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Title: Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Vol. XVI., December, 1880.

Author: Various

Release date: June 24, 2005 [eBook #16124]
                Most recently updated: December 11, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE OF POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE, VOL. XVI., DECEMBER, 1880. ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Janet Blenkinship and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by J.B.
LIPPINCOTT & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington.


LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE

OF

_POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE_.

DECEMBER, 1880.




AN HISTORICAL ROCKY-MOUNTAIN OUTPOST.

[Illustration: GOING TO THE JUDGE'S.]


The day might have graced the month of June, so balmy was the air, so
warmly shone the sun from a cloudless sky. But the snow-covered
mountain-range whose base we were skirting, the leafless cottonwoods
fringing the Fontaine qui Bouille and the sombre plains that stretched
away to the eastern horizon told a different story. It was on one of
those days elsewhere so rare, but so common in Colorado, when a summer
sky smiles upon a wintry landscape, that we entered a town in whose
history are to be found greater contrasts than even those afforded by
earth and sky. Today Pueblo is a thriving and aggressive city, peopled
with its quota of that great pioneer army which is carrying civilization
over the length and breadth of our land. Three hundred and forty years
ago, as legend hath it, Coronado here stopped his northward march, and
on the spot where Pueblo now stands established the farthermost outpost
of New Spain.

The average traveller who journeys westward from the Missouri River
imagines that he is coming to a new country. "The New West" is a
favorite term with the agents of land--companies and the writers of
alluring railway-guides. These enterprising advocates sometimes indulge
in flights of rhetoric that scorn the trammels of grammar and
dictionary. Witness the following impassioned utterances concerning the
lands of a certain Western railroad: "They comprise a section of country
whose possibilities are simply _infinitesimal_, and whose developments
will be revealed in glorious realization through the horoscope of the
near future." This verbal architect builded wiser than he knew, for what
more fitting word could the imagination suggest wherewith to crown the
possibilities of alkali wastes and barren, sun-scorched plains?

A considerable part of the New West of to-day was explored by the
Spaniards more than three centuries ago. Before the English had landed
at Plymouth Rock or made a settlement at Jamestown they had penetrated
to the Rocky Mountains and given to peak and river their characteristic
names. Southern Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona have been the theatres
wherein were enacted deeds of daring and bravery perhaps unsurpassed by
any people and any age; and that, too, centuries before they became a
part of our American Union. The whole country is strewn over with the
ruins of a civilization in comparison with which our own of to-day seems
feeble. And he who journeys across the Plains till he reaches the Sangre
del Cristo Mountains or the blue Sierra Mojadas enters a land made
famous by the exploits of Coronado, De Vaca and perhaps of the great
Montezuma himself.

In the year 1540, Francisco Vasquez de Coronado was sent by the Spanish
viceroy of Mexico to explore the regions to the north. Those
mountain-peaks, dim and shadowy in the distance and seeming to recede as
they were approached, had ever been an alluring sight to the
gold-seeking Spaniards. But the coveted treasure did not reveal itself
to their cursory search; and though they doubtless pushed as far north
as the Arkansas River, they returned to the capital from what they
considered an unsuccessful expedition. The way was opened, however, and
in 1595 the Spaniards came to what is now the Territory of New Mexico
and founded the city of Santa Fé. They had found, for the most part, a
settled country, the inhabitants living in densely-populated villages,
or _pueblos_, and evincing a rather high degree of civilization. Their
dwellings of mud bricks, or _adobes_, were all built upon a single plan,
and consisted of a square or rectangular fort-like structure enclosing
an open space. Herds of sheep and goats grazed upon the hillsides, while
the bottom-lands were planted with corn and barley. Thus lived and
flourished the Pueblo Indians, a race the origin of which lies in
obscurity, but connected with which are many legends of absorbing
interest. All their traditions point to Montezuma as the founder and
leader of their race, and likewise to their descent from the Aztecs. But
their glory departed with the coming of Cortez, and their Spanish
conquerors treated them as an inferior race. Revolting against their
oppressors in 1680, they were reconquered thirteen years later, though
subsequently allowed greater liberty. By the treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo
in 1848 they became citizens of the United States. From one extreme of
government to another has drifted this remnant of a stately race, till
now at last it finds itself safely sheltered in the arms of our great
republic.

Such is the romantic history of a portion of our so-called "New West;"
but it was with a view of ascertaining some facts concerning occurrences
of more recent date, as well as of seeing some of the actors therein,
that we paid a visit to Pueblo. We found it a rather odd mixture of the
old and the new, the adobe and the "dug-out" looking across the street
upon the imposing structure of brick or the often gaudily-painted frame
cottage. It looked as though it might have been indulging in a Rip Van
Winkle sleep, except that the duration might have been a century or two.
High _mesas_ with gracefully rounded and convoluted sides almost
entirely surround it, and rising above their floor-like tops, and in
fine contrast with their sombre brown tints, appear the blue outlines of
the distant mountains. Pike's Peak, fifty miles to the north, and the
Spanish Peaks, the Wawatoyas, ninety to the south, are sublime objects
of which the eye never grows weary; while the Sierra Mojadas bank up the
western horizon with a frowning mountain-wall. A notch in the distant
range, forty miles to the north-west, indicates the place where the
Arkansas River breaks through the barriers that would impede its seaward
course, forming perhaps the grandest cañon to be found in all this
mighty mountain-wilderness. Truly a striking picture was that on which
Coronado and his mail-clad warriors gazed.

[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF PUEBLO, COLORADO, LOOKING
NORTH-WEST--PIKE'S PEAK IN THE DISTANCE.]

A motley throng compose the inhabitants of Pueblo. The dark-hued
Mexican, his round face shaded by the inevitable _sombrero_, figures
conspicuously. But if you value his favor and your future peace of mind
have a care how you allude to his nationality. He is a Spaniard, you
should know--a pure Castilian whose ancestor was some old hidalgo with
as long an array of names and titles as has the Czar of All the Russias
himself. Though he now lives in a forsaken-looking adobe hut with dirt
floor and roof of sticks and turf that serves only to defile the
raindrops that trickle through its many gaps--though his sallow wife
and ill-favored children huddle round him or cook the scanty meal upon
the mud oven in a corner of the room--he is yet a Spaniard, and glories
in it. The tall, raw-boned man, straight as a young cottonwood, whose
long black hair floats out from beneath his hat as he rides into town
from his ranch down the river, may be a half-breed who has figured in a
score of Indian fights, and enjoys the proud distinction of having
killed his man. There is the hungry-looking prospector, waiting with
ill-disguised impatience till he can "cross the Range" and follow again,
as he has done year after year, the exciting chase after the
ever-receding mirage--the visions of fabulous wealth always going to be,
but never quite, attained. The time-honored symbol of Hope must, we
think, give place to a more forcible representation furnished by the
peculiar genius of our times; for is not our modern Rocky-Mountain
prospector the complete embodiment of that sublime grace? His is a hope
that even reverses the proverb, for no amount of deferring is able to
make him heartsick, but rather seems to spur him on to more earnest
endeavor. Has he toiled the summer long, endured every privation,
encountered inconceivable perils, only to find himself at its close
poorer than when he began? Reluctantly he leaves the mountain-side where
the drifting snows have begun to gather, but seemingly as light-hearted
as when he came, for his unshaken hope bridges the winter and feeds upon
the limitless possibilities of the future. Full of wonderful stories are
these same hope-sustained prospectors--tales that are bright with the
glitter of silver and gold. Not a single one of them who has not
discovered "leads" of wonderful richness or "placers" where the sands
were yellow with gold; but by some mischance the prize always slipped
out of his grasp, and left him poor in all but hope. And in truth so
fascinating becomes the occupation that men who in other respects seem
cool and phlegmatic will desert an almost assured success to join the
horde rushing toward some unexplored district, impelled by the
ever-flying rumors of untold wealth just brought to light. The golden
goal this season is the great Gunnison Country; and soon trains of
_burros_, packed with pick and shovel, tent and provisions, will be
climbing the Range.

Pueblo has likewise its business-men, its men of to-day, who manage its
banks, who buy and sell and get gain as they might do in any
well-ordered city, though, truth to tell, there are very few of them who
do not sooner or later catch the prevailing infection--a part of whose
assets is not represented by some "prospect" away up in the mountains or
frisking about the Plains in herds of cattle and sheep. But perhaps the
most curiously-original character in all the town is Judge Allen A.
Bradford, of whose wonderful memory the following good story is told:
Years ago he, with a party of officers, was at the house of Colonel
Boone, down the river. While engaged in playing "pitch-trump," of which
the judge was very fond--and in fact the only game of cards with which
he was acquainted--a messenger rushed in announcing that a lady had
fallen from her horse and was doubtless much injured. The players left
their cards and ran to render assistance, and the game thus broken up
was not resumed. Some two years later the same parties found themselves
together again, and "pitch-trump" was proposed. To the astonishment of
all, the judge informed them how the score stood when they had so
hurriedly left the game, and with the utmost gravity insisted that it be
continued from that point!

On a bright sunny morning we sought out the judge's office, only to
learn that he had not yet for the day exchanged the pleasures of rural
life across the Fontaine for less romantic devotions at the shrine of
the stern goddess. Later we were informed, upon what seemed credible
authority, that upon the morning in question he was intending to sow
oats. Though cold March still claimed the calendar, and hence such
action on the part of the judge might seem like forcing the season, yet
reflections upon his advanced years caused us to suppress the rising
thought that perhaps some allusions to _wild_ oats might have been
intended. Hence we looked forward to a rare treat--judicial dignity
unbending itself in pastoral pursuits, as in the case of some Roman
magistrate. "A little better'n a mile" was the answer to our
interrogatory as to how far the judge's ranch might be from town; but
having upon many former occasions taken the dimensions of a Colorado
mile, we declined the suggestion to walk and sought some mode of
conveyance. There chanced to be one right at hand, standing patiently by
the wayside and presided over by an ancient colored gentleman. The coach
had been a fine one in its day, but that was long since past, and now
its dashboard, bent out at an angle of forty-five degrees, the faded
trimmings and the rusty, stately occupant of the box formed a complete
and harmonious picture of past grandeur seldom seen in the Far West. Two
dubious-looking bronchos, a bay and a white, completed this unique
equipage, in which we climbed the _mesa_ and then descended into the
valley of the Fontaine. The sable driver was disposed to be
communicative, and ventured various opinions upon current topics. He had
been through the war, and came West fourteen years ago.

"You have had quite an adventurous life," we remarked.

"Why, sah," he returned, "if the history ob my life was wrote up it
would be wuth ten thousand dollars."

While regarding the valuation as somewhat high, we yet regretted our
inability to profit by this unexpected though promising
business-opportunity, and soon our attention was diverted by a glimpse
of the judge's adobe, and that person himself standing by his carriage
and awaiting our by no means rapid approach. He was about to go to town,
and the oats were being sown by an individual of the same nationality as
our driver, to whom the latter addressed such encouraging remarks as
"Git right 'long dere now and sow dat oats. Don't stand roostin' on de
fence all day, like as you had the consumshing. You look powerful weak.
Guess mebbe I'd better come over dere and show you how."

[Illustration: THE JUDGE.]

Judge Bradford's career has been a chequered one, and it has fallen to
his lot to dispense justice in places and under circumstances as
various as could well be imagined. Born in Maine in 1815, he has lived
successively in Missouri, Iowa, Nebraska and Colorado, and held almost
every position open to the profession of the law. From the supreme
bench of Colorado he was twice called to represent the Territory as
delegate to Congress. In 1852, when he was judge of the Sixth Judicial
District of Iowa, his eccentricities of character seem to have reached
their full development. He exhibited that supreme disregard for dress
and the various social amenities which not infrequently betray the
superior mind. Never were his clothes known to fit, being invariably
too large or too small, too short or too long. As to his hair, the
external evidences were of a character to disprove the rumor that he
had a brush and comb, while the stubby beard frequently remained
undisturbed upon the judicial chin for several weeks at a time. The
atrocious story is even told that once upon a time, when half shaven,
he chanced to pick up a newspaper, became absorbed in its contents,
forgot to complete his task, and went to court in this most absurdly
unsymmetrical condition. But, despite these personal eccentricities, a
more honest or capable judge has rarely been called upon to vindicate
the majesty of the law. Upon the bench none could detect a flaw in his
assumption of that dignity so intimately associated in all minds with
the judiciary, but, the ermine once laid aside for the day, he was as
jolly and mirthful as any of his frontier companions. Judge Bradford
was no advocate, but by the action of a phenomenal memory his large
head was stored so full of law as to emphasize, to those who knew him,
the curious disproportion between its size and that of his legs and
feet. These latter were of such peculiarly modest dimensions as to call
to mind Goldsmith's well-known lines, though in this case we must, of
necessity, picture admiring frontiersmen standing round while

                   Still the wonder grew
    That two small feet could carry all he knew.

The judge's mind is of the encyclopædical type, and facts and dates are
his especial "strong holt." But his countenance fails to ratify the
inward structure when, pausing from a recital, he gazes upon your
reception of the knowledge conveyed with a kindly smile--a most innocent
smile that acts as a strong disposer to belief. Whether it has been a
simple tale of the early days enlivened with recollections of
pitch-trump and other social joys, or whether the performances of savage
Indians and treacherous half-breeds send a chill through the listener,
it is all the same: at its close the judge's amiable features wear the
same belief-compelling smile. Under its influence we sit for hours while
our entertainer ranges through the stores of his memory, pulling out
much that is dust-covered and ancient, but quickly renovated for our use
by his ready imagination and occasional wit. With a feeling akin to
reverence we listen--a reverence due to one who had turned his face
toward the Rocky Mountains before Colorado had a name, who had made the
perilous journey across the great Plains behind a bull-team, and who
has since been associated with everything concerned in the welfare and
progress of what has now become this great Centennial State, toward
which all eyes are turning. Not without its dark days to him has passed
this pioneer life, and none were more filled with discouragement than
those during which he represented the Territory in Congress. He
describes the position as one of peculiar difficulty--on one hand the
clamors of a people for aid and recognition in their rapid development
of the country, while on the other, to meet them, he found himself a
mere beggar at the doors of Congressional mercy and grace, voteless and
hence powerless. Truly, in the light of his experience, the office of
Territorial delegate is no sinecure.

No one has more closely observed the course of events in the Far West
than Judge Bradford, and his opinions on some disputed points are very
decided and equally clear. Many have wondered that Pueblo, which had the
advantage of first settlement, had long been a rendezvous of trappers
and frontier traders, and lay upon the only road to the then so-called
Pike's Peak mines, that _viâ_ the Arkansas Cañon--that this outpost,
situated thus at the very gateway of the Far West, should have remained
comparatively unimportant, while Denver grew with such astonishing
rapidity. But, in the judge's opinion, it was the war of the rebellion
that turned the scale in favor of the Queen City. The first emigrants
had come through Missouri and up the Arkansas, their natural route, and
as naturally conducting to Pueblo. But when Missouri and South-eastern
Kansas became the scenes of guerrilla warfare the emigrant who would
safely convey himself and family across the prairies must seek a more
northern parallel. Hence, Pueblo received a check from which it is only
now recovering, and Denver an impetus whose ultimate limits no man can
foresee.

Many strange things were done in the olden time. When the Plains Indians
had gathered together their forces for the purpose of persistently
harassing the settlement, the Mountain Utes, then the allies of the
whites, offered their services to help repel the common enemy. Petitions
went up to the governor and Legislature to accept the proffered
services, but they were steadily refused. Our long-headed judge gives
the reason: The administration was under the control of men who were
feeding Uncle Sam's troops with corn at thirteen cents per pound, and
other staples in proportion, and the Indian volunteers promised a too
speedy ending of such a profitable warfare.

Thus eventfully has passed the life of Judge Bradford. During his
threescore-and-five years he has moved almost across a continent, never
content unless he was on the frontier. Long may he live to ride in his
light coverless wagon in the smile of bright Colorado sunshine, honored
by all who know him, and affording his friends the enjoyment of his rare
good presence!

[Illustration: OLD ADOBE FORT.]

Thirty years ago this whole Rocky-Mountain region, now appropriated by
an enterprising and progressive people, contained, besides the native
Indians and the Mexicans in the south, only a few trappers and frontier
traders, most of them in the employ of the American Fur Company. These
were the fearless and intrepid pioneers who so far from fleeing danger
seemed rather to court it. Accounts of their adventures--now a struggle
with a wounded bear, again the threatened perils of starvation when lost
in some mountain-fastness--have long simultaneously terrified and
fascinated both young and old. We all have pictured their dress--the
coat or cloak, often an odd combination of several varieties of skins
pieced together, with fur side in; breeches sometimes of the same
material, but oftener of coarse duck or corduroy; and the slouched hat,
under whose broad brim whatever of the face that was not concealed by a
shaggy, unkempt beard shone out red from exposure to sun and weather.
The American Fur Company had dotted the country with forts, which served
the double purpose of storehouses for the valuables collected and of
places where the employés could barricade themselves against the
too-often troublesome savages. For such a purpose, though not actually
by the Fur Company, was built the old adobe fort the ruins of which are
still to be seen on the banks of the Arkansas at Pueblo. How old it may
have been no one seems to know, but certain it is that for long years,
and in the earliest times, it was a favorite rendezvous. Here was
always to be found a jolly good party to pass away the long winter
evenings with song and story. Here Kit Carson often stopped to rest from
his many perilous expeditions, enjoying, together with Fremont and other
noted Rocky-Mountain explorers, the hospitalities of the old fort. Many
times were its soft walls indented by the arrows of besieging Indians,
but its bloodiest tragedy was enacted in 1854, when the Utes surprised
the sleeping company and savagely massacred all.

While these events were transpiring at the old fort a party of Mexicans
had journeyed from the south, crossed the Arkansas River and formed a
settlement on the east side of the Fontaine. A characteristically
squalid and miserable place it was, with the dwellings--they scarce
deserved the name of houses--built in the side of the bluffs very much
as animals might burrow in the ground. Part dug-out and part adobe were
those wretched habitations, and the shed-like parts which projected from
the hill were composed of all conceivable and inconceivable kinds of
rubbish. Sticks, stones, bits of old iron, worn-out mattings and
gunny-sacks entered more or less into the construction of these dens,
all stuck together with the inevitable adobe mud. The settlement
extended some distance along the side of the bluff, and the sloping
plain in front was dignified as the _plaza_. Perhaps the dark-hued
immigrants expected a large town to spring from these unpromising
beginnings, and their plaza to take on eventually all the importance
which a place so named ever deserves in the Spanish and Mexican mind.
But the Pike's Peak excitement, originating in 1852 with the finding of
gold by a party of Cherokee Indians, and reaching its culmination in
1859, brought a far different class of people to our Rocky-Mountain
outpost, and a civilization was inaugurated which speedily compelled the
ancient Mexican methods to go by the board. Thus, Fontaine was soon
absorbed by the rising town of Pueblo, though the ancient dug-outs still
picturesquely dot the hillside, inhabited by much the same idle and
vagabond class from which the prosperous ranchman soon learns to guard
his hen-roost.

The growth of any of our Far Western towns presents a curious study. In
these latter days it frequently requires but a few months, or even
weeks, to give some new one a fair start upon its prosperous way.
Sometimes a mineral vein, sometimes the temporary "end of the track" of
a lengthening railway, forms the nucleus, and around it are first seen
the tents of the advance-guard. Before many weeks have elapsed some
enterprising individual has succeeded, in the face of infinite toil and
expense, in bringing a sawmill into camp. Soon it is buzzing away on the
neighboring hillside, and the rough pine boards and slabs are growing
into houses of all curious sizes and shapes, irregularly lining the main
street. Delightfully free from conventionality are matters in these new
towns. Former notions of things go for naught. Values are in a
highly-disturbed state, and you will probably be charged more for the
privilege of sleeping somewhere on the floor than for all the refined
elegancies of the Fifth Avenue. The board-walks along the street, where
they exist at all, plainly typify this absence of a well-defined dead
level or zero-point in the popular sentiment; for the various sections
are built each upon the same eccentric plan that obtains in the
corresponding house. The result is an irregular succession of steps
equally irregular, with enough literal jumping-off places to relieve any
possible monotony attending the promenade. If the growth of the town
seems to continue satisfactory, its houses--at least those in or near
its central portions--begin gradually to pass through the next stage in
their development. During this interesting period, which might be called
their chrysalid state, they are twisted and turned, sometimes sawn
asunder, parts lopped off here and applied elsewhere, and all those
radical changes made which would utterly destroy anything possessed of
protean possibilities inferior to those of the common Western frame
house. But, as a final result of this treatment and some small additions
of new material, at last emerges the shapely and often artistic
cottage, resplendent in paint, and bearing small resemblance to the
slab-built barn which forms its framework. If the sometime camp becomes
a city--if Auraria grows into a Denver and Fontaine develops into
Pueblo--the frame houses will sooner or later share a common fate, that
of being mounted on wheels or rollers for a journey suburbward, to make
room for the substantial blocks of brick or stone. By this curious
process of evolution do most of our Western towns rapidly acquire more
or less of a metropolitan appearance.

[Illustration: MEXICAN INTERIOR.]

Pueblo, while not a representative Western town in these respects, yet
in its early days presented some curious combinations, most of them
growing out of the heterogeneous human mixture that attempted to form a
settlement. The famous Green-Russell party, on its way from Georgia to
the Pike's Peak country, had passed through Missouri and Kansas in 1858,
and there found an element ripe for any daring and adventurous deeds in
unknown lands. Many of the border desperadoes, then engaged in that
hard-fought prelude to the civil war, found it desirable and expedient
to leave a place where their violent deeds became too well known; and
these, together with others who hoped to find in a new country relief
from the anarchy which reigned at home, fell into the wake of the
pioneers. Pueblo received its full share of Kansas outlaws about this
time, and, what with those it already contained, even a modicum of peace
seemed out of the question. Here, for instance, was found living with
the Mexicans by the plaza a quarrelsome fellow named Juan Trujillo,
better known by the sobriquet of Juan Chiquito or "Little John," which
his diminutive stature had earned for him. This worthy is represented as
a constant disturber of the peace, and he met the tragic fate which his
reckless life had invited. From being a trusted friend he had incurred
the enmitv of a noted character named Charley Antobees, than whom,
perhaps, no one has had a more varied frontier experience. Coming to the
Rocky Mountains in 1836 in the employ of the American Fur Company, he
has since served as hunter, trapper, Indian-fighter, guide to several
United States exploring expeditions, and spy in the Mexican war as well
as in the war of the rebellion. Antobees still lives on the outskirts of
Pueblo, and his scarred and bronzed face, framed by flowing locks of
jet-black hair, is familiar to all. The frame that has endured so much
is now bent, and health is at last broken, and about a year since an
effort was made by Judge Bradford and others to secure him a pension.
But twenty years back he was in his full vigor and able to maintain his
own against all odds. Whether or not it is true we cannot say, but
certain it is that he is credited with causing the death of Juan
Chiquito. An Indian called "Chickey" actually did the deed, lying in
ambush for his victim. Perhaps few were sorry at the Mexican's sudden
taking off, and in a country where Judge Lynch alone executes the laws
the whole transaction was no doubt regarded as eminently proper.

Among those who came to Pueblo with the influx of 1858 were two brothers
from Ohio, Josiah and Stephen Smith. Stalwart young men were these, of a
different type from the Kansans and Missourians, yet not of the sort to
be imposed upon. They were crack rifle-shots, and even then held decided
opinions on the Indian question--opinions which subsequent experiences
have served to emphasize, but not change. And what with constant
troubles with the savages, as well as with the scarcely less intractable
Kansans, their first years in the Far West could not be called
altogether pleasant. Many a time have their lives been in danger from
bands of outlaw immigrants, who, dissatisfied with not finding gold
lying about as they had expected, sought to revenge themselves upon the
settlers, whom they considered in fault for having led the way. Their
personal bravery went far toward bringing to a close this reign of
terror and transforming the lawless settlement into a permanent and
prosperous town. Still in the prime of life, they look back with
pleasure over their most hazardous experiences, for time has softened
the dangers and cast over them the glow of romance. And while none are
more familiar with everything concerning the early history of Pueblo, it
is equally true that none are more ready to gratify an appreciative
listener, and the writer is indebted for much that follows to their
inimitable recitals.

About the first work of any note undertaken in connection with the new
town was the building of a bridge across the Arkansas. This was
accomplished in 1860, when a charter was obtained from Kansas and a
structure of six spans thrown across the river. It was a toll-bridge,
and every crossing team put at least one dollar into the pockets of its
owners. But trouble soon overtook the management. While one of the
proprietors was in New Mexico, building a mill for Maxwell upon his
famous estate, the other was so unfortunate as to kill three men, and
was obliged, as Steph Smith felicitously expressed it, to "skip out."
Thus the bridge passed into other hands, where it remained till it was
partly washed away in 1863. The following little matter of history
connected with its palmy days will be best given in the narrator's own
words: "We had a blacksmith who misused his wife. The citizens took him
down to the bridge, tied a rope around his body and threw him into the
river. They kept up their lick until they nearly drowned the poor cuss,
then whispered to him to be good to his wife or his time would be short.
He took the hint, used his wife well, and everything was lovely. That
was the first cold-water cure in Pueblo, and I ain't sure but the last."
This incident serves to illustrate the inherent character of American
gallantry, for, however wild or in most respects uncivilized men may
appear to become under the influence of frontier life, instances are
rare in which women are not treated with all the honor and respect due
them. Indeed, I have sometimes thought that the general sentiment
concerning woman is more refined and reverential among the bronzed
pioneers at the outposts than under the influence of a higher
civilization.

The Arkansas, ever changing its winding course after the manner of
prairie-rivers, has long since shifted its bed some distance to the
south, leaving only a portion of the old bridge to span what in high
water becomes an arm of the river, but which ordinarily serves to convey
the water from a neighboring mill. We lean upon its guard-rail while
fancy is busy with the past. We picture the prairie-schooners winding
around the mesas and through the gap: soon they have come to the grove
by the river-bank; the horses are picketed and the camp-fire is blazing;
brown children play in the sand while their parents lie stretched out in
the shadow of the wagons. They left civilization on the banks of the
Missouri more than a month ago, and their eyes are still turned toward
those grand old mountain-ranges in the west over which the declining sun
is now pouring its transfiguring sheen. The brightness dazzles the eyes,
and the Mexican who rides by on a scarce manageable broncho with nose
high in air might be old Juan Chiquito bent upon some murderous errand.
But no: the rider has stopped the animal, and is soliciting the peaceful
offices of a blacksmith, whose curious little shop, bearing the
suggestive name of "Ute," is seen near the bridge. Here bronchos, mules
and burros are fitted with massive shoes by this frontier Vulcan and
sent rejoicing upon their winding and rocky ways. Our sleepy gaze
follows along Santa Fé Avenue, and the eye sees little that is
suggestive of a modern Western town. But soon comes noisily along a
one-horse street-car, which asserts its just claims to popular notice in
consequence of its composing a full half of a system scarce a fortnight
old by filling the air with direful screeches as each curve is
laboriously described. And later, when the magnificent overland train,
twenty-six hours from Kansas City, steams proudly up to the station,
fancy can no longer be indulged. The old has become new. The great
Plains have been bridged, and the outposts of but a decade ago become
the suburbs of to-day.

[Illustration: OLD BRIDGE.]

Doubtless Old Si Smith now and then indulges in reveries somewhat
similar, but his retrospections would be of a minute and personal
character. To warm up the average frontiersman, however--and Old Si is
no exception--into a style at once luminous and emphatic and embellished
with all the richness of the border dialect, it is only necessary to
suggest the Indian topic. However phlegmatically he may reel off his
yarns, glowing though they be with exciting adventure, it is the
red-skins that cause his eyes to flash and his rhetoric to become fervid
and impressive. To him the Indian is the embodiment of all that is
supremely vile, and hence merits his unmitigated hatred. Killing
Indians is his most delightful occupation, and the next in order is
talking about it. His contempt for government methods is unbounded, and
the popular Eastern sentiment he holds in almost equal esteem. The Smith
brothers have had a varied experience in frontier affairs, in which the
Indian has played a prominent part. They hold the Western views, but
with less prejudice than is generally found. They argue the case with a
degree of fairness, and many of their opinions and deductions are novel
and equally just. Said Stephen Smith to the writer: "We've got this
thing reduced right down to vulgar fractions, and the Utes have got to
go. The mineral lands are worth more to us than the Indians are"--this
with a suggestive shrug--"and if the government don't remove them from
the reserves, why, we'll have to do it ourselves. There's a great fuss
been made about the whites going on the Indian reserves; and what did it
all amount to? Maybe fifty or sixty prospectors, all told, have got over
the lines, dug a few holes and hurt nobody. But I suppose the Indians
always stay where they ought to! I guess not. Some of them are off their
reserves half the time, and they go off to murder and kill. Do they ever
get punished for that? Not much, except when folks do it on their own
account. But let a white man get found on the Indian reserves and
there's a great howl. I want a rule that will work both ways, and I
don't give much for a government that isn't able to protect me on the
Indian reserves the same as anywhere else. Some years ago Indian
troubles were reported at Washington, and Sherman was sent out to
investigate. Of course they heard he was coming, and all were on their
good behavior. They knew where their blankets and ponies and provisions
came from. Consequently, Sherman reported everything peaceful: he hadn't
seen anybody killed. That's about the kind of information they get in
the East on the Indian question.

"Misused? Yes, the Indians have been misused, badly misused. I know
that. But who have _they_ misused? This whole country is covered with
ruins, and they all go to show that it has been inhabited by a
highly-civilized race of people. And what has become of them? I believe
the Indians cleaned them out long years ago; and now their turn has
come. I find it's a law of Nature"--and here the narrator's tone grew
more reverent as if touching upon a higher theme--"that the weak go to
the wall. It's a hard law, but I don't see any way out of it. The old
Aztecs had to go under, and the Indians will have to follow suit."

Whatever humanitarians and archæologists may conclude concerning these
opinions, they are nevertheless extensively held in the Far West. The
frontiersman, who sees the Indian only in his native savagery, who has
found it necessary to employ a considerable part of his time in keeping
out of range of poisoned arrows, and who must needs be always upon the
alert lest his family fall a prey to Indian treachery, cannot be
expected to hold any ultra-humanitarian views upon the subject. He has
not been brought in contact with the several partially-civilized tribes,
in whose advancement many see possibilities for the whole race. He
cannot understand why the government allows the Indians to roam over
enormous tracts of land, rich in minerals they will never extract and
containing agricultural possibilities they will never seek to realize.
His plan would be to have only the same governmental care exercised over
the red man as is now enjoyed by the white, and then look to the law of
the survival of the fittest to furnish a solution of the problem. The
case seems so clear and the arguments so potent that he looks for some
outside reasons for their failure, and very naturally thinks he
discovers them in governmental quarters. "There's too many people living
off this Indian business for it to be wound up yet a while." Thus does a
representative man at the outposts express the sentiment of no
inconsiderable class.

Next to the Indian himself, the frontiersman holds in slight esteem the
soldiers who are sent for the protection of the border. The objects of
his supreme hatred still often merit his good opinion for their bravery
and fighting qualities, but upon raw Eastern recruits and West-Point
fledglings he looks with mild disdain. Having learned the Indian methods
by many hard knocks, he doubtless fails to exercise proper charity
toward those whose experiences have been less extended; and added to
this may be a lurking jealousy--which, however, would be stoutly
disclaimed--because the blue uniform is gaining honors and experience
more easily and under conditions more favorable than were possible with
him in the early days. "They be about the greenest set!" said an old
Indian-fighter to whom this subject was broached, "and the sight of an
Injun jest about scares 'em to death at first. I never saw any of 'em
_I_ was afraid of if I only had any sort of a show. Why, back in '59 I
undertook to take a young man back to the States, and we started off in
a buggy--a _buggy_, do you mind. When we got down the Arkansas a piece
we heard the red-skins was pretty thick, but we went right on, except
keeping more of a lookout, you know. But along in the afternoon we saw
fifteen or twenty coming for us, and we got ready to give 'em a
reception. We had a hard chase, but at last they got pretty sick of
the way I handled my rifle, and concluded to let us alone for a while.
They kept watch of us, though, and meant to get square with us that
night. Well, we travelled till dark, stopped just long enough to build
a big fire, and then lit out. When those Injuns came for us that night
we were some other place, and they lost their grip on that little
scalping-bee. They didn't trouble us any more, that's sure. And when we
got to the next post there were nigh a hundred teams, six stages and
two companies of soldiers, all shivering for fear of the Injuns. It
rather took the wind out of 'em to see us come in with that buggy, and
they didn't want to believe we had come through. But, like the man's
mother-in-law, we were _there_, and they couldn't get out of it. And,
sir, maybe you won't believe me, but those soldiers offered me
_seventy-five dollars_ to go back with them! That's the sort of an
outfit the government sends to protect us!"

[Illustration: SANTA FÉ AVENUE, PUEBLO, COLORADO.]

We have had frequent occasion since our frontier experiences began to
ponder the untrammelled opulence of this Western word, _outfit_. From
the Mississippi to the Pacific its expansive possibilities are
momentarily being tested. There is nothing that lives, breathes or
grows, nothing known to the arts or investigated by the
sciences--nothing, in short, coming within the range of the Western
perception--that cannot with more or less appropriateness be termed an
"outfit." A dismal broncho turned adrift in mid-winter to browse on the
short stubble of the Plains is an "outfit," and so likewise is the
dashing equipage that includes a shining phaeton and richly-caparisoned
span. Perhaps by no single method can so comprehensive an idea of the
term in question be obtained in a short time, and the proper qualifying
adjectives correctly determined, as by simply preparing for a
camping-expedition. The horse-trader with whom you have negotiated for a
pair of horses or mules congratulates you upon the acquisition of a
"boss outfit." When your wagon has been purchased and the mules are duly
harnessed in place, you are further induced to believe that you have a
"way-up outfit," though, obviously, this should now be understood to
possess a dual significance which did not before obtain, since the wagon
represents a component part. The hardware clerk displays a tent and
recommends a fly as forming a desirable addition to an even otherwise
"swell outfit." The grocer provides you with what he modestly terms a
"first-class outfit," albeit his cans of fruits, vegetables and meats
are for the delectation of the inner man. Frying-pans and dutch-ovens,
camp-stools and trout-scales, receive the same designation. And now
comes the crowning triumph of this versatile term, as well as a happy
illustration of what might be called its agglutinative and assimilating
powers; for when horses and wagon have received their load of tent and
equipments, and father, mother and the babies have filled up every
available space, this whole establishment, this _omnium gatherum_ of
outfits, becomes neither more nor less than an "outfit."

The last five years have witnessed a wonderful material progress in the
Far West. The mineral wealth discovered in Colorado and New Mexico has
caused a great westward-flowing tide to set in. The nation seems to be
possessed of a desire to reclaim the waste places and to explore the
unknown. Cities that were founded by "fifty-niners," and after a decade
seemed to reach the limits of their growth, have started on a new
career. And for none of these does the outlook seem brighter than in the
case of the city of Pueblo, the old outpost whose early history we have
attempted to sketch. Its growth has all along been a gradual one, and
its improvements have kept pace with this healthy advance. Its public
schools, like those of all Far Western towns which the writer has
visited are model institutions and an honor to the commonwealth. A
handsome brick court-house, situated on high ground, is an ornament to
the city, and differs widely from that in which Judge Bradford held
court eighteen years ago--the first held in the Territory, and that,
too, under military protection. Pueblo's wealth is largely derived from
the stock-raising business, the surrounding country being well adapted
to cattle and sheep. The _rancheros_ ride the Plains the year round, and
the cattle flourish upon the food which Nature provides--in the summer
the fresh grass, and in the winter the same converted into hay which has
been cured upon the ground. An important railway-centre is Pueblo, and
iron highways radiate from it to the four cardinal points. These
advantages of location should procure it a large share of the flood of
prosperity that is sweeping over the State. But enterprises are now in
progress which cannot fail to add materially to its importance as a
factor in the development of the country. On the highest lift of the
mesa south of the town, and in a most commanding position, it has been
decided to locate a blast-furnace which shall have no neighbor within a
radius of five hundred miles. With iron ore of finest quality easily
accessible in the neighboring mountains, and coal-fields of unlimited
extent likewise within easy reach, the production of iron in the Rocky
Mountains has only waited for the growth of a demand. This the
advancement and prosperity of the State have now well assured. Many
kindred industries will spring up around the furnace, the Bessemer
steel-works and the rail-mills that are now projected; and a few years
will suffice to transform the level mesa, upon which for untold
centuries the cactus and the yucca-lily have bloomed undisturbed, into a
thriving manufacturing city whose pulse shall be the throb of steam
through iron arms. The onlooking mountains, that have seen strange
sights about this old outpost, are to see a still stranger--the
ushering-in of a new civilization which now begins its march into the
land of the Aztecs.

Perhaps these thoughts were occupying our minds as we climbed the
bluffs for a visit to this incipient Pittsburg. The equipage did no
credit to the financial status of the iron company, as it consisted of
a superannuated express-wagon drawn by a dyspeptic white horse which
the boy who officiated as driver found no difficulty in restraining.
Two gentlemen in charge of the constructions, their visitor and two
kegs of nails comprised this precious load. The day was cloudless and
fine, albeit a Colorado "zephyr" was blowing, and the party, with
perhaps the single exception of the horse, felt in fine spirits. The
jolly superintendent, who both in face and mien reminded one of the
typical German nobleman, was overflowing with story, joke and witty
repartee. The site of the works was reached in the course of time.
Excavations were in progress for the blast-furnace and accessory
buildings, and developed a strange formation. The entire mesa seems
built up of boulders packed together with a sort of alkali clay, dry
and hard as stone, and looking, as our _distingué_ guide remarked, as
though not a drop of water had penetrated five feet from the surface
since the time of the Flood. Two blast-furnaces, each with a capacity
of five hundred tons, will be speedily built, to be followed by
rail-mills, a Bessemer steel-plant and all the accessories of vast
iron-and steel-works. With the patronage of several thousand miles of
railway already assured, and its duplication in the near future
apparently beyond doubt, the success of this daring frontier enterprise
seems far removed from the domain of conjecture.

[Illustration: OLD SI SMITH.]

All this was glowingly set forth by the courtly superintendent, who,
though but three months in the country, is already at heart a Coloradan.
That there are some things about frontier life which he likes better
than others he is free to admit. Among the few matters he would have
otherwise he gives the first place to the tough "range" or "snow-fed"
beef upon which the dwellers in this favored land must needs subsist. "I
heard a story once," said he, "about a young man, a tenderfoot, who,
after long wondering what made the beef so fearfully tough, at length
arrived at the solution, as he thought, and that quite by accident. He
was riding out with a friend, an old resident, when they chanced to come
upon a bunch of cattle. The young man's attention seemed to be
attracted, and as the idea began to dawn upon him he faced his
companion, and, pointing to an animal which bore the brand "B.C. 45,"
savagely exclaimed, 'Look there! How can you expect those antediluvians
to be anything but tough? Why don't you kill your cattle before they get
two or three times as old as Methuselah?'"

We took a long ride that afternoon under a peerless sky, with blue
mountain-ranges on one hand, whose ridges, covered with snow, seemed
like folds of satin, and on the other the great billowy Plains, bare and
brown and smooth as a carpet. The white horse, relieved of the kegs of
nails, really performed prodigies of travel, all the more appreciated
because unexpected. A stone-quarry for which we were searching was not
found, but a teamster was, who, while everything solemnly stood still
and waited, and amid the agonies of an indescribable stutter, finally
managed to enlighten us somewhat as to its whereabouts. These adventures
served to put us in excellent humor, so that when the road was found
barricaded by a barbed wire fence, it only served to give one of the
party an opportunity to air his views upon the subject--to argue, in
fact, that the barbed wire fence had been an important factor in
building up the agricultural greatness of the West. "For what
inducements," he exclaims, "does the top rail of such a fence offer to
the contemplative farmer? None, sir! His traditional laziness has been
broken up, and great material prosperity is the result."

Whatever causes have operated to produce the effect, certain it is that
the West is eminently prosperous to-day. Everywhere are seen growth,
enterprise and an aggressiveness that stops at no obstacles. Immigration
is pouring into Colorado alone at the rate of several thousands per
week. The government lands are being rapidly taken up, and the stable
industries of stock-raising and farming correspondingly extended.
Manufacturing, too, is acquiring a foothold, and many of the necessaries
of life, which now must be obtained in the East, will soon be produced
at home. The mountains are revealing untold treasures of silver and
gold, and the possibilities which may lie hid in the yet unexplored
regions act as a stimulus to crowds of hopeful prospectors. But while
Colorado is receiving her full share of the influx, a tide seems to be
setting in toward the old empire of the Aztecs, and flowing through the
natural gateway, our old Rocky-Mountain outpost. It is beginning to be
found out that the legends of fabulous wealth which have come down to us
from the olden time have much of truth in them, and mines that were
worked successively by Franciscan monks, Pueblo Indians, Jesuit priests
and Mexicans, and had suffered filling up and obliteration with every
change of proprietorship, are now being reopened; and that, too, under a
new dispensation which will ensure prosperity to the enterprise.
Spaniard and priest have long since abandoned their claim to the rich
possessions, and their doubtful sway, ever upon the verge of revolution
and offering no incentive to enterprise, has given place to one of a
different character. Under the protection of beneficent and fostering
laws this oldest portion of our Union may now be expected to reveal its
wealth of resources to energy and intelligent labor. And it may
confidently be predicted that American enterprise will not halt till it
has built up the waste places of our land, and in this case literally
made the desert to blossom as the rose. Thus gloriously does our new
civilization reclaim the errors of the past, building upon ancient ruins
the enlightened institutions of to-day, and grafting fresh vigor upon
effete races and nationalities. And now, at last, the Spanish Peaks,
those mighty ancient sentinels whose twin spires, like eyes, have
watched the slow rise and fall of stately but tottering dynasties in the
long ago, are to look out upon a different scene--a new race come in the
might of its freedom and with almost the glory of a conquering host to
redeem a waiting land from the outcome of centuries of avaricious and
bigoted misrule, and even from the thraldom of decay.

GEORGE REX BUCKMAN.

[Illustration]




LOST.


  I.

  I lost my treasures one by one,
    Those joys the world holds dear;
  Smiling I said, "To-morrow's sun
    Will bring us better cheer."
  For faith and love were one. Glad faith!
  All loss is naught save loss of faith.

  II.

  My truant joys come trooping back,
    And trooping friends no less;
  But tears fall fast to meet the lack
    Of dearer happiness.
  For faith and love are two. Sad faith!
  'Tis loss indeed, the loss of faith.

MARY B. DODGE.




ADAM AND EVE.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


From the day on which Adam knew that the date of Jerrem's trial was
fixed all the hope which the sight of Eve had rekindled was again
completely extinguished, and, refusing every attempt at consolation, he
threw himself into an abyss of despair a hundred-fold more dark and
bitter than before. The thought that he, captain and leader as he had
been, should stand in court confronted by his comrades and neighbors
(for Adam, ignorant of the disasters which had overtaken them, believed
half Polperro to be on their way to London), and there swear away
Jerrem's life and turn informer, was something too terrible to be dwelt
on with even outward tranquillity, and, abandoning everything which had
hitherto sustained him, he gave himself up to all the terrors of remorse
and despair. It was in vain for Reuben to reason or for Eve to plead: so
long as they could suggest no means by which this dreaded ordeal could
be averted Adam was deaf to all hope of consolation. There was but one
subject which interested him, and only on one subject could he be got to
speak, and that was the chances there still remained of Jerrem's life
being spared; and to furnish him with some food for this hope, Eve began
to loiter at the gates, talk to the warders and the turnkeys, and mingle
with the many groups who on some business or pretext were always
assembled about the yard or stood idling in the various passages with
which the prison was intersected.

One morning it came to her mind, How would it be for Adam to escape, and
so not be there to prove the accusation he had made of Jerrem having
shot the man? With scarce more thought than she had bestowed on many
another passing suggestion which seemed for the moment practical and
solid, but as she turned it round lost shape and floated into air, Eve
made the suggestion, and to her surprise found it seized on by Adam as
an inspiration. Why, he'd risk _all_ so that he escaped being set face
to face with Jerrem and his former mates. Adam had but to be assured the
strain would not be more than Eve's strength could bear before he had
adopted with joy her bare suggestion, clothed it with possibility, and
by it seemed to regain all his past energy. Could he but get away and
Jerrem's life be spared, all hope of happiness would not be over. In
some of those distant lands to which people were then beginning to go
life might begin afresh. And as his thoughts found utterance in speech
he held out his hand to Eve, and in it she laid her own; and Adam needed
nothing more to tell him that whither he went there Eve too would go.
There was no need for vows and protestations now between these two, for,
though to each the other's heart lay bare, a word of love scarce ever
crossed their lips. Life seemed too sad and time too precious to be
whiled away in pleasant speeches, and often when together, burdened by
the weight of all they had to say, yet could not talk about, the two
would sit for hours and neither speak a word. But with this proposition
of escape a new channel was given to them, and as they discussed their
different plans the dreadful shadow which at times had hung between them
was rolled away and lifted out of sight.

Inspired by the prospect of action, of doing something, Adam roused
himself to master all the difficulties: his old foresight and caution
began to revive, and the project, which had on one day looked like a
desperate extremity, grew by the end of a week into a well-arranged plan
whose success seemed more than possible. Filled with anxiety for Eve,
Reuben gave no hearty sanction to the experiment: besides which, he felt
certain that now neither Adam's absence nor presence would in any way
affect Jerrem's fate; added to which, if the matter was detected it
might go hard with Adam himself. But his arguments proved nothing to
Eve, who, confident of success, only demanded from him the promise of
secrecy; after which, she thought, as some questions might be put to
him, the less he knew the less he would have to conceal.

Although a prisoner, inasmuch as liberty was denied to him, Adam was in
no way subjected to that strict surveillance to which those who had
broken the law were supposed to be submitted. It was of his own free
will that he disregarded the various privileges which lay open to him:
others in his place would have frequented the passages, hung about the
yards and grown familiar with the tap, where spirits were openly bought
and sold. Money could do much in those days of lax discipline, and the
man who could pay and could give need have very few wants unsatisfied.
But Adam's only desire was to be left undisturbed and alone; and as this
entailed no undue amount of trouble after their first curiosity had been
satisfied, it was not thought necessary to deny him this privilege. From
constantly going in and out, most of the officials inside the prison
knew Eve, while to but very few was Adam's face familiar; and it was on
this fact, aided by the knowledge that through favor of a gratuity
friends were frequently permitted to outstay their usual hour, that most
of their hopes rested. Each day she came Eve brought some portion of the
disguise which was to be adopted; and then, having learnt from Reuben
that the Mary Jane had arrived and was lying at the wharf unloading, not
knowing what better to do, they decided that she should go to Captain
Triggs and ask him, in case Adam could get away, whether he would let
him come on board his vessel and give him shelter there below.

"Wa-al, no," said Triggs, "I woan't do that, 'cos they as I'se got here
might smell un out; but I'll tell 'ee what: I knaws a chap as has in
many ways bin beholden to me 'fore now, and I reckon if I gives un the
cue he'll do the job for 'ee."

"But do you think he's to be trusted?" Eve asked.

"Wa-al, that rests on how small a part you'm foaced to tell un of,"
said Triggs, "and how much you makes it warth his while. I'm blamed if
I'd go bail for un myself, but that won't be no odds agen' Adam's goin':
'tis just the place for he. 'T 'ud niver do to car'y a pitch-pot down
and set un in the midst o' they who couldn't bide his stink."

"And the crew?" said Eve, wincing under Captain Triggs's figurative
language.

"Awh, the crew's right enuf--a set o' gashly, smudge-faced raskils
that's near half Maltee and t' other Lascar Injuns. Any jail-bird that
flies their way 'ull find they's all of a feather. But here," he added,
puzzled by the event: "how's this that you'm still mixed up with Adam
so? I thought 'twas all 'long o' you and Reuben May that the Lottery's
landin' got blowed about?"

Eve shook her head. "Be sure," she said, "'twas never in me to do Adam
any harm."

"And you'm goin' to stick to un now through thick and thin? 'Twill niver
do for un, ye knaw, to set his foot on Cornish ground agen."

"He knows that," said Eve; "and if he gets away we shall be married and
go across the seas to some new part, where no one can tell what brought
us from our home."

Triggs gave a significant nod. "Lord!" he exclaimed, "but that's a poor
lookout for such a bowerly maid as you be! Wouldn't it be better for 'ee
to stick by yer friends 'bout here than--"

"I haven't got any friends," interrupted Eve promptly, "excepting it's
Adam and Joan and Uncle Zebedee."

"Ah, poor old Zebedee!" sighed Triggs: "'tis all dickey with he. The day
I started I see Sammy Tucker to Fowey, and he was tellin' that th' ole
chap was gone reg'lar tottlin'-like, and can't tell thickee fra that;
and as for Joan Hocken, he says you wouldn't knaw her for the same. And
they's tooked poor foolish Jonathan, as is more mazed than iver, to live
with 'em; and Mrs. Tucker, as used to haggle with everybody so, tends on
'em all hand and foot, and her's given up praichin' 'bout religion and
that, and 's turned quite neighborly, and, so long as her can save her
daughter, thinks nothin's too hot nor too heavy."

"Dear Joan!" sighed Eve: "she's started by the coach on her way up here
now."

"Whether she hath or no!" exclaimed Triggs in surprise. "Then take my
word they's heerd that Jerrem's to be hanged, and Joan's comin' up to be
all ready to hand for 't."

"No, not that," groaned Eve, for at the mere mention of the word the
vague dread seemed to shape itself into a certainty. "Oh, Captain
Triggs, don't say that if Adam gets off you don't think Jerrem's life
will be spared."

