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diff --git a/old/53729-h/53729-h.htm b/old/53729-h/53729-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 7b971b8..0000000 --- a/old/53729-h/53729-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8788 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of In Partnership: Studies in Story-Telling, by Brander Matthews and H. C. 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C. Bunner - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: In Partnership - Studies in story-telling - -Author: Brander Matthews - H. C. Bunner - -Release Date: December 14, 2016 [EBook #53729] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN PARTNERSHIP *** - - - - -Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<h1>IN PARTNERSHIP.</h1> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" height="700" alt="Cover image" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="titlepage larger">IN PARTNERSHIP</p> - -<p class="titlepage">STUDIES IN STORY-TELLING<br /> -<span class="smcap">By BRANDER MATTHEWS and H. C. BUNNER</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage">NEW YORK<br /> -CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS<br /> -1884</p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1884, by<br /> -Charles Scribner’s Sons.</span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr">PAGE</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="td-main"><a href="#THE_DOCUMENTS_IN_THE_CASE"><span class="smcap">The Documents in the Case</span></a></td> - <td class="tdr" rowspan="2">3</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc"><i>By Brander Matthews and H. C. Bunner.</i></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="td-main"><a href="#VENETIAN_GLASS"><span class="smcap">Venetian Glass</span></a></td> - <td class="tdr" rowspan="2">48</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc"><i>By Brander Matthews.</i></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="td-main"><a href="#THE_RED_SILK_HANDKERCHIEF"><span class="smcap">The Red Silk Handkerchief</span></a></td> - <td class="tdr" rowspan="2">73</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc"><i>By H. C. Bunner.</i></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="td-main"><a href="#THE_SEVEN_CONVERSATIONS"><span class="smcap">The Seven Conversations of Dear Jones and Baby Van Rensselaer</span></a></td> - <td class="tdr" rowspan="2">115</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc"><i>By Brander Matthews and H. C. Bunner.</i></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="td-main"><a href="#THE_RIVAL_GHOSTS"><span class="smcap">The Rival Ghosts</span></a></td> - <td class="tdr" rowspan="2">139</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc"><i>By Brander Matthews.</i></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="td-main"><a href="#A_LETTER_AND_A_PARAGRAPH"><span class="smcap">A Letter and a Paragraph</span></a></td> - <td class="tdr" rowspan="2">165</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc"><i>By H. C. Bunner.</i></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="td-main"><a href="#PLAYING_A_PART"><span class="smcap">Playing a Part</span></a></td> - <td class="tdr" rowspan="2">179</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc"><i>By Brander Matthews.</i></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="td-main"><a href="#LOVE_IN_OLD_CLOATHES"><span class="smcap">Love in Old Cloathes</span></a></td> - <td class="tdr" rowspan="2">196</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdc"><i>By H. C. Bunner.</i></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THE_DOCUMENTS_IN_THE_CASE">THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE.</h2> - -<p class="author"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> -BRANDER MATTHEWS AND H. C. BUNNER.</p> - -<h3>PART FIRST.</h3> - -<h4>Document No. 1.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Paragraph from the “Illustrated London News,” published -under the head of “Obituary of Eminent -Persons,” in the issue of January 4th, 1879:</i></p> - -<p class="center">SIR WILLIAM BEAUVOIR, BART.</p> - -<p>Sir William Beauvoir, Bart., whose lamented death -has just occurred at Brighton, on December 28th, was -the head and representative of the junior branch of -the very ancient and honourable family of Beauvoir, -and was the only son of the late General Sir William -Beauvoir, Bart., by his wife Anne, daughter of Colonel -Doyle, of Chelsworth Cottage, Suffolk. He was born -in 1805, and was educated at Eton and Trinity Hall, -Cambridge. He was M. P. for Lancashire from 1837 -to 1847, and was appointed a Gentleman of the Privy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> -Chamber in 1843. Sir William married, in 1826, Henrietta -Georgiana, fourth daughter of the Right Honourable -Adolphus Liddell, Q. C., by whom he had two sons, -William Beauvoir and Oliver Liddell Beauvoir. The -latter was with his lamented parent when he died. Of -the former nothing has been heard for nearly thirty -years, about which time he left England suddenly for -America. It is supposed that he went to California, -shortly after the discovery of gold. Much forgotten -gossip will now in all probability be revived, for the -will of the lamented baronet has been proved, on the -2d inst., and the personalty sworn under £70,000. The -two sons are appointed executors. The estate in Lancashire -is left to the elder, and the rest is divided -between the brothers. The doubt as to the career -of Sir William’s eldest son must now of course be -cleared up.</p> - -<p>This family of Beauvoirs is of Norman descent, and -of great antiquity. This is the younger branch, founded -in the last century by Sir William Beauvoir, Bart., -who was Chief Justice of the Canadas, whence he was -granted the punning arms and motto now borne by his -descendants—a beaver sable rampant on a field gules; -motto, “Damno.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> - -<h3>PART SECOND.</h3> - -<h4>Document No. 2.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Promises to pay, put forth by William Beauvoir, -junior, at various times in 1848:</i></p> - -<div class="bbox"> - -<p class="center"><i>I. O. U.</i></p> - -<p class="right"><i>£105. 0. 0.</i></p> - -<p><i>April 10th, 1848.</i></p> - -<p class="right"><i>William Beauvoir, junr.</i></p> - -</div> - -<h4>Document No. 3.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>The same.</i></p> - -<div class="bbox"> - -<p class="center"><i>I. O. U.</i></p> - -<p class="right"><i>£250. 0. 0.</i></p> - -<p><i>April 22d, 1848.</i></p> - -<p class="right"><i>William Beauvoir, junr.</i></p> - -</div> - -<h4>Document No. 4.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>The same.</i></p> - -<div class="bbox"> - -<p class="center"><i>I. O. U.</i></p> - -<p class="right"><i>£600. 0. 0.</i></p> - -<p><i>May 10th, 1848.</i></p> - -<p class="right"><i>William Beauvoir, junr.</i></p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 5.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Extract from the “Sunday Satirist”, a journal of high-life, -published in London, May 13th, 1848:</i></p> - -<p>Are not our hereditary lawmakers and the members -of our old families the guardians of the honour of this -realm? One would not think so to see the reckless -gait at which some of them go down the road to ruin. -The D——e of D——m and the E——l of B——n and -L——d Y——g,—are not these pretty guardians of a -nation’s name? <i lang="la">Quis custodiet?</i> etc. Guardians, -forsooth, <i lang="fr">parce qu’ils se sont donnés la peine de -naître</i>! Some of the gentry make the running as well -as their betters. Young W——m B——r, son of old -Sir W——m B——r, late M.P. for L——e, is a truly -model young man. He comes of a good old county -family—his mother was a daughter of the Right Honourable -A——s L——l, and he himself is old enough -to know better. But we hear of his escapades night -after night, and day after day. He bets all day and he -plays all night, and poor tired nature has to make the -best of it. And his poor worn purse gets the worst of -it. He has duns by the score. His I.O.U.’s are held -by every Jew in the city. He is not content with a -little gentlemanlike game of whist or <i lang="fr">écarté</i>, but he -must needs revive for his special use and behoof the -dangerous and well-nigh forgotten <i>pharaoh</i>. As luck -would have it, he had lost as much at this game of -brute chance as ever he would at any game of skill. -His judgment of horseflesh is no better than his luck -at cards. He came a cropper over the “Two Thousand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> -Guineas.” The victory of the favourite cost him to -the tune of over six thousand pounds. We learn that -he hopes to recoup himself on the Derby, by backing -Shylock for nearly nine thousand pounds; one bet was -twelve hundred guineas.</p> - -<p>And this is the sort of man who may be chosen at -any time by force of family interest to make laws for -the toiling millions of Great Britain!</p> - -<h4>Document No. 6.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Extract from “Bell’s Life” of May 19th, 1848</i>:</p> - -<p class="center">THE DERBY DAY.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Wednesday.</span>—This day, like its predecessor, opened -with a cloudless sky, and the throng which crowded -the avenues leading to the grand scene of attraction -was, as we have elsewhere remarked, incalculable.</p> - -<p class="center">THE DERBY.</p> - -<p>The Derby Stakes of 50 sovs. each, h. ft. for three-year-olds; -colts, 8 st. 7 lb., fillies, 8 st. 2 lb.; the second -to receive 100 sovs., and the winner to pay 100 sovs. -towards police, etc.; mile and a half on the new -Derby course; 215 subs.</p> - -<table summary="Horse!"> - <tr> - <td>Lord Clifden’s b. c. <i>Surplice</i>, by Touchstone</td> - <td>1</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Mr. Bowe’s b. c. <i>Springy Jack</i>, by Hetman</td> - <td>2</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Mr. B. Green’s br. c. <i>Shylock</i>, by Simoon</td> - <td>3</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Mr. Payne’s b. c. <i>Glendower</i>, by Slane</td> - <td>0</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>Mr. J. P. Day’s b. c. <i>Nil Desperandum</i>, by Venison</td> - <td>0</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 7.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Paragraph of Shipping Intelligence from the “Liverpool -Courier” of June 21st, 1848</i>:</p> - -<p>The bark <i>Euterpe</i>, Captain Riding, belonging to the -Transatlantic Clipper Line of Messrs. Judkins & Cooke, -left the Mersey yesterday afternoon, bound for New -York. She took out the usual complement of steerage -passengers. The first officer’s cabin is occupied by -Professor Titus Peebles, M.R.C.S., M.R.G.S., lately -instructor in metallurgy at the University of Edinburgh, -and Mr. William Beauvoir. Professor Peebles, -we are informed, has an important scientific mission in -the States, and will not return for six months.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 8.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Paragraph from the “N. Y. Herald” of September -9th, 1848.</i></p> - -<p>While we well know that the record of vice and -dissipation can never be pleasing to the refined tastes -of the cultivated denizens of the only morally pure -metropolis on the face of the earth, yet it may be of -interest to those who enjoy the fascinating study of -human folly and frailty to “point a moral or adorn -a tale” from the events transpiring in our very midst. -Such as these will view with alarm the sad example -afforded the youth of our city by the dissolute career -of a young lump of aristocratic affectation and patrician -profligacy, recently arrived in this city. This -young <em>gentleman’s</em> (save the mark!) name is Lord<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> -William F. Beauvoir, the latest scion of a venerable -and wealthy English family. We print the full name -of this beautiful exemplar of “haughty Albion,” although -he first appeared among our citizens under the -alias of Beaver, by which name he is now generally -known, although recorded on the books of the Astor -House by the name which our enterprise first gives to -the public. Lord Beauvoir’s career since his arrival -here has been one of unexampled extravagance and -mad immorality. His days and nights have been -passed in the gilded palaces of the fickle goddess, -Fortune, in Thomas Street and College Place, where -he has squandered fabulous sums, by some stated to -amount to over £78,000 sterling. It is satisfactory to -know that retribution has at last overtaken him. His -enormous income has been exhausted to the ultimate -farthing, and at latest accounts he had quit the city, -leaving behind him, it is shrewdly suspected, a large -hotel bill, though no such admission can be extorted -from his last landlord, who is evidently a sycophantic -adulator of British “aristocracy.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 9.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Certificate of deposit, vulgarly known as a pawn-ticket, -issued by one Simpson to William Beauvoir, -December 2d, 1848.</i></p> - -<div class="pawn-ticket"> - -<div class="bb bt"> - -<p class="center">John Simpson,<br /> -Loan Office,<br /> -36 Bowery,<br /> -New York.</p> - -</div> - -<p class="date"><i>Dec. 2d, 1848.</i></p> - -<table summary="Pawned"> - <tr> - <td class="br bt"></td> - <td class="br bt">Dolls.</td> - <td class="bt">Cts.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="br bb"><i>One Gold Hunting-case Watch and Chain, William Beauvoir.</i></td> - <td class="br bb right">150</td> - <td class="bb right">00</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class="bb"> - -<p class="smaller hanging">Not accountable in case of fire, damage, moth, robbery, -breakage, &c. -25% per ann.</p> - -<p class="smaller right">Good for 1 year only.</p> - -</div> - -</div> - -<h4>Document No. 10.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Letter from the late John Phœnix, found among the -posthumous papers of the late John P. Squibob, and -promptly published in the “San Diego Herald.”</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Off the Coast of Florida</span>, Jan. 3, 1849.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Squib</span>:—I imagine your pathetic inquiry -as to my whereabouts—pathetic, not to say hypothetic—for -I am now where I cannot hear the dulcet -strains of your voice. I am on board ship. I am half -seas over. I am bound for California by way of the -Isthmus. I am going for the gold, my boy, the gold. -In the mean time I am lying around loose on the deck -of this magnificent vessel, the <i>Mercy G. Tarbox</i>, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> -Nantucket, bred by <i>Noah’s Ark</i> out of <i>Pilot-boat</i>, dam -by <i>Mudscow</i> out of <i>Raging Canawl</i>. The <i>Mercy G. -Tarbox</i> is one of the best boats of Nantucket, and -Captain Clearstarch is one of the best captains all -along shore—although, friend Squibob, I feel sure -that you are about to observe that a captain with a -name like that would give anyone the blues. But -don’t do it, Squib! Spare me this once.</p> - -<p>But as a matter of fact this ultramarine joke of yours -is about east. It was blue on the <i>Mercy G.</i>—mighty -blue, too. And it needed the inspiring hope of the -gold I was soon to pick up in nuggets to stiffen my -backbone to a respectable degree of rigidity. I was -about ready to wilt. But I discovered two Englishmen -on board, and now I get along all right. We -have formed a little temperance society—just we -three, you know—to see if we cannot, by a course of -sampling and severe study, discover which of the captain’s -liquors is most dangerous, so that we can take -the pledge not to touch it. One of them is a chemist -or a metallurgist, or something scientific. The other -is a gentleman.</p> - -<p>The chemist or metallurgist or something scientific -is Professor Titus Peebles, who is going out to prospect -for gold. He feels sure that his professional -training will give him the inside track in the gulches -and gold mines. He is a smart chap. He invented -the celebrated “William Riley Baking Powder”—bound -to rise up every time.</p> - -<p>And here I must tell you a little circumstance. As -I was coming down to the dock in New York, to go<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> -aboard the <i>Mercy G.</i>, a small boy was walloping a boy -still smaller; so I made peace, and walloped them both. -And then they both began heaving rocks at me—one -of which I caught dexterously in the dexter hand. -Yesterday, as I was pacing the deck with the professor, -I put my hand in my pocket and found this stone. So -I asked the professor what it was.</p> - -<p>He looked at it and said it was gneiss.</p> - -<p>“Is it?” said I. “Well, if a small but energetic -youth had taken you on the back of the head with it, -you would not think it so nice!”</p> - -<p>And then, O Squib, he set out to explain that he -meant “gneiss,” not “nice!” The ignorance of these -English about a joke is really wonderful. It is easy -to see that they have never been brought up on them. -But perhaps there was some excuse for the professor -that day, for he was the president <i lang="la">pro tem.</i> of our projected -temperance society, and as such he had been -making a quantitative and qualitative analysis of another -kind of quartz.</p> - -<p>So much for the chemist or metallurgist or something -scientific. The gentleman and I get on better. His -name is Beaver, which he persists in spelling Beauvoir. -Ridiculous, isn’t it? How easy it is to see that the -English have never had the advantage of a good -common-school education—so few of them can spell. -Here’s a man don’t know how to spell his own name. -And this shows how the race over there on the little -island is degenerating. It was not so in other days. -Shakspere, for instance, not only knew how to spell -his own name, but—and this is another proof of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -superiority to his contemporaries—he could spell it in -half a dozen different ways.</p> - -<p>This Beaver is a clever fellow, and we get on first -rate together. He is going to California for gold—like -the rest of us. But I think he has had his share—and -spent it. At any rate he has not much now. -I have been teaching him poker, and I am afraid he -won’t have any soon. I have an idea he has been -going pretty fast—and mostly down hill. But he -has his good points. He is a gentleman all through, -as you can see. Yes, friend Squibob, even you could -see right through him. We are all going to California -together, and I wonder which one of the three will -turn up trumps first—Beaver, or the chemist, -metallurgist or something scientific, or</p> - -<p class="signature">Yours respectfully, <span class="smcap">John Phœnix</span>.</p> - -<p>P. S.—You think this a stupid letter, perhaps, and -not interesting. Just reflect on my surroundings. Besides, -the interest will accumulate a good while before -you get the missive. And I don’t know how you ever -are to get it, for there is no post-office near here, and -on the Isthmus the mails are as uncertain as the females -are everywhere. (I am informed that there is no postage -on old jokes—so I let that stand.)</p> - -<p class="signature">J. P.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 11.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Extract from the “Bone Gulch Palladium,” June -3d, 1850</i>:</p> - -<p>Our readers may remember hovv frequeñtly vve -have declared our firm belief iñ the future uñexampled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -prosperity of Boñe Gulch. VVe savv it iñ the immediate -future the metropolis of the Pacific Slope, as it vvas -iñteñded by ñature to be. VVe poiñted out repeatedly -that a time vvould come vvheñ Boñe Gulch vvould be -añ emporium of the arts añd scieñces añd of the best -society, eveñ more thañ it is ñovv. VVe foresavv the -time vvheñ the best meñ from the old cities of the -East vvould come flockiñg to us, passiñg vvith coñtempt -the puñy settlemeñt of Deadhorse. But eveñ -vve did ñot so sooñ see that members of the aristocracy -of the effete moñarchies of despotic Europe vvould -ackñovvledge the uñdeñiable advañtages of Boñe -Gulch, añd come here to stay permañeñtly añd forever. -VVithiñ the past vveek vve have received here -Hoñ. VVilliam Beaver, oñe of the first meñ of Great -Britaiñ añd Irelañd, a statesmañ, añ orator, a soldier, -añd añ exteñsive traveller. He has come to Boñe -Gulch as the best spot oñ the face of the everlastiñg -uñiverse. It is ñeedless to say that our promiñeñt -citizeñs have received him vvith great cordiality. Boñe -Gulch is ñot like Deadhorse. VVe kñovv a geñtlemañ -vvheñ vve see oñe.</p> - -<p>Hoñ. Mr. Beaver is oñe of ñature’s ñoblemeñ; he is -also related to the Royal Family of Eñglañd. He is a -secoñd cousiñ of the Queeñ, añd boards at the Tovver -of Loñdoñ vvith her vvheñ at home. VVe are iñformed -that he has frequeñtly takeñ the Priñce of -VVales out for a ride iñ his baby-vvagoñ.</p> - -<p>VVe take great pleasure iñ coñgratulatiñg Boñe -Gulch oñ its latest acquisitioñ. Añd vve kñovv Hoñ. -Mr. Beaver is sure to get aloñg all right here uñder<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -the best climate iñ the vvorld añd vvith the ñoblest -meñ the suñ ever shoñe oñ.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 12.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Extract from the Dead Horse “Gazette and Courier -of Civilization” of August 26th, 1850</i>:</p> - -<p class="center">BONEGULCH’S BRITISHER.</p> - -<p>Bonegulch sits in sackcloth and ashes and cools her -mammoth cheek in the breezes of Colorado canyon. -The self-styled Emporium of the West has lost her -British darling, Beaver Bill, the big swell who was first -cousin to the Marquis of Buckingham and own grandmother -to the Emperor of China, the man with the -biled shirt and low-necked shoes. This curled darling -of the Bonegulch aristocrat-worshippers passed through -Deadhorse yesterday, clean bust. Those who remember -how the four-fingered editor of the Bonegulch -“Palladium” pricked up his ears and lifted up his falsetto -crow when this lovely specimen of the British -snob first honored him by striking him for a $ will -appreciate the point of the joke.</p> - -<p>It is said that the “Palladium” is going to come -out, when it makes its next semi-occasional appearance, -in full mourning, with turned rules. For this festive -occasion we offer Brother B. the use of our late retired -Spanish font, which we have discarded for the new and -elegant dress in which we appear to-day, and to which -we have elsewhere called the attention of our readers. -It will be a change for the “Palladium’s” eleven unhappy -readers, who are getting very tired of the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> -type cast for the Concha Mission in 1811, which tries -to make up for its lack of w’s by a plentiful superfluity -of greaser u’s. How are you, Brother Biles?</p> - -<p>“We don’t know a gent when we see him.” Oh -no (?)!</p> - -<h4>Document No. 13.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Paragraph from “Police Court Notes,” in the New -Centreville [late Dead Horse] “Evening Gazette,” -January 2d, 1858</i>:</p> - -<p class="center">HYMENEAL HIGH JINKS.</p> - -<p>William Beaver, better known ten years ago as -“Beaver Bill,” is now a quiet and prosperous agriculturalist -in the Steal Valley. He was, however, a -pioneer in the 1849 movement, and a vivid memory of -this fact at times moves him to quit his bucolic labors -and come in town for a real old-fashioned tare. He -arrived in New Centreville during Christmas week; -and got married suddenly, but not unexpectedly, yesterday -morning. His friends took it upon themselves -to celebrate the joyful occasion, rare in the experience -of at least one of the parties, by getting very high on -Irish Ike’s whiskey and serenading the newly-married -couple with fish-horns, horse-fiddles, and other improvised -musical instruments. Six of the participators in -this epithalamial serenade, namely, José Tanco, Hiram -Scuttles, John P. Jones, Hermann Bumgardner, Jean -Durant (“Frenchy”), and Bernard McGinnis (“Big -Barney”), were taken in tow by the police force, assisted -by citizens, and locked up over night, to cool their generous -enthusiasm in the gloomy dungeons of Justice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> -Skinner’s calaboose. This morning all were discharged -with a reprimand, except Big Barney and José Tanco, -who, being still drunk, were allotted ten days in default -of $10. The bridal pair left this noon for the bridegroom’s -ranch.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 14.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Extract from “The New York Herald” for June 23d, -1861</i>:</p> - -<p class="center larger">THE RED SKINS.</p> - -<p class="center">A BORDER WAR AT LAST!</p> - -<p class="center larger">INDIAN INSURRECTION.</p> - -<p class="center">RED DEVILS RISING!</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Women and Children seeking safety in the larger -Towns.</span></p> - -<p class="center">HORRIBLE HOLOCAUSTS ANTICIPATED.</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Burying the Hatchet—in the White Man’s Head.</span></p> - -<p class="center">[SPECIAL DESPATCH TO THE NEW YORK HERALD.]</p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Chicago</span>, June 22, 1861.</p> - -<p>Great uneasiness exists all along the Indian frontier. -Nearly all the regular troops have been withdrawn from -the West for service in the South. With the return -of the warm weather it seems certain that the red skins -will take advantage of the opportunity thus offered, -and inaugurate a bitter and vindictive fight against the -whites. Rumors come from the agencies that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -Indians are leaving in numbers. A feverish excitement -among them has been easily to be detected. -Their ponies are now in good condition, and forage -can soon be had in abundance on the prairie, if it is not -already. Everything points toward a sudden and -startling outbreak of hostilities.</p> - -<p class="center">[SPECIAL DESPATCH TO THE NEW YORK HERALD.]</p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">St. Paul</span>, June 22, 1861.</p> - -<p>The Sioux near here are all in a ferment. Experienced -Indian fighters say the signs of a speedy going -on the war-path are not to be mistaken. No one can -tell how soon the whole frontier may be in a bloody -blaze. The women and children are rapidly coming in -from all exposed settlements. Nothing overt as yet -has transpired, but that the Indians will collide very -soon with the settlers is certain. All the troops have -been withdrawn. In our defenceless state there is no -knowing how many lives may be lost before the regiments -of volunteers now organizing can take the field.</p> - -<p class="center larger">LATER.</p> - -<p class="center">THE WAR BEGUN.</p> - -<p class="center larger">FIRST BLOOD FOR THE INDIANS.</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">The Scalping Knife and the Tomahawk at work again.</span></p> - -<p class="center">[SPECIAL DESPATCH TO THE NEW YORK HERALD.]</p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Black Wing Agency</span>, June 22, 1861.</p> - -<p>The Indians made a sudden and unexpected attack -on the town of Coyote Hill, forty miles from here, last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> -night, and did much damage before the surprised settlers -rallied and drove them off. The red skins met -with heavy losses. Among the whites killed are a man -named William Beaver, sometimes called Beaver Bill, -and his wife. Their child, a beautiful little girl of two, -was carried off by the red rascals. A party has been -made up to pursue them. Owing to their taking their -wounded with them, the trail is very distinct.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 15.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Letter from Mrs. Edgar Saville, in San Francisco, -to Mr. Edgar Saville, in Chicago.</i></p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/i_p019.jpg" width="400" height="100" alt="Cal. Jardine’s -Monster Variety and Dramatic Combination. ON THE ROAD." /> -</div> - -<p class="center"><i>G. W. K. McCULLUM, -Treasurer.</i></p> - -<p class="center"><i>HI. SAMUELS, -Stage Manager.</i></p> - -<p class="center"><i>JNO. SHANKS, -Advance.</i></p> - -<p class="center"><i>No dates filled except with first-class -houses.</i></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Hall owners will please consider -silence a polite negative.</i></p> - -</div> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">San Francisco</span>, January 29, 1863.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear old Man!</span>—Here we are in our second -week at Frisco and you will be glad to know playing -to steadily increasing biz, having signed for two weeks -more, certain. I didn’t like to mention it when I wrote -you last, but things were very queer after we left -Denver, and “Treasury” was a mockery till we got to -Bluefoot Springs, which is a mining town, where we -showed in the hotel dining-room. Then there was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> -strike just before the curtain went up. The house was -mostly miners in red shirts and very exacting. The -sinews were forthcoming very quick my dear, and after -that the ghost walked quite regular. So now everything -is bright, and you won’t have to worry if Chicago -doesn’t do the right thing by you.</p> - -<p>I don’t find this engagement half as disagreeable as -I expected. Of course it ain’t so very nice travelling -in a combination with variety talent but they keep to -themselves and we regular professionals make a <em>happy -family</em> that Barnum would not be ashamed of and -quite separate and comfortable. We don’t associate -with any of them only with The Unique Mulligans -wife, because he beats her. So when he is on a regular -she sleeps with me.</p> - -<p>And talking of liquor dear old man, if you knew -how glad and proud I was to see you writing so -straight and steady and beautiful in your three last -letters. O, I’m sure my darling if the boys thought of -the little wife out on the road they wouldn’t plague -you so with the Enemy. Tell Harry Atkinson this -from me, he has a good kind heart but he is the worst -of your friends. Every night when I am dressing I -think of you at Chicago, and pray you may never -again go on the way you did that terrible night at -Rochester. Tell me dear, did you look handsome in -Horatio? You ought to have had Laertes instead of -that duffing Merivale.</p> - -<p>And now I have the queerest thing to tell you. -Jardine is going in for Indians and has secured six -very ugly ones. I mean real Indians, not professional.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -They are hostile Comanshies or something who have -just laid down their arms. They had an insurrection -in the first year of the War, when the troops went -East, and they killed all the settlers and ranches and -destroyed the canyons somewhere out in Nevada, and -when they were brought here they had a wee little kid -with them only four or five years old, but <em>so sweet</em>. -They stole her and killed her parents and brought her -up for their own in the cunningest little moccasins. -She could not speak a word of English except her own -name which is Nina. She has blue eyes and all her -second teeth. The ladies here made a great fuss about -her and sent her flowers and worsted afgans, but they -did not do anything else for her and left her to us.</p> - -<p>O dear old man you must let me have her! You -never refused me a thing yet and she is so like our -Avonia Marie that my heart almost breaks when she -puts her arms around my neck—<em>she calls me mamma -already</em>. I want to have her with us when we get the -little farm—and it must be near, that little farm of -ours—we have waited for it so long—and something -tells me my own old faker will make his hit soon and -be great. You can’t tell how I have loved it and -hoped for it and how real every foot of that farm is to -me. And though I can never see my own darling’s -face among the roses it will make me so happy to see -this poor dead mother’s pet get red and rosy in the -country air. And till the farm comes we shall always -have enough for her, without your ever having to black -up again as you did for me the winter I was sick my -own poor boy!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> - -<p>Write me yes—you will be glad when you see her. -And now love and regards to Mrs. Barry and all friends. -Tell the Worst of Managers that he knows where to -find his leading juvenile for next season. Think how -funny it would be for us to play together next year—we -haven’t done it since ’57—the third year we were -married. That was my first season higher than walking—and -now I’m quite an old woman—most thirty -dear!</p> - -<p>Write me soon a letter like that last one—and send -a kiss to Nina—<em>our Nina</em>.</p> - -<p class="center">Your own girl,</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</p> - -<p>P. S. He has not worried me since.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> -<img src="images/i_p022.jpg" width="200" height="135" alt="Horse!" /> -</div> - -<p>Nina drew this herself she says it is a horse so that -you can get here soon.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> - -<h3>PART THIRD.</h3> - -<h4>Document No. 16.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Letter from Messrs. Throstlethwaite, Throstlethwaite, -and Dick, Solicitors, Lincoln’s Inn, London, England, -to Messrs. Hitchcock and Van Rensselaer, -Attorneys and Counsellors at Law, 76 Broadway, -New York, U. S. A.</i></p> - -<p class="date">January 8, 1879.</p> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Messrs. Hitchcock & Van Rensselaer</span>:</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Gentlemen</span>: On the death of our late client, Sir -William Beauvoir, Bart., and after the reading of the -deceased gentleman’s will, drawn up nearly forty years -ago by our Mr. Dick, we were requested by Oliver -Beauvoir, Esq., the second son of the late Sir William, -to assist him in discovering and communicating with -his elder brother, the present Sir William Beauvoir, -of whose domicile we have little or no information.</p> - -<p>After a consultation between Mr. Oliver Beauvoir -and our Mr. Dick, it was seen that the sole knowledge -in our possession amounted substantially to this: -Thirty years ago the elder son of the late baronet, -after indulging in dissipation in every possible form, -much to the sorrow of his respected parent, who frequently -expressed as much to our Mr. Dick, disappeared, -leaving behind him bills and debts of all descriptions, -which we, under instructions from Sir William, examined, -audited, and paid. Sir William Beauvoir would -allow no search to be made for his erring son and -would listen to no mention of his name. Current<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -gossip declared that he had gone to New York, where -he probably arrived about midsummer, 1848. Mr. -Oliver Beauvoir thinks that he crossed to the States -in company with a distinguished scientific gentleman, -Professor Titus Peebles. Within a year after his -departure news came that he had gone to California -with Professor Peebles; this was about the time gold -was discovered in the States. That the present Sir -William Beauvoir did about this time actually arrive -on the Pacific Coast in company with the distinguished -scientific man above mentioned, we have every reason -to believe: we have even direct evidence on the subject. -A former junior clerk, who had left us at about the -same period as the disappearance of the elder son of -our late client, accosted our Mr. Dick when the latter -was in Paris last summer, and informed him (our Mr. -Dick) that he (the former junior clerk) was now a -resident of Nevada and a member of Congress for that -county, and in the course of conversation he mentioned -that he had seen Professor Peebles and the son -of our late client in San Francisco, nearly thirty years -ago. Other information we have none. It ought not -to be difficult to discover Professor Peebles, whose -scientific attainments have doubtless ere this been duly -recognized by the U. S. government. As our late -client leaves the valuable family estate in Lancashire -to his elder son and divides the remainder equally -between his two sons, you will readily see why we -invoke your assistance in discovering the present domicile -of the late baronet’s elder son, or, in default thereof, -in placing in our hand such proof of his death as may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -be necessary to establish that lamentable fact in our -probate court.</p> - -<p>We have the honour to remain, as ever, your most -humble and obedient servants,</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Throstlethwaite, Throstlethwaite, & Dick</span>.</p> - -<p>P. S.—Our late client’s grandson, Mr. William -Beauvoir, the only child of Oliver Beauvoir, Esq., is -now in the States, in Chicago or Nebraska or somewhere -in the West. We shall be pleased if you can -keep him informed as to the progress of your investigations. -Our Mr. Dick has requested Mr. Oliver -Beauvoir to give his son your address, and to suggest -his calling on you as he passes through New York on -his way home.</p> - -<p class="signature">T. T. & D.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 17.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Letter from Messrs. Hitchcock and Van Rensselaer, -New York, to Messrs. Pixley and Sutton, Attorneys -and Counsellors at Law, 98 California Street, San -Francisco, California.</i></p> - -<div class="right"> -<div class="right-inner"> -<p class="gothic center">Law Offices of Hitchcock & Van Rensselaer,<br /> -76 Broadway, New York.<br /> -P. O. Box 4076.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="date">Jan. 22, 1879.</p> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Messrs. Pixley and Sutton</span>:</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Gentlemen</span>: We have just received from our London -correspondents, Messrs. Throstlethwaite, Throstlethwaite, -and Dick, of Lincoln’s Inn, London, the letter, -a copy of which is herewith enclosed, to which we -invite your attention. We request that you will do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> -all in your power to aid us in the search for the missing -Englishman. From the letter of Messrs. Throstlethwaite, -Throstlethwaite, and Dick, it seems extremely -probable, not to say certain, that Mr. Beauvoir arrived -in your city about 1849, in company with a distinguished -English scientist, Professor Titus Peebles, -whose professional attainments were such that he is -probably well known, if not in California, at least in -some other of the mining States. The first thing to -be done, therefore, it seems to us, is to ascertain the -whereabouts of the professor, and to interview him at -once. It may be that he has no knowledge of the -present domicile of Mr. William Beauvoir, in which -case we shall rely on you to take such steps as, in your -judgment, will best conduce to a satisfactory solution -of the mystery. In any event, please look up Professor -Peebles, and interview him at once.</p> - -<p>Pray keep us fully informed by telegraph of your -movements.</p> - -<p class="center">Yr obt serv’ts,</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Hitchcock & Van Rensselaer</span>.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 18.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Telegram from Messrs. Pixley and Sutton, Attorneys -and Counsellors at Law, 98 California Street, San -Francisco, California, to Messrs. Hitchcock and -Van Rensselaer, Attorneys and Counsellors at Law, -76 Broadway, New York.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">San Francisco, Cal.</span>, Jan. 30.</p> - -<p>Tite Peebles well known frisco not professor keeps -faro bank.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Pixley & Sutton.</span> (D. H. 919.)</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 19.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Telegram from Messrs. Hitchcock and Van Rensselaer -to Messrs. Pixley and Sutton, in answer to the -preceding.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">New York</span>, Jan. 30.</p> - -<p>Must be mistake Titus Peebles distinguished scientist.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Hitchcock & Van Rensselaer</span><br /> -(Free. Answer to D. H.)</p> - -<h4>Document No. 20.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Telegram from Messrs. Pixley and Sutton to Messrs. -Hitchcock and Van Rensselaer, in reply to the preceding.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">San Francisco, Cal.</span>, Jan. 30.</p> - -<p>No mistake distinguished faro banker suspected skin -game shall we interview.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Pixley & Sutton.</span> (D. H. 919.)</p> - -<h4>Document No. 21.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Telegram from Messrs. Hitchcock and Van Rensselaer -to Messrs. Pixley and Sutton, in reply to the preceding.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">New York</span>, Jan. 30.</p> - -<p>Must be mistake interview anyway.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Hitchcock & Van Rensselaer.</span><br /> -(Free. Answer to D. H.)</p> - -<h4>Document No. 22.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Telegram from Messrs. Pixley & Sutton to Messrs. -Hitchcock and Van Rensselaer, in reply to the preceding.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">San Francisco, Cal.</span>, Jan. 30.</p> - -<p>Peebles out of town have written him.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Pixley & Sutton.</span> (D. H. 919.)</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 23.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Letter from Tite W. Peebles, delegate to the California -Constitutional Convention, Sacramento, to Messrs. -Pixley and Sutton, 98 California Street, San Francisco, -California.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Sacramento</span>, Feb. 2, ’79.</p> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Messrs. Pixley & Sutton</span>: San Francisco.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Gentlemen</span>: Your favor of the 31st ult., forwarded -me from San Francisco, has been duly rec’d, and contents -thereof noted.</p> - -<p>My time is at present so fully occupied by my duties -as a delegate to the Constitutional Convention that I -can only jot down a brief report of my recollections on -this head. When I return to S. F., I shall be happy -to give you any further information that may be in my -possession.</p> - -<p>The person concerning whom you inquire was my -fellow passenger on my first voyage to this State on -board the <i>Mercy G. Tarbox</i>, in the latter part of the -year. He was then known as Mr. William Beauvoir. -I was acquainted with his history, of which the details -escape me at this writing. He was a countryman of -mine; a member of an important county family—Devonian, -I believe—and had left England on account -of large gambling debts, of which he confided to me the -exact figure. I believe they totted up something like -£14,500.</p> - -<p>I had at no time a very intimate acquaintance with -Mr. Beauvoir; during our sojourn on the <i>Tarbox</i> he -was the chosen associate of a depraved and vicious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> -character named Phœnix. I am not averse from saying -that I was then a member of a profession rather different -to my present one, being, in fact, professor of -metallurgy, and I saw much less, at that period, of Mr. -B. than I probably should now.