebergs against their native shores. Only for a brief period in summer, in all perhaps, on the average, less than four months, is the water open .enough to prevent their escape into the wide part of the Atlantic Ocean. When the summer unlocks these Arctic gates the vast assemblage of ice-floes and the im- prisoned squadrons of bergs from the several glaciers which have accumu- lated in the sea during the enduring frost, pour forth into the more south- ern part of the ocean. Then they be- come separatedthe bergs impelled by the deeper current set forth upon their long cruise toward the mid-Atlantic, while the floes follow the surface stream adown the coast of Labrador; the for- mer to wander, it may be, for years; the latter to vanish in the heat of a sin- gle summer. In the process of destruction which a berg goes through, its decay is aided by the frequent overturns to which it is subjected. All the ice of the glacial streams, unlike that made in the ordi- nary way, is moulded into shape under the great strains to which it is sub- jected in its journey over the surface of the earth. These strains are not all productive of movement, but remain as tensions, much like those which we find in unannealed glass, giving the mass a tendency to fly into pieces. Moreover, glacial ice is peculiar in that it is always penetrated by numerous rifts or imperfectly closed fissures, which accelerate its breaking whenever it is. violently disturbed. Owing to the more or less irregular melting ICEBERGS. 195 which goes on upon the outside of a berg, its centre of gravity gradually changes, so that from time to time it rolls over in the sea. Such accidents are not infrequently observed by Arc- tic explorers and whalers who haunt the waters where these ice-fields most abound. As may be imagined, when one of these vast masses somersaults, every part of it is subjected to violent stresses which would rack much more solid structures, and also that, when they strand in some shallower part of the sea a like trial of their strength occurs. In fact, when either of these accidents happen, the berg often flies into pieces almost as does a Prince Rupert drop of quickly cooled glass when it is treated with any violence. Even when sailing in a quiet sea the innate tensions of the ice, increased it may be by the changes of temperature to which it has been subjected since it parted from the parent glacier, now and then cause large fragments to fly from the steep cliffs, to float as satellites of the mass until they melt away. The processes of decay acting on the summit of the icebergs reveal in the melting forms the existence of incipient rifts in their masses. Unlike the sur- face of ordinary ice-sheets, which com- monly melt down evenly, the berg top is made up of irregular pinnacles and chasms, which in the later stage of its existence may take on forms of the ut- most variety. The picturesqueness of these floating islands of the north is in large measure due to the exceed- ingly varied forms of their sky lines. The architects of our day, who rec- ognize the striking effects which may be produced in edifices by means of pediments and pinnacles, might win suggestions from a study of these fantastic structures. These indenta- tions of the iceberg top are produced by the same abundant planes of weak- ness which cause the mass so readily to rend asunder whenever subjected to strains such as may arise from the causes we have considered. The warmth and rain penetrating into these crevices eat the ice away while the less weakened parts remain intact. In the case of many bergs, even when they have been long afloat, the top is not much indented, for the reason that the frequent changes of position have not given the ice time to be affected by exposure to the air. In the southern hemisphere icebergs are limited to the western Atlantic and eastern Pacific, and to the waters of very high latitudes within the Arctic Circle. They are practically unknown in the North Pacific, for the reason that the only glaciers which attain the sea in that region, those of the Alaskan shore, are of relatively small size and only send afloat small masses of ice, and these being imprisoned in deep bays do not attain the open sea. In the Antarctic region the little known islands about the South Pole are the nursery of more numerous bergs than are formed within the Arctic Circle. The currents setting from these south- ern circumpolar lands toward the equa- tor are much less energetic than those which bear the Greenland floods to the open sea, consequently the parts of these waters frequented by ships are not so affected by the ice invasions as are the invasions lying between North America and Europe. The only point where the south polar bergs come upon a travelled ship-route is on the western side of Cape Horn. In this field these wanderers infest a portion of the way of vessels which have rounded the South American cape, but they are on the whole much less numerous and less dangerous to navigation than those of the North Atlantic. It is a peculiarity of these southern ice-masses that they are much larger than those observed in the North Atlantic field. This is prob- ably due to the greater extent of the glaciers in the region about the South Pole, and to the correlative fact that the process of melting goes on more slowly in that region than in the Arc- tic district. We turn now to consider those parts of the geheral effects of floating ice which may be supposed to have an in- terest for the reader. First among these we must reckon the influence they exercise on the climatal conditions of the countries bordering on their paths. In the case of the floes and icebergs which are borne southward by the Labrador currents the effect 196 ICEB!RGS. must be considerable; they percepti- bly cool the sea over a large area, de- priving a considerable part of its wa- ters of the warmth which their cur- rent would otherwise carry to north- ern Europe. If we could confine these wanderers from the icy realm within the regions where they are formed, the effect on the temperature of northern Europe would be noteworthy and even of economic importance. Their general influence is to disseminate Arctic con- ditions over a wide area of the more southern regions, where the climate tends through the action of the ocean movements to partake of the tropical warmth. The climate of the north- eastern part of North America would probably be distinctly warmer but for the chilling of the neighboring sea which the abunJant ice induces. So, too, with the southern part of South America; the climate which now ren- ders the country in good part unfit for agriculture would be much more toler- able but for the influence of the vast amount of ice from the Antarctic Sea which floats near to its shores. Though not of great importance in terrestrial conditions, icebergs must be reckoned as a factor with which the meteorolo- gists of the future will have to deaL In forecasting of the weather conditions not only of the seas where they occur, but also of the neighboring lands, it will be necessary to take account of the migrations of these wanderers from the polar region, and to estimate their effects upon the heat and moisture of those districts. To the student of the geological pro- cesses which are now going on upon the earth, icebergs, and ice-floes as well, will afford most interesting subjects of inquiry. Not only do they affect the temperatures of the sea and land, and thus indirectly influence the conditions of the life they bear, but they exert certain curious direct effects upon the distribution of organic species and in the carriage of sediments. We will first note the action of these floating ice-fields in carrying animals from one region to another. It is the habit of the animals of high latitudes, particu- larly the polar bears, to seek the mar- gin of the sea for the food they may obtain from its waters. The bears in- deed win in winter their entire subsist- ence from this source of supply; even in summer they obtain little else than what the ocean affords them. Prowling along the shore and swimming far in its waters, with occasional rests on the floating ice-islands, it frequently hap- pens that they are borne away to sea on these rafts. In most cases these creatures starve to death or are drowned when their supports melt away; but it sometimes happens that the wandering ice conveys them to some other land. Grounding in the shallow water next the shore, the animals, if not too much exhausted, may win the shore and pro- ceed to multiply in their new - found home. From time to time the polar bear is thus conveyed from Greenland to Iceland, on which island it is not indigenous. The people of this Arctic realm are compelled to exterminate the invaders lest they should destroy their cattle and ravage their fields. As the icebergs are derived from glaciers they commonly carry a great deal of rocky matter torn from the sur- face over which they have found their way. The bottom portion of any thick glacier is commonly filled, sometimes to the depth of a hundred feet or more, with this fractured stone, varying in size from grains of mud or sand to blocks the size of a small house. When the icebergs float away from the land they bear the mass of debris with them on their journey, it may be for a great distance from their birthplace. If the berg remains for a long time in the position in which it entered the sea a relatively slight amount of melting will release the stones and earthy waste, which will then fall, bit by bit, into the sea-floors in the paths of the wan- dering ice; but as it often happens that the berg is turned upside down before it has attained any great distance from its point of origin, in this position the waste from the land will remain afloat until the ice again capsizes or melts away, when it will be tumbled into a heap on the ocean bottom. In this way a very large amount of the land waste torn from the bed rocks by the action of the glaciers is distributed far and wide over the surface, where new ICEBERGS. 197 strata are constantly accumulating. The number of icebergs delivered to the open sea in the summer season, of either pole, must amount to many thousands. It will be probably safe to estimate the aggregate area of this floating glacial material as not less than five hundred square miles in surface. It will also be reasonable to reckon that the dJbris from the circumpolar lands contained in these bergs is sufficient to form a layer not less than one foot in thick- ness over all this field of ice. On this basis we find that in one thousand years the sea-floor, over an area of one million square miles, might receive a contribution of d6bris having a mean depth of six inches. Although these reckonings are to be taken only as prob- able, or perhaps possible, estimates, it is evident from them that the land areas about the poles are rapidly wear- ing away, and that their waste is being deposited with extreme rapidity upon the floors of the oceans in high latitudes. While the massive icebergs are carry- ing on this singular work of depositing the waste of the circumpolar regions on the wide fields of the oceans, the ice- floes are doing a similar, and perhaps equally important, work in conveying the detritus from the shallow waters next the shore out to sea and along the coast lines in considerable though less extended journeys. In the winter sea- son, when the floe-ice forms or thickens in the shore-packs which beset the lands in high latitudes, the stones and other movable detritus of the coast-line be- comes frozen into the sheets, and when they float off in the spring season are rafted for some distance, and finally, but more speedily than in the case of the materials conveyed by bergs, are dropped upon the bottom. The car- riage is for a less distance, because the floe-ice, being thin, survives for a less time in the sea-water. The immediate effect of this action is to rob the shore- line of the d6bris which the waves have plucked from the cliffs, and thus to has- ten the wasting of the shores; it also contributes a large amount of detritus to the ocean depths. Although this ac- tion is of most importance within the Arctic Circle, its effects are felt all along the shores where ice forms to the thick- ness of a foot or more, and after severe frosts floats away seaward. Its influ- ence has long been remarked in the waters of the Baltic Sea. One of the English men-of-war which was sunk during the attack on the Danish fleet in 1807, was visited by divers seven years after that battle; its deck was found covered with blocks of stone which had drifted there in ice-floes. It is said that all sunken ships in that part of the sea quickly become overladen by thick debris. In the occasional severe winters which occur along the New England coast as far south as Rhode Island this floe-ice makes to a thickness of three feet. Un- der the influence of the strong tides and winds these ice-fields are often urged against the shore, upon which they break into fragments, which are crowded by the great pressure from above and below until they form extensive ram- parts which are frozen solidly together. When these masses float away they often carry with them bowlders weighing one to two tons, and drop them at a distance from the land. In their collision with the shore these fields of rock-covered ice exercise a very great disruptive force. At many points, even in southern New England, it is difficult to build piers, even of firm masonry, strong enough to withstand their assaults. The fact that these artificial constructions fail to withstand the action of this floating ice, shows how vigorous is the attack which it makes on the shore. All persons who are familiar with the coast of New England, especially those who have an intimate acquaintance with the dis- tricts of any particular portion of it, must have remarked the often conspic- uous changes which a very frigid winter brings about in the appearance of the bowldery shores. We have then only to conceive that in the geologic ages these actions are to be multiplied by the million-fold in order to make it clear that this agent is capable of accom- plishing a great deal of geologic work. In general this work is most effectively done in the embayments of the shore, for on the headlands the waves prevent the ice from forming, or keep it broken into small blocks, so that it cannot seize upon the large stones; in this way the 198 ICEBERGS. floe-ice serves to wear away the shores of re-entrants more than those of the headlands. Sand-beaches are but lit- tle affected by the ice which may form upon them, for the reason that the continual movement of water from the land side prevents their materials from freezing, so that they do not become entangled in the floe. As we have now considered the more important gener- al features which floating ice presents to the geologists eye ; it will not be un- interesting to devote a part of this pa- per to the questions concerning those masses which have a more human in- terest, viz., their scenographic quality and the dangers which they bring to navigators. In taking account of the place occu- pied by any natural phenomena, it is well to consider the effect which they produce on the ~esthetic sensibilities of man. From this point of view we must give a high place to the greater ice- masses of the sea, the bergs which come down from the circumpolar glaciers. There is an architectural splendor in many of the aspects of frozen water which is found in no other natural forms. Majestic as is the tumult of Niagara, the scene inexpressibly gains in sublimity when winter has framed it in an encase- ment of ice. The Alps and the Hima- layas have a dignity which is in but small part due to the hardy forms of their rocky slopes, but is lent them by the snows of their uplands and the glaciers of the valleys. Even the snow- sheets of an ordinary house-roof, and the fringe of icicles pendant from its eaves, may make the most commonplace build- ing a curiously impressive and pleasing object. There is, perhaps, no condition of frozen water in which this element of the picturesque is more pronounced than where it is exhibited in a fleet of icebergs within the regions where they have not yet been worn out by long journeys. Those who see them only in the usually traversed route between the American ports and Europe behold only the scanty relics of the vast structures which started from the Arctic Ocean months before. The charm of these floating islands consists, in part, in sin- gularity and variety of forms, and in the beauty of coloration; but in larger part the effect is due to the weird loneli- ness and lifelessness of their crags and steeps. Save for the splashing of the sea against their steep sides, or the hoarser crash of the masses which now and then tumble from the heights to the lower levels of the floating islands or into the sea, we may journey for hours through the berg fleet in perfect stillness. When the floating masses are near together, as they often are in the high north, where sometimes hundreds may be seen in a day, they break the waves and make an almost cavernous stillness in the space of water between them. The im- pression made on the mind by a strong sea breaking against a rock-bound shore, and that of a volcano in energetic erup- tion, are more startling; but it is doubt- ful if any of the aspects of nature, save the ever-familiar depths of the heavens, is so awe-inspiring as that exhibited by a great fleet of bergs as they come forth from the icy mountains of Greenland in their long southern voyage. One of the most notable of the mani- fold modern developments of interest in the external world is that which leads people to make long journeys to behold the more inspiring scenes of nature. It seems likely that in a few decades this relish for the flavor of scenery will, among cultivated people, become as well developed as that of the IRomans of the second century for the luxuries of the table. When this stage of our social development is attained we may expect that the fields of the ice- bergs will be as much visited by the seekers after the nobler aspects of nat- ure as are the ice-streams of the Alps certainly this world has no more im- pressive spectacles than those afforded by the high northern seas when their vast annual fleet of bergs set forth on their journey into the broad Atlantic. Against the good which is given us in the grandeur and beauty of the ice- bergs we must set the grave and inevi- table danger which they bring to the seafarer who has to traverse the waters where they abound. These dangers have always been great, but are more serious in this age of swift steamships than of old. Against the common perils of the sea the skill of shipmaker and ICEBERGS. 199 shipmaster, when at their best, can ef- fectively guard. The ocean is so well charted that there is no island in the usual paths of commerce, hardly indeed a rock which need be approached, the position of which is not well known. The art and science of navigation is so well explored and taught, that with the aid of his chronometers and sextants the navigator can often without risk al- most graze these obstructions with his keel. There is no longer much to be apprehended from storms; our abler commercial ships at least can make light of the winds which might have over- whelmed an ancient armada. Among the first class ocean-going vessels of this day only the armor-laden men-of- war, which are indeed rather floating fortresses than ships, have any serious reason to apprehend the results of a tropical hurricane in the open sea. But all these conquests of the modern sailor depend upon the application of skill to well-ascertained facts, and the difficulty with icebergs is that their position in the sea, where they lie until they melt, is essentially anomalous. The only information which the navi- gator can have as to the existence of these obstacles in his path is derived in part from the reports of the ship- masters who have recently traversed the path which he is following, and in part from the conditions of the air and water about his vesseL The reports of his predecessors may lead him to believe that in about a certain field of the sea ice abounds. If he be a wary person and fortunately for the ocean travellers these men are caretaking beyond the understanding of most landsmenhe will watch the temperature of the wa- ter and attend to the conditions of the air when he comes into the suspected district. When his ship enters into a chill, foggy atmosphere he will suspect the neighborhood of ice; if the ther- mometer shows that the water has sud- denly lowered to near the freezing-point, he will know that he is very near ice- bergs. But good as these indications are, they are not unerring. Small bergs, though trifling remnants of greater masses, though they may be less in bulk than the vessel itself, are sufficient to bring about the destruction of the strongest ship that floats, if the vessel encounters them when going at a speed of fifteen knots an hour. These berg- lets often float to a great distance from the main fields of ice, and being small, do not affect the temperature of the wat- er or the conditions of the air. Again, it sometimes happens that a strong. wind will drive the air and water before it, so that there is no fog about the bergs and no very cold water on the side from which the bergs are approached. These exceptional conditions make the path of a ship, which in the night-time traverses an iceberg-laden portion of the sea, the seat of grave perils. A collision with an iceberg has cer- tain elements of hopelessness which be- long to no other calamities of the deep. Colliding with another vessel, the blow is not likely to be so severe as to dam- age more than one of the compart- ments of a ship, the others may keep her afloat. An iceberg, owing to its un- yielding and massive nature, gives a much harder blow. Moreover, as the ex- perience of the steamer Arizona showed, the fall of masses of ice from the cliffs of the berg upon the bow of the ship, is likely to add to the damage done to her forward parts. When running against another ship, or against the land, there is always some hope of res- cue or of refuge for the shipwrecked people, either on the shore or the deck of the other vessel; but no more hope- less condition can be imagined than that of people who might seek a foot- hold on the inhospitable islands. The steep, generally overhanging, cliffs, us- ually deny access ~to their masses, and even if by chance the shipwrecked peo- ple attain the summit of the ice, they would have little chance of rescue, for no craft willingly comes near to those dangerous objects. It has been suggested that the men- of-war of the great navies should be employed in the destruction of the ice- bergs of the North Atlantic. Accord- ing to this plan the bergs are to be bombarded with great shells, which, penetrating deep into the ice and ex- ploding there, will shatter them to pieces. There is no doubt that this would be a far more profitable expen- diture of ammunition than the uses for 200 ICEBERGS. which it is designed; for any target is better than the dear-bought frame of man or the products of his skill of hand and mind; but it is more than doubtful if the end could be attained in this way. In the first place, to ac- complish the desired result, it would be necessary for the men-of-war to watch the exit of Baffins Bay in the spring-time, and break up the bergs into relatively small bits, so that they would no longer float with their bases in the deep southward - setting current, but would drift with the floe-ice. To do this, with several hundred great masses, averaging probably at least a thousand feet in cube, would require an enormous expenditure of money. Including the wear and tear of guns, the shells from the great modern ordnance cannot be fired at a less cost than five hundred dollars for each shell, and it would probably require many hundred rounds of ammunition to break up a single berg. It would not at all serve the purpose to rend the ice to pieces in the mid-Atlantic district, for there the frag- ments would float about and multiply the dangers of navigation; such work, if done, would make that region nearly impassable for a portion of the year, though from the readier melting of the ice the trouble would not endure so long. On the whole, this interesting project does not seem practicable. The only way to avoid the perils due to this berg field of the Atlantic is for ships to take a course which will lead them to the south of the tolerably well- marked field into which the icebergs journey. The detour which it is neces- sary to make, even in the years when the icc-fleets are most numerous and journey the farthest south, would be but slight; it would not add more than a day to the duration of the voyage. The fleeter scouting ships of the war marine might well be employed in re- connoitring the position of these ene- mies, so that their place would be well known to the merchantman. With these relatively slight precautions there is no reason why, in the century to come, when the Atlantic shipping is tenfolded in amount, this sea should not be traversed without any danger from this source. There is, perhaps, no other of the more majestic phenomena of nature which has so little in the way of veritable evils as those noble remains of the circumpolar glaciers; they have, moreover, a peculiar charm in that they are so far from the erring touch of man. AS ONE HAVING AUTHORITY. By H. C. Bunner. THE ramshackle little train of three cars was joggling slowly on as only a Southern railroad train can jog- gle, its whole frame shaking and jarring and rattling in an agony of exertion, ut- terly out of proportion to the progress it was making. It put me in mind, some- how, of the way a very aged negro saws wood when he sees charitable gentlefolk coming along the road. In the seat beside me Mr. John Mc- Marsters fidgetedfidgeted for New York, for the New York papers, for news of the races, for somebody to talk horse with, for a game of cards, or pool, or billiards, or anything that could be called a game. These were the things that made life sweet to Handsome Jack, and these things being denied him for the time being, he fidgeted. He tugged at his great fair mustaches, shifted about his seat, twisted and untwisted his long legs ; his face twitched and grimaced, and from time to time he swore under his breath in a futile and scattering way. Then his light-blue boyish eyes began to wander over the car in a blank, searching stare, and I knew he was looking for a real live sport. Yes, I knew he would gladly have exchanged my society for that of the humblest jockey from a Kentucky stable, and that our twenty years of friendship would count as naught in the balance. Yet I did not repine. It is the way of the world. I turned to my book and took a walk with Mr. John Evelyn to see King Charles go by. Suddenly I felt Jack grasp my arm. Say! he said, look there! What kind of a boss parson do you call that? He pointed to a magnificent old man in the dress of the church, who sat fac- ing us at the other end of the car. Hows that? said Jack, who had been graduated of the Bowery and dropped by Columbia College. Get on to the physique! Why, that man has no business to be a dominic. He was built to fight. Say! he must have been right in his good time when Hee nan and Morrissey were on deck. He must have been a beautiful man. How do you suppose they ever got him to take a religious job? John, said I, laying down my book, I know that your life is practically circumscribed by the race - track, and that you are a bigoted and intolerant sport. But will you tell me how an old New Yorker like you, and an old Ninth- Warder, can get to your age without knowing Bishop Waldegrave, by sight at least. Well, said Jack, flushing a little, I suppose he keeps off my beat; and I dont worry his very much. But Ill tell you one thing, my friend. I dont know much about bishops, but I do know something about men, and I pick this man out of this carsee? And Im going to make his acquaintance. What do you mean? I cried, aghast. Mean? repeated Jack. I mean Im going to introduce myself to him. He looks as if hed like to have a little talk with a white man. Whos that fel- low with himthat sour little prune? Thats his nephew, Frederick IDil- lington, said I. Is it? said Jack. Well, I bet hes just waiting for the old mans wealth. Ill bet it on his face. Say! what wages does a bishop get? Hes got big money, hasnt he? Thought so. Look at that English valet in the seat behind him. Thats the correctest thing I ever saw, and the correct thing comes high. Too correct for me. Im glad my man isnt like that. I wouldnt come home to that man at three oclock in the morning for five hundred dol- lars. Why, it would be just an act of holy charity to go over and brighten that bishop up a bit. Come along! I talked my best to Jack. I tried my best to make him understand who and what Bishop Waldegrave was, or rather had been. I told him that the Bishop had been in his time the greatest man in his Church, and that he was famous the world over for his scholarship, his