"Wa-al, my poor maid, us must hope so," said the compassionate captain;
"but 'tis the warst o' they doin's that sooner or later th' endin, of
'em must come. 'Twould never do to let 'em prosper allays," he added
with impressive certainty, "or where 'ud be the use o' parsons praichin'
up 'bout heaven and hell? Why, now, us likes good liquor cheap to Fowey;
and wance 'pon a time us had it too, but that ha'n't bin for twenty
year. Our day's gone by, and so 'ull theirs be now; and th' excise 'ull
come, and revenoos 'ull settle down, and folks be foaced to take to
lousterin' for the bit o' bread they ates, and live quiet and paceable,
as good neighbors should. So try and take heart; and if so be that Adam
can give they Bailey chaps the go-by, tell un to come 'longs here, and
us 'ull be odds with any o' they that happens to be follerin' to his
heels."

Charmed with this friendly promise, Eve said "Good-bye," leaving the
captain puzzled with speculations on women and the many curious
contradictions which seem to influence their actions; while, the hour
being now too late to return to the prison, she took her way to her own
room, thinking it best to begin the preparations which in case of Adam's
escape and any sudden departure it would be necessary to have completed.

Perhaps it was her interview with Captain Triggs, the sight of the wharf
and the ships, which took her thoughts back and made them bridge the
gulf which divided her past life from her present self. Could the girl
she saw in that shadowy past--headstrong, confident, impatient of
suffering and unsympathetic with sorrow--be this same Eve who walked
along with all hope and thought of self merged in another's happiness
and welfare? Where was the vanity, where were the tricks and coquetries,
passports to that ideal existence after which in the old days she had so
thirsted? Trampled out of sight and choked beneath the fair blossoms of
a higher life, which, as in many a human nature, had needed sorrow,
humiliation and a great watering of tears before there could spring
forth the flowers for a fruit which should one day ripen into great
perfection.

No wonder, then, that she should be shaken by a doubt of her own
identity; and having reached her room she paused upon the threshold and
looked around as if to satisfy herself by all those silent witnesses
which made it truth. There was the chair in which she had so often sat
plying her needle with such tardy grace while her impatient thoughts did
battle with the humdrum, narrow life she led. How she had beat against
the fate which seemed to promise naught but that dull round of
commonplace events in which her early years had passed away! How as a
gall and fret had come the thought of Reuben's proffered love, because
it shadowed forth the level of respectable routine, the life she then
most dreaded! To be courted and sought after, to call forth love,
jealousy and despair, to be looked up to, thought well of, praised,
admired,--these were the delights she had craved and these the longings
she had had granted. And a sigh from the depths of that chastened heart
rendered the bitter tribute paid by all to satiated vanity and outlived
desire. The dingy walls, the ill-assorted furniture (her mother's pride
in which had sometimes vexed her, sometimes made her laugh) now looked
like childhood's friends, whose faces stamp themselves upon our inmost
hearts. The light no longer seemed obscure, the room no longer gloomy,
for each thing in it now was flooded by the tender light of
memory--that wondrous gift to man which those who only sail along life's
summer sea can never know in all the heights and depths revealed to
storm-tossed hearts.

"What! you've come back?" a voice said in her ear; and looking round Eve
saw it was Reuben, who had entered unperceived. "There's nothing fresh
gone wrong?" he asked.

"No, nothing;" but the sad smile she tried to give him welcome with was
so akin to tears that Reuben's face assumed a look of doubt. "'Tis only
that I'm thinking how I'm changed from what I was," said Eve. "Why, once
I couldn't bear this room and all the things about it; but now--Oh,
Reuben, my heart seems like to break because perhaps 'twill soon now
come to saying good-bye to all of it for ever."

Reuben winced: "You're fixed to go, then?"

"Yes, where Adam goes I shall go too: don't you think I should? What
else is left for me to do?"

"You feel, then, you'd be happy--off with him--away from all
and--everybody else?"

"Happy! Should I be happy to know he'd gone alone--happy to know I'd
driven him away to some place where I wouldn't go myself?" and Eve
paused, shaking her head before she added, "If he can make another start
in life--try and begin again--"

"You ought to help him to it," said Reuben promptly: "that's very plain
to see. Oh, Eve, do you mind the times when you and me have talked of
what we'd like to do--how, never satisfied with what went on around, we
wanted to be altogether such as some of those we'd heard and read about?
The way seems almost opened up to you, but what shall I do when all this
is over and you are gone away? I can't go back and stick to trade again,
working for nothing more but putting victuals in myself."

For a moment Eve did not speak: then, with a sudden movement, she
turned, saying to Reuben, "There's something that before our lives are
at any moment parted I've wanted to say to you, Reuben. 'Tis that until
now, this time while we've been all together here, I've never known what
your worth is--what you would be to any one who'd got the heart to value
what you'd give. Of late it has often seemed that I should think but
very small of one who'd had the chance of your liking and yet didn't
know the proper value of such goodness."

Reuben gave a look of disavowal, and Eve continued, adding with a little
hesitation, "You mustn't think it strange in me for saying this. I
couldn't tell you if you didn't know how everything lies between Adam
and myself; but ever since this trouble's come about all my thoughts
seem changed, and people look quite different now to what they did
before; and, most of all, I've learnt to know the friend I've got, and
always had, in you, Reuben."

Reuben did not answer for a moment. He seemed struggling to keep back
something he was yet prompted to speak of. "Eve," he said at length,
"don't think that I've not made mistakes, and great ones too. When first
I fought to battle down my leaning toward you, why was it? Not because
of doubting that 'twould ever be returned, but 'cos I held myself too
good a chap in all my thoughts and ways to be taken up with such a
butterfly concern as I took you to be. I'd never have believed then that
you'd have acted as I've seen you act. I thought that love with you
meant who could give you the finest clothes to wear and let you rule the
roast the easiest; but you have shown me that you are made of better
woman's stuff than that. And, after all, a man thinks better of himself
for mounting high than stooping to pick up what can be had for asking
any day."

"No, no, Reuben: your good opinion is more than I deserve," said Eve,
her memory stinging her with past recollections. "If you want to see a
dear, kind-hearted, unselfish girl, wait until Joan comes. I do so hope
that you will take to her! I think you will, after what you've been to
Jerrem and to Adam. I want you and Joan to like each other."

"I don't think there's much fear of that," said Reuben. "Jerrem's spoke
so freely about Joan that I seem to know her before ever having seen
her. Let me see: her mind was at one time set on Adam, wasn't it?"

"I think that she was very fond of Adam," said Eve, coloring: "and, so
far as that goes, I don't know that there is any difference now. I'm
sure she'd lay her life down if it would do him good."

"Poor soul!" sighed Reuben, drawn by a friendly feeling to sympathize
with Joan's unlucky love. "Her cup's been full, and no mistake, of
late."

"Did Jerrem seem to feel it much that Uncle Zebedee 'd been took so
strange?" asked Eve.

"I didn't tell him more than I could help," said Reuben. "As much as
possible I made it out to him that for the old man to come to London
wouldn't be safe, and the fear of that seemed to pacify him at once."

"I haven't spoken of it to Adam yet," said Eve. "He hasn't asked about
his coming, so I thought I'd leave the telling till another time. His
mind seems set on nothing but getting off, and by it setting Jerrem
free."

But Reuben made no rejoinder to the questioning tone of Eve's words, and
after a few minutes' pause he waived the subject by reverting to the
description which Eve had given of Joan, so that, in case he had to meet
her alone, he might recognize her without difficulty. Eve repeated the
description, dwelling with loving preciseness on the various features
and points by which Joan might be known; and then Reuben, having some
work to do, got up to say good-bye.

"Good-bye," said Eve, holding out her hand--"good-bye. Every time I say
it now I seem to wonder if 'tis to be good-bye indeed."

"Why, no: in any way, you'd wait until the trial was over?"

"Yes, I forgot: of course we should."

"Well, then, do you think I'd let you go without a word? Ah, Eve, no!
Whatever others are, nobody's yet pushed you from your place, nor ever
will so long as my life lasts."




CHAPTER XXXVII


At length the dreaded day was over, the trial was at an end, and, in
spite of every effort made, Jerrem condemned to die. The hopes raised by
the knowledge of Adam's escape seemed crowned with success when, to the
court's dismay, it was announced that the prisoner's accuser could not
be produced: he had mysteriously disappeared the evening before, and in
spite of a most vigorous search was nowhere to be found. But, with minds
already resolved to make this hardened smuggler's fate a warning and
example to all such as should henceforth dare the law, one of the
cutter's crew, wrought upon by the fear lest Jerrem should escape and
baffle the vengeance they had vowed to take, was got to swear that
Jerrem was the man who fired the fatal shot; and though it was shown
that the night was dark and recognition next to impossible, this
evidence was held conclusive to prove the crime, and nothing now
remained but to condemn the culprit. The judge's words came slowly
forth, making the stoutest there shrink back and let that arrow from the
bow of death glance by and set its mark on him upon whose face the crowd
now turned to gaze.

"Can it be that he is stunned? or is he hardened?"

For Jerrem stands all unmoved and calm while, dulled by the sound of
rushing waters, the words the judge has said come booming back and back
again. A sickly tremor creeps through every limb and makes it nerveless;
a sense of growing weight presses the flesh down as a burden on the
fainting spirit; one instant a thousand faces, crowding close, keep out
the air; the next, they have all receded out of sight back into misty
space, and he is left alone, with all around faded and grown confused
and all beneath him slipping and giving way. Suddenly a sound rouses him
back to life: a voice has smote his ear and cleaved his inmost soul; and
lifting his head his eyes are met by sight of Joan, who with a piercing
shriek has fallen back, deathlike and pale, in Reuben's outstretched
arms.

Then Jerrem knows that hope is past and he must die, and in one flash
his fate, in all its misery and shame, stands out before him, and
reeling he totters, to sink down senseless and be carried off to that
dismal cell allotted to those condemned to death; while Reuben, as best
he can, manages to get Joan out of court and into the open air, where
she gradually comes back to life again and is able to listen to such
poor comfort as Reuben's sad heart can find to give her. For by reason
of those eventful circumstances which serve to cement friendships by
suddenly overthrowing the barriers time must otherwise gradually wear
away, Reuben May and Joan Hocken have (in the week which has intervened
between her arrival and this day of trial) become more intimate and
thoroughly acquainted than if in an ordinary way they had known each
other for years. A stranger in a large city, with not one familiar face
to greet her, who does not know the terrible feeling of desolation which
made poor Joan hurry through the crowded streets, shrinking away from
their bustle and throng toward Reuben, the one person she had to turn to
for sympathy, advice, assistance and consolation? With that spirit of
perfect trust which her own large heart gave her the certain assurance
of receiving, Joan placed implicit reliance in all Reuben said and did;
and seeing this, and receiving an inward satisfaction from the sight,
Reuben involuntarily slipped into a familiarity of speech and manner
very opposed to the stiff reserve he usually maintained toward
strangers.

Ten days were given before the day on which Jerrem was to die, and
during this time, through the various interests raised in his behalf, no
restriction was put upon the intercourse between him and his friends; so
that, abandoning everything for the poor soul's welfare, Reuben, Joan
and Jerrem spent hour after hour in the closest intercourse. Happily, in
times of great extremity the power of realizing our exact situation is
mostly denied to us; and in the case of Joan and Jerrem, although
surrounded by the terrors and within the outposts of that dreaded end,
it was nothing unfrequent to hear a sudden peal of laughter, which often
would have as sudden an end in a great burst of tears.

To point to hopes and joys beyond the grave when every thought is
centred and fixed on this life's interests and keen anxieties is but a
fruitless, vain endeavor; and Reuben had to try and rest contented in
the assurance of Jerrem's perfect forgiveness and good-will to all who
had shown him any malice or ill-feeling--to draw some satisfaction from
the unselfish love he showed to Joan and the deep gratitude he now
expressed to Uncle Zebedee.

What would become of them? he often asked when some word of Joan's
revealed the altered aspect of their affairs; and then, overcome by the
helplessness of their forlorn condition, he would entreat Reuben to
stand by them--not to forget Joan, not to forsake her. And Reuben,
strangely moved by sight of this poor giddy nature's overwrought
emotion, would try to calm him with the ready assurance that while he
lived Joan should never want a friend, and, touched by his words, the
two would clasp his hands together, telling each other of all the
kindness he had showed them, praying God would pay him back in blessings
for his goodness. Nor were theirs the only lips which spoke of gratitude
to Reuben May: his name had now become familiar to many who through his
means were kept from being ignorant of the sad fate which awaited their
boon companion, their prime favorite, the once madcap, rollicking
Jerrem--the last one, as Joan often told Reuben, whom any in Polperro
would have fixed on for evil to pursue or misfortune to overtake, and
about whom all declared there must have been "a hitch in the block
somewheres, as Fate never intended that ill-luck should pitch upon
Jerrem." The repetition of their astonishment, their indignation and
their sympathy afforded the poor fellow the most visible satisfaction,
harassed as he was becoming by one dread which entirely swallowed up the
thought and fear of death. This ghastly terror was the then usual
consignment of a body after death to the surgeons for dissection; and
the uncontrollable trepidation which would take possession of him each
time this hideous recollection forced itself upon him, although
unaccountable to Reuben, was most painful for him to witness. What
difference could it make what became of one's body after death? Reuben
would ask himself, puzzled to fathom that wonderful tenderness which
some natures feel for the flesh which embodies their attractions. But
Jerrem had felt a passing love for his own dear body: vanity of it had
been his ruling passion, its comeliness his great glory--so much so that
even now a positive satisfaction would have been his could he have
pictured himself outstretched and lifeless, with lookers-on moved to
compassion by the dead grace of his winsome face and slender limbs.
Joan, too, was caught by the same infection. Not to lie whole and decent
in one's coffin! Oh, it was an indignity too terrible for contemplation;
and every time they were away from Jerrem she would beset Reuben with
entreaties and questions as to what could be done to avoid the
catastrophe.

The one plan he knew of had been tried--and tried, too, with repeated
success--and this was the engaging of a superior force to wrest the body
from the surgeon's crew, a set of sturdy miscreants with whom to do
battle a considerable mob was needed; but, with money grown very scarce
and time so short, the thing could not be managed, and Reuben tried to
tell Joan of its impossibility while they two were walking to a place in
which it had been agreed they should find some one with a message from
Eve, who, together with Adam, was in hiding on board the vessel Captain
Triggs had spoken of. But instead of the messenger Eve herself arrived,
having ventured this much with the hope of hearing something that would
lessen Adam's despair and grief at learning the fate of Jerrem.

"Ah, poor sawl!" sighed Joan as Eve ended her dismal account of Adam's
sad condition: "'tis only what I feared to hear of. But tell un, Eve, to
lay it to his heart that Jerrem's forgived un every bit, and don't know
what it is to hold a grudge to Adam; and if I speak of un, he says,
'Why, doan't I know it ain't through he, but 'cos o' my own headstrong
ways and they sneaks o' revenoo-chaps?' who falsely swored away his
blessed life."

"Does he seem to dread it much?" asked Eve, the sickly fears which
filled her heart echoed in each whispered word.

"Not _that_ he don't," said Joan, lifting her hand significantly to her
throat: "'tis after. Oh, Eve," she gasped, "ain't it too awful to think
of their cuttin' up his poor dead body into bits? Call theyselves
doctors!" she burst out--"the gashly lot! I'll never let wan o' their
name come nighst to me agen."

"Oh, Reuben," gasped Eve, "is it so? Can nothing be done?"

Reuben shook his head.

"Nothing now," said Joan--"for want o' money, too, mostly, Eve; and the
guineas I've a-wasted! Oh, how the sight o' every one rises and chinks
in judgment 'gainst my ears!"

"If we'd got the money," said Reuben soothingly, "there isn't time. All
should be settled by to-morrow night; and if some one this minute
brought the wherewithal I haven't one 'pon whom I dare to lay my hand to
ask to undertake the job."

"Then 'tis no use harpin' 'pon it any more," said Joan; while Eve gave a
sigh, concurring in what she said, both of them knowing well that if
Reuben gave it up the thing must be hopeless indeed.

Here was another stab for Adam's wounded senses, and with a heavy heart
and step Eve took her way back to him, while Reuben and Joan continued
to thread the streets which took them by a circuitous road home to
Knight's Passage.

But no sooner had Eve told Adam of this fresh burden laid on poor Jerrem
than a new hope seemed to animate him. Something was still to be done:
there yet remained an atonement which, though it cost him his life, he
could strive to make to Jerrem. Throwing aside the fear of detection
which had hitherto kept him skulking within the little vessel, he set
off that night to find the Mary Jane, and, regardless of the terrible
shame which had filled him at the bare thought of confronting Triggs or
any of his crew, he cast himself upon their mercy, beseeching them as
men, and Cornishmen, to do this much for their brother-sailor in his sad
need and last extremity; and his appeal and the nature of it had so
touched these quickly-stirred hearts that, forgetful of the contempt and
scorn with which, in the light of an informer, they had hitherto viewed
Adam, they had one and all sworn to aid him to their utmost strength,
and to bring to the rescue certain others of whom they knew, by whose
help and assistance success would be more probable. Therefore it was
that, two days before the morning of his sentenced death, Eve was able
to put into Reuben's hand a scrap of paper on which was written Adam's
vow to Jerrem that, though his own life paid the forfeit for it,
Jerrem's body should be rescued and saved.

Present as Jerrem's fears had been to Reuben's eyes and to his mind,
until he saw the transport of agitated joy which this assurance gave to
Jerrem he had never grasped a tithe of the terrible dread which during
the last few days had taken such complete hold of the poor fellow's
inmost thoughts. Now, as he read again and again the words which Adam
had written, a torrent of tears burst forth from his eyes: in an ecstasy
of relief he caught Joan to his heart, wrung Reuben's hand, and from
that moment began to gradually compose himself into a state of greater
ease and seeming tranquillity. Confident, through the unbroken trust of
years, that Adam's promise, once given, might be implicitly relied on,
Jerrem needed no further assurance than these few written words to
satisfy him that every human effort would be made on his behalf; and the
knowledge of this, and that old comrades would be near, waiting to unite
their strength for his body's rescue, was in itself a balm and
consolation. He grew quite loquacious about the crestfallen authorities,
the surprise of the crowd and the disappointment of the ruffianly mob
deprived of their certain prey; while the two who listened sat with a
tightening grip upon their hearts, for when these things should come to
be the life of him who spoke them would have passed away, and the
immortal soul have flown from out that perishable husk on which his
last vain thoughts were still being centred.

Poor Joan! The time had yet to come when she would spend herself with
many a sad regret and sharp upbraiding that this and that had not been
said and done; but now, her spirit swallowed up in desolation and sunk
beneath the burden of despair, she sat all silent close by Jerrem's
side, covering his hands with many a mute caress, yet never daring to
lift up her eyes to look into his face without a burst of grief sweeping
across to shake her like a reed. Jerrem could eat and drink, but Joan's
lips never tasted food. A fever seemed to burn within and fill her with
its restless torment: the beatings of her throbbing heart turned her
first hot, then cold, as each pulse said the time to part was hurrying
to its end.

By Jerrem's wish, Joan was not told that on the morning of his death to
Reuben alone admittance to him had been granted: therefore when the eve
of that morrow came, and the time to say farewell actually arrived, the
girl was spared the knowledge that this parting was more than the shadow
of that last good-bye which so soon would have to be said for ever.
Still, the sudden change in Jerrem's face pierced her afresh and broke
down that last barrier of control over a grief she could subdue no
longer. In vain the turnkeys warned them that time was up and Joan must
go. Reuben entreated too that they should say good-bye: the two but
clung together in more desperate necessity, until Reuben, seeing that
further force would be required, stepped forward, and stretching out his
hand found it caught at by Jerrem and held at once with Joan's, while in
words from which all strength of tone seemed to die away Jerrem
whispered, "Reuben, if ever it could come to pass that when I'm gone you
and she might find it some day in your minds to stand
together--_one_--say 'twas the thing he wished for most before he went."
Then, with a feeble effort to push her into Reuben's arms, he caught her
back, and straining her close to his heart again cried out, "Oh, Joan,
but death comes bitter when it means good-bye to such as you!" Another
cry, a closer strain, then Jerrem's arms relax; his hold gives way, and
Joan falls staggering back; the door is opened--shut; the struggle is
past, and ere their sad voices can come echoing back Jerrem and Joan
have looked their last in life.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


When Reuben found that to be a witness of Jerrem's death Joan must take
her stand among the lawless mob who made holiday of such sad scenes as
this, his decision was that the idea was untenable. Jerrem too had a
strong desire that Joan should not see him die; and although his
avoidance of anything that directly touched upon that dreaded moment had
kept him from openly naming his wishes, the hints dropped satisfied
Reuben that the knowledge of her absence would be a matter of relief to
him. But how get Joan to listen to his scruples when her whole mind was
set on keeping by Jerrem's side until hope was past and life was over?

"Couldn't 'ee get her to take sommat that her wouldn't sleep off till
'twas late?" Jerrem had said after Reuben had told him that the next
morning he must come alone; and the suggestion made was seized on at
once by Reuben, who, under pretence of getting something to steady her
shaken nerves, procured from the apothecary near a simple draught, which
Joan in good faith swallowed. And then, Reuben having promised in case
she fell asleep to awaken her at the appointed hour, the poor soul, worn
out by sorrow and fatigue, threw herself down, dressed as she was, upon
the bed, and soon was in a heavy sleep, from which she did not rouse
until well into the following day, when some one moving in the room made
her start up. For a moment she seemed dazed: then, rubbing her eyes as
if to clear away those happy visions which had come to her in sleep, she
gazed about until Reuben, who had at first drawn back, came forward to
speak to her. "Why, Reuben," she cried, "how's this? Have I been
dreamin', or what? The daylight's come, and, see, the sun!"

And here she stopped, her parched mouth half unclosed, as fears came
crowding thick upon her mind, choking her further utterance. One look at
Reuben's face had told the tale; and though she did not speak again, the
ashen hue that overspread and drove all color from her cheeks proclaimed
to him that she had guessed the truth.

"'Twas best, my dear," he said, "that you should sleep while he went to
his rest."

But the unlooked-for shock had been too great a strain on body and mind,
alike overtaxed and weak, and, falling back, Joan lay for hours as one
unconscious and devoid of life. And Reuben sat silent by her side,
paying no heed as hour by hour went by, till night had come and all
around was dark: then some one came softly up the stairs and crept into
the room, and Eve's whispered "Reuben!" broke the spell.

Yes, all had gone well. The body, rescued and safe, was now placed
within a house near to the churchyard in which Eve's mother lay: there
it was to be buried. And there, the next day, the commonplace event of
one among many funerals being over, the four thus linked by fate were
brought together, and Adam and Joan again stood face to face. Heightened
by the disguise which in order to avoid detection he was obliged to
adopt, the alteration in Adam was so complete that Joan stood aghast
before this seeming stranger, while a fresh smart came into Adam's open
wounds as he gazed upon the changed face of the once comely Joan.

A terrible barrier--such as, until felt, they had never dreaded--seemed
to have sprung up to separate and divide these two. Involuntarily they
shrank at each other's touch and quailed beneath each other's gaze,
while each turned with a feeling of relief to him and to her who now
constituted their individual refuge and support. Yes, strange as it
seemed to Adam and unaccountable to Joan, _she_ clung to Reuben, _he_ to
Eve, before whom each could be natural and unrestrained, while between
their present selves a great gulf had opened out which naught but time
or distance could bridge over.

So Adam went back to his hiding-place, Reuben to his shop, and Joan and
Eve to the old home in Knight's Passage, as much lost amid the crowd of
thronged London as if they had already taken refuge in that far-off land
which had now become the goal of Adam's thoughts and keen desires. Eve,
too, fearing some fresh disaster, was equally anxious for their
departure, and most of Reuben's spare time was swallowed up in making
the necessary arrangements. A passage in his name for himself and his
wife was secured in a ship about to start. At the last moment this
passage was to be transferred to Adam and Eve, whose marriage would take
place a day or two before the vessel sailed. The transactions on which
the successful fulfilment of these various events depended were mostly
conducted by Reuben, aided by the counsels of Mr. Osborne and the
assistance of Captain Triggs, whose good-fellowship, no longer withheld,
made him a valuable coadjutor.

Fortunately, Triggs's vessel, through some detention of its cargo, had
remained in London for an unusually long time, and now, when it did
sail, Joan was to take passage in it back to Polperro.

"Awh, Reuben, my dear," sighed Joan one evening as, Eve having gone to
see Adam, the two walked out toward the little spot where Jerrem lay,
and as they went discussed Joan's near departure, "I wish to goodness
you'd pack up yer alls and come 'longs to Polperro home with me: 't 'ud
be ever so much better than stayin' to this gashly London, where there
ain't a blow o' air that's fresh to draw your breath in."

"Why, nonsense!" said Reuben: "you wouldn't have me if I'd come."

"How not have 'ee?" exclaimed Joan. "Why, if so be I thought you'd come
I'd never stir from where I be until I got the promise of it."

"But there wouldn't be nothin' for me to do," said Reuben.

"Why, iss there would--oceans," returned Joan. "Laws! I knaws clocks by
scores as hasn't gone for twenty year and more. Us has got two
ourselves, that wan won't strike and t' other you can't make tick."

Reuben smiled: then, growing more serious, he said, "But do you know,
Joan, that yours isn't the first head it's entered into about going down
home with you? I've had a mind toward it myself many times of late."

"Why, then, do come to wance," said Joan excitedly; "for so long as they
leaves me the house there'll be a home with me and Uncle Zebedee, and
I'll go bail for the welcome you'll get gived 'ee there."

Reuben was silent, and Joan, attributing this to some hesitation over
the plan, threw further weight into her argument by saying, "There's the
chapel too, Reuben. Only to think o' the sight o' good you could do
praichin' to 'em and that! for, though it didn't seem to make no odds
before, I reckons there's not a few that wants, like me, to be told o'
some place where they treats folks better than they does down here
below."

"Joan," said Reuben after a pause, speaking out of his own thoughts and
paying no heed to the words she had been saying, "you know all about Eve
and me, don't you?"

Joan nodded her head.

"How I've felt about her, so that I believe the hold she's got on me no
one on earth will ever push her off from."

"Awh, poor sawl!" sighed Joan compassionately: "I've often had a feelin'
for what you'd to bear, and for this reason too--that I knaws myself
what 'tis to be ousted from the heart you'm cravin' to call yer own."

"Why, yes, of course," said Reuben briskly: "you were set down for Adam
once, weren't you?"

"Awh, and there's they to Polperro--mother amongst 'em, too--who'll tell
'ee now that if Eve had never shawed her face inside the place Adam 'ud
ha' had me, after all. But there! all that's past and gone long ago."

There was another pause, which Reuben broke by saying suddenly, "Joan,
should you take it very out of place if I was to ask you whether after a
bit you could marry me? I dare say now such a thought never entered
your head before."

"Well, iss it has," said Joan; 'and o' late, ever since that blessed
dear spoke they words he did, I've often fell to wonderin' if so be 't
'ud ever come to pass. Not, mind, that I should ha' bin put out if 't
had so happened that you'd never axed me, like, but still I thought
sometimes as how you might, and then agen I says, 'Why should he,
though?'"

"There's many a reason why _I_ should ask _you_, Joan," said Reuben,
smiling at her unconscious frankness, "though very few why you should
consent to take a man whose love another woman has flung away."

"Awh, so far as that goes, the both of us is takin' what's another's
orts, you knaw," smiled Joan.

"Then is it agreed?" asked Reuben, stretching out his hand.

"Iss, so far as I goes 'tis, with all my heart." Then as she took his
hand a change came to her April face, and looking at him through her
swimming eyes she said, "And very grateful too I'm to 'ee, Reuben, for I
don't knaw by neither another wan who'd take up with a poor heart-broke
maid like me, and they she's looked to all her life disgraced by others
and theyselves."

Reuben pressed the hand that Joan had given to him, and drawing it
through his arm the two walked on in silence, pondering over the
unlooked-for ending to the strange events they both had lately passed
through. Joan's heart was full of a contentment which made her think,
"How pleased Adam will be! and won't mother be glad! and Uncle Zebedee
'ull have somebody to look to now and keep poor Jonathan straight and
put things a bit in order;" while Reuben, bewildered by the thoughts
which crowded to his mind, semed unable to disentangle them. Could it be
possible that he, Reuben May, was going down to live at Polperro, a
place whose very name he had once taught himself to abominate?--that he
could be willingly casting his lot amid a people whom he had but lately
branded as thieves, outcasts, reprobates? Involuntarily his eyes turned
toward Joan, and a nimbus in which perfect charity was intertwined with
great love and singleness of heart seemed to float about her head and
shed its radiance on her face; and its sight was to Reuben as the first
touch of love, for he was smitten with a sense of his own unworthiness,
and, though he did not speak, he asked that a like spirit to that which
filled Joan might rest upon himself.

That evening Eve was told the news which Joan and Reuben had to tell,
and as she listened the mixed emotions which swelled within her
perplexed her not a little, for even while feeling that the two wishes
she most desired--Joan cared for and Reuben made happy--were thus
fulfilled, her heart seemed weighted with a fresh disaster: another
wrench had come to part her from that life soon to be nothing but a
lesson and a memory. And Adam, when he was told, although the words he
said were honest words and true, and truly he did rejoice, there yet
within him lay a sadness born of regret at rendering up that love so
freely given to him, now to be garnered for another's use; and
henceforth every word that Reuben spoke, each promise that he gave,
though all drawn forth by Adam's own requests, stuck every one a
separate thorn within his heart, sore with the thought of being an
outcast from the birthplace that he loved and cut off from those whose
faces now he yearned to look upon.

No vision opened up to Adam's view the prosperous life the future held
in store--no still small voice then whispered in his ear that out of
this sorrow was to come the grace which made success sit well on him and
Eve; and though, as years went by and intercourse became more rare,
their now keen interest in Polperro and its people was swallowed up amid
the many claims a busy life laid on them both, each noble action done,
each good deed wrought, by Adam, and by Eve too, bore on it the unseen
impress of that sore chastening through which they now were passing.

Out of the savings which from time to time Adam had placed with Mr.
Macey enough was found to pay the passage-money out and keep them from
being pushed by any pressing want on landing.

Already, at the nearest church, Adam and Eve had been married, and
nothing now remained but to get on board the vessel, which had already
dropped down the river and was to sail the following morning, Triggs had
volunteered to put them and their possessions safely on board, and
Reuben and Joan, with Eve's small personal belongings, were to meet them
at the steps, close by which the Mary Jane's boat would be found
waiting. The time had come when Adam could lay aside his disguise and
appear in much the same trim he usually did when at Polperro.

Joan was the first to spy him drawing near, and holding out both her
hands to greet the welcome change she cried, "Thank the Lord for lettin'
me see un his ownself wance more!--Awh, Adam! awh, my dear! 't seems as
if I could spake to 'ee now and know 'ee for the same agen.--Look to un,
Reuben! you don't wonder now what made us all so proud of un at home."

Reuben smiled, but Adam shook his head: the desolation of this sad
farewell robbed him of every other power but that of draining to the
dregs its bitterness. During the whole of that long day Eve and he had
hardly said one word, each racked with thoughts to which no speech gave
utterance. Mechanically each asked about the things the other one had
brought, and seemed to find relief in feigning much anxiety about their
safety, until Triggs, fearing they might outstay their time, gave them a
hint it would not do to linger long; and, with a view to their
leavetaking being unconstrained, he volunteered to take the few
remaining things down to the boat and stow them safely away, adding that
when they should hear his whistle given it would be the signal that they
must start without delay.

The spot they had fixed on for the starting-place was one but little
used and well removed from all the bustle of a more frequented landing.
A waterman lounged here and there, but seeing the party was another's
fare vouchsafed to them no further interest. The ragged mud-imps stayed
their noisy pranks to scrutinize the country build of Triggs's boat,
leaving the four, unnoticed, to stand apart and see each in the other's
face the reflection of that misery which filled his own.

Parting for ever! no hopes, no expectations, no looking forward, nothing
to whisper "We shall meet again"! "Good-bye for ever" was written on
each face and echoed in each heart. Words could not soothe that
suffering which turned this common sorrow into an individual torture,
which each must bear unaided and alone; and so they stood silent and
with outward calm, knowing that on that brink of woe the quiver of an
eye might overthrow their all but lost control.

The sun was sinking fast; the gathering mists of eventide were rising to
shadow all around; the toil of day was drawing to its close; labor was
past, repose was near at hand; its spirit seemed to hover around and
breathe its calm upon those worn, tried souls. Suddenly a shrill whistle
sounds upon their ears and breaks the spell: the women start and throw
their arms around each other's necks. Adam stretches his hand out, and
Reuben grasps it in his own.

"Reuben, good-bye. God deal with you as you shall deal with those you're
going among!"

"Adam, be true to her, and I'll be true to those you leave behind."

"Joan!" and Adam's voice sounds hard and strained, and then a choking
comes into his throat, and, though he wants to tell her what he feels,
to ask her to forgive all he has made her suffer, he cannot speak a
word. Vainly he strives, but not a sound will come; and these two, whose
lives, so grown together, are now to be rent asunder, stand stricken and
dumb, looking from out their eyes that last farewell which their poor
quivering lips refuse to utter.

"God bless and keep you, Eve!" Reuben's voice is saying as, taking her
hands within his own, he holds them to his heart and for a moment lets
them rest there.--"Oh, friends," he says, "there is a land where
partings never come: upon that shore may we four meet again!"

Then for a moment all their hands are clasped and held as in a vice, and
then they turn, and two are gone and two are left behind.

And now the two on land stand with their eyes strained on the boat,
which slowly fades away into the vapory mist which lies beyond: then
Reuben turns and takes Joan by the hand, and silently the two go back
together, while Adam and Eve draw near the ship which is to take them
to that far-off shore to which Hope's torch, rekindled, now is pointing.

Good-bye is said to Triggs, the boat pushes off, and the two left
standing side by side watch it away until it seems a speck, which
suddenly is swallowed up and disappears from sight. Then Adam puts his
arm round Eve, and as they draw closer together from out their lips come
sighing forth the whispered words, "Fare-well! farewell!"

_The Author of "Dorothy Fox"_.




OUR GRANDFATHERS' TEMPLES.


If on the fourteenth day of May, 1607, when the Rev. Robert Hunt
celebrated the first sacramental service of the Church of England on
American soil, there had suddenly sprung up at Jamestown the pillars and
arches of a fully-equipped cathedral, whose stones had remained to tell
us of the days when they first enshrined the worship of the earliest
colonists, our most ancient Christian church would still be less than
three hundred years old--a hopelessly modern structure in comparison
with many an abbey and cathedral of England and the Continent.

[Illustration: THE OLD SOUTH, BOSTON.]

In a comparative sense, we look in vain for old churches in a new
country, for in our architecture, if nowhere else, we are still a land
of yesterday, where age seems venerable only when we refuse to look
beyond the ocean, and where even a short two hundred years have taken
away the larger share of such perishable ecclesiastical monuments as we
once had. Our grandfathers' temples, whether they stood on the banks of
the James River or on the colder shores of Massachusetts Bay, were built
cheaply for a scanty population: their material was usually wood,
sometimes unshapen logs, and their sites, chosen before the people and
the country had become fitted to each other, were afterward often needed
for other uses. So long as London tears down historic churches, even in
the present days of fashionable devotion to the old and the quaint, and
so long as the Rome of 1880 is still in danger from vandal hands, we
need only be surprised that the list of existing American churches of
former days is so long and so honorable as it is. If we have no York
Minster or St. Alban's Abbey or Canterbury Cathedral, we may still turn
to an Old South, a St. Paul's and a Christ Church. It is something,
after all, to be able to count our most famous old churches on the
fingers of both hands, and then to enumerate by tens those other temples
whose legacy from bygone times is scarcely less rich.

[Illustration: KING'S CHAPEL, BOSTON, IN 1872.]

The American churches of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were
plain structures, unpretending without and unadorned within; and this
for other reasons than the poverty of the community, the lack of the
best building-materials, and the absence both of architects and of
artistic tastes. It was a simple ritual which most of them were to
house, and the absence of an ornate service demanded the absence of
ornamentation, which would be meaningless because it would symbolize
nothing. The influence of the Puritans in Massachusetts, the Baptists in
Rhode Island, the Dutch Reformed in New York, the Lutherans and
Presbyterians in the Middle and Southern colonies, and the Friends in
Pennsylvania, whatever their denominational differences, was a unit in
favor of the utmost simplicity consistent with decency and order; and
though there was a difference between Congregational churches like the
Old South in Boston and the Friends' meeting-houses in Philadelphia, the
difference was far less marked than that existing between the new and
old buildings of the Old South society, which the modern tourist may
compare at his leisure in the Boston of to-day. Even the Episcopalians
shared, or deferred to, the prevailing spirit of the time: they put no
cross upon their Christ Church in Cambridge, nearly a hundred and thirty
years after the settlement of the place, lest they should offend the
tastes of their neighbors. The Methodists, the "Christians," the
Swedenborgians, the Unitarians and the Universalists were not yet, and
the Moravians were a small and little-understood body in Eastern
Pennsylvania.

[Illustration: KING'S CHAPEL BOSTON, IN 1872.]

Nearly all the colonists, of whatever name, brought from Europe a
conscientious love of religious simplicity and unpretentiousness: for
the most part, the English-speaking settlers were dissenters from the
Church which owned all the splendid architectural monuments of the
country whence they came; and it was not strange that out of their
religious thought grew churches that symbolized the sturdy qualities of
a faith which, right or wrong, had to endure exile and poverty and
privation--privation not only from social wealth, but from the rich
store of ecclesiastical traditions which had accumulated for centuries
in cathedral choirs and abbey cloisters.

[Illustration: CHRIST CHURCH, BOSTON.]

Therefore, the typical New England meeting-house of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries may perhaps be taken as the best original example
of what America has to show in the way of church-building. To be sure,
its cost was modest, its material was perishable wood, its architectural
design was often a curious medley of old ideas and new uses, and even
its few ornaments were likely to be devoid of the beauty their designers
fancied that they possessed. But it was, at any rate, an honest
embodiment of a sincere idea--the idea of "freedom to worship God;" and
it was adapted to the uses which it was designed to serve. It stood upon
a hill, a square box with square windows cut in its sides--grim without
and grim within, save as the mellowing seasons toned down its ruder
aspects, and green grass and waving boughs framed it as if it were a
picture. Within, the high pulpit, surmounted by a sounding-board,
towered over the square-backed pews, facing a congregation kept orderly
by stern tithing-man and sterner tradition. There was at first neither
organ nor stove nor clock. The shivering congregation warmed itself as
best it might by the aid of foot-stoves; the parson timed his sermon by
an hour-glass; and in the singing-seats the fiddle and the bass--viol
formed the sole link (and an unconscious one) between the simple
song-service of the Puritan meeting-house and the orchestral
accompaniments to the high masses of European cathedrals. The men still
sat at the end of the pew--a custom which had grown up in the days when
they went to the meeting-house gun in hand, not knowing when they should
be hastily summoned forth to fight the Indians. In the earliest days the
drum was the martial summons to worship, but soon European bells sent
forth their milder call. Behind the meeting-houses were the horse-sheds
for the use of distant comers--a species of ecclesiastical edifice still
adorning the greater number of American country churches, and not likely
to disappear for many a year to come.

In the elder day there was no such difference as now between city and
country churches, for the limitations of money and material bore upon
both more evenly. But with growing wealth and the choice of permanent
locations for building came brick and stone; English architects received
orders; and the prevailing revival led by Sir Christopher Wren and his
followers dotted the Northern colonies with more pretentious churches,
boasting spires not wholly unlike those which were then piercing London
skies. With costlier churches of permanent material there came also the
English fashion of burial in churchyards and chancel-vaults, and mural
tablets and horizontal tombstones were laid into the mortar which has
been permitted, in not a few cases, to preserve them for our own eyes.

[Illustration: ST. MICHAEL'S, MARBLEHEAD, MASSACHUSETTS.]

But our oldest churches, as a rule, have been made more notable by the
political events with which they have been associated than by the
honorable interments that have taken place beneath their shadow. Their
connection with the living has endeared them to our memories more than
their relations to the dead. Not because it is Boston's Westminster
Abbey or Temple Church has the Old South been permitted to come down to
us as the best example of the Congregational meeting-houses of the
eighteenth century, but because of the Revolutionary episodes of which
it was the scene, and which are commemorated in the stone tablet upon
its front. The Old South Church, built in 1729, belonged to the common
class of brick structures which replaced wooden ones; for, like
Solomon's temple, its predecessor had been built of cedar sixty years
before. The convenient location of the Old South and the capaciousness
of its interior brought to it the colonial meetings which preceded the
Revolution, and especially that famous gathering of December 13, 1773,
whence marched the disguised patriots to destroy the taxed tea in Boston
harbor. The convenient access and spacious audience-room of the old
church also led to its occupancy as a riding-school for British cavalry
in 1775. Even now, in the quiet days following the recent excitement
attending its escape from fire and from sale and demolition, the ancient
church still finds occasional use as a place for lectures and public
gatherings. Its chequered days within the past decade have at least
served to make its appearance and its part in colonial history more
familiar to us, and have done something to save other churches from the
destruction which might have overtaken them.

As the Old South stands as the brick-and-mortar enshrinement of the best
Puritan thought of the eighteenth century, so King's Chapel in Boston,
built twenty-five years later, represents the statelier social customs
and the more conservative political opinions of the early New England
Episcopalians. Its predecessor, of wood, was the first building of the
Church of England in New England. The present King's Chapel, with its
sombre granite walls and its gently-lighted interior, suggests to the
mind an impression of independence of time rather than of age. One reads
on the walls, to be sure, such high-sounding old names as Vassall and
Shirley and Abthorp, and on a tomb in the old graveyard near by one sees
the inscriptions commemorating Governor John Winthrop of Massachusetts
and his son John, governor of Connecticut. But King's Chapel seems the
home of churchly peace and gracious content; so that, as we sit within
its quaint three-sided pews, it is hard to remember the stormy scenes in
which it has had part. Its Tory congregation, almost to a man, fled from
its walls when the British general, Gage, evacuated Boston; the sterner
worshippers of the Old South occupied its Anglican pews for a time; and
later it was the scene of a theological movement which caused, in 1785,
the first Episcopal church in New England--or rather its remnant--to
become the first Unitarian society in America.

In Salem street, Boston, left almost alone at the extreme north end of
the city, is Christ Church, built in 1723. Its tower contains the oldest
chime of bells in America, and from it, according to some antiquarians,
was hung the lantern which on April 18, 1775, announced to the waiting
Paul Revere, and through him to the Middlesex patriots in all the
surrounding country, that General Gage had despatched eight hundred men
to seize and destroy the military stores gathered at Concord by the
Massachusetts Committees of Safety and Supplies. Thus opened the
Revolutionary war, for the battles at Lexington and Concord took place
only the next day.

The white-spired building at the corner of Park and Tremont streets,
Boston, known as the Park Street Church, is hardly so old as its
extended fame would lead one to suppose, for it dates no farther back
than the first quarter of the present century. Its position as the
central point of the great theological controversies of 1820 in the
Congregational churches of Eastern Massachusetts has made it almost as
familiar as the "Saybrook Platform." The meeting-house was built at the
time when the greater part of the Boston churches were modifying their
creeds, and when the Old South itself would have changed its
denominational relations but for the vote of a State official, cast to
break a tie. Its inelegance and rawness are excused in part by its
evident solidity and sincerity of appearance. In its shadow rest
Faneuil, Revere, Samuel Adams and John Hancock.

Boston has other churches which, like the Park Street, are neither
ancient nor modern, the Hollis Street Church and the First Church in
Roxbury being good examples. New England has hardly a better specimen of
the old-fashioned meeting-house on a hill than this old weather-beaten
wooden First Church in Roxbury, the home of a parish to which John
Eliot, the apostle to the Indians, once ministered. Another quaint
memorial of the old colonial days survives in the current name,
"Meeting-house Hill," of a part of the annexed Dorchester district of
Boston.

[Ilustration: ST. PAUL'S CHAPEL, NEW YORK.]

St. Paul's Church, on Boston Common, was the first attempt of the
Episcopalians of the city, after the loss of King's Chapel,
to build a temple of imposing appearance. Controversies theological and
architectural rose with its walls, and young Edward Everett, if report
is to be credited, was the author of a tract, still in circulation, in
which its design and its principles formed the text for a criticism on
the religion to whose furtherance it was devoted. Standing as it does
next the United States court-house, the uses of the two buildings seem
to have been confused in the builders' minds; for there is something
ecclesiastical in the appearance of the hall of justice, which was
originally a Masonic temple, and something judicial in the face of the
church.

In Cambridge, three miles from Boston, the eighteenth-century
Episcopalians not only possessed a church, but also displayed to
unwilling eyes a veritable "Bishop's Palace"--the stately house of the
Rev. East Apthorp, "missionary to New England" and reputed candidate for
the bishopric of that region. Mr. Apthorp was rich and influential, but
his social and ecclesiastical lot was not an easy one, and he soon
returned to England discouraged, leaving his "palace" to come down to
the view of our own eyes, which find in it nothing more dangerous to
republican institutions than is to be discovered in a hundred other of
the three-story wooden houses which used so to abound in Massachusetts.
Christ Church, Cambridge, in which the bishop _in posse_ used to
minister, and which stands opposite Harvard College, was designed by the
architect of King's Chapel, and has always been praised for a certain
shapely beauty of proportion. For the last twenty years it has boasted
the only chime of bells in Cambridge, whose quiet shades of a Sunday
evening have been sweetly stirred by the music struck from them by the
hands of a worthy successor of the mediæval bell-ringers, to whom bells
are books, and who can tell the story of every ounce of bell-metal
within twenty miles of his tower. It was of this church, with its
Unitarian neighbor just across the ancient churchyard where so many old
Harvard and colonial worthies sleep, that Holmes wrote:

  Like sentinel and nun, they keep
    Their vigil on the green:
  One seems to guard, and one to weep,
    The dead that lie between.

The suburbs of Boston are not poor in churches of the eighteenth, or
even of the seventeenth, century. The oldest church in New England--the
oldest, indeed, in the Northern States--still standing in Salem, was
built in 1634, and its low walls and tiny-paned windows have shaken
under the eloquence of Roger Williams. It has not been used for
religious purposes since 1672. In Newburyport is one of the American
churches, once many but now few, in which George Whitefield preached,
and beneath it the great preacher lies buried. A curious little reminder
of St. Paul's, London, is found here in the shape of a whispering
gallery. Another landmark is the venerable meeting-house of the
Unitarian society in Hingham, popularly known as the "Old Ship." Built
in 1681, it was a Congregational place of worship for nearly a century
and a half. Its sturdiness and rude beauty form a striking illustration
of the lasting quality of good, sound wooden beams as material for the
sanctuary. Preparations have already been undertaken for celebrating the
second centennial of the ancient building. Nearly as old, and still more
picturesque with its quaint roof, its venerable hanging chandelier of
brass, its sober old reredos and its age-hallowed communion-service, is
St. Michael's, Marblehead, built in 1714, where faithful rectors have
endeavored to reach six generations of the fishermen and aristocracy of
the rocky old port. The antiquarian who has seen these old temples and
asks for others on the New England coast will turn with scarcely less
interest to St. John's, Portsmouth; the forsaken Trinity Church,
Wickford, Rhode Island, built in 1706; or Trinity, Newport, where Bishop
Berkeley used to preach. In Newport, indeed, one may also speculate
beneath the Old Mill on the fanciful theory that the curious little
structure was a baptistery long before the days of Columbus--the most
ancient Christian temple on this side the sea.

It is not uncommon to find comparatively new American churches to which
their surroundings or their sober material or their quiet architecture
have given a somewhat exaggerated appearance of age. Such is the case
with the curious row of three churches--the North and Centre
Congregational and Trinity Episcopalstanding side by side on the New
Haven green in a fashion unknown elsewhere in our own country. Any one
of these three churches looks quite as old as that shapely memorial of
pre-Revolutionary days, St. Paul's Chapel, New York, built in 1766 in
the prevailing fashion of the London churches. As with St. Paul's, there
was also no marked appearance of antiquity in the North Dutch Church,
New York, removed in recent years. The poor old Middle Dutch Church in
the same city, with its ignoble modern additions and its swarm of busy
tenants, would have looked old if it could have done so, but for modern
New Yorkers it has no more venerable memory, in its disfigurement and
disguise, than that furnished by its use, for a time, as the city
post-office.

[Illustration: OLD SWEDES' CHURCH, PHILADELPHIA.]

New York is poor in old buildings, and especially poor in old churches.
Besides St. Paul's, the comparatively modern St. John's Chapel and the
John Street Methodist Church, it really has nothing to show to the
tourist in search of ancient places of worship. The vicinity can boast a
few colonial temples--the quaint old Dutch church at Tarrytown, dear to
the readers of Irving; the Tennent Church on the battle-ground of
Monmouth, New Jersey, with its blood-stains of wounded British soldiers;
and a charmingly plain little Friends' meeting-house, no bigger than a
small parlor, near Squan, New Jersey, being the most strikingly
attractive. In Newark one notes the deep-set windows and solid stone
walls of the old First Presbyterian Church, and the quiet plainness of
Trinity Episcopal Church, which looks like Boston's King's Chapel, with
the addition of a white wooden spire.