</p> - -<p>Directly we landed at S. F., the object of your -inquiries set out for the gold region, without adequate -preparation, like so many others did at that time, and, -I heard, fared very ill.</p> - -<p>I encountered him some six months later; I have -forgotten precisely in what locality, though I have a -faint impression that his then habitat was some cañon -or ravine deriving its name from certain osseous -deposits. Here he had engaged in the business of -gold-mining, without, perhaps, sufficient grounds for -any confident hope of ultimate success. I have his -I. O. U. for the amount of my fee for assaying several -specimens from his claim, said specimens being all iron -pyrites.</p> - -<p>This is all I am able to call to mind at present in the -matter of Mr. Beauvoir. I trust his subsequent career -was of a nature better calculated to be satisfactory to -himself; but his mineralogical knowledge was but -superficial; and his character was sadly deformed by -a fatal taste for low associates.</p> - -<p>I remain, gentlemen, your very humble and obd’t -servant,</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Titus W. Peebles</span>.</p> - -<p>P. S.—Private.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Pix</span>: If you don’t feel inclined to pony -up that little sum you are out on the bay gelding, drop<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> -down to my place when I get back and I’ll give you -another chance for your life at the pasteboards. Constitution -going through.</p> - -<p class="center">Yours,</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Tite</span>.</p> - -<h3>PART FOURTH.</h3> - -<h4>Document No. 24.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Extract from the New Centreville [late Dead Horse] -“Gazette and Courier of Civilization,” December -20th, 1878</i>:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“Miss Nina Saville appeared last night at the Mendocino -Grand Opera House, in her unrivalled specialty of <cite>Winona, the -Child of the Prairies</cite>; supported by Tompkins and Frobisher’s -Grand Stellar Constellation. Although Miss Saville has long -been known as one of the most promising of California’s younger -tragediennes, we feel safe in saying that the impression she produced -upon the large and cultured audience gathered to greet -her last night stamped her as one of the greatest and most phenomenal -geniuses of our own or other times. Her marvellous -beauty of form and feature, added to her wonderful artistic -power, and her perfect mastery of the difficult science of clog-dancing, -won her an immediate place in the hearts of our citizens, -and confirmed the belief that California need no longer -look to Europe or Chicago for dramatic talent of the highest -order. The sylph-like beauty, the harmonious and ever-varying -grace, the vivacity and the power of the young artist who made -her maiden effort among us last night, prove conclusively that -the virgin soil of California teems with yet undiscovered fires of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> -genius. The drama of <cite>Winona, the Child of the Prairies</cite>, is a -pure, refined, and thoroughly absorbing entertainment, and has -been pronounced by the entire press of the country equal to if -not superior to the fascinating <cite>Lady of Lyons</cite>. It introduces -all the favorites of the company in new and original characters, -and with its original music, which is a prominent feature, has -already received over 200 representations in the principal cities -in the country. It abounds in effective situations, striking tableaux, -and a most quaint and original concert entitled ‘The -Mule Fling,’ which alone is worth the price of admission. As -this is the first presentation in this city, the theatre will no -doubt be crowded, and seats should be secured early in the day. -The drama will be preceded by that prince of humorists, Mr. -Billy Barker, in his humorous sketches and pictures from life.”</p> - -</div> - -<p>We quote the above from our esteemed contemporary, -the Mendocino <cite>Gazette</cite>, at the request of Mr. Zeke -Kilburn, Miss Saville’s advance agent, who has still -further appealed to us, not only on the ground of our -common humanity, but as the only appreciative and -thoroughly informed critics on the Pacific Slope to -“endorse” this rather vivid expression of opinion. -Nothing will give us greater pleasure. Allowing for -the habitual enthusiasm of our northern neighbor, and -for the well-known chaste aridity of Mendocino in -respect of female beauty, we have no doubt that Miss -Nina Saville is all that the fancy, peculiarly opulent -and active even for an advance agent, of Mr. Kilburn -has painted her, and is quite such a vision of youth, -beauty, and artistic phenomenality as will make the -stars of Paris and Illinois pale their ineffectual fires.</p> - -<p>Miss Saville will appear in her “unrivalled specialty” -at Hank’s New Centreville Opera House, to-morrow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -night, as may be gathered, in a general way, from an -advertisement in another column.</p> - -<p>We should not omit to mention that Mr. Zeke Kilburn, -Miss Saville’s advance agent, is a gentleman of -imposing presence, elegant manners, and complete -knowledge of his business. This information may be -relied upon as at least authentic, having been derived -from Mr. Kilburn himself, to which we can add, as our -own contribution, the statement that Mr. Kilburn is a -gentleman of marked liberality in his ideas of spirituous -refreshments, and of equal originality in his conception -of the uses, objects and personal susceptibilities -of the journalistic profession.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 25.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Local item from the “New Centreville Standard,” -December 20th, 1878</i>:</p> - -<p>Hon. William Beauvoir has registered at the United -States Hotel. Mr. Beauvoir is a young English gentleman -of great wealth, now engaged in investigating the -gigantic resources of this great country. We welcome -him to New Centreville.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 26.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Programme of the performance given in the Centreville -Theatre, Dec. 21st, 1878</i>:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="center larger">HANKS’ NEW CENTREVILLE OPERA HOUSE.</p> - -<div class="bb bt"> - -<p class="center">A. JACKSON HANKS Sole Proprietor and Manager.</p> - -</div> - -<p class="center">FIRST APPEARANCE IN THIS CITY OF</p> - -<p class="center">TOMPKINS & FROBISHER’S</p> - -<p class="center larger">GRAND STELLAR CONSTELLATION,</p> - -<p class="center">Supporting California’s favorite daughter, the young American -Tragedienne,</p> - -<p class="center larger">MISS NINA SAVILLE,</p> - -<p class="center">Who will appear in Her Unrivalled Specialty,</p> - -<p class="center larger">“WINONA, THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.”</p> - -<div class="bb bt"> - -<p class="center">THIS EVENING, December 21st, 1878,</p> - -<p class="center smaller">Will be presented, with the following phenomenal cast, the accepted -American Drama,</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Winona, the Child of the Prairie.</span></p> - -<table summary="Cast list"> - <tr> - <td>WINONA</td> - <td class="valign" rowspan="7">Miss NINA<br />SAVILLE.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">Miss FLORA MacMADISON</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>BIDDY FLAHERTY</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>OLD AUNT DINAH (with Song, “Don’t Get Weary”)</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>SALLY HOSKINS (with the old-time melody, “Bobbin’ Around”)</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>POOR JOE (with Song)</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>FRAULINE LINA BOOBENSTEIN (with stammering Song, “I yoost landet”)</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>SIR EDMOND BENNETT (specially engaged)</td> - <td class="right">E. C. GRAINGER</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>WALTON TRAVERS</td> - <td class="right">G. W. PARSONS</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>GIPSY JOE</td> - <td class="right">M. ISAACS</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>’ANNABLE ’ORACE ’IGGINS</td> - <td class="right">BILLY BARKER</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>TOMMY TIPPER</td> - <td class="right"><span class="smcap">Miss MAMIE SMITH</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>PETE, the Man on the Dock</td> - <td class="right">SI HANCOCK</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">Mrs. MALONE</span>, the Old Woman in the Little House</td> - <td class="right">MRS. K. Y. BOOTH</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>ROBERT BENNETT (aged 5)</td> - <td class="right">LITTLE ANNIE WATSON</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p class="center">Act I.—The Old Home.</p> - -<p class="center">Act II.—Alone in the World.</p> - -<p class="center">Act III.—The Frozen Gulf:</p> - -<p class="center larger">THE GREAT ICEBERG SENSATION.</p> - -<p class="center">Act IV.—Wedding Bells.</p> - -</div> - -<p class="center">“WINONA, THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE,” WILL BE PRECEDED BY</p> - -<p class="center larger">A FAVORITE FARCE,</p> - -<p class="center">In which the great BILLY BARKER will appear in one of his most outrageously -funny bits.</p> - -<div class="bb bt"> - -<p class="center smaller">NEW SCENERY by Q. Z. SLOCUM</p> - -<p class="center smaller">Music by Professor Kiddoo’s Silver Bugle Brass Band and -Philharmonic Orchestra.</p> - -</div> - -<p class="center smaller">Chickway’s Grand Piano, lent by Schmidt, 2 Opera House Block.</p> - -<div class="bb bt"> - -<p class="center smaller">AFTER THE SHOW GO TO HANKS’ AND SEE A MAN!</p> - -</div> - -<p class="center smaller">Pop Williams, the only legitimate Bill-Poster in New Centreville.</p> - -<div class="bt"> - -<p class="center smaller">(New Centreville Standard Print.)</p> - -</div> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 27.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Extract from the New Centreville [late Dead Horse] -“Gazette and Courier of Civilization,” Dec. 24th, -1878.</i></p> - -<p>A little while ago, in noting the arrival of Miss Nina -Saville of the New Centreville Opera House, we quoted -rather extensively from our esteemed contemporary, -the Mendocino <cite>Times</cite>, and commented upon the quotation. -Shortly afterwards, it may also be remembered, -we made a very direct and decided apology for -the sceptical levity which inspired those remarks, and -expressed our hearty sympathy with the honest, if -somewhat effusive, enthusiasm with which the dramatic -critic of Mendocino greeted the sweet and dainty little -girl who threw over the dull, weary old business of the -stage “sensation” the charm of a fresh and childlike -beauty and originality, as rare and delicate as those -strange, unreasonable little glimmers of spring sunsets -that now and then light up for a brief moment the -dull skies of winter evenings, and seem to have -strayed into ungrateful January out of sheer pity for -the sad earth.</p> - -<p>Mendocino noticed the facts that form the basis of -the above meteorological simile, and we believe we -gave Mendocino full credit for it at the time. We -refer to the matter at this date only because in our -remarks of a few days ago we had occasion to mention -the fact of the existence of Mr. Zeke Kilburn, an advance -agent, who called upon us at the time, to endeavor -to induce us, by means apparently calculated more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> -closely for the latitude of Mendocino, to extend to -Miss Saville, before her appearance, the critical approbation -which we gladly extended after. This little -item of interest we alluded to at the time, and furthermore -intimated, with some vagueness, that there existed -in Mr. Kilburn’s character a certain misdirected zeal -which, combined with a too keen artistic appreciation, -are apt to be rather dangerous stock-in-trade for an -advance agent.</p> - -<p>It was twenty-seven minutes past two o’clock yesterday -afternoon. The chaste white mystery of Shigo -Mountain was already taking on a faint, almost imperceptible -hint of pink, like the warm cheek of a girl -who hears a voice and anticipates a blush. Yet the -rays of the afternoon sun rested with undiminished -radiance on the empty pork-barrel in front of McMullin’s -shebang. A small and vagrant infant, whose -associations with empty barrels were doubtless hitherto -connected solely with dreams of saccharine dissipation, -approached the bunghole with precocious caution, and -retired with celerity and a certain acquisition of experience. -An unattached goat, a martyr to the radical -theory of personal investigation, followed in the footsteps -of infantile humanity, retired with even greater -promptitude, and was fain to stay its stomach on a -presumably empty rend-rock can, afterward going into -seclusion behind McMullin’s horse-shed, before the -diuretic effect of tin flavored with blasting-powder -could be observed by the attentive eye of science.</p> - -<p>Mr. Kilburn emerged from the hostelry of McMullin. -Mr. Kilburn, as we have before stated at his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> -request, is a gentleman of imposing presence. It is -well that we made this statement when we did, for it -is hard to judge of the imposing quality in a gentleman’s -presence when that gentleman is suspended -from the arm of another gentleman by the collar of -the first gentleman’s coat. The gentleman in the rear -of Mr. Kilburn was Mr. William Beauvoir, a young -Englishman in a check suit. Mr. Beauvoir is not avowedly -a man of imposing presence; he wears a seal ring, -and he is generally a scion of an effete oligarchy, but -he has, since his introduction into this community, -behaved himself, to use the adjectivial adverb of Mr. -McMullin, <em>white</em>, and he has a very remarkable biceps. -These qualities may hereafter enhance his popularity -in New Centreville.</p> - -<p>Mr. Beauvoir’s movements, at twenty-seven minutes -past two yesterday afternoon, were few and simple. -He doubled Mr. Kilburn up, after the fashion of an -ordinary jack-knife, and placed him in the barrel, wedge-extremity -first, remarking, as he did so, “She is, is -she?” He then rammed Mr. Kilburn carefully home, -and put the cover on.</p> - -<p>We learn to-day that Mr. Kilburn has resumed his -professional duties on the road.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 28.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Account of the same event from the New Centreville -“Standard,” December 24th, 1878.</i></p> - -<p>It seems strange that even the holy influences which -radiate from this joyous season cannot keep some men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -from getting into unseemly wrangles. It was only -yesterday that our local saw a street row here in the -quiet avenues of our peaceful city—a street row -recalling the riotous scenes which took place here -before Dead Horse experienced a change of heart and -became New Centreville. Our local succeeded in gathering -all the particulars of the affray, and the following -statement is reliable. It seems that Mr. Kilburn, the -gentlemanly and affable advance agent of the Nina -Saville Dramatic Company, now performing at Andy -Hanks’ Opera House to big houses, was brutally assaulted -by a ruffianly young Englishman, named Beauvoir, -for no cause whatever. We say for no cause, as -it is obvious that Mr. Kilburn, as the agent of the -troupe, could have said nothing against Miss Saville -which an outsider, not to say a foreigner like Mr. -Beauvoir, had any call to resent. Mr. Kilburn is a -gentleman unaccustomed to rough-and-tumble encounters, -while his adversary has doubtless associated more -with pugilists than gentlemen—at least anyone would -think so from his actions yesterday. Beauvoir hustled -Mr. Kilburn out of Mr. Mullin’s, where the unprovoked -assault began, and violently shook him across the new -plank sidewalk. The person by the name of Clark, -whom Judge Jones for some reason now permits to -edit the moribund but once respectable <cite>Gazette</cite>, caught -the eye of the congenial Beauvoir, and, true to the -ungentlemanly instincts of his base nature, pointed to -a barrel in the street. The brutal Englishman took the -hint and thrust Mr. Kilburn forcibly into the barrel, -leaving the vicinity before Mr. Kilburn, emerging from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> -his close quarters, had fully recovered. What the ruffianly -Beauvoir’s motive may have been for this wanton -assault it is impossible to say; but it is obvious to all -why this fellow Clark sought to injure Mr. Kilburn, a -gentleman whose many good qualities he of course fails -to appreciate. Mr. Kilburn, recognizing the acknowledged -merits of our job-office, had given us the contract -for all the printing he needed in New Centreville.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 29.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Advertisement from the New York “Clipper,” Dec. -21st, 1878.</i></p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="center">WINSTON & MACK’S<br /> -<span class="smaller">GRAND INTERNATIONAL</span><br /> -<span class="smcap larger">Megatherium Variety Combination,</span><br /> -COMPANY CALL.</p> - -<p class="smaller">Ladies and Gentlemen of the Company will assemble for rehearsal, at -Emerson’s Opera House, San Francisco, on Wednesday, Dec. 27th, at 12 -M. sharp. Band at 11.</p> - -<div class="right"> -<div class="right-inner"> -<p class="smaller">J. B. WINSTON, }<br /> -EDWIN R. MACK, } Managers.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="smaller">Emerson’s Opera House, -San Francisco, Dec. 10th, 1878.</p> - -<p class="smaller">Protean Artist wanted. Would like to hear from Nina Saville.</p> - -<p class="smaller">12—1t*.</p> - -</div> - -<h4>Document No. 30.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Letter from Nina Saville to William Beauvoir.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">New Centreville</span>, December 26, 1878.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My dear Mr. Beauvoir</span>—I was very sorry to receive -your letter of yesterday—<em>very</em> sorry—because -there can be only one answer that I can make—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> -you might well have spared me the pain of saying the -word—No. You ask me if I love you. If I did—do -you think it would be true love in me to tell you so, -when I know what it would cost you? Oh indeed you -must never marry <em>me</em>! In your own country you would -never have heard of me—never seen me—surely never -written me such a letter to tell me that you love me -and want to marry me. It is not that I am ashamed -of my business or of the folks around me, or ashamed -that I am only the charity child of two poor players, -who lived and died working for the bread for -their mouths and mine. I am proud of them—yes, -proud of what they did and suffered for one poorer -than themselves—a little foundling out of an Indian -camp. But I know the difference between you and -me. You are a great man at home—you have never -told me how great—but I know your father is a rich -lord, and I suppose you are. It is not that I think <em>you</em> -care for that, or think less of me because I was born -different from you. I know how good—how kind—how -<em>respectful</em> you have always been to me—<em>my lord</em>—and -I shall never forget it—for a girl in my position -knows well enough how you might have been -otherwise. Oh believe me—<em>my true friend</em>—I am -never going to forget all you have done for me—and -how good it has been to have you near me—a man so -different from most others—I don’t mean only the -kind things you have done—the books and the thoughts -and the ways you have taught me to enjoy—and all -the trouble you have taken to make me something better -than the stupid little girl I was when you found me—but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -a great deal more than that—the consideration -you have had for me and for what I hold best in the -world. I had never met a <em>gentleman</em> before—and -now the first one I meet—he is my <em>friend</em>. That is a -great deal.</p> - -<p>Only think of it! You have been following me -around now for three months, and I have been weak -enough to allow it. I am going to do the right thing -now. You may think it hard in me <em>if you really mean -what you say</em>, but even if everything else were right, I -would not marry you—because of your rank. I do -not know how things are at your home—but something -tells me it would be wrong and that your family -would have a right to hate you and never forgive you. -Professionals cannot go in your society. And that is -even if I loved you—and I do not love you—I do -not love you—<em>I do not love you</em>—now I have written -it you will believe it.</p> - -<p>So now it is ended—I am going back to the line -I was first in—variety—and with a new name. So -you can never find me—I entreat you—I beg of you—not -to look for me. If you only put your mind to -it—you will find it so easy to forget me—for I will -not do you the wrong to think that you did not mean -what you wrote in your letter or what you said that -night <em>when we sang Annie Laurie together</em> the last -time.</p> - -<p class="center">Your sincere friend,</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Nina</span>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Documents Nos. 31 and 32.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Items from San Francisco “Figaro” of December -29th, 1878</i>:</p> - -<p>Nina Saville Co. disbanded New Centreville 26th. -No particulars received.</p> - -<p>Winston & Mack’s Comb. takes the road December -31st, opening at Tuolumne Hollow. Manager Winston -announces the engagement of Anna Laurie, the Protean -change artiste, with songs, “Don’t Get Weary,” “Bobbin’ -Around,” “I Yoost Landet.”</p> - -<h4>Document No. 33.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Telegram from Zeke Kilburn, New Centreville, to -Winston and Mack, Emerson’s Opera House, San -Francisco, Cal.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">New Centreville</span>, Dec. 28, 1878.</p> - -<p>Have you vacancy for active and energetic advance -agent.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Z. Kilburn.</span><br /> -(9 words 30 paid.)</p> - -<h4>Document No. 34.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Telegram from Winston and Mack, San Francisco, -to Zeke Kilburn, New Centreville</i>:</p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">San Francisco</span>, Dec. 28, 1878.</p> - -<p>No.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Winston & Mack.</span><br /> -(Collect 30 cents.)</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 35.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Bill sent to William Beauvoir, United States Hotel, -Tuolumne Hollow, Cal.</i>:</p> - -<div class="blockquote bb bt"> - -<p class="date"><i>Tuolumne Hollow, Cal., Dec. 29, 1878.</i></p> - -<p class="noindent"><i>William Beauvoir, Esq.</i></p> - -<p class="center">Bought of HIMMEL & HATCH,<br /> -Opera House Block,<br /> -JEWELLERS & DIAMOND MERCHANTS,</p> - -<p class="center">Dealers in all kinds of Fancy Goods, Stationery, and Umbrellas, Watches, -Clocks and Barometers.</p> - -<p class="noindent">TERMS CASH.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Musical Boxes Repaired.</span></p> - -<div class="bt"> - -<table summary="The bill"> - <tr> - <td>Dec. 29,</td> - <td>One diamond and enamelled locket</td> - <td class="right">$75.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td>One gold chain</td> - <td class="right">48.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td></td> - <td class="bt right">$123.00</td> - </tr> -</table> - -</div> - -<p class="center"><i>Rec’d Payt.</i><br /> -<i>Himmel & Hatch</i>,<br /> -<i>per S.</i></p> - -</div> - -<h3>PART FIFTH.</h3> - -<h4>Document No. 36.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Letter from Cable J. Dexter, Esq., to Messrs. Pixley -and Sutton, San Francisco.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">New Centreville, Cal.</span>, March 3, 1879.</p> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Messrs. Pixley & Sutton</span>:</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Gents</span>: I am happy to report that I have at last -reached the bottom level in the case of William Beaver, -<i>alias</i> Beaver Bill, deceased through Indians in 1861.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> - -<p>In accordance with your instructions and check, I -proceeded, on the 10th ult., to Shawgum Creek, when -I interviewed Blue Horse, chief of the Comanches, who -tomahawked subject of your inquiries in the year above -mentioned. Found the Horse in the penitentiary, -serving out a drunk and disorderly. Though belligerent -at date aforesaid, Horse is now tame, though intemperate. -Appeared unwilling to converse, and required -stimulants to awaken his memory. Please find -enclosed memo. of account for whiskey, covering extra -demijohn to corrupt jailer. Horse finally stated that -he personally let daylight through deceased, and is -willing to guarantee thoroughness of decease. Stated -further that aforesaid Beaver’s family consisted of -squaw and kid. Is willing to swear that squaw was -killed, the tribe having no use for her. Killing done -by Mule-Who-Goes-Crooked, personal friend of Horse’s. -The minor child was taken into camp and kept until -December of 1863, when tribe dropped to howling cold -winter and went on government reservation. Infant -(female) was then turned over to U. S. Government -at Fort Kearney.</p> - -<p>I posted to last-named locality on the 18th ult., and -found by the quartermaster’s books that, no one appearing -to claim the kid, she had been duly indentured, -together with six Indians, to a man by the name of -Guardine or Sardine (probably the latter), in the show -business. The Indians were invoiced as Sage Brush -Jimmy, Boiling Hurricane, Mule-Who-Goes-Crooked, -Joe, Hairy Grasshopper and Dead Polecat. Child -known as White Kitten. Receipt for Indians was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> -signed by Mr. Hi. Samuels, who is still in the circus -business, and whom I happen to be selling out at this -moment, at suit of McCullum & Montmorency, former -partners. Samuels positively identified kid with variety -specialist by name of Nina Saville, who has been -showing all through this region for a year past.</p> - -<p>I shall soon have the pleasure of laying before you -documents to establish the complete chain of evidence, -from knifing of original subject of your inquiries right -up to date.</p> - -<p>I have to-day returned from New Centreville, whither -I went after Miss Saville. Found she had just skipped -the town with a young Englishman by the name of -Bovoir, who had been paying her polite attentions for -some time, having bowied or otherwise squelched a man -for her within a week or two. It appears the young -woman had refused to have anything to do with him -for a long period; but he seems to have struck pay -gravel about two days before my arrival. At present, -therefore, the trail is temporarily lost; but I expect -to fetch the couple if they are anywhere this side of -the Rockies.</p> - -<p>Awaiting your further instructions, and cash backing -thereto, I am, gents, very resp’y yours,</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Cable J. Dexter</span>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 37.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Envelope of letter from Sir Oliver Beauvoir, Bart., -to his son, William Beauvoir.</i></p> - -<div class="bbox"> - -<div class="right"> -<div class="stamp"> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="stamp"><i>Sent to Dead Letter Office</i></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Mr. William Beauvoir</i><br /> -<i>Sherman House Hotel</i><br /> -<i>Chicago</i><br /> -<i>United States of America</i></p> - -<p class="noindent smaller"><i>Not here</i><br /> -<i>try Brevoort House</i><br /> -<i>N. Y.</i></p> - -</div> - -<h4>Document No. 38.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Letter contained in the envelope above.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Chelsworth Cottage</span>, March 30, 1879.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Boy</span>: In the sudden blow which has come -upon us all I cannot find words to write. You do not -know what you have done. Your uncle William, after -whom you were named, died in America. He left but -one child, a daughter, the only grandchild of my father -except you. And this daughter is the Miss Nina -Saville with whom you have formed so unhappy a connection. -She is your own cousin. She is a Beauvoir. -She is of our blood, as good as any in England.</p> - -<p>My feelings are overpowering. I am choked by the -suddenness of this great grief. I cannot write to you -as I would. But I can say this: Do not let me see you -or hear from you until this stain be taken from our name.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Oliver Beauvoir.</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 39.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Cable dispatch of William Beauvoir, Windsor Hotel, -New York, to Sir Oliver Beauvoir, Bart., Chelsworth -Cottage, Suffolk, England.</i></p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">New York</span>, May 1, 1879.</p> - -<p>Have posted you Herald.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">William Beauvoir.</span></p> - -<h4>Document No. 40.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Advertisement under the head of “Marriages,” from -the New York “Herald,” April 30th, 1879.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Beauvoir—Beauvoir.</span>—On Wednesday, Jan. 1st, -1879, at Steal Valley, California, by the Rev. Mr. -Twells, William Beauvoir, only son of Sir Oliver -Beauvoir, of Chelsworth Cottage, Surrey, England, -to Nina, only child of the late William Beauvoir, of -New Centreville, Cal.</p> - -<h4>Document No. 41.</h4> - -<p class="hanging"><i>Extract from the New York “Herald” of May 29th, -1879.</i></p> - -<p>Among the passengers on the outgoing Cunard -steamer <i>Gallia</i>, which left New York on Wednesday, -was the Honorable William Beauvoir, only son of Sir -Oliver Beauvoir, Bart., of England. Mr. Beauvoir has -been passing his honeymoon in this city, and, with his -charming bride, a famous California belle, has been the -recipient of many cordial courtesies from members of -our best society. Mr. William Beauvoir is a young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> -man of great promise and brilliant attainments, and is -a highly desirable addition to the large and constantly -increasing number of aristocratic Britons who seek for -wives among the lovely daughters of Columbia. We -understand that the bridal pair will take up their residence -with the groom’s father, at his stately country-seat, -Chelsworth Manor, Suffolk.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="VENETIAN_GLASS">VENETIAN GLASS.</h2> - -<p class="author">BY BRANDER MATTHEWS.</p> - -<h3>I.<br /> -<span class="smaller">IN THE OLD WORLD.</span></h3> - -<p>They had been to the Lido for a short swim in -the slight but bracing surf of the Adriatic. They -had had a mid-day breakfast in a queer little restaurant, -known only to the initiated, and therefore early discovered -by Larry, who had a keen scent for a cook -learned in the law. They had loitered along the Riva -degli Schiavoni, looking at a perambulatory puppet-show, -before which a delighted audience sturdily disregarded -the sharp wind which bravely fluttered the -picturesque tatters of the spectators; and they were -moved to congratulate the Venetians on their freedom -from the monotonous repertory of the Anglo-American -Punch and Judy, which consists solely of a play really -unique in the exact sense of that much-abused word. -They were getting their fill of the delicious Italian art -which is best described by an American verb—to loaf. -And yet they were not wont to be idle, and they had -both the sharp, quick American manner, on which laziness -sits uneasily and infrequently.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p> - -<p>John Manning and Laurence Laughton were both -young New Yorkers. Larry—for so in youth was he -called by everybody pending the arrival of years which -should make him a universal uncle, to be known of all -men as “Uncle Larry”—was as pleasant a travelling -companion as one could wish. He was the only son -and heir of a father, now no more, but vaguely understood -when alive and in the flesh to have been “in the -China trade;” although whether this meant crockery -or Cathay no one was able with precision to declare. -Larry Laughton had been graduated from Columbia -College with the class of 1860, and the following spring -found him here in Venice after a six months’ ramble -through Europe with his old friend, John Manning, -partly on foot and partly in an old carriage of their -own, in which they enjoyed the fast-vanishing pleasures -of posting.</p> - -<p>John Manning was a little older than Larry; he had -left West Point in 1854 with a commission as second -lieutenant in the Old Dragoons. For nearly six years -he did his duty in that state of life in which it pleased -the Secretary of War and General Scott to call him; -he had crossed the plains one bleak winter to a post in -the Rocky Mountains, and he had danced through two -summers at Fort Adams at Newport; he had been -stationed for a while in New Mexico, where there was -an abundance of the pleasant sport of Indian-fighting,—even -now he had only to make believe a little to see -the tufted head of a Navajo peer around the columns -supporting the Lion of Saint Mark, or to mistake the -fringe of <i lang="it">facchini</i> on the edge of the Grand Canal for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> -a group of the shiftless half-breeds of New Mexico. In -time the Old Dragoons had been ordered North, where -the work was then less pleasant than on the border; -and, in fact, it was a distinct unwillingness to execute -the Fugitive Slave Law which forced John Manning to -resign his commission in the army, although it was the -hanging of John Brown which drew from him the -actual letter of resignation. Before settling down to -other work—for he was a man who could not and -would not be idle—he had gratified his long desire of -taking a turn through the Old World. Larry Laughton -had joined him in Holland, where he had been making -researches into the family history, and proving to his -own satisfaction at least that the New York Mannings, -in spite of their English name, had come from Amsterdam -to New Amsterdam. And now, toward the end -of April, 1861, John Manning and Laurence Laughton -stood on the Rialto, hesitating <i lang="it">Fra Marco e Todaro</i>, -as the Venetians have it, in uninterested question -whether they should go into the Ghetto, among the -hideous homes of the chosen people, or out again to -Murano for a second visit to the famous factory of -Venetian glass.</p> - -<p>“I say, John,” remarked Larry as they lazily debated -the question, gazing meanwhile on the steady succession -of gondolas coming and going to and from the steps by -the side of the bridge, “I’d as lief, if not liefer, go to -Murano again, if they’ve any of their patent anti-poison -goblets left. You know they say they used to make a -glass so fine that it was shattered into shivers whenever -poison might be poured into it. Of course I don’t believe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -it, but a glass like that would be mighty handy -in the sample-rooms of New York. I’m afraid a man -walking up Broadway could use up a gross of the anti-poison -goblets before he got one straight drink of the -genuine article, unadulterated and drawn from the -wood.”</p> - -<p>“You must not make fun of a poetic legend, Larry. -You have to believe everything over here, or you do -not get the worth of your money,” said John Manning.</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t know,” was Larry’s reply; “I don’t -know just what to believe. I was talking about it last -night at Florian’s, while you were writing letters home.”</p> - -<p>“I did not know Mr. Laughton had friends in Venice.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can make friends anywhere. And this one -was lots of fun. He was a priest, an <i lang="it">abbate</i>, I think he -calls himself. He had read five newspapers in the -<i lang="it">caffè</i> and paid for one tiny cup of coffee. When I -finished the <i lang="fr">Débats</i> I passed it to him for his sixth—and -he spoke to me in French, and I wasn’t going to -let an Italian talk French to me without answering -back, so I just sailed in and began to swap stories with -him.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt you gave him much valuable information.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I did; I just exuded information. Why the -first thing he said, when I told him I was an American, -was to wonder whether I hadn’t met his brother, who -was also in America—in Rio Janeiro—just as if Rio -was the other side of the North River.”</p> - -<p>John Manning smiled at Larry’s disgusted expression, -and asked, “What has this <i lang="it">abbate</i> to do with the -fragile Venetian glass?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Only this,” answered Larry. “I told him two or -three Northwesters, just as well as I could in French, -and then he said that marvellous things were also done -here once upon a time. And he told me about the -glass which broke when poison was poured into it.”</p> - -<p>“It is a pleasant superstition,” said John Manning. -“I think Poe makes use of it, and I believe Shakespeare -refers to it.”</p> - -<p>“But did either Poe or Shakespeare say anything -about the two goblets just alike, made for the twin -brothers Manin nearly four hundred years ago? Did -they tell you how one glass was shivered by poison and -its owner killed, and how the other brother had to flee -for his life? Did they inform you that the unbroken -goblet exists to this day, and is in fact now for sale by -an Hebrew Jew who peddles antiquities? Did they -tell you that?”</p> - -<p>“Neither Edgar Allan Poe nor William Shakespeare -ever disturbs my slumbers by telling me anything of -the sort,” laughed Manning.</p> - -<p>“Well, my <i lang="it">abbate</i> told me just that, and he gave me -the address of the Shylock who has the surviving goblet -for sale.”</p> - -<p>“Suppose we go there and see it,” suggested Manning, -“and you can tell me the whole story of the twin -brothers as we go along.”</p> - -<p>“Shall we take a gondola or walk?” was Larry’s -interrogative acceptance of the suggestion.</p> - -<p>“It’s in the Ghetto, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Most of the Jew curiosity dealers have left the -Ghetto. Our Shylock has a palace on the Grand Canal.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -I guess we had better take a gondola, though it can’t -be far.”</p> - -<p>So they sat themselves down in one of the aquatic -cabs which ply the water streets of the city in the sea. -The gondolier stood to his oar and put his best foot -foremost, and as the boat sped forward on its way along -the great S of the Grand Canal, Larry told the tale of -the twin brothers and the shattered goblet.</p> - -<p>“Well, it seems that some time in the sixteenth century, -say three hundred years ago or thereabout, there -were several branches of the great and powerful Manin -family—the same family to which the patriotic Daniele -Manin belonged, you know. And at the head of one -of these branches were the twin brothers Marco Manin -and Giovanni Manin. Now, these brothers were devoted -to each other, and they had only one thought, -one word, one deed. When one of them happened to -think of a thing, it often happened that the other -brother did it. So it was not surprising that they both -fell in love with the same woman. She was a dangerous-looking, -yellow-haired woman, with steel-gray eyes—that -is, if her eyes were not really green, as to which -there was doubt. But there was no doubt at all that -she was powerfully handsome. The <i lang="it">abbate</i> said that -there was a famous portrait of her in one of these -churches as a Saint Mary Magdalen, with her hair -down. She was a splendid creature, and lots of men -were running after her besides the twin Manins. The -two brothers did not quarrel with each other about the -woman, but they did quarrel with some of her other -lovers, and particularly with a nobleman of the highest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -rank and power, who was supposed to belong not only -to the Council of Ten, but to the Three. Between this -man and the Manins there was war to the knife and -the knife to the hilt. One day Marco Manin expressed -a wish for one of these goblets of Venetian glass so fine -that poison shatters it, and so Giovanni went out to -Murano and ordered two of them, of the very finest -quality, and just alike in every particular of color and -shape and size. You see the twins always had everything -in pairs. But the people at Murano somehow -misunderstood the order, and although they made both -glasses they sent home only one. Marco Manin was at -table when it arrived, and he took it in his hand at -once, and after admiring its exquisite workmanship—you -see, all these old Venetians had the art-feeling -strongly developed—he told a servant to fill it to the -brim with Cyprus wine. But as he raised the flowing -cup to his lips it shivered in his grasp and the wine was -spilt on the marble floor. He drew his sword and slew -the servant who had sought to betray him, and rushing -into the street he found himself face to face with the -enemy whom he knew to have instigated the attempt. -They crossed swords at once, but, before Marco Manin -could have a fair fight for his life, he was stabbed in the -back by a glass stiletto, the hilt of which was broken -off short in the wound.”</p> - -<p>“Where was his brother all this time?” was the -first question with which John Manning broke the -thread of his friend’s story.</p> - -<p>“He had been to see the yellow-haired beauty, and -he came back just in time to meet his brother’s lifeless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> -body as it was carried into their desolate home. Holding -his dead brother’s hand, as he had often held it living, -he promised his brother to avenge his death without -delay and at any cost. Then he prepared at once for -flight. He knew that Venice would be too hot to hold -him when the deed was done; and besides, he felt -that without his brother life in Venice would be intolerable -So he made ready for flight. Twenty-four -hours to a minute after Marco Manin’s death the body -of the hireling assassin was sinking to the bottom of -the Grand Canal, while the man who had paid for the -murder lay dead on the same spot with the point of a -glass stiletto in his heart! And when they wanted to -send him the other goblet, there was no one to send it -to: Giovanni Manin had disappeared.”</p> - -<p>“Where had he gone?” queried John Manning.</p> - -<p>“That’s what I asked the <i lang="it">abbate</i>, and he said he -didn’t know for sure, but that in those days Venice had -a sizable trade with the Low Countries, and there was -a tradition that Giovanni Manin had gone to the -Netherlands.”</p> - -<p>“To Holland?” asked John Manning with unwonted -interest.</p> - -<p>“Yes, to Amsterdam, or to Rotterdam, or to some -one of those-dam towns, as we used to call them in our -geography class.”</p> - -<p>“It was to Amsterdam,” said Manning, speaking as -one who had certain information.