H. C. Bunner Bunner, H. C. As One Having Authority 201-211

AS ONE HAVING AUTHORITY. By H. C. Bunner. THE ramshackle little train of three cars was joggling slowly on as only a Southern railroad train can jog- gle, its whole frame shaking and jarring and rattling in an agony of exertion, ut- terly out of proportion to the progress it was making. It put me in mind, some- how, of the way a very aged negro saws wood when he sees charitable gentlefolk coming along the road. In the seat beside me Mr. John Mc- Marsters fidgetedfidgeted for New York, for the New York papers, for news of the races, for somebody to talk horse with, for a game of cards, or pool, or billiards, or anything that could be called a game. These were the things that made life sweet to Handsome Jack, and these things being denied him for the time being, he fidgeted. He tugged at his great fair mustaches, shifted about his seat, twisted and untwisted his long legs ; his face twitched and grimaced, and from time to time he swore under his breath in a futile and scattering way. Then his light-blue boyish eyes began to wander over the car in a blank, searching stare, and I knew he was looking for a real live sport. Yes, I knew he would gladly have exchanged my society for that of the humblest jockey from a Kentucky stable, and that our twenty years of friendship would count as naught in the balance. Yet I did not repine. It is the way of the world. I turned to my book and took a walk with Mr. John Evelyn to see King Charles go by. Suddenly I felt Jack grasp my arm. Say! he said, look there! What kind of a boss parson do you call that? He pointed to a magnificent old man in the dress of the church, who sat fac- ing us at the other end of the car. Hows that? said Jack, who had been graduated of the Bowery and dropped by Columbia College. Get on to the physique! Why, that man has no business to be a dominic. He was built to fight. Say! he must have been right in his good time when Hee nan and Morrissey were on deck. He must have been a beautiful man. How do you suppose they ever got him to take a religious job? John, said I, laying down my book, I know that your life is practically circumscribed by the race - track, and that you are a bigoted and intolerant sport. But will you tell me how an old New Yorker like you, and an old Ninth- Warder, can get to your age without knowing Bishop Waldegrave, by sight at least. Well, said Jack, flushing a little, I suppose he keeps off my beat; and I dont worry his very much. But Ill tell you one thing, my friend. I dont know much about bishops, but I do know something about men, and I pick this man out of this carsee? And Im going to make his acquaintance. What do you mean? I cried, aghast. Mean? repeated Jack. I mean Im going to introduce myself to him. He looks as if hed like to have a little talk with a white man. Whos that fel- low with himthat sour little prune? Thats his nephew, Frederick IDil- lington, said I. Is it? said Jack. Well, I bet hes just waiting for the old mans wealth. Ill bet it on his face. Say! what wages does a bishop get? Hes got big money, hasnt he? Thought so. Look at that English valet in the seat behind him. Thats the correctest thing I ever saw, and the correct thing comes high. Too correct for me. Im glad my man isnt like that. I wouldnt come home to that man at three oclock in the morning for five hundred dol- lars. Why, it would be just an act of holy charity to go over and brighten that bishop up a bit. Come along! I talked my best to Jack. I tried my best to make him understand who and what Bishop Waldegrave was, or rather had been. I told him that the Bishop had been in his time the greatest man in his Church, and that he was famous the world over for his scholarship, his 202 AS ONE HAVING AUTHORITY. philanthropy, his vast abilities, and his splendid oratory, and his power over the hearts and minds of men. I told him that he had long ago retired from active life, and that it was more, than suspected that his great mind was fail- ing with his advancing years. I tried to explain to the honest soul that our com- pany might not be acceptable to such a man. Then I made a hopeless blunder. Why, Jack, I said, think of his age! That man may have baptized your father, and perhaps mine, for all I know. That does it, said Jack, rising promptly. Its a long shot, but I take the chances. Im going to ask him. And he sped down the aisle. Three minutes later, I looked over the top of my Evelyn, and saw the Bishop and Jack holding the friendliest of converse, while Mr. Dillington glared at them in an unpleasant way, and the English valet took the strange scene in without anything in his face that could remotely suggest an expression. It is one peculiar thing about human nature that there is always a great deal to learn about it. But now I began to feel uneasy on my own account. I felt sure that Jack, in the simple hospitality of his spirit, would take me into his new friendship; and I felt that much might be par- doned to Jack that might not be par- doned to me. I went back into the smoking-car, which was in the rear of the trainit was one of those trains that travel down the road with one end fore- most, and up with the other end in front. I had smoked two cigars, and was wondering how long I could hold out, when my astonished eyes saw Jack Mc- Marsters appear in the doorway, with the Bishop leaning on his arm. All right, now, Bishop, I heard him say, as he and his tall charge got safely within the car, free before the wind I With athletic skill, yet with a gentle- ness that was pretty to see, he guided the old man to the seat which I rose to give him. Then, as w.e settled ourselves opposite, he presented me to Bishop Waldegrave, in his own easy fashion. I knew youd want to know the Bishop, he remarked to me, airily, after the brief ceremony was over. He did baptize my father, and he thinks he bap tized yours. Can you give him any pointers on your old man? I looked at the Bishop. He did not smile. He had accepted Jack just as all Jacks friends had accepted him. The old mans broad charity, and the profound knowledge of the world which he had possessed in his days of active service, had opened the way to his heart for all sorts and conditions of men, who bore the passport of genuineness. That passport being undoubtedly in Jacks possession, it made no difference to the Bishop that he spoke a peculiar dialect of the English language. Moreover, we had not talked a quar- ter of an hour before I discovered that Jacks interpretation of the expression that the old mans face had worn was absolutely right. His kind and happy spirit was yearning for good fellowship. There was that in him which craved better companionship than his cold and soulless caretakers could give him. The dignified, thoughtful lines of his face softened as he talked to us in an eager, pleased way, rambling on of old times and old houses, and the good men and the dear women whom he had wed and buried. He seemed to grow younger as he talked. But in a very short time he showed that he was tired, and, lying back in his seat, he fell into that curious light slumber of old age that is not all sleep, but is partly a dim revery. Jack watched him carefully until he was offas Jack expressed itand then he whispered softly to me. Great, aint he? Wish you could have seen the fun when I started to take him in here. Nephew tried to make him believe he didnt want to come. Old man wouldnt have it. Said he thought a cigar would do him good. Nephew tried it againI couldnt hear what he said. Then the old man got right up on his choker. His voice was just as sweet and mild as a May morn- ing, but when he put the emphatics on, it sounded like a chunk of ice falling off a five-story building. Fred-er-ick, says he, I am GOING into the SMOK- ING-CAR to have a little CONVERSA- TION with the grandson of my old FRIEND, Judge McMarsters. I will see you, Frederick, on my RETURN. AS ONE HAVING AUTHORITY. 203 Frederick turned pale green, and sat down. He just muttered something about sending the valet with him in ease he wanted anything. I waited until the Bishop had a move on him, and then I slipped back and tapped Nephew Fred on the shoulder. Look here, says I, your man stays just where he is. You may not have had a father yourself, but I have. You dont think I said too much, do you? Oh, no, not at all, said I, not in the least. He would have been quite justified in throwing you out of the car, thats all. That fellow? said Jack, disdain- fully; why, he couldnt lift one side of me. And I gave it up. Now, you said, continued Jack, nodding toward the dozing Bishop, that his head was going. Tisnt, though. Its nothing but old age. When a man gets to be as old as that, he talks a while and then he kind of loses his grip, just for a minutesee? All he needs is a little help. My old father was like that for the last six years of his life, and I learned how to manage him. When I saw he was like- ly to go to pieces, I just put my hand on himso-quiet, but firm; and I whispered to him very low: Steady down, Governor, steady downdont break! Then he pulled himself right together; and if he thought nobody had noticed him hed be just as straight as you or I. Thats the way to han- dle them ! I was wondering if this was the way he had handled Bishop Waldegrave, when the train began to slow down by a little variation on the series of jerks and bumps, and the negro brakeman put his head in the doorway and shouted: Ashe River Ferry! The Bishop still dozedin fact, he was fast asleep nowtoo sound asleep to be awakened by the bump with which we finally stopped. Jack and I went to the door and looked out. We saw a forlorn place at the forlornest hour of a forlorn day. Even in full summer, Ashe River Ferry could not have been an attractive town. Seen in the dim light of a late spring evening, it was a singularly depressing specimen of the shiftless and poverty-stricken little set- tlements that dot the waste spaces of the Southtowns, if towns they may be called, that come into existence solely to supply the special needs of some little group of railroad operatives. A dozen hideously ugly frame houses, for- ty or fifty negro shanties, a few acres of wretched farm - land, sparsely bris- tled with dead corn - stalks, one to a hill; blackened stumps spotting great stretches of half - cleared land; thin, sickly pine - woods hemming in the horizon on three sides; on the fourth a broad, muddy, dreary river, swollen and turbulent from the spring freshets, with the same poor pine-woods on the other side, scratches of black against the one pale-yellow line that cleft the dull gray sky to the eastward If one lived a hundred years at Ashe River Ferry, he could make no more of it than this. Looking out on this unengaging prospect, I was surprised to see Jacks face suddenly light up with mirth, and to hear him break into a low, happy laugh. Then he touched my shoulder and pointed down the track. Hows that for a joke on the nephew? he said. I looked down toward the river at the little ferry-slip, with its crazy piles and rusty chains. The ferry-boat, which was likewise crazy and rusty, could carry but one car at a time, and it had just started on its first trip with car No. 1 of our train. On the rear plat- form stood two figuresthe impassive English valet and Mr. Frederick Dii- lington, who was anything but impas- sive. We were too far away to hear what he was saying to the stolid deck- hands below him, but there was not the slightest need of words to explain the situation, or to make us understand that Mr. IDillington was executing every variation in his power on the simple theme of stop the boat ! and that his solo was receiving choral responses of it cant be done. And it was not done. The ferry- boat puffed and wheezed on her way as well as she was ableand, indeed, noth- ing but the strange stupidity of selfish- ness could have blinded Mr. Dillington to the fact that, in such wild and rough water, the clumsy craft could ill afford 204 AS ONE HAVING AUTHORITY. to go one foot further than was abso- lutely needful. Jack leaned forward with his hands on his knees, his face fairly wrinkled with merriment, and he crowed and chuckled with glee. Oh, Id have given a hundred dol- lars for this! he said. And if that boat gets stuck on the other side, I make it five hundred. John, I said, is not this one of the occasions when you are an idiot? What should we do if we were left with that old gentleman on our hands? Why, said Jack, heartily and sim- ply, bless your soul, Id take care of him! Id give him a better time than hes had in twenty years, too; and dont you make a mistake. That day, for sure, the gods were with Mr. John MclVlarsters. The ferry- boat did not get stuck on the other side, to his deep disappointment, but she fulfilled his desire by a different method of procedureshe fixed things, as he remarked, in her own blooming, pig-headed way. For, on her return trip, as she ap- proached the shore, she ran well up the river to avoid being carried past her slip by the furious current, and, mis- calculating her direction, came against the trembling old spiles with a force that wrecked nearly half one side of the slip, and smashed her own wheel-box into a tangle of kindling wood and twisted iron. Great C~esars Ghost! shouted Jack, pounding his knees with delight, shes done it, shes done it! Say! who do I pay that five hundred to? Do the niggers get it, or do I blow it in on the Bishop? I tried to point out some of the seri- ous aspects of the case to Jack, but he would have none of my remonstrances. Its an elegant, gilt-edged lark, he said. Im game for it, and so are you, when you get through with your preach. ing. Eloping with a bishop! Holy Moses! Wait till I get back to New York and tell the boys! But, said I, it may be possible to get a boat across the river. I will go and inquire. The veteran sport withered me with superior scorn. You may inquire, if you like, he said, till your inquirer breaks, but I dont want any man to tell me he can get a boat across that river. Why, I wouldnt take a ships yawl out there. Man, its half a flood! I did inquire, however, and was scorned and despised by every native to whom I addressed my inquiry; so we went back to the car to break the news to the Bishop, who was awake by this time. At first he took it quite hard. He seemed to be distressed and apprehen- sive, and said Oh, dear, oh, dear! over and over again, in a gentle, dis- mayed way. Then Jack took it upon himself to address a brief philosophical discourse to the Bishop. Everything goes, Bishop, he said; see? Weve got to take things as they come, and if they come mixed, why weve got to take them that way. One day you play in luck; the next you aint in it, but it all goessee? If youre all right, that goes. If you get it in the neck, that goes too. Thats the way I look at it. I dont know if I know, but thats the way I look at it. Everything goes. Is that right? Unquestionably you are right, Mr. McMarsters, replied the Bishop, and you do well to remind me of the transi- toriness of the annoyances which hu- manityis too apt to exaggerate into afflic- tions. But you will pardon an old mans grumbling. Old men, he said, smil- ing, are allowed to grumble a little. And I am sure I should be very thank. ful to have fallen into such good hands. Then, as he rose from his seat and rested his hand on Jacks arm, he cast a wistful glance at one and the other of our faces, and said, with a gentle dig- nity that honored us both: I am afraid, gentlemen, I may havc to ask your indulgence for the infirini- ties of a very old mana very old man. We made the Bishop fairly comfort- able in the station, and I stayed with him while Jack went in search of a suit- able lodging. It seemed a hopeless task, and I began to feel the weight of the responsibility that rested upon our shoulders. But within half an hour Jack was back, smiling cheerfully. k VOL. XII.21 DRAWN BY W. T. SMEDLEY. All right now, Bishop, I heard him sayPage 202. 206 AS ONE HAVING AUTHORiTY. Did you find a hotel ? I asked, eagerly. Hotel! said Jack, contemptuously. What place do you think this is, Paris or Saratoga? There aint a hotel with- in ten miles. But theres a friend of mine keeps a little sporting place down by the river A friend of yours! I exclaimed. In this place? Well, I just met him, Jack ex- claimed, calmly, about fifteen minutes ago. But he knows methat is, he knew all about me. He lost two hun- dred once on a horse I owned. Hes a first-rate fellowsee? and hell take us all in and do for us in elegant shape. Heavens, Jack ! said I, we cant take the Bishop to a place like that. Yes, we can, said Jack; its a first-rate place. Clean as a new pin. Regular old - fashioned sporting place. Nice old colored prints all round. Picture of Hiram Woodruff on one side of the door, and Budd Doble driv- ing Flora Temple on the other. My friend and his wife will turn out and give the Bishop their room, and you and I sleep behind the bar. If any of the boys drop in, hell see that theyre quiet, and there wont be any game to-night see? Oh, you neednt think I dont know the right thing for a religious swell. I had my misgivings, but it turned out that Jack had really done very well for us. Magonigles was an absurd little old two-story box on the very edge of the river, evidently a house-of- call for boating and driving men. The whole building was scarcely more than twenty feet square, but the interior was neat and cosey, and the little room up - stairs in which we installed the Bishop was simply a delightful little cabin, clean and sweet, and smelling of castile - soap and fresh linen. Ma- gonigle himself was a hearty, kindly little Irishman, and Mrs. Magonigle a motherly, fresh-faced little body, as small for a woman as her husband was for a man. The supper she cooked was, as Jack said, a great deal too good for the Prince of Wales. It was certainly quite good enough for the Bishop. It was broiled spring chicken, fried potatoes, and hot bread, and I shall re member it while I have a palate. Nor shall I forget the India pale ale. After supper Jack put his usual question to Magonigle: Say! he demanded, what is there to do in this town to - night? Now, dont give me any story about there being nothing. You know me. Theres got to be something. But Magonigle was firm in his assur- ances that there were absolutely no en- joyments to relieve the monotony of life in Ashe River Ferry. Its a dead place it is, sir. If we could get over the river I could show you, gentlemen, axing his riverences pardon, maybe a bit of a cock-fight, but on this side of the water theres noth- ing to see at all, and every man in the place will be at work the night long, mending the ferry-boat. Tis different in the summer, sir; but in the winter time its just dead this town is. Magonigle, said Jack, imperatively, turn up something! Magonigle looked doubtfully at Jack, then at the Bishop, then at me; and it was to me that he addressed himself. Well, sir, he said, theres some- thing what they call a revival meeting going on out in the woods. There do be some people takes an interest in such things. Theyre too sickly like for me, sir, with the women screaming, and having fits, like it might be, on the ground; but if yed like to see it Id be proud to hitch up the old mare, and its an easy ride for this part of the country, where the roads is the devil, if I may speak without disrespect for his river- ence. Niggers? inquired Jack. No, sir, replied Magonigle. White folks, such as they are. I dont rightly remember what religion they call themselves; for its no church they have here, only meetings like this three or four times in the twelvemouth, maybe. Jack and I looked at each other. There were limits to even Jacks audac- ity. We both started as the Bishops full, deep voice joined in the conversa- tion. Gentlemen, said he, I do not in the least wish to obtrude my society upon you. I feel that I have already AS ONE HAVING AUTHORITY. 207 given you much trouble; but, if it does not conflict with your arrangements for this evening, I should very much like to be one of your party. It has never been my fortune to be present at one of these gatherings, and it would deeply interest me to look on as a spectator. I do not feel that there can be any im- proprietyand it is a form of worship of which I have heard much, and which I should like to see with my own eyes. But, of course, if your plans And he stopped. Why, Bishop, said Jack, wed sooner stay here than leave you out. Magonigle, hitch up that mare! It was eight oclock when we climbed into what Magonigle called the carriage a vehicle that was neither an express wagon nor a rockaway, but partook of the nature of both. On a road so rough that to our Northern under- standing it was no road at all, we plunged into the shadowy, dreary depths of the pine-wood. The night was clearing, and through the ragged evergreens we could catch glimpses of a pale, wind-swept sky. The hot, moist, sickly smell of the pines and firs half choked us, the rough bumping of the wagon tired us and set our nerves on edge, and even Jack MeMarsters had no stomach for talk. We were all but dazed with weariness of mind and body, and with the smell of the resin-laden air, when suddenly a weird flicker of flaring torches played before our eyes, dancing slashes of yellow-orange slitting the deep gloom ahead of us, and dazzling our sleepy eyes. Faintly there came to us across the wind, that whistled and wailed through the trees, the long-drawn-out notes of a mournful, old-fashioned hymn, a dis- mal tune that I knew in my boyhood. It was one of those sad, stern, denunci- atory old hymns that to my memory still hold the very spirit of the dead New England Sabbath in the cheerless, hopeless melody. The singing ceased for an instant only; then there uprose a far greater volume of voices, tumbling over each other in a mad, rattling, ]ing- hug strain, a popular dance - hall air, shamelessly and grotesquely twisted in- to the form of a hymn. It was a harm- less jigging tune enough, but linked to the words which we could now hear in the lulls of the wind, it sounded like a profane travesty. lIes the Lily of the Valley, the bright and morning st(O, Hes the fairest of tea thousand to my soul. The Bishop turned to me with a look of troubled surprise. Did I catch the meaning of those words? he asked; or did my ears de- ceive me? I certainly thought I tried to explain to the Bishop that camp-meeting folk allowed themselves a certain freedom and familiarity in dealing with sacred subjects, which might be in bad taste, but certainly was not ill meant. But he checked me with a touch on my arm. Nay, nay, he said, in his old- fashioned manner, do not misappre- hend me. I had not meant to be un- charitable. Any tune goes with these people see? said Jack, so long as it is snappy. Thats The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.~ Is it, indeed? said the Bishop. Magonigle led the way, and we fol- lowed him into the circle of wavering, smoking kerosene torches. At first the light dazzled our eyes, but after a few moments we could take note of the picture of gaunt, uncouth poverty around us. We were in a little clearing of the woods where the stumps had been roughly levelled to serve as supports for heavy, rough-hewn planks, which were the seats. The straggly pines made a black belt around this rude amphitheatre. At the further end was a low platform of rough timber, where the leaders of the meeting sat. Here the smoky lamps were thickest, and they cast a yellow glare on a little patch of smooth ground that we could see had been trodden bare by many feet. Here stood one bench, separate from all the rest, which might have held a dozen people, but nobody sat there as we first saw it. Between two and three hundred people were scattered round among the other benches. They were all poor whites, children of the wilder- ness, a class apart by themselves; and DRAWN BY W. T. SMEDLEY. The Bishop, his eyes still fsr swsy his hsnds stretched ost seer the people went snPage 210. AS ONE HAVING AUTHORITY. 209 poverty, ignorance, and loneliness stared out of every sallow face. They all turned to look at us as we entered, but it was with a vacant, self-absorbed look, and then their eyes went back to the platform and the man who stood on it, or rather walked and leaped and stag- gered on it. He was a man between forty and fifty years of age, with a straggling beard and long hair ; tall, haggard, andhungry- looking, like the rest; but with a light of intelligence iR his face and a con- sciousness of power in his bearing that set him above his auditors. He was ac- customed to public speaking; his voice was harsh and unpleasant, but strong and clear, and in spite of its disagree- able quality it had certain curiously caressing and persuasive tones in it. We did not need to study the dumb, brute-like interest of the faces of his hearers to know that this man had laid a spell upon their dull spirits, and that he spoke to each one as if they stood hand-in-hand. Oh, my brethren, he cried, raising his long arms high in air, and throwing his lank frame forward in convulsive excitement; oh, my sisters, the hour is nigh at handthe hour of grace the hour of deliverance! For three days have we labored here, for three days have we sought and struggled and prayed for the blessing to come, and no answer has come. But now its coming, its coming, its coming, sinners ; I know its coming! I feel it right here in my heart! Oh, glory, hallelujah! Call with me, all of you, for its nigh at hand! Salvations right over you, right by your side! Its touching you right now! Call with me! Oh, Glory! Glory! Glory! A few weak cries came up from the outer edges of the throng. That wont do, shouted the revival- ist, waving his arms in the air and beat- ing the platform with his feet, that wont do! I want you all to shout with me! I want you to shout so that the Lord hears you! Now once more! Glory! Glory! Glory! thundered Jack MeMar- sters, next to me. Be quiet, you devil, I whispered, grasping him by the arm. VOL XII.22 Got to help them out, said Jack. Glory! Glory! And as his big voice rang out upon the air the whole crowd followed him as if a sudden madness had seized them, and the torches flickered as one wild, deafening shout of Glory! Glory! Glory! rose up to the bleak sky. The sweat poured down the preachers face as he joined in the shout, quivering from head to foot. Thats it! he fairly yelled. I knew it was coming! I knew it had to come! Now, who is the first to come forward? Who is the first to come to this bench? Who is the first to come to this throne of glory and be born again? Oh, dont wait, dont linger an instant, or the moment may be forever lost! Hell eternal or eternal life! Who is the first? Who is the first to save a soul from eternal hell? He stretched his arms out as if he were feeling for something in space. Suddenly the long fore-finger of his right hand pointed directly at a sickly looking woman on a near-by bench. Oh, my sister! he cried out, do you feel it? has it come to you? Are you the first on whom the Lord has descended? Come forward, come for- ward! Come to the seat of those who wait for the Lordcome! The woman arose, and slowly and feebly, her eyes fixed on the face of the preacher, she came forward as one who had no power to resist. I knew it, I knew it! the revivalist shouted. Come forward, my sister, and when you have touched that blessed bench grace will come to you as your soul wrestles in agony. I can see it working. I can see the hand of the Lord upon you ! The woman reached the bench as he spoke, and touched it with her thin, quivering hand, and a hysterical shriek, horrible to hear, burst from her. Every figure in the crowd behind her bent forward, and cries of Glory! Glory! rent the air. But none came from Jack this time, for the woman was ly- ing on her back across the bench, her poor, thin form writhing and twisting, clasping and unclasping her hands un- til her nails tore the worn flesh. I looked on with a shuddering sick- 210 AS ONE HAVING AUTHORITY. ness. My brain whirled. I could not make myself believe that it was real, that it was true, that I saw this thing going on before my eyes. Then I be- came conscious of a sensation of acute physical pain, and, looking down, I saw that the Bishop had grasped my wrist, and that his strong fingers had closed on it in a grip that seemed to drive the flesh into the bone. I understood what that grasp meant when I looked at his face. He was pale as death, and the features were fixed in a sternness that struck cold to my heart. And all this time the revivalist shouted to the sobbing, swaying crowd. Come,~~ he cried, come, all who would be saved from hell! Here is one who has the grace. Who will join her? Who will save his soul to-night? This is the only way, and this may be the only moment! Who comes forward for salvation?~ The Bishop was breathing heavily, with long, trembling breaths, but I no- ticed that his expression had changed. It was no longer stern. It was strange and sad, and his look was fixed on something far awayfar beyond the blackness of the black woods behind the madman who shrieked upon the platform. I felt a sudden fear, and turned toward Jack. He was not by my side. I looked round and saw him at the rail that en- closed the clearing. He was placing a white-faced child in a womans arms, and I saw by his gestures that he was forcing her to leave that place of hor- ror. In a moment he was back, and, with one glance at me, he sat down on the other side of the Bishop and laid his steady hand on the old mans arm. Come! screamed the man on the platform. Come and choose between the Lord and hell! Every soul here is hanging over the fires of hell eternaL Come and be saved! But already, on the bench, under it, and on all sides of it lay a score of struggling, agonized human beings, beating the ground, tearing their very flesh in the exaltation of fear and frenzy, choking, gasping; and through it all, shrieking mad and awful appeals to the Most High; while the crowd around them, all on their feet, shouted and yelled in incoherent delirium. Come! come! the voice on the platform rose above the din. Be saved while there is yet time.~~ ALMIGHTY GoD My heart stood still. The Bishop had risen to his feet, and his gigantic figure towered up as he spread out his hands above the crowd; and, as his deep tones rang out clear and domi- nant in that hideous Babel, a sudden silence fell upon them alL THE FATHER OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST, WHO DE5IRETH NOT THE DEATH OF A 5INNER, BUT RATHER THAT HE MAY TURN FROM HIS WICKEDNESS AND LIVE, HATH GIVEN POWER, AND COMMANDMENT, TO HIS MINISTERS, TO DECLARE AND PRONOUNCE TO HIS PEOPLE, BEING PENITENT, THE ABSOLU- TION AND REMISSION OF THEIR SINS. HE PARDONETH AND ABSOLVETH ALL THOSE WHO TRULY REPENT, AND UNFEIGNEDLY BELIEVE HIS HOLY GOSPEL. The madness had goneutterly gone out of that stricken throng. The struggling figures around the bench ceased to struggle. They raised their heads as they lay upon the ground, and every face in the clearing was turned toward the Bishop, wearing a look of eager wonderment which I shall never forget. The Bishop, his eyes still far away, his hands stretched out over the people, went on: WHEREFORE LET US BESEECH HIM TO GRANT US TRUE REPENTANCE, AND HIS HOLY SPIRIT, THAT THOSE THINGS MAY PLEASE HIM WHICH WE DO AT THIS PRES- ENT; AND THAT THE REST OF OUR LIFE HEREAFTER MAY BE PURE AND HOLY~ THAT AT THE LAST WE MAY COME TO HIS ETERNAL JOY; THROUGH JESUS CHRIST OUR LORD. And the people answered, Amen. When he had finished he steadied himself by my shoulder, at first with a nervous pressure; but in a moment I felt the tension of his muscles relax. Then, in a voice that was almost feeble, so tender had it grown, he turned toward the East, and, in that abiding silence, he pronounced the Benedic- tion. For a moment, until they began to disperse softly and silently, the Bishop stood erect, then he sank back into his seat, with one arm around my neck and one around Jacks. ARELY, very rarely, it may safely be as- serted, has your strong and hearty bachelor drawn abreast of the half- way post in lifes tire- some uphill journey, without one excursion, at least, into the treacherous fields of romance that lie on either hand so near the dusty highway. To avoid a precipice is com- paratively easy; while the road remains a road, a man has but to keep his eyes upon it and let the danger drop behind him. But where well-trimmed, level turf invites the feet, to try its quality with a step or two seems almost irre- sistible. And two steps are quite enough; for that smiling greensward is an enchanted carpet flung lightly over a quagmire, as the sages know. Any retreat is difficult. A retreat in good form without some loss of dignity is almost impossible. So one of the above-mentioned sages would have it, that to speak of falling in love is an obvious error, since Nature is always ready with her inclined plane, down which the blind follow the blind in per- fect confidence, and reach their com- mon ground of insecurity before know- ing that it is there. John Dalton woke one morning in Vienna to find himself, at twenty-five, a rich man, with no other aim in life than the gratification of his tastes, which were decidedly luxurious. He had no definite responsibilities, no family ties; for he was an only child, and had lost his mother in his boyhood. The sud- den death of his father, a retired New York banker whom everybody respected, and of whom he was devotedly fond, left him now quite alone in the world. He hurried home to busy himself for a time with affairs of the estate, which the executors could have managed quite as well without him. Then he was free as an Arab. He had never known the want of money; now, his income had increased tenfold. He was in no un- due haste to marry. There will be time enough for that, he thought, dis- covering no sign of baldness as he looked at himself in the glass, and de- ciding that his features, if not faultless, had a kind of distinction in them, and that his figure would probably hold its own a few years longer. He was some- what inclined to try his hand at litera- ture, somewhat more inclined to travel; and he finally determined to combine these two pursuits in travelling sys- tematically and in recording his ad- ventures. So he became a wanderer upon the face of the earth. Two years had died a very easy death while the immortal work which should have risen from their ashes still re- mained to be written, when this light- hearted traveller suddenly took the fa- tal step aside, and found his purpose complicated by a third pursuit, more ab- sorbing than either of the others. On a river steamer in Canada he chanced to make the valuable acquaintance of Major-General Sir Graham Leslie, then commanding the Canadian militia, a snowy-haired widower much younger than his years, the best of good com- pany, and WQtiously known as t~h~ JACK-IN-TH E-BOX. By T. R. Sullivan. I. A 5AYING CLAUSE.