Philadelphia is richer than any other American city in buildings of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. On the older streets it is a
frequent sight to see quaint little houses of imported English brick
modestly laid in alternate red and black, curiously like the latest
modern fashion. The ample room for growth possessed by this
widespreading city has saved many an ancient house for present use as
dwelling or store. One is not surprised, therefore, to find on the old
streets near the Delaware three churches of weather-stained brick which
seem trying to make the piety of an elder age useful to the worshippers
of to-day. All three of these churches--Gloria Dei, Christ and St.
Peter's--now have their chief work among the poor people whom one always
finds in a business quarter near the river-front, but each attracts, by
its old-time associations and its modern missionary spirit, a goodly
circle of attendants from the western parts of the city. Gloria Dei
Church, the oldest of the three, was built in 1700 by Swedish Lutherans
on the spot where the Swedish predecessors of the Friends had located
their fortified log church twenty-three years earlier. Its bell and
communion-service and some of its ornamental woodwork were presented by
the king of Sweden. It is surrounded by the usual graveyard, in which
lies Alexander Wilson, the lover and biographer of birds, who asked to
be buried here, in a "silent, shady place, where the birds will be apt
to come and sing over my grave." The Old Swedes' Church retained its
Lutheran connection until recent years, when it became an Episcopal
parish.

Christ Church and St. Peter's were formerly united in one parochial
government, and to the two parishes ministered William White, the first
Church-of-England minister in Pennsylvania, the friend and pastor of
Washington, the chaplain of Congress and one of the first two bishops of
the American Church. The present structure of Christ Church was begun in
1727, but not finished for some years. The parish is older, dating from
1695. Queen Anne gave it a communion-service in 1708. In 1754 came from
England its still-used chime of bells, which were laboriously
transferred during the Revolution to Allentown, Pennsylvania, lest they
should fall into British hands and be melted up for cannon. At Christ
Church a pew was regularly occupied by Washington during his frequent
residence in Philadelphia; and here have been seated Patrick Henry,
Benjamin Franklin, James Madison and many another patriot, besides
Cornwallis, Howe, André and others on the English side. Around and
beneath the church are many graves covered by weather-worn stones, and
on the walls of the interior there are a number of mural tablets.

St. Peter's Church was begun in 1758, and completed three years later.
In quiet graciousness of appearance it is like another Christ Church,
and its interior arrangements are still more quaint, the chancel being
at the eastern end of the church, while the pulpit and lectern are at
the western. In the adjoining churchyard is a monument to Commodore
Decatur.

One cannot find in all America sweeter and quainter memorials of a
gentle past--memorials still consecrated to the gracious work of the
present--than the churches and other denominational houses in the old
Moravian towns of Pennsylvania. At Bethlehem, as one stands in the
little three-sided court on Church street and looks up at the heavy
walls, the tiny dormer windows and the odd-shaped belfry which mark the
"Single Sisters' House" and its wings, one may well fancy one's self, as
a travelled visitor has said, in Quebec or Upper Austria. Still more
quaint and quiet is Willow Square, behind this curious house, where,
beneath drooping willow-boughs, one finds one's self beside the door of
the old German chapel, with the little dead-house, the boys' school and
the great and comparatively modern Moravian church near by. Through
Willow Square leads the path to the burying-ground, where lie, beneath
tall trees, long rows of neatly-kept graves, each covered with a plain
flat stone, the men and the women lying on either side of the broad
central path. Several of the ancient Moravian buildings date from the
middle of the last century. The Widows' House stands, opposite the
Single Sisters' Range, and across the street from the large church is
the Moravian Seminary for Young Ladies, established in 1749, and by far
the oldest girls' school in the United States.

It was in 1778 that the Single Sisters gave to Pulaski that banner of
crimson, silk which is commemorated in Longfellow's well-known "Hymn of
the Moravian Nuns at Bethlehem." The poem, however, written in the
author's early youth, and preserved for its rare beauty of language and
fine choice of subject, rather than for its historical accuracy, has
done much to perpetuate a wrong idea of the Moravian spirit and ritual.
Mr. Longfellow writes in his first stanza

      When the dying flame of day
      Through the chancel shot its ray,
      Far the glimmering tapers shed
      Faint light on the cowled head,
      And the censer burning swung,
      When before the altar hung
      That proud banner, which, with care,
      Had been consecrated there;
  And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
  Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.

But the Moravians know nothing of chancels, tapers, cowled heads,
censers, altars or nuns. Their faith has always been the simplest
Protestantism, their churches are precisely such as Methodists or
Baptists use, and their ritual is plainer than that of the most
"evangelical" Episcopal parish. Their "single sisters' houses," "widows'
houses" and "single brethren's houses"--the last long disused--are
simply arrangements for social convenience or co-operative housekeeping.
Mr. Longfellow's poetic description applies to the Moravian ceremonial
no more accurately than to a Congregational prayer-meeting or a
Methodist "love-feast."

[Illustration: THE MORAVIAN CEMETERY, BETHLEHEM, PENNSYLVANIA.]

Beside the deep and silent waters of the James River in Virginia,
undisturbed by any sound save the flight of birds and the rustle of
leaves, stands all that is left of the first church building erected by
Englishmen in America. A good part of the tower remains, the arched
doorways being still intact, and it seems a pitiable misfortune that the
honestly-laid bricks of the venerable building could not have come down
to our day. But, as it is, this ancient square block of brick forms our
one pre-eminent American ruin. Nothing could be a more solemn monument
of the past than the lonely tower, surrounded by thick branches and
underbrush and looking down upon the few crumbling gravestones still
left at its base. Jamestown, long abandoned as a village, has now become
an island, the action of the waters having at last denied it the
remaining solace of connection with the mainland of the Old Dominion,
of whose broad acres it was once the chief town and the seat of
government--the forerunner of all that came to America at the hands of
English settlers.

In the slumberous old city of Williamsburg, three miles from Jamestown,
stands the Bruton parish church, two hundred and two years old, and
still the home of a parish of sixty communicants. Built of brick, with
small-paned windows and wooden tower, its walls have listened to the
eloquence of the learned presidents of the neighboring William and Mary
College, and its floor has been honored by the stately tread of many a
colonial governor, member of the legislature or Revolutionary patriot;
for Williamsburg was the capital and centre of Virginia until the end of
the eighteenth century, and shared whatever Virginia possessed of
political or personal renown. Washington, of course, was more than once
an attendant at Bruton Church, and so were Jefferson and Patrick Henry
and an honorable host. In the church and in the chapel of William and
Mary College--which the ambitious colonists used to think a little
Westminster Abbey--was the religious home of a good share of what was
stateliest or most honorable in the early colonial life of the South.

Other old churches still dot the Virginia soil--St. John's, Richmond;
Pohick Church, Westmoreland county; Christ Church, Lancaster county; St.
Anne's, Isle of Wight county. Their antiquities, and those of other
ancient sanctuaries of the Old Dominion, have been painstakingly set
forth by Bishop Meade and other zealous chroniclers, and their
attractiveness is increased, in most cases--as at Jamestown--by the
loneliness of their surroundings. Another old church, left in the midst
of sweet country sights and gentle country sounds, is St. James's, Goose
Creek, South Carolina. St. Michael's and St. Philip's at Charleston in
the same State have heard the roar of hostile cannon, but have come
forth unscathed. The demolished Brattle Street Church in Boston was not
the only one of our sacred edifices to be wounded by cannonballs, for
the exigences of the fight more than once, during the Revolution and
the civil war, brought flame and destruction within the altar-rails of
churches North and South.

The growth of the Roman Catholic Church in America has been so recent
that it can show but few historical landmarks. The time-honored
cathedral at St. Augustine, Florida, and the magnificent ruin of the San
José Mission near San Antonio, Texas, and one or two weather-stained
little chapels in the North-west, are nearly all the churches that bring
to us the story of the priestly work of the Roman ecclesiastics during
the colonial days.

We have no State Church, and the different Presidents have made a wide
variety of choice in selecting their places of worship in Washington.
St. John's, just opposite the White House, has been the convenient
Sunday home of some of them: others have followed their convictions in
Methodist, Presbyterian, Unitarian and other churches. But the city of
Washington is itself too young to be able to boast any very ancient
associations in its churches, and few of its temples have been permitted
to record the names of famous occupants during a series of years. Our
whole country, indeed, is a land of many denominations and a somewhat
wandering population; and older cities than Washington have found one
church famous for one event in its history, and another for another,
rather than, in any single building, a series of notable occurrences
running through the centuries. The nearest approach to the record of a
succession of worthies occupying the same church-seats year after year
is to be found in the chronicles of our oldest college-chapels, as, for
instance, at Dartmouth, where the building containing the still-used
chapel dates from 1786. But though poverty and custom unite in making
our colleges conservative, their growth in numbers demands, from time to
time, new and more generous accommodations for public worship; and so
the little buildings of an earlier day are either torn down or kept for
other and more ignoble uses, like Holden Chapel at Harvard. This quaint
little structure was built in 1744, and is now used for
recitation-rooms, but at one period in its career it served as the
workshop of the college carpenter.

[Illustration: RUINS OF THE OLD CHURCH-TOWER, JAMESTOWN, VIRGINIA.]

In the years since our grandfathers built their places of worship we
have seen strange changes in American church buildings--changes in
material, location and adaptation to ritual uses. We have had a revival
of pagan temple-building in wood and stucco; we have seen Gothic
cathedrals copied for the simplest Protestant uses, until humorists have
suggested that congregations might find it cheaper to change their
religion than their unsuitable new churches; we have ranged from four
plain brick walls to vast and costly piles of marble or greenstone; we
have constructed great audience-rooms for Sunday school uses alone, and
have equipped the sanctuary with all culinary attachments; we have built
parish-houses whose comfort the best-kept mediæval monk might envy, and
we have put up evangelistic tabernacles only to find the most noted
evangelists preferring to work in regular church edifices rather than in
places of easy resort by the thoughtless crowd of wonder-seekers. But
not all these doings have been foolish or mistaken: some of them have
been most hopeful signs, and the next century will find excellent work
in the church-building of our day. The Gothic and Queen Anne revivals,
at their best, have promoted even more than the old-time honesty in the
use of sound and sincere building-material; and not a few of our newer
churches prove that our ecclesiastical architects have something more to
show than experiments in fanciful "revivals" that are such only in name.
We shall continue to do well so long as we worthily perpetuate the best
material lesson taught by our grandfathers' temples--the lesson of
downright honesty of construction and of a union between the spirit of
worship and its local habitation.

CHARLES F. RICHARDSON.



WILL DEMOCRACY TOLERATE A PERMANENT CLASS OF NATIONAL OFFICE-HOLDERS?


It is no doubt a public misfortune that so much of that thoughtful
patriotism which, both on account of its culture and its independence,
must always be valuable to the country, should have been wasted, for
some time past, upon what are apparently narrow and unpractical, if not
radically unsound, propositions of reform in the civil service. There is
unquestionably need of reform in that direction: it would be too much to
presume that in the generally imperfect state of man his methods of
civil government would attain perfection; but it must be questioned
whether the subject has been approached from the right direction and
upon the side of the popular sympathy and understanding. At this time
propositions of civil-service reform have not even the recognition, much
less the comprehension, of the mass of the people. Their importance,
their limitations, their possibilities, have never been demonstrated: no
commanding intellectual authority has ever taken up the subject and
worked it out before the eyes of the people as a problem of our national
politics. It remains a question of the closet, a merely speculative
proposition as to the science of government.

What, then, are the metes and bounds of this reform? How much is
demanded? How much is practicable?

Not attempting a full answer to all of these questions, and intending no
dogmatic treatment of any, let us give them a brief consideration from
the point of view afforded by the democratic system upon which the whole
political fabric of the United States is established. We are to look at
_our_ civil-service reform from that side. Whatever in it may be
feasible, that much must be a work in accord with the popular feeling.
It may be set down at the outset, as the first principle of the problem,
that any practicable plan of organizing the public service of the United
States must not only be founded upon the general consent of the people,
but must also have, in its actual operation, their continual, easy and
direct participation. Any scheme, no matter by what thoughtful patriot
suggested, no matter upon what model shaped, no matter from what
experience of other countries deduced, which does not possess these
essential features can never be worth the serious attention of any one
who expects to accomplish practical and enduring results.

(Possibly this may seem dogmatic, to begin with; but if we agree to
treat the question as one in democratic politics, the principle stated
becomes perfectly apparent.)

It must be fair, then, and for the purposes of this article not
premature, to point out that the measure which is especially known as
"civil-service reform," and which has been occasionally recognized in
the party platforms along with other generalities, is one whose essence
is _the creation of a permanent office-holding class_. Substantially,
this is what it amounts to. A man looking forward to a place in the
public service is to regard it as a life occupation, the same as if he
should study for a professional career or learn a mechanical trade. Once
in office, after a "competitive examination" or otherwise, he will
expect to stay in: he will hold, as the Federal judges do, by a
life-tenure, "during good behavior." This is now substantially the
system of Great Britain, which, in the judgment of Mr. Dorman B. Eaton,
is so much better than our own as to actually reduce the rate of
criminality in that country, and which, he declares, only political
baseness can prevent us from imitating. A change of administration
there, Mr. Eaton adds, only affects a few scores of persons occupying
the highest positions: the great mass of the officials live and die in
their places, indifferent to the fluctuation of parliamentary
majorities or the rise and fall of ministries.

We must ask ourselves does this system accord with American democracy?

A little more than half a century has passed since John Quincy Adams,
unquestionably the best trained and most experienced American
administrator who ever sat in the Presidency, undertook to establish in
the United States almost precisely the same system as that which Great
Britain now has. Admission to the places was not, it is true, by means
of competitive examination, but the feature--the essential feature--of
permanent tenure was present in his plan. Mr. Adams took the government
from Mr. Monroe without considering any change needful: his Cabinet
advisers even included three of those who had been in the Cabinet of his
predecessor, and these he retained to the end, though at least one of
the three, he thought, had ceased to be either friendly or faithful to
him. Retaining the old officers, and reappointing them if their
commissions expired, selecting new ones, in the comparatively rare cases
of death, resignation or ascertained delinquency, upon considerations
chiefly relating to their personal capabilities for the vacant places,
Mr. Adams was patiently and faithfully engaged during the four years of
his Presidency in establishing almost the precise reform of the national
service which has been in recent times so strenuously urged upon us as
the one great need of the nation--the administrative purification which,
if effectually performed, would prove that our system of government was
fit to continue in existence. Mr. Adams's plan did, indeed, seem
excellent. It commanded the respect of honest but busy citizens absorbed
in their private affairs and desirous that the government might be
fixed, once for all, in settled grooves, so that its functions would
proceed like the steady progress of the seasons. It was an attempt to
run the government, as has been sometimes said, "on business
principles." The President was to proceed, and did proceed, as if he had
in charge some great estate which he was to manage and direct as a
faithful and exact trustee. This, no one can deny, had the superficial
look of most admirable administration.

But President Adams had left out of account largely what we are
compelled to sedulously consider--public opinion. He had acquired most
of his experience abroad, and his principal service at home, as
Secretary of State, had been in a remarkably quiet time, when party
movements were neither ebbing nor flowing, so that he had forgotten how
strong and vigorous the democratic feeling was amongst the population of
these States. This is a forgetfulness to which all men are liable who
long occupy official position, and who seldom have to submit themselves
to that severe and rude competitive examination which the plan of
popular elections establishes. Unfortunately for him, he was not
responsible to a court of chancery for the management of his trust, but
to a tribunal composed of a multitude of judges. His accounts were to be
passed upon not by one learned and conservative auditor guided by
familiar precedents and rules of law, but a great, tumultuous popular
assembly, which would approve or disapprove by a majority vote. When,
therefore, it appeared to the people that he was forming a body of
permanent office-holders--was recruiting a civil army to occupy in
perpetuity the offices which they, the mass, had created and were taxed
to pay for--the fierce, and in many respects scandalous, partisan
assault which Jackson represented, if he did not direct, gathered
overwhelming force. It seemed to the popular view that a narrow, an
exclusive, an aristocratic system was being formed. The President
appeared to be, while honestly and carefully preserving their trust from
waste or loss, committing it to a control independent of them--an
official body which, having a permanent tenure, would be altogether
indifferent to their varying desires. Such a scheme of government was
therefore no more than an attempt to stand the pyramid on its apex: Mr.
Adams's administration, supported chiefly by those whose aspirations
were for an honest and capable bureaucracy, and who could not or would
not face the rude questionings of democracy, ended with his first four
years, and went out in such a whirlwind of partisan opposition as
brought in, by reaction, the infamous "spoils system" that at the end of
half a century we are but partially recovered from.

To designate more particularly the great fact which had been disregarded
in this notable experiment of fifty years ago, and which is apparently
not sufficiently considered in the measures of reform that have been
more recently pressed upon us, we may declare that the government of the
United States is, as yet, the direct outcome of what may be called _the
political activity of the people_. Whether or not, having read history,
we must anticipate a time here when the many, weary of preserving their
own liberties, will resign their power to a few, it is certain that no
such inclination yet appears. The government is the product of the
public mind and will when these are moved with reference to the subject.
It is created freshly at short intervals, and the manner of the creation
is seldom languid or careless, but usually earnest, intense and heated.
Upon this point there has no doubt been much misapprehension. As it has
happened--perhaps rather oddly--that those of our thoughtful patriots
whose warnings and appeals have reached public notice have had their
experiences mostly in city life, surrounded by the peculiar conditions
which exist there, the conclusions they have drawn in some respects are
applicable only to their own surroundings. They have discovered persons
who had forgotten or did not believe that liberty could be bought only
with the one currency of eternal vigilance, and coupled with these
others who were too busy to attend to the active processes by which the
government is from time to time renewed; and they have concluded, with
fatal inaccuracy of judgment, that this exceptional disposition of a
small number of persons was a type of the whole population. Nothing
could be more absurdly untrue. Outside of a very limited circle no such
political fatigue exists. The people generally are deeply interested in
public affairs and willing to attend to their own public duties. Their
concern in regard to measures, methods and candidates is seldom laid
aside. The _political activity_ to which we have called attention thus
at some length is earnest, persistent and exacting.

It will be useful for the reformer of the civil service to give some
study to the manifestations of this activity. He will find it one of the
most marked and characteristic features in the life of the American
people. If he will take the pains to examine the civil organization of
the country, he will find that its roots run to every stratum of
society. The number of persons interested in politics, not as a
speculative subject, but as a practical and personal one, is wonderfully
great. Thus, in most of the States there exists that modification of the
ancient Saxon system of local action by "hundreds"--the township
organization. This alone carries a healthy political movement into the
farthest nook and corner of the body politic: every citizen of common
sense may well be consulted in this primary activity, and every
household may be interested in the question whether its results are good
or bad. But besides this, simple and slightly compensated as are the
positions belonging to the township, there are in every community many
willing to fill them. To be a supervisor of the roads,[1] to be township
constable and collector of the taxes, to audit the township accounts, to
be a member of the school board, to be a justice of the peace, is an
inclination--it may be a desire--entertained by many citizens; and if
the ambition may seem to be a narrow one, its modesty does not make it
unworthy or discreditable. But these men alone, active in the politics
of townships, form a surprising array. If we consider that in
Pennsylvania there are sixty-seven counties, with an average of say
forty townships in each, here are twenty-six hundred and eighty
townships, having each not less than ten officials, and making nearly
twenty-seven thousand persons actually on duty at one time in a single
State in this fundamental branch of the service. And if we estimate that
besides those who are in office at least two persons are inclined and
willing, if not actually desirous, to occupy the place now filled by
each one--a very moderate calculation--we multiply twenty-six thousand
eight hundred by three, and have over eighty thousand persons whose minds
are quick and active in local politics on this one account. But we may
proceed further. There are the cities and boroughs, their official
business more complex and laborious, and in most cases receiving much
higher compensation. The competition for these is in many instances very
great: in the case of large cities we need not waste words in
elaborating the fact. It is difficult to estimate the number of persons
to whom the municipal corporations give place and pay compensation in
the State of Pennsylvania, but five thousand is not an extravagant
surmise, while it would be equally reasonable to presume that for each
place occupied at least three others would be willing to fill it, so
that on this account we may make a total of twenty thousand. But there
are also the county offices. Besides the judicial positions, altogether
honorable, held by long terms of election and receiving liberal
compensation, there are in each county an average of fifteen other
officials, making in the State, in round numbers, one thousand. These,
again, may be multiplied by four: there are certainly three waiting
aspirants for each place. But ascend now to the State system, with its
several executive departments, the legislature, the charitable and penal
institutions and the appointments in the gift of the governor. Great and
small, these may reach one thousand (the Legislature alone, with its
officers and employés, accounts for over three hundred), and certainly
there are at least five persons looking toward each of the several
places.

Upon such an estimate, then, of the political activities of one State we
have such a showing as this:

Citizens politically active as to townships,           80,000
Citizens politically active as to cities and boroughs, 20,000
Citizens politically active as to counties,             4,000
Citizens politically active as to the State,            5,000
                  Making a total of                   109,000

Some allowance should be made, no doubt, for persons whose inclinations
for position cover all the different fields--who may be said to be
watching several holes. But we have not considered how many citizens of
Pennsylvania are inclined to national positions--the Presidency, seats
in Congress or some of the numerous places in the general service of the
Federal government. These two classes, it is probable, would offset each
other.

Subtracting, however, the odd thousands from the total stated, we may
fix at one hundred thousand the number of citizens in the one State who,
by reason of occupying some position of public duty or of being inclined
to fill one, are actively interested in the subject of politics. This is
almost exactly one-seventh of the whole number of voters in the State:
it presents the fact that in every group of seven citizens there is one,
presumably of more than the average in capacity and intelligence, whose
mind is quick and sensitive to every question affecting political
organization. We are brought thus to the same point which we reached by
an observation of the township system--the fact that every part of
society is permeated by the general political circulation. It is like
the human organism: nerves and blood-vessels extend, with size and
capacity proportioned for their work, to the most remote extremity, and
the whole is alive.

Let us, however, guard strictly, at this point, against a possible
misconception. It is not to be understood that these one hundred
thousand citizens are simply "office-seekers," using the ordinary and
offensive sense of the term. The activity in affairs which we describe
is distinct from a sordid desire to grab the emoluments of office. The
vast majority of the places, including all those in the
townships--which, with the aspirants to them, make four-fifths of the
whole--are either without any pay at all or have an amount so small as
to be beneath our consideration. But a small part of the offices which
we have enumerated carry emoluments sufficient to furnish a living for
the most economical incumbent. The inspiration of the political
interest evidenced by this one-seventh part of the citizenship is not an
unworthy one at all: on the contrary, it is that essential democratic
inclination without which our form of government must quickly stagnate.
It would be foolish to say that no selfish motive enters into this
tremendous manifestation of energy and effort (until humanity assumes a
higher form the moving power of the mercenary principle must be very
great), but it is fair and it is accurate to ascribe to the men in
affairs a much loftier and more honorable impulse--the aspiration to
share in the conduct of their own government, the unwillingness to be
ignored or excluded in the administration of what is universally
denominated a common trust. That they enjoy, if they do not covet, such
pecuniary advantage as their places bring is reasonable, but it is true,
to their credit, that they do appreciate more than this the honor that
attaches to the public station and the pleasure which may be experienced
in the discharge of its conspicuous duties.

Let us presume that even this imperfect study of the political
activities of a single State may present some conception of the
tremendous force and energy that go to the making, year by year, of the
various branches of our government. Certainly, any student of this field
may accept with respect the admonition that there is no languor, no
fatigue, no feeling of genteel disgust with politics, in what has thus
been presented him. If, then, his plan of reorganization for the civil
service is intended to be set up without consulting the popular
inclination, or possibly even in opposition to it, he may well stand
hesitant as to his likelihood of success. The question may confront him
at once: Is the organization of a permanent official class in the
administration of the general government likely to accord with the
desires of the people? And we may add, Is it consistent with the general
character of our form of government? Is it not attended by conclusive
objections?

It is not the purpose of this article to attempt answering these
questions fully. We do not propose to throw ourselves across the path
of those undoubtedly sincere, and probably wise, students of this
subject who have arrived at the positive conclusion that to establish a
permanent tenure for the great body of the national office-holders, and
to appoint to vacancies among them upon the tests of a competitive or
other examination, is the panacea for all our public disorders, the
regenerative process which will lift our whole system into a higher and
purer atmosphere. We do not say that these gentlemen may not be right,
but we are willing to examine the subject.

Upon viewing, then, the tremendous popular activity in local and State
affairs--and we must reflect that there is "more politics to the square
foot" in some of the newer States than there is in Pennsylvania--the
inquiry is natural whether this stops short of all national politics.
Certainly it does not. The offices in the general government, though
their importance and their influence are usually overestimated, are a
great object of attention with the whole country. The vehement
democratic movement toward them that marked the time of Jackson is still
apparent, though it proceeds with diminished force and is regulated and
tempered by the strong protest which has been made against the scandals
of the "spoils system," and against the theory that government by
parties must be a continual struggle for plunder. It is noticeable that
no administration has ever really attempted the formation of an
irremovable body of officials. No party has ever yet explicitly declared
itself in favor of such a policy. No actual leader of any party, bearing
the responsibility of its success or failure in the elections, has ever
yet sincerely and persistently advocated the measure. None wish to
undertake so tremendous a task. He would indeed be a powerful orator who
could carry a popular gathering with him in favor of the proposition
that hereafter the holding of office was to be made more exclusive--that
the people were to put away from themselves, by a renunciation of their
own powers, the expectancy of occupying a great part of the public
places. Rare as may be the persuasive ability of the true stump-orator,
and serene as his confidence may be in his powers, there would be but
few volunteers to enter a campaign upon such a platform as that. It
would be a forlorn hope indeed.

The view of the people undoubtedly is (1) that the public places are
common property; (2) that any one may aspire to fill them; and (3) that
the elevation to them is properly the direct or nearly direct result of
election. The elective principle is democratic. It has been, since the
beginning of the government, steadily consuming all other methods of
making public officers. In most States the appointing power of the
governor, which years ago was usually large, has been stripped to the
uttermost. It is thirty years in Pennsylvania since even the judiciary
became elective by the people. And in those States--of which Delaware
furnishes an example--where most of the county officers are still the
appointees of the governor, the tendency to control his action by a
display of the popular wish--such an array of petitions, etc. as amounts
to a polling of votes--is unmistakable. The governor is moved,
obviously, by the people. And if to some this general tendency toward
the elective idea seems dangerous, it must be answered that it is not
really so if the people are in fact capable of self-government.
Conceding this as the foundation of our system, we cannot, at this point
and that, expect to interpose a guardianship over their expression.

To the permanency of tenure it is that we have given, and expect will
generally be given, most attention. This is the essence of the proposed
"reform." The manner of selecting new appointees is of no great
consequence if the vacancies are to occur so seldom as must be the case
where incumbents hold for life. Whether the new recruits come in upon
the certificates of a board of examiners, such as the British
Civil-Service Commission, or upon the scrutiny of the Executive and his
advisers, as now, is a consideration of minor importance. It is the idea
of an official class, an order of office-holders, which appears to throw
itself across the path of the democratic activity which we have
attempted to describe. This is the point of conflict--if any. We might,
it is true, take many measures to ensure the colorless and harmless
character of the system. Up to a recent time the government clerks in
England were deprived of the suffrage, in order that they might be
perfectly indifferent to politics. It is probable that in time our own
officials would lose the ordinary instincts of a democratic citizenship,
and would regard with coldness, if not contempt, the activities that
lead to a renewal of the government. But however smoothly they might
move in the pursuance of their clerical routine, however faultless they
might become in their round of prescribed duties, would they not still
obstruct the public purpose? Would not even this emasculate order of
placemen, standing apart a sacrificed though favored class, still
present themselves as unpardonable offenders? When it should be
discovered that they claimed the possession in perpetuity of the offices
in the national government, and had organized themselves as a standing
army of placemen, can it be believed that they would not be swept aside
by the same iconoclastic onset which ended the Adams administration?

We do not pause here to represent the apparent inconsistency of desiring
to de-citizenize a large number of intelligent members of the community,
or the risk of creating a class in the republic forbidden to take any
active interest in the renewals of its organization, or the impolicy of
diminishing the force and courage of the popular will in its grapple
with the problem of self-government; but all these comments may suggest
themselves.

Popular expectancy, it may fairly be declared, follows all the stations
of public life with a jealous if not an eager eye. There is abundant
evidence of this in the county and township systems. Taking, for
example, the administration of county affairs in any of the States, it
will be found that the officers, by a rule that seems generally
satisfactory, hold during short terms, and are seldom re-elected
immediately to the same place. The rule is rotation--giving a large
number of persons their "turn"--and changes are regularly made. A man
disappointed this year for a particular place waits until the time comes
to fill it again, and in many counties, other things being about equal,
the fact that he has waited patiently and now presents the oldest claim
governs the selection. The antipathy to one who seeks to hold on to his
place beyond the ordinary term--the dislike for a grabber who desires
more than is usually assigned--is a perfectly well-known feature in
politics. The county system of Pennsylvania will afford abundant proof
of the statements here made: the terms of the officers, who are all
elective, do not average more than four years, even including such
court-officials as the clerks and prothonotaries, whose duties are in
some particulars technical and difficult, requiring an acquaintance with
the forms of legal procedure. But it is further true that in the States
where county officers are appointed by the governor no protracted tenure
results. On the contrary, the pressure upon him of the public
expectation seldom permits the reappointment of an officer whose
commission is expiring.

With this rule of change, primary as its application is, and within the
direct comprehension and control of the people, there does not appear to
be any general discontent. It is accepted, so far as we can discover, as
a just and proper system by which an equality of claims upon the common
favor is maintained. It is reasonable to presume, therefore, that
amongst a people fairly acquainted with their own business, and
possessing a fair education both of the schools and of experience in
life, many persons in every community are competent to serve as its
officials. At any rate, in the midst of these usages we discover no
demand that the terms of office be made permanent, and that the
place-holders be put beyond the reach of a removal. There is no apparent
realization that such a "reform" is demanded; and if it be difficult, as
has been stated, to awaken popular enthusiasm in behalf of a permanent
tenure in the national civil service, there seems to be nothing in the
rules of primary politics to help smooth the way.

It may be asked now whether it is not almost certainly true that some
sound principle lies in the methods which an intelligent community,
unrestrained by ancient conventional ideas or repressive systems of law,
applies to its own political organization. Is not this instinctive
democratic plan an essential principle of a government founded upon
equal rights? _Is it not a law of Change which characterizes the civil
service of a democracy, and not a law of Permanence?_

We can hardly doubt that the facts which have been stated concerning the
disposition of the people toward the offices in their government are
capable of a philosophical explanation; and as they proceed with evident
freedom and naturalness from the very bosom of communities accustomed to
independent thought and action, the conclusion is irresistible that this
is the temper and the tendency of a free government. Startling as it may
be to propose change rather than permanency in the civil service, that
may prove to be best adapted to our wants. Consciously or not, such a
rule has been established by the people themselves; and while it has
scarcely found a formal presentation, much less had careful examination
and argument, there can be little doubt that such a principle,
substantially as we have described, lies close to the hearts of the
people. The right of election, the idea that public officers should be
elective, and the expectation that there will be a rotation of duties
and honors, are popular principles which are unmistakable.

Apart from the consideration that whatever is fundamental in popular
government, whatever tends to the preservation of individual freedom and
equality of rights, must be a safe principle, there could be much said
from the most practical stand-point in favor of rotation in office. All
human experience proves the usefulness of change. Rest is the next thing
to rust. In physics things without motion are usually things without
life; and in government it is the bureaus least disturbed by change that
are most stagnated and most circumlocutory. The apparent misfortune of
having men experienced in public affairs make way, at intervals, for
others of less experience is itself greatly exaggerated. There are facts
so important in compensation that the assumed evil becomes one of very
moderate proportions. For it will be seen upon careful observation that
no important function of the government, not even in the national
service, calls for a character or qualification--sometimes, but rarely,
for any sort of special or technical skill--which is not being
continually formed and trained either in the movements of private life
and business experience or in the political schools which are furnished
by the State, the county and the township. The functions of the
government are substantially the guardianship of the same interests for
which the State, the county, the township and the individual exercise
concern. Government has lost its mystery: even diplomacy has somewhat
changed from lying and chicanery to common-sense dealing. The qualities
that are required in the government--industry, economy, integrity,
knowledge of men and affairs--are precisely those which are of value to
every individual citizen, and which are taught day by day everywhere--to
the lads in school and college and to the men in their occupations of
life. Such qualities a community fit to govern itself must abundantly
possess. There is nothing occult in the science of government. The
administration in behalf of the people of the organization which they
have ordered is nothing foreign to their own knowledge. They have ceased
to consider themselves unfit for self-rule: they no longer think of
calling in from other worlds a different order of beings to govern them.

We may accept without fear principles which seem startling, but which
are proved to be rooted in democratic ground, so long as we have faith
in the democratic system itself. There is no road open for the doubter
and questioner of popular rights but that which leads back to abandoned
ground. We may proceed, then, with an attempt to explain the philosophy
of the rule of Change. Shall it not be stated thus:

_That, due regard being had to the preservation of simplicity and
economy--forbidding thus the needless increase of offices and
expenses--it is then true that the active participation by the largest
number of persons in the practical administration of their own
government is an object highly to be desired in every democratic
republic._

The government must be the highest school of affairs. Shall it be
declared that to study there and to have its diploma is not desirable
for all? Is it not perfectly evident that the more who can learn to
actually discharge the duties belonging to their own social
organization, the better for them and the better for it?

All these propositions necessarily imply the existence of an intelligent
and patriotic people, at least of such a majority. So always does every
plan of popular government. Whatever of disappointment presents itself
to the author of any scheme of "reform," upon finding that he has
constructed a system which is ridden down by the political activity of
the people, he must blame the plan upon which our fabric is built. If he
is chagrined to find that his _imperium in imperio_ is not practicable,
and that nothing can make here a power stronger than the source of
power, he must solace his hurt feelings with the reflection that the
system was never adapted to his contrivance, and that our fathers, when
in the beginning they resolved to establish a government by the people,
gave consent thereby to all the apparent risks and inconveniences of
having the people continually minding their own affairs.

With a just comprehension of the democratic forces that give motion and
life to the governmental system of the United States, and of the manner
in which they affect the public service in all its departments, the wise
advocate of reform must approach his work. His patriotism and
thoughtfulness are both necessary. To proceed against the democratic law
is not practicable: to establish a new system which is inconsistent with
the abundant vitality and conscious strength of that already established
is a futile proposition indeed.




THE PRICE OF SAFETY.


Thirty-three years ago--that is, shortly before Christmas, 1847--I went
over to Paris to pass a few weeks with my family. The great railway
schemes of the two previous years in England had broken down a good many
men in our office--draughtsmen, surveyors and so on. I wonder if the
present public recollects those days, when the _Times_ brought out
double supplements to accommodate the advertisements of railroads, when
King Hudson was as much a potentate as Queen Victoria, when Brunel and
Stephenson were autocrats, and when everybody saw a sudden chance of
getting rich by shares or damages? Those days were the beginning of that
period of prosperity of which the recent "hard times" were the reaction.
_Then_ twenty guineas a night for office-work was sometimes paid to
youngsters not yet out of their teens. In the great offices the young
men worked all day and the alternate nights to get plans ready for
Parliament, sustained by strong coffee always on the tap, till some of
them went mad with the excitement and the strain.

I had worked hard both in the field and office during the closing months
of 1847, but I broke down at last, and was sent to recover my health
under the care of my family. That family consisted of my father--a
half-pay English officer--my mother and three sisters, then living _au
troisième_ in the Rue Neuve de Berri, not far from the newly-erected
Russian church, and the windows of the _appartement_ commanded a side
view down the Champs Élysées. I only needed rest and recreation, both of
which my adoring family eagerly provided me. My sisters were three
lively, simple-hearted, honest English girls, who had a large
acquaintance in Paris, and took great pride and pleasure in introducing
to it their only brother. We were not only invited to our embassy and on
visiting terms with all the English Colony (that colony whose annals at
that period are written in _The Adventures of Philip_, and to which
Thackeray's mother and nearest relatives, like ourselves, belonged), but
we were, in virtue of some American connections, admitted to the
American embassy on the footing of semi-Americans.

We enjoyed our American friends greatly. I formed the opinion then,
which I retain now, that cultivated Americans, the top-skimming of the
social cream, are some of the most charming people to be met with in
cultivated society. To all that constitutes "nice people" everywhere
they join a _soupçon_ of wild flavor which gives them individuality.
They are to society what their own wild turkeys and canvasbacks are to
the _menu_.

One of my sisters, Amy, the eldest, had been ill that winter, and was
not equal to joining in the gayeties that the others enjoyed. Her
principal amusement was walking in the Gardens of Monceaux, a private
domain of King Louis Philippe in the Batignolles, a quiet, humdrum spot,
where she could set her foot upon green turf and gravel. The streets of
Paris, the Boulevards, and the Champs Élysées were too attractive to a
pleasure-seeker like myself to allow me to content myself with the pale
attractions of Monceaux, but I went there with my sister once or twice,
because French etiquette forbade her walking even in these quiet
garden-paths alone.

One day it was proposed by her that we should go again. I could not, in
common humanity, refuse, and so consented. Poor Amy "put on her things,"
as our girls called it, and we descended to the porte-cochère, intending
to engage the first passing citadine. As we stepped into the street,
however, a gay carriage with high-stepping gray horses, a chasseur with
knife and feathers, and a coachman in a modest livery on a hammer-cloth
resplendent with yellow fringes and embroideries, drew up at our door: a
pretty hand was laid upon the portière and a voice cried, "Amy! Amy! I
was coming for you."

"My brother--Miss Leare," said Amy.

Miss Leare bowed to me gracefully and motioned to her chasseur to open
the carriage-door. "Get in," she said. "_I_ have the carriage for two
hours: what shall we do with it? Mamma is at the dentist's.--Amy, I
thought you would enjoy a drive, and so I came for you."

I helped Amy in, and was making my bow when Miss Leare stopped me. "Come
too," she said cordially: "Amy's brother surely need not be taboo. Shall
we drive to the Bois?"

"I was going to Monceaux," said Amy. "Would it be quite the thing for us
to drive alone to the Bois?"

"Oh-h-h!" said Miss Leare, prolonging her breath upon the
vocative.--"You see," she added, turning to me, "I am so unprepared by
previous training that I shall never become _au fait_ in French
proprieties. Indeed, I hold them in great reverence, but they seem to be
for ever hedging me in; nor can I understand the meaning of half of
them. In America I was guided by plain right and wrong.--Why shall we
not outrage etiquette, Amy, by 'going alone,' as you call it, to
Monceaux? Is it that the place is so stiff and solemn and out of the way
that we may walk there without a chaperon? I should have thought
seclusion made a place more dangerous, allowing that there be any danger
at all.--In America, Mr. Farquhar, your escort would be enough for us,
and the fact that Amy is your sister would give a sort of double
security to your protection."

"Oh, dear Miss Leare--" began Amy.

"Hermie, Amy--Hermione, which is English and American for Tasso's
Erminia.--Do you like my name, Mr. Farquhar? We have strange names in
America, English people are pleased to say.--Victor!" she went on,
calling to the chasseur without pausing for any reply, "stop at some
place where they sell candy. Mr. Farquhar will get out and buy us some."

Obediently to her order, we stopped at a confectioner's. I was directed
to put my hand into the carriage-pocket, where I should find some
"loose change," kept there for candy and the hurdy-gurdy boys. Then I
was directed to go into the "store" and choose a pound of all sorts of
"mixed candy."

I had not more than made myself intelligible to a young person behind
the counter when the carriage-door was opened and both the girls came
in, Miss Hermione declaring that she knew I should be embarrassed by the
multitude of "sweeties," and that I should need their experience to know
what I was about.

With dawdling, laughing and good-comradeship we chose our bonbons, and
getting back into the barouche we proceeded to crunch them as we drove
on to Monceaux. It was like being children over again, with a slight
sense of being out of bounds. I had never seen confectionery eaten
wholesale in that fashion. Such bonbons were expensive, too. Trained in
the personal economy of English middle-class life, it would never have
occurred to me to buy several francs' worth of sugar-plums and to eat
them by the handful. But as the fair American sat before me, smiling,
laughing, petting Amy and saying fascinating impertinences to myself, I
thought I had never seen so bewitching a creature. Her frame, though
_svelte_ and admirably proportioned, gave me an idea of vigor and
strength not commonly associated at that time with the girls of America.
Her complexion, too, was healthy: she was not so highly colored as an
English country girl, but her skin was bright and clear. Her face was a
perfect oval, her hair glossy and dark, her eyes expressive hazel. Her
points were all good: her ears, her hands, her feet, her upper lip and
nostrils showed blood, and the daintiness and taste of her rich dress
seemed to denote her good taste and fine breeding. My sisters, could not
tie their bonnet-strings as she tied hers, nor were their dresses
anything like hers in freshness, fit or daintiness of trimming.

We alighted at last at old Monceaux, and walked about its solemn alleys.
Sometimes Miss Leare talked sense, and talked it well. Those were
exciting days in Paris. It was February, 1848, and a great crisis was
nearer at hand in politics than we suspected; besides which there had
been several events in private life which had increased the general
excitement of the period--notably the murder of Marshal Sebastiani's
daughter, the poor duchesse de Praslin. Hermione could talk of these
things with great spirit, but sometimes relapsed into her grown-up
childishness. She talked, too, with animation of the freedom and
happiness of her American girlhood. My sister Amy had always taken life
_au grand sérieux_; Ellen was a little too prompt to flirt with officers
and gay young men, and needed repression; Lætitia went in for
book-learning, and measured every one by what she called their
"educational opportunities." My sisters were as different as possible
from this butterfly creature, who seemed to sip interest and amusement
out of everything.

At the end of two hours we drove back to Mrs. Leare's hôtel, which was
opposite our own apartment in the Rue Neuve de Berri, the hôtel that a
few weeks later was occupied by Prince Jerome. Here Hermione insisted
upon our coming in while the carriage drove to the dentist's for her
mother.

The reception-rooms in Mrs. Leare's hôtel were very showy. They were
filled with buhl and knick-knacks gathered on all parts of the
Continent, and lavishly displayed, not always in good keeping. A little
sister, Claribel, came running up to us when we entered, and clung
fondly to Hermione, who sat down at the Erard grand piano and sang to
us, without suggestion, a gay little French song. She was taking
lessons, Amy afterward told me, of the master most in vogue in Paris and
of all others the most expensive. Amy, who could sing well herself,
disparaged Hermione's voice to me, and sighed as she thought of the
waste of those inestimable lessons.

Then Miss Hermione lifted the top of an ormolu box on the chimney-piece
of a boudoir and showed Amy and me, under the rose as it were, some
cigarettes, with a laugh. "Mamma's," she said: "she has a _faiblesse_
that way."

"Oh, Hermione! you don't?" cried Amy.

"No, _I_ don't," said Hermione more gravely.

I was so amused by her, so fascinated, so completely at my ease with
her, that I could have stayed on without taking note of time had not Amy
remembered that it was our dinner-hour. We took our leave, and met Mrs.
Leare on the staircase ascending to her apartment. She greeted Amy with
as much effusion as was compatible with her ideas of fashion, and said
she was "right glad" to hear we had been passing the morning with
Hermione.

"I wish you would come very often. I like her to see English girls: you
do her so much good, Amy.--Mr. Farquhar, we shall hope to see you often
too. I have a little reception here every Sunday evening."

With that she continued her course up stairs, and we descended to the
porte-cochère.

She was a faded woman, "dressed to death," as Amy phrased it, and none
of my people had a good word for her.

"The Leares are rolling in riches, I believe," remarked my father, "and
an American who is rich has no hereditary obligations to absorb his
wealth, so that it becomes all 'spending-money,' as Miss Hermione says.
The head of the family--King Leare I call him--stays at home in some
sort of a counting-room in New York and makes money, giving Mrs. Leare
and Miss Hermione _carte blanche_ to spend it on any follies they
please. I never heard anything exactly wrong concerning Mrs. Leare, but
she does not seem to me the woman to be trusted with that very nice
young daughter. I feel great pity for Miss Leare."

"Miss Leare has plenty of sense and character," said my mother: "I do
not think her mother's queer surroundings seem to affect her in any way.
She moves among the Frenchmen, Poles and Italians of her mother's court
like that lady Shakespeare--or was it Spenser?--wrote about among the
fauns and satyrs. With all her American freedom she avoids improprieties
by instinct. I have no fears for her future if she marries the right
man."

"Indeed, mamma," said Amy, "I wish she would keep more strictly within
the limit of the proprieties. She makes me nervous all the time we are
together."

"My dear, you never heard her breathe a really unbecoming word or saw
her do an immodest thing?" said my mother interrogatively.

"Oh no, of course not," said Amy.

"They say Mrs. Leare wants to marry her to that Neapolitan marquis who
is so often there," put in Ellen. "_On dit_, she will have a _dot_ of
two millions of francs, or, as they call it, half a million of dollars."

"Such a rumor," I broke in, rather annoyed by this turn in the
conversation, "may well buy her the right to be a marchioness if she
will."

"Indeed it won't, then," said Ellen sharply, "for she thinks Americans
should not 'fix' themselves permanently abroad. She says she means to
marry one of her own folks, as she calls her countrymen."

"She knows an infinite variety of things, and has had all kinds of
masters," sighed Lætitia: "she speaks all the languages in Europe. I
believe Americans have a peculiar facility for pronunciation, like the
Russians, and she learned at her school in America philosophy, rhetoric,
logic, Latin, algebra, chemistry."

"I wonder she should be so sweet a woman," said my father. "She seems a
good girl--I never took her for a learned one--but her mother is a fool,
and I should think her father must be that or worse. I wonder what he
can be like? It seems to an Englishman so strange that a man should stay
at home alone for years, and suffer his wife and family to travel all
over the Continent without protection."

Though my father, mother and sisters declined the Sunday invitation of
Mrs. Leare, I went to her reception. The guests were nearly all
Italians, Poles, Spaniards or Frenchmen. There was no Englishman
present, but myself, and only one or two Americans. I felt at once how
out of place my mother, the country matron, and my father, _ce
respectable viellard,_ would have been in such a circle. But Mrs.
Leare's guests were not the _jeunesse dorée_ nor the dubious nobility I
had expected to meet in her _salon_. The Frenchmen among them were all
men whose names were familiar in French political circles--men of
revolutionary tendencies and of advanced opinions. I afterward
discovered they had taken advantage of Mrs. Leare's desire to be the
head of a salon to use her rooms as a convenient rendezvous. It was safe
ground on which to simmer their revolutionary cauldron. It was seething
and bubbling that night, although neither the Leares nor myself were
aware of what was brewing. The talk was all about the Banquets,
especially the impending reform banquet in the Rue Chaillot. The
gentlemen present were not exactly conspirators: they were for the most
part political reformers, who, being cut off from the usual modes of
expressing themselves through a recognized parliamentary opposition or
by the medium of petition, had devised a system of political banquets,
some fifty of which had already been held in the departments, and they
were now engaged in getting one up in Paris in the Twelfth
arrondissement.

At that time, in a population of thirty-five millions, there were but a
quarter of a million of French voters, and as in France all places (from
that of a railroad guard to a seat on the bench) were disposed of by the
government, it was very easy for ministers to control the legislature. A
reform, really needed in the franchise, was the object proposed to
themselves by the original heads of the Revolution of 1848, though when
they had set their ball in motion they could neither control it nor keep
up with it as it rolled downward.

The prevalent idea in Mrs. Leare's salon was that the banquet of the Rue
Chaillot would go off quietly, that the prefect of police would protest,
and that the affair would then pass into the law-courts, where it would
remain until all interest in the subject had passed away. One was
sensible, however, that there was a general feeling of excitement in the
atmosphere. Paris swarmed with troops, evidently under stricter
discipline than usual. People looked into each other's faces
interrogatively and read the daily papers with an anxious air.

Though I did not at the time fully appreciate what I saw, I was struck
by the business-like character of the men about me. The guests, I
thought, took very little notice of the lady of the house. I did not
then suspect that they were using her hospitality for their own
purposes, and that they felt secure in her total incapacity to
understand what they were doing. She, meantime, intent on filling her
reception-rooms with celebrities and titled persons, was charmed to have
collected so many distinguished men around her.

Hermione appeared bewildered, uncomfortable and restless, like a
spectator on the edge of a great crowd. "There are too many strangers
here to-night," she said: "mamma and I do not know one half of them.
They have been brought here by their friends. To have a salon is mamma's
ambition, but this is not my idea of it. I feel as if we were out of
place among these men, who talk to each other and hardly notice us at
all."

We sat together and exchanged our thoughts in whispers. It was one of
those crowds that create a solitude for lovers. Not that we talked
sentiment or that we were lovers. We conversed about the excitements of
the day--of the Leste affair, in which the king and the king's ministry
were accused of protecting dishonesty; of the Beauvallon and
D'Equivilley duel and the Praslin murder, in connection with both of
which the royal family and the ministry were popularly accused of
protecting criminals--and at last the conversation strayed away from
France to Hermione's own girlhood. She told me of her happy country home
in Maryland with her grandmother, and sighed. I asked her if she was
going to the English ball to be given on Wednesday night at the
beautiful Jardin d'Hiver in the Champs Élysées.

"I suppose so," she replied, "but I don't care for large assemblies: I
feel afraid of the men I meet. I wish your mother could chaperon me: it
would be much nicer to be with her than with my own. Mamma understands
nothing about looking after me; she wants to have a good time herself,
and I am only in her way. Do you know, Mr. Farquhar, I have a theory
that when women have missed anything they ought to have enjoyed in early
life, they always want to go back and pick it up. Mamma had no pleasures
in her youth, no attentions, no gayety. If I am to be chaperoned, I like
the real thing. If I were at home in Maryland, where my father came
from, I should need no one to protect me: _you_ could take me to the
ball."

