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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57794 ***</div>


<div class="tnbox">
<p class="center">
<b>Transcriber's Note:</b>
</p>
<p>
  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
</p>

</div> <!-- /tnbox -->

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-001" id="i-001"></a>
<img src="images/i-001-575.png" width="300" height="575" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatl"><i>Painted by George Butler.</i></p>
<p class="floatc">VENETIAN GIRL.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_259' name='Page_259' href='#Page_259'>259</a></span>
</p>

<h1>
<span class="smcap">Scribner's Magazine</span>
</h1>

<p class="center">
VOL. XXVI
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
SEPTEMBER, 1899
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
NO. 3
</p>

<p class="s05 center p4">
Copyright, 1899, by Charles Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved.
</p>

<h2 class="nobreak">
WHERE THE WATER RUNS BOTH WAYS
<br />
By Frederic Irland
<br />
<span class="smcap s08">Illustrations from Photographs by the Author</span>
</h2>

<div class="figleft">
<a name="i-002" id="i-002"></a>
<img src="images/i-002.png" width="114" height="287" alt="Man in Boat" />
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p class="post">
<span class="dropcap">T</span>he greatest glory of Canada
is not its modern progress, but
its vast and ancient wilderness.
If you weary of the sameness
and unprofitableness of every
thing you know, go where I
went last year, to the upper waters
of the Ottawa, where the
beaver is the master architect
and the moose is king of the
woods. See for yourself, as I
saw, that the Ottawa and the
Gatineau, appearing to come
from widely distant regions, have
their origin close together and
are twins. Behold these two
children of the lakes, nourished
from the same generous breast. Trace
their courses, and see that, though journeying
far, in widely different directions,
they finally arrive at a common destination.
</p>

<p>
Nobody knows all about that head-water
country around the sources of the Ottawa.
It is a prolific game region, where sportsmen
rarely go, for the simple reason that
they can get all the hunting they want
nearer to the railroad. There are plenty
of deer close to almost any Canadian
Pacific station west of Pembroke, and it is
not much trouble to get a chance at a
moose in two days from Deux Rivières,
Rockliffe, or Mattawa. Not many hunting
parties start from there either, and I
suppose the reason is that for thousands of
miles to the west the woods, prairies, and
mountains lie close to the railroad and
afford almost limitless opportunities.
</p>

<p>
The territory enclosed by the Ottawa
and the Gatineau has been, from immemorial
times, the home of the Algonquin
Indians, and they still remain there, in such
primitive innocence that they receive no
annuity from the Dominion Government.
In this they are unlike the Indians of the
United States or their brother tribes of
Canada.
</p>

<p>
The map which accompanies this article
is reproduced from the latest Crown
Land Office charts of the Upper Ottawa
River. Hundreds of lakes, some of them
many miles in extent, are unmarked, because
they have never been surveyed. But
a glance at the map will give some idea of
the flood which is poured out at the feet
of Canada's stately capital. As a canoeing
country I believe the Ottawa valley
to be unequalled anywhere in the world.
The dotted line on the map shows the
course of a lazy autumn trip which I took
around the borders of the great interior
island, formed by the streams which fall
from a common birthplace in the Kakebonga
region and reunite in front of the
city of Ottawa.
</p>

<p>
The <i><span lang="fr_FR">coureurs du bois</span></i> of the old <i><span lang="fr_FR">régime</span></i>
have passed away, but the song of their
beloved wilderness is as sweet to-day as
when they found it irresistible.
</p>

<p>
At Mattawa I procured the supplies
which are necessary for a canoe trip in
the woods, and the branch railroad took
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_260' name='Page_260' href='#Page_260'>260</a></span>
me to the shore of Lake Kippewa. Then
a lumber company's steamer carried me to
Hunter's Point, the farthest settlement,
eighty-five miles north of Mattawa. From
there it was all canoe and portage. Nowhere
was there a carry more than a mile
long, and generally the distance was only
a few hundred yards from one lake to
another, or around a rapid. The rivers
form a continuous waterway, but we made
many short cuts. In five hundred miles
of canoeing there were, perhaps, twenty
miles of carrying, all told.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Isaac Hunter, the postmaster at
Hunter's Point, has his office in the front
room of his house or else in his coat-pocket.
He has a large, well-cleared farm,
where his father lived before him, and he
sells hay to the lumbermen at fifty dollars
a ton. Plenty of people in the United
States might well want to be in his place.
Yet the farm he lives on has no legal status.
It has never been surveyed, and the Crown
Land Office has no official knowledge of it.
So he pays no taxes and he never cast a
vote in his life.
</p>

<p>
When I got to Mr. Hunter's I was at
the end of civilization. Beyond his house
there were no roads except the water-ways,
and the journey I wished to make through
the wilderness was several hundred miles
long. But I felt as sure of the way
as though I had been there before. There
are no maps which are of any use at all.
Not one of them shows more than half of
the lakes which form the easy road we
travelled.
</p>

<p>
I told Mr. Hunter where I wanted to
go. He said: "Well, my brother-in-law,
Joe Decountie, knows the way to Ross
Lake, about half way to the Grand Lake
Victoria. Mr. Christopherson, the Hudson's
Bay agent at Grand Lake, will be
back here soon. If you want to go with
Joe and bring back a moose by Saturday,
you'll find Mr. Christopherson here then,
and he can tell you how to go the rest
of the way. You'll need a canoe. They
sell pretty high this year. You can have
that one out by the water for six dollars."
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-003" id="i-003"></a>
<img src="images/i-003.png" width="600" height="332" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Valley of the Upper Ottawa.</p>

<p class="floatc s08">
The finest canoeing country in the world. Mr. Irland's route indicated by the dotted line. There are watercourses even in the
places where, on the official map, the line seems to cross dry land.
</p>
<p class="floatc s08 hidepub"> <a href="images/i-003lg.png">View larger image</a></p>

</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
Joe was young and big. He lived
across the bay from his brother-in-law.
He and the rest of the twenty or thirty
other people around Hunter's Point speak
Algonquin and French and very fair
English, and their names show that those
early adventurers from Europe, two hundred
years ago and later, had no violent
race prejudices. The more I have seen
of the half-bloods of Canada, the more I
have come to admire them. They are of
fearless stock, and have inherited many
good traits from both races. They regard
with amusement and pity their half-brothers,
the full-blood Algonquins of the
remote forest, but they understand the
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_261' name='Page_261' href='#Page_261'>261</a></span>
arts of wood-lore which make life more
than endurable there. They have French,
English, Scotch, and Scandinavian family
names, and any one who thinks they lead
an uncomfortable life is very much mistaken.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-004" id="i-004"></a>
<img src="images/i-004alt.png" width="586" height="418" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Lower Chute of the Grand Calumet Fall.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
A good deal has been written lately about
the hardships and dangers of camp life.
For years I have spent a considerable time
each season in the woods, sometimes depending
for days on the resources of the
country, and I can truthfully say I never
had one uncomfortable hour there.
</p>

<p>
"Where shall we go after a moose, Joe?"
I asked.
</p>

<p>
Joe said: "Well, it's bes' to go where
we sure to find 'em. Dese fellers aroun'
here don't like de place where I go, because
it takes most all day to get dere.
But I never failed yet to see moose." So
we threw our luggage into the canoe, and
departed, in a gentle rain-storm.
</p>

<p>
It was nearly a year since I had had a
paddle in my hand, but it was only a short
distance between portages. I know of no
form of severe muscular exertion which
is so little irksome as paddling a canoe.
Rowing is galley-slavery in comparison.
With the paddle there are not less than
three variations of position on each side,
which bring new muscles into play and
relieve the weary ones; and a shift from
one hand to the other is a complete rest.
So it was not long, during the succeeding
month of canoeing, before I came, at daylight,
to look forward to a long day's paddling
with positive delight.
</p>

<p>
If any one wishes to know just where
we went on that little side issue of a moose
hunt let him get a good map of the Kippewa
region, and locate the space between
Lake Ostoboining and Hay Bay. It is a
blank space on a Crown Land Office map,
but there are at least fifty small lakes in it.
It took six hours' canoeing and carrying,
from Mr. Hunter's house, till we came to
the lake Joe had chosen.
</p>

<p>
That moose hunt was too easy. We
got to the lake, put up the tent, chopped
some wood, and just at dusk, when Joe
was baking biscuits in the frying-pan, suddenly
he set the pan down and made a
rush for the canoe. At the same moment
I saw a big bull moose wading out of his
depth, from the opposite shore, into the
deep water, about the length of a city block
from the tent. He did not see us at all,
and went right on, swimming leisurely
across. The lake was narrow, and the
moose did not hurry. His broad yellow
antlers were so heavy that he barely kept
his nose above the water. It was a great
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_262' name='Page_262' href='#Page_262'>262</a></span>
sight to see the ripple spread in a diagonal
behind him, while Joe urged the little
canoe right up close astern. What a pity
it was too dark for the camera! When
he was forty rods from shore and we were
close to him, Joe asked, loudly and pleasantly,
"Jack, where you goin' to-day?"
Jack turned his big head, and the expression
in his ox-like eye was that of pained
surprise. He began to swim so hard
that he half climbed out of the water.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-005" id="i-005"></a>
<img src="images/i-005.png" width="453" height="397" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">On Lake Kippewa.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
"Let's head him off," said Joe. So
we made a respectful circle around the
moose, and he ported his helm and turned
back toward the place whence he came.
</p>

<p>
"Drive him to the tent," I suggested;
and we did the meanest thing I ever saw
done on a moose hunt. We kept between
him and where he wanted to go, and actually
made him carry himself to shore
close to the tent, before I turned the express
bullet loose. It was all done so
quickly that the biscuits did not burn.
</p>

<p>
"Now, we worked ourselves out of
business, didn't we?" commented Joe,
by the fire-light, after we had completed
certain anatomical dismemberments, the
result of which would have astonished the
moose very greatly if he could have seen
himself hung up. "My pore leetle cousins
ain't got no fresh meat," continued
Joe, relapsing from the severely studied
English with which he had previously addressed
me. "It's 'bout twelve mile
straight so, to de house. How you t'ink
if I bring my cousins to-morrow to take
out de moose?"
</p>

<p>
I thought that was a very good idea,
so the next day Joe left me and walked
through the woods to Hunter's Point, to
bring his relatives. In the afternoon it
rained, so Joe and his cousins did not appear,
and I had the blankets to myself
that night.
</p>

<p>
The Hudson's Bay Company supply a
tent which can be closed up tightly. This
is good in mosquito time, but in the fall
there is nothing so fine as a plain shed
tent, open in front. The heat from the
fire is reflected down from the slanting
roof, and you can keep warm and dry in
the coldest rain that ever fell, especially if
you have a light fly spread above the tent.
I had brought along a tent of this pattern,
and was as comfortable as any king that
night, though the nearest human being
was twelve miles or so away. The rain
made the fire burn more brightly than
usual, by knocking the film of ashes from
the logs.
</p>

<p>
The next morning I was awakened by
my old friends, the moose-birds. A pair
of them were trying to carry off the moose
meat, all at one mouthful, and at the
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_263' name='Page_263' href='#Page_263'>263</a></span>
same time fighting away a third bird which
sneaked in between their trips to their
place of storage. The moose-bird takes
life very seriously, and his sole business
is stealing everything he can stick his bill
into. Unless he is very often disturbed
he is without fear, and will readily alight
on a stick held in your hand, if you put a
piece of meat on the end of the stick. I
have often photographed the bird at a distance
of three or four feet.
</p>

<p>
About two o'clock that afternoon Joe
and his friends appeared on the scene,
with another canoe; and they carried the
moose home in sections.
</p>

<p>
The next day was so warm and bright
that we took the canoe and went on a
long observation tour. Joe made a big
circuit, from lake to lake and pond to
pond. One of the geographical peculiarities
of the country is that you can go by
water in any direction you choose, with
short portages. Between almost any two
ridges you will find a lake or two.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-006" id="i-006"></a>
<img src="images/i-006.png" width="535" height="550" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Cow Moose in Thick Timber.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
In many places we saw where, earlier
in the season, the moose had been eating
the water-lilies. The remnants of the
roots, as thick as a man's wrist, were
floating on the surface by the score.
</p>

<p>
About four o'clock in the afternoon,
when we were on the return to our tent,
and paddling along very quietly, we heard
a stick break close by the edge of the
water. Looking sharply into the thick
brush I caught sight of a cow moose,
with two calves, in the woods about twenty
feet back from the shore. We kept
very quiet, hoping they would come out
where they could be photographed. But
soon the cow's great ears straightened out
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_264' name='Page_264' href='#Page_264'>264</a></span>
in our direction, the calves backed around
behind their mamma, and in an instant
they had begun a noiseless flight.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-007" id="i-007"></a>
<img src="images/i-007.png" width="600" height="364" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Hudson's Bay Post at the Grand Lake Victoria.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
It was dusk by the time we reached our
own lake, and there was a faint moon.
All through the day we had traversed
about as fine a moose country as one
could find. Every lake had its well-defined
path around
the shore, just
along the edge of
the bushes.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-007b" id="i-007b"></a>
<img src="images/i-007b.png" width="337" height="411" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">A Portage.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
At the head of
our lake, about a
mile from the
tent, we stopped
and ran the canoe
ashore. Joe
grunted hoarsely,
and splashed the
water with his
paddle, and,
sooner than it
takes to tell this,
we heard, not two
hundred yards
away, the most
impressive sound
that ever comes
to a sportsman's
ears, the ripping,
tearing noise
made by a bull
moose, hooking the trees right and left
out of sheer joy and pride in his strength.
He tore down a few cords of saplings,
judging by the racket, and then came
out, "oofing" at every step, circling
around us. In the gathering dusk we saw
his great black shape for a moment as he
crossed the little stream in which the canoe
was hidden. That
was the time to
have fired, if I
had wanted him
very badly, but
Joe, whose wealth
of luck had made
him over-bold,
whispered, "I
bring him close,"
and emitted a
loud roar, very
like the squeal of
a horse, and the
moose never
stopped to take
one more look.
He simply
wheeled around
behind the fir
thicket where he
was concealed,
and, with a few
characteristic remarks
in his own
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_265' name='Page_265' href='#Page_265'>265</a></span>
language, expressive of disdain and opprobrium,
made a hasty departure for a distant
section of the country. He acted as
though he recognized Joe's voice. "Well,
we fright him good, anyway," said Joe.
</p>

<p>
There was only one other place on our
whole subsequent trip where the moose
seemed to be so plentiful as right here,
close to Lake Kippewa. We had one
moose, and had seen that there were plenty
more. The Quebec law allows only two
in a season, to one man.
</p>

<p>
I wished to see more of the Kippewa
country before going north; so we went
back to Mr. Hunter's the next morning,
and there met Mr. Christopherson, on his
way back to the Grand Lake Victoria, and
with him an Indian named Jocko, one of
the "Grand Lakers," as Joe called them.
Jocko was a thick-set, open-faced barbarian
who smiled at the slightest excuse, and
who was so pleasant and bright that I am
going hunting with him some day if I can.
Mr. Christopherson said there would be no
trouble in finding our way to the Grand
Lake Victoria, as there was a plain trail
from Ross Lake, where Joe had been, to
Trout Lake, and that on this latter sheet
of water were two or three families of Indians
who traded at the Grand Lake Victoria,
any one of whom could be induced,
for a dollar a day, to show us the way.
</p>

<p>
Joe and I spent another week camping
about Kippewa Lake, getting used to each
other's paddling, before we started on our
northern journey.
</p>

<p>
It was at this stage of the proceedings
that Joe modestly suggested that he had a
little nephew, Billy Paulson, thirteen years
old, who could do a good deal around
camp, and that he would like to take him
with us. So Billy went and was happy.
He was a versatile little boy. He could
read, which Joe could not do, and he
spoke English without much accent. I
shall not soon forget my amazement when
he began, soon after our introduction, to
whistle, in good tune, Sousa's "Washington
Post" march. How it had reached
that far corner of the earth I do not know,
and neither did he; but he had it, and
with "Her Golden Hair was Hanging
down Her Back," as an occasional interlude,
he made distant lakes melodious
during the succeeding days.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-008" id="i-008"></a>
<img src="images/i-008.png" width="549" height="447" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">The Old Dam at Barrière Lake.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
The next day we took another side trip,
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_266' name='Page_266' href='#Page_266'>266</a></span>
to the east end of Lake Kippewa. Joe
had been telling of a wonderful trout lake,
away up the mountain, and we went to
see it. There we found one of Billy's
relatives, Johnnie Puryea, and two squaws,
catching a winter's supply of trout. They
had been there about a week, and had
more than three hundred beautiful fish
hung up on a frame over a slow, smoky
fire. While we partook of Johnnie's trout,
such a violent thunder-shower came up,
with heavy wind, that we stayed late. It
was almost as dark as it could be when we
started back over the
mile portage to the
big lake. There was
no good trail, only a
few trees being
"spotted," and the
side of the mountain
was furrowed with
countless ravines, at
the bottom of some
one of which lay our
canoe. We could
not see the trail at
all, but kept going
down hill, and feeling
of every tree we
came to for the axe-spots.
I suppose
we were about two
hours making that
mile, and I vividly
appreciated the force
of the expression
"feeling one's way."
When we finally
found the canoe, and
the moon came out
from under the
clouds, the smooth
lake seemed, after
the storm, to be an
old friend.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-009" id="i-009"></a>
<img src="images/i-009.png" width="456" height="337" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Heavy Swells.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
The next morning
we paddled along the
shores of the deep
indenting bays for
miles, looking for
moose tracks. At
one place a whole
family, big and little,
had left fresh hoof-prints
in the mud,
and Joe followed
them to see where they went, while Billy
and I trolled, and caught as many walleyed
pike and pickerel as we pleased.
</p>

<p>
All along the shores of the lake, at
conspicuous points, the bush-rangers, or
fire police, had posted printed warnings
against leaving fires in the woods. It is
a misdemeanor there to leave a smouldering
fire. He who starts a blaze must see
that it is extinguished.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-009b" id="i-009b"></a>
<img src="images/i-009b.png" width="465" height="377" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">"Jocko"—a Typical Algonquin.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
Joe showed us a place where he and a
companion were watching for moose last
year. "De moose come out. I shoot.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_267' name='Page_267' href='#Page_267'>267</a></span>
De ca'tridge bu'st, and mos' blind me. I
listen for my chum to shoot, but he no
shoot. I look 'round, and my chum run
away. So we no get dat moose."
</p>

<p>
There are many men who do not seem to
be able to face a moose, but the animal
cannot do anything to a man with a heavy
rifle, who uses it.
</p>

<p>
My note-book is full of Joe's moose
stories. Here is one that shows how common
the animals are at Kippewa. "Las'
year anoder lad and me, we took a big
head out to de station to sell. A man offer
us five dollar for it.
At las' we sell it for
six. De trouble was,
'noder feller sell a
moose, de head, skin,
meat, and all, de week
before, for five dollar.
I swore I never help
take out no more
heads twenty-five
mile for t'ree dollar
my share, and me kill
de moose, too!"
</p>

<p>
The shores of
Lake Kippewa are
high hard-wood
ridges, and one can
see a long way
through the trees, as
there is not much undergrowth.
It is an
ideal place to hunt.
As late as October
14th it was rather
warm for a night fire in front of the tent.
</p>

<p>
Every red and golden leaf as it fell at
our feet bore to us the same message.
The Indian summer was upon us, and it
was time to be going northward. So we
gathered our simple belongings together,
and started on our swing around the
wilderness circle, to find where the two
rivers run from the same lake, to behold
the mountain home of the twins.
</p>

<p>
There is joy in the mere fact of following
unmapped water-ways. No matter
if you mistake your course, you can, at
least, come back by the same way you
go. The river will run just as it has run
during all the centuries while you were
neglecting it, and the lake will stay where
it has waited for you these countless years.
The land-marks will not fade away. Few,
indeed, have been the kings of earth
who ever felt as jaunty and independent
as the one white man and two half-breeds
who left Hunter's Point for the far Upper
Ottawa, on the 16th of October, last year.
No matter what happened to other people,
we were secure; and the farther away
we got, the better pleased we were.
</p>

<p>
Half a day of steady paddling through
the Birch Lakes took us past shores where
the standing pine has never been disturbed
by the lumbermen. There are in
these vast forests thousands of miles of
country which have never yet been decimated.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-010" id="i-010"></a>
<img src="images/i-010.png" width="452" height="369" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Against the Current.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
The farther end of Big Birch Lake was
the best we could do the first day, and we
camped at the foot of a portage as well
cleared as a country road, which has been
in use by the Indians for a hundred years,
and probably much longer. Joe here rebelled
against any elaborate tenting arrangements
for travellers. He cut three
long poles, stuck them in the ground slanting,
and threw the tent over them. In
truth this did just as well, when the wind
did not blow, as anything else.
</p>

<p>
A half-mile climb the next morning
brought us to the top of a long hill; and
right at the very top, where a hundred
dollars' worth of blasting would let it run
down into Birch Lake, stretched away
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_268' name='Page_268' href='#Page_268'>268</a></span>
Lake Sissaginega, or "Island Lake," appropriately
named, for there are about
five hundred islands in it.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-011" id="i-011"></a>
<img src="images/i-011.png" width="370" height="469" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Beaver-house.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
Joe produced a couple of short oars
from the bottom of the canoe, and nailed
a pair of rude rowlocks onto the gunwales.
He explained that on the long,
wind-swept lakes which we should have
to traverse, a pair of oars were superior
to two paddles against a head wind. It
was a wonderful thing, but during hundreds
of miles of lake travel after that we
never once had a serious delay from
weather. Nearly every morning the wind
rose briskly with the sun, blew during the
middle of the day, and moderated toward
evening; so we pursued the ancient Indian
custom of starting very early in the
morning, before the wind came up; took
a good rest in the middle of the day, and
continued as late as we could in the evening.
But not once on all our prosperous
journey were we really wind-bound,
though this is one of the most common of
occurrences on these lakes, where the wind
often piles the swells up so high that not
even a birch-bark can weather them.
</p>

<p>
The height of the wave which this marvellous
little evolution of the ages can stand
is not conceivable till you have witnessed
it. Running with a heavy, fair wind, the
swells rise behind you and seem about to
engulf you. But in some way the canoe
rises with the wave, and the boiling, foaming
mass rushes harmlessly by, while you
sit on the dry, clean bottom, and your
pride increases with each successive
triumph.
</p>

<p>
A very long lake next north
of Sissaginega is Cacaskanan, not
shown at all on the maps. On
this lake, about eleven o'clock
the second day out, while Joe
was rowing, and merely casting
an occasional perfunctory glance
over his left shoulder, he suddenly
hissed, "See de moose!"
We were at least a mile from
shore, and though I have seldom
met any one, civilized or savage,
who could beat me at seeing
game, I took off my hat to Joe
from then on. Sure enough, over
Joe's left shoulder he had seen a
cow moose in the edge of the
timber on shore. A projecting
point allowed us to get pretty close
to the animal. The wind was
partly off shore, and all the time
we were approaching we could
see her watching the shore, starting
at every sound made by the
wind among the dead tree-trunks,
but paying no attention to the
water side at all. This enabled
us, considering the difficulty of navigating
among fallen tree-trunks, to make
one of the most remarkable photographs
I have ever taken. We got to the very
shore, and crept within thirty-five feet
of that moose. I made my exposure of
the negative before she saw us at all.
This photograph will give a better idea
than could ever be conveyed in words, of
the tremendous difficulty of still-hunting
the moose in thick, dry timber, where the
crackling of a twig will spoil the best-made
stalk.
</p>

<p>
That photograph was more satisfactory
to me than the shooting of fifty moose
would have been. The moose does not
show to the best advantage in the picture,
but that was her fault, and not ours. At
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_269' name='Page_269' href='#Page_269'>269</a></span>
the click of the shutter
she went to find the
rest of her folks.
</p>

<p>
Late that afternoon
we came to a place
where Lake Cacaskanan
narrows to about
one hundred yards
wide, and here there
were many moose
tracks. Just beyond,
we met a family of the
Indians who had killed
two moose that very
day, and had more than
a hundred musquash
freshly skinned. Billy
was wonderfully impressed
by the dirty,
unkempt appearance of
the little children, whose shocks of matted
hair he unconsciously Kiplingized by referring
to them afterward as "haystacks."
The Indian who was the head of this family,
on being told by Joe where we were
going, said that we would walk on the ice
before we got back. I fear he was a sluggard,
who saw lions or bears in the path
of every enterprise. He was burning logs
twenty feet long, to save the trouble of
cutting them in two, and so he had fire
enough for four tents, instead of one.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-012b" id="i-012b"></a>
<img src="images/i-012b.png" width="396" height="338" alt="" />

<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">The Moose-bird.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
Monday morning, October 18th, we had
breakfast by starlight. Venus and Jupiter
were two particularly bright morning stars.
Billy looked long at the waning planets
and remarked, in an awe-struck tone,
"My, but they must be high up!"
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
    <a name="i-012" id="i-012"></a>
    <img src="images/i-012.png" width="456" height="341" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">A Beaver Dam.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
That day we reached Ross Lake, where
there is a lumberman's supply depot for
operations over on the main Ottawa, in
the direction of Lake Expanse. We had
no occasion to stop there, and all the afternoon
followed the directions we had received
from Mr. Christopherson, pursuing
the Hudson's Bay Company trail through
some small beaver ponds, till we reached
Trout Lake, a beautiful sheet of water
about fifteen miles long, where we expected
to find an Indian to guide us to the
Grand Lake Victoria.
</p>

<p>
We found the summer camp
all right, where the Indians
had a potato-patch, which
they had not dug, so Joe said
they had not left for the winter;
but not a smoke or sign
of life could we find. We explored
the lake, finding abundant
moose signs and trolled
for salmon trout, which at this
time were up near the surface.
One we caught was the largest
I ever saw. We had no means
of determining its weight, but
when placed in the centre of
the canoe, crosswise, on the
bottom, its nose protruded
over one gunwale and its tail
above the other.
</p>

<p>
On the morning of our third
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_270' name='Page_270' href='#Page_270'>270</a></span>
day on the lake we heard a dog bark, and
found the Indians encamped on a secluded
island. The wretches had seen us the first
day, but, fearing we were game wardens or
other evil-disposed persons, had kept out
of our way. Joe said the Indians up there
had a reputation for hiding from passers-by.
After we had met them and given
evidence of good intentions, they were sociable
enough. While we were inviting
the Indians to pass judgment on the contents
of a certain jug, an extremely large
domestic cat belonging to them ate much
of the moose meat in our canoe. Nearly
every Indian camp in these woods has at
least one cat, to keep the moose-birds and
wood-mice in subjugation, and the cats,
being hard to get, are highly prized.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-013" id="i-013"></a>
<img src="images/i-013.png" width="556" height="448" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">On Lake Kakebonga.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
We soon made a bargain with Kakwanee,
a young Indian just married and needing
money, to show us the way to the Hudson's
Bay post on the Grand Lake Victoria.
Without knowing it, all the time
we had been on Trout Lake we were quite
near a crew of lumbermen who were building
a dam at the outlet, to raise the water
for a reserve supply, to be used, when
needed, to drive logs down the Ottawa,
the water running out through Lake Expanse.
The intention was to raise the
water six feet; and as there are at least
seventy-five square miles of water in Trout
Lake, it will be seen that a large reservoir
would be produced by closing the outlet,
perhaps fifty feet wide. The Indians were
doing a good deal of laughing among themselves,
as they said there was a marsh on
the other side of the lake, where, unless another
very long dam was built, the water
would run off in the direction of Lake Kippewa
as soon as it was raised a foot or so;
and the lumbermen did not know this.
</p>

<p>
In the evening while we were camped,
waiting for Kakwanee to bid farewell to
his bride, Billy heard a trout splash the
water. He at once got some birch-bark
and placed it in the cleft of a split stick,
warming it by the fire to make it curl up,
and then lighting it on the edge. In this
way he made a torch which burned brightly
for a long time. Getting into the canoe
he pushed silently out, standing up. Letting
the light shine into the clear water, he soon
located the big trout, which lay quietly on
the bottom in the full blaze of light. Then
he made the motions of spearing, though
he had no spear; and there was no doubt,
from the realism of the pantomime, that
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_271' name='Page_271' href='#Page_271'>271</a></span>
Billy, child as he was, well knew a very
unsportsmanlike way to kill fish. It was
a beautiful sight to see Billy stand up in a
very tottlish birch-bark canoe, as confident
as a bare-back rider on a circus horse.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-014" id="i-014"></a>
<img src="images/i-014.png" width="578" height="420" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">The "Mountain Chute," Gatineau River.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
Joe had done some work as a "shanty-man,"
and the sight of the crew who were
building the dam made him reminiscent.
"One time," said he, "I do de chainin' for
a gang; dat is, fasten de logs wid de
chain, and bind em fas'. My chum, he
was French, and he drive de sled. He
was goin' for git marry so soon it was time
for de camp to break up, an' he was sing
an' smile to hisself de whole time. De
ver' las' day, de las' load, he say, 'Now,
Joe, dis load be de las' I ever drive fore
I go home to my Julie.' So he start de
sled, an' de sled hit a dead birch. When
I come 'long behine him, dere he was dead.
A limb break off de birch when de sled
strike it. It was all rotten, an' de piece of
de limb not so big as your arm. But de
limb was freeze, an' it hit him on de head,
an' he never move. He go home to Julie,
sure, but not de way he expec'."
</p>

<p>
"My," said Billy, solemnly, "it must
be awful for a man's peoples when he go
'way from home feelin' good, and laugh
and sing, and, the next thing his peoples
know, he come home dead!"
</p>

<p>
The next morning Kakwanee appeared
and we resumed our interrupted journey,
running all day through two lakes, neither
of which has ever appeared on any map
of Quebec. It seems wonderful that after
white men have used watercourses for
canoe routes for a century or two, and
when lumbermen have investigated the
country, there are stretches of many miles
together which are not indicated on official
maps except by white spots. But
this is true of over half a million square
miles of British-American territory. The
two lakes we traversed are called by
Indian names which mean "Crosswise
Lake" and "Old Man Lake." Out of
the latter runs a river which falls into the
Grand Lake Victoria. This lake is really
an expansion of the Ottawa. In many
places its shores are covered with medium-sized
pines, and in others bare rocks are
the only things to be seen. The greatest
enemy to these forests is fire, and in all
parts of the country are vast tracts which
have been so devastated.
</p>

<p>
It was a long day's paddle from the
lower end of the Grand Lake Victoria to
the old Hudson's Bay agency near its
northern extremity. Here Mr. Christopherson
received us with great hospitality.
He said I was the fourth white man
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_272' name='Page_272' href='#Page_272'>272</a></span>
who had visited the post that year. The
Indians who came there to get their annual
supplies, material and spiritual, had long
since left their little summer cabins for
winter hunting-grounds. Though the sun
shone warm and bright, it might turn
cold any night now, and so Mr. Christopherson
sent Jocko to show us the portages
as far as an Indian village, twenty-seven
miles up the river. There we could
get a guide to see us through to the place
where the water runs the other way.
Jocko, himself, wanted to go away hunting,
so he only accompanied us as far as
the Indian settlement.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-015" id="i-015"></a>
<img src="images/i-015.png" width="519" height="446" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">A "Chute" on the Gatineau.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
This procuring of guides through an unknown
country, on the instalment plan,
was very fascinating to me, and it illustrated
a characteristic of the northern
forest Indian which is universal. The red
man of the prairies was a nomad, but the
son of the woods does not make very
long pilgrimages, or know much about the
world beyond his own hunting-ground.
Before he is old enough to remember any
thing he makes his first journey to the
trading-post where his ancestors have for
generations been regular customers and
perpetual debtors. He does not remember
how or when he learned the way. On his
own stream and its tributaries he is an infallible
guide, for he learned all the landmarks
before he could pronounce their
names. But every forest traveller has
found the Indians in one locality reluctant
to go far from home. When Alexander
Mackenzie felt his way, by stream and
portage, to the great river which bears his
name, and thence down to the Frozen
Ocean, he found that the Indians on one
reach of the river always believed that below
their own country there were impassable
rapids and insurmountable rocks, ferocious
beasts and hidden perils. If you
will journey toward the head of the Ottawa,
in the fall of this year, you will find
precisely the same state of aboriginal mind.
The Indians around the Grand Lake Victoria
are within a few miles of the sources
of rivers flowing toward the four quarters
of the American continent. Ten
days' steady canoeing in any direction
would take them to Hudson's Bay or
Lake Huron or Lake Ontario or Montreal.
But they never travel for the sake
of seeing the country, or get far from home.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_273' name='Page_273' href='#Page_273'>273</a></span>
</p>

<p>
It was on the last day Jocko was with us,
October 26th, that I made the photograph
of him which is one of the illustrations of
this article. He was in his shirt-sleeves
and wore an old straw hat. While we
were eating our lunch at noon, the black
flies were a little attentive and it was uncomfortably
warm. That was the climate
of the far Upper Ottawa in the last days
of October. There was not yet a suggestion
of snow. For all the atmospheric
indications told us, we might have been
in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
</p>

<p>
The Ottawa above Grand Lake House
comes down out of the rocky hills, and is
full of rapids. In many smooth places
the current is very swift, and it was worth
coming a long way to see Joe and Jocko
paddle up places where Billy and I could
not go. Fighting inch by inch against a
rapid current is one of the most trying
tests of endurance I know. It is unlike
anything else in the world. You pull and
pull, and realize that an instant's relaxation
will cost you all you have gained. If
the water only would stop for an instant!
But it is so easy for the current to rush
on and on. How futile are human energy
and perseverance against a power which
has never for one second faltered in uncounted
years!
</p>

<p>
Jocko told Joe—he could not say it in
English—that he enjoyed travelling with
us more than he did with the Hudson's
Bay Company people, because they travelled
for dear life, making fifty or sixty
miles a day, and nearly paralyzed his
arms. When he had gone from Hunter's
Point to Grand Lake House a few weeks
before, he and Mr. Christopherson had
made the trip in less than three days, but
his arms were numb all the next night.
He liked to find a white man who travelled
"like an Indian," and said if I would
come up this fall he would show me some
moose and deer hunting around the head
of the Coulonge and Dumoine, the like
of which white men did not often see.
</p>

<p>
We reached the camp of the old chief,
Jocko's objective point, just at purple twilight,
when the smoke was rising straight
toward the sky, and we witnessed one of
the most peaceful and beautiful bits of
wilderness comfort I have ever beheld. It
seemed more like approaching a white
man's farm than an Indian camp.
</p>

<p>
There were two or three log-houses, a
few acres of cleared land, and two or three
horses and cows. A tame horned owl
scolded us from the roof of a barn. The
Indian girls were singing and calling to
each other across the wide river. A score
of children and grandchildren of the fat
old chief turned out to welcome us, and
we slept in one of the log-barns, on the
hay. Jocko sat up and visited with his Indian
girl friends, and I heard them
laughing and chatting until long after
midnight.
</p>

<p>
As I lay looking out at the shining surface
of the Ottawa, from my cosey nest in
the sweet, wild hay, it was bewildering to
remember that so much of Canada lay
south of us. Only a rifle-shot away, at the
end of a forest path, were the bubbling
springs which form the sources of the
Coulonge, that pine-embowered stream
which, for two hundred miles, straight away
to the south, traverses the centre of the
great interior island whose borders we
were encircling. I thought of the long
reaches of moonlit river, where the timid
deer were drinking, and the moose, in all
the ardor of their courtship, roared hoarse
contempt for impertinent rivals. And
this was only one of the streams whose
sources we were circumnavigating: the
Maganasipi, the Bear, the swamp-fed
Black, the Dumoine, the Tomasine, the
Desert—all these rivers and a thousand
lakes, gathered all at last in the generous
arms of the twin rivers, and borne away
to join the grand chorus, the voice of
many waters.
</p>

<p>
In the morning there was a pow-wow,
as the result of which a son and grandson
of the chief agreed to see us out to
the Gatineau, the boy going along to help
his father if a freeze-up should make it
necessary to carry their canoe back over
the ice. For many miles through devious
channels and short cuts, we ran past natural
meadows where the unsown grass
had grown high and dried up for the lack
of something to feed upon it—ancient
beaver meadows, from which all trace of
the original forest had long ago disappeared.
Joe and the Indian discussed
the beaver question earnestly. It appears
that the most interesting issue in Algonquin
politics is what to do about the beavers.
There are plenty of them all through
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_274' name='Page_274' href='#Page_274'>274</a></span>
the back country, and the Indians regard
them as their personal property. They
only kill a certain proportion of the little
animals, and carefully preserve the supply.
The beaver's habit of building for
himself and family a comfortable and conspicuous
residence enables the hunters to
take a pretty accurate census of the population,
and to tell just where the animals
are to be found. On our way we turned
aside and photographed a beaver-dam
and a house. The natural history books
generally picture these constructions as
quite symmetrical affairs, but all I have
ever seen have been rough piles of sticks
and mud, and the photographs show typical
beaver construction.
</p>

<p>
A few years ago a sportsman's club in
Quebec induced the legislature to pass a
law entirely prohibiting the killing of
beaver until the year 1900. Two hundred
years ago, when the Iroquois made
raids on the Ottawa country, and prevented
the annual catch of beaver skins
from coming down to Montreal and Quebec,
hard times fell upon Canada. Precisely
the same condition has confronted
the Indians and the Hudson's Bay Company
recently. It is almost as bad a situation
as it would be in Illinois if the farmers
were forbidden by law to kill hogs. The
Hudson's Bay Company's agents at Grand
Lake Victoria and the Barriere lake have
not dared to buy the skins. The Indians
have had no other reliable way to pay for
their supplies. Ruin for the traders and
starvation for the Indians would inevitably
follow the continued enforcement of the
law. Some relief has been afforded by
the fact that the post at Abittibi ships all
its furs by way of Hudson's Bay, so they
cannot be seized by the Quebec authorities;
and thousands of skins, worth $10
apiece, were diverted to that market last
year. The Indians have been very much
disturbed over the matter, for they find
the law of necessity more urgent than a
statute whose logic they cannot understand.
"Some families up here starve to
death last winter," interpreted Joe, after
listening for awhile to Jonas, our new
guide. "I t'ink I no starve, w'en de
beaver build his house close by my water-hole."
</p>

<p>
Our newly acquired pilot had no idea of
losing any business opportunities. His
canoe was ahead of the one in which Joe,
Billy, and I travelled, and he had his muzzle-loading,
cylinder-bore double shot-gun,
a handy little weapon, lying in front of him,
both hammers at full cock, hour after hour
as he paddled, the muzzle pointing squarely
at the back of his boy in the bow. It
was trying to unaccustomed nerves, but the
boy seemed to be used to the idea of sudden
death. Jonas had a curious habit of
holding a bullet in his mouth, ready to drop
it in an instant down the gun-barrel, on top
of the shot. The utility of keeping his
decks cleared for action appeared when,
toward evening, he cleverly snapped up a
reckless mink which darted along the bank,
where the stream was narrow and crooked.
The report startled a caribou, which
crashed out of the alders, not fifty feet
away. Jonas spat his bullet down the left
barrel and fired again, neatly missing both
his boy's head and the reindeer. Joe derided
Jonas in choice Algonquin, and said
to me, confidentially, "I t'ink we better go
in front in de mornin'." All the same, the
Indian's idea of a gun which will do for
partridges one minute and moose the next
is a sound one, in a country where one's
breakfast flies or runs away.
</p>

<p>
At noon the next day, we reached the
head of that branch of the Ottawa rising
in the Barriere lake. Long ago forgotten
Gatineau timber-cutters built a dam, to divert
this water to the Jean de Terre, but
now the dam has fallen into disuse, and
the stream seeks its ancient bed. Just beyond
the dam is the Hudson's Bay post,
a branch of the one on the Grand Lake
Victoria. Mr. Edwards, the agent, was delighted
to see strangers, especially when I
produced a letter which Mr. Christopherson
had sent by me, enclosing his three
months' salary. Mrs. Edwards soon discovered
that our Billy was her nephew, and
that much-related young person was at
once honored with a seat at the family
dinner-table with the twelve little Edwardses,
fraternizing with them in the
three-ply language which is the natural
speech of these mixed races. Mr. Edwards
told me he had that season refused
hundreds of beaver-skins from Indians,
every one of whom was on his books for a
year's supplies, and now he did not quite
see what the post was going to do, with
beavers demonetized.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_275' name='Page_275' href='#Page_275'>275</a></span>
</p>

<p>
Jonas, our most recent guide, did not
wish to linger, being haunted by the fear
of coming frost which the warm air belied.
So that same afternoon we hastened
on, regretfully declining Mr. Edwards's
invitation to go on a caribou hunt.
These reindeer abound in the Barrière
lake country.
</p>

<p>
We camped perhaps fifteen miles from
the post that night, and the next morning,
soon after starting up the lake, came to a
narrow place where the water, instead of
coming toward us as it had been doing all
the time for days, formed a little rapid, running
the same way we were going. The
day before we had seen the water pouring
into the Ottawa through the lumbermen's
worn-out dam, and here, twenty-four hours
afterward, continuing up the same lake, we
found the current was with us instead of
against us, down instead of up, and we
were drifting out toward the Gatineau, in
the other direction. If we had not known
about the two outlets to the lake we should
have thought the water was bewitched.
</p>

<p>
All that day we ran through Lake Kakebonga,
which the Hudson's Bay people
consider the most bewildering sheet of
water in the Gatineau Valley. There are
dozens of deep bays, which look about
alike, and if you start into the wrong one,
you get wholly astray. Once during the
day it became a little foggy, and Jonas at
once went ashore and waited for the veil
to lift, as he said no one could find his way
there in thick weather. These large lakes
are all long and narrow, and very crooked.
Like Kippewa and Victoria, Lake Kakebonga
is nowhere wide, but its shore-line
is very long, and the canoe route often
cuts across a portage to save miles of travelling.
</p>

<p>
East of Lake Kakebonga there is a
very rough bit of country which we
crossed by what are locally known as the
Sixteen Portages, or "the Sixteen," where
we clambered into and out of the canoe
on an average about once in half a mile.
At last we came to a long, wide path over
a level plain. "I know dis portage so
well I know my own house," said Joe.
"I was up here from de Gatineau fourteen
year ago." And there our forest friends
turned back, and left Joe and Billy and
me to make our way by the smooth current
of the Jean de Terre out to the Gatineau.
I suppose we ran twenty miles
after three o'clock that afternoon. Then,
when it was so dark we could see no longer,
we camped on a dry sand-bar, cooked our
supper by a little fire, turned the canoe on
edge, spread our blankets, threw the tent
over all, and were lost in dreamless oblivion.
</p>

<p>
"De wolf was howl pretty good las'
night, wasn't he?" commented Joe, as he
waked Billy and me in the smoky dawn.
"I tink I hear em close by onetime." And
in the sand, about one hundred feet from
our resting-place, were plenty of tracks,
where the deer-killing brutes had prowled
around while we slept; perfectly harmless
creatures, but unable to resist the temptation
to come near the fat and juicy Billy.
</p>

<p>
Of all northern wilderness streams, the
most interesting I have ever seen is the
Gatineau, into which we were soon carried
by the current of the Jean de Terre.
The descent which the devious Ottawa
makes in seven hundred miles or so, is accomplished
by the Gatineau in its straight
course of less than two hundred, and there
are few places where you cannot hear the
roar of the next rapid. In the spring
every bend is a maelstrom. On the banks
and overhanging cedars we could see the
marks made by the spring freshets, fifteen
feet above the fall level of the water.
And even then, as we approached a rapid,
it was necessary to know on which side the
portage was, because generally the opposite
bank was a vertical wall, and once in
the sweep of the current, there could be
no return.
</p>

<p>
"You see dat rapid?" said Joe, after an
early camp on the portage, as we went
down to look at the boiling cauldron below,
"I tink I always remember him.
One time I work in a shanty back on dat
leetle stream we pass dis afternoon. De
shanty was mos' ready to break up, and
good many de men was go down on de
drive. Dere was only one foreman for
all de gangs, 'cause so many men been
laid off. Dat mornin' de foreman tell dis
man 'I want you for do dis,' an' dose men
'I want you for do dat,' sen' dis man here
and dat man dere, an' he pick six men an'
he say 'I want you for take de batteau—dat's
de big row-boat—'wid forty-five
chains, to de gang for fix de boom in de
pond down below,' and he say 'Dat rapid
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_276' name='Page_276' href='#Page_276'>276</a></span>
dere, don' none you dam fools try for run
him. I tell you dat batteau ain't like de
canoe, an' de chains won't help you swim;
so I want you for portage de whole t'ing.'
So de men take de batteau, and de foreman
say, 'You, Joe, you an' your chum
an' Big Jule, you take de big canoe, an'
you go down for help on de boom.'
</p>

<p>
"So we start an' follow de batteau, an'
of course you can't see ver' far in de
river, he is so crooked. I was in de bow,
an' I see dem men in de batteau, 'bout
two acres ahead, 'fore we get to de bend.
Well, we come to de head dis portage and
we see nobody dere. I take out my pack
an' put de tump-line on my head, an' my
chum say 'Dem fellers make de portage
pretty quick.' I go down wid my pack,
and start up de portage once more, for
bring de canoe, me an' Big Jule. W'en
I get to de head of de portage, my chum,
he come run up all out of breat', an' he
say 'I see a hat an' a oar in de water down
by de foot de rapid!'
</p>

<p>
"Den I know w'at's de matter. Me
an' Big Jule we have de canoe on our heads
for carry it down de portage, but we don't
say one word. We jus' turn de canoe
down and I jump in de bow, an' my chum
in the middle, an' Big Jule for steer, an'
we run de rapid. We t'ink maybe somebody
hang on de rock; but fore we know
it we strike jus' where dey strike, on a side
jam w'ere de logs pile up. I jump out,
an' my chum he jump out, an' we catch
de canoe an' let her swing, an we holler
to Jule to jump, an he jump jus' in time
I tell you, for the canoe go under de jam
an' smash, cr-r-ack all to piece. I never
so near de en' of my life till I die, sure.
Well, we go back an' tell de foreman, and
he sen' some men for shut down de dam,
up in de lac, an' we look for dem feller
four days. We look way down below,
but we no fine 'em, an' de mornin' de fift'
day, I was stan' up in de bow, an' I see
black spot come up an' bob up an down
in de eddy right down dere, an' in fifteen
minute we have dem six feller out on dis
san' bar. Dey was all in a bunch. It
was hot, and dey look awful.
</p>

<p>
"Well, sir, after dat you not hear one
word in de shanty at night. De mens
come in, an' dey jus' sit an' say not one
word, an' good many de young lads git
fright, an' leave de drive an go home. O,
I t'ink I remember dis rapid pretty sure."
</p>

<p>
Joe's boyhood experience of the Gatineau
stood us in good stead all the way
down. He remembered perfectly all the
rapids, knew which could be run and
which could not. "W'en you see de
swells run black over de rock, don't you
be fright' dat you strike," said he, "but
if de water be white, den you look out."
And he showed how, along the edge of
the rough water, there is often a liquid path,
not more than the width of the canoe,
which may be followed with perfect safety.
</p>

<p>
Another half-day's run brought us to a
lumber shanty, with its tell-tale smoke.
</p>

<p>
"Quay!" shouted the cook, which is
good Algonquin for "Hello!" And then
I realized that weeks of constant out-of-door
existence had transformed me into a
good enough imitation of an Indian to deceive
a lumberman.
</p>

<p>
"Don't I know you?" asked Joe of
the cook, not deigning to reply in the
Algonquin tongue. And then the white
man on shore and the half-red man in the
stern of the canoe recognized each other
as camp-mates on some by-gone excursion
down the river in escort of a few thousand
logs.
</p>

<p>
"What shanty you from?" asked the
cook, turning to me inquiringly. "Didn't
I see you with Gilmour's boss last year?"
</p>

<p>
Explanations followed, and the canoe
which had come all the way around from
Mattawa secured the undivided attention
of the lumber crew when they came to
supper that evening.
</p>

<p>
The next day brought us down to the
Desert village, where we left my beloved
canoe on the bank, and took a stage
coach.
</p>

<p>
As we carried the luggage to the village
hotel, at three o'clock on the afternoon of
October 30th, the first flakes of snow began
to float softly down, and the splendid
Canadian summer was at an end.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-019" id="i-019"></a>
<img src="images/i-019.png" width="354" height="125" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">On Lake Kippewa.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->
<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_277' name='Page_277' href='#Page_277'>277</a></span>
</p>

<h2>
FRANCISCO AND FRANCISCA
<br />
<span class="s08">By Grace Ellery Channing</span>
<br />
<span class="smcap s06">Illustrations by Walter Appleton Clark</span>
</h2>

<div class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcapi.png" width="103" height="106" alt="I" />
</div>

<p class="pfirst pdropcap">
"It is not a place for everyone,"
said the priest, quietly,
as he led the way under
drooping peppers. "These
children are orphans of
good family. Their excellent
mother died a year ago; but they are
poor, and I have promised to find them a
guest to fill their bedroom. A few dollars
will be a blessing to them."
</p>

<p>
His glance, practised in such measurement,
added—"And you are a gentleman—a
man to be trusted.
</p>

<p>
"The house is plain but comfortable.
Francisca, like her mother, is an admirable
housekeeper," he remarked as he led
his guest into the paradise of roses.
</p>

<p>
The Professor, noting the sweet unkemptness
of it, had his New England
doubts, but he had none when Francisco,
bareheaded, warm, and beautiful, came up
from irrigating the oranges, "kissed the
hands" of the Professor, and turning his
own supple palms outward made him a
present of the house and all in it, which
at that moment included Francisca, standing
under the roses of the porch, and
more beautiful even than Francisco.
</p>