T. R. Sullivan Sullivan, T. R. Jack-In-The-Box 211-224

ARELY, very rarely, it may safely be as- serted, has your strong and hearty bachelor drawn abreast of the half- way post in lifes tire- some uphill journey, without one excursion, at least, into the treacherous fields of romance that lie on either hand so near the dusty highway. To avoid a precipice is com- paratively easy; while the road remains a road, a man has but to keep his eyes upon it and let the danger drop behind him. But where well-trimmed, level turf invites the feet, to try its quality with a step or two seems almost irre- sistible. And two steps are quite enough; for that smiling greensward is an enchanted carpet flung lightly over a quagmire, as the sages know. Any retreat is difficult. A retreat in good form without some loss of dignity is almost impossible. So one of the above-mentioned sages would have it, that to speak of falling in love is an obvious error, since Nature is always ready with her inclined plane, down which the blind follow the blind in per- fect confidence, and reach their com- mon ground of insecurity before know- ing that it is there. John Dalton woke one morning in Vienna to find himself, at twenty-five, a rich man, with no other aim in life than the gratification of his tastes, which were decidedly luxurious. He had no definite responsibilities, no family ties; for he was an only child, and had lost his mother in his boyhood. The sud- den death of his father, a retired New York banker whom everybody respected, and of whom he was devotedly fond, left him now quite alone in the world. He hurried home to busy himself for a time with affairs of the estate, which the executors could have managed quite as well without him. Then he was free as an Arab. He had never known the want of money; now, his income had increased tenfold. He was in no un- due haste to marry. There will be time enough for that, he thought, dis- covering no sign of baldness as he looked at himself in the glass, and de- ciding that his features, if not faultless, had a kind of distinction in them, and that his figure would probably hold its own a few years longer. He was some- what inclined to try his hand at litera- ture, somewhat more inclined to travel; and he finally determined to combine these two pursuits in travelling sys- tematically and in recording his ad- ventures. So he became a wanderer upon the face of the earth. Two years had died a very easy death while the immortal work which should have risen from their ashes still re- mained to be written, when this light- hearted traveller suddenly took the fa- tal step aside, and found his purpose complicated by a third pursuit, more ab- sorbing than either of the others. On a river steamer in Canada he chanced to make the valuable acquaintance of Major-General Sir Graham Leslie, then commanding the Canadian militia, a snowy-haired widower much younger than his years, the best of good com- pany, and WQtiously known as t~h~ JACK-IN-TH E-BOX. By T. R. Sullivan. I. A 5AYING CLAUSE. 212 JACK-IN- THE-BOX. Czar of all the Canadas. That merry potentate took a fancy for Dalton, and unsuspiciously introduced him to his family, which consisted of two lovely daughters. Miss Leslie would surely have been held the lovelier of the two in any sober comparison, but the pe- culiar piquancy of her younger sister, Amy, attracted Dalton at once, and in one long steamer-day he lost his heart to her. Following them to Ottawa, where they inhabited Leslie Hall, a fine old landmark just outside the town, he was entertained there, staying longer than he intended, until, in fact, he had offered himself and Miss Amy had ac- cepted him. Then began their diffi- culties. When, figuratively speaking, they knelt before the Czar to make him their confession, he would not listen to it. He could not give his daughter to an American who hardly knew her why, he did not know her himself yet! There were other minor objections which a little persistence might have overcome, but the crowning one, which prevailed, was justly grounded, as even the fortunate suitor reluctantly admit- ted. Amy Leslie had looked upon the world but sixteen years in all; she had no knowledge of society, no experience of life: that she had learned to know her own mind was inconceivable. What right had Mr. Dalton to bind her by a contract the full force of which she could not possibly appreciate, which, when appreciated, might make her the most miserable of women? The mon- strous imposition must be stopped then and there. Amys marriage, at pres- ent, was utterly out of the question. At present!, Dalton caught ea- gerly at the saving clause, and when Sir Graham Leslies first paroxysm of dismay had subsided, inquired at what epoch of his daughters life the possi- bility of marriage, thus granted, might be contemplated without offence. Certainly not before she is eigh- teen, was the incautious answer. Ah, then we will wait, returned Dalton, in provoking calmness. Amy knows her own mind now, and twenty years wouldnt alter it No, indeed, papa, fifty wouldnt! interposed the cause of all the mischief? with flashing eyes. Two years, since you insist, Dal- ton continued. It will be a long en- gagement. Still But here, at the word engagement, Sir Graham Leslie grew purple with rage. There was no engagement, there could be none; there was nothing at all but an outrageous piece of folly and of wilful misunderstanding. Surely, a father in such a case had some claim to consideration. Why did not Mr. Dalton carry his child away by force, and break his heart? His child, at this, looked much in- clined to burst into tears, and Mr. Dalton, with difficulty, suppressed a burst of laughter which would certainly have made the old soldier his life-long foe. Then, preternaturally grave, he withdrew the objectionable word, and declared that an unfair advantage was the last thing he wanted to take. He had been inconsiderate, perhaps, but he could not say that he regretted a step which had brought him so much hap- piness. He knew his own mind per- fectly, and believed that AmyMiss Amyknew hers. She was young, of course; so was he, for that matter; so were they all, in fact. They could af- ford to wait, they would submit to any test in reason; they bowed before Sir Graham Leslies superior judgment, and were prepared to yield him every- thing but their love for each other, which could not be controlled. What, under these circumstances, did he wish them to do? At this conciliatory answer the hard- ened veteran was subdued almost to the melting mood. He begged time for reflection, twenty-four hours at most. And on the following day, ac- cordingly, he communicated his plan of campaign. The lovers were to part at once, and to remain apart for two whole years, during which they must pledge themselves neither to meet nor to cor- respond in any way. Until the end of that time there should be no recognized engagement, no obligation on either side; that each, untrammelled, free as air, might cherish the illusion or out- grow itto admit, in his own behalf, what appeared to them now impossible. Upon a renewal of their acquaintance (the dictatq~ strongly emphasized this JACK-IN-THE-BOX. 213 word), when the two years had elapsed, if they were still of the same mind, he pledged himself, for his part, to with- draw his opposition. He declared that in this he had no selfish desire to sacri- flee his daughters happiness to his own unreasoning affection. He must lose her some day, he knew; yet when that day came he must be sure of mak- ing her happy, not for a day, but for life. The conditions might seem hard, especially that interdicting correspond- ence; but upon that especially he in- sisted, as he felt to be wisest and best in case of serious illness it might be modified, not otherwise. Was it not a poor kind of love that could not sur- vive these, or indeed any, conditions for two short years? Upon his soul, he believed so. And, here, at the end of an unusually long speech, the Czar of all the Canadas stopped to take breath, and then inquired what Mr. Dalton had to say. Mr. Dalton said many things, none of which shook Sir Graham Leslies stern convictions in the least. The lovers, then, in their turn demanded time for consideration. After an agi- tated conference which, on the part of Miss Amy Leslie, was also a tearful one, Dalton reluctantly yielded everything, and agreed to enter upon his long term of voluntary exile the following day. The sooner it were begun, the sooner it would be ended; nothing should delay his return by a single instant when the end had come. At the an- nouncement of this decision Sir Graham Leslie was almost beside himself with joy. Having won the day at the point of the sword, he laid down his arms to become a pattern of gentleness and amiability. He ransacked his cellar for the oldest port, and drank the health of his victims many times over. It was impossible to resist his flow of spirits. The dinner, that night, went almost merrily. Later, hand in hand, the lovers strolled up and down the gar- den-paths, and called the clear August stars to witness their abiding faith in each other. The borders of box filled the air with a delicate fragrance, des- tined to be a~sociated ever after with that day and hour in Daltons mind. But, quite unconscious of this, he ig nored the minor sensation, and devoted all his thought to keeping back the tears from Amys eyes. His plans, breathlessly unfolded, left no room for sadness. He should write his great book at last; she must think of him as absorbed in that when he was not think- ing of her; on such a day he should be in Paris, on such another in London; one summer he should pass in the Tyrol, a part of the second in Switzer- land. He made the dates exact, that step by step her thought might follow him. Would she promise to note these auspicious hours in her calendar? and, further, when they came, to look up at the north star, and repeat the striking passage about it in the third act of Julius C~esar, while he from his dis- tant standpoint of the other hemi- sphere did the same? If the imperial hero in constancy was the star itself, he, John Dalton, was the needle pointing to it. No woman should come between themno man either, he hoped. Yet soldiers were dangerous rivals, and the Dominion was one vast garrison. What if? But here he broke off abruptly, for at the first suggestion of doubt Amys tears welled over. He assured her that he had not really doubted, that he could never doubt. So they talked and planned, and plotted, while the lesser, nameless stars slowly moved in their course round the unswerving pole. And on the next morning they met again to part almost silently. She lingered in the porch for Daltons last signal, as his carriage turned at the gate; then, not content with that, she rushed down the avenue in time to see it turn again toward town. But he was already looking forward, not behind. II. EA5TWARD FROM THE POLE. THOUGH no two minds ever worked precisely alike, all alike are human, and their processes are much the same. Everyone of us, for instance, upon un- dertaking a long journey, is so apt to find its first days the longest, that What! not a week gone! has be- come a commonplace of travel To 214 JACK-IN-THE-BOX. Dalton, roaming with a hungry heart, the first days were like months. Through them all he followed in rigid exactness the itinerary supplied to Miss Leslie; even declining the urgent invitation of an old Parisian friend (who wished him to prolong his stay for a few hours only), because the date had come when by agreement with Amy he should be in London. This contin- ual reference to the starting-point, with no definite occupation to offset it, re- tarded the pace of lazy-footed Time, which thus lagged inordinately. He unpacked his note - books and began work upon the very day appointed; but his progress was slow and painfuL Even at that dull season interruptions were constant. Then, too, the roar of London, the very consciousness of its surrounding vastness, unsettled him and made him long to know it better. Time and time again, obeying this im- pulse, he threw down his pen to wan- der out where the thronged streets were busiest; to turn from them for a while into the quiet Temple Garden or among the forgotten mural tablets of some City church, and then go back in- to the restless world again; until it became evident that his book would never be finished under these condi- tions, and he resolved to change them. The change had no place in his pre- scribed plan, but his guiding star suf- fered no occultation by it. For Folke- stone is very near London, after all; and it was there that he established himself, in a pleasant lodging on the Lees. From his window he could look up and down the shore to the pretty hamlet of Sandgate on one side, and the stern cliffs near Dover on the other. Along the low horizon lay the French coastline faintly discernible; he had white sails to watch, the flight of gulls, the trailing smoke of steamers; sea and sky and cloud were never twice the same; but the restlessness of nature is seldom a disturbing influence, and the interest of literary work is cumula- tive. Before long Daltons task ceased to be perfunctory, and as the sheets of manuscript piled up before him he dis- covered that he really had a story to tell, not especially profound perhaps, but worth telling, unless his hope was more than commonly deceptive. From the moment of that discovery the task became no task at alL Having mas- tered his subject, he was now complete- ly mastered by it. In vain he threw down his pen; the words that were to flow from its point, marshalling them- selves into sentences, attended him everywhere in his walk when the days work was done, over the breezy downs, along the high and bending head of Shakespeare Cliff, all the way to Dover and back again. Fresh ideas and chap- ters for the book came to him, he knew not how; until every breath of air seemed to blow that way. In the early days of his Folkestone life he had often drifted back to town for an idle after- noon and evening there; now, when he went up to London it was chiefly to supply missing links in his chain of rec- ollection, or to consult authorities for fuller data that he felt were needed; returning by an afternoon train which was never crowded, in which he usually found an unoccupied compartment where he could stretch out at ease and examine his notes of the day without fear of disturbance. One afternoon, lingering a little too long in the British Museum, Dalton arrived late at the station and jumped into the nearest first-class carriage just as the guard was closing its doors. There were already in possession two persons whose shade of annoyance in- dicateci that they had desired and hoped to keep the compartment to themselves. One was a man of middle age, prem- aturely gray, with fine, regular feat- ures, sharpened by delicate health; the other, his wife, as Dalton at once saw she must be, looked younger by ten years at least. Her face was interest- ing rather than handsome, the nose being somewhat too long, the mouth too large; but it was a face of great intel- ligence, and even her careless glance at the intruder betrayed its rare mobility of expression; thin, worn, and almost colorless, it suggested in repose a tragic mask, and this suggestion led Dalton to wonder if the woman were not an actress. He took a seat at the farther end of the carriage, making himself as unobtrusive as possible to his fellow- passengers, who evidently were English. JACK-IN-THE-BOX. 215 After the English manner, they soon began to di~cuss their own affairs, ig- noring Daltons presence; while from these confidences thrust upon him he learned that the man was an army oft- cer, going south on leave of absence. In time their talk languished, then ceased altogether; the husband opened a book, the wife leaned back, looking out at the vanishing hedgerows and stretches of landscape more gray than green in the dull light of a rainy after- noon. Her grave, thoughtful face at- tracted Dalton, who could study it without appearing to do so from the corner opposite to hers. He wondered what she was thinking aboutsurely not these Kentish fields, which she must have seen many times before. A peculiar resonant quality in her voice had pleased himmetallic, an envious woman might have called it, he sup- posed; he wished he could hear it again and judge if musical were not the proper word. Over the leaves of a review, he eyed her with increasing in- terest, half tempted to speak for the sake of her reply, cold and formal as he felt that its tone would be. Then his eye caught something in the page before him, and for a while this was permitted to come between them. The silence into which the little group of travellers thus settled down was sud- denly broken by an exclamation from the womans lips, followed by her hus- bands name spoken in alarm. Ger- ald ! she cried, starting up just as the book slipped from his hand. He fell to one side along the cushions, and, but for her, would have dropped to the floor. Dalton was up, too, in an in- stant, springing to her assistance, and together they stretched him at full length upon the seats. He has only fainted, she explained. Then, while Dalton lifted the invalids feet to prop them with a roll of railway rugs, she found a brandy-flask, and, kneeling be- side her husband, forced him to drink a little. This attitude revealed a beau- ty which had escaped Daltons notice until now, but which now he noted in all the nervous hurry of the moment. Her brown hair was thick and soft and fine, growing about her neck in a clus- ter of small curls very neatly and be- comingly arranged. She has style! he thought, as, turning toward him with a grateful look, she said, simply: I am so much obliged to you. I ought to have kept the servants with me. But it is long since my husband had one of these attacks, and they are not dan- gerous. See! he is better. In fact, the sick man, reviving, called for more brandy; after a full glass of it he was able to sit up again, and in his turn to thank Dalton, who, protesting that he had done nothing, as was indeed the case, introduced himself. At the an- nouncement of his nationality, Captain Gerald Ramsays gratitude redoubled; he at once presented Dalton to his wife, and began to ask all manner of questions about the States, display- ing the usual eagerness for statistics with more than the usual ignorance of American boundary lines. Dalton an- swered as well as his knowledge per- mitted, inwardly deploring this turn of the conversation, in which Mrs. Ramsay took the merest monosyllabic part. Once or twice the captain addressed his wife by name, which Dalton thus dis- covered to be Mabel; and, repeating this to himself, he decided that the sound of it suited her admirably. In due course, the train drew up at his destination, Folkestone, where his new acquaintances also stopped to await the first fair day for crossing the Chan- nel by the tidal service. When they had collected various encumbrances in the way of luggage, together with their valet and maid, who emerged from a second - class carriage, they whirled off to the hotel, after a friendly hope that Dalton would soon call upon them there. He did so that very even- ing, and was not sorry to find that the captain had taken to his bed, leaving Mrs. IRamsay to receive him alone. She would be down in a moment, the servant said; and when the moment came he felt sure that this early visit had been confidently expected. The soft silk she wore fitted her to perfection. Its gray hues, slightly iri- descent, suggested mother-of-pearl, and made the best of settings for her neck and arms; her only jewels being a thread of small pearls at the throat. If her face had its faults, her figure 216 JACK-IN- THE-BOX. was remarkably fine; and she was a little too conscious of this, perhaps. For all her motions showed a kind of studied grace which reminded Dalton of his fancy that she must at some time have been an actress. She had wel- comed him very cordially, but, as they ~alked, he began to fear that she was thinking more of herself than of him not unnaturally, he admitted, since what was he to her? Then, for the satisfaction of his own thought, he proceeded to discuss the London thea- tres, and, finding that she knew them better than he did, expressed an exag- gerated love of the stage and all con- nected therewith. You think it a career, then?~ she said, smiling at his enthusiasm. Of coursea great one. And have you ever tried it? No, said he; have you?~ One form of it, a little. I studied a while for the opera, in Milan. Ah! you sing!~ I did once. They called me the prima donna of the future. But the future never came.~~ Onceonce? Not now? Now, very rarely, she said, with a sigh. My husband does notis not musical But I am very fond of music, said Dalton, sympathetically. Wont you sing to me? If there were a piano There is one in the next room, he urged, rising and leading the way, as he spoke. We may have it all to ourselves. Come! She followed, and, sitting down be- fore him, tried the keys, while he leaned over the case admiring the effect of a faint color that had stolen up into her pale cheeks. There was a new light, too, in her eyes. He had thought them gray before, but now they looked al- most black. What shall I sing? she asked. Whatever you like best. Some- thing you sang in Milan. She hesitated a moment; then began upon Zerlinas song Vedrai Carino, from Don Giovanni, giving it, after the first slight nervousness was con- quered, with strong dramatic expres- sion, as if she were in the theatre. The clear notes of her ringing soprano en- raptured Dalton, and he begged her to go on. So she passed from one song to another, while one by one the hotel officials gathered at the doors to listen. Absorbed in the music, she did not ob- serve this; until at the end of a plain- tive ballad by Marzials, with sentimental words that set Dalton to thinking, the small audience indiscreetly applauded. The old air of indifference returned to her upon the instant. She left the piano and retreated to the inner room, accompanied by Dalton, who thanked her with effusion for the pleasure she had given him. You might have been the prima donna of the present, had you cared, he added. But I did not, was her careless answer; nor do I; that was a dream, and it is past. Let us talk of some- thing elseof yourself. Why are you quartered here, at Folkestone, of all places in the world? They sat down again, and Dalton ex- plained his work in detail, with all his hopes and plans about it; speaking of himself freely enough, except for one important reservation. To his affair of the heart he alluded not at all. Well? she said, dryly, when, after talking a long while without interrup- tion, he paused for breath. Well? he repeated, with a smile. I have been waiting for the ro- mance; where does it come in? Oh, said he, evasively, there will be time enough for that. Very wise philosophy! she re- turned. I like to see a man who is sure of himself; and there is no ro- mance without a beginning, a middle, and an end. Happy as we married ones are, marriage, at best, is not an un- alloyed blessing. Take time take time! Thanks for your advice, he replied, rising to go, with a sense that the talk had suddenly grown uncomfortable. I shall remember. Thank you for trusting me. Your book will have at least one constant reader. But I shall see you again? That is doubtfuL If the day is~ fine, we go on to-morrow.? JACK-IN-THE-BOX. 217 To-morrow! he echoed, in a tone of disappointment that made her smile. But where? You have not told me and I desire to send you the book if it ever sees the light. To Alassio, on the Riviera, for a time. Exactly how long, I dont know. No matter; I shall not wait for the presentation copy. And Europe is such a little playground of a place that we are sure to meet again. So this is good-night, and not good-by. They shook hands warmly and part- ed. As Dalton walked home along the windy Lees he looked up at the flying clouds, and feared that the storm was really over. He went to bed humming her last song, reviewing all her looks and words. She must have made up well for the stage, he thought. What could have induced her to leave it for that man? Money? Love? A little of both, perhaps. Ill swear she does not love him now. Yet she has herself well in hand. Well in hand! The phrase seemed so happily descriptive that he repeated it the next morning as he strolled down toward the pier. The capricious Chan- nel was in its gentlest mood, and there could be no better day for crossing; surely, the Ramsays would take advan- tage of it. They came late, when he had begun to hope they were not coming, when there was scarcely time to wish them well. But in that brief space he acquired a new impression of her, in a becoming dark-blue costume with silver chains and anchors and other accoutre- ments appropriate to the perilous voy- age. Her dress of the third act, he thought, as he took the final leave. The crowd moved up the pier; but Dalton waited on alone to watch the steamer course along over the quiet sea, while he hummed once more the little song of Marzials: The long, long years are over; The great seas roll between; They have utterly past asunder, From all that might have been! Stupid words! he muttered, breaking off impatiently. I must get to work again. But he did no work that day; in- stead, he went up to London, staying there over-night to see a play of which Mrs. Ramsay had spoken. It bored him, however, inexpressibly. And twen- ty-four hours later he was back at Folkestone, following the old chimera of his day-dreams. III. ROIJND ROBIN HOODs BARN. NIGHT on the Arno in the heart of Florence! IJuder the hotel window, midway between the Ponte Yecchio and the Santa Trinity, the dark-green water, swift and silent, reflects with won- derful distinctness all the architectural oddities of the Borgo San Jacopo; the little, melancholy church-apse built out over the river; the high, lemon-colored dwelling houses with their tiled roofs and lighted loggie, behind which a world is turning. In one of these a dinner has been in progress for an hour or more; there are flowers and Tuscan wine-flasks over which the guests ges- ticulate in merry pantomime, too far away for their laughter to be heard. The goldsmiths shops along Gaddis famous bridge are dark and still, but through the black arches underneath drifts down a boat with a flute, a guitar, and a voice in it. The music passes, grows faint, and fainter yetis gone. And John Dalton, with a sigh, leans from the window to throw his cigar far out into the water. One clear, steady lamp shines down from the fortress of San Giorgio. Beyond it, toward San Miniato, many twinkling lights stretch up to meet the stars; but the window faces the south, and from this point the pole-star is invisible. More than eighteen months have slipped away since Daltons patient in- dustry at Folkestone began to yield him signs of promise; and this is the first anniversary of his memorable date of publication. His book, having the good fortune to be accepted by one of the foremost English publishers, was favorably received, and soon made what is called a critical success. Avoid- ing the beaten path, it dealt with cer- tain by-ways of the world after a man- ner that showed on the writers pai t 218 JACK-IN- THE-BOX. not only keen observation, but also a descriptive power which Dalton had never dreamed he possessed. Its treat- ment was peculiarly happy in combin- ing lightness of touch with delicacy of expression; clever yet not flippant, the style suggested the after - dinner talk of a cultivated man of the world who has seen and studied much, but whose good taste restrains him from dwell- ing on his own exploits, and keeps his terms of pedantry in reserve. One or two chapters, where the author had ventured upon a digression to work up some travellers tale, had imagination in them, as more than one friendly re- viewer had declared. These good qual- ities, offsetting its obvious defects, had given the rambling little bookquaint- ly entitled Round Robin Hoods Barn an hour of popularity during which Daltons name had passed from mouth to mouth. He became a small lion of the London season; and flat- tered out of all proportion to his per- formance by fashionable women, who found the richAmerican of talent an im- portant factor in their social schemes, he began to accept their valuation, and to take himself too seriously. Since the present yielded him so much, what triumphs a well-ordered future might afford! But to think of the future was to remember that it had already ceased to be all his own. On the day that Daltons book ap- peared, a copy of it, luxuriously bound, had been sent to Miss Amy Leslie. And the return mail brought him a letter of acknowledgment which her father had graciously permitted her to write. It was long, beginning with a childish expression of pleasure at the sight of her lovers name in print, and then, after a few words of praise, com- ically extravagant, devoting pages to the assurance of her boundless affec- tion. Strange to say, the chief effect of this letter upon Dalton was one of disappointment. Still flushed with the after-glow of his first work, he demand- ed for it a kind of recognition that the writer seldom obtains; discernment of what he himself knew to be best, with a sense of the difficulties undergone, and of his skill in overcoming them. Certain passages of the book were there solely for Miss Leslies sake written at her, so to speak, as he hoped she would see. But instead of this nice discrimination, he found in her letter only conventionalities that irri- tated him; hasty, perfunctory phrases which the merest chance acquaintance might have chosen. He forgot that in her youth and inexperience, even sup- posing her to be gifted with divine perceptions, she would probably have lacked the power to record them; and he put away the letter, oddly indiffer- ent to what should have stirred him most in it, thankful only that he had the best of excuses for not sending a reply. Day by day thereafter the sim- ple, affectionate confidence she had manifested touched him less and less, until he could think of it only with a grave doubt upon which he did not care to dwelL The other presentation copy so read- ily promised at Folkestone had been set aside and never delivered, for more reasons than one. At the moment of issue Dalton felt sure that the Ram- says must have left Alassio; and though their change of address might have been traced with a very slight ef- fort, he took no pains about it. His authorship was already an old story, when, in one of the crowded London days, chance mention of the captains name brought out the fact that the in- valid had died suddenly on the journey northward. And his widow? She lin- gered for the present in Italy, it was believed. Exactly why and where no one seemed to know, and Dalton cared little. This was hardly the time to force his work upon her notice; if he communicated with her at all it should be by a sympathetic letter the thought of which was distasteful to him. He could not but surmise that her hus- bands death had proved a release rather than an affliction, and, if the contrary were true, their acquaintance, though of rapid growth, had been too brief to make the formality of condo- lence imperative. He let the whole matter go, and ended by forgetting it. Even her face grew dim and indistinct to him. One meets and admires so many new faces in the course of a years existence! Hers had fixed his JACK-IN- THE-BOX. 219 attention closely; but it had passed, in all probability never to be seen again. Time wore on. The book lived its little life and was succeeded by others in the light hearts of those who had been most lavish of their praises. Upon the withdrawal of the advertisements it disappeared from the book-stalls; its sale was over. That autumn is still remembered throughout northern Eu- rope as one of exceptional gloom, and in the shortening days of uninterrupted fog and rain Dalton grew restless. His friends were scattered he knew not where, his London lodgings were too dreary for endurance. What did his plans matter? He needed more change than a sentimental conformity with those long ago set down would give. So he fled into the sunshine and fol- lowed it across the sea to Egypt, through the flickering streets of many- colored Cairo, far up the Nile among the yellow sand-waves, where he led for weeks a life of barbaric simplicity. By day he explored strange temple courts in which the images of strange gods baffled him with their mysterious, ex- pectant smile. Strange stars, each night, rose higher in the southern sky; but the familiar constellations low in the north shone with unwonted brill- iancy, as if to remind Dalton that his responsibilities, though distanced, were not to be shaken off. A day came, in fact, all too soon, when the sunshine was no longer grateful. Driven north by the heat he travelled slowly seaward, embarked once more and disembarked again; lingered a while at Capri, then passed through Naples, Rome, and the hill towns to Florence, where he arrived in the best of all good monthsthe month of May. The leaves were fresh in the broad viali, and all the hedges were pink with roses. The blackbird and nightingale made their notes heard above the murmurs of the city, whose loudest noise has no disturbing harsh- ness of commerce in it; whose domes and towers and battlements, mellowed by time, seem to have become a part of the landscape and to have stolen their tints and shadows from the glo- rious hills. One shadow deepened heavily in Dal- tons mind on this incomparable even- ing, as the voice went down the river. The two years of absence to which he had committed himself were drawing to a close with a swiftness that dismayed him. The doubt he would not dwell upon now dwelt with him persistently. In these two years he had changed much, had developed out of his small success a new ambition. Could Miss Amy Leslie understand and share it? He feared not; in which case he was just the man to make her miserable. To withdraw from his bargain would be unpleasant. Not that he had decid- ed to withdraw from it; but the reck- oning day was very near; he must re- turn, and something must be decided then. The dire necessity haunted him like a ghostly visitant amid the sights and sounds of this Florentine night. Anything to forget it! He would go out into the streets, to the theatre, any- whereif only there were light and a crowd. So, descending, Dalton turned into the brilliant Via Tornabuoni and strolled along it aimlessly, with but half a look for the mosaics and minia- ture masterpieces of the shop windows, until a theatre placard on the blank wall in a side street caught his eye. He crossed to read it. Carmen at the Arena Nazionale! with a new sing- er, La Masary, in the title part! What could be better? The theatre was very near, this dim street would lead him almost to its doors. In another five minutes he had exchanged his two lire for one of the posti distirtti, and found himself under a glare of light in the heart of a crowd noisy and distracting enough to meet even his demands. The curtain had fallen upon the first act, and in the huge arena, which had no flooring and was half open to the night, the spectators partook freely of the cigars and beer urged upon them by the attendants with their shrill, hawk-like cries. Dalton made his way over the smooth gravel to his chair, and then scanned through clouds of smoke the groups in the boxes, neither there nor at his own level discovering a fa- miliar face. All looked excited and interested, and it presently appeared that the new Carmen had made a sue- cess. Three men in front approved of 220 JACK-IN- THE-BOX. her highly in the peculiar Tuscan ver- nacular garnished with aspirates, to which Dalton listened simply because he could not help it; until the curtain rose to the gay music of the second act, and he saw her perched upon the table, smoking, in the house of Lillas Pasti~ saw and knew her instantly. For the Carmen of the night was his old acquaintance, Mrs. iRamsay, and look- ing down at his play-bill he perceived in another moment that the name by which the public knew her was but the anagram of her own. Her song of the opening scene was thrice repeated; and in the scenes that followed she conquered all her difilcul- ties superbly. She was thoroughly in the part, technically speaking, all re- sources of voice, looks, and insolent coquetry of action being employed with an artists skilL As the Jos6 and Es- camillo were both established favorites, the performance swept along with none of those harshly arrogant interruptions which are often so annoying in Italy. When the curtain fell again, the gen- eral applause was unmarred by a sin- gle dissenting note. Dalton went out, found the stage- door and sent in his card, forgetting that she had a change of costume to make. In spite of that, he was admit- ted by her orders into the wings, where he awaited her coming impatiently; but instead came a maid, burdened with excuses. The curtain was going up; there was no time now to talk, yet she must see him. Would he not come to supper after the performance at the address here given? Dalton, feeling this to be a rebuff, accepted the folded paper stiffly with a word of thanks, but the determination to sup anywhere rather than with her. As he turned away, her voice recalled him, and she hurried out in her gypsy dress with a striped mantle jauntily tossed over one shoulder. The invitation was renewed and urged most cordially; he must not disappoint her; and Dalton once more accepted it, this time in good faith. Then she was called, and he went back to his place in the theatre and watched her success grow into a triumph, com- plete, unquestionable. At the final fall of the curtain the walls rang with shouts for her. La Masary! La Ma- sary! And she came and went in an- swer, her hand upon her heart, her cheeks flushed with excitement under- neath the rouge. The Villa Inglese, out of the Porta Romana! That was a long way off, but there could be no hurry and Dal- ton preferred to walk. He turned to- ward the river and crossed it by the Carraja bridge, considering as he went the surprise of the evening, the per- formance and its chief performer. She had been really very fine in the last act. That was her vocation, and he wondered how long she had been at it, for the talk overheard in the theatre showed him that this was but a repeti- tion of her success in other Italian cities. Long enough to lose some- thing of her indescribable charm, he could see that. She had gained some- thing elseshe was clever, a great art- ist, perhaps; interesting very, but with the old fascination gone, so far as he was concerned. There was no danger now of losing his heart to her, as at one moment had seemed almost possi- ble. His heart? Pshaw! That organ must be left out of the account, if he were ever to succeed in setting the world on fire. That was his vocation. And there was no romance without a beginning, a middle, and an end, as this interesting woman had once said. The end of his approached for better, for worse, with the prospect beyond it of a life free of all romance forever af- ter. The Villa Inglese stood at some dis- tance from the gate, half - way up the hill and on the left of the viale, so that its garden overlooked the town. It was a small house, plainly furnished in a style that would have betrayed its owners nationality, if Mrs. IRamsay had not spoken of him as a resident Englishman from whom she hired the place for the moment. She should never have a real home any more, she sighed. Dalton, though her chief guest, was not the only one, the others being Italians and of the troupe; her manager and his wife, her Escamillo and Michacla. Of their talk at table he could remember afterward very lit- tle, except that it was about themselves. JACK-IN- THE-BOX. 221 He watched his hostess with secret amusement at her eagerness to share in it, to discuss recalls and receipts, her past and present triumphs, her own personality. Through it all he detected the thirst for achievement; what was gained meant nothing in comparison with what must come. Her whole atti- tude toward life seemed to be changed. The change in her looks, too, proved greater than the mere lapse of time would have led him to expect. She was very simply dressed, to begin with, in black, without ornaments. As for her face, that had faded and hardened, but was still a striking one; before the theatre-public there had been no age in it. Dalton said less and less as the talk went on, and he carried through it all a train of his own reflections that be- came curiously diverted to a subject of which the present company knew noth- ing. The absent owner of the Villa Inglese, evidently a traveller, had cov- ered his dining-room walls with photo- graphs of many lands. And directly opposite Daltons chair, between a Ve- netian canal and a cataract of the Nile, hung that remarkable view from the bluff behind the Parliament House at Ottawa. The broad, dark river filled all its foreground; beyond were the roofs of the lower town, the great lum- ber-yards, the suspension-bridge with the Chaudi~re fall foaming under it, and over all the long line of the Lan- rentian Mountains. John Dalton knew every inch of that prospect welL As he looked now, he seemed to hear the hum of the saw-mill always prevailing over other sounds in the Dominion capital; he could swear that the near- est pile of lumber was the same which Amy had once compared to a huge Jack-in-the-Box with the lid tilted, as if the Jack were pressing at it, ready for his spring; and there were all the other Jacks in all the other Boxes, row on row. Then the thought struck him that he, himself, was just such another a Jack-in-the-Box with the lid still down! Someone appealed to him, and he responded intelligently enough. But his mind went wandering off again to the Government Grounds up there in the north. The thing worried hi]u. It was like a bit of his own conscience made visible by some new, mysterious process, and framed and glazed for his discomfiture. Come! said his hostess, in Eng- lish, as the smoke grew thicker and the statements more emphatic. They will never miss us. She led the way to a glass door opening toward the garden; just outside, in the lighted loggia, was a bench where they sat down. It is a pleasure to see you once more, she continued; you were so good to Gerald that day. I heard of his death, stammered Dalton, taken aback by this allusion; but he stopped, for her eyes were full of tears. She brushed them away, but others came. I beg your pardon, she said; I cannot help it; it is a remorse with me. I treated him so unkindly. That is impossible, Dalton pro- tested. You do yourself injustice, as we all do in thinking of the dead. I saw you together. I am sure Nono! I was brutal, and all the remorse in the world will not undo it. Let us change the subject, she added, with a strong effort to control herself; there are things I want to say to you. In the first place, your book! You have seen it? Of course. I said I should not wait for the presentation copy. I have read it more than once, and liked it. Taute grazie, gentilissima Signora! said Dalton, smiling. And the other? How does it get on? The other? Yes; the one you are doing now. Dalton changed his position uneas- ily. I am doing nothing, said he. Nothing? Nothing. Dilettante! You, at least, are not bitten by the tarantula! I envy you. You, on the crest of the wave! said Dalton, with a scornful little laugh. You envy me? In heavens name, for what? For the power to think of others a little and to make them happy. I have lost it. I am all for self. I live on the publics favor, and should die of its neglect. The thing was not worth the 222 JACK-IN- THE-BOX. price I paid for it. I found that out too late. I cannot help it now; I have the poison in me, the madness is incur- able. And as I saw you just now at table, I thought, He is mad, too ; with him the poets line has been reversed. He has missed the mans joy, gained the artists sorrow! The artists sorrow! repeated Dal- ton, gravely. The artist is one who has attained. Not the dilettantethe manikin, the Jack-in-the-Box that I am. In what a tone you say that! Some- thing is the matter with youI knew it; at supper, you were a thousand miles away. Three thousand, to be a little more exact, he returned; then, having stumbled into this admission, the time, place and mood all being favorable to a confidence, he suddenly resolved to make it. I may as well confess, he continued; the fact is Thereupon he told her in detail the story of his love-affair and his two years probation; he explained the growth of his doubt, his subsequent perplexity; the box, so to speak, in which he found himself, which had suddenly fastened over him anew at her own table. The problem has been difficult, he concluded; but I have solved it at last, and the way out is as simple as Alexanders. I shall break the haspmeaning my appoint- mentwhen the time comes, send a letter of regret, and never go back any more. She had listened to his tale with the deepest attention, but after a moments thought she only said: You have decided to do that? Yes; why not? It is the simplest way, the best way. The easiest, too, she said, signifi- cantly. There came an outbreak of laughter and light music in the room behind them, at which she rose with an impatient gesture. Let us walk in the garden and talk quietly, she sug- gested. So they went together down a dim garden-path into starlight and fragrant stillness, both to Dalton most disquiet- ing. For the path was bordered with box, and he recognized its fragrance; he looked up, and saw the north star like a sharp eye fixed upon him. It might have been that other garden at Leslie Hall, in Ottawa. But there he had compared his own true-fixd and resting quality to the needle of a compass. The needle, now, had suf- fered deviation. As they walked on, he left the first word to his companion, and presently she spoke it. You loved her, really loved her then, I mean? Yes, he sighed. At least, I thought so. And she still loves you? Yes; if her letter can be trusted. If you really loved her, you were happy, more than happy, then. I was supremely happy.~~ I am amazed that you can grant so much. Amazed, why? Because, remembering that, you are content to let this supreme happi- ness, this pearl of great price, slip from your hai~d without one effort to recover it. They had followed the path to a nar- row terrace in which the garden ended. The dark roofs of Florence lay below them; and across the nearer ones they saw the quivering shafts of light from the bridges, the great dome and tower rising, beyond the river, over all. But if, began Dalton; then, shift- ing his ground a little, we all make our mistakes, said he. Sometimes, when we least suspect it, she agreed; as you did here just now. For the artist never attains. He strives fiercely and more fiercely, cen- tred all in his poor passion; and what is the end of it? Look! Giottos tower is unfinished; so is Brunel- lesehis dome. But the joy of the conflictthe name he leaves behind him! The name! Who built the Pyra- mids? Who made our Venus there in the lIJfllzi? The joy of the conflict is a fine thing. But how much finer it might be if the conflict were not whol- ly for self - interest if its intoxicat- ing triumphs were reflected, not in the faces of the vulgar herd, but in the eyes of one! it is this that you are so JACK-IN. THE-BOX. 223 ready to give up. A woman believes in you and loves you, and it counts with you for nothing. But if I do not love her? Go to her, then, and say so frankly. It is only fair. You owe her that, at least. But I see. You are afraid of your own weaknessafraid to yield and to miss for her sake some high ideal, some di- vinity of art. Well, I urge you to go all the sameor, rather, all the more. You can never reach your perfection by climbing for it. The longest way round is the shortest way home, Signor Ambizioso. You will be all the better artist, being human. Hark! That fellow down below us is all for love, not for ambition; and we cannot ap- proach him with our art. Dont laugh listen! It was only a nightingale hidden in the thicket under the wall on which they leaned. They waited until his song was finished, and then turned up the path to the house again. It is only fair, as you say, said Dalton. I will go back, and break the news myself. It will be a dis- agreeable duty, but Ah, we all make our little sacrifices to duty, she retorted, lightly. And there is no joy like sacrifice, dont for- get that; the joy of the conflict is nothing to it. Who knows? You may, at this moment, be making the mistake of your life. You may live to thank me, three years hence, for asking you to do a disagreeable thing.~~ Oh, if you expect that, let me thank you now. It is safer. You will really go, then? You promise? Really. I have said so. Then I thank you, brother artist, for your tribute to my powers of per- suasion. So laughing and talking, half in jest, half in earnest, they came into the loggia, to be met there by a burst of song. Toreador, Taspett aspett amor! roared Escamillo; then the hostess looked back at Dalton and laughed once more. An omen, fratello d armi! But he shook his head, and whis- pered as they crossed the threshold: Omens are like dreams, they go by contraries. Iv. THE POSTSCRIPT OF A LETTER. Mr wife adds her congratulations to mine for your conquest of the Brit- ish Lion. What will become of you when no worlds are left to conquer? Meanwhile, in this one, we hope to see and hear you before the season is over. By the way, I have ventured to tell her what a word of yours did for us both that night, three years ago, in Florence and I wish you could have heard us laugh together after this revelation of my absurd misgiving. It wasnt ab- surd, then, though; and we owe it to you, dear prima donna of the present, that the romance of our married life, now nearly three years old, is but just beginning. ALLA SIGNORA MASARY, ROYAL ITALIAN OPERA, CovEi~T GARDEN. J. III~. GUERINS CENTAUR. By Mrs. Fields. BIROWN bird sitting under the shadow of a leaf proves to be the singer that enchants us; there- fore, when George Sand (in the Revue des Deux ]JIio rides, May 15, 1840) called attention to a new poem in prose, entitled Le Centaure, the world turned its gaze upon a re- tired and decaying chhteau at Le Cayla, in Languedoc, from which, indeed, the singer had already vanished, but whence a strain of music came which will not die. Two children of kindred genius were nourished in that ancient house. Five years before the volume containing the journal, letters, and poems of Maurice de Gu6rin was published, the public had learned to know his sister Eug6nie and delight in her wonderful letters. In- deed, Sainte-Beuve thought her genius equal, if not superior, to her brothers; but Matthew Arnold, to whom the Eng- lish-speaking world is indebted for a first introduction to the brother, says: No one has a more profound respect for M. Sainte-Beuves critical judgments than I have; but it seems to me that this particular judgment needs to be a little explained and guarded. In Mau- rices special talent, which was a talent for interpreting nature, for finding words which incomparably render the subtilest impression which nature makes upon us, which bring the intimate life of nature wonderfully near to us, it seems to me that his sister was by no means his equaL She never, indeed, expresses herself with- out grace and intelligence; but her words, when she speaks of the life and appearances of nature, are in general but intellectual signsthey are not, like her brothers, symbols equivalent with the thing symbolized. It is from Eug~nie, however, that we get most of the charming detail of their simple country life in the old chateau the close acquaintance with the peas ants who came to M. de Gu6rin (pare) for sympathy and assistance of every sort. Madame Sand does not make us see her own humble friends more clearly than we see these sometimes in Eu- g6nies journals and letters. But all the Cayla landscape, the pure thought, the knowledge of humanity, and the delights of rural life are crystallized in Maurices exquisite sentences. Maurice de Gu6rin died in 1839, when he was only twenty-nine years old. Suddenly, in the following year, when George Sand introduced his work to the French reading world, it was discovered that a new star had indeed risen above the horizon. Twenty-five years, how- ever, elapsed before two English essays by Matthew Arnold upon the brother and sister were published in book-form in America; and even in these only passages from The Centaur were translated into English. There were four children left in the solitary ch& teau of Le Cayla, when their mother died. Eug6nie was thirteen years old, and Maurice seven. The little boy was confided to the care of his el- dest sister by their mother on her death- bed, and he became the object of the tenderest, and what might almost be called a maternal, solicitude. He was sent away very early to school, and from that time they began a series of letters and journals which have made both their names sacred to lovers of nature and re- ligion. To neither of them does it seem to have occurred that these intimate com- munications might one day be published. The brother was especially unconscious and careless of fame. His sister says that he let what he did be lost with a carelessness unjust to himself ; and when we remember the quality of what he gave, how he furnished others much of what we all live by, how his presence and his memory were full of charm, it was natural that after his death his sis- ter should devote the few years which re- mained to her in endeavoring to make his ni~me permanent. She died without

Mrs. James T. Fields Fields, James T., Mrs. Guerin's Centaur 224-232

GUERINS CENTAUR. By Mrs. Fields. BIROWN bird sitting under the shadow of a leaf proves to be the singer that enchants us; there- fore, when George Sand (in the Revue des Deux ]JIio rides, May 15, 1840) called attention to a new poem in prose, entitled Le Centaure, the world turned its gaze upon a re- tired and decaying chhteau at Le Cayla, in Languedoc, from which, indeed, the singer had already vanished, but whence a strain of music came which will not die. Two children of kindred genius were nourished in that ancient house. Five years before the volume containing the journal, letters, and poems of Maurice de Gu6rin was published, the public had learned to know his sister Eug6nie and delight in her wonderful letters. In- deed, Sainte-Beuve thought her genius equal, if not superior, to her brothers; but Matthew Arnold, to whom the Eng- lish-speaking world is indebted for a first introduction to the brother, says: No one has a more profound respect for M. Sainte-Beuves critical judgments than I have; but it seems to me that this particular judgment needs to be a little explained and guarded. In Mau- rices special talent, which was a talent for interpreting nature, for finding words which incomparably render the subtilest impression which nature makes upon us, which bring the intimate life of nature wonderfully near to us, it seems to me that his sister was by no means his equaL She never, indeed, expresses herself with- out grace and intelligence; but her words, when she speaks of the life and appearances of nature, are in general but intellectual signsthey are not, like her brothers, symbols equivalent with the thing symbolized. It is from Eug~nie, however, that we get most of the charming detail of their simple country life in the old chateau the close acquaintance with the peas ants who came to M. de Gu6rin (pare) for sympathy and assistance of every sort. Madame Sand does not make us see her own humble friends more clearly than we see these sometimes in Eu- g6nies journals and letters. But all the Cayla landscape, the pure thought, the knowledge of humanity, and the delights of rural life are crystallized in Maurices exquisite sentences. Maurice de Gu6rin died in 1839, when he was only twenty-nine years old. Suddenly, in the following year, when George Sand introduced his work to the French reading world, it was discovered that a new star had indeed risen above the horizon. Twenty-five years, how- ever, elapsed before two English essays by Matthew Arnold upon the brother and sister were published in book-form in America; and even in these only passages from The Centaur were translated into English. There were four children left in the solitary ch& teau of Le Cayla, when their mother died. Eug6nie was thirteen years old, and Maurice seven. The little boy was confided to the care of his el- dest sister by their mother on her death- bed, and he became the object of the tenderest, and what might almost be called a maternal, solicitude. He was sent away very early to school, and from that time they began a series of letters and journals which have made both their names sacred to lovers of nature and re- ligion. To neither of them does it seem to have occurred that these intimate com- munications might one day be published. The brother was especially unconscious and careless of fame. His sister says that he let what he did be lost with a carelessness unjust to himself ; and when we remember the quality of what he gave, how he furnished others much of what we all live by, how his presence and his memory were full of charm, it was natural that after his death his sis- ter should devote the few years which re- mained to her in endeavoring to make his ni~me permanent. She died without DRAWN BY C DELORT. ENGRAVED BY H. W. PECKWELL. Sometimes also, my mother would return to me fragrant with the perfume of the valleyu.Page 227. VOL. XII.23 226 GUERINS CENTAUR. being able to publish his works, which was the chief desire of her heart, and it was not until twelve years after her death that the volume collected by his friend, M. Trebutien, was brought out. Meanwhile, says Sainte-Beuve, there had been time for Gu~rin to be imitated by other poets, who seemed altogether original by this imitation, while his own work was unpublished and left in the dark. How hollow the trumpets of every-day fame sound when we read these words when we think of this young poet, dead so long ago, crowned by the hands of the immortals! And yet how few of us are familiar with his work! The development of his nature went on almost in despite of school and col- lege. He was sent first to Toulouse, afterward to the College Stanislas in Paris, and finally, after a visit to his be- loved home in the South, we find him in Brittany, where he passed what may be called distinctly one of the ripening years of his brief life, and which Sainte-Beuve calls cette 6poque nourrici~~re de son talent. The picture of this wild solitude of Brittany, La Ch~naie, where M. de La Mennais had established himself, always surrounded by a group of young and zealous followers and students, is not only picturesque, it is moving and in- spiring. It is rendered with the fine power of an artist in the essay prefixed to the volume of M. Trebutien, of which I have already spoken. During the long winter in Brittany Maurice read widely; not alone French literature, but we find traces of Greek, Latin, and English favor- ites. He writes to Eug~nie: I want you to reform your system of composi- tion; it is too loose, too vague, too La- martinian. Your verse is too sing-song it does not talic enough. Form for your- self a style of your own, which shall be your real expression. Study the French language by attentive reading, making it your care to remark constructions, turns of expression, delicacies of style, but without ever adopting the manner of any master. In the works of these masters we must learn our language, but we must use it each in his own fashion. But his life at La Ch~naie was devoted to other things than lit9rature. The religious feeling, which was as much a part of his essence as the passion for nature and the literary instinct, shows itself at moments jealous of these its rivals, and alarmed at their predomi- nance. The descriptions of nature during the winter and spring, which are scattered through his journals and letters, it would be impossible to resist quoting if these few words were anything more than an introduction to his poem. Finally, I have seen the ocean, he writes, and the pen longs to transcribe what the mind cannot forget after once reading his de- scription of the talk and walk toward the sea; and finally the first view of les eaux resplendissantes. The last days which Gu~rin passed at La Ch~naie were full of sweetness, but a sweetness frequently disturbed. He felt that this retired life must soon end, and the vacation-days would bring the necessity of making some choice of a vocation. And so the end came, and the separation from friends and scenes which were dear to him; but the final choice was still deferred. The sadness of the change was softened by his be- ing admitted into the household of his friend, Hippolyte de La Morvonnais. He writes: See how full of goodness Providence is to me! Fearing that the sudden passing from the sweet, subdued air of a solitary and religious life into the torrid zone of the world might prove too much for me, I have been led from my holy retreat into a house erected on the confines of these two regions, where neither are we in solitude nor do we be- long to the world; a house with win- dows opening on one side toward the country, where men are stirring, and on the other upon a desert, where the ser- vants of God sing; on one side upon the ocean, on the other upon the forest and this is no figure of speech. The house is built upon the very verge of the sea. I wish to set down here some history of my sojourn, for the days are full of happiness, and I know that in the future I shall often turn back to read of my past joy. A religious and poetic man, and a woman whose soul is so perfectly suited to his own that it is like one doubled; a child who is called Marie after her mother, whose first GUAR INS CENTAUR. 227 gleams of love and intelligence pierce like a star through the white cloud of infancy; a simple life in an antique home; by night and day the harmonies of ocean; finally, a traveller, descending from Carmel on his way to Babylon, has left at the door his sandals and his staff, and seated himself by the hospitable porch. Here is something for a biblical poem, if I knew how to write about things as well as to feel them. This life affected him too deeply. With his extreme sensitiveness the calm and solitude were enervating he wept without definite cause. The time came when he was obliged to seek another atmosphere. No other course was left open.to him save the road to Babylon. We next find him in Paris, poor, fastidious, and with health which already, no doubt, felt the obscure presence of the malady of which he diedconsumption. One of his Brittany acquaintances introduced him to editors, and tried to engage him in the periodical literature of Paris. Gu6rins talent was so unmistakable that even his first essays were immediately ac- cepted. He made many acquaintances, was brilliant in conversation, careful in his dress, and a favorite in society; but the extreme delicacy of his nature made the life of the world impossible to him. For continuous literary labor, also, he was entirely unfitted. Happily, he soon married a young Creole lady of some fortune, whom, to use his own words, Destiny, who loves these sur- prises, has wafted from the farthest In- dies into my arms. But he rapidly be- came more ill, and, dreaming of the South, he was carried to Le Cayla, where he died in July, 1839. The idea of The Centaur, says Sainte-Beuve, came to him after a series of visits which he made to the Museum of Antiquities in the Louvre with his friend, M. Trebutien. He was reading Pausanias at that time, and was filled with wonder at the multitude of objects described by the Greek antiquary. So he lived like a man possessed; with his eye not on his own career, not on the public, not on fame, but on the Isis whose veil he had uplifted. He pub- lished nothing. The Centaur, like every other true poem, is really untranslatable; yet there is a stable value in the far-reaching thought; in its wide horizon, in the food it contains for poetic minds, which have made it seem worth while to attempt to give a full rendering of it into Eng- lish. The subtle values of a poem writ- ten in rhythmic prose are, of course, difficult to discern through the veil of another language; but the very seed- grain of poetry is in this work which we now reproduce in behalf of all lovers of ideal things. THE CENTAUR. I wAs born in the caves of these mountains. Like the river of this val- ley, whose primitive drops flow from a hidden rock in some dark grotto, the first moments of my life fell among the shadows of a remote abode, and with- out troubling its silence. When our mothers draw near the time of their delivery they retire into the loneliest depths of the caves, where, covered by the deepest shade, they bring forth, with- out a murmur, children speechless as themselves. Their puissant milk makes us surmount, without weakness or doubt- ful contest, the early hardships of life; nevertheless, we issue from our caverns later than you from your cradles. It is believed among us that this early period of existence must be sheltered and con- cealed, as if these days were occupied by the gods. Nearly all my youth was passed among the shades where I was born. The recesses of my dwelling were so far within the mountain-side that I should have been ignorant of the way out, had not the fresh winds sometimes entered, with sudden troubling of the inner air. Sometimes, also, my mother would return to me fragrant with the perfume of the valleys, or streaming with the waters which she haunted. When she came she never spoke of the valleys or of the rivers, but she was followed by their emanations, and these disturbed my spirit until I grew restless in my shadowy retreat. What is it U I asked myself this outer world whither my mother goes, and what powers reign there and call her so often to themselves? Are these For myself, 0 Melampus I sink into old age, calm as the setting 0oostellationsPRge 232. DELORT. GUERINS CENTAUR. 229 spirits opposed to each other, that she returns daily in such different moods? Sometimes she would come animated by the deepest happiness, and sometimes sad and weary, as if wounded. The joy that she brought with her might be dis- cerned from afar, influencing her step and overspreading her countenance. I felt it flash from her through my whole being; but her discouragement held me still more strongly, and drew me yet deeper into those conjectures to which my mind was already inclined. In these moments my own strength made me uneasy. I recognized a power which could not remain idle, and now by tossing my arms, now by galloping swiftly through the wide darkness of the cavern, I forced myself to discover, by blows which I struck out into the void, and by the passionate strength of my feet, whither my arms might reach and my feet might carry me. Since then I have wound my arms about the breasts of Centaurs, the bodies of horses, and the trunks of oaks; my hands have assayed the rocks, the waters, innumerable plants, and the subtlest im- pressions of the airfor I lift them when the nights are dark and still, to catch the breezes, and draw signs from them of the way I should go. My feetlook, o Melampus !howworn they are! Yet, benumbed as I am in this extremity of age, there are days when, in the full sunshine upon the mountain-heights, I renew those youthful gallopings in the cavern, and, unsatisfied still, I brandish my arms, and employ all the fleetness that is left to me. These periods of unrest were alter- nated with long seasons of repose. At such times, through my whole being I possessed no other feeling than that of growth, and of the gradations of life which were rising within me. Having lost the love of passionate action and withdrawn into absolute quietude, I tasted without fatigue the gifts of the gods thus poured upon me. Calm and shadow nourish the mystical unfolding of the inner life. Shades who inhabit the caverns of these mountains, I owe to your silent fostering the development in retirement which has so powerfully strengthened me; under your guardian- ship I have tasted pure life as it came VOL. XIL24 from the bosom of the gods! When I descended from your retreat into the light of day, I staggered and could not salute it, for it snatched me from myself, intoxicating me as some fatal draught might have done. I understood that my life, uintil then so balanced and simple, was shaken, and had lost something of itself; as if it had been dispersed to the winds. O Melampus! you who would under- stand the life of Centaurs, by what will of the gods have you been sent to me, the oldest and the saddest of them all? It is long since I practised anything of their life. I no longer quit this moun- tain-top where age confines me. The point of my arrows now serves me only for uprooting tenacious plants; the tran- quil lakes still know me, but the rivers have forgotten me. I will tell you some things about my youth; but these recol- lections, born of a tired memory, come like some mean libation from a ruined urn. It was easy to tell of the first years, because they were calm and per- fect; simple existence satisfied me, and that we can recall and relate without pain. A god besought to tell the story of his life would do it in a word, 0 Melampus! The course of my youth was swift and full of restlessness. Movement was my life, and I knew no limit to my steps. In the pride of my freedom and strength I wandered through all this wilderness. One day, as I threaded a valley seldom entered by the Centaurs, I discovered a man following the river on the opposite shore. He was the first I had ever seen. I despised him. See! I said to my- self; at best he is but half what I am. How short his steps are, and how difficult his progress! His eyes seem to measure the distance with sadness. Doubtless he is a Centaur unseated by the gods, and condemned by them to drag himself along in this way.~~ Often I found refreshment in the bed of rivers. Half of me struggled with the waters, while the other half bore itself tranquilly, and I folded my idle arms high above the flood. I forgot myself, thus in the midst of the waves, yielding to the attraction of their course which led me afar and conducted me, their savage guest, toward the varied 230 GUERINS CENTAUR. delights of their banks. How many times, surprised by the night, I have fol- lowed the currents under the branches which overshadowed them, as they brought down to the very depths of the valleys the nocturnal influence of the gods. My impetuous nature was thus tempered until only a faint conscious- ness of life spread through my whole being, as on the waters where I floated shone the glory of that goddess who per- vades the night. Melampus! my old age regrets the rivers; peaceful for the most part and monotonous, they follow their destiny with greater calm than the Centaurs, and with a more beneficent wisdom than the wisdom of men. When I came out of their deeps I was followed by their gifts, which accompanied me for days together, and lingering, passed away as perfumes do. A wild and blind inconstancy prompt- ed my steps. In the midst of the most violent race I would stop suddenly, as if I found myself on the verge of an abyss, or as if a god stood before me. These sudden halts shook my very life with excitement. Sometimes I would cut branches in the forest, and raise them above my head as I raced; the swiftness of my course stilled the rustling of the leaves, but with the least repose the wind again set them murmuring. So my life, at the sudden interruption of these impetuous flights through the val- leys, was set shuddering though all my being. I knew that the heat was rising and the fire growing that I had caught from the spaces I had passed through with such intense speed. I fought against the flood which surged within my beating flanks, and tasted in these tempests the pleasures which the banks of rivers know in setting safe bounds to an irritated life risen to its full height. At the same time, bowing my head to the wind which brought coolness to me, I looked up to the mountain-tops which had so soon become distant; I observed the trees on the shores and the waters of the rivers. The latter were swept on by a constraining current; the trees were fastened to the bosom of the earth, and could only move as the breath of the wind murmured in their branches. I alone, I said, have free action; I bear this life of mine from one end of these valleys to another. I am happier than the torrents which fall from the mountains and cannot climb them again. The echo of my feet is more beautiful than the plaints of the woodland and the noise of the waves; it is the sound of the wandering Centaur who guides him- self. Thus, while my panting body was still intoxicated by the race, I felt a glowing pride and turned my head, when I stopped, to behold my smoking croup. Youth is like verdant forests tor- mented by the wind; it displays every- where the rich gifts of life, and a deep murmur is forever heard in its green branches. Wandering at my own will with the freedom of the rivers, feeling the presence of Cybele everywhere in the shelter of valleys or on lofty moun- tain - summits, I bounded whither I would, like a blind and chainless life. But when Night, filled with godlike calm, found me on the mountain-slopes, she led me to the entrance of the caves and soothed me there, as she soothes the waves of the sea, letting those delicate undulations linger which kept sleep away without hindering my repose. Couched upon the threshold of my re- treat, my flanks hidden in the cave, and my head under the open sky, I watched the pageant of the dark. Then the strange life which had filled me during the day detached itself, drop by drop, and returned to the bosom of Cybele, as the remnants of rain caught among the leaves fall and rejoin the waters after a tempest. It is said that the sea-gods quit their sunken palaces by night and seat themselves on promontories, to gaze out over the waves. I watched thus with an expanse of life before me like the sleeping sea. Coming back to my distinct and full existence, it seemed to me that I was newly born, and that the deep waters which had conceived me in their bosom had left me on the moun- tain-top, as the waves of Amphitrite leave a forgotten dolphin on the sands. My gaze swept over the far distance. As upon wet shores, so the sinking sun left a light on the mountains which the shadows had not altogether covered. There the pure and naked summits still rose in their pallid clearness. Some- times I saw the god Pan descend, always GUERINS CENTAUR. 231 solitary; sometimes the choir of mystic divinities or a nymph of the mountains passed, enchanted by the night. Some- times the eagles from Mount Olympus traversed the height of heaven, and van- ished among distant constellations or into the haunted wood. The spirit of the gods began to move, and troubled the ancient oaks. You follow wisdom, 0 Melampus! which is the knowledge of the will of the gods, and you wander among the people like a mortal driven by the fates. There is a stone in this region which gives forth a sound like the break- ing cords of an instrument when it is touched, and men say that Apollo, who tended his flock in the wilderness, laid his lyre upon the stone and left its melody there. 0 Melampus! many a wandering god has placed his lyre upon these stones, but no oneno one has forgotten it. When I used to watch in the caves I believed that I might sur- prise the dreams of sleeping Cybele, and that the mother of the gods, betrayed by dreaming, would sometime let her se-~ crets falL I have never yet recognized any sounds save those that were dis- solved by the breath of night, or an in- articulate speech like the bubbling flow of rivers. 0 Macareus! the great Chiron said to me one day, as I tended his old age, we are both Centaurs of the moun- tains, but how different our habits are! All the labor of my days is spent in the search for plants, and you, you are like those mortals who have gathered and held to their lips some fragments of that pipe broken by the god Pan. Having breathed in an untamed spirit from these relics of the god, perhaps being smitten with a mystic madness, such mortals henceforth seek the wilderness, plunge into forests, skirt the waters, or lose themselves upon the mountains, borne onward unresting by their unknown destiny. The mares beloved by the winds in distant Scythia are not more untamed than you,. nor sadder when the evening comes and the north wind is withdrawn. Do you seek to know the gods, 0 Macareus! and from what source men and animals and the elements of the universal fire have issued? The aged Ocean, father of all things, keeps these secrets in his heart, and the sing- ing nymphs surround him, with their circling dances, to cover what may escape in sleep from his half-opened lips. Mor- tals who draw near to the gods by virtue have received lyres from their hands to delight the people, or new seeds to enrich them, but from their inexorable lips, nothing. In my youth Apollo inclined me to- ward growing things, and taught me to draw beneficent sweetness from their veins. Since then I have faithfully kept to my great dwelling - place in these mountains, restless, but always in search of simples, and ever communicating the virtues I discover. Do you see yonder the bald peak of Mount ([Eta? Alcides stripped it to build his funeral pyre. O Macareus! the demigods, children of the gods, stretch the skins of lions over their funeral pyres and consume them- selves on mountain-tops. The poison of Earth infects the blood of immortal inheritance, and we Centaurs, engen- dered by an audacious mortal in the bosom of a cloud made in the shape of a goddess, what succor could we expect from Jupiter, who has struck the father of our race with his thunder-bolt? The vulture of the gods tears eternally the entrails of that workman who formed the first maxi. 0 Macareus! men and Centaurs recognize these thieves of the rights of the gods as the authors of their race; perhaps everything that lives out- side the gods is only a stolen fragment of their nature, borne afar as the seed flies, carried by the omnipotent breath of fate. We are told that .ZEgeus, father of Theseus, hid signs and tokens under & rock by the sea, so that his son might one day recognize his birth. The jeal- ous gods have hidden the proofs of the descent of things; but on the shore of what sea, 0 Macareus! have they rolled the stone that covers them? Such was the wisdom which the great Chiron gave to me. Weakened by ex- treme age, this Centaur nourished in his spirit the loftiest discourse. His breast, still strong, hardly seemed to burden his flanks, which he surmounted leaning but slightly, like an oak-tree saddened by the winds; nor had the strength of his steps seemed to lose any- thing of their force with the flight of 232 THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. years. We might have said that he still kept the fragments of immortality, once received from Apollo, but given again to this god. For myself, 0 Melampus! I sink into old age, calm as the setting constella- tions. I am still strong enough to gain the rocky heights, where I linger late, gazing after the wild and restless clouds, or watching the rainy Hyades, the Pici- ades, or great Orion climb above the horizon; but I feel myself perishing, passing away like a snow-flake that floats on the waves. Soon I shall min- gle with the rivers that flow down to the vast bosom of the Earth. THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. By Duncan Campbell Scott. was a still night. Long clouds, per- vaded with a pecu- liar moony lustre, lay above the hori- zon; higher in the sky hung patches of diaphanous vapor, with a vast and steady outline, pierced here and there with stars. The very air had the seeming consciousness that awaits some event expected since the framing of the world. Even the black hill shrouded with pines, at whose base the river swept, seemed to wait. Over its crest, at first twinkling in the pines and then swinging clear above, the stars rose. Even the rapids seemed con- trolled, and their contemplative mur- mur was withdrawn and sounded afar off. Through the dense shadows of the forest, climbing a steep road cut into the bank high above the river, two fig- ures were toiling. The man, with a canoe on his shoulders, was of gigantic stature, and carried this burden as lightly as a feather. Behind him walked a young girl, who paused now and then in the ascent to gaze through the gaps in the trees, over the river to the hill, which covered the horizon with its shadow. After the steep there was a level piece of road, and then a descent, almost to the river. As they reached the foot of this hill, the man under the canoe gave a long whoop, and a few moments after a turn in the road brought them in view of a log-house, set back from the road. The door was open, and there was a light within. Is that you, Donald? asked a voice. It is, shouted the man under the canoe, and Maggie. Why Maggie; what did she come for? Came to see her father, I guess; besides, she may be of some use. She wasnt asked, and besides she may be in the way. This last remark was almost whis- pered to the giant, as he swung the canoe off his shoulder. Maggie, with- out speaking, went into the house; the man followed. There was only one room in this house; in the middle of the floor stood a stove, on a raised square of hard clay; around three sides ran two rows of bunks, one above the other; on the fourth side was built a sort of loft, reached by a small ladder; there was one window; the walls were discolored with smoke, and a smoky odor pervaded the place. Before Maggie OMara fell asleep that night, she heard her father and Black Donald talk over their plans. Is it the phosphates? said Donald. It is, youre right, Donald, its the phosphates. Is it a good show now? It is, youre right, its a fine show. You know, knowing the phosphates as I do, I would call it a damn fine show, and theres no use talking but it is. If it turns out well now, how would it show up? Thats rather hard to tell, Donald; you know enough about the phosphates to know that; its as hard to tell as how a woman is going to behave after shes married; but if a capitalist was to plank