"I, Miss Hermione?"

"Yes, you. You would call for me, and wait till I was ready to come
down. Then you and I would go _alone_," she added, enjoying my look of
incredulity. "It is the custom: no harm could come of it," she added.
"We would walk to our ball."

"No harm in the case that you have supposed, but in some other cases--"

"You suppose a good deal," she interrupted. "You suppose a girl without
self-respect or good sense, and perhaps a man without honor. Here, of
course, things cannot be like that. Society seems founded upon different
ideas from those prevalent with us about men and women. _Here_, I admit,
a girl finds comfort and protection and ease of mind in a good chaperon.
Yet it seemed strange to me to put on leading-strings when I came out
here: I had been used to take care of myself for so many years."

"Why, Miss Leare," I said, laughing, "you cannot have been many years in
society."

"I am twenty," she said frankly, "and we came to Europe about three
years ago. But before that time I had been in company a good deal. Not
in the city, for I was not 'out,' but in the hotels at Newport, at the
Springs and in the country. In America one has but to do what one knows
is kind and right, and no one will think evil: here one may do, without
suspecting it, so many compromising things."

"Does the instinct that you speak of to be kind and right always guide
the young American lady?"

"I suppose so--so far as I know. It _must_. She walks by it, and sets
her feet down firmly. Here I feel all the time as if I were walking
among traps blindfolded."

The ball of the Jardin d'Hiver in the Champs Élysées was a superb
success. The immense glass-house was fitted up for dancing, and all went
merry as a marriage-bell, with a crater about to open under our feet, as
at the duchess of Richmond's ball at Brussels.

Miss Leare was there, but quiet and dignified. There was not the
smallest touch of vulgarity about her. The coarse readiness to accept
publicity which distinguishes the underbred woman, whether in England or
America, the desire to show off a foreign emancipation from what appear
ridiculous French rules, were not in her.

Yet she might have amused herself as she liked with complete impunity,
for Mrs. Leare appeared to leave her entirely alone. I danced with her
as often as she would permit me, and my heart was no longer in my own
possession when I put-her into her carriage about dawn.

Two or three days after I called, but the ladies were not in, so that
except at church at the Hôtel Marboeuf on Sunday morning I saw nothing
of Miss Hermione. Monday, February 21st, was sunny and bright. The
public excitement was such that an unusual number of working-men were
keeping their St. Crispin. The soldiers, however, were confined to their
quarters: not a uniform was to be seen abroad. Our night had been
disturbed by the continuous rumble of carts and carriages.

"Is it a fine day for the banquet?" I heard Amy say as our maid opened
her windows on Tuesday morning.

"There is to be no banquet," was the answer. "_Voyez done_ the
proclamation posted on the door of the barrack at the corner of the Rue
Chaillot."

I sprang from my bed and looked out of my window. A strange change had
taken place in the teeming little caserne at the corner. Instead of the
usual groups of well-behaved boy-soldiers in rough uniforms, the barrack
looked deserted, and its lower windows had been closed up to their top
panes with bags of hay and mattresses. Not a soldier, not even a sentry,
was to be seen.

I dressed myself and went out to collect news. The carts that had
disturbed us during the night had been not only employed in removing all
preparations for the banquet, but in taking every loose paving-stone out
of the way. I found the Place de la Madeleine full of people, all
looking up at the house of Odillon Barrot, asking "What next?" and "What
shall we do?" Odillon Barrot was the hero of the moment--literally _of
the moment_. In forty-eight hours from that time his name had faded from
the page of history. In the Place de la Concorde there was more
excitement, for threats were being made to cross the bridge and to
insult the Chambers. The Pont de l'Institut, notwithstanding the efforts
of the garde municipale or mounted police, was greatly crowded. A party
of dragoons, on sorrel ponies barely fourteen hands high, rode up and
began to clear the bridge, but gently and gradually. The crowd was
retiring as fast as its numbers would permit, when some of the municipal
guard rode through the ranks of the dragoons and set themselves, with
ill-judged roughness, to accelerate the operation. The crowd grew angry,
and stones began to be thrown at the guard and soldiers.

Growing anxious for the women I had left in the Rue Neuve de Berri, I
returned home by side-streets. A crowd had collected on the Champs
Élysées about thirty yards from the corner of our street, and was
forming a barricade. All were shouting, all gesticulating. Citadines at
full speed were driving out of reach of requisition; horses were going
off disencumbered of their vehicles; the driver of a remise was seated
astride his animal, the long flaps of his driving-coat covering it from
neck to tail; a noble elm was being hewn down by hatchets and even
common knives. An omnibus, the remise, a few barrels and dining-tables,
a dozen yards of _pave_ torn up by eager hands, a sentry-box, some
benches and the tree, formed the barricade. _Gamins_ and _blouses_
worked at it. The respectables looked on and did not trouble the
workers. Suddenly there was a general stampede among them. A squadron of
about fifty dragoons charged up the Champs Élysées. One old
peasant-woman in a scanty yellow-and-black skirt, which she twitched
above her knees, led the retreat. But soon they stopped and turned
again, while the dragoons rode slowly back, breathing their horses.
Nobody was angry, for nobody had been hurt, but they were frightened
enough.

At this moment, stealing from a porte-cochère where she had taken refuge
during the fright and _sauve gui peut_, came a figure wrapped in dark
drapery. Could it be possible? Hermione Leare! In a moment I was at her
side. She was very pale and breathless, and she was glad to take my arm.
"What brings you here?" I whispered.

"Our servants have all run away: they think mamma is compromised.
Victor, our chasseur, broke open mamma's secretary and took his wages.
She is almost beside herself. She wanted to send a letter to the post,
and as it is steamer-day I thought papa had better know that thus far
nothing has happened to us. There was nobody to take the letter: I said
I would put it in the box in the Rue Ponthieu."

"And did you post it?"

"No: I could not get to the Rue Ponthieu. They were firing down the
street, and now I dare not."

"Trust it to me, Miss Leare, and promise me to send for me if you have
any more such errands. You must never run such risks again."

"I have to be the man of the family," she answered, almost with an
apologetic air.

"Do not say that again. I shall come over three times a day while this
thing lasts to see if you have any commissions."

She smiled and pressed my hand as she turned into her own porte-cochère.
Frightened servants and their friends were in the porter's lodge, who
gazed after her with exclamations as she went up the common stair.

The remainder of that day passed with very little fighting. Up to that
time it had been a riot apropos of a change of ministry, but in the
night the secret societies met and flung aside the previous question.

When we awoke on Wednesday morning, February 23d, we were struck by the
strange quiet of the streets. No provisions entered Paris through the
barrier, no vehicles nor venders of small wares. The absolute silence,
save when "Mourir pour la Patrie" sounded hoarsely in the distance, was
as strange as it was unexpected. I had always connected an insurrection
with noise. It was rumored that Guizot the Unpopular had been dismissed,
and that Count Mole, a man of half measures, had been called to the
king's councils. The affair looked to me as if it were going to die out
for want of fuel. But I was mistaken: the blouses, who had not had one
gun to a hundred the day before, had been all night arming themselves by
domiciliary requisitions. The national guard was not believed to be
firm.

The night before, an hour after I had parted with Miss Hermione, I had
made an attempt to see her and Mrs. Leare, without any success. Not even
bribery would induce the concierge to let me in. His orders were
peremptory: "_Pas un seul, monsieur, personne_"--madame received nobody.

Early on Wednesday morning I again presented myself: the ladies were not
visible. Later in the day I called again, and was again refused. But
several times Amy had seen Hermione at a window, and they had made signs
across the street to one another. I began to understand that Mrs. Leare
was overwhelmed by the responsibility she had incurred in opening her
salon to men whom she now perceived to have been conspirators, and that
she was obstinately determined not to compromise herself further by
giving admittance to any one.

Our bonne had been able to ascertain from the concierge of the Leare
house that madame was hysterical, and could hardly be controlled by
mademoiselle.

I was in the streets till five o'clock on Wednesday, when, concluding
all was over, I came home, intending to make another effort to see the
Leares, and if possible to take Miss Hermione, with Ellen and Lætitia,
to view the debris of the two days' fight--to let them get their first
glimpse of real war in the Place de la Concorde, where a regiment was
littering down its horses for the night, and a peep into the closed
gardens of the Tuileries.

When I got up to our rooms I found my sisters at a window overlooking
the courtyard of Mrs. Leare's hotel, and they all cried out with one
voice, "Mrs. Leare's carriage is just ready to drive away."

I looked. A travelling-equipage stood in the courtyard. On it the
concierge was hoisting trunks, and into it was being heaped a
promiscuous variety of knick-knackery and wearing apparel. A country
postilion--who, but for his dirt, would have looked more like a
character in a comedy than a real live, serviceable post-boy--was
standing in carpet slippers (having divested himself of his boots of
office) harnessing three undersized gray Normandy mares to an elegant
travelling-carriage.

Hermione herself, Claribel her little sister, Mrs. Leare and the old
colored nurse got quickly in. Mrs. Leare was in tears, with her head
muffled in a yard or two of green _barège_, then the distinctive mark of
a travelling American woman. The child's-nurse had long gold ear-drops
and a head-dress of red bandanna. There was not a man of any kind with
them except the postilion. The concierge opened the gates of the
courtyard.

"Stop! stop!" I cried, and rushed down our own staircase and out of our
front door.

As I ran past their entrance a woman put a paper into my hand. I had no
time to glance at it, for the carriage had already turned into the Rue
Ponthieu. For some distance I ran after it, encountering at every step
excited groups of people, some of whom seemed to me in search of
mischief, while some had apparently come out to gather news. There were
no other carriages in the streets, and that alone enabled me to track
the one I was in chase of, for everybody I met had noticed which way it
had turned. It wound its way most deviously through by-streets to avoid
those in which paving-stones had been torn up or barricades been formed,
and the postilion made all possible speed, fearing the carriage might be
seized and detached from his horses. But the day's work was finished and
the disorders of the night were not begun.

Forced at last to slacken my speed and to take breath, I glanced at the
paper that I still held in my hand. It contained a few words from
Hermione: "Thank you for all the kindness you have tried to show us,
dear sir. My mother has heard that all the English in Paris are to be
massacred at midnight by the mob, and directs me to give you notice,
which is the reason I address this note to you and not to Amy. Mamma is
afraid of being mistaken for an Englishwoman. We have secured
post-horses and are setting out for Argenteuil, where we shall take the
railway. Again, thank you: your kindness will not be forgotten by H.
LEARE."

This note reassured me. I no longer endeavored to overtake the carriage,
but I pushed my way as fast as possible beyond the nearest barrier. Once
outside the wall of Paris, I was in the Banlieu, that zone of rascality
whose inhabitants are all suspected by the police and live under the
ban. Of course on such a gala-day of lawlessness this hive was all
astir. At a village I passed through I tried to hire a conveyance to
Argenteuil. I also tried to get some railway information, but nobody
could tell me anything and all were ravenous for news. I secured,
however, without losing too much time, a seat with a stout young
country-man who drove a little country cart with a powerful gray horse,
and was going in the direction I wanted to travel.

"What will be the result of this affair?" I said to him when he had got
his beast into a steady trot.

He shrugged his shoulders. A French workingman has a far larger
vocabulary at his command than the English laborer. "Bon Dieu!" he
exclaimed: "who knows what will come of it? A land without a master is
no civilized land. We shall fall back into barbarism. What there is
certain is, that we shall all be ruined."

At length, to my great relief, we saw a carriage before us; and we drove
into the railway-station at the same moment as the Leares.

Before the ladies could alight I was beside the window of their
carriage.

"You here, Mr. Farquhar?" cried Hermione. "How good of you! You cannot
guess the relief. Help me to get them out, these helpless ones."

We lifted Mrs. Leare on to the platform of the railway, weeping and
trembling. The old colored nurse could not speak French, and seemed to
think her only duty was to hold the hand of little Claribel and to stand
where her young mistress placed her. All looked to Hermione. She carried
a canvas bag of five-franc pieces and paid right and left. I tried to
interfere, as she was giving the postilion an exorbitant sum.

"No, hush!" she whispered: "we can afford to pay, but in our situation
we cannot afford to dispute."

She then deputed me to see after the "baggage," as she called the
luggage of the party, and went with her mother into the glass cage that
the French call a _salle d'attente_ at a railway-station.

We had come from the seat of war, and every one crowded around us asking
for news. I had little to tell, but replied that I believed the affair
was nearly over. I did not foresee that two hours later a procession
roaring "Mourir pour la Patrie" under the windows of the Hôtel des
Affaires Étrangères would be fired into by accident, and that the
_émeute_ of February, 1848, would be converted into a revolution.

It was nine o'clock in the evening. The lamps were lighted in the
station. The night was cloudy, but far off on the horizon we could see a
gleam of radiance, marking the locality of the great city.

After an hour of very anxious waiting, during which Mrs. Leare was
beside herself with nervous agitation, the locked doors of our prison
were flung open and we were permitted to seat ourselves in a
railway-carriage.

Hermione's tender devotion to her mother, the old servant and the child
was beautiful to witness. Now that Mrs. Leare was helpless on her
daughter's hands, they seemed to have found their natural relations.
Hermione said few words to me, but a glance now and then thanked me for
being with them. The train started. For about three miles all went on
well, although we travelled cautiously, fearing obstructions. Suddenly
the speed of our train was checked, and there was a cry of consternation
as we rounded a sharp curve. The bridge over the Seine at its third bend
was ablaze before us!

All the men upon the train sprang out upon the track as soon as the
carriage-doors were opened, and in a few moments we were surrounded by
ruffians refusing to let us go on.

"Back the train!" cried the railroad official in charge.

No, they were not willing to let us go back to Paris. Conspirators
against the people might be making their escape. They had set fire to
the bridge, they said, to prevent the train from passing over. It must
remain where it was. If we passengers desired to return to Paris, we
must walk there.

"Walk?" I exclaimed: "it is ten miles! Women--delicate
ladies--children!"

My remonstrance was drowned in the confusion. Suddenly the party of
women under my charge stood at my elbow: Mrs. Leare was leaning on
Hermione's arm; Mammy Christine and Claribel cowered close and held her
by her drapery.

"Make no remonstrances," she said in a low voice: "let us not excite
attention. An Englishman never knows when not to complain: an American
accepts his fate more quietly. These people mean to sack the train. We
had better get away as soon as possible."

"But how?" I cried.

"I can walk. We must find some means of transporting mamma, Mammy Chris
and Clary."

As Hermione said this she turned to an official and questioned him upon
the subject. He thought that there was a little cart and horse which
might be hired at a neighboring cottage.

"Let us go and see about it, Mr. Farquhar," said Hermione.

"I will."

"No: I put greater trust in my own powers of persuasion.--Mammy dear,
take good care of mamma: we shall be back directly."

Her _we_ was very sweet to me, and I shared her mistrust of my French
and my diplomacy.

The glare of the burning bridge lighted our steps: the air was full of
falling flakes of fire. The cottage was a quarter of a mile off.
Hermione refused my arm, but, holding her skirts daintily, stepped
bravely at my side. She exhibited no bashfulness, no excitement, no
confusion, no fear: she was simply bent on business. We reached the
peasant's farmyard. He and his family were outside the house. We like to
say a Frenchman has no word for _home_. But the conclusion that the man
of Anglo-Saxon birth deduces from this lack in his vocabulary is false:
no man cares more for the domicile that shelters him. Hermione made her
request with sweet persuasiveness. I saw at once it would have been
refused if I had made it, but to her they made excuses. The old horse,
they said, was very old, the old cart was broken.

"Let me look at it," said Hermione. At this they led us into an
outhouse, where she assisted me to make a careful inspection. I might
have rejected the old trap at once, but she offered a few suggestions,
which she told me in an aside were the fruit of her experiences in
Maryland and Virginia, and the cart was pronounced safe enough to be
driven slowly with a light load.

A half-grown son of the house was put in charge of it. Hermione
suggested he should bring the family clothes-line in case of a
breakdown, and prevailed upon the farmer's wife to put in plenty of
fresh straw, a blanket and a pillow. She made a bargain, less
extravagant than I expected, with the peasant proprietor, promising,
however, a very handsome _pourboire_ to his son in the event of our good
fortune. The farmer stipulated, in his turn, that cart, horse and lad
were not to pass the barrier, that the boy should walk at the horse's
head, and that the cart was to contain only two women and little
Claribel.

It was harnessed up immediately. Hermione and I followed it on foot back
to the little band of travellers waiting beside the railway.

"Can we not get some of your trunks out?" I said to her.

"No," she answered: "leave them to their fate. I dare not overload the
cart, and I doubt whether those men with hungry eyes would let us take
them. Mamma," she whispered, "has her diamonds."

"You will get into the cart, Miss Leare?" I said as I saw her motioning
to the old colored woman to take the place beside her mother.

"No indeed," she replied: "our contract stipulated only for mamma, Mammy
and Clary: Mammy is crippled with rheumatism. If you have no objection I
will walk with you."

"Objection? No. But it is ten miles."

"A long stretch," she said with a half sigh, "but I am young, strong,
and excitement counts for something: besides, there is no remedy. We
must consider them."

There had been about fifteen other persons on the train. A dozen of
these, finding we were going to walk back to Paris, proposed to join us.
The night was growing dark, and we pushed on. There was no woman afoot
but Hermione. "Madame" they called her, evidently taking her for my
wife, but by no word or smile did she notice the blunder. After a while
she accepted my arm, drawing up her skirts by means of loops or pins. We
had one lantern among us, and from time to time its glare permitted me
to see her dainty feet growing heavy with mud and travel.

It was not what could be called a lovers' walk, tramping in the dark
through mud and water, on a French country road, at a cart's tail, and
hardly a word was exchanged between us; yet had it not been for fears
about her safety it would have been the most delightful expedition I had
ever known.

From time to time Mrs. Leare and the old nurse in the cart complained of
their bones. Hermione was always ready with encouragement, but she said
little else to any one. She appeared to be reserving all her energies to
assist her physical endurance and to strengthen her for her task of
taking care of the others.

I had always seen my sisters and other girls protected, sheltered, cared
for: it gave me a sharp pang to see this beautiful and dainty creature
totally unthought of by those dependent on her. Nor did Mrs. Leare seem
to feel any anxiety about my comradeship with her daughter. I could
fully appreciate Hermione's remark about her chaperonage being very
unsatisfactory.

Every now and then we passed through villages along whose straggling
streets the population was aswarm, eager for news and wondering at our
muddy procession. In one of the villages I suggested stopping, but Mrs.
Leare was now as frantic to get home again as she had been to get away.
She said, and truly, that it had been a wild plan to start from
Paris--that if she had seen me and had heard that I thought the émeute
was at an end and that the report about the English was untrue, she
should never have left her apartment. She had been frightened out of her
senses by some men _en blouse_ who had made their way into her rooms and
had carried off her pistol and a little Turkish dagger. Victor's theft
of his own wages had upset her. She had insisted upon setting out.
Hermione had got post-horses somehow: Hermione ought never to have let
her come away.

About three in the morning we reached a larger village than we had
hitherto passed. The inhabitants had been apprised of the events in the
Rue Neuve des Capucines before the ministry of the Affaires Étrangères,
and the revolutionary element had increased in audacity. A crowd of
turbulent-looking working-men dressed in blouses, armed with muskets,
old sabres and all kinds of miscellaneous weapons, stopped our way. Some
seized the head of the old horse, some gathered round the cart and
lifted lanterns into the faces of the ladies. The French workman is a
much more athletic man than the French soldier. I own to a sensation of
deadly terror for a moment when I saw the ladies in the midst of a
lawless rabble whose brawny arms were bared as if prepared for butchery
of any kind. Far off, too, a low rattle of distant musketry warned us
that the tumult in Paris was renewed.

"Mourir pour la Patrie" appeared to come from every throat, and many of
the crowd were the worse for liquor. Indeed, these patriots had
rendezvoused at a cabaret at the entrance of the village, and swarmed
from its tables to intercept us. The ladies, they insisted, must alight
and be examined. Mammy Chris was drawn out of the cart, looking as if
her face had been rubbed in ashes: Mrs. Leare was nervously excited,
Hermione went up to her, supported her and drew her bag of diamonds out
of her hand. I took Claribel in my arms.

"Vos passeports," they demanded.

"Here are our American passports," said Hermione: "we are Americans."

"Yes, Americans, republicans!" cried Mrs. Leare: "we fraternize with all
republicans in France."

"Aristos," said a man between his teeth, glancing at her dress and at
that of Hermione.

"What does he say?" cried Mrs. Leare, who did not catch the word.

"Hush, mother!" said Hermione.

"But what did he say?" she shrieked. "Tell me at once: do not keep it
from me."

Hermione replied (unwilling to use the word "aristocrat") by an American
idiom: "He said we belonged to the Upper Ten."

"But we don't! Oh, Hermie, your father belongs to a good family in
Maryland, but _my_ grandfather made shoes. I was quite poor when he
married me. I was only sixteen."

"What you say?" said a railroad-hand who knew a little English. "You say
you are not some aristos?"

"No, sir," said I: "these ladies claim to be Americans and republicans."

"Vive la République!" cried the man.

"Vive la République!" quickly echoed Hermione.

"C'est bien! c'est bien!" cried another, raising his lantern to her
blanched and beautiful face.

"You will let us all pass, monsieur?" she said persuasively: "you will
even be our escort a little way. We will pay handsomely for your
protection."

Before he could answer her two or three fellows, more drunk than the
rest, burst out with a proposition: "She says they are not aristos, but
republicans. Let her prove it. She cannot, if she be a true republican,
refuse to kiss her fellow-patriots."

I started and was about to knock the rascal down with the bag of
diamonds.

But Hermione laid a restraining hand upon my arm. "Gentlemen," she said
in clear tones and perfect French, "it is quite true that we are
Americans and republicans. We wish you well, and if it be for the good
of France to be free under a republican form of government, no one can
wish her prosperity more than ourselves. But in our free country,
messieurs, a woman is held free to give her kiss to whom she will, and
according to our custom she gives it only to her betrothed or to her
husband." Here stooping she picked up a little boy who had worked
himself into the forefront of the crowd, and before I knew what she was
about to do she had lifted him upon the cart beside her. She looked a
moment steadily at the men around her, holding the boy's hand in both
her own, then turning toward him and pressing her lips upon his face,
she said, "Messieurs, I kiss your representative: I cannot embrace a
multitude;" and placed a piece of money in the gamin's hand.

For a moment there was some doubt what view the crowd might take of
this, but her beauty, her fearlessness, and, above all, the awe inspired
by her womanliness, prevailed. They shouted "Vive la République!"

"With all my heart," replied Hermione. "Now shout for me, gentlemen:
Vive la République des États Unis!"

They were completely won. A French crowd is never dangerous or
unmanageable till it has tasted blood, and besides it has--or at least
in those days it used to have--_sentiments_, to which it was possible
with a little tact to appeal successfully.

The opposition to our progress came to an end. Mrs. Leare and old Mammy
were helped back into the cart, and a man offered them some wine. They
brought some also to Hermione. I pressed her to drink it, which she did
to their good health, and giving back the glass placed in it a napoleon.
"Do me the favor, messieurs," she said, "to drink your next toast to our
American republic."

Cheers rose for her. There was no longer any talk of detaining us: the
old horse was urged forward. Hermione took my arm. We marched on,
escorted by the rabble. At the end of the village-street they all gave
us an unsteady cheer and turned back to their wine-tables. Hermione
proceeded in silence a little farther. Then I felt her slipping from my
arm, and was just in time to catch her.

Without compunction I requested Mammy Chris to get out of the cart and
put her young lady in her place, pillowing her head as carefully as I
could on my own coat, and proceeding in my shirtsleeves.

We were then not half a mile from the Banlieu, which we passed without
adventure, much to my surprise, its inhabitants having taken advantage
of the confusion to pour into Paris and infest its richer quarters.

The ladies were obliged to get out at the barrier and to send back the
cart to its proprietor. Again I had the happiness of supporting Hermione
while I carried little Claribel, and Mrs. Leare and Mammy walked on
ahead.

"I feel humiliated," I said, "that the whole burden of those dreadful
moments should have fallen upon you."

"And to avoid that feeling you were ready to knock down a drunken blouse
in English style?" she said, smiling. "No, Mr. Farquhar, nothing but the
power that a woman finds in her own womanhood could have brought us
through safely. Those men had all had mothers, and each man had some
sort of womanly ideal. I could not have managed a crowd of _poissardes_,
but, thank Heaven, there is yet a chord that a woman may strike in the
hearts of men."

The dawn of Thursday, February 24, 1848, was breaking at the eastward
when I arrived with Mrs. Leare, Hermione, the nurse and child at their
own apartment. I went up stairs with them. All was cold and cheerless in
the rooms. There were no servants. Mrs. Leare sat down; the old nurse
bemoaned her rheumatism and her aching bones; Hermione, with the
assistance of the concierge's wife, lighted a fire, made some tea and
waited on her mother.

For several days afterward she was very ill. She knew nothing of passing
events--of the king's flight, of the triumphal and victorious
processions that passed up the Champs Élysées, of the sudden
impossibility of procuring supplies of change, and of the consequent
difficulty of paying household bills with _billets de mille francs_
without gold or silver.

Each day I went several times to make inquiries, and twice I saw Mrs.
Leare in bed, but Hermione was invisible.

My father, an honorable British officer of the old school, perceived how
things were with me. "My son," he said one clay, "there are two courses
open to you. You have nothing but your profession. Your education and
the premium on your admittance to the office of the great man for whom
you work have been my provision for you: the little property I have to
leave must support your sisters. You cannot under such circumstances
address Miss Leare. You must either go back at once to your work in
England and forget this episode, or you may go out to America and see
her father. You can tell him you have nothing on which to support his
daughter, and ask if he will give you leave to address the young lady.
No son of mine, situated like yourself, shall offer himself in any other
way to an heiress whose father is three thousand miles away, and who is
supposed to have two millions of francs for her dowry."

I saw he was right, but, forlorn as the hope was of any appeal to Mr.
Leare, I would not relinquish it. I resolved to go out to America and
see him, and wrote to England to secure letters of introduction to the
chief engineers in the United States and Canada. Meantime, my father
proposed that we should go together and call upon Mrs. and Miss Leare.

Hermione received us in the boudoir, looking like a bruised lily: her
mother came in afterward.

"We are going right straight home," she said, "the moment we can get
money to get away. I have written to Mr. Leare that he must find some
means to send me some."

"I am glad to hear you say this, madame," said my father. "My son has
just made up his mind to go out to America and seek employment on one of
your railways."

Hermione looked up with a question in her eyes: so did her mother.

"Why, Mr. Farquhar, that will suit us exactly," cried Mrs.
Leare.--"Hermione, won't it be lovely if Mr. Farquhar takes care of us
on the voyage?--You will engage your passage--won't you?--in the same
steamer as we do?--No one was ever so good a squire of dames as your
son, Captain Farquhar. Hermione and I shall never forget our obligations
to him."

"No, madame," said my father; and he got up and walked to the fireplace,
where in his embarrassment he laid his hand upon the ornamented box
which held the cigarettes of the fast lady.

She rose up too and went hastily toward him, anxious he should not
surprise her little frailty.

"The truth is, madame," whispered my father, who never could restrain
his tongue from any kindly indiscretion, "the poor fellow is suffering
too much from the attractions of Miss Leare. He has nothing but his
profession, and I tell him he must not dare to address her in her
father's absence."

"My dear captain, what does that matter? And I believe Hermione would
have him too," said her mother.

"Disparity of means--" began my father.

"Oh, no matter," interrupted Mrs. Leare: "her father always told her
just to please herself. Mr. Farquhar is an Englishman and of good
family. He has his profession to keep him out of mischief, and Hermie
will more than pay her own expenses. Indeed, I dare not go home without
a gentleman to look after us on the passage: my nerves have been too
shattered, and I never again shall trust a courier. Do let your son go
back with us," she implored persuasively; and added, as she saw that he
still hesitated, "Besides, what rich man in America knows how long he
may be rich? 'Spend your money and enjoy yourself' has always been my
motto."

Thus urged, what could my father do but suppose that Mrs. Leare knew Mr.
Leare's views better than he did? He no longer held out on the point of
honor.

In twenty-four hours Hermione and I were engaged to be married.

During the voyage to New York I learned to understand her father's
character, and when he met us on the wharf I was no longer afraid of
him.

Hermione's choice in marriage seemed to be wholly left to herself. Mr.
Leare told me, when I had that formidable talk with him dreaded by all
aspirants to the hand of a man's daughter, that Hermione had too much
good sense, self-respect and womanliness to give herself away to a man
unworthy of her. "That she can love you, sir," he said, "is sufficient
recommendation."

That it might be sufficient in my case I hoped with all my soul, but
felt, as Hermione had expressed it early in our acquaintance, that
society in America must be founded upon very different opinions than our
own in regard to the relations of men and women.

E.W. LATIMER.




THE AUTHORS OF "FROUFROU."


No doubt it will surprise some theatre-goers who are not special
students of the stage to be told that the authors of _Froufrou_ are the
authors also of the _Grande Duchesse de Gérolstein_ and of _La Belle
Hélène_, of _Carmen_ and of _Le Petit Duc_. There are a few, I know, who
think that _Froufrou_ was written by the fertile and ingenious M.
Victorien Sardou, and who, without thinking, credit M. Jacques Offenbach
with the composition of the words as well as the music of the _Grande
Duchesse_; and as for _Carmen_, is it not an _Italian_ opera, and is not
the book, like the music, the work of some Italian? As a matter of fact,
all these plays, unlike as they are to each other, and not only these,
but many more--not a few of them fairly well known to the American
play-goer--are due to the collaboration of M. Henri Meilhac and M.
Ludovic Halévy.

Born in 1832, M. Henri Meilhac, like M. Émile Zola, dealt in books
before he began to make them. He soon gave up trade for journalism, and
contributed with pen and pencil to the comic _Journal pour Rire_. He
began as a dramatist in 1855 with a two-act play at the Palais Royal
Theatre: like the first pieces of Scribe and of M. Sardou, and of so
many more who have afterward abundantly succeeded on the stage, this
play of M. Meilhac's was a failure; and so also was his next, likewise
in two acts. But in 1856 the _Sarabande du Cardinal_, a delightful
little comedy in one act, met with favor at the Gymnase. It was followed
by two or three other comediettas equally clever. In 1859, M. Meilhac
made his first attempt at a comedy in five acts, but the _Petit fils de
Mascarille_ had not the good fortune of his ancestor. In 1860, for the
first time, he was assisted by M. Ludovic Halévy, and in the twenty
years since then their names have been linked together on the
title-pages of two score or more plays of all kinds--drama, comedy,
farce, opera, operetta and ballet. M. Meilhac's new partner was the
nephew of the Halévy who is best known out of France as the composer of
the _Jewess_, and he was the son of M. Léon Halévy, poet, philosopher
and playwright. Two years younger than M. Henri Meilhac, M. Ludovic
Halévy held a place in the French civil service until 1858, when he
resigned to devote his whole time, instead of his spare time, to the
theatre. As the son of a dramatist and the nephew of a popular composer,
he had easy access to the stage. He began as the librettist-in-ordinary
to M. Offenbach, for whom he wrote _Ba-ta-clan_ in 1855, and later the
_Chanson de Fortunio_, the _Pont des Soupirs_ and _Orphée aux Enfers_.
The first very successful play which MM. Meilhac and Halévy wrote
together was a book for M. Offenbach; and it was possibly the good
fortune of this operetta which finally affirmed the partnership. Before
the triumph of the _Belle Hélène_ in 1864 the collaboration had been
tentative, as it were: after that it was as though the articles had been
definitely ratified--not that either of the parties has not now and then
indulged in outside speculations, trying a play alone or with an
outsider, but this was without prejudice to the permanent partnership.

This kind of literary union, the long-continued conjunction of two
kindred spirits, is better understood amongst us than the indiscriminate
collaboration which marks the dramatic career of M. Eugène Labiche, for
instance. Both kinds were usual enough on the English stage in the days
of Elizabeth, but we can recall the ever-memorable example of Beaumont
and Fletcher, while we forget the chance associations of Marston,
Dekker, Chapman and Ben Jonson. And in contemporary literature we have
before us the French tales of MM. Erckmann-Chatrian and the English
novels of Messrs. Besant and Rice. The fact that such a union endures is
proof that it is advantageous. A long-lasting collaboration like this of
MM. Meilhac and Halévy must needs be the result of a strong sympathy and
a sharp contrast of character, as well as of the possession by one of
literary qualities which supplement those of the other.

One of the first things noticed by an American student of French
dramatic literature is that the chief Parisian critics generally refer
to the joint work of these two writers as the plays of M. Meilhac,
leaving M. Halévy altogether in the shade. At first this seems a curious
injustice, but the reason is not far to seek. It is not that M. Halévy
is some two years the junior of M. Meilhac: it lies in the quality of
their respective abilities. M. Meilhac has the more masculine style, and
so the literary progeny of the couple bear rather his name than his
associate's. M. Meilhac has the strength of marked individuality, he has
a style of his own, one can tell his touch; while M. Halévy is merely a
clever French dramatist of the more conventional pattern. This we detect
by considering the plays which each has put forth alone and unaided by
the other. In reading one of M. Meilhac's works we should feel no doubt
as to the author, while M. Halévy's clever pictures of Parisian society,
wanting in personal distinctiveness, would impress us simply as a
product of the "Modern French School."

Before finally joining with M. Halévy, M. Meilhac wrote two comedies in
five acts of high aim and skilful execution, and two other five-act
pieces have been written by MM. Meilhac and Halévy together. The _Vertu
de Célimène_ and the _Petit fils de Mascarille_ are by the elder
partner--_Fanny Lear_ and _Froufrou_ are the work of the firm. Yet in
these last two it is difficult to see any trace of M. Halévy's
handiwork. Allowing for the growth of M. Meilhac's intellect during the
eight or ten years which intervened between the work alone and the work
with his associate, and allowing for the improvement in the mechanism of
play-making, I see no reason why M. Meilhac might not have written
_Fanny Lear_ and _Froufrou_ substantially as they are had he never met
M. Halévy. But it is inconceivable that M. Halévy alone could have
attained so high an elevation or have gained so full a comic force.
Perhaps, however, M. Halévy deserves credit for the better technical
construction of the later plays: merely in their mechanism the first
three acts of _Froufrou_ are marvellously skilful. And perhaps, also,
his is a certain softening humor, which is the cause that the two later
plays, written by both partners, are not so hard in their brilliance as
the two earlier comedies, the work of M. Meilhac alone.

It may seem something like a discussion of infinitesimals, but I think
M. Halévy's co-operation has given M. Meilhac's plays a fuller ethical
richness. To the younger writer is due a simple but direct irony, as
well as a lightsome and laughing desire to point a moral when occasion
serves. Certainly, I shall not hold up a play written to please the
public of the Palais Royal, or even of the Gymnase, as a model of all
the virtues. Nor need it be, on the other hand, an embodiment of all the
cardinal sins. The frequenters of the Palais Royal Theatre are not
babes; young people of either sex are not taken there; only the
emancipated gain admittance; and to the seasoned sinners who haunt
theatres of this type these plays by MM. Meilhac and Halévy are
harmless. Indeed, I do not recall any play of theirs which could hurt
any one capable of understanding it. Most of their plays are not to be
recommended to ignorant innocence or to fragile virtue. They are not
meant for young men and maidens. They are not wholly free from the taint
which is to be detected in nearly all French fiction. The mark of the
beast is set on not a little of the work done by the strongest men in
France. M. Meilhac is too clean and too clever ever to delve in
indecency from mere wantonness: he has no liking for vice, but his
virtue sits easily on him, and though he is sound on the main question,
he looks upon the vagaries of others with a gentle eye. M. Halévy, it
seems to me, is made of somewhat sterner stuff. He raises a warning
voice now and then--in _Fanny Lear_, for instance, the moral is pointed
explicitly--and even where there is no moral tagged to the fable, he who
has eyes to see and ears to hear can find "a terrible example" in almost
any of these plays, even the lightest. For the congregation to which it
was delivered there is a sermon in _Toto chez Tata_, perhaps the piece
in which, above all others, the Muse seems Gallic and _égrillarde_. That
is a touch of real truth, and so of a true morality, where Tata, the
fashionable courtesan, leaning over her stairs as Toto the school-boy
bears off her elderly lover, and laughing at him, cries out, "Toi, mon
petit homme, je te repincerai dans quatre ou cinq ans!" And a cold and
cutting stroke it is a little earlier in the same little comedy where
Toto, left alone in Tata's parlor, negligently turns over her basket of
visiting-cards and sees "names which he knew because he had learnt them
by heart in his history of France." Still, in spite of this truth and
morality, I do not advise the reading of _Toto chez Tata_ in young
ladies' seminaries. Young ladies in Paris do not go to hear Madame
Chaumont, for whom _Toto_ was written, nor is the Variétés, where it was
played, a place where a girl can take her mother.

It was at the Variétés in December, 1864, that the _Belle Hélène_ was
produced: this was the first of half a score of plays written by MM.
Meilhac and Halévy for which M. Jacques Offenbach composed the music.
Chief among these are _Barbe-bleue_, the _Grande Duchesse de
Gérolstein_, the _Brigands_ and _Périchole_. When we recall the fact
that these five operas are the most widely known, the most popular and
by far the best of M. Offenbach's works, there is no need to dwell on
his indebtedness to MM. Meilhac and Halévy, or to point out how
important a thing the quality of the opera-book is to the composer of
the score. These earlier librettos were admirably made: they are models
of what a comic opera-book should be. I cannot well imagine a better bit
of work of its kind than the _Belle Hélène_ or the _Grande Duchesse_.
Tried by the triple test of plot, characters and dialogue, they are
nowhere wanting. Since MM. Meilhac and Halévy have ceased writing for M.
Offenbach they have done two books for M. Charles Lecoq--the _Petit Duc_
and the _Grande Demoiselle_. These are rather light comic operas than
true _opéras-bouffes_, but if there is an elevation in the style of the
music, there is an emphatic falling off in the quality of the words.
From the _Grande Duchesse_ to the _Petit Duc_ is a great descent: the
former was a genuine play, complete and self-contained--the latter is a
careless trifle, a mere outline sketch for the composer to fill up. The
story--akin in subject to Mr. Tom Taylor's fine historical drama
_Clancarty_--is pretty, but there is no trace of the true poetry which
made the farewell letter of Périchole so touching, or of the true comic
force which projected Général Bourn. _Carmen_, which, like _Périchole_,
owes the suggestion of its plot and characters to Prosper Mérimée, is
little more than the task-work of the two well-trained play-makers: it
was sufficient for its purpose, no more and no less.

Of all the opera-books of MM. Meilhac and Halévy, that one is easily
first and foremost which has for its heroine the Helen of Troy whom
Marlowe's Faustus declared

            Fairer than the evening air,
  Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.

In the _Belle Hélène_ we see the higher wit of M. Meilhac. M. Halévy had
been at the same college with him, and they had pored together over the
same legends of old time, but working without M. Meilhac on _Orphée aux
Enfers_, M. Halévy showed his inferiority, for _Orphée_ is the
old-fashioned anachronistic skit on antiquity--funny if you will, but
with a fun often labored, not to say forced--the fun of physical
incongruity and exaggeration. But in the _Belle Hélène_ the fun, easy
and flowing, is of a very high quality, and it has root in mental, not
physical, incongruity. Here indeed is the humorous touchstone of a whole
system of government and of theology. And, allowing for the variations
made with comic intent, it is altogether Greek in spirit--so Greek, in
fact, that I doubt whether any one who has not given his days and nights
to the study of Homer and of the tragedians, and who has not thus taken
in by the pores the subtle essence of Hellenic life and literature, can
truly appreciate this French farce. Planché's _Golden Fleece_ is in the
same vein, but the ore is not as rich. Frere's _Loves of the Triangles_
and some of his _Anti-Jacobin_ writing are perhaps as good in quality,
but the subjects are inferior and temporary. Scarron's vulgar burlesques
and the cheap parodies of many contemporary English play-makers are not
to be mentioned in the same breath with this scholarly fooling. There is
something in the French genius akin to the Greek, and here was a Gallic
wit who could turn a Hellenic love-tale inside out, and wring the
uttermost drop of fun from it without recourse to the devices of the
booth at the fair, the false nose and the simulation of needless
ugliness. The French play, comic as it was, did not suggest hysteria or
epilepsy, and it was not so lacking in grace that we could not recall
the original story without a shudder. There is no shattering of an
ideal, and one cannot reproach the authors of the _Belle Hélène_ with
what Theophrastus Such calls "debasing the moral currency, lowering the
value of every inspiring fact and tradition."

Surpassed only by the _Belle Hélène_ is the _Grande Duchesse de
Gérolstein_. It is nearly fifteen years since all the world went to
Paris to see an Exposition Universelle and to gaze at the "sabre de mon
père," and since a Russian emperor, going to hear the operetta, said to
have been suggested by the freak of a Russian empress, sat incognito in
one stage-box of the little Variétés Theatre, and glancing up saw a
Russian grand duke in the other. It is nearly fifteen years since the
tiny army of Her Grand-ducal Highness took New York by storm, and since
American audience after audience hummed its love for the military and
walked from the French Theatre along Fourteenth street to Delmonico's to
supper, sabring the waiters there with the venerated weapon of her sire.
The French Theatre is no more, and Delmonico's is no longer at that
Fourteenth-street corner, and Her Highness Mademoiselle Tostée is dead,
and M. Offenbach's sprightly tunes have had the fate of all over-popular
airs, and are forgotten now. _Où sont les neiges d'antan?_

It has been said that the authors regretted having written the _Grande
Duchesse_, because the irony of history soon made a joke on Teutonic
powers and principalities seem like unpatriotic satire. Certainly, they
had no reason to be ashamed of the literary quality of their work: in
its class it yields only to its predecessor. There is no single figure
as fine as Calchas--Général Boum is a coarser outline--but how humorous
and how firm is the drawing of Prince Paul and Baron Grog! And Her
Highness herself may be thought a cleverer sketch of youthful femininity
than even the Hellenic Helen. It is hard to judge the play now. Custom
has worn its freshness and made it too familiar: we know it too well to
criticise it clearly. Besides, the actors have now overlaid the action
with over-much "business." But in spite of these difficulties the merits
of the piece are sufficiently obvious: its constructive skill can be
remarked; the first act, for example, is one of the best bits of
exposition on the modern French stage.

Besides these plays for music, and besides the more important five-act
comedies to be considered later, MM. Meilhac and Halévy are the authors
of thirty or forty comic dramas--as they are called on the English
stage--or farce-comedies in one, two, three, four, and even five acts,
ranging in aim from the gentle satire of sentimentality in _La Veuve_ to
the outspoken farce of the _Réveillon_. Among the best of the longer of
these comic plays are _Tricoche et Cacolet_ and _La Boule_. Both were
written for the Palais Royal, and they are models of the new dramatic
species which came into existence at that theatre about twenty years
ago, as M. Francisquc Sarcey recently reminded us in his interesting
article on the Palais Royal in _The Nineteenth Century_. This new style
of comic play may be termed realistic farce--realistic, because it
starts from every-day life and the most matter-of-fact conditions; and
farce, because it uses its exact facts only to further its fantasy and
extravagance. Consider _La Boule_. Its first act is a model of accurate
observation; it is a transcript from life; it is an inside view of a
commonplace French household which incompatibility of temper has made
unsupportable. And then take the following acts, and see how on this
foundation of fact, and screened by an outward semblance of realism,
there is erected the most laughable superstructure of fantastic farce. I
remember hearing one of the two great comedians of the Théâtre Français,
M. Coquelin, praise a comic actor of the Variétés whom we had lately
seen in a rather cheap and flimsy farce, because he combined "la vérité
la plus absolue avec la fantasie la plus pure." And this is the merit of
_La Boule_: its most humorous inventions have their roots in the truth.

Better even than _La Boule_ is _Tricoche et Cacolet_, which is the name
of a firm of private detectives whose exploits and devices surpass those
imagined by Poe in America, by Wilkie Collins in England, and by
Gaboriau in France. The manifold disguises and impersonations of the two
partners when seeking to outwit each other are as well-motived and as
fertile in comic effect as any of the attempts of Crispin or of some
other of Regnard's interchangeable valets. Is not even the _Légataire
Universel_, Regnard's masterpiece, overrated? To me it is neither higher
comedy nor more provocative of laughter than either _La Boule_ or
_Tricoche et Cacolet_; and the modern plays, as I have said, are based
on a study of life as it is, while the figures of the older comedies are
frankly conventional. Nowhere in Regnard is there a situation equal in
comic power to that in the final act of the _Réveillon_--a situation
Molière would have been glad to treat.

Especially to be commended in _Tricoche et Cacolet_ is the satire of the
hysterical sentimentality and of the forced emotions born of luxury and
idleness. The parody of the amorous intrigue which is the staple of so
many French plays is as wholesome as it is exhilarating. Absurdity is a
deadly shower-bath to sentimentalism. The method of Meilhac and Halévy
in sketching this couple is not unlike that employed by Mr. W.S. Gilbert
in _H.M.S. Pinafore_ and _The Pirates of Penzance_. Especially to be
noted is the same perfectly serious pushing of the dramatic commonplaces
to an absurd conclusion. There is the same kind of humor too, and the
same girding at the stock tricks of stage-craft--in _H.M.S. Pinafore_ at
the swapping of children in the cradle, and in _Tricoche et Cacolet_ at
the "portrait de ma mère" which has drawn so many tears in modern
melodrama. But MM. Meilhac and Halévy, having made one success, did not
further attempt the same kind of pleasantry--wiser in this than Mr.
Gilbert, who seems to find it hard to write anything else.

As in the _Château à Toto_ MM. Meilhac and Halévy had made a modern
perversion of _Dame Blanche_, so in _La Cigale_ did they dress up afresh
the story of the _Fille du R'egiment_. As the poet asks--

  Ah, World of ours, are you so gray,
    And weary, World, of spinning,
  That you repeat the tales to-day
    You told at the beginning?
  For lo! the same old myths that made
    The early stage-successes
  Still hold the boards, and still are played
    With new effects and dresses.

I have cited _La Cigale_, not because it is a very good play--for it is
not--but because it shows the present carelessness of French
dramatists in regard to dramatic construction. _La Cigale_ is a very
clever bit of work, but it has the slightest of plots, and this made out
of old cloth; and the situations, in so far as there are any, follow
each other as best they may. It is not really a play: it is a mere
sketch touched up with Parisianisms, "local hits" and the wit of the
moment. This substitution of an off-hand sketch for a full-sized picture
can better be borne in a little one-act play than in a more ambitious
work in three or four acts.

And of one-act plays Meilhac and Halévy have written a score or
more--delightful little _genre_ pictures, like the _Été de
Saint-Martin_, simple pastels, like _Toto chez Tata_, and vigorous
caricatures, like the _Photographe_ or the _Brésilien_. The Frenchman
invented the ruffle, says Emerson: the Englishman added the shirt. These
little dramatic trifles are French ruffles. In the beginning of his
theatrical career M. Meilhac did little comedies like the _Sarabande_
and the _Autographe_, in the Scribe formula--dramatized anecdotes, but
fresher in wit and livelier in fancy than Scribe's. This early work was
far more regular than we find in some of his latest, bright as these
are: the _Petit Hôtel_, for instance, and _Lolotte_ are etchings, as it
were, instantaneous photographs of certain aspects of life in the city
by the Seine or stray paragraphs of the latest news from Paris.

It is perhaps not too much to say that Meilhac and Halévy are seen at
their best in these one-act plays. They hit better with a single-barrel
than with a revolver. In their five-act plays, whether serious like
_Fanny Lear_ or comic like _La Vie Parisienne_, the interest is
scattered, and we have a series of episodes rather than a single story.
Just as the egg of the jelly-fish is girt by circles which tighten
slowly until the ovoid form is cut into disks of independent life, so if
the four intermissions of some of Meilhac and Halévy's full-sized plays
were but a little longer and wider and deeper they would divide the
piece into five separate plays, any one of which could fairly hope for
success by itself. I have heard that the _Roi Candaule_ was originally
an act of _La Boule_, and the _Photographe_ seems as though it had
dropped from _La Vie Parisienne_ by mistake. In M. Meilhac's earlier
five-act plays, the _Vertu de Celimène_ and the _Petit fils de
Mascarille_, there is great power of conception, a real grip on
character, but the main action is clogged with tardy incidents, and so
the momentum is lost. In these comedies the influence of the new school
of Alexandre Dumas _fils_ is plainly visible. And the inclination toward
the strong, not to say violent, emotions which Dumas and Angier had
imported into comedy is still more evident in _Fanny Lear_, the first
five-act comedy which Meilhac and Halévy wrote together, and which was
brought out in 1868. The final situation is one of truth and immense
effectiveness, and there is great vigor in the creation of character.
The decrepit old rake, the Marquis de Noriolis, feeble in his folly and
wandering in helplessness, but irresistible when aroused, is a striking
figure; and still more striking is the portrait of his wife, now the
Marquise de Noriolis, but once Fanny Lear the adventuress--a woman who
has youth, beauty, wealth, everything before her, if it were not for the
shame which is behind her: gay and witty, and even good-humored, she is
inflexible when she is determined; hers is a velvet manner and an iron
will. The name of Fanny Lear may sound familiar to some readers because
it was given to an American adventuress in Russia by a grand-ducal
admirer.