</p> - -<p>“How do you know that?” asked Larry. “Even -the <i lang="it">abbate</i> said it was only a tradition that he had gone -to Holland at all.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p> - -<p>“He went to Amsterdam,” said Manning; “that I -know.”</p> - -<p>Before Larry could ask how it was that his friend -knew anything about the place of exile of a man whom -he had never heard of ten minutes earlier, the gondola -had paused before the door of the palace in which dwelt -the dealer in antiquities who had in his possession the -famous goblet of Venetian glass. As they ascended to -the sequence of rambling rooms cluttered with old -furniture, rusty armor, and odds and ends of statuary, -in which the modern Jew of Venice sat at the receipt -of custom, both Larry Laughton and John Manning -had to give their undivided attention to the framing -in Italian of their wishes. Shylock himself was a -venerable and benevolent person, with a look of wonderful -shrewdness and an incomprehensibility of speech, -for he spoke the Venetian dialect with a harsh Jewish -accent, either of which would have daunted a linguistic -veteran. Plainly enough, conversation was impossible, -for he could barely understand their American-Italian, -and they could not at all understand his Jewish-Venetian. -But it would not do to let these <i lang="it">Inglesi</i> go away -without paying tribute.</p> - -<p>“<i lang="it">Ciò!</i>” said Shylock, smiling graciously at his -futile attempts to open communication with the -enemy. Then he called Jessica from the deep window -where she had been at work on the quaint old -account-books of the shop, as great curiosities as anything -in it, since they were kept in Venetian, but by -means of the Hebrew alphabet. She spoke Italian, -and to her the young men made known their wants.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> -She said a few words to her father, and he brought -forth the goblet.</p> - -<p>It was a marvellous specimen of the most exquisite -Venetian workmanship. A pair of green serpents, -with eyes that glowed like fire, writhed around the -golden stem of a blood-red bowl, and as the white -light of the cloudless sky fell on it from the broad -window, it burned in the glory of the sunshine and -seemed to fill itself full of some mysterious and royal -wine. Shylock revolved it slowly in his hand to show -the strange waviness of its texture, and as it turned, -the serpents clung more closely to the stem and arched -their heads and shot a glance of hate at the strangers -who came to gaze on them with curious fascination.</p> - -<p>John Manning looked at the goblet long and eagerly. -“How did it come into your possession?” he asked.</p> - -<p>And Jessica translated Shylock’s declaration that -the goblet had been at Murano for hundreds of years; -it was <i lang="it">anticho</i>—<i lang="it">antichissimo</i>, as the signor could see -for himself. It was of the best period of the art. -That Shylock would guarantee. How came it into his -possession? By the greatest good fortune. It was -taken from Murano during the troubles after the fall -of the Republic in the time of Napoleon. It had -gone finally into the hands of a certain count, who, -very luckily, was poor. <i lang="it">Conte che non conta, non -conta niente.</i> So Shylock had been enabled to buy it. -It had been the desire of his heart for years to own so -fine an object.</p> - -<p>“How much do you want for it?” asked John -Manning.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> - -<p>Shylock scented from afar the battle of bargaining, -dear in Italy to both buyer and seller. He gave a keen -look at both the <i lang="it">Inglesi</i>, and took up the glass affectionately, -as though he could not bear to part with it. -Jessica interpreted. Shylock had intended that goblet -for his own private collection, but the frank and generous -manner of their excellencies had overcome him, -and he would let them have it for five hundred florins.</p> - -<p>“Five hundred florins! Phew!” whistled Larry, -astonished in spite of his initiation into the mysteries -of Italian bargaining. “Well, if you were to ask me -the Shakespearian conundrum, Hath not a Jew eyes? -I shouldn’t give it up; I should say he has eyes—for -the main chance.”</p> - -<p>“Five hundred florins,” said John Manning. “Very -well. I’ll take it.”</p> - -<p>Shylock’s astonishment at getting four times what -he would have taken was equalled only by his regret -that he had not asked twice as much.</p> - -<p>“Can you pack it so that I can take it to New York -safely?”</p> - -<p>“<i lang="it">Sicuro, signor</i>,” and Shylock agreed to have the -precious object boxed with all possible care and despatch, -and delivered at the hotel that afternoon.</p> - -<p>“<i lang="it">Servo suo!</i>” said Jessica, as they stood at the door.</p> - -<p>“<i lang="it">Bon di, Patron!</i>” responded Larry, in Venetian -fashion; then as the door closed behind them he said -to John Manning, “Seems to me you were in a hurry! -You could have had that glass for half the money.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I could,” was Manning’s quiet reply, “but -I was eager to get it back at once.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Get it back? Why, it wasn’t stolen from <em>you</em>, was -it? I never did suppose <em>he</em> came by it honestly.”</p> - -<p>“It was not stolen from me personally, but it belonged -to my family. It was made for Giovanni -Manin, who fled from Venice to Amsterdam three -hundred odd years ago. His grandson and namesake -left Amsterdam for New Amsterdam half a century -later. And when the English changed New Amsterdam -into New York, Jan Mannin became John Manning—and -I am his direct descendant, and the first of -my blood to return to Venice to get the goblet Giovanni -Manin ordered and left behind.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m damned!” said Larry, pensively.</p> - -<p>“And now,” continued John Manning as they took -their seats in the gondola, “tell the man to go to the -church where the picture of Mary Magdalen is. I -want a good look at that woman!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In the evening, as John Manning sat in a little <i lang="it">caffè</i> -under the arcades of the Piazza San Marco, sipping a -tiny cup of black coffee, Larry entered with a rush of -righteous indignation.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter, Larry?” was John Manning’s -calm query.</p> - -<p>“There’s the devil to pay at home. South Carolina -has fired on the flag at Sumter.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Three weeks later Colonel Manning was assigned to -duty drilling the raw recruits soon to be the Army of -the Potomac.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> - -<h3>II.<br /> -<span class="smaller">IN THE NEW WORLD.</span></h3> - -<p>In the month of February, 1864, a chance newspaper -paragraph informed whom it might concern that -Major Laurence Laughton, having three weeks’ leave -of absence from his regiment, was at the Astor House. -In consequence of this advertisement of his whereabouts, -Major Laughton received many cheerful circulars -and letters, in most of which his attention was -claimed for the artificial limb made by the advertiser. -He also received a letter from Colonel John Manning, -urgently bidding him to come out for a day at least to -his little place on the Hudson, where he was lying sick, -and, as he feared, sick unto death. On the receipt of -this Larry cut short a promising flirtation with a war-widow -who sat next him at table, and took the first -train up the river. It was a bleak day, and there was -at least a foot of snow on the ground, as hard and as -dry as though it had clean forgot that it was made of -water. As Larry left the little station, to which the -train had slowly struggled at last, an hour behind time, -the wind sprang up again and began to moan around -his feet and to sting his face with icy shot; and as he -trudged across the desolate path which led to Manning’s -lonely house he discovered that rude Boreas could be -as keen a sharp-shooter as any in the rifle-pits around -Richmond. A hard walk up-hill for a quarter of an -hour brought him to the brow of the cliff on which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -stood the forlorn and wind-swept house where John -Manning lay. An unkempt and hideous old crone as -black as night opened the door for him. He left in the -hall his hat and overcoat and a little square box he -had brought in his hand; and then he followed the -ebony hag upstairs to Colonel Manning’s room. Here -at the door she left him, after giving a sharp knock. -A weak voice said, “Come in!”</p> - -<p>Laurence Laughton entered the room with a quick -step, but the light-hearted words with which he had -meant to encourage his friend died on his lips as soon -as he saw how grievously that friend had changed. -John Manning had faded to a shadow of his former -self; the light of his eye was quenched, and the spirit -within him seemed broken; the fine, sensitive, noble -face lay white against the pillow, looking weary and -wan and hopeless. The effort to greet his friend exhausted -him and brought on a hard cough, and he -pressed his hand to his breast as though some hidden -malady were gnawing and burning within.</p> - -<p>“Well, John,” said Larry, as he took a seat by the -bedside, “why didn’t you let me know before now that -you were laid up? I could have got away a month -ago.”</p> - -<p>“Time enough yet,” said John Manning slowly; -“time enough yet. I shall not die for another week, I -fear.”</p> - -<p>“Why, man, you must not talk like that. You are -as good as a dozen dead men yet,” said Larry, trying -to look as cheerful as might be.</p> - -<p>“I am as good as dead myself,” said his friend<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -seriously, as befitted a man under the shadow of death; -“and I have no wish to live. The sooner I am out of -this pain and powerlessness the better I shall like it.”</p> - -<p>“I say, John, old man, this is no way for you to -talk! Brace up, and you will soon be another man!”</p> - -<p>“I shall soon be in another world, I hope,” and the -helpless misery of the tone in which these few words -were said smote Laurence Laughton to the heart.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter with you?” he asked with as -lively an air as he could attain, for the ominous and -inexplicable sadness of the situation was fast taking -hold on him.</p> - -<p>“I have a bullet through the lungs and a pain in the -heart.”</p> - -<p>“But men do not die of a bullet in the lungs and a -pain in the heart,” was Larry’s encouraging response.</p> - -<p>“I shall.”</p> - -<p>“Why should you more than others?”</p> - -<p>“Because there is something else—something mysterious, -some unknown malady—which bears me -down and burns me up. There is no use trying to -deceive me, Larry. My papers are made out, and I -shall get my discharge from the Army of the Living in -a very few days now. But I must not waste the little -breath I have left in talking about myself. I sent for -you to ask a favor.”</p> - -<p>Larry held out his hand, and John Manning took it, -and seemed to gain strength from the firm clasp.</p> - -<p>“I knew I could rely on you,” he said, “for much or -for little. And this is not much, for I have not much -to leave. This worn old house, which belonged to my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> -grandmother, and in which I spent the happiest hours -of my boyhood, this and a few shares of stock here -and there are all I have to leave. I do not know -what the house is worth, and I shall be glad when I -am gone from it. If I had not come here, I think -I might perhaps have got well. There seems to be -something deadly about the place.” The sick man’s -voice sank to a wavering whisper, as if it were borne -down by a sudden weight of impending danger against -which he might struggle in vain; he gave a fearful -glance about the room, as though seeking a mystic foe, -hidden and unknown. “The very first day we were -here the cat lapped its milk by the fire and then -stretched itself out and died without a sign. And I -had not been here two days before I felt the fatal influence: -the trouble from my wound came on again, -and this awful burning in my breast began to torture -me. As a boy, I thought that heaven must be like -this house; and now I should not want to die if I -thought hell could be worse!”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you leave the hole, since you hate it -so?” asked Larry, with what scant cheeriness he could -muster; he was yielding himself slowly to the place, -though he fought bravely against his superstitious -weakness.</p> - -<p>“Am I fit to be moved?” was Manning’s query in -reply.</p> - -<p>“But you will be better soon, and then”—</p> - -<p>“I shall be worse before I am better, and I shall -never be better in this life or in this place. No, no, I -must die in my hole, like a dog. Like a dog!” and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> -John Manning repeated the words with a wistful face, -“Do you remember the faithful beast who always -welcomed me here when we came up before we went -to Europe?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do,” said Larry, glad to get the sick -man away from his sickness, and to ease his mind by -talk on a healthy topic; “he was a splendid fellow, too. -Cæsar, that was his name, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Cæsar Borgia I called him,” was Manning’s sad -reply. “I knew you could not have forgotten him. -He is dead. Cæsar Borgia is dead. He was the last -living thing that loved me—except you, Larry, I know—and -he is dead. He died this morning. He came -to my bedside as usual, and he licked my hand gently -and looked up in my face, and laid him down alongside -of me on the carpet here and died. Poor Cæsar -Borgia—he loved me, and he is dead! And you, -Larry, you must not stay here. The air is fatal. -Every breath may be your last. When you have heard -what I want, you must be off at once. If you like, you -may come up again to the funeral before your leave is -up. I saw you had three weeks.”</p> - -<p>Laurence Laughton moved uneasily in his chair and -swallowed with difficulty. “John,” he managed to -say after an effort, “if you talk to me like that, I shall -go at once. Tell me what it is you want me to do for -you.”</p> - -<p>“I want you to take care of my wife and of my -child, if there be one born to me after my death.”</p> - -<p>“Your wife?” repeated Larry, in staring surprise.</p> - -<p>“You did not know I was married? I knew it at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -the time, as the boy said,” and John Manning smiled -bitterly.</p> - -<p>“Where is she?” was Larry’s second query.</p> - -<p>“Here.”</p> - -<p>“Here?”</p> - -<p>“In this house. You shall see her before you go. -And after the funeral I want you to get her away from -here with what speed you can. Sell this house for -what it will bring, and put the money into government -bonds. You may find it hard to persuade her to -move, for she seems to have a strange liking for this -place. She breathes freely in the deadly air that suffocates -me. But you must not let her remain here; -this is no place for her now that a new life and new -duties are before her.”</p> - -<p>“How was it I did not know of your marriage?” -asked Larry.</p> - -<p>“I knew nothing about it myself twenty-four hours -before it happened,” answered John Manning. “You -need not look surprised. It is a simple story. I had -this shot through the breast at Gettysburg last Fourth -of July. I lay on the hillside a day and a night before -relief came. Then a farmer took me into his house. -A military surgeon dressed my wounds, but I owed -my life to the nursing and care and unceasing attention -of a young lady who was staying with the farmer’s -daughter. She had been doing her duty as a nurse -as near to the field as she could go ever since the first -Bull Run. She saved my life, and I gave it to her—what -there was of it. She was a beautiful woman, -indeed I never saw a more beautiful—and she has a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> -strange likeness to—but that you shall see for yourself -when you see her. She is getting a little rest now, -for she has been up all night attending to me. She -<em>will</em> wait on me in spite of all I say; of course I know -there is no use wasting effort on me now. She is the -most devoted nurse in the world; and we shall part as -we met—she taking care of me at the last as she did -at the first. Would God our relation had never been -other than patient and nurse! It would have been -better for both had we never been husband and wife!” -And John Manning turned his face to the wall with a -weary sigh; then he coughed harshly, and raised his -hand to his breast as though to stifle the burning -within him.</p> - -<p>“It seems to me, John, that you ought not to talk -like that of the woman you loved,” said Laurence -Laughton, with unusual seriousness.</p> - -<p>“I never loved her,” answered Manning, coldly. -Then he turned, and asked hastily, “Do you think I -should want to die if I loved her?”</p> - -<p>“But she loves you,” said Laurence.</p> - -<p>“She never loved me!” was Manning’s impatient -retort.</p> - -<p>“Then why were you married?”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I would like to know. It was fate, I -suppose. What is to be, is. I never used to believe -in predestination, but I know that of my own free will -I could never have done what I did.”</p> - -<p>“I confess I do not understand you,” said Larry.</p> - -<p>“I do not understand myself. There is so much in -this world that is mysterious—I hope the next will be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> -different. I was under the charm, I fancy, when I -married her. She is a beautiful woman, as I told you, -and I was a man, and I was weak, and I had hope. -Why she married me that early September evening I -do not know. It was not long before we both found -out our mistake. And it was too late then. We were -man and wife. Don’t suppose I blame her—I do not. -I have no cause of complaint. She is a good wife to -me, as I have tried to be a good husband to her. We -made a mistake in marrying each other, and we know -it—that’s all!”</p> - -<p>Before Laurence Laughton could answer, the door -opened gently and Mrs. Manning entered the room. -Laurence rose to greet his friend’s wife, but the act was -none the less a homage to her resplendent beauty. In -spite of the worn look of her face, she was the most -beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had tawny, -tigress hair, and hungry, tigress eyes. The eyes, -indeed, were fathomless and indescribable, and their -fitful glance had something uncanny about it. The -hair was nearly of the true Venetian color, and she -had the true Venetian sumptuousness of appearance, -simple as was her attire. She seemed as though she -had just risen from the couch whereon she reclined -before Titian or Tintoretto, and, having clothed herself, -had walked forth in this nineteenth century and -these United States. She was a strange and striking -figure, and Laurence found it impossible to analyze -exactly the curious and weird impression she produced -on him. Her voice, as she greeted him, gave him a -peculiar thrill; and when he shook hands with her he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -seemed to feel himself face to face with some strange -being from another land and another century. She -inspired him with a supernatural awe he was not wont -to feel in the presence of woman. He had a dim consciousness -that there lingered in his memory the glimmering -image of some woman seen somewhere, he -knew not when, who was like unto the woman before -him.</p> - -<p>As she took her seat by the side of the bed she gave -Laurence Laughton a look that seemed to peer into his -soul. Laurence felt himself quiver under it. It was -a look to make a man fearful. Then John Manning, -who had moved uneasily as his wife entered, said, -“Laurence, can you see any resemblance in my wife -to any one you ever saw before?”</p> - -<p>Their eyes met again, and again Laurence had a -vague remembrance as though he and she had stood -face to face before in some earlier existence. Then his -wandering recollections took shape, and he remembered -the face and the form and the haunting mystery of the -expression, and he felt for a moment as though he had -been permitted to peer into the cabalistic darkness of -an awful mystery, though he failed wholly to perceive -its occult significance—if significance there were of -any sort.</p> - -<p>“I think I do remember,” he said at last. “It was -in Venice—at the Church of Santa Maria Magdalena—the -picture there that”—</p> - -<p>“You remember aright!” interrupted John Manning. -“My wife is the living image of the Venetian -woman for whose beauty Marco Manin was one day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> -stabbed in the back with a glass stiletto, and Giovanni -Manin fled from the place of his birth and never saw it -again. It is idle to fight against the stars in their -courses. We met here in the New World, she and I, -as they met in the Old World so long ago—and the -end is the same. It was to be—it was to be!”</p> - -<p>Laurence Laughton gave a swift glance at his friend’s -wife to see what effect these words might have on her, -and he was startled to detect on her face the same -enigmatic smile which was the chief memory he had -retained of the Venetian picture. Truly the likeness -between the painting and the wife of his friend was -marvellous; and Laurence tried to shake off a morbid -wonder whether there might be any obscure and inscrutable -survival from one generation to another across -the seas and across the years.</p> - -<p>“If you remember the picture,” said John Manning, -“perhaps you remember the quaint goblet of Venetian -glass I bought the same day?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do,” said Larry, glad to get Manning -started on a topic of talk a little less personal.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you know what has become of it?” asked -Manning.</p> - -<p>“I can answer ‘of course’ to that, too,” replied -Larry, “because I have it here.”</p> - -<p>“Here?”</p> - -<p>“Here—in a little square box, in the hall,” answered -Larry. “I had it in my trunk, you know, when we -took passage on the <i>Vanderbilt</i> at Havre that May -morning. I forgot to give it to you in the hurry of -landing, and I haven’t had a chance since. This is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> -first time I have seen you for nearly three years. I -found the box this morning, and I thought you might -like to have it again, so I brought it up.”</p> - -<p>John Manning rang the bell at the head of his bed. -The black crone answered it, and soon returned with -the little square box. Manning impatiently broke the -seals and cords that bound its cover and began eagerly -to release the goblet from the cotton and tissue paper -in which it had been carefully swathed and bandaged. -Mrs. Manning, though her moods were subtler and more -intense, showed an anxiety to see the goblet quite as -feverish as her husband’s. In a minute the last wrapping -was twisted off and the full beauty of the Venetian -glass was revealed to them. Assuredly no praise -was too loud for its delicate and exquisite workmanship.</p> - -<p>“Does Mrs. Manning know the story of the goblet?” -asked Larry; “has she been told of the peculiar virtue -ascribed to it?”</p> - -<p>“She has too great a fondness for the horrible and -the fantastic not to have heard the story in its smallest -details,” said Manning.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Manning had taken the glass in her fine, thin -hands. Evidently it and its mystic legend had a -morbid fascination for her. A strange light gleamed -in her wondrous eyes, and Laughton was startled again -to see the extraordinary resemblance between her and -the picture they had looked at on the day the goblet had -been bought.</p> - -<p>“When the poison was poured into it,” she said at -last, with quick and restless glances at the two men, -“the glass broke—then the tale was true?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> - -<p>“It was a coincidence only, I’m afraid,” said her -husband, who had rallied and regained strength under -the unwonted excitement.</p> - -<p>Just then the old-fashioned clock on the stairs struck -five. Mrs. Manning started up, holding the goblet in -her hand.</p> - -<p>“It is time for your medicine,” she said.</p> - -<p>“As you please,” answered her husband wearily, -sinking back on his pillow. “My wife insists on giving -me every drop of my potions with her own hands. I -shall not trouble her much longer, and I doubt if it is -any use for her to trouble me now.”</p> - -<p>“I shall give you everything in this glass after this,” -she said.</p> - -<p>“In the Venetian glass?” asked Larry.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, turning on him fiercely; “why -not?”</p> - -<p>“Do you think the doctor is trying to poison me?” -asked her husband.</p> - -<p>“No, I do not think the doctor is trying to poison -you,” she repeated mechanically, as she moved toward -a little sideboard in a corner of the room. “But I shall -give you all your medicines in this hereafter.”</p> - -<p>She stood at the little sideboard, with her back -toward them, and she mingled the contents of various -phials in the Venetian goblet. Then she turned to -cross the room to her husband. As she walked with -the glass in her hand there was a rift in the clouds high -over the other side of the river, and the rays of the -setting sun thrust themselves through the window and -lighted up the glory of her hair and showed the strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> -gleam in her staring eyes. Another step, and the red -rays fell on the Venetian glass, and it burned and -glowed, and the green serpents twined about its ruby -stem seemed to twist and crawl with malignant life, -while their scorching eyes shot fire. Another step, and -she stood by the bedside. As John Manning reached -out his hand for the goblet, a tremor passed through -her, her fingers clinched the fragile stem, and the glass -fell on the floor and was shattered to shivers as its -fellow had been shattered three centuries ago and more. -She still stared steadily before her; then her lips parted, -and she said, “The glass broke—the glass broke—then -the tale is true!” And with one hysteric shriek -she fell forward amid the fragments of the Venetian -goblet, unconscious thereafter of all things.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THE_RED_SILK_HANDKERCHIEF">THE RED SILK HANDKERCHIEF.</h2> - -<p class="author">BY H. C. BUNNER.</p> - -<p>The yellow afternoon sun came in through the long -blank windows of the room wherein the Superior -Court of the State of New York, Part II., Gillespie, -Judge, was in session. The hour of adjournment was -near at hand, a dozen court-loungers slouched on the -hard benches in the attitudes of cramped carelessness -which mark the familiar of the halls of justice. Beyond -the rail sat a dozen lawyers and lawyers’ clerks, -and a dozen weary jurymen. Above the drowsy -silence rose the nasal voice of the junior counsel for -the defence, who in a high monotone, with his faint -eyes fixed on the paper in his hand, was making something -like a half-a-score of “requests to charge.”</p> - -<p>Nobody paid attention to him. Two lawyers’ clerks -whispered like mischievous schoolboys, hiding behind -a pile of books that towered upon a table. Junior -counsel for the plaintiff chewed his pencil and took -advantage of his opportunity to familiarize himself -with certain neglected passages of the New Code. -The crier, like a half-dormant old spider, sat in his -place and watched a boy who was fidget ting at the far -end of the room, and who looked as though he wanted -to whistle.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> - -<p>The jurymen might have been dream-men, vague -creations of an autumn afternoon’s doze. It was hard -to connect them with a world of life and business. -Yet, gazing closer, you might have seen that one -looked as if he were thinking of his dinner, and another -as if he were thinking of the lost love of his youth; and -that the expression on the faces of the others ranged -from the vacant to the inscrutable. The oldest juror, -at the end of the second row, was sound asleep. -Everyone in the court-room, except himself, knew it. -No one cared.</p> - -<p>Gillespie, J., was writing his acceptance of an invitation -to a dinner set for that evening at Delmonico’s. -He was doing this in such a way that he appeared to -be taking copious and conscientious notes. Long years -on the bench had whitened Judge Gillespie’s hair, and -taught him how to do this. His seeming attentiveness -much encouraged the counsel for the defence, whose -high-pitched tone rasped the air like the buzzing of a bee -that has found its way through the slats of the blind -into some darkened room, of a summer noon, and that, -as it seeks angrily for egress, raises its shrill scandalized -protest against the idleness and the pleasant gloom.</p> - -<p>“We r’quest y’r Honor t’ charge: First, ’t forcible -entry does not const’oot tresp’ss, ’nless intent’s -proved. Thus, ’f a man rolls down a bank”—</p> - -<p>But the judge’s thoughts were in the private supper-room -at Delmonico’s. He had no interest in the sad -fate of the hero of the suppositious case, who had been -obliged, by a strange and ingenious combination of -accidents, to make violent entrance, incidentally damaging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -the persons and property of others, into the lands -and tenements of his neighbor.</p> - -<p>And further away yet the droning lawyer had set -a-travelling the thoughts of Horace Walpole, clerk for -Messrs. Weeden, Snowden & Gilfeather; for the -young man sat with his elbows on the table, his head -in his hands, a sad half-smile on his lips, and his brown -eyes looking through vacancy to St. Lawrence County, -New York.</p> - -<p>He saw a great, shabby old house, shabby with the -awful shabbiness of a sham grandeur laid bare by time -and mocked of the pitiless weather. There was a great -sham Grecian portico at one end; the white paint was -well-nigh washed away, and the rain-streaked wooden -pillars seemed to be weeping tears of penitence for -having lied about themselves and pretended to be -marble.</p> - -<p>The battened walls were cracked and blistered. -The Grecian temple on the hillock near looked much -like a tomb, and not at all like a summer-house. The -flower-garden was so rank and ragged, so overgrown -with weed and vine, that it was spared the mortification -of revealing its neglected maze, the wonder of the -county in 1820. All was sham, save the decay. That -was real; and by virtue of its decrepitude the old -house seemed to protest against modern contempt, as -though it said: “I have had my day. I was built -when people thought this sort of thing was the right -sort of thing; when we had our own little pseudo-classic -renaissance in America. I lie between the -towns of Aristotle and Sabine Farms. I am a gentleman’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> -residence, and my name is Montevista. I was -built by a prominent citizen. You need not laugh -through your lattices, you smug new Queen Anne cottage, -down there in the valley! What will become of -you when the falsehood is found out of your imitation -bricks and your tiled roof of shingles, and your stained -glass that is only a sheet of transparent paper pasted -on a pane? You are a young sham; I am an old one. -Have some respect for age!”</p> - -<p>Its age was the crowning glory of the estate of -Montevista. There was nothing new on the place -except a third mortgage. Yet had Montevista villa -put forth a juster claim to respect, it would have said: -“I have had my day. Where all is desolate and silent -now, there was once light and life. Along these halls -and corridors, the arteries of my being, pulsed a hot -blood of joyous humanity, fed with delicate fare, kindled -with generous wine. Every corner under my roof -was alive with love and hope and ambition. Great -men and dear women were here; and the host was -great and the hostess was gracious among them all. -The laughter of children thrilled my gaudily decked -stucco. To-day an old man walks up and down my -lonely drawing-rooms, with bent head, murmuring to -himself odds and ends of tawdry old eloquence, wandering -in a dead land of memory, waiting till Death -shall take him by the hand and lead him out of his -ruinous house, out of his ruinous life.”</p> - -<p>Death had indeed come between Horace and the -creation of his spiritual vision. Never again should -the old man walk, as to the boy’s eyes he walked now,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -over the creaking floors, from where the Nine Muses -simpered on the walls of the south parlor to where -Homer and Plutarch, equally simpering, yet simpering -with a difference,—severely simpering,—faced each -other across the north room. Horace saw his father -stalking on his accustomed round, a sad, familiar figure, -tall and bent. The hands were clasped behind the -back, the chin was bowed on the black stock; but every -now and then the thin form drew itself straight, the -fine, clean-shaven, aquiline face was raised, beaming -with the ghost of an old enthusiasm, and the long right -arm was lifted high in the air as he began, his sonorous -tones a little tremulous in spite of the restraint of old-time -pomposity and deliberation,—</p> - -<p>“Mr. Speaker, I rise;”—or, “If your Honor -please”—</p> - -<p>The forlorn, helpless earnestness of this mockery of -life touched Horace’s heart; and yet he smiled to think -how different were the methods and manners of his -father from those of brother Hooper, whose requests -still droned up to the reverberating hollows of the roof, -and there were lost in a subdued boom and snarl of -echoes such as a court-room only can beget.</p> - -<p>Two generations ago, when the Honorable Horace -Kortlandt Walpole was the rising young lawyer of the -State; when he was known as “the Golden-Mouthed -Orator of St. Lawrence County,” he was in the habit -of assuming that he owned whatever court he practised -in; and, as a rule, he was right. The most bullock-brained -of country judges deferred to the brilliant -young master of law and eloquence, and his “requests”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -were generally accepted as commands and obeyed as -such. Of course the great lawyer, for form’s sake, threw -a veil of humility over his deliverances; but even that -he rent to shreds when the fire of his eloquence once -got fairly aglow.</p> - -<p>“May it please your Honor! Before your Honor -exercises the sacred prerogative of your office—before -your Honor performs the sacred duty which the State -has given into your hands—before, with that lucid -genius to which I bow my head, you direct the minds -of these twelve good men and true in the path of strict -judicial investigation, I ask your Honor to instruct them -that they must bring to their deliberations that impartial -justice which the laws of our beloved country—of -which no abler exponent than your Honor has -ever graced the bench,—which the laws of our beloved -country guarantee to the lowest as well as to the -loftiest of her citizens—from the President in the -Executive Mansion to the humble artisan at the forge—throughout -this broad land, from the lagoons of -Louisiana to where the snow-clad forests of Maine hurl -defiance at the descendants of Tory refugees in the -barren wastes of Nova Scotia”—</p> - -<p>Horace remembered every word and every gesture -of that speech. He recalled even the quick upward -glance from under the shaggy eyebrows with which -his father seemed to see again the smirking judge -catching at the gross bait of flattery; he knew the -little pause which the speaker’s memory had filled with -the applause of an audience long since dispersed to -various silent country graveyards; and he wondered,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -pityingly, if it were possible that even in his father’s -prime that wretched allusion to old political hatreds -had power to stir the fire of patriotism in the citizen’s -bosom.</p> - -<p>“Poor old father!” said the boy to himself. The -voice which had for so many years been but an echo -was stilled wholly now. Brief victory and long defeat -were nothing now to the golden-mouthed orator.</p> - -<p>“Shall I fail as he failed?” thought Horace: “No! -I can’t. Haven’t I got <em>her</em> to work for?”</p> - -<p>And then he drew out of his breast pocket a red -silk handkerchief and turned it over in his hand with -a movement that concealed and caressed at the same -time.</p> - -<p>It was a very red handkerchief. It was not vermilion, -nor “cardinal,” nor carmine,—a strange Oriental -idealization of blood-red which lay well on the -soft, fine, luxurious fabric. But it was an unmistakable, -a shameless, a barbaric red.</p> - -<p>And as he looked at it, young Hitchcock, of Hitchcock -& Van Rensselaer, came up behind him and -leaned over his shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Where did you get the handkerchief, Walpole?” -he whispered; “you ought to hang that out for an -auction flag, and sell out your cases.”</p> - -<p>Horace stuffed it back in his pocket.</p> - -<p>“You’d be glad enough to buy some of them, if you -got the show,” he returned; but the opportunity for a -prolonged contest of wit was cut short. The judge -was folding his letter, and the nasal counsel, having -finished his reading, stood gazing in doubt and trepidation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> -at the bench, and asking himself why his Honor -had not passed on each point as presented. He found -out.</p> - -<p>“Are you prepared to submit those requests in -writing?” demanded Gillespie, J., sharply and suddenly. -He knew well enough that that poor little -nasal, nervous junior counsel would never have trusted -himself to speak ten consecutive sentences in court -without having every word on paper before him.</p> - -<p>“Ye-yes,” the counsel stammered, and handed up -his careful manuscript.</p> - -<p>“I will examine these to-night,” said his Honor, and, -apparently, he made an endorsement on the papers. -He was really writing the address on the envelope of -his letter. Then there was a stir, and a conversation -between the judge and two or three lawyers, all at -once, which was stopped when his Honor gave an -Olympian nod to the clerk.</p> - -<p>The crier arose.</p> - -<p>“He’ ye! he’ ye! he’ ye!” he shouted with perfunctory -vigor. “Wah—wah—wah!” the high ceiling -slapped back at him; and he declaimed, on one note, -a brief address to “Awperns han bins” in that court, -of which nothing was comprehensible save the words -“Monday next at eleven o’clock.” And then the -court collectively rose, and individually put on hats for -the most part of the sort called queer.</p> - -<p>All the people were chattering in low voices; chairs -were moved noisily, and the slumbering juror opened -his weary eyes and troubled himself with an uncalled-for -effort to look as though he had been awake all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> -time and didn’t like the way things were going, at all. -Horace got from the clerk the papers for which he had -been waiting, and was passing out, when his Honor -saw him and hailed him with an expressive grunt.</p> - -<p>Gillespie, J., looked over his spectacles at Horace.</p> - -<p>“Shall you see Judge Weeden at the office? Yes? -Will you have the kindness to give him this—yes? -If it’s no trouble to you, of course.”</p> - -<p>Gillespie, J., was not over-careful of the feelings of -lawyers’ clerks, as a rule; but he had that decent disinclination -to act <i lang="la">ultra præscriptum</i> which marks the -attitude of the well-bred man toward his inferiors in -office. He knew that he had no business to use Weeden, -Snowden & Gilfeather’s clerk as a messenger in -his private correspondence.</p> - -<p>Horace understood him, took the letter, and allowed -himself a quiet smile when he reached the crowded -corridor.</p> - -<p>What mattered, he thought, as his brisk feet clattered -down the wide stairs of the rotunda, the petty insolence -of office <em>now</em>? He was Gillespie’s messenger -to-day; but had not his young powers already received -recognition from a greater than Gillespie? If Judge -Gillespie lived long enough he should put his gouty old -legs under Judge Walpole’s mahogany, and prose over -his port—yes, he should have port, like the relic of -mellow old days that he was—of the times “when -your father-in-law and I, Walpole, were boys together.”</p> - -<p>Ah, there you have the spell of the Red Silk Handkerchief!</p> - -<p>It was a wonderful tale to Horace; for he saw it in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -that wonderful light which shall shine on no man of -us more than once in his life—on some of us not at -all, Heaven help us!—but, in the telling, it is a simple -tale:</p> - -<p>“The Golden-Mouthed Orator of St. Lawrence” was -at the height of his fame in that period of storm and -stress which had the civil war for its climax. His misfortune -was to be drawn into a contest for which he -was not equipped, and in which he had little interest. -His sphere of action was far from the battle-ground of -the day. The intense localism that bounded his knowledge -and his sympathies had but one break—he had -tasted in his youth the extravagant hospitality of the -South, and he held it in grateful remembrance. So it -happened that he was a trimmer,—a moderationist he -called himself,—a man who dealt in optimistic generalities, -and who thought that if everybody—the slaves -included—would only act temperately and reasonably, -and view the matter from the standpoint of pure policy, -the differences of South and North could be settled as -easily as, through his own wise intervention, the old -turnip-field feud of Farmer Oliver and Farmer Bunker -had been wiped out of existence.</p> - -<p>His admirers agreed with him, and they sent him to -Congress to fill the unexpired short term of their representative, -who had just died in Washington of what -we now know as a malarial fever. It was not to be -expected, perhaps, that the Honorable Mr. Walpole -would succeed in putting a new face on the great -political question in the course of his first term; but -they all felt sure that his first speech would startle men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -who had never heard better than what Daniel Webster -had had to offer them.</p> - -<p>But the gods were against the Honorable Mr. Walpole. -On the day set for his great effort there was -what the theatrical people call a counter-attraction. -Majah Pike had come up from Mizourah, sah, to cane -that demn’d Yankee hound, Chahles Sumnah, sah,—yes, -sah, to thrash him like a dawg, begad! And all Washington -had turned out to see the performance, which -was set down for a certain hour, in front of Mr. Sumner’s -door.</p> - -<p>There was just a quorum when the golden-mouthed -member began his great speech,—an inattentive, chattering -crowd, that paid no attention to his rolling rhetoric -and rococo grandiloquence. He told the empty -seats what a great country this was, and how beautiful -was a middle policy, and he illustrated this with a -quotation from Homer, in the original Greek (a neat -novelty: Latin was fashionable for parliamentary use -in Webster’s time), with, for the benefit of the uneducated, -the well-known translation by the great Alexander -Pope, commencing:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“To calm their passions with the words of Age,</div> -<div class="verse">Slow from his seat arose the Pylian sage,</div> -<div class="verse">Experienced Nestor, in Persuasion skilled,</div> -<div class="verse">Words sweet as honey from his lips distilled”—</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>When Nestor and Mr. Walpole closed, there was no -quorum. The member from New Jersey, who had -engaged him in debate, was sleeping the sleep of -honorable intoxication in his seat. Outside, all Washington<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -was laughing and cursing. Majah Pike had not -appeared.