<p>
The professional ears were pricked at
the soft organ-tones of speech. If he
should not decide to take the Chair, at
least his time need not be lost, he argued.
That, indeed, had been his motive for
seeking a Spanish household.
</p>

<p>
When he packed his trunk in Boston a
Spanish dictionary was included, as became
a professor of languages; and now as he
unpacked it in the little roof-bedroom with
the red, round eyes of oranges staring
levelly in, and a drifting cascade of perfume
and green and white outside, he was
well content.
</p>

<p>
Perhaps it was that foreign ancestress
of his, to whom he was fond of ascribing
his bent for languages, who made this
foreign corner of his own country so instantly
attractive to him.
</p>

<p>
When he went downstairs later he
stepped into an open world. There were
untold windows, all wide to the air, and
through the green curtains of vines nodded
the heads of many roses. Francisca, and
the ancient relative to whom the orphans
gave a home, and who served as a nominal
duenna, were giving the last touches
to a table laid in the corner of the broad
veranda, which ran about three sides of
the house. The grassy space it enclosed
was of brave Bermuda, brown, but never-dying,
and returning green thanks for a
cupful of water. The Professor's foot
came to love the touch of that thick carpet
in after days.
</p>

<p>
Beyond, the orange-grove stretched to
the lime-hedge, and over that the peppers
drooped their ferny branches.
</p>

<p>
Nothing in all the place was trimmed.
Where the long trailing arms of the Lady
Banksia fell by their own weight, or
clambered by their own daring, there they
remained. The Professor stooped under
the same trailing branch each time he
passed around the veranda. A dozen
times he took out his knife impatiently to
cut it, but an involuntary compunction arrested
his hand. It was so in keeping
with the place—it was so in keeping with
Francisco and Francisca.
</p>

<p>
And with an incredible ease and swiftness,
the Professor found himself growing
in keeping, too.
</p>

<p>
In another corner of the deep rose-covered
veranda all his writing materials
quickly congregated. An Indian basket
of oranges stood on the little stand by the
hammock's elbow, near the rocking-chair
in which Francisca sat daily, converting
fine linen into finer lace, and cultivating
the Professor's Spanish at the same time.
</p>

<p>
Francisca "kept the house," not with
semi-yearly upheavals and the terrible
cleanliness of the Professor's ancestral
memories, but in a leisurely, sweet fashion
of her own, leaving much to the sun and
air, ignoring brasses and other troublous
matters, perhaps, but never failing—wise
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_278' name='Page_278' href='#Page_278'>278</a></span>
Francisca!—to put a rose in her hair,
and to set hot, savoury dishes with tropical
names before her men-folk. Therefore
no man ever found a flaw in Francisca's
housekeeping.
</p>

<p>
Had there been twenty men beneath her
roof, each would have been her peculiar
care. Her manner to her young brother
had a caressing sweetness which a New
England girl would have kept for her lover
or conscientiously forborne him—for his
soul's sake.
</p>

<p>
As for Francisco, sixteen, brown, slender,
wearing his peaked sombrero with
consummate grace (a gift he shared in
common with every wood-cutter and <i>ranchero</i>
of the pure blood), he was the Professor's
companion in every walk, every
blood-stirring lope across the open <i>mesa</i>,
every delicious climb up the chaparral-sided
hills or the ferny cañons. The boy
grew into his heart; and in return Francisco
loved him as boys and Southerners
can love, with adoration.
</p>

<p>
It was only a short time after he came
among them that the Professor stopped
one morning on his way out of the breakfast-room
(in which they never breakfasted!)
to examine a quaint inlaid guitar,
hanging by faded ribbons against the
wall.
</p>

<p>
"It is Francisco's," said Francisca.
"He plays beautifully; but he has never
played since our mother died—he hung it
here then."
</p>

<p>
"That is not well," said the Professor.
"You should win him to play again."
</p>

<p>
That evening, in the moonlight on the
porch, Francisca laid a tender hand upon
her brother's head as he sat on the step
below. Her hands seemed made for such
a purpose.
</p>

<p>
"Francisco, the Señor asks if you never
mean to play your guitar again."
</p>

<p>
Francisco was silent a moment, looking
at the stars.
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps," he replied. "Some day,
when we are very happy again—not yet."
Then turning his head, he touched the
caressing hand lightly with his lips.
</p>

<p>
"At thy wedding—or mine—<i>querida</i>,"
he said, lightly, and rising abruptly, went
into the house.
</p>

<p>
"He cannot bear yet to hear her spoken
of," said Francisca, following him with
moist eyes.
</p>

<p>
"I was—ahem!—very fond of my
mother. She died when I was a boy,"
said the Professor.
</p>

<p>
"But ours was with us only a little year
ago. She sat where you sit, and looked at
us with her beautiful soft eyes.
</p>

<p>
"And you—you had not even a sister."
Francisca looked at him as if she would
like to make up that deficiency of tenderness—perhaps
to stroke <i>his</i> head, as she
did Francisco's.
</p>

<p>
There was abundant leisure for the Professor's
studies, for the long, gorgeous
wonderland of summer was upon them,
and most people were at Santa Catalina,
or in the high Sierras, taking an exchange
of paradises.
</p>

<p>
The days rounded through their delicious
sequence of perfumed dawns alive
with birds, and middays of still air and
shadowed lawns, to the infinite twilights
and great moons.
</p>

<p>
In the evenings—the evenings of Southern
California—they sat out under the
vines, watching these enormous yellow
and orange moons, and Francisca sang
Californian songs.
</p>

<p>
Thus the days passed; punctuated by
a talk with the Padre, a ride, a stroll, or
some playful share in the labor of irrigating
the oranges—the one form of labor
Francisco ever seemed engaged in; but
these he irrigated perpetually.
</p>

<p>
The Professor missed nothing; he desired
nothing. The intoxication of living
in close touch with the sun and air, and
Earth in her summer mood, has never been
half told. Every fibre of his being rejoiced
in that long summer.
</p>

<p>
The little ranch of five acres—all that
remained of five hundred—was large
enough to hold his content. We do not
know that the Garden of Eden was larger.
He wrote hopefully to the Faculty concerning
that Chair, and with laudable
moderation to his principal correspondent
in the East: "California has a charm
impossible to analyze. I wish you were
here." And then he paused, pondered,
and carefully erased the last sentence, but
not so perfectly but that Miss Dysart by
dint of holding it up to the window-pane
deciphered it, and sat biting her pencil
gravely a space thereafter.
</p>

<p>
To wake in the morning and know the
sun would shine all day; not to be withered
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_279' name='Page_279' href='#Page_279'>279</a></span>
by the heat or chilled by the wind,
but subtly flattered and caressed by a climate
which was only another Francisca;
to be wooed to large thoughts and visions
by the landscape; not to feel the press
and friction of a narrow life and arbitrary
customs, and yet to be conscious through
all this space and tranquillity of the forward
impetus of a vigorous young life all
about him—this sufficed. The opportunities
for usefulness were great in a place
destined to detain every soul who lingered
a rash year within its borders—and to
make of the next generation natives.
</p>

<p>
In lieu of caressing the land itself, he
often caressed Francisco, its breathing
type, drawing the lad to him with an arm
about his slender shoulders.
</p>

<p>
And Francisca, the other breathing
type, regarded them both with that smile
of tenderness which has in it so much of
the maternal. When all is said, the wisest
man remains something of a child to any
woman, though she is but an inexperienced
girl, and he may have forgotten
more out of books than she will ever
know.
</p>

<p>
One day Francisco, running lightly up
the path and steps to where Francisca sat
filling a bowl with roses, and the Professor
sat watching her, dropped an envelope
upon the table.
</p>

<p>
"This is all your mail, Señor," said
Francisco, gayly.
</p>

<p>
The Professor opened, glanced, and fell
into a brown study, from which he woke
to encounter Francisca's eyes over the
bowl of roses.
</p>

<p>
"Is anything the matter?" asked those
eyes anxiously.
</p>

<p>
"Nothing," the Professor replied to
them. "An old friend of mine is coming
out unexpectedly—is on her way to Santa
Barbara."
</p>

<p>
"That is pleasant for you," said Francisca,
sweetly. "And the days are cooler;
she will be sure to like our country."
</p>

<p>
"She is coming to-morrow," said the
Professor, rising abruptly. "I must go
at once to the hotel."
</p>

<p>
"We will send many roses to her room;
and Francisco shall pick the large Indian
basket full of fruit—she will be so tired
with the long journey."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you," murmured the Professor,
vaguely.
</p>

<p>
He did not hear Francisca's caution
to her brother: "Do not pick any of the
heliotrope, Francisco, for the heavy scent
may be disagreeable to an old lady—and
only the very choicest peaches—old people
must be careful what they eat." But
this was not needed for his confusion.
</p>

<p>
"How well you are looking!" exclaimed
Miss Dysart, as she stepped from
the train the next morning, with a critical
glance at the Professor.
</p>

<p>
"The only climate on earth," replied
the Professor, laughing to hide a shade of
embarrassment; "and you—you are looking
well, too."
</p>

<p>
Distinctly well, in her immaculate shirtwaist
and sailor-hat, without touch of travel
or dust about her.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, all climates suit me—even our
own," Miss Dysart answered, lightly.
</p>

<p>
"Only one trunk, thank you; I am a
'transient.' And so this is your earthly
paradise. Is that ferny thing a pepper-tree?"
</p>

<p>
She was so much absorbed in the landscape
all through the short drive that the
Professor ended by feeling quite at his
ease. At the hotel door she dismissed
him graciously.
</p>

<p>
"You may come back after lunch, if
you like, and show me something of your
paradise."
</p>

<p>
"Of course," said the Professor with
unnecessary alacrity.
</p>

<p>
As he walked back he had a sensation
as if a cool breeze from the Back Bay, at
once bracing and chilling, had suddenly
begun to blow across the summer air. The
same sensation recurred later in the day
when he found himself strolling with her
under the drooping peppers to the Mission
and through the town. Had they not
often planned it—ages ago?—or had
not <i>he</i> planned it in his mind—at least it
had been tacitly understood, and—here
it was.
</p>

<p>
She was looking admirably, too. The
little precision of her starched collar and
cuffs, and severe hat and correct gown,
were an echo of his native city. She was
the best type of the things he liked and
approved and believed in.
</p>

<p>
And her mood was the bright mood of
comradeship he always enjoyed. She
faced the semi-tropical world with fresh,
appreciative eyes, and her sense of humor
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_280' name='Page_280' href='#Page_280'>280</a></span>
was like his native air re-breathed.
So singly did the place occupy her that the
Professor expanded gradually and his
tongue lost its knot.
</p>

<p>
"And you regret nothing here?" said
Miss Dysart at last, suddenly.
</p>

<p>
"Nothing," replied the Professor, emphatically—and
stopped.
</p>

<p>
"That is what it is to have a foreign
grandmother. You do not even miss the
symphony concerts—the Greek play—the
Sunday afternoons."
</p>

<p>
The Professor laughed rather drearily.
</p>

<p>
"It is the same thing, I suppose, which
leads the scarlet geranium to be a climber
here, and calla-lilies to grow wild, and
heliotrope to run up to the house-eaves.
What a poem of a place!" she exclaimed,
stopping. "And what a beautiful creature!"
</p>

<p>
"This is—er—where I am staying," replied
the Professor, all his impediments
returned. "That is Francisco—he <i>is</i> a
handsome lad; and that is his sister, Miss
Francisca, on the veranda. Pray come in
and see the roses."
</p>

<p>
Miss Dysart followed him with composure,
and gave her gloved hand cordially
to Francisca.
</p>

<p>
"I have heard so much of your paradise,"
she said, "but I did not know it
could be so true."
</p>

<p>
A bewildered expression crossed Francisca's
face as the two advanced, but it
passed, and her manner was as perfect as
Miss Dysart's own. So was Francisco's,
who placed a chair, and drew a rose-branch
to shield the visitor's eyes from
the sun—his own reflecting the blankness
of Francisca's. Francisca had to call
him twice to pass the wine she poured in
the quaint old glasses, and which they
could never conceivably be too poor to
offer a guest.
</p>

<p>
As Miss Dysart sat sipping her wine
politely—she was not fond of wine—she
felt, as she looked, like one in a foreign
land. The Professor, seated discreetly behind,
noted this with a smile. But Francisco
and Francisca were as much a part
of the landscape as any rose in it.
</p>

<p>
The conversation turned, as conversations
infallibly will, to the transcontinental
journey, with the "You remember this—you
saw that" of travellers.
</p>

<p>
Francisco and Francisca listened silently,
only when Miss Dysart turned to
the latter, she said with a kind of proud
humility: "Ah! I know nothing of these
things. I only know—this," with a gesture
about her.
</p>

<p>
Miss Dysart and the Professor looked at
her, and the value of "these things" was
differently visible in their eyes.
</p>

<p>
"How beautiful she is!" thought the
Boston girl.
</p>

<p>
"How much she knows and has seen!"
thought Francisca.
</p>

<p>
The Professor's thoughts are not recorded.
What he said was playful, but
with an undertone which was not lost on
one of his hearers. "'These things' are
not worth your rose-garden, Miss Francisca—saying
nothing of the rest of the
<i>rancho</i>."
</p>

<p>
"Ah! it is nice of you to say so," replied
Francisca, "but I do not believe it—nor
does Miss Dysart."
</p>

<p>
Miss Dysart kept her lids discreetly
lowered.
</p>

<p>
"By the way," she said, "I have someone
to thank for a portion of a rose-garden
myself. I don't suppose the hotels
furnish that."
</p>

<p>
"Miss Francisca—" began the enlightened
Professor.
</p>

<p>
"The Señor," interposed Francisca,
quickly, "naturally wished you to have a
Californian welcome. Francisco and I
carried them down for him."
</p>

<p>
This time Miss Dysart raised her lids
and looked straight at the girl before her.
</p>

<p>
"Thank you," she said, quietly.
</p>

<p>
"But if you care for roses," said Francisca,
rising, "you must look at ours in
the garden. We are proud of our roses,
though it is not the rose season," she
added; "for that you must come in April
and May."
</p>

<p>
"Thanks!" exclaimed Miss Dysart,
"but when one is used to one's roses by
the half-dozen, this will do!"
</p>

<p>
"You shall have as many as you like
every day, of course," said Francisca.
"Or, perhaps," she added, quietly, "you
will like to come and gather them yourself.
The garden is yours."
</p>

<p>
"'Gather ye roses while ye may!'—you
are most kind. I will take this one
now, if I may," replied Miss Dysart, bending
above a great white Lyonnaise.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-024" id="i-024"></a>
<img src="images/i-024.png" width="472" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">And now as he unpacked it ... he was well content.—<a href="#Page_277">Page 277</a>.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
"Just the rose I should expect you to
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_281' name='Page_281' href='#Page_281'></a></span>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_282' name='Page_282' href='#Page_282'>282</a></span>
choose," said the Professor, cutting it for
her.
</p>

<p>
"Pray, why?" inquired Miss Dysart a
little sharply.
</p>

<p>
"It is such a calm, vigorous, upright
rose—a kind of apotheosis of our own New
England roses. A well-bred rose; it does
not straggle, nor shed its petals untidily.
It would not look out of place in Boston;—and
it has not too much color."
</p>

<p>
"You prefer these, I suppose," remarked
the girl, coolly, glancing at his
hand. The Professor looked down
guiltily.
</p>

<p>
"I have been gleaming after you ladies.
This is your Mermet."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you!" replied Miss Dysart
dryly replacing the pink bud in her belt.
</p>

<p>
But the red rose remained in his
hand.
</p>

<p>
Miss Dysart turned away abruptly.
"What a place for a Flower Mission!"
</p>

<p>
Francisca looked puzzled. "Flower
Mission—what is that?"
</p>

<p>
"The depth of your ignorance, Miss
Francisca!" exclaimed the Professor.
"You see, Mildred, Nature runs a Flower
Mission on such a large scale that she
deprives us of that—as well as many other
legitimate philanthropies."
</p>

<p>
"Ah!" said Francisca, "now I do
know what a Flower Mission is. It must
be very helpful. And we do so little
good with all these—only to dress the
church."
</p>

<p>
"And welcome strangers," suggested
Miss Dysart.
</p>

<p>
"My sister is always giving flowers
away, and fruit," declared Francisco.
"The Señor and the Padre know if that
is true."
</p>

<p>
"But only for pleasure, thou foolish
one," said Francisca, smiling at him.
</p>

<p>
Francisco did not smile back. He remained
grave, and bowed their guest
farewell, with his <i>caballero</i> air, without a
word.
</p>

<p>
"What a beautiful, solemn boy!" exclaimed
Miss Dysart as she walked down
the street.
</p>

<p>
"Francisco? Oh, he can be merry
enough; you must allow for the effect of
a visitor from Boston."
</p>

<p>
"Pray let poor Boston alone! What an
absolute partisan you have become!"
</p>

<p>
"Have I? Perhaps it is only my mean
effort to hide our consciousness of inferiority.
We have no Missions here—except
Franciscan ones."
</p>

<p>
"We! our!" repeated Miss Dysart,
emphatically. "Have you ceased to be
a New Englander already? Is this the
effect of this remarkable climate?"
</p>

<p>
"I am afraid—it is," replied the Professor,
meekly.
</p>

<p>
And as he walked home that eastern
breeze blew more keenly still. As one
turns to the sun, he turned to the house
hopefully. Only Francisco was still sitting
on the top step gazing gloomily into
space. The Professor laid an affectionate
hand on the boy's shoulder.
</p>

<p>
"What is the matter, Francisco? Are
you not well?"
</p>

<p>
"There is nothing, Señor," was the
melancholy reply.
</p>

<p>
The Professor fidgetted restlessly about
the veranda and lawn, feeling as if the
whole place had been subtly changed.
There was no Spanish that afternoon,
either; Francisca was apparently too busy,
for she did not come out at all.
</p>

<p>
In the evening, however, she was idle
enough. Francisco and she sat on the
steps and watched the moonlight make
patterns on the walk below. The Professor
had gone to call on Miss Dysart,
inwardly reviling the social necessity which
demanded starched linen and a black coat
on such a night. It was still early when
Francisca with some light word of excuse,
and the little caress to her brother
nothing could have made her forget, rose
and went in.
</p>

<p>
It was not even late when the Professor
with eager feet came up the path, all inlaid
with the ferny tracery of shadows
from the pepper-boughs. The veranda,
apparently deserted, greeted him silently,
and he stood a moment battling with an
immense disappointment. It seemed to
him that he had lost forever an evening
out of his life.
</p>

<p>
Slowly he mounted the steps, and on the
threshold he paused again. A long tendril
of the Banksia swayed in the half-shadow,
and surely his ears caught a suppressed
sobbing breath. He made one
step toward it.
</p>

<p>
"Francisca!"
</p>

<p>
"It is I, Señor," replied the melancholy
voice of Francisco; and the boy
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_283' name='Page_283' href='#Page_283'>283</a></span>
came forward into the moonlight. "Did
you wish anything, Señor?"
</p>

<p>
"Nothing," replied the Professor, mendaciously,
his cheeks warm in the darkness.
</p>

<p>
"Good-night, Francisco!"
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-026" id="i-026"></a>
<img src="images/i-026.png" width="287" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Francisca "kept the house."—<a href="#Page_277">Page 277</a>.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
"Good-night, Señor!" returned the
boy in the same melancholy tone.
</p>

<p>
Long after the Professor's light was extinguished,
the lad lay watching the night
away in the hammock.
</p>

<p>
The stamp of that vigil was on his face
the next morning when he asked the Professor
to advise him as to some orange-trees
at the farther end of the ranch.
The Professor, who had also passed a
white night, gave a haggard consent.
Francisca alone appeared fresh and smiling.
The best artists do not adorn the
stage.
</p>

<p>
There seemed nothing particular the
matter with the grove, when they had
reached it.
</p>

<p>
"Which are the trees in question?"
asked the Professor, who at that moment
wished all oranges in a climate much too
tropical for them.
</p>

<p>
"Señor," replied Francisco, facing him—and
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_284' name='Page_284' href='#Page_284'>284</a></span>
it struck the Professor the boy had
grown tall overnight—"do you love my
sister?"
</p>

<p>
"Francisco!" exclaimed the Professor,
violently, and the blood began to pound
in his ears.
</p>

<p>
"I must know, Señor. When you spoke
of an old friend, we thought, Francisca
and I, of an old woman—and now here
has come this young lady from your home,
one of your people—and she calls you
by your name, and you call her by hers.
She has come because she cares for you,
and you spend your time with her, and
yet, Señor, you gave her back her rose
and kept my sister's!"
</p>

<p>
There was a guilty movement of the
Professor's hand toward his breast-pocket,
instantly checked.
</p>

<p>
"When you came home last night you
called my sister by name. Señor, this
cannot be! I am not jealous; you have
a right to love this other, but I must know.
I do not say for a moment," he added,
proudly, "that Francisca has thought of
you, but she is very young. She might
come to care, and—I will not have it so!"
</p>

<p>
"Francisco!" exclaimed the Professor
again.
</p>

<p>
"We are poor now," said Francisco,
lifting his head, "but my people were
great people when yours, Señor—the
Americans—were nobody!"
</p>

<p>
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the Professor,
sharply, catching at a tangible point of
remonstrance with relief. "My people
were never 'nobody'—they were New
Englanders."
</p>

<p>
Francisco bowed.
</p>

<p>
"Francisco," said the Professor, in a
different tone, "I thought you loved me—I
thought you trusted me."
</p>

<p>
"What has that to do with it, Señor?"
inquired Francisco, sternly. "It is of
my sister I think. If you do not love her
you must go away at once."
</p>

<p>
"I will be answerable to your sister
only," began the Professor.
</p>

<p>
"Pardon me, Señor, you will be answerable
to <i>me</i>. I am the head of the
family. Francisca is only a child," said
this other child.
</p>

<p>
The Professor was silent. When he
spoke, at last, he was answering himself
rather than Francisco.
</p>

<p>
"I will go!"
</p>

<p>
Francisco winced, but did not flinch.
</p>

<p>
He made a gesture for the Professor
to lead the way back, which the Professor
did like a blind man. He could not
have told whether his bitterness was toward
the boy or himself. Half way he
stopped.
</p>

<p>
"What am I to tell her?"
</p>

<p>
"You can have business—and she will
understand."
</p>

<p>
The Professor ground his teeth, and
going to his room, began grimly flinging
things into his trunk. He was furious
with Francisco, with himself, with the
climate which could lead a man to this.
</p>

<p>
He ate his lunch in silence. So did
Francisco. Men have these refuges.
Francisca the woman, with a thread of
speech, kept that silence from bursting.
After lunch the Professor finished packing,
wrote a brief note declining the Chair,
and went down to buy his ticket. All the
way down the landscape cried out to him.
</p>

<p>
As he left the station with his ticket in
his hand he encountered Miss Dysart on
the threshold with her purse in hers.
</p>

<p>
"What is the matter?" she exclaimed,
after one glance. "Where are you going?"
</p>

<p>
"Home," answered the Professor. "I
was coming to tell you."
</p>

<p>
Miss Dysart opened her lips, then
closed them again, and turning without
a word they walked on until the bend of
the road threw them from the town into
the country lane. There she stopped.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Why</i> are you going? You must have
reasons."
</p>

<p>
"I have reasons—" He stopped,
smitten with the conscious absurdity that
she who was his principal reason had
scarcely crossed his mind all day.
</p>

<p>
"Business—it—it is impossible for me
to stay," he wound up, lamely.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Why</i> is it impossible?"
</p>

<p>
The Professor looked at her and anathematised
the climate again.
</p>

<p>
"I—really cannot explain, Mildred,"
he said. "But there are reasons why—I
feel obliged to go."
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-028" id="i-028"></a>
<img src="images/i-028.png" width="359" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatl"><i>Drawn by Walter Appleton Clark.</i></p>
<p class="floatc">Francisco and Francisca listened silently.—Page 280.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
Miss Dysart's cheeks flushed, and she
looked a moment at the wide valley before
them.
</p>

<p>
"I feel that you are making the mistake
of your life," she said, in a low
voice.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_285' name='Page_285' href='#Page_285'></a></span>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_286' name='Page_286' href='#Page_286'>286</a></span>
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-029" id="i-029"></a>
<img src="images/i-029.png" width="550" height="549" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">He could not have told whether his bitterness was toward the boy or himself.—<a href="#Page_284">Page 284</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
The Professor made a vague gesture.
</p>

<p>
"But you will not go," she said, quietly.
"You will think better of it. You
will not do yourself so much wrong."
</p>

<p>
"I shall go. I have bought my ticket."
</p>

<p>
"I will buy it of you. I was on the
way to buy one myself."
</p>

<p>
"You were—!" He looked at her
in his turn. "We shall travel together,
then."
</p>

<p>
"We shall do nothing of the kind.
What is the use? If you go back you
will simply break down again. You have
your work here. You love this country."
</p>

<p>
The Professor's eyes swept mutely over
the valley and hills, and the girl watched
him jealously.
</p>

<p>
"You love it more than New England,"
she said, with a touch of bitterness.
</p>

<p>
"Differently!" exclaimed the poor
Professor; "differently!"
</p>

<p>
"You love it <i>more</i>," persisted the New
England girl.
</p>

<p>
The Professor drew a long breath.
"Can I help it? One is affection—fondness;
the other—" He stopped abruptly.
</p>

<p>
Her lips were closed tightly.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, you will suffer intolerable homesickness—you
are homesick <i>now</i>. And
then it is <i>all</i> of no use—Everard, you must
stay; you must think better of it. Stay
and take that Chair! There cannot be
any business so pressing. It will be no
use—not the slightest use for you to go."
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_287' name='Page_287' href='#Page_287'>287</a></span>
</p>

<p>
In her earnestness she put her hand on
his, but instantly withdrew it. Her troubled
eyes looked straight into his, and the
Professor's looked straightly back. But
he shook his head, and suddenly she
looked away.
</p>

<p>
"And you?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, I," she answered, lightly; "I am
a thorough-going dyed-in-the-wool New-Englander.
I was brought up to go to
church on Sunday and clean house twice
a year, and have a proper respect for calling
cards. I shall go on and join aunty
at Santa Barbara, and get home in time
for all my clubs and classes. Besides, I
have been meaning to tell you, I am
going to take a year in the College Settlement."
</p>

<p>
"A year in the College Settlement!"
echoed the Professor, vaguely.
</p>

<p>
"Yes; that will suit me better than—this.
Don't forget to send Francisco
with the ticket! Good-by!"
</p>

<p>
She gave him her hand frankly, and
once more their eyes encountered.
</p>

<p>
"If I had had a French grandmother,
you see—it might have been different
with me," she said with a touch of mirthfulness.
"And <i>that</i> at least is true," she
concluded to herself, looking so straight
ahead that she walked a space beyond
the hotel without seeing.
</p>

<p>
The Professor, going in the opposite
direction, went like a man under sentence.
</p>

<p>
That "intolerable homesickness" was
already upon him; but he was determined
to go. He, too, was a New Englander.
It is a great thing to have inherited
principles.
</p>

<p>
He was determined to go—all the way
up under the hanging peppers—all the
way beside the scented limes; nor did his
determination falter as he turned into the
accustomed path under the oranges, and
the sight and perfume of a thousand roses
stormed him all at once.
</p>

<p>
There in the wonted place Francisca
sat, steadily drawing the threads with
unsteady fingers. Her lips might be a
little pale, but they smiled. Even the
rose was not missing from her hair.
</p>

<p>
Francisco, perfectly miserable and perfectly
proud, rose mutely from the steps
to salute the Señor.
</p>

<p>
The Señor with two gentle hands lifted
the boy from his path, and made two steps
to the chair—one touch drew the lace
from the brave fingers.
</p>

<p>
"Francisca," said the Professor.
"Francisca—Francisca!"
</p>

<p>
This was the only explanation he ever
made, but in fact it was a perfect statement
of the case.
</p>

<p>
If it needed any elaboration it might
be held to receive it when Francisca,
stooping—long afterward—to recover the
abused lace, picked up with it something
else.
</p>

<p>
"What is this?" she said, a little
puzzled.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, that," said the Professor, "that
is Miss Dysart's ticket! She is going
away to-morrow."
</p>

<p>
"Ah!" said Francisca only.
</p>

<p>
"Francisco is to take it to her, and by
the way, where is the dear lad?" He
made a movement to rise, but Francisca
stopped him, raising his hand in hers.
</p>

<p>
Out on the twilight air already heavy
with sweet odors, came floating the sound
of a guitar, low, but inexpressibly joyous
and tender.
</p>

<p>
Francisca's eyes filled with tears, but
"<i>Caro</i> Francisco!" she only said.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-030" id="i-030"></a>
<img src="images/i-030.png" width="298" height="150" alt="Decoration" />
</div> <!-- /figcenter -->

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-031" id="i-031"></a>
<img src="images/i-031.png" width="314" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatl"><i>Drawn by Henry Hutt.</i></p>
<p class="floatc">"Where the musk-rat swims, and the cat-tails sway."—<a href="#Page_289">Page 289</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_288' name='Page_288' href='#Page_288'></a></span>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_289' name='Page_289' href='#Page_289'>289</a></span>
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-032a" id="i-032a"></a>
<img src="images/i-032aalt.png" width="1266" height="1012" alt="Fishing Decorations" />
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<h2>
THE OLD HOME HAUNTS
<br />
<span class="s08">By F. Colburn Clarke</span>
</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>There's a sound that rings in my ears to-day,</p>
<p class="i2">That echoes in vague refrain,</p>
<p>The ripple of water o'er smooth-washed clay,</p>
<p>Where the wall-eyed pike and the black bass play,</p>
<p>That makes me yearn, in a quiet way,</p>
<p class="i2">For my old fly-rod again.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i3">Back to the old home haunts again,</p>
<p class="i3">Back where the clear lake lies;</p>
<p class="i3">Back through the woods</p>
<p class="i3">Where the blackbird broods,</p>
<p class="i3">Back to my rod and flies.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>I'm longing to paddle the boat to-day,</p>
<p class="i2">Through water-logged grass and reeds;</p>
<p>Where the musk-rat swims, and the cat-tails sway;</p>
<p>Where the air is cool, and the mist is gray;</p>
<p>Where ripples dance in the same old way,</p>
<p class="i2">Under the tangled weeds.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i3">Back on the old oak log again,</p>
<p class="i3">Back by the crystal brook;</p>
<p class="i3">Back to the bait,</p>
<p class="i3">And the silent wait,</p>
<p class="i3">Back to my line and hook.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>I wish I could wade by the water's edge,</p>
<p class="i2">Where the fallen leaves drift by;</p>
<p>Just to see, in the shadow of the ledge,</p>
<p>How dark forms glide, like a woodman's wedge,</p>
<p>Through driftwood piles and the coarse marsh sedge,</p>
<p class="i2">And to hear the bittern cry.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i3">Back where the tadpoles shift and sink,</p>
<p class="i3">Back where the bull-frogs sob;</p>
<p class="i3">Back just to float</p>
<p class="i3">In the leaky boat,</p>
<p class="i3">Back to my dripping bob.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Oh, it's just like this on each misty day,</p>
<p class="i2">It's always the same old pain</p>
<p>That struggles and pulls in the same old way</p>
<p>To carry me off for a little stay</p>
<p>By the water's edge, in sticky clay,</p>
<p class="i2">To fish in the falling rain.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i3">Back to my long black rubber boots,</p>
<p class="i3">Back to my old patched coat;</p>
<p class="i3">Back to my rod</p>
<p class="i3">And the breath of God—</p>
<p class="i3">Home—and my leaky boat.</p>
</div></div></div><!-- /poetry-container -->
<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-032b" id="i-032b"></a>
<img src="images/i-032balt.png" width="1266" height="931" alt="Fishing Decorations" />
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_290' name='Page_290' href='#Page_290'>290</a></span>
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-033" id="i-033"></a>
<img src="images/i-033.png" width="499" height="183" alt="Decoration" />
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<h2 class="postDeco">
THE EDUCATION OF PRAED
<br />
<span class="s08">By Albert White Vorse</span>
<br />
<span class="smcap s06">Illustrations by Henry McCarter</span>.
</h2>

<div class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcapd.png" width="103" height="103" alt="D" />
</div>
<p class="pfirst pdropcap">Daniel Webster cut
from the seal a morsel of
meal eight inches long by
two inches square. He
crowded out of sight as
much of the delicacy as
his mouth and part of his œsophagus
would hold—about six inches—and sliced
off the visible two inches with a blow of
his knife.
</p>

<p>
"I never knew before," commented
Praed, "why the Eskimo nose was so
snubby. I now see it all. It is a beautiful
example of the law of survival. If you
touch an Eskimo anywhere, you draw
blood. The long-nosed men of the Stone
Age slashed their skins at meal-times and
died of hemorrhage. Only the short-nosed
men could live. Even Daniel carves
perilously close to his lovely snub—and if
Daniel's nose were a little shorter it would
be a cavity."
</p>

<p>
"Just so," I replied, indifferently.
Praed's jaunty talk jarred upon me, and
his superior tone toward the Eskimos displeased
me. He was attached to the
Relief Party as botanist. I believe he was
a Professor of Natural History in some
Western college. He had climbed a mountain
in the Canadian Rockies, a minor
peak, no difficult ascent. I am told that
a carriage road has recently been opened
to the summit. But the mountain was a
virgin peak and bore a living glacier, and
Praed wrote for the papers about it and
made a great achievement of his exploit.
Upon the strength of his reputation he assumed
to direct the policy of the Relief
Expedition, and when the leader refused to
fall in with his views, Praed grumbled, and
once or twice approached open insubordination.
The leader, a modest fellow, took
his unruly botanist quietly, but several
members of the party told me the man
worried him.
</p>

<p>
However, when it suited his purpose,
Praed could be humble enough. He discovered
my irritation at once and evidently
thought to soothe it.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, come now, old fellow," he said.
"Don't take your Eskimos too seriously;
I admire them as much as you do. Here,
Daniel—Dahlgren, how do you say 'I like
you' in Husky-tongue?"
</p>

<p>
"<i>Iblee pee-yook amishuwa</i>," answered I,
in the pidgin-Eskimo we had learned to
use during our year in the Far North.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Iblee kumook amistwa</i>," repeated
Praed. Daniel received the communication
with that heavy gravity which had
won him his nick-name; his birth-name
was Meeoo. Praed shrugged his shoulders.
</p>

<p>
"I never shall learn the lingo," he
sighed. "Tell him I am going to give
him this knife."
</p>

<p>
"<i>Ooma pilletay iblee savik</i>," I translated.
</p>

<p>
Daniel received the knife without comment.
I caught a flash of pleasure in his
eye, but it escaped Praed.
</p>

<p>
"He doesn't seem very grateful," he
said. "I despair of the aborigine. He
has no sense of humor, no gratitude, apparently
no more affection than his dogs.
He is pure selfishness. He is homely, he
is fearfully unclean—"
</p>

<p>
"Professor Praed," I interrupted, "you
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_291' name='Page_291' href='#Page_291'>291</a></span>
arrived in Greenland three days ago. After
you have knocked about with these fellows
for a month you will change your opinions.
As for dirt, eight or nine months in every
year that bay is skimmed over with a little
matter of five or six feet of ice. Until
your party came, there was not a hatchet
in the tribe to cut baths. In winter all
these little streams that you see disappear.
The Husky has to melt ice for drinking-water,
and that is no light affair for him.
In summer, it's true, he might bathe; perhaps
you would like to try it."
</p>

<p>
"Those are all very well as excuses,"
responded Praed; "but they don't remove
facts. Your dear friends are disgustingly
soiled. And I am going to accept your
invitation to take a bath."
</p>

<p>
He did accept it. He said he was accustomed
to cold water, every morning
(implying in his tone, that he feared I
wasn't); that he had been baptized in the
Susquehanna River through a hole in the
ice, and that he guessed he could stand a
summer sea in Greenland. He took off
his clothes, swam out to a berg, grounded
some forty feet off the beach, climbed hurriedly
upon the ice, and danced up and
down and shouted until we put off in a boat
and rescued him. For three days afterward
he shivered under blankets and drank
up the little store of whiskey that remained
in our supplies.
</p>

<p>
I was not sorry that this object-lesson
had occurred. Our expedition had lived
for nineteen months among the Eskimos.
Two or three of us, whose chief duty was
hunting, had learned to know the Innuit
as one knows brothers. In a savage
land you choose your friends, not because
they can judge a picture or say witty
things about their neighbors, but because
they will go through any emergency by
your side. More than once Daniel or one
and another of our Eskimo comrades had
saved us from death; more than once we
had interposed between a Husky and the
Kokoia. It was not pleasant to hear the
cock-a-whoop members of the Relief
Party, with their amateur knowledge of
Arctic conditions, classify our comrades
among the Greenland fauna.
</p>

<p>
But the Relief Party got on well with
the Eskimos. They had a cargo of knives,
hatchets, saws, needles, scissors, wooden
staves, and all things that represent wealth
to the Innuit. These things they distributed
freely among the settlements; it
was but natural that they should win the
hearts of the Husky-folk.
</p>

<p>
Praed reappeared after his chill with a
triumphant air, bearing bead necklaces
and mirrors—for trading, he said. The
Eskimos, however, shook their heads at
these gewgaws, and Praed had to fall back
upon useful articles. He obtained for
himself the office of chief distributor, and
waxed popular in the tribe.
</p>

<p>
One day, a fortnight or so after the episode
of the bath, Daniel's wife, Megipsu,
came running up the beach.
</p>

<p>
"The man with gifts is at my tupik.
He desires something. I do not understand
him. Will you come?"
</p>

<p>
I found Praed holding out the skirt of
his coat toward Megipsu's little daughter.
</p>

<p>
"Like this," he was repeating. "Make
me a coat. Scion of a savage race, if I
had you at home, I should chastise you.
You are stupid."
</p>

<p>
The child stared blankly at him.
</p>

<p>
"What is it, Professor Praed?" I asked.
</p>

<p>
His face turned red, and his reply came
hesitatingly.
</p>

<p>
"Well, you see," he said, "your Greenland
climate is not what I expected.
When the wind is quiet, everything is
warm. When the gale comes up in the
afternoon, it is cold. Now the—the fur
clothes; their odor is as the odor of abattoirs.
At first I didn't comprehend the
evident joy you have in them. But, on the
whole, you seem so comfortable in all
weathers, that I thought I'd try a suit myself.
You see, I don't like to be lumbered
with a leather jacket all the time."
</p>

<p>
"Hm!" reflected I, "Praed is learning
his Greenland." All I suggested, however,
was that if he minded the smell he
might carry his leather coat out with him
and leave it upon a rock until he should
need it.
</p>

<p>
"And have it stolen," he said, with a
glance of pity.
</p>

<p>
I perceived that he had a great deal of
Greenland yet to learn. The most northern
Eskimos do not steal. I arranged with
Megipsu for a sealskin suit, however, to
cost two pairs of scissors, a packet of sail-needles,
a hunting-knife, a cracker-box,
and Praed's wooden signal-whistle, which
Megipsu fancied. In a week the Professor
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_292' name='Page_292' href='#Page_292'>292</a></span>
appeared in the silvery clothes. He
was highly enthusiastic. I listened patiently
while he explained the garments.
</p>

<p>
"You see, when it is warm," he said,
"I can loosen the draw-string and throw
back the hood, and a draught of air comes
in from the bottom and goes out at the
neck and carries off the perspiration.
When the wind rises, snap! I haul in
the draw-string, cover my head, and I am
hermetically sealed. Not a chill can
touch me."
</p>

<p>
"Precisely," I agreed. I had been
wearing Eskimo clothes for a year and
two months. "I understand," I added,
"that you are going oogsook-hunting with
Meeoo."
</p>

<p>
"Yes," he laughed. "I'm going to
show the untutored savage the superiority
of the rifle over the harpoon."
</p>

<p>
He learned more about Greenland
upon that expedition. There was a floe,
perhaps a mile wide, anchored near the
mouth of the bay by half a dozen grounded
bergs. To this floe the Eskimo and the
white man set forth in kayaks. It was midnight
when they left and we were asleep,
but the Huskies at the village told us that
the Professor couldn't manage his canoe,
and finally had to permit Daniel to tow
him.
</p>

<p>
Next night they returned with a seal.
The Professor had many words of praise
for a country where the sun never sets
and there is no loss of working-time, but
nothing to say about the hunting. At
last he confessed that Daniel had killed
the seal.
</p>

<p>
"The <i>phoca barbata</i> is a wary animal,"
he protested. "He will not permit a
white face to approach. Two or three of
the creatures were taking sun-baths upon
the floe, but before I could creep within
shooting distance they flopped into the
water—a most ungraceful gait. All Arctic
animals seem to be clumsy. I fired at one
seal and I think I hit him, but he, too, dived.
At last I resigned the rifle to Daniel. The
savage squirmed over the ice like a worm.
When the seals lifted their heads, Daniel
lifted his. It is not surprising that he deceived
them. His black muzzle looks
precisely like that of the seal, and he wears
a seal's fur. But his methods would never
do in civilization. It took him half a
day to crawl across that ice-floe."
</p>

<p>
"But he shot the seal," someone put in.
</p>

<p>
"No," replied the Professor. "That's
just the point. He wormed himself along
until he could almost reach the creature,
and then sprang upon it and clubbed it to
death with the butt."
</p>

<p>
I do not think Praed fully appreciated
the marvellous adroitness of the hunter,
nor the thoughtfulness of the man in saving
a cartridge. He never seemed to
comprehend that a charge of powder and
bullet is worth more to an Eskimo than a
diamond is to a bride at home. However,
he began after that to treat the Huskies
somewhat as if they were human beings.
</p>

<p>
His complete enlightenment as to the
Eskimo character came all in a blaze at the
end of our stay in Greenland. Our work
there was done. Our explorations had
been successful, our scientific collections
were almost completed. There were only
the loose ends to be gathered up.
</p>

<p>
The Professor had seen some desirable
flowers in a valley across a glacier. Near
that same glacier, in the preceding summer,
I, who was acting as mineralogist of
the main party, had piled a few specimens
in a cranny to be carried to camp later,
and I thought I might as well have them.
We started forth together. Daniel and one
or two other Huskies went with us for
comradeship.
</p>

<p>
At the edge of the glacier we halted. It
was a stupendous thing, crawling through
a gap in the hills down into the sea like
a section of the Midgard serpent. Halfway
up the flank, I remember, there was
a round hole, and out of it spouted a
waterfall, red with basaltic mud. One of
the Æsir might have made such a wound
with his spear.
</p>

<p>
The back of the monster was rugged
with crevasses.
</p>

<p>
"You can't cross here," I counselled.
"You'd better try farther up, where it's
smoother. I'll climb the cliff and take an
observation, while you wait here and eat
your luncheon. It doesn't do to hurry
too much in Greenland."
</p>

<p>
I was almost an hour making my way
up the crags to a point where I could take
a bird's-eye view of the mass of ice. It
was not a wide glacier—the cliffs opposite
were not more than four miles away—but
the great number of icebergs it threw off
bore witness to the rapidity of its motion.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_293' name='Page_293' href='#Page_293'>293</a></span>
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-036" id="i-036"></a>
<img src="images/i-036.png" width="404" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">While he explained the garments.—<a href="#Page_292">Page 292</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
Suddenly, almost below me upon the
blue-white ice, appeared four or five black
figures. They emerged out of a cleft near
the edge and marched steadily toward the
centre of the glacier. The surface beyond
them and upon either hand was criss-crossed
with blue crevasses. Glints from
the shining icicles hanging down their
sides darted up to me as I stood, a mile
away. It was very picturesque, but I had
no heart for enjoyment.
</p>

<p>
"The man is crazy!" I burst out and
scrambled down the rough stones to overtake
him.
</p>

<p>
In a quarter of an hour I had reached
the bottom of the gorge, between the glacier
and the mountain. A furious torrent
roared along the side of the ice, but a few
pinnacles of rock protruding out of the
stream gave foothold to cross. Opposite
my landing-place a huge blue cleft in the
ice, with a gradually rising peak, furnished
easy ascent to the surface.
</p>

<p>
As soon as my head was clear of the
cleft, I saw one of the Eskimos running
toward me. I hastened to meet him.
</p>

<p>
"Pra' has fallen!" cried the man.
"The ice has eaten him. He has gone
to sleep forever."
</p>

<p>
"Damnation!" I shouted. "Run to
the ship. Tell all the white men to come
and bring a rope!"
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-037" id="i-037"></a>
<img src="images/i-037.png" width="600" height="475" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">I was ... making my way up the crags.—<a href="#Page_292">Page 292</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
He sped into the cleft and I moved on.
Surmounting a mound in the ice, I could
scan the whole surface. A quarter of a
mile beyond me, the dark figures of the
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_294' name='Page_294' href='#Page_294'>294</a></span>
party crouched beside a long narrow crevasse.
As I drew near, the tall figure of
the Professor rose and faced me. He
made no move to meet me, and when I
had approached within a few feet of him,
I saw that his hands hung limp at his sides
and that he was sobbing. He could not
speak, but he pointed to the crevasse. I
threw myself at full length upon the ice
and peeped over the brink.
</p>

<p>
A hundred feet below me, on the edge
of a block of ice that hung unsteadily
upon a mass of <i>débris</i>, lay Daniel. His
head was doubled unnaturally forward
upon his chest. The trash about him was
stained with red. He must have died in
an instant.
</p>

<p>
One look was enough. I sprang to my
feet and faced the Professor.
</p>

<p>
"How did that happen?" I exclaimed.
"Good God, man, speak! Don't act like
a baby!"
</p>

<p>
Praed burst out sobbing afresh. It was
a moment before he could control his
tongue. When he spoke he clinched his
hands and gazed blankly up the glacier
toward the sun.
</p>

<p>
"It was I," he said; "he saved me. I
fell—"
</p>

<p>
"Well?" I demanded.
</p>

<p>
"Do you see that shoulder of ice on this
side of the crevasse, and the shelf jutting
out opposite?"
</p>

<p>
I peered over the edge once more. The
wall hung slightly out at the top and I had
a good view of everything beneath. The
cleft was not more than five feet wide, but,
except for the <i>débris</i> lodged below me, it
sank away into darkness. It may have
been a thousand feet deep.
</p>

<p>
Some twenty feet down the side a ledge,
perhaps twelve inches broad, started from
the wall. Upon the opposite wall, about
six feet higher, as far as I could estimate,
allowing for the foreshortening, there was
another shelf, considerably broader. Upon
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_295' name='Page_295' href='#Page_295'>295</a></span>
it sprang up the stumps of two or three
heavy icicles that had grown down from an
ice-bridge. Doubtless, anciently the <i>débris</i>
caught below had been part of this bridge,
and in its fall had carried the upper ends
of the icicles with it. One end of the shelf
slanted up almost to the surface.
</p>

<p>
I took this in at a glance.
</p>

<p>
"Yes," I said; "go on."
</p>

<p>
"I must confess from the beginning,"
he proceeded, in a curious monotone, as
if his body, not his mind, were talking, "I
doubted your judgment of the glacier.
The access to the summit was evidently so
easy that, I thought, some route across
would surely open out before us. I desired
to surprise you; I knew you could
easily overtake us. Therefore, I set forth.
The Eskimos hung back, but I promised
them knives if they would follow.
</p>

<p>
"It was easy enough until we came to
this crevasse. I attempted to leap across,
but I slipped and fell. I do not know
how it happened, but I struck several times
and whirled over and over, and felt a blow
upon the back of my head. It dazed me.
When I came to myself I was seated upon
that ledge, with my back against the wall.
The wall slants in, as you see, and the outer
edge of the ledge is raised, so I was secure.
</p>

<p>
"But I had only half recovered my senses
and I began to cry out for help. I was
so much disturbed that I didn't know
what was going on until I saw someone
upon the shelf opposite. Then I think I
shouted louder. Suddenly there came
another shock and I should have fallen,
but someone held me up. It was Daniel.
He must have leaped across."
</p>

<p>
He paused and I looked down again.
The ledge, at its broadest barely a foot
and a half wide, fell away into the wall,
not two feet from the spot where Praed
must have brought up. It was a brave
leap.
</p>

<p>
"Go on," I commanded.
</p>

<p>
"Daniel laughed at me," resumed the
Professor, like a child reading from a book,
"and waited till I got back some of my
self-possession. Then he made signs to
me to spring across and catch the icicles
with my arms. I was afraid. He laughed
again and made another sign that he
would lift me across. I let him take me
by the knees and lift me until my head
and waist rose above the shelf, and then I
leaned forward and we both toppled over.
I caught the icicles, and he held me firm
and perhaps—I don't know—if I had
kept still—"
</p>

<p>
I hastened to steady him.
</p>

<p>
"What did you do?" I asked. "Keep
cool."
</p>

<p>
"I struggled. I squirmed with my
feet in getting up—and kicked him free.
When I was safe I tried to help him—I
meant to help him. But the ledge was
empty and he lay there."
</p>

<p>
"Good God!" was all I could say.
</p>

<p>
We passed the succeeding three hours
in dead silence. Praed never moved, I
think, and never took his eyes from the sky
above the <i>névé</i> basin. The Eskimos sat
quietly beside the grave of their friend. I
sprang across the crevasse where it narrowed,
descended to the shelf with the
icicles, and mused upon the courage that
had dared a leap to that narrow footing.
</p>

<p>
At last the party from the ship arrived
with ropes. The leader of the Relief
Party hastened in advance. His pale face
turned red as he saw Praed, and he sprang
forward with hand outstretched.
</p>

<p>
"Praed, old fellow!" he exclaimed.
"By the Lord, I'm glad to see you alive.
How did you get out?"
</p>

<p>
Praed turned toward him. I couldn't
see his face, but the leader fell back.
</p>

<p>
"What's the matter?" he said. "What
is it?"
</p>

<p>
"It's an accident," I put in. "Daniel
has fallen and is dead."
</p>

<p>
Then Praed showed the first sign of
manliness that I had ever seen in him.
</p>