After _Fanny Lear_ came _Froufrou_, the lineal successor of _The
Stranger_ as the current masterpiece of the lachrymatory drama. Nothing
so tear-compelling as the final act of _Froufrou_ had been seen on the
stage for half a century or more. The death of Froufrou was a watery
sight, and for any chance to weep we are many of us grateful. And yet it
was a German, born in the land of Charlotte and Werther,--it was Heine
who remarked on the oddity of praising the "dramatic poet who possesses
the art of drawing tears--a talent which he has in common with the
meanest onion." It is noteworthy that it was by way of Germany that
English tragedy exerted its singular influence on French comedy.
Attracted by the homely power of pieces like _The Gamester_ and _Jane
Shore_, Diderot in France and Lessing in Germany attempted the _tragédie
bourgeoise_, but the right of the "tradesmen's tragedies"--as Goldsmith
called them--to exist at all was questioned until Kotzebue's pathetic
power and theatrical skill captured nearly every stage in Europe. In
France the bastard offspring of English tragedy and German drama gave
birth to an equally illegitimate _comédie larmoyante_. And so it happens
that while comedy in English literature, resulting from the clash of
character, is always on the brink of farce, comedy in French literature
may be tinged with passion until it almost turns to tragedy. In France
the word "comedy" is elastic and covers a multitude of sins: it includes
the laughing _Boule_ and the tearful _Froufrou_: in fact, the French
Melpomene is a sort of _Jeanne qui pleure et Jeanne qui rit_.

So it happens that _Froufrou_ is a comedy. And indeed the first three
acts are comedy of a very high order, full of wit and rich in character.
I mentioned _The Stranger_ a few lines back, and the contrast of the
two plays shows how much lighter and more delicate French art is. The
humor to be found in _The Stranger_ is, to say the least, Teutonic; and
German humor is like the simple Italian wines: it will not stand export.
And in _The Stranger_ there is really no character, no insight into
human nature. _Misanthropy and Repentance_, as Kotzebue called his play
(_The Stranger_ was Sheridan's title for the English translation he
revised for his own theatre), are loud-sounding words when we capitalize
them, but they do not deceive us now: we see that the play itself is
mostly stalking sententiousness, mawkishly overladen with gush. But in
_Froufrou_ there is wit of the latest Parisian kind, and there are
characters--people whom we might meet and whom we may remember. Brigard,
for one, the reprobate old gentleman, living even in his old age in that
Bohemia which has Paris for its capital, and dyeing his few locks
because he feels himself unworthy to wear gray hair,--Brigard is a
portrait from life. The Baron de Cambri is less individual, and I
confess I cannot quite stomach a gentleman who is willing to discuss the
problem of his wife's virtue with a chance adorer. But the cold Baronne
herself is no commonplace person. And Louise, the elder daughter of
Froufrou, the one who had chosen the better part and had kept it by much
self-sacrifice,--she is a true woman. Best, better even than Brigard, is
Gilberte, nicknamed "Froufrou" from the rustling of her silks as she
skips and scampers airily around. Froufrou, when all is said, is a real
creation, a revelation of Parisian femininity, a living thing, breathing
the breath of life and tripping along lightly on her own little feet.
Marrying a reserved yet deeply-devoted husband because her sister bid
her; taking into her home that sister, who had sacrificed her own love
for the husband; seeing this sister straighten the household which she
in her heedless seeking for idle amusement had not governed, then
beginning to feel herself in danger and aware of a growing jealousy,
senseless though it be, of the sister who has so innocently supplanted
her by her hearth, and even with her child; making one effort to regain
her place, and failing, as was inevitable,--poor Froufrou takes the
fatal plunge which will for ever and at once separate her from what was
hers before. What a fine scene is that at the end of the third act, in
which Froufrou has worked herself almost to a frenzy, and, hopeless in
her jealousy, gives up all to her sister and rushes from the house to
the lover she scarcely cares for! And how admirably does all that has
gone before lead up to it! These first three acts are a wonder of
constructive art. Of the rest of the play it is hard to speak so highly.
The change is rather sudden from the study of character in the first
part to the demand in the last that if you have tears you must prepare
to shed them now. The brightness is quenched in gloom and despair. Of a
verity, frivolity may be fatal, and death may follow a liking for
private theatricals and the other empty amusements of fashion; but is it
worth while to break a butterfly on the wheel and to put a humming-bird
to the question? To say what fate shall be meted out to the woman taken
in adultery is always a hard task for the dramatist. Here the erring and
erratic heroine comes home to be forgiven and to die, and so after the
fresh and unforced painting of modern Parisian life we have a finish
full of conventional pathos. Well, death redeems all, and, as Pascal
says, "the last act is always tragedy, whatever fine comedy there may
have been in the rest of life. We must all die alone."

J. BRANDER MATTHEWS.




THE KING'S GIFTS.


  Cyrus the king in royal mood
  Portioned his gifts as seemed him good:
  To Artabasus, proud to hold
  The priceless boon, a cup of gold--
  A rare-wrought thing: its jewelled brim
  Haloed a nectar sweet to him.
  No flavor fine it seemed to miss;
  But when the king stooped down, a kiss
  To leave upon Chrysantas' lips,
  The jewels paled in dull eclipse
  To Artabasus: hard and cold
  And empty grew the cup of gold.
  "Better, O Sire, than mine," cried he,
  "I deem Chrysantas' gift to be."
  Yet the wise king his courtiers knew,
  And unto each had given his due.

  To all who watch and all who wait
  The king will come, or soon or late.
  Choose well: thy secret wish is known,
  And thou shalt surely have thine own--
  A golden cup thy poor wealth's sign,
  Or on thy lips Love's seal divine.

    EMILY A. BRADDOCK.




BAUBIE WISHART.


"I have taken you at your word, you see, Miss Mackenzie. You told me not
to give alms in the street, and to bring the begging children to you. So
here is one now."

Thus introduced, the begging child was pushed forward into the room by
the speaker, a lady who was holding her by one shoulder.

She was a stunted, slim creature, that might have been any age from nine
to fourteen, barefooted and bareheaded, and wearing a Rob Roy tartan
frock. She entered in a sidelong way that was at once timid and
confidently independent, and stared all round her with a pair of large
brown eyes. She did not seem to be in the least frightened, and when
released by her guardian stood at ease comfortably on one foot, tucking
the other away out of sight among the not too voluminous folds of her
frock.

It was close on twelve o'clock of a March day in the poor sewing-women's
workroom in Drummond street. The average number of women of the usual
sort were collected together--a depressed and silent gathering. It
seemed as if the bitter east wind had dulled and chilled them into a
grayer monotony of look than usual, so that they might be in harmony
with the general aspect which things without had assumed at its grim
bidding. A score or so of wan faces looked up for a minute, but the
child, after all, had nothing in her appearance that was calculated to
repay attention, and the lady was known to them all. So "white seam"
reasserted its old authority without much delay.

Miss Mackenzie laid down the scissors which she had been using on a bit
of coarse cotton, and advanced in reply to the address of the newcomer.
"How do you do? and where did you pick up this creature?" she asked,
looking curiously at the importation.

"Near George IV. Bridge, on this side of it, and I just took hold of her
and brought her off to you at once. I don't believe"--this was said
_sotto voce_--"that she has a particle of clothing on her but that
frock."

"Very likely.--What is your name, my child?"

"Baubie Wishart, mem." She spoke in an apologetic tone, glancing down at
her feet, the one off duty being lowered for the purpose of inspection,
which over, she hoisted the foot again immediately into the recesses of
the Rob Roy tartan.

"Have you a father and mother?"

"Yes, mem."

"What does your father do?"

Baubie Wishart glanced down again in thought for an instant, then raised
her eyes for the first time directly to her questioner's face: "He used
to be a Christy man, but he canna be that any longer, sae he goes wi'
boords."

"Why cannot he be a Christy man any longer?"

Down came the foot once more, and this time took up its position
permanently beside the other: "Because mother drinks awfu', an' pawned
the banjo for drink." This family history was related in the most
matter-of-fact, natural way.

"And does your father drink too?" asked Miss Mackenzie after a short
pause.

Baubie Wishart's eyes wandered all round the room, and with one toe she
swept up a little mass of dust before she answered in a voice every tone
of which spoke unwilling truthfulness, "Just whiles--Saturday nichts."

"Is _he_ kind to you?"

"Ay," looking up quickly, "excep' just whiles when he's fou--Saturday
nichts, ye ken--and then he beats me; but he's rale kind when he's
sober."

"Were you ever at school?"

"No, mem," with a shake of the head that seemed to convey that she had
something else, and probably better, to do.

"Did you ever hear of God?" asked the lady who had brought her.

"Ay, mem," answered Baubie quite readily: "it's a kind of a bad word I
hear in the streets."

"How old are you?" asked both ladies simultaneously.

"Thirteen past," replied Baubie, with a promptness that made her
listeners smile, suggesting as it did the thought that the question had
been put to her before, and that Baubie knew well the import of her
answer.

She grew more communicative now. She could not read, but, all the same,
she knew two songs which she sang in the streets--"Before the Battle"
and "After the Battle;" and, carried away by the thought of her own
powers, she actually began to give proof of her assertion by reciting
one of them there and then. This, however, was stopped at once. "Can
knit too," she added then.

"Who taught you to knit?"

"Don' know. Wis at a Sunday-schuil too."

"Oh, you were? And what did you learn there?"

Baubie Wishart looked puzzled, consulted her toes in vain, and then
finally gave it up.

"I should like to do something for her," observed her first friend: "it
is time this street-singing came to an end."

"She is intelligent, clearly," said Miss Mackenzie, looking curiously at
the child, whose appearance and bearing rather puzzled her. There was
not a particle of the professional street-singer about Baubie Wishart,
the child of that species being generally clean-washed, or at least
soapy, of face, with lank, smooth-combed and greasy hair; and usually,
too, with a smug, sanctimonious air of meriting a better fate. Baubie
Wishart presented none of these characteristics: her face was simply
filthy; her hair was a red-brown, loosened tangle that reminded one
painfully of oakum in its first stage. And she looked as if she deserved
a whipping, and defied it too. She was just a female arab--an arab
_plus_ an accomplishment--bright, quick and inconsequent as a sparrow,
and reeking of the streets and gutters, which had been her nursery.

"Yes," continued the good lady, "I must look after her."

"Poor little atom! I suppose you will find out where the parents live,
and send the school-board officer to them. That is the usual thing, is
it not? I must go, Miss Mackenzie. Good-bye for to-day. And do tell me
what you settle for her."

Miss Mackenzie promised, and her friend took her departure.

"Go and sit by the fire, Baubie Wishart, for a little, and then I shall
be ready to talk to you."

Nothing loath apparently, Baubie established herself at the end of the
fender, and from that coign of vantage watched the on-goings about her
with the stoicism of a red Indian. She showed no symptom of wonder at
anything, and listened to the disquisitions of Miss Mackenzie and the
matron as to the proper adjustment of parts--"bias," "straights,"
"gathers," "fells," "gussets" and "seams," a whole new language as it
unrolled its complexities before her--with complacent indifference.

At last, all the web of cotton being cut up, the time came to go. Miss
Mackenzie buttoned up her sealskin coat, and pulling on a pair of warm
gloves beckoned Baubie, who rose with alacrity: "Where do your father
and mother live?"

"Kennedy's Lodgings, in the Gressmarket, mem."

"I know the place," observed Miss Mackenzie, to whom, indeed, most of
these haunts were familiar. "Take me there now, Baubie."

They set out together. Baubie trotted in front, turning her head,
dog-fashion, at every corner to see if she were followed. They reached
the Grassmarket at last, and close to the corner of the West Bow found
an entry with the whitewashed inscription above it, "Kennedy's
Lodgings." Baubie glanced round to see if her friend was near, then
vanished upward from her sight. Miss Mackenzie kilted her dress and
began the ascent of the stairs, the steps of which, hollowed out as they
were by the tread of centuries of human feet, afforded a not too safe
footing.

Arrived at the third floor, she found Baubie waiting for her,
breathless and panting.

"It's here," she said--"the big kitchen, mem."

A long, narrow passage lay before them, off which doors opened on all
sides. Precipitating herself at one of these doors, Baubie Wishart, who
could barely reach the latch, pushed it open, giving egress to a
confusion of noises, which seemed to float above a smell of cooking, in
which smell herrings and onions contended for the mastery.

It was a very large room, low-ceilinged, but well enough lighted by a
couple of windows, which looked into a close behind. The walls had been
whitewashed once upon a time, but the whitewash was almost lost to view
under the decorations with which it was overlaid. These consisted of
pictures cut out of the illustrated weekly papers or milliners' books.
All sorts of subjects were represented: fashion-plates hung side by side
with popular preachers and statesmen, race-horses and Roman Catholic
saints; red-and white-draped Madonnas elbowed the "full-dress" heroines
of the penny weeklies. It was a curious gallery, and a good many of the
works of art had the merit of being antique. Generations of flies had
emblazoned their deeds of prowess on the papers: streaks of
candle-grease bore witness to the inquiring turn of mind, attracted by
the letter-press, or the artistic proclivities of Kennedy's lodgers. It
was about two, the dinner-hour probably, which accounted for the
presence of so many people in the room. Most, but not all, seemed to be
of the wandering class. They were variously employed. Some were sitting
on the truckle-beds that ran round the walls; one or two were knitting
or sewing; a cripple was mending baskets in one of the windows; and
about the fire a group were collected superintending the operations
which produced, though not unaided, the odors with which the room was
reeking.

Miss Mackenzie stood for a few minutes, unnoticed apparently, looking
about her at the motley crowd. Baubie on entering the room had raised
herself for a second on tiptoe to look into a distant corner, and then,
remarking to herself, half audibly, "His boords is gane," subsided, and
contented herself with watching Miss Mackenzie's movements.

There seemed to be no one to do the honors. The inmates all looked at
each other for a moment hesitatingly, then resumed their various
occupations. A young woman, a sickly, livid-faced creature, rose from
her place behind the door, and, advancing with a halting step, said to
Miss Mackenzie, "Mistress Kennedy's no' in, an' Wishart's oot wi's
boords."

"I wanted to see him about this child, who was found begging in the
streets to-day."

Miss Mackenzie looked curiously at the woman, wondering if she could
belong in any way to the Wishart family. She was a miserable object,
seemingly in the last stage of consumption.

"Eh, mem," she answered hurriedly, and drawing nearer, "ye're a guid
leddy, I ken, an' tak' t' lassie away oot o' this. The mither's an awfu'
wuman: tak' her away wi' ye, or she'll sune be as bad. She'll be like
mysel' and the rest o' them here."

"I will, I will," Miss Mackenzie said, shocked and startled, recoiling
before the spirit-reeking breath of this warning spectre. "I will, I
will," she repeated hastily. There was no use remaining any longer. She
went out, beckoning to Baubie, who was busy rummaging about a bed at the
top of the room.

Baubie had bethought her that it was time to take her father his dinner.
So she slipped over to that corner of the big kitchen which was allotted
to the Wishart family and possessed herself of a piece of a loaf which
was hidden away there. As she passed by the fire she profited by the
momentary abstraction of the people who were cooking to snap up and make
her own a brace of unconsidered trifles in the shape of onions which
were lying near them. These, with the piece of bread, she concealed on
her person, and then returned to Miss Mackenzie, who was now in the
passage.

"Baubie," said that lady, "I will send some one here about you. Now,
don't let me hear of your singing in the streets or begging again. You
will get into trouble if you do."

She was descending the stairs as she spoke, and she turned round when
she had reached the entry: "You know the police will take you, Baubie."

"Yes, mem," answered Baubie, duly impressed.

"Well, now, I am going home. Stay: are you hungry?"

Without waiting for her answer, Miss Mackenzie entered a tiny shop close
by, purchased a mutton-pie and handed it to Baubie Wishart, who received
it with wondering reverence. Miss Mackenzie took her way home westward
up the Grassmarket. She turned round before leaving it by way of King's
Stables, and caught sight of Bauble's frock by the entry of Kennedy's
Lodgings--a tiny morsel of color against the shadow of the huge gray
houses. She thought of the big kitchen and its occupants, and the face
and words of the poor girl, and promised herself that she would send the
school-board officer to Kennedy's Lodgings that very night.

Baubie waited till her friend was well out of sight: then she hid her
mutton-pie in the same place with the onions and the piece of bread, and
started up the Grassmarket in her turn. She stopped at the first shop
she passed and bought a pennyworth of cheese. Then she made her way to
the Lothian road, and looked up and down it anxiously in search of the
walking advertisement-man. He was not there, so she directed her course
toward Princes street, and after promenading it as far east as the
Mound, she turned up into George street, and caught sight of her father
walking along slowly by the curbstone. It was not long before she
overtook him.

"Od, lassie, I wis thinkin' lang," he began wearily as soon as he
realized her apparition. Baubie did not wait for him to finish: with a
peremptory nod she signified her will, and he turned round and followed
her a little way down Hanover street. Then Baubie selected a flight of
steps leading to a basement store, and throwing him a look of command
flitted down and seated herself at the bottom. It was sheltered from
the cold wind and not too much overlooked. Wishart shifted the boards
from about his shoulders, and, following her, laid them against the wall
at the side of the basement-steps, and sat down heavily beside her. He
was a sickly-looking man, sandy-haired, with a depressed and shifty
expression of face--not vicious, but weak and vacillating. Baubie seemed
to have the upper hand altogether: every gesture showed it. She opened
the paper that was wrapped about her fragment of rank yellow cheese,
laid it down on the step between them, and then produced, in their order
of precedence, the pie, the onions and the bread.

"Wha gied ye that?" asked Wishart, gazing at the mutton-pie.

"A leddy," replied Baubie, concisely.

"An' they?" pointing to the onions.

A nod was all the answer, for Baubie, who was hungry, was busy breaking
the piece of loaf. Wishart with great care divided the pie without
spilling much more than half its gravy, and began on his half of it and
the biggest onion simultaneously. Baubie ate up her share of pie,
declined cheese, and attacked her onion and a great piece of crust. The
crust was very tough, and after the mutton-pie rather dry and tasteless,
and she laid it down presently in her lap, and after a few minutes'
passive silence began: "That," nodding at the cheese, or what was left
of it rather, "wis all I got--ae penny. The leddy took me up till a
hoose, an' anither are that wis there came doon hame and gaed in ben,
an' wis speirin' for ye, an' says she'll gie me till the polis for
singin' an' askin' money in t' streets, an' wants you to gie me till her
to pit in schuil."

She stopped and fixed her eyes on him, watching the effect of her words.
Wishart laid down his bread and cheese and stared back at her. It seemed
to take some time for his brain to realize all the meaning of her
pregnant speech.

"Ay," he said after a while, and with an effort, "I maun tak' ye to
Glasgae, to yer aunt. Ye'll be pit in schuil if yer caught."

"I'll no bide," observed Baubie, finishing off her onion with a
grimace. The raw onion was indeed strong and hot, even for Bauble's not
too epicurean palate, but it had been got for nothing--a circumstance
from which it derived a flavor which many people more dainty than Bauble
Wishart find to be extremely appetizing.

"Bide!" echoed her father: "they'll mak' ye bide. Gin I had only the
banjo agen!" sighed the whilom Christy man, getting up and preparing to
adjust the boards once more.

The last crumb of the loaf was done, and Bauble, refreshed, got up too.
"Whenll ye be hame?" she questioned abruptly when they had reached the
top of the steps.

"Seven. Gaeway hame wi' ye, lassie, noo. Ye didna see _her_?" he
questioned as he walked off.

"Na," replied Bauble, standing still and looking about her as if to
choose which way she should take.

He sighed deeply, and moved off slowly on his way back to his post, with
the listless, hopeless air that seems to belong to the members of his
calling.

Bauble obeyed her parent's commands in so far as that she did go home,
but as she took Punch and Judy in her course up the Mound, and diverged
as far as a football match in the Meadows, it was nearly seven before
Kennedy's Lodgings saw her again.

The following morning, shortly after breakfast, Miss Mackenzie's butler
informed her that there was a child who wanted to speak with her in the
hall. On going down she found Bauble Wishart on the mat.

"Where is your father? and why did he not come with you?" asked Miss
Mackenzie, puzzled.

"He thoucht shame to come an' speak wi' a fine leddy like you." This
excuse, plausible enough, was uttered in a low voice and with downcast
eyes, but hardly was it pronounced when she burst out rapidly and
breathlessly into what was clearly the main object of her visit: "But
please, mem, he says he'll gie me to you if ye'll gie him the three
shillin's to tak' the banjo oot o' the pawn."

This candid proposal took Miss Mackenzie's breath away. To become the
owner of Baubie Wishart, even at so low a price, seemed to her rather a
heathenish proceeding, with a flavor of illegality about it to boot.
There was a vacancy at the home for little girls which might be made
available for the little wretch without the necessity of any preliminary
of this kind; and it did not occur to her that it was a matter of any
moment whether Mr. Wishart continued to exercise the rôle of
"sandwich-man" or returned to his normal profession of banjo-player.
Baubie was to be got hold of in any case. With the muttered adjuration
of the wretched girl in Kennedy's Lodgings echoing in her ears, Miss
Mackenzie determined that she should be left no longer than could be
helped in that company.

How earnest and matter of fact she was in delivering her extraordinary
errand! thought Miss Mackenzie to herself, meeting the eager gaze of
Baubie Wishart's eyes, looking out from beneath her tangle of hair like
those of a Skye terrier.

"I will speak to your father myself, Baubie--tell him so--to-morrow,
perhaps: tell him I mean to settle about you myself. Now go."

The least possible flicker of disappointment passed over Baubie's face.
The tangled head drooped for an instant, then she bobbed by way of adieu
and vanished.

That day and the next passed before Miss Mackenzie found it possible to
pay her long-promised visit to Mr. Wishart, and when, about eleven in
the forenoon, she once more entered the big kitchen in Kennedy's
Lodgings, she was greeted with the startling intelligence that the whole
Wishart family were in prison.

The room was as full as before. Six women were sitting in the middle of
the floor teasing out an old hair mattress. There was the same odor of
cooking, early as it was, and the same medley of noises, but the people
were different. The basket-making cripple was gone, and in his place by
the window sat a big Irish beggar-woman, who was keeping up a
conversation with some one (a compatriot evidently) in a window of the
close behind.

The mistress of the house came forward. She was a decent-looking little
woman, but had rather a hard face, expressive of care and anxiety. On
recognizing her visitor she curtsied: "The Wisharts, mem? Yes, they're
a' in jail."

"All in jail?" echoed Miss Mackenzie. "Will you come outside and speak
to me? There are so many people--"

"Eh yes, mem: I'm sure ye fin' the room closs. Eh yes, mem, the Wisharts
are a' in the lock-up."

They were standing outside in the passage, and Mrs. Kennedy held the
door closed by the latch, which she kept firmly grasped in her hand. It
struck Miss Mackenzie as being an odd way to secure privacy for a
privileged communication, to fasten the door of their room upon those
inside. It was expressive, however.

"Ye see, mem," began the landlady, "Wishart's no a very bad man--jist
weak in the heid like--but's wife is jist something awfu', an' I could
not let her bide in a decent lodging-house. We hae to dra' the line
somewhere, and I dra' it low enough, but she wis far below that. Eh,
she's jist terrible! Wishart has a sister in Glasgae verra weel to do,
an' I h'ard him say he'd gie the lassie to her if it wer na for the
wife. The day the school-board gentleman wis here she came back: she'd
been away, ye ken, and she said she'd become a t'otaller, an' so I sed
she micht stay; but, ye see, when nicht came on she an' Wishart gaed out
thegither, an' jist to celebrate their bein' frien's again she an' him
gaed intil a public, an' she got uproarious drunk, an' the polis took
her up. Wishart wis no sae bad, sae they let him come hame; but, ye see,
he had tasted the drink, an' wanted mair, an' he hadna ony money. Ye
see, he'd promised the gentleman who came here that he widna send Baubie
oot to sing again. But he _did_ send her oot then to sing for money for
him, an' the polis had been put to watch her, an' saw her beg, an' took
her up to the office, an' came back here for Wishart. An' so before the
day was dune they were a' lockit up thegither."

Such was the story related to Miss Mackenzie. What was to be done with
Baubie now? It was hardly fair that she should be sent to a reformatory
among criminal children. She had committed no crime, and there was that
empty bed at the home for little girls. She determined to attend the
sheriff-court on Monday morning and ask to be given the custody of
Baubie.

When Monday morning came, ten o'clock saw Miss Mackenzie established in
a seat immediately below the sheriff's high bench. The Wisharts were
among the first batch tried, and made their appearance from a side-door.
Mrs. Wishart came first, stepping along with a resolute, brazen bearing
that contrasted with her husband's timid, shuffling gait. She was a
gypsy-looking woman, with wandering, defiant black eyes, and her red
face had the sign-manual of vice stamped upon it. After her came Baubie,
a red-tartan-covered mite, shrinking back and keeping as close to her
father as she could. Baubie had favored her mother as to complexion:
that was plain. The top of her rough head and her wild brown eyes were
just visible over the panel as she stared round her, taking in with
composure and astuteness everything that was going on. She was the most
self-possessed of her party, for under Mrs. Wishart's active brazenness
there could easily be seen fear and a certain measure of remorse hiding
themselves; and Wishart seemed to be but one remove from imbecility.

The charges were read with a running commentary of bad language from
Mrs. Wishart as her offences were detailed; Wishart blinked in a
helpless, pathetic way; Baubie, who seemed to consider herself as
associated with him alone in the charge, assumed an air of indifference
and sucked her thumb, meantime watching Miss Mackenzie furtively. She
felt puzzled to account for her presence there, but it never entered her
head to connect that fact with herself in any way.

"Guilty or not guilty?" asked the sheriff-clerk.

"There's a kin' lady in coort," stammered Wishart, "an' she kens a'
aboot it."

"Guilty or not guilty?" reiterated the clerk: "this is not the time to
speak." "She kens it a', an' she wis to tak' the lassie."

"Guilty or not guilty? You must plead, and you can say what you like
afterward." Wishart stopped, not without an appealing look at the kind
lady, and pleaded guilty meekly. A policeman with a scratched face and
one hand plastered up testified to the extravagances Mrs. Wishart had
committed on the strength of her conversion to teetotal principles.

Baubic heard it all impassively, her face only betraying anything like
keen interest while the police-officer was detailing his injuries. Three
months' imprisonment was the sentence on Margaret Mactear or Wishart.
Then Wishart's sentence was pronounced--sixty days.

He and Baubie drew nearer to each other, Wishart with a despairing,
helpless look. Baubie's eyes looked like those of a hare taken in a gin.
Not one word had been said about her. She was not to go with her father.
What was to become of her? She was not long left in doubt as to her
fate.

"I will take the child, sheriff," said Miss Mackenzie eagerly and
anxiously. "I came here purposely to offer her a home in the refuge."

"Policeman, hand over the child to this lady at once," said the
sheriff.--

"Nothing could be better, Miss Mackenzie. It is very good of you to
volunteer to take charge of her."

Mrs. Wishart disappeared with a parting volley of blasphemy; her
husband, casting, as he went, a wistful look at Miss Mackenzie, shambled
fecklessly after the partner of his joys and sorrows; and the child
remained alone behind. The policeman took her by an arm and drew her
forward to make room for a fresh consignment of wickedness from the
cells at the side. Baubie breathed a short sigh as the door closed upon
her parents, shook back her hair, and looked up at Miss Mackenzie, as if
to announce her readiness and good will. Not one vestige of her internal
mental attitude could be gathered from her sun-and wind-beaten little
countenance. There was no rebelliousness, neither was there guilt. One
would almost have thought she had been told beforehand what was to
happen, so cool and collected was she.

"Now, Baubie, I am going to take you home. Come, child."

Pleased with her success, Miss Mackenzie, so speaking, took the little
waif's hand and led her out of the police-court into the High street.
She hardly dared to conjecture that it was Baubie Wishart's first visit
to that place, but as she stood on the entrance-steps and shook out her
skirts with a sense of relief, she breathed a sincere hope that it might
be the child's last.

A cab was waiting. Baubie, to her intense delight and no less
astonishment, was requested to occupy the front seat. Miss Mackenzie
gave the driver his order and got in, facing the red tartan bundle.

"Were you ever in a cab before?" asked Miss Mackenzie.

"Na, niver," replied Baubie in a rapt tone and without looking at her
questioner, so intent was she on staring out of the windows, between
both of which she divided her attention impartially.

They were driving down the Mound, and the outlook, usually so
far-reaching from that vantage-ground, was bounded by a thick sea-fog
that the east wind was carrying up from the Forth and dispensing with
lavish hands on all sides. The buildings had a grim, black look, as if a
premature old age had come upon them, and the black pinnacles of the
Monument stood out sharply defined in clear-cut, harsh distinctness
against the floating gray background. There were not many people
stirring in the streets. It was a depressing atmosphere, and Miss
Mackenzie observed before long that Baubie either seemed to have become
influenced by it or that the novelty of the cab-ride had worn off
completely. They crossed the Water of Leith, worn to a mere brown thread
owing to the long drought, by Stockbridge street bridge, and a few yards
from it found themselves before a gray stone house separated from the
street by a grass-plot surrounded by a stone wall: inside the wall grew
chestnut and poplar trees, which in summer must have shaded the place
agreeably, but which this day, in the cold gray mist, seemed almost
funereal in their gloomy blackness. The gate was opened from within the
wall as soon as Miss Mackenzie rang, and she and Baubie walked up the
little flagged path together. As the gate clanged to behind them Baubie
looked back involuntarily and sighed.

"Don't fear, lassie," said her guide: "they will be very kind to you
here. And it will be just a good home for you."

It may be questioned whether this promise of a good home awoke any
pleasing associations or carried with it any definite meaning to Baubie
Wishart's mind. She glanced up as if to show that she understood, but
her eyes turned then and rested on the square front of the little
old-fashioned gray house with its six staring windows and its front
circumscribed by the wall and the black poplars and naked chestnuts, and
she choked down another sigh.

"Now, Mrs. Duncan," Miss Mackenzie was saying to a comfortably-dressed
elderly woman, "here's your new girl, Baubie Wishart."

"Eh, ye've been successful then, Miss Mackenzie?"

"Oh dear, yes: the sheriff made no objection. And now, Mrs. Duncan, I
hope she will be a good girl and give you no trouble.--Come here,
Baubie, and promise me to do everything you are told and obey Mrs.
Duncan in everything."

"Yes, mem," answered Bauble reverently, almost solemnly.

There seemed to be no necessity for further exhortation. Baubie's
demeanor promised everything that was hoped for or wanted, and,
perfectly contented, Miss Mackenzie turned her attention to the minor
details of wardrobe, etc.: "That frock is good enough if it were washed.
She must get shoes and stockings; and then underwear, too, of some sort
will be wanted."

"That will it," responded the matron; "but I had better send her at
once to get a bath."

A big girl was summoned from a back room and desired to get ready a tub.
It was the ceremony customary at the reception of a neophyte--customary,
and in general very necessary too.

Baubie's countenance fell lower still on hearing this, and she blinked
both eyes deprecatingly. Nevertheless, when the big girl--whom they
called Kate--returned, bringing with her a warm whiff of steam and soap,
she trotted after her obediently and silently.

After a while the door opened, and Kate's yellow head appeared. "Speak
with ye, mem?" she said. "I hae her washen noo, but what for claes?"

"Eh yes.--Miss Mackenzie, we can't put her back into those dirty
clothes."

"Oh no.--I'll come and look at her clothes, Kate." As she spoke Miss
Mackenzie rose and followed the matron and Kate into a sort of kitchen
or laundry.

In the middle of the floor was a tub containing Miss Wishart mid-deep in
soapsuds. Her thick hair was all soaking, and clung fast to her head:
dripping locks hung clown over her eyes, which looked out through the
tangle patient and suffering. She glanced up quickly as Miss Mackenzie
came in, and then resigned herself passively into Kate's hands, who with
a piece of flannel had resumed the scrubbing process.

Miss Mackenzie was thinking to herself that it was possibly Baubie
Wishart's first experience of the kind, when she observed the child
wince as if she were hurt.

"It's yon' as hurts her," said Kate, calling the matron's attention to
something on the child's shoulders. They both stooped and saw a long
blue-and-red mark--a bruise all across her back. Nor was this the only
evidence of ill-treatment: other bruises, and even scars, were to be
seen on the lean little body.

"Puir thing!" said the matron in a low tone, sympathizingly.

"Baubie, who gave you that bruise?" asked Miss Mackenzie.

No answer from Baubie, who seemed to be absorbed in watching the drops
running off the end of her little red nose, which played the part of a
gargoyle to the rest of her face.

Miss Mackenzie repeated the question, sternly almost: "Bauble Wishart, I
insist upon knowing who gave you that bruise."

"A didna gie't to mysel', mem." was the answer from the figure in the
soapsuds. There was a half sob in the voice as of terror, and her manner
had all the appearance of ingenuousness.

The matron and Miss Mackenzie looked at each other significantly, and
agreed tacitly that there was no use in pushing the question.

"Od!" said Kate, who had paused in the act of taking a warm towel from
the fireplace to listen, "a'body kens ye didna gie it till yoursel',
lassie."

"Where are her clothes?" said the matron. "Oh, here. Yon frock's good
enough if it was washed; but, losh me! just look at these for clothes!"
She was exhibiting some indescribable rags as she spoke.

"Kate," said Miss Mackenzie, "dress her in the lassie Grant's clothes:
they are the most likely to fit her. Don't lose time: I want to see her
again before I go."

Kate fished up her charge, all smoking, from the soapsuds and rubbed her
down before the fire. Then the tangled wet hair was parted evenly and
smoothed into dark locks on either side of her face. Raiment clean, but
the coarsest of the coarse, was found for her. A brown wincey dress
surmounted all. Shoes and stockings came last of all, probably in the
order of importance assigned to them by Kate.

From the arm-chair of the matron's sitting-room Miss Mackenzie surveyed
her charge with satisfaction. Baubie looked subdued, contented, perhaps
grateful, and was decidedly uncomfortable. Every vestige of the
picturesque was gone, obliterated clean by soap and water, and Kate's
hair-comb, a broken-toothed weapon that had come off second best in its
periodic conflicts with her own barley-mow, had disposed for ever of the
wild, curly tangle of hair. Her eyes had red rims to them, caused by
superfluous soap and water, and in its present barked condition, when
all the dirt was gone, Baubie's face had rather an interesting, wistful
expression. She seemed not to stand very steadily in her boots, which
were much too big for her.

Miss Mackenzie surveyed her with great satisfaction. The brown wincey
and the coarse apron seemed to her the neophyte's robe, betokening
Baubie's conversion from arab nomadism to respectability and from a
vagabond trade to decorous industry.

"Now, Baubie, you can knit: I mean to give you needles and worsted to
knit yourself stockings. Won't that be nice? I am sure you never knitted
stockings for yourself before."

"Yes, mem," replied Baubie, shuffling her feet.

"Now, what bed is she to get, Mrs. Duncan? Let us go up stairs and see
the dormitory."

"I thought I would put her in the room with Kate: I changed the small
bed in there. If you will just step up stairs, Miss Mackenzie?"

The party reached the dormitory by a narrow wooden staircase, the
whiteness of which testified to the scrubbing powers of Kate's red arms
and those of her compeers. All the windows were open, and the east wind
came in at its will, nippingly cold if airy. They passed through a
large, low-ceilinged room into a smaller one, in which were only four
beds: a small iron stretcher beside the window was pointed out as
Baubie's. Miss Mackenzie turned down the red-knitted coverlet and looked
at the blankets. They were perfectly clean, like everything else, and,
like everything else too, very coarse and very well worn.

"This will do very nicely.--Baubie, this is to be your bed."

Baubie, fresh from the lock-up and Kennedy's Lodgings, might have been
expected to show some trace of her sense of comparison, but not a
vestige of expression crossed her face: she looked up in civil
acknowledgment of having heard: that was all.

"I shall look in again in the course of a week," announced Miss
Mackenzie.--"Good-bye, Baubie: do everything Mrs. Duncan tells you."

With this valedictory Miss Mackenzie left the matron, and Kate attended
her down stairs; and Baubie was at last alone.

She remained standing stock-still when they left her by the
bedside--when the door, shut by Kate, who went out last, hid them from
her view. She listened in a stupid kind of way to the feet tramping on
the bare boards of the outer dormitory and down the stairs: then all was
still, and Baubie Wishart, clean, clothed and separated from her father
for the first time in her life, was left alone to consider how she liked
"school." She felt cold and strange and lonely, and for about three
minutes' space she abandoned herself without reserve to the sensation.
Then the heavy shoes troubled her, and in a fit of anger and impatience
she suddenly began to unlace one. Some far-off sound startled her, and
with a furtive, timorous look at the door she fastened it up again. No
one came, but instead of returning to the boot she sprang to the window,
and, mounting the narrow sill, prepared to survey the domain that lay
below it. There was not much to see. The window looked out on the back
green, which was very much like the front, save that there was no
flagged walk. A few stunted poplars ran round the walls: the grass was
trodden nearly all off, and from wall to wall were stretched cords from
which fluttered a motley collection of linen hung out to dry. There was
no looking out of it. Baubie craned her adventurous small neck in all
directions. One side of the back green was overlooked by a
tenement-house; the other was guarded by the poplars and a low stone
wall; at the bottom was a dilapidated outhouse. The sky overhead was all
dull gray: a formless gray sea-mist hurried across it, driven by the
east wind, which found time as well to fill, as it passed, all the
fluttering garments on the line and swell them into ridiculous
travesties of the bodies they belonged to, tossing them the while with
high mockery into all manner of weird contortions.

Baubie looked at them curiously, and wondered to herself how much they
would all pawn for--considerably more than three shillings no doubt.
She established that fact to her own satisfaction ere long, although she
was no great arithmetician, and she sighed as she built and demolished
an air-castle in her own mind. Though there was but little attraction
for her in the room, she was about to leave the window when her eye fell
on a large black cat crouched on the wall, employed in surveillance of
the linen or stalking sparrows or in deadly ambush for a hated rival.
Meeting Baubie's glance, he sat up and stared at her suspiciously with a
pair of round yellow, unwinking orbs.

"Ki! ki! ki!" breathed Baubie discreetly. She felt lonely, and the cat
looked a comfortable big creature, and belonged to the house doubtless,
for he stared at her with an interested, questioning look. Presently he
moved. She repeated her invitation, whereon the cat slowly rose to his
feet, humped his back and yawned, then deliberately turned quite round,
facing the other way, and resumed his watchful attitude, his tail tucked
in and his ears folded back close, as if to give the cold wind as little
purchase as possible. Baubie felt snubbed and lonely, and drawing back
from the window she sat down on the edge of her bed to wait events.

Accustomed as she was to excitement, the experiences of the last few
days were of a nature to affect even stronger nerves than hers, and the
unwonted bodily sensations caused by the bath and change of garments
seemed to intensify her consciousness of novelty and restraint. There
was another not very pleasant sensation too, of which she herself had
not taken account, although it was present and made itself felt keenly
enough. It was her strange sense of desolation and grief at the parting
from her father. Baubie herself would have been greatly puzzled had any
person designated her feelings by these names. There were many things in
that philosophy of the gutter in which Baubie Wishart was steeped to the
lips undreamt of by her. What she knew she knew thoroughly, but there
was much with which most children, even of her age and class in life,
are, it is to be hoped, familiar, of which Baubie Wishart was utterly
ignorant. Her circumstances were different from theirs--fortunately for
them; and amongst the poor, as with their betters, various conditions
breed various dispositions. Baubie was an outer barbarian and savage in
comparison with some children, although they perhaps went barefooted
also; but, like a savage too, she would have grown fat where they would
have starved. And this she knew well.

Kate's yellow head, appearing at the door to summon her to dinner, put
an end to her gloomy reverie. And with this, her first meal, began
Baubie's acquaintance with the household of which she was to form an
integral portion from that hour.

They gave her no housework to do. Mrs. Duncan, whom a very cursory
examination satisfied as to the benighted ignorance of this latest
addition to her flock, determined that Baubie should learn to read,
write and sew as expeditiously as might be. In order that she might
benefit by example, she was made to sit by the lassie Grant, the child
whose clothes had been lent to her, and her education began forthwith.

It was tame work to Baubie, who did not love sitting still: "white seam"
was a vexation of spirit, and her knitting, in which she had beforehand
believed herself an adept, was found fault with. The lassie Grant, as
was pointed out to her, could knit more evenly and possessed a superior
method of "turning the heel."

Baubie Wishart listened with outward calmness and seeming acquiescence
to the comparison instituted between herself and her neighbor. Inwardly,
however, she raged. What about knitting? Anybody could knit. She would
like to see the lassie Grant earn two shillings of a Saturday night
singing in the High street or the Lawnmarket. Baubie forgot in her flush
of triumphant recollection that there had always been somebody to take
the two shillings from her, and beat her and accuse her of malversation
and embezzlement into the bargain. Artist-like, she remembered her
triumphs only: she could earn two shillings by her braced of songs, and
for a minute, as she revelled in this proud consciousness, her face lost
its demure, watchful expression, and the old independent, confident
bearing reappeared. Baubie forgot also in her present well-nourished
condition the never-failing sensation of hunger that had gone hand in
hand with these departed glories. But even if she had remembered every
circumstance of her former life, and the privations and sufferings, she
would still have pined for its freedom.

The consequence of her being well fed was simply that her mind was freed
from what is, after all, the besetting occupation of creatures like her,
and was therefore at liberty to bestow its undivided attention upon the
restraints and irksomeness of this new order of things. Her gypsy blood
began to stir in her: the charm of her old vagabond habits asserted
itself under the wincey frock and clean apron. To be commended for
knitting and sewing was no distinction worth talking about. What was it
compared with standing where the full glare of the blazing windows of
some public-house fell upon the Rob Roy tartan, with an admiring
audience gathered round and bawbees and commendations flying thick? She
never thought then, any more than now, of the cold wind or the day-long
hunger. It was no wonder that under the influence of these cherished
recollections "white seam" did not progress and the knitting never
attained to the finished evenness of the lassie Grant's performance.

None the less, although she made no honest effort to equal this model
proposed for her example, did Baubie feel jealous and aggrieved. Her
nature recognized other possibilities of expression and other fields of
excellence beyond those afforded by the above-mentioned useful arts, and
she brooded over her arbitrary and forcedly inferior position with all
the intensity of a naturally masterful and passionate nature. It was all
the more unbearable because she had no real cause of complaint: had she
been oppressed or ill-treated in the slightest degree, or had anybody
else been unduly favored, there would have been a pretext for an
outbreak or a shadow of a reason for her discontent. But it was not so.
The matron dispensed even-handed justice and motherly kindness
impartially all round. And if the lassie Grant's excellences were
somewhat obtrusively contrasted with Baubie's shortcomings, it was
because, the two children being of the same age, Mrs. Duncan hoped to
rouse thereby a spark of emulation in Baubie. Neither was there any
pharisaical self-exaltation on the part of the rival. She was a
sandy-haired little girl, an orphan who had been three years in the
refuge, and who in her own mind rather deprecated as unfair any
comparison drawn between herself and the newly-caught Baubie.

Day followed day quietly, and Baubie had been just a week in the refuge,
when Miss Mackenzie, faithful to her promise, called to inquire how her
_protégée_ was getting on.

The matron gave her rather a good character of Baubie. "She's just no
trouble--a quiet-like child. She knows just nothing, but I've set her
beside the lassie Grant, and I don't doubt but she'll do well yet; but
she is some dull," she added.

"Are you happy, Baubie?" asked Miss Mackenzie. "Will you try and learn
everything like 'Lisbeth Grant? See how well she sews, and she is no
older than you."

"Ay, mem," responded Baubie, meekly and without looking up. She was
still wearing 'Lisbeth Grant's frock and apron, and the garments gave
her that odd look of their real owner which clothes so often have the
power of conveying. Baubie's slim figure had caught the flat-backed,
square-shoulder form of her little neighbor, and her face, between the
smooth-laid bands of her hair, seemed to have assumed the same
gravely-respectable air. The disingenuous roving eye was there all the
time, could they but have noted it, and gave the lie to her compressed
lips and studied pose.

That same day the Rob Roy tartan frock made its appearance from the
wash, brighter as to hue, but somewhat smaller and shrunken in size, as
was the nature of its material for one reason, and for another because
it had parted, in common with its owner when subjected to the same
process, with a great deal of extraneous matter. Baubie saw her familiar
garb again with joy, and put it on with keen satisfaction.

That same night, when the girls were going to bed--whether the
inspiration still lingered, in spite of soapsuds, about the red frock,
and was by it imparted to its owner, or whether it was merely the
prompting of that demon of self-assertion that had been tormenting her
of late--Baubie Wishart volunteered a song, and, heedless of
consequences, struck up one of the two which formed her stock in trade.

The unfamiliar sounds had not long disturbed the quiet of the house when
the matron and Kate, open-eyed with wonder, hastened up to know what was
the meaning of this departure from the regular order of things. Baubie
heard their approach, and only sang the louder. She had a good and by no
means unmusical voice, which the rest had rather improved; and by the
time the authorities arrived on the scene there was an audience gathered
round the daring Baubie, who, with shoes and stockings off and the Rob
Roy tartan half unfastened, was standing by her bed, singing at the
pitch of her voice. The words could be heard down the stairs:

Hark! I hear the bugles sounding: 'tis the signal for the fight.
Now, may God protect us, mother, as He ever does the right.

"Baubie Wishart," cried the astonished mistress, "what do you mean?"

The singer was just at the close of a verse:

Hear the battle-cry of Freedom! how it swells upon the air!
Yes, we'll rally round the standard or we'll perish nobly there.

She finished it off deliberately, and turned her bright eyes and flushed
face toward the speaker.

"Who gave you leave, Baubie Wishart," went on the angry matron, "to make
yon noise? You ought to think shame of such conduct, singing your
good-for-nothing street-songs like a tinkler. One would think ye would
feel glad never to hear of such things again. Let me have no more of
this, do ye hear? I just wonder what Miss Mackenzie would say to
ye!--Kate, stop here till they are all bedded and turn off yon gas."

Long before the gas was extinguished Baubie had retired into darkness
beneath the bed-clothes, rage and mortification swelling her small
heart. Good-for-nothing street-songs! Tinkler! Mrs. Duncan's scornful
epithets rang in her ears and cut her to the quick. She lay awake,
trembling with anger and indignation, until long after Kate had followed
the younger fry to rest, and their regular breathing, which her ears
listened for till they caught it from every bed, warned her that the
weary occupants were safely asleep: then she sat up in bed. The
moonlight was streaming into the room through the uncurtained window,
and lit up her tumbled head and hot face. After a cautious pause she
stepped out on the floor and went round the foot of her bed to the
window. She knelt down on the floor, as if she were in search of
something, and began feeling with her hand on the lower part of the
shutter. Then, close to the floor, and in a place where they were likely
to escape detection, she marked clearly and distinctly eight deep, short
scratches in an even line on the yellow-painted woodwork. She ran her
fingers over them until she could feel each scratch distinctly. Eight!
She counted them thrice to make sure, then jumped back into bed, and in
a few minutes was as fast asleep as her neighbors.

The days wore into weeks, and the weeks had soon made a month, and time,
as it went, left Baubie more demure, quieter and more diligent--diligent
apparently at least, for the knitting, though it advanced, showed no
sign of corresponding improvement, and the rest of her work was simply
scamped. March had given way to April, and the late Edinburgh spring at
last began to give signs of its approach. The chestnuts showed brown
glistening tips to their branch-ends, and their black trunks became
covered with an emerald-colored mildew; the rod-like branches of the
poplars turned a pale whitish-green and began to knot and swell; the
Water of Leith overflowed, and ran bubbling and mud-colored under the
bridge; and the grass by its banks, and even that in the front green of
the refuge, showed here and there a red-eyed daisy. The days grew longer
and longer, and of a mild evening the thrush's note was to be heard
above the brawling of the stream from the thickets of Dean Terrace
Gardens.

Baubie Wishart waited passively. Every day saw her more docile and
demure, and every day saw a new scratch added to her tally on the
window-shutter behind her bed.

May came, and the days climbed with longer strides to their goal, now
close; on reaching which they return slowly and unwillingly, but just as
surely; and to her joy, about, the third week in May, Baubie Wishart
counted one warm, clear night fifty-nine scratches on the shutter.
Fifty-nine! She knew the number well without counting them.

Whether she slept or watched that night is not known, but the next
morning at four saw Baubie make a hasty and rather more simple toilette
than usual, insomuch as she forgot to wash herself, brush her hair or
put on her shoes and stockings. Barefooted and bareheaded, much as she
had come, she went. She stole noiselessly as a shadow through the outer
dormitory, passing the rows of sleepers with bated breath, and not
without a parting glance of triumph at the bed where her rival,
Elizabeth Grant, was curled up. Down the wooden stair, her bare feet
waking no echoes, glided Baubie, and into the school-room, which looked
out on the front green. She opened the window easily, hoisted herself on
the sill, crept through and let herself drop on the grass below. To
scramble up the trunk of one of the chestnuts and swing herself over the
wall was quickly done, and then she was once more on the flagged path of
the street, and the world lay before her.

As she stood for one moment, breathless with her haste and excitement,
she was startled by the sudden apparition of the house cat, who was on
his way home as surreptitiously as she was on hers abroad. He had one
bloody ear and a scratched nose, and stared at her as he passed: then,
probably in the hope of finding an open door after her, he jumped over
the wall hurriedly. Baubie was seized with a sudden panic lest the cat
should waken some one in the house, and she took to her heels and ran
until she reached the bridge. The morning sun was just beginning to
touch the tall tops of the houses, and the little valley through which
the Water of Leith ran lay still in a kind of clear grayish light, in
which the pale tender hues of the young leaves and the flowering trees
were all the more vividly beautiful. The stream was low, and it hurried
along over its stony bed, as if it too were running away, and in as
great a hurry to be free of all restraints as truant Baubie Wishart,
whose red frock was now climbing the hilly gray street beyond.