</p> - -<p>It was the end of the golden-mouthed orator. His -voice was never heard again in the House. His one -speech was noticed only to be laughed at, and the news -went home to his constituents. They showed that -magnanimity which the poets tell us is an attribute of -the bucolic character. They, so to speak, turned over -the pieces of their broken idol with their cow-hide -boots, and remarked that they had known it was clay, -all along, and dern poor clay at that.</p> - -<p>So the golden-mouthed went home, to try to make a -ruined practice repair his ruined fortune; to give mortgages -on his home to pay the debts his hospitality had -incurred; to discuss with a few feeble old friends ways -and means by which the war might have been averted; -to beget a son of his old age, and to see the boy grow -up in a new generation, with new ideas, new hopes, -new ambitions, and a lifetime before him to make -memories in.</p> - -<p>They had little enough in common, but they came to -be great friends as the boy grew older, for Horace, inherited -all his traits from the old man, except a certain -stern energy which came from his silent, strong-hearted -mother, and which his father saw with a sad joy.</p> - -<p>Mr. Walpole sent his son to New York to study law -in the office of Messrs. Weeden, Snowden & Gilfeather, -who were a pushing young firm in 1850. Horace found -it a very quiet and conservative old concern. Snowden -and Gilfeather were dead; Weeden had been on the -bench and had gone off the bench at the call of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> -“lucrative practice;” there were two new partners, -whose names appeared only on the glass of the office -door and in a corner of the letter-heads.</p> - -<p>Horace read his law to some purpose. He became -the managing clerk of Messrs. Weeden, Snowden & -Gilfeather. This particular managing clerkship was -one of unusual dignity and prospective profit. It -meant, as it always does, great responsibility, little -honor, and less pay. But the firm was so peculiarly -constituted that the place was a fine stepping-stone for -a bright and ambitious boy. One of the new partners -was a business man, who had put his money into the -concern in 1860, and who knew and cared nothing -about law. He kept the books and managed the -money, and was beyond that only a name on the door -and a terror to the office-boys. The other new partner -was a young man who made a specialty of collecting -debts. He could wring gold out of the stoniest and -barrenest debtor; and there his usefulness ended. The -general practice of the firm rested on the shoulders of -Judge Weeden, who was old, lazy, and luxury-loving, -and who, to tell the honest truth, shirked his duties. -Such a state of affairs would have wrecked a younger -house; but Weeden, Snowden & Gilfeather had a great -name, and the consequences of his negligent feebleness -had not yet descended upon Judge Weeden’s head.</p> - -<p>That they would, in a few years, that the Judge knew -it, and that he was quite ready to lean on a strong -young arm, Horace saw clearly.</p> - -<p>That his own arm was growing in strength he also -saw; and the Judge knew that, too. He was Judge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -Weeden’s pet. All in the office recognized the fact. -All, after reflection, concluded that it was a good thing -that he was. New blood had to come into the firm -sooner or later, and although it was not possible to -watch the successful rise of this boy without a little -natural envy and heart-burning, yet it was to be considered -that Horace was one who would be honorable, -just, and generous wherever fortune put him.</p> - -<p>Horace was a gentleman. They all knew it. Barnes -and Haskins, the business man and the champion collector, -knew it down in the shallows of their vulgar -little souls. Judge Weeden, who had some of that -mysterious ichor of gentlehood in his wine-fed veins, -knew it and rejoiced in it. And Horace—I can say -for Horace that he never forgot it.</p> - -<p>He was such a young prince of managing clerks that -no one was surprised when he was sent down to Sand -Hills, Long Island, to make preparations for the reorganization -of the Great Breeze Hotel Company, and -the transfer of the property known as the Breeze Hotel -and Park to its new owners. The Breeze Hotel was -a huge “Queen Anne” vagary which had, after the -fashion of hotels, bankrupted its first owners, and was -now going into the hands of new people, who were -likely to make their fortunes out of it. The property -had been in litigation for a year or so; the mechanics’ -liens were numerous, and the mechanics clamorous; -and although the business was not particularly complicated, -it needed careful and patient adjustment. -Horace knew the case in every detail. He had -drudged over it all the winter, with no especial hope<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -of personal advantage, but simply because that was his -way of working. He went down in June to the -mighty barracks, and lived for a week in what would -have been an atmosphere of paint and carpet-dye had -it not been for the broad sea wind that blew through -the five hundred open windows, and swept rooms and -corridors with salty freshness. The summering folk -had not arrived yet; there were only the new manager -and his six score of raw recruits of clerks and servants. -But Horace felt the warm blood coming back to his -cheeks, that the town had somewhat paled, and he was -quite content; and every day he went down to the -long, lonely beach, and had a solitary swim, although -the sharp water whipped his white skin to a biting red. -The sea takes a long while to warm up to the summer, -and is sullen about it.</p> - -<p>He was to have returned to New York at the end of -the week, and Haskins was to have taken his place; but -it soon became evident to Weeden, Snowden & Gilfeather -that the young man would attend to all that -was to be done at Sand Hills quite as well as Mr. Haskins, -or—quite as well as Judge Weeden himself, for -that matter. He had to shoulder no great responsibility; -the work was mostly of a purely clerical nature, -vexatious enough, but simple. It had to be done on -the spot, however; the original Breeze Hotel and Park -Company was composed of Sand Hillers, and the -builders were Sand Hillers, too, the better part of them. -And there were titles to be searched; for the whole -scheme was an ambitious splurge of Sand Hills pride -and it had been undertaken and carried out in a reckless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -and foolish way. Horace knew all the wretched -little details of the case, and so Horace was entrusted -with duties such as do not often devolve upon a man -of his years; and he took up his burden proudly, and -with a glowing consciousness of his own strength.</p> - -<p>Judge Weeden missed his active and intelligent -obedience in the daily routine of office business; but -the Judge thought it was just as well that Horace -should not know that fact. The young man’s time -would come soon enough, and he would be none the -worse for serving his apprenticeship in modesty and -humility. The work entrusted to him was an honor -in itself. And then, there was no reason why poor -Walpole’s boy shouldn’t have a sort of half-holiday out -in the country, and enjoy his youth.</p> - -<p>He was not recalled. The week stretched out. He -worked hard, found time to play, hugged his quickened -ambitions to his breast, wrote hopeful letters to the -mother at Montevista, made a luxury of his loneliness, -and felt a bashful resentment when the “guests” -of the hotel began to pour in from the outside -world.</p> - -<p>For a day or two he fought shy of them. But these -first comers were lonely too, and not so much in love -with loneliness as he thought he was, and very soon he -became one of them. He had found out all the walks -and drives; he knew the times of the tides; he had -made friends with the fishermen for a league up and -down the coast, and he had amassed a store of valuable -hints as to where the first blue-fish might be expected -to run. Altogether he was a very desirable companion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -Besides, that bright, fresh face of his, and a certain -look in it, made you friends with him at once, especially -if you happened to be a little older, and to remember -a look of the sort, lost, lost forever, in a boy’s looking-glass.</p> - -<p>So he was sought out, and he let himself be found, -and the gregarious instinct in him waxed delightfully.</p> - -<p>And then It came. Perhaps I should say She came; -but it is not the woman we love; it is our dream of -her. Sweet and tender, fair and good, she may be; -but let it be honor enough for her that she has that -glory about her face which our love kindles to the halo -that lights many a man’s life to the grave, though the -face beneath it be dead or false.</p> - -<p>I will not admit that it was only a pretty girl from -Philadelphia who came to Sand Hills that first week in -July. It was the rosy goddess herself, dove-drawn -across the sea, in the warm path of the morning sun—although -the tremulous, old-fashioned handwriting on -the hotel register only showed that the early train had -brought—</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="noindent">“<i>Samuel Rittenhouse, Philadelphia.<br /> -Miss Rittenhouse, do.</i>”</p> - -</div> - -<p>It was the Honorable Samuel Rittenhouse, ex-Chief-Justice -of Pennsylvania, the honored head of the -Pennsylvania bar, and the legal representative of the -Philadelphia contingent of the new Breeze Hotel and -Park Company.</p> - -<p>In the evening Horace called upon him in his rooms -with a cumbersome stack of papers, and patiently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -waded through explanations and repetitions until Mr. -Rittenhouse’s testy courtesy—he had the nervous -manner of age apprehensive of youthful irreverence—melted -into a complacent and fatherly geniality. -Then, when the long task was done and his young -guest arose, he picked up the card that lay on the -table and trained his glasses on it.</p> - -<p>“‘H. K. Walpole?’” he said: “are you a New -Yorker, sir?”</p> - -<p>“From the north of the State,” Horace told him.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, indeed. Why, let me see—you must be -the son of my old friend Walpole—of Otsego—wasn’t -it?” said the old gentleman, still tentatively.</p> - -<p>“St. Lawrence, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, St. Lawrence—of course, of course. Why, -I knew your father well, years ago, sir. We were at -college together.”</p> - -<p>“At Columbia?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—yes. Why, bless me,” Judge Rittenhouse -went on, getting up to look at Horace: “you’re the -image of your poor father at your age. A very brilliant -man, sir, a very able man. I did not see much of him -after we left college—I was a Pennsylvanian, and he -was from this State—but I have always remembered -your father with respect and regard, sir,—a very -able man. I think I heard of his death some years -ago.”</p> - -<p>“Three years ago,” said Horace. His voice fell somewhat. -How little to this old man of success was the -poor, unnoticed death of failure!</p> - -<p>“Three years only!” repeated the judge, half apologetically;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> -“ah, people slip away from each other in -this world—slip away. But I’m glad to have met you, -sir—very much pleased indeed. Rosamond!”</p> - -<p>For an hour the subdued creaking of a rocking-chair -by the window had been playing a monotonously -pleasant melody in Horace’s ears. Now and then a -coy wisp of bright hair, or the reflected ghost of it, had -flashed into view in the extreme lower left-hand corner -of a mirror opposite him. Once he had seen a bit of -white brow under it, and from time to time the low -flutter of turning magazine leaves had put in a brief -second to the rocking-chair.</p> - -<p>All this time Horace’s brains had been among the -papers on the table; but something else within him -had been swaying to and fro with the rocking-chair, -and giving a leap when the wisp of hair bobbed into -sight.</p> - -<p>Now the rocking-chair accompaniment ceased, and -the curtained corner by the window yielded up its -treasure, and Miss Rittenhouse came forward, with one -hand brushing the wisp of hair back into place, as if -she were on easy and familiar terms with it. Horace -envied it.</p> - -<p>“Rosamond,” said the judge: “This is Mr. Walpole, -the son of my old friend Walpole. You have heard -me speak of Mr. Walpole’s father.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa,” said the young lady, all but the corners -of her mouth. And, oddly enough, Horace did not -think of being saddened because this young woman -had never heard of his father. Life was going on a -new key, all of a sudden, with a hint of a melody to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -be unfolded that ran in very different cadences from -the poor old tune of memory.</p> - -<p>My heroine, over whose head some twenty summers -had passed, was now in the luxuriant prime of her -youthful beauty. Over a brow whiter than the driven -snow fell clustering ringlets, whose hue—</p> - -<p>That is the way the good old novelists and story-tellers -of the Neville and Beverley days would have set -out to describe Miss Rittenhouse, had they known her. -Fools and blind! As if anyone could describe—as if -a poet, even, could more than hint at what a man sees -in a woman’s face when, seeing, he loves.</p> - -<p>For a few moments the talkers were constrained, and -the talk was meagre and desultory. Then the Judge, -who had been rummaging around among the dust-heaps -of his memory, suddenly recalled the fact that he had -once, in stage-coach days, passed a night at Montevista, -and had been most hospitably treated. He dragged -this fact forth, professed a lively remembrance of Mrs. -Walpole,—“a fine woman, sir, your mother; a woman -of many charms,”—asked after her present health; -and then, satisfied that he had acquitted himself of his -whole duty, withdrew into the distant depths of his -own soul and fumbled over the papers Horace had -brought him, trying to familiarize himself with them, -as a commander might try to learn the faces of his -soldiers.</p> - -<p>Then the two young people proceeded to find the -key together, and began a most harmonious duet. -Sand Hills was the theme. Thus it was that they had -to go out on the balcony, where Miss Rittenhouse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -might gaze into the brooding darkness over the sea, -and watch it wink a slow yellow eye with a humorous -alternation of sudden and brief red. Thus, also, Horace -had to explain how the lighthouse was constructed. -This moved Miss Rittenhouse to scientific research. -She must see how it was done. Mr. Walpole would -be delighted to show her. Papa was so much interested -in those mechanical matters. Mr. Walpole had -a team and light wagon at his disposal, and would very -much like to drive Miss Rittenhouse and her father -over to the lighthouse. Miss Rittenhouse communicated -this kind offer to her father. Her father saw -what was expected of him, and dutifully acquiesced, -like an obedient American father. Miss Rittenhouse -had managed the Rittenhouse household and the head -of the house of Rittenhouse ever since her mother’s -death.</p> - -<p>Mr. Walpole really had a team at his disposal. He -came from a country where people do not chase foxes, -nor substitutes for foxes; but where they know and -revere a good trotter. He had speeded many a friend’s -horse in training for the county fair. When he came -to Sand Hills his soundness in the equine branch of a -gentleman’s education had attracted the attention of -a horsey Sand-Hiller, who owned a showy team with -a record of 2.37. This team was not to be trusted to the -ordinary summer boarder on any terms; but the Sand-Hiller -was thrifty and appreciative, and he lured Horace -into hiring the turnout at a trifling rate, and thus -captured every cent the boy had to spare, and got his -horses judiciously exercised.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> - -<p>There was a showy light wagon to match the team, -and the next day the light wagon, with Horace and -the Rittenhouses in it, passed every carriage on the -road to the lighthouse, where Miss Rittenhouse satisfied -her scientific spirit with one glance at the lantern, after -giving which glance she went outside and sat in the -shade of the white tower with Horace, while the keeper -showed the machinery to the Judge. Perhaps she -went to the Judge afterward, and got him to explain it -all to her.</p> - -<p>Thus it began, and for two golden weeks thus it went -on. The reorganized Breeze Hotel and Park Company -met in business session on its own property, and Horace -acted as a sort of honorary clerk to Judge Rittenhouse. -The company, as a company, talked over work -for a couple of hours each day. As a congregation of -individuals, it ate and drank and smoked and played -billiards and fished and slept the rest of the two dozen. -Horace had his time pretty much to himself, or rather -to Miss Rittenhouse, who monopolized it. He drove -her to the village to match embroidery stuffs. He -danced with her in the evenings when two stolidly soulful -Germans, one with a fiddle and the other with a -piano, made the vast dining-room ring and hum with -Suppé and Waldteufel,—and this was to the great -and permanent improvement of his waltzing. She -taught him how to play lawn-tennis—he was an old-fashioned -boy from the backwoods, and he thought -that croquet was still in existence, so she had to teach -him to play lawn-tennis—until he learned to play -much better than she could. On the other hand, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> -was a fresh-water swimmer of rare wind and wiriness, -and a young sea-god in the salt, as soon as he got used -to its pungent strength. So he taught her to strike -out beyond the surf-line, with broad, breath-long -sweeps, and there to float and dive and make friends -with the ocean. Even he taught her to fold her white -arms behind her back, and swim with her feet. As he -glanced over his shoulder to watch her following him, -and to note the timorous, admiring crowd on the -shore, she seemed a sea-bred Venus of Milo in blue serge.</p> - -<p>I have known men to be bored by such matters. -They made Horace happy. He was happiest, perhaps, -when he found out that she was studying Latin. All -the girls in Philadelphia were studying Latin that -summer. They had had a little school Latin, of course; -but now their aims were loftier. Miss Rittenhouse had -brought with her a Harkness’s Virgil, an Anthon’s -dictionary, an old Bullion & Morris, and—yes, when -Horace asked her, she had brought an Interlinear; but -she didn’t mean to use it. They rowed out to the -buoy, and put the Interlinear in the sea. They sat on -the sands after the daily swim, and enthusiastically -labored, with many an unclassic excursus, over P. V. -Maronis Opera. Horace borrowed some books of a -small boy in the hotel, and got up at five o’clock in the -morning to run a couple of hundred lines or so ahead -of his pupil, “getting out” a stint that would have -made him lead a revolt had any teacher imposed it -upon his class a few years before—for he was fresh -enough from schooling to have a little left of the little -Latin that colleges give.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> - -<p>He wondered how it was that he had never seen the -poetry of the lines before. <i lang="la">Forsan et hæc olim -meminisse juvabit</i>—for perchance it will joy us hereafter -to remember these things! He saw the wet and -weary sailors on the shore, hungrily eating, breathing -hard after their exertions; he heard the deep cheerfulness -of their leader’s voice. The wind blew toward -him over the pine barrens, as fresh as ever it blew past -Dido’s towers. A whiff of briny joviality and adventurous -recklessness seemed to come from the page on -his knee. And to him, also, had not She appeared -who saw, hard by the sea, that pious old buccaneer-Lothario, -so much tossed about on land and upon the -deep?</p> - -<p>This is what the moderns call a flirtation, and I do -not doubt that it was called a flirtation by the moderns -around these two young people. Somehow, though, -they never got themselves “talked about,” not even by -the stranded nomads on the hotel verandas. Perhaps -this was because there was such a joyous freshness and -purity about both of them that it touched the hearts -of even the slander-steeped old dragons who rocked all -day in the shade, and embroidered tidies and talked ill -of their neighbors. Perhaps it was because they also -had that about them which the mean and vulgar mind -always sneers at, jeers at, affects to disbelieve in, always -recognizes and fears,—the courage and power of the -finer strain. Envy in spit-curls and jealousy in a false -front held their tongues, may be, because, though they -knew that they, and even their male representatives, -were safe from any violent retort, yet they recognized<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> -the superior force, and shrunk from it as the cur edges -away from the quiescent whip.</p> - -<p>There is a great difference, too, between the flirtations -of the grandfatherless and the flirtations of the -grandfathered. I wish you to understand that Mr. -Walpole and Miss Rittenhouse did not <em>sprawl</em> through -their flirtation, nor fall into that slipshod familiarity -which takes all the delicate beauty of dignity and mutual -respect out of such a friendship. Horace did not -bow to the horizontal, and Miss Rittenhouse did not -make a cheese-cake with her skirts when he held open -the door for her to pass through; but the bond of -courtesy between them was no less sweetly gracious on -her side, no less finely reverential on his, than the -taste of their grandparents’ day would have exacted,—no -less earnest, I think, that it was a little easier than -puff and periwig might have made it.</p> - -<p>Yet I also think, whatever was the reason that made -the dragons let them alone, that a simple mother of the -plain, old-fashioned style is better for a girl of Miss -Rosamond Rittenhouse’s age than any such precarious -immunity from annoyance.</p> - -<p>Ah, the holiday was short! The summons soon came -for Horace. They went to the old church together for -the second and last time, and he stood beside her, and -they held the hymn-book between them.</p> - -<p>Horace could not rid himself of the idea that they -had stood thus through every Sunday of a glorious -summer. The week before he had sung with her. He -had a boyish baritone in him, one of those which may -be somewhat extravagantly characterized as consisting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -wholly of middle register. It was a good voice for the -campus, and, combined with that startling clearness of -utterance which young collegians acquire, had been -very effective in the little church. But to-day he had -no heart to sing “Byefield” and “Pleyel”; he would -rather stand beside her and feel his heart vibrate to -the deep lower notes of her tender contralto, and his -soul rise with the higher tones that soared upward -from her pure young breast. And all the while he was -making that act of devotion which—“uttered or unexpressed”—is, -indeed, all the worship earth has ever -known.</p> - -<p>Once she looked up at him as if she asked, “Why -don’t you sing?” But her eyes fell quickly, he thought -with a shade of displeasure in them at something they -had seen in his. Yet as he watched her bent head, the -cheek near him warmed with a slow, soft blush. He -may only have fancied that her clear voice quivered a -little with a tremolo not written in the notes at the top -of the page.</p> - -<p>And now the last day came. When the work-a-day -world thrust its rough shoulder into Arcadia, and the -hours of the idyll were numbered, they set to talking -of it as though the two weeks that they had known -each other were some sort of epitomized summer. Of -course they were to meet again, in New York or in -Philadelphia; and of course there were many days -of summer in store for Miss Rittenhouse at Sand Hills, -at Newport, and at Mount Desert; but Horace’s brief -season was closed, and somehow she seemed to fall -readily into his way of looking upon it as a golden<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -period of special and important value, their joint and -exclusive property—something set apart from all the -rest of her holiday, where there would be other men -and other good times and no Horace.</p> - -<p>It was done with much banter and merriment; but -through it all Horace listened for delicate undertones -that should echo to his ear the earnestness which sometimes -rang irrepressibly in his own speech. In that -marvellous instrument, a woman’s voice, there are -strange and fine possibilities of sound that may be the -messengers of the subtlest intelligence or the sweet -falterings of imperfect control. So Horace, with love -to construe for him, did not suffer too cruelly from -disappointment.</p> - -<p>On the afternoon of that last day they sat upon the -beach and saw the smoke of Dido’s funeral pile go up, -and they closed the dog’s-eared Virgil, and, looking -seaward, watched the black cloud from a coaling steamer -mar the blinding blue where sea and sky blent at the -horizon; watched it grow dull and faint, and fade away, -and the illumined turquoise reassert itself.</p> - -<p>Then he was for a farewell walk, and she, with that -bright acquiescence with which a young girl can make -companionship almost perfect, if she will, accepted it -as an inspiration, and they set out. They visited together -the fishermen’s houses, where Horace bade good-bye -to mighty-fisted friends, who stuck their thumbs -inside their waistbands and hitched their trousers half -way up to their blue-shirted arms, and said to him, -“You come up here in Orgust, Mr. Walpole—say -’bout the fus’ t’ the third week ’n Orgust, ’n’ we’ll<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -give yer some bloo-fishin’ ’t y’ won’t need t’ lie about, -neither.” They all liked him, and heartily.</p> - -<p>Old Rufe, the gruff hermit of the fishers, who lived -a half-mile beyond the settlement, flicked his shuttle -through the net he was mending, and did not look up -as Horace spoke to him.</p> - -<p>“Goin’?” he said; “waal, we’ve all gotter go some -time oruther. The’ aint no real perma-nen-cy on this -uth. Goin’? Waal, I’m”—he paused, and weighed -the shuttle in his hand as though to aid him in balancing -some important mental process. “Sho! I’m derned -’f I ain’t sorry. Squall comin’ up, an’ don’t y’ make no -mistake,” he hurried on, not to be further committed -to unguarded expression; “better look sharp, or y’ ’ll -git a wettin’.”</p> - -<p>A little puff of gray cloud, scurrying along in the -south-east, had spread over half the sky, and now came -a strong, eddying wind. A big raindrop made a dark -spot on the sand before them; another fell on Miss -Rittenhouse’s cheek, and then, with a vicious, uncertain -patter, the rain began to come down.</p> - -<p>“We’ll have to run for Poinsett’s,” said Horace, and -stretched out his hand. She took it, and they ran.</p> - -<p>Poinsett’s was just ahead—a white house on a lift -of land, close back of the shore-line, with a long garden -stretching down in front, and two or three poplar trees. -The wind was turning up the pale under-sides of grass-blade -and flower leaf, and whipping the shivering -poplars silver white. Cap’n Poinsett, late of Gloucester, -Massachusetts, was tacking down the path in his -pea-jacket, with his brass telescope tucked under his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -arm. He was making for the little white summer-house -that overhung the shore; but he stopped to -admire the two young people dashing up the slope -toward him, for the girl ran with a splendid free stride -that kept her well abreast of Horace’s athletic lope.</p> - -<p>“Come in,” he said, opening the gate, and smiling -on the two young faces, flushed and wet; “come right -in out o’ the rain. Be’n runnin’, ain’t ye? Go right -int’ the house. Mother!” he called, “here’s Mr. Walpole -’n’ his young lady. You’ll hev to ex-cuse me; -I’m a-goin’ down t’ my observa<i>tor</i>y. I carn’t foller -the sea no longer myself, but I can look at them that -dooz. There’s my old woman—go right in.”</p> - -<p>He waddled off, leaving both of them redder than -their run accounted for, and Mrs. Poinsett met them at -the door, her arms folded in her apron.</p> - -<p>“Walk right in,” she greeted them; “the cap’n he -mus’ always go down t’ his observa<i>tor</i>y, ’s he calls it, -’n’ gape through thet old telescope of hisn, fust thing -the’s a squall—jus’s if he thought he was skipper of -all Long Island. But you come right int’ the settin’-room -’n’ make yourselves to home. Dear me suz! -’f I’d ’a’ thought I’d ’a’ had company I’d ’a’ tidied -things up. I’m jus’ ’s busy <em>as</em> busy, gettin’ supper -ready; but don’t you mind <em>me</em>—jus’ you make yourselves -to home,” and she drifted chattering away, and -they heard her in the distant kitchen amiably nagging -the hired girl.</p> - -<p>It was an old-time, low-ceiled room, neat with New -England neatness. The windows had many panes of -green flint glass, through which they saw the darkening<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> -storm swirl over the ocean and ravage the flower-beds -near by.</p> - -<p>And when they had made an end of watching Cap’n -Poinsett in his little summer-house, shifting his long -glass to follow each scudding sail far out in the darkness; -and when they had looked at the relics of Cap’n -Poinsett’s voyages to the Orient and the Arctic, and -at the cigar-boxes plastered with little shells, and at -the wax fruit, and at the family trousers and bonnets -in the album, there was nothing left but that Miss -Rittenhouse should sit down at the old piano, bought -for Amanda Jane in the last year of the war, and bring -forth rusty melody from the yellowed keys.</p> - -<p>“What a lovely voice she has!” thought Horace as -she sang. No doubt he was right. I would take his -word against that of a professor of music, who would -have told you that it was a nice voice for a girl, and -that the young woman had more natural dramatic -expression than technical training.</p> - -<p>They fished out Amanda Jane’s music-books, and -went through “Juanita,” and the “Evergreen Waltz,” -and “Beautiful Isle of the Sea;” and, finding a lot of -war songs, severally and jointly announced their determination -to invade Dixie Land, and to annihilate Rebel -Hordes; and adjured each other to remember Sumter -and Baltimore, and many other matters that could have -made but slight impression on their young minds twenty -odd years before. Mrs. Poinsett, in the kitchen, stopped -nagging her aid, and thought of young John Tarbox Poinsett’s -name on a great sheet of paper in the Gloucester -post-office, one morning at the end of April, 1862, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> -the news came up that Farragut had passed the -forts.</p> - -<p>The squall was going over, much as it had come, -only no one paid attention to its movements now, for -the sun was out, trying to straighten up the crushed -grass and flowers, and to brighten the hurrying -waves, and to soothe the rustling agitation of the -poplars.</p> - -<p>They must have one more song. Miss Rittenhouse -chose “Jeannette and Jeannot,” and when she looked -back at him with a delicious coy mischief in her eyes, -and sang,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“There is no one left to love me now,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">And you too may forget”—</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Horace felt something flaming in his cheeks and choking -in his breast, and it was hard for him to keep from -snatching those hands from the keys and telling her -she knew better.</p> - -<p>But he was man enough not to. He controlled himself, -and made himself very pleasant to Mrs. Poinsett -about not staying to supper, and they set out for the -hotel.</p> - -<p>The air was cool and damp after the rain.</p> - -<p>“You’ve been singing,” said Horace, “and you will -catch cold in this air, and lose your voice. You must -tie this handkerchief around your throat.”</p> - -<p>She took his blue silk handkerchief and tied it around -her throat, and wore it until just as they were turning -away from the shore, when she took it off to return to -him; and the last gust of wind that blew that afternoon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> -whisked it out of her hand, and sent it whirling -a hundred yards out to sea.</p> - -<p>“Now, don’t say a word,” said Horace; “it isn’t of -the slightest consequence.”</p> - -<p>But he looked very gloomy over it. He had made -up his mind that that silk handkerchief should be the -silk handkerchief of all the world to him, from that -time on.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It was one month later that Mr. H. K. Walpole -received, in care of Messrs. Weeden, Snowden & Gilfeather, -an envelope postmarked Newport, containing -a red silk handkerchief. His initials were neatly—nay, -beautifully, exquisitely—stitched in one corner. -But there was absolutely nothing about the package to -show who sent it, and Horace sorrowed over this. Not -that he was in any doubt; but he felt that it meant to -say that he must not acknowledge it; and, loyally, he -did not.</p> - -<p>And he soon got over that grief. The lost handkerchief, -whose origin was base and common, like other -handkerchiefs, and whose sanctity was purely accidental—what -was it to <em>this</em> handkerchief, worked by her -for him?</p> - -<p>This became the outward and visible sign of the inward -and spiritual grace that had changed the boy’s -whole life. Before this he had had purposes and ambitions. -He had meant to take care of his mother, to do -well in the world, and to restore, if he could, the honor -and glory of the home his father had left him. Here -were duty, selfishness, and an innocent vanity. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> -now he had an end in life, so high that the very seeking -of it was a religion. Every thought of self was -flooded out of him, and what he sought he sought in a -purer and nobler spirit than ever before.</p> - -<p>Is it not strange? A couple of weeks at the sea-side, -a few evenings under the brooding darkness of hotel -verandas, the going to and fro of a girl with a sweet -face, and this ineradicable change is made in the mind -of a man who has forty or fifty years before him wherein -to fight the world, to find his place, to become a factor -for good or evil.</p> - -<p>And here we have Horace, with his heart full of love -and his head full of dreams, mooning over a silk handkerchief, -in open court.</p> - -<p>Not that he often took such chances. The daws of -humor peck at the heart worn on the sleeve; and quite -rightly, for that is no place for a heart. But in the -privacy of his modest lodging-house room he took the -handkerchief out, and spread it before him, and looked -at it, and kissed it sometimes, I suppose,—it seems -ungentle to pry thus into the sacredness of a boy’s -love,—and, certainly, kept it in sight, working, studying, -or thinking.</p> - -<p>With all this, the handkerchief became somewhat -rumpled, and at last Horace felt that it must be -brought back to the condition of neatness in which he -first knew it. So, on a Tuesday, he descended to the -kitchen of his lodging-house, and asked for a flat-iron. -His good landlady, at the head of an industrious, plump-armed -Irish brigade, all vigorously smoothing out towels, -stared at him in surprise.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> - -<p>“If there’s anything you want ironed, Mr. Walpole, -bring it down here, and I’ll be <em>more’n</em> glad to iron it -for you.”</p> - -<p>Horace grew red, and found his voice going entirely -out of his control, as he tried to explain that it wasn’t -for that—it wasn’t for ironing clothes—he was sure -nobody could do it but himself.</p> - -<p>“Do you want it hot or cold?” asked Mrs. Wilkins, -puzzled.</p> - -<p>“Cold!” said Horace desperately. And he got it -cold, and had to heat it at his own fire to perform his -labor of love.</p> - -<p>That was of a piece with many things he did. Of a -piece, for instance, with his looking in at the milliners’ -windows and trying to think which bonnet would best -become her—and then taking himself severely to task -for dreaming that she would wear a ready-made bonnet. -Of a piece with his buying two seats for the theatre, -and going alone and fancying her next him, and glancing -furtively at the empty place at the points where -he thought she would be amused, or pleased, or moved.</p> - -<p>What a fool he was! Yes, my friend, and so are -you and I. And remember that this boy’s foolishness -did not keep him tossing, stark awake, through ghastly -nights; did not start him up in the morning with a hot -throat and an unrested brain; did not send him down -to his day’s work with the haunting, clutching, lurking -fear that springs forward at every stroke of the clock, -at every opening of the door. Perhaps you and I have -known folly worse than his.</p> - -<p>Through all the winter—the red handkerchief<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -cheered the hideous first Monday in October, and the -Christmas holidays, when business kept him from going -home to Montevista—he heard little or nothing -of her. His friends in the city, or rather his father’s -friends, were all ingrained New Yorkers, dating from -the provincial period, who knew not Philadelphia; and -it was only from an occasional newspaper paragraph -that he learned that Judge Rittenhouse and his daughter -were travelling through the South, for the Judge’s -health. Of course, he had a standing invitation to call -on them whenever he should find himself in Philadelphia; -but they never came nearer Philadelphia than -Washington, and so he never found himself in Philadelphia. -He was not so sorry for this as you might -think a lover should be. He knew that, with a little -patience, he might present himself to Judge Rittenhouse -as something more than a lawyer’s managing -clerk.</p> - -<p>For, meanwhile, good news had come from home, and -things were going well with him. Mineral springs had -been discovered at Aristotle—mineral springs may be -discovered anywhere in north New York, if you only -try; though it is sometimes difficult to fit them with -the proper Indian legends. The name of the town had -been changed to Avoca, and there was already an Avoca -Improvement Company, building a big hotel, advertising -right and left, and prophesying that the day of -Saratoga and Sharon and Richfield was ended. So -the barrens between Montevista and Aristotle, skirting -the railroad, suddenly took on a value. Hitherto they -had been unsalable, except for taxes. For the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -part they were an adjunct of the estate of Montevista; -and in February Horace went up to St. Lawrence -County and began the series of sales that was to realize -his father’s most hopeless dream, and clear Montevista -of all incumbrances.</p> - -<p>How pat it all came, he thought, as, on his return -trip, the train carried him past the little old station, with -its glaring new sign, AVOCA, just beyond the broad -stretch of “Squire Walpole’s bad land,” now sprouting -with the surveyors’ stakes. After all was paid off on -the old home, there would be enough left to enable -him to buy out Haskins, who had openly expressed his -desire to get into a “live firm,” and who was willing -to part with his interest for a reasonable sum down, -backed up by a succession of easy installments. And -Judge Weeden had intimated, as clearly as dignity -would permit, his anxiety that Horace should seize the -opportunity.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Winter was still on the Jersey flats on the last day -of March; but Horace, waiting at a little “flag station,” -found the air full of crude prophecies of spring. He -had been searching titles all day, in a close and gloomy -little town-hall, and he was glad to be out-of-doors -again, and to think that he should be back in New York -by dinner time, for it was past five o’clock.</p> - -<p>But a talk with the station-master made the prospect -less bright. No train would stop there until seven.</p> - -<p>Was there no other way of getting home? The -lonely guardian of the Gothic shanty thought it over, -and found that there was a way. He talked of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -trains as though they were whimsical creatures under -his charge.</p> - -<p>“The’s a freight comin’ down right now,” he said, -meditatively, “but I can’t do nothin’ with her. She’s -gotter get along mighty lively to keep ahead of the -Express from Philadelphia till she gets to the junction -and goes on a siding till the Express goes past. And -as to the Express—why, I couldn’t no more flag her -than if she was a cyclone. But I tell you what you -do. You walk right down to the junction—’bout a -mile ’n’ a half down—and see if you can’t do something -with number ninety-seven on the other road. -You see, she goes on to New York on our tracks, and -she mostly’s in the habit of waiting at the junction -’bout—say five to seven minutes, to give that Express -from Philadelphia a fair start. That Express has it -pretty much her own way on this road, for a fact. -You go down to the junction—walk right down the -line—and you’ll get ninety-seven—there ain’t no kind -of doubt about it. You can’t see the junction; but -it’s just half a mile beyont that curve down there.”</p> - -<p>So there was nothing to be done but to walk to the -junction. The railroad ran a straight, steadily descending -mile on the top of a high embankment, and then -suddenly turned out of sight around a ragged elevation. -Horace buttoned his light overcoat, and tramped down -the cinder-path between the tracks.</p> - -<p>Yes, spring was coming. The setting sun beamed a -soft, hopeful red over the shoulder of the ragged elevation; -light, drifting mists rose from the marsh land -below him, and the last low rays struck a vapory opal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -through them. There was a warm, almost prismatic -purple hanging over the outlines of the hills and woods -far to the east. The damp air, even, had a certain languid -warmth in it; and though there was snow in the -little hollows at the foot of the embankment, and bits -of thin whitish ice were in the swampy pools, it was clear -enough to Horace that spring was at hand. Spring—and -then summer; and, by the sea or in the mountains, -the junior partner of the house of Weeden, Snowden -& Gilfeather might hope to meet once more with Judge -Rittenhouse’s daughter.</p> - -<p>The noise of the freight-train, far up the track behind -him, disturbed Horace’s springtime revery. A forethought -of rocking gravel-cars scattering the overplus -of their load by the way, and of reeking oil-tanks, -filling the air with petroleum, sent him down the -embankment to wait until the way was once more -clear.</p> - -<p>The freight-train went by and above him with a long-drawn -roar and clatter, and with a sudden fierce crash, -and the shriek of iron upon iron, at the end, and the -last truck of the last car came down the embankment, -tearing a gully behind it, and ploughed a grave for -itself in the marsh ten yards ahead of him.