<p>
"It is my fault," he proclaimed. "I
am to blame for his death. I demand the
right to fetch up his body."
</p>

<p>
In pity for his evident wretchedness, the
leader consented. We lowered the Professor
by a rope to the heap of trash. But
as his weight bore upon the block where
the body lay, the ice tilted and fell. Daniel
fell with it. The ringing of icicles on
either wall of the glacier lessened to a
tinkling; the tinkling merged into a sustained
harmonic, like the final note of some
violin sonata. The tone died away. No
final crash followed. The utmost depths
were beyond our hearing.
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-039" id="i-039"></a>
<img src="images/i-039.png" width="426" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatl"><i>Drawn by Henry McCarter.</i></p>
<p class="floatc">I should have fallen but someone held me up—it was Daniel.—<a href="#Page_295">Page 295</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
During most of the voyage home,
Praed behaved like a man in a dream. He
rarely spoke, and when we addressed him
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_296' name='Page_296' href='#Page_296'></a></span>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_297' name='Page_297' href='#Page_297'>297</a></span>
he started before he replied. Only once
did he show any trace of his ancient
aggressive manner, and that was when
someone said a slighting word of an Eskimo.
</p>

<p>
"The Eskimos," retorted Praed, "are
heroes."
</p>

<p>
That was absurd. Perhaps there are
three or four left in the tribe who would
have done what Daniel did. The Professor
was pitiful in his broken condition.
We deemed him a chastened man.
</p>

<p>
The other day, however, a member of
our old party came to see me. There is
only one topic of conversation among men
who have journeyed to the Far North. In
the course of our Arctic gossip I asked
for news of Praed.
</p>

<p>
"Haven't you heard?" asked my friend.
"He is lecturing through the West. He
has won a great reputation for his courage
in descending into the crevasse."
</p>

<p>
"Hm!" I said, and both of us were silent.
We were thinking of a strain of ice-music
as unearthly as the Theme of the Grail,
and of a vast white tomb, now doubtless
afloat upon some Arctic sea. It bears the
body of a better man than Praed.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-040" id="i-040"></a>
<img src="images/i-040.png" width="420" height="519" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">A hundred feet below ... lay Daniel.—<a href="#Page_294">Page 294</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_298' name='Page_298' href='#Page_298'>298</a></span>
</p>

<div class="figcenter p6">
<a name="i-041" id="i-041"></a>
<img src="images/i-041.png" width="387" height="595" alt="Page Image" />
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<h2>
A SLUMBER-SONG
<br />
<span class="s08">FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD</span>
<br />
By Henry van Dyke
</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Furl your sail, my little boatie;</p>
<p class="i2">Here's the harbor, still and deep,</p>
<p>Where the dreaming tides, in-streaming,</p>
<p class="i4">Up the channel creep.</p>
<p>See, the sunset breeze is dying;</p>
<p>Hark, the plover, landward flying,</p>
<p>Softly down the twilight crying;</p>
<p class="i2">Come to anchor, little boatie,</p>
<p class="i4">In the port of Sleep.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Far away, my little boatie,</p>
<p class="i2">Roaring waves are white with foam;</p>
<p>Ships are striving, onward driving,</p>
<p class="i4">Day and night they roam.</p>
<p>Father's at the deep-sea trawling,</p>
<p>In the darkness, rowing, hauling,</p>
<p>While the hungry winds are calling,—</p>
<p class="i2">God protect him, little boatie,</p>
<p class="i4">Bring him safely home!</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Not for you, my little boatie.</p>
<p class="i2">Is the wide and weary sea;</p>
<p>You're too slender, and too tender,</p>
<p class="i4">You must rest with me.</p>
<p>All day long you have been straying</p>
<p>Up and down the shore and playing;</p>
<p>Come to port, make no delaying!</p>
<p class="i2">Day is over, little boatie,</p>
<p class="i4">Night falls suddenly.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Furl your sail, my little boatie;</p>
<p class="i2">Fold your wings, my tired dove.</p>
<p>Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling</p>
<p class="i4">Drowsily above.</p>
<p>Cease from sailing, cease from rowing;</p>
<p>Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing</p>
<p>Safely o'er your rest are glowing,</p>
<p class="i2">All the night, my little boatie,</p>
<p class="i4">Harbor-lights of love.</p>
</div></div></div> <!-- /poetry-container -->

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-042" id="i-042"></a>
<img src="images/i-042.png" width="386" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">COME TO ANCHOR, LITTLE BOATIE,<br />
IN THE PORT OF SLEEP.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-043" id="i-043"></a>
<img src="images/i-043.png" width="403" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatl"><i>Painted by George Butler.</i></p>
<p class="floatc">Girl with Tambourine.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_299' name='Page_299' href='#Page_299'></a></span>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_300' name='Page_300' href='#Page_300'></a></span>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_301' name='Page_301' href='#Page_301'>301</a></span>
</p>

<h2>
THE PAINTING OF GEORGE BUTLER
<br />
<span class="s08">By W. C. Brownell</span>
</h2>

<div class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcapt.png" width="103" height="106" alt="T" />
</div>
<p class="pfirst pdropcap">The painting of George
Butler has the interest of
all art that is not manifestly
the product of the influences
of the moment,
but owes its quality to the
personality of the painter. Such is the
interest of Whistler's, Winslow Homer's,
the late Homer Martin's, LaFarge's,
Vedder's. It is art that has a direct
rather than an illustrative interest—a
real rather than a historical value. It
does not contribute much to the race,
the moment, and the <i>milieu</i> theory. And,
of course, it suffers some neglect at the
present time, which apparently belongs
to the theoreticians, and when, accordingly,
the illustrative and historical interest
of all data that can contribute to
the construction of formulary is felt so
universally and so nearly exclusively. But
the play of those forces that are so highly
differentiated as to escape classification—the
forces that make up personality—rewards
contemplation in quite a different
way. It eludes the pursuit of philosophy,
but it repays the æsthetic attention quite
as much, quite as legitimately, as the
study of that impersonal and rather mechanical
result of current habits of mind
and points of view, the art of the schools.
Butler was a pupil—long ago—of Couture,
and one may still see evidences of the
fact in his portraits now and then. But
compare his relation to Couture with that
of Sargent to Carolus Duran, for example,
in order to see how wholly personal
his painting is and how little he owes to
any mere source of acquisition, except in
certain means of technical expression,
early adopted and perhaps rather lazily
adhered to. Power and distinction such
as Sargent's, even when exhibited almost
solely within the range of technical expression,
have certainly an individuality
of their own that is most striking and
admirable. But it is an individuality of
accomplishment rather than of quality,
marked more by its eminence of excellence
than by its native idiosyncrasy. Of
course, any intimate association of the
two painters would be more misleading
than illuminating, and in contrasting them
in this single but fundamental respect I
only have in mind the radical difference
thus illustrated between a painter who has
achieved fame by distancing competition
in following traditional lines and expressing
current tendencies, and a painter who
has a controlling personal bent and has
followed that.
</p>

<p>
Butler has, at all events, always done just
what he wanted to do, and in the strictest
sense. His temperament has always dictated
his expression, and in thoroughly imperious
fashion. It may be said, indeed,
to have dominated his intelligence to the
extent, at least, of eliminating, as objects
of curiosity, interest, or effort, everything
not strictly in accord with itself. But
the result has been the felicity of extreme
concentration. If in doing what he
wanted to do his wants have been few,
he has, on the other hand, wanted them
with an intensity proportionate to its singleness.
Beauty exhibited in the human
face and form has absorbed his artistic attention
and activity. I remember not only
no landscapes, but nothing really to be
called a composition among his works.
A few Barye-like animal fragments, of
heroic mould—a tiger's head, a dog's
head and shoulders, the foreparts of an
extremely leonine lion, some very feline
cats—are, I fancy, the only diversion of
his devotion to the single figure and the
portrait, and they are but examples of the
instinctive exercise of his remarkable gift
of representation, and show a fine faculty
at play rather than at work. They do not
illustrate the "discipline of genius" as
some writer has defined art to be, but are
merely "artistic" in the sense in which
artists use the word, <i>i.e.</i>, born of the impulse
to create or reproduce an "effect"
of some kind. In the portrait and the
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_302' name='Page_302' href='#Page_302'>302</a></span>
single figure, however, he has expressed
himself with freedom, with zest, and with
completeness.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Portraiture is a branch of art in which
artistic aptitudes exhibit themselves in as
individual a way as in any other perhaps,
despite the preponderance usually assigned
to the "likeness." And neither <i><span lang="la">à priori</span></i>
nor historically can it be asserted that the
imagination itself plays in portraiture an
inferior part. The material is possibly less
varied than that of landscape or decorative
art; but that is nothing. A painter shows
his quality quite as much within a limited
as within a wider range. And the material
of portraiture is at least as highly differentiated
as it is limited. The interest of the
"Lesson in Anatomy" resides in many of
its various pictorial elements no doubt, but
also and in the supreme degree in what
Burger calls "the working of intellect," as
seen in the countenances of the listening
circle around the demonstrator. A painter
who exhibits himself in portraying human
intellect, emotions, character, personality,
and with these highly complicated and
maturely developed phenomena shows us
his point of view and way of looking at
things—which are what art and genius
mainly are, according to Mr. Henry
James—has an opportunity certainly of
doing so on a very high plane. And on
such a plane Butler is, I think, very much
at home. The quality that all his portraits
show in common is displayed with
perfect freedom and the effect only to be
attained by the easy exercise of a native
gift.
</p>

<p>
In the first place they are extremely
human. They are in no degree portraits
<i><span lang="fr_FR">à la mode</span></i> and do not exploit the painter's
virtuosity. They show, on the contrary,
his respect for, and interest in, his model.
One establishes relations through them
with their originals. They have character
in the moral and intellectual, as well as in
the artistic sense. They acquire in this
way a typical value. The Century Club's
portrait of General Greene is also a portrait
of the American soldier, as many another,
easily mentioned, is that of the
American lady. They are intellectually
generalized, that is to say, endowed with
a wider than merely individual interest.
In the second place they are extremely
pictorial. The most intractable subject is
made agreeable by being handled with a
touch directed by an instinctive preference
for, and delight in, the beautiful. The
sitter receives the benefit of a translation
into a heightened and poetized medium
without loss of anything essentially characteristic.
In both these respects—their
humanity and their pictorial quality—Butler's
portraits are decidedly exceptional in
current art.
</p>

<p>
Current art is certainly concentrated
upon physical character rather than upon
beauty, and current appreciation of it is in
harmonious accord with its realistic effort
and aim. One may refine speculation to the
point of asserting that there is no opposition,
essentially considered, between the two;
that Rembrandt is as distinguished for his
beauty as Raphael, and that on the other
hand there is as much character in "The
School of Athens" as in the "Lesson in
Anatomy." But in matters of this kind
terms are approximate only, and the fact
that definition is a difficult matter does not
obscure the plain truth that a marked difference
exists between the work of a painter
in whose mind an agreeable conception of
an object mirrors itself, and that of one
mainly anxious to be exact. Technic
has spread prodigiously (quite as much
perhaps as it has developed) in the present
epoch, and has become rather arrogant in
its aggrandizement. Criticism, too, in becoming
largely technical has assisted the
tendency, so far as it exerts an influence on
practice. It has grown tired, no doubt, of
its own commonplaces and generalities, its
easy habit of estimating aims rather than
accomplishment, its routine insensitiveness
to aspect and perfunctory absorption in
significance. But in assuming the painter's
point of view—not a very esoteric one,
certainly—it has not been quite self-respectfully
discriminating enough to avoid
the purely professional attitude. And it is
perhaps time for the pendulum to swing
back again a little, so that both in estimating
and in enjoying the painter's art
we may once more think of its intellectual
rather than so wholly of its mechanical
side, which latter we may also be sure,
nowadays, will be quite carefully, and in
many cases competently, attended to by
the painters themselves.
</p>

<p>
In this way, at any rate, having in mind
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_303' name='Page_303' href='#Page_303'>303</a></span>
Butler's portraits, we shall be able, whether
or no they have the accent and relief
requisite for a portrait of the striking or
"stunning" order—in this way we shall
be able to appreciate what a fine talent it
predicates to say of a painter that he sees
the finest side of his subject. This is
often understood as lightly as it is said,
and taken to indicate merely a preference
for the agreeable to the more markedly
characteristic. And this is no doubt especially
true in the field of portraiture.
But certainly, and especially in portraiture,
very little reflection is needed to show
one that the great peril to be avoided,
and the most constant menace, is caricature
of one sort or another. It may be
the caricature that comes from imperfectly
seizing and imperfectly rendering the traits
of the subject, the caricature that inadequacy
is. Or it may be that which comes
from undue and disproportionate accentuation
of what is perceived too exclusively.
Success depends upon avoiding both by
forming a correspondent conception of the
subject—a conception that is clear and
consistent and positive—and painting
that. The painter then copies his conception,
not his model, and the representative
value of his portrait will have precisely the
interest of his conception—in so far, of
course, as he is able to convey it. In a
sense, to be sure, it may be said that it is
impossible to paint a portrait without proceeding
in this way, without first forming a
conception of the sitter plastically, if not
morally; that the result is necessarily the
product of some preliminary conception.
But that is metaphysical fine-spinning.
Empirically we all know that unconscious
caricature—which is the caricature here
referred to—is due to either a defective or
a distorted conception, in other words, to
a mental image either so faint or so little
correspondent to the original as to be
practically no conception at all. Of a very
large number of portraits, assuredly, it may
be asserted that they embody no more
developed and complete an antecedent
image in the mind of the painter than a
mere mechanical impression, barely distinct
enough to direct the muscular movements
requisite to register it upon canvas.
</p>

<p>
Butler's conception is, as I have intimated,
always very sympathetically formed.
It seems to indicate that he likes the sitter.
His own cordiality enters into it. It
is a result of harmonious relations between
his imagination and the sitter's nature—the
qualities, as well as the appearance,
of the subject. Landscape painting,
says Eugène Véron, is "the painting of
one's emotions in the presence of nature."
Butler's portraits, similarly, seem the painting
of his idea of the subject in its suggestive,
stimulating, rectifying presence. His
conception implies a certain slowness of
formation—the time to become acquainted,
at least. That of such a painter as
Sargent is so rapid as to seem quite impersonal,
in comparison. It is apparently
formed so quickly as to be really an impression
rather than a conception at all.
Though occasionally plainly transitory, it
is often wonderfully vivid and searching,
but rarely does it attest that assimilation
which is a necessary preliminary of synthesis
of such complexity as the conception
of an active personality is entitled to.
Its qualities are fundamentally "artistic."
Butler's is at the same time more mature
and less objective. Sargent's <i>grandes
dames</i>, for example, are always fine ladies,
but Butler's portraits of women have, all
of them, whatever the sitter's type, the
patrician look. Yet they are noble rather
than elegant, and simple in their refinement.
Their graciousness is native, and
there is something ample in the ease with
which they carry themselves. Add to this
a poetic strain that characterizes very intimately
their unaffected naturalness and
gives them a universal as well as a specific
interest, making of them abiding works
of art.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The Italian type, which almost all his
single figures illustrate, has had a particular
charm for Butler—as the accompanying
illustrations attest. And to its interpretation
he has brought a remarkable and
an instinctive sympathy. Stendhal would
have liked his Italian figures—Stendhal,
who better than any other writer, perhaps,
has understood the Italian national character
in its nobility as well as its finesse.
Its finesse has not interested Butler, as indeed
it could hardly interest a painter of
his frank nature, and it is not, of course,
a particularly paintable quality, though it
must be confessed that Velasquez made
something of it in his Innocent X. of the
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_304' name='Page_304' href='#Page_304'>304</a></span>
Doria Gallery. But its nobility, its largeness,
its elemental and untormented quality,
its freedom from pettiness and perplexities,
its naturalness, its frank following of
the dictates of will and passion, unsophisticated
by the restraints and complications
of vanity or self-consciousness in any of its
myriad forms—can be read in Butler's
Capri peasants as in a book. Health and
vigor, an animation that is not feverish
or hardly alert, the charm of pensiveness
without sadness, of repose without revery,
of work without strain, and existence without
effort, they show in every expression
of their large lines and simple, graceful
attitudes. Now and then from the face
shines a beautiful soul, its innocence untouched
by experience and acquiring an
almost pathetic quality from its unworldly,
yet by no means spiritual serenity. They
win your admiration and your heart. They
have infinite capacities of feeling, of loving,
of wilfulness, of self-sacrifice. They
have been refined but not corrupted by
their not too close or too reciprocal contact
with civilization. They are all of a piece,
and one comprehends the tragedy that
excess would mean for them. In their way
they are the acme of poetry and beauty
expressed in character that has a wonderful
correspondence to the envelope of its
plastic manifestation. "I would rather,"
exclaimed once a friend of mine—a lady,
naturally—"I would rather know one Jew
than forty Gentiles, they have so much
more <i>character</i>." Character in this sense
the Italians possess in effusion, so to speak,
and Butler's Capriotes and Venetians exhibit
it with a native dignity and charm
that one has only to think of such contrasts
as Bastien-Lepage's, or even Millet's, peasants
(far more interesting in many other
respects, of course) to appreciate.
</p>

<p>
Some of them are beautifully painted,
as all are sympathetically understood.
The elder of the two boys here reproduced
is an especially lovely bit of handling,
of quality, of clarity in the gently
gradated tones. A Capri woman seated
in a straight-backed chair upon a homespun
carpet making lace, is very nearly a
marvel in the same way—a figure that
painters themselves are particularly pleased
with. The blue dress, the white bodice,
the dark face and hands, the blue-black
hair, the greenish background, and the
gray and red carpet compose largely in
masses of importance, and are painted
with a liquid and <i>luisant</i> effect that is
nevertheless as far as possible from a
blended and effeminate one. The touch
is firmer, perhaps, more positive and vigorous,
certainly, in the Venetian water-carrier
here engraved, though it is equally
distant from anything brutal, and the
brush is restrained by refinement within
the lines of true distinction, with the result
that the reader may discern even in
black and white. Is she not a majestic
creature—for pictorial purposes, at all
events? Pictorially, at least, she is superb.
This is what a painter of genuine
temperament and an instinct for character
can make out of a bare-headed girl lugging
a jar of water. One perceives at
once the vitality and completeness of Butler's
purely plastic impressions.
</p>

<p>
So vital and complete indeed are his
plastic impressions that they explain, I
think, his fondness for the single figure,
his carelessness for composition. It may
be argued from this fondness that his
talent is an impressionable rather than
an imaginative one; that his plastic exceeds
his architectonic faculty. But to
argue this is to miss an important side of
his art. He does not, it is true, see things
in their relations so much as in their essence.
The genius for image-making, for
originating conceptions of complex and
interdependent interest, for composition,
in a word, he certainly does not possess
in any marked degree, or we should have
had from him at least some experimentation
in this sort. But it is remarkable
how little, in looking at one of his noble
figures, one feels this as a limitation, how
close an equivalent he gives us for it. He
has comprehended his model so thoroughly,
and realized it so perfectly; he has conveyed
the character itself so essentially,
so subtly, and so intimately, merely in presenting
its plastic phenomena, that he has
amply <i>suggested</i> its characteristic environment
and everything related to it that, in an
elaborate composition of which it should
be the centre, might contribute to its completer
expression and relief. It does not
look in the least like the study for a figure
in some picture or other. It is a picture
in itself. We do not get the pleasure that
the pictorial presentation of this contributory
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_305' name='Page_305' href='#Page_305'>305</a></span>
environment would give us; we
forego the sensuous delight that composition
is capable of affording; but the
striking thing about Butler's single figures
is that they themselves so impress the
imagination as to make us forget that they
are unaided by accessories. One may add,
by the way, the not impertinent corollary
that it would be difficult to find among
contemporary painters one who could satisfactorily
supply this omission on the same
plane of conception and workmanship.
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-048" id="i-048"></a>
<img src="images/i-048.png" width="456" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Portrait.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p class="p2">
Butler's color is one of the prominent
qualities of his painting. It is extremely
full and rich, at the same time that it is
quiet and grave. Color as color interests
him, plainly, and he does not leave it to
take care of itself, as is a frequent practice
at the present time, when painters
seem largely to have given over the illustration
of its decorative possibilities and
to be devoting themselves either to the
value or the vibration, instead of the quality,
of their color. On the one hand, the
prevailing middle tint that is <i>obviously</i>
middle tint, and, on the other, the high
key of luminosity that is obviously mere
pitch instead of melody, make such canvases
as Butler's seem, perhaps, a trifle
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_306' name='Page_306' href='#Page_306'>306</a></span>
old-fashioned. How long is it since Titian
was mentioned in a modern studio
except as a subject of interest to the antiquarian?
The practitioner who, twenty-five
years ago, was endeavoring to divine
his "secret," perhaps abandoning the
quest as hopeless, has exchanged his atmosphere
for one more rarefied, where, if
the prospect is considerably more arid,
there is correspondingly less demand on
the vital forces. The lack in Butler's
work of the current display of machinery—which
is what an exclusive devotion to
values or vibration may not unfairly be
called—the lack of this inversion of the
normal relations between means and ends,
is not felt particularly, I fancy, by anyone
but the professional practitioner. His low
key and his unconcern for illustrating the
potentialities of pure technic <i><span lang="fr_FR">à propos de
bottes</span></i>, enable him to exhibit, very charmingly,
his feeling for color in and for itself.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-049" id="i-049"></a>
<img src="images/i-049.png" width="495" height="584" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Roman Boy.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
This gives his work an agreeable element
of contrast to that most in vogue.
One of his canvases is a welcome sight in
a contemporary exhibition for this reason
alone. A disproportionate devotion to
color means the loss of many admirable
sources of pleasure in art, beyond any
doubt. And in the main these are especially
admirable, because they are intellectual
sources rather than sensuous. But
the content of art is beauty, and beauty
implies sensuousness, and in painting
there is no such source of sensuous impression
as color. A feeling for it is
shared alike by the savage and the civilized
man, and no doubt there is something
barbarous in the delight which certain
of its manifestations inspire. But this
fact in itself shows the elemental and universal
quality of this feeling and exhibits
it as a mark of temperament. An acute
or profound sense of its intimate appeal
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_307' name='Page_307' href='#Page_307'></a></span>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_308' name='Page_308' href='#Page_308'>308</a></span>
has characterized all epochs of expansion
in the history of art, and its neglect has
been the invariable accompaniment of
that petrifaction by system which has assailed
art at its every apogee. It is so
sensitive as well as so elemental that it
has suffered neglect as well in the development
as in the decay of art; in the admirable
evolution of Florentine line and
mass following the lovely harmonies of
Giottesque color, as well as in the sterilities
succeeding the high Renaissance.
It is the sign-manual of the spirit of invention,
of imagination, of novelty, of
free exercise of the faculties; and it individualizes
the painter more sharply, perhaps,
than any other characteristic. Color
is his short-cut to sentiment, his most eloquent
expression, his readiest means of
communicating emotion. More than his
style one may say that his color is the
man.
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-050" id="i-050"></a>
<img src="images/i-050.png" width="347" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatl"><i>Painted by George Butler.</i></p>
<p class="floatc">Match Seller.</p>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->
</div>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-051" id="i-051"></a>
<img src="images/i-051.jpg" width="482" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Portrait.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->
<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_309' name='Page_309' href='#Page_309'>309</a></span>
</p>

<p>
Butler's feeling for color is not feeling
for its subtleties. It is a broad and tranquil
delight in its simpler effects. He is not
fond of hues and tints, of gradations and
oppositions, of jewel-like harmonies and
delicate flushes, of iridescence and sheen
and sparkle. His color is the suave and
sweet vibration of tone, now rich and deep,
now clear and soft, but vibrating mainly
near the primaries. Its distinction is that
it is always <i>color</i>; that one of his canvases
nowhere loses its music, so to say, and becomes
mere sound. Locally, it is always
treated in large masses, giving the eye repose
rather than stimulus, and the general
harmony is correspondingly large. He
sees things in color, evidently, which is very
different from seeing color in things, as also
from not seeing color at all. It is through
their color that his figures acquire their solidity
and firmness—a greater relief than
they would have, perhaps, if wholly dependent
on justness of value. Their color is so
pervasive and penetrating, it characterizes
and expresses them so forcibly, it is so
emphatically the instrument of their realization,
that without it they would lose
identity.
</p>

<p>
It is difficult, for instance, to judge of
the "Girl with Tambourine" minus the
rich glow that pervades the orange background,
warms the olive of the soft, smiling
countenance, the plump neck, the
slender arm and hand, and mellows the
brown and red of the <i>contadina</i> costume.
Reduced to black and white, with its values
as carefully preserved as has been essayed
in the accompanying reproduction, it unfailingly
loses, in some measure, its reality,
its roundness, its "tactile values"—to employ
Mr. Berenson's favorite term. Scientifically
speaking, this perhaps involves
a contradiction since, speaking thus, "tactile
values" depend upon the light and
dark relations of color, and not upon its
kind or quality. But the kind and quality
of color have such power over the emotions,
and leave such a lively impress on
the retina that, practically and concretely,
they serve to increase wonderfully the
sense of a picture's substantiality at the
same time that, and in virtue of the fact
that, they increase the vivacity of the beholder's
interest. Is it not possible that
this consideration has been somewhat lost
sight of in the logic that dictates the practice
of much current painting? The old
masters are there to show what a loss in
mere substantiality, in weight and force,
the neglect of color involves. Indeed, the
"valueless" coach-panel painting of the
English pre-Raphaelites points a similar
moral, and perhaps accounts for the revival
of interest in it. As to color as a
vehicle for the communication of poetry,
there is, of course, nowhere any dispute.
Poetry implies personal feeling, and in no
way can feeling be expressed more personally
than in color. And if Butler's
color, as well as his sympathetic interpretation
of character, makes his canvases
contrast, in a way that may be stigmatized
as "old-fashioned," with the colorlessness
and the brutality that abound, one may
properly retort that the limitedness of the
<i><span lang="la">laudator temporis acti</span></i> is clairvoyance itself
compared with the partisanship of
the pedant of the present.
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-052" id="i-052"></a>
<img src="images/i-052.png" width="300" height="168" alt="Decoration" />
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_310' name='Page_310' href='#Page_310'>310</a></span>
</p>

<h2>
THE CHRONICLES OF AUNT MINERVY ANN
<br />
<span class="s08">By Joel Chandler Harris</span>
<br />
<span class="s08">"WHEN JESS WENT A-FIDDLIN'"</span>
</h2>

<div class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcaps.png" width="103" height="104" alt="S" />
</div>
<p class="pfirst pdropcap">Sitting on the veranda
one summer day, ruminating
over other people's
troubles, and wondering
how womankind can invent
and discover so many
things to fret and vex them, I was surprised
to hear someone yelling at the gate, "You-all
got any bitin' dogs here?" I was surprised,
because the voice failed to match
the serenity of the suburban scene. Its
tone was unsuited to the surroundings, being
pitched a trifle too high. Before I
could make any reply the gate was flung
open, and the owner of the voice, who was
no other than Aunt Minervy Ann, flirted in
and began to climb the terrace. My recognition
of her was not immediate, for she
wore her Sunday toggery, in which, following
the oriental instincts of her race,
the reds and yellows were emphasized with
startling effect. She began to talk by the
time she was half-way between the house
and gate, and it was owing to this special
and particular volubility that I was able to
recognize her.
</p>

<p>
"Huh!" she exclaimed, "hit's des like
clim'in' up sta'rs. Folks what live here
bleeze ter b'long ter de Sons er Tempunce."
There was a relish about this reference
to the difficulties of three terraces
that at once identified Aunt Minervy Ann.
More than that, one of the most conspicuous
features of the country town where she
lived was a large brick building, covering
half a block, across the top of which
stretched a sign—"Temperance Hall"—in
letters that could be read a quarter of
a mile away.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Minervy Ann received a greeting
that seemed to please her, whereupon she
explained that an excursion had come to
Atlanta from her town, and she had seized
the opportunity to pay me a visit. "I tol'
um," said she, "dat dey could stay up in
town dar an' hang 'roun' de kyar-shed ef
dey wanter, but here's what wuz gwine ter
come out an' see whar you live at."
</p>

<p>
She was informed that, though she was
welcome, she would get small pleasure
from her visit. The cook had failed to
make her appearance, and the lady of the
house was at that moment in the kitchen
and in a very fretful state of mind, not because
she had to cook, but because she had
about reached the point where she could
place no dependence in the sisterhood of
colored cooks.
</p>

<p>
"Is she in de kitchen now?" Aunt
Minervy's tone was a curious mixture of
amusement and indignation. "I started
not ter come, but I had a call, I sho' did;
sump'n tol' me dat you mought need me
out here." With that, she went into the
house, slamming the screen-door after her,
and untying her bonnet as she went.
</p>

<p>
Now, the lady of the house had heard
of Aunt Minervy Ann, but had never met
her, and I was afraid that the characteristics
of my old-time friend would be misunderstood,
and misinterpreted. The
lady in question knew nothing of the negro
race until long after emancipation, and she
had not been able to form a very favorable
opinion of its representatives. Therefore,
I hastened after Aunt Minervy Ann, hoping
to tone down by explanation whatever
bad impression she might create. She
paused at the screen-door that barred the
entrance to the kitchen, and, for an instant,
surveyed the scene within. Then
she cried out:
</p>

<p>
"You des ez well ter come out'n dat
kitchen! You ain't got no mo' bizness in
dar dan a new-born baby."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Minervy Ann's voice was so loud
and absolute that the lady gazed at her in
mute astonishment. "You des ez well ter
come out!" she insisted.
</p>

<p>
"Are you crazy?" the lady asked in all
seriousness.
</p>

<p>
"I'm des ez crazy now ez I ever been;
an' I tell you you des ez well ter come
out'n dar."
</p>

<p>
"Who are you anyhow?"
</p>

<p>
"I'm Minervy Ann Perdue, at home
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_311' name='Page_311' href='#Page_311'>311</a></span>
an' abroad, an' in dish yer great town whar
you can't git niggers ter cook fer you."
</p>

<p>
"Well, if you want me to come out of
the kitchen, you will have to come in and
do the cooking."
</p>

<p>
"Dat 'zackly what I'm gwine ter do!"
exclaimed Aunt Minervy Ann. She went
into the kitchen, demanded an apron, and
took entire charge. "I'm mighty glad I
come 'fo' you got started," she said, "'kaze
you got 'nuff fier in dis stove fer ter barbecue
a hoss; an' you got it so hot in here
dat it's a wonder you ain't bust a blood-vessel."
</p>

<p>
She removed all the vessels from the
range, and opened the door of the furnace
so that the fire might die down. And when
it was nearly out—as I was told afterward—she
replaced the vessels and proceeded
to cook a dinner which, in all its characteristics,
marked a red letter day in the household.
</p>

<p>
"She's the best cook in the country,"
said the lady, "and she's not polite."
</p>

<p>
"Polite! Well, if she was polite, she'd
be a hypocrite, and if she was a hypocrite,
she wouldn't be Aunt Minervy Ann."
</p>

<p>
The cook failed to come in the afternoon,
and so Aunt Minervy Ann felt it
her duty to remain over night. "Hamp'll
vow I done run away wid somebody,"
she said, laughing, "but I don't keer what
he think."
</p>

<p>
After supper, which was as good as the
dinner had been, Aunt Minervy Ann
came out on the veranda and sat on the
steps. After some conversation, she
placed the lady of the house on the witness-stand.
</p>

<p>
"Mistiss, wharbouts in Georgy wuz you
born at?"
</p>

<p>
"I wasn't born in Georgia; I was born
in Lansingburgh, New York."
</p>

<p>
"I know'd it!" Aunt Minervy turned
to me and nodded her head with energy.
"I know'd it right pine blank!"
</p>

<p>
"You knew what?" the presiding
genius of the household inquires with
some curiosity.
</p>

<p>
"I know'd 'm dat you wuz a Northron
lady."
</p>

<p>
"I don't see how you knew it," I remarked.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, she talk like we-all do, an'
she got mighty much de same ways. But
when I went out dar dis mornin' an' holler
at 'er in de kitchen, I know'd by de
way she turn 'roun' on me dat she ain't
been brung up wid niggers. Ef she'd 'a'
been a Southron lady, she'd 'a' laughed
an' said, "Come in here an' cook dis dinner
yo'se'f, you ole vilyun,' er she'd 'a'
come out an' crackt me over de head wid
dat i'on spoon what she had in her han'."
</p>

<p>
I could perceive a vast amount of
acuteness in the observation, but I said
nothing, and, after a considerable pause,
Aunt Minervy Ann remarked:
</p>

<p>
"Dey er lots er mighty good folks up
dar"—indicating the North—"some I've
seed wid my own eyes an' de yuthers I've
heern talk un. Mighty fine folks, an'
dey say dey mighty sorry fer de niggers.
But I'll tell um all anywhar, any
day, dat I'd lots druther dey'd be good
ter me dan ter be sorry fer me. You
know dat ar white lady what Marse Tom
Chippendale married? Her pa come
down here ter he'p de niggers, an' he
done it de best he kin, but Marse Tom's
wife can't b'ar de sight un um. She won't
let um go in her kitchen, she won't let um
go in her house, an' she don't want um
nowhars 'roun'. I don't blame 'er much
myse'f, bekaze it look like dat de niggers
what been growin' up sence freedom is des
tryin' der han' fer ter see how no 'count dey
kin be. Dey'll git better—dey er bleeze
ter git better, 'kaze dey can't git no wuss."
</p>

<p>
Here came another pause, which continued
until Aunt Minervy Ann, turning
her head toward me, asked if I knew the
lady that Jesse Towers married; and before
I had time to reply with certainty,
she went on:
</p>

<p>
"No, suh, you des can't know 'er. She
ain't come dar twel sev'mty, an' I mos'
know you ain't see 'er dat time you went
down home ter de fair, 'kaze she wa'n't
gwine out dat year. Well, she wuz a
Northron lady. I come mighty nigh tellin'
you 'bout 'er whence you wuz at de
fair, but fus' one thing an' den anudder
jumped in de way; er maybe 'twuz too
new ter be goshup'd 'roun' right den.
But de way she come ter be dar an' de
way it all turn out beats any er dem tales
what de ol' folks use ter tell we childun.
I may not know all de ins an' outs, but
what I does know I knows mighty well,
'kaze de young 'oman tol' me herse'f right
out 'er own mouf.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_312' name='Page_312' href='#Page_312'>312</a></span>
</p>

<p>
"Fus' an' fo'mus', dar wuz ol' Gabe
Towers. He wuz dar, whence you wuz
dar, an' long time 'fo' dat. You know'd
him, sho', 'kaze he wuz one er dem kinder
men what sticks out fum de res' like a
waggin' tongue. Not dat he wuz any better'n
anybody else, but he had dem kinder
ways what make folks talk 'bout 'im an'
'pen' on 'im. I dunner 'zackly what de
ways wuz, but I knows dat whatsomever
ol' Gabe Towers say an' do, folks 'd nod
der head an' say an' do de same. An'
me 'long er de res'. He had dem kinder
ways 'bout 'im, an' 'twa'n't no use
talkin'."
</p>

<p>
In these few words, Aunt Minervy
conjured up in my mind the memory of
one of the most remarkable men I had
ever known. He was tall, with iron-gray
hair. His eyes were black and brilliant,
his nose slightly curved, and his chin firm
without heaviness. To this day Gabriel
Towers stands out in my admiration foremost
among all the men I have ever known.
He might have been a great statesman;
he would have been great in anything to
which he turned his hand. But he contented
himself with instructing smaller
men, who were merely politicians, and with
sowing and reaping on his plantation.
More than one senator went to him for
ideas with which to make a reputation.
</p>

<p>
His will seemed to dominate everybody
with whom he came in contact, not violently,
but serenely and surely, and as a matter
of course. Whether this was due to his
age—he was sixty-eight when I knew him,
having been born in the closing year of
the eighteenth century—or to his moral
power, or to his personal magnetism, it is
hardly worth while to inquire. Major
Perdue said that the secret of his influence
was common-sense, and this is perhaps
as good an explanation as any. The immortality
of Socrates and Plato should be
enough to convince us that common-sense
is almost as inspiring as the gift of prophecy.
To interpret Aunt Minervy Ann
in this way is merely to give a correct report
of what occurred on the veranda, for
explanation of this kind was necessary to
give the lady of the house something like
a familiar interest in the recital.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, suh," Aunt Minervy Ann went
on, "he had dem kinder ways 'bout 'im,
an' whatsomever he say you can't shoo it
off like you would a hen on de gyarden
fence. Dar 'twuz an' dar it stayed.
</p>

<p>
"Well, de time come when ol' Marse
Gabe had a gran'son, an' he name 'im
Jesse in 'cordance wid de Bible. Jesse
grow'd an' grow'd twel he got ter be a right
smart chunk uv a boy, but he wa'n't no
mo' like de Towerses dan he wuz like de
Chippendales, which he wa'n't no kin to.
He tuck atter his ma, an' who his ma tuck
atter I'll never tell you, 'kaze Bill Henry
Towers married 'er way off yander somers.
She wuz purty but puny, yit puny ez she
wuz she could play de peanner by de hour,
an' play it mo' samer dan de man what
make it.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, Jesse tuck atter his ma in
looks, but 'stidder playin' de peanner, he
l'arnt how ter play de fiddle, an' by de
time he wuz twelve year ol', he could make
it talk. Hit's de fatal trufe, suh; he could
make it talk. You hear folks playin' de
fiddle, an' you know what dey doin'; you
kin hear de strings a-plunkin' an' you kin
hear de bow raspin' on um on 'count de
rozzum, but when Jesse Towers swiped de
bow cross his fiddle, 'twa'n't no fiddle—'twuz
human; I ain't tellin' you no lie,
suh, 'twuz human. Dat chile could make
yo' heart ache; he could fetch yo' sins up
befo' you. Don't tell me! many an' many
a night when I hear Jesse Towers playin',
I could shet my eyes an' hear my childun
cryin', dem what been dead an' buried long
time ago. Don't make no diffunce 'bout
de chune, reel, jig, er promenade, de human
cryin' wuz behime all un um.
</p>

<p>
"Bimeby, Jesse got so dat he didn't keer
nothin' 'tall 'bout books. It uz fiddle, fiddle,
all day long, an' half de night ef dey'd
let 'im. Den folks 'gun ter talk. No need
ter tell you what all dey say. De worl'
over, fum what I kin hear, dey got de idee
dat a fiddle is a free pass ter whar ole
Scratch live at. Well, suh, Jesse got so
he'd run away fum school an' go off in de
woods an' play his fiddle. Hamp use ter
come 'pon 'im when he haulin' wood, an'
he say dat fiddle ain't soun' no mo' like
de fiddles what you hear in common dan
a flute soun' like a bass drum.
</p>

<p>
"Now you know yo'se'f, suh, dat dis
kinder doin's ain't gwine ter suit Marse
Gabe Towers. Time he hear un it, he
put his foot down on fiddler, an' fiddle,
an' fiddlin'. Ez you may say, he sot down
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_313' name='Page_313' href='#Page_313'>313</a></span>
on de fiddle an' smash it. Dis happen
when Jesse wuz sixteen year ol', an' by
dat time he wuz mo' in love wid de fiddle
dan what he wuz wid his gran'daddy. An'
so dar 'twuz. He ain't look like it, but
Jesse wuz in about ez high strung ez his
fiddle wuz, an' when his gran'daddy laid
de law down, he sol' out his pony an' buggy
an' made his disappearance fum dem
parts.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, 'twa'n't so mighty often you'd
hear sassy talk 'bout Marse Gabe Towers,
but you could hear it den. Folks is
allers onreasonable wid dem dey like de
bes'; you know dat yo'se'f, suh. Marse
Gabe ain't make no 'lowance fer Jesse, an'
folks ain't make none fer Marse Gabe.
Marse Tumlin wuz dat riled wid de man
dat dey come mighty nigh havin' a fallin'
out. Dey had a splutter 'bout de time
when sump'n n'er had happen, an' atter
dey wrangle a little, Marse Tumlin sot de
date by sayin' dat 'twuz 'a year 'fo' de day
when Jess went a-fiddlin'.' Dat sayin'
kindled de fier, suh, an it spread fur an'
wide. Marse Tom Chippendale say dat
folks what never is hear tell er de Towerses
went 'roun' talkin' 'bout 'de time when
Jess went a-fiddlin'.'"
</p>

<p>
Aunt Minervy Ann chuckled over this,
probably because she regarded it as a sort
of victory for Major Tumlin Perdue. She
went on:
</p>

<p>
"Yes, suh, 'twuz a by-word wid de
childun. No matter what happen, er
when it happen, er ef 'tain't happen, 'twuz
'fo' er atter 'de day when Jess went a-fiddlin'.'
Hit look like dat Marse Gabe
sorter drapt a notch or two in folks' min's.
Yit he helt his head dez ez high. He
bleeze ter hol' it high, 'kaze he had in 'im
de blood uv bofe de Tumlins an' de Perdues;
I dunner how much, but 'nuff fer
ter keep his head up.
</p>

<p>
"I ain't no almanac, suh, but I never is
ter fergit de year when Jess went a-fiddlin'.
'Twuz sixty, 'kaze de nex' year
de war 'gun ter bile, an' 'twa'n't long 'fo'
it biled over. Yes, suh! dar wuz de war
come on an' Jesse done gone. Dey
banged aloose, dey did, dem on der side,
an' we on our'n, an' dey kep' on a bangin'
twel we-all can't bang no mo'. An'
den de war hushed up, an' freedom
come, an' still nobody ain't hear tell er
Jesse. Den you come down dar, suh, an'
stay what time you did; still nobody ain't
hear tell er Jesse. He mought er writ
ter his ma, but ef he did, she kep' it
mighty close. Marse Gabe ain't los' no
flesh 'bout it, an' ef he los' any sleep on
account er Jess, he ain't never brag 'bout
it.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, it went on dis away twel,
ten year atter Jess went a-fiddlin', his wife
come home. Yes, suh! His wife! Well!
I wuz stan'in' right in de hall talkin' wid
Miss Fanny—dat's Jesse's ma—when she
come, an' when de news broke on me
you could 'a' knockt me down wid a per-meter
fan. De house-gal show'd 'er in
de parler, an' den come atter Miss Fanny.
Miss Fanny she went in dar, an' I stayed outside
talkin' wid de house-gal. De gal say,
'Aunt Minervy Ann, dey sho' is sump'n n'er
de matter wid dat white lady. She white ez
any er de dead, an' she can't git 'er breff
good.' 'Bout dat time, I hear somebody
cry out in de parler, an' den I hear sump'n
fall. De house-gal cotch holt er me an'
'gun ter whimper. I shuck 'er off, I did,
an' went right straight in de parler, an'
dar wuz Miss Fanny layin' face fo'mus' on
a sofy wid a letter in 'er han' an' de white
lady sprawled out on de flo'.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, you can't skeer me wid
trouble, 'kaze I done see too much; so I
shuck Miss Fanny by de arm an' ax 'er
what de matter, an' she cry out, 'Jesse's
dead an' his wife come home.' She uz
plum heart-broke, suh, an' I speck I wuz
blubberin' some myse'f when Marse Gabe
walkt in, but I wuz tryin' ter work wid
de white lady on de flo'. 'Twix' Marse
Gabe an' Miss Fanny, 'twuz sho'ly a tryin'
time. When one er dem hard an'
uppity men lose der grip on deyse'f, dey
turn loose ever'thing, an' dat wuz de way
wid Marse Gabe. When dat de case,
sump'n n'er got ter be done, an' it got ter
be done mighty quick."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Minervy Ann paused here and
rubbed her hands together contemplatively,
as if trying to restore the scene more
completely to her memory.
</p>

<p>
"You know how loud I kin talk, suh,
when I'm min' ter. Well, I talk loud den
an' dar. I 'low, 'What you-all doin'?
Is you gwine ter let Marse Jesse's wife
lay here an' die des 'kaze he dead? Ef
you is, I'll des go on whar I b'longs at!'
Dis kinder fotch um 'roun', an' 'twa'n't
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_314' name='Page_314' href='#Page_314'>314</a></span>
"no time 'fo' we had de white lady in de
bed whar Jesse use ter sleep at, an' soon's
we got 'er cuddled down in it, she come
'roun'. But she wuz in a mighty bad fix.
She wanter git up an' go off, an' 'twuz all
I could do fer ter keep 'er in bed. She
done like she wuz plum distracted. Dey
wa'n't skacely a minit fer long hours, an'
dey wuz mighty long uns, suh, dat she
wa'n't moanin' an' sayin' dat she wa'n't
gwine ter stay, an' she hope de Lord'd
fergive 'er. I tell you, suh, 'twuz tarryfyin'.
I shuck nex' day des like folks do
when dey are honin' atter dram.
</p>

<p>
"You may ax me how come I ter stay
dar," Aunt Minervy Ann suggested with
a laugh. "Well, suh, 'twa'n't none er my
doin's. I speck dey mus' be sump'n wrong
'bout me, 'kaze no matter how rough I
talk ner how ugly I look, sick folks an'
childun allers takes up wid me. When I
go whar dey is, it's mighty hard fer ter
git 'way fum um. So, when I say ter
Jesse's wife, 'Keep still, honey, an' I'll go
home an' not pester you,' she sot up in
bed an' say ef I gwine she gwine too. I
say, 'Nummine 'bout me, honey, you lay
down dar an' don't talk too much.' She
'low, 'Le' me talk ter you an' tell you all
'bout it.' But I shuck my head an' say
dat ef she don't hush up an' keep still I'm
gwine right home.
</p>

<p>
"I had ter do 'er des like she wuz a
baby, suh. She wa'n't so mighty purty,
but she had purty ways, 'stracted ez she
wuz, an' de biggest black eyes you mos'
ever seed, an' black curly ha'r cut short
kinder like our folks use ter w'ar der'n.
Den de house-gal fotched some tea an'
toas', an' dis holp 'er up mightly, an' atter
dat I sont ter Marse Gabe fer some dram,
an' de gal fotched de decanter fum de
sidebode. Bein', ez you may say, de nurse,
I tuck an' tas'e er de dram fer ter make
sho' dat nobody ain't put nothin' in it.
An', sho' 'nuff, dey ain't."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Minervy Ann paused and smacked
her lips. "Atter she got de vittles an' de
dram, she sorter drap off ter sleep, but
'twuz a mighty flighty kinder sleep. She'd
wake wid a jump des 'zackly like babies
does, an' den she'd moan an' worry twel
she dozed off ag'in. I nodded, suh, bekaze
you can't set me down in a cheer,
night er day, but what I'll nod, but in betwix'
an' betweens I kin hear Marse Gabe
Towers walkin' up an' down in de liberry;
walk, walk; walk, walk, up an' down. I
speck ef I'd 'a' been one er de nervious
an' flighty kin' dey'd 'a' had to tote me
out er dat house de nex' day; but me!
I des kep' on a-noddin'.
</p>

<p>
"Bimeby, I hear sump'n come swishin'
'long, an' in walkt Miss Fanny. I tell you
now, suh, ef I'd a met 'er comin' down de
road, I'd 'a' made a break fer de bushes,
she look so much like you know sperrets
oughter look—an' Marse Jesse's wife wuz
layin' dar wid 'er eyes wide open. She
sorter swunk back in de bed when she see
Miss Fanny, an' cry out, 'Oh, I'm mighty
sorry fer ter trouble you; I'm gwine 'way
in de mornin'.' Miss Fanny went ter de
bed an' knelt down 'side it, an' 'low, 'No,
youer gwine no whar but right in dis house.
Yo' place is here, wid his mudder an' his
gran'fadder.' Wid dat, Marse Jesse's
wife put her face in de piller an' moan
an' cry, twel I hatter ax Miss Fanny fer
ter please, ma'm, go git some res'.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, I stayed dar dat night an'
part er de nex' day, an' by dat time all un
um wuz kinder quieted down, but dey wuz
mighty res'less in demin', speshually Marse
Jesse's wife, which her name wuz Miss
Sadie. It seem like dat Marse Jesse wuz
livin' at a town up dar in de fur North
whar dey wuz a big lake, an' he went out
wid one er dem 'scursion parties, an' a
storm come up an' shuck de boat ter
pieces. Dat what make I say what I
does. I don't min' gwine on 'scursions on de
groun', but when it come ter water—well,
suh, I ain't gwine ter trus' myse'f on water
twel I kin walk on it an' not wet my foots.
Marse Jesse wuz de Captain uv a music-ban'
up dar, an' de papers fum dar had
some long pieces 'bout 'im, an' de paper
at home had a piece 'bout 'im. It say he
wuz one er de mos' renounced music-makers
what yever had been, an' dat when it
come ter dat kinder doin's he wuz a puffick
prodigal. I 'member de words, suh, bekaze
I made Hamp read de piece out loud
mo' dan once.
</p>

<p>
"Miss Sadie, she got mo' calmer atter
while, an' 'twa'n't long 'fo' Marse Gabe
an' Miss Fanny wuz bofe mighty tuck up
wid 'er. Dey much'd 'er up an' made a
heap un 'er, an' she fa'rly hung on dem. I
done tol' you she ain't purty, but dey wuz
sump'n 'bout er better dan purtiness. It
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_315' name='Page_315' href='#Page_315'>315</a></span>
mought er been 'er eyes, en den ag'in
mought er been de way er de gal; but
whatsomever 'twuz, hit made you think
'bout 'er at odd times durin' de day, an'
des 'fo' you go ter sleep at night.
</p>