Duncan Campbell Scott Scott, Duncan Campbell The Triumph Of Marie Laviolette 232-242

232 THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. years. We might have said that he still kept the fragments of immortality, once received from Apollo, but given again to this god. For myself, 0 Melampus! I sink into old age, calm as the setting constella- tions. I am still strong enough to gain the rocky heights, where I linger late, gazing after the wild and restless clouds, or watching the rainy Hyades, the Pici- ades, or great Orion climb above the horizon; but I feel myself perishing, passing away like a snow-flake that floats on the waves. Soon I shall min- gle with the rivers that flow down to the vast bosom of the Earth. THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. By Duncan Campbell Scott. was a still night. Long clouds, per- vaded with a pecu- liar moony lustre, lay above the hori- zon; higher in the sky hung patches of diaphanous vapor, with a vast and steady outline, pierced here and there with stars. The very air had the seeming consciousness that awaits some event expected since the framing of the world. Even the black hill shrouded with pines, at whose base the river swept, seemed to wait. Over its crest, at first twinkling in the pines and then swinging clear above, the stars rose. Even the rapids seemed con- trolled, and their contemplative mur- mur was withdrawn and sounded afar off. Through the dense shadows of the forest, climbing a steep road cut into the bank high above the river, two fig- ures were toiling. The man, with a canoe on his shoulders, was of gigantic stature, and carried this burden as lightly as a feather. Behind him walked a young girl, who paused now and then in the ascent to gaze through the gaps in the trees, over the river to the hill, which covered the horizon with its shadow. After the steep there was a level piece of road, and then a descent, almost to the river. As they reached the foot of this hill, the man under the canoe gave a long whoop, and a few moments after a turn in the road brought them in view of a log-house, set back from the road. The door was open, and there was a light within. Is that you, Donald? asked a voice. It is, shouted the man under the canoe, and Maggie. Why Maggie; what did she come for? Came to see her father, I guess; besides, she may be of some use. She wasnt asked, and besides she may be in the way. This last remark was almost whis- pered to the giant, as he swung the canoe off his shoulder. Maggie, with- out speaking, went into the house; the man followed. There was only one room in this house; in the middle of the floor stood a stove, on a raised square of hard clay; around three sides ran two rows of bunks, one above the other; on the fourth side was built a sort of loft, reached by a small ladder; there was one window; the walls were discolored with smoke, and a smoky odor pervaded the place. Before Maggie OMara fell asleep that night, she heard her father and Black Donald talk over their plans. Is it the phosphates? said Donald. It is, youre right, Donald, its the phosphates. Is it a good show now? It is, youre right, its a fine show. You know, knowing the phosphates as I do, I would call it a damn fine show, and theres no use talking but it is. If it turns out well now, how would it show up? Thats rather hard to tell, Donald; you know enough about the phosphates to know that; its as hard to tell as how a woman is going to behave after shes married; but if a capitalist was to plank THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. 233 down ten thousand dollars on this here stove for that there show, Id tell him to shove it in the fire. Donald whistled softly to himself. But theres somebody on it? There is; that is, theres a French- man. Well, whats the good of our both- ering over it; I guess hell hang on, wont he? Perhaps he will, and perhaps he wont; perhaps he could be coaxed off; and perhaps he could be scared off. You see, he dont know anything more about them phosphates being there than that girl Mag does; and hes only a Frenchman. Hes got a young thing for a wife there, and a little kid; and thats all there is to it. Well, and what are you going to do? Im going to coax him, and youre going to scare him, but Frenchys got to go. Well go over to the show in the morning and put in a shot, if you like. Is it far? No, its back of the lake, under a little hill like. The next morning a dense mist had shrouded the world; it filled in the gaps in the trees and hung close to the river; everything was dripping with moisture. It was so dark that Marie Laviolette had to light a candle to get the breakfast. Going about her work, singing softly to herself, she heard a sound a little heavier than the discharge of a gun. She listened, but it did not come again; and when her husband came in from his morning work she said, Gabriel, what was that firing back in the woods? Some prospectors letting off a blast, I suppose. I saw the little man they call The Tim OMara around here last week. Perhaps theyre finding phosphates on our land. Never a bit; no such good luck; Ive been over the whole place, and there isnt a dollars worth on it. But whether this was so or not, there was not a happier home on the Lievres than Gabriel Laviolettes. He had built his log - house about a stones throw from the river; it was as white VOL. XIJ.25 without and within as whitewash could make it. A group of sunflowers blazed against the shining wall, and scarlet run- ners covered the windows. The floor was as clean as the walls; just under the ceiling there was a row of saints pictures; there was the good St. Anne, and St. Nicholas with the children in the tub, and one of the Christ, with His wounded heart upon His breast. On a very high chest of drawers, that Marie had brought from her own home when she was married, was a clock, and when it struck a rooster came out and crowed. Her little baby boy, Desir~, watched every hour for this rooster to crow. Gabriel had the whole of fifty acres of land of his own, but most of it was covered with timber. He had cleared some new land, and had a fine crop of oats, which he was going to sell to the lumbermen for their horses. A few days after Marie had heard the shot in the woods, she took Desir~ in her arms and went back to where Ga- briel was working. He was where she had expected to find him, but as two men were talking to him, she put Dc- sir~ down and let him play about in the long grass. By and by the men went away. Who were they? asked Marie. The little man was The Tim OMara; the great big man was Black Donald McDonald. I dont like them; they look very bad. And theyre just as bad as they look; that Black Donald is the worst man on the river. I have heard tell how he has smashed a mans jaw with one blow. Oh, Gabriel, I hope hell never be angry with you. Im not afraid of him. Theyre over at the old shanty. And what did they want? They want us to sell the place; they say they will give us a thousand dollars for it. And what do they want it for? I dont know; I didnt ask them, and they didnt tell me. Gabriel, theyve found something on our land. Never, theres nothing on it; but he hesitated. 234 THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. But we wont give it up, will we? said Marie. Gabriel shook his head. Day after day Tim OMara came to talk it over with him. Gabriel asked him what he wanted the land for. I dont mind telling you, said Tim; I have found the phosphates back here about two miles, not anywhere near your land, but I want to get a clear road to the river, and your place is on the line. Were going to work that mine, and we want all this land for a farm, and for horses and such. Gabriel told Marie this. And where will we go if we leave here? she asked. Well, there are plenty of places. But this is our home, and besides, if they want our land for all that, it is worth more. Gabriel was wavering. The next time he saw Tim that speculator offered him twice as much. He had hard work to keep from saying yes, but he said Well, Ill see. Hes just about done, said Tim to Black Donald, if that little wife of his doesnt talk him over. When Gabriel told Marie of this last fr- o~ ~J so He had a pink blossom of hollyhock and a wooden horse, which divided his attention. offer she said, Gabriel, dont give in; Im sure they dont want it for that; they could get out to the river in other places; say No, and well wait and see what comes of it. Its always the way with you wom en, said Gabriel. Youre afraid to make a move. He was angry and went out on the river in his canoe; but Marie had won her point. Its no use, said Tim, the French- man wont budge. He will, said Black Donald, with an oath. I dont see why you cant leave him alone, theres plenty of phosphates ly- ing around, said Maggie, who was leaning against the door looking across the river. What do you know about phos- phates? I was back and looked at the show. Her father jumped up and came over to her. Will you give the thing away? he said. Let go of me, Ill do as I please, she said, sullenly, shaking him off. That girls taken a shine to Frenchy, he said. Cant you leave her alone, said Black Donald, with a scowl. So they all fought and did not speak for three days. One day when Marie was working outside, she took Desir~ and put him on the grass to play. He had a pink blossom of hollyhock and a wooden horse, which divided his attention. He would throw the flower as far as he could, and then crawl after it and come back and present it to the horse, which stood stolidly observing the proceed- ings. Marie kept her eye on him, and called to him not to get too near the edge of the bank, and once she had to go and lift him back to safety. Then she left him and went into the house. When she came back, after a moment, he was nowhere to be seen. There stood the wooden horse headed to the river; but Desir~ was not by. She ran to the edge of the bank and looked over; he was not there; he could not have crept as far as the bushes, she had only been away a moment. She rushed into the house and gave one hurried glance at the cradle. She felt faint; Desir~, she cried, Desire! and listened. There was no cry in answer; she ran into the bushes an4 then back, crying out all the time Dc THE TRIUMPH OP MARIE LAVIOLETTE. 235 V sir~, Desir~t! Then she rushed down to the landing and looked along the shore. There was nothing; he was not there. But something caught her eye in the water; her heart stopped; slowly in the turn of an eddy rose the pink hollyhock blossom. She darted into the water with a scream, and hold- ing on by a bush waded in up to her waist, and leaned far enough out to catch it as it rounded with the swirl. Then her one thought was for Gabriel; he could swim and dive, and she could do nothing. So she ran back through the garden and into the clearance, shouting Gabriel, Gabriel! She knew he was back at the lake nearly a mile away. On she went, struggling over the uneven ground, calling out as she caught her breath, and almost fall- ing with terror and fatigue, until at last her voice reached him where he was working. Before Marie had returned to the river, Gabriel had dived time and again, and was standing up in his canoe pad- dling slowly with the current. Down he went; and Marie climbed the point and sank there to watch him. He went right into the head of the rapid, until she thought he would go over; but he turned and caine back. Then he pad- dled about the shores until almost dark, Marie watching him in a sort of dream. Suddenly he called out Desir~, with a loud, choking cry. Marie answered him from the bank, and crying Desir~, Gabriel! ran along the shore to the landing. The summer days passed; but how heavily without Desir& . Marie could not bear to look at the river; she tried not to think of it, and would shut her eyes when she went out, and not open them until she had turned away. She had pressed the hollyhock in her prayer- book; the wooden horse and the cradle she kept by themselves, until Gabriel would not let her have them, she cried so much, and hid them away and would not tell her where. Black Donald and Tim were seldom seen; they made no overtures for the place, and seemed to have forgotten they had a desire for it. Maggie was the only one who seemed to pay any at- tention to her neighbors. Twice, when Gabriel was mowing, she rose almost from under his eyes, as he paused to whet his scythe, and went trailing Then he paddled about the shores until almost dark Marie watching him in a sort ot dream 236 THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. through the grass, giving him a look over her shoulder. Then she would sit watching coolly from the bush as Marie and he turned the hay. This enraged Black Donald. ~ The girls daft on the Frenchman, he said one night to Tim. That gentleman was mending a pair of shoe-packs beside a smoky coal-oil lamp. Maggies a fine girl, said he. And what for do you say that? Because you are too coarse, Donald; if you were educated, now, you might carry on the negotiations in French with Frenchy; and theres no telling what would come of it. Come of itIll French him. Ill talk to him in a language he can under- stand. Ill fire his hay for him, and see how he likes that. There was a silence, broken only by the pulling of Tims threads, and Don- alds hard breathing. That mightnt be a bad idea, said the former, quietly; to warm him up a bit. But no more was said about it, and Black Don- ald went off to Paltimore in a rage with Maggie. Gabriel had built his stack in the field and was cutting his last hay; when he had circled round a charred stump and had cut the hay clean away from it, he noticed a piece of paper pinned there. He pulled it off; there was writing on it; English writing. Gabriel put it in his hat and showed it to Marie. She read it to him. Look out, Mr. Lavo- let, watch that hay, thats wats the ma- ter, it may get skorchd. It means that theyll burn the stack, Oh, Gabriel ! Theyll burn the stack, will they; well, let them try, thats all. I cant sit out there and watch it all night, but if they burn my hay and here he brought his fist down on the table, thinking of all the work he had had with it ; but he did not finish his threat. Every morning at gray daylight he walked out to his field; but two weeks passed and no sign of fire was on the stack. Marie used to go out and help Ga- briel with his work; she was so lonely. I wish youd sing a bit, he said. Gabriel, I couldnt sing. Sing now Sur le pont dAvignon. He tried to start it himself; she joined in and he let her finish it alone. Thats good, he smiled; but Marie com- menced to cry. Gabriel went on with his work bitterly. When Marie went home to get sup- per, she found a scrap of paper pinned to the door. She read it with her hand on the latch. Missus, your little kid ant drown, thats all; if you go of that land thats all right, but if you dont go hes safe enuf, but you wont hay him. Marie hung to the door for support; then she went in and had to sit down, trembling all over. She went about her work wildly. Now she was all for giving up the land. Ill have him back, her heart cried, my little boy; Ill have him back again. She let Gabriel sit at his supper for a minute as if nothing had happened, then she cried out Hes alive, Desir~ isnt drowned! He thought she had gone crazy. She went on, leaving her place and going over to him. There, this paper says so; I can have him back if we only leave the land and let them have it. The land? cried Gabriel, with an angry accent. Oh, Gabriel, whats the good of the land to us without Desir~! Let them have it. The land? Let who have it? The Black Donald and the little man.~~ Never, Ill never let them have it. Marie tried to coax him, but he would not hear. He was angry, and struck the table, and broke his dish. You women are always talking, he said; and then he was silent. He did not eat a thing, but Marie sat and watched him thinking. He walked up and down for a while, and then went out. As it was getting quite dark, Marie lit a candle. It threw a light on Gabriel, who came in carrying Desir& s cradle and the wooden horse. Marie flung her arms around his neck and commenced to cry softly; she thought He has made up his mind to sell the land. When she asked him that, he said, No, I am going to have Desir~, and I am not going to sell the land. Then a terrible look came into his eyes, and he walked to and fro and then THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. 237 stood and glared at the floor, with his was answered from the black hill, re- hands in his pockets. Marie was bounding across the rapids. Marie frightened when she saw him take up kept close to Gabriel, who walked fast; his hat; she put herself against the door. I am going to get IDesir~, he said. She could not keep him, but she snatched her shawl, threw it over her head, and followed. It was bright star- light; a whippoorwill in the dark woods gave his notes boldly; his call she wanted to say something to him about being careful, but she wanted to get Desir~ and she did not know what to say. Just as they got to the door she touched him on the shoulder. He did not feel her; he struck the door with his fist and shoved it open. The room was dimly lighted; by the She read it with her hand on the latch. 238 THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. stove, in which a little fire was burning, Tim sat hunched together smoking; Black Donald was smoothing a whip- handle; Maggie was hidden in the shadow. I want my boy, said Gabriel. No one spoke for a moment; then Tim glanced up at Black Donald. He wants his boy, you know! What have I got to do with his boy? One of you devils has got my little boy, Desir~, and I have come to have him or I want to know the reason. Your little boy aint here, mister. He is, or youve got him some- where, and Im going to have him, or else Ill kill somebody before I move out of here. I guess, said Black Donald, put- ting down the stick and rising slowly to his full height, youd better kill me. Marie, standing by the door, gave a little moan, and hid her face in her shawL Gabriel stood with his hands by his side as Black Donald came on. Youd better go away, Mr. Lavi- let, he said, reaching out one big hand for his shoulder. Gabriel tossed it aside and stepped back. Black Donald hit down on him and broke through his guard. Gabriel staggered, but re- covered himself, and gathering all his force, sprang and struck at the same time. Black Donald flew off his feet and fell crashing into the stove, knock- ing it off its legs; the pipes came down with a clatter. He did not move. Mag- gie was down over him, holding up his head; her hand showed some blood. Youd better get away before you kill me, said Tim, who was bringing some water in a dish. Gabriel strode out past Marie ; she followed him, but just on the threshold she turned about and called, Desir~! Desir~! very clearly; but there was no answer. She cast a glance at the group by the dismantled stove; a thin smoke from the fire was ascending into the room and travelling along the raft- ers; the wounded man lay immova- ble. The night was as clear as before, only the whippoorwill had come over the river and was in the woods, and the two birds moved about, singing monoto- nously. The rapids roared below the black hill, with no sound beyond. Gabriel owned he had spoiled every- thing by fighting. Now well never get him back, he said, moodily. Marie turned white; she could not blame him, because she had let him go without try- ing to hold him. One night, just a week after his fight with Black Donald, Gabriel woke up to see a glow on the walL He sprang out of bed and looked from the window; there was a glare in the sky. Marie sprang up and lit a candle. Thats the hay, sure, said Gabriel, as he struggled into his clothes. He snatched his gun and ran out. Marie bolted the door and put out the can- dle; then she sat and cried; and the fire on the wall swelled and wavered through her tears. When Gabriel got to the stack it was burning up straight into the air. He could do nothing; he stood and watched it blaze. Gradually it smouldered down, and in a transport of rage, he fired his gun into the woods. An owl commenced to hoot, and he went home, half blinded, through the dark. Black Donald had set fire to the hay; Tim did not try to prevent him, and Maggie could not. He went about with his head tied up in a red handkerchief, and he swore, as deep as he knew, not to take it off until he had his revenge. But the burning of the stack did not satisfy him. I must have a shot at him, he growled to himself. He was still angry at Mag- gie. One night she went out and did not come back until late ; this time he was furious and commenced to break things like a child. Tim got up on one of the highest bunks and kept perfect- ly still, while Donald raged underneath. When the girl came in, he sat down still for a while, then he said, quietly enough: Where have you been? Thats none of your business, she said. He leaped up and caught her around the neck. Tim raised a doleful howl from the bunk, and, as Donald was near enough, he threw a blanket over his head. He let Maggie go and threw off the blanket; then he pulled Tim down, threw him on the floor, and stood r DRAWN BY CHESTER LOOMIS. When Gabriel came in he stood ap just as if he had been toldPage 241. 240 THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. over him for a minute. Then he went Gabriel had waited for the bear. She out and did not come back that night. laid dowu on the staud and waited, Marie could neither sleep nor eat ; she but Gabriel did not come. After an thought of Desir~ all the time. Gabriel, hour she heard things breaking in the too, had become morose; he walked woods. about with a frown, looking at the Thats Donald, she thought. But he ground. He found that a bear had had been watching her for a long while. come into his oats one night, and he The moon was shining dimly behind a had built a little stand by a stump, and clond. He leaned against a tree, and for two or three nights had sat there every little while he would raise his watching for him, and thinking all the gun and take aim; but he did not shoot. time how he could get Dcsir~ back. That things too white for the French- Black Donald knew he was watching man, he thought. The crashing in the for the bear. He said to Tim, when bush grew louder, and then ceased al- he thought that Maggie was nowhere together. Suddenly a huge black bear about: came swinging down into the oats. He I must have a shot at him; theres rolled about and pulled them down with no use. Hes down there every night his paws. Maggie watched him and watching his oats. I must have a shot drew a knife she had with her. Sud- at him, thats all there is to it. His denly the bear rose up and came by eyes were bloodshot, and he broke his just beside the stand. Maggie lcaued~ pipe-stem in his teeth. over and struck down on him. The Gabriel had been half wild all that knife went in between his shoulder- day because Marie would do nothing blades, but her blow was not strong but cry, and his fighting mood came enough, and she had lost her balance, over him again. To-night, he said and fell almost over on the bear. He to himself, Ill leave the bear alone, gave a growl, and as she tried to re- but Ill have Desir~t back. cover herself he rose and pulled her off Im going out to watch the oats, the stand. She tried to cry out, and he said to Marie, and when it was dark- struggled with him. Just then Marie er he slipped away. When he had been came up with the gun; she thought~it gone some time she noticed he had not was Gabriel struggling with the bear. taken his gun. She was frightened Gabriel! she screamed; Gabriel! when she thought the bear might come and she thought it was all over with him. in when Gabriel had no gun; so she But she put the muzzle up to the bear took it up and went off to the oat-field, and fired. He swayed for a moment, and So soon as it had got dark, Mag- then fell over, and commenced to sting- gie had stolen away from the shanty, gle about in the oats. and had gone down to the place where Maggie was badly torn, but she tried A curious procession took its wey down the steep roso. THE TRIUMPH OF MARIE LAVIOLETTE. 241 to sit up. Marie shredded her apron into strips and bound up her arm. Then Black Donald appeared above them, looking like a demon in the half light. Maggie made him take the hand- kerchief off his head to bind her wrist; he looked about for Gabriel and then pulled it off I wont forget you, missis, said Mag- gie, as she walked away holding to Black Donald. Marie waited until they had gone a little way, then she left the gun and the bear and fled. When Black Donald and Maggie got home they found Tim tied to his chair and the room in disorder. He was going to say: Frenchys been here, and hes gone crazy; but he saw how pale Maggie was and the blood on her dress. Gabriel had tied him in his chair, and had ransacked the room; but he did not find Desir~. Marie was sure now they would never get him back; but Gabriel was curing the bears skin. It will make a coat for DesirZ~, he said. I believe hes drowned all the time, moaned Marie, and they just said he was alive to make us give up the laud. Gabriel commenced to take in the oats; it was a fine crop, close and strong, and stood above the lake on the clear land. From a distance it looked like a wedge of gold driven into the for- est. Marie worked with him, binding it and loading it on the cart. She could not sing, although Gabriel wanted her to, and would say: Come now, Sur le Pont dAvignon. But when she would not, he would go on working as though he was never going to leave off, until the sweat ran into his eyes. Ma- rie always went home early to get the meals. One evening she went back to get supper. It was raining across the river, and a great rainbow sprang up, hardly touching the plain with one of its delicate wavering feet, curving grandly with deepened and gorgeous colors against the black cloud, until the hill cut it off Marie looked at it, with a hand on the latch, and then she pushed the door; but there was some- thing against it. Desir~ had taken to his feet, had pushed a chair all across the room, and was holding it against the door. When his mother overcame the soft resistance, he laughed up in her face. There he was in his little pink dress, the same as the day she lost him, only bigger and stronger. When Gabriel came home supper was not ready; but Marie, when she heard him coming, put Desir~ in his cradle and threw the bear-skin over him, and when Gabriel came iii he stood up just as if he had been told, and his father had to catch him to keep him from falling out of the cradle. That night when Marie undressed Dc- sir~ she found a piece of paper pinned to his dress. She read there, printed with a pencil, these words: DEAR Missis: What did I tell you? You safed my hf. I ges your litle kid is al rite. Theres fosfates on your place, thats the reason why. My dad ses its worth a pot. Tel your man to go back by the old road and by the end of the lak. The show is there. Thats all Were going to get out. MAGGIE OMAEA. The next day Gabriel went back to see the show, and Marie went with him, and carried DesirZ~ all the way; but his father had to bring him back~ he had grown so heavy. A week after this, a curious proces- sion took its way down the steep road; first came Black Donald, carrying & canoe on his back; then came a wagon drawn by an ox and a horse; in the. centre of the wagon a table was turned with its legs in the air; between thes& sat Maggie on a feather-bed and som& brightly-colored quilts. She had her eyes half closed, her arm was bandaged,. her face was rather pale and wore a con- temptuous expression as she leaned back against one of the table-legs. Tim brought up the rear, with a pipe in hia mouth, his hands in his pockets, and a whip under his arm, the lash of which trailed on the ground. It had been raining all day and the road was muddy; water lay in the ruts. Gradually the clouds rolled off, and the night came, still and very clear, with many stara over the black hill, and the rapids roar- ing loudly through the dark. Voi~. XIL26 By Kate Douglas Wiggin. subject of chil- drens rights does not provoke much sentimentalism in this country, at this time, where, as some- body says, the present problem of the children is the painless extinc- tion of their elders. I interviewed the man who washes my windows, the other morning, with the purpose of getting at the ]evel of his mind in the matter. Dennis, I said, as he was polishing the glass, I am writing an article on the Rights of Children, what do you think about it? Dennis carried his forefinger to his head in search of an idea, for he is aiot accustomed to having his intelli- gence so violently assaulted, and after a moments puzzled thought, he said, What do I think about it, mum? Why I think wed ought to give em to em. But Lor, mum, if we dont they take em, so whats the odds? As he left the room I thought he looked pained that I should spin words and squander ink on such a topic. The French dressmaker was my next victim. As she fitted the collar of an effete civilization on my nineteenth cen- tury neck, I put the same question given to Dennis. The rights of the child, Madame? she asked, her scissors poised in air. Yes, the rights of the child. Is it of the American child, Ma- dame? Yes, said I, nervously, of the American child. Mon Dieu! he has them / which leads us to take up the question of rights vs. privileges. A multitude of privileges, or rather indulgences, can exist with a total dis- regard of the childs rights. You re- member the man who said he could do without necessities if you would give him luxuries enough. The child might say, I will forego all my privileges, if you will only give me my rights: a lit- tle less sentiment, please, more justice! There are women who live in perfect puddles of maternal love, who yet seem incapable of justice; generous to a fault, perhaps, but seldom just. Who owns the child? If the parent owns himmind, body, and soulwe must adopt one line of argument; if, as a free-will human being, he owns him- self, we must adopt another. In my thought the parent is simply a divinely appointed guardian who acts for his child until he attains what we call the age of discretion, that highly nucertain period which arrives very late in life with some persons and never arrives at all with others. The rights of the parent being almost uulimited, it is a very delicate matter to decide just when and where they in- fringe upon the rights of the child. There is no standard ; the child is the creature of circumstances. The mother can clothe him in Jaeger wool from head to foot, or keep him in low neck, short sleeves, and low stock- CHILDRENS RIGHTS. I