</p> - -<p>And, looking up, he saw a twisted rail raising its -head like a shining serpent above the dim line of the -embankment. A furious rush took Horace up the slope. -A quarter of a mile below him the freight-train was -slipping around the curve. The fallen end of the last -car was beating and tearing the ties. He heard the -shrill creak of the brakes and the frightened whistle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> -the locomotive. But the grade was steep, and it was -hard to stop. And if they did stop they were half a -mile from the junction—half a mile from their only -chance of warning the Express.</p> - -<p>Horace heard in his ears the station-master’s words: -“She’s gotter get along mighty lively to keep ahead -of the Express from Philadelphia.”</p> - -<p>“Mighty lively—mighty lively,”—the words rang -through his brain to the time of thundering car-wheels.</p> - -<p>He knew where he stood. He had made three-quarters -of the straight mile. He was three-quarters -of a mile, then, from the little station. His overcoat -was off in half a second. Many a time had he stripped, -with that familiar movement, to trunks and sleeveless -shirt, to run his mile or his half-mile; but never had -such a thirteen hundred yards lain before him, up such -a track, to be run for such an end.</p> - -<p>The sweat was on his forehead before his right foot -passed his left.</p> - -<p>His young muscles strove and stretched. His feet -struck the soft, unstable path of cinders with strong, -regular blows. His tense forearms strained upward -from his sides. Under his chest, thrown outward from -his shoulders, was a constricting line of pain. His wet -face burnt. There was a fire in his temples, and at -every breath of his swelling nostrils something throbbed -behind his eyes. The eyes saw nothing but a dancing -dazzle of tracks and ties, through a burning blindness. -And his feet beat, beat, beat till the shifting cinders -seemed afire under him.</p> - -<p>That is what this human machine was doing, going<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> -at this extreme pressure; every muscle, every breath, -every drop of blood alive with the pain of this intense -stress. Looking at it you would have said, “A fleet, -light-limbed young man, with a stride like a deer, -throwing the yards under him in fine style.” All we -know about the running other folks are making in this -world!</p> - -<p>Half-way up the track Horace stopped short, panting -hard, his heart beating like a crazy drum, a nervous -shiver on him. Up the track there was a dull whirr, -and he saw the engine of the express-train slipping -down on him—past the station already.</p> - -<p>The white mists from the marshes had risen up over -the embankment. The last rays of the sunset shot -through them, brilliant and blinding. Horace could -see the engine; but would the engineer see him, waving -his hands in futile gestures, in time to stop on that -slippery, sharp grade? And of what use would be his -choking voice when the dull whirr should turn into a -roar? For a moment, in his hopeless disappointment, -Horace felt like throwing himself in the path of the -train, like a wasted thing that had no right to live, -after so great a failure.</p> - -<p>As will happen to those who are stunned by a great -blow, his mind ran back mechanically to the things -nearest his heart, and in a flash he went through the -two weeks of his life. And then, before the thought -had time to form itself, he had brought a red silk -handkerchief from his breast, and was waving it with -both hands, a fiery crimson in the opal mist.</p> - -<p>Seen. The whistle shrieked; there was a groan and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> -a creak of brakes, the thunder of the train resolved -itself into various rattling noises, the engine slipped -slowly by him, and slowed down, and he stood by the -platform of the last car as the express stopped.</p> - -<p>There was a crowd around Horace in an instant. -His head was whirling, but in a dull way he said what -he had to say. An officious passenger, who would -have explained it all to the conductor if the conductor -had waited, took the deliverer in his arms—for the boy -was near fainting—and enlightened the passengers -who flocked around.</p> - -<p>Horace hung in his embrace, too deadly weak even -to accept the offer of one of the dozen flasks that were -thrust at him. Nothing was very clear in his mind; as -far as he could make out, his most distinct impression -was of a broad, flat beach, a blue sea and a blue sky, -a black steamer making a black trail of smoke across -them, and a voice soft as an angel’s reading Latin close -by him. Then he opened his eyes and saw the woman -of the voice standing in front of him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Richard,” he heard her say,“it’s Mr. Walpole!”</p> - -<p>Horace struggled to his feet. She took his hand in -both of hers and drew closer to him; the crowd falling -back a little, seeing that they were friends.</p> - -<p>“What can I ever say to thank you?” she said. -“You have saved our lives. It’s not so much for -myself, but”—she blushed faintly, and Horace felt -her hands tremble on his; “Richard—my husband—we -were married to-day, you know—and”—</p> - -<p>Something heavy and black came between Horace -and life for a few minutes. When it passed away he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> -straightened himself up out of the arms of the officious -passenger and stared about him, mind and memory -coming back to him. The people around looked at -him oddly. A brakeman brought him his overcoat, -and he stood unresistingly while it was slipped on -him. Then he turned away and started down the -embankment.</p> - -<p>“Hold on!” cried the officious passenger excitedly; -“we’re getting up a testimonial”—</p> - -<p>Horace never heard it. How he found his way he -never cared to recall; but the gas was dim in the city -streets, and the fire was out in his little lodging-house -room when he came home; and his narrow white bed -knows all that I cannot tell of his tears and his broken -dreams.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“Walpole,” said Judge Weeden, as he stood between -the yawning doors of the office safe, one morning -in June, “I observe that you have a private package -here. Why do you not use the drawer of our—our -late associate, Mr. Haskins? It is yours now, you -know. I’ll put your package in it.” He poised the -heavily sealed envelope in his hand. “Very odd -<em>feeling</em> package, Walpole. Remarkably soft!” he said. -“Well, bless me, it’s none of my business, of course. -Horace, how much you look like your father!”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THE_SEVEN_CONVERSATIONS">THE SEVEN CONVERSATIONS<br /> -<span class="smaller">OF</span><br /> -DEAR JONES AND BABY VAN RENSSELAER.</h2> - -<p class="author">BY BRANDER MATTHEWS AND H. C. BUNNER.</p> - -<h3>I.<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE FIRST CONVERSATION.</span></h3> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Tuesday</span>, February 14, 1882.</p> - -<p>The band was invisible, but, unfortunately, not inaudible. -It was in the butler’s pantry, playing -Waldteufel’s latest waltz, “Süssen Veilchen.” The -English butler, who resented the intrusion of the German -leader, was introducing an <i lang="it">obbligato</i> unforeseen by -the composer. This was the second of Mrs. Martin’s -charming Tuesdays in February. Mrs. Martin herself, -fondly and familiarly known as the “Duchess of Washington -Square,” stopped a young man as he was making -a desperate rush for his overcoat, then reposing -under three strata of late comers’ outer garments in the -second-floor back, and said to him:</p> - -<p>“O Dear Jones”—the Duchess always called him -Dear Jones—“I want to introduce you to Baby Van -Rensselaer—Phyllis Van Rensselaer, you know—they -always called her Baby Van Rensselaer, though I’m -sure I don’t know why—Phyllis is such a lovely name—don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -you think so?—and your grandfathers were -such friends.” [Dear Jones executed an <i lang="la">ex post facto</i> -condemnation upon his ancestor and hers.] “You know -Major Van Rensselaer was your grandfather’s partner -until that unfortunate affair of the embezzlement—O -Baby dear—there you are, are you? I was wondering -where you were all this time. This is Mr. Jones, dear, -one of your grandfather’s most intimate friends. Oh, -I don’t mean that, of course—you know what I mean—and -I do so want you two to know each other.”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: What in the name of the prophet does -the Duchess mean by introducing me to More Girls?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: I do wish the Duchess -wouldn’t insist on tiring me out with slim young men; -I never can tell one from the other.</p> - -<p class="hanging">These remarks were not uttered. They remained in -the privacy of the inner consciousness. What they -really said was:</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>inarticulately</i>]: Miss Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>inattentively</i>]: Yes, it is -rather warm.…</p> - -<p>And they drifted apart in the crowd.</p> - -<h3>II.<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE SECOND CONVERSATION.</span></h3> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Thursday</span>, April 13, 1882.</p> - -<p>Of course, Dear Jones was the last to arrive of the -favored children of the world who had been invited to -dine at Judge Gillespie’s “to meet the Lord Bishop<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -of Barset,” just imported from England per steamer -“Servia.” In the hall, the butler, whose appearance -was even more dignified and clerical than the Bishop’s, -handed Dear Jones an unsealed communication.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>examining the contents</i>]: Who in -Heligoland is Miss Van Rensselaer?</p> - -<p>As Dear Jones entered, Mrs. Sutton—the Judge’s -daughter, you know—married Charley Sutton, who -came from San Francisco—Mrs. Sutton gave a little -sigh of relief, nodded to the butler, and said in perfunctory -answer to the apologies Dear Jones had not -made: “Oh, no; you’re not a bit late—we haven’t -been waiting for you at all—the Bishop has only just -come”—(confidentially in his ear) “I’ve given you a -charming girl.” [Dear Jones shuddered: he knew what -that generally meant.] “You know Baby Van Rensselaer? -Of course—there she is—now, go—and do -be bright and clever.” And after thus handicapping -an inoffensive young man, she took the Bishop’s arm in -the middle of his ante-prandial anecdote.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>marching to his fate</i>]: It’s the -Duchess’s girl again, by Jove! It’s lucky Uncle -Larry is going to take me off at ten sharp.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Why, it’s <em>that</em> Mr. -Jones!</p> - -<p class="hanging">These remarks were not uttered. They remained in -the privacy of the inner consciousness. What they -really said was:</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>with audacious hypocrisy</i>]: Of course, -<em>you</em> don’t remember me, Miss Van Rensselaer.…</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>trumping his card unabashed</i>]: -I really don’t quite.…</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>offering his arm</i>]: Er … don’t you -remember the Duch—Mrs. Martin’s—that hideously -rainy afternoon, just before Lent?</p> - -<p>Here there was a gap in the conversation as the procession -took up its line of march, and moved through -a narrow passage into the dining-room.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>making a brave dash at the “bright -and clever”</i>]: Well, in <em>my</em> house, the door into the -dining-room shall be eighteen feet wide.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>literal, stern, and cold</i>]: -Are you building a house, Mr. Jones?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>calmly</i>]: I am at present, Miss Van -Rensselaer, building—let me see—four—five—seven -houses.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>coldly and suspecting -flippancy</i>]: Ah, indeed—are you a billionaire?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: No; I’m an architect.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>in confusion</i>]: Oh, I’m -sure I beg your pardon—</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: You needn’t. I shouldn’t be at all -ashamed to be a billionaire.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh, of course not—I -didn’t mean <em>that</em>—</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>unguardedly</i>]: Well, if it comes to -that; I’m not ashamed of my architecture either.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>calmly</i>]: Indeed? I -have never seen any of it.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: You sit here, I think. This is your -card with the little lady in the powdered wig—a -cherubic Madame de Staël.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: And this is yours with a -Cupid in a basket—a nineteenth century Moses.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>taking his seat beside her</i>]: Talking -about dinner cards—and billionaires, you heard of -that dinner old Creasers gave to fifty-two of his friends -of the new dispensation. I believe there <em>was</em> one poor -fellow there whose wife had only half a peck of diamonds. -He assembled his hordes in the picture-gallery, -as the dining-room wasn’t large enough—you see, I -didn’t build <em>his</em> house. And to carry out the novelty -of the thing, his dinner cards were—</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Playing-cards?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Just so—but they were painted, -“hand-painted” on satin.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: And what did he take -for himself—the king of diamonds?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: For the only time in his life he forgot -himself—and he had to put up with the Joker.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: What sort of people were -there?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Very good sort, indeed. There was a -M. Meissonnier and M. Gérôme and a M. Corot—besides -the man who sold them to him.</p> - -<p>Everybody knows how a conversation runs on at -dinner, when it does run on. On this occasion it ran -on for seventy minutes and six courses. Dear Jones -and Baby Van Rensselaer discussed the usual topics -and the usual bill-of-fare. Then, as the butler served -the bombe <i lang="fr">glacée à la Demidoff</i>—</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh, I’m so glad you -liked her. We were at school together, you know,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -and she was with us when we went up the Saguenay -last August.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Why, <em>I</em> went up the Saguenay last -August.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>earnestly</i>]: And we didn’t -meet? How miserably absurd!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I’ll tell you whom I did meet—your -father’s partner, Mr. Hitchcock. He had his daughter -with him, too—a very bright girl. You know her, of -course.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>coldly</i>]: I have heard she -is quite clever. [A pause.] The Hitchcocks—I -believe—go more in the—New England set. I have -met her brother, though—Mr. Mather Hitchcock.…</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Mat Hitchcock; that little cad?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Is he a little cad? I -thought he was rather—bright.</p> - -<p>After this, conversation was desultory; and soon the -male guests were left to their untrammeled selves, -tobacco and the Bishop. At eleven minutes past ten, -in the vestibule of Judge Gillespie’s house, a young -man and a man not so young were buttoning their -overcoats and lighting their cigarettes. In the parlor -behind them a soft contralto voice was lingering on the -rich, deep notes of “Der Asra,” the sweetest song of -Jewish inspiration, the song of Heine and of Rubinstein. -They paused a moment as the voice died away -in</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“Und mein Stamm sind jene Asra,</div> -<div class="verse">Welche sterben wenn sie lieben!”</div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> -<p>The man not so young said: “Well, come along. -What are you waiting for?”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: What the devil are you in such a -hurry for, Uncle Larry? It looked abominably rude -to leave those people in that way!</p> - -<h3>III.<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE THIRD CONVERSATION.</span></h3> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Tuesday</span>, May 30, 1882.</p> - -<p>As the first band of the Decoration Day procession -struck up “Marching through Georgia” and marched -past Uncle Larry’s house, a cheerfully expectant -party filed out of the parlor windows upon the broad -stone balcony, draped with the flag that had floated -over the building for the four long years the day commemorated. -Uncle Larry had secured the Duchess to -matronize the annual gathering of young friends, the -final friendly meeting before the flight out of town; -and many of those who accepted him as the universal -uncle had accepted also this invitation. Dear Jones -and Baby Van Rensselaer were seated in the corner -of the balcony that caught the southern sun, Baby Van -Rensselaer, in Uncle Larry’s own study chair, while -Dear Jones was comfortably and gracefully perched on -the broad brown-stone railing of the balcony.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Now, <em>doesn’t</em> that music -make your heart leap?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: M’—yes.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: You know I haven’t the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> -least bit of sympathy with that affected talk about not -being moved by these things, and thinking it vulgar -and all that. I’m proud to say I love my country, and -I do love to see my country’s soldiers. Don’t you?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: M’—yes.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Of course, I can’t really -remember anything about the war, but I try to pretend -to myself that I do remember when I was held up at -the window to see the troops marching back from the -grand review at Washington. (<i>Rather more softly.</i>) -Mama told me about it often before she died. And -“Marching through Georgia” always makes the tears -come to my eyes; don’t it yours?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: M’—yes.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: “Yes!” How queerly -you say that!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> (<i>grimly</i>): I’m rather more inclined to -cry when the band makes</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“Stream and forest, hill and strand,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">Reverberate with ‘Dixie.’”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> (<i>coldly</i>): I’m afraid, Mr. -Jones, I do not understand you. And you appear to -have a very peculiar feeling about these things.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>rather absently</i>]: Well, yes, it is rather -a matter of feeling with me. Weak, I suppose—but -the fact is, Miss Van Rensselaer, it just breaks me up -to see all this. You know, the war hit me pretty hard. -I lost my brother in hospital after Seven Pines—and -then I lost my father, the best friend I ever had, at -Gettysburg, on the hill, you know, when he was leading<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> -his regiment, and his men couldn’t make him stay -back. So, you see, I wouldn’t have come here at all -to-day if—if—</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh, Mr. Jones, I’m <em>so -sorry</em>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>surprised</i>]: Sorry? Why?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: I didn’t quite understand -you—but I do now. Why, you’re taking off -your hat. What is it? Oh, the battle-flags!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: My father’s regiment.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>to herself</i>]: I wonder -if that is the regiment I saw coming back from Washington?</p> - -<h3>IV.<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE FOURTH CONVERSATION.</span></h3> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Tuesday</span>, August 22, 1882.</p> - -<p>The train rattled hotly along on its sultry journey -from one end of Long Island to the other, a journey the -half of which it had nearly accomplished with much -fuss and fret. Leaving his impediments of travel in -the smoker, Dear Jones entered the forward end of the -parlor car in search of an uncontaminated glass of -water. As he set down the glass he glanced along the -car, and his manner changed at once. He opened the -door for an instant and threw on the down track his -half-smoked cigarette; and then, smiling pleasantly, he -walked firmly down the car, past a rustic bridal couple, -and took a vacant seat just in front of Baby Van -Rensselaer.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Why, Mr. Jones!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Why, Miss Van Rensselaer!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Who would have thought -of seeing you here in this hot weather?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Can I have this seat or is it that I -<i lang="fr">mank</i> at the <i lang="fr">convenances</i>—as the French say?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: It’s Uncle Larry’s chair—he’s -gone back to talk to one of his vestrymen—he’s -taking me to Shelter Island.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Shelter Island? How long are you -going to stay there?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: And where are you going?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I’m going to Sag Harbor to build a -house for one of my billionaires.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Sag Harbor? What an -extraordinary place for a house.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Oh, that’s nothing. Last year I had -to build a house up in Chemung county.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Chemung?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>spelling it</i>]: C-h-e-m-u-n-g´—accent -on the mung. You probably call it Cheémung, but it -is really Sh’mung.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Where is it? and how -do you get there?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: By the <i lang="fr">Chemung de fer</i>, of course.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh, Mr. Jones.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: You see, my mind is relaxed by the -effort to build a house on the model of the one occupied -by the old woman who lived in a shoe—and that variety -of early English architecture is very wearing on the -taste. What sort of a house is it you are going to at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -Shelter Island? And how long are you going to stay -there?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh, it’s a stupid, old-fashioned -place [<i>pause</i>]. Do you think that bride is -pretty? I have been watching them ever since we -left New York. They have been to town on their -wedding-trip.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: She is ratherish pretty. And he’s a -shrewd fellow and likely to get on. I shouldn’t wonder -if he was the chief wire-puller of his “deestrick.”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: A village Hampden?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Some day he’ll withstand the little -tyrant of the fields and lead a revolt against the garden-sass -monopoly, and so sail into the legislature. I fear -the bride is destined to ruin her digestion in an Albany -boarding-house, while the groom gives his days and -nights to affairs of state.</p> - -<p class="hanging">Here the train slackened its speed as it approached -a small station from which shrill notes of music -arose.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Look, the bride is going -to leave us.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: He lives here, and the local fife and -drum corps have come to welcome him home. Dinna -ye hear that strident “Hail to the Chief,” they have -just executed?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: How proudly she looks -up at him! I think the band ought to play something -for her—but they are men, and they’ll never think -of it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: You cannot expect much tact from -two fifes and a bass drum, but unless my ears deceive -me they have greeted the bride with a well-meant -attempt at “Home, Sweet Home.”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“And each responsive soul has heard</div> -<div class="verse indent1">That plaintive note’s appealing.</div> -<div class="verse">So deeply ‘Home, Sweet Home’ has stirred</div> -<div class="verse indent1">The hidden founts of feeling.”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>surprised</i>]: Why—how did you -know that poem?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh, I heard somebody -quote it last Decoration Day—I don’t know who—it -struck me as very pretty and I looked it up.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>pleased</i>]: Oh, I remember. It has -always been a favorite of mine.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>coldly</i>]: Indeed?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>as the train starts again</i>]: Bride and -groom, fife and drum, fade away from sight and hearing. -I wonder if we shall ever think of them again?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: I shall, I’m sure. She -was so pretty. And, besides, the music was lively. I -shan’t have anything half as amusing as that at Shelter -Island.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Don’t you like it, then?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh, dear no! I shall be -glad to get away to my aunt’s place at Watch Hill. -It’s very poky indeed, at Shelter Island (<i>sighs</i>). And -to think that I shall have to spend just two weeks of -primness and propriety there.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Just two weeks? Ah!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> - -<h3>V.<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE FIFTH CONVERSATION.</span></h3> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Tuesday</span>, September 5, 1882. (Afternoon.)</p> - -<p>Although it is difficult to tell the length from the -breadth of the small steamer that plies between Sag -Harbor and New London, it is safe to assume that it -was the bow that was pointing away from the Shelter -Island dock as Baby Van Rensselaer stepped out of -the cabin and Dear Jones walked up to her, lifting his -hat with an expression of surprise on his face that -might have been better, considering that he had rehearsed -it a number of times since he left Sag Harbor.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Why, Mr. Jones!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>forgetting his lines, and improvising</i>]: -How—how—odd we should meet again just -here. Funny, isn’t it?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: It is exceedingly humorous.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I did not tell you, did I!—when I -saw you on the train, you know—that I had to go to -New London, after I’d finished my work at Sag Harbor.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>uncompromisingly</i>]: I -don’t think you said anything about New London -at all.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I probably said the Pequot House. -It’s the same thing, you know. I have to go to New -London to inspect the Race Rock lighthouse—you’ve -heard of the famous lighthouse at Race Rock, of course.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: I don’t think its fame has -reached me.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: It’s a very curious structure, indeed. -And, the fact is, one of my—my billionaires—wants -a lighthouse. He has an extraordinary notion of building -a lighthouse near his place on the seashore—a -lighthouse of his own. Odd idea, isn’t it?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: It is a very odd proceeding -altogether, I should say.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I suppose you mean that <em>I</em> am a very -odd proceeding. Well, I will confess, and throw myself -on your mercy. I <em>did</em> hope to meet you—and -the Duch—Mrs. Martin. After two weeks of the society -of billionaires, I think I’m excusable.… [<i>A -painful pause.</i>] And I <em>had</em> to go to Race Rock, so -I got off a day earlier than I had meant to, by cutting -one of the turrets out of my original plan—he didn’t -mind—there are eleven left—and—and—will you -forgive me?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Really, I have nothing to -forgive, Mr. Jones. I’ve no doubt my aunt will be -very glad to see you.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Ah—how <em>is</em> Mrs. Martin?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: She is in the cabin. She -is quite well at present; but she is always very nervous -about sea-sickness, and she prefers to lie down. I must -go in and sit with her.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>quickly</i>]: Indeed—I didn’t know -Mrs. Martin suffered from sea-sickness. She’s crossed -the ocean so many times, you know. How many is -it?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Six, I think.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: No; eight, isn’t it? I’m almost sure -it’s eight.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Very possibly. But she -is a great sufferer. I must go and see how she is.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Yes, we’ll go. I want to see Mrs. -Martin. One of the disadvantages of the summer season -is that one can’t see the Duchess at regular intervals -to exchange gossip.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Well, if you have any -confidential gossip for the Duchess, I will wait here -until you come out. I want to get all the fresh air -possible, if I have to sit in the cabin for the rest of the -trip.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>asserting himself</i>]: Very well. I -have the contents of four letters from Newport to -pour into the Duchess’s ear. You know I was staying -at the Hitchcocks’ for a fortnight, before I went to Sag -Harbor.</p> - -<p>He went into the stuffy little cabin, where the Duchess -was lying on a bench, in a wilderness of shawls. -Baby Van Rensselaer waited a good half-hour, but -heard no sound of returning footsteps from that -gloomy cave. Finally she went in to investigate, and -was told by the Duchess that “Dear Jones has gone -after, or whatever you call it, to smoke a cigar.” -Baby Van Rensselaer made up her mind that under -those circumstances she would go forward and read -her book. She also made up her mind that Mr. -Jones was extremely rude. His rudeness, she found,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -as she sat reading at the bow of the boat, really spoiled -her book. She knew that she ought not to let such -little things annoy her; but then, it was a very stupid -chapter, and the fresh sea breeze blew the pages back -and forward, and her veil would not stay over her hair, -and she always had hated traveling, and it was so disagreeable -to have people behave in that way—especially -people—well, any people. Just here she turned -her head, and saw Dear Jones advancing from the -cabin with a bright and smiling face.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>about to rise</i>]: My aunt -wants me, I suppose.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Not at all—not in the least—at present. -I just came through the cabin—on tiptoe—and -she was fast asleep. In fact, not to speak it profanely, -she was—she was audible.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I’m glad to see you’re getting the -benefit of the fresh air.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: I was afraid of waking -my aunt with the rustling of the leaves of my book, so -I came out here.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I’m glad you did. It would be a -shame for you to have to sit in that close cabin. -That’s the reason I didn’t come back to you when -I left Mrs. Martin. I played a pious fraud on you for -the benefit of your health.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: You were very considerate.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>enthusiastically</i>]: Oh, not at all.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>calmly</i>]: And if you’ll<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> -excuse me, I’ll finish my book. I can’t read in the -cabin.</p> - -<p>Baby Van Rensselaer resumed her reading and -found the book improved a little. After a while she -looked up and saw Dear Jones sitting on the rail, -meekly twirling his thumbs.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>after an effort at silence</i>]: -Don’t be so ridiculously absurd. What are you doing -there?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I’m waiting to be spoken to.</p> - -<p>Baby Van Rensselaer smiled. The boat had just -swung out of the jaws of the bay. Overhead was the -full glory of a sky which made one believe that there -never was such a thing as a cloud. And they sped -along over the sea of water in a sea of light. Just then -there came from the depths under the cabin the rise -and fall of a measured, mocking melody, high and -clear as the notes of a lark.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Why, that must be a -bird whistling—only birds don’t whistle “Amaryllis.”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: ’Tisn’t a bird—it’s an engineer.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: An engineer?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: A grimy engineer. Quite a pathetic -story, too. Some of the Sag Harbor people took him -up as a boy. He had a wonderful ear and an extraordinary -tenor voice. They were going to make a -Mario of him. They paid for his education in New -York, and then sent him over to Paris to the Conservatory -to be finished off. And he hadn’t been there -six weeks before he caught the regular Paris pleurisy—it’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -an <i lang="fr">article de Paris</i>, you know, and lost his voice -utterly and hopelessly.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: And so he had to come back and -engineer for his living.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: How very sad. Now I -can scarcely bear to hear him whistle.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>to himself</i>]: Well, I didn’t mean to -produce that effect. [<i>To her.</i>] Oh, he doesn’t mind -it a bit. Hear him now.</p> - -<p class="hanging">The engineer was executing a series of brilliant variations -on the “Air du Roi Louis XIII.,” melting by ingenious -gradations into the “Babies on our Block.”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>hastily</i>]: Race Rock lies over that -way. You can’t see it yet—but you will after a while.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Oh, then there <em>is</em> a Race -Rock?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Why, certainly.…</p> - -<p>With this starter, it may readily be understood that -a man of Dear Jones’s fecundity of intellect and fine -imaginative powers was able to fill the greater part of -the afternoon with fluent conversation. Two or three -times Baby Van Rensselaer made futile attempts to go -into the cabin to see how the Duchess was sleeping; -but as many times she forgot her errand. There was a -fair breeze blowing from the northeast, but the sea was -smooth, and the little boat scarcely rocked on the long, -low waves. It was getting toward four o’clock when -there was a sudden stoppage of the engineer’s whistling,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -and of the machinery of the boat. Baby Van -Rensselaer sent Dear Jones back to inquire into the -cause, for they were alone on the broad sea, with only -a tantalizing glimpse of New London harbor stretching -out welcoming arms of green, with the Groton monument -stuck like a huge clothes-pin on the left arm. -Dear Jones came back, trying hard to look decently -perturbed and gloomy, but with a barbarian joy lighting -up his bronzed features.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: What is it?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: The machinery is on a dead centre. -And the whistling engineer says that he’ll have to -wait until he can get into port and hitch a horse to the -crank to start her off again.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: But how are we to get -into port?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: The whistling engineer further says -that we are now drifting toward Watch Hill.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: That’s just where we -want to go.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Yes. [<i>An unholy toot from the steam -whistle.</i>] And there he is signalling that yacht to take -us off!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: I must go to my aunt -now.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Why—there’s no hurry.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: No, but she’ll be so -frightened—she’ll think it’s going to blow up or -something.</p> - -<p>Baby Van Rensselaer disappeared in the depths of -the cabin. Dear Jones disconsolately walked the deck<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -in solitary silence for five minutes. When Baby Van -Rensselaer reappeared, his spirits rose.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: My aunt is afraid you -may have difficulty in reaching New London to-night. -She wants me to ask you if you won’t stay over-night -at her place at Watch Hill?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Won’t I? Well, I will—have much -pleasure in accepting your aunt’s invitation.</p> - -<h3>VI.<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE SIXTH CONVERSATION.</span></h3> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Tuesday</span>, September 5, 1882. (Evening.)</p> - -<p>A row of Japanese lanterns shed a Cathayan light -along the little path leading from the Duchess’s house -on a rocky promontory to the little beach which nestled -under its shoulder. The moon softly and judiciously -lit up the baby breakers which in Long Island Sound -imitate the surf of the outer sea. It threw eerie -shadows behind the bath-houses, and fell with gentle -radiance upon two dripping but shapely figures emerging -from the water, where the other bathers were unwisely -lingering.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I think this is simply delightful. I -really never got the perfect enjoyment of an evening -swim before.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: I am glad you enjoyed it.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: There is something so charming in -this aristocratic seclusion, with the shouts and laughter -of the vulgar herd just far enough off to be picturesque—if -you can call a noise picturesque.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>coldly</i>]: I think this beach -might be a little more private—it’s shared in common -by these three cottages.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: But they seem to be very nice people -here. And they all swim so well, it quite put me on -my mettle. You are really a splendid swimmer, do -you know it? And that girl I towed out to the buoy, -who is she?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span> [<i>explosively</i>]: Mr. Jones, -this is positively insulting!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Wh—what—wh—why? I don’t -understand you.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: To pretend that you don’t -know that Hitchcock woman!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>innocently</i>]: Was that Miss Hitchcock? -I didn’t recognize her.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: If this is your idea of -humor, Mr. Jones, it is simply offensive!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: But, upon my soul, I didn’t know the -girl—nor she me!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: You didn’t know her? -After you have been staying two weeks at her house -at Newport?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>with something like dignity</i>]: I was -staying at her father’s house, Miss Van Rensselaer, -and Miss Hitchcock was away on a visit.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Up the Saguenay, perhaps?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Very likely. Miss Hitchcock may -have left a large part of the Saguenay unexplored for -all I know. I was introduced to her party only half -an hour before we got off the boat at Quebec.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Long enough, however, -to discover that she was “bright.”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: Quite long enough, Miss Van Rensselaer. -One may find out a great deal of another’s -character in half an hour.</p> - -<p class="hanging">There was a pause, which was filled by the strains -of a Virginia reel, coming from one of the cottages -high up on the bank, where an impromptu dance was -just begun. The moonlight fell on Baby Van Rensselaer’s -little white teeth, set firmly between her parted -lips. The pause was broken.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: If you propose to descend -to brutality of this sort, Mr. Jones, I think we need -prolong neither the conversation—nor the acquaintance.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span> [<i>honestly</i>]: No—you can’t mean that—Miss -Van Rensselaer—Baby—</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: What, sir! Your familiarity -is—I can’t stand familiarity from you! (<i>She -clenches her little hands.</i>)</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: You have no right to treat me like -this. If I am familiar it is because I love you—and -you know it!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: This is the first I have -heard of it, sir. I trust it will be the last. Will you -kindly permit me to pass, or must I—</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: You may go where you wish, Miss -Van Rensselaer—No, come, this is ridiculous—</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Is it?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I mean it is foolish. Don’t let us—</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: Don’t let us see each -other again!</p> - -<h3>VII.<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE SEVENTH CONVERSATION.</span></h3> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Thursday</span>, February 14, 1884.</p> - -<p>As the soft, low notes of the wedding-march from -“Lohengrin” fell gently from the organ-loft over the -entrance of Grace Church, the quartet of able-bodied -ushers passed up the centre aisle and parted the white -ribbons—a silken barrier which they had gallantly -defended for an hour in a vain effort to keep the -common herd of acquaintance separate from the chosen -many of the family. Behind them came two pretty -little girls, strewing the aisle with white flowers from -their aprons. The four bridesmaids, two abreast, passed -up the aisle after the little girls, proud in their reflected -glory. Then came the bride, leaning on Judge Gillespie’s -arm, and radiant with youth and beauty and -happiness. As the procession drew near the chancel-rail, -the groom came from the vestry and advanced to -meet her, accompanied by his best man, Uncle Larry, -who relieved him of his hat and overcoat, the which -he would dextrously return to him when the happy -couple should leave the church man and wife. And in -due time the Bishop asked, “Wilt thou have this -Woman to thy wedded wife?”