<p>
"Eve'ything went swimmin' along des
ez natchul ez a duck floatin' on de mill-pon'.
Dey wa'n't skacely a day but what
I seed Miss Sadie. Ef I ain't go ter
Marse Gabe's house she'd be sho' ter come
ter mine. Dat uz atter Hamp wuz 'lected
ter de legislatur, suh. He 'low dat a
member er de ingener'l ensembly ain't
got no bizness livin' in a kitchen, but I say
dat he ain't a whit better den dan he wuz
befo'. So be, I done been cross 'im so
much dat I tell 'im ter git de house an'
I'd live in it ef 'twa'n't too fur fum Miss
Vallie an' Marse Tumlin. Well, he had it
built on de outskyirts, not a big jump fum
Miss Vallie, an' betwix' de town an' Marse
Gabe Towers's. Dat wuz atter you went
'way, suh. Nex' time you come down,
you mus' come see me. Me an' Hamp'll
treat you right, we sholy will.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, in dem days dey wa'n't so
many niggers willin' ter do an' be done by,
an' on account er dat, ef Miss Vallie wa'n't
hollin' fer 'Nervy Ann, Miss Fanny er
Sadie wuz, an' when I wa'n't at one place,
you might know I'd be at de yuther one.
It went on dis away, an' went on twel one
day got so much like an'er dat you can't
tell Monday fum Friday. An' it went on
an' went on twel bimeby I wuz bleeze ter
say sump'n ter Hamp. You take notice,
suh, an' when you see de sun shinin' nice
an' warm an' de win' blowin' so saft an'
cool dat you wanter go in a-washin' in it—when
you see dis an' feel dat away, <i>Watch
out!</i> <i>Watch out</i>, I tell you! Dat des de
time when de harrycane gwineter come up
out'n de middle er de swamp an' t'ar things
ter tatters. Same way when folks gitting
on so nice dat dey don't know dey er gittin'
on.
</p>

<p>
"De fus' news I know'd Miss Sadie wuz
bringin' little bundles ter my house 'twix'
sundown an' dark. She'd 'low, 'Aunt Minervy
Ann, I'll des put dis in de cornder
here; I may want it some time.' Nex'
day it'd be de same doin's over ag'in.
'Aunt Minervy Ann, please take keer er
dis; I may want it some time.' Well, it
went on dis away fum day ter day, but I
ain't pay no 'tention. Ef any 'spicion
cross my min' it wuz dat maybe Miss Sadie
puttin' dem things dar fer ter 'sprise me
Chris'mus by tellin' me dey wuz fer me.
But one day she come ter my house, an'
sot down an' put her han's over her face
like she got de headache er sump'n.
</p>

<p>
"Wellum"—Aunt Minervy Ann, with
real tact, now began to address herself to
the lady of the house—"Wellum, she sot
dar so long dat bimeby I ax 'er what de
matter is. She ain't say nothin'; she ain't
make no motion. I 'low ter myse'f dat
she don't wanter be pestered, so I let 'er
'lone an' went on 'bout my bizness. But,
bless you! de nex' time I look at 'er she
wuz settin' des dat away wid 'er han's over
her face. She sot so still dat it sorter
make me feel quare, an' I went, I did, an'
cotch holt er her han's sorter playful-like.
Wellum, de way dey felt made me flinch.
All I could say wuz, 'Lord 'a' mercy!' She
tuck her han's down, she did, an' look at
me an' smile kinder faint-like. She 'low,
'Wuz my han's col', Aunt Minervy Ann?'
I look at 'er an' grunt, 'Huh! dey won't
be no colder when youer dead.' She ain't
say nothin', an' terreckly I 'low, 'What
de name er goodness is de matter wid you,
Miss Sadie?' She say, 'Nothin' much.
I'm gwine ter stay here ter-night, an' ter-morrer
mornin' I'm gwine 'way.' I ax
'er, 'How come dat? What is dey done to
you?' She say, 'Nothin' 'tall.' I 'low,
'Does Marse Gabe an' Miss Fanny know
you gwine?' She say, 'No; I can't tell
um.'
</p>

<p>
"Wellum, I flopt down on a cheer;
yessum, I sho' did. My min' wuz gwine
like a whirligig an' my head wuz swimmin'.
I des sot dar an' look at 'er.
Bimeby she up an' say, pickin' all de time
at her frock, 'I know'd sump'n wuz
gwine ter happen. Dat de reason I been
bringin' dem bundles here. In dem ar
bundles you'll fin' all de things I fotch
here. I ain't got nothin' dey give me
'cep'n, dish yer black dress I got on. I'd
'a' fotch my ol' trunk, but I dunner what
dey done wid it. Hamp'll hatter buy me
one an' pay fer it hisse'f, 'kaze I ain't got a
cent er money.' Dem de ve'y words she
say. I 'low, 'Sump'n must 'a' happen
den.' She nodded, an' bimeby she say,
'Mr. Towers comin' home ter-night.
Dey done got a telegraph fum 'im.'
</p>

<p>
"I stood up in de flo', I did, an' ax
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_316' name='Page_316' href='#Page_316'>316</a></span>
'er, 'Which Mr.Towers?' She say, 'Mr.
Jesse Towers.' I 'low, 'He done dead.'
She say, 'No, he ain't; ef he wuz he done
come ter life; dey done got a telegraph
fum 'im, I tell you.' 'Is <i>dat</i> de reason
you gwine 'way?' I des holla'd it at 'er.
She draw'd a long breff an' say, 'Yes,
dat's de reason.'
</p>

<p>
"I tell you right now, ma'm, I didn't
know ef I wuz stannin' on my head er
floatin' in de a'r. I wuz plum outdone.
But dar she sot des es cool ez a curcumber
wid de dew on it. I went out de do',
I did, an' walk 'roun' de house once ter
de right an' twice ter de lef' bekaze de ol'
folks use ter tell me dat ef you wuz bewitched,
dat 'ud take de spell away. I
ain't tellin' you no lie, ma'm—fer de longes'
kinder minnit I didn't no mo' b'lieve
dat Miss Sadie wuz settin' dar in my house
tellin' me dat kinder rigamarole, dan I
b'lieve I'm flyin' right now. Dat bein' de
case, I bleeze ter fall back on bewitchments,
an' so I walk 'roun' de house. But
when I went back in, dar she wuz, settin'
in a cheer an' lookin' up at de rafters.
</p>

<p>
"Wellum, I went in an' drapt down in
a cheer an' lookt at 'er. Bimeby, I say,
'Miss Sadie, does you mean ter set dar an'
tell me youer gwine 'way 'kaze yo' husban'
comin' home?' She flung her arms behime
'er head, she did, an' say, 'I ain't
none er his wife; I des been playin' off!'
De way she look an' de way she say it
wuz 'nuff fer me. I wuz pairlized; yessum,
I wuz dumfounder'd. Ef anybody
had des but totch me wid de tip er der
finger, I'd 'a' fell off'n dat cheer an' never
stirred atter I hit de flo'. Ever'thing 'bout
de house lookt quare. Miss Vallie had a
lookin'-glass one time wid de pictur' uv a
church at de bottom. When de glass got
broke, she gimme de pictur', an' I sot it
up on de mantel-shelf. I never know'd
'fo' dat night dat de steeple er der church
wuz crooked. But dar 'twuz. Mo' dan
dat I cotch myse'f feelin' er my fingers
fer ter see ef 'twuz me an' ef I wuz dar.
</p>

<p>
"Talk 'bout <i>dreams</i>! Dey wa'n't no
dream could beat dat, I don't keer how
twisted it mought be. An' den, ma'm,
she sot back dar an' tol' me de whole tale
'bout how she come ter be dar. I'll never
tell it like she did; dey ain't nobody in de
wide worl' kin do dat. But it seem like she
an' Marse Jesse wuz stayin' in de same
neighborhoods, er stayin' at de same place,
he a-fiddlin' an' she a-knockin' on de peanner
er de harp, I fergit which. Anyhow,
dey seed a heap er one an'er. Bofe un
um had come dar fum way off yan', an'
ain't got nobody but deyse'f fer ter 'pen'
on, an' dat kinder flung um tergedder. I
speck dey must er swapt talk 'bout love
an' marryin'—you know yo'se'f, ma'm, dat
dat's de way young folks is. Howsomever
dat may be, Marse Jesse, des ter
tease 'er, sot down one day an' writ a long
letter ter his wife. Tooby sho' he ain't got
no wife, but he des make out he got one,
an' dat letter he lef' layin' 'roun' whar
Miss Sadie kin see it. 'Twa'n't in no envelyup,
ner nothin', an' you know mighty
well, ma'm, dat when a 'oman, young er
ol', see dat kinder letter layin' 'roun' she'd
die ef she don't read it. Fum de way
Miss Sadie talk, dat letter must 'a' stirred
up a coolness 'twix' um, 'kaze de mornin'
when he wuz gwine on dat 'scursion,
Marse Jesse pass by de place whar she
wuz settin' at an' flung de letter in her
lap an' say, 'What's in dar wuz fer you.'
</p>

<p>
"Wellum, wid dat he wuz gone, an' de
fus' news Miss Sadie know'd de papers wuz
full er de names er dem what got drownded
in de boat, an' Marse Jesse head de roll,
'kaze he wuz de mos' pop'lous music-maker
in de whole settlement. Den dar wuz de
gal an' de letter. I wish I could tell dis
part like she tol' me settin' dar in my house.
You'll never git it straight in yo' head
less'n you'd 'a' been dar an' hear de way
she tol' it. Nigger ez I is, I know mighty
well dat a white 'oman ain't got no bizness
parmin' 'erse'f off ez a man's wife. But
de way she tol' it tuck all de rough aidges
off'n it. She wuz dar in dat big town,
wuss'n a wilderness, ez you may say, by
'erse'f, nobody 'pen' in on 'er an' nobody
ter 'pen' on, tired down an' plum wo' out,
an' wid all dem kinder longin's what you
know yo'se'f, ma'm, all wimmen bleeze ter
have, ef dey er white er ef dey er black.
</p>

<p>
"Yit she ain't never tol' nobody dat she
wuz Marse Jesse's wife. She des han' de
letter what she'd kep' ter Miss Fanny, an'
fell down on de flo' in a dead faint, an'
she say dat ef it hadn't but 'a' been fer me,
she'd a got out er de bed dat fust night
an' went 'way fum dar; an' I know dat's
so, too, bekaze she wuz ranklin' fer ter git
up fum dar. But at de time I put all dat
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_317' name='Page_317' href='#Page_317'>317</a></span>
down ter de credit er de deleeriums, an'
made 'er stay in bed.
</p>

<p>
"Wellum, ef I know'd all de books in
de worl' by heart, I couldn't tell you how
I felt atter she done tol' me dat tale. She
sot back dar des ez calm ez a baby. Bimeby
she say, 'I'm glad I tol' you; I feel
better dan I felt in a mighty long time.'
It look like, ma'm, dat a load'd been lift
fum 'er min'. Now I know'd pine blank
dat sump'n got ter be done, 'kaze de train'd
be in at midnight, an' den when Marse
Jesse come dey'd be a tarrfyin' time at
Gabe Towers's. Atter while I up an' ax
'er, 'Miss Sadie, did you reely love Marse
Jesse?' She say, 'Yes, I did'—des so.
I ax 'er, 'Does you love 'im now?' She
say, 'Yes, I does—an' I love dem ar
people up dar at de house; dat de reason
I'm gwine 'way.' She talk right out; she
done come to de p'int whar she ain't got
nothin' ter hide.
</p>

<p>
"I say, 'Well, Miss Sadie, dem folks
up at de house, dey loves you.' She sorter
flincht at dis. I 'low, 'Dey been mighty
good ter you. What you done, you done
done, an' dat can't be holp, but what you
ain't gone an' done, dat kin be holp; an'
what you oughter do, dat oughtn't ter be
holp.' I see 'er clinch 'er han's an' den
I riz fum de cheer." Suiting the action to
the word, Aunt Minervy Ann rose from
the step where she had been sitting, and
moved toward the lady of the house.
</p>

<p>
"I riz, I did, an' tuck my stan' befo' 'er.
I 'low, 'You say you love Marse Jesse, an'
you say you love his folks. Well, den ef
you got any blood in you, ef you got any
heart in yo' body, ef you got any feelin' fer
anybody in de roun' worl' 'cep'n' yo' naked
se'f, you'll go up dar ter dat house an' tell
Gabe Towers dat you want ter see 'im, an'
you'll tell Fanny Towers dat you want ter
see her, an' you'll stan' up befo' um an'
tell um de tale you tol' ter me, word fer
word. Ef you'll do dat, an' you hatter
come back here, <i>come! come!</i> Bless God!
<i>come!</i> an' me an' Hamp'll rake an' scrape
up 'nuff money fer ter kyar you whar you
gwine. An' don't you be a-skeer'd er
Gabe Towers. Me an' Marse Tumlin ain't
a-skeer'd un 'im. I'm gwine wid you, an'
ef he say one word out de way, you des
come ter de do' an' call me, an' ef I don't
preach his funer'l, it'll be bekaze de Lord'll
strike me dumb!' <i>An' she went!</i>"
</p>

<p>
Aunt Minervy paused. Once again she
had wrought the miracle of summoning to
life one of the crises through which she
had passed with others. It was not the
words she used. There was nothing in
them to stir the heart or quicken the pulse.
Her power lay in the tones of her voice,
whereby she was able to recall the passion
of a moment that had long spent itself;
in the fluent and responsive attitudes; in
gesticulation that told far more than her
words did. The light from the vestibule
lamp shone full upon her and upon the
lady whom she unconsciously selected to
play the part of the young woman whose
story she was telling. The illusion was
perfect. We were in Aunt Minervy Ann's
house, Miss Sadie was sitting helpless and
hopeless before her—the whole scene was
vivid and complete. She paused; her
arm, which had been outstretched and
rigid for an instant, slowly fell to her side,
and—the illusion was gone; but while it
lasted, it was as real as any sudden and extraordinary
experience can be.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Minervy Ann resumed her seat,
with a chuckle, apparently ashamed that
she had been betrayed into such a display
of energy and emotion, saying, "Yessum,
she sho' went."
</p>

<p>
"I don't wonder at it," remarked the
lady of the house, with a long-drawn sigh
of relief.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Minervy Ann laughed again, rather
sheepishly, and then, after rubbing her
hands together, took up the thread of the
narrative, this time directing her words to
me: "All de way ter de house, suh, she
ain't say two words. She had holt er my
han', but she ain't walk like she uz weak.
She went along ez peart ez I did. When we
got dar, some er de niggers wuz out in de
flower-gyarden an' out in de big grove callin'
'er; an' dey call so loud dat I hatter put
um down. 'Hush up!' I say, 'an' go on
'bout yo' bizness! Can't yo' Miss Sadie
take a walk widout a whole passel er you
niggers a-hollerin' yo' heads off?' One un
um make answer, 'Miss Fanny huntin' fer
'er.' She sorter grip my han' at dat, but
I say, 'She de one you wanter see—her
an' Gabe Towers.'
</p>

<p>
"We went up on de po'ch, an' dar wuz
Miss Fanny an' likewise Marse Gabe. I
know'd what dey wanted; dey wanted ter
talk wid 'er 'bout Marse Jesse. She clum
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_318' name='Page_318' href='#Page_318'>318</a></span>
de steps fus' an' I clum atter her. She
cotch er 'breff hard when she fus' hit de
steps, an' den it come over me like a flash
how deep an' big her trouble wuz, an' I
tell you right now, ef dat had 'a' been Miss
Vallie gwine up dar, I b'lieve I'd a-flew at
ol' Gabe Towers an' to' 'im lim' fum lim'
'fo' anybody could 'a' pull me off. Hit's
de trufe! You may laugh, but I sho' would
'a' done it. I had it in me. Miss Fanny
seed sump'n wuz wrong, de minnit de light
fell on de gal's face. She say, 'Why,
Sadie, darlin', what de matter wid you?'—des
so—an' made ez ef ter put 'er arms
'roun' 'er; but Miss Sadie swunk back.
Miss Fanny sorter swell up. She say, 'Oh,
ef I've hurt yo' feelin's ter-day—<i>ter-day</i>
uv all de days—please, please fergi' me!'
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, I dunner whar all dis gwine
ter lead ter, an' I put in, 'She des wanter
have a talk wid you an' Marse Gabe, Miss
Fanny; an' ef ter-day is one er de days her
feelin's oughtn'ter be hurted, take keer dat
you don't do it. Kyar 'er in de parler
dar, Miss Fanny.' I speck you'll think I
wuz takin' a mighty heap on myse'f, fer a
nigger 'oman," remarked Aunt Minervy
Ann, smoothing the wrinkles out of her lap,
"but I wuz des ez much at home in dat
house ez I wuz in my own, an' des ez free
wid um ez I wuz wid my own folks. Miss
Fanny look skeer'd, an' Marse Gabe foller'd
atter, rubbin' a little mole he had on
de top er his head. When he wus worried
er aggervated, he allers rub dat mole.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, dey went in, dey did, an' I
shot de do' an' tuck up my stan' close by,
ready fer to go in when Miss Sadie call me.
I had myse'f keyed up ter de p'int whar I'd
'a' tol' Marse Gabe sump'n 'bout his own
fambly connection; you know dey ain't
nobody but what got i'on rust on some er
der cloze. But dey stayed in dar an' stayed,
twel I 'gun ter git oneasy. All kinder quare
idees run th'oo my head. Atter while some
un pull de do' open, an' hol' it dat away,
an' I hear Marse Gabe say, wid a trimble
an' ketch in his th'oat, 'Don't talk so, chil'.
Ef you done wrong, you ain't hurt nobody
but yo'se'f, an' it oughtn'ter hurt you. You
been a mighty big blessin' ter me, an' ter
Fanny here, an' I wouldn't 'a' missed
knowin' you, not fer nothin'. Wid dat, he
come out cle'rin' up his th'oat an' blowin'
his nose twel it soun' like a dinner-horn.
His eye fell on me, an' he 'low, 'Look like
you er allers on han' when dey's trouble.'
I made answer, 'Well, Marse Gabe, dey
might be wusser ones 'roun' dan me.' He
look at me right hard an' say, 'Dey ain't
no better, Minervy Ann.' 'Well, suh, little
mo' an' I'd 'a' broke down, it come so
sudden. I had ter gulp hard an' quick, I
tell you. He say, 'Minervy Ann, go back
dar an' tell de house-gal ter wake up de
carriage-driver ef he's 'sleep, an' tell 'im to
go meet Jesse at de train. An' he mus'
tell Jesse dat we'd 'a' all come, but his
ma ain't feelin' so well.' I say, 'I'll go
wake 'im up myse'f, suh.' I look in de parler
an' say, 'Miss Sadie, does you need me
right now?' She 'low, 'No, not right now;
I'll stay twel—twel Mr. Towers come.'
Miss Fanny wuz settin' dar holdin' Miss
Sadie's han'.
</p>

<p>
"I'll never tell you how dey patcht it up
in dar, but I made a long guess. Fus' an'
fo'mus', dey wuz right down fon' er Miss
Sadie, an' den ef she run off time Marse
Jesse put his foot in de town dey'd be a
big scandal; an' so dey fix it up dat ef she
wuz bleeze ter go, 'twuz better to go a
mont' er two atter Marse Jesse come back.
Folks may like you mighty well, but dey
allers got one eye on der own consarns.
Dat de way I put it down.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, de wuss job wuz lef' fer de
las', 'kaze dar wuz Marse Jesse. Sump'n
tol' me dat he oughter know what been
gwine on 'fo' he got in de house, 'kaze den
he won't be aggervated inter sayin' an doin'
sump'n he oughtn'ter. So when de carriage
wuz ready, I got in an' went down
ter de depot; an' when Marse Jesse got off
de train, I wuz de fus' one he laid eyes on.
I'd 'a' never know'd 'im in de worl', but
he know'd me. He holler out, 'Ef dar
ain't Aunt Minervy Ann! Bless yo' ol'
soul! how you come on anyhow?' He
come mighty nigh huggin' me, he wuz so
glad ter see me. He wuz big ez a skinned
hoss an' strong ez a mule. He say, 'Ef
I had you in my min' once, Aunt Minervy
Ann, I had you in dar ten thousan' times.'
</p>

<p>
"Whiles de carriage rollin' 'long an'
grindin' de san' I try ter gi' 'im a kinder
inkling er what been gwine on, but 'twuz
all a joke wid 'im. I wuz fear'd I mought
go at 'im de wrong way, but I can't do
no better. I say, 'Marse Jesse, yo' wife
been waitin' here fer you a long time.'
He laugh an' 'low, 'Oh, yes! did she
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_319' name='Page_319' href='#Page_319'>319</a></span>
bring de childun? I say, 'Shucks, Marse
Jesse! Dey's a lady in deep trouble at
Marse Gabe's house, an' I don't want
you ter go dar jokin'. She's a monst'us
fine lady, too.' Dis kinder steady 'im, an'
he say, 'All right, Aunt Minervy Ann;
I'll behave myse'f des like a Sunday-school
scholar. I won't say bad words
an' I won't talk loud.' He had his fiddle-case
in his lap, an' he drummed on it like
he keepin' time ter some chune in his min'.
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, we got dar in de due time,
an' 'twuz a great meetin' 'twixt Marse
Jesse an' his folks. Dey des swarmed on
'im, ez you may say, an' while dis gwine
on, I went in de parler whar Miss Sadie
wuz. She wuz pale, tooby sho', but she
had done firm'd 'erse'f. She wuz standin'
by de fier-place, lookin' down, but she
lookt up when she hear de do' open, an'
den she say, 'I'm mighty glad it's you,
Aunt Minervy Ann; I want you ter stay
in here.' I 'low, 'I'll stay, honey, ef you
say stay.' Den she tuck 'er stand by me
an' cotch holt er my arm wid bofe 'er
han's an' kinder leant again me.
</p>

<p>
"Bimeby, here come Marse Jesse.
Trouble wuz in his eye when he open de
do', but when he saw de gal, his face lit
up des like when you strike a match in a
closet. He say, 'Why, Miss Sadie! You
dunner how glad I is ter see you. I been
huntin' all over de country fer you.' He
make ez ef ter shake han's, but she draw'd
back. Dis cut 'im. He say, 'What de
matter? Who you in mournin' fer?'
She 'low, 'Fer myse'f.' Wid dat she wuz
gwine on ter tell 'im 'bout what she done,
but he wouldn't have it dat away. He
say, 'When I come back ter life, atter I
wuz drownded, I 'gun ter hunt fer you des
ez soon's I got out'n de hospittle. I wuz
huntin' fer you ter tell you dat I love you.
I'd 'a' tol' you dat den, an' I tell you dat
now.' She grip my arm mighty hard at
dat. Marse Jesse went on mightly. He
tell 'er dat she ain't done nobody no harm,
dat she wuz welcome ter his name ef he'd
'a' been dead, an' mo' welcome now dat he
wuz livin'. She try ter put in a word here
an' dar, but he won't have it. Stan'in' up
dar he wuz ol' Gabe Towers over ag'in;
'twuz de fus' time I know'd he faver'd 'im.
</p>

<p>
"He tol' 'er 'bout how he wrenched a
do' off'n one er de rooms in de boat, an'
how he floated on dat twel he got so col'
an' num' dat he can't hol' on no longer,
an' how he turn loose an' don't know
nothin' twel he wake up in some yuther
town; an' how, atter he git well, he had
de plooisy an' lay dar a mont' er two, an'
den he 'gun ter hunt fer her. He went
'way up dar ter Hampsher whar she come
fum, but she ain't dar, an' den he come
home; an' won't she be good 'nuff ter set
down an' listen at 'im?
</p>

<p>
"Well, suh, dey wuz mo' in Marse Jesse
dan I had any idee. He wuz a rank
talker, sho'. I see 'er face warmin' up,
an' I say, 'Miss Sadie, I speck I better
be gwine.' Marse Jesse say, 'You ain't in
my way, Aunt Minervy Ann; I done
foun' my sweetheart, an' I ain't gwine ter
lose 'er no mo', you kin des bet on dat.'
She ain't say nothin', an' I know'd purty
well dat eve'ything wuz all skew vee."
</p>

<p>
"I hope they married," remarked the
lady of the house, after waiting a moment
for Aunt Minervy Ann to resume. There
was just a shade of suspicion in her tone.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, dey married, all right 'nuff," said
Aunt Minervy Ann, laughing.
</p>

<p>
"Didn't it create a good deal of talk?"
the lady asked, suspicion still in her voice.
</p>

<p>
"Talk? No, ma'm! De man what dey
git de license fum wuz Miss Fanny's br'er,
Gus Featherstone, an' de man what married
um wuz Marse Gabe's br'er, John
Towers. Dey wa'n't nobody ter do no
talkin'. De nex' mornin' me an' Miss
Sadie an' Marse Jesse got in de carriage
an' drove out ter John Towers's place
whar he runnin' a church, an' 'twuz all
done an' over wid mos' quick ez a nigger
kin swaller a dram."
</p>

<p>
"What do you think of it?" I asked
the lady of the house.
</p>

<p>
"Why, it is almost like a story in a
book."
</p>

<p>
"Does dey put dat kinder doin's in
books?" asked Aunt Minervy Ann, with
some solicitude.
</p>

<p>
"Certainly," replied the lady.
</p>

<p>
"Wid all de turmile, an' trouble, an'
tribulation—an' all de worry an' aggervation?
Well, Hamp wanted me ter l'arn
how ter read, but I thank my stars dat I
can't read no books. Dey's 'nuff er all dat
right whar we live at widout huntin' it up
in books."
</p>

<p>
After this just observation, it was time
to put out the lights.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_320' name='Page_320' href='#Page_320'>320</a></span>
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-063" id="i-063"></a>
<img src="images/i-063.png" width="495" height="134" alt="Decoration" />
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<h2 class="postDeco">
AGUINALDO'S CAPITAL
<br />
<span class="s08">WHY MALOLOS WAS CHOSEN</span>
<br />
<span class="s08">By Lieutenant-Colonel J. D. Miley</span>
</h2>

<div  class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcape.png" width="104" height="105" alt="E" />
</div>
<p class="pfirst pdropcap">Early in May, 1898, Admiral
Dewey brought from
Hong Kong on the United
States steamship McCulloch,
Aguinaldo with seventeen
of his colleagues and
landed them at Cavité. Aguinaldo, in addition
to prosecuting a vigorous campaign
against the Spaniards, at once began organizing
a government, dictatorial in form
and in fact, of which Cavité remained the
Capital until the arrival of General Anderson
early in July. When the latter had
established his head-quarters at Cavité
and commenced active preparations for
the coming attack on Manila, Aguinaldo
changed his Capital to Bacoor, a little
village a few miles from Cavité, and nearer
to Manila. The Capital remained at
Bacoor until it was seen that General
Merritt would not permit armed Insurgents
to enter Manila, when Malolos was
proclaimed the Capital and Aguinaldo
himself took up his residence there early
in September, and the newly elected Filipino
Congress met at the same place on
the 20th of the same month.
</p>

<p>
From that time until its capture on
March 31st Malolos was of the first importance
to the Insurgents, but its fall was
disappointing to many, for the cry of
"On to Malolos" had been very popular,
and it had been expected that the consequences
of its occupation by American
troops would be immediate and far-reaching.
It simply furnished one more instance
in history where the fall of an
enemy's Capital failed to bring to a successful
ending a campaign or a war.
The only two instances that may be cited
against this statement really tend to prove
the proposition, for France was defeated
before the entry of Paris, and the Confederacy
was in its last extremity when
Richmond fell. The immediate results
would have been the same in either case
if neither the one nor the other had been
occupied.
</p>

<p>
Malolos is twenty-two miles from Manila,
in the Province of Bulacan, on the
railway connecting Manila with Dagupan,
the only one in the Philippine Islands.
This made it very accessible, but the real
reason for the selection of Malolos as the
Insurgent Capital was the fact that the
present revolution had its first beginnings
there; that the place persistently remained
a hot-bed of revolution, and as a reward
for the patriotism and loyalty of this picturesque
little town, the legendary seat of
the Bulacan kings, Aguinaldo fixed upon
it as the site of his permanent Capital.
</p>

<p>
Aguinaldo now lays claim to descent
from the Bulacan kings, but the best informed
Filipinos say that this occurred to
him after coming to Malolos, and was
prompted by an effort to inspire among
his followers a greater awe and respect.
His followers ascribe to him supernatural
powers that enable him to perform miracles
and make him proof against the bullets of
his enemies. Whether he encourages them
in this belief cannot be verified. This
peculiar power among the Filipinos is
known as "<i>anting anting</i>" and is popularly
supposed to be possessed by many. A
wily Filipino goes through a battle or escapes
some danger and then exhibits a
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_321' name='Page_321' href='#Page_321'>321</a></span>
curiously carved knife-handle or match-box
or piece of jewelry or coin, and claims that
his immunity is due to this trinket. He is
at once regarded as an "<i>anting anting</i>"
man, and his power and fame grow and
spread at each subsequent lucky escape.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-064" id="i-064"></a>
<img src="images/i-064.png" width="598" height="491" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Dwelling-house in Malolos, Philippine Islands, Thatched with Nipa.<br />
<span class="s09">The inmates have just returned, satisfied that they are safe under American occupation.
</span></p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
Malolos lies in the heart of a valley of
marvellous fertility, extending north from
Manila, and is surrounded by fields, large
and small, fringed with rows of bamboo
and cultivated principally to rice. As one
rides through this valley, with the beautiful,
glossy-leaved mango trees dotting it in all
directions, he cannot fail to be reminded,
if he has seen them both, of the beautiful
Santa Clara Valley of California, so much
are they alike.
</p>

<p>
The first mutterings of the revolution
were heard in Malolos in 1888. In the
same year Masonry was first introduced
into the Philippine Islands by Don Centeno,
the Civil Governor of Manila, who
encouraged the diffusion of its teachings
among the natives, and assisted in the formation
of chapters in the city. He was
influenced to do this through hostility to
the Archbishop and to the Church.
</p>

<p>
Catholicism is radically opposed to secret
societies of any kind, and the fight between
the Archbishop, as representative of
the Church, and the Masons grew so bitter
that finally a determined attack was made
upon the Archbishop's life. The leaders
were promptly arrested and thrown into
prison, and from there they sent a memorial
to the Queen, remarkable for its eloquence,
and for the fact that it revealed a widespread
and deeply rooted devotion to the
principles of freedom.
</p>

<p>
So strict was the surveillance over the
meetings of the Masons in Manila, now
that it was suspected they were merely a
cloak for the revolutionary discussions,
that Malolos soon became the Mecca for
all revolutionists. It had always been a
popular place for hunters and fishermen,
and now many of the hunting lodges became
Masonic rendezvous. The well-to-do
and educated classes quickly and eagerly
accepted the revolutionary teachings,
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_322' name='Page_322' href='#Page_322'>322</a></span>
and Malolos, from 1888, was regarded as
a strong revolutionary centre. It must be
borne in mind that the Filipino never became
a pure Mason, accepting and practising
the teachings of that ancient Society.
Only some of the outward forms of the
Society were adopted and used, under
cover of which the spread of revolutionary
ideas was made easy. Before 1888 there
were scarcely two dozen Filipinos who
were Masons, and these were residents of
Paris or other European
Capitals, but
from that year the
spread of the Society
was rapid. In 1892
there were many
lodges all over the
Archipelago, and
women were admitted
as members. Its
mysteries and symbols
appealed to the
barbaric, half-civilized
natives, and
these they retained,
while their meetings were centres of discussions
of the abstract and theoretical
principles of freedom and independence
with which the Malay brain is always
pregnant. Discussions soon led to plotting
against the Spanish authorities and
the preliminary steps toward revolution,
and what was Masonry only in name soon
gave way to the Filipino League, of
which Rizal was the leader. This league
was an association with a basic form of
Masonry, but whose true designs were
political and anti-Spanish.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-065" id="i-065"></a>
<img src="images/i-065.png" width="544" height="426" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Exterior and Interior of the Insurgent Capitol in Malolos while Occupied as
Head-quarters of the Utah Light Battery.<br />
<span class="s09">
In this old church the Filipino Revolutionary Congress formulated the Constitution
which was proclaimed on January 21, 1899.</span>
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
The methods of the league were soon
found to be not radical enough by a majority
of the members, and the league, in
1894, was dissolved and the formidable
and bloody Katipunan formed under the
leadership of Marcelo Hilarío del Pilar.
Its object was to secure the freedom of the
Philippines by putting to the sword all the
Spaniards in the Archipelago. Manila,
of course, was the seat of the supreme
council of the Katipunan, and its branches
or chapters were established in all the provinces
and principal towns of the Islands.
</p>

<p>
Every member on being initiated
into the Society received a name by
which he was always thereafter known
to the other members, and all were
masked. In this way no one knew
the identity of any other member, and
even a man's next door neighbor or
his brother or partner in business
might be seated next to him nightly
at the Katipunan Lodge and he would
never be the wiser. At initiation the
new member took a bloody oath and subscribed
to it by dipping his pen in the
blood drawn from an incision in his left
arm. This idea is said to have been derived
from a painting called "<i>Pacto de
Sangre</i>," executed in Madrid by a famous
Filipino painter, Juan Luna. After the
revolution broke out in 1896, the members
of the Katipunan could always be
identified among the dead and prisoners
by the scars.
</p>

<p>
A symbolic chart was in the possession
of each member, and by that he could find
the Katipunan Lodge in the provinces or
towns wherever he might be and identify
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_323' name='Page_323' href='#Page_323'>323</a></span>
himself by means of it. As an example of
the names borne by the members, General
Ricarte, now in the Insurgents' army,
was known under the name of "Vivora,"
meaning viper, poisonous snake. The
present General Pilar, of whom so much
is heard in the uprising against the Americans,
is not the Pilar of Katipunan fame,
though it is generally taken for granted
that he is. The present Pilar assumed that
name some years ago, but his characteristics
are such as to easily lead one to believe
that he and the Pilar who originated the
Katipunan are one and the same.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-066" id="i-066"></a>
<img src="images/i-066.png" width="600" height="257" alt="" />

<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">The Train which Makes Two Trips Daily from Manila to Malolos and Return.
<br />
<span class="s09">It carries forage, rations, fresh bread and meat, and distilled water for the American troops, and brings back the sick and wounded
to the hospitals.</span>
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
From 1888 to 1892 Malolos seems to
have been the most troublesome place in
the Islands to the Colonial Government.
There are slightly over five thousand towns
distributed over the Archipelago, and out of
these Malolos was the only one which rejected
the parish priests that the Government
selected. As Malolos was known to
be much disaffected, great care was taken
to select the most exemplary of priests to
be sent there, but without avail. The first
two sent were deported and the third assassinated.
</p>

<p>
<i>El Katipunan del Norte</i> (the northern
branch of the Katipunan) was most active
in the Province of Bulacan and especially
around Malolos. Contributions poured
into the revolutionary fund, and when
open rebellion finally broke out in August,
1896, the Spaniards fought the rebels over
very much the same ground as the Americans
fought the Insurgents in the advance
from Caloocan to Malolos and beyond.
Peace was agreed upon in December,
1897, at Biac-na-bato, in the Province of
Bulacan, and until May, 1898, there was a
period of quiet in the Islands.
</p>

<p>
While the Insurgent Capital still remained
at Cavité, Aguinaldo, on June
18th and 23d, respectively, issued the proclamations
which gave his government a
representative form. In the proclamation
of the 18th he invites attention to the Providential
circumstances that had placed him
in the position in which he then found
himself, and signifies his intention not to
shrink from his responsibilities, but to
make the redemption of his people, "from
slavery and tyranny, regaining our liberty
and entrance into the concert of civilized
nations," the aspiration of his whole life,
and the "final object of all my efforts
and strength." In the same proclamation
the methods were given by which the
chiefs of towns and provinces and the representatives
to the Revolutionary Congress
were to be elected.
</p>

<p>
In the proclamation of the 23d it was
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_324' name='Page_324' href='#Page_324'>324</a></span>
directed that the Dictatorial Government
should thereafter be styled the Revolutionary
Government and that the Dictator
should thenceforth be known as the President
of the Revolutionary Government.
The executive, legislative, and judicial
powers were defined and the manner of
administering them was prescribed, and
on the 27th of June the rules concerning
the details of installing the government
were published.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-067" id="i-067"></a>
<img src="images/i-067.png" width="563" height="411" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Street Scene in Malolos, Philippine Islands.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
From Bacoor, on the 6th of August, was
sent the letter to foreign governments, in
which the "President of the Revolutionary
Government of the Philippines, and in the
name and representation of the Philippine
people, asks the support of all the powers
of the civilized world, and earnestly entreats
them to proceed to the formal recognition
of the belligerency of the revolution
and the independence of the Philippines,
since they are the means designated
by Providence to maintain the equilibrium
between peoples, sustaining the weak and
restraining the strong, to the end that by
these means shall shine forth and be realized
the most complete justice in the
indefinite progress of humanity."
</p>

<p>
The Augustinians had been assigned to
the parish of Malolos, and in fact this
body of friars held all the livings in the
Province of Bulacan. In the convent
forming part of a new church erected by
them at Malolos, Aguinaldo established his
head-quarters, surrounded by considerable
barbaric splendor and ceremonial. This
was known as the "White House" of the
Insurgent Government. The State Department
was also in the same building,
and in a less pretentious structure a hundred
yards away the Treasury Department
was installed.
</p>

<p>
When the American troops occupied
Malolos, General MacArthur made this
building his head-quarters, and in it was
found a small field-safe containing some
drafts and a little money. The postage
and telegraph stamps issued by the Insurgent
Government were made here, but all
had been removed. The convent with
the church adjoining, and the Treasury
Department, were on two sides of the
plaza of Malolos, and on the third side
the War Department was established in
some buildings that the Third United
States Artillery afterward occupied.
</p>

<p>
The old Augustinian church some distance
from the plaza had been taken as
the Insurgent Capitol. Here the Revolutionary
Congress assembled on September
20, 1898, and sat in deliberation until,
in January, 1899, the Political Constitution
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_325' name='Page_325' href='#Page_325'>325</a></span>
of the Filipino State was given
to the world. The constitution was proclaimed
by Aguinaldo on the 21st of the
month.
</p>

<p>
Malolos has a population variously estimated
at from five to seven thousand, and
as the Americans entered it, every man,
woman, and child left with the retreating
army.
</p>

<p>
With the exception of American troops
moving about, the place was in a state of
desolation. The refugees tried to take
with them most of their valuable possessions,
but the houses remained just as
they left them. It was weeks before any
of them dared to return, and then they
came one or two at a time, carrying over
their shoulders a bamboo rod to which
was attached a white cloth as a flag of
truce. They timidly approached their
houses, and, finding them intact, and that
there was really nothing to fear, hastened
back into the country to bring their families
and tell their neighbors.
</p>

<hr />

<h2>
IN A POPPY GARDEN
<br />
<span class="s08">By Sara King Wiley</span>
</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Beyond the gold-green lane the poppy garden</p>
<p>Flutters and flaunts, like sunset seas aglow.</p>
<p>The frosty, fuzzy stalks and blue leaf banners</p>
<p class="i2">Ranging in row on row.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Here are some multi-petaled, ruby crimson,</p>
<p>Into a crumpled purple withering,</p>
<p>Like tattered velvet old and dim and dusty</p>
<p class="i2">Of a neglected king.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Whiter are these than are the moon-white lilies;</p>
<p>Censers that dainty fragrances exhale;</p>
<p>Each, when the early sun fills with his ardor,</p>
<p class="i2">Beams like a Holy Grail.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Pure, pure and shining gold these silk-smooth goblets,</p>
<p>Brimming with drowsy, heady scents to steep</p>
<p>The bold inbreathing spirit in gold visions,</p>
<p class="i2">Bright mysteries of sleep.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>And here, O, here, are they the best belovèd,</p>
<p>Scarlet and splendid as the soul's desire,</p>
<p>With smouldered hearts hot from the glorious, daring</p>
<p class="i2">Welcome of the sun's fire.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>"O, happy dreamer in the poppy garden,</p>
<p>Under the soft, sweet sky of summer blue,</p>
<p>O, happy dreamer in the poppy garden,</p>
<p class="i2">When will your dreams come true?"</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>"For every dream in this my poppy garden</p>
<p>A springing hope within my heart began;</p>
<p>Hopes are quick seeds of the world's wide garden,</p>
<p class="i2">Lord of whose life is man."</p>
</div></div></div><!-- /poetry-container -->
<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_326' name='Page_326' href='#Page_326'>326</a></span>
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-069" id="i-069"></a>
<img src="images/i-069.png" width="489" height="133" alt="Decoration" />
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<h2 class="postDeco">
A COPLEY BOY
<br />
<span class="s08">By Charles Warren</span>
</h2>

<div  class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcapb.png" width="101" height="101" alt="B" />
</div>
<p class="pfirst pdropcap">Bellingham was intoxicated;
there's no doubt
about that at all," said
Dawson of the <i>Standard</i>.
"All the men on the press
noticed it, and the chairman
of his own party city committee admitted
it to us."
</p>

<p>
"Well, that makes no difference except
that it's all the better for us," said Blakely.
"It was a rascally, indecent attack, and
I guess the Governor won't hesitate any
longer about using that matter you and
I worked up for him."
</p>

<p>
Jim Blakely was the editor of a small
newspaper with a very limited circulation
but having an immense political influence.
More keen than the shrewdest of the political
managers, more powerful than the
chairman of the State committee, more resourceful
than all the party candidates, Jim
Blakely sat in his little office and suggested
the most successful political movements
throughout the State. No candidate for
Governor even thought of conducting a
campaign without the aid and supervision
of Jim Blakely.
</p>

<p>
But Governor Clinton in this campaign
had been somewhat restive under his management,
and had declined to follow absolutely
the lines laid out for him by Blakely
and his other party associates. Clinton's
opponent, Alfred P. Bellingham, the rival
candidate for Governor, was a man of fifty
years or thereabout—a political nonentity,
having no opinion on any question which
he could not readily change the next day
with the greatest facility. Bellingham had
evaded every honest political issue which
Clinton had tried to force him to meet, and
had conducted a campaign of the lowest
and meanest personalities. But, in opposition
to the advice of his party managers,
Governor Clinton had steadfastly declined
to meet Bellingham with his own weapons;
and to indulge in attacks upon his private
career.
</p>

<p>
Then one day the reporter Dawson had
brought to Blakely's attention certain important
discoveries which he had made in
raking over Bellingham's past life. The
first was the record of an indictment found
twenty-three years ago against Bellingham
for altering ballots cast at a representative
election, with intent to defraud, but which
had been nol prossed by the District Attorney
owing to political pressure. The
other was the record of an arrest of Bellingham
some ten years ago for drunkenness
and disorderly conduct, and his conviction
and fine.
</p>

<p>
Clinton's party managers had received
the news with great enthusiasm. They
had recognized the splendid ammunition
which these records would furnish; and
they earnestly urged the Governor to make
use of them upon the stump.
</p>

<p>
"No," he had said, "I won't descend
to that depth. If I can't be elected without
the aid of those things, then let the people
defeat me." And he had persisted in this
refusal, despite the entreaties of his political
friends and the disgust of his managers.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It was a quarter before nine; and at
nine o'clock it was the custom for Governor
Clinton to meet his party managers
every morning, to discuss the speeches of
his opponent made the night before and
to plan out the trend for the evening's
speeches.
</p>

<p>
"This vile abuse of last night of Bellingham's
I guess will settle it," said Blakely
again; and he went to his safe and brought
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_327' name='Page_327' href='#Page_327'>327</a></span>
out the certified copies of the legal proceedings.
As he did so Governor Clinton
came into the office. He looked flushed
and angry.
</p>

<p>
"Have you read that scoundrel's attack
on me, Jim?" he asked, hurriedly.
</p>

<p>
"Yes," said Blakely in a casual manner,
as if it was of no importance. He knew
enough now not to try to force the Governor's
hand.
</p>

<p>
"Well?" said the Governor.
</p>

<p>
"Well," answered Blakely, "it's only
what you've got to expect all the rest of
the campaign." Clinton hesitated.
</p>

<p>
"No," he said; "Jim, I've got enough.
He's pushed me too far. I can't keep
silent any longer. Have you got those
documents you were telling me about?"
Blakely pointed silently to the papers on
his desk and lit his pipe. Clinton examined
them with curiosity.
</p>

<p>
"How do you account for last night's
speech?" he asked.
</p>

<p>
"Drunk again," replied Blakely. "Tell
him, Bill." Dawson repeated to the Governor
what he had just told Blakely.
</p>

<p>
"I'm going up to Stanfield at half-past
nine," the Governor said, still red with
wrath, "to my old school, Copley School.
They've asked me to make the speech on
the awarding of the prize cups. It's
Founder's Day. I'm billed for a rally to-night,
I believe, at Dunster. Well, give me
those papers and I'll make a speech there
at Dunster to-night that will make that fool
Bellingham wish he'd never been born."
</p>

<p>
Blakely, metaphorically speaking, inwardly
hugged himself; but he did not
allow Clinton to see his joy at the Governor's
conversion. Placing the papers carefully
in his pocket, Clinton, after a few
minutes' further talk, left the room, rode
down to the station, and boarded the Southwestern
Limited. Blakely waited until the
door closed behind him and then slapped
Dawson on the back. "I thought we'd
land him finally. The Governor's a
mighty good fellow, but he's got some high-toned
views about politics that have to be
gradually knocked out of him. His political
ideas are very crude. He thinks
you catch an election just as you catch
cold. He expects a grateful people to
present him with the election on a silver
salver."
</p>

<p>
"Whereas," replied Dawson, "the
usual way is for the candidate to present
the silver salver, or, rather, the silver salve
to the people."
</p>

<p>
On the way to Stanfield in the train the
Governor dictated his speech to his private
secretary. He realized that he was reversing
entirely his former course of action by entering
now into a personal conflict. But
the attack made upon him by Bellingham
had been so gross, so violent, and so savagely
uncalled for in every way, that Clinton
felt that the people of the State should
now be told the plain facts regarding the
manner of man held out to them to be accepted
as their Governor.
</p>

<p>
He began his speech in a vein of cool,
keen sarcasm, taking up, point by point,
the portions of Bellingham's career that
had protruded into the public gaze. He
showed how he had started as the smallest
and lowest kind of a political hanger-on,
and how he had then become a ward boss.
He then charged him with the indictment
for altering ballots. He pointed out how,
although this was twenty-three years ago,
Bellingham had done nothing since which
showed that he was any more fit for election
now than then. To be sure, the
mark of the criminal law had appeared in
his life but once since then. But a negative
life, a life lacking in results, was
no qualification for the high office of
Governor. He took up the conviction
for intoxication and disorderly conduct
and the payment of the fine of ten years
ago. With high scorn, he asked the people
how they would be pleased to have a
man with that record at the State House.
Then coming down to last night's assault,
he declared in positive language that he
could not believe that any man in his
normal condition would make such statements
as Bellingham had done; that there
was but one explanation; and that one, an
explanation which he disliked to consider,
but which it was his duty to state. The
Governor then repeated the account of
the meeting as given by the reporters, and
he asked the people to draw their own inferences.
In reference to the infamous
personal charges made against him, he
would condescend to reply but to three.
He then showed how utterly groundless
they were, and demanded that Bellingham
instantly furnish proof or retract them in
public. Having finished with a tremendous
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_328' name='Page_328' href='#Page_328'>328</a></span>
avalanche of scorn and contempt for
his opponent's personal character and accusations,
the Governor turned his attention
to the political issues. He showed how
Bellingham had been unwilling, or else too
cowardly, to declare his position on any of
the great questions; how he had evaded
them on every stump, and had refused to
reply to the direct and pertinent questions
put to him every night by the Governor,
vainly seeking to find out where he stood.
</p>

<p>
The Governor grew more and more
rapid in his dictation as his feelings mastered
him, and the private secretary had
hard work in keeping up with him. The
speech, however, was wholly finished in
thirty-five minutes; and the secretary drew
in his breath in relief and said, "Well,
Governor, if there is anything left of old
Bellingham after you've made that speech,
they'll have to take a microscope to find
it with."
</p>

<p>
"You think I'm right in making it, don't
you?" asked the Governor. "I hate to
resort to this style of warfare; but I am
not obliged to sit still in silence forever
under such a plan of campaign as they've
been carrying on, am I?"
</p>

<p>
"Not at all," said the secretary; "I consider
it your duty to the people of the State
to show him up."
</p>

<p class="p2">
Vivid had been the excitement for the
last two weeks at Copley, after it was definitely
known that Governor Clinton was
to visit his old school on Founder's Day
and make the speech awarding the cups.
Founder's Day was the great day of the
year at Copley. The athletic games
came in the afternoon, and in the evening
the prize speaking, and later a dance. Two
cups were always awarded for excellence
in the field sports: one, the Master's Cup,
which was awarded to the House, or dormitory,
whose inmates won the greatest
number of points in the games; the other—vastly
prized by the boy who won it, and
whose name was inscribed upon it for future
generations of boys to admire—was the
Founder's Cup, and was given to the boy
who singly won the most points, showing
the greatest all-around general excellence
in the sports.
</p>

<p>
Every year there was the most vigorous
rivalry between the boys of the Master's
House and those of Prescott House, the
other dormitory, for the possession of the
Master's Cup; but this year there was still
keener rivalry for the possession of the
person of the Governor. When it became
known that the Master of Prescott House
was a class-mate in college of Governor
Clinton, the Prescott House boys were
certain that he would lunch with Mr. Toppan
and with them. The Master's House
boys were equally positive that only the
Head Master, "Popper" Stoughton, was
high enough to do honor to the head of the
State. On the Governor's decision as to
lunch, therefore, depended large transfers of
property; and it was said that "Goggles"
Livingston had even risked a whole week's
allowance upon the less favored Prescott
House side.
</p>