Kate Douglas Wiggin Wiggin, Kate Douglas Children's Rights 242-248

By Kate Douglas Wiggin. subject of chil- drens rights does not provoke much sentimentalism in this country, at this time, where, as some- body says, the present problem of the children is the painless extinc- tion of their elders. I interviewed the man who washes my windows, the other morning, with the purpose of getting at the ]evel of his mind in the matter. Dennis, I said, as he was polishing the glass, I am writing an article on the Rights of Children, what do you think about it? Dennis carried his forefinger to his head in search of an idea, for he is aiot accustomed to having his intelli- gence so violently assaulted, and after a moments puzzled thought, he said, What do I think about it, mum? Why I think wed ought to give em to em. But Lor, mum, if we dont they take em, so whats the odds? As he left the room I thought he looked pained that I should spin words and squander ink on such a topic. The French dressmaker was my next victim. As she fitted the collar of an effete civilization on my nineteenth cen- tury neck, I put the same question given to Dennis. The rights of the child, Madame? she asked, her scissors poised in air. Yes, the rights of the child. Is it of the American child, Ma- dame? Yes, said I, nervously, of the American child. Mon Dieu! he has them / which leads us to take up the question of rights vs. privileges. A multitude of privileges, or rather indulgences, can exist with a total dis- regard of the childs rights. You re- member the man who said he could do without necessities if you would give him luxuries enough. The child might say, I will forego all my privileges, if you will only give me my rights: a lit- tle less sentiment, please, more justice! There are women who live in perfect puddles of maternal love, who yet seem incapable of justice; generous to a fault, perhaps, but seldom just. Who owns the child? If the parent owns himmind, body, and soulwe must adopt one line of argument; if, as a free-will human being, he owns him- self, we must adopt another. In my thought the parent is simply a divinely appointed guardian who acts for his child until he attains what we call the age of discretion, that highly nucertain period which arrives very late in life with some persons and never arrives at all with others. The rights of the parent being almost uulimited, it is a very delicate matter to decide just when and where they in- fringe upon the rights of the child. There is no standard ; the child is the creature of circumstances. The mother can clothe him in Jaeger wool from head to foot, or keep him in low neck, short sleeves, and low stock- CHILDRENS RIGHTS. I CHILDRENS RIGHTS. 243 ings because she thinks it pretty; she can feed him exclusively on raw beef, or on vegetables, or on cereals; she can give him milk to drink or let him sip his fathers beer or wine; put him to bed at sundown or keep him up till midnight; teach him the Catechism and the Thirty-nine Articles, or tell him that there is no God; she can cram him with facts before he has any appetite or power of assimilation; or she can make a fool of him. She can dose him with old- echool remedies, with new-school reme- dies, or she can let him die without remedies, because she doesnt believe in the reality of disease. She is quite willing to legislate for his stomach, his mind, his soul; her teachableness, it goes without saying, being general~y in inverse proportion to her knowledge; for the arrogance of science is humility compared with the pride of ignorance. In these matters the child has no rights. The only safegnard is the fact that if parents are absolutely brutal, so- ciety steps in, removes the untrust- worthy guardian and appoints another. But society does nothing, can do noth- ing, with the parent who injures the childs soul, breaks his will, makes him grow up a liar or a coward, murders his faith! And it is not so very long since we de- cided that when a parent did brutally abuse his child, it could be taken from him and made the ward of the state; the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children is of later date than the So- ciety for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. At a distance of a century and a half we can hardly estimate how powerful a blow Rousseau struck for the rights of the child in his educational romance, Emile. It was a sort of Gospel in its day; Rousseau, once arrested and exiled, and his book burned by the executioner (a few years before he would have been burned with it), his ideas naturally be- came a craze. Many of the reforms for which he so passionately pleaded are so much a part of our modern thought that we do not realize the fact that in that day of routine and pedantry and slavish worship of authority, they were the dar- ing dreams of an enthusiast, the seem- ing impossible prophecy of a new era. Aristocratic mothers were converts to his theories, and began nursing their children as he commanded them. Great lords began to learn handicrafts; physical exercise came into vogue; everything that Emile did, other people longed to do. With all Rousseaus vagaries, oddities, misconceptions, posings, he rescued the individuality of the child and made a tremendous plea for a more natural, a more human education. He succeeded in making people listen where Rabelais and Montaigne had failed, and he in- spired other educators, notably Pesta- lozzi and Froebel, who knit up his ragged seams of theory, and translated his dreams into possibilities. Rousseau vindicated to man the right of being. Pestalozzi said Grow! Froebel, the greatest of the three, cried Live! you give bread to men, but I give men to themselves. The parent whose sole answer to criticism or remonstrance is, I have a right to do what I like with my own child ! is the only impossible parent. His moral integument is too thick to be pierced with any shaft however keen. To him we can only say as Jacques did to Orlando, God be with you; lets meet as little as we can.~~ But most of us dare not take this ground. We may not philosophize or formulate, we may not live up to our theories, but we feel in greater or less degree the responsibility of calling a human being hither, and the necessity of guarding and guiding, in one way or another, that which owes its being to us. We should all agree if put to the vote that a child has a right to be well born. That was a trenchant speech of Henry Ward Beecher on the subject of being born again; that if he could be born right the first time hed take his chances on the second. Hereditary rank, says Washington Irving, may be a snare and a delusion, but hereditary virtue is a patent of iunate nobility which far outshines the blazonry of heraldry. Over the unborn our power is almost that of God, and our responsibility, like His toward us; as we acquit ourselves toward them, so let Him deal with us. Why should we be astonished at the 244 CHILDRENS RIGHTS. warped, cold, unhappy, suspicious nat- ures we see about us, when we reflect upon the number of unwished-for, un- welcomed children in the world; chil- dren who at best were never loved until they were seen and known, and often grudged their being from the moment they began to be. I wonder if some- times a starved, crippled agonized hu- man body and soul does not cry out: Why, 0 man, 0 woman, why, being what I am, have you suffered me to be! Physiologists and psychologists agree that the influences affecting the child begin before birth. At what hour they begin, how far they can be controlled, and how far directed and modified, modern science is not assured; but I imagine those months of preparation were given for other reasons than that the cradle and the basket, and the ward- robe might be ready; those long months of supreme patience when a host of mysterious influences, messages and im- pulses are being carried silently, from mother to child. And if beauty born of murmuring sound shall pass into its face, hoxv much more subtly shall the grave strength of peace, the sun- shine of hope and sweet content, thrill the delicate chords of being and warm the tender seedling into richer life. Mrs. Stoddard speaks of that sacred passion, maternal love, that like an orange - tree buds and blossoms and bears at once. When a true woman puts her finger for the first time into the tiny hand of her baby, and feels that helpless clutch which tightens her very heart-strings, she is born again with the new-born child. A mother has a sacred claim on the world; even if that claim rest solely on the fact of her motherhood, and not on any other. Her life may be a cipher, but when the child comes God writes a figure before it, and gives it value. When the child is born, one of his inalienable rights, which we too often deny him, is the right to his childhood. If we could only keep from untwist- ing the morning-glory, only be willing to let the sunshine do it. Dickens said real children went out with powder and top-boots; and yet the children of Dickenss time were simple buds com- pared with the full-blown miracles of conventionality and erndition we raise nowadays. There is no substitute for a genuine, free, serene, healthy, bread-and-butter childhood. A fine manhood or woman- hood can be built on no other founda- tion; and yet our American homes are so often filled with hurry and worry, our manner of living is so keyed to concert pitch, our plan of existence so compli- cated, that we drag the babies along in our wake, and force them to our arti- ficial standards, forgetting that sweet flowers are slow, and weeds make haste. If we must, or fancy that we must, lead this false, too-feverish life, let us at least spare them! By keeping them forever on tiptoe we are in danger of producing an army of conventional little prigs, who know much more than they should know about matters which are profitless even to their elders. In the matter of clothing we sacrifice children continually to the Moloch of maternal vanity, as if the demon of dress did not demand our attention, sap our energy, and thwart our activities soon enough at best. And the right kind of children, before they are spoiled by fine feathers, do so detest being dressed beyond a certain point. A tiny maid of my acquaintance has an elaborate Parisian gown, which is fastened on the side from top to bottom, in some mysterious fashion, by a multi- tude of tiny buttons and cords. It fits the dear little slab like a glove, and ter- minates in a collar which is an instru- ment of torture to a person whose pa- tience has not been developed from year to year by similar trials. The getting of it on is anguish, and as to the get- ting of it off, I heard her moan to her nurse the other night, as she wriggled her curly head through the too-small exit Oh! only God knows how I hate gettin peeled out o this dress! The spectacle of a small boy whom one meets sometimes in the horse-cars, under the wing of his predestinate idiot of a mother, wrings ones very soul. Silk hat, ruffled shirt, silver-buckled shoes, kid-gloves, cane, velvet suit with one two-inch pocket which is an insult to his sex, how one pities the pathetic little caricature! Not a spot has he for a top, or a marble, or a nail, or CHILDRENS RIGHTS. 24~ a string, or a knife, or a cake, or a nut; but as a bloodless substitute for these necessities of existence, he has a toy watch (that will not go) and an em- broided handkerchief with cologne on it. As to keeping children too clean for any mortal use, I dont suppose any- thing is more disastrous. The divine right to be gloriously dirty a large por~ tion of the time, when dirt is a necessary consequence of direct, useful, friendly contact with all sorts of interesting, helpful things, is too clear to be denied. The children who have to think of their clothes before playing with the dogs, digging in the sand, helping the stableman, working in the shed, building a bridge, or weeding the garden, never get half their legitimate enjoyment out of life. And oh! unhappy fate, do not many of us have to bring up children without a vestige of a dog, or a sand heap, or a stable, or a shed, or a brook, or a garden! Conceive, if you can, a more difficult problem than giving a child his rights in a city flat. You may say that neither do we get ours; but bad as we are we are always good enough to wish for our children the joys we miss ourselves. Thrice happy is the country child, or the one who can spend a part of his young life among living things, near to Natures heart. How blessed is the little toddling thing, who can lie flat in the sunshine and drink in the beauty of the green things growing ; who can live among the other little animals, his brothers and sisters in feathers and fur; who can put his hand in that of dear mother Nature and learn his first baby lessons without any meddlesome middleman; who is cradled in sweet sounds from early morn to dewy eve;~~ lulled to his morning nap by hum of crickets and bees, and to his nights slumber by the sighing of the wind, the plash of waves, or the ripple of a river. He is a part of the shining web of creation, learning to spell out the uni- verse letter by letter, as he grows sweet- ly, serenely, into a knowledge of its laws. It is easy to see that the hurlyburly of our city life is not wholly favorable to the simple creed of childhood de- VOL. XIL-.-27 light and liberty, when busy or at rest. But we might make it a little less arti- ficial than we do, perhaps. Take the question of toys for instance. Every thoughtful person knows that the simple, natural playthings of the old- fashioned child, or the country child, which are nothing more than pegs on which he hangs his glowing fancies, are healthier than our complicated modern mechanisms, in which the child has only to press the button and the toy does the rest. The electric talking doll, for exam- ple; imagine a generation of children brought up on that! And the toy mak- ers are not even content with this grand personage, four feet high, who says, Papa! Mamma! She is pass~e al- ready; they have begun to improve on her! An electrician described to me the other day a superb, new, altruistic doll fitted to the needs of the present decade. You are to press a judiciously- located button and ask her the test question, which is, if she will have some candy; whereupon, with an angelic detached - movement - smile (located in the left cheek), she is to answer, Give brother big piece; give me little piece ! If the thing gets out of order (and I devoutly hope it will), it will doubtless return to a state of nature, and horrify the bystanders by remarking, Give me big piece! Give brother little piece! Think of having a gilded dummy like that given you to amuse yourself with. Think of having to play, to play, for- sooth, with a model of propriety, a high- minded monstrosity like that! Doesnt it make you long for your dear old darkey doll with the ravelled mouth, and the stuffing leaking out of her legs; or your beloved Arabella Clarinda with the broken nose, beautiful even in dis- solution, creatures not too bright and good for human natures daily food? Banged, battered, hairless, sharers of our mad joys and reckless sorrows, how we loved them in their simple ugliness! With what halos of romance we sur- rounded them! With what devotion we nursed the one with the broken head, in those early days when new were not to be bought at the nearest shop. And even if they could have been go~ for us, would we, the 246 CHILDRENS RIGHTS. primitive children of those dear, dark ages, have ever thought of wrenching off the cracked blonde head of Ethe- linda and buying a new, strange, name- less, brunette head, and gluing it calm- ly on to Ethelindas body, as a small ac- quaintance of mine did last week, appar- ently without a single pang? Never! A doll had a personality in those times and has yet to a few simpla backwoods souls even in this day and generation. Think of Charles Kingsleys song, I once had a sweet little doll, dears. Can we imagine that as being written aboat one of these modern monstrosities with eyeglasses and corsets and vinaigrettes! I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her face was so pink and so white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my sweet little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day, And I cried for her more than a week, dears; But I never could find where she lay. I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,. For her paint is all washed away, And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled: Yet for old sakes sake she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world. One has a good deal of sympathy for the little people during their first eight or ten years when they are just beginning to learn life-lessons, and when the laws which govern them must often seem so strange and unjust. It is not an occa- sion for a big burning sympathy, per- haps, but for a tender little one with a half smile in it, as we remember what we were, and what in young clothes we hoped to be, and how many things have come across; for childhood is an eternal promise which no man ever keeps. The child has a right to a place of his own, to things of his own, to surround- ings which have some relation to his size, his desires, and his capabilities. How should we like to live, half the time, in a place where the piano was twelve feet tall, the door knobs at an impossible height, and the mantel-shelf in the sky; where every mortal thing was out of reach except a lot of highly interesting objects on dressing - tables and bureaus, which, however, would be guarded by giants and giantesses, three times as large and powerful as ourselves, who would say, mustnt touch; and if we did touch we should be spanked and have no other method of revenge save to spank back symbolically on the inof- fensive persons of our dolls? My little nephew was prowling about my library during the absence of his nurse. I was busy writing, and when he took up a delicate pearl opera-glass, I stopped his investigations with the time-honored, No, no, dear, thats for grown-up people. Hasnt it got any little boy end? he asked, wistfully. That little-boy end to things is sometimes just what we fail to give, even when we think we have been strain- ing every nerve to surround the child with pleasures. For children really want to do the very same things that we want to do, and yet have constantly to be thwarted for their own good. They would really like to share all our pleas- ures; keep the same hours, eat the same food; but they are met on every side with the seemingly impertinent pieces of dogmatism, It isnt good for little boys, or It isnt nice for little girls. Robert Louis Stevenson shows in his Childs Garden of Verses, that he is one of the very few people who remem- ber and appreciate this phase of child- hood. Could anything be more de- liciously real than these verses? In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle light; In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up peoples feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, That when the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, I have to go to bed by day ? Again, the child has a right to more justice in his discipline than we are gen- erally wise and patient enough to give him. He is, by and by, to come in con- tact with a world where cause and effect follow each other inexorably. He has a right to be taught, and to be governed CHILDRENS RIGHTS. 247 by the laws under which he afterward must live; but in too many cases par- ents interfere so mischievously and un- necessarily between causes and effects, that the childs mind does not, can- not, perceive the logic of things as it might. We might write a pathetic re- monstrance against the Decline and Fall of Domestic Authority. There is food for thought, and perhaps for fear in the subject, but the facts are obvious, and their inevitableness must strike any thoughtful observer of the times. The old educational r6gime was akin to the social systems with which it was con- temporaneous; and, similarly, in the reverse of these characteristics our mod- ern modes of culture correspond to our more liberal religious a~d political in- stitutions. It is the age of independent criticism. The child problem is merely one phase of the universal problem that confronts society. It seems likely that the rod of reason will have to replace the rod of birch. Parental authority never used to be called into question; but neither was the Catechism, nor the Bible, nor the minister. How should parents hope to escape the universal interrogation point which is levelled at every thing else? In these days of free speech it is hopeless to suppose that even infants can be muzzled. We revel in our re- publican virtues; let us accept the vices of those virtues as philosophically as possible. A lady has been advertising in a cer- tain weekly journal, for a German gov- erness to mind a little girl three years old. The ladys English is doubtless defective, but the fate of the governess is thereby indicated with much greater candor than is usuaL The mother who is most apt to in- fringe on the rights of her child (of course with the best intentions) is the firm person, afflicted with the lust of dominion. There is no elasticity in her firmness to prevent it from degen- erating into obstinacy. It is not the firmness of the tree, that bends without breaking, but the firmness of a certain long-eared animal whose force of char- acter has impressed itself on the com- mon mind and become proverbial Jean Paul says if pas trop gouverner is the best rule in politics, it is equally true of discipline. But if the child is unhappy who has none of his rights respected, equally wretched is the little despot who has more than his own rights, who has never been taught to respect the rights of others, and whose only conception of the universe is that it is an absolute monarchy of which he is sole ruler. Children rarely love those who spoil them and never trust them. Their keen young sense detects the false note ir the character and draws its own conclu- sions which are generally very just. The very best theoretical statement of a wise disciplinary method that I know, is Herbert Spencers: Let the history of your domestic nile typify, in little, the history of our political rule; at the outset, autocratic control, where control is really needful; by and by an incipient constitutionalism, in which the liberty of the subject gains some express recognition; successive extensions of this liberty of the subject, gradually ending in parental abdication. We must not expect children to be too good; not any better than we are ourselves, for example; no, nor even as good. Beware of hothouse virtue. Already most people recognize the detrimental results of intellectual pre- cocity; but there remains to be recog- nized the truth that there is a moral precocity which is also detrimental. Our higher moral faculties, like our higher intellectual ones, are compara- tively complex. By consequence they are both comparatively late in their evolution. And with the one as with the other, a very early activity produced by stimulation will be at the expense of the future character. In these matters the child has a right to expect examples. He lives in the senses; he can only learn through ob- ject lessons, can only pass from the con- crete example of goodness to a vision of abstract perfection. Oer wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule, And sun thee in the light of happy faces; Love, Hope and Patience, these must be thy graces, And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 248 A LITTLE PARABLE. Yes, in thine own heart let them first keep school ! I cannot see why Max ORell should have exclaimed with such unction that if he were to be born over again he would choose to be an American woman. He never has tried being one. He doesnt realize that she not only has in hand (generally) the emancipation of the American woman, but the reformation of the American man and the education of the American child. If that triangular mission in life does not keep her out of mischief and make her the angel of the twentieth century, she is a hopeless case. Spencer says, It is a truth yet re- maining to be recognized that the last stage in the mental development of each man and woman is to be reached only through the proper discharge of the parental duties. And when this truth is recognized it will be seen how admir- able is the ordination in virtue of which human beings are led by their strongest affections to subject themselves to a dis cipline which they would else elude. Women have been fighting many battles for the higher education these last few years; and they have nearly gained the day. When at last complete victory shall perch upon their banners, let us hope they will make one more struggle, and that for the highest education, which includes a specific training for parent- hood, a subject thus far quite omitted from the curriculum. The mistaken idea that instinct is a sufficient guide in so delicate and sacred and vital a matter, the comfortable su- perstition that babies bring their own di- rections with them, are fictions that have existed long enough. If a girl asks me why, since the function of parenthood is so uncertain, should she make the sacrifices necessary to such training, sacrifices entailed by this highest educa- tion of body, mind, and spirit, I can only say that it is better to be ready, even if you are not called for, than to be called for and found wanting. A LITTLE PARABLE. By Anne Reeve Aldrich. I MADE the cross myself, whose weight Was later laid on me. This thought adds anguish as I toil lIJp lifes steep Calvary. To think mine own hands drove the nails! I sang a merry song, And chose the heaviest wood I had To build it firm and strong. If I had guessedif I had dreamed Its weight was meant for me, I should have built a lighter cross To bear up Calvary!

Anne Reeve Aldrich Aldrich, Anne Reeve A Little Parable 248-249

248 A LITTLE PARABLE. Yes, in thine own heart let them first keep school ! I cannot see why Max ORell should have exclaimed with such unction that if he were to be born over again he would choose to be an American woman. He never has tried being one. He doesnt realize that she not only has in hand (generally) the emancipation of the American woman, but the reformation of the American man and the education of the American child. If that triangular mission in life does not keep her out of mischief and make her the angel of the twentieth century, she is a hopeless case. Spencer says, It is a truth yet re- maining to be recognized that the last stage in the mental development of each man and woman is to be reached only through the proper discharge of the parental duties. And when this truth is recognized it will be seen how admir- able is the ordination in virtue of which human beings are led by their strongest affections to subject themselves to a dis cipline which they would else elude. Women have been fighting many battles for the higher education these last few years; and they have nearly gained the day. When at last complete victory shall perch upon their banners, let us hope they will make one more struggle, and that for the highest education, which includes a specific training for parent- hood, a subject thus far quite omitted from the curriculum. The mistaken idea that instinct is a sufficient guide in so delicate and sacred and vital a matter, the comfortable su- perstition that babies bring their own di- rections with them, are fictions that have existed long enough. If a girl asks me why, since the function of parenthood is so uncertain, should she make the sacrifices necessary to such training, sacrifices entailed by this highest educa- tion of body, mind, and spirit, I can only say that it is better to be ready, even if you are not called for, than to be called for and found wanting. A LITTLE PARABLE. By Anne Reeve Aldrich. I MADE the cross myself, whose weight Was later laid on me. This thought adds anguish as I toil lIJp lifes steep Calvary. To think mine own hands drove the nails! I sang a merry song, And chose the heaviest wood I had To build it firm and strong. If I had guessedif I had dreamed Its weight was meant for me, I should have built a lighter cross To bear up Calvary! HOW I SENT MY AUNT TO BALTIMORE. A TRUE STORY. By Charles Stewart Davison. VERY well-regulated New Englander is, or should be, possessed of at least three maid- en aunts, whose ages, by the way, never by any possibility, aggre- hundred gate less than one and ninety-five to two hun- dred and forty years. While not de- siring to arrogate to myself any supe- riority in this respect over the average descendant of the pilgrim fathers, I can, or rather could, at the time when the events hereinafter detailed occurred, have laid claim to this distinctive badge of Puritan descent. In the course of events, which may possibly be regarded as natural, the oldest of my three aunts, then a frail and delicate old lady of about seventy-four, became (some six years since) overwhelmed with a desire to traveL Her first pilgrimage extend- ed as far from the centre of the uni- verse as Staten Island. After a brief stay at our house she determined that Lhe next step in her peregrinations should be to the house of a married sis- ter residing in Baltimore. It being im- possible, on account of other duties, that any member of the family should accompany her, I was delegated, as be- ing the most experienced traveller and the possessor of the greatest executive ability in the family, to see her safely placed in some seat in some drawing- room car, which should deposit her, if not in the arms of her relatives in Mary- land, at least in the Baltimore railroad depot. The enterprising Canadian, who now rules the destinies of Staten Island, hav- ing at that time not yet burst upon an astounded community in the full and effulgent glory of Rapid Transit, island- ers were accustomed to visit the city of New York at comparatively irregular, but officially stated, periods. On con- sideration, it seemed unnecessary to leave Staten Island by a boat which would afford opportunity for at the very least fifty-five minutes reflection in the railroad depot before train time, and an alluring time-table promised a much closer connection by the succeed- ing boat. We therefore determined to take it. It is needless to say that that boat was five minutes late in starting, unnecessary to add that at New York a passing canal-boat delayed for a few minutes our entrance into the ferry slip; and it surely was nothing more than might be expected, that an ele- vated train at South Ferry should leave one end of the platform as we reached the other. As a result, however, of these wholly natural forces, we entered the ferry-house on the New York side of the North River with three minutes to spare before the last boat which would catch a fast through train, whose intermediate stops were so few and brief as not to deserve mention, would leave. With the tendency which has been well called the gorgeous oriental- ism of the Western mind, this train

Charles Stewart Davison Davison, Charles Stewart How I Sent My Aunt To Baltimore. A True Story 249-253

HOW I SENT MY AUNT TO BALTIMORE. A TRUE STORY. By Charles Stewart Davison. VERY well-regulated New Englander is, or should be, possessed of at least three maid- en aunts, whose ages, by the way, never by any possibility, aggre- hundred gate less than one and ninety-five to two hun- dred and forty years. While not de- siring to arrogate to myself any supe- riority in this respect over the average descendant of the pilgrim fathers, I can, or rather could, at the time when the events hereinafter detailed occurred, have laid claim to this distinctive badge of Puritan descent. In the course of events, which may possibly be regarded as natural, the oldest of my three aunts, then a frail and delicate old lady of about seventy-four, became (some six years since) overwhelmed with a desire to traveL Her first pilgrimage extend- ed as far from the centre of the uni- verse as Staten Island. After a brief stay at our house she determined that Lhe next step in her peregrinations should be to the house of a married sis- ter residing in Baltimore. It being im- possible, on account of other duties, that any member of the family should accompany her, I was delegated, as be- ing the most experienced traveller and the possessor of the greatest executive ability in the family, to see her safely placed in some seat in some drawing- room car, which should deposit her, if not in the arms of her relatives in Mary- land, at least in the Baltimore railroad depot. The enterprising Canadian, who now rules the destinies of Staten Island, hav- ing at that time not yet burst upon an astounded community in the full and effulgent glory of Rapid Transit, island- ers were accustomed to visit the city of New York at comparatively irregular, but officially stated, periods. On con- sideration, it seemed unnecessary to leave Staten Island by a boat which would afford opportunity for at the very least fifty-five minutes reflection in the railroad depot before train time, and an alluring time-table promised a much closer connection by the succeed- ing boat. We therefore determined to take it. It is needless to say that that boat was five minutes late in starting, unnecessary to add that at New York a passing canal-boat delayed for a few minutes our entrance into the ferry slip; and it surely was nothing more than might be expected, that an ele- vated train at South Ferry should leave one end of the platform as we reached the other. As a result, however, of these wholly natural forces, we entered the ferry-house on the New York side of the North River with three minutes to spare before the last boat which would catch a fast through train, whose intermediate stops were so few and brief as not to deserve mention, would leave. With the tendency which has been well called the gorgeous oriental- ism of the Western mind, this train 250 HOW I SENT MY AUNT TO BALTIMORE. bore a special name which had become familiar as its designation to many ears, including my own. From this fact many troubles thereafter arose, as will be seen. Fortanately, one thing was in our favor, my aunts trunk had pre- ceded us, and, with a calm confidence in the baggage system in vogue in this country, it reposed on one end awaiting its inevitable tagging, in front of the baggage counter, as I had time to no- tice while dashing into the ferry-house. Cautioning my aunt under no circum- stances to move until I returned, I rushed to the ticket-office, tossed the man a ten4lollar bill, and in my haste, with the train on my mind, mentioned mechanically the name by which it was known, and which included the name of an intermediate city. It will be readily seen how the name of the train she was to travel by momentarily obliterated all consciousness as to the objective point of the journey. I had just time enough to wonder, in a semi-stupefied way, as to the amount of change that was returned out of the ten-dollar bill, while hurrying to the baggage-room. There I silently exhib- ited the ticket, was handed a check, and rushed back to my aunt. I hurried her through the gates, and we had a few moments breathing time crossing the river. Simultaneously, on our arrival at the New Jersey side of the North River, the gates leading to the train were opened, and the stentorian guar- dian of the portal recited, in unintelli- gible tones, the names of most of the railroad stations of the United States. I found time, however, to get a seat- ticket at the little window in the ex- treme right-hand corner of the waiting- room, where for the purpose of making matters as inconvenient as possible, as it momentarily seemed to me, those valua- ble pieces of pasteboard were dealt out. Fortunately, I noticed that the seat as- signed on the little slip of card handed me, was No. 25, in car No. 1. But here, again, instead of asking for a seat to any particular place, I silently exhibited the railroad ticket which I had pur- chased on the other side of the river. We hurried through the gates, found car No. 1, and placing my aunt in the first vacant chair, I proceeded to look for seat No. 25. As I turned from her to do so, I noticed that the sides of the station were gently slipping past the car. Asking the nearest person if it was possible that the train had already started, I received so unqualified an affirmative response that no possible doubt could remain. As the trains first stop was a full hour away, and as I had several matters needing attention in New York, the conclusion was forced upon me that extreme promptness would alone procure their being duly attended to. Selecting the nearest traveller, I thrust into his hands my aunts railroad tickets, her little wicker basket of lunch, and a novel purchased at the elevated station; asked him in one breathless phrase to find her seat for her, fled to the door, and jumped from the steps as the train cleared the end of the long station. After perform- ing various agile contortions in the air, with a view to an ultimate recovery of equilibrium, I rested from my labors in this respect and walked slowly back along the platform, reflecting upon the very unsatisfactory way in which I had started her on her journey, and, natur- ally, as anyone in contemplative mood would, I thrust my hands into the pock- ets of my overcoat. With gloomy fore- bodings I extracted from one pocket a strange object. It was my aunts purse, which I had taken from her that I might for greater security put her trunk-check in one of its compartments. This raised a new doubt, if not a new complication. It was clearly necessary to make certain beyond peradventure that she should be met on her arrival at her destina- tion, since she had no money with her. With this object in view, I made my way to the telegraph window in the station, secnred a blank, and wrote Esq., No. Lexington Street, Balti- more? The pen dropped from my hand. Photographed on the mental wall before my inward eye aroused by this first recognition of Baltimore as a distinct entity, appeared the designation of the train including the name of the inter.. mediate city. In a flash the superabun- dance of change which I had received at the ticket office became understanda- ble. There could be no doubt. I had started an elderly lady, totally inexpert- HOW I SENT MY AUNT TO BALTIMORE. 251 enced in the ways of the world at large, and of the travelling world in particu- lar, without money and without power of reclaiming her trunk, with a ticket and a seat only, to a point a couple of hundred miles short of her destination. Desperate cases need prompt action. I had in mind but one idea, that if I could hire a special locomotive I might overtake the train at its first stopping place. Looking firmly at the telegraph oper- ator, I said, Has this road got any superintendent? Yes. Where is he? Outside, to the right, upstairs. And outside, to the right, upstairs, I proceeded. Opening a door, I came on several clerks seated at desks, writing. Where is the superintendent? Through there, said one, pointing. Through there I went. I found a medium-sized room; a desk in the centre, a youngish man of dark complexion and smooth - shaven face; a man not over thirty-five, of pleas- ing impression and unruffled front, seat- ed at it. Are you the superintendent? Yes. I sat down. Looking at him with as much of ear- nest entreaty, desperate resolve, alarm, determination, and a few other qualitics as I could summon to my instant aid, I said, without a breath or pause, I have just started an old lady inexperienced in travelling who wants to go to Baltimore with tickets only half-way and without any money; she is in car No. 1, seat 25. Never yet have I seen a man rise so in- stantly, so calmly, and so unconsciously to the exact level of an occasion. He smiled and touched a bell and said, That is all right. As long as she does not get scared and get off the train, weve got her. I will have them flag the train, and tell the conductor to look out for her. While he talked he wrote. Almost instantly the door opened. A messenger appeared. The message was finished. It read, Conductor, train 37. Elderly lady, car No. 1, seat 25. Is to go through to Baltimore whether she has tickets or not. Dont let her leave the train. Handing the slip to the messenger he turned to me and re- peated, with a smile, As long as we have got her on the train she is all right. Now, he said, continuing, we will telegraph to the agent at the station at which her tickets expire, to buy her a ticket on to Baltimore, and to buy the same parlor-car seat she is now in, on to Baltimore, and to take the tickets to her on the train. In two minutes the telegram was sent. Now, he said, we will telegraph the con- ductor fully, at his first regular stop, what the circumstances are. And, said he, turning again to me, you say she has no money. I have her purse here, I replied. Well, he said, we will tell the conductor to hand her ten dollars in change. While talking his pen was busy. In a moment more he read me a concise statement of the facts of the case, addressed to the conductor at the first way - station. This des- patched, he sat back in his chair and re- flected for a moment. Now, he said, pushing over to me a pad of paper and a pencil, she wont know what all this means, and may get alarmed. Had you not better send her a long conversational telegram to be delivered on the train? I wrote some twenty lines explaining the situation, telling her that all she need do was to remain in her seat until the train reached Baltimore, that tickets and money would be supplied to her, that under no circumstances was she to leave the train, and that I was over- whelmed with sorrow at having so badly arranged her journey. While writing this telegram another door opened, and a head and hand appeared through it. The hand waved a little slip of yellow paper, and the head said, Conductor, train 37, says, Elderly lady all right. An enormous weight rolled from my mind. The man who, so far as my pur- view extended, controlled the destinies of creation, then said, Now, how are you going to get her purse and trunk check, which I see you have, to her? I thought of sending them by maiL Well, suppose you write her a note and do it up with the purse in a package, and I will send it down the line so she can get it to-night. We have a wild-cat engine going over the line in about half 252 HOW I SENT MY AUNT TO BALTIMORE. an hour. The resources of the road seemed inexhaustible, and it is needless to say that to this further extent I availed myself of them. But before the package was sealed, another idea had occurred to the superintendent, who indeed, I think, rather made a point of showing me what the possibilities of their system of management were. That trunk check, he said, is only for the same point as her tickets. What is its number? I told him. Now, said he, we will telegraph the baggage- master there, that that piece of luggage, though checked only to his point, is not to be put off, but is to go on to Baltimore, where it will be redeemed on the original check. Again his pen sought the invaluable pad, and the final message was des- patched. With a general feeling that I had in- curred anywhere from one to five thou- sand dollars of expense, I inquired in relation to this delicate question. Well, said he, now let me see. The difference in fares is (referring to a schedule) $3, the parlor - car seat is $1. We gave her $10 in the train (ob- serve the unconscious certainty with which he spoke of that which he had by telegraph ordered done being al- ready the fact) that makes in all $14. But, I said, is there no charge for all these telegrams and the trouble that the road has been put to in the mat- ter? Oh, no, he said, all these are matters of detail ; giving one the gen- eral impression that the road stood in loco parentis to those who travelled by it. With thanks which were sin- cere, if not effusive, I was about leav ing, when again the head and yellow- slipped hand appeared through the door. Ticket agent number nine-two- three says, All right. Baggage-master number four-four-five says, All right, and the head vanished. I came away with the general stunned feeling which we all experience when we run up against an approximately perfect sys- tem, working without hitch or delay. On the succeeding evening I learned by letter from my aunt that it had not been mere appearance of efficiency. As she expressed it, before she knew any- thing was wrong, people kept bringing her telegrams, and handing her money, and saying that everything was all right. The conductor came to her immediately after the train was flagged, explained to her that her tickets were accidentally for the wrong place (of which she had not become aware), but that she would be carried on to Baltimore, and that under no circumstances was she tc leave the car or the train. Came to her again at the first stop and handed her ten dollars. A ticket agent came to her thereafter and handed her new tickets to take her to Baltimore. She was met at Baltimore in accordance with a telegram which I forgot to men- tion was also despatched by my friend, the superintendent, and later in the evening her purse and trunk check were delivered to her at her sisters house. The above might well be thought to be an imaginary sketch of what might be done on and by a well-organized road. It is, however, something more than that, it is an exact statement of facts which actually occurred. HISTORIC MOMENTS: DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PACIFIC. By Sidney Dillon. THE traveller over the Union Pa- cific Railroad in 1892 sees very few things aside from the physical features and general topography of the country through which it passes to re- mind him of the scenes which presented themselves to the view of those who composed the first excursion party over the completed road, and who witnessed, on May 10, 1869, at Promontory Point, Utah, the formal ceremony of driving the last spike. Nothing now marks the spot where this ceremony took place, and even the small station known as Promontory, is at some distance from the point where the connection between the two transcontinental roads was originally made. The whole as- pect of the country, from the Missouri River to Salt Lake, has marvellously changed. Where there were then only tents, there are now well - built, sub- stantial, and prosperous towns, and instead of the great desert wastes, supposed to be beyond reach of cul- tivation, one may now see an almost unbroken stretch of corn - fields and cultivated lands. It is not too much to say that the opening of the Pacific Road, viewed simply in its relation to the spread of population, development of resources, and actual advance of civilization, was an event to be ranked in far-reaching results with the landing of the Pil- grims, or perhaps the voyage of Colum Joining of the Central and Union Pacific. The continent spannedscene at Promontory Point, Utah, May 10, 1869. [From the only existing photograph.)