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Jones</span>: I will.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Bishop asked again, “Wilt thou have this Man -to thy wedded husband?”</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Baby Van Rensselaer</span>: I will.</p> - -<p class="hanging">As they knelt at the altar the sun came out and fell -through the window, and the stained glass sifted down -on them the mingled hues of hope and of faith and -love; and the Bishop blessed them.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="THE_RIVAL_GHOSTS">THE RIVAL GHOSTS.</h2> - -<p class="author">BY BRANDER MATTHEWS.</p> - -<p>The good ship sped on her way across the calm -Atlantic. It was an outward passage, according -to the little charts which the company had charily distributed, -but most of the passengers were homeward -bound, after a summer of rest and recreation, and they -were counting the days before they might hope to see -Fire Island Light. On the lee side of the boat, comfortably -sheltered from the wind, and just by the door -of the captain’s room (which was theirs during the day), -sat a little group of returning Americans. The Duchess -(she was down on the purser’s list as Mrs. -Martin, but her friends and familiars called her the -Duchess of Washington Square) and Baby Van Rensselaer -(she was quite old enough to vote, had her sex -been entitled to that duty, but as the younger of two -sisters she was still the baby of the family)—the -Duchess and Baby Van Rensselaer were discussing -the pleasant English voice and the not unpleasant -English accent of a manly young lordling who was -going to America for sport. Uncle Larry and Dear -Jones were enticing each other into a bet on the ship’s -run of the morrow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I’ll give you two to one she don’t make 420,” said -Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>“I’ll take it,” answered Uncle Larry. “We made -427 the fifth day last year.” It was Uncle Larry’s -seventeenth visit to Europe, and this was therefore his -thirty-fourth voyage.</p> - -<p>“And when did you get in?” asked Baby Van -Rensselaer. “I don’t care a bit about the run, so -long as we get in soon.”</p> - -<p>“We crossed the bar Sunday night, just seven days -after we left Queenstown, and we dropped anchor off -Quarantine at three o’clock on Monday morning.”</p> - -<p>“I hope we sha’n’t do that this time. I can’t seem -to sleep any when the boat stops.”</p> - -<p>“I can; but I didn’t,” continued Uncle Larry; -“because my stateroom was the most for’ard in the -boat, and the donkey-engine that let down the anchor -was right over my head.”</p> - -<p>“So you got up and saw the sunrise over the bay,” -said Dear Jones, “with the electric lights of the city -twinkling in the distance, and the first faint flush of -the dawn in the east just over Fort Lafayette, and the -rosy tinge which spread softly upward, and”—</p> - -<p>“Did you both come back together?” asked the -Duchess.</p> - -<p>“Because he has crossed thirty-four times you must -not suppose he has a monopoly in sunrises,” retorted -Dear Jones. “No; this was my own sunrise; and a -mighty pretty one it was, too.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not matching sunrises with you,” remarked -Uncle Larry calmly; “but I’m willing to back a merry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> -jest called forth by my sunrise against any two merry -jests called forth by yours.”</p> - -<p>“I confess reluctantly that my sunrise evoked no -merry jest at all.” Dear Jones was an honest man, -and would scorn to invent a merry jest on the spur of -the moment.</p> - -<p>“That’s where my sunrise has the call,” said Uncle -Larry complacently.</p> - -<p>“What was the merry jest?” was Baby Van Rensselaer’s -inquiry, the natural result of a feminine curiosity -thus artistically excited.</p> - -<p>“Well, here it is. I was standing aft, near a patriotic -American and a wandering Irishman, and the -patriotic American rashly declared that you couldn’t -see a sunrise like that anywhere in Europe, and this -gave the Irishman his chance, and he said, ‘Sure ye -don’t have ’m here till we’re through with ’em over -there.’”</p> - -<p>“It is true,” said Dear Jones thoughtfully, “that -they do have some things over there better than we do; -for instance, umbrellas.”</p> - -<p>“And gowns,” added the Duchess.</p> - -<p>“And antiquities”—this was Uncle Larry’s contribution.</p> - -<p>“And we do have some things so much better in -America!” protested Baby Van Rensselaer, as yet -uncorrupted by any worship of the effete monarchies -of despotic Europe. “We make lots of things a great -deal nicer than you can get them in Europe—especially -ice-cream.”</p> - -<p>“And pretty girls,” added Dear Jones; but he did -not look at her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p> - -<p>“And spooks,” remarked Uncle Larry casually.</p> - -<p>“Spooks?” queried the Duchess.</p> - -<p>“Spooks. I maintain the word. Ghosts, if you like -that better, or spectres. We turn out the best quality -of spook”—</p> - -<p>“You forget the lovely ghost stories about the Rhine, -and the Black Forest,” interrupted Miss Van Rensselaer, -with feminine inconsistency.</p> - -<p>“I remember the Rhine and the Black Forest and -all the other haunts of elves and fairies and hobgoblins; -but for good honest spooks there is no place like home. -And what differentiates our spook—<i lang="la">spiritus Americanus</i>—from -the ordinary ghost of literature is that -it responds to the American sense of humor. Take -Irving’s stories, for example. <cite>The Headless Horseman</cite>, -that’s a comic ghost story. And Rip Van -Winkle—consider what humor, and what good-humor, -there is in the telling of his meeting with the -goblin crew of Hendrik Hudson’s men! A still better -example of this American way of dealing with legend -and mystery is the marvellous tale of the rival ghosts.”</p> - -<p>“The rival ghosts?” queried the Duchess and Baby -Van Rensselaer together. “Who were they?”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t I ever tell you about them?” answered -Uncle Larry, a gleam of approaching joy flashing -from his eye.</p> - -<p>“Since he is bound to tell us sooner or later, we’d -better be resigned, and hear it now,” said Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>“If you are not more eager, I won’t tell it at all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do, Uncle Larry; you know I just dote on -ghost stories,” pleaded Baby Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Once upon a time,” began Uncle Larry—“in fact, -a very few years ago—there lived in the thriving -town of New York a young American called Duncan—Eliphalet -Duncan. Like his name, he was half -Yankee and half Scotch, and naturally he was a lawyer, -and had come to New York to make his way. His -father was a Scotchman, who had come over and -settled in Boston, and married a Salem girl. When -Eliphalet Duncan was about twenty he lost both of his -parents. His father left him with enough money to -give him a start, and a strong feeling of pride in his -Scotch birth; you see there was a title in the family -in Scotland, and although Eliphalet’s father was the -younger son of a younger son, yet he always remembered, -and always bade his only son to remember, that -his ancestry was noble. His mother left him her full -share of Yankee grit, and a little old house in Salem -which had belonged to her family for more than two -hundred years. She was a Hitchcock, and the Hitchcocks -had been settled in Salem since the year 1. It -was a great-great-grandfather of Mr. Eliphalet Hitchcock -who was foremost in the time of the Salem -witchcraft craze. And this little old house which she -left to my friend Eliphalet Duncan was haunted.”</p> - -<p>“By the ghost of one of the witches, of course,” -interrupted Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>“Now how could it be the ghost of a witch, since -the witches were all burned at the stake? You never -heard of anybody who was burned having a ghost, did -you?”</p> - -<p>“That’s an argument in favor of cremation, at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> -any rate,” replied Jones, evading the direct question.</p> - -<p>“It is, if you don’t like ghosts. I do,” said Baby -Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p>“And so do I,” added Uncle Larry. “I love a -ghost as dearly as an Englishman loves a lord.”</p> - -<p>“Go on with your story,” said the Duchess, majestically -overruling all extraneous discussion.</p> - -<p>“This little old house at Salem was haunted,” resumed -Uncle Larry. “And by a very distinguished -ghost—or at least by a ghost with very remarkable -attributes.”</p> - -<p>“What was he like?” asked Baby Van Rensselaer, -with a premonitory shiver of anticipatory delight.</p> - -<p>“It had a lot of peculiarities. In the first place, it -never appeared to the master of the house. Mostly it -confined its visitations to unwelcome guests. In the -course of the last hundred years it had frightened -away four successive mothers-in-law, while never intruding -on the head of the household.”</p> - -<p>“I guess that ghost had been one of the boys when -he was alive and in the flesh.” This was Dear Jones’s -contribution to the telling of the tale.</p> - -<p>“In the second place,” continued Uncle Larry, “it -never frightened anybody the first time it appeared. -Only on the second visit were the ghost-seers scared; -but then they were scared enough for twice, and they -rarely mustered up courage enough to risk a third -interview. One of the most curious characteristics of -this well-meaning spook was that it had no face—or -at least that nobody ever saw its face.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Perhaps he kept his countenance veiled?” queried -the Duchess, who was beginning to remember that she -never did like ghost stories.</p> - -<p>“That was what I was never able to find out. I -have asked several people who saw the ghost, and none -of them could tell me anything about its face, and yet -while in its presence they never noticed its features, -and never remarked on their absence or concealment. -It was only afterward when they tried to recall calmly -all the circumstances of meeting with the mysterious -stranger, that they became aware that they had not -seen its face. And they could not say whether the -features were covered, or whether they were wanting, -or what the trouble was. They knew only that the -face was never seen. And no matter how often they -might see it, they never fathomed this mystery. To -this day nobody knows whether the ghost which used -to haunt the little old house in Salem had a face, or -what manner of face it had.”</p> - -<p>“How awfully weird!” said Baby Van Rensselaer. -“And why did the ghost go away?”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t said it went away,” answered Uncle -Larry, with much dignity.</p> - -<p>“But you said it <em>used</em> to haunt the little old house -at Salem, so I supposed it had moved. Didn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“You shall be told in due time. Eliphalet Duncan -used to spend most of his summer vacations at Salem, -and the ghost never bothered him at all, for he was -the master of the house—much to his disgust, too, -because he wanted to see for himself the mysterious -tenant at will of his property. But he never saw it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -never. He arranged with friends to call him whenever -it might appear, and he slept in the next room -with the door open; and yet when their frightened -cries waked him the ghost was gone, and his only -reward was to hear reproachful sighs as soon as he -went back to bed. You see, the ghost thought it was -not fair of Eliphalet to seek an introduction which was -plainly unwelcome.”</p> - -<p>Dear Jones interrupted the story-teller by getting up -and tucking a heavy rug more snugly around Baby Van -Rensselaer’s feet, for the sky was now overcast and -gray, and the air was damp and penetrating.</p> - -<p>“One fine spring morning,” pursued Uncle Larry, -“Eliphalet Duncan received great news. I told you -that there was a title in the family in Scotland, and -that Eliphalet’s father was the younger son of a younger -son. Well, it happened that all Eliphalet’s father’s -brothers and uncles had died off without male issue -except the eldest son of the eldest, and he, of course, -bore the title, and was Baron Duncan of Duncan. -Now the great news that Eliphalet Duncan received -in New York one fine spring morning was that Baron -Duncan and his only son had been yachting in the -Hebrides, and they had been caught in a black squall, -and they were both dead. So my friend Eliphalet -Duncan inherited the title and the estates.”</p> - -<p>“How romantic!” said the Duchess. “So he was -a baron!”</p> - -<p>“Well,” answered Uncle Larry, “he was a baron if -he chose. But he didn’t choose.”</p> - -<p>“More fool he!” said Dear Jones sententiously.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well,” answered Uncle Larry, “I’m not so sure -of that. You see, Eliphalet Duncan was half Scotch -and half Yankee, and he had two eyes to the main -chance. He held his tongue about his windfall of luck -until he could find out whether the Scotch estates were -enough to keep up the Scotch title. He soon discovered -that they were not, and that the late Lord Duncan, having -married money, kept up such state as he could out -of the revenues of the dowry of Lady Duncan. And -Eliphalet, he decided that he would rather be a well-fed -lawyer in New York, living comfortably on his -practice, than a starving lord in Scotland, living scantily -on his title.”</p> - -<p>“But he kept his title?” asked the Duchess.</p> - -<p>“Well,” answered Uncle Larry, “he kept it quiet. -I knew it, and a friend or two more. But Eliphalet -was a sight too smart to put Baron Duncan of Duncan, -Attorney and Counsellor at Law, on his shingle.”</p> - -<p>“What has all this got to do with your ghost?” -asked Dear Jones pertinently.</p> - -<p>“Nothing with that ghost, but a good deal with another -ghost. Eliphalet was very learned in spirit lore—perhaps -because he owned the haunted house at -Salem, perhaps because he was a Scotchman by descent. -At all events, he had made a special study of -the wraiths and white ladies and banshees and bogies -of all kinds whose sayings and doings and warnings are -recorded in the annals of the Scottish nobility. In -fact, he was acquainted with the habits of every reputable -spook in the Scotch peerage. And he knew -that there was a Duncan ghost attached to the person<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> -of the holder of the title of Baron Duncan of -Duncan.”</p> - -<p>“So, besides being the owner of a haunted house in -Salem, he was also a haunted man in Scotland?” asked -Baby Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p>“Just so. But the Scotch ghost was not unpleasant, -like the Salem ghost, although it had one peculiarity in -common with its transatlantic fellow-spook. It never -appeared to the holder of the title, just as the other -never was visible to the owner of the house. In fact, -the Duncan ghost was never seen at all. It was a -guardian angel only. Its sole duty was to be in personal -attendance on Baron Duncan of Duncan, and to -warn him of impending evil. The traditions of the -house told that the Barons of Duncan had again and -again felt a premonition of ill fortune. Some of them -had yielded and withdrawn from the venture they -had undertaken, and it had failed dismally. Some had -been obstinate, and had hardened their hearts, and had -gone on reckless to defeat and to death. In no case -had a Lord Duncan been exposed to peril without fair -warning.”</p> - -<p>“Then how came it that the father and son were -lost in the yacht off the Hebrides?” asked Dear -Jones.</p> - -<p>“Because they were too enlightened to yield to -superstition. There is extant now a letter of Lord -Duncan, written to his wife a few minutes before he -and his son set sail, in which he tells her how hard he -has had to struggle with an almost overmastering desire -to give up the trip. Had he obeyed the friendly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> -warning of the family ghost, the latter would have -been spared a journey across the Atlantic.”</p> - -<p>“Did the ghost leave Scotland for America as soon -as the old baron died?” asked Baby Van Rensselaer, -with much interest.</p> - -<p>“How did he come over,” queried Dear Jones—“in -the steerage, or as a cabin passenger?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” answered Uncle Larry calmly, -“and Eliphalet, he didn’t know. For as he was in no -danger, and stood in no need of warning, he couldn’t -tell whether the ghost was on duty or not. Of course -he was on the watch for it all the time. But he never -got any proof of its presence until he went down to the -little old house of Salem, just before the Fourth of -July. He took a friend down with him—a young -fellow who had been in the regular army since the day -Fort Sumter was fired on, and who thought that after -four years of the little unpleasantness down South, including -six months in Libby, and after ten years of -fighting the bad Indians on the plains, he wasn’t likely -to be much frightened by a ghost. Well, Eliphalet -and the officer sat out on the porch all the evening -smoking and talking over points in military law. A -little after twelve o’clock, just as they began to think -it was about time to turn in, they heard the most -ghastly noise in the house. It wasn’t a shriek, or a -howl, or a yell, or anything they could put a name to. -It was an undeterminate, inexplicable shiver and shudder -of sound, which went wailing out of the window. -The officer had been at Cold Harbor, but he felt himself -getting colder this time. Eliphalet knew it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -the ghost who haunted the house. As this weird sound -died away, it was followed by another, sharp, short, -blood-curdling in its intensity. Something in this cry -seemed familiar to Eliphalet, and he felt sure that it -proceeded from the family ghost, the warning wraith -of the Duncans.”</p> - -<p>“Do I understand you to intimate that both ghosts -were there together?” inquired the Duchess anxiously.</p> - -<p>“Both of them were there,” answered Uncle Larry. -“You see, one of them belonged to the house, and had -to be there all the time, and the other was attached to -the person of Baron Duncan, and had to follow him -there; wherever he was, there was that ghost also. -But Eliphalet, he had scarcely time to think this out -when he heard both sounds again, not one after another, -but both together, and something told him—some -sort of an instinct he had—that those two -ghosts didn’t agree, didn’t get on together, didn’t -exactly hit it off; in fact, that they were quarrelling.”</p> - -<p>“Quarrelling ghosts! Well, I never!” was Baby -Van Rensselaer’s remark.</p> - -<p>“It is a blessed thing to see ghosts dwell together in -unity,” said Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>And the Duchess added, “It would certainly be setting -a better example.”</p> - -<p>“You know,” resumed Uncle Larry, “that two waves -of light or of sound may interfere and produce darkness -or silence. So it was with these rival spooks. They -interfered, but they did not produce silence or darkness. -On the contrary, as soon as Eliphalet and the -officer went into the house, there began at once a series<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> -of spiritualistic manifestations, a regular dark séance. -A tambourine was played upon, a bell was rung, and a -flaming banjo went singing around the room.”</p> - -<p>“Where did they get the banjo?” asked Dear Jones -skeptically.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Materialized it, maybe, just as -they did the tambourine. You don’t suppose a quiet -New York lawyer kept a stock of musical instruments -large enough to fit out a strolling minstrel troupe just -on the chance of a pair of ghosts coming to give him a -surprise party, do you? Every spook has its own instrument -of torture. Angels play on harps, I’m informed, -and spirits delight in banjos and tambourines. These -spooks of Eliphalet Duncan’s were ghosts with all the -modern improvements, and I guess they were capable -of providing their own musical weapons. At all -events, they had them there in the little old house at -Salem the night Eliphalet and his friend came down. -And they played on them, and they rang the bell, and -they rapped here, there, and everywhere. And they -kept it up all night.”</p> - -<p>“All night?” asked the awe-stricken Duchess.</p> - -<p>“All night long,” said Uncle Larry solemnly; “and -the next night, too. Eliphalet did not get a wink of -sleep, neither did his friend. On the second night the -house ghost was seen by the officer; on the third night -it showed itself again; and the next morning the -officer packed his grip-sack and took the first train to -Boston. He was a New Yorker, but he said he’d -sooner go to Boston than see that ghost again. Eliphalet, -he wasn’t scared at all, partly because he never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -saw either the domiciliary or the titular spook, and -partly because he felt himself on friendly terms with -the spirit world, and didn’t scare easily. But after -losing three nights’ sleep and the society of his friend, -he began to be a little impatient, and to think that the -thing had gone far enough. You see, while in a way -he was fond of ghosts, yet he liked them best one at -a time. Two ghosts were one too many. He wasn’t -bent on making a collection of spooks. He and one -ghost were company, but he and two ghosts were a -crowd.”</p> - -<p>“What did he do?” asked Baby Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p>“Well, he couldn’t do anything. He waited awhile, -hoping they would get tired; but he got tired out -first. You see, it comes natural to a spook to sleep in -the daytime, but a man wants to sleep nights, and they -wouldn’t let him sleep nights. They kept on wrangling -and quarrelling incessantly; they manifested and -they dark-séanced as regularly as the old clock on the -stairs struck twelve; they rapped and they rang bells -and they banged the tambourine and they threw the -flaming banjo about the house, and, worse than all, -they swore.”</p> - -<p>“I did not know that spirits were addicted to bad -language,” said the Duchess.</p> - -<p>“How did he know they were swearing? Could he -hear them?” asked Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>“That was just it,” responded Uncle Larry; “he -could not hear them—at least not distinctly. There -were inarticulate murmurs and stifled rumblings. But -the impression produced on him was that they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> -swearing. If they had only sworn right out, he would -not have minded it so much, because he would have -known the worst. But the feeling that the air was full -of suppressed profanity was very wearing, and after -standing it for a week, he gave up in disgust and went -to the White Mountains.”</p> - -<p>“Leaving them to fight it out, I suppose,” interjected -Baby Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” explained Uncle Larry. “They could -not quarrel unless he was present. You see, he could -not leave the titular ghost behind him, and the domiciliary -ghost could not leave the house. When he went -away he took the family ghost with him, leaving the -house ghost behind. Now spooks can’t quarrel when -they are a hundred miles apart any more than men -can.”</p> - -<p>“And what happened afterward?” asked Baby Van -Rensselaer, with a pretty impatience.</p> - -<p>“A most marvellous thing happened. Eliphalet -Duncan went to the White Mountains, and in the car -of the railroad that runs to the top of Mount Washington -he met a classmate whom he had not seen for -years, and this classmate introduced Duncan to his sister, -and this sister was a remarkably pretty girl, and -Duncan fell in love with her at first sight, and by the -time he got to the top of Mount Washington he was -so deep in love that he began to consider his own unworthiness, -and to wonder whether she might ever be -induced to care for him a little—ever so little.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think that is so marvellous a thing,” said -Dear Jones, glancing at Baby Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Who was she?” asked the Duchess, who had once -lived in Philadelphia.</p> - -<p>“She was Miss Kitty Sutton, of San Francisco, and -she was a daughter of old Judge Sutton, of the firm of -Pixley and Sutton.”</p> - -<p>“A very respectable family,” assented the Duchess.</p> - -<p>“I hope she wasn’t a daughter of that loud and -vulgar old Mrs. Sutton whom I met at Saratoga, one -summer, four or five years ago?” said Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>“Probably she was.”</p> - -<p>“She was a horrid old woman. The boys used to -call her Mother Gorgon.”</p> - -<p>“The pretty Kitty Sutton with whom Eliphalet -Duncan had fallen in love was the daughter of Mother -Gorgon. But he never saw the mother, who was in -’Frisco, or Los Angeles, or Santa Fé, or somewhere out -West, and he saw a great deal of the daughter, who -was up in the White Mountains. She was travelling -with her brother and his wife, and as they journeyed -from hotel to hotel, Duncan went with them, and filled -out the quartette. Before the end of the summer he -began to think about proposing. Of course he had -lots of chances, going on excursions as they were -every day. He made up his mind to seize the first -opportunity, and that very evening he took her out -for a moonlight row on Lake Winnipiseogee. As he -handed her into the boat he resolved to do it, and he -had a glimmer of a suspicion that she knew he was -going to do it, too.”</p> - -<p>“Girls,” said Dear Jones, “never go out in a row-boat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> -at night with a young man unless you mean to -accept him.”</p> - -<p>“Sometimes it’s best to refuse him, and get it over -once for all,” said Baby Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p>“As Eliphalet took the oars he felt a sudden chill. -He tried to shake it off, but in vain. He began to -have a growing consciousness of impending evil. Before -he had taken ten strokes—and he was a swift -oarsman—he was aware of a mysterious presence between -him and Miss Sutton.”</p> - -<p>“Was it the guardian-angel ghost warning him off -the match?” interrupted Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>“That’s just what it was,” said Uncle Larry. “And -he yielded to it, and kept his peace, and rowed Miss -Sutton back to the hotel with his proposal unspoken.”</p> - -<p>“More fool he,” said Dear Jones. “It will take -more than one ghost to keep me from proposing when -my mind is made up.” And he looked at Baby Van -Rensselaer.</p> - -<p>“The next morning,” continued Uncle Larry, -“Eliphalet overslept himself, and when he went down -to a late breakfast he found that the Suttons had gone -to New York by the morning train. He wanted to -follow them at once, and again he felt the mysterious -presence overpowering his will. He struggled two -days, and at last he roused himself to do what he -wanted in spite of the spook. When he arrived in -New York it was late in the evening. He dressed -himself hastily, and went to the hotel where the Suttons -put up, in the hope of seeing at least her brother. -The guardian angel fought every inch of the walk with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> -him, until he began to wonder whether, if Miss Sutton -were to take him, the spook would forbid the banns. -At the hotel he saw no one that night, and he went -home determined to call as early as he could the next -afternoon, and make an end of it. When he left his -office about two o’clock the next day to learn his fate, -he had not walked five blocks before he discovered -that the wraith of the Duncans had withdrawn his opposition -to the suit. There was no feeling of impending -evil, no resistance, no struggle, no consciousness of -an opposing presence. Eliphalet was greatly encouraged. -He walked briskly to the hotel; he found Miss -Sutton alone. He asked her the question, and got his -answer.”</p> - -<p>“She accepted him, of course,” said Baby Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said Uncle Larry. “And while they -were in the first flush of joy, swapping confidences and -confessions, her brother came into the parlor with an -expression of pain on his face and a telegram in his -hand. The former was caused by the latter, which -was from ’Frisco, and which announced the sudden -death of Mrs. Sutton, their mother.”</p> - -<p>“And that was why the ghost no longer opposed -the match?” questioned Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>“Exactly. You see, the family ghost knew that -Mother Gorgon was an awful obstacle to Duncan’s -happiness, so it warned him. But the moment the -obstacle was removed, it gave its consent at once.”</p> - -<p>The fog was lowering its thick damp curtain, and it -was beginning to be difficult to see from one end of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> -boat to the other. Dear Jones tightened the rug which -enwrapped Baby Van Rensselaer, and then withdrew -again into his own substantial coverings.</p> - -<p>Uncle Larry paused in his story long enough to light -another of the tiny cigars he always smoked.</p> - -<p>“I infer that Lord Duncan”—the Duchess was -scrupulous in the bestowal of titles—“saw no more of -the ghosts after he was married.”</p> - -<p>“He never saw them at all, at any time, either before -or since. But they came very near breaking off -the match, and thus breaking two young hearts.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean to say that they knew any just -cause or impediment why they should not forever after -hold their peace?” asked Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>“How could a ghost, or even two ghosts, keep a girl -from marrying the man she loved?” This was Baby -Van Rensselaer’s question.</p> - -<p>“It seems curious, doesn’t it?” and Uncle Larry -tried to warm himself by two or three sharp pulls at -his fiery little cigar. “And the circumstances are -quite as curious as the fact itself. You see, Miss Sutton -wouldn’t be married for a year after her mother’s -death, so she and Duncan had lots of time to tell each -other all they knew. Eliphalet, he got to know a good -deal about the girls she went to school with, and Kitty, -she learned all about his family. He didn’t tell her -about the title for a long time, as he wasn’t one to -brag. But he described to her the little old house at -Salem. And one evening toward the end of the summer, -the wedding-day having been appointed for early -in September, she told him that she didn’t want a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> -bridal tour at all; she just wanted to go down to the -little old house at Salem to spend her honeymoon in -peace and quiet, with nothing to do and nobody to -bother them. Well, Eliphalet jumped at the suggestion: -it suited him down to the ground. All of a sudden -he remembered the spooks, and it knocked him all -of a heap. He had told her about the Duncan banshee, -and the idea of having an ancestral ghost in personal -attendance on her husband tickled her immensely. -But he had never said anything about the ghost which -haunted the little old house at Salem. He knew she -would be frightened out of her wits if the house ghost -revealed itself to her, and he saw at once that it would -be impossible to go to Salem on their wedding trip. -So he told her all about it, and how whenever he went -to Salem the two ghosts interfered, and gave dark -séances and manifested and materialized and made the -place absolutely impossible. Kitty, she listened in -silence, and Eliphalet, he thought she had changed her -mind. But she hadn’t done anything of the kind.”</p> - -<p>“Just like a man—to think she was going to,” remarked -Baby Van Rensselaer.</p> - -<p>“She just told him she could not bear ghosts herself, -but she would not marry a man who was afraid of -them.”</p> - -<p>“Just like a girl—to be so inconsistent,” remarked -Dear Jones.</p> - -<p>Uncle Larry’s tiny cigar had long been extinct. He -lighted a new one, and continued: “Eliphalet protested -in vain. Kitty said her mind was made up. -She was determined to pass her honeymoon in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> -little old house at Salem, and she was equally determined -not to go there as long as there were any ghosts -there. Until he could assure her that the spectral tenant -had received notice to quit, and that there was no -danger of manifestations and materializing, she refused -to be married at all. She did not intend to have her -honeymoon interrupted by two wrangling ghosts, and -the wedding could be postponed until he had made -ready the house for her.”</p> - -<p>“She was an unreasonable young woman,” said the -Duchess.</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s what Eliphalet thought, much as he -was in love with her. And he believed he could talk -her out of her determination. But he couldn’t. She -was set. And when a girl is set, there’s nothing to do -but to yield to the inevitable. And that’s just what -Eliphalet did. He saw he would either have to give -her up or to get the ghosts out; and as he loved her -and did not care for the ghosts, he resolved to tackle -the ghosts. He had clear grit, Eliphalet had—he was -half Scotch and half Yankee, and neither breed turns -tail in a hurry. So he made his plans and he went -down to Salem. As he said good-by to Kitty he had -an impression that she was sorry she had made him go, -but she kept up bravely, and put a bold face on it, and -saw him off, and went home and cried for an hour, and -was perfectly miserable until he came back the next -day.”</p> - -<p>“Did he succeed in driving the ghosts away?” -asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with great interest.</p> - -<p>“That’s just what I’m coming to,” said Uncle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> -Larry, pausing at the critical moment, in the manner -of the trained story-teller. “You see, Eliphalet had -got a rather tough job, and he would gladly have had -an extension of time on the contract, but he had to -choose between the girl and the ghosts, and he wanted -the girl. He tried to invent or remember some short -and easy way with ghosts, but he couldn’t. He wished -that somebody had invented a specific for spooks—something -that would make the ghosts come out of the -house and die in the yard. He wondered if he could -not tempt the ghosts to run in debt, so that he might -get the sheriff to help him. He wondered also whether -the ghosts could not be overcome with strong drink—a -dissipated spook, a spook with delirium tremens, -might be committed to the inebriate asylum. But -none of these things seemed feasible.”</p> - -<p>“What did he do?” interrupted Dear Jones. “The -learned counsel will please speak to the point.”</p> - -<p>“You will regret this unseemly haste,” said Uncle -Larry, gravely, “when you know what really happened.”</p> - -<p>“What was it, Uncle Larry?” asked Baby Van -Rensselaer. “I’m all impatience.”</p> - -<p>And Uncle Larry proceeded:</p> - -<p>“Eliphalet went down to the little old house at -Salem, and as soon as the clock struck twelve the rival -ghosts began wrangling as before. Raps here, there, -and everywhere, ringing bells, banging tambourines, -strumming banjos sailing about the room, and all the -other manifestations and materializations followed one -another just as they had the summer before. The only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -difference Eliphalet could detect was a stronger flavor -in the spectral profanity; and this, of course, was only a -vague impression, for he did not actually hear a single -word. He waited awhile in patience, listening and -watching. Of course he never saw either of the ghosts, -because neither of them could appear to him. At last -he got his dander up, and he thought it was about time -to interfere, so he rapped on the table, and asked for -silence. As soon as he felt that the spooks were listening -to him he explained the situation to them. He -told them he was in love, and that he could not marry -unless they vacated the house. He appealed to them -as old friends, and he laid claim to their gratitude. The -titular ghost had been sheltered by the Duncan family -for hundreds of years, and the domiciliary ghost had -had free lodging in the little old house at Salem for -nearly two centuries. He implored them to settle their -differences, and to get him out of his difficulty at once. -He suggested that they had better fight it out then and -there, and see who was master. He had brought down -with him all needful weapons. And he pulled out his -valise, and spread on the table a pair of navy revolvers, -a pair of shot-guns, a pair of duelling swords, and a -couple of bowie-knives. He offered to serve as second -for both parties, and to give the word when to begin. -He also took out of his valise a pack of cards and a -bottle of poison, telling them that if they wished to -avoid carnage they might cut the cards to see which -one should take the poison. Then he waited anxiously -for their reply. For a little space there was silence. -Then he became conscious of a tremulous shivering in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -one corner of the room, and he remembered that he -had heard from that direction what sounded like a -frightened sigh when he made the first suggestion of -the duel. Something told him that this was the domiciliary -ghost, and that it was badly scared. Then he -was impressed by a certain movement in the opposite -corner of the room, as though the titular ghost were -drawing himself up with offended dignity. Eliphalet -couldn’t exactly see these things, because he never saw -the ghosts, but he felt them. After a silence of nearly -a minute a voice came from the corner where the -family ghost stood—a voice strong and full, but trembling -slightly with suppressed passion. And this voice -told Eliphalet it was plain enough that he had not long -been the head of the Duncans, and that he had never -properly considered the characteristics of his race if -now he supposed that one of his blood could draw his -sword against a woman. Eliphalet said he had never -suggested that the Duncan ghost should raise his hand -against a woman, and all he wanted was that the Duncan -ghost should fight the other ghost. And then the -voice told Eliphalet that the other ghost was a woman.”</p> - -<p>“What?” said Dear Jones, sitting up suddenly. -“You don’t mean to tell me that the ghost which -haunted the house was a woman?”</p> - -<p>“Those were the very words Eliphalet Duncan -used,” said Uncle Larry; “but he did not need to -wait for the answer. All at once he recalled the traditions -about the domiciliary ghost, and he knew that -what the titular ghost said was the fact. He had never -thought of the sex of a spook, but there was no doubt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -whatever that the house ghost was a woman. No -sooner was this firmly fixed in Eliphalet’s mind than -he saw his way out of the difficulty. The ghosts must -be married!—for then there would be no more interference, -no more quarrelling, no more manifestations -and materializations, no more dark séances, with their -raps and bells and tambourines and banjos. At first -the ghosts would not hear of it. The voice in the corner -declared that the Duncan wraith had never thought -of matrimony. But Eliphalet argued with them, and -pleaded and persuaded and coaxed, and dwelt on the -advantages of matrimony. He had to confess, of -course, that he did not know how to get a clergyman -to marry them; but the voice from the corner gravely -told him that there need be no difficulty in regard to -that, as there was no lack of spiritual chaplains. Then, -for the first time, the house ghost spoke, in a low, clear, -gentle voice, and with a quaint, old-fashioned New -England accent, which contrasted sharply with the -broad Scotch speech of the family ghost. She said -that Eliphalet Duncan seemed to have forgotten that -she was married. But this did not upset Eliphalet at -all; he remembered the whole case clearly, and he told -her she was not a married ghost, but a widow, since -her husband had been hung for murdering her. Then -the Duncan ghost drew attention to the great disparity -in their ages, saying that he was nearly four hundred -and fifty years old, while she was barely two hundred. -But Eliphalet had not talked to juries for nothing; he -just buckled to, and coaxed those ghosts into matrimony. -Afterward he came to the conclusion that they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -were willing to be coaxed, but at the time he thought -he had pretty hard work to convince them of the -advantages of the plan.”</p> - -<p>“Did he succeed?” asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with -a young lady’s interest in matrimony.</p> - -<p>“He did,” said Uncle Larry. “He talked the wraith -of the Duncans and the spectre of the little old house -at Salem into a matrimonial engagement. And from -the time they were engaged he had no more trouble -with them. They were rival ghosts no longer. They -were married by their spiritual chaplain the very same -day that Eliphalet Duncan met Kitty Sutton in front -of the railing of Grace Church. The ghostly bride and -bridegroom went away at once on their bridal tour, and -Lord and Lady Duncan went down to the little old -house at Salem to pass their honeymoon.”</p> - -<p>Uncle Larry stopped. His tiny cigar was out again. -The tale of the rival ghosts was told. A solemn silence -fell on the little party on the deck of the ocean steamer, -broken harshly by the hoarse roar of the fog-horn.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="A_LETTER_AND_A_PARAGRAPH">A LETTER AND A PARAGRAPH.</h2> - -<p class="author">BY H. C. BUNNER.</p> - -<h3>I.<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE LETTER.</span></h3> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">New York</span>, Nov. 16, 1883.</p> - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">My dear Will</span>:—</p> - -<p>You cannot be expected to remember it, but this -is the fifth anniversary of my wedding-day, and to-morrow—it -will be to-morrow before this letter is -closed—is my birthday—my fortieth. My head is -full of those thoughts which the habit of my life moves -me to put on paper, where I can best express them; -and yet which must be written for only the friendliest -of eyes. It is not the least of my happiness in this life -that I have one friend to whom I can unlock my heart -as I can to you.</p> - -<p>The wife has just been putting your namesake to -sleep. Don’t infer that, even on the occasion of this -family feast, he has been allowed to sit up until half past -eleven. He went to bed properly enough, with a tear -or two, at eight; but when his mother stole into his -room just now, after her custom, I heard his small -voice raised in drowsy inquiry; and I followed her, -and slipped the curtain of the doorway aside, and -looked. But I did not go into the room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span></p> - -<p>The shaded lamp was making a yellow glory in one -spot—the head of the little brass crib where my wife -knelt by my boy. I saw the little face, so like hers, -turned up to her. There was a smile on it that I knew -was a reflection of hers. He was winking in a merry -half-attempt to keep awake; but wakefulness was -slipping away from him under the charm of that smile -that I could not see. His brown eyes closed, and -opened for an instant, and closed again as the tender, -happy hush of a child’s sleep settled down upon him, -and he was gone where we in our heavier slumbers shall -hardly follow him. Then, before I could see my wife’s -face as she bent and kissed him, I let the curtain fall, -and crept back here, to sit by the last of the fire, and -see that sacred sight again with the spiritual eyes, and -to dream wonderingly over the unspeakable happiness -that has in some mysterious way come to me, undeserving.