<p>
Application to studies at the recitation
building that morning had been very desultory.
Although the school was not to be
dismissed until one o'clock, the delightful
impending event of the Governor's arrival
proved a distraction disastrous to continued
efforts of learning. And the subdued
excitement was so pervasive that when
"Stump" Taylor translated "<i><span lang="la">Gubernator
navem navigat</span></i>," as "the Governor sails a
boat," little Mr. Saunders, the Latin tutor,
forgot to correct him.
</p>

<p>
At about a quarter before twelve, steps
were heard in the outer corridor, and every
boy who had sufficient ingenuity immediately
discovered that it was necessary for
him to ask permission to leave the room
and to consult the Master about something.
</p>

<p>
The Governor crossed the threshold of
the old building with an interest that was
solemn, and even almost painful, for this
was the first time that he had been back to
his old school for eighteen years.
</p>

<p>
After a few minutes' talk with the Head
Master in his room, the Governor asked
that the whole school might be called together.
At the first sound of the bell a
race began from all over the building toward
the Master's room. And as Clinton
stepped forward to speak, a continuous
chorus of shrill cheers split the air.
"Boys," he said, when a semblance of
quiet began, "boys, I'm going to make a
very short speech." Again the cheers
broke out. "I see you appreciate that
remark as well as your elders," he said.
"You will be glad of its shortness, because
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_329' name='Page_329' href='#Page_329'>329</a></span>
you'll have to listen to a longer one this
afternoon. All that I've got to say is that
I've asked Mr. Stoughton to dismiss you
now instead of at one o'clock. He has
thought best to submit to my request before
I order out the State troops to enforce
it. I hope you'll get lots of fresh air and
sport now before we meet on the field this
afternoon. This session is now adjourned
<i>sine die</i>. Those of the Latin class who
can't translate that will have to stay after
school." Tumultuous laughter followed
these remarks, as if the restricted air of
the school-room made a laugh easier there
than elsewhere, when it was allowed at all.
Many of the boys filed out at once; but
a large number clustered in the doorway
and vigorously discussed the Governor in
low tones.
</p>

<p>
Clinton looked round the room. How
natural it seemed, and how little changed!
Certainly the school must have been very
conservative.
</p>

<p>
"Why, you've even got the same old
desks still," he said to Mr. Stoughton.
Then he stepped down from the platform
and went to a very much battered and
inked-up desk which stood in front of all
the others, and directly under the eyes of
the master as he sat at his desk. "Who
sits here now?" he asked, turning to a
group of boys beside him.
</p>

<p>
"That's 'Kid' Nelson's," one said.
</p>

<p>
"Where is he?" asked Clinton. Amidst
a great scuffling and pulling, and with
many muttered jests flung at him, a handsome
boy, old in face but small in stature,
with a light of deviltry in his eye, came
shambling forward and gently grinned in
a somewhat shame-faced fashion. The
Governor paused a moment, smiling. "I
rather think I know why you sit here,
Nelson," he said. "I guess my old master
had as much trouble with me, 'Kid,'
as Mr. Stoughton has now with you.
That used to be my seat most of the time
when I was here." Saying this, the Governor
sat down at the low desk and
squeezed his long legs in under the bottom
of the desk, almost prying it from its
iron feet.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile "Kid" Nelson straightened
up with a proud look, and when he went
back to the group he was evidently being
congratulated as a hero.
</p>

<p>
As he started to leave the room, Clinton
suddenly stopped before a full-length
portrait of a noble-looking, pleasant-faced
man apparently about sixty years old. It
was his old master—"Old Winthrop," as
the boys used to call him. He had died
ten years ago, and Clinton had hardly seen
him more than once or twice since he
left the school; but the picture almost
brought the tears to his eyes as he stood
there and thought how much he owed to
that man. Winthrop had been a stern, almost
relentless, master; but he had had a
complete and true understanding of a boy's
feelings and motives, and his boys had respected
him as they had respected no one
else, then or since. They had, every one
of them, placed the most absolute confidence
and reliance in him. No boy ever
thought of questioning "Old Winthrop's"
decision, whether the decision was on a
point of school discipline, or athletics, or
local etiquette, or morals, or base-ball, or religion.
He had taught his boys, and they
had learned the lesson well, that "honor"
and "loyalty" were the two great things
in life; that to do what was not honorable
was to commit the greatest crime; that
to be disloyal to one's friends, to one's
school, to one's trust, to one's self, was to
render one unfit to associate with gentlemen.
"He made me all that I am now,"
murmured Clinton to himself, and his voice
was a little husky. "If I've ever done
anything well, it was due to him."
</p>

<p class="p2">
The Governor walked out across the
fields with the Master and Mr. Toppan in
the direction of Prescott House; and
when it became noised about that, after
all, he was to lunch there, and not at the
Master's, the Prescott boys yelled with
joy and jeered at their crestfallen rivals
across the way.
</p>

<p class="p2">
On the way, Clinton stopped to look in
at the Chapel, where the prize speaking
was to take place that evening. He
laughed as he saw the well-remembered
platform with its faded red carpet, and as
he thought of his woeful failure the last
time he had engaged in a speaking competition
there. How he had vainly and
weakly struggled with "Webster's Reply
to Hayne," and lost his memory in the
middle of it, and had sat down ignominiously,
and how Old Winthrop had said,
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_330' name='Page_330' href='#Page_330'>330</a></span>
"Well, Clinton, whatever else you may do
when you grow up, you will never make a
speaker. Your effort was the worst I ever
heard here." That was the only point that
Clinton could remember on which Winthrop
had ever been wrong. Certainly the
audiences that were nightly cheering the
keen, eloquent speeches which the Governor
had been making for the past four
campaigns would vigorously question the
fulfilment of Mr. Winthrop's prophecy.
</p>

<p class="p2">
"Well, boys, who is going to win the
Founder's Cup to-day?" Clinton asked as
he sat down in the lounging-room of the
Prescott House and a crowd of boys stood
round the doorway, while the bolder sat
uneasily on the edge of a table in the middle
of the room.
</p>

<p>
"'Scotty,' I mean Bruce Campbell,"
replied one, rather grudgingly. "He's a
Master's House fellow; but we're afraid
he'll get it; although 'Skipper' Cunningham—he's
one of us"—he said, pointing to
a tall, stalwart, nice-looking boy outside in
the hall, "will give him a hard push for it.
You see, 'Scotty's' bound to get three firsts
at any rate, and it's a close thing in the two-twenty-yard
dash. 'Skipper's' good for
a lot of seconds and one first, anyway,"
he said, enthusiastically.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, no, two!" shouted another boy.
And thereupon so lively a discussion arose
that the overawing presence of the Governor
was quite forgotten.
</p>

<p>
"Prescott House is sure of the Master's
Cup, anyway," said "Kid" Nelson,
confidentially, to the Governor; "you can
bet on that." Since his interview in the
school-room, "Kid" had quite taken Clinton
under his personal care.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, the Governor arose, and
examined the pictures of the old athletic
teams on the wall, and to the delight of the
boys pointed out his own picture, a disreputable-looking
member of one of the
old foot-ball teams, absolutely unrecognizable
now as the portrayal of the tall, determined,
grave-looking man who stood
towering up above his devoted Copley
School mates for the time being.
</p>

<p>
And he still further won their undying
devotion when, after asking to be taken
to a certain bedroom upstairs, he very
knowingly walked to the window, leaned
far out, then jerked himself back with a
satisfied air; and then showed them how
a boy, by hanging far out of the window
while two other boys grasped his legs
from within, could reach round the corner
of the House, get hold of a portico-railing,
and escape from the room and down to the
earth in that fashion. It was undoubtedly
an immoral thing for the Governor to do,
but he could not resist the temptation, so
delightful was it to find how the memory
of all the most minute old misdeeds came
back.
</p>

<p>
The Masters of Prescott House, indeed,
were very sure that Governor Clinton's
influence had been very far from good
on their charges, when during the next
week they found that five boys made use
of this highly reprehensible method of
exit from the House during evening study-hour.
</p>

<p>
And at dinner what could more delight
the boys than that Clinton should decline
to sit at the head of the table, next to the
Master and the other teachers, but should
sit opposite, with a boy on either side, where
he could learn all the details of the present
school life, its rivalries, revelries, hardships,
and zests!
</p>

<p>
Time passed quickly, until at three
o'clock all assembled on the field for the
great expected sports. The day was glorious
for them; a crisp, cold, sunny October
day, with the air intensely clear and
full of life. What a day and what splendid
games, thought Clinton. And he cheered
and shouted like a small boy, and was far
less stately than the grave First Class
fellows who called themselves "Sub-Freshmen"
in a manner anticipatory of future
dignities.
</p>

<p>
Firsts, Clinton found, counted ten; seconds,
six; thirds, three, and fourths, one;
and the contest between the two houses
was as close as the greatest lover of sports
could desire. And so it happened that
when the two-hundred-and-twenty yard
dash came off, the Master's House had
won 78 points and Prescott House 80
points; and of the two favorites, "Skipper"
Cunningham had won 44 and Bruce
Campbell 41. It was admitted that this
race would practically decide the day;
for the few remaining points, it was fairly
well settled in advance, would be equally
divided between the various champions
from the two houses.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_331' name='Page_331' href='#Page_331'>331</a></span>
</p>

<p>
"It's a good deal more exciting than a
political campaign," said the Governor to
his friend Toppan.
</p>

<p>
There was a half hush as the two rivals
lined up for the famous event in the final
heat—all the other competitors having
fallen before them in the preliminary heats.
Both Cunningham and Campbell were
shapely formed youths, lithe and muscular,
as each leaned far forward with his arms
stretched out in the starting posture, waiting
for the signal.
</p>

<p>
The pistol cracked and the two boys
were off. By the time they had gone
half the distance Campbell was leading by
about eight feet. Suddenly he was seen
to stagger and something appeared to fly
off from his legs. He fell down upon the
track and Cunningham darted by him
with the race well in hand. As he went
by, he looked to see what the matter was,
and then suddenly stopped and turned
around. His Prescott House followers
held their breath in amazement, dismay,
and confusion. Then the spectators saw
what had happened. Campbell's running-shoe
had become loose and the spikes had
stuck in a clayey bit of soil, pulling the
shoe off the foot, and causing Campbell's
ankle to turn and throw him. Cunningham,
panting for breath, walked up to
Campbell as he rose slowly, and said,
"Too bad, Bruce, old man; are you
hurt?"
</p>

<p>
"No," said Campbell, "I got my
wind a little knocked out. What did you
stop for?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, all right," said Cunningham;
"then we'll start the race over again."
And he walked down to the starting-line
in a simple, unconcerned way.
</p>

<p>
And how the boys were cheering him,—even
the Prescott House boys, though
it was a great disappointment to them!
The failure to win then might cost them
both cups; and if Cunningham had won
that race, both cups would have surely
been theirs. But they cheered just the
same.
</p>

<p>
The Governor turned to the Head
Master. "By George!" he exclaimed,
"that's a splendid piece of work. That
boy is a boy to be proud of. Did you see,
he had that race cold? It was a sure
thing and he didn't choose to win it in
that way."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Stoughton was looking proud and
happy. "That's the kind of a boy he is,"
he answered; "and I believe," he added,
with enthusiasm, "they all are, here."
</p>

<p>
The Governor was about to say that
the credit was due to Stoughton when he
noticed that preparations were being
made to start the race over again. Again
the pistol sounded and the two were off,
this time Cunningham doing a little better
than before, but still a few feet behind
Campbell. Toward the end he began to
gain, and the Prescott House boys plucked
up courage again and yelled themselves
hoarse; but Campbell was still in the lead
and finally won by about three feet. The
rest of the games came out just as expected;
and, as prophesied, the two-twenty-yard
dash was the decisive match, giving
the Master's cup to the Master's House
with 98 points, as against Prescott House
with 96 points, and the Founder's Cup
going to Campbell, with 51 points as opposed
to Cunningham's 50 points. And
so the Master's House boys celebrated
their victory, and the Prescott House boys
celebrated their defeated hero's, "Skipper"
Cunningham's, deeds with almost as much
vigor as if they owned the cups. And
really it was not much of a defeat after
all.
</p>

<p>
After the games, before going back to
the school to award the cups formally, the
Governor went up to where Cunningham
stood. "Cunningham," he said, holding
out his hand, "I want to shake hands
with you. I'm proud of my school and
that you're in it, and I'm proud of you. I
want to ask you what made you stop and
offer to run the race over again."
</p>

<p>
"Why," said the "Skipper," blushing
and confused and very much surprised,
"what else could I have done?"
</p>

<p>
"I know," said Clinton, "but it was
only one of the fortunes of war that is
likely to happen in any contest. The race
was yours, legally, even if Campbell did
have an accident. Why shouldn't you
have run it out and won the cup for your
House and for yourself?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh," replied the "Skipper," simply,
"but that wouldn't have been honorable.
It wouldn't have been fair and square.
No Copley boy would do that."
</p>

<p>
It was all said in so matter of course a
way that the Governor saw that the idea
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_332' name='Page_332' href='#Page_332'>332</a></span>
that elsewhere such a thing was often
done had never entered the boy's head.
As he walked away, the boy's words rang
in the Governor's ears: "Not fair and
square." "Not honorable." "No Copley
boy would do that."
</p>

<p>
How the Governor made a splendid
speech, and how he called them all "old
fellows," and how he spoke of the fine traditions
of honor which Mr. Winthrop began
and Mr. Stoughton was continuing,
and how he told them interesting stories
of political fights—where they would be
tempted to forget some of the Copley
standard of conduct—and how he praised
old "Skipper" Cunningham and said he
was as good as the victor, and how he said
that he was going to present a cup to the
school to be fought for every year, to be
called the "Winthrop Cup," and to be
given to the second best athlete, and how
he said he wanted the "Skipper's" name
to be placed first upon it, and how he
proposed three cheers for "Popper"
Stoughton—all these things are part of the
school history, and are handed down from
one class to another as they tell of that
memorable "Governor's Day."
</p>

<p>
And then all the boys escorted him
down to the station, and gave their school,
class, and House yells, and nearly jerked
his arm off in their anxiety to shake hands
with him. And at six o'clock the Governor
and his private secretary boarded
the limited express, which was due to arrive
at the great manufacturing city of
Dunster at half-past seven, just in time
for the rally.
</p>

<p>
"Well, Mr. Porter, I'm sorry you were
busy writing out that dictation, for you
missed a good time. I haven't had as
much fun for years. But now comes the
serious part of life again. Have you got
my speech all written out?"
</p>

<p>
Porter produced it; and the Governor
read it through, while the lines in his face
deepened and his look became again severe
and judicial. "I guess that is sufficiently
strong," he said, when he had finished
reading—"but no more so than the
man deserves; isn't that so?" he burst out
heartily.
</p>

<p>
"No," said Porter.
</p>

<p>
"You don't think that I'm taking any
unfair advantage of him?" Clinton asked,
in a thoughtful manner. "Of course, his
getting drunk may have been more in the
nature of an accident than anything else
and doesn't necessarily mean that a man
is unfit," he said half to himself. "It's
a rather small issue, isn't it, to make
against a man?"
</p>

<p>
"<i>You</i> didn't make it; he did," answered
Porter.
</p>

<p>
"You're right," said the Governor, suddenly,
and he began to study the speech
carefully in order to get it clearly in his
head. "Let me have those copies of the
court record," he said. Porter handed
them over. "I don't want to use these
against a man if it wouldn't be a square
thing to do," again argued the Governor,
"I don't want to take unfair advantage of
a weakness on his part."
</p>

<p>
"As I said before," replied the private
secretary, "I consider it your duty to the
party."
</p>

<p>
"Of course," said the Governor, "that
makes the difference; if only I personally
were the gainer, I might hesitate, but the
party welfare demands it."
</p>

<p>
At half-past seven the train drew into
the station in Dunster; and a delegation
of the city committee met the Governor
with a barouche and four horses and a band
playing "Hail to the Chief," to the Governor's
great weariness. At the city hall,
where the rally was to be held, a large
crowd of representative men of the party
were assembled in one of the ante-rooms
behind the stage. As the party leaders
filed up, Clinton addressed a few happy
words to each, calling most of them by
name, for he had spoken in Dunster before.
</p>

<p>
Then the signal was given and the chairman
of the meeting, looking worried and
overweighted by the responsibilities of
the occasion, marched up on the stage
with the Governor, the rest shambling on
behind in a shamefaced manner and with
a certain want of confidence, like a flock
of sheep. While the chairman was making
his speech of introduction, which
occupied thirty-five minutes, and during
which he carefully anticipated every point
which the real speakers of the evening
might make, the Governor took out the
pages of his speech, together with the court
documents, and again carefully read them
through. At last the chairman finished
and the Governor walked slowly forward
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_333' name='Page_333' href='#Page_333'>333</a></span>
on the platform. The audience cheered
wildly and the band hurriedly played
"Hail to the Chief." The Governor took
his manuscript and the other papers out
of his breast-pocket, laid them on the reading-desk,
opened them, gave a last glance
at them, and then stood waiting for the
uproar to subside.
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-076" id="i-076"></a>
<img src="images/i-076.png" width="600" height="515" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Clinton examined them with curiosity.—Page <a href="#Page_327">327</a>.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
As he stood there looking at the excited
audience, a man's face in the row next
to the front caught his eye, and he looked
hard at him. It seemed familiar. He
gazed still harder; and then saw that it
was no one whom he knew, but that the
face was the very image of "Skipper"
Cunningham's. Like a flash Clinton's
mind reverted to the scene at Copley
School. He heard the frank, manly, ringing
tones of Cunningham as he replied to
the Governor's remarks.... Then
Clinton perceived that the audience was
waiting for him, and he began,
</p>

<p>
"My friends of Dunster, not alone
my party mates, I thank you for this warm
welcome. I have tried my best while
your Governor to earn it...."
</p>

<p>
Those who were there said that Governor
Clinton had never before in his life
made so strong and so ringing a speech.
The argument was searching, filled with
sarcasm, and unanswerable. It stirred his
audience from the bottom of their souls,
for the Governor's words seemed instinct
with truth and sincerity. As he sat patiently
waiting for the local candidate for
the Legislature, who was speaking on painfully
uninteresting local issues, to finish,
Clinton felt, himself, that his speech had
distinctly been a success. He also felt
that he had done right.
</p>

<p>
After the Governor and his private secretary,
Mr. Porter, rode back to the hotel,
he said, "Porter, I wish you'd take down
a note which I want to dictate to-night to
Bellingham. Enclose with it the manuscript
of my speech and the copies of those
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_334' name='Page_334' href='#Page_334'>334</a></span>
court records. Take a copy of it and send
it to-night."
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-077" id="i-077"></a>
<img src="images/i-077.png" width="506" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">"I'm proud of my school and that you're in it, and I'm proud of you."—<a href="#Page_331">Page 331</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
On reaching the hotel the note was
written and mailed with the enclosures
that night; and the Bellingham episode
in the campaign appeared to be closed
so far as Clinton was concerned.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The Governor reached the State House
the next day about noon; and at three
o'clock it was announced to him that Mr.
Bellingham was outside and desired to see
him.
</p>

<p>
"This is a nuisance," muttered the Governor
as Bellingham entered. The latter
walked up to the Governor and held out
his hand.
</p>

<p>
"Governor," he said, "I am here to
apologize to you most sincerely for what I
said in my speech the other night. I want
to tell you that I will make full explanation
of it in the newspapers and to my
audience to-night. I cannot tell you how
much I appreciate and how much I thank
you for your note and for your forbearance
in not delivering that speech which you
sent me. For I admit you had the greatest
provocation to return the attack."
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-078" id="i-078"></a>
<img src="images/i-078.png" width="385" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatl"><i>Drawn by F. C. Yohn.</i></p>
<p class="floatc">He fell down upon the track and Cunningham darted by him with the race well in hand.—<a href="#Page_331">Page 331</a>.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
"Oh, that's all right," replied Clinton.
"It's all over with now. Sit down."
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_335' name='Page_335' href='#Page_335'></a></span>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_336' name='Page_336' href='#Page_336'>336</a></span>
</p>

<p>
Just at that moment Jim Blakely and
Dawson, the <i>Standard</i> reporter, were waiting
outside in the private secretary's office
for a chance to see Clinton, and conversing
excitedly with Mr. Porter.
</p>

<p>
"What in Heaven's name made the Governor
give up his idea of attacking Bellingham
in his speech last night?" asked
Blakely. "I thought we had it all decided
on that he was to produce those convictions
and make a rousing assault on that
blackguardly politician," he continued;
"and now he goes up to Dunster and
makes a speech with not a word in it on
Bellingham's personal record, and confines
himself to political issues. He's a damned
fool, that's what he is. He's throwing
away his election."
</p>

<p>
"I don't know," said Porter, "how it
happened. All I know is, that he had his
speech all prepared and was studying it all
the way to Dunster. He had it on his
desk before him, and I was never so surprised
in all my life as I was when I heard
him go on without a word regarding Bellingham's
career or in reply to his disreputable
assaults. And you could have
knocked me down with a feather when the
Governor told me last night to write to
Bellingham and enclose the legal papers.
Wait a minute and I'll show you what he
wrote. I know I can rely on you two not
to make it public."
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-079" id="i-079"></a>
<img src="images/i-079.png" width="315" height="383" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">The Governor's words seemed instinct with truth and
sincerity.—<a href="#Page_333">Page 333</a>.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
Both men nodded, and Porter took up
some paper on his desk and read:
</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"<span class="smcap">Alfred P. Bellingham, Esq.</span>,
</p>

<p>
"Dear Sir:—I have read your remarks
of last night and I enclose you the speech
which I intended to deliver in reply to
them. It will never be delivered, however.
I also enclose you certain documents
which may be of interest to you.
Upon careful consideration of these and
of your recent course in this campaign, I
feel sure that you will be of the opinion,
as a gentleman, that the way to your election
or to mine in this State does not lie
along such a road.
</p>

<p class="signature">
"Yours truly,
</p>
<p>
"<span class="smcap">Robert Clinton</span>."
</p>
</div> <!-- /blockquot -->

<p>
"Well, I call the Governor, with all due
respect, a tenderfoot," said the reporter,
whistling loudly as he heard the letter.
"Did the Governor give you any explanation
of his change of heart?"
</p>

<p>
"Nothing very intelligible," answered
Porter. "He said something about
Copley School that I couldn't make
out."
</p>

<p class="p2">
"And now," said Bellingham, inside the
Executive Chamber, to Clinton, "I want to
explain to you the other night's speech. I
admit that I was drunk. I admit also that
many years ago I was indicted for fraud
at an election, and I was convicted and
fined for drunkenness; but, God help me,
I believe that during the past twenty years
I have lived down these things. I hadn't
touched a drop of liquor for five years up
to the other night. It was, you remember,
a very biting cold night, and I had driven
six miles from the railroad station and was
thoroughly chilled through. I felt it in
my lungs, and my host over-persuaded me
to take some whiskey. It went straight to
my head, and you unfortunately know the
result. But as I said before, Governor, I
cannot sufficiently apologize to you and
thank you for your forbearance."
</p>

<p>
The Governor paused a moment. "You
needn't thank me," he said. "You should
thank 'Skipper' Cunningham."
</p>

<p>
Bellingham looked confused and waited
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_337' name='Page_337' href='#Page_337'>337</a></span>
for the Governor to explain his remark.
The Governor, however, offered no explanation.
Instead, he said, abruptly,
"Bellingham, I'm going to tell you, as man
to man, that I think you've done a very
square thing by coming here to me to-day
and saying what you've said. I think it
was a mighty frank and honorable thing in
you to do. I'm proud to be fighting you
as my opponent."
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-080" id="i-080"></a>
<img src="images/i-080.png" width="433" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">"Governor," he said, "I am here to apologize to you."—<a href="#Page_334">Page 334</a>.
</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<p>
He paused again, and then suddenly
asked, "You never were a Copley School
boy, were you?"
</p>

<p>
"No," said Bellingham.
</p>

<p>
"You ought to have been," answered
the Governor.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_338' name='Page_338' href='#Page_338'>338</a></span>
</p>

<hr />

<h2>
THE
LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
<br />
<span class="s08">Edited by Sidney Colvin</span>
</h2>

<h3>
SARANAC LAKE:—WINTER, 1887-1888
</h3>

<div  class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcapd.png" width="103" height="103" alt="D" />
</div>
<p class="pfirst pdropcap">
During the two years and nine months of Stevenson's residence at
Bournemouth preceding the date of his father's death, he had made
no apparent progress toward recovery. Every period of respite had
been quickly followed by a relapse, and all his work, brilliant and
varied as it was, had been done under conditions which would have reduced
almost any other man to inactivity. The close and frequently recurring
struggles against the danger of death from hemorrhage and exhaustion, which
he had been used, when they first occurred, to find exciting, grew in the long run merely
irksome, and even his persistent high courage and gayety, sustained as they were by the
devoted affection of his family and many friends, began occasionally, for the first time,
to fail him. Accordingly when in May, 1887, the death of his father severed the
strongest of the ties which bound him to the old country, he was very ready to listen
to the advice of his physicians, who were unanimous in thinking his case not hopeless,
but urged him to try some complete change of climate, surroundings, and mode of life.
His wife's connections pointing to the West, he thought of the mountain health-resorts
of Colorado, and of their growing reputation for the cure of lung patients. Having
let his house at Bournemouth, he accordingly took passage on board the steamship
Ludgate Hill, sailing for New York from London on August 17, 1887, with his whole
party, consisting of his wife, his widowed mother, whom they had persuaded to join
them, his young stepson, and a trusted servant, Valentine.
</p>

<p>
It was the moment when his reputation had first reached its height in the United
States, owing especially to the immense impression made by the <i>Strange Case of Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde</i>. He experienced consequently—for the first time—the pleasures,
such as they were, of celebrity, and also its inconveniences; found the most hospitable
of refuges in the house of his kind friends, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, of Newport;
and quickly made many other friends, including the owner and the editor of this
Magazine, from whom he immediately received and accepted very advantageous offers
of work. Having been dissuaded from braving, for the present, the fatigue of the
long journey to Colorado and the extreme rigors of its winter climate, he determined
to try instead a season at the mountain station of Saranac Lake, in the Adirondack
Mountains, New York State, which had lately been coming into reputation as a place
of cure. There, under the care of the well-known resident physician, Dr. Trudeau,
he spent nearly seven months, from the end of September, 1887, to the end of April,
1888, with results on the whole favorable to his own health, though not to that of his
wife, who at these high altitudes was never well. His work during the winter consisted
of the twelve papers published in the course of 1888 in <span class="smcap">Scribner's Magazine</span>, including,
perhaps, the most striking of all his essays, <i>A Chapter on Dreams</i>, <i>Pulvis et Umbra</i>,
<i>Beggars</i>, <i>The Lantern Bearers</i>, <i>Random Memories</i>, etc.; as well as the greater part of
the <i>Master of Ballantrae</i> and <i>The Wrong Box</i>—the last originally conceived and
drafted by Mr. Lloyd Osbourne—and the ballad of <i>Ticonderoga</i>.
</p>

<div class="figcenterFull">
<a name="i-082" id="i-082"></a>
<img src="images/i-082.png" width="484" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatc">Lloyd Osbourne.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mrs. Stevenson.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;R. L. Stevenson.<br />
On the Porch of the Cottage at Saranac, in the Adirondacks, U. S. A.<br />
<span class="s08">(From a Photograph.)</span></p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->
<p>
The following letters are extracted from those which tell of his voyage to New York
and his reception there at this date, and of his winter's life and work at Saranac:
</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Newport, R. I., U. S. A.</span> [September, 1887].
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear Colvin</span>,—So long it went
excellent well, and I had a time I am glad
to have had; really enjoying my life.
There is nothing like being at sea, after
all. And O why have I allowed myself
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_339' name='Page_339' href='#Page_339'>339</a></span>
to rot so long on land? But on the Banks I
caught a cold, and I have not yet got over
it. My reception here was idiotic to the
last degree.... It is very silly, and
not pleasant, except where humor enters;
and I confess the poor interviewer lads
pleased me. They are too good for their
trade; avoided anything I asked them to
avoid, and were no more vulgar in their
reports than they could help. I liked the
lads.
</p>

<p>
O, it was lovely on our stable-ship, chock
full of stallions. She rolled heartily, rolled
some of the fittings out of our state-room,
and I think a more dangerous cruise (except
that it was summer) it would be hard
to imagine. But we enjoyed it to the
masthead, all but Fanny; and even she
perhaps a little. When we got in, we had
run out of beer, stout, cocoa, soda-water,
water, fresh meat, and (almost) of biscuit.
But it was a thousandfold pleasanter than
a great big Birmingham liner like a new
hotel; and we liked the officers, and made
friends with the quartermasters, and I (at
least) made a friend of a baboon (for we
carried a cargo of apes), whose embraces
have pretty near cost me a coat. The
passengers improved, and were a very
good specimen lot, with no drunkard, no
gambling that I saw, and less grumbling
and backbiting than one would have asked
of poor human nature. Apes, stallions,
cows, matches, hay, and poor men-folk
all or almost all came successfully to
land—Yours ever,
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div> <!-- /blockquot -->

<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_340' name='Page_340' href='#Page_340'></a></span>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_341' name='Page_341' href='#Page_341'>341</a></span>
</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="i-083" id="i-083"></a>
<img src="images/i-083.png" width="600" height="385" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<p class="floatl"> <i>Drawn from a photograph by Jules Guérin.</i></p>
<p class="floatc">The Cottage at Saranac Occupied by Robert Louis Stevenson.</p>
</div>
</div>  <!-- /figcenter -->

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
[<span class="smcap">Newport, U. S. A.</span>, September, 1887.]
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear James</span>,—Here we are at
Newport in the house of the good Fairchilds;
and a sad burthen we have laid
upon their shoulders. I have been in bed
practically ever since I came. I caught
a cold on the Banks after having had the
finest time conceivable, and enjoyed myself
more than I could have hoped on
board our strange floating menagerie;
stallions and monkeys and matches made
our cargo; and the vast continent of these
incongruities rolled the while like a haystack;
and the stallions stood hypnotised
by the motion, looking through the ports
at our dinner-table, and winked when the
crockery was broken; and the little monkeys
stared at each other in their cages,
and were thrown overboard like little bluish
babies; and the big monkey, Jacko,
scoured about the ship and rested willingly
in my arms, to the ruin of my clothing;
and the man of the stallions made a bower
of the black tarpaulin, and sat therein
at the feet of a raddled divinity, like a
picture on a box of chocolates; and the
other passengers, when they were not sick,
looked on and laughed. Take all this
picture, and make it roll till the bell shall
sound unexpected notes and the fittings
shall break loose in our stateroom, and you
have the voyage of the <i>Ludgate Hill</i>. She
arrived in the port of New York, without
beer, porter, soda-water, curaçoa, fresh
meat, or fresh water; and yet we lived,
and we regret her.
</p>

<p>
My wife is a good deal run down, and
I am no great shakes.
</p>

<p>
America is, as I remarked, a fine place
to eat in, and a great place for kindness;
but, Lord, what a silly thing is popularity;
I envy the cool obscurity of Skerryvore.
If it even paid, said Meanness! and was
abashed at himself.—Yours most sincerely,
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div> <!-- /blockquot -->

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
[<span class="smcap">New York</span>; end of September, 1887.]
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear S. C.</span>,—Your delightful letter
has just come, and finds me in a New
York Hotel, waiting the arrival of a sculptor
(St. Gaudens) who is making a medallion
of yours truly and who is (to boot)
one of the handsomest and nicest fellows
I have often seen. I caught a cold on
the Banks; fog is not for me; nearly died
of interviewers and visitors, during twenty-four
hours in New York; cut for Newport
with Lloyd and Valentine, a journey
like a fairy-land for the most engaging
beauties, one little rocky and pine-shaded
cove after another, each with a house and
a boat at anchor, so that I left my heart
in each and marvelled why American authors
had been so unjust to their country;
caught another cold on the train; arrived
at Newport to go to bed and grow worse,
and to stay in bed until I left again; the
Fairchilds proving during this time kindness
itself; Mr. Fairchild simply one of the
most engaging men in the world, and one
of the children, Blair, <i>aet.</i> ten, a great joy
and amusement in his solemn adoring attitude
to the author of <i>Treasure Island</i>.
</p>

<p>
Here I was interrupted by the arrival
of my sculptor. I have begged him to
make a medallion of himself and give me
a copy. I will not take up the sentence in
which I was wandering so long, but begin
fresh. I was ten or twelve days at Newport;
then came back convalescent to
New York. Fanny and Lloyd are off to
the Adirondacks to see if that will suit;
and the rest of us leave Monday (this is
Saturday) to follow them up. I hope we
may manage to stay there all winter. I
have a splendid appetite and have on the
whole recovered well after a mighty sharp
attack. I am now on a salary of £500
a year for twelve articles in <i>Scribner's
Magazine</i> on what I like; it is more than
£500 but I cannot calculate more precisely
[it was £700]. You have no idea
how much is made of me here; I was
offered £2000 for a weekly article—eh
heh! how is that? but I refused that lucrative
job. They would drive even an honest
man into being a mere lucre-hunter in three
weeks; to make <i>me gober</i> is I think more
difficult; I have my own views on that
point and stick to them. The success of
<i>Underwoods</i> is gratifying. You see, the
verses are sane, that is their strong point,
and it seems is strong enough to carry
them.
</p>

<p>
A thousand thanks for your grand letter,
ever yours,
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Saranac Lake, Adirondacks,</span>
<br />
<span class="i2">
New York, U. S. A.</span>
<br />
<span class="i4">[October, 1887.]</span>
</p>

<p class="postClear">
<span class="smcap">My dear Bob</span>,
</p>

<p>
The cold [of Colorado] was too rigorous
for me; I could not risk the long railway
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_342' name='Page_342' href='#Page_342'>342</a></span>
voyage, and the season was too late
to risk the Eastern, Cape Hatteras side of
the steamer one; so here we stuck and
stick. We have a wooden house on a hill
top, overlooking a river, and a village
about a quarter of a mile away, and very
wooded hills; the whole scene is very
Highland, bar want of heather and wooden
houses.
</p>

<p>
I have got one good thing of my sea
voyage; it is proved the sea agrees heartily
with me, and my mother likes it; so if
I get any better, or no worse, my mother
will likely hire a yacht for a month or so in
summer. Good Lord! what fun! Wealth
is only useful for two things; a yacht and
a string quartette. For these two I will
sell my soul. Except for these I hold
that £700 a year is as much as anybody
can possibly want; and I have had more,
so I know, for the extry coins were of
no use excepting for illness, which damns
everything.
</p>

<p>
I was so happy on board that ship, I
could not have believed it possible; we
had the beastliest weather, and many discomforts;
but the mere fact of its being a
tramp-ship gave us many comforts; we
could cut about with the men and officers,
stay in the wheel-house, discuss all manner
of things, and really be a little at sea.
And truly there is nothing else. I had
literally forgotten what happiness was, and
the full mind—full of external and physical
things, not full of cares and labours
and rot about a fellow's behaviour. My
heart literally sang; I truly care for nothing
so much as for that. We took so North
a course that we saw Newfoundland; no-one
in the ship had ever seen it before.
</p>

<p>
It was beyond belief to me how she
rolled; in seemingly smooth water, the
bell striking, the fittings bounding out of
our stateroom. It is worth having lived
these last years, partly because I have
written some better books, which is always
pleasant, but chiefly to have had the joy
of this voyage. I have been made a lot
of here, and it is sometimes pleasant,
sometimes the reverse; but I could give it
all up, and agree that — was the author
of my works, for a good seventy ton
schooner and the coins to keep her on.
And to think there are parties with yachts
who would make the exchange! I know
a little about fame now; it is no good
compared to a yacht; and anyway there
is more fame in a yacht, more genuine
fame; to cross the Atlantic and come to
anchor in Newport (say) with the Union
Jack, and go ashore for your letters and
hang about the pier, among the holiday
yachtsmen—that's fame, that's glory—and
nobody can take it away; they can't
say your book is bad; you <i>have</i> crossed
the Atlantic. I should do it South by the
West Indies, to avoid the damned banks;
and probably come home by steamer, and
leave the skipper to bring the yacht home.
</p>

<p>
Well, if all goes well, we shall maybe
sail out of Southampton water some of
these days and take a run to Havre, and
try the Baltic, or somewhere.
</p>

<div class="signature_container">
<p>
<span class="o4">Love to you all</span>
<br />
<span class="o2">Ever your afft.</span>
<br />
<span class="smcap o4">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<p class="postClear">
Low was delightful as always. St.
Gaudens, a very nice fellow too, has
done a medallion of me.
</p>
</div>

<p>
[The following refers to a review by Mr.
Gosse of Stevenson's volume of verse
called "Underwoods." The book had been
published a few weeks previously, and is
dedicated, as readers will remember, to a
number of physicians who had attended
him at sundry times and places.]
</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Saranac Lake</span>, Oct. 8th, 1887.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear Gosse</span>,—I have just read
your article twice, with cheers of approving
laughter; I do not believe you ever
wrote anything so funny; Tyndall's
'shell,' the passage on the Davos press
and its invaluable issues, and that on V.
Hugo and Swinburne, are exquisite; so,
I say it more ruefully, is the touch about
the doctors. For the rest, I am very glad
you like my verses so well; and the qualities
you ascribe to them seem to me well found
and well named. I own to that kind of candour
you attribute to me; when I am frankly
interested, I suppose I fancy the public
will be so too—and when I am moved, I
am sure of it. It has been my luck hitherto
to meet with no staggering disillusion.
'Before' and 'After' may be two; and
yet I believe the habit is now too thoroughly
ingrained to be altered. About
the doctors, you were right, that dedication
has been the subject of some pleasantries
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_343' name='Page_343' href='#Page_343'>343</a></span>
that made me grind, and of your
happily touched reproof which made me
blush. And to miscarry in a dedication
is an abominable form of book-wreck; I
am a good captain, I would rather lose
the tent and save my dedication.
</p>

<p>
I am at Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks,
I suppose for the winter; it seems
a first-rate place; we have a house in the
eye of many winds, with a view of a piece
of running water—Highland, all but the
dear hue of peat—and of many hills—Highland
also, but for the lack of heather.
Soon the snow will close on us; we are
here some twenty miles—twenty-seven
they say, but this I profoundly disbelieve—in
the woods; communication by letter
is slow and (let me be consistent) aleatory;
by telegram is as near as may be impossible.
</p>

<p>
I had some experience of American
appreciation; I liked a little of it, but
there is too much; a little of that would
go a long way to spoil a man; and I
like myself better in the woods. I am so
damned candid and ingenuous (for a cynic),
and so much of a 'cweatu' of impulse—aw'
(if you remember that admirable
Leech), that I begin to shirk any
more taffy; I think I begin to like it too
well. But let us trust the Gods; they
have a rod in pickle; reverently I doff
my trousers, and with screwed eyes await
the <i><span lang="la">amari aliquid</span></i> of the great God Busby.
</p>

<p>
I thank you for the article in all ways,
and remain yours affectionately,
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Saranac</span>, October, 1887.
</p>

<p class="postClear">
[To W. H. Low.]
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—I have to trouble you with the
following <i><span lang="fr_FR">paroles bien senties</span></i>. We are
here at a first-rate place. 'Baker's' is the
name of our house; but we don't address
there, we prefer the tender care of the
Post-Office, as more aristocratic (it is no
use to telegraph even to the care of the
Post-Office, who does not give a single
damn). Baker's has a prophet's chamber,
which the hypercritical might describe as
a garret with a hole in the floor; in that
garret, sir, I have to trouble you and your
wife to come and slumber. Not now,
however: with manly hospitality, I choke
off any sudden impulse. Because first,
my wife and my mother are gone (a note
for the latter, strongly suspected to be in
the hand of your talented wife, now sits
silent on the mantel shelf), one to Niagara
and t' other to Indianapolis. Because,
second, we are not yet installed. And
because, third, I won't have you till I have
a buffalo robe and leggings, lest you should
want to paint me as a plain man, which I
am not, but a rank Saranacker and wild
man of the woods.
</p>

<div class="signature_container">
<p>
<span class="o2">Yours,</span><br />
<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<p class="postClear">
I am well.
</p>
</div>

<p>
[The Wondrous Tale referred to in the
following is Stevenson's <i>Black Arrow</i>,
which had been through Mr. Archer's
hands in proof.]
</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Saranac Lake</span>, October, 1887.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Dear Archer</span>,—Many thanks for the
Wondrous Tale. It is scarcely a work of
genius, as I believe you felt. Thanks also
for your pencillings; though I defend
'shrew,' or at least many of the shrews.
</p>

<p>
We are here (I suppose) for the winter
in the Adirondacks, a hill and forest country
on the Canadian border of New York
State, very unsettled and primitive and
cold, and healthful, or we are the more
bitterly deceived. I believe it will do
well for me; but must not boast.
</p>

<p>
My wife is away to Indiana to see her
family; my mother, Lloyd, and I remain
here in the cold, which has been exceeding
sharp, and the hill air, which is inimitably
fine. We all eat bravely, and sleep well,
and make great fires, and get along like
one o'clock.
</p>

<p>
I am now a salaried party; I am a <i>bourgeois</i>
now; I am to write a monthly paper
for Scribner's, at a scale of payment which
makes my teeth ache for shame and diffidence.
The editor is, I believe, to apply to
you; for we were talking over likely men,
and when I instanced you, he said he had
had his eye upon you from the first. It
is worth while, perhaps, to get in tow with
the Scribners; they are such thorough gentle-folk
in all ways that it is always a
pleasure to deal with them. I am like to be
a millionaire if this goes on, and be publicly
hanged at the social revolution; well,
I would prefer that to dying in my bed;
and it would be a godsend to my biographer,
if ever I have one. What are
you about? I hope you are all well and
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_344' name='Page_344' href='#Page_344'>344</a></span>
in good case and spirits, as I am now, after
a most nefast experience of despondency
before I left; but indeed I was quite run
down. Remember me to Mrs. Archer,
and give my respects to Tom—Yours very
truly,
</p>

<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<p>
[The lady to whom the following letter
is addressed, as well as a good many others
to come, had been a close friend of the
Stevenson family at Bournemouth, and on
their departure had been trusted to keep
an eye on their interests in connection
with their house (which had been let) and
other matters, and to report thereon from
time to time. In their correspondence
Stevenson is generally referred to as the
Squire and the lady as the Gamekeeper.]
</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
[<span class="smcap">Saranac Lake</span>, December, 1887.]
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear Miss Boodle</span>,—I am so
much afraid, our gamekeeper may weary
of unacknowledged reports! Hence, in
the midst of a perfect horror of detestable
weathers of a quite incongruous strain,
and with less desire for correspondence
than—well, than—well, with no desire for
correspondence, behold me dash into the
breach. Do keep up your letters. They
are most delightful to this exiled backwoods
family; and in your next, we shall
hope somehow or other to hear better news
of you and yours—that, in the first place—and
to hear more news of our beasts and
birds and kindly fruits of the earth and
those human tenants who are (truly) too
much with us.
</p>

<p>
I am very well; better than for years:
that is for good. But then my wife is no
great shakes; the place does not suit her—it
is my private opinion that no place
does—and she is now away down to New
York for a change, which (as Lloyd is in
Boston) leaves my mother and me and
Valentine alone in our wind-beleaguered
hilltop hatbox of a house. You should
hear the cows butt against the walls in
the early morning while they feed; you
should also see our back log when the
thermometer goes (as it does go) away—away
below zero, till it can be seen no
more by the eye of man—not the thermometer,
which is still perfectly visible,
but the mercury, which curls up into the
bulb like a hibernating bear; you should
also see the lad who "does chores" for us,
with his red stockings and his thirteen year
old face, and his highly manly tramp into
the room; and his two alternative answers
to all questions about the weather; either
"Cold," or with a really lyrical movement
of the voice, "<i>Lovely</i>—raining!"
</p>

<p>
Will you take this miserable scrap for
what it is worth? Will you also understand
that I am the man to blame, and
my wife is really almost too much out of
health to write—or at least doesn't write?—And
believe me, with kind remembrances
to Mrs. Boodle and your sister,
very sincerely yours,
</p>

<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Saranac Lake</span>, Winter, 1887-8.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear Henry James</span>,—It may
please you to know how our family has
been employed. In the silence of the
snow the afternoon lamp has lighted an
eager fireside group; my mother reading,
Fanny, Lloyd, and I devoted listeners;
and the work was really one of the best
works I ever heard; and its author is to
be praised and honoured; and what do
you suppose is the name of it? and have
you ever read it yourself? and (I am
bound I will get to the bottom of the page
before I blow the gaff, if I have to fight
it out on this line all summer; for if you
have not to turn a leaf, there can be no
suspense, the conspectory eye being swift
to pick out proper names; and without
suspense, there can be little pleasure in
this world, to my mind at least), and, in
short, the name of it is <i>Roderick Hudson</i>,
if you please. My dear James, it is very
spirited, and very sound, and very noble
too. Hudson, Mrs. Hudson, Rowland,
O, all first-rate: Rowland a very fine fellow;
Hudson as good as he can stick
(did you know Hudson? I suspect you
did), Mrs. H. his real born mother, a
thing rarely managed in fiction.
</p>

<p>
We are all keeping pretty fit and pretty
hearty; but this letter is not from me to
you, it is from a reader of R. H. to the author
of the same, and it says nothing, and
has nothing to say but thank you.
</p>

<p>
We are going to re-read <i>Casamassima</i>
as a proper pendant. Sir, I think these
two are your best, and care not who knows
it.
</p>

<p>
May I beg you, the next time <i>Roderick</i>
is printed off, to go over the sheets of the
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_345' name='Page_345' href='#Page_345'>345</a></span>
last few chapters, and strike out 'immense'
and 'tremendous'? You have simply
dropped them there like your pocket-handkerchief;
all you have to do is to
pick them up and pouch them, and your
room—what do I say?—your cathedral!
will be swept and garnished.—I am, dear
sir, your delighted reader,
</p>

<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.
</p>

<p>
<i>P.S.</i>—Perhaps it is a pang of causeless
honesty, perhaps I hope it will set a value
on my praise of <i>Roderick</i>, perhaps it's a
burst of the diabolic, but I must break
out with the news that I can't bear the
<i>Portrait of a Lady</i>. I read it all, and I
wept too; but I can't stand your having
written it; and I beg you will write no
more of the like. <i>Infra</i>, sir; Below you:
I can't help it—it may be your favourite
work, but in my eyes it's <span class="smcap">BELOW YOU</span> to
write and me to read. I thought <i>Roderick</i>
was going to be another such at the
beginning; and I cannot describe my
pleasure as I found it taking bones and
blood, and looking out at me with a
moved and human countenance, whose
lineaments are written in my memory until
my last of days.
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>

<p>
My wife begs your forgiveness; I believe
for her silence.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<p>
[The following narrates the beginning
of the author's labours on the <i>Master of
Ballantrae</i>. An unfinished paper written
some years later in Samoa, and intended
for <span class="smcap">Scribner's Magazine</span>, tells how the
story first took in his mind. <i>See</i> Ed. ed.
Miscellanies, vol. iv., p. 297.]
</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
[<span class="smcap">Saranac</span>, December 24, 1887-8.]
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear Colvin</span>,—Thank you for
your explanations. I have done no more
Virgil since I finished the seventh book,
for I have first been eaten up with Taine,
and next have fallen head over heels into
a new tale, <i>The Master of Ballantrae</i>. No
thought have I now apart from it, and I
have got along up to page ninety-two of
the draught with great interest. It is to
me a most seizing tale: there are some
fantastic elements, the most is a dead
genuine human problem—human tragedy,
I should say rather. It will be about as
long, I imagine, as <i>Kidnapped</i>.
</p>

<p class="center">
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
</p>

<ul class="idx">
<li>(1) My old Lord Durrisdeer.
</li>

<li>
(2) The Master of Ballantrae, <i>and</i>
</li>

<li>
(3) Henry Durie, <i>his sons</i>.
</li>

<li>
(4) Clementina, <i>engaged to the first,
married to the second</i>.
</li>

<li>
(5) Ephraim Mackellar, <i>land steward
at Durrisdeer and narrator of the
most of the book</i>.
</li>

<li>
(6) Francis Burke, Chevalier de St.
Louis, <i>one of the Prince Charlie's
Irishmen and narrator of the rest</i>.
</li>
</ul>

<p>
Besides these many instant figures, most
of them dumb or nearly so: Jessie Brown,
the whore, Captain Crail, Captain McCombie,
our old friend Alan Breck, our
old friend Riach (both only for an instant),
Teach the pirate (vulgarly Blackbeard),
John Paul and Macconochie, servants at
Durrisdeer. The date is from 1745 to
'65 (about). The scene near Kirkcudbright,
in the States, and for a little moment
in the French East Indies. I have
done most of the big work, the quarrel,
duel between the brothers, and announcement
of the death to Clementina and my
Lord—Clementina, Henry, and Mackellar
(nicknamed Squaretoes) are really very
fine fellows; the Master is all I know of
the devil; I have known hints of him, in
the world, but always cowards: he is as
bold as a lion, but with the same deadly,
causeless duplicity I have watched with
so much surprise in my two cowards. 'Tis
true, I saw a hint of the same nature in
another man who was not a coward;
but he had other things to attend to; the
Master has nothing else but his devilry.
Here come my visitors ... and
have now gone, or the first relay of them;
and I hope no more may come. For
mark you, sir, this is our 'day'—Saturday,
as ever was; and here we sit, my mother
and I, before a large wood fire and await
the enemy with the most steadfast courage;
and without snow and greyness:
and the woman Fanny in New York, for
her health which is far from good; and
the lad Lloyd at the inn in the village because
he has a cold; and the handmaid
Valentine abroad in a sleigh upon her messages;
and to-morrow Christmas and no
mistake. Such is human life: <i><span lang="fr_FR">la carrière
humaine</span></i>. I will enclose, if I remember,
the required autograph.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_346' name='Page_346' href='#Page_346'>346</a></span>
</p>