She could hear, as she strained herself to listen for pursuing voices,
the rustle and murmur of the water with an odd distinctness as it rose
upon the still air of the summer morning.

Not a creature was to be seen as she made her way eastward, shaping her
course for Princes street, and peering, with a gruesome fear of the
school-board officer, round every corner. That early bird, however, was
not so keenly on the alert as she gave him the credit of being, and she
reached her goal unchallenged after coasting along in parallel lines
with it for some time.

The long beautiful line of Princes street was untenanted as the Rob Roy
tartan tacked cautiously round the corner of St. David street and took a
hasty look up and down before venturing forth.

The far-reaching pale red beams of the morning sun had just touched and
kindled as with a flame the summit of the Rock, and the windows of the
Castle caught and flashed back the greeting in a dozen ruddy
reflections. The gardens below lay partly veiled in a clear transparent
mist, faintly blue, that hovered above the trees and crept up the banks,
and over which the grand outlines of the Rock towered as it lifted its
head majestically into the gold halo that lay beyond.

Not a sound or stir, even the sparrows were barely awake, as Baubie
darted along. Fixing her eye on that portion of the High School which is
visible from Princes street, she pushed along at a pace that was almost
a run, and a brief space saw her draw up and fall exhausted on the steps
that lead up to the Calton Hill.

Right before her was the jail-gate.

The child's feet, unused now for some time to such hardships, were hot
and bruised, for she had not stopped to pick her footing in her hasty
course, and she was so out of breath and heated that it seemed to her as
if she would never get cool or her heart cease fluttering as if it would
choke her. She shrank discreetly against the stone wall at her side, and
there for three long hours she remained crouched, watching and waiting
for the hour to chime when the grim black gate opposite would open.

The last tinge of crimson and purple had faded before the golden glories
of the day as the sun climbed higher and higher in the serene blue sky.
The red cliffs of Salisbury Crags glared with a hot lustre above the
green slopes of the hill, and in the white dust of the high-road a
million tiny stars seemed to sparkle and twinkle most invitingly to
Baubie's eyes. The birds had long been awake and busy in the bushes
above her head, and from where she sat she could see, in the distant
glitter of Princes street, all the stir of the newly-raised day.

It was a long vigil, and her fear and impatience made it seem doubly
longer. At last the clock began to chime eight, and before it was half
done the wicket in the great door opened with a noisy clang after a
preliminary rattle.

First came a boy, who cast an anxious look round him, then set off at a
run; next a young woman, for whom another was waiting just out of sight
down the road; last of all (there were only three released), Baubie,
whose heart was beginning to beat fast again with anxiety, saw the
familiar, well-known figure shamble forth and look up and down the road
in a helpless, undecided way. The next moment the wicket had clapped to
again. Wishart glanced back at it, sighed once or twice, and blinked his
eyes as though the sunlight were too strong for them.

Baubie, scarce breathing, watched him as a cat watches just before she
springs.

After a second of hesitation he began to move cityward, obeying some
sheep-like instinct which impelled him to follow those who had gone on
before. Baubie saw this, and, just waiting to let him get well under way
and settle into his gait, she gathered herself up and sprang across the
road upon him with the suddenness and rapidity of a flash.

He fairly staggered with surprise. There she was, exactly as he had left
her, dusty, barefooted and bareheaded. The wind had tossed up her hair,
which indeed was only too obedient to its will, and it clustered all the
more wildly about her face because of having been cropped to the
regulation length of the refuge.

"Lassie, is't you?" he ejaculated, lost in astonishment. Then, realizing
the fact, he gave expression to his feeling by grinning in a convulsive
kind of way and clapping her once or twice on the shoulder next him.
"Od! I niver! Didna the leddy--"

Baubie cut him short. "Sed I widna bide," she observed curtly and
significantly.

Gestures and looks convey, among people like the Wisharts, far more
meaning than words, and Baubie's father perfectly understood from the
manner and tone of her pregnant remark that she had run away from
school, and had severed the connection between herself and the "kind
leddy," and that in consequence the situation was highly risky for both.
They remained standing still for a moment, looking at each other. The
boy and the woman were already out of sight, and the white, dusty
high-road seemed all their own domain.

Wishart shuffled with his feet once more, and looked in the direction
of Princes street, and then at Baubie inquiringly. It was for her, as
usual, to decide. Baubie had been his Providence for as long as he had
memory for--no great length of time. He was conjecturing in his own mind
vaguely whether his Providence had, by any chance, got the desiderated
three shillings necessary for the redemption of the banjo hidden away in
the Rob Roy tartan. He would not have been surprised had it been so, and
he would have asked no questions.

Seeing that her eyes followed the direction of his with a forbidding
frown, he said tentatively, "Ye didn'--didna--"

"What?" snapped Baubie crossly: she divined his meaning exactly. "Come
awa' wi' ye!" she ordered, facing right round countryward.

"We'll gae awa' til Glasgae, Baubie, eh? I'm thinkin' to yer auntie's.
_She_"--with a gesture of his head backward at the prison--"will no' be
oot this month; sae she'll niver need to ken, eh?"

Baubie nodded. He only spoke her own thoughts, and he knew it.

The first turn to the right past the High School brought them out on the
road before Holyrood, which lay grim and black under the sun-bathed
steeps of Arthur's Seat. On by the Grange and all round the
south-eastern portion of the city this odd couple took their way. It was
a long round, but safety made it necessary. At last, between
Corstorphine's wooded slopes and the steeper rise of the Pentlands, they
struck into the Glasgow road. In the same order as before they pursued
their journey, Baubie leading as of old, now and again vouchsafing a
word over her shoulder to her obedient follower, until the dim haze of
the horizon received into itself the two quaint figures, and Baubie
Wishart and the Rob Roy tartan faded together out of sight.

_The Author of "Flitters, Tatters and the Counsellor_."




GAS-BURNING, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.


"It is remarkable what attention has been attracted all over the country
by the recent experiments with Edison's inventions," observed my friend
the traveller as our host turned a fuller flow of gas in the chandelier.
"Even in the little villages out West, of only one bank and _not_ one
good hotel, the topics which last spring generally excited most interest
in all circles were Edison's electric light and Bell's telephone."

"Very likely," replied our host, an elderly gentleman of fortune. "If we
had such impure gas as is found in many of the villages and small cities
not so very far West, I'd never light a burner in my library again. As
it is, I do so very rarely. The products of gas combustion act on the
bindings until firm calf drops in pieces, and even law-sheep loses its
coherency, as the argument of the opposing counsel does when your own
lawyer begins to talk."

"The effect on the upholstery and metallic ornaments is as bad as upon
the books," added our hostess. "This room will have to be refurnished in
the spring--all on account of the changes in color both of the paper and
the silk and cotton fabrics; and the bronze dressing on those statuettes
is softening, so that there are lines and spots of rust all over them."

"Perhaps, my dear, they would have suffered equally from the atmosphere
without gas," replied the old gentleman, looking at his wife over his
glasses.

"Our friend here has a hundred thousand more in gas stock than he had a
year ago, and I suspect that he is still a bear in the market," said his
neighbor a chemist, who had just dropped in.

"If I lose I shall lay it to your advice."

"You did well to buy--if you sell at once," said the traveller, who was
interested in the electric light to some unknown extent: "gas stock will
finally have to go down."

"When the sun shines in the night, not before," asserted a young
accountant from the gas-works who had been holding a private talk with
the daughter of the house at the other corner of the room.

"Gas companies can manufacture at less cost than formerly," said the
chemist.

"But yet gas has gone up again lately. You may thank the electric-light
boom for the temporary respite you have had from poor gas at high
prices."

"Yes; some of the companies put gas down lower than they could
manufacture it, in order to hold their customers at a time when people
almost believed that Edison's light would prove a success."

"But it _was_ a success. It proved an excellent light, displayed a neat
lamp, and gave no ill effects upon either the atmosphere or the eyes;
and the perfect carbons showed a surprising endurance. The only
difficulty is that the invention is not yet perfected so as to go
immediately into use."

"But the lower part of the glasses becomes dark with deposited carbon,"
returned the chemist. "If carbons could be made to last long enough to
render the lamps cheap, this smoking of the globes would set a limit at
which the lamps would cease to be presentable; and the cleaning, and the
exhausting of air again, are difficult and expensive."

"That remains to be proved. But coal is sure to grow dearer."

"That isn't likely within a century. Besides, by the fault of the
consumer gas-light costs now one-third more than it should for the same
light. The best English authorities state this to be the case in Great
Britain, and I have no question that such is the fact here."

"How would you remedy the evil of waste?"

"By the use of economical burners and of governors to regulate the flow
of gas."

"That is very easily said. What is the name of your economical burner?"

"I am not an advocate of any special burner, but of all that are
constructed on right principles."

"There are many kinds of burners. Do you not have some classification
for them?" inquired the young lady, who was fresh from Wellesley.

"The usual forms of the burner," replied the chemist "--or, more
properly, the forms of the tip--are the fishtail, the batwing and the
argand. In the first the gas issues through two holes which come
together at the top, so that the two jets of gas impinge and form a flat
flame; in the batwing the gas issues in a thin sheet through a slit in a
hollow knob; while in the argand the gas enters a short cylinder or
broad ring, escaping thence through numerous holes at the upper edge.
There are many varieties of each of these, differing in the construction
of the part below the tip. The argand has long been the favorite burner
for the table and desk. Its advantages are a strong, steady light, but,
as you know, it is apt to smoke at every slight increase in the pressure
of the gas, though there are recent improved forms in which this fault
is in a measure corrected. A properly-made argand burner will give a
light equal to three whole candles (spermaceti, of the standard size and
quality) for every foot of gas burned. Of the argand burners, Guise's
shadowless argand has been considered the best, but of late years Sugg's
Letheby burner has carried off the palm. Wood's burner has been a
favorite, as, being a fishtail, it could be used with a short chimney,
which gives the flame steadiness. By the arms on the chimney-frame the
flame is broadened at the bottom, with a smaller dark space at the base
than in any other flat-flame burner. It is so constructed that the
quantity of gas passing is regulated by turning a tap in the lower part
of the burner, which changes the size of the orifice in the tube. Ten
years ago this burner, with a regulator at the meter, was generally
thought to be the most economical contrivance possible. It is now little
used. Yet either the batwing or the fishtail tip can be used in any
common burner except the argand. The old brass and iron tips are mostly
superseded by those of "lava," being liable to an early change of the
orifice from incrustation and rust. In the flat-flame burners there are
differences in the internal arrangement. Perhaps our young
gas-manufacturer here can tell us what is now the most approved burner."

The young man confessed that he had specimens of the best kinds of
flat-flame burners in his pocket. He quickly brought from his overcoat
in the hall a small paper parcel from which he produced several bright
little brass tubes, explaining that he carried them because somebody was
always inquiring about the best kind of burner. "These save talk," said
he.

With a small wrench he removed one of the old burners, and the several
kinds were successively tested in its place. Some gave a better light,
but it was objected that they might consume more gas. Whereupon the
chemist tore a strip from his well-worn handkerchief, and, having damped
it, wound the ribbon several times around the top of the old burner
(which had been replaced), leaving the orifice uncovered. The new burner
was screwed down over this, making a gas-tight connection. "There," said
he, "we have a gauge. The new burner will receive the same amount of gas
that the old one consumed--no more, no less--but the current is slightly
checked."

The burner gave the same amount of light as before, so far as the eye
could perceive.

"In the combustion of gas for heating purposes," continued the chemist,
"seek the burner with free, rapid delivery through small holes. For
light you want something different. Suppose you send a current of gas up
into this sewing-thimble: it can find an exit only by turning backward.
Then suppose it escapes from the thimble only to enter a larger cavity
above it, whence it must issue through a burner-tip with an orifice of
the usual size. The current, you perceive, is twice completely broken.
It will be seen that only the expansive force of the gas, together with
its buoyancy, acts upon the jets, instead of a direct current. Now, it
will always be found that the burner which best carries out the
principles just illustrated--other points being equal--will give more
light with a less quantity of gas than any other. This also exhibits
the chief principle of most of the governors or regulators.

"You will observe that this checking of the current is attained in
various ways in different burners," continued the chemist as he
unscrewed and dissected the samples before him. "In some it is done by a
perforated metal disk in the orifice; in others, by a bit of wool, which
checks slightly a slow current, and by the pressure of a strong one
becomes compacted and forms a more effective obstacle. In most cases,
however, it soon becomes solid with condensed matters from the gas.
Another form of check is a small cap having perpendicular slits at the
sides. The cylinder of the cap, being smaller than the orifice of the
burner, screws down into it; the openings being shortened or lengthened
according as the cylinder is screwed up or down. One objection to this
is the trouble required in regulating. Here is another burner, in which
the orifice ends in a cap whose sides, near the bottom, are pierced with
four pin-holes directed downward. This reverses the direction of the
current of gas, which then escapes through the pin-holes downward into a
chamber, then turns upward along its sides to the tip, on entering which
it again turns. Each burner is able to consume economically a flow of
gas peculiar to itself, which can be ascertained by a minute's
experiment, and then regulated by the tap in the pipe. But this requires
much care, and is apt to be neglected. A very small tap in the burner
(as in the Wood and Ellis burners), which can be adjusted so as to
require no further attention, seems the best method of effecting this
graduation."

The chemist now pulled a manuscript from his pocket and read from it as
follows: "The quantity of light decreases with disproportionate rapidity
by reduced consumption; for, as experiments have shown, when consuming
only two feet per hour, eighty-five per cent. of the gas is lost; with
two and a half feet the loss is sixty per cent.; and with three and a
half feet it is thirty-four per cent. of that derived from the gas when
burning the full quantity for which the burner is constructed. In some
experiments made upon this matter under the direction of referees
appointed by the London Board of Trade the loss at the other extreme is
given. They report: 'Instead of the gas giving increased light as the
rate of consumption is increased, it will be seen that _in every case_
there is a point beyond which the _light decreases_ relatively to the
proportion of gas consumed. In every case, too, this point lies far
below the maximum of gas-consumption, observing the turning-points in
the case of the different burners.' Again, every burner has a certain
amount of gas which it will consume to the greatest advantage as to both
light and economy; which in a completely-regulated burner is quickly
found, and the delivery fixed by the small tap. When the gas is issuing
from the burner at so low a pressure that the flame is just on the point
of smoking, the maximum effect for the quantity of gas consumed in that
particular burner is attained, because in that case the quantity and
intensity of the light are most advantageously balanced. For the same
reason, the burner best suited for light is one in which the
jet-openings are proportionately large, so as to prevent as much as
possible too great contact with the air in the lower part of the flame.
In case the air-currents disturb the light, it is necessary to turn on a
stronger flow, which secures steadiness, but sets economy at naught."

"It would be a good thing," said the young fellow, interrupting him, "if
some person would invent a burner that should heat the gas before its
discharge. We could then get a perfect combustion of the carbon, and so
greater brilliancy and economy."

"That is a very common error. Mr. Leslie's burner was designed on that
very theory: the result was contrary to expectation."

"What was the form of the burner?" inquired our host.

"Leslie's burner is a form of the argand. The gas, instead of issuing
from holes pierced in a solid ring, is conducted to the flame in
separate small tubes upward of an inch long. Twenty-eight of these tubes
are inserted in a ring two inches in diameter, and converge to one inch
at the ends, where the gas escapes. These tubes become hot very quickly
when the gas is lighted, and it issues at a high temperature. Here is
the result of a test made by Mr. Clegg, and given on page 344 of his
valuable work on coal gas:

        COMMON ARGAND, FIFTEEN HOLES.
  Consumption per hour in cubic feet:
        6 feet, light = 17.4 standard candles.
        5 feet, light = 13.64 standard candles

  LESLIE'S BURNER, TWENTY-EIGHT HOLES.
        6 feet, light = 14.73 standard candles.
        5 feet, light = 11.28 standard candles.

"In experimenting with common burners, argand and others, it is found
that, if the aperture in the tip is too small for the orifice in the
body of the burner, the escaping gas is too highly heated and is
consumed too quickly. So with Leslie's burner in an increased degree.
Theories brought to the test of experiment are often disappointing."

The chemist now proceeded to illustrate his harangue with the argand
upon the table, which he lighted and turned on full, without replacing
the chimney. The dull-red flame streamed up to a height of eight inches
or more, waving and smoking slightly. He now turned down the gas and
replaced the chimney, then set the tap at the same angle as before.
"Here," said he, "we have a flame barely four inches high--of brilliant
white--which gives more light than the taller flame did. The cause of
the shortening of the flame is the more rapid combustion of the gas,
owing to the increased draught or air-supply in the chimney. From the
greater intensity of this flame a much larger quantity of light is
produced than by the longer flame. If too tall a chimney is used, the
flame is shortened still more and its brilliancy increased, but not to a
degree sufficient to compensate for the diminished surface. The light,
you are doubtless aware, comes from the incandescence of the carbon,
heated by the union of the hydrogen of the gas with a portion of the
oxygen of the air."

The chemist now read from his manuscript again: "Carburetted hydrogen of
a passably good quality requires two volumes of pure oxygen for its
complete combustion and conversion into carbonic acid and water.
Atmospheric air contains, in its pure state, about twenty per cent. of
oxygen; therefore, one cubic foot of gas requires for its perfect
combustion ten cubic feet of air. If less be admitted to the flame, a
quantity of free carbon will escape, and be deposited in the form of
black smoke. If an excess of air be admitted, we shall find that the
quantity of nitrogen accompanying this excess has a tendency to
extinguish the flame, while it takes no part in the elective affinity
constantly going on between the other elements--namely, hydrogen, oxygen
and the vapor of carbon.

"Again," said he, turning down the gas, "if the flame be reduced to a
consumption of two feet per hour, its light will be equal to that of one
candle only; but on raising the chimney, thus, about half an inch from
the gallery or support the light is greatly increased, or by simply
placing a disk on top of the chimney the light is increased ninefold;
both of which effects seem to result from a diminished current of air,
while at the same time there is an ample supply. Lastly, with the
ordinary glass moon-globe so generally used in dwellings with the
fishtail burner little difference can be perceived between the light
given from the flame by four feet and that from six feet of gas per
hour, in consequence of the strong current of air passing up through the
globe; but if the top of the glass be enclosed by a talc cover having an
orifice in the centre about an inch in diameter, then the conditions of
the burner are completely changed. The light is greatly increased,
because the highest economical advantage is then approached."[2]

"Smoke from the aperture and lamp-black on the cover must result from
such an arrangement," objected the old gentleman.

"There need be very little of either," responded the chemist. "From some
burners there is little light without smoke. A smoky flame may arise
from too much carbon, but the gas companies in this part of the country
are not apt to make their product too rich; and such a condition is not
likely to occur except with vapor-gas when warm weather quickly succeeds
to a cold spell in the winter season. The consumer's immediate remedy in
any case is to use a smaller tip with the fishtail and batwing burners,
and a taller chimney with the argand; which devices will give a quicker
movement to the gas in one case and to the air in the other. The
smoking, however, may be caused by carbonic acid, which checks
combustion. There is always more or less of this in gas, arising from a
partial combustion in the retorts when charging them with coal or while
withdrawing the exhausted charge. But it is only by excessively slow and
careless work that this can happen to a serious extent. Only an expert
can tell when this condition exists, though if the symptoms do not yield
to manipulations of the chimney and tap, it may be suspected. There is
no effective remedy for this adulteration which can be applied by the
consumer except a vigorous complaint against the company which supplies
the stuff.

"There remains one burner or lamp to be mentioned, contrived with
special reference to health," he continued--"the ventilating standard
lamp of Doctor Faraday, used in the House of Lords. In this there is an
outer glass by which the vitiated air passes away through the pipe
communicating with the external air. The lamp is interesting, but there
is a question whether there is any practical advantage in its use.
Rutter's ventilating lamp is of different form, having a globe instead
of an outer cylinder, the gas and air coming in from above. Some of the
best dwellings now being erected in the vicinity of New York are
provided with tin pipes leading from the burners to the open air. In
some the pipe receives the foul air from an open metallic or mineral
shade over the burner; others have a larger pipe enclosing the gas-pipe
for ventilation, the tops of the two pipes (including the burner) being
enclosed by a globe pierced with holes for fresh air. There is said to
result a good ventilation, with economy of gas, an increased steadiness
of the flame and power of light. A better arrangement is a third pipe
enclosing the gas-pipe and enclosed in the ventilating-pipe, opening to
the air, instead of the holes in the globe, which in this case should be
air-tight. This plan is said to have reached its perfection when the
three pipes are filled with wire gauze to some extent. This, being
heated by the escape of hot gases in the ventilating-pipe, sends both
the air and the gas to the flame already highly heated. The result is
said to be admirable as regards ventilation, steadiness and power of the
light and economy of gas.

"With these lamps the pressure of the gas-current is of great
importance; and I now turn to that subject. It is a general complaint in
buildings whose rooms are high that the flow of gas on the lower floor
is deficient, while on the upper floors there is a greater supply than
is necessary. This inconvenience arises from the upper stories being
subjected to less atmospheric pressure than the lower, every rise of ten
feet making a difference in the pressure of about one-tenth of an inch
of water; and, consequently, a column of gas acquires that amount of
pressure additional. The following table, recording an experiment of Mr.
Richards, will show the result in respect to light:

  Gas issuing from the burner at a pressure of--
  1/10  inch of water gave the light of 12 candles,
  5/10   "    "   "    "    "    "    "  6    "
  10/10  "    "   "    "    "    "    "  2    "
  40/10  "    "   "    "    no appreciable light.

Suppose a building of six floors is supplied from the gas-mains at a
pressure of six-tenths, and that the difference of altitude between the
highest and lowest light is equal to fifty feet: the gas in the highest
or sixth floor will issue from the burners at a pressure of
eleven-tenths; the fifth floor, at ten-tenths; and so on. In order to
secure an entirely equable flow and economical light a regulator is
necessary on each floor above the first. The gas companies are
frequently obliged to supply mills at a much greater pressure than is
stated above as necessary, in order that the ground floors may have
sufficient light."

"How about incorrect meters?" asked the traveller.

"Little need be said of them, as they fall within the domain of the
companies and the public inspector of gas. Under favorable conditions
gas-meters will remain in order for ten years or more; and when they
become defective they as often favor the consumer, probably, as they do
the gas company. Their defects do not often occasion inconvenience; and
when they once get out of order they run so wild that their condition is
soon detected, when the errors in previous bills should be corrected by
estimate of other seasons."

"You haven't mentioned the apparatus (carburetters) for increasing the
richness of the gas, which can be applied by the consumer upon his own
premises," said the old gentleman.

"There is little need. The burners should be adjusted to the quality of
gas furnished. If there were any real gain in this method of enrichment,
the gas companies are the parties who could make the most of it: indeed,
many of them do to such an extent as can be made profitable. But
whenever the temperature of the atmosphere falls, the matter added to
the gas is deposited in the pipes, sometimes choking them entirely at
the angles. No: arrange your burners and regulators to suit the gas that
is furnished, demand of the company that it fulfil the law and the
contract in regard to the quality of the gas, and give all gas-improving
machines the go-by.[3]

"Light having, perhaps, been sufficiently considered for the present
needs, we have now to note the effects of the combustion of gas upon the
atmosphere, and through this upon the furnishing of rooms and the health
of the persons living therein," said the chemist, again taking up his
manuscript. "The usual products from the combustion of common
illuminating gas are carbonic acid, sulphuric acid, ammonia and
water-vapor. Every burner consuming five cubic feet of gas per hour
spoils as much air as two full-grown men: it is therefore evident that
the air of a room thus lighted would soon become vitiated if an ample
supply of fresh air were not frequently admitted.

"Remember," said he, looking up from the paper, "that nearly the same
effects proceed from the combustion of candles and lamps of every kind
when a sufficient number of these are burned to give an equal amount of
light. Carbonic acid is easily got rid of, for the rooms where gas is
burned usually have sufficient ventilation near the floor by means of a
register, or even the slight apertures under the doors--together with
their frequent opening--to carry off the small quantity emitted by one
or two burners. But there are other gases which must have vent at the
upper part of the room, while fresh air should be admitted to supply the
place of that which is chemically changed."

Returning to his manuscript, he continued: "The burners which give the
least light, burning instead with a low, blue flame, form the most
carbonic acid and free the most nitrogen. Such are all the burners for
heat rather than light. But the formation of sulphuric acid gas may be
the same in each. In the yellow flame the carbon particles escape to
darken the light colors of the room, not being heated sufficiently to
combine with the oxygen. This product of the combustion of gas (free
carbon) might be regarded as rather wholesome than otherwise (as its
nature is that of an absorbent) were it not the worst kind of dust to
breathe--in fact, clogging the lungs to suffocation. In vapor gas--made
at low heat--the carbon is in a large degree only mechanically mixed
with the hydrogen, and is liable, especially in cold weather, to be
deposited in the pipes. This leaves only a very poor, thin gas, mainly
hydrogen, which burns with a pale blue flame, as seen in cold spells in
winter. High heats and short charges in the retorts of the manufactory
give a purer gas and a larger production. Gas made at high heat will
reach the consumer in any weather very nearly as rich as when it leaves
the gas-holder; for, thus made, the hydrogen and carbon are chemically
combined, instead of the hydrogen merely bearing a quantity of
carbon-vapor mechanically mixed and liable to deposit with every
reduction of temperature. To relieve the atmosphere of the gases and
vapors proceeding from combustion is, of course, the purpose of
ventilation. The sulphuric acid gas and ammonia will be largely in
combination with the water-vapor, which also proceeds from combustion,
so that all will be got rid of together. The vaporization of libraries
to counteract the excessive dryness (or drying, rather) which causes
leather bindings to shrink and to break at the joints, would be of
doubtful utility, since it might only serve to carry into the porous
leather still more of the gases just mentioned. The action of both
sulphuric acid and ammonia is, undoubtedly, to destroy the fibre of
leather, so that it crumbles to meal or falls apart in flakes.

"In a very interesting paper read by Professor William R. Nichols of the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology before the American Association of
Science at its Saratoga meeting in 1879, the results of many analyses of
leather bindings were given, showing the presence of the above-named
substances in old bindings in many times greater quantity than in new.
Still, their presence did not prove them to be the cause of the decay;
and Professor Nichols proposes to ascertain the fact by experiments
requiring some years for demonstration.

"In the hope of deciding the question with reasonable certainty at once,
I have made careful examinations of the books in the three largest
libraries of Boston and Cambridge, each differing from the others in age
and atmosphere. The bindings of the volumes examined bore their own
record in dates and ownership, by which the conditions of their
atmosphere in respect to gas and (approximately) to heat were made
known for periods varying from current time to over two hundred years.
In the Public Library the combined influences of gas, heat and effluvium
have wrought upon the leather until many covers were ready to drop to
pieces at a touch. The binding showed no more shrinkage than in the
other libraries, but in proportion to the time the books had been upon
the shelves the decay of the leather was about the same as in the
Athenæum. I am informed that many of the most decayed have from time to
time been rebound, so that a full comparison cannot be made between this
and the others. In the Athenæum less gas has been used, and there is
very little effluvium, but the mealy texture of the leather is general
among the older tenants of the shelves. Numbers of volumes in the
galleries were losing their backs, which were more or less broken off at
the joints from the shrinkage and brittleness of the leather. The plan
has been proposed of introducing the vapor of water to counteract the
effects of dryness upon the bindings. In this library the atmosphere has
the usual humidity of that out of doors, being warmed by bringing the
outer air in over pipes conveying hot water, while the other libraries
have the higher heat of steam-pipes. If, therefore, its atmosphere
differs from that of the other libraries in respect to moisture, the
variation is in the direction of greater humidity, without any
corresponding effect on the preservation of bindings. In fact, proper
ventilation and low shelves seem to be the true remedies for these
evils, or, rather, the best means of amelioration, since there is no
complete antidote to the decay common to all material things. The last
condition involves the disuse of galleries and of rooms upon more than
one flat, unless the atmosphere in the upper portions of the lower rooms
be shut off from the higher, as it should be. Another precaution which
might be taken with advantage is to use the higher shelves for cloth
bindings.

"In the Harvard College Library no gas has ever been used, nor any other
artificial illuminator to much extent. Neither had any large number of
the volumes been exposed to the products of gas-combustion, except for
a brief time before they were placed here. The bindings in this library
showed very little crumbling, but many covers were breaking at the
joints from the shrinking which arises from excessive dryness. In common
with many other substances, leather yields moisture to the air much more
readily than it receives it from that medium. Cloth bindings showed no
decay at all here--very little in any of the libraries, except in the
loss of color. It should be stated that the volumes which I examined at
Harvard College were generally older than those inspected in the other
libraries. There are parchment bindings in each of the libraries
hundreds of years old, apparently just as perfect in texture as when
first placed upon the shelves of the original owner. The parchment was
often worn through at the angles, but there was no breakage from
shrinking, the material having been shrunken as much as possible when
prepared from the skin. At Harvard College I examined an embossed calf
binding stretched on wooden sides which was above a hundred years old.
It was in almost perfect preservation, and not much shrunken. This
volume, being very large, was on a shelf next the ground floor--a
position which it had probably held ever since the erection of the
building.

"Professor Nichols does not mention morocco in his tables of analyses.
Indeed, morocco was so little used for bookbindings until within about
thirty years that it affords a less ample field for investigation than
any other of the leathers now in common use. My attention was therefore
directed specially to this material, of which I found some specimens
having a record of nearly fifty years. My observation was, that in all
the libraries these were less affected by decay, in proportion to their
age, than other leathers. In Harvard College Library the best Turkey
morocco, with forty years of exposure, showed no injury except from
chafing. The outer integument was often worn away, exposing the texture
of the skin, which was still of strong fibre. In the Athenæum, on the
contrary, many of the moroccos showed the same decay as the calf,
russia and sheep. There was, however, a wide difference in the condition
of moroccos of the same age--some showing as much decay as the calf,
while others had scarcely any of the disintegration common to the older
calf bindings. The same might, indeed, be said of all leathers, those
tanned by the quick modern methods, with much more acid than is used in
old processes, in which time is a large factor, showing always a more
rapid deterioration. But, the methods being the same, morocco, the
oiliest of the common leathers and the one having the firmest cuticle,
endures the best.

"The order of endurance of leather (as observed by librarians) against
atmospheric effects is as follows, descending from the first to the last
in order: Parchment, light-colored morocco, sheep, russia, calf. Cloth
wears out quickly by use, but appears--the linen especially--to be
affected by the atmosphere only in loss of color. These observations all
refer to the ordinary humidity of the air in frequented rooms.

"This, then, is the result of my inquiries: I found the shrinking and
breaking resulting from heat much the same in all the libraries, but
most in that where the heating is from the outer air brought in over
hot-water pipes, the two other libraries examined being warmed by
steam-pipes having a higher temperature. I found the mealy structure--or
instead thereof flakiness--to prevail most in the Athenæum, next in the
Public Library: in the latter, however, many volumes have been rebound,
thus raising the average of condition. In the Harvard College Library no
gas--in fact, little if any artificial light--is used, and here, too,
the mealy structure and disintegration are mostly absent. I conclude,
therefore, from these limited observations, that heat is responsible for
a large part of the damage to leather bindings, its effects being
evidently supplemented and hastened by gas-combustion.

"The ventilating lamps before described, though rather cumbrous to eyes
accustomed to the small and simple apparatus commonly used, might prove
valuable in rooms containing fabrics liable; to be injured by the gases
from open burners."

As the chemist concluded his reading the traveller remarked to the
somewhat weary listeners, "You now see the vast amount of study and care
required to use gas with economy and safety. I could not have argued the
cause of a new, clean, gasless and vaporless light like electricity any
better myself."

"It will be found," responded the chemist, "that there are more troubles
and dangers connected with the electric light--besides the larger
expense--than are thought of now."

"That is so!" ejaculated the young fellow.

"At any rate," said the old gentleman, "gas stock won't go lower for
twenty years than it has been this winter."

"You are all wedded to your idols," was the final protest of the
traveller.

"I wish I was," murmured the young fellow, with a side-glance at his
fair neighbor, who immediately removed to another part of the room.

GEORGE J. VARNEY.




THE "_???? ??G?????_ IN SHAKESPEARE.


When we examine the vocabulary of Shakespeare, what first strikes us is
its copiousness. His characters are countless, and each one speaks his
own dialect. His little fishes never talk like whales, nor do his whales
talk like little fishes. Those curious in such matters have detected in
his works quotations from seven foreign tongues, and those from Latin
alone amount to one hundred and thirty-two.

Our first impression, that the Shakespearian variety of words is
multitudinous, is confirmed by statistics. Mrs. Cowden Clarke has
counted those words one by one, and ascertained their sum to be not less
than fifteen thousand. The total vocabulary of Milton's poetical remains
is no more than eight thousand, and that of Homer, including the _Hymns_
as well as both _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_, is about nine thousand. In the
English Bible the different words are reckoned by Mr. G.P. Marsh in his
lectures on the English language at rather fewer than six thousand.
Those in the Greek Testament I have learned by actual count to be not
far from five thousand five hundred.

Some German writers on Greek grammar maintain that they could teach
Plato and Demosthenes useful lessons concerning Greek moods and tenses,
even as the ancient Athenians, according to the fable of Phædrus,
contended that they understood squealing better than a pig. However this
may be, any one of us to-day, thanks to the Concordance of Mrs. Clarke
and the Lexicon of Alexander Schmidt, may know much in regard to
Shakespeare's use of language which Shakespeare himself cannot have
known. One particular as to which he must have been ignorant, while we
may have knowledge, is concerning his employment of terms denominated
_apa? ?e??µe?a_.

The phrase _apa? ?e??µe?a_--literally, _once spoken_--may be traced
back, I think, to the Alexandrian grammarians, centuries before our era,
who invented it to describe those words which they observed to occur
once, and _only once_, in any author or literature. It is so convenient
an expression for statistical commentators on the Bible, and on the
classics as well, that they will not willingly let it die.

The list of _apa? ?e??µe?a_--that is, words used once and _only
once_--in Shakespeare is surprisingly long. It embraces a greater
multitude than any man can easily number. Nevertheless, I have counted
those beginning with two letters. The result is that the apa? ?e??µe?a
with initial _a_ are 364, and those with initial _m_ are 310. There is
no reason, that I know of, to suppose the census with these initials to
be proportionally larger than that with other letters. If it is not,
then the words occurring only once in all Shakespeare cannot be less
than five thousand, and they are probably a still greater legion.

The number I have culled from one hundred and forty-six pages of Schmidt
is 674. At this rate the total on the fourteen hundred and nine pages of
the entire Lexicon would foot up 6504. It is possible, then, that
Shakespeare discarded, after once trying them, more different words than
fill and enrich the whole English Bible. The old grammarians tell us
that a certain part of speech was called _supine_, because it was very
seldom needed, and therefore almost always lying _on its back_--i.e.
in Latin, _supinus_. The supines of Shakespeare outnumber the employés
of most authors.

The array of Shakespearian _apa? ?e??µe?a_ appears still vaster if we
compare it with expressions of the same nature in the Scriptures and in
Homer. In the English Bible words with the initials _a_ and _m_ used
once only are 132 to 674 with the same initials in Shakespeare. The
scriptural _once-onlys_ would be more than twice as many as we find them
were they as frequent in proportion to their total vocabulary as his
are.

The Homeric _apa? ?e??µe?a_ with initial _m_ are 78, but were they as
numerous in proportion to Homer's whole world of words as Shakespeare's
are, they would run up to 186; that is, to more than twice as many as
their actual number.

In the Greek New Testament I have enumerated 63 _apa? ?e??µe?a_
beginning with the letter _m_--a larger number than you would expect,
for it is as large as that in both English Testaments beginning with
that same letter, which is also exactly 63. It indicates a wider range
of expression in the authors of the Greek original than in their English
translators.

The 310 Shakespearian words with initial _m_ used _once only_ I have
also compared with the whole verbal inventory of our language so far as
it begins with that letter. They make up one-fifth almost of that
entire stock, which musters in Webster only 1641 words. You will at once
inquire, "What is the _nature_ of these rejected Shakespearian vocables,
which he seems to have viewed as milk that would bear no more than one
skimming?"

The percentage of _classical_ words among them is great--greater indeed
than in the body of Shakespeare's writings. According to the analysis of
Weisse, in an average hundred of Shakespearian words one-third are
classical and two-thirds Saxon. But then all the classical elements have
inherent meaning, while half of the Saxon have none. We may hence infer
that of the significant words in Shakespeare one-half are of classical
derivation. Now, of the apa? ?e??µe?a with initial _a_, I call 262 words
out of 364 classical, and with initial _m_, 152 out of 310; that is, 414
out of 674, or about four-sevenths of the whole Shakespearian host
beginning with those two letters. In doubtful cases I have considered
those words only as classical the first etymology of which in Webster is
from a classical or Romance root. In the biblical words used once only
the classical portion is enormous--namely, not less than sixty-nine per
cent.--while the classical percentage in Shakespearian words of the same
class is no more than sixty-one.

Among the 674 _a_ and _m_ Shakespearian words occurring once only the
proportion of words now _obsolete_ is unexpectedly small. Of 310 such
words with initial _m_, only one-sixth, or 51 at the utmost, are now
disused, either in sense or even in form. Of this half-hundred a few are
used in Shakespeare, but not at present, as verbs; thus, to _maculate_,
to _miracle_, to _mud_, to _mist_, to _mischief_, to _moral_--also
_merchandized_ and _musicked_. Another class now wellnigh unknown are
_misproud, misdread, mappery, mansionry, marybuds, masterdom,
mistership, mistressship._

Then there are slight variants from our modern orthography or meanings,
as _mained_ for maimed, _markman_ for marksman, _make_ for mate,
_makeless_ for mateless, _mirable, mervaillous, mess_ for mass,
_manakin, minikin, meyny_ for many, _momentarry_ for momentary,
_moraler, mountainer, misgraffing, misanthropos, mott_ for motto, to
_mutine, mi'nutely_ for every minute.

None seem wholly dead words except the following eighteen: To _mammock_,
tear; _mell_, meddle; _mose_, mourn; _micher_, truant; _mome_, fool;
_mallecho_, mischief; _maund_, basket; _marcantant_, merchant; _mun_,
sound of wind; _mure_, wall; _meacock_, henpecked; _mop_, grin;
_militarist_, soldier; _murrion_, affected with murrain; _mammering_,
hesitating; _mountant_, raised up; _mered_, only; _man-entered_, grown
up.

About one-tenth of the remaining _apa? ?e??µe?a_ with initial _m_ are
descriptive compounds. Among them are the following adjectives:
_Maiden-tongued, maiden-widowed, man-entered_ (before noted as
obsolete), _many-headed, marble-breasted, marble-constant,
marble-hearted, marrow-eating, mean-apparelled, merchant-marring,
mercy-lacking, mirth-moving, moving-delicate, mock-water, more-having,
mortal-breathing, mortal-living, mortal-staring, motley-minded,
mouse-eaten, moss-grown, mouth-filling, mouth-made, muddy-mettled,
momentary-swift, maid-pale_. From this list, which is nearly complete,
it is evident that such compounds as may be multiplied at will form but
a small fraction of the words that are used _once only_ by Shakespeare.

The words used _once only_ by Shakespeare are often so beautiful and
poetical that we wonder how they could fail to be his favorites again
and again. They are jewels that might hang twenty years before our eyes,
yet never lose their lustre. Why were they never shown but once? They
remind me of the exquisite crystal bowl from which I saw a Jewess and
her bridegroom drink in Prague, and which was then dashed in pieces on
the floor of the synagogue, or of the Chigi porcelain painted by
Raphael, which as soon as it had been once removed from the Farnesina
table was thrown into the Tiber. To what purpose was this waste? Why
should they be used up with once using? Specimens of this sort, which
all poets but Shakespeare would have paraded as pets many a time, are
multifarious. Among a hundred others never used but once, we have
_magical, mirthful, mightful, mirth-moving, moonbeams, moss-grown,
mundane, motto, matin, mural, multipotent, mourningly, majestically,
marbled, martyred, mellifluous, mountainous, meander, magnificence,
magnanimity, mockable, merriness, masterdom, masterpiece, monarchize,
menaces, marrowless_.

Again, a majority of Shakespearian _apa? ?e??µe?a_ being familiar to us
as household words, it seems impossible that he who had tried them once
should have need of them no more. Instances--all with initial _m_--are
as follows: _mechanics, machine, maxim, mission, mode, monastic, marsh,
magnify, malcontent, majority, manly, malleable, malignancy, maritime,
manna, manslaughter, masterly, market-day-folks, maid-price, mealy,
meekly, mercifully, merchant-like, memorial, mercenary, mention,
memorandums, mercurial, metropolis, miserably, mindful, meridian, medal,
metaphysics, ministration, mimic, misapply, misgovernment, misquote,
misconstruction, monstrously, monster-like, monstrosity, mutable,
moneyed, monopoly, mortise, mortised, muniments_, to _moderate_, and
_mother-wit_ These words, and five thousand more equally excellent,
which have remained part of the language of the English-speaking world
for three centuries since Shakespeare, and will no doubt continue to
belong to it for ever, we are apt to declare he should have worn in
their newest gloss, not cast aside so soon. Why was he as shy of
repeating any one of them even once as Hudibras was of showing his
wit?--

      Who bore it about,
  As if afraid to wear it out
  Except on holidays or so,
  As men their best apparel do.

This question, why a full third of Shakespeare's verbal riches was never
brought to light more than once, is probably one which nobody can at
present answer even to his own satisfaction. Yet the phenomenon is so
remarkable that every one will try after his own fashion to account for
it. My own attempt at a provisional explanation I will present in the
latter part of this paper.

Let us first, however, notice another question concerning the _apa?
?e??µe?a_--namely, that which respects their _origin_. Where did they
come from? how far did Shakespeare make them? and how far were they
ready to his hand? No approach to answering this inquiry can be made for
some years. Yet as to this matter let us rejoice that the unique
dictionary of the British Philological Society is now near publication.
This work, slowly elaborated by thousands of co-workers in many devious
walks of study on both sides of the Atlantic, aims to exhibit the first
appearance in a book of every English word. In regard to the great bulk
of Shakespeare's diction it will enable us ten years hence to determine
how much of it was known to literature before him, and how much of it he
himself gathered or gleaned in highways and byways, or caused to ramify
and effloresce from Saxon or classical roots and trunks, thus "endowing
his purposes with words to make them known." Meantime, we are left to
conjectures. As of his own coinage I should set down such vocables as
_motley-minded, mirth-moving, mockable, marbled, martyred, merriness,
marrowless, mightful, multipotent, masterdom, monarchize_, etc. etc.

But, however much of his linguistic treasury Shakespeare shall be proved
to have inherited ready-made--whatever scraps he may have stolen at the
feast of languages--it is clear that he was an imperial creator of
language, and lived while his mother-tongue was still plastic. Having a
mint of phrases in his own brain, well might he speak with the contempt
he does of those "fools who for a tricksy word defy the matter;" that
is, slight or disregard it. He never needed to do that. Words were
"correspondent to his command, and, Ariel-like, did his spiriting
gently."

In a thousand cases, however, Shakespeare cannot have rejected words
through fear lest he should repeat them. It has taken three centuries
for the world to ferret out his _apa? ?e??µe?a_: can we believe that he
knew them all himself? Unless he were the Providence which numbers all
hairs of the head, he had not got the start of the majestic world so far
as that, however myriad-minded we may consider him. An instinct which
would have rendered him aware of each and every individual of five
thousand that he had employed once only would be as inconceivable as
that of Falstaff, which made him discern the heir-apparent in Prince Hal
when disguised as a highwayman. In short, Shakespeare could not be
conscious of all the words he had once used, more than Brigham Young
could recognize all the wives he had once wedded.

In the absence of other theories concerning the reasons for
Shakespeare's _apa? ?e??µe?a_ being so abundant, I throw out a
suggestion of my own till a better one shall supplant it.

Shakespeare's forte lay in characterization, and that endlessly
diversified. But when he sketched each several character it seems that
he was never content till he had either found or fabricated the aptest
words possible for representing its form and pressure most true to life.
No two characters being identical in any particular more than two faces
are, no two descriptions, as drawn by his genius, could repeat many of
the selfsame characterizing words. Each of his vocables thus became like
each of the seven thousand constituents of a locomotive, which fits the
one niche it was ordained to fill, but everywhere else is out of place,
and even _dislocated_. The more numerous his ethical differentiations,
the more his language was differentiated.

His personages were as multifarious as have been portrayed by the whole
band of Italian painters; but, as a wizard in words, he resembled the
magician in mosaic, who can delineate in stone every feature of those
portraits because he can discriminate and imitate shades of color more
numberless than even Shakespeare's words.

It is hard to believe that the Shakespearian characters were born, like
Athene from the brain of Zeus, in panoplied perfection. They grew. The
play of _Troilus_ was a dozen years in growth. According to the best
commentators, "Shakespeare, after having sketched out a play on the
fashion of his youthful taste and skill, returned in after years to
enlarge it, remodel it, and enrich it with the matured fruits of years
of observation and reflection. _Love's Labor Lost_ first appeared in
print with the annunciation that it was 'newly corrected and augmented,'
and _Cymbeline_ was an entire _rifacimento_ of an early dramatic
attempt, showing not only matured fulness of thought, but laboring
intensity of compressed expression." So speaks Verplanck, and his
utterance is endorsed by Richard Grant White.

Such being the facts, it is clear that Shakespeare treated his dramas as
Guido did the _Cleopatra_, which he would not let leave his studio till
ten years after the non-artistic world deemed that portrait fully
finished. Meantime, the painter in moments of inspiration was pencilling
his canvas with curious touches, each approximating nearer his ideal. So
the poet sought to find out acceptable words, or what he terms "an army
of good words." He poured his new wine into new bottles, and never was
at rest till he had arrayed his ideas in that fitness of phrase which
comes only by fits.

Had he survived fifty years longer, I suppose he would to the last have
been perfecting his phrases, as we read in Dionysius of Halicarnassus
that Plato up to the age of eighty-one was "combing and curling, and
weaving and unweaving, his writings after a variety of fashions."
Possibly, the great dramatist would at last have corrected one of his
couplets as a modern commentator has done for him, so that it would
stand,

  Find _leaves_ on trees, _stones_ in the running brooks,
  Sermons in _books_, and _all_ in everything.

To speak seriously with a writer in the _Encyclopædia Britannica:_ "His
manner in diction was progressive, and this progress has been deemed so
clearly traceable in his plays that it can enable us to determine their
chronological sequence." The result is, that while other authors satiate
and soon tire us, Shakespeare's speech for ever "breathes an
indescribable freshness."

                Age cannot wither
  Nor custom stale his infinite variety.

In the last line I have quoted there is a apa? ?e??µe?a but it is a word
which I think you would hardly guess. It is the last word--_variety_.

On every average page of Shakespeare you are greeted and gladdened by at
least five words that you never saw before in his writings, and that you
never will see again, speaking once and then for ever holding their
peace--each not only rare, but a nonsuch--five gems just shown, then
snatched away. Each page is studded with five stars, each as unique as
the century-flower, and, like the night-blooming cereus, "the perfume
and suppliance of a minute"--_ipsa varietate variora_. The mind of
Shakespeare was bodied forth as Montezuma was apparelled, whose costume,
however gorgeous, was never twice the same. Hence the Shakespearian
style is fresh as morning dew and changeful as evening clouds, so that
we remain for ever doubtful in relation to his manner and his matter,
which of them owes the greater debt to the other. The Shakespearian
plots are analogous to the grouping of Raphael, the characters to the
drawing of Michael Angelo, but the word-painting superadds the coloring
of Titian. Accordingly, in studying Shakespeare's diction I should long
ago have said, if I could, what I read in Arthur Helps, where he treats
of a perfect style--that "there is a sense of felicity about it,
declaring it to be the product of a happy moment, so that you feel it
will not happen again to that man who writes the sentence, nor to any
other of the sons of men, to say the like thing so choicely, tersely,
mellifluously and completely."

In the central court of the Neapolitan Museum I saw grape-clusters,
mouldings, volutes, fingers and antique fragments of all sorts wrought
in rarest marble, lying scattered on the pavement, exposed to sun and
rain, cast down the wrong side up, and as it were thrown away, as when
the stones of the Jewish sanctuary were poured out in every street.
Nothing reveals the sculptural opulence of Italy like this apparent
wastefulness. It seems to proclaim that Italy can afford to make
nothing of what would elsewhere be judged worthy of shrines. We say to
ourselves, "If such be the things she throws away, what must be her
jewels?" A similar feeling rises in me while exploring Shakespeare's
prodigality in apa? ?e??µe?a. His exchequer appears more exhaustless
than the Bank of England.

James D. Butler.




AN EPISODE OF SPANISH CHIVALRY.


Don Quijote's readers are aware of the enormous popularity of the
romances of chivalry, but they are apt to imagine that these represent a
purely ideal state of things. This is undoubtedly the case as far as
knight-errantry is concerned, but certain distinctive habits and customs
of chivalry prevailed in Spain and elsewhere long after the feudal
system and the earlier and original form of chivalry had passed away.
One of the most curious instances of this survival of chivalry occurred
in Spain in the first half of the fifteenth century, and after
commanding the admiration of Europe furnished Don Quijote with an
admirable argument for the existence of Amadis of Gaul and his long line
of successors. The worthy knight had been temporarily released from his
confinement in the Enchanted Cage, and had begun his celebrated reply to
the canon's statement that there had never been such persons as Amadis
and the other knights-errant, nor the absurd adventures with which the
romances of chivalry abound. Don Quijote's answer is a marvellous
mixture of sense and nonsense: the creations of the romancer's brain are
placed side by side with the Cid, Juan de Merlo and Gutierre Ouijada,
whose names were household words in Spain: "Let them deny also that Don
Fernando de Guerara went to seek adventures in Germany, where he did
combat with Messer George, knight of the household of the duke of
Austria. Let them say that the jousts of Sucro de Quiñones, him of the
Pass, were a jest."