Sidney Dillon Dillon, Sidney Historic Moments. V. Driving The Last Spike Of The Union Pacific 253-260

HISTORIC MOMENTS: DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PACIFIC. By Sidney Dillon. THE traveller over the Union Pa- cific Railroad in 1892 sees very few things aside from the physical features and general topography of the country through which it passes to re- mind him of the scenes which presented themselves to the view of those who composed the first excursion party over the completed road, and who witnessed, on May 10, 1869, at Promontory Point, Utah, the formal ceremony of driving the last spike. Nothing now marks the spot where this ceremony took place, and even the small station known as Promontory, is at some distance from the point where the connection between the two transcontinental roads was originally made. The whole as- pect of the country, from the Missouri River to Salt Lake, has marvellously changed. Where there were then only tents, there are now well - built, sub- stantial, and prosperous towns, and instead of the great desert wastes, supposed to be beyond reach of cul- tivation, one may now see an almost unbroken stretch of corn - fields and cultivated lands. It is not too much to say that the opening of the Pacific Road, viewed simply in its relation to the spread of population, development of resources, and actual advance of civilization, was an event to be ranked in far-reaching results with the landing of the Pil- grims, or perhaps the voyage of Colum Joining of the Central and Union Pacific. The continent spannedscene at Promontory Point, Utah, May 10, 1869. [From the only existing photograph.) 254 DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PACIFIC. bus. In less than twenty-five years it has accomplished results which have influenced the whole world more than what happened in the century following the landing of the Pilgrims. The five or six hundred men who saw the connection made at Promontory were strongly impressed with the con- viction that the event was of historic importance; but, as I remember it now, we connected it rather with the notion of transcontinental communication and trade with China and Japan than with internal development, or what railroad men call local traffic. We were some- what visionary, no doubt, but none of us dreamed that the future of the Pa- cific roads depended more on the busi- ness that would grow out of peopling the deserts it traversed, than on the through traffic. We have not been dis- appointed in the stupendous results attained, but they are different from those we looked for, and of vastly greater consequence to the country. Our expectations concerning Asiatic trade, it must be owned, have fallen short of fulfilment, but the enormous development of local business has sur- passed anything we could have ever dreamed of. Instead of being incidental and subordinate it is the chief business, the main dependence of the road, the through business for 1891 being only about five per cent., and the local nine- ty-five of the whole volume of traffic. Nearly forty years earlier Asa Whit- ney, reading in China the account 5f the first experiment in railroad build- ing in England, began to reflect upon the enormous changes the new inven- tion made possible in bringing to- gether remote sections of the globe; and naturally enough, his thoughts turned upon the possibilities opened to Asiatic commerce. So impressed was he with the feasibility of a railroad across the American continent as a means of rapid communication between the Asiatic ports and European coun- tries that he set to work at once com- piling statistics concerning the trade of China, Japan, and India, with a view of directing public attention to the subject. He began his public work somewhere about 1841, and in 1845 se- cured a hearing before Congress. It was due almost entirely to his persist- ent efforts that the first appropriation for surveys w~s made in 1853. His proposition was to build a railroad from Lake Superior to Puget Sound, in consideration of a grant of land from the Government to a certain amount over the whole line. Experience has shown that his plan was far from feasi- ble, but he clung to it with the faith of an enthusiast, keeping it before the people and before Congress until he had sacrificed his own private fortune and became discouraged. About the time the present charter was passed he disappeared from the scene. But the idea that a transcontinental railroad must depend chiefly upon the commerce of China and Japan con- tinued to possess the public mind. How little thought was given to the development of the vast territory be- tween the Missouri River and the Pa- cific is indicated by the fact that the examinations and surveys made by or- der of Congress included the isthmus routes and the possibilities for rail- roads or canals on the whole stretch of country from Panama north to the Canada line. The main thing was not to develop the country and make it habitable, but to get across it as quick- ly as possible. The gold discoveries in 1849, the large emigration in conse- quence, and the admission of Califor- nia as a State, added an important ele- ment to be considered, and contributed largely toward keeping the subject in the public mind. But the real objec- tive point continued to be China and Japan and Asiatic trade. Congress spent large sums of money between 1853 and 1860 in surveys of the countrybetween the Missouri River and the Pacific Ocean, the results of which were printed in large volumes, profusely illustrated, and distributed to the people at Government expense. Beyond these tentative steps nothing could be effected. Political conditions prevented further progress. In the first place, the agitation of the slav- ery question occupied the attention of Congress to the exclusion of every- thing else; and out of the sectional jealousies engendered by that contro- versy had arisen differences as to the DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PACIFIC. 255 route to be adoptedwhether a north- ern, southern, or middlewhich were irreconcilable. Nothing could be done as long as those conditions continued. The South, which was then in the con- ,trol of the Government, would never consent to any northern route, and not a dollar of capital could be enlisted for the southern route recommended by Secretary of War Jefferson Davis. But politics, which had so much to do in preventing progress, took a turn in 1860, which resulted in the enter- prise being put in practicable shape and hurried forward with unexampled speed to completion. The charter of 1862 was rushed through Congress be- cause the war had disclosed the dan- gers of the existing situation. Our Pacific coast and the new States of Cal- ifornia and Oregon were from twenty to twenty-four days out of reach, and only accessible then by transit through a foreign country. The coast was al- most entirely undefended, and the Trent affair had awakened anxiety in the direction of a war with England, which the Confederate Admiral Semmes had intensified by the destruction of nearly a hundred whaling vessels in the Pacific Ocean. The citizens of the new States were urgent for some action by Congress, and President Lincoln publicly and privately pressed the im- portance of the subject upon members of Congress and upon capitalists. China and Japan were for the mo- ment lost sight of, and the ruling thought in the public mind was as to the necessity for strengthening the Union by bringing its remotest coasts in quick and easy communication, as soon as possible and at any cost. Even then the possibility of making the great intervening deserts habitable and pop- ulous and fruitful of profitable traffic, had not entered mens minds. Investi- gation showed that the transportation of mails, troops, munitions, and sup- plies between the Missouri River and the Pacific Ocean was costing the Gov- ernment upward of seven million dol- lars annually. It was estimated that the road could be built for one hun- dred million dollars. So that simply to do its own work the Government, had there been no constitutional hin drance, could well afford to issue its six per cents. for the amount, build the road, and save a million dollars annual- ly on its own transportation. The charter of 1862 was believed by Congress to contain sufficient induce- ments in its land grant and subsidy loan to enlist the capital requisite to begin the enterprise. No one had any idea that the full capital would be sub- scribed or paid in. That was plainly impossible. There were not many who believed the scheme was practicable. Most people looked upon the whole thing as visionary. Under the charter of 1862 nothing was done beyond ef- fecting an organization. Capital held alo6f from so unpromising a venture. In 1864 the charter was amended, the land grant was doubled, and other changes made enlarging the induce- ments to capitalists to put enough money into the enterprise to give it a start. Even then the practical railroad builders, who were extending to and be- yond the Mississippi the lines of what are now the great systems of that sec- tion, after thorough examination of the subject shrank from the undertaking. The Rock Island and the Northwestern were half-way across Iowa, but still a long distance from their objective point, the Missouri River. To one or the other of these roads it would fall naturally to take hold of the Union Pa- cific charter, and under it extend its own line beyond the river. The fran- chise was more valuable to them than to any one else. Both looked the mat- ter over, considered the whole subject, and shook their heads. They saw no money in it. With experienced railroad builders so advantageously situated, taking this view of the enterprise, the difficulty of procuring subscriptions and raising money to start the work may be easily imagined. Enough subscriptions were made, however, to justify a beginning, though it was quite evident that very few of the subscribers had any expecta- tion of a return on the investment either as interest or principaL The first in- stalments on these subscriptions fur- nished about money enough to pay the costs of a celebration on the occasion of breaking ground at Omaha in the 256 DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PACIFIC. autumn of 1864. This was quite an affair for Omaha and Council Bluffs, both of them at that time sprawling settlements chiefly made of canvass, with hardly a two-story house in the whole outfit; but it did not make much impression on the outside world. Ground having been broken with proper ceremony everything stopped. Durant and Bushnell, who were the leading spirits in obtaining the charter and ef- fecting an organization, were hard at work raising money and vainly trying to get bona-fide subscriptions enough to warrant going ahead. The limita- tions of the charter were a fatal ob- struction. It was only when these dif- ficulties were surmounted by the device of a construction company that they began to see light. This is not the place to treat of the operations of the Credit Mobilier. I have only to say, as its Executive Officer during the period of its activ- ity, that in my judgment its methods were as legitimate and honorable as those of any corporation with which I have ever been connected; and with- out it the Pacific Railroad could not have been built. It was through this organization, having been in the bhsi- ness of a railroad contractor all my life, that I became interested in the Union Pacific; and I may say as evi- dence of my faith in the property that a large part of my original stock in the company is held by me to-day. The advances made by the Credit Mobilier enabled the railroad company to go ahead, but on account of dif- ferences arising from a change in the original location of the line from Omaha west, work was delayed so that it was about the beginning of 1865 when construction may be said to have fairly begun. Some grading was done in the autumn of 1864, but the first rail was not laid till July, 1865. During 1865 we laid forty miles of track, on the acceptance of which by the Government we received $640,000, in Government bondsbeing $16,000 a mileas a subsidy loan. The land grant was in addition to this, but was not available to meet current expenses. Our land-grant bonds and first mort- gages were practically unsalable, and could only be used as collateral for leans made through the means of the construction company. This money was a great help to us, though it came far short of relieving the pecuniary embarrassments which constantly beset us. Everything was done at enormous cost. None of the Iowa roads had reached the river, con- sequently all our materials, machinery, fuel, provisions, men~ everything in fact, had to go to St. Louis and be transferred thence by boat to Omaha. The treeless plains furnished no ties, and we were obliged to transport them from remote points at very great ex- pense. Ties for a long distance cost us sometimes $2.50 a piece. The cost of labor and provisions was also greatly enhanced by the lack of direct com- munication with markets; and in the absence of wood or coal we were obliged to procure fuel from long dis- tances at a frightful cost. Affairs wore a very unpromising look at the close of 1865, and were not much better at the end of 1866, though we had laid 260 miles of track during the year. During 1867 we climbed to the summit of the Rocky Mountains, and added 240 miles of track, making about 540 miles of completed road beyond the Missouri River. At the end of that year we were over the top of the mountains and nearly half-way to Salt Lake City. The cost of build- ing over the mountains was so much less than we had expected that the construction company found itself with a surplus from the proceeds of the subsidy bonds. This was imprudently distributed in dividends, so that in a short time we were in greater distress than ever for money. To add to our embarrassments the fact that we had reached the dividend point brought the harpies down on us from outside, and led to dissensions among ourselves. Nothing but the faith and pluck of the Ameses, fortified with their exten- sive credit, and the active financial aid of men like John I. Blair and other capitalists carried the thing through. Meantime the scene of active operation from the river to the mountains was attracting public interest and exciting public curiosity more and more every DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PACIFIC. 2~7 day. People who thought for a long time that the whole scheme was wild and visionary began after a while to realize that out there on the Great American Desert an extremely inter- esting enterprise was afoot, and that whatever came of it one thing was certain, the world had never seen rail- road building on so grand a scale under such overpowering disadvantages and at such a rapid rate of progress. It opened fresh fields to the newspaper correspondents and a theme of uncom- mon interest for the press. After the first year the newspapers of the country began to be filled with ac- counts of the progress of the work, with descriptions of the methods pur- sued in construction and the physical aspect of the country traversed. Pub- lic interest had gradually been wrought up in this way to such an extent that during the last year of construction it was the prominent topic; and the prog- ress made in track-laying was tele- graphed all over the country each day. It culminated on May 10, 1869, when in all the large cities of the Union busi- ness stood still while the telegraph clicked the blows of the hammer that drove the last spike. The chief engineer of the work, a man whose animating spirit had much to do with the wonderful rapidity with which it was pushed, was General G. M. Dodge, who had explored the whole country from the Missouri River to Salt Lake as far back as 1853, when he was employed on the Rock Island Road making surveys. He was an enthusi- ast who communicated enthusiasm to his working forces, and he showed skill in the nianagement of hostile Indians, contractors, laborers, and the ruffians and gamblers who followed the camp. The close of the war, in which he dis- tinguished himself, left him at liberty to accept this position of chief engineer, and his intimate relations with Grant and Sherman put him on such terms with commanding officers of garrisons and military posts along the route that he was enabled to avail himself of mil- itary aid against marauding Indians, and also frequently in maintaining order when worthless camp-followers became unruly. With him were Gen eral Jack Casement and his brother Dan, in charge of the track-laying, men of boundless energy and undoubted cour- age, upon whom he could rely to carry out any order with military promptness and unquestioning obedience. The working force was almost entirely com- posed of discharged soldiers, whose ex- perience during the war admirably fit- ted them to encounter the dangers from hostile Indians and endure the priva- tions and hardships of camp life on the Plains. At an alarm of Indians these men fell into line and prepared to meet the attack with the readiness and deci- sion of veteran soldiers. During 1868, and to May 10, 1869, we laid five hundred and fifty-five miles of track, which took us to Promontory Point, just north of the shores of Salt Lake, where we met the track of the Central Pacific and made the connectio~ui between the two roads. For various reasons the two companies had not always worked together in perfect har- mony; and one result of mutual misun- derstanding was, that instead of making the connection when the working par- ties came together, the graders on both sides kept right on until the two road- beds lapped over two hundred miles. When the track-layers met the law re- quired a junction to be made and this was done at Promontory. A contro- versy on the subject was subsequently settled by the Central Pacific leasing of the Union the track from Promontory to Ogden, which became the junction point. Popular interest in the enterprise had become so universal and absorbing, and the event of completion was awaited with so much anxiety, that a celebration of the occasion with some formal cere- monies was not only proper but neces- sary to meet the public expectation. But the scene was so remote, and we who were on the ground had been so much occupied with pushing construc- tion and overcoming the pecuniary em- barrassments and other complications with which we were beset, that there was no opportunity to make arrange- ments on any adequate scale for the celebration of what we all felt to be one of the most important achievements of the nineteenth century. There was no 258 DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PACIFIC. time to make an elaborate programme nor any facilities for carrying it out when made. But our feeling was that, however simple the ceremony might be, the people of the whole country, who had kept in such close touch with us and had given us such sympathy and encouragement from the beginning, should be with us in spirit at the cul- minating moment and participate in the joy of the occasion. Arrangements for this purpose were made at very short notice, and through the hearty co-operation of the tele- graph companies, all the principal offi- ces in the country were informed a few hours beforehand that as soon as the preliminaries were completed a signal would be given and every office being put in connection with Promontory; the blow of the hammer driving the last spike would be communicated by the click of the instrument at the same moment to every station reached by the wires. General Dodge and the two Case- ments, and the force under them, were not idle during the night of May 9th and the early hours of the 10th. The rivalry between the two companies had been very sharp, and neither neglected an opportunity to gain an advantage. The tracks were only a few feet apart on the night of the 9th. During the even- ing General Dodge learned that the Central people had made their arrange- ments to put in sidings early next morn- ing and secure possession of the ter- minus. But when in the gray of the morning the Centrals construction train moved up they found, to their surprise, the sidings all laid and the rails occupied by the Union Pacific lo- comotives and cars. The Central peo- ple took it on the whole very good- naturedly, and did not permit it to dis- turb the general good feeling of the occasion. It was not a large crowd. In brass bands, fireworks, procession, and ora- tory, the demonstration, when ground was broken at Omaha, less than five years before, was much more imposing. A small excursion party, headed by Governor Stanford, had come from San Francisco ; while on our side, besides our own men, there were only two or three persons present, among whom was the Rev. Dr. Todd, of Pittsfield. Not more than five or six hundred, all told, com- prised the whole gathering, nearly all of whom were officials of the two com- paniescontractors, surveyors, and em- ployees. The point of junction was in a level circular valley, about three miles in diameter, surrounded by mountains. During all the morning hours the hur- ry and bustle of preparation went on. Two lengths of rails lay on the ground hear the opening in the road-bed. At a little before eleven the Chinese labor- ers began levelling up the road-bed pre- paratory to placing the last ties in po- sition. About a quarter past eleven the train from San Francisco, bringing Gov- ernor Stanford and party arrived and was greeted with cheers. In the en- thusiasm of the occasion there were cheers for everybody, from the Presi- dent of the United States to the day- laborers on the road. The two engines moved nearer each other, and the crowd gathered round the open space. Then all fell back a little so that the view should be unob- structed. Brief remarks were made by Governor Stanford on one side, and General Dodge on the other. It was now about twelve oclock noon, local time, or about 2 P.M. in New York. The two superintendents of construc- tionS. B. Reed of the Union Pacific, and S. W. Strawbridge of the Central placed under the rails the last tie. It was of California laurel, highly polished, with a silver plate in the centre bearing the following inscription: The last tie laid on the completion of the Pacific Railroad, May 10, 1869, with the names of the officers and directors of both companies. Everything being then in readiness the word was given, and Hats off went clicking over the wires to the wait- ing crowds at New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco, and all the principal cit- ies. Prayer was offered by the vener- able Rev. Dr. Todd, at the conclusion of which our operator tapped out: We have got done praying. The spike is about to be presented, to which the response came back: We understand. All are ready in t.he East. The gentle- DRIVING THE LAST SPIKE OF THE UNION PACIFIC. 259 men who had been commissioned to rail, after the manner of christening a present the four spikes, two of gold, ship at the launching. and two of silver, from Montana, Ida- The event was celebrated in all the ho, California, and Nevada, stepped for- large cities, and everywhere hailed with ward, and with brief appropriate re- demonstrations of delight. In New marks discharged the duty assigned York, Trinity Church was thrown open them. at mid-day, an address was delivered Governor Stanford, standing on the by Rev. Dr. Vinton, and a large crowd north, and Dr. Durant on the south side united to tender thanks to God for of the track, received the spikes and the completion of the greatest work put them in place. Our operator tapped ever undertaken by man. In Phila- out: All ready now; the spike will delphia bells were rung and cannon soon be driven. The signal will be fired. At Chicago a great impromptu three dots for the commencement of demonstration took place, in which all the blows. An instant later the silver citizens joined; at Buffalo a large crowd hammers came down, and at each stroke gathered to hear the telegraph signals, in all the offices from San Francisco to sang the Star-Spangled Banner, and New York, and throughout the land, listened to speeches from distinguished the hammer of the magnet struck the citizens; and at every important point belL the announcement of the completion of The signal Done was received at the work was received with unbounded Washington at 2.47 P.M., which was joy. about a quarter of one at Promontory. That night our party started on their There was not much formality in the return, and the next day, May 11, 1869, demonstration that followed, but the trains began running regularly over enthusiasm was genuine and unmistak- the whole line. New York was in di- able. The two engines moved up until rect rail communication with San Fran- they touched each other, and a bottle cisco, and a new empire was thrown of champagne was poured on the last open in the heart of the continent. y WHATEVER may have been its plight in some earlier times, literature certainly has now of esteem of a certain sort enough and to spare. Let a boy disclose a preference for books over toys and sports, and immediately he becomes the peculiar pride of his parents, and the marvel of the neighborhood. The preference may confine itself to books of the desperate brigand sort, but still is he a lad apart; a lad on whom heaven has be- stowed an unusual endowment. The pa- rents, in that case, perhaps confess to a fear that he reads too many stories; but through their very confession their pride shines as clear as its artificiality through an eye of glass. And men and women grown attain, within the circle of their more immediate acquaintance, to the distinction of being great readers with little more difficulty than the boy. It were easy to frame a simple prescription which might safely be war- ranted to produce, if pursued with anything like diligence, a luxuriant growth of literary reputation in six weeks, so ready is local public opinion to give a reader credit for large achievements. From the smallest to the greatest, the reading mans reading usu- ally falls short of the public estimate, like a rich mans estate; and it is always accounted in him a peculiar grace. All this indicates unmistakably a wide and spontaneous deference to literature. And it is further indicated in the habit of men who, beginning life in poverty and comparative illiteracy and finally achieving wealth, furnish their houses with books and found public libraries. But, in spite of it all, the practical faith in literature is ex- tremely weak. One is never surprised to find men in stores and offices reading the newspaper; but one would be surprised to find them reading books, and many would be perfectly scandalized. Immediately ques- tion would arise of their energy and alert- ness as men of business. A boy out of school for the long vacation was set at some light task in a bank. His duties left him with an hour or two each day quite unoccupied. One morning he carried with him to the bank a copy of Old Mor- tality, having come in that engaging history to such a pass that he could not comfortably permit his reading to lie over until evening. As he sat over the talc in an intermission from work, there stopped before his desk a man who had a sufficient interest in books to have collected a considerable library, and even to have read by easy stages some of the volumes it contained. Noting the book, but without noting either its title or its character, he said in the gravest tone, I suppose they use you a little tenderly yet, while youre new, and allow you to read. No doubt it was but a bit of pleasantry, framed with the awkwardness usual to a grave man in his efforts to be playful with a boy. But back of it there lay a sense that a boy reading a book in a bank was unbusi- nesslike; and this sense the boy received with such force that he was ashamed to have been caught reading there and carried his book to the bank no more. Thereafter he fancied, as no doubt most of the wise, THE POINT OF VIEW.

A Lack Of Faith In Literature The Point Of View 260-266

WHATEVER may have been its plight in some earlier times, literature certainly has now of esteem of a certain sort enough and to spare. Let a boy disclose a preference for books over toys and sports, and immediately he becomes the peculiar pride of his parents, and the marvel of the neighborhood. The preference may confine itself to books of the desperate brigand sort, but still is he a lad apart; a lad on whom heaven has be- stowed an unusual endowment. The pa- rents, in that case, perhaps confess to a fear that he reads too many stories; but through their very confession their pride shines as clear as its artificiality through an eye of glass. And men and women grown attain, within the circle of their more immediate acquaintance, to the distinction of being great readers with little more difficulty than the boy. It were easy to frame a simple prescription which might safely be war- ranted to produce, if pursued with anything like diligence, a luxuriant growth of literary reputation in six weeks, so ready is local public opinion to give a reader credit for large achievements. From the smallest to the greatest, the reading mans reading usu- ally falls short of the public estimate, like a rich mans estate; and it is always accounted in him a peculiar grace. All this indicates unmistakably a wide and spontaneous deference to literature. And it is further indicated in the habit of men who, beginning life in poverty and comparative illiteracy and finally achieving wealth, furnish their houses with books and found public libraries. But, in spite of it all, the practical faith in literature is ex- tremely weak. One is never surprised to find men in stores and offices reading the newspaper; but one would be surprised to find them reading books, and many would be perfectly scandalized. Immediately ques- tion would arise of their energy and alert- ness as men of business. A boy out of school for the long vacation was set at some light task in a bank. His duties left him with an hour or two each day quite unoccupied. One morning he carried with him to the bank a copy of Old Mor- tality, having come in that engaging history to such a pass that he could not comfortably permit his reading to lie over until evening. As he sat over the talc in an intermission from work, there stopped before his desk a man who had a sufficient interest in books to have collected a considerable library, and even to have read by easy stages some of the volumes it contained. Noting the book, but without noting either its title or its character, he said in the gravest tone, I suppose they use you a little tenderly yet, while youre new, and allow you to read. No doubt it was but a bit of pleasantry, framed with the awkwardness usual to a grave man in his efforts to be playful with a boy. But back of it there lay a sense that a boy reading a book in a bank was unbusi- nesslike; and this sense the boy received with such force that he was ashamed to have been caught reading there and carried his book to the bank no more. Thereafter he fancied, as no doubt most of the wise, THE POINT OF VIEW. earnest men who did business at that bank fancied, that in the odd moments when the bank had nothing for him to do he might better do nothing rather than get interested in a book. In after years the lesson of this experience was repeated to him in another. He was on a journey, and there entered the car in which he was travelling a man of his ac- quaintance who, stopping to greet him, found him reading In Memoriam. Ah, said the man, reading poetry? and he smiled as one might at catching a friend kissing a pretty girl. If, business done, and the business hours spent, a business man chooses, in the pri- vacy of his own home, to divert himself with Shakespeare, instead of playing with his children, or drowsing over his newspaper, or going into society, oftentimes he may. A few there will be (his own business part- ners like enough) to begrudge him even this liberty, and to contend that he were better abroad making friends who may later become customers. Against any liberty be- yond this the authority of the whole volume of every-day wisdom stands opposed. In short, for all the deference paid it, litera- ture is in the general apprehension a thing quite apart and distinct from all practical vocations: well enough if one has time to devote to it, but not unless one has time, and not in the least conducive, rather ob- structive, to skill and success in those vo- cations. MucH behind the rest of the world, as usual, I have just been reading Mr. Steven- sons Song of Rah~ro, but as I do not pro- pose any discussion of it from a literary point of view, my tardiness is perhaps of no importance. It is the significance of the story itself with which I am struck. In his notes Mr. Stevenson tells us that he has heard two complete versions of the story, which he has not consciously changed in a single detail, and which we must therefore conclude are identical. He adds that there seems no reason why the tale should not be true. Stripped of its graceful adornments, which I presume we may, at all events, at- tribute to Mr. Stevenson, the story is this: Rah~ro, who hates the King of Taiarapu, VOL. XII.28 261 contrives a deadly insult, using as an in- strumentality a half-witted boy, who is pur- sued by one of the kings guard and slain. The boys mother, after vainly seeking the aid of all the dignitaries or kings of her own land, goes to the other side of the isl- and, to the hereditary foes of her people, whose king undertakes the pleasant task of avenging her. First, he caused the report to go forth of the great abundance of food in his land, and sent boat loads to be cast into the sea and washed up at the very feet of the Tevas in proof of it. Meantime he built a strong house with a roof, into which he purposes to toll his foes like a drove of pigs and there burn them. All goes as planned, and the Taiarapus, to the number of eight hundred, the king and everyone of his people set out for this land of promise. They are received with appar- ent welcome and a great feast is prepared, and everyone of them, men, women, chil- dren, babes, and graybeards, if they had any beards, eat to repletion and drink them- selves into a dead stupor. Wood is there- upon piled all about, the building fired, and all perish except Raht~ro, who escapes through the roof after it had fallen in, and taking one of the women of the hostile tribe by force, his own wife and children being burned, rows back to his own land. From this pair all the Taiarapus claim de- scent. Mr. Stevenson is a little astonished at the idea of the king, commons, women and children all eating together, but naYvely adds: It troubled none of my numerous authorities; so there must certainly be some natural explanation. Seeing that Mr. Stevenson is so fine a story teller, perhaps we ought not to hold him too rigidly to accountability as a his- torian or scientist. But I might almost as well say that the incidents set forth in Kidnapped and Treasure Island have not troubled me and other admiring readers, and that they are capable of natural ex- planation. Certainly, they are not impos- sible, but I have an impression that the author did not expect us to accept them as literal fact. That there may be a germ of truth in the story of Rah~ro is not denied; but all its details stamp the tale as legendas one of the innumerable attempts of a race to ac- count for its origin, nothing whatever being THE POINT OF VIEW. 262 THE POINT OF VIEW. known of the facts. Usually it is a flood, in some shape, which intervenes between the present and the very remote past, from which a single pair only escaped. In this form the deluge legend has gone over the whole world. But destruction by fire is rare. I do not recall a good example of it. There is, how- ever, the story of the rabbit who shot the sun, causing a general conflagration, from which he alone appears to have escaped in a sadly fragmentary condition. But in the Eddas we are told that at Bagnarok the world will be burned, a single pair, Lif and Lifthraser surviving, from whom a purer race will spring. Aside from the matter of race origin, the incidents in the story of iRah6ro are frequent- ly paralleled. In the Volsung Saga, Sig- mund and Sinfjotli go home to the hall, when as men slept there, and bear wood to the hail and lay fire therein; and withal the folk therein are waked by the smoke and the hall burning over their heads. There was in this case nothing to prevent their escape except the two grim warriors waiting outside, for Sigmunds sister comes out and takes a tender leave of him and goes back into the hall to share the fate of the king, whom she cordially hates and whose death she had planned. The victims have taken no precautions and make no at- tempt to save themselves. So also, later in this narrative, Gudrun cast fire into the hall, and the people waking, instead of escaping, which there is nothing in the world to hinder, smite each other down with swords. Gudrun alone survives and is borne over the sea waves to Jonakr. Here again is a touch of the race legend. She becomes the mother of Ham- dir, Sorhi, and Erp, but the curse which attaches to the Andvari hoard prevents a further development. The two first go to avenge their sister Swanhild and are slain, first having themselves killed Erp, who elsewhere appears to be only a half- brother. From the Lay of Hamdir it would seem that here was another instance of setting fire to the hall: Look on these hands of thine, Look on these feet of thine Cast by us, Jormunrek, On to the flame. The fire may, however, have been merely what would have been burning in the hall, and it does not appear that Jormunrek had been surprised. In the Nibelungen Lied the hall in which the Burgundian heroes had taken refuge was fired, but here there is nothing mar- vellous or improbable in the incident itself. But taken i~i connection with the rest of the story, it would be exceedingly unsafe to conclude that it represents any actual event. IN the wistful, not to say regretful, mood stirred by the more and more frequent in- trusions of the novel without a hero, it may prove solacing to note how little real use fiction has ever been able to make of the Perfect Person. If the mood were of grief at an assured bereavement, of course one would hardly dare to enlarge on the small- ness of the loss. But thus far the novel with a hero has not been finally displaced, only ominously crowded; and its friends are still in a sufficient composure, one may trust, to submit to fortification against the worst. The man who yields to no assaults of pas- sion, does no injustice, harbors no illusions, and maintains his affections ever fresh and warm, is an ideal precious to every heart not warped out of all capacity for ideals; and imaginative literature, to be of more than the day, has always had to give, and always will have to give, at least sufficient glimpses and intimations of him to keep the ideal quick and gracious. Whenever a com- plete portrayal of him has been undertaken, however, by presenting him as an actor in the living scene, it has been more or less of a failure, so far as I recall, except when he has been kept to a subordinate rOle. The finest instance of the perfectly bal- anced man that imaginative literature sup- plies, the one that seems surest of never losing its charm, is perhaps Horatio. He is imaged to us as completely as can be; we hold him always for our personal friend. And yet no character in the whole play is of less moment to its story than he; and nothing that he either does or says is the source of our impression of him. The im- pression comes wholly of the affection in which Hamlet held him, of the enticing ac- counts that Hamlet gave of him, and of the illumination of his by Hamlets own charac THE POINT OF VIEW. 263 ter. That the beauty and effectiveness of the play are greatly heightened by his pres- ence, is undoubted; but with no neces- sary question of the play is his connection vital. He is a sympathetic, indeed, but a perfectly composed and level-headed look- er-on at an awful tragedy. Nor could he have been much more, I dare think, and not have been marred in his true perfec- tion. When the attempt has been made to put the balanced man at the centre of the ac- tion one of two catastrophes have infalli- bly befallen. Either he has become a wooden and insipid personage whose very name died out of memory the moment the book or spectacle was done; or he has gone off into a course of conduct in gross con- flict with the character given him at his in- troduction. Especially prone to the latter kind of undoing were the heroic youths of the last century. Action was secured to them only by making life between the de- scriptive ravishment of the first scene and the repentant exaltation of the last a self- stultifying debauch; and the real feat of the imagination was for the reader, who, seeing with what depravity they behaved, could still think them noble. The difficulty lies in the nature of things. Novelists and playwrights have not lacked the power of truly conceiving the perfectly balanced character. Indeed, the best of them work constantly under the influence of such a conception, even in the creation of characters of a designedly different sort. One must have the sense of a right line to know a crooked one. But there is so lit- tle that the perfectly balanced character can be made to do. Rarely is the file of strange and moving incident set marching by him. Whim, foible, perversion, one- sidedness, not balance and perfection, are the bread of fiction. For an instance, take Moliere. He is better than almost any other; for with him the action is brief and simple, the charac- ters are few and often simple, too, and it is easy to see the method by which the piece is evolved. The clear victim of some mag- got of the brain, a human creature distinct- ly out of plumb, is found and set free to follow his mania of hallucination to fatal lengths; and the acts into which his dis- torted sense of the relation of things leads him and enforces others make the story. All else is subordinate. The well-balanced man is brought in, but only as an interlo- cutor; a person with a stick to prod the animals into diverting gambols. Mr. Low- ell has said that MolThres quality was comic power rather than humor. And this is true in respect of the development of the story; but in the choice of these central characters out of whom the story springs, he is pre~minently humorous. They are one and all fellows overridden by humors. No other than a humorist could have had Moli~res quick eye for them. And the in- dispensable material of fiction is always somewhat after their sort. WHEN a man is planning for the comfort of his mature and declining years, there are some things that he arranges for as matters of course. He will try to plan so that he may have an income proportionate to his habits of expenditure as long as he lives, and he will arrange, if possible, to have the income continue just the same to himself or his heirs after he is tired and stops work- ing. He will be apt to try to arrange also to have a wife to grow old with, and to have children about him, in various convenient stages of development, to keep him in touch with contemporary life. And he will form the whist habit or the habit of reading books, and take reasonable measures not to have gout, or dyspepsia, or any unreason- able affection of the liver. Such precautions any prudent man will take as he sees the propriety of them, and many others too; but there are one or two comforts that he may miss by not appreciat- ing their value until it is too late to provide for them. A particular luxury of this sort, for which a timely arrangement must be made if a man is to have it at all, is a peri- odical meeting with the men who were young when lie was. In order to secure this enjoyment, it is necessary, in the first place, to be young with a considerable num- ber of persons associated in the pursuit of some common interest, and to form more or less intimate relations with them. They must be the right sort of people too; peo- ple whom it is not only edifying to know while they are young, but who promise a development which will make a fair propor 264 THE POINT OF VIEW. tion of them good company in their matu- rity. Having formed such an acquaintance betimes, the habit of renewing it periodi- cally should be started early and carefully nursed, the periods growing gradually less until they become annuaL The simplest way to accomplish all this is doubtless to go early in life to a good col- lege, and return yearly to its Commence- ments. But where that has not been feas- ible, the same end is often otherwise accomplished, as by being a veteran of the war, and meeting ones fellow-veterans an- nually at a Grand Army Encampment; or by being an earnest politician and getting sent pretty regularly to conventions. The points that require attention are, that you must meet old friends who were young, or comparatively young, in your company, and from whom you are ordinarily separated. The old friends whom you meet every day wont do. You talk to them, when you see them, about what happened yesterday and was in the morning paper. The sight of them does not annihilate time for you; your intercourse with them has been too constantly contemporaneous for that. But the old acquaintances whom you only see once a year carry you back every time to the years when you first knew them. It is a valuable refreshment to the spirit to be thus transported, and one which rightly constituted persons prize with in- creasing appreciation as the years pile up on them. After a man has found his vocation and got into the root of it, existence comes to smack too much of the tread-mill, and a sensation that is quickening and perva- sive, and out of his every-day experience, is the more welcome and the more reviving to him in proportion to the increase of the difficulty in finding it. Therefore, if you intend to be happy though old, form the habit early of regular attendance on some periodical function. Have a taste for something in particular, and stick to it until the other enthusiasts on the subject are old acquaintances. Then meet them persistently once a year, and presently you will have a habit that will be of real value to you when you have passed the time for making new friends. p DRAWN BY ILYA EFIMOVITCH REFIN. ENGRAVED NY FRANK FRENCH. THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA BLESSING THE WATERS OF THE NEVA AT EPIPHANY,

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Scribner's magazine. / Volume 12, Issue 3 Commentator Scribner's commentator Charles Scribner's Sons New York September, 1892 0012 3
George Bird Grinnell Grinnell, George Bird The Last Of The Buffalo 267-287

SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. VOL. XII. SEPTEMBER, 1892. iNo. 3. THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. By George Bird Grinnell. the floor, on either side of my fireplace, lie two buffalo skulls. They are white and weathered, the horns cracked and bleached by the snows and frosts, and the rains and heats of many winters and summers. Often, late at night, when the house is quiet, I sit be- fore the fire, and muse and dream of the old days; and as I gaze at these relics of the past, they take life before my eyes. The matted brown hair again clothes the dry bone, and in the empty orbits the wild eyes gleam. Above me curves the blue arch; away on every hand stretches the yellow prairie, and scat- tered near and far are the dark forms of buffalo. They dot the rolling hills, quietly feeding like tame cattle, or lie at ease on the slopes, chewing the cud and half asleep. The yellow calves are close by their mothers ; on little emi- nences the great bulls paw the dust, and mutter and moan, while those whose horns have grown one, two, and three winters are mingled with their elders. Not less peaceful is the scene near sonic river-bank, when the herds come down to water. From the high prairie on every side they stream into the val- ley, stringing along in single file, each band following the deep trail worn in the parched soil by the tireless feet of generations of their kind. At a quick walk they swing along, their heads held low. The long beards of the bulls sweep the ground; the shuffling tread of many hoofs marks their passing, and above each long line rises a cloud of dust that sometin~es obscures the west- ering sun. Life, activity, excitement, mark an- other memory as vivid as these. From behind a near hill, mounted men ride out and charge down toward the herd. For an instant the buffalo pause to stare, and then crowd together in a close throng, jostling and pushing each other, a confused mass of horns, hair, and hoofs. Heads down and tails in air, they rush away from their pursuers, and as they race along herd joins herd, till the black mass sweeping over the prairie numbers thousands. On its skirts hover the active, nimble horse- men, with twanging bowstrings and sharp arrows piercing many fat cows. The naked Indians cling to their naked horses as if the two were parts of one incomparable animal, and swing and yield to every motion of their steeds with the grace of perfect horseman- ship. The ponies, as quick and skil- ful as the men, race up beside the fat- test of the herd, swing off to avoid the charge of a maddened cow, and return- ing, dart close to the victim, whirling hither and yon, like swallows on the wing. And their riders, with the un- conscious skill, grace, and power of matchless archery, are drawing their bows to the arrows head, and driving the feathered shaft deep through the bodies of the buffalo. Returning on Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribners Sons. All rights reserved. 268 THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. their tracks, they skin the dead, then load the meat and robes on their horses, and with laughter and jest ride away. After them, on the deserted prairie, come the wolves to tear at the carcasses. The rain and the snow wash the blood from the bones, and fade and bleach the hair. For a few months the skele- ton holds together; then it falls down, and the fox and the badger pull about the whitening bones and scatter them over the plain. So this cow and this bull of mine may have left their bones on the prairie where I found them and picked them up to keep as mementoes of the past, to dream over, and in such reverie to see again the swelling hosts which yesterday covered the plains, and to-day are but a dream. So the buffalo passed into history. Once an inhabitant of this continent from the Arctic slope to Mexico, and from Virginia to Oregon, and, within the memory of men yet young, roam- ing the plains in such numbers that it seemed that it could never be extermi- nated, it has now disappeared as utter- ly as has the bison from Europe. For it is probable that the existing herds of that practically extinct species, now carefully guarded in the forests of Grodno, about equal in numbers the buffalo in the Yellowstone Park; while the wild bison in the Caucasus may be compared with the woody buffalo which survive in the Peace IRiver dis- trict. In view of the former abundance of our buffalo, this parallel is curious and interesting. The early explorers were constantly astonished by the multitudinous herds which they met with, the regularity of their movements, and the deep roads which they made in travelling from place to place. Many of the earlier references are to territory east of the Mississippi, but even within the last fif- teen years buffalo were to be seen on the Western plains in numbers so great that an entirely sober and truthful account seems like fable. Describing the abundance of buffalo in a certain region, an Indian once said to me, in the expressive sign language of which all old frontiersmen have some knowledge, The country was one robe. Much has been written about their enormous abundance in the old days, but I have never read anything that I thought an exaggeration of their num & A Slackfoot P(sk~n. ENGRAVED BY C. I. BUTLER. DhAws ~o exr~esi e. THOMPSON. Through the Mist. 270 THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. bers as I have seen them. Only one who has actually spent months in trav- elling among them in those old days can credit the stories told about them. The trains of the Kansas Pacific Rail- road used frequently to be detained by herds which were crossing the tracks in front of the engines, and in 1870, trains on which I was travelling were alarmed and running, but were usually scattered about, feeding or lying down on the prairie at a little distance from one another, much as domestic cattle distribute themselves in a pasture or on the range. As far as we could see on every side of the line of march, and ahead, the hillsides were dotted with dark forms, and the field-glass revealed twice so held, in one case for three yet others stretched out on every side hours. When railroad travel first be- in one continuous host, to the most dis- gan on this road, the engineers tried taut hills. Thus was gained, a more the experiment of running through just notion of their numbers than could these passing herds, but after their en- be had in any other way, for the sight gines had been thrown from the tracks of this limitless territory occupied by they learned wisdom, and gave the buf- these continuous herds was more im- falo the right of way. Two or three pressive than the spectacle of a surging, years later, in the country between the terrified mass of fleeing buffalo, even Platte and Republican Rivers, I saw a though the numbers which passed rap- closely massed herd of buffalo so vast idly before ones gaze in a short time that I dare not hazard a guess as to its were very great. numbers; and in later years I have The former range of the buffalo has travelled for weeks at a time, in north- been worked out with painstaking care em Montana, without ever being out by Dr. Allen, to whom we owe an ad- of sight of buffalo. These were not in mirable monograph on this species. He close herds, except now and then when concludes that the northern limit of this THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. 271 range was north of the Great Slave Lake, in latitude about 630 N. ; while to the south it extended into Mexico as far as latitude 250 N. To the west it ranged at least as far as the Blue Mountains of Oregon, while on the east it was abun- dant in the western portions of New York, Pennsylvania, Virginia, North and South Carolina, and Georgia. In the in- terior the buffalo were very abundant, and occupied Ohio, Kentucky, West Virginia, Tennessee, West Georgia, Illi- nois, Indiana, and Iowa, parts of Michi- gan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, the whole of the great plains, from south- em Texas north to their northern limit, and much of the Rocky Mountains. In Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, and most of New Mexico they were abundant, and probably common over a large part of Utah, and perhaps in northern Nevada. So far as now known, their western limit was the Blue Mountains of Ore- gon and the eastern foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Thus it will be seen that the buffalo once ranged over a large part of the American ContinentDr. Allen says one-third of itbut it must not be im- agined that they were always present at the same time in every part of their range. They were a wandering race, sometimes leaving a district and being long absent, and again returning and occupying it for a considerable period. What laws or what impulses governed these movements we cannot know. Their wandering habits were well un- derstood by the Indians of the Western plains, who depended upon the buffalo for food. It was their custom to follow the herds about, and when, as sometimes occurred, these moved away and could not be found, the Indians were reduced to great straits for food, and sometimes even starved to death. Under natural conditions the buffalo was an animal of rather sluggish hab- its, mild, inoffensive, and dulL In its ways of life and intelligence it closely resembled our domestic cattle. It was slow to learn by experience, and this lack of intelligence greatly hastened the de-~ struction of the race. Until the very last years of its existence as a species, it did not appear to connect the report of fire-arms with any idea of danger to itself, and, though constantly pursued, did not become wild. If he used skill and judgment in shooting, a hunter who had got a stand on a small bunch could kill them all before they had moved out of rifle-shot. It was my fort- une, one summer, to hunt for a camp of soldiers, and more than once I have lain on a hill above a little herd of buf- falo, shot down what young bulls I needed to supply the camp, and then walked down to the bunch and, by wav- ing my hat and shouting, driven off the survivors, so that I could prepare the meat for transportation to camp. This slowness to take the alarm, or indeed to realize the presence of danger, was characteristic of the buffalo almost up to the very last. A time did come when they were alarmed readily enough, but this was not until all the large herds had been broken up and scattered, and the miserable survivors had been so chased and harried that at last they learned to start and run even at their own shadows. Another peculiarity of the buffalo was its habit, when stampeded, of dash- ing blindly forward against, over, or through anything that might be in the way. When running, a herd of buffalo followed its leaders, and yet these lead- ers lost the power of stopping, or even of turning aside, because they were constantly crowded upon and pushed forward by those behind. This ex- plains why herds would dash into mire or quicksands, as they often did, and thus perish by the thousands. Those in front could not stop, while those behind could not see the danger toward which they were rushing. So, too, they ran into rivers, or into traps made for them by the Indians, or against railroad cars, or even dashed into the rivers and swam blindly against the sides of steamboats. If an obstacle lay squarely across their path, they tried to go through it, but if it lay at an angle to their course they would turn a little to follow it. The buffalo calf is born from April to June, and at first is an awkward little creature, looking much like a domestic calf, but with a shorter neck. The hump at first is scarcely noticeable, but devel- ops rapidly. They are odd-looking and DRAWN BY ERNEST E. THOMPSON. Going to Water. THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. 273 very playful little animals. They are easily caught and tamed, when quite young, but when a few months old they become as shy as the old buffalo, and are much more swift of foot. Although apparently very sluggish, buffalo are really extremely active, and are able to go at headlong speed over a country where no man would dare to ride a horse. When alarmed they will throw themselves down the almost verti- cal side of a caiion and climb the opposite wall with cat-like agility. Sometimes they will descend cut banks by jumping from shelf to shelf of rock like the moun- tain sheep. To get at water when thirsty, they will climb down bluffs that seem altogether impracticable for such great animals. Many years ago, while descend- ing the Missouri River in a fiat-boat with two companions, I landed in a wide bottom to kill a mountain sheep. As we were bringing the meat to the boat, we saw on the opposite side of the river, about half-way down the bluffs, which were here about fifteen hundred feet high, a large buffalo bulL The bluffs were almost vertical, and this old fellow was having some difficulty in making his way down to the water. He went slowly and carefully, at times having pretty good going, and at others slipping and sliding for thirty or forty feet, sending the clay and stones rolling ahead of him in great quantities. We watched him for a little while, and then it occurred to some malicious spirit among us that it would be fun to see whether the bull could go up wjiere he had come down. A shot was fired so as to strike near himfor no one wanted to hurt the old fellow and as soon as the report reached his ears, he turned about and began to scramble up the bluffs. His first rush carried him, perhaps, a hundred feet vertically, and then he stopped and looked around. He seemed not to have the slightest difficulty in climbing up, nor did he use any cantion or appear to pick his way at all. A second shot caused another rush up the steep as- cent, but this time he went only half as far as before and again stopped. Three or four other shots drove him by shorter and shorter rushes up the bluffs, until at length he would go no further, and subsequent shots only caused him to shake his head angrily. Plainly he had climbed until his wind had given out, and now he would stand and fight. Our fun was over, and look- ing back as we floated down the river, our last glimpse was of the old bull, still standing on his shelf, waiting with low- ered head for the unknown enemy that he supposed was about to attack him. It is not only under stress of circum- stances that the bison climbs. The mountain buffalo is almost as active as the mountain sheep, and was often found in places that tested the nerve and activity of a man to reach; and even the buffalo of the plains had a fondness for high places, and used to climb up on to broken buttes or high rocky points in the foothills. In recent years I have often noticed the same habit among range cattle and horses. The buffalo were fond of rolling in the dirt, and to this habit, practised when the ground was wet, are due the buffalo wallows which so frequently occur in the old ranges, and which often contain water after all other moisture, except that of the streams, is dried up. These wallows were formed by the roll- ing of a succession of buffalo in the same moist place, and were often quite deep. They have often been described. Less well known was the habit of scratching themselves against trees and rocks. Sometimes a solitary erratic bowlder, five or six feet high, may be seen on the bare prairie, the ground immediately around it being worn down two or three feet below the level of the surrounding earth. This is where the buffalo have walked about the stone, rubbing against it, and where they trod loosening the soil, which has been blown away by the wind, so that in course of time a deep trench was worn about the rock. Often single trees along streams were worn quite smooth by the shoul- ders and sides of the buffalo. When the first telegraph line was built across the continent, the poles used were light and small, for trans- portation over the plains was slow and expensive, and it was not thought nec- essary to raise the wires high above the ground. These poles were much re- sorted to by the buffalo to scratch against, and before long a great many 274 THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. of them were pushed over. A story, now of considerable antiquity, is told of an ingenious employee of the tele- graph company, who devised a plan for preventing the buffalo from disturbing the poles. This he expected to accom- plish by driving into them spikes which should prick the animals when they rubbed against them. The result some- what astonished the inventor, for it was discovered that, where formerly one buffalo rubbed against the smooth tele- graph poles, ten now struggled and fought for the chance to scratch them- selves against the spiked poles, the iron furnishing just the irritation which their tough hides needed. It was in spring, when his coat was being shed, that the buffalo, odd-look- ing enough at any time, presented his most grotesque appearance. The mat- ted hair and wool of the shoulders and sides began to peel off in great sheets, and these sheets, clinging to the skin and flapping in the wind, gave the ani- mal the appearance of being clad in rags. The buffalo was a timid creature, but brought to bay would fight with feroc- ity. There were few sights more terri- fying to the novice than the spectacle of an old bull at bay. His mighty bulk a quivering mass of active, enraged muscle ; the shining horns, the little, spiky tail, and the eyes half hidden be- neath the shaggy frontlet, yet gleaming with rage, combined to render him an awe - inspiring object. Nevertheless, owing to their greater speed and activ- ity, the cows were much more to be feared than the bulls. It was once thought that the buffalo performed annually extensive migra- tions, and it was even said that those which spent the summer on the banks of the Saskatchewan wintered in Texas. There is no reason for believing this to have been true. Undoubtedly there were slight general movements north and south, and east and west, at certain seasons of the year, but many of the accounts of these movements are en- tirely misleading, because greatly exag- gerated. In one portion of the north- ern country I know that there was a decided east and west seasonal niugra- tion, the herds tending in spring away from the mountains, while in the au- tumn they worked back again, no doubt seeking shelter in the rough, broken country of the foothills from the cold west winds of the winter. The buffalo is easily tamed when caught as a calf, and in all its ways of life resembles the domestic cattle. It at once learns to respect a fence, and manifests no disposition to wander. Three years ago there were in this country about two hundred and fifty domesticated buffalo, in the possession of about a dozen individuals. Of these the most important herd was that of Hon. C. J. Jones, of Garden City, Kan., which included about fifty animals captured and reared by himself, and the Bedson herd of over eighty, purchased in Manitoba. The Jones herd at one time consisted of about one hundred and fifty head. Next came that of Charles Allard and Michel Pablo, of the Flat Head Agency in Montana, which in 1888 numbered thirty-five, and has now increased to about ninety. Mr. Joness herd has been broken up, and he now retains only about forty-five head, of which fifteen are breeding cows. He tells me that within the past year or two he has sold over sixty pure buffalo, and that nearly as many more have died through injuries received in trans- porting them by rail. Mr. Jones is the only individual who of recent years has made any systematic effort to cross the buffalo with our own domestic cattle. As far back as the be- ginning of the present century, this was successfully done in the West and North- west, and in Audubon & Bachmans Quadrupeds of America~ may be found an extremely interesting account, written by Robert Wickliffe, of Lexing- ton, Ky., giving the results of a series of careful and successful experiments which he carried on for more than thirty years. These experiments sbowed that the cross for certain purposes was a very valuable one, but no systematic efforts to establish and perpetuate a breed of buffalo cattle were afterward made un- til within the past ten years. iVIr. Jones has bred buffalo bulls to Galloway, Polled Angus, and ordinary range cows, and has succeeded in obtaining calves from all. Such half-breeds are of very DRAWN BY ERNEST B. THOMPSON. At Mid.day, 276 THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. large size, extremely hardy, and, as a farmer would say, easy keepers. They are fertile among themselves or with either parent. A half-breed cow of Mr. Joness that I examined was fully as large as an ordinary work-ox, and in spring, while nursing a calf, was fat on grass. She lacked the buffalo hump, but her hide would have made a good robe. The great size and tremendous frame of these cross-bred cattle should make them very valuable for beef, while their hardiness would exempt them from the dangers from winterso often fatal to domestic range cattleand they pro- duce a robe which is quite as valuable as that of the buffalo, and more beauti- ful because more even all over. If con- tinued, these attempts at cross-breeding may do much to improve our Western range cattle. Mr. Jones has sold a number of buf- falo to persons in Europe where there is a considerable demand for them. It is to be hoped that no more of these domesticated buffalo will be allowed to leave the country where they were born. Indeed, it would seem quite within the lines of the work now being carried on by the Agricultural Department for the Government to purchase all the domes- ticated American buffalo that can be had, and to start, in some dne of the Western States, an experimental farm for buffalo breeding and buffalo cross- ing. With a herd of fifty pure bred buffalo cows and a sufficient number of bulls, a series of experiments could be carried on which might be of great value to the cattle growers of our west- ern country. The stock of pure buffalo could be kept up and increased, surplus bulls, pure and half bred, could be sold to farmers, and, in time, the new race of buffalo cattle might become so firmly established that it would endure. To undertake this with any prospect of success, such a farm would have to be managed by a man of intelligence and of wide experience in this partien A Relic. THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. 277 lar field; otherwise all the money in- vested would be wasted. Mr. Jones is perhaps the only man living who knows enough of this subject to carry on such an experimental farm with success. Although only one species of buffalo is known to science, old mountaineers and Indians tell of four kinds. These are, besides the ordinary animal of the plains, the mountain buffalo, some- times called bison, which is found in the timbered Rocky Mountains; the wood buffalo of the Northwest, which inhabits the timbered country to the west and north of Athabaska Lake; and the beaver buffalo. The last named has been vaguely described to me by northern Indians as small and having a very curly coat. I know of only one printed account of it, and this says that it had short, sharp horns which were small at the root and curiously turned up and bent backward, not unlike a rams, but quite unlike the bend of the horn in the common buffalo. It is pos- sible that this description may refer to the musk ox and not to a buffalo. The mountain and wood buffalo seem to be very much alike in habit and ap- pearance. - They are larger, darker, and heavier than the animal of the plains, but there is no reason for thinking them specifically distinct from it. Such differences as existed were due to the conditions of their environments. The color of the buffalo in its new coat is a dark liver-brown. This soon changes, however, and the robes, which are at their best in November and early December, begin to grow paler toward spring; and when the coat is shed, the hair and wool from young animals is almost a dark smoky-gray. The calf when first born is of a bright yellow color, almost a pale red on the line of the back. As if; grows older it be- comes darker, and by late autumn is almost as dark as the adults. Varia- tions from the normal color are very rare, but pied, spotted, and roan ani- mals were sometimes killed. Blue or mouse-colored buffalo were occasion- ally seen, and a bull of this color was observed in the National Park last Jan- uary. White buffalothough often re- ferred to as mythicalsometimes oc- curred. These varied from gray to VOL. XJL30 cream-white. The rare and valuable silk or beaver robe owes its name to its dark color and its peculiar sheen or gloss.. White or spotted robes were highly valued by the Indians. Among the Blackfeet they were presented to the Sun as votive offerings. Other tribes kept them in their sacred bundles. Apart from man, the buffalo had but few natural enemies. Of these the most destructive were the wolves, which killed a great many of them. These, however, were principally old, straggling bulls, for the calves were protected by their mothers, and the females and young stock were so vigorous and so gre- garious that they had but little to fear from this danger. It is probable that, notwithstanding the destruction which they wrought, the wolves performed an important service for the buffalo race, keeping it vigorous and healthy by kill- ing weak, disabled, and superannuated animals, which could no longer serve any useful purpose in the herd, and yet consumed the grass which would sup- port a healthy breeding animaL It is certainly true that sick buffalo, or those out of condition, were rarely seen. The grizzly bear fed to some extent on the carcasses of buffalo drowned in the rivers or caught in the quick.. sands, and occasionally they caught living~ buffalo and killed them. A Blackfoot Indian told me of an attempt of this kind which he witnessed. He was lying hidden by a buffalo trail in the Bad Lands, near a little creek, wait- ing for a small bunch to come down to water, so that he might kill one. The buffalo came on in single file as usual, the leading animal being a young heifer. When they had nearly reached the wa- ter, and were passing under a vertical clay wall, a grizzly bear, lying hid on a shelf of this wall, reached down, and with both paws caught the heifer about the neck and threw himself upon her. The others at once ran off, and a short struggle ensued, the bear trying to kill the heifer, and she to escape. Almost at once, however, the Indian saw a splendid young bull come rushing down the trail toward the scene of conflict, and charge the bear, knocking him down. A fierce combat ensued. The bull would charge the bear, and when 278 TH~ LAST OF THE BUFFALO. he struck him fairly would knock him off his feet, often inflicting severe wounds with his sharp horns. The bear struck at the bull, and tried to catch him by the head or shoulders, and to hold him, but this he could not do. After fifteen or twenty minutes of fierce and active fighting the bear had received all the punishment he cared for, and tried to escape, but the bull would not let him go, and kept uv the attack until he had killed his adver- sary. Even after the bear was dead the bull would gore the carcass and some- times lift it clear of the ground on his horns. He seemed insane with rage, and, notwithstanding the fact that most of the skin was torn from his head and shoulders, appeared to be looking about for something else to fight. The Indian was very much afraid lest the bull should discover and kill him, and was greatly relieved when he finally left the bear and went off to join his band. This Blackfoot had never heard of Un- cle Remuss tales, but he imitated Brer Rabbit--lai~i low and said nothing. To the Indians the buffalo was the staff of life. It was their food, cloth- ing, dwellings, tools. The needs of a savage people are not many, perhaps, but whatever the Indians of the plains had, that the buffalo gave them. It is not strange, then, that this aninlal was reverenced by most plains tribes, nor that it entered largely into their sacred ceremonies, and was in a sense wor- shipped by them. The Pawnees say Through the corn and the buffalo we worship the Father. The Blackfeet ask, What one of all the animals is most sacred? and the reply given is The buffalo. The robe was the Indians winter covering and his bed, while the skin, freed from the hair and dressed, con- stituted his summer sheet or blanket. The dressed hide was used for mocca- sins, leggings, shirts, and womens dresses. Dressed cow - skins formed their lodges, the warmest and most comfortable portable shelters ever de- vised. Braided strands of raw hide furnished them with ropes and lines, and these were made also from the twisted hair. The green hide was some- times used as a kettle, in which to boil meat, or, stretched over a frame of boughs, gave them coracles, or boats, for crossing rivers. The tough, thick hide of the bulls neck, allowed to shrink smooth, made a shield which would turn a lance-thrust, an arrow, or even the ball from an old-fashioned smooth-bore gun. From the raw hide, the hair having been shaved off, were made parfiechesenvelope-hike cases which served for trunks or boxesuse- ful to contain small articles. The can- non-bones and ribs were used to make implements for dressing hides; the shoulder-blades lashed to sticks made hoes and axes, and the ribs runners for small sledges drawn by dogs. The hoofs were boiled to make a glue for fastening the feathers and heads on their arrows, the hair used to stuff cush- ions, and later saddles, strands of the long black beard to ornament articles of wearing-apparel and implements of war, such as shields and quivers. The sinews lying along the back gave them thread and bow-strings, and backed their bows. The horns furnished spoons and ladles, and ornamented their war bonnets. Water buckets were made from the lining of the paunch. The skin of the hind leg cut off above the pastern, and again a short distance above the hock, was once used for a moccasin or boot. Fly-brushes were made from the skin of the tail dried on sticks. Knife-sheaths, quivers, bow- cases, gun-covers, saddle-cloths, and a hundred other useful and necessary ar- ticles, all were furnished by the buffalo. The Indians killed some smaller game, as elk, deer, and antelope, but for food their dependence was on the buffalo. But before the coming of the whites their knives and arrow-heads were merely sharpened stones, weapons which would be inefficient against such great, thick-skinned beasts. Even un- der the most favorable circumstances, with these primitive implements, they could not kill food in quantities suf- ficient to supply their needs. There must be some means of taking the buf- falo in considerable numbers. Such wholesale capture was accomplished by traps or surrounds, which all depend- ed for success on one characteristic of the ~inimalits curiosity. THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. 279 The Blackfeet, Plains Crees, Gros Ventres of the Prairie, Sarcees, some bands of the Dakotas, Snakes, Crows, and some others, drove the herds of buf- falo into pens from above, or over high cliffs, where the fall killed or crippled a large majority of the herd. The Chey- ennes and Arapahoes drove them into pens on level ground; the Blackfeet, Aricaras, Mandans, Gros Ventres of the Village, Pawnees, Omahas, Otoes, and others, surrounded the herds in great circles on the prairie, and then frightening them so that they started running, kept them from breaking through the line of men, and made them race round and round in a circle, until they were so exhausted that they could not run away, and were easily killed. These primitive modes of slaughter have been described by earlier writers, and frequently quoted in recent years; yet, in all that has been written on this subject I fail to find a single account which gives at all a true notion of the methods employed, or the means by which the buffalo were brought into the enclosures. Eye - witnesses have been careless observers, and have taken many things for granted. My under- standing of this matter is derived from men who from childhood have been fa- miliar with these things, and from them, during years of close association, I have again and again heard the story of these old hunting methods. The Blackfoot trap was called the p~sJc~in. It was an enclosure, one side of which was formed by the vertical wall of a cut bank, the others being built of rocks, logs, poles, and brush six or eight feet high. It was not nec- essary that these walls should be very strong, but they had to be tight, so that the buffalo could not see through them. From a point on the cut bank above this enclosure, in two diverging lines stretching far out into the prai- rie, piles of rock were heaped up at short intervals, or bushes were stuck in the ground, forming the wings of a shaped chute, which would guide any animals running down the chute to its angle above the p~s1citn. When a herd of buffalo were feeding near at hand, the people prepared for the hunt, in which almost the whole camp took part. It is commonly stated that the buffalo were driven into the p~s1ci~tn by mounted men, but this is not the case. They were not driven but led, and they were led by an appeal to their curiosity. The man who brought them was usu- ally the possessor of a buffalo rock, a talisman which was believed to give him greater power to call the buffalo than was had by others. The pre- vious night was spent by this man in praying for success in the enterprise of the morrow. The help of the Sun, Ndpi, and all Above People was asked for, and sweet grass was burned to them. Early in the morning, without eating or drinking, the man started away from the camp and went up on the prairie. Before he left the lodge he told his wives that they must not go out, or even look out, of the lodge during his absence. They should stay there, and pray to the Sun for his suc- cess, and burn sweet grass until he re- turned. When he left the camp and went up on to the prairie toward the buffalo, all the people followed him, and distributed themselves along the wings of the chute, hiding behind the piles of rock or brush. The caller sometimes wore a robe and a bulls head bonnet, or at times was naked. When he had approached close to the buffalo, he endeavored to attract their attention by moving about, wheeling round and round, and alternately ap- pearing and disappearing. The feed- ing buffalo soon began to raise their heads and stare at him, and presently the nearest ones would walk toward him to discover what this strange creat- ure might be, and the others would follow. As they began to approach, the man withdrew toward the entrance of the chute. If the buffalo began to trot, he increased his speed, and before very long he had the herd well within the wings. As soon as they had passed the first piles of rock, behind which some of the people were concealed, the Indians sprang into view, and by yelling and waving robes frightened the hind- most of the buffalo, which then began to run down the chute. As they passed along, more and more, people showed themselves and added to their terror, 280 THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. and in a very short time the herd was in a headlong stampede, guided toward the angle above the pislcitn by the piles of rock on either side About the walls of the p~sJci~n, now full of buffalo, were distributed the women and children of the camp, who, leaning over the enclosure, waving their arms and calling out, did all they could to frighten the penned-in animals, and to keep them from pushing against the walls or trying to jump or climb over them. As a rule the buffalo raced round within the enclosure, and the men shot them down as they passed, until all were killed. After this the people all en- tered the p~s1ci~n and cut up the dead, transporting the meat to camp. The skulls, bones, and less perishable offal were removed from the enclosure, and the wolves, coyotes, foxes, and badgers devoured what was left. It occasionally happened that some- thing occurred to turn the buffalo, so that they passed through the guiding arms and escaped. Usually they went on straight tq the angle and jumped over the cliff into the enclosure below. In winter, when snow was on the ground, their straight course was made addi- tionally certain by placing on, or just above the snow, a liiie of buffalo chips leading from the angle of the V, mid- way between its arms out on to the prairie. These dark objects, only twenty or thirty feet apart, were easily seen against the white snow, and the buffalo always followed them, no doubt thinking this a trail where another herd had passed. By the Sauiksilc tribe of the Black- foot nation and the Plains Crees, the ~As1citn was built in a somewhat differ- ent way, but the methods employed were similar. With these people, who inhabited a flat country, the enclosure was built of logs and near a timbered stream. Its walls were complete; that is, there was no opening or gateway in them, but at one point this wall, else- where eight feet high, was cut away so that its height was only about four feet. From this point a bridge or causeway of logs, covered with dirt, sloped by a gradual descent down to the level of the prairie. This bridge was fenced on either side with logs, and the arum of the V came together at the point where the bridge reached the ground. The buffalo were driven down the chute as before, ran up on this bridge, and were forced to leap into the pen. As soon as all had entered, Indians who had been concealed near by ran up and put poles across the opening through which the buffalo had passed, and over these poles hung robes so as entirely to conceal the outer world. Then the butchering of the animals took place. Further to the south, out on the prairie, where timber and rocks and brush were not obtainable for making traps like these, simpler but less effec- tive methods were adopted. The peo- ple would go out on the prairie and conceal themselves in a great circle, open on one side. Then some man would approach the buffalo, and decoy them into the circle. Men would now show themselves at different points and start the buffalo running in a circle, yelling and waving robes to keep them from approaching, or trying to break through, the ring of men. This had to be done with great judgment, however, for often if the herd got started in one direction it was impossible to turn it, and it would rush through the ring and none would be secured. Sometimes if a herd was found in a favorable posi- tion, and there was no wind, a large camp of people would set up their lodges all about the buffalo, in which case the chances of success in the sur- round were greatly increased. The tribes which used the p~s1c?~n also practised driving the buffalo over high, rough cliffs, where the fall crippled or killed most of the animals which went over. In such situations, no enclos- ure was built at the foot of the preci- pice. In the later days of the p~s1cA~n in the north, the man who brought the buffalo often went to them on horse- back, riding a white horse. He would ride backward and forward before them, zig-zagging this way and that, and af- ter a little they would follow him. He never attempted to drive, but always led them. The driving began only after the herd had passed the outer rock piles, and the people had begun to rise up and frighten them. THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. 281 This method of securing meat has been practised in Montana within thirty years, and even more recently among the Plains Crees of the north. I have seen the remains of old pisJci~ns, and the guiding wings of the chute, and have talked with many men who have taken part in such killings. All this had to do, of course, with the primitive methods of buffalo killing. As soon as horses became abundant, and sheet- iron arrow-heads, and later guns, were secured by the Indians, these old practices be- gan to give way to the more ex- citing pursuit of running buffalo and of surrounding t h e m o n horseback. Of this modern method, as practised twenty years ago, and exclusively with the bow and arrow, I have al- ready written at some length in another place. To the white travellers on the plains in early days the buffalo furnished support and suste- nance. Their abundance made fresh meat usually obtainable, and the early travellers usually carried with them bundles of dried meat, or sacks of pemmi- can, food made from the flesh of the buffalo, that contained a great deal of nutriment in very small bulk. Robes were used for bedding, and in winter buf- falo moccasins were worn for warmth, the hair side within. Coats of buffalo skin are the warmest covering known, the only garment which will pre- sent an effective barrier to the bitter blasts that sweep over the plains of the Northwest. Perhaps as useful to early trav- ellers as any product of the buffalo, was the buffalo chip, or dried dung. This, being composed of comminuted woody fibre of the grass, made an excellent fuel, and in many parts of the treeless plains was the only substance which could be used to cook with. The dismal story of the extermina tion of the buffalo for its hides has been so often told, that I may be spared the sickening details of the butchery which was carried on from the Mexican to the British boundary line in the struggle to obtain a few dollars by a most ignoble means. As soon as railroads penetrated the buffalo country, a market was opened for their hides. Men too lazy to work were not too lazy to hunt, and a good hunt- er could kill in the early days from thirty to seventy-five buffalo a day, the hides of which were worth from $1.50 to $4 each. This seemed an easy way to make money, and the market for hides was un- limited. Up to this time the trade in robes had been main- ly confined to those dressed by the Indians, and these were for the most part taken from cows. The coming of the rail- road made hides of all sorts marketable, and even those taken from naked old bulls found a sale at some price. I The butchery of buffalo was now something stupendous. /~// Thou sands of hunters fol- lowed millions of buffalo and destroyed them wherever found and at all seasons of the year. They pursued them during the day, and at night camped at the watering places, and built lines of fires along the streams, to drive the buf- falo back so that they could not drink. It took less than six years to destroy all the buffalo in Kansas, Nebraska, lnc5an Maul. Indian Territory, and north- ern Texas. The few that were left of the southern herd retreated to the waterless plains of Texas, and there for a while had a brief respite. Even here the hunters followed them, but as the animals were few and the territory in which they ranged vast, thcy held out here for some years. It was in this country, and against the very last sur 282 THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. vivors of this southern herd, that Buf- falo Jones made his very successful trips to capture calves. The extirpation of the northern herd was longer delayed. No very terrible slaughter occurred until the comple- tion of the Northern Pacific Railroad; then, however, the same scenes of butchery were enacted. Buffalo were shot down by tens of thousands, their hides stripped off, and the meat left to the wolves. The result of the crusade was soon seen, the last buffalo were killed in the NQrthwest near the bound- ary line in 1883, and that year may be said to have finished up the species, though some few were killed in 1884 to 1885. After the slaughter had been begun, but years before it had been accom- plished, the subject was brought to the attention of Congress, and legislation looking to the preservation of the spe- cies was urged upon that body. Little general interest was taken in the sub- ject, but in 1874, after much discussion, Congress did pass an act providing for the protection of the buffalo. The bill, however, was never signed by the Pres- ident. During the last days of the buffalo, a remarkable change took place in its form, and this change is worthy of con- sideration by naturalists, for it is an example of specialization of devel- opment in one particular direction which was due to a change in the en- vironment of the species, and is inter- esting because it was brought about in a very few years, and indicates how rap- idly, under favoring conditions, such specialization may take place. This change was noticed and com- mented on by hunters who followed the northern buffalo, as well as by those who assisted in the extermination of the southern herd. The southern hunters, however, averred that the regular buffalo had disappearedgone off some- whereand that their place had been taken by what they called the southern buffalo, a race said to have come up from Mexico, and characterized by lon- ger legs and a longer, lighter body than the buffalo of earlier years, and which was also peculiar in that the animals never became fat. Intelligent hunters of the northern herd, however, recog- nized the true state of the case, which was that the buffalo, during the last years of their existence, were so con- stantly pursued and driven from place to place that they never had time to lay on fat as in earlier years, and that, as a consequence of this continual running, the animals form changed, and instead of a fat, short-backed, short-legged ani- mal, it became a long-legged, light- bodied beast, formed for running. This specialization in the direction of speed at first proceeded very slowly, but at last, as the dangers to which the animals were subjected became more and more pressing, it took place rap- idly, and as a consequence the last buf- falo killed on the plains were extremely long-legged and rangy, and were very different in appearance as they were in their habits from the animals of twenty years ago. Buffalo running was not a sport that required much skill, yet it was not without its dangers. Occasionally a man was killed by the buffalo, but deaths from falls and from bursting guns were more common. Many curious stories of such accidents are told by the few real old - timers whose memory goes back fifty years, to the time when flint- lock guns were in use. A mere fall from a horse is lightly regarded by the practised rider; the danger to be feared is that in such a fall the horse may roll on the man and crush him. Even more serious accidents occurred when a man fell upon some part of his equip- ment, which was driven through his body. Hunters have fallen in such a way that their whip - stocks, arrows, bows, and even guns, have been driven through their bodies. The old flint-lock guns, or fukes, which were loaded on the run, with powder poured in from the horn by guess, and a ball from the mouth, used frequently to burst, caus- ing the loss of hands, arms, and even lives. While most of the deaths which oc- curred in the chase resulted from causes other than the resistance of the buffalo, these did occasionally kill a man. A curious accident happened in a camp of Red River half-breeds in the early 70s. The son of an Iroquois half- THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. 2S~ breed, about twenty years old, went out one day with the rest of the camp to run buffalo. At night he did not return, and the next day all the men went out to search for him. They found the horse and the arms, but could not find the man, and could not imagine what had become of him. About a year later, as the half-breeds were hunting in another part of the country, a cow was seen which had something unusual on its head. They chased and killed her, and found that she had on her head the pelvis of a man, one of the horns hav- ing pierced the thin part of the bone, which was wedged on so tightly that they could hardly get it off. Much of the hair on the head, neck, and shoul- ders of the cow was worn off short, and on the side on which the bone was, down on the neck and shoulders, the hair was short, black, and looked new, as if it had been worn entirely off the skin, and was just beginning to grow out again. It is supposed that this bone was part of the missing young man, who had been hooked by the cow, and carried about on her head until his body fell to pieces. ~y old and valued friend, Charles Reynolds, for years chief of scouts at Fort Lincoln, Dak., and who was killed by the Sioux in the Custer fight in 1876, told me of the death of a hunt- ing partner of his, which shows how dangerous even a dying buffalo may be. The two men had started from the rail. road to go south and bring in a load of meat. On finding a bunch of buffalo, they killed by stalking what they re- quired, and then on foot went up to the animals to butcher them. One cow, lying on her side, was still moving a lit- tle convulsively, but dying. The man approached her as if about to cut her throat, but when he was within a few feet of her head, she sprang to her feet, rushed at him, struck him in the chest with her horns, and then fell dead. Charley ran up to his partner, and to his horror saw that the cows horn had ripped him up from the belly to the throat, so that he could see the heart still expanding and contracting. Charley buried his partner there, and returning to the town, told his story. He was at once arrested on the charge that he had murdered his com- panion, and was obliged to return to the place and to assist in digging up the body to establish the truth of his statements. In the early days when the game was plenty, buffalo running was exhilarating sport. Given a good horse, the only other requisite to success was the abil- ity to remain on his back till the end of the chase. No greater degree of skill was needed than this, and yet the quick motion of the horse, the rough ground to be traversed, and the feeling that there was something ahead that must be overtaken and stopped, made the ride attractive. There was the very slightest spice of danger, for while no one anticipated an accident, it was pos- sible that ones horse might step into a badger hole, in which case his rider would get a fall that would make his bones ache. The most exciting, and by far the most interesting, hunts in which I ever took part were those with the Indians of the plains. whey were conducted almost noiselessly, and no ring of rifle- shot broke the stillness of the air, nor puff of smoke rose toward the still, gray autumn sky. The consummate grace and skill of the naked Indians, and the speed and quickness of their splendid ponies, were well displayed in such chases as these. More than one instance is recorded where an Indian has sent an arrow entirely through the bodies of two buffalo. Sometimes such a hunt was signalized by some feat of daring bravado that, save in the see- ing, was scarcely credible, as when the Cheyenne Big Ribs rode his horse close up to the side of a huge bull, and, springing on his back, rode the savage beast for some distance, and then with his knife gave it its death-stroke. Or a man might find himself in a position of comical danger, as did The Trad- er who was thrown from his horse on to the horns of a bull without being injured. One of the horns passed un- der his belt and supported him, and at the same time prevented the bull from tossing him. In this way he was car- ried for some distance on the animals head, when the belt gave way and he fell to the ground unhurt, while the 284 TI-IF LAST OF THE BUFFALO. bull ran on. There were occasions when buffalo or horses fell in front of horsemen riding at full run, and when a fall was avoided only by leaping one s horse over the fallen animal. In the buffalo chase of old days it was well for a man to keep his wits about him, for, though he might run buffalo a thou- sand times without accident, the mo- ment might come when only instant action would save him his life, or at least an ugly hurt. In the early days of the first Pacific Railroad, and before the herds had been driven back from the track, singular hunting parties were sometimes seen on the buffalo range. These hunters were capitalists connected with the newly constructed roads, and some of them now for the first time bestrode a horse, while few had ever used fire- arms. On such a hunt, one well-known railroad director, eager to kill a buf- falo, declined to trust himself on horse- back, preferring to bounce over the rough prairie in an ambulance driven by an alarmed soldier, who gave less attention to the mules he was guiding than to the loaded and cocked pistol which his excited passenger was brand- ishing. These were amusing excur- sions where a merry party of pleasant officers from a frontier post, and their guests, a jolly crowd of merchants, brokers, and railroad men from the East, start out to have a buffalo hunt. With them go the post guide and a scout or two, the escort of soldiers, and the great blue army wagons, under whose white tilts are piled all the com- forts that the post can furnishunlim- ited food and drink, and many sacks of forage for the animals. Here all was mirth and jest and good fellowship, and, except that canvas covered them while they slept, the hunters lived in as much comfort as when at home. The killing of buffalo was to them only an excuse for their jolly outing amid novel scenes. It was on the plains of Montana, in the days when buffalo were still abun- dant, that I had one of my last buf- falo huntsa hunt with a serious pur- pose. A company of fifty or more men, who for weeks had been living on bacon and beans, longed for the boss ribs of fat cow, and when we struck the buffalo range two of us were de- puted to kill some meat. My compan- ion was an old prairie man of great experience, and I myself was not alto- gether new to the West, for I had hunted in many territories, and had more than once been jumped by hostile Indians. Our horses were not buffalo runners, yet we felt a certain confidence that if we could find a bunch and get a good start ou them, we would bring in the desired meat. The troops would march during the day, for the commanding officer has no notion of waiting in camp merely for fresh meat, and we ware to go out, hunt, and over- take the command at their nights camp. The next day after we had reached the buffalo range we started out long before the eastern sky was gray, and were soon riding off over the chilly prairie. The trail which the command was to follow ran a little north of east, and we kept to the south and away from it, believing that in this direction we would find the game; and that if we started them they would run north or northwestagainst the wind, so that we could kill them near the trail. 1.Jn- til some time after the sun had risen we saw nothing larger than antelope, but at length, from the top of a high hill we could see far away to the east dark dots on the prairie, which we knew could only be buffalo. They were undisturbed too, for, though we watched them for some time, we could detect no motion in their ranks. It took us nearly two hours to reach the low, broken buttes on the north side of which the buffalo were, and, rid- ing up on the easternmost of these, we tried to locate our game more exactly. It was important to get as close as pos- sible before starting them, so that our first rush might carry us into the midst of them. Knowing the capabilities of our horses, which were thin from long travel, we felt sure that if the buffalo should take the alarm before we were close to them, we could not overtake the cows and young animals which always run in the van, and should have to con- tent ourselves with old bulls. On the other hand, if we could dash in among i THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. 285 them during the first few hundred yards of the race, we should be able to keep up with and select the fattest animals in the herd. When we reached a point just below the crest of the hill, I stopped and waited, while my companion rode on. Just before he got to the top he too halted, then took off his hat and peered over the ridge, examining so much of the prairie beyond as was now visible to him. His inspection was careful and thorough, and when he had made sure that nothing was in sight, his horse took a step or two forward and then stopped again, and the rider scanned every foot of country before him. The horse, trained as the real hunters horse is always trained, understood what was required of him, afid with pricked ears examined the prairie beyond with as much interest as did his rider. When the calf of Charleys right leg pressed the horses side, two or three steps more were taken, and then a lifting of the bridle hand caused another halt. At length I saw my companion slowly bend forward over his horses neck, turn, and ride back to me. He had seen the backs of two buffalo lying on the edge of a little flat hardly a quarter of a mile from where we stood. The others of the band must be still nearer to us. By riding along the lowest part of the sag which separated the two buttes, and then down a little ravine, it seemed probable that we could come within a few yards of the buffalo unobserved. Our preparations did not take long. The saddle cinches were loosened, blankets arranged, saddles put in their proper places and tightly cinched again. Cartridges were brought round to the front and right of the belt, where they would be convenient for reloading. Our coats tied behind the saddle were looked to, the strings which held them being tightened and securely retied. All this was not lost on our horses, which un- derstood as well as we did what was coming. We skirted the butte, rode through the low sag and down into the little ravine, which soon grew deeper, so that our heads were below the range of T vision of almost anything on the butte. Passing the mouth of the little side ravine, however, there came into full view a huge bull lying well up on the hillside. Luckily his back was toward us, and, each bending low over his horses neck, we rode on, and in a mo- ment were hidden by the side of the ravine. Two or three minutes more, and we came to another side ravine which was wide and commanded a view of the flat. We stopped before reach- ing this, and a peep showed that we were within a few yards of two old cows, a young heifer, and a yearling, all of them to the north of us. Beyond, we could see the backs of others all ly- ing down. We jumped on our horses again, and, setting the spurs well in, galloped up the ravine and up on the flat, and as we came into view the nearest buffalo, a~ if propelled by a huge spring, were on their feet, and, with a seconds pause to look, dashed away to the north. Scattered over the flat were fifty or seventy-five buffalo, all of which, by the time we had glanced over the field, were off, with heads hanging low to the ground, and short, spiky tails stretched out behind. We were up even with the last of the cows, and our horses were running easily and seemed to have plenty of reserve power. Charley, who was a little ahead of me, called back, They will cross the trail about a mile north of here. Kill a couple when we get to it. I nodded, and we went on. The herd raced forward over the rolling hills, and in what seemed a very short time we rushed down a long slope on to a wide flat, in which was a prairie dog town of considerable extent. We were on the very heels of the herd, and in a cloud of dust kicked up by their rapid flight. To see the ground ahead was impossible. We could only trust to our horses and our good luck to save us from falling. Our animals were do- ing better than we had supposed they could, and were going well and under a pulL I felt that a touch of the spurs and a little riding would bring us up even with the leaders of the buffalo. The pace had already proved too much for several bulls, which had turned off to one side and been passed by. As we flew across the flat, I saw far off a dark line and two white objects, which I knew must be our command. I called 286 THE LAST OF THE BUFFALO. to my comrade and, questioning by the sign, pointed at the buffalo. He nod- ded, and in a moment we had given free rein to our horses, and were up among the herd. During the ride I had two or three times selected my game, but the individuals of the band changed positions so constantly that I could not keep track of them. Now, however, I picked out a fat two-year-old bull, but as I drew up to him he ran faster than before, and rapidly made his way to- ward the head of the band. I was re- solved that he should not escape, and so, though I was still fifteen or twenty yards in the rear, fired. At the shot he fell heels over head directly across a cow, which was running by his side and a little behind him. I saw her turn a somerset, and almost at the same instant heard Charley shoot twice in quick succession, and saw two buffalo fall. I fired at a fat young cow, that I had pushed my pony up close to. At the shot she whirled, my horse did the same, and she chased me as hard as she could go for seventy-five yards, while I did some exceedingly vigorous spur- ring, for she was close behind me all the time. To do my horse justice, I think that he would have run as fast as he could, even without the spurs, for he appreciated the situation. At no time was there any immediate danger that the cow would overtake us; if there had been, I should have dodged her. Presently the cow stopped, and stood there very sick. When I rode back I did not find it easy to get my horse near her, but another shot was not needed, and while I sat looking at her, she fell over dead. The three buf- falo first killed had fallen within a hundred yards of the trail where the wagons afterward passed, and my cow was but little farther away. The com- mand soon came up, the soldiers did the butchering, and before long we were on the march again. Of the millions of buffalo which even in our own time ranged the plains in freedom, none now remain. From the prairies which they used to darken, the wild herds, down to the last strag- gling bull, have disappeared. In the Yellowstone National Park, protected from destruction by United States troops, are the only wild buffalo which exist within the borders of the United States. These are mountain buffalo, and, from their habit of living in the thick timber and on the rough moun- tain sides, they are only now and then seen by visitors to the Park. It is im- possible to say just how many there are, but from .the best information that I can get, based on the estimates of reliable and conservative men, I con- clude that the number was not less than four hundred in the winter of 189192. Each winter or spring the Government scout employed in the Park sees one or more herds of these buffalo, and as such herds are usually made up in part of young animals and have calves with them, it is fair to assume that they are steadily if slowly increas- ing. The report of a trip made last January speaks of four herds seen in the Hayden Valley, which numbered re- spectively 78, 50, 110, and 15. Besides these, a number of single animals and of scattering groups were seen at a dis- tance, which would perhaps bring the total number up to three hundred. Of course, it is not to be supposed that all the buffalo in the Park were at that time collected in this one valley. In the far Northwest, in the Peace River district, there may still be found a few wood buffalo. Judging from re- ports of them which occasionally reach us from Indians and Hudsons Bay men, their habits resemble those of the Euro- pean bison. They are seldom killed, and the estimate of their numbers varies from five hundred to fifteen hundred. This cannot be other than the merest guess, since they are scat- tered over many thousand square miles of territory which is without inhabi- tants, and for the most part unexplored. On the great plains is still found the buffalo skull half buried in the soil and crumbling to decay. The deep trails once trodden by the marching hosts are grass-grown now, and fast filling up. When these most enduring relics of a vanished race shall have passed away, there will be found, in all the lim- itless domain once darkened by their feeding herds, not one trace of the American buffalo. 7 TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY: WHAT SHALL IT BE? By John Bigelow. RECENT decision of the Court of Appeals, nullifying the clause of the late Mr. Tildens will in which he tried to provide a free monumental library fo r the city of New York, imports a most humiliating reflection either upon the statesmen who made our testamentary laws or upon the court which interpreted them. In either case, and irrespective of the loss visited upon our commercial me- tropolis by this decision, the result can- not fail to be regarded not only as a de- feat of justice, but as a public calamity. What were Mr. Tildens wishes and intentions in regard to the disposition of the bulk of his fortune after making what he deemed an adequate provision for his kindred, no one who has read his will could entertain a doubt. His intentions have been disregarded and his will set aside by the Court of Ap- peals, apparently, because he had re- posed more confidence in his executors than the law permits. Had he selected for his executors gentlemen in whose integrity he had less confidence, gen- tlemen whose discretion he distrusted, and had he tied them up with such re- strictions as obvious prudence would have dictated in such a case, his wishes might have been respected and the city of New York be now the richer by some five millions of dollars. Whether this decision is in accord with the laws of the State or merely a caprice of the judiciary, it is final so far as the Tilden Trust is concerned; and, despite the carefully elaborated direc- tions of his will, the whole of this large bequest was decided to belong to heirs for whom he designed only what was indeed a generous provision, none of them being descendants of his body, but which amounts in fact to less than one-fifth of his estate. Happily a remnant has been saved from the wreck; what may be character- ized as a lunar rather than a solar rem- nant, but still a remnant of planetary proportions. In view of the uncertain- ties, expense, and delays incident to lit- igation of this character, the executors of Mr. Tilden and the trustees of the Tilden Trust deemed it prudent, previ- ous to the final argument of the Court of Appeals, to accept the terms of a set- tlement proffered by the grand-niece of Mr. Tilden, who was a party to the suit for the invalidation of the will, and who upon the death of her grandmother, Mr. Tildens sister, and under her will, not under the will of Mr. Tilden, be- came entitled to one-half of all that part of the estate that had been intended for the Tilden Trust. By the terms of this settlement the trustees of the Tilden Trust came into the possession of a property from which they expect to realize from two to two and a quarter millions of dollars. None of this sum, however, comes to the Tilden Trust through the will of Mr. Tilden. If this remnant shall ever be consecrated to the purpose for which the larger sum was designed, it will represent the shadow only of Mr. Til- dens beneficent intentions: the sub- stance having been entirely diverted by the courts in other directions. Had the trustees of the Tilden Trust declined to avail themselves of this opportunity of insuring the city against the risks of a total loss, any private citizen would have encountered no legal obstacle in taking the same risk and putting the proceeds of the venture into his own pocket. Notwithstanding his long-cherished desire, his carefully matured plans and clearly expressed instructions, the pub- lic will never receive a single penny directly from Mr. Tildens estate except what may come to it periodically in the form of taxes. Shamefully unjust to the memory of Mr. Tilden as this state of facts will ap