<p>
I will do better, put it on the back of
this page. Love to all, and mostly, my
very dear Colvin, to yourself. For whatever
I say or do, or don't say or do, you
may be very sure I am,—Yours always
affectionately,
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Saranac</span>, February, 1888.
</p>

<p>
Raw Haste Half Sister to Delay.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Burlingame</span>,—1. Enclosed
please find another paper.
</p>

<p>
2. There will be another severe engagement
over the <i>Master</i>; a large part
will have to be rehandled. I am very
sorry; but you see what comes of my
trying to hurry. As soon as I have got a
bit ahead again with the papers I shall
tackle this job. I am better; my wife
also.—Yours sincerely,
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>

<p>
<i>P.S.</i>, and a <i>P.S.</i> with a vengeance.—Pray
send me the tale of the proof if already
printed—if not, then the tale of the
MS.—and—throw the type down. I will
of course bear the expense. I am going
to recast the whole thing in the third person;
this version is one large error. Keep
standing, however, the Chevalier's narration,
as I <i>may</i> leave that in the first
person.
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div>

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="letter_head"><i>Monday.</i></p>

<p>To yesterday's two barrels I add two
requests. 1st. Will you let the cost of
the printing stand over against the <i>Master</i>,
as otherwise I may be involved in 'pecuniary
embarrassments'? And that, sir,
is no joke. 2nd. Will you send me (from
the library) some of the works of my dear
old G. P. R. James. With the following
specially I desire to make or to renew acquaintance:
<i>The Songster</i>, <i>The Gypsy</i>,
<i>The Convict</i>, <i>The Stepmother</i>, <i>The Gentleman
of the Old School</i>, <i>The Robber</i>.</p>

<p><span lang="fr_FR">Excusez du peu.</span></p>

<p>This sudden return to an ancient favorite
hangs upon an accident. The
'Franklin County Library' contains two
works of his, <i>The Cavalier</i> and <i>Morley
Einstein</i>. I read the first with indescribable
amusement—it was worse than I
feared, and yet somehow engaging; the
second (to my surprise) was better than I
dared to hope: a good, honest, dull, interesting
tale, with a genuine old-fashioned
talent in the invention when not strained;
and a genuine old-fashioned feeling for
the English language. This experience
awoke appetite, and you see I have taken
steps to stay it.</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Saranac</span>, February, 1888.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Burlingame</span>,—1. Of course
then don't use it. Dear Man, I write
these to please you, not myself, and you
know a main sight better than I do what
is good. In that case, however, I enclose
another paper, and return the corrected
proof of <i>Pulvis et Umbra</i>, so that we may
be afloat.
</p>

<p>
2. I want to say a word as to the
<i>Master</i>. (The <i>Master of Ballantrae</i> shall
be the name by all means.) If you like
and want it, I leave it to you to make an
offer. You may remember I thought the
offer you made when I was still in England
too small; by which I did not at all
mean, I thought it less than it was worth,
but too little to tempt me to undergo the
disagreeables of serial publication. This
tale (if you want it) you are to have; for
it is the least I can do for you; and you
are to observe that the sum you pay me
for my articles going far to meet my
wants, I am quite open to be satisfied
with less than formerly. I tell you I do
dislike this battle of the dollars. I feel
sure you all pay too much here in America;
and I beg you not to spoil me any
more. For I am getting spoiled; I do
not want wealth, and I feel these big
sums demoralize me.
</p>

<p>
My wife came here pretty ill, she had a
dreadful bad night; to-day she is better.
But now Valentine is ill; and Lloyd and
I have got breakfast, and my hand somewhat
shakes after washing-dishes.—Yours
very sincerely,
</p>

<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.
</p>

<p>
<i>P.S.</i>—Please order me the <i>Evening
Post</i> for two months. My subscription is
run out. The <i>Mutiny</i> and <i>Edwardes</i> to
hand.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Saranac</span>, March, 1888.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear Colvin</span>,—Fanny has been
very unwell. She is not long home, has
been ill again since her return, but is now
better again to a degree. You must not
blame her for not writing, as she is not allowed
to write at all, not even a letter. To
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_347' name='Page_347' href='#Page_347'>347</a></span>
add to our misfortunes, Valentine is quite
ill and in bed. Lloyd and I get breakfast;
I have now, 10.15, just got the dishes
washed and the kitchen all clear, and sit
down to give you as much news as I have
spirit for, after such an engagement. Glass
is a thing that really breaks my spirit: I
do not like to fail, and with glass I cannot
reach the work of my high calling—the
artist's.
</p>

<p>
I am, as you may gather from this,
wonderfully better: this harsh, grey, glum,
doleful climate has done me good. You
cannot fancy how sad a climate it is.
When the thermometer stays all day below
10°, it is really cold; and when the wind
blows, O commend me to the result.
Pleasure in life is all delete; there is no red
spot left, fires do not radiate, you burn
your hands all the time on what seem to
be cold stones. It is odd, zero is like
summer heat to us now; and we like,
when the thermometer outside is really low,
a room at about 48°: 60° we find oppressive.
Yet the natives keep their holes at
90° or even 100°.
</p>

<p>
This was interrupted days ago by household
labors. Since then I have had and
(I tremble to write it, but it does seem as
if I had) beaten off an influenza. The
cold is exquisite. Valentine still in bed.
The proofs of the first part of the <i>Master
of Ballantrae</i> begin to come in; soon you
shall have it in the pamphlet form; and
I hope you will like it. The second part
will not be near so good; but there—we
can but do as it'll do with us. I have
every reason to believe this winter has
done me real good, so far as it has gone;
and if I carry out my scheme for next
winter, and succeeding years, I should
end by being a tower of strength. I want
you to save a good holiday for next winter;
I hope we shall be able to help you
to some larks. Is there any Greek isle
you would like to explore? or any creek
in Asia Minor?—Yours ever affectionately,
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Saranac Lake</span>, March, 1888.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear, delightful James</span>,—To
quote your heading to my wife, I think no
man writes so elegant a letter, I am sure
none so kind, unless it be Colvin, and there
is more of the stern parent about him. I
was vexed at your account of my admired
Meredith; I wish I could go and see him,
as it is I will try to write. I read with indescribable
admiration your <i>Emerson</i>. I
begin to long for the day when these portraits
of yours shall be collected; do put
me in. But Emerson is a higher flight.
Have you a <i>Tourgueneff</i>? You have told
me many interesting things of him, and I
seem to see them written, and forming a
graceful and <i>bildend</i> sketch. My novel
is a tragedy, four parts out of six or seven
are written, and gone to Burlingame. Five
parts of it are sound, human tragedy; the
last one or two, I regret to say, are not
so soundly designed; I almost hesitate to
write them; they are very picturesque, but
they are fantastic; they shame, perhaps
degrade, the beginning. I wish I knew;
that was how the tale came to me however.
I got the situation; it was an old taste of
mine: The older brother goes out in the
'45, the younger stays; the younger, of
course, gets title and estate and marries the
bride designate of the elder—a family
match, but he (the younger) had always
loved her, and she had really loved the elder.
Do you see the situation? Then the
devil and Saranac suggested this <i>dénouement</i>,
and I joined the two ends in a day
or two of constant feverish thought, and
began to write. And now—I wonder if
I have not gone too far with the fantastic.
The elder brother is an <i>Incubus</i>; supposed
to be killed at Culloden, he turns up again
and bleeds the family of money; on that
stopping he comes and lives with them,
whence flows the real tragedy, the nocturnal
duel of the brothers (very naturally,
and indeed, I think, inevitably arising),
and second supposed death of the elder.
Husband and wife now really make up,
and then the cloven hoof appears. For
the third supposed death and the manner
of the third reappearance is steep; steep,
sir. It is even very steep, and I fear it
shames the honest stuff so far; but then
it is highly pictorial, and it leads up to
death of the elder brother at the hands
of the younger in a perfectly cold-blooded
murder, of which I wish (and mean) the
reader to approve. You see how daring
is the design. There are really but six
characters, and one of these episodic, and
yet it covers eighteen years, and will be, I
imagine, the longest of my works.—Yours
ever,
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->
<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_348' name='Page_348' href='#Page_348'>348</a></span>
</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center">
<i>Read Gosse's Raleigh.</i>
</p>

<p>
First rate,—Yours ever,
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div><!-- /blockquot -->

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center">
<i>To S. R. Crockett</i>
</p>

<p class="letter_head">
[<span class="smcap">Saranac Lake</span>, Spring, 1888.]
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Dear Minister of the Free Kirk
at Penicuik</span>,—For O, man, I cannae
read your name!—That I have been so
long in answering your delightful letter
sits on my conscience badly. The fact
is I let my correspondence accumulate
until I am going to leave a place; and
then I pitch in, overhaul the pile, and my
cries of penitence might be heard a mile
about. Yesterday I despatched thirty-five
belated letters; conceive the state of my
conscience, above all the Sins of Omission
(see boyhood's guide, the Shorter Catechism)
are in my view the only serious
ones; I call it my view, but it cannot
have escaped you that it was also Christ's.
However, all that is not to the purpose,
which is to thank you for the sincere
pleasure afforded by your charming letter.
I get a good few such; how few
that please me at all, you would be surprised
to learn—or have a singularly just
idea of the dulness of our race; how few
that please me as yours did, I can tell
you in one word—<i>None</i>. I am no great
kirkgoer, for many reasons—and the sermon's
one of them, and the first prayer
another, but the chief and effectual reason
is the stuffiness. I am no great kirkgoer,
says I, but when I read yon letter of yours,
I thought I would like to sit under ye.
And then I saw ye were to send me a bit
buik, and says I, I'll wait for the bit buik,
and then I'll mebbe can read the man's
name, and anyway I'll can kill twa birds
wi' ae stane. And, man! the buik was
ne'er heard tell o'!
</p>

<p>
That fact is an adminicle of excuse for
my delay.
</p>

<p>
And now, dear minister of the illegible
name, thanks to you, and greeting to your
wife, and may you have good guidance
in your difficult labors, and a blessing on
your life.
</p>

<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson.</span>
</p>

<p class="p2">
(No just so young sae young's he was,
though—I'm awfae near forty, man).
</p>

<p class="post">
Address c/o <span class="smcap">Charles Scribner's Sons,</span><br />
<span class="smcap">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;743 Broadway, New York</span>.
</p>

<p>
Don't put "N.B." in your paper, put
<i>Scotland</i>, and be done with it. Alas, that
I should be thus stabbed in the home of
my friends! The name of my native land
is not <i>North Britain</i>, whatever may be
the name of yours.
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. L. S.
</p>
</div>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
[<span class="smcap">Saranac</span>], April 9th!! 1888.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear Colvin</span>,—I have been long
without writing to you, but am not to
blame. I had some little annoyances
quite for a private eye, but they ran me so
hard that I could not write without lugging
them in, which (for several reasons)
I did not choose to do. Fanny is off to
San Francisco, and next week I myself flit
to New York: address Scribners. Where
we shall go I know not, nor (I was going
to say) care; so bald and bad is my frame of
mind. Do you know our—ahem!—fellow
clubman, Colonel Majendie? I had such an
interesting letter from him. Did you see my
sermon? [<i>Pulvis et Umbra</i>] It has evoked
the worst feeling: I fear people don't care
for the truth, or else I don't tell it. Suffer
me to wander without purpose. I have
sent off twenty letters to-day, and begun
and stuck over a twenty-first, and taken
a copy of one which was on business, and
corrected several galleys of proof, and
sorted about a bushel of old letters; so if
any one has a right to be romantically
stupid it is I—and I am. Really deeply
stupid, and at that stage when in old days
I used to pour out words without any
meaning whatever and with my mind taking
no part in the performance. I suspect
that is now the case. I am reading
with extraordinary pleasure the life of Lord
Lawrence: Lloyd and I have a mutiny
novel—
</p>

<p>
(Next morning, after twelve other letters)—mutiny
novel on hand—<i>The White
Nigger</i>—a tremendous work—so we are
all at Indian books. The idea of the
novel is Lloyd's: I call it a novel. 'Tis
a tragic romance, of the most tragic sort:
I believe the end will be almost too much
for human endurance—when the White
Nigger was thrown to the ground with one
of his own (Sepoy) soldier's knees upon
his chest, and the cries begin in the Beebeeghar.
Oh, truly, you know it is a
howler! The whole last part is—well the
difficulty is that, short of resuscitating
Shakespeare, I don't know who is to write it.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_349' name='Page_349' href='#Page_349'>349</a></span>
</p>

<p>
I still keep wonderful. I am a great
performer before the Lord on a penny
whistle. Dear sir, sincerely yours,
</p>

<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Andrew Jackson</span>.
</p>
</div>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
[<span class="smcap">Saranac Lake</span>, April, 1888.]
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear Gamekeeper</span>,—Your p. c.
(proving you a good student of Micawber)
has just arrived, and it paves the way to
something I am anxious to say. I wrote
a paper the other day—Pulvis et Umbra;—I
wrote it with great feeling and conviction;
to me it seemed bracing and
healthful; it is in such a world (so seen by
me), that I am very glad to fight out my
battle, and see some fine sunsets, and hear
some excellent jests between whiles round
the camp fire. But I find that to some
people this vision of mine is a nightmare,
and extinguishes all ground of faith in
God or pleasure in man. Truth I think
not so much of; for I do not know it.
And I could wish in my heart that I had
not published this paper, if it troubles
folks too much: all have not the same
digestion, nor the same sight of things.
And it came over to me with special pain
that perhaps this article (which I was at
the pains to send to her) might give dismalness
to my <i>Gamekeeper at Home</i>. Well,
I cannot take back what I have said;
but yet I may add this. If my view be
everything but the nonsense that it may
be—to me it seems self-evident and blinding
truth—surely of all things it makes this
world holier. There is nothing in it but
the moral side—but the great battle and
the breathing-times with their refreshments.
I see no more and no less. And
if you look again, it is not ugly, and it is
filled with promise.
</p>

<p>
Pray excuse a desponding author for
this apology. My wife is away off to the
uttermost parts of the States, all by herself.
I shall be off, I hope, in a week;
but where? Ah! that I know not. I
keep wonderful, and my wife a little better,
and the lad flourishing. We now perform
duets on two D tin whistles; it is
no joke to make the bass; I think I must
really send you one, which I wish you
would correct....
</p>

<p>
I may be said to live for these instrumental
labours now; but I have always
some childishness on hand.—I am, dear
Gamekeeper, your indulgent, but intemperate
Squire,
</p>

<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.
</p>
</div>

<p>
[On the 16th of April Stevenson and
his party left Saranac. After spending a
fortnight in New York, where, as always
in cities, his health quickly flagged again,
he went for the month of May into seaside
quarters at Union House, Manasquan, on
the New Jersey coast, for the sake of
fresh air and boating. Here he enjoyed
the society of some of his New York
friends, including Mr. St. Gaudens and
Mr. W. H. Low, and was initiated in the
congenial craft of cat-boat sailing. In
the meantime Mrs. Stevenson had gone
to San Francisco, to see whether a sailing
yacht was to be found available for a few
months' cruise in the Pacific. The <i>Casco</i>,
Captain Otis, was found accordingly;
Stevenson signified by telegraph his assent
to the arrangement; determined to
risk in the adventure the sum of £2,000,
of which his father's death had put him in
possession, hoping to recoup himself by
a book of Letters recounting his experiences;
and on the 2d of June started with
his mother and stepson for San Francisco,
and thence for that island cruise from
which he was never to return.]
</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Union House, Manasquan, N. J.</span>, but address
to Scribner's.
<br />
May 11, 1888.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">My dear Charles</span>,—I have found a
yacht, and we are going the full pitch for
seven months. If I cannot get my health
back (more or less), 'tis madness; but, of
course, there is the hope, and I will play
big.... If this business fails to set
me up, well, £2,000 is gone, and I know
I can't get better. We sail from San Francisco,
June 15th, for the South Seas in the
yacht <i>Casco</i>.—With a million thanks for
all your dear friendliness, ever yours affectionately,
</p>

<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.
</p>
</div>

<p>
[The following is addressed from Manasquan
to a boy, the son of the writer's
friend, the sculptor St. Gaudens; for the
rest, it explains itself.]
</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Manasquan, New Jersey</span>,
<br />
27th May, 1888.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Dear Homer St. Gaudens</span>,—Your
father has brought you this day to see me,
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_350' name='Page_350' href='#Page_350'>350</a></span>
and he tells me it is his hope he may remember
the occasion. I am going to do
what I can to carry out his wish; and it
may amuse you, years after, to see this
little scrap of paper and to read what I
write. I must begin by testifying that you
yourself took no interest whatever in the
introduction, and in the most proper spirit
displayed a single-minded ambition to get
back to play, and this I thought an excellent
and admirable point in your character.
You were also (I use the past tense, with
a view to the time when you shall read,
rather than to that when I am writing) a
very pretty boy, and (to my European
views) startlingly self-possessed. My time
of observation was so limited that you
must pardon me if I can say no more:
what else I marked, what restlessness of
foot and hand, what graceful clumsiness,
what experimental designs upon the furniture,
was but the common inheritance of
human youth. But you may perhaps like
to know that the lean flushed man in bed,
who interested you so little, was in a state
of mind extremely mingled and unpleasant:
harassed with work which he thought
he was not doing well, troubled with difficulties
to which you will in time succeed,
and yet looking forward to no less a matter
than a voyage to the South Seas and
the visitation of savage and of desert islands.—Your
father's friend,
</p>

<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span>.
</p>
</div>

<hr />

<h2>
THE VEERY-THRUSH
<br />
<span class="s08">By J. Russell Taylor</span>
</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Blow softly, thrush, upon the hush</p>
<p>That makes the least leaf loud,</p>
<p>Blow, wild of heart, remote, apart</p>
<p>From all the vocal crowd,</p>
<p>Apart, remote, a spirit note</p>
<p>That dances meltingly afloat,</p>
<p>Blow faintly, thrush!</p>
<p>And build the green-hill waterfall</p>
<p>I hated for its beauty, and all</p>
<p>The unloved vernal rapture and flush,</p>
<p>The old forgotten lonely time,</p>
<p>Delicate thrush!</p>
<p>Spring's at the prime, the world's in chime,</p>
<p>And my love is listening nearly,</p>
<p>O lightly blow the ancient woe,</p>
<p>Flute of the wood, blow clearly!</p>
<p>Blow, she is here, and the world all dear,</p>
<p>Melting flute of the hush,</p>
<p>Old sorrow estranged, enriched, sea-changed,</p>
<p>Breathe it, veery-thrush!</p>
</div></div></div><!-- /poetry-container -->
<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_351' name='Page_351' href='#Page_351'>351</a></span>
</p>

<h2>
THE SHIP OF STARS
<br />
<span class="s08">By A. T. Quiller-Couch</span><br />
<span class="s08">(Q.)</span>
</h2>

<h3>
XXI
<br />
HONORIA'S LETTERS
</h3>

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center">
1
</p>

<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Carwithiel</span>, October 25, 18—.
</p>

<div  class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcapm.png" width="105" height="106" alt="M" />
</div>
<p class="pfirst pdropcap">
<span class="smcap">My dear Taffy</span>:
</p>

<p>
Your letter was full of
news, and I read it over
twice—once to myself, and
again after dinner to
George and Sir Harry. We
pictured you dining in the college hall.
Thanks to your description, it was not
very difficult: the long tables, the silver
tankards, the dark panels and the dark
pictures above, and the dons on the dais,
aloof and very sedate. It reminded me
of Ivanhoe—I don't know why; and no
doubt if ever I see Magdalen, it will not
be like my fancy in the least. But that's
how I see it; and you at a table near the
bottom of the hall, like the youthful squire
in the story-books—the one, you know,
who sits at the feast below the salt until
he is recognized and forced to step up and
take his seat with honor at the high table.
I began to explain all this to George, but
found that he had dropped asleep in his
chair. He was tired out after a long day
with the pheasants.
</p>

<p>
I shall stay here for a week or two
yet, perhaps. You know how I hate Tredinnis.
On my way over, I called at the
Parsonage and saw your mother. She
was writing that very day, she said, and
promised to send my remembrances, which
I hope duly reached you. The Vicar was
away at the church, of course. There is
great talk of the Bishop coming in February,
when all will be ready. George
sends his love; I saw him for a few minutes
at breakfast this morning, before he
started for another day with the pheasants.
</p>

<p class="signature">
Your friend,
<br />
<span class="smcap">Honoria</span>.
</p>
</div> <!-- /blockquot -->

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center">
2
</p>
<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Carwithiel</span>, November 19, 18—.
</p>

<p class="post">
<span class="smcap">My dear Taffy</span>:
</p>

<p>
Still here, you see! I am slipping this
into a parcel containing a fire-screen which
I have worked with my very own hands;
and I trust you will be able to recognize
the shield upon it and the Magdalen lilies.
I send it, first, as a birthday present; and
I chose a shield—well, I daresay that
going in for a demy-ship is a matter-of-fact
affair to you, who have grown so exceedingly
matter-of-fact; but to me it seems a
tremendous adventure; and so I chose a
shield—for I suppose the dons would frown
if you wore a cockade in your college cap.
I return to Tredinnis to-morrow; so your
news, whatever it is, must be addressed to
me there. But it is safe to be good news.
</p>

<p class="signature">
Your friend,
<br />
<span class="smcap">Honoria</span>.
</p>
</div>

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center">
3
</p>
<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Tredinnis</span>, November 27, 18—.
</p>

<p class="postClear">
<span class="smcap">Most Honored Scholar</span>:
</p>

<p>
Behold me, an hour ago, a great lady,
seated in lonely grandeur at the head of
my own ancestral table. This is the first
time I have used the dining-room; usually
I take all my meals in the morning-room, at
a small table beside the fire. But to-night
I had the great table spread, and the plate
set out, and wore my best gown, and solemnly
took my grandfather's chair and
glowered at the ghost of a small girl shivering
at the far end of the long white
cloth. When I had enough of this (which
was pretty soon) I ordered up some champagne
and drank the health of Theophilus
John Raymond, Demy of Magdalen College,
Oxford. I graciously poured out a
second glass for the small ghost at the other
end of the table; and it gave her the courage
to confess that she, too, in a timid
way, had taken an interest in you for years,
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_352' name='Page_352' href='#Page_352'>352</a></span>
and hoped you were going to be a great
man. Having thus discovered a bond between
us, we grew very friendly; and we
talked a great deal about you afterward,
in the drawing-room, where I lost her for
a few minutes and found her hiding in the
great mirror over the fire-place—a habit
of hers.
</p>

<p>
It is time for me to practise ceremony,
for it seems that George and I are to be
married some time in the spring. For my
part, I think my lord would be content to
wait longer; for so long as he is happy
and sees others cheerful, he is not one to
hurry or worry. But Sir Harry is the impatient
one, and has begun to talk of his
decease. He doesn't believe in it a bit,
and at times when he composes his features
and attempts to be lugubrious I have
to take up a book and hide my smiles.
But he is clever enough to see that it
bothers George.
</p>

<p>
I saw both your father and mother this
morning. Mr. Raymond has been kept
to the house by a chill; nothing serious;
but he is fretting to be out again and at
work in that draughty church. He will
accept no help; and the mistress of Tredinnis
has no right to press it on him. I
shall never understand men and how they
fight. I supposed that the war lay between
him and my grandfather. But it seems he
was fighting an idea all the while; for here
is my grandfather beaten and dead and
gone; and still the Vicar will give no
quarter. If you had not assured me that
your demy-ship means eighty pounds a
year, I could believe that men fight for
shadows only. Your mother and grandmother
are both well....
</p>
</div>

<p>
It was a raw December afternoon—within
a week of the end of term—and
Taffy had returned from skating in Christ
Church meadow, when he found a telegram
lying on his table. There was just
time to see the Dean, to pack, and to
snatch a meal in hall, before rattling off
to his train. At Didcot he had the best
part of an hour to wait for the night-mail
westward.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Your father dangerously ill. Come at
once.</i>"
</p>

<p>
There was no signature. Yet Taffy
knew who had ridden to the office with
that telegram. The flying darkness held
visions of her, and the express throbbed
westward to the beat of Aide-de-camp's
gallop. Nor was he surprised at all to
find her on the platform at Truro station.
The Tredinnis phaeton was waiting outside.
</p>

<p>
He seemed to her but a boy after all,
as he stepped out of the train in the chill
dawn; a wan-faced boy and sorely in need
of comfort.
</p>

<p>
"You must be brave," said she, gathering
up the reins as he climbed to the seat
beside her.
</p>

<p>
Surely yes; he had been telling himself
this very thing all night. The groom
hoisted in his portmanteau, and with a
slam of the door they were off. The cold
air sang past Taffy's ears. It put vigor
into him, and his courage rose as he faced
his shattered prospects, shattered dreams.
He must be strong now, for his mother's
sake; a man to work and be leant upon.
</p>

<p>
And so it was that whereas Honoria
had found him a boy, Humility found him
a man. As her arms went about him in
her grief, she felt his body, that it was
taller, broader; and knew, in the midst of
her tears, that this was not the child she
had parted from seven short weeks ago,
but a man to act and give orders and be
relied upon.
</p>

<p>
"He called for you ... many
times," was all she could say.
</p>

<p>
For Taffy had come too late. Mr.
Raymond was dead. He had aggravated
a slight chill by going back to his work
too soon, and the bitter draughts of the
church had cut him down within sight of
his goal. A year before, he might have
been less impatient. The chill struck into
his lungs. On December 1st he had
taken to his bed, and he never rallied.
</p>

<p>
"He called for me?"
</p>

<p>
"Many times."
</p>

<p>
They went up the stairs together and
stood beside the bed. The thought uppermost
in Taffy's mind was—"He called
for me. He wanted me. He was my
father, and I never knew him."
</p>

<p>
But Humility in her sorrow groped
amid such questions as these: "What has
happened? Who am I? Am I she who
yesterday had a husband, and a child?
To-day my husband is gone, and my child
is no longer the same child."
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_353' name='Page_353' href='#Page_353'>353</a></span>
</p>

<p>
In her room old Mrs. Venning remembered
the first days of her own widowhood;
and life seemed to her a very short
affair, after all.
</p>

<p>
Honoria saw Taffy beside the grave.
It was no season for out-of-door flowers
and she had rifled her hot-houses for a
wreath. The exotics shivered in the northwesterly
wind; they looked meaningless,
impertinent, in the gusty churchyard.
Humility, before the coffin left the house,
had brought the dead man's old blue working-blouse
and spread it for a pall. No
flowers grew in the parsonage garden; but
pressed in her Bible lay a very little bunch
gathered, years ago, in the meadows by
Honiton. This she divided and, unseen
by anyone, pinned the half upon the breast
of the patched garment.
</p>

<p>
On the evening after the funeral and for
the next day or two she was strangely
quiet, and seemed to be waiting for Taffy
to make some sign. Dearly as mother
and son loved one another, they had to
find their new positions, each toward each.
Now Taffy had known nothing of his parents'
income. He assumed that it was
little enough, and that he must now leave
Oxford and work to support the household.
He knew some Latin and Greek;
but without a degree he had little chance
of teaching what he knew. He was a fair
carpenter, and a more than passable smith....
He revolved many schemes, but
chiefly found himself wondering what it
would cost to enter an architect's office.
</p>

<p>
"I suppose," said he, "father left no
will?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes, he did," said Humility, and
produced it—a single sheet of foolscap
signed on her wedding-day. It gave her
all her husband's property absolutely—whatever
it might be.
</p>

<p>
"Well," said Taffy, "I'm glad. I
suppose there's enough for you to rent
a small cottage, while I look about for
work?"
</p>

<p>
"Who talks about your finding work?
You will go back to Oxford, of course."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, shall I?" said Taffy, taken aback.
</p>

<p>
"Certainly; it was your father's wish."
</p>

<p>
"But the money?"
</p>

<p>
"With your scholarship there's enough
to keep you there for the four years. After
that, no doubt, you will be earning a good
income."
</p>

<p>
"But—" He remembered what
had been said about the lace-money, and
could not help wondering.
</p>

<p>
"Taffy," said his mother, touching his
hand, "leave all this to me until your degree
is taken. You have a race to run
and must not start unprepared. If you
could have seen <i>his</i> joy when the news
came of the demy-ship!"
</p>

<p>
Taffy kissed her and went up to his
room. He found his books laid out on
the little table there.
</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center">
4
</p>
<p class="letter_head">
<span class="smcap">Tredinnis</span>, February 13, 18—.
</p>

<p class="postClear">
<span class="smcap">My dear Taffy</span>:
</p>

<p>
I have a valentine for you, if you care
to accept it; but I don't suppose you will,
and indeed I hope in my heart that you
will not. But I must offer it. Your
father's living is vacant, and my trustees
(that is to say, Sir Harry; for the other,
a second cousin of mine, who lives in
London, never interferes) can put in someone
as a stop-gap, thus allowing me to
present you to it, when the time comes,
if you have any thought of Holy Orders.
You will understand exactly why I offer
it; and also, I hope, you will know that
I think it wholly unworthy of you. But
turn it over in your mind and give me
your answer.
</p>

<p>
George and I are to be married at the
end of April. May is an unlucky month.
It shall be a week—even a fortnight—earlier,
if that fits in with your vacation, and
you care to come. See how obliging I am!
I yield to you what I have refused to Sir
Harry. We shall try to persuade the
Bishop to come and open the church on
the same day.
</p>

<p class="signature">
Always your friend,
<br />
<span class="smcap">Honoria</span>.
</p>
</div>

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="center">
5
</p>
<p class="signature">
<span class="smcap">Tredinnis</span>, February 21st.
</p>

<p class="postClear">
<span class="smcap">My dear Taffy</span>:
</p>

<p>
No, I am not offended in the least;
but very glad. I do not think you are
fitted for the priesthood; but my doubts
have nothing to do with your doubts, which
I don't understand, though you tried to
explain them so carefully. You will come
through <i>them</i>, I expect. I don't know
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_354' name='Page_354' href='#Page_354'>354</a></span>
that I have any reasons that could be put
on paper; only, somehow, I cannot <i>see</i>
you in a black coat and clerical hat.
</p>

<p>
You complain that I never write about
George. You don't deserve to hear, since
you refuse to come to our wedding. But
would <i>you</i> talk, if you happened to be in
love? There, I have told you more than
ever I've told George, whose quiet conceit
has to be kept down. Let this console
you.
</p>

<p>
Our new Parson, when he comes, is to
lodge down in Innis Village. Your mother—but
no doubt she has told you—stays
in the Parsonage while she pleases. She
and your grandmother are both well. I
see her every day. I have so much to
learn and she is so wise. Her beautiful
eyes—but oh, Taffy, it must be terrible to
be a widow! She smiles and is always
cheerful; but the <i>look</i> in them! How can
I describe it? When I find her alone,
with her lace-work, or sometimes (but it
is not often) with her hands in her lap,
she seems to come out of her silence with
an effort, as others withdraw themselves
from talk. I wonder if she does talk, in
those silences of hers. Another thing—it
is only a few weeks now since she put on
a widow's cap, and yet I cannot remember
her—can scarcely picture her—without
it. I am sure that if I happened to
call one day when she had laid it aside, I
should begin to talk quite as if we were
strangers.
</p>

<p class="signature">
Believe me, yours sincerely,
<br />
<span class="smcap">Honoria</span>.
</p>
</div>

<p>
But the wedding, after all, did not take
place until the beginning of October, a
week before the close of the Long Vacation;
and Taffy, after all, was present.
The postponement had been enforced
by many delays in building and furnishing
the new wing at Carwithiel; for Sir
Harry insisted that the young couple must
live under one roof with him, and Honoria
(as we know) hated the very stones
of Tredinnis.
</p>

<p>
The Bishop came to spend a week in
the neighborhood, the first three days as
Honoria's guest. On the Saturday he
consecrated the work of restoration in the
Church and, in the afternoon, held a confirmation
service. Taffy and Honoria
knelt together to receive his blessing. It
was the girl's wish. The shadow of her
responsibility to God and man lay heavy
on her during the few months before her
marriage, and Taffy, already weary and
dispirited with his early doubtings, suffered
her mood of exaltation to overcome
him like a wave and sweep him back to
rest for a while on the still waters of faith.
Together they listened while the Bishop
discoursed on the dead Vicar's labors with
fluency and feeling; with so much feeling,
indeed, that Taffy could not help
wondering why his father had been left
to fight the battle alone.
</p>

<p>
On the Sunday and Monday two near
parishes claimed the Bishop. On the
Tuesday he sent his luggage over to Carwithiel,
whither he was to follow after the
wedding service, to spend a day or two
with Sir Harry. It had been Honoria's
wish that George should choose Taffy for
his best man; but George had already invited
one of his sporting friends, a young
Squire Philpotts from the eastern side of
the Duchy; and as the date fell at the
beginning of the hunting season, he insisted
on a "pink" wedding. Honoria consulted
the Bishop by letter. "Did he
approve of a 'pink' wedding so soon
after the bride's confirmation?" The
Bishop saw no harm in it.
</p>

<p>
So a "pink" wedding it was, and the
scarlet coats made a lively patch of color
in the gray churchyard; but it gave Taffy
a feeling that he was left out in the cold.
He escorted his mother to the church,
and left her for a few minutes in the Vicarage
pew. The bridegroom and his
friends were gathered in a showy cluster
by the chancel step, but the bride had
not arrived, and he stepped out to help in
marshalling the crowd of miners and mine-girls,
fishermen, and mothers with unruly
children—a hundred or so in all, lining
the path or straggling among the graves.
</p>

<p>
Close by the gate he came on a girl
who stood alone.
</p>

<p>
"Hullo, Lizzie—you here?"
</p>

<p>
"Why not?" she asked, looking at
him sullenly.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, no reason at all."
</p>

<p>
"There might ha' been a reason,"
said she, speaking low and hurriedly.
"You might ha' saved me from this, Mr.
Raymond; and her too; one time, you
might."
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_355' name='Page_355' href='#Page_355'>355</a></span>
</p>

<p>
"Why, what on earth is the matter?"
He looked up. The Tredinnis carriage
and pair of grays came over the knoll at a
smart trot and drew up before the gate.
</p>

<p>
"Matter?" Lizzie echoed with a short
laugh. "Oh, nuthin'. I'm goin' to lay
the curse on her, that's all."
</p>

<p>
"You shall not!" There was no time
to lose. Honoria's trustee—the second
cousin from London—a tall, clean-shaven
man with a shiny, bald head, and a shiny
hat in his hand—had stepped out and was
helping the bride to alight. What Lizzie
meant Taffy could not tell; but there
must be no scene. He caught her hand.
"Mind—I say you shall not!" he whispered.
</p>

<p>
"Lemme go—you're creamin' my fingers."
</p>

<p>
"Be quiet, then."
</p>

<p>
At that moment Honoria passed up the
path. Her wedding gown almost brushed
him as he stood wringing Lizzie's hand.
She did not appear to see him; but he saw
her face beneath the bridal veil, and it was
hard and white.
</p>

<p>
"The proud toad!" said Lizzie. "I'm
no better'n dirt, I suppose, though from
the start she wasn' above robbin' me.
Aw, she's sly.... Mr. Raymond, I'll
curse her as she comes out, see if I don't!"
</p>

<p>
"And I swear you shall not," said Taffy.
The scent of Honoria's orange-blossom
seemed to cling about them as they stood.
</p>

<p>
Lizzie looked at him vindictively. "You
wanted her yourself, <i>I</i> know. You weren't
good enough, neither. Let go my fingers!"
</p>

<p>
"Go home, now. See, the people have
all gone in."
</p>

<p>
"Go'st way in, too, then, and leave me
here to wait for her."
</p>

<p>
Taffy shut his teeth, let go her hand, and
taking her by the shoulders swung her
round, face toward the gate.
</p>

<p>
"March!" he commanded, and she
moved off whimpering. Once she looked
back. "March!" he repeated, and followed
her down the road as one follows
and threatens a mutinous dog.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The scene by the church gate had puzzled
Honoria, and in her first letter (written
from Italy) she came straight to the point,
as her custom was. "I hope there is nothing
between you and that girl who used to
be at Joll's. I say nothing about our hopes
for you, but you have your own career to
look to; and as I know you are too honorable
to flatter an ignorant girl when you
mean nothing, so I trust you are too wise
to be caught by a foolish fancy. Forgive
a staid matron (of one week's standing)
for writing so plainly; but what I saw
made me uneasy; without cause, no doubt.
Your future, remember, is not yours only.
And now I shall trust you, and never come
back to this subject.
</p>

<p>
"We are like children abroad," she went
on. "George's French is wonderful, but
not so wonderful as his Italian. When he
goes to take a ticket, he first of all shouts
the name of the station he wishes to arrive
at (for some reason he believes all foreigners
to be deaf); then he begins counting
down francs one by one, very slowly,
watching the clerk's face. When the
clerk's face tells him he has doled out
enough, he shouts 'Hold hard!' and
clutches the ticket. It takes time; but all
the people here are friends with him at
once—especially the children, whom he
punches in the ribs and tells to 'buck up.'
Their mothers nod and smile and openly
admire him; and I—well, I am happy,
and want everyone else to be happy!"
</p>

<h3>
XXII
<br />
MEN AS TOWERS
</h3>

<div class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcapi.png" width="103" height="106" alt="I" />
</div>
<p class="pfirst pdropcap">It was May morning, and
Taffy made one of the
group gathered on the roof
of Magdalen Tower. In the
groves below and across the
river-meadows all the birds
were singing together. Beyond the glimmering
suburbs, St. Clement's and Cowley
St. John, over the dark rise by Bullingdon
Green, the waning moon seemed to stand
still and wait poised on her nether horn.
Below her the morning sky waited, clean
and virginal, letting her veil of mist slip
lower and lower until it rested in folds
upon the high woodlands and pastures.
While it dropped, a shaft of light tore
through it and smote flashing on the vane
high above Taffy's head, turning the dark
side of the turrets to purple and casting
lilac shadows on the surplices of the choir.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_356' name='Page_356' href='#Page_356'>356</a></span>
For a moment the whole dewy shadow of
the tower trembled on the western sky,
and melted and was gone as a flood of
gold broke on the eastward-turned faces.
The clock below struck five, and ceased.
There was a sudden baring of heads; a
hush; and gently, borne aloft on boys'
voices, clear and strong, rose the first notes
of the hymn—
</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p><span lang="la">Te Deum Patrem colimus,</span></p>
<p><span lang="la">Te laudibus prosequimur,</span></p>
<p><span lang="la">Qui corpus cibo reficis,</span></p>
<p><span lang="la">Coelesti mentem gratia.</span></p>
</div></div></div><!-- /poetry-container -->

<p>
In the pauses Taffy heard, faint and far
below, the noise of cowhorns blown by the
street boys gathered at the foot of the
tower and beyond the bridge. Close beside
him a small urchin of a chorister was
singing away with the face of an ecstatic
seraph; whence that ecstasy arose the
urchin would have been puzzled to tell.
There flashed into Taffy's brain the vision
of the whole earth lauding and adoring—sun-worshippers
and Christians, priests and
small children; nation after nation prostrating
itself and arising to join the chant—"the
differing world's agreeing sacrifice."
Yes; it was Praise that made men
brothers; praise, the creature's first and
last act of homage to his Creator; praise
that made him kin with the angels. Praise
had lifted this tower; had expressed itself
in its soaring pinnacles; and he for the
moment was incorporate with the tower
and part of its builder's purpose. "Lord,
make men as towers!"—he remembered
his father's prayer in the field by Tewkesbury;
and at last he understood. "All
towers carry a lamp of some kind"—why,
of course they did. He looked about
him. The small chorister's face was
glowing—
</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p><span lang="la"><i>Triune Deus, hominum</i></span></p>
<p><span lang="la"><i>Salutis auctor optime,</i></span></p>
<p><span lang="la"><i>Immensum hoc mysterium</i></span></p>
<p><span lang="la"><i>Ovante lingua canimus!</i></span></p>
</div></div></div><!-- /poetry-container -->

<p>
Silence—and then with a shout the tunable
bells broke forth, rocking the tower.
Someone seized Taffy's college-cap and
sent it spinning over the battlements.
Caps? For a second or two they darkened
the sky like a flock of birds. A few gowns
followed, expanding as they dropped, like
clumsy parachutes. The company—all
but a few severe dons and their friends—tumbled
laughing down the ladder, down
the winding stair, and out into sunshine.
The world was pagan after all.
</p>

<p class="p2">
At breakfast Taffy found a letter on his
table, addressed in his mother's hand. As
a rule she wrote twice a week, and this
was not one of the usual days for hearing
from her. But nothing was too good to
happen that morning. He snatched up
the letter and broke the seal.
</p>

<p>
"My dearest boy," it ran, "I want
you home at once to consult with me.
Something has happened (forgive me, dear,
for not preparing you; but the blow fell
on me yesterday so suddenly)—something
which makes it doubtful, and more than
doubtful, that you can continue at Oxford.
And something else <i>they say</i> has happened
which I will never believe in unless I hear
it from my boy's lips. I have this comfort,
at any rate, that he will never tell me
a falsehood. This is a matter which cannot
be explained by letter, and cannot
wait until the end of term. Come home
quickly, dear; for until you are here I can
have no peace of mind."
</p>

<p>
So once again Taffy travelled homeward
by the night mail.
</p>

<p class="p2">
"Mother, it's a lie!"
</p>

<p>
Taffy's face was hot, but he looked
straight into his mother's eyes. She, too,
was rosy-red, being ever a shamefast
woman. And to speak of these things to
her own boy—
</p>

<p>
"Thank God!" she murmured, and
her fingers gripped the arms of her chair.
</p>

<p>
"It's a lie! Where is the girl?"
</p>

<p>
"She is in the workhouse. I don't
know who spread it, or how many have
heard. But Honoria believes it."
</p>

<p>
"Honoria! She cannot—" He came
to a sudden halt. "But, mother, even
supposing Honoria believes it, I don't
see—"
</p>

<p>
He was looking straight at her. Her
eyes sank. Light began to break in on
him.
</p>

<p>
"Mother!"
</p>

<p>
Humility did not look up.
</p>

<p>
"Mother! Don't tell me that she—that
Honoria—"
</p>

<p>
"She made us promise—your father
and me.... God knows it did no
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_357' name='Page_357' href='#Page_357'>357</a></span>
more than repay what your father had
suffered.... Your future was everything
to us...."
</p>

<p>
"And I have been maintained at Oxford
by her money," he said, pausing in
his bitterness on every word.
</p>

<p>
"Not by that only, Taffy! There
was your scholarship ... and it was
true about my savings on the lace-work...."
</p>

<p>
But he brushed her feeble explanations
away with a little gesture of impatience.
"Oh, why, mother? Oh, why?"
</p>

<p>
She heard him groan and stretched out
her arms.
</p>

<p>
"Taffy, forgive me—forgive us! We
did wrongly, I see—I see it as plain now
as you. But we did it for your sake."
</p>

<p>
"You should have told me. I was not
a child. Yes, yes, you should have told
me."
</p>

<p>
Yes; there lay the truth. They had treated
him as a child when he was no longer
a child. They had swathed him round
with love, forgetting that boys grow and
demand to see with their own eyes and
walk on their own feet. To every mother
of sons there comes sooner or later the
sharp lesson which came to Humility that
morning; and few can find any defence
but that which Humility stammered, sitting
in her chair and gazing piteously up at the
tall youth confronting her: "I did it for
your sake." Be pitiful, O accusing sons,
in that hour! For, terrible as your case
may be against them, your mothers are
speaking the simple truth.
</p>

<p>
Taffy took her hand "The money
must be paid back, every penny of it."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, dear."
</p>

<p>
"How much?"
</p>

<p>
Humility kept a small account-book in
the work-box beside her. She opened the
pages, but, seeing his outstretched hand,
gave it obediently to Taffy, who took it to
the window.
</p>

<p>
"Almost two hundred pounds." He
knit his brows and began to drum with
his fingers on the window-pane. "And
we must put the interest at five per cent....
With my first in moderations I
might find some post as an usher in a
small school.... There's an agency
which puts you in the way of such things;
I must look up the address.... We
will leave this house, of course."
</p>

<p>
"Must we?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, of course, we must. We are living
here by <i>her</i> favor. A cottage will
do—only it must have four rooms, because
of grandmother.... I will
step over and talk with Mendarva. He
may be able to give me a job. It will
keep me going, at any rate, until I hear
from the agency."
</p>

<p>
"You forget that I have over forty
pounds a year—or, rather, mother has.
The capital came from the sale of her farm,
years ago."
</p>

<p>
"Did it?" said Taffy, grimly. "You
forget that I have never been told. Well,
that's good, so far as it goes. But now
I'll step over and see Mendarva. If only
I could catch this cowardly lie somewhere,
on my way!"
</p>

<p>
He kissed his mother, caught up his
cap, and flung out of the house. The sea-breeze
came humming across the sandhills.
He opened his lungs to it, and it
was wine to his blood; he felt fit and
strong enough to slay dragons. "But
who could the liar be? Not Lizzie herself,
surely? Not—"
</p>

<p>
He pulled up short, in a hollow of the
towans.
</p>

<p>
"Not—George?"
</p>

<p>
Treachery is a hideous thing, and to
youth so incomprehensibly hideous that it
darkens the sun. Yet every trusting man
must be betrayed. That was one of the
lessons of Christ's life on earth. It is the
last and severest test; it kills many, morally,
and no man who has once met and
looked it in the face departs the same man,
though he may be a stronger one.
</p>

<p>
"Not <i>George</i>?"
</p>

<p>
Taffy stood there so still that the rabbits
crept out and, catching sight of him,
paused in the mouths of their burrows.
When at length he moved on, it was to
take, not the path which wound inland to
Mendarva's, but the one which led straight
over the higher moors to Carwithiel.
</p>

<p>
It was between one and two o'clock
when he reached the house and asked to
see Mr. or Mrs. George Vyell. They
were not at home, the footman said; had
left for Falmouth, the evening before, to
join some friends on a yachting cruise.
Sir Harry was at home; was, indeed,
lunching at that moment; but would no
doubt be pleased to see Mr. Raymond.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_358' name='Page_358' href='#Page_358'>358</a></span>
</p>

<p>
Sir Harry had finished his lunch and sat
sipping his claret and tossing scraps of biscuit
to the dogs.
</p>

<p>
"Hullo, Raymond!—thought you were
in Oxford. Sit down, my boy; delighted
to see you. Thomas, a knife and fork for
Mr. Raymond. The cutlets are cold, I'm
afraid, but I can recommend the cold
saddle, and the ham—it's a York ham.
Go to the sideboard and forage for yourself.
I wanted company. My boy and
Honoria are at Falmouth, yachting, and
have left me alone. What, you won't
eat? A glass of claret then, at any
rate."
</p>

<p>
"To tell the truth, Sir Harry," Taffy
began, awkwardly, "I've come on a disagreeable
business."
</p>

<p>
Sir Harry's face fell. He hated disagreeable
business. He flipped a piece of
biscuit at his spaniel's nose and sat back,
crossing his legs.
</p>

<p>
"Won't it keep?"
</p>

<p>
"To me it's important."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, fire away then; only help yourself
to the claret first."
</p>

<p>
"A girl—Lizzie Pezzack, living over at
Langona—has had a child born—"
</p>

<p>
"Stop a moment. Do I know her?—Ah,
to be sure—daughter of old Pezzack,
the light-keeper—a brown-colored girl
with her hair over her eyes. Well, I'm not
surprised. Wants money, I suppose?
Who's the father?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't know."
</p>

<p>
"Well, but—damn it all!—somebody
knows." Sir Harry reached for the bottle
and refilled his glass.
</p>

<p>
"The one thing I know is that Honoria—Mrs.
George, I mean—has heard about it,
and suspects me."
</p>

<p>
Sir Harry lifted his glass and glanced
at him over the rim. "That's the devil.
Does she, now?" He sipped. "She hasn't
been herself for a day or two—this explains
it. I thought it was change of air
she wanted. She's in the deuce of a rage,
you bet."
</p>

<p>
"She is," said Taffy, grimly.
</p>

<p>
"There's no prude like your young married
woman. But it'll blow over, my boy.
My advice to you is to keep out of the way
for a while."
</p>

<p>
"But—but it's a lie!" broke in the indignant
Taffy. "As far as I am concerned
there's not a grain of truth in it!"
</p>

<p>
"Oh—I beg your pardon, I'm sure."
Here Honoria's terrier (the one which
George had bought for her at Plymouth)
interrupted by begging for a biscuit, and
Sir Harry balanced one carefully on its
nose. "On trust—good dog! What
does the girl say herself?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't know. I've not seen her."
</p>

<p>
"Then, my dear fellow—it's awkward,
I admit—but I'm dashed if I see what
you expect me to do." The baronet
pulled out a handkerchief and began flicking
the crumbs off his knees.
</p>

<p>
Taffy watched him for a minute in
silence. He was asking himself why he
had come. Well, he had come in a hot
fit of indignation, meaning to face Honoria
and force her to take back the insult of
her suspicion. But after all—suppose
George were at the bottom of it? Clearly
Sir Harry knew nothing, and in any case
could not be asked to expose his own son.
And Honoria? Let be that she would
never believe—that he had no proof, no
evidence even—this were a pretty way of
beginning to discharge his debt to her!
The terrier thrust a cold muzzle against
his hand. The room was very still. Sir
Harry poured out another glassful and
held out the decanter. "Come, you must
drink; I insist!"
</p>

<p>
Taffy looked up. "Thank you, I will."
</p>

<p>
He could now and with a clear conscience.
In those quiet moments he had
taken the great resolution. The debt
should be paid back, and with interest;
not at five per cent., but at a rate beyond
the creditor's power of reckoning. For the
interest to be guarded for her should be
her continued belief in the man she loved.
Yes, <i>but if George were innocent</i>? Why,
then, the sacrifice would be idle; that was
all.
</p>