It is to these jousts, as one of the most characteristic episodes of the
reign of John II. and of the times, that we wish to call attention.[4]

On the evening of Friday, the 1st of January, 1434, while the king and
his court were at Medina del Campo and engaged in the rejoicings
customary on the first day of the New Year, Suero de Quiñones and nine
knights clad in white entered the saloon, and, coming before the throne,
kissed the hands and feet of the king, and presented him through their
herald with a petition of which the following is the substance:

"It is just and reasonable for those who are in confinement or deprived
of their freedom to desire liberty; and since I, your vassal and
subject, have long been in durance to a certain lady--in witness whereof
I bear this chain about my neck every Thursday--now, therefore, mighty
sovereign, I have agreed upon my ransom, which is three hundred lances
broken by myself and these knights, as shall more clearly hereafter
appear--three with every knight or gentleman (counting as broken the
lance which draws blood) who shall come to a certain place this year; to
wit, fifteen days before and fifteen days after the festival of the
apostle St. James, unless my ransom shall be completed before the day
last mentioned. The place shall be on the highway to Santiago, and I
hereby testify to all strange knights and gentlemen that they will
there be provided with armor, horses and weapons. And be it known to
every honorable lady who may pass the aforesaid way that if she do not
provide a knight or gentleman to do combat for her, she shall lose her
right-hand glove. All the above saving two things--that neither Your
Majesty nor the constable Don Alvaro de Luna is to enter the lists."

After the reading of this petition the king took counsel with his court
and granted it, for which Quiñones humbly thanked him, and then he and
his companions retired to disarm themselves, returning shortly after in
dresses more befitting a festal occasion.

After the dancing the regulations for the jousts, consisting of
twenty-two chapters, were publicly read. In addition to the declarations
in the petition, it is provided that in case two or more knights should
come to ransom the glove of any lady, the first knight only will be
received, and no one can ransom more than one glove. In the seventh
chapter Quiñones offers a diamond to the first knight who appears to do
combat for one of three ladies to be named by him, among whom shall not
be the one whose captive he is. No knight coming to the Pass of Honor
shall select the defender with whom to joust, nor shall he know the name
of his adversary until the combat is finished; but any one after
breaking three lances may challenge by name any one of the defenders,
who, if time permits, will break another lance with him. If any knight
desires to joust without some portion of his armor named by Quiñones,
his request shall be granted if reason and time permit. No knight will
be admitted to the lists until he declare his name and country. If any
one is injured, "as is wont to happen in jousts," he shall be treated as
though he were Quiñones himself, and no one in the future shall ever be
held responsible for any advantage or victory he may have gained over
any of the defenders of the Pass. No one going as a pilgrim to Santiago
by the direct road shall be hindered by Quiñones unless he approach the
aforesaid bridge of Orbigo (which was somewhat distant from the
highway). In case, however, any knight, having left the main road,
shall come to the Pass, he shall not be permitted to depart until he has
entered the lists or left in pledge a piece of his armor or right spur,
with the promise never to wear that piece or spur until he shall have
been in some deed of arms as dangerous as the Pass of Honor. Quiñones
further pledges himself to pay all expenses incurred by those who shall
come to the Pass.

Any knight who, after having broken one or two lances, shall refuse to
continue, shall lose his armor or right spur as though he had declined
to enter the lists. No defender shall be obliged to joust a second time
with any one who had been disabled for a day in any previous encounter.

The twenty-first chapter provides for the appointment of two knights,
"_caballeros anliguos è probados en annas è dignas de fè_," and two
heralds, all of whom shall swear solemnly to do justice to all who come
to the Pass, and who shall decide all questions which may arise.

The last chapter provides "that if the lady whose I [Quiñones] am shall
pass that way, she shall not lose her glove, and no one but myself shall
do combat for her, for no one in the world could do it so truly as I."

When the preceding provisions had been read, Quiñones gave to the
king-at-arms a letter signed and sealed, which invited to the Pass all
knights so disposed, granting safe conduct to those of other kingdoms,
and declaring the cause of said trial of arms. Copies of the above
letter were also given to other heralds, who were provided with
everything necessary for long journeys, and in the six months that
intervened before the day fixed for the jousts the matter had been
proclaimed throughout all Christendom. Meanwhile, Quiñones provided
horses and arms and everything necessary for "such an important
enterprise."

In the kingdom of Leon, about ten miles east of Astorga and on the
highway from that city to the capital, is the bridge of Orbigo. Suero de
Quiñones did not select Orbigo with reference to convenience of access
from the Castiles, but because it must be passed by pilgrims to
Santiago; and that year (1434) was especially sacred to the saint, whose
festival, on the 25th of July, has always been celebrated with great
pomp. The Spaniards having been forbidden to go to Jerusalem as
crusaders, and being too much occupied at home with the Moors to make
such a long pilgrimage, wisely substituted Santiago, where the remains
of St. James, the patron of Spain, is supposed to rest. His body is said
to have floated in a stone coffin from Joppa to Padron (thirteen miles
below Santiago) in seven days, and for nearly eight centuries lay
forgotten in a cave, but was at length miraculously brought to light by
mysterious flames hovering over its resting-place, and in 829 was
removed to Santiago. In 846 the saint made his appearance at the
celebrated battle of Clavijo, where he slew sixty thousand Moors, and
was rewarded by a grant of a bushel of grain from every acre in Spain.
His shrine was a favorite resort for pilgrims from all Christendom until
after the Reformation, and the saint retained his bushel of grain (the
annual value of which had reached the large sum of one million dollars)
until 1835.

It was near the highway, in a pleasant grove, that Quiñones erected the
lists, a hundred and forty-six paces long and surrounded by a palisade
of the height of a lance, with various stands for the judges and
spectators. At the opposite ends of the lists were entrances--one for
the defenders of the Pass--and there were hung the arms and banners of
Quiñones, as well as at the other entrance, which was reserved for the
knights who should come to make trial of their arms. In order that no
one might mistake the way, a marble king-at-arms was erected near the
bridge, with the right arm extended and the inscription, "To the Pass."

The final arrangements were not concluded until the 10th of July, the
first day of the jousts. Twenty-two tents had been erected for the
accommodation of those engaged in the enterprise as well as for mere
spectators, and Quiñones had provided all necessary servants and
artisans, among whom are mentioned kings-at-arms, heralds, trumpeters
and other musicians, notaries, armorers, blacksmiths, surgeons,
physicians, carpenters, lance-makers, tailors, embroiderers, etc. In the
midst of the tents was erected a wooden dining--hall, hung with rich
French cloth and provided with two tables--one for Quiñones and the
knights who came to the Pass, and the other for those who honored the
jousts with their presence. A curious fact not to be omitted is that the
king sent one of his private secretaries to prepare daily accounts of
what happened at the Pass, which were transmitted by relays to Segovia
(where he was engaged in hunting), so that he should receive them within
twenty-four hours.

On Saturday, the 10th of July, 1434, all the arrangements having been
completed, the heralds proceeded to the entrance of the lists and
announced to Quiñones that three knights were at the bridge of Orbigo
who had come to make trial of their arms--one a German, Messer Arnoldo
de la Floresta Bermeja of the marquisate of Brandenburg, "about
twenty-seven years old, blond and well-dressed;" the others two brothers
from Valencia, by name Juan and Per Fabla. Quiñones was greatly
delighted at their coming, and sent the heralds to invite them to take
up their quarters with him, which they did, and were received with honor
at the entrance of the lists in the presence of the judges. It being
Saturday, the jousting was deferred until the following Monday, and the
spurs of the three knights were hung up in the judges' stand as a sort
of pledge, to be restored to their owners when they were ready to enter
the lists.

The next morning the trumpets sounded, and Quiñones and his nine
companions heard mass in the church of St. John at Orbigo, and took
possession of the lists in the following fashion: First came the
musicians with drums and Moorish fifes, preceded by the judge, Pero
Barba. Then followed two large and beautiful horses drawing a cart
filled with lances of various sizes pointed with Milan steel. The cart
was covered with blue and green trappings embroidered with bay trees and
flowers, and on every tree was the figure of a parrot. The driver of
this singular conveyance was a dwarf. Next came Quiñones on a powerful
horse with blue trappings, on which were worked his device and a chain,
with the motto _Il faut deliberer_[5] He was dressed in a quilted jacket
of olive velvet brocade embroidered in green, with a cloak of blue
velvet, breeches of scarlet cloth and a tall cap of the same color. He
wore wheel-spurs of the Italian fashion richly gilt, and carried a drawn
sword, also gilt. On his right arm, near the shoulder, was richly
embroidered his device in gold two fingers broad, and around it in blue
letters,

  Si a vous ne plait de avoyr me sure,
          Certes ie clis,
          Que ie suis,
        Sans venture.[6]

With Quiñones were his nine companions in scarlet velvet and blue cloaks
bearing Quiñones' device and chain, and the trappings of their horses
blue, with the same device and motto. Near Quiñones were many knights on
foot, some of whom led his horse to do him honor. Three pages
magnificently attired and mounted closed the procession, which entered
the lists, and after passing around it twice halted before the judges'
stand, and Quiñones exhorted the judges to decide impartially all that
should happen, giving equal justice to all, and especially to defend the
strangers in case they should be attacked on account of having wounded
any of the defenders of the Pass.

The next day, Monday, at dawn the drums beat the reveille, and the
judges, with the heralds, notaries and kings-at-arms, took their places
in their stands. The nine defenders meanwhile heard mass in a large tent
which served as a private chapel for Quiñones, and where mass was said
thrice daily at his expense by some Dominicans. After the defenders were
armed they sent for the judges to inspect their weapons and armor. The
German knight, Arnoldo, had a disabled hand, but he declared he would
rather die than refrain from jousting. His arms and horse were approved,
although the latter was superior to that of Quiñones. The judges had
provided a body of armed soldiers whose duty it was to see that all had
fair play in the field, and had a pile of lances of various sizes placed
where each knight could select one to suit him.

Quiñones and the German now entered the lists, accompanied by their
friends and with "much music." The judges commanded that no one should
dare to speak aloud or give advice or make any sign to any one in the
lists, no matter what happened, under penalty of having the tongue cut
out for speaking and a hand cut off for making signs; and they also
forbade any knight to enter the lists with more than two servants, one
mounted and the other on foot. The spur taken from the German the
previous Saturday was now restored to him, and the trumpets sounded a
charge, while the heralds and kings-at-arms cried _Legeres allér!
legeres allér! é fair son deber_.

The two knights charged instantly, lance in rest, and Quiñones
encountered his antagonist in the guard of his lance, and his weapon
glanced off and touched him in the armor of his right hand and tore it
off, and his lance broke in the middle. The German encountered him in
the armor of the left arm, tore it off and carried a piece of the border
without breaking his lance. In the second course Quiñones encountered
the German in the top of his plastron, without piercing it, and the
lance came out under his arm-pit, whereupon all thought he was wounded,
for on receiving the shock he exclaimed _Olas!_ and his right vantbrace
was torn off, but the lance was not broken. The German encountered
Quiñones in the front of his helmet, breaking his lance two palms from
the iron. In the third course Quiñones encountered the German in the
guard of his left gauntlet, and passed through it, and the head of the
lance stuck in the rim without breaking, and the German failed to
encounter. In the fourth course Quiñones encountered the German in the
armor of his left arm without breaking his lance, and the German failed
to encounter. In the next course both failed to encounter, but in the
sixth Quiñones encountered the German in the joint of his left
vantbrace, and the iron passed half through without breaking, while the
shaft broke in the middle, and the German failed to encounter. After
this last course they went to the judges' stand, where their jousting
was pronounced finished, since they had broken three lances between
them. Quiñones invited the German to supper, and both were accompanied
to their quarters by music, and Quiñones disarmed himself in public.

The two Valencian knights did not delay to challenge Quiñones, since he
had remained uninjured; and, as they had the right to demand horses and
arms, they chose those which Quiñones had used in the last joust. The
chronicler adds: "It seems to me that they did not ask it so much for
their honor as for the safety of their skins." The judges decided that
Quiñones was not bound to give his own armor, as there were other suits
as good: nevertheless, he complied, and sent in addition four horses to
choose from. He was also anxious to joust with them, but Lope de
Estuñiga refused to yield his place, and cited the chapter of the
regulations which provided that no one should single out his adversary.
Quiñones offered him a very fine horse and a gold chain worth three
hundred doubloons, but Estuñiga answered that he would not yield his
turn although he were offered a city.

At vespers Estuñiga and Juan Fabla were armed and the judges examined
their arms, and although Fabla had the better horse, they let it pass.
At the sound of the trumpet Estuñiga entered the lists magnificently
attired, and attended by two pages in armor bearing a drawn sword and a
lance. Juan Fabla followed immediately, and at the given signal they
attacked each other lance in rest. Fabla encountered Estuñiga in the
left arm, tearing off his armor, but neither of them broke his lance. In
the four following courses they failed to encounter. In the sixth Fabla
encountered his adversary in the breastplate, breaking his lance in the
middle, and the head remained sticking in the armor. They encountered in
the seventh course, and Estuñiga's servant, who was in the lists, cried
out, "At him! at him!" The judges commanded his tongue to be cut out,
but at the intercession of those present the sentence was commuted to
thirty blows and imprisonment. They failed to encounter in the eighth
course, but in the ninth Estuñiga broke his lance on Fabla's left arm:
the latter failed to encounter, and received a great reverse. After this
they ran nine courses without encountering, but in the nineteenth
Estuñiga met Fabla in the plastron, and his lance slipped off on to his
helmet, but did not break, although it pierced the plastron and the iron
remained sticking in it. By this time it had grown so dark that the
judges could not distinguish the good from the bad encounters, and for
this reason they decided that the combat was finished the same as though
three lances had been broken. Estuñiga invited Fabla to sup with
Quiñones, "and at table there were many knights, and after supper they
danced."

That same day there arrived at the Pass nine knights from Aragon, who
swore that they were gentlemen without reproach. Their spurs were taken
from them, according to the established custom, and hung up in the
judges' stand until they should enter the lists.

The succeeding combats were but repetitions, with trifling variations,
of those just described. From dawn, when the trumpet sounded for battle,
until the evening grew so dark that the judges could not distinguish the
combatants, the defenders maintained the Pass against all comers with
bravery and honor.

The third day there passed near Orbigo two ladies, and the judges sent
the king-at-arms and the herald to ascertain whether they were of noble
birth and provided with knights to represent them in the lists and win
them a passage through Orbigo, and also to request them to give up their
right-hand gloves. The ladies answered that they were noble and were on
a pilgrimage to Santiago; their names were Leonora and Guiomar de la
Vega; the former was married and accompanied by her husband; the latter
was a widow. The king-at-arms then requested their gloves to be kept as
a pledge until some knight should ransom them. Frances Davio, an
Aragonese knight, immediately offered to do combat for the ladies. The
husband of Doña Leonora said that he had not heard of this adventure,
and was unprepared to attempt it then, but if the ladies were allowed to
retain their gloves, as soon as he had accomplished his pilgrimage he
would return and enter the lists for them. The gloves, however, were
retained and hung in the judges' stand. The matter caused some
discussion, and finally the judges decided that the gloves should not be
kept, for fear it should seem that the defenders of the Pass were
interfering with pilgrims, and also on account of Juan de la Vega's
chivalrous response. So the gloves were sent on to Astorga to be
delivered to their owners, and Juan de la Vega was absolved from all
obligation to ransom them, "and there was strife among many knights as
to who should do battle for the sisters."

On the 16th of July, Frances Davio jousted with Lope de Estuñiga, and
when the trial of arms was ended with great honor to both, Davio swore
aloud, so that many knights heard him, "that never in the future would
he have a love-affair with a nun, for up to that time he had loved one,
and it was for her sake that he had come to the Pass; and any one who
had known it could have challenged him as an evil-doer, and he could not
have defended himself." Whereat Delena, the notary and compiler of the
original record of the Pass, exclaims, "To which I say that if he had
had any Christian nobleness, or even the natural shame which leads every
one to conceal his faults, he would not have made public such a
sacrilegious scandal, so dishonorable to the religious order and so
injurious to Christ."

The same day the king-at-arms and herald announced to Quiñones that a
gentleman named Vasco de Barrionuevo, servant of Ruy Diaz de Mendoza,
mayor-domo of the king, had come to make trial of his arms, but as he
was not a knight he prayed Quiñones to confer that honor on him.
Quiñones consented, and commanded him to wait at the entrance of the
lists, whither he and the nine defenders went on foot accompanied by a
great crowd. Quiñones asked Vasco if he desired to become a knight, and
on his answering in the affirmative he drew his gilt sword and said,
"Sir, do you promise to keep and guard all the things appertaining to
the noble order of chivalry, and to die rather than fail in any one of
them?" He swore that he would do so, and Quiñones, striking him on the
helmet with his naked sword, said, "God make thee a good knight and aid
thee to live and act as every good knight should do!" After this
ceremony the new knight entered the lists with Pedro de los Rios, and
they ran seven courses and broke three lances.

On the festival of St. James (July 25th) Quiñones entered the lists
without three of the principal pieces of his armor--namely, the visor of
his helmet, the left vantbrace and breastplate--and said, "Knights and
judges of this Passo Honroso, inasmuch as I announced through Monreal,
the king's herald, that on St. James's Day there would be in this place
three knights, each without a piece of his armor, and each ready to run
two courses with every knight who should present himself that day, know,
therefore, that I, Suero de Quiñones, alone am those three knights, and
am prepared to accomplish what I proclaimed." The judges after a short
deliberation answered that they had no authority to permit him to risk
his life in manifest opposition to the regulations which he had sworn to
obey, and declared him under arrest, and forbade all jousting that day,
as it was Sunday and the festival of St. James. Quiñones felt greatly
grieved at their decision, and told them that "in the service of his
lady he had gone into battle against the Moors in the kingdom of Granada
with his right arm bared, and God had preserved him, and would do so
now." The judges, however, were inflexible and refused to hear him.

The last day of July, late in the afternoon, there arrived at the Pass
a gentleman named Pedro de Torrecilla, a retainer or squire of Alfonso
de Deza, but no one was willing to joust with him, on the ground that he
was not an hidalgo. The generous Lope de Estuñiga, hearing this, offered
to dub him a knight, but Torrecilla thanked him and said he could not
afford to sustain in becoming manner the honor of chivalry, but he would
make good the fact that he was an hidalgo. Lope de Estuñiga was so much
pleased by this discreet answer that he believed him truly of gentle
blood, and to do him honor entered the lists with him. It was, however,
so late that they had only time to run three courses, and then the
judges pronounced their joust finished. Torrecilla esteemed so highly
the fact that so renowned a knight as Lope de Estuñiga should have
condescended to enter the lists with him that he swore it was the
greatest honor he had ever received in his life, and he offered him his
services. Estuñiga thanked him, and affirmed that he felt as much
honored by having jousted with him as though he had been an emperor.[7]

A few days after the above events an incident occurred which shows how
contagious the example of Quiñones and his followers was, and to what
amusing imitations it led. A Lombard trumpeter made his appearance at
the Pass, and said that he had been to Santiago on a pilgrimage, and
while there had heard that there was at the Passo Honroso a trumpeter of
the king of Castile named Dalmao, very celebrated in his line, and he
had gone thirty leagues out of his way in order to have a trial of skill
with him; and he offered to stake a good trumpet against one of
Dalmao's. The latter took the Lombard's trumpet and blew so loud and
skilfully that the Italian, in spite of all his efforts, was obliged to
confess himself conquered, and gave up his trumpet. |

So far, the encounters, if not entirely bloodless, had not been
attended by any fatal accident. The defenders had all been wounded, more
or less severely: once Quiñones concealed the fact until the end of the
joust in which his antagonist had been badly hurt, and it was only when
the knights were disarmed that it was discovered that Quiñones was
bleeding profusely. On another occasion his helmet was pierced by his
adversary's lance, the fragment of which he strove in vain to withdraw.
All believed him mortally wounded, but he cried, "It is nothing! it is
nothing! Quiñones! Quiñones!" and continued as though nothing had
occurred. After three encounters the judges descended from their stands
and made him remove his helmet to see whether he was wounded. When it
was found that he was not, "every one thought that God had miraculously
delivered him." Quiñones was also wounded in his encounter with Juan de
Merlo, and again concealed the fact until the end of the combat, when he
asked the judges to excuse him from jousting further that day, as his
right hand, which he had previously sprained, was again dislocated, and
caused him terrible suffering; and well it might, for the flesh was
lacerated and the whole arm seemed paralyzed.

The wounds received the 28th of July were, unfortunately, sufficiently
healed by the 6th of August to enable him to enter the lists with the
unhappy Esberte de Claramonte, an Aragonese. "Would to God," exclaims
the chronicler, "he had never come here!" In the ninth encounter
Quiñones' lance entered his antagonist's left eye and penetrated the
brain. The luckless knight broke his lance in the ground, was lifted
from his saddle by the force of the blow, and fell dead without uttering
a word; "and his face seemed like the face of one who had been dead two
hours." The Aragonese and Catalans present bewailed his death loudly,
and Quiñones was grieved in his soul at such a great misfortune. Every
possible honor was shown the dead knight, and the welfare of his soul
was not forgotten. Master Anton, Quiñones' confessor, and the other
priests were sent for to administer the sacraments, and Quiñones begged
them to chant the _Responsorium_[8] over the body, as was customary in
the Church, and do in all respects as though he himself were the dead
man. The priest replied that the Church did not consider as sons those
who died in such exercises, for they could not be performed without
mortal sin, neither did she intercede for their souls; in proof whereof
he referred to the canonical law, cap. _de Torneamentis_.[9] However, at
the earnest request of Quiñones, Messer Anton went with a letter to the
bishop of Astorga to ask leave to bury Claramonte in holy ground,
Quiñones promising if it were granted to take the dead knight to Leon
and bury him in his own family chapel. Meanwhile, they bore the body to
the hermitage of Santa Catalina, near the bridge of Orbigo, and there it
remained until night, when Messer Anton returned without the desired
license; so they buried Claramonte in unconsecrated ground near the
hermitage, with all possible honor and amid the tears of the assembled
knights. This mournful event does not seem, however, to have made a very
deep impression, for that same afternoon the jousting was continued.

The remaining days were marked by no unusual occurrence: several were
seriously but not fatally wounded, and one by one the defenders of the
Pass were disabled; so that when the 9th of August, the last day of the
jousts, arrived, Sancho de Ravenal was the only one of the ten defenders
who was able to enter the lists. He maintained the Pass that day against
two knights, and then the jousts were declared ended. When the decision
was known there was great rejoicing and blowing of trumpets, and the
lists were illuminated with torches. The judges returned the spurs which
still hung in the stand to the owners who through lack of time had not
been able to joust. Quiñones and eight of his companions (Lope de Aller
was confined to his bed by his wounds) entered the lists in the same
manner and order as on the first day, and halting before the judges
Quiñones addressed them as follows: "It is known to Your Honors how I
presented myself here thirty days ago with these companions, and the
cause of my so doing was to terminate the captivity in which until this
moment I was to a very virtuous lady, in token of which I have worn this
iron collar continually every Thursday. The condition of my ransom was,
as you know, three hundred lances broken or guarding this Pass thirty
days, awaiting knights and gentlemen who should free me from said
captivity; and whereas I believe, honorable sirs, that I have fulfilled
everything according to the terms set down at the beginning, I therefore
beg you will command me to remove this iron collar in testimony of my
liberty."

The judges answered briefly as follows: "Virtuous gentleman and knight,
after hearing your declaration, which seems just and true, we hereby
declare your enterprise completed and your ransom paid; and be it known
to all present that of the three hundred lances mentioned in the
agreement but few remain yet to be broken, and these would not have
remained unbroken had it not been for lack of adversaries. We therefore
command the king-at-arms and the herald to remove the collar from your
neck and declare you from this time henceforth free from your enterprise
and ransom." | The king-at-arms and the herald then descended from the
stand, and in the presence of the notaries with due solemnity took the
collar from Quiñones' neck in fulfilment of the judges' command.

During the thirty days' jousting sixty-eight knights had entered the
lists: of these, one, Messer Arnoldo de la Floresta Bermeja (Arnold von
Rothwald?), was a German; one an Italian, Messer Luis de Aversa; one
Breton,[10] three Valencians, one Portuguese, thirteen Aragonese, four
Catalans, and the remaining forty-four were from the Castiles and other
parts of Spain. The number of courses run was seven hundred and
twenty-seven, and one hundred and sixty-six lances were broken. Quiñones
was afterward killed by Gutierre Quijada, one of the knights who took
part in the Passo Honroso, and with whom he seems to have had some kind
of a feud. Quiñones' sword may still be seen at Madrid in the Royal
Armory, No. 1917.

T.F. CRANE.




AUTOMATISM.

CONCLUDING PAPER.


A few months ago, walking along Fifteenth street, I came up behind a
friend and said, "Good-morning." No answer. "Good-morning, sir," a
little louder.--"Oh, excuse me: I did not hear you the first time."--"
How then did you know that I had spoken twice?" My friend was
nonplussed, but what had happened was this: on my first speaking the
impulse of the voice had fallen upon his ear and started a nerve-wave
which had struggled up as far as the lower apparatus at the base of the
brain, and, passing through this, had probably even reached the higher
nerve-centres in the surface of the cerebrum, near to which
consciousness resides, but not in sufficient force to arouse
consciousness. When, however, the attention was excited by my second
address, it perceived the first faint impulse which had been registered
upon the protoplasm of the nerve-centres, although unfelt. Probably most
of my readers have had a similar experience. A word spoken, but not
consciously heard, has a moment afterward been detected by an effort as
distinctly conscious as that made by the man who is attempting to
decipher some old faint manuscript. This incident and its explanation
will serve to illustrate the relation which seems to exist between
consciousness and sensation, and also between consciousness and the
general mental actions.

It will perhaps render our thinking more accurate if we attempt to get a
clear idea just here as to what consciousness is and what it is not.
Various definitions of the term have been given, but the simplest and
truest seems to be that it is a knowledge of the present existence of
self, and perhaps also of surrounding objects, although it is
conceivable that a conscious person might be shut off from all contact
with the external world by abolition of the senses. Consciousness is
certainly not what the philosopher and the theologian call the Ego, or
the personality of the individual. A blow on the head puts an end for
the time being to consciousness, but not to the man's personality.
Neither is consciousness the same as the sense of personal identity,
although it is closely connected with it. The conviction of a man that
he is the same person through the manifold changes which occur in him as
the successive years go on is evidently based on consciousness and
memory. This is well illustrated by some very curious cases in which the
sense or knowledge of personal identity has been completely lost. Not
long ago an instance of such complete loss was recorded by Doctor
Hewater (_Hospital Gazette_, November, 1879). The gentleman who was the
subject of this loss found himself standing upon the dépôt-platform in
Belaire City, Ohio, utterly ignorant of who he was or where he came from
or where he was going to. He had a little money in his pocket, and in
his hand a small port-manteau which contained a pair of scissors and a
change of linen. He was well dressed, and on stating at the nearest
hotel his strange condition and asking for a bed, was received as a
guest. In the evening he went out and attended a temperance lecture.
Excited by the eloquence of the speaker, he was seized with an
uncontrollable impulse, rushed from the room and began to smash with a
club the windows of a neighboring tavern. The roughs ran out of the
saloon and beat him very badly, breaking his arm: this brought him to
the police-station, and thence to the hospital. For months every effort
was made to identify him, but at the date of reporting without avail. He
was known in the hospital as "Ralph," that name having been found on his
underclothing. His knowledge upon all subjects unconnected with his
identity is correct: his mental powers are good, and he has shown
himself expert at figures and with a pen. For a long time it was thought
that he was feigning, but every one about him was finally convinced that
he is what he says he is--namely, a man without knowledge of his
personal identity. This curious case, which is by no means unparalleled
in the annals of psychological medicine, shows how distinct memory is
from consciousness. Memory of the past was in Ralph entirely abolished
so far as concerned his own personality, but consciousness was perfect,
and the results of previous mental training remained, as is shown by his
use of figures. It was as though there was a dislocation between
consciousness and the memory of self.

The distinctness of consciousness from memory is also shown by dreams.
Events which have passed are often recalled during the unconsciousness
of sleep. The curious although common carrying of the memory of a dream
over from the unconsciousness of sleep to the consciousness of waking
movements further illustrates the complete distinction between the two
cerebral functions.

If memory, then, be not part of consciousness, what is its nature? There
is a law governing nervous actions both in health and disease which is
known as that of habitual action. The curious reflex movements made by
the frog when acid is put upon its foot, as detailed in my last paper,
were explained by this law. The spinal cord, after having frequently
performed a certain act under the stimulus of conscious sensation,
becomes so accustomed to perform that act that it does it when the
oft-felt peripheral impulse comes again to it, although the cerebral
functions and consciousness are suspended. A nerve-centre, even of the
lowest kind, once moulded by repeated acts, retains their
impression--i.e. remembers them. Learning to walk is, as was shown in
the last paper, training the memory of the lower nerve-centres at the
base of the brain until at last they direct the movements of walking
without aid from consciousness. The musician studies a piece of music.
At first the notes are struck in obedience to a conscious act of the
will founded upon a conscious recognition of the printed type. By and by
the piece is so well known that it is played even when the attention is
directed to some other subject; that is, the act of playing has been
repeated until the lower nerve-centres, which preside over the movements
of the fingers during the playing, have been so impressed that when once
the impulses are started they flow on uninterruptedly until the whole
set has been gone through and the piece of music is finished. This is
the result of memory of the lower nerve-centres. At first, the child
reads only by a distinct conscious effort of memory, recalling painfully
each word. After a time the words become so impressed upon the lower
nerve-centres that we may read on when our attention is directed to some
other thing. Thus, often we read aloud and are unconscious of what we
have read, precisely as the compositor habitually sets up pages of
manuscript without the faintest idea of what it is all about. This law
of habitual action applies not only to the lower nerve-centres in their
healthy condition, but with equal force in disease. It is notorious that
one of the great difficulties in the cure of epilepsy is the habit which
is acquired by the nerve-centres of having at intervals attacks of
convulsive discharge of nerve-force. Some years since I saw in
consultation a case which well illustrates this point. A boy was struck
in the head with a brick, and dropped unconscious. On coming to be was
seized with an epileptic convulsion. These convulsions continually
recurred for many months before I saw him. He never went two hours
without them, and had usually from thirty to forty a day--some, it is
true, very slight, but others very severe. Medicines had no influence
over him, and with the idea that there might be a point of irritation in
the wound itself causing the epilepsy, the scar was taken out. The
result was that the seizures were the same day reduced very much in
frequency, and in a short time became amenable to treatment, so that
finally complete recovery occurred. He had, however, probably fifty
convulsions in all after the removal of the scar before this result was
achieved. Undoubtedly, in this case the point of irritation was removed
by the operation. The cause of the convulsions having been taken away,
they should have stopped at once. But here the law of habitual action
asserted itself, and it was necessary to overcome the remembrance of the
disease by the nerve-centres. It is plain that the higher nerve-centre
remembers the idea or fact because it is impressed by ideas and facts,
precisely as the lower spinal nerve-centres in the frog remember
irritations and movements which have impressed them. The faculty of
memory resides in all nerve-centres: the nature of that which is
remembered depends upon the function of the individual centre. A
nerve-cell which thinks remembers thought--a nerve-cell which causes
motion remembers motion.

The so-called cases of double consciousness are perfectly simple in
their explanation when the true nature of memory is borne in mind. In
these cases the subject seems to lead a double life. The attacks usually
come on suddenly. In the first attack all memory of the past is lost.
The person is as an untaught child, and is forced to begin re-education.
In some of these cases this second education has gone on for weeks, and
advanced perhaps beyond the stage of reading, when suddenly the patient
passes back to his original condition, losing now all memory of events
which had occurred and all the knowledge acquired in what may be called
his second state, but regaining all that he had originally possessed.
Weeks or months afterward the second state reoccurs, the individual now
forgetting all memory of the first or natural condition. It is usually
found that events happening and knowledge acquired during the first
attack of what we have called the second state are remembered in
subsequent returns, so that the second education can be taken up at the
point at which it was lost, and progress be made. This alternation of
conditions has in some instances gone on for years, the patient living,
as it were, two lives at broken intervals. This condition, usually
called double consciousness, is not double consciousness at all, but, if
the term may be allowed, double memory. It is evidently allied in its
nature to the loss of the sense of personal identity. Certain phenomena
of remembrance seen frequently in exhausting diseases, and especially in
old age, show the permanence of impressions made upon the higher
nerve-centres, and are also very similar in their nature to this
so-called double consciousness. Not long since a very aged lady of
Philadelphia, who was at the point of death, began to talk in an unknown
tongue, soon losing entirely her power of expressing herself in English.
No one could for a time make out the language she was speaking, but it
was finally found to be Portuguese; and in tracing the history of the
octogenarian it was discovered that until four or five years of age she
had been brought up in Rio Janeiro, where Portuguese is spoken. There is
little difference between the nature of such a case and that of the
so-called double consciousness, both involving the forgetting of that
which has been known for years.

There is a curious mental condition sometimes produced by large doses of
hasheesh which might be termed double consciousness more correctly than
the state to which the name is usually applied. I once took an enormous
dose of this substance. After suffering from a series of symptoms which
it is not necessary here to detail, I was seized with a horrible
undefined fear, as of impending death, and began at the same time to
have marked periods when all connection seemed to be severed between the
external world and myself. During these periods I was unconscious in so
far that I was oblivious of all external objects, but on coming out of
one it was not a blank, dreamless void upon which I looked back, a mere
empty space, but rather a period of active but aimless life, full, not
of connected thought, but of disjointed images. The mind, freed from the
ordinary laws of association, passed, as it were, with lightning-like
rapidity from one idea to another. The duration of these attacks was but
a few seconds, but to me they seemed endless. Although I was perfectly
conscious during the intermissions between the paroxysms, all power of
measuring time was lost: seconds appeared to be hours--minutes grew to
days--hours stretched out to infinity. I would look at my watch, and
then after an hour or two, as I thought, would look again and find that
scarcely a minute had elapsed. The minute-hand appeared motionless, as
though graven in the face itself: the laggard second-hand moved so
slowly that it seemed a hopeless task to watch it during its whole
infinite round of a minute, and I always gave up in despair before the
sixty seconds had elapsed. When my mind was most lucid there was a
distinct duplex action in regard to the duration of time. I would think
to myself, "It has been so long since a certain event!"--an hour, for
example, since the doctor was summoned--but Reason would say, "No, it
has been only a few minutes: your thoughts and feelings are caused by
the hasheesh." Nevertheless, I was not able to shake off, even for a
moment, this sense of the almost indefinite prolongation of time.
Gradually the periods of unconsciousness became longer and more
frequent, and the oppressive feeling of impending death more intense. It
was like a horrible nightmare: each successive paroxysm was felt to be
the longest I had suffered. As I came out of it a voice seemed
constantly saying, "You are getting worse; your paroxysms are growing
longer and deeper; they will overmaster you; you will die." A sense of
personal antagonism between my will-power and myself, as affected by the
drug, grew very strong. I felt as though my only chance was to struggle
against these paroxysms--that I must constantly arouse myself by an
effort of will; and that effort was made with infinite toil and pain. It
seemed to me as if some evil spirit had the control of the whole of me
except the will, and was in determined conflict with that, the last
citadel of my being. Once or twice during a paroxysm I felt myself
mounting upward, expanding, dilating, dissolving into the wide confines
of space, overwhelmed by a horrible, unutterable despair. Then by a
tremendous effort I seemed to break loose and to start up with the
shuddering thought, "Next time you will not be able to throw this off;
and what then?" The sense of double consciousness which I had to some
extent is often, under the action of hasheesh, much more distinct. I
have known patients to whom it seemed that they themselves sitting upon
the chair were in continual conversation with a second self standing in
front of them. The explanation of this curious condition is a difficult
one. It is possible that the two sides of the brain, which are
accustomed in health to work as one organ, are disjoined by the poison,
so that one half of the brain thinks and acts in opposition to the other
half.

From what has already been said it is plain that memory is entirely
distinct from consciousness, and that it is in a certain sense
automatic, or at least an attribute of all nerve-centres. If this be so,
it would seem probable, _a priori_, that other intellectual acts are
also distinct from consciousness. For present purposes the activities of
the cerebrum may be divided into the emotional and the more
strictly-speaking intellectual acts. A little thought will, I think,
convince any of my readers that emotions are as purely automatic as the
movements of the frog's hind leg. The Irishman who said that he was
really a brave man, although he had a cowardly pair of legs which always
ran away with him, was far from speaking absurdly. It is plain that
passion is something entirely beyond the conscious will, because it is
continually excited from without, and because we are unable to produce
it by a mere effort of the will without some external cause. The common
phrase, "He is working himself up into a passion," indicates a
perception of the fact that consciousness sometimes employs memories,
thoughts, associations, etc. to arouse the lower nerve-centres that are
connected with the emotion of anger. It is so also with various other
emotions. The soldier who habitually faces death in the foremost rank of
the battle, and yet shrinks in mortal fear or antipathy from a mouse, is
not an unknown spectacle. It is clear that his fear of the little animal
is based not upon reason, but upon an uncontrollable sensitiveness in
his nervous system acquired by inheritance or otherwise. It does not
follow from this that conscious will is not able to affect emotion. As
already pointed out, it can arouse emotion by using the proper means,
and it undoubtedly can, to a greater or less extent, directly subdue
emotion. The law of inhibition, as it is called by the physiologist,
dominates the whole nervous system. Almost every nerve-centre has above
it a higher centre whose function it is directly to repress or subdue
the activity of the lower centre. A familiar instance of this is seen in
the action of the heart: there are certain nerve-centres which when
excited lessen the rate of the heart's beat, and are even able to stop
it altogether. The relation of the will-power to the emotions is
directly inhibitory. The will is able to repress the activity of those
centres which preside over anger. In the man with red hair these centres
may be very active and the will-power weak; hence the inhibitory
influence of the will is slight and the man gets angry easily. In the
phlegmatic temperament the anger-centres are slow to action, the
will-power strong, and the man is thrown off his balance with
difficulty. It is well known that power grows with exercise, and when we
habitually use the will in controlling the emotional centres its power
continually increases. The man learning self-control is simply drilling
the lower emotional centres into obedience to the repressive action of
the higher will. Without further demonstration, it is clear that emotion
is distinct from conscious will, and is automatic in the sense in which
the term has been used in this article.

Imagination also is plainly distinct from consciousness. It acts during
sleep. Often, indeed, it runs riot during the slumbers of the night, but
at times it works with an automatic regularity exceeding its powers
during the waking moments. It is also true that judgment is exercised in
sleep, and that reason sometimes exerts its best efforts in that state.
But not only do the intellectual nets go on without consciousness during
sleep, but also while we are awake. Some years since I was engaged in
working upon a book requiring a good deal of thought. Very frequently I
would be unable to solve certain problems, but leaving them would find a
day or two afterward, on taking pen in hand, that the solution traced
itself without effort on the paper clearly and logically. During the
sleeping hours, or during the waking hours of a busy professional life,
the brain had, without my consciousness, been solving the difficulties.
This experience is by no means a peculiar one. Many scientific workers
have borne testimony to a similar habit of the cerebrum. The late Sir W.
Rowan Hamilton, the discoverer of the mathematical method known as that
of the quaternions, states that his mind suddenly solved that problem
after long work when he was thinking of something else. He says in one
place: "Tomorrow will be the fifteenth birthday of the quaternions. They
started into life or light full grown on the 16th of October, 1843, as I
was walking with Lady Hamilton to Dublin and came up to Brougham Bridge;
that is to say, I then and there felt the galvanic circle of thought
closed, and the sparks which fell from it were the fundamental equations
between _I, F_ and _K_ exactly as I have used them ever since. I felt
the problem to have been at that moment solved--an intellectual want
relieved which had haunted me for at least fifteen years before." Mr.
Appolo, a distinguished scientific inventor, stated in the Proceedings
of the Royal Society that it was his habit to get the bearings and facts
of a case during the day and go to bed, and wake the next morning with
the problem solved. If the problem was a difficult one he always passed
a restless night. Examples might be multiplied. Sir Benjamin Brodie,
speaking of his own mental action, states that when he was unable to
proceed further in some investigation he was accustomed to let the
matter drop. Then "after an interval of time, without any addition to my
stock of knowledge, I have found the obscurity and confusion in which
the subject was originally enveloped to have cleared away. The facts
have seemed all to settle themselves in their right places, and their
mutual relations to have become apparent, although I have not been
sensible of having made any distinct effort for that purpose."

Not only is there such a thing, then, as unconscious thought, but it is
probable that the best thinking is rarely, if ever, done under the
influence of consciousness. The poet creates his work when the
inspiration is on him and he is forgetful of himself and the world.
Consciousness may aid in pruning and polishing, but in creating it often
interferes with, rather than helps, the cerebral action. I think any one
of my readers who has done any literary or scientific writing will agree
that his or her best work is performed when self and surrounding objects
have disappeared from thought and consciousness scarcely exists more
than it does in a dream. Sometimes the individual is conscious of the
flow of an undercurrent of mental action, although this does not rise to
the level of distinct recognition. Oliver Wendell Holmes speaks of a
business-man of Boston who, whilst considering a very important
question, was conscious of an action going on in his brain so unusual
and painful as to excite his apprehension that he was threatened with
palsy; but after some hours his perplexity was all at once cleared up by
the natural solution of the problem which was troubling him, worked out,
as he believed, in the obscure and restless interval. "Jumping to a
conclusion," a process to which the female sex is said to be especially
prone, is often due to unconscious cerebration, the reasoning being so
rapid that the consciousness cannot follow the successive steps. It is
related that Lord Mansfield once gave the advice to a younger friend
newly appointed to a colonial judgeship, "Never give reasons for your
decisions. Your judgments will very probably be right, but your reasons
will almost certainly be wrong." The brain of the young judge evidently
worked unconsciously with accuracy, but was unable to trace the steps
along which it really travelled.

We are not left to the unaided study of our mental processes for proof
that the human brain is a mechanism. In the laboratory of Professor
Goltz in Strasburg I saw a terrier from which he had removed, by
repeated experiments, all the surface of the brain, thereby reducing the
animal to a simple automaton. Looked at while lying in his stall, he
seemed at first in no wise different from other dogs: he took food when
offered to him, was fat, sleek and very quiet. When I approached him he
took no notice of me, but when the assistant caught him by the tail he
instantly became the embodiment of fury. He had not sufficient
perceptive power to recognize the point of assault, so that his keeper,
standing behind him, was not in danger. With flashing eyes and hair all
erect the dog howled and barked furiously, incessantly snapping and
biting, first on this side and then on that, tearing with his fore legs
and in every way manifesting rage. When his tail was dropped by the
attendant and his head touched, the storm at once subsided, the fury was
turned into calm, and the animal, a few seconds before so rageful, was
purring like a cat and stretching out its head for caresses. This
curious process could be repeated indefinitely. Take hold of his tail,
and instantly the storm broke out afresh: pat his head, and all was
tenderness. It was possible to play at will with the passions of the
animal by the slightest touches.

During the Franco-German contest a French soldier was struck in the head
with a bullet and left on the field for dead, but subsequently showed
sufficient life to cause him to be carried to the hospital, where he
finally recovered his general health, but remained in a mental state
very similar to that of Professor Goltz's dog. As he walked about the
rooms and corridors of the soldiers' home in Paris he appeared to the
stranger like an ordinary man, unless it were in his apathetic manner.
When his comrades were called to the dinner-table he followed, sat down
with them, and, the food being placed upon his plate and a knife and
fork in his hands, would commence to eat. That this was not done in
obedience to thought or knowledge was shown by the fact that his dinner
could be at once interrupted by awakening a new train of feeling by a
new external impulse. Put a crooked stick resembling a gun into his
hand, and at once the man was seized with a rage comparable to that
produced in the Strasburg dog by taking hold of his tail. The fury of
conflict was on him: with a loud yell he would recommence the skirmish
in which he had been wounded, and, crying to his comrades, would make a
rush at the supposed assailant. Take the stick out of his hand, and at
once his apathy would settle upon him; give him a knife and fork, and,
whether at the table or elsewhere, he would make the motions of eating;
hand him a spade, and he would begin to dig. It is plain that the
impulse produced by seeing his comrades move to the dining-room started
the chain of automatic movements which resulted in his seating himself
at the table. The weapon called into new life the well-known acts of the
battle-field. The spade brought back the day when, innocent of blood, he
cultivated the vineyards of sunny France.

In both the dog and the man just spoken of the control of the will over
the emotions and mental acts was evidently lost, and the mental
functions were performed only in obedience to impulses from
without--i.e. were automatic. The human brain is a complex and very
delicate mechanism, so uniform in its actions, so marvellous in its
creation, that it is able to measure the rapidity of its own processes.
There are scarcely two brains which work exactly with the same rapidity
and ease. One man thinks faster than another man for reasons as purely
physical as those which give to one man a faster gait than that of
another. Those who move quickly are apt to think quickly, the whole
nervous system performing its processes with rapidity. This is not,
however, always the case, as it is possible for the brain to be
differently constructed, so far as concerns its rapidity of action, from
the spinal cord of the same individual. Our power of measuring time
without instruments is probably based upon the cerebral system of each
individual being accustomed to move at a uniform rate. Experience has
taught the brain that it thinks so many thoughts or does so much work in
such a length of time, and it judges that so much time has elapsed when
it has done so much work. The extraordinary sense of prolongation of
time which occurs in the intoxication produced by hasheesh is probably
due to the fact that under the influence of the drug the brain works
very much faster than it habitually does. Having produced a multitude of
images or thoughts in a moment, the organ judges that a corresponding
amount of time has elapsed. Persons are occasionally seen who have the
power of waking at any desired time: going to bed at ten o'clock, they
will rouse themselves at four, five or six in the morning, as they have
made up their minds to do the previous night. The explanation of this
curious faculty seems to be that in these persons the brain-functions go
on with so much regularity during sleep that the brain is enabled to
judge, though unconsciously, when the time fixed upon has arrived, and
by an unconscious effort to recall consciousness.

Of course the subject of automatism might have been discussed at far
greater length than is allowable in the limits of two magazine articles,
but sufficient has probably been said to show the strong current of
modern physiological psychology toward proving that all ordinary mental
actions, except the exercise of the conscious will, are purely physical,
produced by an instrument which works in a method not different from
that in which the glands of the mouth secrete saliva and the tubules of
the stomach gastric juice. Some of my readers may say this is pure
materialism, or at least leads to materialism. No inquirer who pauses to
think how his investigation is going to affect his religious belief is
worthy to be called scientific. The scientist, rightly so called, is a
searcher after truth, whatever may be the results of the discovery of
the truth. Modern science, however, has not proved the truth of
materialism. It has shown that the human organism is a wonderful
machine, but when we come to the further question as to whether this
machine is inhabited by an immortal principle which rules it and directs
it, or whether it simply runs itself, science has not, and probably
cannot, give a definite answer. It has reached its limit of inquiry, and
is unable to cross the chasm that lies beyond. There are men who
believe that there is nothing in the body save the body itself, and that
when that dies all perishes: there are others, like the writer, who
believe that they feel in their mental processes a something which they
call "will," which governs and directs the actions of the machine, and
which, although very largely influenced by external surroundings, is
capable of rising above the impulses from without, leading them to
believe in the existence of more than flesh--of soul and God. The
materialist, so far as natural science is concerned, stands upon logical
ground, but no less logical is the foundation of him who believes in
human free-will and immortality. The decision as to the correctness of
the beliefs of the materialist or of the theist must be reached by other
data than those of natural science.

H.C. WOOD, M.D.




OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

CIVIL-SERVICE REFORM AND DEMOCRATIC IDEAS.


A movement which appeals not to the emotions, but to the
intellect--whose advocates aim at enlightening-the public mind and
convincing it of the truth of some new or disregarded principle, and the
necessity of enforcing it--needs above all things open and active
opposition, both as a stimulant to its supporters and as a means of
arousing general attention. It has been very unfortunate for our
Civil-Service Reformers that they have never been able to provoke
discussion. They have had the field of argument all to themselves. Their
repeated challenges have been received only with silent respect,
scornful indifference, or expressions of encouragement still more
depressing. Those whose hostility they were prepared to encounter have
been the readiest to acknowledge the truth of their propositions--
considered as pure abstractions--and have even invited
them to apply their system--in conjunction with that which it seeks to
supplant. Meanwhile, the popular interest has been kept busily absorbed
by issues of a different nature; and the Reformers, snubbed in quarters
where they had confidently counted on aid, and hustled from the arena in
which they had fondly imagined they were to play a prominent part and
exert a decisive influence, are now, it is announced, about to devote
their energies to the quiet propagation of their views by means of
tracts and other publications, abstaining from any appearance in the
domain of actual politics either as a distinct party or as an organized
body of independent voters appealing to the hopes and fears of existing
parties, and ready to co-operate with one or the other according to the
inducements offered for their support.