John Bigelow Bigelow, John The Tilden Trust Library: What Shall It Be? 287-300

TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY: WHAT SHALL IT BE? By John Bigelow. RECENT decision of the Court of Appeals, nullifying the clause of the late Mr. Tildens will in which he tried to provide a free monumental library fo r the city of New York, imports a most humiliating reflection either upon the statesmen who made our testamentary laws or upon the court which interpreted them. In either case, and irrespective of the loss visited upon our commercial me- tropolis by this decision, the result can- not fail to be regarded not only as a de- feat of justice, but as a public calamity. What were Mr. Tildens wishes and intentions in regard to the disposition of the bulk of his fortune after making what he deemed an adequate provision for his kindred, no one who has read his will could entertain a doubt. His intentions have been disregarded and his will set aside by the Court of Ap- peals, apparently, because he had re- posed more confidence in his executors than the law permits. Had he selected for his executors gentlemen in whose integrity he had less confidence, gen- tlemen whose discretion he distrusted, and had he tied them up with such re- strictions as obvious prudence would have dictated in such a case, his wishes might have been respected and the city of New York be now the richer by some five millions of dollars. Whether this decision is in accord with the laws of the State or merely a caprice of the judiciary, it is final so far as the Tilden Trust is concerned; and, despite the carefully elaborated direc- tions of his will, the whole of this large bequest was decided to belong to heirs for whom he designed only what was indeed a generous provision, none of them being descendants of his body, but which amounts in fact to less than one-fifth of his estate. Happily a remnant has been saved from the wreck; what may be character- ized as a lunar rather than a solar rem- nant, but still a remnant of planetary proportions. In view of the uncertain- ties, expense, and delays incident to lit- igation of this character, the executors of Mr. Tilden and the trustees of the Tilden Trust deemed it prudent, previ- ous to the final argument of the Court of Appeals, to accept the terms of a set- tlement proffered by the grand-niece of Mr. Tilden, who was a party to the suit for the invalidation of the will, and who upon the death of her grandmother, Mr. Tildens sister, and under her will, not under the will of Mr. Tilden, be- came entitled to one-half of all that part of the estate that had been intended for the Tilden Trust. By the terms of this settlement the trustees of the Tilden Trust came into the possession of a property from which they expect to realize from two to two and a quarter millions of dollars. None of this sum, however, comes to the Tilden Trust through the will of Mr. Tilden. If this remnant shall ever be consecrated to the purpose for which the larger sum was designed, it will represent the shadow only of Mr. Til- dens beneficent intentions: the sub- stance having been entirely diverted by the courts in other directions. Had the trustees of the Tilden Trust declined to avail themselves of this opportunity of insuring the city against the risks of a total loss, any private citizen would have encountered no legal obstacle in taking the same risk and putting the proceeds of the venture into his own pocket. Notwithstanding his long-cherished desire, his carefully matured plans and clearly expressed instructions, the pub- lic will never receive a single penny directly from Mr. Tildens estate except what may come to it periodically in the form of taxes. Shamefully unjust to the memory of Mr. Tilden as this state of facts will ap 288 THE TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY: WHAT SHALL IT BE? pear, when the judicial light of history shall be turned upon it, it delivers the trustees of the Tilden Trust from some of the restrictions in the administration of what they have saveda fact which may ultimately prove advantageous to the public. By his will it is clear that Mr. Tilden intended to confer upon his trustees a wide discretion in regard to the appli- cation of his bequest. He sought to provide for the city in which he had passed most of his life, in which he had amassed his fortune, and from which he had received every mark of public re- gard that could render life attractive to him, not only a free library, but such other educational facilities as in their judgment would be most opportune.* Had the validity of the Tilden Trust been sustained by the courts, the trus- tees would have been compelled to re- strict their operations rigorously to the needs of A free library in the city of New York. This testamentary restric- tion, however, does not apply to the fund which has come into the hands of the trustees, except so far as such re- striction is perpetuated by the charter of the Tilden Trust, a restriction which the legislature, if requested, will hardly hesitate to modify in any direction that would manifestly enlarge the usefulness of the Trust. The horse that drags its halter is not lost. Though the law has fla- grantly shorn the Trust of its just pro- portions, a princely endowment for a library has been saved, and the imme- diate and pressing question now is, how can this endowment be used to the best advantage? In this question every New Yorker, at least, has a vital interest, and the press of New York a manifest duty, for it is only through the press that the best judgment of her citizens can be evolved and the public authori * If for any cause or reason, lie says in the 35th section of his will, my said executors and trustees shall deem it inexpedient to convey said rest, residue, and re- mainder or any part thereof or to apply the same or any part thereof to the said institution, I authorize my said execntors and trustees to apply the rest, residue, and remainder of my property, real and personal, after making good the said special Trusts herein directed to be constituted, or such portions thereof as they may not deem it expedient to apply to its use, to such chari- table, educational, and scientific purposes as in the judgment of my said executors and trustees will render the said rest, residue, and remainder of my property most widely and substantially beneficial to the inter- ests of mankind. ties properly encouraged and sustained in giving that judgment fit and ade- quate expression. Had the portion of his estate which Mr. Tilden destined for the Tilden Trust come into the hands of its trustees, it would have been their duty, as we understand it to have been their purpose, to open a library at once, or at least without unnecessary delay, at the testators former residence, No. 15 Gramercy Park, a structure which could be made to accommodate some two hundred thousand volumes, and which would have the important advantage of being accessible both from Nineteenth and Twentieth Streets. Though this property would not furnish for any con- siderable time such accommodation as the Tilden Trust Library would require, even with its curtailed resources, it would have enabled the trustees to com- mence operations, within six months or a year at the latest, with a collection ex- ceeding both in number and value the collections which first welcomed the public to any of the other great libra- ries of the world. The fact that this structure had been for many years the residence of Mr. Tilden, as well as the obvious duty of the trustees to lose no time in giving the public an opportunity of profiting by his munificence, favored this idea. Could this dream have been realized, the library might have been dispensing its blessings, and at the same time develop- ing organized strength and vigor, while the trustees should be taking the neces- sary steps to provide ampler accommo- dations for its progressive needs in the early future. In view of their reduced resources, this policy is less likely to commend it- self to the trustees. In the first place, they do not own the Gramercy Park property which Mr. Tilden intended them to have. They are joint owners of but half of it, the other half belong- ing to the heirs, and a suit in parti- tion and sale at public auction may be necessary for a division of their re- spective interests. To whom it will be- long after the sale, and the time to be consumed in the partition, are both, of course, uncertain. In the second place, should the trus- tees become the purchasers of the K VOL. XIJ.31 290 THE TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY: WHAT SHALL IT BE? Gramercy Park house, would they be jus- 4ified in sinking so large a proportion of their reduced capital in non-income producing property, by appropriating it to such a purpose? They cannot count with any certainty, at present, upon an income of much over $80,000 a year. All of that will be needed to equip and operate such a reference lib- rary as befits a city already more popu- lous than London fifty years ago, and likely to be as populous fifty years hence as London itself will then be. In the third place, the Gramercy 7Park house was constructed for a resi- deuce; it would require strengthening nud other extensive and more or less ~expensive alterations to adapt it to the purposes of a library, and when all was done, it would not be fire-proof, a very serious objection to the dwelling-place of any large library. In the fourth place, its territory would in a very few years be totally in- adequate to the expanding needs of the library, for which it is manifestly wiser, if possible, to provide in the beginning than to incur all the disturbance, incon- enience, and expense of a removal, a new classification of the books, a recon- structing of catalogues, and numberle s other subsidiary changes which would be required to adjust the library and it work to a new domicile and a new en- vironment. Were the trustees ever willing, would it be wise or prudent for the city to allow the funds for this library, the manifest destiny of which is to become the most important library of the con- tinent, to be farther shrunk, merel to provide a shelter for its opera- tions? New York has already as many small, incomplete, and struggling libraries as are needed. Would it not be a folly to add to their number? What the city now wants is a library that shall pos- sess sufficient vital force to become, rea- sonably soon, a repair for students from all parts of the world; to constitute a attraction to the literary and contem- plative class, fitly corresponding with the incomparable attractions which she has always held out to men of affairs; to the organizers of the material indus- tries and interests of the nation. With their income unimpaired and entirely applicable to the equipment and operation of the library, this result could be realized in a very few years, for there probably was never a time in the history of the world when there were so many valuable libraries awaiting the advent of cash purchasers. Even in our own country there are very many large and valuable collections of books which would soon and without cost gravitate into any receptacle which would enlarge their usefulness and dignify the name and taste of their collectors. Of this the Tilden Trust has already received some substantial proofs, and only needs a suitable domi- cile to receive many more. The British Museum owed its rapid growth and some of its most valuable possessions as much to the liberality of individuals as to its levies upon the national exchequer. In 1757 George II. gave it the library of the former kings of England. The same year the same monarch presented to it the Cot- ton Library. In 1763 George III. gave it the Thomason Collection of books and pamphlets issued in England between View in One of the Stack-rooms of the Library. View showing the Position Ssggested for the Tilden Librsry Bsildwg. Bryftost Park from the corner of the Fifth AveistSO and Forty~SOCOfld Street. 292 THE TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY: WHAT SHALL IT BE? the years 1640--1662, embracing all the controversial literature of that interest- ing period. In 1799 it received the bequest of the Rev. Mr. Cracherodes valuable collection. In 1820 Sir Joseph Banks, for many years President of the Royal Society, gave to it his library of 16,000 volumes. In 1823 George IV. presented to it the collection of his father, which is reported to have cost 650,000. In 1846 the Grenville Lib- rary of over twenty thousand volumes was bequeathed to it. These are some of the larger donations by the aid of which this library has reached its pres- ent enormous proportions, but they constitute by no means the larger part of its possessions acquired through the liberality of less conspicuous givers, such as Richard Gough, Richard Rawlinson, Robert Mason, F. W. Hope, and many others of later date. It does not re- quire the gift of prophesy to foresee the time when a metropolitan free library, such as the Tilden Trust is destined to become if provided with suitable accommodations, would have quite as many and as bountiful bene- factors. Were any public-spirited citizen to address to the mayor and commonalty of the city of New York a proposition to secure to it the income of two or three millions of dollars for the equipment and operating of a free library within its borders on the single condition that they would provide for it a suitable re- pository, it is difficult to conceive of anyone hesitating about the acceptance of it. To close with such a proposition at once would seem to be a matter of course, neither inviting nor admitting of debate. Such would seem to be precisely the opportunity now presented to the mu- nicipality of the most populous aud wealthiest city of the American cormti- nent. This opportunity too presents itself at a most propitious moment. In the quarter of the city which has no rival in appropriateness for such a pur- pose, the city has a park now cumbered with a reservoir which is understood to have substantially survived its useful- ness. This park embraces all the land between the Fifth and Sixth Avenues and between Fortieth and Forty-second Streets, and is now known as Bryant Birds-eye View of the Bryant Park and Saggeated Library. (Seen from the Fifth Avenue side.) THE TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY: WHAT SHALL IT BE? 293 Park. The appropriation of parts of this park has already been seriously discussed. A bill was introduced into the Legis- lature only a year or two before Mr. Tildens death, with the acquiescence if not with the formal sanction of the municipal authorities, to have a portion of this park consecrated to a free library to be equipped and operated altogether at the citys expense. Mr. Tildens co-operation was solicited. With his views upon the subject of such an in- stitution, which had already taken for- mal shape in his will, he naturally de- clined to give the projected legislation any encouragement. How far his de- clension influenced the promoters of the bill and whether any intimations of his own purpose had anything to do with its fate has never transpired, but the bill was not pressed after it was ascer- tained that Mr. Tildens co-operation could not be counted upon. It has more recently been proposed to erect a new municipal building for all the courts and other municipal offices on this park; and a bill was also framed for that purpose, and submitted to the Legislature. The inconvenience of re- moving the judicial and administrative offices of the city so far from the great centre of business, and other objections of a no less grave character welled up so rapidly that that bill was not pressed, and the project, we believe, has been definitively abandoned. Only one of the objections that either of these projects had to contend with would be even apparently applicable to the consecration of a portion of Bryant Park to the uses of a library, and that is the wise reluctance of the people to any reduction of the breathing spaces of the city, a reluctance with which we are in entire sympathy. If, however, ample library accommodations for the Tilden Trust Library can be provided in the Bryant Park for at least half a century to come, not only without re- stricting the present park accommoda- tions, but actually increasing them as we shall presently show that they can bethis objection will disappear. One day, during the later stages of the debate over the plans to be adopted for the new library structure at Wash- VOL. XIL32 ington, the late Samuel J. Randall was lunching with the writer, and a gentle- man present sketched on a bit of paper a plan for the National Library, upon which he had long been reusing, and the details and merits of which he proceed- ed to expound to his listeners. Mr. Ran- dall was so much taken with the plan that he requested the author to send him a detailed account of it in writing. This was done and forwarded to Wash- ington, but failed to arrive there until after the plan now in progress of execu- tion had been practically adopted by the committee. Before it left New York, however, it was submitted to Mr. Tilden. He was so much impressed by it as to say that it would insure larger and better results for its cost than any plan of a library building he had ever seen, and he expressed the wish that it might be adopted by Congress. This structure was to be in the form of a cross, a form than which no other secures in an equal degree the two pri- mary requisites of a dwelling-place for bookslight and air. It can hardly be thought extravagant to say that no site better adapted for a structure of suitable proportions for a metropolitan library could be carved out of any part of the city than this of Bryant Park. It is on the highest ground between the Central Park and the Battery; it is, and will continue to be, central as long as any place in New York is ever likely to be central; it is accessible by two of the most frequent- ed thoroughfares of the city, and is pre- cisely of the shape and proportions best calculated to combine all the required accommodations for a library, without restricting the present privileges of the park. The plan in question, somewhat elab- orated as to details in the accompany- ing sketches since it was submitted to Mr. Tilden, may be briefly described as a cross, the upper part lying toward the Fifth Avenue; the lower and longer part toward the Sixth Avenue; the arms extended, one toward Fortieth Street, and the other toward Forty - second Street. The width in the clear of the main structure, both from east to west and from north to south, to be, say, sixty or sixty-five feet. 294 THE TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY: WHAT SHALL IT BE? Double-faced shelves perpendicular to the wall, for the stacking of books, will rise one tier above another four stories high on both sides of every part of the building not otherwise appropriated. These stacks of shelves on the lower floor would be about twenty-five feet long, making for both sides fifty feet of shelving and leaving an open passage in the centre for the circulation of the public, of from ten to fifteen feet. The shelves on the next and succeeding floors would recede as they rose, and each upper stack would be about three feet shorter than the stack immediately below it, to leave the space of a narrow gallery for communication from alcove to alcove on each story. The stacks of the upper story or tier would therefore be nine or ten feet shorter than the stacks on the lower floor, thus affording opportunities of securing to the library at all times the greatest abundance of air and light. These several stacks would form a series of alcoves eight feet wide, with a small table in each, admirably calculated to combine with every facility of access to books a seclusion and ex- emption from interruption which the serious student in New York now seeks in vain, whether in private or public re- sorts. The stack rooms to the right and left would be 60 x 108 feet, while the stack room toward the west, or Sixth Avenue, would be 60 x 335 feet. At the intersection of the arms with the stems of the cross, as laid down on the accompanying plans, is a central hail or rotunda 90 feet in diameter, in the centre of which the librarian on duty would have his desks, catalogues, and bibliographical conveniences around him, and from which he could cover with his eye all the thoroughfares of the library. Tubes or other modern con- trivances for the rapid delivery of books from the galleries and other remote parts of the library would concentrate at this station. Four passages leading out of the four corners of this rotunda conduct to four octagonal pavilions, each 45 feet in di- ameter, having on their lower floors spacious vestibules through which the rotunda could be reached from four directions. In the upper part of each pavilion is a reading - room. One of these could be used for adult males, one for females, a third for children, and the fourth for whatever use it shall ul- timately prove to be most needed. These pavilions are each lighted upon seven of their eight sides, and so located as to bring them in convenient proximity to the stack rooms and rotunda, yet com- pletely sheltered from the noise and bustle of both. At the foot of the main or lower stem of the cross are two projecting hemi- cycles designed for lecture - rooms or audience chambers, which may be reached from the street without enter- ing the library. On entering by the main doorway from the Fifth Avenue to the first floor, the student finds himself in a vestibule 22 x 37 feet. A corridor to the right and left conducts to the offices of the administration. Crossing the vestibule he passes into a spacious hail divided into three uninclosed compartments or bays supported by columns, suited for the arrangement and display of books of peculiar value, curious documents, prints, autographs, etc. This hall, com- prising most of the upper stem of the cross, will measure 115 feet in length and will be 35 feet between the columns, or 60 feet from wall to wall, forming an imposing approach to the rotunda, and may be visited without disturbing the readers or distracting the attention of those appointed to wait upon them. In the basements there will be room for receiving, cleaning, cataloguing and binding books; alcoves for bound news- papers and other bulky periodicals; and several auditoriums for literary, scien- tific, and other societies, and laboratories and such apparatus as may be appropri- ately accommodated there. As the Sixth Avenue is about ten feet lower than the Fifth, the heating and lighting ma- chinery would naturally be mounted in the sub-basement, at the western end of the building. The total shelving on sides of alcoves secured by this plan would measure 132,000 feet. It is usual to allow 110 square feet for 1,000 books. At that rate there would be accommodation in the alcoves alone for 1,200,000 books. The British Museum contains about 1,600,000, the Biblioth~que Nationale in THE TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY: WHAT SHALL IT BE? 295 [see Plans on pages 29T and 299.] Paris, 2,500,000, the Congressional Li- brary, more than 500,000. By utilizing the walls and corridors of the rotunda as in the British Museum, accommodations would be secured for an additional 300,- 000 volumes, which would more than suffice for the needs of the lending libra- ry. The vacant alcoves, or rather the place they would ultimately occupy, might be appropriated to the free ex- hibition of works of art of every descrip- tion, a convenience which would be of great and reciprocal advantage to artists and the public. We have stated that the structure we have proposed would increase instead of diminish the present park accommo- dations of the city. We will now ex plain and establish what may seem to our readers a somewhat paradoxical statement. The proposed structure would leave the remaining and unoccupied portions of the park divided practically into four parks. The extreme length of the cross will be 715 feet. The arms, measured from the end of one to the end of the other, will measure 390 feet in length, and 65 feet in width. By setting the building back 150 feet from the Fifth Avenue and 50 feet from the Sixth Av- enue, the two parks on Fifth Avenue would measure about 200 x 355 square feet each, and the two on Sixth Avenue, about 200 x 485 feet each. Bryant Park entire contains 418,600 296 THE TILDEN TRUST LIBRARY: WHAT SHALL IT BE? square feet. It lies 920 feet on Fortieth and Forty-second Streets, and 455 feet on Fifth and Sixth Avenues. The res- ervoir occupies a little more than half of the whole plot. The proposed build- ing would cover only 89,647 square feet, or about one - fifth of the plot, 21.44 per cent. exactly. Assuming that the reservoir occupies only half the plot, the park accommodations would be increased three-tenths, or, say, 12,540 square feet, by permitting the library to displace the reservoir. In presenting this plan for a library we have intended to show the extreme available capacity of the plot under con- sideration. It might be reduced in the length of stem and arms to half the pro- jected dimensions, preserving, of course, its proper proportions, and thus give the city adequate accommodations for many years. As increased accommoda- tions came to be required, the structure could be extended in accordance with the plan, like the palace of the Tuileries, which was commenced by Catherine de Medici in 1564, and only completed dur- ing the reign of Napoleon. In enumerating the advantages which the Bryant Park possesses over any other site in the city for a great library, we omitted to mention one of an economi- cal character which is of by no means secondary importance. The reservoir seems to be regarded as no longer a necessity to the city, or will soon cease to be such. The New York public will not be content to leave it cumbering the earth long after it has survived its usefulness. It contains not less than 80,000 cubic yards of stone and rubbish. Now, not only every ounce of this pile could be used in the construction of the proposed library and the terrace with which it should be sur- rounded, but all of the library walls ex- cept the exterior facing could be built from this material, while the old plas- ter of the reservoir would furnish all the sand that would be required for the mortar to lay them with. When we consider the cost of quarrying and bringing upon the premises the sand and stone required for such a structure as this, allowing the stone in the quarry to cost nothing, and add to it the cost of removing the reservoir, it is easy to see how a very large part of the cost of the library might be saved to the city by building it in Bryant Park. When Carlyle said that the true university of these days is a collection of books, he said nothing in disparage- ment of universities which are indis- pensable for teaching the young the use and value of books. In the felicit- ous lines of Wordsworth: Books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good, Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. The appetite for them grows by what it feeds on. They displace meaner tastes and recreations. By bringing within our reach the accumulated wisdom of our race, they put us in stronger sympathy with all its members; thereby making better citizens and more harmonious families, with a constant tendency to the elevation of national character. They make life sweeter and better. They fur- nish the most effective antidote to the al- lurements of the drinking saloon, and they can do more than any available sub- stitute to purify the ballot, to quench the unhallowed fires of political partisanship, and to make statesmen of politicians. It was profoundly true, said Mr. John Morley, speaking in support of the Free Library Act adopted in Eng- land in 1850, and quoting the expression of Burke, that education was not read- ing a parcel of books, but exercising re- straint, discipline, virtue and justice.~ The parcel of books, however, if well chosen, reconciled us to the discipline, interpreted the virtue and justice, and awakened within us the diviner mind as to what was best in others and our- selves. If the citizens of our great metropolis knew how few of the great books which have been the pride and delight of the world for the last two centuries would ever, could ever, have been written without the facilities accumulated for their authors in four or five of the great libraries of Europe, they would consider no duty more pressing, no disposition of their wealth more profitable, than the establishment of a library complete in all directions, as the first step to be j Plan of First FloorNo. 1, rotunda; 2, 2, reading rooms; 3, 3, stack-rooms; 4, 4, steps, up from rotunda; 5, 5, steps and corridors to reading rooms; 6, great hall for the exhibition of valuable books and manuscripts; T, Fifth Avenue vestibule; 8, portico; 9, perron; 10, offices for the administration; 11, staircase at the Sixth Avenue end; 12, por- tico; 13, 18, lecture halls; 14, 14, steps to sta