<p>
He swallowed the wine, and stood up.
</p>

<p>
"Must you be going? I wanted a chat
with you about Oxford," grumbled Sir
Harry; but noting the lad's face, how
white and drawn it was, he relented and
put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't take
it too seriously, my boy. It'll blow over—it'll
blow over. Honoria likes you, I
know. We'll see what the trollop says;
and if I get a chance of putting in a good
word, you may depend on me."
</p>

<p>
He walked with Taffy to the door—good,
easy man—and waved a hand from
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_359' name='Page_359' href='#Page_359'>359</a></span>
the porch. On the whole he was rather
glad than not to see his young friend's
back.
</p>

<p class="p2">
From his smithy window Mendarva
spied Taffy coming along the road, and
stepped out on the green to shake hands
with him.
</p>

<p>
"Pleased to see your face, my son!
You'll excuse my not askin' 'ee inside;
but the fact is"—he jerked his thumb toward
the smithy—"we've a-got our
troubles in there."
</p>

<p>
It came on our youth with something of
a shock, that the world had room for any
trouble beside his own.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis the Dane. He went over to
Truro yesterday to the wrastlin', an' got
thrawed. I tell'n there's no need to be
shamed. 'Twas Luke the Wendron fella
did it—in the treble play—inside lock
backward, and as pretty a chip as ever
I see." Mendarva began to illustrate it
with foot and ankle, but checked himself
and glanced nervously over his shoulder.
"Isn' lookin', I hope? He's in a terrible
pore about it. Won't trust hissel' to spake
and don't want to see nobody. But, as
I tell'n, there's no need to be shamed; the
fella took the belt in the las' round and
turned his man over like a tab. He's a
proper angletwitch, that Wendron fella.
Stank 'pon en both ends, and he'll rise up
in the middle and look at 'ee. There was
no one a patch on en but the Dane; and
I'll back the Dane next time they clinch.
'Tis a nuisance, though, to have'n like
this—with a big job coming on, too, over
to the light-house."
</p>

<p>
Taffy looked steadily at the smith.
"What's doing at the light-house?"
</p>

<p>
"Ha'n't 'ee heerd?" Mendarva began
a long tale, the sum of which was that the
light-house had begun of late to show
signs of age, to rock at times in an ominous
manner. The Trinity House surveyor
had been down, and reported, and Mendarva
had the contract for some immediate
repairs. "But 'tis patching an old kettle,
my son. The foundations be clamped
down to the rock, and the clamps have
worked loose. The whole thing'll have
to come down in the end; you mark my
words."
</p>

<p>
"But, these repairs?" Taffy interrupted.
"You'll be wanting hands."
</p>

<p>
"Why, o' course."
</p>

<p>
"And a foreman—a clerk of the
works—"
</p>

<p class="p2">
While Mendarva was telling his tale,
over a hill two miles to the westward a
small donkey-cart crawled for a minute
against the skyline and disappeared beyond
the ridge which hid the towans. An
old man trudged at the donkey's head;
and a young woman sat in the cart with a
bundle in her arms.
</p>

<p>
The old man trudged along so deep in
thought that when the donkey without
rhyme or reason came to a halt, half-way
down the hill, he, too, halted, and stood
pulling a wisp of gray side-whiskers.
</p>

<p>
"Look here," he said. "You ent goin'
to tell? That's your las' word, is it?"
</p>

<p>
The young woman looked down on the
bundle and nodded her head.
</p>

<p>
"There, that'll do. If you weant, you
weant; I've tek'n 'ee back, an' us must fit
and make the best o't. The cheeld'll never
be fit for much—born lame like that. But
'twas to be, I s'pose."
</p>

<p>
Lizzie sat dumb, but hugged the bundle
closer.
</p>

<p>
"'Tis like a judgment. If your mother'd
been spared, 'twudn' have happened. But
'twas to be, I s'pose. The Lord's ways
be past findin' out."
</p>

<p>
He woke up and struck the donkey
across the rump.
</p>

<p>
"Gwan you! Gee up! What d'ee mean
by stoppin' like that?"
</p>

<h3>
XXIII
<br />

THE SERVICE OF THE LAMP
</h3>

<div class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcapt.png" width="103" height="106" alt="I" />
</div>

<p class="pfirst pdropcap">
The Chief Engineer of the
Trinity House was a man
of few words. He and
Taffy had spent the afternoon
clambering about the
rocks below the light-house,
peering into its foundations. Here and
there, where weed coated the rocks and
made foothold slippery, he took the hand
which Taffy held out. Now and then he
paused for a pinch of snuff. The round
of inspection finished, he took an extraordinarily
long pinch.
</p>

<p>
"What's <i>your</i> opinion?" he asked,
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_360' name='Page_360' href='#Page_360'>360</a></span>
cocking his head on one side and examining
the young man much as he had examined
the light-house. "You have one,
I suppose."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, sir; but of course it doesn't
count for much."
</p>

<p>
"I asked for it."
</p>

<p>
"Well, then, I think, sir, we have wasted
a year's work; and if we go on tinkering,
we shall waste more."
</p>

<p>
"Pull it down and rebuild, you say?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, sir; but not on the same rock."
</p>

<p>
"Why?"
</p>

<p>
"This rock was ill-chosen. You see,
sir, just here a ridge of elvan crops up
through the slate; the rock, out yonder,
is good elvan, and that is why the sea has
made an island of it, wearing away the
softer stuff inshore. The mischief here lies
in the rock, not in the light-house."
</p>

<p>
"The sea has weakened our base?"
</p>

<p>
"Partly; but the light-house has done
more. In a strong gale the foundations
begin to work, and in the chafing the bed
of rock gets the worst of it."
</p>

<p>
"What about concrete?"
</p>

<p>
"You might fill up the sockets with
concrete; but I doubt, sir, if the case
would hold for any time. The rock is a
mere shell in places, especially on the
northwestern side."
</p>

<p>
"H'm. You were at Oxford for a time,
were you not?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, sir," Taffy answered, wondering.
</p>

<p>
"I've heard about you. Where do
you live?"
</p>

<p>
Taffy pointed to the last of a line of
three whitewashed cottages behind the
light-house.
</p>

<p>
"Alone?"
</p>

<p>
"No, sir; with my mother and my
grandmother. She is an invalid."
</p>

<p>
"I wonder if your mother would be
kind enough to offer me a cup of tea?"
</p>

<p>
In the small kitchen, on the walls of
which, and even on the dresser, Taffy's
books fought for room with Humility's
plates and tin-ware, the Chief Engineer
proved to be a most courteous old gentleman.
Toward Humility he bore himself
with an antique politeness which flattered
her considerably. And when he praised
her tea, she almost forgave him for his detestable
habit of snuff-taking.
</p>

<p>
He had heard something (it appeared)
from the President of Taffy's college, and
also from — (he named Taffy's old
friend in the velvet college-cap). In later
days Taffy maintained not only that every
man must try to stand alone, but that he
ought to try the harder because of its impossibility;
for in fact it was impossible
to escape from men's helpfulness. And
though his work lay in lonely places where
in the end fame came out to seek him, he
remained the same boy who, waking in
the dark, had heard the bugles speaking
comfort.
</p>

<p>
As a matter of fact his college had generously
offered him a chance, which would
have cost him nothing or next to nothing,
of continuing to read for his degree. But
he had chosen his line, and against Humility's
entreaties he stuck to it. The Chief
Engineer took a ceremonious leave. He
had to drive back to his hotel, and Taffy
escorted him to his carriage.
</p>

<p>
"I shall run over again to-morrow," he
said at parting; "and we'll have a look
at that island rock." He was driven off,
secretly a little puzzled.
</p>

<p>
Well, it puzzled Taffy at times why he
should be working here with Mendarva's
men for twenty shillings a week (it had
been eighteen to begin with) when he
might be reading for his degree and a fellowship.
Yet in his heart he knew the
reason. <i>That</i> would be building, after all,
on the foundations which Honoria had
laid.
</p>

<p>
Pride had helped chance to bring him
here, to the very spot where Lizzie Pezzack
lived. He met her daily, and several times
a day. She, and his mother and grandmother,
were all the womanfolk in the hamlet—if
three cottages deserve that name.
In the first cottage Lizzie lived with her
father, who was chief lighthouse-man, and
her crippled child; two under-keepers,
unmarried men, managed together in the
second; and this accident allowed Taffy
to rent the third from the Brethren of the
Trinity House and live close to his daily
work. Unless brought by business, no
one visited that windy peninsula; no one
passed within sight of it; no tree grew
upon it or could be seen from it. At daybreak
Taffy's workmen came trudging
along the track where the short turf and
gentians grew between the wheel-ruts; and
in the evening went trudging back, the
level sun flashing on their empty dinner-cans.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_361' name='Page_361' href='#Page_361'>361</a></span>
The eight souls left behind had one
common gospel—Cleanliness. Very little
dust found its way thither; but the salt,
spray-laden air kept them constantly polishing
window-panes and brass-work. To
wash, to scour, to polish, grew into the
one absorbing business of life. They had
no gossip; even in their own dwellings
they spoke but little; their speech shrank
and dwindled away in the continuous roar
of the sea. But from morning to night,
mechanically, they washed and scoured
and polished. Paper was not whiter than
the deal table and dresser which Humility
scrubbed daily with soap and water, and
once a week with lemon-juice as well.
Never was cleaner linen to sight and smell
than that which she pegged out by the
furze-brake on the ridge. All the life of
the small colony, though lonely, grew
wholesome as it was simple of purpose in
cottages thus sweetened and kept sweet
by lime-wash and the salt wind.
</p>

<p>
And through it moved the forlorn figure
of Lizzie Pezzack's child. Somehow
Lizzie had taught the boy to walk, with
the help of a crutch, as early as most children;
but the wind made cruel sport with
his first efforts in the open, knocking the
crutch from under him at every third step,
and laying him flat. The child had pluck,
however, and when autumn came round
again, could face a fairly stiff breeze.
</p>

<p>
It was about this time that word came
of the Trinity Board's intention to replace
the old light-house with one upon the
outer rock. For the Chief Engineer had
visited it and decided that Taffy was right.
To be sure no mention was made of Taffy
in his report; but the great man took
the first opportunity to offer him the post
of foreman of the works, so there was
certainly nothing to be grumbled at. The
work did not actually start until the
following spring; for the rock, to receive
the foundations, had to be bored some
feet below high-water level, and this could
only be attempted on calm days or when
a southerly wind blew from the high land
well over the workmen's heads, leaving
the inshore water smooth. On such days
Taffy, looking up from his work, would
catch sight of a small figure on the cliff-top
leaning aslant to the wind and watching.
</p>

<p>
For the child was adventurous and
took no account of his lameness. Perhaps
if he thought of it at all, having no
chance to compare himself with other
children, he accepted his lameness as a
condition of childhood—something he
would grow out of. His mother could
not keep him indoors; he fidgetted continually.
But he would sit or stand quiet
by the hour on the cliff-top, watching the
men as they drilled and fixed the dynamite,
and waiting for the bang of it. Best
of all, however, were the days when his
grandfather allowed him inside the lighthouse,
to clamber about the staircase and
ladders, to watch the oiling and trimming
of the great lantern and the ships moving
slowly on the horizon. He asked a thousand
questions about them.
</p>

<p>
"I think," said he, one day before he
was three years old, "that my father is in
one of those ships."
</p>

<p>
"Bless the child!" exclaimed old Pezzack.
"Who says you have a father?"
</p>

<p>
"<i>Everybody</i> has a father. Dicky Tregenza
has one; they both work down at
the rock. I asked Dicky and he told
me."
</p>

<p>
"Told 'ee what?"
</p>

<p>
"That everybody has a father. I
asked him if mine was out in one of those
ships, and he said very likely. I asked
mother, too, but she was washing-up and
wouldn't listen."
</p>

<p>
Old Pezzack regarded the child grimly.
"'Twas to be, I s'pose," he muttered.
</p>

<p>
Lizzie Pezzack had never set foot inside
the Raymonds' cottage. Humility,
gentle soul as she was, could on some
points be as unchristian as other women.
As time went on, it seemed that not a soul
beside herself and Taffy knew of Honoria's
suspicion. She even doubted, and Taffy
doubted, too, if Lizzie herself knew such
an accusation had been made. Certainly
never by word or look had Lizzie hinted
at it. Yet Humility could not find it in
her heart to forgive her. "She may be
innocent," was the thought; "but through
her came the injury to my son." Taffy
by this time had no doubt at all. It was
George who poisoned Honoria's ear;
George's shame and Honoria's pride
would explain why the whisper had never
gone further; and nothing else would explain.
</p>

<p>
Did his mother guess this? He believed
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_362' name='Page_362' href='#Page_362'>362</a></span>
so at times; but they never spoke
of it.
</p>

<p>
The lame child was often in the Raymonds'
kitchen. Lizzie did not forbid or
resent this. And he liked Humility and
would talk to her at length while he nibbled
one of her dripping-cakes. "People
don't tell the truth," he observed,
sagely, on one of these occasions. (He
pronounced it "troof," by the way.)
"<i>I</i> know why we live here. It's because
we're near the sea. My father's on the
sea somewhere, looking for us; and grandfather
lights the lamp every night to tell
him where we are. One night he'll see it
and bring his ship in and take us all off
together."
</p>

<p>
"Who told you all this?"
</p>

<p>
"Nobody. People won't tell me nothing
(nofing). I has to make it out in my
head."
</p>

<p>
At times, when his small limbs grew
weary (though he never acknowledged
this), he would stretch himself on the short
turf of the headland and lie staring up at
the white gulls. No one ever came near
enough to surprise the look which then
crept over the child's face. But Taffy,
passing him at a distance, remembered
another small boy, and shivered to remember
and compare—
</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>A boy's will is the wind's will</p>
<p>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.</p>
</div></div></div><!-- /poetry-container -->

<p>
—but how, when the boy is a cripple?
</p>

<p>
One afternoon he was stooping to inspect
an obstinate piece of boring when
the man at his elbow said:
</p>

<p>
"Hullo! edn' that young Joey Pezzack
in difficulties up there? Blest if the cheeld
won't break his neck wan of these days!"
</p>

<p>
Taffy caught up a coil of rope, sprang
into a boat, and pushed across to land.
"Don't move!" he shouted. At the foot of
the cliff he picked up Joey's crutch, and ran
at full speed up the path worn by the workmen.
This led him round to the verge,
ten feet above the ledge where the child
clung white and silent. He looped the
rope in a running noose and lowered it.
</p>

<p>
"Slip this under your arms. Can you
manage, or shall I come down? I'll come
if you're hurt."
</p>

<p>
"I've twisted my foot. It's all right,
now you're come," said the little man,
bravely; and slid the rope round himself
in the most businesslike way.
</p>

<p>
"The grass was slipper—" he began,
as soon as his feet touched firm earth; and
with that he broke down and fell to sobbing
in Taffy's arms.
</p>

<p>
Taffy carried him—a featherweight—to
the cottage where Lizzie stood by her
table washing up. She saw them at the
gate and came running out.
</p>

<p>
"It's all right. He slipped—out on the
cliff. Nothing more than a scratch or two
and perhaps a sprained ankle."
</p>

<p>
He watched while she set Joey in a
chair and began to pull off his stockings.
He had never seen the child's foot naked.
She turned suddenly, caught him looking,
and pulled the stocking back over the deformity.
</p>

<p>
"Have you heard?" she asked.
</p>

<p>
"What?"
</p>

<p>
"<i>She</i> has a boy! Ah!" she laughed,
harshly, "I thought that would hurt you.
Well, you <i>have</i> been a silly!"
</p>

<p>
"I don't think I understand."
</p>

<p>
"You don't think you understand!"
she mimicked. "And you're not fond of
her, eh? Never were fond of her, eh?
You silly—to let him take her, and never
tell!"
</p>

<p>
"Tell?"
</p>

<p>
She faced him, hardening her gaze.
"Yes, tell—" She nodded slowly; while
Joey, unobserved by either, looked up with
wide, round eyes.
</p>

<p>
"Men don't fight like that." The words
were out before it struck him that one
man had, almost certainly, fought like that.
Her face, however, told him nothing. She
could not know. "<i>You</i> have never told,"
he added.
</p>

<p>
"Because—" she began, but could not
tell him the whole truth. And yet what
she said was true. "Because you would
not let me," she muttered.
</p>

<p>
"In the churchyard, you mean—on her
wedding-day?"
</p>

<p>
"Before that."
</p>

<p>
"But before that I never guessed."
</p>

<p>
"All the same, I knew what you were.
You wouldn't have let me. It came to
the same thing. And if I had told—Oh,
you make it hard for me!" she wailed.
</p>

<p>
He stared at her, understanding this
only—that somehow he could control her
will.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_363' name='Page_363' href='#Page_363'>363</a></span>
</p>

<p>
"I will never let you tell," he said,
gravely.
</p>

<p>
"I hate her!"
</p>

<p>
"You shall not tell."
</p>

<p>
"Listen"—she drew close and touched
his arm. "He never cared for her; it's
not his way to care. She cares for him
now, I dessay—not as she might have
cared for you—but she's his wife, and
some women are like that. There's her
pride, anyway. Suppose—suppose he
came back to me?"
</p>

<p>
"If I caught him—" Taffy began;
but the poor child, who for two minutes
had been twisting his face heroically, interrupted
with a wail:
</p>

<p>
"Oh, mother! my foot—it hurts
so!"
</p>

<p class="center">
(To be continued.)
</p>

<hr />

<h2>
ROMANCE
</h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Say that the days of the dark are dawning,</p>
<p class="i1">Say that we come to the middle years,</p>
<p>The workday week that hath no bright morning,</p>
<p class="i1">The life that is dulled of its hopes and fears—</p>
<p>But, the cooled blood still and the tired heart scorning,</p>
<p class="i1">The soul is in eyes that are dry of tears.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>
Quiet thy heart, since others are loving;</p>
<p class="i1">Still thy soul, for the sky is vast;</p>
<p>Rest thy limbs from the stale earth roving,</p>
<p class="i1">Plow in the furrow thy lot is cast:</p>
<p>So, when the Spring all the earth is moving,</p>
<p class="i1">A flower may fall to thy feet at last.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>
Charles the King at the block stood biding</p>
<p class="i1">The blow that set him at peace with man,</p>
<p>Weary of life, of the crowd deriding,</p>
<p class="i1">Worn at his lips his smile so wan—</p>
<p>Under the floor of the block lay hiding</p>
<p class="i1">Athos and Porthos and d'Artagnan!</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>
Perhaps;—and so, while the hand still turneth,</p>
<p class="i1">As one's who serves, to his daily chore;</p>
<p>While she who once walked beside, returneth</p>
<p class="i1">To walk with her hand in thine no more—</p>
<p>Under thy heart's work-wear there burneth</p>
<p class="i1">The love that is hers for evermore.</p>
</div></div></div><!-- /poetry-container -->

<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_364' name='Page_364' href='#Page_364'>364</a></span>
</p>

<h2>
SEARCH-LIGHT LETTERS
<br />
<span class="s08">LETTER TO A POLITICAL OPTIMIST</span><br />

By Robert Grant
</h2>

<h3>
I
</h3>

<div class="divdropcapbox">
<img class="imgdropcap-el" src="images/dropcapi.png" width="103" height="106" alt="I" />
</div>
<p class="pfirst pdropcap">
I approve of you, for I
am an optimist myself in
regard to human affairs,
and can conscientiously
agree with many of the
patriotic statements concerning
the greatness of the American people
contained in your letter. Your letter
interested me because it differed so signally
in its point of view from the others which I
received at the same time—the time when
I ran for Congress as a Democrat in a hopelessly
Republican district and was defeated.
The other letters were gloomy in tone.
They deplored the degeneracy of our political
institutions, and argued from the
circumstance that the voters of my district
preferred "a hack politician" and "blatant
demagogue" to "an educated philosopher"
(the epithets are not mine); that we
were going to the dogs as a nation. The
prophecy was flattering to me in my individual
capacity, but it has not served to
soil the limpid, sunny flow of my philosophy.
I was gratified, but not convinced.
I behold the flag of my country still with
moistened eyes—the eyes of pride, and I
continue to bow affably to my successful
rival.
</p>

<p>
Your suggestion was much nearer the
truth. You indicated with pardonable
levity that I was not elected because the
other man received more votes. I smiled
at that as an apt statement. You went
on to take me to task for having given the
impression in my published account of the
political canvass not merely that I ought
to have been elected, but that the failure
to elect me was the sign of a lack of moral
and intellectual fibre in the American
people. If I mistake not, you referred to
me farther on in the style of airy persiflage
as a "holier than thou," a journalistic,
scriptural phrase in current use among so-called
patriotic Americans. And then
you began to argue: You requested me
to give us time, and called attention to
the fact that the English system of rotten
boroughs in vogue fifty years ago
was worse than anything we have to-day.
"We are a young and impetuous people,"
you wrote, "but there is noble blood in our
veins—the blood which inspired the greatness
of Washington and Hamilton and
Franklin and Jefferson and Webster and
Abraham Lincoln. Water does not run
up hill. Neither do the American people
move backward. Its destiny is to progress
and to grow mightier and mightier.
And those who seek to retard our national
march by cynical insinuations and sneers,
by scholastic sophistries and philosophical
wimwams, will find themselves inevitably
under the wheels of Juggernaut, the car
of republican institutions."
</p>

<p>
Philosophical wimwams! You sought
to wound me in a tender spot. I forgive
you for that, and I like your fervor. Those
rotten boroughs have done yeoman service.
They are on the tongue of every
American citizen seeking for excuses for
our national shortcomings. But for my
dread of a mixed metaphor I would add
that they are moth-eaten and threadbare.
</p>

<p>
Your letter becomes then a miscellaneous
catalogue of our national prowess.
You instance the cotton-gin, the telegraph,
the sewing-machine, and the telephone,
and ask me to bear witness that they are the
inventions of free-born Americans. You
refer to the heroism and vigor of the nation
during the Civil War, and its mighty
growth in prosperity and population since;
to the colleges and academies of learning,
to the hospitals and other monuments of
intelligent philanthropy, to the huge railroad
systems, public works, and private
plants which have come into being with
mushroom-like growth over the country.
You recall the energy, independence, and
conscientious desire for Christian progress
among our citizens, young and old,
and, as a new proof of their disinterested
readiness to sacrifice comfort for the sake
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_365' name='Page_365' href='#Page_365'>365</a></span>
of principle, you cite the recent emancipation
of Cuba. Your letter closes with
a Fourth of July panegyric on the heroes
on land and sea of the war with Spain,
followed by an exclamation point which
seems to say, "Mr. Philosopher, put that
in your pipe and smoke it."
</p>

<p>
I have done so, and admit that there is
a great deal to be proud of in the Olla
Podrida of exploits and virtues which you
have set before me. Far be it from me
to question the greatness and capacity of
your and my countrymen. But while my
heart throbs agreeably from the thrill of
sincere patriotism, I venture to remind you
that cotton-gins, academies of learning,
and first-class battle-ships have little to do
with the matter in question. Your mode
of procedure reminds me of the plea I have
heard used to obtain partners for a homely
girl—that she is good to her mother. I
notice that you include our political sanctity
by a few sonorous phrases in the
dazzling compendium of national success,
but I also notice that you do not condescend
to details. That is what I intend to
do, philosophically yet firmly.
</p>

<p>
To begin with, I am not willing to admit
that I was piqued by my failure to be elected
to Congress. I did not expect to succeed,
and my tone was, it seems to me,
blandly resigned and even rather grateful
than otherwise that such a serious honor
had been thrust upon me. Success would
have postponed indefinitely the trip to
Japan on which my wife, Josephine, had
set her heart. In short, I supposed that I
had concealed alike grief and jubilation,
and taken the result in a purely philosophic
spirit. It seems though that you were able
to read between the lines—that is what you
state—and to discern my condescending
tone and lack of faith in the desire and intention
of the plain people of these United
States to select competent political representatives.
I can assure you that I have
arrived at no such dire state of mind, and
I should be sorry to come to that conclusion;
but, though a philosopher, and
hence, politically speaking, a worm, I have
a proper spirit of my own and beg to inform
you that the desire and intention of
our fellow-countrymen, whether plain or
otherwise, so to do is, judging by their behavior,
open to grave question. So you
see I stand at bay almost where you supposed,
and there is a definite issue between
us. Judging by their behavior, remember.
Judging by their words, butter would not
melt in their mouths. I merely wish to call
your attention to a few notorious facts in
defence of my attitude of suspicion.
</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
(<i>Note.</i>—"Josephine," said I to my wife
at this point, "please enumerate the prominent
elective offices in the gift of the
American people."
</p>

<p>
My wife rose and after a courtesy, which
was mock deferential, proceeded to recite,
with the glib fluency of a school-girl, the
following list: "Please, sir,
</p>

<ul class="idx">
<li>President.</li>
<li>Senators of the United States (elected by the State legislatures).</li>
<li>Representatives of the United States.</li>
<li>State Senators.</li>
<li>State Assemblymen or Representatives.</li>
<li>Aldermen.</li>
<li>Members of the City Council.</li>
<li>Members of the School Committee."</li>
</ul>

<p>
"Correct, Josephine. I pride myself
that, thanks to my prodding, you are beginning
to acquire some rudimentary
knowledge concerning the institutions of
your country. Thanks to me and Professor
Bryce. Before Professor Bryce
wrote 'The American Commonwealth,'
American women seemed to care little to
know anything about our political system.
They studied more or less about the systems
of other countries, but displayed a
profound ignorance concerning our own
form of government. But after an Englishman
had published a book on the subject,
and made manifest to them that our institutions
were reasonably worthy of attention,
considerable improvement has been noticeable.
But I will say that few women are
as well posted as you, Josephine."
</p>

<p>
She made another mock deferential
courtesy. "Thank you, my lord and master;
and lest you have not made it sufficiently
clear that my superiority in this
respect is due to your—your nagging, I
mention again that you are chiefly responsible
for it. It bores me, but I submit
to it."
</p>

<p>
"Continue then your docility so far as to
write the names which you have just recited
on separate slips of paper and put
them in a proper receptacle. Then I will
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_366' name='Page_366' href='#Page_366'>366</a></span>
draw one as a preliminary step in the political
drama which I intend to present for
the edification of our correspondent."
</p>

<p>
Josephine did as she was bid, and in the
process, by way of showing that she was
not such a martyr as she would have the
world believe, remarked, "If you had really
been elected, Fred, I think I might have
made a valuable political ally. What I
find tedious about politics is that they're
not practical—that is for me. If you were
in Congress now, I should make a point of
having everything political at the tip of
my tongue."
</p>

<p>
"Curiously enough, my dear, I am just
going to give an object-lesson in practical
politics, and you as well as our young
friend may be able to learn wisdom from
it. Now for a blind choice!" I added,
putting my hand into the work-bag which
she held out.
</p>

<p>
"Aldermen!" I announced after scrutinizing
the slip, which I had drawn. Josephine's
nose went up a trifle.
</p>

<p>
"A very fortunate and comprehensive
selection," I asserted. "The Alderman and
the influences which operate upon and
around him lie at the root of American practical
politics. And from a careful study of
the root you will be able to decide how genuinely
healthy and free from taint must be
the tree—the tree which bears such ornamental
flowers as Presidents and United
States Senators, gorgeous blooms of apparent
dignity and perfume.")
</p>
</div>

<p>
This being a drama, my young patriot,
I wish to introduce you to the stage and
the principal characters. The stage is any
city in the United States of three hundred
thousand or more inhabitants. It would
be invidious for me to mention names
where anyone would answer to the requirements.
Some may be worse than
others, but all are bad enough. A bold
and pessimistic beginning, is it not, my
optimistic friend?
</p>

<p>
And now for the company. This drama
differs from most dramatic productions in
that it makes demands upon a large number
of actors. To produce it properly on
the theatrical stage would bankrupt any
manager unless he were subsidized heavily
from the revenues of the twenty leading
villains. The cast includes besides
twenty leading villains, twelve low comedians,
no hero, no heroine (except, incidentally,
Josephine); eight newspaper
editors; ten thousand easy-going second-class
villains; ten thousand patriotic,
conscientious, and enlightened citizens, including
a sprinkling of ardent reformers;
twenty-five thousand zealous, hide-bound
partisans; fifty thousand respectable, well-intentioned,
tolerably ignorant citizens who
vote, but are too busy with their own affairs
to pay attention to politics, and as a
consequence generally vote the party
ticket, or vote to please a "friend;" ten
thousand superior, self-centred souls who
neglect to vote and despise politics anyway,
among them poets, artists, scientists,
some men of leisure, and travellers; ten
thousand enemies of social order such as
gamblers, thieves, keepers of dives, drunkards,
and toughs; and your philosopher.
</p>

<p>
A very large stock company. I will
leave the precise arithmetic to you. I
wish merely to indicate the variegated
composition of the average political constituency,
and to let you perceive that the
piece which is being performed is no parlor
comedy. It is written in dead earnest,
and it seems to me that the twenty leading
villains, though smooth and in some
instances aristocratic appearing individuals,
are among the most dangerous characters
in the history of this or any other
stage. But before I refer to them more
particularly I will make you acquainted
with our twelve low comedians—the Board
of Aldermen.
</p>

<p>
It is probably a surprise to you and to
Josephine that the Aldermen are not the
villains. Everything is comparative in
this world, and, though I might have
made them villains without injustice to
such virtues as they possess, I should
have been at a loss how to stigmatize the
real promoters of the villainy. And after
all there is an element of grotesque comedy
about the character of Aldermen in a
large American city. The indecency of
the situation is so unblushing, and the
public is so helpless, that the performers
remind one in their good-natured antics
of the thieves in "Fra Diavolo;" they get
bolder and bolder and now barely take
the trouble to wear the mask of respectability.
</p>

<p>
Have I written "thieves?" Patriotic
Americans look askance at such full-blooded
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_367' name='Page_367' href='#Page_367'>367</a></span>
expressions. They prefer ambiguity,
and a less harsh phraseology—"slight
irregularities," "business misfortunes,"
"commercial usages," "professional
services," "campaign expenses,"
"lack of fine sensibilities," "unauthenticated
rumors." There are fifty ways of
letting one's fellow-citizens down easily in
the public prints and in private conversation.
This is a charitable age, and the
word thief has become unfamiliar, except
as applied to rogues who enter houses as
a trade. The community and the newspapers
are chary of applying it to folk
who steal covertly but steadily and largely
as an increment of municipal office. It
is inconvenient to hurt the feelings of public
servants, especially when one may have
voted for them from carelessness or ignorance.
</p>

<p>
Here is a list of the twelve low comedians
for your inspection:
</p>

<ul class="idx">
<li>Peter Lynch, no occupation,</li>
<li>James Griffin, stevedore,</li>
<li>William H. Bird, real estate,</li>
<li>John S. Maloney, saloon-keeper,</li>
<li>David H. Barker, carpenter,</li>
<li>Jeremiah Dolan, no occupation,</li>
<li>Patrick K. Higgins, junk dealer,</li>
<li>Joseph Heffernan, liquors,</li>
<li>William T. Moore, apothecary,</li>
<li>James O. Frost, paints and oils,</li>
<li>Michael O'Rourke, tailor,</li>
<li>John P. Driscoll, lawyer.</li>
</ul>

<p>
You will be surprised by my first statement
regarding them, I dare say. Four
of them, Peter Lynch, James Griffin, Jeremiah
Dolan, and Michael O'Rourke neither
drink nor smoke. Jeremiah Dolan
chews, but the three others do not use
tobacco in any form. They are patterns
of Sunday-school virtue in these respects.
This was a very surprising discovery to
one of the minor characters in our drama—to
two of them in fact—Mr. Arthur
Langdon Waterhouse and his father,
James Langdon Waterhouse, Esq. The
young man, who had just returned from
Europe with the idea of becoming United
States Senator and who expressed a willingness
to serve as a Reform Alderman
while waiting, announced the discovery
to his parent shortly before election with
a mystified air.
</p>

<p>
"Do you know," said he to the old
gentleman, who, by the way, though he
has denounced every person and every
measure in connection with our politics
for forty years, was secretly pleased at his
son's senatorial aspirations, "do you know
that someone told me to-day that four of
the very worst of those fellows have never
drunk a drop of liquor, nor smoked a
pipe of tobacco in their lives. Isn't it a
curious circumstance? I supposed they
were intoxicated most of the time."
</p>

<p>
You will notice also that Peter Lynch
and Jeremiah Dolan have no occupation.
Each of them has been connected in some
capacity with the City Government for
nearly twenty years, and they are persons
of great experience. They have more
than once near election time been amiably
referred to in the press as "valuable
public servants," and it must be admitted
that they are efficient in their way. Certainly,
they know the red tape of City
Hall from A to Z, and understand how
to block or forward any measure. The
salary of Alderman is not large—certainly
not large enough to satisfy indefinitely
such capable men as they, and yet they
continue to appear year after year at the
same old stand. Moreover, they resist
vigorously every effort to dislodge them,
whether proceeding from political opponents
or envious rivals of their own
party. A philosopher like myself, who is,
politically speaking, a worm, is expected
to believe that valuable public servants
retain office for the honor of the thing;
but even a philosopher becomes suspicious
of a patriot who has no occupation.
</p>

<p>
Next in importance are Hon. William
H. Bird and Hon. John P. Driscoll. It
is a well-known axiom of popular government
that citizens are called from the
plough or counting-room to public office
by the urgent request of their friends and
neighbors. As a fact, this takes place two
or three times in a century. Most aspirants
for office go through the form of having
a letter from their friends and neighbors
published in the newspapers, but only
the very guileless portion of the public
do not understand that the candidates in
these cases suggest themselves. It is
sometimes done, delicately, as, for instance,
in the case of young Arthur Langdon
Waterhouse, of whom I was writing just
now. He let a close friend intimate to
the ward committee that he would like to
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_368' name='Page_368' href='#Page_368'>368</a></span>
run for Alderman, and that in consideration
thereof his father would be willing
to subscribe $2,000 to the party campaign
fund. It seems to a philosopher that a
patriotic people should either re-edit its
political axioms or live up to them.
</p>

<p>
Now Hon. William H. Bird and Hon.
John P. Driscoll never go through the
ceremony of being called from the plough—in
their case the ward bar-room. They
announce six months in advance that they
wish something, and they state clearly
what. They are perpetual candidates for,
or incumbents of, office, and to be elected
or defeated annually costs each of them
from two to four thousand dollars, according
to circumstances. One of them has
been in the Assembly, the Governor's
Council, and in both branches of the
City Government; the other a member
of the Assembly, a State Senator, and an
Alderman, and both of them are now glad
to be Aldermen once more after a desperate
Kilkenny contest for the nomination.
They are called Honorable by the reporters;
and philosophers and other students
of newspapers are constantly informed
that Hon. William H. Bird has done this,
and Hon. John P. Driscoll said that.
</p>

<p>
These four are the big men of the
Board. The others are smaller fry; ambitious
and imitative, but less experienced
and smooth and audacious. Yet the four
have their virtues, too. It is safe to state
that no one of them would take anything
beyond his reach. Moreover, if you,
a patriot, or I, a philosopher, were to
find himself alone in a room with one of
them and had five thousand dollars in
bills in his pocket and the fact were known
to him, he would make no effort to possess
himself of the money. We should be
absolutely safe from assault or sleight of
hand. Whoever would maintain the opposite
does not appreciate the honesty of
the American people. If, on the other
hand, under similar circumstances, the
right man were to place an envelope containing
one thousand dollars in bills on
the table and saunter to the window to admire
the view, the packet would disappear
before he returned to his seat and neither
party would be able to remember that it
ever was there. I do not intend to intimate
that this is the precise method of
procedure; I am merely explaining that
our comedians have not the harsh habits
of old-fashioned highwaymen.
</p>

<p>
Then again, there are people so fatuous
as to believe that Aldermen are accustomed
to help themselves out of the city
treasury. That is a foolish fiction, for no
Alderman could. The City Hall is too
bulky to remove, and all appropriations
of the public money are made by draft
and have to be accounted for. If any
member of the Board were to make a descent
on the funds in the safe, he would
be arrested as a lunatic and sent to an insane
asylum.
</p>

<p>
As for the other eight low comedians, it
happens in this particular drama that I
would be unwilling to make an affidavit
as to the absolute integrity of any one of
them. But there are apt to be two or even
three completely honest members of these
august bodies, and two or three more who
are pretty honest. A pretty honest Alderman
is like a pretty good egg. A pretty
honest Alderman would be incapable of
touching an envelope containing $1,000,
or charging one hundred in return for his
support to a petition for a bay-window;
but if he were in the paint and oil business
or the lumber trade, or interested in hay
and oats, it would be safe to assume that
any department of the City Government
which did not give his firm directly or indirectly
a part of its trade would receive
no aldermanic favors at his hands. Then
again, a pretty honest Alderman would
allow a friend to sell a spavined horse to
the city.
</p>

<h3>
II
</h3>

<p>
Having hinted gently at the leading
characteristics of the twelve low comedians,
I am ready now to make you acquainted
with the twenty leading villains. There
is something grimly humorous in the spectacle
of a dozen genial, able-bodied, non-alcoholic
ruffians levying tribute on a community
too self-absorbed or too easy-going
or too indifferent to rid itself of them. I
find, on the other hand, something somewhat
pathetic in the spectacle of twenty
otherwise reputable citizens and capitalists
driven to villainy by the force of circumstances.
To be a villain against one's will
is an unnatural and pitiable situation.
</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain!
</p>
</div>
<p>
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_369' name='Page_369' href='#Page_369'>369</a></span>
</p>

<p>
Here is the list:
</p>

<p>
Thomas Barnstable, President of the
People's Heat and Power Company.
</p>

<p>
William B. Wilcox, General Manager
of the North Circuit Traction Company.
</p>

<p>
David J. Prendergast, Treasurer of the
Underground Steam Company.
</p>

<p>
Porter King, President of the South
Valley Railroad Company.
</p>

<p>
James Plugh, Treasurer of the Star
Brewing Concern.
</p>

<p>
Ex-State Treasurer George Delaney
Johnson, Manager of the United Gas
Company.
</p>

<p>
Willis O. Golightly, Treasurer of the
Consolidated Electric Works.
</p>

<p>
Hon. Samuel Phipps, President of the
Sparkling Reservoir Company.
</p>

<p>
P. Ashton Hall, President of the Rapid
Despatch Company.
</p>

<p>
Ex-Congressman Henry B. Pullen,
Manager of the Maguinnis Engine Works.
And so on. I will not weary you with
a complete category. It would contain
the names of twelve other gentlemen no
less prominent in connection with quasi-public
and large private business corporations.
With them should be associated
one thousand easy-going second-class villains,
whose names are not requisite to my
argument, but who from one year to another
are obliged, by the exigencies of
business or enterprise, to ask for licenses
from the non-alcoholic, genial comedians,
for permission to build a stable, to erect
a bay-window, to peddle goods in the
streets, to maintain a coal-hole, to drain
into a sewer, to lay wires underground;
in short, to do one or another of the many
everyday things which can be done only
by permission of the City Government.
And the pity of it is that they all would
rather not be villains.
</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
(<i>Note.</i>—At the suggestion of Josephine
I here enter a caveat for my and her protection.
While I was enumerating the
list of low comedians she interrupted me
to ask if I did not fear lest one of them
might sand-bag me some dark night on
account of wounded sensibilities. She
laughed, but I saw she was a little nervous.
</p>

<p>
"I have mentioned no real names,"
said I.
</p>

<p>
"That is true," she said, "but somehow
I feel that the real ones might be suspicious
that they were meant."
</p>

<p>
I told her that this was their lookout,
and that, besides, they were much too
secure in the successful performance of
their comedy to go out of their way to assassinate
a philosopher. "They would
say, Josephine, that a philosopher cuts no
ice, which is true, and is moreover a serious
stigma to fasten on any patriotic man
or woman." But now again she has
brought me to book on the score of the
feelings of the leading villains. She appreciates
that we are on terms of considerable
friendliness with some Presidents of
corporations, and that though my list contains
no real names, I may give offence.
Perhaps she fears a sort of social boycott.
Let me satisfy her scruples and do justice
at the same time by admitting that not
every President of a quasi-public corporation
is a leading villain. Nor every Alderman
a low comedian. That will let out
all my friends. But, on the other hand, I
ask the attention even of my friends to
the predicament of Thomas Barnstable,
President of the People's Heat and Power
Company.)
</p>
</div>

<p>
Thomas Barnstable, the leading villain
whose case I select for detailed presentation,
has none of the coarser proclivities
of David J. Prendergast, Treasurer of the
Underground Steam Company. As regards
David J. Prendergast, I could almost
retract my allegation of pity and assert
that he is a villain by premeditation and
without compunction. That is, his method
of dealing with the twelve low comedians
is, I am told, conducted on a cold utilitarian
basis without struggle of conscience
or effort at self-justification. He says to
the modern highwaymen, "Fix your price
and let my bill pass. My time is valuable
and so is yours, and the quicker we come
to terms, the better for us both." What
he says behind their backs is not fit for
publication; but he recognizes the existence
of the tax just as he recognizes the
existence of the tariff, and he has no time
to waste in considering the effect of either
on the higher destinies of the nation.
</p>

<p>
Thomas Barnstable belongs to another
school. He is a successful business man.
In the ordinary meaning of the phrase,
he is also a gentleman and a scholar. His
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_370' name='Page_370' href='#Page_370'>370</a></span>
word in private and in business life is as
good as his bond; he respects the rights
of the fatherless and the widow, and he is
known favorably in philanthropic and religious
circles. Having recognized the
value of certain patents, he has become a
large owner of the stock of the People's
Heat and Power Company, and is the
President of the corporation. Hitherto
he has had plain sailing, municipally speaking.
That is, the original franchise of the
company was obtained from the city before
he became President, and only this
year for the first time has the necessity
of asking for further privileges arisen.
Moreover, he finds his corporation confronted
by a rival, the Underground Steam
Company.
</p>

<p>
Now here is a portion of the dialogue
which took place five weeks before election
between this highly respectable gentleman
and his right-hand man, Mr. John
Dowling, the efficient practical manager
of the People's Company.
</p>

<p>
"Peter Lynch was here to-day," said
Mr. Dowling.
</p>

<p>
"And who may Peter Lynch be?"
was the dignified but unconcerned answer.
</p>

<p>
"Peter Lynch is Peter Lynch. Don't
you know Peter? He's the Alderman
from the fifth district. He has been Alderman
for ten years, and so far as I can
see, he is likely to continue to be Alderman
for ten more."
</p>

<p>
"Ah."
</p>

<p>
"Peter was in good-humor. He was
smiling all over."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Dowling paused, so his superior
said, "Oh!" Then realizing that the
manager was still silent, as though expecting
a question, he said, "What did he
come for?"
</p>

<p>
"He wishes us to help him mend his
fences. Some of them need repairing.
The wear and tear of political life is
severe."
</p>

<p>
"I see—I see," responded Mr. Barnstable,
reflectively, putting his finger-tips
together. "What sort of a man is Peter?"
</p>

<p>
Mr. Dowling hesitated a moment, merely
because he was uncertain how to deal
with such innocence. Having concluded
that frankness was the most businesslike
course, he answered, bluffly, "He's an
infernal thief. He's out for the stuff."
</p>

<p>
"The stuff? I see—I see. Very bad, very
bad. It's an outrage that under our free
form of government such men should get
a foothold in our cities. I hope, Dowling,
you gave him the cold shoulder, and let
him understand that under no consideration
whatever would we contribute one
dollar to his support."
</p>

<p>
"On the contrary, I gave him a cigar
and pumped him."
</p>

<p>
"Pumped him?"
</p>

<p>
"I wanted to find out what he knows."
</p>

<p>
"Dear me. And—er—what does he
know?"
</p>

<p>
"He knows all about our bill, and he
says he'd like to support it."
</p>

<p>
This was a shock, for the bill was supposed
to be a secret.
</p>

<p>
"How did he find out about it?"
</p>

<p>
"Dreamt it in his sleep, I guess."
</p>

<p>
"I don't care for his support, I won't
have it," said Mr. Barnstable, bringing
his hand down forcibly on his desk to
show his earnestness and indignation. "I
wish very much, Mr. Dowling, that you
had told him to leave the office and never
show his impudent face here again."
</p>

<p>
There was a brief silence, during which
Mr. Dowling fingered his watch-chain;
then he said, in a quiet tone, "He says
that the Underground Steam Company is
going to move heaven and earth to elect
men who will vote to give them a location."
</p>

<p>
"I trust you let him know that the
Underground Steam Company is a stock
jobbing, disreputable concern with no
financial status."
</p>

<p>
"It wasn't necessary for me to tell him
that. He knows it. He said he would
prefer to side with us and keep them out
of the streets, which meant of course that
he knew we were able to pay the most
if we chose. It seems Prendergast has
been at him already."
</p>

<p>
"Disgusting! They both ought to be
in jail."
</p>

<p>
"Amen. He says he gave Prendergast
an evasive answer, and is to see him again
next Tuesday. There's the situation, Mr.
Barnstable. I tell you frankly that Lynch
is an important man to keep friendly to
our interests. He is very smart and well
posted, and if we allow him to oppose us,
we shall have no end of trouble. He is
ready to take the ground that the streets
ought not be dug up, and that a respectable
corporation like ours should not be
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_371' name='Page_371' href='#Page_371'>371</a></span>
interfered with. Only he expects to be
looked after in return. I deplore the condition
of affairs as much as you do, but I
tell you frankly that he is certain to go
over to the other side and oppose us tooth
and nail unless we show ourselves what he
calls friendly to his 'interests.'"
</p>

<p>
"Then we'll prevent his election. I
would subscribe money toward that myself."
</p>

<p>
The Manager coughed, by way perhaps
of concealing a smile. "That would not
be easy," he said. "And if it could be
done, how should we be better off? Peter
Lynch is only one of fifteen or twenty,
many of whom are worse than he. By
worse I mean equally unscrupulous and
less efficient. Here, Mr. Barnstable, is a
list of the candidates for Aldermen on both
sides. I have been carefully over it and
checked off the names of those most likely
to be chosen, and I find that it comprises
twelve out-and-out thieves, five sneak-thieves,
as I call them, because they pilfer
only in a small way and pass as pretty honest;
four easy-going, broken-winded incapables,
and three perfectly honest men,
one of them thoroughly stupid. Now, if
we have to deal with thieves, it is desirable
to deal with those most likely to be of real
service. There are four men on this list
who can, if they choose, help us or hurt us
materially. If we get them, they will be
able to swing enough votes to control the
situation; if they're against us, our bill will
be side-tracked or defeated and the Underground
Steam Company will get its
franchise. That means, as you know,
serious injury to our stockholders. There's
the case in a nut-shell."
</p>

<p>
"What are their names?" asked Mr.
Barnstable, faintly.
</p>

<p>
"Peter Lynch, Jeremiah Dolan, William
H. Bird, and John P. Driscoll, popularly
known in the inner circles of City
Hall politics as 'the big four.' And they
are—four of the biggest thieves in the
community."
</p>

<p>
"Dear me," said Mr. Barnstable. "And
what is it you advise doing?"
</p>

<p>
"Like the coon in the tree, I should say,
'Don't shoot and I'll come down.' It's
best to have a clear understanding from
the start."
</p>

<p>
"What I meant to ask was—er—what
is it that this Peter Lynch wishes?"
</p>

<p>
"He uttered nothing but glittering generalities;
that he desired to know who his
friends were, and whether, in case he were
elected, he could be of any service to our
corporation. The English of that is, he
expects in the first place a liberal subscription
for campaign expenses—and after that
retaining fees from time to time as our attorney
or agent, which will vary in size according
to the value of the services rendered."
</p>

<p>
A faint gleam of cunning hope appeared
in Mr. Barnstable's eyes.
</p>

<p>
"Then anything we—er—contributed
could properly be charged to attorney's
fees?" he said by way of thinking aloud.
</p>

<p>
"Certainly—attorney's fees, services
as agent, profit and loss, extraordinary expenses,
machinery account, bad debts—there
are a dozen ways of explaining the
outlay. And no outlay may be necessary.
A tip on the stock will do just as well."
</p>

<p>
"Dear, dear," reiterated Mr. Barnstable.
"It's a deplorable situation; deplorable
and very awkward."
</p>

<p>
"And the awkward part is, that we're a
dead cock in the pit if we incline to virtue's
side."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Barnstable sighed deeply and
drummed on his desk. Then he began to
walk up and down. After a few moments
he stopped short and said:
</p>

<p>
"I shall have to lay it before my directors,
Dowling."
</p>

<p>
"Certainly, sir. But in general terms,
I hope. A single—er—impractical man
might block the situation until it was too
late. Then the expense of remedying the
blunder might be much greater."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Barnstable inclined his head gravely.
"I shall consult some of the wisest heads
on the Board, and if in their opinion it is
advisable to conciliate these blackmailers,
a formal expression of approval will scarcely
be necessary."
</p>

<p>
A few days later the President sent for
the Manager and waved him to a chair.
His expression was grave—almost sad, yet
resolute. His manner was dignified and
cold.
</p>

<p>
"We have considered," said he, "the
matter of which we were speaking recently,
and under the peculiar circumstances in
which we are placed, and in view of the
fact that the success of our bill and the defeat
of the Underground Steam Company
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_372' name='Page_372' href='#Page_372'>372</a></span>
is necessary for the protection of the best
interests of the public and the facilitation
of honest corporate business enterprise, I
am empowered to authorize you to take
such steps, Mr. Dowling, as seem to you
desirable and requisite for the proper protection
of our interests."
</p>