</p> - -<p>I tell you, Will, that moment was to me like one of -those moments of waking that we know in childhood, -when we catch the going of a dream too subtly sweet -to belong to this earth—a glad vision, gone before our -eyes can open wide; not to be figured into any earthly -idea, leaving in its passage a joy so high and fine that -the poets tell us it is a memory of some heaven from -which our young souls are yet fresh.</p> - -<p>You can understand how it is that I find it hard to -realize that there can be such things in my life; for -you know what that life was up to a few years ago. -I am like a man who has spent his first thirty years in -a cave. It takes more than a decade above ground<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> -to make him quite believe in the sun and the blue of -the sky.</p> - -<p>I was sitting just now before the hearth, with my -feet in the bearskin rug you sent us two Christmases -ago. The light of the low wood fire was chasing the -shadows around the room, over my books and my -pictures, and all the fine and gracious luxuries with -which I may now make my eyes and my heart glad, -and pamper the tastes that grow with feeding. I was -taking count, so to speak, of my prosperity—the -material treasures, the better treasure that I find in -such portion of fame as the world has allotted me, and -the treasure of treasures across the threshold of the -next room—in the next room? No—there, here, in -every room, in every corner of the house, filling it with -peace, is the gentle and holy spirit of love.</p> - -<p>As I sat and thought, my mind went back to the day -that you and I first met, twenty-two years ago—twenty-two -in February next. In twenty-two years -more I could not forget that hideous first day in the -city room of the <cite>Morning Record</cite>. I can see the great -gloomy room, with its meagre gas-jets lighting up, here -and there, a pale face at a desk, and bringing out in -ghastly spots the ugliness of the ink-smeared walls. -A winter rain was pouring down outside. I could feel -its chill and damp in the room, though little of it was -to be seen through the grimy window-panes. The -composing-room in the rear sent a smell of ink and -benzine to permeate the moist atmosphere. The -rumble and shiver of the great presses printing the -weekly came up from below. I sat there in my wet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -clothes and waited for my first assignment. I was -eighteen, poor as a church mouse, green, desperately -hopeful after a boy’s fashion, and with nothing in my -head but the Latin and Greek of my one single year at -college. My spirit had sunk down far out of sight. -My heart beat nervously at every sound of that awful -city editor’s voice, as he called up his soldiers one by -one and assigned them to duty. I could only silently -pray that he would “give me an easy one,” and that I -should not disgrace myself in the doing of it. By Jove, -Will, what an old martinet Baldwin was, for all his -good heart! Do you remember that sharp, crackling -voice of his, and the awful “Be brief! be brief!” that -always drove all capacity for condensation out of a -man’s head, and set him to stammering out his story -with wordy incoherence? Baldwin is on the <cite>Record</cite> -still. I wonder what poor devil is trembling at this -hour under that disconcerting adjuration.</p> - -<p>A wretched day that was! The hours went slow as -grief. Smeary little bare-armed fiends trotted in from -the composing-room and out again, bearing fluttering -galley-proofs. Bedraggled, hollow-eyed men came in -from the streets and set their soaked umbrellas to -steam against the heater, and passed into the lion’s den -to feed him with news, and were sent out again to take -up their half-cooked umbrellas and go forth to forage -for more. Everyone, I thought, gave me one brief -glance of contempt and curiosity, and put me out of -his thoughts. Everyone had some business—everyone -but me. The men who had been waiting with me -were called up one by one and detailed to work. I was -left alone.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then a new horror came to torture my nervously -active imagination. Had my superior officer forgotten -his new recruit? Or could he find no task mean -enough for my powers? This filled me at first with -a sinking shame, and then with a hot rage and sense -of wrong. Why should he thus slight me? Had I -not a right to be tried, at least? Was there any duty -he could find that I would not perform or die? I -would go to him and tell him that I had come there -to work; and would make him give me the work. No, -I should simply be snubbed, and sent to my seat like -a school-boy, or perhaps discharged on the spot. I -must bear my humiliation in silence.</p> - -<p>I looked up and saw you entering, with your bright, -ruddy boy’s face shining with wet, beaming a greeting -to all the room. In my soul I cursed you, at a -venture, for your lightheartedness and your look of -cheery self-confidence. What a vast stretch of struggle -and success set you above me—you, the reporter, -above me, the novice! And just then came the awful -summons—“Barclay! Barclay!”—I shall hear that -strident note at the judgment day. I went in and -got my orders, and came out with them, all in a sort of -daze that must have made Baldwin think me an idiot. -And then you came up to me and scraped acquaintance -in a desultory way, to hide your kind intent; and -gave me a hint or two as to how to obtain a full -account of the biennial meeting of the Post-Pliocene -Mineralogical Society, or whatever it was, without diving -too deeply into the Post-Pliocene period. I would -have fought for you to the death, at that moment.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p> - -<p>’Twas a small matter, but the friendship begun in -manly and helpful kindness has gone on for twenty-two -years in mutual faith and loyalty; and the growth -dignifies the seed.</p> - -<p>A sturdy growth it was in its sapling days. It was -in the late spring that we decided to take the room -together in St. Mark’s Place. A big room and a poor -room, indeed, on the third story of that “battered -caravanserai,” and for twelve long years it held us -and our hopes and our despairs and our troubles and -our joys.</p> - -<p>I don’t think I have forgotten one detail of that room. -There is the generous old fireplace, insultingly bricked -up by modern poverty, all save the meagre niche that -holds our fire—when we can have a fire. There is the -great second-hand table—our first purchase—where -we sit and work for immortality in the scant intervals -of working for life. Your drawer, with the manuscript -of your “Concordance of Political Economy,” is to the -right. Mine is to the left; it holds the unfinished play, -and the poems that might better have been unfinished. -There are the two narrow cots—yours to the left of -the door as you enter; mine to the right.</p> - -<p>How strange that I can see it all so clearly, now that -all is different!</p> - -<p>Yet I can remember myself coming home at one -o’clock at night, dragging my tired feet up those dark, -still, tortuous stairs, gripping the shaky baluster for -aid. I open the door—I can feel the little old-fashioned -brass knob in my palm even now—and I look to -the left. Ah, you are already at home and in bed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -I need not look toward the table. There is money—a -little—in the common treasury; and, in accordance -with our regular compact, I know there stand on that -table twin bottles of beer, half a loaf of rye bread, and -a double palm’s-breadth of Swiss cheese. You are -staying your hunger in sleep; for one may not eat until -the other comes. I will wake you up, and we shall -feast together and talk over the day that is dead and -the day that is begun.</p> - -<p>Strange, is it not, that I should have some trouble -to realize that this is only a memory,—I, with my feet -in the bearskin rug that it would have beggared the -two of us, or a dozen like us, to purchase in those days. -Strange that my mind should be wandering on the -crude work of my boyhood and my early manhood. -I who have won name and fame, as the world would -say. I, to whom young men come for advice and encouragement, -as to a tried veteran! Strange that I -should be thinking of a time when even your true and -tireless friendship could not quench a subtle hunger at -my heart, a hunger for a more dear and intimate -comradeship. I, with the tenderest of wives scarce -out of my sight; even in her sleep she is no further -from me than my own soul.</p> - -<p>Strangest of all this, that the mad agony of grief, -the passion of desolation that came upon me when our -long partnership was dissolved for ever, should now be -nothing but a memory, like other memories, to be -summoned up out of the resting-places of the mind, -toyed with, idly questioned, and dismissed with a sigh -and a smile! What a real thing it was just ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -years ago; what a very present pain! Believe me, -Will,—yes, I want you to believe this—that in those -first hours of loneliness I could have welcomed death; -death would have fallen upon me as calmly as sleep -has fallen upon my boy in the room beyond there.</p> - -<p>You knew nothing of this then; I suppose you but -half believe it now; for our parting was manly enough. -I kept as stiff an upper lip as you did, for all there was -less hair on it. Perhaps it seems extravagant to you. -But there was a deal of difference between our cases. -You had turned your pen to money-making, at the call -of love; you were going to Stillwater to marry the -judge’s daughter, and to become a great land-owner -and mayor of Stillwater and millionaire—or what is it -now? And much of this you foresaw or hoped for, at -least. Hope is something. But for me? I was left -in the third-story of a poor lodging-house in St. Mark’s -Place, my best friend gone from me; with neither -remembrance nor hope of Love to live on, and with my -last story back from <em>all</em> the magazines.</p> - -<p>We will not talk about it. Let me get back to my -pleasant library with the books and the pictures and -the glancing fire-light, and me with my feet in your -bearskin rug, listening to my wife’s step in the next -room.</p> - -<p>To your ear, for our communion has been so long -and so close that to either one of us the faintest inflection -of the other’s voice speaks clearer than formulated -words; to your ear there must be something akin to a -tone of regret—regret for the old days—in what I have -just said. And would it be strange if there were? A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> -poor soldier of fortune who had been set to a man’s work -before he had done with his meagre boyhood, who had -passed from recruit to the place of a young veteran in -that great, hard-fighting, unresting pioneer army of -journalism; was he the man, all of a sudden, to stretch -his toughened sinews out and let them relax in the -glow of the home hearth? Would not his legs begin -to twitch for the road; would he not be wild to feel -again the rain in his weather-beaten face? Would you -think it strange if at night he should toss in his white, -soft bed, longing to change it for a blanket on the turf, -with the broad procession of sunlit worlds sweeping -over his head, beyond the blue spaces of the night? -And even if the dear face on the pillow next him were -to wake and look at him with reproachful surprise; -and even if warm arms drew him back to his new -allegiance; would not his heart in dreams go throbbing -to the rhythm of the drum or the music of songs sung -by the camp-fire?</p> - -<p>It was so at the beginning, in the incredible happiness -of the first year, and even after the boy’s birth. Do -you know, it was months before I could accept that -boy as a <em>fact</em>? If, at any moment, he had vanished -from my sight, crib and all, I should not have been -surprised. I was not sure of him until he began to -show his mother’s eyes.</p> - -<p>Yes, even in those days some of the old leaven -worked in me. I had moments of that old barbaric -freedom which we used to rejoice in—that feeling of -being answerable to nothing in the world save my own -will—the sense of untrammeled, careless power.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p> - -<p>Do you remember the night that we walked till sunrise? -You remember how hot it was at midnight, -when we left the office, and how the moonlight on the -statue above the City Hall seemed to invite us fieldward, -where no gaslight glared, no torches flickered. -So we walked idly northward, through the black, -silence-stricken down-town streets; through that feverish, -unresting central region that lies between the vileness -of Houston Street and the calm and spacious -dignity of the brown-stone ways, where the closed and -darkened dwellings looked like huge tombs in the pallid -light of the moon. We passed the suburban belt of -shanties; we passed the garden-girt villas beyond them, -and it was from the hill above Spuyten Duyvil that we -saw the first color of the morning upon the face of the -Palisades.</p> - -<p>It would have taken very little in that moment to set -us off to tramping the broad earth, for the pure joy -of free wayfaring. What was there to hold us back? -No tie of home or kin. All we had in the world to -leave behind us was some futile scribbling on various -sheets of paper. And of that sort of thing both our -heads were full enough. I think it was but the veriest -chance that, having begun that walk, we did not go on -and get our fill of wandering, and ruin our lives.</p> - -<p>Well, that same wild, adventurous spirit came upon -me now and then. There were times when, for the -moment, I forgot that I had a wife and a child. There -were times when I remembered them as a burden. -Why should I not say this? It is the history of every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -married man,—at least of every manly man,—though -he be married to the best woman in the world. It means -no lack of love. It is as unavoidable as the leap of the -blood in you that answers a trumpet-call.</p> - -<p>At first I was frightened, and fought against it as -against something that might grow upon me. I reproached -myself for disloyalty in thought. Ah! what -need had <em>I</em> to fight? What need had I to choke down -rebellious fancies, while my wife’s love was working -that miracle that makes two spirits one.</p> - -<p>What is it, this union that comes to us as a surprise, -and remains for all outside an incommunicable mystery? -What is this that makes our unmarried love seem so -slight and childish a thing? You and I, who know it, -know that it is no mere fruit of intimacy and usage, -although in its growth it keeps pace with these. We -know that in some subtle way it has been given to a -man to see a woman’s soul as he sees his own, and to a -woman to look into a man’s heart as if it were, indeed, -hers. But the friend who sits at my table, seeing that -my wife and I understand each other at a simple meeting -of the eyes, makes no more of it than he does of the -glance of intelligence which, with close friends, often -takes the place of speech. He never dreams of the -sweet delight with which we commune together in a -language that he cannot understand—that he cannot -hear—a language that has no formulated words, feeling -answering feeling.</p> - -<p>It is not wonderful that I should wish to give expression -to the gratitude with which I have seen my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> -life made to blossom thus; my thankfulness for the -love which has made me not only a happier, but, I -humbly believe, a wiser and a better-minded man. -But I know too well the hopelessness of trying to find -words to describe what, were I a poet, my best song -might but faintly, faintly echo.</p> - -<p>I thought I heard a rustle behind me just now. In -a little while my wife will come softly into the room, -and softly up to where I am sitting, stepping silently -across your bearskin rug, and will lay one hand softly -on my left shoulder, while the other slips down this -arm with which I write, until it falls and closes lightly, -yet with loving firmness, on my hand that holds the -pen. And I shall say, “Only the last words to Will -and his wife, dear.” And she will release my hand, -and will lift her own, I think, to caress the patch of -gray hair on my temple; it is a way she has, as though -it were some pitiful scar, and she will say, “Give them -my love, and tell them they must not fail us this -Christmas. I want them to see how our Willy has -grown.” And when she says “Our Willy,” the hand -on my shoulder will instinctively close a little, clingingly; -and she will bend her head, and put her face -close to mine, and I shall turn to look into her eyes.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Bear with me, my dear Will, until I have told you -why I have written this letter and what it means. I -have concealed one thing from you for the last six -months. I have disease of the heart, and the doctor -has told me that I may die at any moment. Somehow,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> -I think—I know the moment is close at hand; I shall -soon go to that narrow cot on the right of the door, -and I do not believe I shall wake up in the morning -with the sun in my eyes, to look across the room and -see that its companion is gone.</p> - -<p>For I am in the old room, Will, as you know, and it -is not ten years since you went away, but two days. -The picture that has seemed real to me as I wrote these -pages is fading, and the thin gas-jet flickers and sinks -as it always did in these first morning hours. I can -hear the roar of the last Harlem train swell and sink, -and the sharp clink of car-bells break the silence that -follows. The wind is gasping and struggling in the -chimney, and blowing a white powdery ash down on -the hearth. I have just burnt my poems and the play. -Both the table drawers are empty now; and soon -enough the two empty chairs will stare at each other -across the bare table. What a wild dream have I -dreamt in all this emptiness! Just now, I thought -indeed that it was true. I thought I heard a woman’s -step behind me, and I turned—</p> - -<p>Peace be with you, Will, in the fullness of your -love. I am going to sleep. Perhaps I shall dream -it all again, and shall hear that soft footfall when the -turn of the night comes, and the pale light through -the ragged blind, and the end of a long loneliness.</p> - -<p>After I am dead, I wish you to think of me not as I -was, but as I wanted to be. I have tried to show you -that I have led by your side a happier and dearer life -of hope and aspiration than the one you saw. I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> -tried to leave your memory a picture of me that you will -not shrink from calling up when you have a quiet hour -and time for thought of the friend whom you knew -well; but whom you may, perhaps, know better now -that he is dead.</p> - -<p class="signature"><span class="smcap">Reginald Barclay.</span></p> - -<h3>II.<br /> -<span class="smaller">THE PARAGRAPH.</span></h3> - -<p class="center">[From the <cite>New York Herald</cite> of Nov. 18, 1883.]</p> - -<p>Reginald Barclay, a journalist, was found dead in his -bed at 15 St. Mark’s Place, yesterday morning. No -inquest was held, as Mr. Barclay had been known to be -suffering from disease of the heart, and his death was -not unexpected. The deceased came originally from -Oneida County, and was regarded as a young journalist -of considerable promise. He had been for some -years on the city staff of the <cite>Record</cite>, and was the -correspondent of several out-of-town papers. He had -also contributed to the monthly magazines, occasional -poems and short stories, which showed the possession, -in some measure, of the imaginative faculty. Mr. Barclay -was about thirty years of age, and unmarried.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="PLAYING_A_PART">PLAYING A PART:<br /> -A COMEDY FOR AMATEUR ACTING.</h2> - -<p class="author">BY BRANDER MATTHEWS.</p> - -<p class="hanging smaller"><i>The Scene is a handsomely-furnished parlor, with a general air of -home comfort. A curtained window on each side of the central -fireplace would light the room if it were not evening, as the lamp -on the work-table in the centre of the room informs us. At one -side of the work-table is the wife, winding a ball of worsted from -a skein which her husband holds in his hands.</i></p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>looking at watch, aside</i>). This wool takes as -long to wind up as a bankrupt estate. (<i>Fidgets.</i>)</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Do keep still, Jack! Stop fidgeting and -jumping around.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> When you pull the string, Jenny, I am always -a jumping-jack to dance attendance on you.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>seriously</i>). Very pretty, indeed! It was true -too—once—before we were married: now you lead -me a different dance.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I am your partner still.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>sadly</i>). But the figure is always the Ladies’ -Chain.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). If I don’t get away soon I sha’n’t be -able to do any work to-night.—(<i>Aloud</i>). What do -you mean by that solemn tone?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Oh, nothing—nothing of any consequence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). We look like two fools acting in private -theatricals.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>finishing ball of worsted</i>). That will do: -thank you. Do not let me detain you: I know you -are in a hurry.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I have my work to do.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> So it seems; and it takes all day and half the -night.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>rising and going to fireplace</i>). I am working -hard for our future happiness.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>quietly</i>). I should like a little of the happiness -now.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>standing with back to fireplace</i>). Are you unhappy?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Oh no—not very.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Do you not have everything you wish?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Oh yes—except the one thing I want most.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Well, my dear, I am at home as much as I can -be.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> So you think I meant you?</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>embarrassed</i>). Well—I did suppose—that—</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Yes, I used to want you. The days were -long enough while you were away, and I waited for -your return. Now I have been alone so much that I -am getting accustomed to solitude. And I do not -really know what it is I do want. I am listless, nervous, -good-for-nothing—</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>gallantly</i>). You are good enough for me.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> You did think so once; and perhaps you -would think so again—if you could spare the time -to get acquainted with me.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>surprised</i>). Jenny, are you ill?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Not more so than usual. I was bright enough -two years ago, when we were married. But for two -years I have not lived, I have vegetated; more like a -plant than a human being; and even plants require -some sunshine.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). I have never heard her talk like this -before. I don’t understand it.—(<i>Aloud.</i>) Why, -Jenny, you speak as if I were a cloud over your -life.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Do I? Well, it does not matter.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I try to be a good husband, don’t I?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>indifferently</i>). As well as you know how, I -suppose.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Do I deprive you of anything you want?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>impatiently</i>). Of course you do not.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I work hard, I know, but when I go out in the -evening now and then—</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). Six nights every week. (<i>Sighing.</i>)</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I really work. There are husbands who say -they are at work when they are at the club playing -poker: now I am really working.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>impatiently</i>). You have no small vices. (<i>Rising.</i>) -Is there no work calling you away to-night? -Why are you not off?</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>looking at watch</i>). I am a little late, that’s a -fact: still, I can do what I have to do if I work like a -horse.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Have you to draw a conveyance? That is the -old joke.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> This is no joke. It’s a divorce suit.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>quickly</i>). Is it that Lightfoot person again?</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> It is Mrs. Lightfoot’s case. She is a very fine -woman, and her husband has treated her shamefully.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Better than the creature deserved, I dare say. -You will win her case for her?</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I shall do my best.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>sarcastically</i>). No doubt.—(<i>Aside.</i>) I hate -that woman! (<i>Crosses the room and sits on sofa on -the right of the fireplace.</i>)</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> But the result of a lawsuit is generally a toss-up; -and heads do not always win.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> I wish you luck this time—for her husband’s -sake: he’ll be glad to be rid of her. But I doubt it: -you can’t get up any sympathy by exhibiting her to -the jury: she isn’t good-looking enough.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>quickly</i>). She’s a very fine woman indeed.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). How eagerly he defends her!—(<i>Aloud.</i>) -She’s a great big, tall, giantess creature, -with a face like a wax doll and a head of hair like a -Circassian Girl. No juryman will fall in love with -her.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> How often have I told you that Justice does -not consider persons! Now, in the eye of the law—</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>interrupting</i>). Do you acknowledge that the -law has but one eye and can see only one side?</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Are you jealous? (<i>Crossing and standing in -front of her.</i>)</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Jealous of this Mrs. Lightfoot? (<i>Laughs.</i>) -Ridiculous!</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I am glad of it, for I think a jealous woman -has a very poor opinion of herself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>forcibly</i>). And it is her business which takes -you out to-night?</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>going toward the left-hand door</i>). I have to go -across to the Bar Association to look up some points, -and—</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>rising quickly</i>). And you can just send me a -cab. I shall go to Mrs. Playfair’s to rehearse again -for the private theatricals.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>annoyed, coming back</i>). But I had asked you -to give it up.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>with growing excitement</i>). And I had almost -determined to give it up, but I have changed my mind. -That’s a woman’s privilege, isn’t it? I am tired of -spending my evenings by myself.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Now be reasonable, Jenny: I must work.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> And I must play—in the private theatricals.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> But I don’t like private theatricals.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Don’t you? I do.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> And I particularly dislike amateur actors.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Do you? I don’t. I like some of them very -much; and some of them like me, too.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> The deuce they do!</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Tom Thursby and Dick Carey and Harry -Wylde were all disputing who should make love to -me.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Make love to you?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> In the play—in <cite>Husbands and Wives</cite>.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Do you mean to say that you are going to act -on the stage with those brainless idiots?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>interrupting</i>). Do not call my friends names: -it is in bad taste.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>He.</i> What will people say when they see my wife -pawed and clawed by those fellows?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Let them say what they please. Do you think -I care for the tittle-tattle of the riffraff of society?</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> But, Jenny—(<i>Brusquely.</i>) Confound it! -I have no patience with you!</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> So I have discovered. But you need not lose -your temper here, and swear. Go outside and do it, -and leave me alone, as I am every evening.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> You talk as if I ill-treated you.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>sarcastically</i>). Do I? That is very wicked of -me, isn’t it? You take the best possible care of me, -you are ever thinking of me, and you never leave my -side for a moment. Oh no, you do not ill-treat me—or -abuse me—or neglect me (<i>breaking down</i>)—or -make me miserable. There is nothing the matter with -me, of course. But you never will believe I have a -heart until you have broken it! (<i>Sinking on chair, C.</i>)</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>crossing to her</i>). You are excited, I see; still, -I must say this is a little too much.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>starting up</i>). Don’t come near me! (<i>Sarcastically.</i>) -Don’t let me keep you from your work (<i>going -to door R. 2d E</i>), and don’t fail to send me a cab. At -last I revolt against your neglect.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>indignantly protesting</i>). My neglect? Do you -mean to say I neglect you? My conscience does not -reproach me.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>at the door on the right</i>). That’s because you -haven’t any! (<i>Exit, slamming door</i>).</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>alone</i>). I never saw her go on that way before. -What can be the matter with her? She is not like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> -herself at all: she is low-spirited and nervous. Now, -I never could see why women had any nerves. I wonder -if she really thinks that I neglect her? I should -be sorry, very sorry, if she did. I’ll not go out to-night: -I’ll stay at home and have a quiet evening at my own -fireside. (<i>Sits in chair in the centre.</i>) I think that -will bring her round. I’d like to know what has made -her act like this. Has she been reading any sentimental -trash, I wonder? (<i>Sees book in work-basket.</i>) Now, -here’s some yellow-covered literature. (<i>Takes it up.</i>) -Why, it’s that confounded play, <cite>Husbands and Wives</cite>. -Let me see the silly stuff. (<i>Reads:</i>) “My darling, one -more embrace, one last, long, loving kiss;” and then -he hugs her and kisses her. (<i>Rising.</i>) And she -thinks I’ll have her play a part like that? How should -I look while that was going on? Can’t she find something -else? (<i>At work-table.</i>) Here is another. (<i>Takes -up second pamphlet.</i>) No, it is a <cite>Guide to the Passions</cite>. -I fear I need no guide to get into a passion. I -doubt if there’s as much hugging and kissing in this as -in the other one. (<i>Reads:</i>) “It is impossible to describe -all the effects of the various passions, but a few -hints are here given as to how the more important may -be delineated.” (<i>Spoken.</i>) This is interesting. If -ever I have to delineate a passion I shall fall back on -this guide. (<i>Reads:</i>) “Love is a—” (<i>Reads hastily -and unintelligibly:</i>) “When successful, love authorizes -the fervent embrace of the beloved!” The deuce -it does! And I find my wife getting instruction from -this Devil’s text-book! A little more and I should be -jealous. (<i>Looks at book.</i>) Ah, here is jealousy: now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -let’s see how I ought to feel. (<i>Reads:</i>) “Jealousy is -a mixture of passions and—” (<i>Reads hastily and -unintelligibly.</i>) Not so bad! I believe I could act up -to these instructions. (<i>Jumping up.</i>) And I will! -My wife wants acting: she shall have it! She complains -of monotony: she shall have variety! “Jealousy -is a mixture of passions.” I’ll be jealous: I’ll give -her a mixture of passions. I’ll take a leaf out of her -book, and I’ll find a cure for these nerves of her’s. I’ll -learn my part at once: we’ll have some private theatricals -to order. (<i>Walks up and down, studying -book.</i>)</p> - -<p class="center smaller"><i>She re-renters, with bonnet on and cloak over her arm, and stands in -surprise, watching him.</i></p> - -<p><i>She.</i> You here still?</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Yes.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Have you ordered a cab for me?</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> No.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> And why not?</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). Now’s my chance. Mixture of passions—I’ll -try suspicion first.—(<i>Aloud.</i>) Because I -do not approve of the people you are going to meet—these -Thursbys and Careys and Wyldes.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>calmly sitting on sofa</i>). Perhaps you would -like to revise my visiting-list, and tell the servant whom -I am to receive.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> You may see what ladies you please—</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>interrupting</i>). Thank you; still, I do not please -to see Mrs. Lightfoot.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>annoyed</i>). I say nothing of her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Oh dear, no! I dare say you keep it as secret -as you can.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). Simple suspicion is useless. What’s -next? (<i>Glances in pamphlet:</i>) “Peevish personalities.” -I will pass on to peevish personalities.—(<i>Aloud.</i>) -Now, these men, these fellows who strut about the -stage for an idle hour, who are they? This Tom -Thursby, who wanted to make love to you—who -is he?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Are you going to ask many questions? Is -this catechism a long one? If it is, I may as well lay -aside my shawl.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Who is he, I say, I insist upon knowing.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> He’s a good enough fellow in his way.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>sternly</i>). He had best beware how he gets in -<em>my</em> way.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). There’s a great change in his manner: -I do not understand it.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> And this Dick Carey—who is he? (<i>Stalking -toward her.</i>)</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>starting up and crossing</i>). Are you trying to -frighten me by this violence?</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). It is producing an effect.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> But I am not afraid of you, if I am a weak -woman and you are a strong man.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). It is going all right.—(<i>Aloud, fiercely.</i>) -Answer me at once! Is this Carey married?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> I believe he is.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> You believe! Don’t you know? Does his -wife act with these strollers? Have you not seen -her?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>She.</i> I have never seen her. She and her husband -are like the two buckets in a well: they never turn up -together. They meet only to clash, and one is always -throwing cold water on the other.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> And Harry Wylde! Is he married?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Yes; and his wife is always keeping him in -hot water.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> And so he comes to you for consolation?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>laughing</i>). He needs no consoling: he has -always such a flow of spirits.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I’ve heard the fellow drank.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>surprised, aside</i>). Can Jack be jealous? I -wish I could think so, for then I might hope he still -loved me.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> And do you suppose I can allow you to associate -with these fellows, who all want to make love -to you?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside, joyfully</i>). He <em>is</em> jealous! The dear -boy!</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>fiercely</i>). Do you think I can permit this, -madam?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). “Madam!” I could hug him for loving -me enough to call me “madam” like that. But I -must not give in too soon.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Have you nothing to say for yourself? Can -you find no words to defend yourself, woman?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). “Woman!” He calls me “woman!” -I can forgive him anything now.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Are you dumb, woman? Have you naught to -say?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>gleefully, aside</i>). I had no idea I had married<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> -an Othello! (<i>She sees the pillow on the sofa, and, -crossing to it quietly, hides the pillow behind the sofa.</i>)</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). What did she mean by that?—(<i>Aloud, -fiercely.</i>) Do you intend to deny—</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>interrupting</i>). I have nothing to deny, I have -nothing to conceal.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Do you deny that you confessed these fellows -sought to make love to you?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> I do not deny that. (<i>Mischievously.</i>) But -I never thought you would worry about such trifles.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Trifles! madam? Trifles, indeed! (<i>Glances -in book, and quoting:</i>)</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“Trifles light as air</div> -<div class="verse">Are to the jealous confirmations strong</div> -<div class="verse">As proofs of holy writ.”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>surprised aside</i>). Where did he get his blank -verse?</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). That seemed to tell. I’ll give her -some more. (Glancing in pamphlet, and quoting:)</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“But, alas, to make me</div> -<div class="verse">A fixed figure for the time of scorn</div> -<div class="verse">To point his slow, unmoving finger at!”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside, jumping up with indignation</i>). Why, it -is <cite>Othello</cite> he is quoting! He is acting! He is positively -playing a part! It is shameful of him! It’s -not real jealousy: it’s a sham. Oh, the wretch! But -I’ll pay him back! I’ll make him jealous without any -make-believe.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). I’m getting on capitally. I’m making -a strong impression: I am rousing her out of her nervousness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -I doubt if she will want any more private -theatricals now. I don’t think I shall have to repeat -the lesson. This <cite>Guide to the Passions</cite> is a first-rate -book: I’ll keep one in the house all the time.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). If he plays Othello, I can play Iago. -I’ll give his jealousy something to feed on. I have no -blank verse for him, but I’ll make him blank enough -before I am done with him. Oh, the villain!</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). Now let me try threatening. (<i>Glancing -in book:</i>) “Pity the sorrows of a poor old man”—I’ve -got the wrong place. That’s not threatening—that’s -senility. (<i>Turning over page.</i>) Ah, here -it is.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). And he thinks he can jest with a -woman’s heart and not be punished? Oh, the wickedness -of man!—(<i>Forcibly.</i>) Oh, if mamma were only -here, now!</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>threateningly</i>). Who are these fellows? This -Tom, Dick and Harry are—are they—(<i>hesitates, and -glances in pamphlet</i>) are they “framed to make women -false?”</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). Why, he’s got a book! It’s my -<cite>Guide to the Passions</cite>. The wretch has actually been -copying his jealousy out of my own book. (<i>Aloud, -with pretended emotion.</i>) Dear me, Jack, you never -before objected to my little flirtations. (<i>Aside, watching -him.</i>) How will he like that?</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside, puzzled</i>). “Little flirtations!” I don’t -like that—I don’t like it at all.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> They have all been attentive, of course—</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). “Of course!” I don’t like that, either.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>She.</i> But I did not think you would so take to -heart a few innocent endearments.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>starting</i>). “Innocent endearments!” Do you -mean to say that they offer you any “innocent endearments?”</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>quietly</i>). Don’t be so boisterous, Jack: you -will crush my book.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>looking at pamphlet crushed in his hand, and -throwing it from him, aside</i>). Confound the book! I -do not need any prompting now.—(<i>Aloud.</i>) Which -of these men has dared to offer you any “innocent -endearments?”