We heartily wish them success in this new enterprise, and it is as a
contribution to their efforts that we publish in this number of the
Magazine an article which, so far as our observation extends, is the
first direct argumentative attack upon their doctrines and open defence
of the system they have assailed. We shall not undertake to anticipate
their reply, but I shall content ourselves with pointing out, on the
principle of _fas est ab hoste doceri,_ what they may learn from this
attack, and especially what hints may be derived from it in regard to
the proper objective point of their proposed operations. Hitherto, if we
mistake not, they have been led to suppose that the only obstacles in
their way are the interested antagonism of the "politicians" and the
ignorant apathy of the great mass of the people, and it is because they
have found themselves powerless to make head against the tactics of the
former class that they intend to confine themselves henceforth to the
work of awaking and enlightening the latter. There is always danger,
however, when we are expounding our pet theories to a group of silent
listeners, of ignoring their state of mind in regard to the
subject-matter and mistaking the impression produced by our eloquence.
George Borrow tells us that when preaching in Rommany to a congregation
of Gypsies he felt highly flattered by the patient attention of his
hearers, till he happened to notice that they all had their eyes fixed
in a diabolical squint. Something of the same kind would, we fear, be
the effect on a large number of persons of well-meant expositions of the
English civil-service reform and its admirable results. Nor will any
appeals to the moral sense excite an indignation at the workings of our
present system sufficiently deep and general to demand its overthrow.
Civil-service reform had a far easier task in England than it has here,
and forces at its back which are here actively or inertly opposed to it.
There the system of patronage was intimately connected with
oligarchical rule; official positions were not so much monopolized by a
victorious party as by a privileged class; the government of the day had
little interest in maintaining the system, the bulk of the nation had a
direct interest in upsetting it, and its downfall was a natural result
of the growth of popular power and the decline of aristocracy. Our
system, however similar in its character and effects, had no such
origin; it does not belong to some peculiar institution which we are
seeking to get rid of: on the contrary, it has its roots in certain
conceptions of the nature of government and popular freedom--of the
relations between a people and those who administer its affairs--which
are all but universally current among us.

It is this last point which is clearly and forcibly presented in the
article of our contributor, and which it will behoove the Reformers not
to overlook. Nothing is more characteristic of the American mind, in
reference to political ideas, than its strong conservatism. This fact,
which has often puzzled foreign observers accustomed to connect
democracy with innovating tendencies and violent fluctuations, is yet
easily explained. Though ours is a new country, its system of government
is really older than that of almost any other civilized country. In the
century during which it has existed intact and without any material
modification the institutions of most other nations have undergone a
complete change, in some cases of form and structure, in others of
theory and essence. Even England, which boasts of the stability of its
government and its immunity from the storms that have overturned so many
thrones and disorganized so many states, has experienced a fundamental,
though gradual and peaceable, revolution. There, as elsewhere, the
centre of power has changed, the chain of tradition has been broken, and
new conceptions of the functions of government and its relations to the
governed have taken the place of the old ones. But in America nothing of
this kind has occurred: the "old order" has not passed away, nor have
its foundations undergone the least change; the municipal and colonial
institutions under which we first exercised the right of
self-government, and the Constitution which gave us our national
baptism, are still the fountain of all our political ideas; and our
party struggles are not waged about new principles or animated by new
watch words, but are fenced and guided by the maxims transmitted by the
founders of the republic. This is our strength and our safeguard against
wild experiments, but it is also an impediment to every suggestion of
improvement. It binds us to the letter of tradition, leads us to
confound the accidental with the essential, and gives to certain notions
and certain words a potency which must be described as an anachronism.
We still use the language of the Revolutionary epoch, recognize no
perils but those against which our ancestors had to guard, and put faith
in the efficacy of methods that have no longer an object, and of phrases
that have lost their original significance. Because George III.
distributed offices at his pleasure as rewards, and bound the holders to
party services in conformity with his will, the sovereign people is to
do the same. "Rotation in office" having been the means in the
eighteenth century of dispelling political stagnation and checking
jobbery and corruption, it is still the only process for correcting
abuses and getting the public service properly performed. The prime duty
of all good citizens is to emulate the incessant political activity of
their patriotic forefathers, and it is owing solely to a too general
neglect of this duty that ballot-stuffing and machine-running, and all
the other evils unknown in early days and in primitive communities, have
come into existence and gained sway throughout the land. These and
similar views, according to our observation, characterize what we may
without disrespect, and without confining the remark to the rural
districts, term the provincial mind, and wherever they exist the ideas
of the Civil-Service Reformers are not only not understood or treated as
visionary, but are regarded with aversion and distrust as foreign,
monstrous and inconsistent with popular freedom and republican
government.


AN UNFINISHED PAGE OF HISTORY.

I can easily understand why educated Americans cross the Atlantic every
year in shoals in search of the picturesque; and I can understand, too,
all that they say of the relief which ivied ruins and cathedrals and
galleries, or any other reminders of past ages, give to their eyes,
oppressed so long by our interminable rows of store-box houses, our
pasteboard villas, the magnificence of our railway accommodations for
Ladies and Gents, and all the general gaseous glitter which betrays how
young and how rich we are. But I cannot understand why it is that their
eyes, thus trained, should fail to see the exceptional picturesqueness
of human life in this country. The live man is surely always more
dramatic and suggestive than a house or a costume, provided we have eyes
to interpret him; and this people, as no other, are made up of the
moving, active deposits and results of world-old civilizations and
experiments in living.

Outwardly, if you choose, the country is like one of the pretentious
houses of its rich citizens--new, smug, complacently commonplace--but
within, like the house again, it is filled with rare bits gathered out
of every age and country and jumbled together in utter confusion. If you
ride down Seventh street in a horse-car, you are in a psychological
curio-shop. On one side, very likely, is a Russian Jew just from the
Steppes; on the other, a negro with centuries of heathendom and slavery
hinting themselves in lip and eye; the driver is a Fenian, with the
blood of the Phoenicians in his veins; in front of you is a gentleman
with the unmistakable Huguenot nose, and chin; while an almond-eyed
pagan, disguised behind moustache and eye-glasses, courteously takes
your fare and drops it for you in the Slawson box. Nowhere do all the
elements of Tragedy and Comedy play so strange a part as on the
dead-level of this American stage. It is because it is so dead a level
that we fail to see the part they play--because "furious Goth and fiery
Hun" meet, not on the battle-field, but in the horse-car, dropping their
cents together in a Slawson box.

For example, as to the tragedy.

I met at dinner not long ago a lady who was introduced to me under a
French name, but whose clear olive complexion, erect carriage and
singular repose of manner would indicate her rather to be a Spaniard.
She wore a red rose in the coils of her jetty hair, and another fastened
the black lace of her corsage. Her eyes, which were slow, dark and
brilliant, always rested on you an instant before she spoke with that
fearless candor which is not found in the eyes of a member of any race
that has ever been enslaved. I was told that her rank was high among her
own people, and in her movements and voice there were that quiet
simplicity and total lack of self-consciousness which always belong
either to a man or woman of the highest breeding, or to one whose
purpose in life is so noble as to lift him above all considerations of
self. Although a foreigner, she spoke English with more purity than most
of the Americans at the table, but with a marked and frequent recurrence
of forcible but half-forgotten old idioms; which was due, as! learned
afterward, to her having had no book of English literature to study for
several years but Shakespeare. I observed that she spoke but seldom, and
to but one person at a time; but when she did, her casual talk was the
brimming over of a mind of great original force as yet full and unspent.
She was, besides, a keen observer who had studied much, but seen more.

This lady, in a word, was one who would deserve recognition by the best
men and women in any country; and she received it here, as many of the
readers of _Lippincott_, who will recognize my description, will
remember. She was caressed and feted by literary and social celebrities
in Washington and New York; Boston made much of her; Longfellow and
Holmes made verses in her honor; prying reporters gave accounts of her
singular charm and beauty to the public in the daily papers.

She was accompanied by two of the men of her family. They did not speak
English, but they were men of strong practical sense and business
capacity, with the odd combination in their character of that
exaggerated perception of honorable dealing which we are accustomed to
call chivalric. They had, too, a grave dignity and composure of bearing
which would have befitted Spanish hidalgos, and beside which our pert,
sociable American manner and slangy talk were sadly belittled. These men
(for I had a reason in making particular inquiries concerning them) were
in private life loyal friends, good citizens, affectionate husbands and
fathers--in a word, Christian men, honest from the marrow to the
outside.

Now to the strange part of my story, revolting enough to our republican
ears. This lady and her people, in the country to which they belong, are
held in a subjection to which that of the Russian serf was comparative
freedom. They are held legally as the slaves not of individuals, but of
the government, which has absolute power over their persons, lives and
property. Its manner of exercising that power is, however, peculiar.
They are compelled to live within certain enclosures. Each enclosure is
ruled by a man of the dominant race, usually of the lower class, who, as
a rule, gains the place by bribing the officer of government who has
charge of these people. The authority of this man within the limits of
the enclosure is literally as autocratic as that of the Russian czar. He
distributes the rations intended by the government for the support of
these people, or such part of them as he thinks fit, retaining whatever
amount he chooses for himself. There is nothing to restrain him in these
robberies. In consequence, the funds set aside by the government for the
support of its wretched dependants are stolen so constantly by the
officers at the capital and the petty tyrants of the separate enclosures
that the miserable creatures almost yearly starve and freeze to death
from want. Their resource would be, of course, as they are in a
civilized country, to work at trades, to farm, etc. But this is not
permitted to them. Another petty officer is appointed in each enclosure
to barter goods for the game or peltry which they bring in or crops that
they manage to raise. He fixes his own price for both his goods and
theirs, and cheats them by wholesale at his leisure. There is no appeal:
they are absolutely forbidden to trade with any other person. The men of
my friend's family--educated men and shrewd in business as any merchant
of Philadelphia--when at home were liable to imprisonment and a fine of
five hundred dollars if they bought from or sold to any other person
than this one man. They are, too, taught no trade or profession. Each
enclosure has its appointed blacksmith, carpenter, etc. of the dominant
class, who, naturally, will not share their profits by teaching their
trade to the others.

Within the enclosures my friend and her people, no matter how
enlightened or refined they may be, are herded, and under the same
rules, as so many animals. They cannot leave the enclosure without
passes, such as were granted to our slaves before the war when they
wished to go outside of the plantation. This woman, when seated at
President Hayes's table, the equal in mind and breeding of any of her
companions, was, by the laws of her country, a runaway, legally liable
to be haled by the police back to her enclosure, and shot if she
resisted. She and her people are absolutely unprotected by any law. It
is indeed the only case, so far as I know, in any Christian country, in
which a single class are so set aside, unprotected by any law. When our
slaves were killed or tortured by inhuman masters, there was at least
some show of justice for them. The white murderer went through some form
of trial and punishment. The slave, though a chattel, was still a human
being. But these people are not recognized by the law as human beings.
They cannot buy nor sell; they cannot hold property: if with their own
hands they build a house and gather about them the comforts of
civilization and the wife and children to which the poorest negro, the
most barbarous savage, has a right, any man of the dominant class can,
without violating any law, take possession of the house, ravage the
wife and thrust the children out to starve. The wrong-doer is subject to
no penalty. The victim has no right of appeal to the courts. Hence such
outrages are naturally of daily occurrence. Not only are they
perpetrated on individuals, but frequently there is a raid made upon the
whole of the inmates of one enclosure--whenever, in fact, the people in
the neighborhood fancy they would like to take possession of their land.
The kinsmen of my friend, with their clan numbering some seven hundred
souls--a peaceable, industrious Christian community, living on land
which had belonged to their ancestors for centuries--were swept off of
it a few years ago at the whim of two of their rulers: their houses and
poor little belongings were all left behind, and they were driven a
thousand miles into a sterile, malarious region where nearly half of
their number died. The story of their sufferings, their homesickness and
their despair on the outward journey, and of how still later some thirty
of them returned on foot, carrying the bones of those who had died to
lay them in their old homes, is one of the most dramatic pages in
history. De Quincey's "Flight of a Tartar Clan" does not equal it in
pathos or as a story of heroism and endurance. At the end of their
homeward journey, when almost within sight of their homes, the heroic
little band were seized by order of the ruler of their enclosure and
committed to prison. The tribe are still in the malarious swamps to
which they were exiled. Strangers hold their farms and the houses which
they built with their own hands.

The anomalous condition of a people legally ranking as animals, and not
human beings, would naturally produce unpleasant consequences when they
are criminally the aggressors. When they steal or kill they cannot be
tried, sent to jail or hung as if they were human in the eye of the law.
The ruler of each enclosure is granted arbitrary power in such cases to
punish at his discretion. He is judge, jury, and often executioner. He
has a control over the lives of these people more absolute than that of
any Christian monarch over his subjects. If he thinks proper to shoot
the offender, he can call upon the regular army of the country to
sustain him. If the individual offender escapes, the whole of the
inmates of the enclosure are held responsible, and men, women and
children are slaughtered by wholesale and without mercy.

My readers understand my little fable by this time. It is no fable, but
a disgraceful truth.

The government under which a people--many of whom are educated,
enlightened Christian gentlemen--are denied the legal rights of human
beings and all protection of law is not the absolute despotism of Siara
or Russia, but the United States, the republic which proclaims itself
the refuge for the oppressed of all nations--the one spot on earth where
every man is entitled alike to life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness. The only people in the world to whom it denies these rights
are not its quondam slaves, not pagans, not runaway convicts, not the
offscourings of any nation however degraded, but the original owners of
the country.

The legal disability under which the Indian is held is as much of an
outrage on human rights, and as bald a contradiction of the doctrines on
which our republic is based, as negro slavery was.

R.H.D.




A LITTLE IRELAND IN AMERICA.


The humorous side of life was never more vividly brought before me than
while living a few years ago in the vicinity of an Irish settlement in
one of the suburbs of New York. What we call "characters" were to be
found in every cottage--the commonplace was the exception. Indeed, I do
not remember that it existed at all in "The Lane," as this locality was
called.

Perhaps among the inhabitants of The Lane none more deserved distinction
than Mary Magovern. The grandmother of a numerous family, she united all
the masculine and feminine virtues. About the stiff, spotless and
colossal frill of her cap curled wreaths of smoke from her stout
dhudeen as she sat before the door blacking the small boots of her
grandchildren, stopping from time to time to remove the pipe from her
mouth, that she might deliver in her full bass voice a peremptory order
to the large yellow dog that lay at her feet. It was usually on the
occasion of a carriage passing, when the dog would growl and rise. Very
quickly out came the pipe, and immediately followed the words, "Danger,
lay by thim intintions;" and the pipe was used as an indicator for the
next movement--namely, to patiently lie down again upon the ground.

Mary Magovern kept a drinking-shop behind the living-rooms of her
cottage, and the immense prestige she had in The Lane must have had some
foundation in the power which this thriving business gave her, many of
her neighbors being under the obligation of debt to her.

Mike Quinlan would have been her most frequent visitor had it not been
for the ever-open eye of Mrs. Quinlan, which caused her husband to seek
his delights by stealth at a village a mile away. Mike was an elderly
and handsome man, but his wits had ebbed out as the contents of the
wine-cup flowed in, and the beauty that had won so remarkable a person
as Mrs. Quinlan in its first glow was somewhat marred. He was the owner
of a small cart and a mule, and those who had stones or earth to move
usually remembered to employ poor Mike. But it was on foot, as a more
inconspicuous method of eluding the watchfulness of Mrs. Quinlan, that
Mike slipped away to the neighboring village of an afternoon, and it was
on foot that I one night saw Mrs. Quinlan going over the same road with
an invincible determination in her countenance and a small birch rod in
her hand. Mrs. Quinlan was somewhat younger than her lord and master:
she had a clear, bright-blue eye, a roseate color in her little slender
face, and gray hair tidily smoothed back beneath the dainty ruffles of
her cap, about which a black ribbon was tied. She wore short petticoats
and low shoes, and as she walked briskly along she smoothed her apron
with the disengaged hand, as if, the balance of the family
respectability having so wholly fallen upon her own shoulders, she would
not disturb it by permitting a disorderly wrinkle. Half an hour later
she passed again over the road, her face turned homeward and wearing an
even greater austerity, the birch rod grasped firmly in her hand, and
her worser half preceding her with a foolish smile upon his lips, half
of concession, half of pride in the power to which he stooped.

Another of Mrs. Magovern's occasional visitors was Old Haley, who had
regular employment upon our own place. Like Mike Quinlan, he rejoiced in
a wife who was an ornament to her sex--a most respectable, handsome and
intelligent woman, though education had done little to sharpen her wits
or widen her experience. She could tell a one from a five dollar bill,
as her husband would proudly inform you, and she could cook a dinner, do
up a skirt or a frilled cap, keep a house or tend a sick friend, as well
as any woman in the land. "Maggie's a janeous!" her husband would remark
with a look of intense admiration.

One evening Mrs. Haley made her appearance at our house, asking for an
audience of my mother. The object was to inform her--these sympathetic
people like to be advised in all their affairs--that being in need of
various household supplies she proposed on the following day to go to
the city and purchase them at the Washington Market.

"I suppose you have been to the city before, Mrs. Haley?" remarked my
mother.

"I have not, ma'am," said Mrs. Haley.

"Had you not better take some friend with you who has been there before,
lest you should get lost?"

"Faith, I had, ma'am: I had a right to have moor sinse an' think o'
that."

So Mrs. Haley departed, returning again in company with Mary Magovern:
"Here's Mary Magovern, ma'am: she's goin' along wid me."

"Ah, that's very well.--You know the city, Mary? you've been there?"

"I have not, ma'am."

"Why, what, then, is the use of your going with Mrs. Haley?"

"We'll make a shtrict inquiry, ma'am."

The next morning they started, and at four o'clock Old Haley came in
much anxiety of mind to seek comfort of my mother: "Maggie's not come,
ma'am. Faith, I'm throubled, for the city is a quare place."

When it grew late Haley returned again and again, in ever-increasing
anxiety, to be reassured. At last, when the family were retiring to bed,
came Mrs. Haley and Mrs. Magovern to report their arrival. In spite of
the lateness of the hour my mother received them, and in spite of their
wearied and worn faces administered a gentle rebuke for the anxiety that
Mrs. Haley had caused her spouse.

"Well, indade it's no wonder he was throubled," said Mrs. Haley, "an'
it's a wonder we got here at all. We got nothing at the Washington
Market, for we couldn't find it at all: I think they tuk it away to
Washington. It was in the mornin' airly that we got to the city, ma'am,
an' there was a koind of a carr, an' a gintleman up on the top of it,
an' anuther gintleman at the dure of it, wid the dure in his hand, an'
he sez, sez he, 'Git in, ladies,' sez he.--'We're goin' to the
Washington Market, sur,' sez I.--That's where I'll take yez, ladies,'
sez he. 'Pay yer fares, ladies.' An' we got in, ma'am, an' wint up to
the top of the city, an' paid tin cints, the both of us. An' there was a
great many ladies an' gintlemen got in an' done the same, ma'am, an'
some got out one place an' some another. An' whin we got up to the top
of the city, 'Mrs. Magovern,' sez I,' this isn't the Washington Market,'
sez I.--' It is not, Mrs. Haley,' sez she.--'We'll git out, Mrs.
Magovern,' sez I.--'We will, Mrs. Haley,' sez she. An' thin, ma'am,
there was a small bit of a howl in the carr, and it was through the howl
the ladies an' gintlemen would cry out to the gintleman on the top o'
the carr, and he'd put his face down forninst it an' spake wid thim; an'
I cried up through the howl to him, an' sez I, 'Me an' Mrs. Magovern
will git out, sur,' sez I, 'for this isn't the Washington Market at
all.'--'It is not, ma'am,' sez he, 'but that's where I'll take yez,' sez
he. 'Sit down, ladies,' sez he, 'and pay me the money,' sez he. 'I had a
great many paple to lave,' sez he. An' indade he had, ma'am. An' we paid
the money agin, an' we wint down to the bottom o' the city. 'This is not
the Washington Market, Mrs. Magovern,' sez I.--'It is not, Mrs. Haley,'
sez she.--'We'll git out, Mrs. Magovern,' sez I.--'We will, Mrs. Haley,'
sez she. Thin came the gintleman that first had the dure in his hand.
'What's the matther, ladies?' sez he.--'This isn't the Washington
Market, sur,' sez I.--'It is not, ma'am,' sez he, 'but the city is a
great place,' sez he, 'an' it's not aisy to go everywhere at wonst,' sez
he; 'an' if yez will have patience,' sez he, 'ye'll git there,' sez he.
'Git in, ladies,' sez he, 'an' pay yer fares.' Wid all the houses
there's in the city, an' all the sthrates there's in it, faith, it was
no good at all to thry to foind our way alone; but thim wur false
paple--they niver took us to the Washington Market at all; an' it was
all the day we wint up to the top o' the city and down to the bottom o'
the city, and spinding our money at it. An' sez I, 'Mrs. Magovern, it
would be better for us if we wint home,' sez I.--'It would, Mrs. Haley,'
sez she; an' we come down to the boat, an' it was two hours agin befoor
the boat would go, an' thin we come home; an' it's toired we are, an'
it's an' awful place, the city is."

Haley's statements could seldom be relied on, but his untruth fulness
was never a matter of self-interest, but rather of amiability. He
desired to tell you whatever you desired to know, and to tell it as you
would like to hear it, even if facts were so perverse as to be contrary.

One day I wanted to do an errand in the village, and called for the
horse and carriage. Haley brought them to the door. As I took the reins
I remembered that it was noon and the horse's dinner-time: "Did the
horse have his dinner, Haley?"

"I just gave it to him, ma'am; and an ilegint dinner he had."

"Why did you feed him just when I was about to drive him?"

"Oh, well, it's not much he got."

"He should have had nothing."

"Faith, me lady, I ownly showed it to him."

There were no more respectable people in The Lane than John Godfrey and
his family. His pretty little wife with an anxious face tenderly watched
over an ever-increasing family of daughters, till on one most
providential occasion the expected girl turned out to be a boy, and I
went with my sisters to congratulate the happy mother. "What will you
name the little fellow, Mrs. Godfrey?" I asked, sympathetically.

The poor woman looked up with a smile, saying weakly, "John Pathrick,
miss--John afther the father, an' Pathrick afther the saint."

The following year the same unexpected luck brought another boy, and
again we young girls, being much at leisure, carried our
congratulations: "What will be the name of this little boy, Mrs.
Godfrey?"

"Pathrick John, miss--Pathrick afther the saint, an' John afther the
father."

A confused sense of having heard that sentence before came over me.
"Why, Mrs. Godfrey," I said, "was not that the name of your last child?"

"To be shure, miss. Why would I be trating one betther than the other?"

A member of this same family, upon receiving a blow with a stone in the
eye, left her somewhat overcrowded paternal home for the quieter
protection of her widowed aunt, Mrs. King, and one day my sister and
myself knocked at Mrs. King's door to inquire about the state of the
injured organ.

"Troth, miss, it's very bad," said Mrs. King.

"What do you do for it, Mrs. King?"

"Do?" said Mrs. King, suddenly applying the corner of her apron to her
overflowing eyes--"Do?" she continued in a broken voice. "I've been
crying these three days."

"But what do you do to make it better?"

Mrs. King took heart, folded her arms, and thus applied herself to the
setting forth of her humane exertions: "In comes Mistress Magovern,
an', 'Mrs. King,' sez she, 'put rar bafesteak to the choild's oye;' an'
that minit, ma'am, the rar bafesteak wint to it. Thin comes Mrs. Haley.
'Is it rar bafesteak ye'd be putting to it, Mrs. King?' sez she. 'Biling
clothes, Mrs. King,' sez she. That minit, ma'am, the rar bafesteak come
afif an' the biling clothes wint to it. In comes Mrs. Quinlan. 'Will ye
be destryin' the choild's oye intirely, Mrs. King?' sez she. 'Cowld ice,
Mrs. King.' An' that minit, ma'am, the biling clothes come aff an' the
cowld ice wint to it. Oh, I do be doin' iverything anybody do tell me."

It was a memorable sight to see the Gunning twins wandering down The
Lane hand in hand when their maternal relative had gone out washing for
the day and taken the door-key with her. "Thim lads is big enough to
take care of thimsilves," she would remark, though "the lads" were not
yet capable of coherent speech. No doubt they wandered into some
neighbor's at meal-time and received a willingly-given potato or a drink
of milk. They seemed happy enough, and their funny, ugly little faces
were defaced by no tears. They grew in time old enough to explain their
position to inquiring passers-by and to pick up and eat an amazing
quantity of green apples. A lady passing one day stopped and
remonstrated with one of them. "Barney," she said, "it will make you ill
if you eat those green apples."--"I do be always atin' of them, ma'am,"
replied Barney, stolidly.

Perhaps it may have been the green apples, but from whatever cause
Barney fell ill, and all that the doctor prescribed made him no better.
"It's no matther, stir," said Mrs. Gunning one morning: "yer needn't
come ag'in. I'll just go an' ask Mrs. ------" (my mother).

The next morning the doctor, meeting my mother, laughingly remarked
that it was very plain that they couldn't practise in the same
district: he had just met Mrs. Gunning, who informed him that "what
Mrs. ------ gave her the night befoor done the choild a power of good."

The day preceding our departure from the place my sister and I passed
through The Lane, and received the most amiable farewells, accompanied
with blessings, and even tears. The figure I best remember is that of
Mrs. Regan, who, bursting out from her doorway, stood in our path, and,
dissolving in tears, sobbed out, "Faith, I'm sorry yez be goin'. I don't
know what I'll do at all widout yez;" and, seizing my sister's hand,
gave her this unique recommendation: "Ye were always passing by
mannerly--niver sassy nor impidint, nor nothing."

The Lane has changed to-day. A Chinese grocer has, I hear, set up a shop
in its midst. Some of its most noted characters have passed away, and
the younger generation have taken on habits more American than those of
their predecessors.

M.R.O.




A CHILD'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


A quaint and charming volume, which has fallen in our way, is _Little
Charlie's Life_, "the autobiography of a child between six and seven
years of age, written with his own hand and without any assistance
whatever." It was at the urgent request of the gentleman who acted as
editor, Rev. W.R. Clark--thus rescuing an inimitable little work from
comparative oblivion--that the parents of the youthful author
reluctantly consented to the publication of this curious delineation of
child-life. From the date of his birth (1833), Charlie must have written
his work some forty years ago. How long he was engaged in its
composition is not stated, but from the internal evidence yielded by the
spelling and the handwriting (for the work is lithographed in exact
imitation of the manuscript) we should infer that it occupied two or
three years, the handwriting of the first seven chapters being in
imitation of ordinary printing, while the remaining chapters appear in
an ordinary schoolboy's hand. We may add that it is copiously
illustrated by himself, and that the illustrations are worth their
weight in gold, supplementing as they do, in a superfluously exact and
curiously quaint manner, this most unique work.

He starts with this account of himself: "My name is Charles John Young,
and I was born in Amfort, a pretty village in Hampshire, 1833 in July,
that pleasant time when the birds sing merrily and flowers bloom
sweetly. My father and mother are the kindest in the world, and I love
them dearly and both alike. I shall give a description of them by and
by. In the mean time I shall just say that my papa is a clergyman."

The earlier chapters describe the various migrations of the family from
one parish to another, and from them we have no difficulty in
recognizing in "papa" the Rev. Julian Young, who possessed no small
share of the talents that distinguished _his_ father, the celebrated
tragedian, Charles Young, and which seem to have been transmitted to our
author, who, we understand, has honorably served his country in Her
Majesty's army. From his earliest years Charlie seems to have been
strongly influenced by religious feelings. His creed was a bright and
trustful one, a realization of God's presence and of the need of
speaking to Him as to one who could always hear and help. When he was
about three years old, we are told in the editor's interesting preface,
he was often heard offering up little petitions for the supply of his
child-like wants. Once, when, his nurse left him to fetch some more
milk, his father overheard him saying, "O God, please let there be
enough milk in the jug for me to have some more, for Jesus Christ's
sake. Amen." Many quaint little religious reflections and scriptural
allusions are interspersed throughout the book. In one place he declares
that "without papa and mamma the garden would be to me what the
wilderness was to John the Baptist;" while again he offers up a pathetic
prayer for a baby-brother; and throughout we are struck by the fact that
his religion was pre-eminently one of love. Charlie's educational
advantages were of the noblest and best, home-training largely
predominating. In the ninth chapter he refers in a simple matter-of-fact
way to his early studies: "Mamma devotes her time in teaching me and in
reading instructive books with me. Papa tells me about the productions
of the earth, rivers, mountains, valleys, mines, and, most wonderful of
all, the formation of the human body." Further on we read: "Nothing of
any great importance occurred now for some time. My life was spent
quietly in the country, as the child of a Wiltshire clergyman ought,
mamma devoting her time in teaching me, and my daily play going on the
same, till at last papa and mamma took me to the splendid capital of
England." However much this brilliant transition may have dazzled him,
he still prefers his quiet country home, arguing thus: "As to living
there [in London], I should not like it. The reason why--because its
noisy riots in the streets suit not my mood like the tranquil streams
and the waving trees I love in England's country.... 'Tis true--oh, how
true!--in the poetic words of Mr. Shakespeare, 'Man made the town, God
made the country.'"

Despite the stilted style and absurdly pompous descriptions, with an
occasional terrible breakdown, Charlie's love of Nature, and especially
of the animal creation, seems to have been most genuine. He speaks of
"the wide ocean which when angry roars and clashes over the beach, but
when calm crabs are seen crawling on the shore and the sun shines bright
over the waves," and of "the billows rolling over each other and foaming
over the rough stones," with an apparently real enthusiasm. The softer
emotions of his nature were engrossed in this way, as we infer from the
negative evidence afforded by his autobiography that he reached his
seventh year without any experience of the tender passion.

His physiological ideas in the speculations regarding the origin of a
baby-brother are naïvely expressed: "One day I was told that a baby was
born [this was when he was three years and a half old], and upon going
into mamma's bedroom I saw a red baby lying in an arm-chair wrapped in
swaddling-clothes. It puzzled me very much to think how he came into the
world: it was mysterious, very, and I cannot make it out now. My first
thought was, that he must have had airy wings, and after he had come
they had disappeared. My second thought was that he was so very little
as to be able to come through the keyhole, and increased rapidly in
size, just as it says in the Bible that a grain of mustard-seed springs
to be so large a tree that the fowls of the air can roost upon it."

In his sixth year Charlie evinced poetic tendencies. We have in one of
his poems a description of his grandpapa, "a venerable old gentleman
with dark eyes, gray hair, noble features, and altogether very generous
aspect." Here is "a song appropriate to him:"

  Oh, venerable is our old ancestor--
        Cloud on his brow,
        Lightning in his eyes,
  His gray hair streaming in the wind.
        To children ever kind,
        To merit never blind,--
  Oh, such is our old ancestor,
  With hair that streameth wild.

At the head of this poem is a picture of the old ancestor, consisting of
a hat, a head, a walking-stick, one arm and two legs, one of
which--whether the right or left is doubtful, as their origin is
concealed by the aforesaid arm--is much longer than the other, and
walking in a contrary direction. The most wonderful feature of this
sketch is the "hair streaming in the wind," the distance from the poll
to the end of the flowing locks being longer than the longest leg.

We cannot conclude without an extract describing a "dreadful accident"
which happened to our youthful author; "perhaps," as he solemnly says,
"for a punishment of my sins, or to show me that Death stands ready at
the door to snatch my life away:" "One night papa had been conjuring a
penny, and I thought _I_ should like to conjure; so I took a round brass
thing with a verse out of the Bible upon it that I brought into bed with
me. I thought it went down papa's throat, so _I_ put it down _my_ throat,
and I was pretty near choked. I called my nurse, who was in the next
room. She fetched up papa, and then my nurse brought the basin. Papa
beat my back, and I was sick. _Lo! there was the counter!_ Papa said,
'Good God!' and my nurse fainted, but soon recovered. Don't you think
papa was very clever when he beat my back? Papa then had a long talk
afterward with me about it--a very serious one."

The above pathetic story is accurately illustrated, but we especially
regret that we cannot transfer to these pages some of the marvellous
delineations of the animals in the Clifton Zoological Garden.

M.S.D.




WANTED--A REAL GAINSBOROUGH.


I am an unmarried man of twenty-four. After that confession it is hardly
necessary to add that I am in the habit of thinking a great deal about a
person not yet embodied into actual existence--i.e. my future wife. I
have not yet met her--she is a purely ideal being--but at the same time
I so often have a vivid conception of her looks, her air, her walk, her
tones even, that she seems to be present. My misery is that I cannot
find her in real life.

No one need fancy that I am an imaginative man: quite the contrary is
the fact. I am a lawyer, and have an office in Bond street. Every
morning at eight o'clock I take the Sixth Avenue horse-cars and ride
down to Fourteenth street. I have a fancy for walking the rest of the
way, and toward evening I saunter back homeward along Broadway and Union
Square.

Prosaic as these journeys may seem, they are nevertheless the
inspiration of my hopes, the feeders of my visions. It is at such times
that I enjoy my glimpses of the lady I long to meet. I jostle gentle
creatures at every step: feminine shapes and feminine tones are on every
side presented to eyes and ears. I trust nobody will be prejudiced
against me when I confess that I see the fair one of my dreams in the
shop-windows. Once having seen her, I become immeasurably happy, and go
on dreaming about her until we meet again. It may seem a curious
admission, but this beautiful although impalpable being is suggested by
the charming dresses, hats and bonnets displayed on the milliners'
blocks. None of our artists can paint portraits now-a-days: Art seems to
have withdrawn her gifts from them and endowed the dressmakers and
milliners instead.

It was at first difficult for me to decide on the personality of my
beloved. My earliest fancy was for a blond: at least the dress was of
pale blue silk with a profusion of lace trimmings. Her hat was of straw
faced with azure velvet, and the crown surrounded by a long plume, also
of ciel blue. I knew by heart the features of this fair young creature,
invisible although she was to others. They seemed to belong more to a
flower than to a face: her eyes were large and blue, full of appealing
love; her hair was of course golden; her smile was angelic; and her
whole expression was one of sweetness and goodness. She was my first
dream: little although she belonged to actual life, she used to trip
about by my side and sit with me in my room at home. Suddenly, however,
I became enamored of a different creature, and my dream changed. I began
to think of my lovely blond regretfully as of a beautiful creature too
good for earth who died young. It is the habit of the shopkeepers to
change the figures in their windows, and one morning I fell in love with
quite a different creature. She wore when I first saw her a long dress
of black silk and velvet sparkling with jet; over her shoulders was
thrown carelessly a mantle of cream-colored cloth; on her head was a
plush hat--what they call a Gainsborough--trimmed with a long graceful
plume, also of cream-color. Although only her back was toward me, I knew
by instinct exactly what her face was. She was dark of course, with a
low broad forehead, about which clustered little short curls; her eyes
were superb, at once laughing and melancholy; her features suggested
rather pride than softness; but her smile was enchanting, open, sunny,
like a burst of light from behind a cloud. Nothing could be more real
than this vision. At first the discovery of this magnificently-endowed
woman rendered me happy: I used to walk past the shop half a dozen
times a day to look at her. Her costumes varied, but they always
suggested the same dark but brilliant lineaments, the same graceful
movements, the same peculiarly lovely tones. She often looked back at me
over her shoulder, but had an air of evading me. All at once, with
surprise and delight, I remembered that she might be found in actual
existence, in real flesh and blood. I deserted the image for a week in
the hope of finding the reality. I paced Fifth Avenue; I went to the
dry-goods stores; I attended the theatres. Often I seemed to see her
before me--the picturesque hat, the long plume, the rich mantle and
dress. At such moments while I pressed forward my heart beat. When the
cheek turned toward me and the eyes lighted up with surprise at my
disappointed stare, it was easy enough to see that I had made a mistake.
There was the hat, the cloak, the bewitching little frippiness of lace
and net and ribbon about the bust. She had, however, copied the
masterpiece without investing herself with its soul: her face was vague
and characterless, her whole personality void of that eloquent
womanliness which had so wrought upon me. This experience was so many
times repeated that I was frightfully tormented by it. The familiar
dress seemed to reveal with appalling truthfulness the lack of those
qualities of heart and soul which I demanded. Those lovely, picturesque
outlines suggest not only rounded cheeks colored with girlish bloom, but
something more; and the graceful draping is not a meaningless husk.

I have gone back to my shop-window image. She never disappoints me. She
is as beautiful, as magnificently endowed, as full of fascinating life
and spirit, as ever. I sometimes think, unless I find her actual
prototype, of buying that Gainsborough hat, that cloth mantle and velvet
dress, and hanging them up in my room.




LITERATURE OF THE DAY.


     History of the English People. By John Richard Green. New York:
     Harper & Brothers.

Most readers interested in English history have long felt the need of
such a work as this, in which the results of recent research among
original sources and of the critical examination of earlier labors are
gathered up and summarized in a narrative at once clear and concise,
free from disquisition, minuteness of detail and elaborate descriptions,
without being meagre or superficial, devoid of suggestiveness or of
animation. In calling his work a _History of the English People_, Mr.
Green has not undertaken to deviate from the beaten track, devoting his
attention to social development and leaving political affairs in the
background. What he has evidently had in view is the fact that English
history is in a special sense that of the rise and growth of free
institutions, exhibiting at every stage the mutual influence or combined
action of different classes, permeated even when the Crown or the
aristocracy was most powerful by a popular spirit, and contrasting in
this respect with that of France and Spain, in which during many
centuries the mass of the people lost instead of gaining ground,
representative bodies analogous to the English Parliament were deprived
of their rights or swept out of existence, and liberty was sacrificed to
national consolidation and unity. Whence this difference came need
hardly be pointed out. The Angles, Saxons and Jutes were neither freer
nor more enterprising than the Franks and other Teutonic families; but
the fortune which carried them to Britain saved them from inheriting any
onerous share of the great legacy of the Roman Empire--with the task of
absorbing and transmitting its language and civilization--secured them
against the risk of being either merged in a more numerous race or
submerged by a new influx, and thus preserved an identity and continuity
which link their latest achievements with their earliest exploits, and
stamp their whole career with the same character.

With such a subject, Mr. Green has had no difficulty in so marking its
divisions as to concentrate attention on successive epochs without
dropping the thread that runs through the whole. The earlier portions of
his work are naturally the most instructive and the fullest of interest.
The last volume, indeed, which covers the ground from the Revolution to
the battle of Waterloo, besides including the index to the whole work,
gives far too rapid a survey of momentous and familiar events to afford
profit or satisfaction. One feels that, while the style retains its
fluency, the tone has lost its warmth, and that much of the writing must
have been perfunctory: the reading, at all events, cannot but be so. But
scarcely any one, however well acquainted with the ground, can follow
without pleasure and an enlargement of view Mr. Green's account of
"Early England," "England under Foreign Kings," "The Charter" and "The
Parliament" (from 1307 to 1461), which form the subjects of the first
four books; while the next four, occupying the second and third volumes,
and entitled "The Monarchy," "The Reformation," "Puritan England" and
"The Revolution," are marked by a grasp of thought, a fine sense of
proportion, a thorough knowledge and well-balanced judgment of men and
events, and not unfrequently a dramatic force, which sustain the
interest throughout, and which make them a valuable addition, and
sometimes a necessary corrective, to the fuller and more brilliant
narratives in which the same periods and subjects have been separately
treated.

Mr. Green does not appear to have gone deeply into the study of original
sources, but it is only in his incidental treatment of continental
history that his deficiencies in this respect become palpable. Here he
is often inaccurate, and even when his facts are correct his mode of
stating them shows that he is not master of the whole field, and has
little appreciation of mingled motives and attendant circumstances. Such
a sentence as this: "The restoration of the towns on the Somme to
Burgundy, the cession of Normandy to the king's brother, Francis, the
hostility of Brittany, not only detached the whole western coast from
the hold of Lewis, but forced its possessors to look for aid to the
English king who lay in their rear," could not have been written with
any clear ideas of either the political or the geographical relations
of the places mentioned. What is meant by the "western coast"? Not,
certainly, the towns on the Somme, which lie in the north-east, nor
Normandy, which has indeed a western coast of its own, but cannot be
said to form part of the western coast of France. Nor does Brittany
include "the _whole_ western coast," or even the larger portion of it,
while it could not have been "detached from the hold of Lewis," inasmuch
as he had never held it. As little will that remark apply to the other
provinces on the western coast, as these were still in his possession.
Who are meant, therefore, by the "possessors" of this misty coast, and
why the English king is said to have lain "in their rear," can only be
conjectured. It is a small blunder that the French king's brother is
called "Francis" instead of Charles, since we must not suspect Mr. Green
of confounding him with the duke of Brittany, who bore the former name.
But the whole passage, in connection with what follows it, indicates
that the author has mixed up the state of affairs at two very close, but
very distinct, conjunctures. Many similar instances of defective
knowledge might be cited, nor are they confined to this early period.
The remark, in regard to Charles of Austria (the emperor Charles V.),
that "the madness of his mother left him _next heir_ of Castille" is
nonsense: he was her heir in any case, while through her madness he
became nominally joint, and virtually sole, ruler of the kingdom. His
son Philip had not been "twice a widower" when he married Mary of
England, and the assertion that "he owed his victory at Gravelines
mainly to the opportune arrival of ten English ships of war" is
patriotic, but foolish. That "Catholicism alone united the burgher of
the Netherlands to the noble of Castille, or Milanese and Neapolitan to
the Aztec of Mexico and Peru," would be an incomprehensible statement
even if Peru had been inhabited by the Aztecs. Such errors, however,
cannot seriously impair the value of Mr. Green's work. Its merits, as
regards both matter and form, are solid and varied. The scale on which
it was planned adapts it admirably to the gap which it was intended to
fill, and, except in the latter portions, its comparative brevity of
treatment excludes neither important facts nor modifying views. No
shorter work could give the reader any adequate knowledge or conceptions
in regard to English history, and no longer work is needed to make him
fully acquainted with its essential features.

     White Wings: A Yachting Romance. By William Black. New York: Harper
     & Brothers.--Roy and Viola. By Mrs. Forrester. Philadelphia: J.B.
     Lippincott & Co.--The Wellfields. By Jessie Fothergill.
     (Leisure-Hour Series.) New York: Holt & Co.--Troublesome Daughters.
     By L.B. Walford. (Leisure--Hour Series.) New York: Holt &
     Co.--Brigitta. By Berthold Auerbach. (Leisure--Hour Series.) New
     York: Holt & Co.

There is a time appointed to read novels--a time which belongs, like
that of other good things, to youth, when the real and the ideal merge
into each other, and even the most practical beliefs turn upon the
notion that the world was created for ourselves, and that the general
system of things is bound to furnish circumstances and incidents which
shall flatter our unsatisfied desires. It seems a pity that it should
not fall to the lot of the critic to write down his impression of new
books at this epoch, when he is most fitted to enjoy them. When romance
and other delights have blankly vanished--"gone glimmering through the
dreams of things that were"--he is scarcely fitted to trust the worth of
his own impressions. Reading from mere idle curiosity or with critical
intentions, and reading with delight, with eager absorption in the story
and an eager desire to know how it turns out, are two different matters.
The loss of this capacity for enjoyment of the every-day novel is not a
subject for self-gratulation, coming as it does from our own absence of
imagination and from narrowing instead of increasing powers. That period
of our existence when we could read anything which offered should be
looked back upon with a feeling of purely admiring regret, and in our
efforts to master the novel of to-day we should endeavor to bring back
the glory and the sweetness of the early dream.

It is not so very long ago that Mr. William Black's novels began to
charm us. He did not take Fame at a single leap, but wooed her
patiently, and suffered many a repulse. His first book, _Ion; or,
Marriage_, was probably the very worst novel ever written by a man who
was finally to make a great success. _The Daughter of Heth_ achieved
this result, and _The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, A Princess of
Thule_ and _Macleod of Dar_ deepened, one by one, the witchery the
first threw over us. The author's power was especially shown in
investing his maidens with glamour and piquancy: Coquette and Sheila led
their captives away from the suffocating dusts and the burning heats of
life. Then his backgrounds were so well chosen--those mysterious reaches
of the far northern seas, the slow twilights over the heaving ocean, the
swift dawns, the storms and the lightnings, and the glad blue skies.
Even the music of the bagpipes inspired lamentations only less sweet
than notes of joy. Mr. Black still has lovely girls; his yachts still
pitch and roll and scud over the tossed and misty Hebridean seas; there
are the same magical splendors of air and sky and water and shores; the
wail of the pibroch is heard as of yore--

    Dunvegan! oh, Dunvegan!

Why, then, is it that his last book fails to do more than arouse dim
memories of some previous enjoyment? Why are his violets without
perfume? Why is his music vacant of the old melodies?

In _Roy and Viola_, on the contrary, Mrs. Forrester is seen at her best,
and has given us a book of lively interest. The situation in some
respects suggests that of _Daniel Deronda:_ D'Arcy is a sort of
Grandcourt cheapened and made popular, acting out his instincts of
tyranny and brutality with more ostentation and less good taste. What is
subtly indicated by George Eliot is given with profuse effect by the
present writer. Viola, if not a Gwendolen, is yet an unloving wife. Sir
Douglas Roy plays a somewhat difficult rôle--that of friend to the
husband and undeclared lover to the wife--without losing our respect. He
is in many ways a successful hero, and acts his part without either
insipidity or priggishness. A genial optimist like Mrs. Forrester, as
her old readers may well believe, sacrifices to a hopelessly unhappy
marriage no lot which interests us. Disagreeable husbands die at an
auspicious moment, and everybody is finally made happy in his or her own
way, which includes the possession of plenty of money. The conversations
are piquant, and the interest of the story is well kept up.

_The Wellfields_ is a falling off from _Probation_, which in its turn
was a distinct falling-off from Miss Fothergill's initial story, _The
First Violin_. The characters are dim, intangible, remote, possessing no
reality even at the outset, and as they progress becoming even more
estranged from our belief and sympathy. Jerome is too feeble to arouse
even our resentment, which we mildly expend on Sara instead for
displaying grief for so poor a creature. When an author publishes one
successful book, it should be a matter of serious thought whether it is
not worth while to make such a triumph the crowning event of his or her
destiny, lest Fate should have in reserve the tedious trials which await
those who are compelled to hear that their sun has set.

Mrs. Walford's last book has, in a measure, retrieved a certain
reputation for interest which her _Cousins_ had lost. In _Troublesome
Daughters_, however, one looks in vain for the fulfilment of the promise
of _Mr. Smith_ and her delightful _Van: A Summer Romance_.

In _Brigitta_ we find enough of Auerbach's charm to like the story,
simple as it is. It recalls his greater books only by the fidelity of
the tone and the clearness of the pictures. Xander is well drawn, and
the tragedy of his life, portrayed as it is by those few strong touches
which reveal the real artist, is profoundly impressive.

------

_New Books Received._

Geo. P. Rowell & Co.'s American Newspaper Directory, containing Accurate
Lists of all the Newspapers and Periodicals published in the United
States, Territories and the Dominion of Canada, together with a
description of the towns and cities in which they are published. New
York: George P. Rowell & Co.

The Skin in Health and Disease. By L. Duncan Bulkley, M.D. (American
Health Primers.) Philadelphia: Presley Blakiston.

The Confessions of a Frivolous Girl. Edited by Robert Grant. Vignette
Illustrations. Boston: A. Williams & Co.

The Life and Public Services of James A. Garfield. By Major J.M. Bundy.
New York: A.D. Barnes & Co.

The Mystery of Allanwold. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van Loon. Philadelphia: T.
B. Peterson & Brothers.

Political and Legal Remedies for War. By Sheldon Amos, M.A. New York:
Harper & Brothers.

Mary Anerley: A Yorkshire Tale. By R.D. Blackmore. New York: Harper &
Brothers.

A Selection of Spiritual Songs, with Music for the Sunday-school. New
York: Scribner & Co.

[Footnote 1: I use here the official nomenclature of Pennsylvania: by
whatever title the local officials are known in the various States, the
general fact is of course the same in all.]

[Footnote 2: In some tests given in Richards' _Treatise on Coal Gas_ (p.
293) the following results were shown: Obstruction of light by--

  A      clear               glass  globe, about 12  per cent.
  An    engraved              "     "      "     24     "
  Obscured  all     over      "     "      "     40     "
  Opal       "       "        "     "      "     60     "
  Painted    "       "        "     "      "     64     "               ]

[Footnote 3: There is a recent method of adding carbon to the gas which
is not liable to the objection of clogging the pipes. By a small
apparatus a stick of naphthaline is attached to the burner so as to be
slowly vaporized. It is not yet in the hands of dealers in
gas-fixtures.]

[Footnote 4: Our narrative is drawn from the _Libra del Passo Honroso,
defendido por el excelente caballero Suero de Quiñones, copilado de un
libro antiguo de mano por Fr. Juan de Pineda, Religiose de la orden de
San Francisco. Segunda edicion_. Madrid, 1783, in the _Crónicas
españolas_, vol. v.]

[Footnote 5: In modern French, _Il faut délivrer_--"It is necessary to
release," referring to the chain worn by Quiñones.]

[Footnote 6: "If it does not please you to show moderation, I say, in
truth, that I am unfortunate."]

[Footnote 7: Prosper Mérimée, in a note to his _History of Peter the
Cruel_ (London, 1849, vol. i., p. 35), says, referring to the above
episode, "I do not think that at that period an example of similar
condescension could be found anywhere except in Spain. A century later
the _chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_, the valiant Bayard, refused
to mount a breach in company with lansquenets."]

[Footnote 8: Beginning, "Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna," etc.]

[Footnote 9: The Church as early as 1131 (Council of Rheims) endeavored
to prevent these dangerous amusements by denying burial in consecrated
ground with funeral rites to those who were killed in tournaments.]

[Footnote 10: Puymaigre explains this almost total absence of Frenchmen
by the fact that in 1434 the wars between Charles VII and the English
were being waged. The English pilgrims to Santiago (the large number of
whom we have previously mentioned) were probably non-combatants.]







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE OF POPULAR LITERATURE AND SCIENCE, VOL. XVI., DECEMBER, 1880. ***


    

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