<p>
"Very good, sir. That is all that is
necessary."
</p>

<p>
There was a brief silence, during which
Mr. Barnstable joined his finger-tips together
and looked at the fire. Then he
rose augustly, and putting out his hand
with a repellant gesture said, "There is
one thing I insist on, which is that I shall
know nothing of the details of this disagreeable
business. I leave the matter
wholly in your hands, Dowling."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, certainly, sir. And you may rely
on my giving the cold shoulder to the rascals
wherever it is possible for me to do
so."
</p>

<p>
That is a pitiful story, isn't it? Virtue
assaulted almost in its very temple, and
given a black eye by sheer force of cruel,
overwhelming circumstances. Yet a true
story, and the prototype in its general
features of a host of similar episodes occurring
in the different cities of this land
of the free and the home of the brave.
Each case, of course, has its peculiar atmosphere.
Not every leading villain has
the sensitive and combative conscience of
Thomas Barnstable; nor every general
manager the bold, frank style of Mr.
Dowling. There is every phase of soul-struggle
and method from unblushing,
business-like bargain and sale to sphinx-like
and purposely unenlightened and ostrich-like
submission. In the piteous language
of a defender of Thomas Barnstable
(not Josephine), what can one do but
submit? If one meets a highwayman on
the road, is one to be turned back if a
purse will secure a passage? Surely not
if the journey be of moment. Then is a
corporate body (a corporation has no soul)
to be starved to death by delay and hostile
legislation if peace and plenty are to
be had for an attorney's fee? If so, only
the rascals would thrive and honest corporations
would bite the dust. And so it
happened that Mr. Dowling before election
cast his moral influence in favor of
the big four, and a little bird flew from
head-quarters with a secret message,
couched in sufficiently vague language, to
the effect that the management would be
pleased if the employees of the People's
Heat and Power Company were to mark
crosses on their Australian ballots against
the names of Peter Lynch, Jeremiah Dolan,
Hon. William H. Bird, and the Hon.
John P. Driscoll.
</p>

<p>
Let us allow the curtain to descend to
slow music, and after a brief pause rise
on some of our other characters. Behold
now the fifty thousand respectable, well-intentioned,
tolerably ignorant citizens
who vote but are too busy with their own
affairs to pay attention to politics, and as
a consequence generally vote the party
ticket or vote to please a friend. As a
sample take Mr. John Baker, amiable and
well-meaning physician, a practical philanthropist
and an intelligent student of
science by virtue of his active daily
professional labors. For a week before
election he is apt to have a distressing,
soul-haunting consciousness that a City
Government is shortly to be chosen and
that he must, as a free-born and virtue-loving
citizen, vote for somebody. He remembers
that during the year there has been
more or less agitation in the newspapers
concerning this or that individual connected
with the aldermanic office, but he
has forgotten names and is all at sea as to
who is who or what is what. Two days
before election he receives and puts aside
a circular containing a list of the most desirable
candidates, as indicated by the
Reform Society, intending to peruse it,
but he is called from home on one evening
by professional demands, and on the
other by tickets for the theatre, so election
morning arrives without his having
looked at it. He forgets that it is election
day, and is reminded of the fact while on
his way to visit his patients by noticing
that many of his acquaintances seem to be
walking in the wrong direction. He turns
also, at the spur of memory, and mournfully
realizes that he has left the list at
home. To return would spoil his professional
day, so he proceeds to the polls,
and, in the hope of wise enlightenment,
joins the first sagacious friend he encounters.
It happens, perhaps, to be Dowling.
</p>

<p>
"Ah," says Dr. Baker, genially, "you're
just the man to tell me whom to vote for.
One vote doesn't count for much, but I
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_373' name='Page_373' href='#Page_373'>373</a></span>
like to do my duty as an American citizen."
</p>

<p>
"It's a pretty poor list," says Dowling,
pathetically, drawing a paper from his
pocket. "I believe, however, in accomplishing
the best possible results under
existing circumstances. If I thought the
Reform candidates could be elected, I
would vote for them and for them only;
but it's equally important that the very
worst men should be kept out. I am
going to vote for the Reform candidates
and for Lynch, Dolan, Bird, and Driscoll.
They're capable and they have had experience.
If they steal, they'll steal judiciously,
and that is something. Some
of those other fellows would steal the
lamp-posts and hydrants if they got the
chance."
</p>

<p>
"All right," says Dr. Baker. "I'll take
your word for it. Let me write those
names down. I suppose that some day
or other we shall get a decent City Government.
I admit that I don't give as
much consideration to such matters as I
ought, but the days are only twenty-four
hours long."
</p>

<p>
Then from the same company there is
Mr. David Jones, hay and grain dealer,
honest and a diligent, reputable business
man. He harbors the amiable delusion
that the free-born American citizen in the
exercise of the suffrage has intuitive knowledge
as to whom to vote for, and that in
the long run the choice of the sovereign
people is wise and satisfactory. He is
ready to admit that political considerations
should not control selection for municipal
office, but he has a latent distrust
of reformers as aristocratic self-seekers or
enemies of popular government. For instance,
the idea that he or any other
American citizen of ordinary education
and good moral character is not fit to
serve on the school committee offends his
patriotism.
</p>

<p>
"What's the matter with Lynch, anyway?"
he asks on his way to the polls.
"I see some of his political enemies are
attacking him in the press. If he were
crooked, someone would have found it
out in ten years. I met him once and he
talked well. He has no frills round his
neck."
</p>

<p>
"Nor wheels in his head," answers a
fellow-patriot, who wishes to get a street
developed and has put his case in Lynch's
hands.
</p>

<p>
"He shall have my vote," says the hay
and grain dealer.
</p>

<p>
As for the twenty-five thousand hide-bound
partisans, I will state to begin with,
my optimistic correspondent, that if this
drama were concerned with any election
but a city election, their number would be
larger. But these make up in unswerving
fixity of purpose for any diminution
of their forces due to municipal considerations.
They are content to have their thinking
done for them in advance by a packed
caucus, and they go to the polls snorting
like war-horses and eager to vindicate
by their ballots the party choice of candidates,
or meekly and reverently prepared
to make a criss-cross after every R or D,
according to their faith, with the fatuous
fealty of sheep. Bigotry and suspicions,
ignorance and easy-going willingness to
be led, keep their phalanx steady and a
constant old guard for the protection of
comedians and villains.
</p>

<p>
In another corner of the stage stand
the ten thousand superior, self-centred
souls who neglect to vote and despise
politics—the mixed corps of pessimists,
impractical dreamers, careless idlers, and
hyper-cultured world-disdainers, who hold
aloof, from one motive or another, from
contact with common life and a share in
its responsibilities—some on the plea that
universal suffrage is a folly or a failure,
some that earth is but a vale of travail
which concerns little the wise or righteous
thinker, some from sheer butterfly or
stupid idleness. Were they to vote they
would help to offset that no less large
body of suffragists—the active enemies
of order, the hoodlum, tobacco-spitting,
woman-insulting, rum-drinking ruffian brigade.
There are only left the ten thousand
conscientious citizens, real patriots—a
corporal's guard, amid the general optimistic
sweep toward the polls. These
mark their crosses with care against the
names of the honest men and perhaps
some of the pretty honest, only to read in
the newspapers next morning that the big
four have been returned to power and that
the confidence of the plain and sovereign
people in the disinterested conduct of their
public servants has again been demonstrated.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_374' name='Page_374' href='#Page_374'>374</a></span>
</p>

<p>
"Ho, ho, ho," laugh the low comedians.
"Mum's the word." The faces of
the big four are wreathed in self-congratulatory
smiles. At the homes of Peter
Lynch and Jeremiah Dolan, those experienced
individuals without occupation,
there are cakes and ale. It is a mistake
to assume that because a citizen is an Alderman
he is not human and amiably
domestic in his tastes. Jeremiah loves
the little Dolans and is no less fond of
riding his children on his leg than Thomas
Barnstable, or any of the leading villains.
When their father looks happy in the late
autumn, the children know that their
Christmas stockings will be full. Jeremiah
is at peace with all the world and is ready
to sit with slicked hair for his photograph,
from which a steel (or is it steal?) engraving
will shortly be prepared for the new
City Government year-book, superscribed:
"Jeremiah Dolan, Chairman of the Board
of Aldermen." A framed enlargement of
this will hang on one side of the fire-place,
and an embroidered motto, "God Bless
Our Home," on the other, and all will be
well with the Dolans for another twelve
months. In his own home Jeremiah is a
man of few words on public matters. Not
unnaturally his children believe him to be
of the salt of the earth, and he lets it go
at that, attending strictly to business without
seeking to defend himself in the bosom
of his family from the diatribes of reformers.
Still, it is reasonable to assume that,
under the fillip of the large majority rolled
up in his favor, he would be liable to give
vent to his sense of humor so far as to refer,
in the presence of his wife and children,
to the young man who was willing to
become an Alderman while waiting to be
Senator, as a T. Willy.
</p>

<p>
If you have read "The Hon. Peter
Stirling," you will remember that the hero
rose to political stature largely by means
of attending to the needs of the district,
befriending the poor and the helpless, and
having a friendly, encouraging word for
his constituents, high or low. The American
public welcomed the book because it
was glad to see the boss vindicated by
these human qualities, and to think that
there was a saving grace of unselfish service
in the composition of the average
successful politician. It would be unjust
to the big four were I not to acknowledge
that they have been shrewd or human
enough to pursue in some measure this
affable policy, and that the neighborhood
and the district in which they live recognize
them as hustlers to obtain office,
privileges, and jobs for the humble citizen
wishing to be employed by or to sell something
to the City Government. To this
constituency the comparative small tax
levied seems all in the day's work, a natural
incident of the principle that when a
man does something, he ought to be paid
for it. To them the distinction that public
service is a trust which has no right to
pecuniary profit beyond the salary attached,
and a reasonable amount of stationery,
seems to savor of the millennium
and to suggest a lack of practical intelligence
on the part of its advocates. They
pay the lawyer and the doctor; why not
the Alderman?
</p>

<h3>
III
</h3>

<p>
I am reminded by Josephine that I
seem to be getting into the dumps, which
does not befit one who claims to be an
optimistic philosopher. The drama just
set before you is not, I admit, encouraging
as a national exhibit, and I can imagine
that you are already impatient to retort
that the municipal stage is no fair criterion
of public life in this country. I can hear
you assert, with that confident air of national
righteousness peculiar to the class
of blind patriots to which you belong, that
the leading politicians of the nation disdain
to soil their hands by contact with
city politics. Yet there I take issue with
you squarely, not as to the fact but as to
the truth of the lofty postulate seething
in your mind that the higher planes of
political activity are free from the venal
and debasing characteristics of municipal
public service—from the influence of the
money power operating on a low public
standard of honesty.
</p>

<p>
Most of us—even philosophers like myself—try
to cling to the fine theory that
the legislators of the country represent the
best morals and brains of the community,
and that the men elected to public office
in the Councils of the land have been put
forward as being peculiarly fitted to interpret
and provide for our needs, by
force of their predominant individual virtues
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_375' name='Page_375' href='#Page_375'>375</a></span>
and abilities. Most of us appreciate
in our secret souls that this theory is not
lived up to, and is available only for Fourth
of July or other rhetorical purposes. Yet
we dislike to dismiss the ideal as unattainable,
even though we know that actual
practice is remote from it; and patriots
still, we go on asserting that this is our
method of choice, vaguely hoping, like
the well-intentioned but careless voter,
that some day we shall get a decent government,
municipal, state, national—that
is decent from the stand-point of our democratic
ideal. And there is another theory,
part and parcel of the other, which we
try to cling to at the same time, that our
public representatives, though the obviously
ornamental and fine specimens of
their several constituencies, are after all
only every-day Americans with whom a
host of citizens could change places without
disparagement to either. In other
words, our theory of government is government
by the average, and that the
average is remarkably high. This comfortable
view induces many like yourself
to wrap themselves round with the American
flag and smile at destiny, sure that
everything will result well with us sooner
or later, and impatient of criticism or
doubts. As a people we delight in patting
ourselves on the back and dismissing
our worries as mere flea-bites. The hard
cider of our patriotism gets readily into
the brain and causes us to deny fiercely or
serenely, according to our dispositions,
that anything serious is the matter.
</p>

<p>
Yet whatever Fourth of July orators
may say to the contrary, the fact remains
that the sorry taint of bargain and sale, of
holding up on the political highway and
pacification by bribery in one form or another,
permeates to-day the whole of our
political system from the lowest stratum
of municipal public life to the Councils
which make Presidents and United States
Senators. To be sure, the Alderman in his
capacity of low comedian dictating terms
to corporations seeking civic privileges is
the most unblushing, and hence the most
obviously flagrant case; but it is well recognized
by all who are brought in contact
with legislative bodies of any sort in
the country that either directly or indirectly
the machinery of public life is controlled
by aggregations of capital working on the
hungry, easy-going, or readily flattered
susceptibilities of a considerable percentage
of the members. Certainly our national
and State assemblies contain many high-minded,
honest, intellectually capable men,
but they contain as many more who are
either dishonest or are so ignorant and
easily cajoled that they permit themselves
to be the tools of leading villains. Those
cognizant of what goes on behind the
scenes on the political stage would perhaps
deny that such men as our friend
Thomas Barnstable or his agent, Dowling,
attempt to dictate nominations to either
branch of the legislature on the tacit understanding
that a member thus supported
is to advocate or vote for their measures,
and by their denial they might deceive a real
simon-pure philosopher. But this philosopher
knows better, and so do you, my optimistic
friend. It is the fashion, I am aware,
among conservative people, lawyers looking
for employment, bankers and solid men
of affairs, to put the finger on the lips when
this evil is broached and whisper, "Hush!"
They admit confidentially the truth of it, but
they say, "Hush! What's the use of stirring
things up? It can't do any good and it
makes the public discontented. It excites
the populists." So there is perpetual mystery
and the game goes on. Men who wish
things good or bad come reluctantly or
willingly to the conclusion that the only
way to get them is by paying for them.
Not all pay cash. Some obtain that which
they desire by working on the weaknesses
of legislators; following them into banks
where they borrow money, getting people
who hold them in their employ or give
them business to interfere, asking influential
friends to press them. Every railroad
corporation in the country has agents
to look after its affairs before the legislature
of the State through which it operates,
and what some of those agents have said
and done in order to avert molestation
would, if published, be among the most
interesting memoirs ever written. Who
doubts that elections to the United States
Senate and House of Representatives are
constantly secured by the use of money
among those who have the power to bestow
nominations and influence votes? It
is notorious, yet to prove it would be no
less difficult than to prove that Peter Lynch,
Alderman for ten years without occupation,
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_376' name='Page_376' href='#Page_376'>376</a></span>
has received bribes from his fellow-citizens.
How are the vast sums of money levied
on rich men to secure the success of a political
party in a Presidential campaign expended?
For stationery, postage stamps,
and campaign documents? For torchlight
processions, rallies, and buttons?
Some of it, certainly. The unwritten inside
history of the political progress of many
of the favorite sons of the nation during
the last forty years would make the scale
of public honor kick the beam though it
were weighted with the cherry-tree and
hatchet of George Washington. In one
of our cities where a deputation of city
officials attended the funeral of a hero of
the late war with Spain, there is a record
of $400 spent for ice-cream. Presumably
this was a transcript of petty thievery inartistically
audited. But there are no
auditings of the real use of the thousands
of dollars contributed to keep a party in
power or to secure the triumph of a politically
ambitious millionaire.
</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
(<i>Note.</i>—Josephine, who had been sitting
lost in thought since the conclusion of the
drama, and who is fond of problem plays,
inquired at this point whether I consider
the low comedians or the leading villains
the most to blame for the existing state of
things.
</p>

<p>
"It is a pertinent question, Josephine,
and one not easily answered. What is
your view of the matter?"
</p>

<p>
"I suppose," she answered, "as you
have termed the bribers the leading villains,
they are the worst. And I do think that
the temptation must be very great among
the class of men who are without fine sensibilities
to let themselves become the tools
of rich and powerful people, who, as you
have indicated, can help them immensely
in return for a vote. It is astonishing that
those in the community who are educated,
well-to-do citizens, should commit such sins
against decency and patriotism."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, it seems astonishing, but their
plea is pathetic, as I have already stated,
and somewhat plausible. Suppose for a
minute that I am Thomas Barnstable defending
himself and see how eloquent I
can be. 'What would you have me do,
Madam? I am an honest man and my
directors are honest men; the bills we ask
for are always just and reasonable. I have
never in my life approached a legislator
with an improper offer, nor have I used direct
or indirect bribery so long as it was
absolutely impossible to avoid doing so.
But when a gang of cheap and cunning
tricksters block the passage of my corporation's
measures, and will not let them become
law until we have been bled, I yield
as a last resort. We are at their mercy. It
is a detestable thing to do, I admit, but it
is necessary if we are to remain in business.
There is no alternative. The responsibility
is on the dishonest and incapable
men whom the American public elects to
office, and who under the specious plea
of protecting the rights of the plain people
levy blackmail on corporate interests.
Corporations do not wish to bribe, but
they are forced to do so in self-defence.'
There! Is not that a tear-compelling
statement?"
</p>

<p>
"I can see your side," said Josephine.
</p>

<p>
"Pardon me," I interrupted. "It is
Mr. Barnstable's side, not mine. I am not
a capitalist, only a philosopher."
</p>

<p>
"Well, his side then; and I feel sorry
for him in spite of the weakness of his case.
Only his argument does not explain the
others. I should not suppose that men like
Mr. Prendergast could truthfully declare
that all the legislation they ask for is just
and reasonable."
</p>

<p>
"Precisely. Yet they buy their desires
in the open market from the free-born representatives
of the people. If anyone
states so at the time he is hushed up, if
possible; if not, there is an investigation,
nothing is proved, and the integrity of the
legislative body is vindicated. I can shed
a tear on behalf of men like Mr. Barnstable,
a crocodile tear, yet still a tear.
But there is the larger army of hard-headed,
dollar-hunting, practical capitalists, who
are not forming corporations for their
health, so to speak, to be reckoned with.
My eloquence is palsied by them. They
would tell you that they were obliged to
bribe, but they do not waste much time
in resistance or remorse. They seem to
regard the evil as a national custom, unfortunate
and expensive, but not altogether
inconvenient. Confidentially over a cigar
they will assure you that the French, the
Spanish, the Turks, and the Chinese are infinitely
worse, and that this is merely a passing
phase of democracy, whatever that may
mean."
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_377' name='Page_377' href='#Page_377'>377</a></span>
</p>

<p>
"Dreadful," said Josephine. "And then
there are the people with money who aid
and abet their own nominations for Congress.
I think I could mention some of
them."
</p>

<p>
"Well, you mustn't. It might hurt their
feelings, for they may not know exactly
what was done except in a general way.
After all is over they ask 'how much?'
draw a check and make few inquiries.
That is the genteel way. But in some states
it is not necessary or politic to be genteel.
The principle is the same, but the process
is less subtle and aristocratic. But haven't
you a word of extenuation to offer on behalf
of the low comedians? Think of
Jeremiah Dolan and the little Dolans."
</p>

<p>
"I suppose he also would say it wasn't
true," said Josephine.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes. 'Lady, there isn't a word
of truth in the whole story. Someone's
been stuffing you.'"
</p>

<p>
"They must be dreadfully tempted, poor
wretches."
</p>

<p>
"'Lady, it's all make-believe. But it's
one thing to talk and another to sit still and
have a fellow whisper in your ear that you
have only to vote his way to get five thousand
in clean bills and no questions asked.
When a man has a mortgage on his house
to pay, five thousand would come in
handy. I'm only supposing, lady, and no
one can prove I took a cent.'"
</p>

<p>
"Fred," said Josephine, after a solemn
pause, "the dreadful thought has just
occurred to me that the American people
may not be—are not strictly honest."
</p>

<p>
"Sh!" I shouted eagerly, and seizing
a tea table-cloth I threw it over her head
and stayed her speech.
</p>

<p>
"My dear, do you realize what you
are saying?"
</p>

<p>
"Do you realize that you are tumbling
my hair?"
</p>

<p>
I paid no heed to this unimportant interjection,
but said, "If any true patriot
were to hear you make such an accusation
you would subject yourself and me
to some dreadful punishment, such as happened
to Dreyfus, or 'The Man Without a
Country.' Not honest? By the shades of
George Washington, what are you thinking
of? Why, one of the chief reasons
of our superiority to all the other nations
of the world is because of our honesty—our
immunity from the low moral standards
of effete, frivolous despotisms and
unenlightened masses who are without the
blessings of freedom. Not strictly honest?
Josephine, your lack of tact, if nothing
else, is positively audacious. Do you expect
me to break this cruel piece of news
to the optimistic patriot to whom this letter
is addressed?"
</p>

<p>
"I think you are silly," said my wife,
freeing herself from the tea table-cloth
and trying to compose her slightly discomposed
tresses. "I only thought
aloud, and I said merely what you would
have said sooner or later in more philosophical
terms. I saw that you were tempted
by the fear of not seeming a patriot to
dilly-dally with the situation and avoid
expressing yourself in perspicuous language.
T-h-i-e-f spells thief; B-r-i-b-e-r-y
spells bribery. I don't know much about
politics, and I'm not a philosopher, but
I understand the meaning of every-day
English, and I should say that we were
not even pretty honest. There! Those
are my opinions, and I think you will
save time if you send them in your letter
instead of beating about the bush for extenuating
circumstances. If you don't, I
shall—for really, Fred, it's too simple a
proposition. And as for the blame, it's
six of one and half a dozen of the other."
</p>

<p>
"Josephine, Josephine," I murmured,
"there goes my last chance of being sent
to the Philippines, in my capacity as a
philosopher, to study whether the people
of those islands are fit for representative
government.")
</p>
</div>

<p>
You have read what Josephine says,
my optimistic friend. She has stated that
she would write to you her summing up
of the whole matter if I did not, so I have
inserted her deduction in all its crudity.
She declares the trouble to be that the
American people are dishonest. Of course,
I cannot expect you to agree with any such
conclusion, and I must admit that the boldness
of the accusation is a shock to my
own sensibilities as a patriot. Of course,
Josephine is a woman and does not understand
much about politics and ways
and means, and it is notorious that women
jump at conclusions instead of approaching
them logically and in a dignified
manner. But it is also said that their
sudden conclusions are apt to be right.
Dishonest? Dear me, what a dreadful
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_378' name='Page_378' href='#Page_378'>378</a></span>
suggestion. I really think that she went
a little too far. And yet I am forced to
agree that appearances are very much
against us, and that if we hope to lead the
world in righteousness and progress we
must, to recur to political phraseology,
mend our moral fences. I do not indulge
in meteoric flights, like Josephine.
Let us argue the matter out soberly.
</p>

<p>
You and I, as men of the world, will
agree that if the American people prefer
or find it more serviceable to cherish bribery
as a federal institution, no one will
interfere. The fact that it is ethically
wrong is interesting to real philosophers
and to the clergy, but bribery will continue
to flourish like a bay-tree if it is the
sort of thing which the American people
like. Now, to all outward appearances
they find it, if not grateful and comforting,
at least endurable and convenient.
Certainly, except among the class of people
whom you would be apt to stigmatize
as "holier than thous," there is comparatively
little interest taken in the question.
The mass of the community seek refuge
behind the agreeable fiction that the
abuse doesn't exist or exists only in such
degree as to be unimportant. Many of
these people know that this is false, but
they will not admit that they think so in
order not to make such doings familiar,
just as their custom is to speak of legs as
lower limbs in order not to bring a blush
to the cheek of the young person. For
thorough-going hypocrisy—often unconscious,
but still hypocrisy—no one can
equal a certain kind of American. It is
so much easier in this world, where patting
on the back is the touch-stone of preferment
and popularity, to think that everything
is as serene as the surface indicates,
though you are secretly sure that it is
not. How much more convenient to be
able to say truthfully, "I have no knowledge
of the facts, so don't bother me,"
than to be constantly wagging the head
and entertaining doubts concerning the
purity of one's fellow-citizens, and so
making enemies.
</p>

<p>
As I have indicated earlier in this letter,
the ideal is dear to our patriotic sensibilities
that we are governed by average opinion,
and that the average is peculiarly high.
The fastidious citizen in this country has
been and still is fond of the taunt that men
of upright character and fine instincts—what
he calls gentlemen—will not enter
public life, for the reason that they will not
eat dirt. The reply has been that the real
bugaboo of the fastidious citizen is one of
manners, and that in the essentials of
character, in strong moral purpose and
solid worth, the average American voter is
the peer of any aristocracy. The issue
becomes really one of fact, and mere
solemn assertion will not serve as evidence
beyond a certain point. If the majority
prefer dishonesty, the power is in their
hands to perpetuate the system, but believing
as you and I do that the majority
at heart is honest, how are we to explain
the continued existence of the evil? How
as patriots shall we reconcile the perpetuation
in power of the low comedians, Peter
Lynch and Jeremiah Dolan, except on
the theory that it is the will of the majority
that they should continue to serve
the people? This is not a question of kid
gloves, swallow-tailed coats, and manners,
but an indictment reflecting on the moral
character and solid worth of the nation.
How are we to explain it? What are we
to say? Can we continue to declare that
we are the most honest and aspiring people
in the world and expect that portion of
the world which has any sense of humor
not to smile? Are we, who have been
accustomed to boast of our spotless integrity
as a people, ready to fall back on and
console ourselves with the boast, which
does duty nowadays on lenient lips, that
we are as honest as any of the nations of
Europe except, possibly, England? That
is an indirect form of patriotic negation
under the shadow of which low comedians
and leading villains could ply their trade
comparatively unmolested.
</p>

<p>
As a philosopher, who is not a real philosopher,
I find this charge of Josephine's
a difficult nut to crack, and I commend it
respectfully to your attention to mull over
at your leisure, trusting that it may temper
the effulgence of your thoughts on Independence
Day. Yet having had my
say as a philosopher, let me as an optimist,
willing to succor a fellow-optimist, add
a few considerations indicating that the
situation may not be so ultimately evil as
the existing state of affairs and Josephine
would have us believe. I write "may not
be," because I am not altogether confident
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_379' name='Page_379' href='#Page_379'>379</a></span>
that my intelligence is not being cajoled
by the natural cheeriness and buoyancy
of my disposition. The sole question at
issue is whether the majority of the American
people are really content to have the
money power of the country prey upon
and be the prey of the lowest moral sense
of the community.
</p>

<p>
We have before us an every-day spectacle
of eager aggregations of capital
putting aside scruples as visionary and impractical,
and hence "un-American," in
order to compass success, and at the other
side of the counter the so-called representatives
of the people, solemn in their
verbiage but susceptible to occult and disgraceful
influences. The two parties to
the intercourse are discreet and businesslike,
and there is little risk of tangible disclosure.
Practically aloof from them,
except for a few moments on election day,
stands the mass of American citizens busy
with their own money-getting or problem-solving,
and only too ready to believe that
their representatives are admirable. They
pause to vote as they pause to snatch a
sandwich at a railroad station. "Five
minutes for refreshments!" Five minutes
for political obligations! Individually there
are thousands of strictly honest and noble-hearted
men in the United States. Who
doubts it? The originality and strength of
the American character is being constantly
manifested in every field of life. But there
we speak of individuals; here we are concerned
with majorities and the question of
average morality and choice. For though
we have an aspiring and enlightened van
of citizens to point the way, you must
remember that emigration and natural
growth has given us tens of thousands of
ignorant, prejudiced, and sometimes unscrupulous
citizens, each of whose votes
counts one. Perhaps it is true—and here
is my grain of consolation or hope—that
the average voter is so easy-going, so long-suffering,
so indisposed to find fault, so
selfishly busy with his own affairs, so proud
of our institutions and himself, so afraid
of hurting other people's feelings, and so
generally indifferent as to public matters,
provided his own are serene, that he
chooses to wink at bribery if it be not in
plain view, and likes to deceive himself
into believing that there is nothing wrong.
The long and short of it seems to be that
the average American citizen is a good
fellow, and in his capacity of good fellow
cannot afford to be too critical and particular.
He leaves that to the reformer,
the literary man, the dude, the college
professor, the mugwump, the philosopher,
and other impractical and un-American
people. If so, what has become of that
heritage of his forefathers, the stern Puritan
conscience? Swept away in the great
wave of material progress which has centred
all his energies on what he calls success,
and given to the power of money a
luring importance which is apt to make
the scruples of the spirit seem unsubstantial
and bothersome. An easy-going,
trouble-detesting, self-absorbed democracy
between the buffers of rapacity and rascality.
</p>

<p>
A disagreeable conclusion for an optimist,
yet less gloomy than the other alternative.
This condition admits of cure,
for it suggests a torpid conscience rather
than deliberate acquiescence. It indicates
that the representatives are betraying the
people, and that there is room for hope
that the people eventually may rise in their
might and call them to account. If they
do, I beg as a philosopher with humorous
proclivities, to caution them against
seizing the wrong pig by the ear. Let
them fix the blame where it belongs, and
not hold the corporations and the money
power wholly responsible. It may be possible
in time to abolish trusts and cause
rich men sleepless nights in the crusading
name of populism, but that will avail little
unless at the same time they go to the real
root of the matter, and quicken the average
conscience and strengthen the moral purpose
of the plain people of the United
States. There will be leading villains and
low comedians so long as society permits,
and so long as the conscience of democracy
is torpid. The players in the drama
are, after all, only the people themselves.
Charles the First was beheaded because
he betrayed the liberties of the people.
Alas! there is no such remedy for a corrupt
democracy, for its heads are like those of
Hydra, and it would be itself both the
victim and the executioner.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_380' name='Page_380' href='#Page_380'>380</a></span>
</p>

<div class="headerbox">
<h2 class="boxed_header">
THE POINT OF VIEW
</h2>
</div>

<p class="sidenote">A Question of<br />
Accent.</p>

<p class="post">
<span class="dropcap">I</span>&nbsp;suppose there is no gainsaying the
authority of "general usage" in the matter
of English pronunciation—even
when that usage is etymologically wrong. If
there is one instinct in the Anglo-Saxon race
which is at once widespread and admirable, it is
surely our instinct to avoid even the
semblance of preciosity; the Prig is
justly our pet abhorrence. Maybe
some of us incline to carry this instinct a
thought too far; as, for instance, the educated
English lady who, when taken to task by an
American for saying <i>sónorous</i>, replied: "We
always say <i>sónorous</i>; of course we know well
enough that it really is <i>sonórous</i>, but it would
sound awfully priggish to say so in every-day
talk!" But she was an extreme example, and,
though I still persist in saying <i>sonórous</i>, I am
far from wishing to undo the long-done work
of that "general usage" which has given us
<i>bálcony</i> (for <i>balcóny</i>) and <i>anémone</i> (for <i>anemóne</i>).
About <i>paresis</i> I may be in some doubt,
for the word is so young in general use that
there may still be time to check the spread of
the illiterate <i>parésis</i>. The latter pronunciation
does not seem to me to have been consecrated
by sufficiently long usage to have won
indisputable authority; there may be a chance
for <i>páresis</i> yet!
</p>

<p>
There are, however, many words in our
language, derived from the Latin, on the accentuation
of which both authority and usage
are still divided; and I cannot think the time
past for etymology fairly having something to
say about these. Yet it seems to me that the
etymological rule for accenting such words,
as it is commonly set down, leaves a good
deal to be desired in point of logic. It is that
syllables which are long by derivation should
be accented, that those which are short should
not; and by it we get <i>compénsate</i>, <i>contémplate</i>,
etc.; but a large number of recognizedly educated
people say <i>cómpensate</i> and <i>cóntemplate</i>,
and also have the authority of some excellent
lexicographers therefore. What authority
there may be for throwing the accent upon
the penult in these words cannot yet be considered
as final.
</p>

<p>
A word which leads me to an explanation
of my idea is <i>elegiac</i>—which the Standard Dictionary
now gives as <i>elégiac</i> only, but which
used to be pronounced <i>elegíac</i> by most cultivated
English speakers. It is rather a scholarly
word, and I fancy most scholars to-day
still pronounce it <i>elegíac</i>; it seems to me that
there still hangs about <i>elégiac</i>, as Walker said
in his day, a "suspicion of illiteracy." But, if
<i>elegíac</i> is right, why is it right? The rule for
accenting syllables that are long by etymology
does not hold good here, for the <i>i</i> in <i>elegiācus</i>
is short, as it is also in the Greek <i>elegiakós</i>.
It seems to me so highly probable as to amount
almost to a certainty, that scholarly Englishmen
fell into the habit of saying <i>elegíac</i> simply
because they had already formed the habit
of saying <i>elegiācus</i>. They accented the <i>i</i> in
English because it was accented in Latin; and
in Latin it is accented, not because it is long
(which it is not), but because the <i>a</i> which follows
it is short. And, if English scholars said
<i>elegíac</i> from habit, may not the results of a similar
Latin habit be found in our pronunciation
of hosts of other English words of Latin origin?
</p>

<p>
The rule for accentuation I would propose
is this: "If the syllable which is penultimate
in the English word is accented in the Latin, it
should be accented in the English word also;
if, however, this syllable is unaccented in Latin,
the accent in the English word should fall
back upon the antepenult." Thus the penultimate
<i>i</i> in <i>elegiac</i> is accented because the
corresponding <i>i</i> is accented in <i>elegíacus</i>. An
old school-master of mine used to insist upon
our saying <i>Quirínal</i>, because the <i>i</i> was long;
I maintain that <i>Quírinal</i> is right, because
the second <i>i</i> in <i>Quirinālis</i> is unaccented.
This rule would give us <i>cóntemplate</i> and <i>cómpensate</i>
because the syllables <i>tem</i> and <i>pen</i> are
unaccented in <i>contemplātus</i> and <i>compensātus</i>
respectively. (It is of no avail to argue in
favor of <i>contémplate</i> that the <i>tem</i> is long, and
accented in <i>contémplo</i>; our English word is
derived from the Latin participle, not from the
first person singular of the present indicative.)
<i>Désiccate</i> would be right on the same principle,
and <i>desíccate</i>, wrong.
</p>

<p>
By this rule of mine we can preserve an
English pronunciation as nearly like the
original Latin as it is in the spirit of our language
to do; and, where authority and usage
are wellnigh equally divided, this seems to
me worth while.
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_381' name='Page_381' href='#Page_381'>381</a></span>
</p>

<div class="headerbox">
<h2 class="boxed_header">
THE FIELD OF ART
</h2>
</div>

<h3>
<i>THE USE AND ABUSE OF DECORATIVE
CONVENTIONS IN ARCHITECTURE</i>
</h3>

<p class="post">
<span class="dropcap">I</span>t is always more or less futile to quarrel
with the vernacular. Otherwise we should
take exception to the word <i>design</i> in the
sense of invention. The latter is the more
expressive term. In the language of those
nations from which modern art is derived,
<i><span lang="fr_FR">dessiner</span></i>, <i><span lang="it_IT">disegnare</span></i> mean to draw. Italian
authors of the Renaissance, in estimating an
artist's achievement, invariably weighed his
inventive faculties. Thus Vasari, in summarizing
Raphael's qualities, extols his "<i><span lang="it_IT">disegno,
colorito ed invenzione</span></i>"—his drawing, color,
and invention. An illustrator "invents" and
"draws;" for instance, "Giovanni Albertelli
<i>inv. e dis.</i>" Emphasis is here laid on the
word invention, and on its vogue in other
lands, both because it is very forceful, and
because it seems to imply something more
than "design." A plagiarist might venture
to risk the term "design" when he would
balk at "invention."
</p>

<p>
If we enter one of our patrician homes—palaces,
palazzi, or private hotels, they would
be called elsewhere—what do we find to exalt
the decorative artist, where the work has been
the sole product of the architect, and it may
be added of the patrician himself? Much
splendor there is, assuredly, and gold, and
rich carving, and sumptuous marble, and
opulent stuffs; even expatriated mantles and
whole rooms, kidnapped from the harmonious
surroundings where they were a perpetual
joy—imported to discord with our modern
alien habitats. Sometimes we happen on an
Italian Renaissance room without a spark of
the easy invention and graceful free-hand
work that was the charm of the original; but
more frequently we meet with debased Louis
XV. and Louis XVI., debased in the inspirationless
copy. The originals of these things
are very beautiful indeed, and will ever be the
immortal models for decorative artists. But
it must not for a moment be supposed by the
laity that in mechanically reproducing these
things we are inventing or adding an iota to
the art product of the world. Perhaps this
lack of invention can better be appreciated
when the bald statement is made that a well-equipped
decorator would not think it worth
his while to enter our buildings for the purpose
of studying fresh ideas; always excepting
those instances where the services of a
capable artist have been engaged, and the
few exceptions to every rule.
</p>

<p>
Archæology has taught its lesson of accuracy
in the arts. As we have already observed,
the tendency is to copy rather than to
assimilate. The reproductive processes have
overwhelmed the practitioner with an excess
of material, far more than can be digested.
We have acquired the photograph habit.
Could half the time be devoted to invention
that is given to the excavation from portfolios
of the desired prototypes, and to the formation
of collections, it would be better for art.
We have repeatedly anathematized the vast
aggregation of photographs so cheaply and
easily obtained. Were they to perish from
the earth, design would take a great leap forward—for
their abuse is almost inevitable.
The mere power of limning is compromised
by an over-reliance on them. Constant reference,
even to an original study from nature,
clogs the creative faculty, and hampers the
impatient hand, much more so, an alien reproduction.
Once a distinguished artist lost
all his preliminary studies for a picture when
his house was ransacked by the Prussians.
"I am glad of it," he said, "for now I feel
emancipated and can work with greater freedom."
It must always be borne in mind that
the best designs were made before the invention
of the reproductive processes, and the
exactions of precise archæology. It is safe
here to use the word "best," because the constant
copying of them is an admission of their
primacy. It must not be supposed that the
Renaissance man was more virtuous than we
are. Probably he was less so. He stole
things wherever he could lay his hands on
them. Fortunately, there was less to steal in
quality and quantity. Nor had he acquired
the lesson of accuracy. Even the engraver,
when he tried to counterfeit, let us say an
"Albert Dürer," did it rather clumsily. If
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_382' name='Page_382' href='#Page_382'>382</a></span>
an artist wished to reproduce another's work
for self-instruction, he rendered it very freely,
infusing a good deal of his own personality
into the copy, unconsciously, without doubt.
From our point of view this copy was pitiable
as an imitation. For his purpose, it was just
as good as the closer reproduction, even better.
Giuliano Sangallo's drawing from the
antique would make schoolboys merry, while
both they and their preceptors admire the
creations which these somewhat clumsy
sketches evoked. One of the fragments of
the lost "Battle of Anghiari," by Leonardo,
comes to us through the exuberant handling
of Rubens, the freest sort of a translation, as
were all his Italian notes. Raphael, painter-architect,
makes a pen and ink from the
"Three Graces at Sienna," after graduating
from the school of Perugino (we follow
Müntz). From the photographic standpoint
the humblest in a well-conducted antique
class could do better. But these men, and
hosts of others, <i>invented</i>—some painters,
some sculptors, some architects, perhaps the
two or three in one. Take, for instance, that
much used and very popular member, the
capital, a magnificent vehicle for decorative
expression. Observe Sangallo's in the Palazzo
Gondi, Stagio-Stagi's at Pisa, or those
in the Palazzo dei Pazzi. But why specify
these, when beautiful examples swarm in Bologna,
Ferrara, Urbino, and all over northern
Italy, full of lovely ideas and graceful in
contour, capitals evolved from the antique in
a general way, and quite equal to them for
pure beauty, and surpassing them in fancy?
We are prone to denounce the "barocco"
work. Eliminating for the nonce the question
of taste, let us glance at it from the
inventive point of view. We have seen
compositions by the much abused painter-architect,
Vasari, evidently turned out with
perfect facility, that would tax the creative
faculty of a modern almost to despair. The
Zuccari Brothers, Poccetti, and men of that
generation, at times did things in shocking
taste, but at times they composed very beautifully
and were always interesting, flinging
broadcast fresh ideas. We may not like a
frame, or an arm-chair by a barocco Brustolon,
yet we must admire his fluent design.
Thanks to passionless imitations, the uninitiated
are prone to associate nothing but dry
formality with such names as Vignola or
Palladio. Let them see the villas by these
architects in the neighborhood of Rome or
Vicenza, and they will soon be disabused of
any such impressions.
</p>

<p>
It is high time that the architect should declare
himself an artist by a display of the artistic
qualities, an important one being the invention
of ornamental motives. He should
differentiate himself from the engineer. But
as matters now stand, finding himself unable
to evolve fresh decorative forms either from
lack of time or faculty, he has recourse to his
library, and cribs or re-distributes decorative
conventions, more or less trite, according to
the date of the print or photograph, with the
well known result. These aids are also within
the reach of the engineer, or even the
"builder," pure and simple. With a very little
study, either might learn to handle them
adroitly. So that if the architect wishes to
occupy an impregnable position, he must fortify
it with artistic accomplishments.
</p>

<p>
That somewhat negative quality, jejune
good taste, a sparse use of the very well
known and approved decorative forms, has
its charm. It is a perfectly safe policy for an
architect to pursue. In the face of much
tawdry stuff, one craves it—the mere hungry
surface, relieved here and there by the authorized
classic motives. But this cold chasteness
is as much a moral as an artistic idea.
It means æsthetic sterility, petrified decoration.
A living art connotes invention. The
same is true of the dictum that a good copy
is better than a bad original. Perhaps it is;
but no artistic progress can be made under
such a tenet, and the beautiful prototype deteriorates
in reproduction, and loses the inspiration
in its frequency.
</p>

<p>
Be it understood that the question of decorative
instruction is not under discussion.
More tenaciously, perhaps, than others, we
hold that the student must know the historical
conventions, his grammar of ornament,
just as a writer must know his alphabet, not
in order to use them subsequently, but to
profit by their lessons. What concerns us
now is the golden mean between the use
and abuse of accredited conventions. Certain
simple decorative motives, such as dentils,
egg and darts, pearls, frets, etc., have become
part and parcel of our decorative conceptions.
They are valuable accessories, almost as essential
to artistic syntax as the unimportant,
yet necessary, conjunction is to rhetorical
syntax. In literary composition no objection
can be made to a timely quotation as an auxiliary
to the subject-matter, but very serious
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_383' name='Page_383' href='#Page_383'>383</a></span>
objection would be made were citations forced
to do the author's work vicariously. It is only
when architects make their conventions bear
the sole brunt of ornamentation and call it
"art" that complaint is made. Did we not
constitutionally object to the thoughtless use
of the superlative so much in vogue, especially
when æsthetic themes are under discussion,
we should say that in the use of classic conventions,
the discretion and taste of the della
Robbia were very nearly supreme. The
founder of the clan, Andrea, was, perhaps,
less influenced by the antique than any decorative
artist of his time; still he was influenced
by it, as every Italian of his date must
have been. Take one of his famous <i>tondi</i> as
an example. The expressional picture is in
the centre, architecturally framed as it should
be by a fillet or two, or an egg and dart, perhaps,
confining a decorative border of great
beauty, inspired by the fruits of the earth,
largely treated. Here we have a composition
firmly framed, well suited to structural needs,
sufficiently architectural, yet immensely interesting.
This is the very acme of decorative
excellence.
</p>

<p>
Archæology and chance have recently conferred
one benefit, not to mention others, for
which we must be truly grateful. They have
clearly demonstrated the inventive faculties
of the ancients. They have proved to us
that the architects and decorators of classic
times were always doing what artists will
ever do—the unexpected. Familiar with the
reproductions of certain consecrated monuments,
students have been too prone to believe
that the art of the Greeks and Romans
was highly conventionalized; that it moved
in very narrow and prescribed channels. The
rendering of these monuments in the authoritative
works has aggravated the belief. Actually,
the ancients worked with great freedom,
doing what we should never look for. Suppose
it had been required to "restore" a
Livia's villa, not knowing the original, would
it ever have entered the restorer's head to
paint a freehand landscape on its walls?
Suppose the task was to make a patera <i><span lang="fr_FR">à l'antique</span></i>,
would it ever have occurred to the designer
to plant a portrait head in its centre
with a meagre line or two about it? Yet
just such a patera was found at Bosco Reale
a few years since. The problem being to
build a Roman arch, who would ever have
dreamed of constructing such an one as we
find at Timgad, dedicated to Trajan, with its
lateral bays crowned by curved pediments?
It is very well known in these days that the
ancient Greeks and Romans were creative
artists, whether they diademed an Acropolis,
or carved the throne of a Zeus, or "hit off"
a Tanagra figurine, or colored a Palatine
wall, or a Pompeiian villino—not to mention
the myriad household utensils, some the most
humble, exquisitely designed. In plain English—they
invented.
</p>

<p>
The failure of the architect as a decorative
designer is a logical sequence of commercialism.
It is not to be expected that the breadwinner
should make superfluous sacrifices—that
would be "bad business." While in
every profession there are philanthropic enthusiasts
capable of high and costly flights of
altruism, the rank and file cannot be called
upon to immolate themselves to an unremunerative
idea. One must live, and live well,
too, in these days. Taking his long and expensive
training into consideration, and his
multifarious requirements, it may be boldly
asserted that few, if any, of the professions
are so poorly paid as that of the architect.
He is not bedecked with the trappings of
wealth. His range of theoretical knowledge
must be wide, and his practical experience
very considerable. Probably no class of men
is more roundly abused for its pains. The
client has usually a pack of complaints
against his architect, and makes it a point to
air them. On several occasions we have
heard men, high in their respective callings,
irritably denounce, on the flimsiest grounds,
all architects as "frauds." It is needless to
say that our sympathies have invariably been
with the latter, for, as a profession, we believe
them to be high-minded, cultivated,
conscientious, and efficient. The reason that
they are not decorative designers is because
they are not paid for original design. Yet,
with all their diversified requirements in
these days of novel and necessarily tentative
construction, they would quickly acquire the
lost habit, if it were worth their while. Yes,
the habit is lost, has perished of inanition,
temporarily, at least. The client does not
want original design at the price exacted.
He is not a Mæcenas; he prefers the mechanical
reproduction of stale forms at a
lower figure, <i>i.e.</i>, the shopworn conventional.
Moreover, he is rather inclined to
the habitual as being safer. Under these
conditions, fresh thoughts cannot be looked
for. Even those men whose lives are devoted
<span class='pagenum'><a id='Page_384' name='Page_384' href='#Page_384'>384</a></span>
to architectural decoration alone, the
decorative painters and sculptors, are frequently
forced by the client to use the wearisome
ornaments of the past, much to their
chagrin, because fresh thought is too expensive.
Not much objection seems to be made
to a lavish outlay on mere barbaric material,
but a vigorous stand is taken against an outlay
on artistic invention. What is the result?
Unable to evolve fresh motives, the architect,
perforce, turns to his portfolios and copies.
He must have ornament, for ornament is
part and parcel of his profession as well as
solid construction and harmonious proportion.
Therefore, he purloins it. There is no
sin in it, for it is done overtly and no one is
deceived. Any man in the other professions
would do likewise under similar conditions.
It would be reprehensible if he did not. Only
this road does not lead to new ideas—to a
new style. Artistic invention cannot thrive
under such conditions.
</p>

<p class="signature">
F. C.
</p>

<p class="post p2">
<span class="dropcap">I</span>t is not many years since a wealthy New
Yorker, a man who employs builders a
good deal, and architects somewhat, objected
to arguments and appeals similar to
those printed above, by demonstrating that
a good old building was certainly fine, whereas
a proposed new building only ran small
chance of being fine, and that it followed
(for so it seemed to him)—it followed that it
was wiser for an architect to copy the old
building rather than to try to design a fresh
one. This was a <i><span lang="fr_FR">fin-de-siècle</span></i> idea, indeed!
Surely, the decadence can hardly go farther
than to embody itself in a declaration that it
was less troublesome and more satisfactory
to take your designs ready-made from fine
old things of the past! The rich New Yorker
in question was, undoubtedly, quoting his favorite
architectural practitioner; but that same
practitioner would hardly have been willing
to have said as much among artists. Assuredly
he would never have stood up at a
meeting of artists and have declared his
gospel in any such terms.
</p>

<p>
The difficulty in the way of expense may
be thought by some not so great as Mr.
Crowninshield has made it. When the present
writer was a pupil in an architect's office,
the head man, the designer, the real maker
of the drawings, a workman prolific and able
in his way, allowed this confidence to escape
him—"Yes, I used to think I would
get a mountain of tracing-paper and trace
everything [photographs were not so cheap
in those days]—and then I would never
be out of material! But I found by and
by that it was too much trouble to find
what I wanted; it is really much easier to
design it; what you want, is a knowledge of
the style, and what may be done, and what
cannot be done; and there you are! Besides
the time lost in finding your 'material'
you lose another infinite lot of time in
fitting the material together—and <i>then</i> it
does not fit!" That is as true now as it was
a good many years ago. The only reason
why a modern designer finds it easier to copy
than to invent is that he is not really familiar
with the style, nor really in the habit of designing
in it. He is not really familiar with the
style, because he has accustomed himself to
go straight to books where all his details are
to be found complete, and with their relative
dimensions figured, and to copy them. He
is not in the habit of designing in the style
(whatever it may be), because, again, he has
done nothing for years but patch together
copied details. He is not in the habit of inventing,
because, as Mr. Crowninshield has
shown, he has too much else to do and too
much else to think of; and because invention
is not required of him by his clients, nor
even delicate, choice, and careful treating of
what he has chosen, nor even seemly combination
of what he has chosen into new resulting
wholes. If he really knew his style
so that he felt at home in it—so that he felt
it to be plastic in his hands; so that he dared
play with it and alter its details in absolute
conviction that he would not abandon its essential
characteristics in so doing—then he
would find it easier to invent than to copy,
provided always he had the habit of freehand
drawing and of simple modelling, and the
habit of using either or both of those familiar
arts for the ornamentation of objects large
and small.
</p>

<p class="signature">
R. S.
</p>








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