</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>hesitatingly</i>). Well—I don’t know—that I -ought to tell you—since you take things so queerly. -But Tom—</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>forcibly</i>). Tom?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Mr. Thursby, I mean. He and I are very old -friends, you know—I believe we are third cousins or -so—and of course I don’t stand on ceremony with -him.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> And he does not stand on ceremony with you, -I suppose?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Oh, no. In fact, we are first-rate friends. -Indeed, when Dick Carey wanted to make love to me, -he was quite jealous.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Oh, <em>he</em> was jealous, was he? The fellow’s impudence -is amazing! When I meet him I’ll give him -a piece of my mind.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>demurely</i>). Are you sure you can spare it!</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Don’t irritate me too far, Jenny: I’ve a temper -of my own.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>She.</i> You seem to have lost it now.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Do you not see that I am in a heat about this -thing? How can you sit there so calmly? You keep -cool like a—(<i>hesitates</i>) like a—</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>interrupting</i>). Like a burning-glass, I keep -cool myself while setting you on fire? Exactly so, and -I suppose you would prefer me to be a looking-glass in -which you could see only yourself?</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> A wife should reflect her husband’s image, and -not that of a pack of fools.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Come, come, Jack, you are not jealous?</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> “Jealous!” Of course I am not jealous, but -I am very much annoyed.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> I am glad that you are not jealous, for I have -always heard that a jealous man has a very poor opinion -of himself.—(<i>Aside.</i>) There’s one for him.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I am not jealous, but I will probe this thing to -the bottom; I must know the truth.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). He <em>is</em> jealous now; and this is real: I -am sure it is.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Go on, tell me more: I must get at the bottom -facts. There’s nothing like truth.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). There is nothing like it in what he’s -learning.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>aside</i>). This Carey is harmless enough, and he -can’t help talking. He’s a—he’s a telescope; you -have only to draw him out, and anybody can see -through him. I’ll get hold of him, draw him out, and -then shut him up! (<i>Crossing excitedly.</i>)</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). How much more his real jealousy -moves me than his pretence of it! He seems very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> -much affected: no man could be as jealous as he is -unless he was very much in love.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>with affected coolness</i>). You have told me -about Tom and Dick; pray, have you nothing to say -about Harry?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Mr. Wylde? (<i>Enthusiastically.</i>) He is a -man after my own heart!</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> So he is after it? (<i>Savagely.</i>) Just let me -get after him!</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>coolly</i>). Well, if you do not like his attentions, -you can take him apart and tell him so.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>vindictively</i>). If I took him apart he’d never -get put together again!</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Mr. Wylde is very much afraid of his wife, -but when she is not there he is more devoted than -either of the others.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> “More devoted!” What else shall I hear, -I wonder?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> It was he who had to kiss me.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>startled</i>). What?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> I told him not to do it. I knew I should -blush if he kissed me: I always do.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>in great agitation</i>). You always do? Has this -man ever—(<i>breaking down.</i>) Oh, Jenny! Jenny! -you do not know what you are doing. I do not blame -you—it is not your fault: it is mine. I did not know -how much I loved you, and I find it out now, when it -is perhaps too late.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). How I have longed for a few words -of love like these! and they have come at last!</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I have been too selfish; I have thought too<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> -much of my work and too little of your happiness. I -see now what a mistake I have made.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). I cannot sit still here and see him -waste his love in the air like this.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I shall turn over a new leaf. If you will let -me I shall devote myself to you, taking care of you and -making you happy.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). If he had only spoken like that before!</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> I will try to win you away from these associates: -I am sure that in your heart you do not care for them. -(<i>Crossing to her.</i>) You know that I love you: can I not -hope to win you back to me?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>aside</i>). Once before he spoke to me of his -love: I can remember every tone of his voice, every -word he said.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Jenny, is my task hopeless?</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>quietly crossing to arm-chair</i>). The task is -easy, Jack. (<i>Smiling.</i>) Perhaps you think too much -of these associates: perhaps you think a good deal -more of them than I do. In fact, I am sure that to-night -you were the one who took to private theatricals -first. By the way, where’s my <cite>Guide to the Passions</cite>? -Have you seen it lately?</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>half comprehending</i>). Your <cite>Guide to the Passions</cite>? -A book with a yellow cover? I think I <em>have</em> -seen it.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> I saw it last in your hand—just after you -had been quoting <cite>Othello</cite>.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> <cite>Othello?</cite> Oh, then you know—</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>smiling</i>). Yes, I know. I saw, I understood, -and I retaliated on the spot.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>He.</i> You retaliated?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> I paid you off in your own coin—counterfeit, -like yours.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>joyfully</i>). Then Tom did not make love to you?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Oh, yes he did—in the play.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> And Dick is not devoted?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Yes, he is—in the play.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> And Harry did not try to kiss you?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Indeed he did—in the play.</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Then you have been playing a part?</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> Haven’t you?</p> - -<p><i>He.</i> Haven’t I? Certainly not. At least—Well, -at least I will say nothing more about Tom or Dick or -Harry.</p> - -<p><i>She.</i> And I will say nothing more of Mrs. Lightfoot.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> (<i>dropping in chair to her right</i>). Mrs. Lightfoot -is a fine woman, my dear (<i>she looks up</i>), but she -is not my style at all. Besides, you know, it was only -as a matter of business, for the sake of our future prospects, -that I took her part.</p> - -<p><i>She</i> (<i>throwing him skein of wool</i>). And it is only -for the sake of our future happiness that I have been -playing mine.</p> - -<p class="center smaller"><i>He holds the wool and she winds the ball, and the curtain falls, -leaving them in the same position its rising discovered them in.</i></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="LOVE_IN_OLD_CLOATHES">LOVE IN OLD CLOATHES.</h2> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Newe York</span>, yᵉ 1ˢᵗ Aprile, 1883.</p> - -<p>Yᵉ worste of my ailment is this, yᵗ it groweth not -Less with much nursinge, but is like to those fevres -wᶜʰ yᵉ leeches Starve, ’tis saide, for that yᵉ more Bloode -there be in yᵉ Sicke man’s Bodie, yᵉ more foode is there -for yᵉ Distemper to feede upon.—And it is moste fittinge -yᵗ I come backe to yᵉ my Journall (wherein I -have not writt a Lyne these manye months) on yᵉ 1ˢᵗ of -Aprile, beinge in some Sort myne owne foole and yᵉ -foole of Love, and a poore Butt on whome his hearte -hath play’d a Sorry tricke.—</p> - -<p>For it is surelie a strange happenninge, that I, who -am ofte accompted a man of yᵉ Worlde, (as yᵉ Phrase -goes,) sholde be soe Overtaken and caste downe lyke -a Schoole-boy or a countrie Bumpkin, by a meere -Mayde, & sholde set to Groaninge and Sighinge, &, for -that She will not have me Sighe to Her, to Groaninge -and Sighinge on paper, wᶜʰ is yᵉ greter Foolishnesse in -Me, yᵗ some one maye reade it Here-after, who hath -taken his dose of yᵉ same Physicke, and made no Wrye -faces over it; in wᶜʰ case I doubte I shall be much -laugh’d at.—Yet soe much am I a foole, and soe enamour’d -of my Foolishnesse, yᵗ I have a sorte of Shamefull -Joye in tellinge, even to my Journall, yᵗ I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> -mightie deepe in Love withe yᵉ yonge Daughter of -Mistresse Ffrench, and all maye knowe what an Angell -is yᵉ Daughter, since I have chose Mʳˢ. French for my -Mother in Lawe.—(Though she will have none of my -choosinge.)—and I likewise take comforte in yᵉ Fancie, -yᵗ this poore Sheete, whᵒⁿ I write, may be made of yᵉ -Raggs of some lucklesse Lover, and maye yᵉ more -readilie drinke up my complaininge Inke.—</p> - -<p>This muche I have learnt yᵗ Fraunce distilles not, -nor yᵉ Indies growe not, yᵉ Remedie for my Aile.—For -when I 1ˢᵗ became sensible of yᵉ folly of my Suite, -I tooke to drynkinge & smoakinge, thinkinge to cure -my minde, but all I got was a head ache, for fellowe to -my Hearte ache.—A sorrie Payre!—I then made -Shifte, for a while, withe a Bicycle, but breakinge of -Bones mendes no breakinge of Heartes, and 60 myles -a Daye bringes me no nearer to a Weddinge.—This -being Lowe Sondaye, (wᶜʰ my Hearte telleth me better -than yᵉ Allmanack,) I will goe to Churche; wh. I maye -chaunce to see her.—Laste weeke, her Eastre bonnett -vastlie pleas’d me, beinge most cunninglie devys’d in -yᵉ mode of oure Grandmothers, and verie lyke to a -coales Scuttle, of white satine.—</p> - -<p class="date">2ⁿᵈ Aprile.</p> - -<p>I trust I make no more moane, than is just for a man -in my case, but there is small comforte in lookinge at -yᵉ backe of a white Satine bonnett for two Houres, and -I maye saye as much.—Neither any cheere in Her -goinge out of yᵉ Churche, & Walkinge downe yᵉ Avenue, -with a Puppe by yᵉ name of Williamson.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p> - -<p class="date">4ᵗʰ Aprile.</p> - -<p>Because a man have a Hatt with a Brimme to it -like yᵉ Poope-Decke of a Steam-Shippe, and breeches -lyke yᵉ Case of an umbrella, and have loste money on -Hindoo, he is not therefore in yᵉ beste Societie.—I -made this observation, at yᵉ Clubbe, last nighte, in -yᵉ hearinge of Wᵐˢᵒⁿ, who made a mightie Pretence -to reade yᵉ Spᵗ of yᵉ Tymes.—I doubte it was scurvie -of me, but it did me muche goode.</p> - -<p class="date">7ᵗʰ Aprile.</p> - -<p>Yᵉ manner of my meetinge with Her and fallinge in -Love with Her (for yᵉ two were of one date) is thus.—I -was made acquainte withe Her on a Wednesdaie, -at yᵉ House of Mistresse Varick, (’twas a Reception,) -but did not hear Her Name, nor She myne, by reason -of yᵉ noise, and of Mʳˢˢᵉ Varick having but lately a -newe sett of Teethe, of wh. she had not yet gott, as it -were, yᵉ just Pitche and accordance.—I sayde to Her -that yᵉ Weather was warm for that season of yᵉ yeare.—She -made answer She thought I was right, for -Mʳ Williamson had saide yᵉ same thinge to Her not a -minute past.—I tolde Her She muste not holde it -originall or an Invention of Wᵐˢᵒⁿ, for yᵉ Speache had -beene manie yeares in my Familie.—Answer was -made, She wolde be muche bounden to me if I wolde -maintaine yᵉ Rightes of my Familie, and lett all others -from usinge of my propertie, when perceivinge Her to -be of a livelie Witt, I went about to ingage her in -converse, if onlie so I mightie looke into Her Eyes, -wh. were of a coloure suche as I have never seene<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -before, more like to a Pansie, or some such flower, -than anything else I can compair with them.—Shortlie -we grew most friendlie, so that She did aske me if -I colde keepe a Secrett.—I answering I colde, She -saide She was anhungered, having Shopp’d all yᵉ forenoone -since Breakfast.—She pray’d me to gett Her -some Foode.—What, I ask’d.—She answer’d merrilie, -a Beafesteake.—I tolde Her yᵗ that <em>Confection</em> was -not on yᵉ Side-Boarde; but I presentlie brought Her -such as there was, & She beinge behinde a Screane, I -stoode in yᵉ waie, so yᵗ none mighte see Her, & She -did eate and drynke as followeth, to witt—</p> - -<table summary="What she did eate and drynke"> - <tr> - <td class="right">iij</td> - <td>cupps of Bouillon (wᶜʰ is a Tea, or Tisane, of Beafe, made verie hott & thinne)</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">iv</td> - <td>Alberte biscuit</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">ij</td> - <td>éclairs</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="right">i</td> - <td>creame-cake</td> - </tr> -</table> - -<p class="noindent">together with divers small cates and comfeits whᵒᶠ I -know not yᵉ names.</p> - -<p>So yᵗ I was grievously afeared for Her Digestion, -leste it be over-tax’d. Saide this to Her, however -addinge it was my Conceite, yᵗ by some Processe, lyke -Alchemie, whᵇʸ yᵉ baser metals are transmuted into -golde, so yᵉ grosse mortall foode was on Her lippes -chang’d to yᵉ fabled Nectar & Ambrosia of yᵉ Gods.—She -tolde me ’t was a sillie Speache, yet seam’d not -ill-pleas’d withall.—She hath a verie prettie Fashion, -or Tricke, of smilinge, when She hath made an end of -speakinge, and layinge Her finger upon Her nether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> -Lippe, like as She wolde bid it be stille.—After some -more Talke, whⁱⁿ She show’d that Her Witt was more -deepe, and Her minde more seriouslie inclin’d, than I -had Thoughte from our first Jestinge, She beinge call’d -to go thence, I did see Her mother, whose face I knewe, -& was made sensible, yᵗ I had given my Hearte to yᵉ -daughter of a House wh. with myne owne had longe -been at grievous Feud, for yᵉ folly of oure Auncestres.—Havinge -come to wh. heavie momente in my Tale, -I have no Patience to write more to-nighte.</p> - -<p class="date">22ⁿᵈ Aprile.</p> - -<p>I was mynded to write no more in yˢ journall, for -verie Shame’s sake, yᵗ I shoude so complayne, lyke a -Childe, whose toie is taken fᵐ him, butt (mayhapp for -it is nowe yᵉ fulle Moone, & a moste greavous period -for them yᵗ are Love-strucke) I am fayne, lyke yᵉ -Drunkarde who maye not abstayne fᵐ his cupp, to sett -me anewe to recordinge of My Dolorous mishapp.—When -I sawe Her agayn, She beinge aware of my -name, & of yᵉ division betwixt oure Houses, wolde -have none of me, butt I wolde not be putt Off, & made -bolde to question Her, why She sholde showe me -suche exceedᵍ Coldness.—She answer’d ’twas wel -knowne what Wronge my Grandefather had done Her -G.father.—I saide, She confounded me with My -G.father—we were nott yᵉ same Persone, he beinge -muche my Elder, & besydes Dead.—She wᵈ have it, -’twas no matter for jestinge.—I tolde Her I wolde be -resolv’d, what grete Wronge yⁱˢ was.—Yᵉ more for -to make Speache thⁿ for mine owne advertisemᵗ, for I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> -knewe wel yᵉ whole Knaverie, wh. She rehears’d, Howe -my G.father had cheated Her G.father of Landes upp -yᵉ River, with more, howe my G.father had impounded -yᵉ Cattle of Hern.—I made answer, ’twas foolishnesse, -in my mynde, for yᵉ iiiᵈ Generation to so quarrell over -a Parsel of rascallie Landes, yᵗ had long ago beene -solde for Taxes, yᵗ as to yᵉ Cowes, I wolde make them -goode, & thʳ Produce & Offspringe, if it tooke yᵉ whole -Washᵗⁿ Markett.—She however tolde me yᵗ yᵉ Ffrenche -family had yᵉ where wᵃˡ to buye what they lack’d in -Butter, Beafe & Milke, and likewise in <em>Veale</em>, wh. -laste I tooke muche to Hearte, wh. She seeinge, became -more gracious &, on my pleadinge, accorded yᵗ I sholde -have yᵉ Privilege to speake with Her when we next -met.—Butt neyther then, nor at any other Tyme -thᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ wolde She suffer me to visitt Her. So I was -harde putt to it to compass waies of gettinge to see -Her at such Houses as She mighte be att, for Routs or -Feasts, or yᵉ lyke.—</p> - -<p>But though I sawe Her manie tymes, oure converse -was ever of yⁱˢ Complexⁿ, & yᵉ accursed G.father satt -downe, and rose upp with us.—Yet colde I see by -Her aspecte, yᵗ I had in some sorte Her favoure, & yᵗ -I mislyk’d Her not so gretelie as She wᵈ have me -thinke.—So yᵗ one daie, (’twas in Januarie, & verie -colde,) I, beinge moste distrackt, saide to Her, I had -tho’t ’twolde pleasure Her more, to be friends w. a man, -who had a knave for a G.father, yⁿ with One who had -no G.father att alle, lyke Wᵐˢᵒⁿ (yᵉ Puppe).—She -made answer, I was exceedinge fresshe, or some such -matter. She cloath’d her thoughte in phrase more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> -befittinge a Gentlewoman.—Att this I colde no longer -contayne myself, but tolde Her roundlie, I lov’d Her, -& ’twas my Love made me soe unmannerlie.—And -w. yⁱˢ speache I att yᵉ leaste made an End of my Uncertantie, -for She bade me speake w. Her no more.—I -wolde be determin’d, whether I was Naught to Her.—She -made Answer She colde not justlie say I was -Naught, seeing yᵗ whᵉᵛᵉʳ She mighte bee, I was One too -manie.—I saide, ’twas some Comforte, I had even a -Place in Her thoughtes, were it onlie in Her disfavour.—She -saide, my Solace was indeede grete, if it kept -pace with yᵉ measure of Her Disfavour, for, in plain -Terms, She hated me, & on her intreatinge of me to -goe, I went.—Yⁱˢ happ’d att ye house of Mʳˢˢ Varicke, -wh. I 1ˢᵗ met Her, who (Mʳˢˢ Varicke) was for staying -me, yᵗ I might eate some Ic’d Cream, butt of a Truth -I was chill’d to my Taste allreadie.—Albeit I afterwards -tooke to walkinge of yᵉ Streets till near Midnight.—’Twas -as I saide before in Januarie & exceedinge -colde.</p> - -<p class="date">20ᵗʰ Maie.</p> - -<p>How wearie is yⁱˢ dulle procession of yᵉ Yeare! For -it irketh my Soule yᵗ each Monthe shoude come so -aptlie after yᵉ Month afore, & Nature looke so Smug, -as She had done some grete thinge.—Surelie if she -make no Change, she hath work’d no Miracle, for we -knowe wel, what we maye look for.—Yᵉ Vine under -my Window hath broughte forth Purple Blossoms, as -itt hath eache Springe these xii Yeares.—I wolde have -had them Redd, or Blue, or I knowe not what Coloure, -for I am sicke of likinge of Purple a Dozen Springes in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> -Order.—And wh. moste galls me is yⁱˢ, I knowe howe -yⁱˢ sadd Rounde will goe on, & Maie give Place to -June, & she to July, & onlie my Hearte blossom not -nor my Love growe no greener.</p> - -<p class="date">2ⁿᵈ June.</p> - -<p>I and my Foolishnesse, we laye Awake last night -till yᵉ Sunrise gun, wh. was Shott att 4½ o’ck, & wh. -beinge hearde in yᵗ stillnesse fm. an Incredible Distance, -seem’d lyke as ’t were a Full Stopp, or Period putt to -yⁱˢ Wakinge-Dreminge, whᵃᵗ I did turne a newe Leafe -in my Counsells, and after much Meditation, have -commenc’t a newe Chapter, wh. I hope maye leade to -a better Conclusion, than them yᵗ came afore.—For I -am nowe resolv’d, & havinge begunn wil carry to an -Ende, yᵗ if I maie not over-come my Passion, I maye -at yᵉ least over-com yᵉ Melanchollie, & Spleene, borne -yᵒᶠ, & beinge a Lover, be none yᵉ lesse a Man.—To -wh. Ende I have come to yⁱˢ Resolution, to depart fm. -yᵉ Towne, & to goe to yᵉ Countrie-House of my Frend, -Will Winthrop, who has often intreated me, & has -instantly urg’d, yᵗ I sholde make him a Visitt.—And -I take much Shame to myselfe, yᵗ I have not given him -yⁱˢ Satisfaction since he was married, wh. is nowe ii -Yeares.—A goode Fellowe, & I minde me a grete -Burden to his Frends when he was in Love, in wh. -Plight I mockt him, who am nowe, I much feare me, -mockt myselfe.</p> - -<p class="date">3ʳᵈ June.</p> - -<p>Pack’d my cloathes, beinge Sundaye. Yᵉ better yᵉ -Daie, yᵉ better yᵉ Deede.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span></p> - -<p class="date">4ᵗʰ June.</p> - -<p>Goe downe to Babylon to-daye.</p> - -<p class="date">5ᵗʰ June.</p> - -<p>Att Babylon, att yᵉ Cottage of Will Winthrop, wh. -is no Cottage, but a grete House, Red, w. Verandahs, -& builded in yᵉ Fashⁿ of Her Maiestie Q. Anne.—Found -a mighty Housefull of People.—Will, his Wife, -a verie proper fayre Ladie, who gave me moste gracious -Reception, Mʳˢˢ Smithe, yᵉ ii Gresham girles (knowne -as yᵉ Titteringe Twins), Bob White, Virginia Kinge -& her Mothʳ, Clarence Winthrop, & yᵉ whole Alexander -Family.—A grete Gatheringe for so earlie in yᵉ Summer.—In -yᵉ Afternoone play’d Lawne-Tenniss.—Had -for Partner one of yᵉ Twinns, agˢᵗ Clarence Winthrop -& yᵉ other Twinn, wh. by beinge Confus’d, I loste iii -games.—Was voted a Duffer.—Clarence Winthrop -moste unmannerlie merrie.—He call’d me yᵉ Sad-Ey’d -Romeo, & lykewise cut down yᵉ Hammocke whⁱⁿ I laye, -allso tied up my Cloathes wh. we were att Bath.—He -sayde, he Chaw’d them, a moste barbarous worde for a -moste barbarous Use.—Wh. we were Boyes, & he did -yⁱˢ thinge, I was wont to trounce him Soundlie, but -nowe had to contente Myselfe w. beatinge of him iii -games of Billyardes in yᵉ Evg., & w. daringe of him -to putt on yᵉ Gloves w. me, for Funne, wh. he mighte -not doe, for I coude knocke him colde.</p> - -<p class="date">10ᵗʰ June.</p> - -<p>Beinge gon to my Roome somewhatt earlie, for I -found myselfe of a peevish humour, Clarence came to -me, and prayᵈ a few minutes’ Speache.—Sayde ’twas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -Love made him so Rude & Boysterous, he was privilie -betroth’d to his Cozen, Angelica Robertes, she whose -Father lives at Islipp, & colde not containe Himselfe -for Joye.—I sayinge, there was a Breache in yᵉ Familie, -he made Answer, ’twas true, her Father & His, beinge -Cozens, did hate each other moste heartilie, butt for -him he cared not for that, & for Angelica, She gave -not a Continentall.—But, sayde I, Your Consideration -matters mightie Little, synce yᵉ Governours will not -heare to it.—He answered ’twas for that he came to -me, I must be his allie, for reason of oure olde Friendˢᵖ. -With that I had no Hearte to heare more, he made so -Light of suche a Division as parted me & my Happinesse, -but tolde him I was his Frend, wolde serve him -when he had Neede of me, & presentlie seeing my -Humour, he made excuse to goe, & left me to write -downe this, sicke in Mynde, and thinkinge ever of yᵉ -Woman who wil not oute of my Thoughtes for any -change of Place, neither of employe.—For indeede I -doe love Her moste heartilie, so yᵗ my Wordes can not -saye it, nor will yⁱˢ Booke containe it.—So I wil even -goe to Sleepe, yᵗ in my Dreames perchaunce my Fancie -maye do my Hearte better Service.</p> - -<p class="date">12ᵗʰ June.</p> - -<p>She is here.—What Spyte is yⁱˢ of Fate & yᵉ alter’d -gods! That I, who mighte nott gett to see Her when -to See was to Hope, muste nowe daylie have Her in -my Sight, stucke lyke a fayre Apple under olde Tantalus -his Nose.—Goinge downe to yᵉ Hotell to-day, for -to gett me some Tobackoe, was made aware yᵗ yᵉ Ffrench -familie had hyred one of yᵉ Cottages round-abouts.—’Tis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> -a goodlie Dwellinge Without—Would I coude -speake with as much Assurance of yᵉ Innsyde!</p> - -<p class="date">13ᵗʰ June.</p> - -<p>Goinge downe to yᵉ Hotell againe To-day for more -Tobackoe, sawe yᵉ accursed name of Wᵐˢᵒⁿ on yᵉ -Registre.—Went about to a neighboringe Farm & -satt me downe behynd yᵉ Barne, for a ½ an Houre.—Frighted -yᵉ Horned Cattle w. talkinge to My Selfe.</p> - -<p class="date">15ᵗʰ June.</p> - -<p>I wil make an Ende to yⁱˢ Businesse.—Wil make no -onger Staye here.—Sawe Her to-day, driven Home -fm. ye Beache, about 4½ of yᵉ Afternoone, by Wᵐˢᵒⁿ -in his Dogge-Carte, wh. yᵉ Cadde has broughten here.—Wil -betake me to yᵉ Boundlesse Weste—Not yᵗ I -care aught for yᵉ Boundlesse Weste, butt yᵗ I shal doe -wel if haplie I leave my Memourie amᵍ yᵉ Apaches & -bringe Home my Scalpe.</p> - -<p class="date">16ᵗʰ June.</p> - -<p>To Fyre Islande, in Winthrop’s Yacht—yᵉ Twinnes -w. us, so Titteringe & Choppinge Laughter, yᵗ ’twas -worse yⁿ a Flocke of Sandpipers.—Found a grete -Concourse of people there, Her amonge them, in a -Suite of blue, yᵗ became Her bravelie.—She swimms -lyke to a Fishe, butt everie Stroke of Her white Arms -(of a lovelie Roundnesse) cleft, as ’twere my Hearte, -rather yⁿ yᵉ Water.—She bow’d to me, on goinge into -yᵉ Water, w. muche Dignitie, & agayn on Cominge out, -but yⁱˢ Tyme w. lesse Dignitie, by reason of yᵉ Water -in Her Cloathes, & Her Haire in Her Eyes.—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span></p> - -<p class="date">17ᵗʰ June.</p> - -<p>Was for goinge awaie To-morrow, but Clarence -cominge againe to my Chamber, & mightilie purswadinge -of me, I feare I am comitted to a verie sillie -Undertakinge.—For I am promis’d to Help him -secretlie to wedd his Cozen.—He wolde take no -Deniall, wolde have it, his Brother car’d Naughte, -’twas but yᵉ Fighte of theyre Fathers, he was bounde -it sholde be done, & ’twere best I stoode his Witnesse, -who was wel lyked of bothe yᵉ Braunches of yᵉ Family.—So -’twas agree’d, yᵗ I shal staye Home to-morrowe -fm. yᵉ Expedition to Fyre Islande, feigning a Head-Ache, -(wh. indeede I meante to do, in any Happ, for -I cannot see Her againe,) & shall meet him at yᵉ little -Churche on yᵉ Southe Roade.—He to drive to Islipp -to fetch Angelica, lykewise her Witnesse, who sholde -be some One of yᵉ Girles, she hadd not yet made her -Choice.—I made yⁱˢ Condition, it sholde not be either -of yᵉ Twinnes.—No, nor Bothe, for that matter.—Inquiringe -as to yᵉ Clergyman, he sayde yᵉ Dominie -was allreadie Squar’d.</p> - -<p class="date"><span class="smcap">Newe York, yᵉ Buckingham Hotell</span>, 19ᵗʰ June.</p> - -<p>I am come to yᵉ laste Entrie I shall ever putt downe -in yˢ Booke, and needes must yᵗ I putt it downe quicklie, -for all hath Happ’d in so short a Space, yᵗ my Heade -whirles w. thynkinge of it. Yᵉ after-noone of Yesterdaye, -I set about Counterfeittinge of a Head-Ache, & -so wel did I compasse it, yᵗ I verilie thinke one of yᵉ -Twinnes was mynded to Stay Home & nurse me.—All -havinge gone off, & Clarence on his waye to Islipp, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -sett forth for yᵉ Churche, where arriv’d I founde it -emptie, w. yᵉ Door open.—Went in & writh’d on yᵉ -hard Benches a ¼ of an Houre, when, hearinge a Sounde, -I look’d up & saw standinge in yᵉ Door-waye, Katherine -Ffrench.—She seem’d muche astonished, saying -You Here! or yᵉ lyke.—I made Answer & sayde yᵗ -though my Familie were greate Sinners, yet had they -never been Excommunicate by yᵉ Churche.—She -sayde, they colde not Putt Out what never was in.—While -I was bethynkinge me wh. I mighte answer to -yⁱˢ, she went on, sayinge I must excuse Her, She wolde -goe upp in yᵉ Organ-Lofte.—I enquiring what for? -She sayde to practice on yᵉ Organ.—She turn’d verie -Redd, of a warm Coloure, as She sayde this.—I ask’d -Do you come hither often? She replyinge Yes, I -enquir’d how yᵉ Organ lyked Her.—She sayde Right -well, when I made question more curiously (for She -grew more Redd eache moment) how was yᵉ Action? -yᵉ Tone? how manie Stopps? Whᵃᵗ She growinge -gretelie Confus’d, I led Her into yᵉ Churche, & show’d -Her yᵗ there was no Organ, yᵗ Choire beinge indeede a -Band, of i Tuninge-Forke, i Kitt, & i Horse-Fiddle.—At -this She fell to Smilinge & Blushinge att one Tyme.—She -perceiv’d our Errandes were yᵉ Same, & crav’d -Pardon for Her Fibb.—I tolde Her, If She came -Thither to be Witness at her Frend’s Weddinge, ’twas -no greate Fibb, ’twolde indeede be Practice for Her.—This -havinge a rude Sound, I added I thankt yᵉ -Starrs yᵗ had bro’t us Together. She sayde if yᵉ Starrs -appoint’d us to meete no oftener yⁿ this Couple shoude -be Wedded, She was wel content. This cominge on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> -me lyke a last Buffett of Fate, that She shoude so -despitefully intreate me, I was suddenlie Seized with -so Sorrie a Humour, & withal so angrie, yᵗ I colde -scarce Containe myselfe, but went & Sat downe neare -yᵉ Doore, lookinge out till Clarence shd. come w. his -Bride.—Looking over my Sholder, I sawe yᵗ She -wente fm. Windowe to Windowe within, Pluckinge yᵉ -Blossoms fm. yᵉ Vines, & settinge them in her Girdle.—She -seem’d most tall and faire, & swete to look -uponn, & itt Anger’d me yᵉ More.—Meanwhiles, She -discours’d pleasantlie, asking me manie questions, to -the wh. I gave but shorte and churlish answers. She -ask’d Did I nott Knowe Angelica Roberts was Her -best Frend? How longe had I knowne of yᵉ Betrothal? -Did I thinke ’twolde knitt yᵉ House together, & Was -it not Sad to see a Familie thus Divided?—I answer’d -Her, I wd. not robb a Man of yᵉ precious Righte to -Quarrell with his Relations.—And then, with meditatinge -on yᵉ goode Lucke of Clarence, & my owne -harde Case, I had suche a sudden Rage of peevishness -yᵗ I knewe scarcelie what I did.—Soe when she ask’d -me merrilie why I turn’d my Backe on Her, I made -Reply I had turn’d my Backe on much Follie.—Wh. -was no sooner oute of my Mouthe than I was mightilie -Sorrie for it, and turninge aboute, I perceiv’d She was -in Teares & weepinge bitterlie. Whᵃᵗ my Hearte -wolde holde no More, & I rose upp & tooke Her in my -arms & Kiss’d & Comforted Her, She makinge no -Denyal, but seeminge greatlie to Neede such Solace, -wh. I was not Loathe to give Her.—Whiles we were -at This, onlie She had gott to Smilinge, & to sayinge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> -of Things which even yⁱˢ paper shal not knowe, came -in yᵉ Dominie, sayinge He judg’d We were the Couple -he came to Wed.—With him yᵉ Sexton & yᵉ Sexton’s -Wife.—My swete Kate, alle as rosey as Venus’s Nape, -was for Denyinge of yⁱˢ, butt I wolde not have it, & -sayde Yes.—She remonstrating w. me, privilie, I -tolde Her She must not make me Out a Liar, yᵗ to -Deceave yᵉ Man of God were a greavous Sinn, yᵗ I had -gott Her nowe, & wd. not lett her Slipp from me, & -did soe Talke Her Downe, & w. such Strengthe of -joie, yᵗ allmost before She knewe it, we Stoode upp, & -were Wed, w. a Ringe (tho’ She Knewe it nott) wh. -belong’d to My G father. (Him yᵗ Cheated Herⁿ.)—</p> - -<p>Wh was no sooner done, than in came Clarence & -Angelica, & were Wedded in theyre Turn.—The -Clergyman greatelie surprised, but more att yᵉ Largeness -of his Fee.</p> - -<p>This Businesse being Ended, we fled by yᵉ Trayne of -4½ o’cke, to yⁱˢ Place, where we wait till yᵉ Bloode of -all yᵉ Ffrenches have Tyme to coole downe, for yᵉ wise -Mann who meeteth his Mother in Lawe yᵉ 1ˢᵗ tyme, wil -meete her when she is Milde.—</p> - -<p>And so I close yⁱˢ Journall, wh., tho’ for yᵉ moste -Parte ’tis but a peevish Scrawle, hath one Page of -Golde, whᵒⁿ I have writt yᵉ laste strange Happ whᵇʸ I -have layd Williamson by yᵉ Heeles & found me yᵉ -sweetest Wife yᵗ ever stopp’d a man’s Mouthe w. kisses for writinge of -Her Prayses.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<h2>Stories by American Authors</h2> - -<div class="bt bb"> - -<p>“A brilliant series.”—<cite>Boston Courier.</cite></p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons</span> have in hand a -publication of unusual importance and interest, in the volumes -of “Stories by American Authors,” of which they have just -begun the issue.</p> - -<p>The books carry their sufficient explanation in their brief -title. They are collections of the more noteworthy short -stories contributed by American writers during the last -twenty-five years—and especially during the last ten—either -to periodicals or publications now for some reason not easily -accessible.</p> - -<p>It is surprising that such a collection has not been attempted -earlier, in view of the extraordinarily large proportion -of strong work in American fiction which has been cast -in the form of the short story.</p> - -<p>If the publishers of the present collection are right, it will -not only show the remarkably large number of contemporary -American authors who have won general acknowledgment -of their excellence in this field, but will surprise most readers -by the number of capital and striking stories by less frequent -writers, which are scattered through our recent periodical -literature.</p> - -<p>In England, in the well-known “Tales from Blackwood,” -the experiment was tried of publishing such stories taken from -a single magazine within a limited time. But the noticeable -feature of the present volumes will be seen to be the extent -of the field from which they draw, and their fully representative -character.</p> - -<p class="center smaller">Cloth, 16mo, 50 cents each.</p> - -<div class="bt bb"> - -<p>“Literary relishes that will give as good seasoning as one could -wish to one’s moments of leisure or of dullness.”—<cite>Boston Advertiser.</cite></p> - -</div> - -<p><i>The following is an alphabetical list of the stories contained in the first -six volumes of the series which are now ready:</i></p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Balacchi Brothers, The.</span> By Rebecca Harding Davis. -Vol. I.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Brother Sebastian’s Friendship.</span> By Harold Frederic. -Vol. VI.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Denver Express, The.</span> By A. A. Hayes. Vol. VI.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Dinner Party, A.</span> By John Eddy. Vol. II.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Documents in the Case, The.</span> By Brander Matthews and -H. C. Bunner. Vol. I.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">End of New York, The.</span> By Park Benjamin. Vol. V.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Friend Barton’s Concern.</span> By Mary Hallock Foote. Vol. IV.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Heartbreak Cameo, The.</span> By Lizzie W. Champney. Vol. VI.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Inspired Lobbyist, An.</span> By J. W. De Forest. Vol. IV.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Light Man, A.</span> By Henry James. Vol. V.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Lost in the Fog.</span> By Noah Brooks. Vol. IV.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Love in Old Cloathes.</span> By H. C. Bunner. Vol. IV.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Martyr to Science, A.</span> By Mary Putnam Jacobi, M.D. -Vol. II.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Memorable Murder, A.</span> By Celia Thaxter. Vol. III.</p> - -<div class="bt bb"> - -<p>“These volumes are as sure to delight and please the general -reader as to satisfy the exactions of the critical.”—<cite>Washington -National Tribune.</cite></p> - -</div> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Miss Grief.</span> By Constance Fenimore Woolson. Vol. IV.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Miss Eunice’s Glove.</span> By Albert Webster. Vol. VI.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Misfortunes of Bro’ Thomas Wheatley, The.</span> By Lina -Redwood Fairfax. Vol. VI.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Mount of Sorrow, The.</span> By Harriet Prescott Spofford. -Vol. II.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Mrs. Knollys.</span> By “J. S. of Dale.” Vol. II.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Operation in Money, An.</span> By Albert Webster. Vol. I.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Poor Ogla-Moga.</span> By David D. Lloyd. Vol. III.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Sister Silvia.</span> By Mary Agnes Tincker. Vol. II.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Spider’s Eye, The.</span> By Lucretia P. Hale. Vol. III.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Story of the Latin Quarter, A.</span> By Frances Hodgson -Burnett. Vol. III.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Tachypomp, The.</span> By E. P. Mitchell. Vol. V.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Thirty Pieces, One of the.</span> By W. H. Bishop. Vol. I.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Transferred Ghost, The.</span> By Frank R. Stockton. Vol. II.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Two Buckets in a Well.</span> By N. P. Willis. Vol. IV.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Two Purse Companions.</span> By George Parsons Lathrop. -Vol. III.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Venetian Glass.</span> By Brander Matthews. Vol. III.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Village Convict, The.</span> By C. H. White. Vol. VI.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Who was She?</span> By Bayard Taylor. Vol. I.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Why Thomas was Discharged.</span> By George Arnold. Vol. V.</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="book">Yatil.</span> By F. D. Millet. Vol. V.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="center larger"><i>The Theatres of Paris.</i></p> - -<p class="center">By BRANDER MATTHEWS.</p> - -<p class="center"><i>With illustrations by Sarah-Bernhardt, Carolus Duran, Madrazo, -Gaucherel, and others.</i></p> - -<p class="center">One Volume, 16mo, cloth, $1.25.</p> - -<p>“An interesting, gossipy, yet instructive little book.”—<cite>Academy (London.)</cite></p> - -<p>“A very readable and discriminating account of the leading theatres and -actors of the French capital.”—<cite>Christian Union, (New York.)</cite></p> - -<p>“Mr. Matthews has chosen a subject of great interest to most people, and he -has the additional advantage of knowing what he is writing about. The chapters -on the Grand Opéra and on the Théâtre Français, the two most perfect establishments -of the kind in the world, are full of valuable details and statistics.”—<cite>Nation.</cite></p> - -</div> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="center larger"><i>French Dramatists of -the XIXth Century.</i></p> - -<p class="center">By BRANDER MATTHEWS.</p> - -<p class="center">1 Vol., crown 8vo, vellum cloth, gilt top, $2.00.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Brander Matthews’s studies are made with intelligence and conscientiousness. -The characteristics of the work of noted stage-writers, from Hugo -to M. Zola, are carefully presented in an entertaining way, while the personality -and life of each are not neglected. There is no book from which the English -reader can obtain so trustworthy a view of the contemporary French -drama, and none surely in which a theme so complex is so pleasantly unfolded. -The analysis of the realistic school, its methods and aims, is, in spite of its -brevity, an excellent thing, excellently well done. The volume is made up in -a manner very creditable to the scholarly tastes of the author. A chronology -of the French drama is prefixed, there are valuable notes and references, -largely bibliographical, and a good index.”—<cite>Boston Traveller.</cite></p> - -</div> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="smcap">Two Charming Volumes of Poetry.</span></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Airs from Arcady and Elsewhere</i></p> - -<p class="center">By H. C. BUNNER.</p> - -<p class="center">1 Vol., 12mo, Gilt Top, $1.25.</p> - -<p>“It is not often that we have in our hands a volume of -sweeter or more finished verses.… In choosing Love for a -conductor, who alone may open the way to Arcady, the poet -indicates the theme on which he sings best, and which reflects -at some angle, or repeats in some strain the inspiration of the -great poetic and dramatic passion of life. His poems are -thrown together in a delicately concealed order, which is just -perceptible enough to give an impression of progress and -movement.”—<cite>The Independent.</cite></p> - -</div> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="center larger"><i>Ballades and Verses Vain.</i></p> - -<p class="center">By ANDREW LANG.</p> - -<p class="center">1 Vol., 12mo, Gilt Top, $1.50.</p> - -<p>“The book is a little treasury of refined thought, graceful -verse, world-philosophy, quiet humor, and sometimes a gentle -cynicism. The versification is always polished, the sentiment -delicate, and the diction vigorous and varied. It is a wholly -charming production.”—<cite>Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.</cite></p> - -</div> - -<p class="center">⁂ <i>For sale by all booksellers, or sent, post-paid, upon receipt of price, by</i></p> - -<p class="center">CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, Publishers,<br /> -<span class="smcap">743 and 745 Broadway, New York.</span></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="center larger">ATTRACTIVE BOOKS<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>IN PAPER COVERS.</i></span></p> - -<p class="center">GUERNDALE: An Old Story.</p> - -<p>By <span class="smcap">J. S. of Dale</span>. 1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.</p> - -<p class="center">NEWPORT: A Novel.</p> - -<p>By <span class="smcap">George Parsons Lathrop</span>. 1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.</p> - -<p class="center">JOHN BULL AND HIS ISLAND.</p> - -<p>By <span class="smcap">Max O’Rell</span>. Eleventh thousand. 1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.</p> - -<p class="center">LUTHER: A Short Biography.</p> - -<p>By <span class="smcap">James Anthony Froude, M.A.</span> 1 vol., 12mo, 30 cts.</p> - -<p class="center">OLD CREOLE DAYS.</p> - -<p>By <span class="smcap">George W. Cable</span>. In two parts—each complete in -itself—per volume, 30 cts.</p> - -<p class="center">MY HOUSE: An Ideal.</p> - -<p>By <span class="smcap">O. B. Bunce</span>. 1 vol., 16mo, 50 cts.</p> - -<p class="center">RUDDER GRANGE.</p> - -<p>By <span class="smcap">Frank R. Stockton</span>. 1 vol., 12mo, 60cts.</p> - -<p class="center">SOCRATES.</p> - -<p>A Translation of the Apology, Crito, and parts of the -Phædo of Plato. New edition. 1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.</p> - -<p class="center">A DAY IN ATHENS WITH SOCRATES.</p> - -<p>1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.</p> - -<p class="center">MRS. BURNETT’S EARLIER STORIES.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lindsey’s Luck</span>, 30 cts.; <span class="smcap">Pretty Polly Pemberton</span>, 40 cts.; -<span class="smcap">Kathleen</span>, 40 cts.; <span class="smcap">Theo</span>, 30 cts.; <span class="smcap">Miss Crespigny</span>, 30 cts. -Beautifully bound in ornamental paper covers.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In Partnership, by -Brander Matthews and H. C. 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