THE PUltLIC LIBRARY

CITY

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COPamHT, 1887, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

TROW'8
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANYI
NEW YORK.

GAMBETTA PROCLAIMING THE REPUBLIC OF FRANCE

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE.

VOL. I.

JANUARY, 1887.

No. 1.

REMINISCENCES OF

THE SIEGE AND COMMUNE OF PARIS.

By E. B. IMasbburne, Ex-Mi, ister to France.

THE DOWNFALL
I WAS on the point of leaving Paris for
a brief rest, when, toward the last of
June, 1870, there arose so suddeuly what
was known as the "Hohenzollern inci-
dent ;" which assumed so much impor-
tance, as it led up to the Franco-German
war. In June, 1868, the Queen Isabella
had been chased from Spain and had
sought refuge in France. The Span-
ish Cortes, maintaining the monarchi-
cal form, offered the cro:n of Spain to
Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern, a rela-
tion of the King of Plmssia. The French
Minister at Madrid telegraphed that
Prince Leopold of Hohenzollem had
been nominated to the throne of Spain
and had accepted. This produced the
utmost excitement and indignation
among the French people. The Paris
press teemed 4th articles more or less
violent, calling on the government to
prevent this outrage, even at the cost of
war. The journals of all shades were
unanimous in the matter, contending
that it was an insult and peril to France,
and could not be tolerated. The oppo-
sition in the Chamber made the inci-
dent an occasion for attacking the gov-
ernment, alleging that it was to its weak
and vacillating policy that she was in-
debted for her fresh humiliation. The
government journals, however, laid the
whole blame upon the ambition of Count
Bismarck, who had become to them a
bte noir. He was accused of every-

OF THE EI%IPIRE.
thing, and charged with doing every-
thing for the grandeur of Prussia and
the unification of Germany ; all of which,
they alleged, was on account of his ha-
tred for France. The Duke de Gra-
mont, Minister of Foreign Affairs, was
interpellated in the Chamber on the
subject, and, in reply, declared that
France would not pelTait any foreign
power to place one of its princes upon
the throne of Charles the Fifth, and dis-
turb, to the detriment of France, the
present equilibrium of Europe. All par-
ties in the Chamber received this decla-
ration with the utmost enthusiasm. The
opposition members, who were largely
in the minority, made as much noise
as the government deputies. Much of
this was owing to the personal feeling
against Bismarck, and both parties vied
with each other in showing the extent
of their dislike to the great Prussian
Chancellor. Much pressure was soon
brought to bear in the proper quarters,
and the result of this was the withdxaw-
al of the Hohenzollern candidacy. Ex-
planations were made, better counsels
seemed to prevail, and all immediate
trouble appeaa-ed aveed.
It became quite certain that all dan-
ger of a war between France and Ger-
many was at an end; and, all being
quiet on the banks of the Seine, on the
3d of July I left Paris in pursuit of
health and recreation at the healing

Copyright, 1886, by Charles Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved.

THE DOI/VNkMLL OF THE EMPIRE.

to have war with Gelnany, coute qui
coute. The alleged causes, growing out
of the talk that Germany was to put a
German prince on the throne of Spain,
were but a mere pretext. The Hohen-
zollern candidature had been withdrawn,
and there was no necessity or sense in any
further trouble. But the truth was that,
after eighteen years of peace, the court-
iers and adventurers who surrounded

certain real reforms into his govern-
ment.
The last dinner ever given at the Tuil-
eries was on Tuesday night, June 7,
1870. It vas in honor of the United
States Minister and Mrs. Washburne.
It was a large dinner, and was served
in the usual elegant style of all the offi-
cial dinners. The Emperor appeared
in good health and spirits; but yet I

The German Embassy in the Rue de Lille.

the Emperor seemed to think that it was
about time to have a war, to awaken the
martial spirit of the rench people, to
plant the rench eagles in triumph in
the capital of some foreign country, and,
as a consequence, to fix firmly on the
throne the son of Napoleon the Third,
and restore to the Imperial crown the
lustre it had lost. It seemed to be very
clear to my mind that if the Emperor
had been left to himself, war would have
been averted. I am quite sure that his
heart was never in the venture. He had
just entered upon his scheme of a par-
liamentary government, and everything
promised a substantial success. I think
he was sincere in his xvish to introduce

thought I saw a cloud of uneasiness over
his face. He made inquiries of me in
respect to the postal treaty, and, as was
always the case when I met him, inquh-ed
very kindly for the lresident. He al-
luded to the fact that he was going to
send lr('vost-laradol as Minister to the
United States, and said that while M.
laradol was a very "clever man," he had
yet to leal diplomacy. I replied that
the relations of the two countries were
then so pleasant and cordial that he
would not require much skill in that line.
He answered that he believed and hoped
so. I speak of this occasion, as it was
the last time that I ever saw the Em-
peror. Matters soon after began to dlq_ft

THE DOId/NFALL OF THE EMPIRE. 7

the close of the hostilities ; and, though
sometimes threats were made, there was
never any -iolence offered to the embassy
or its guardians. The day after my re-
turn to Paris I took charge of my legation
and relieved the charg6 d'affaires. From
this time I constantly recorded events
as they occm-red; and in writing my
reminiscences in this complete and con-
nected form, I have not hesitated, while
weaving the whole into an unbroken
story, to avail myself of the substance
and in many portions the language of
my despatches and letters sent to the
Government at the time, and sometimes
printed in congressional documents ; as
I have greatly preferred to trust to the
vividness of the language which I then
used in describing events as they passed
before me, rather than to run any dan-
ger of losing the force of those imme-
diate impressions.
It was on the 28th of July, 1870, that the
Emperor left the palace of St. Cloud, to go
to take command of the army in person.
A gentleman belonging to the Court,
who was present at the moment of de-
parture, recounted to me that the occa-
sion was a most solemn one, and that
even then there was a prescience that
the Emperor vas leaing France never
to retm'n. By a decree, the Empress
was made l%egent during the absence of
the Emperor. She remained at the pal-
ace of St. Cloud. Before the Emperor
left for the army, he issued a bombastic
proclamation to the French people, the
first paragraph of which was as follows-
"Frenchmen--There are in the lives
of peoples solemn moments, where na-
tional honor, violently excited, imposes
itself as an irresistible force, dominates
all interests, and takes in hand the di-
rection of the destinies of the country.
One of these decisive horn's has just
sounded for France."
On the 2d of August, the Emperor hav-
ing reached the French headquarters,
there was a skirmish at Saarbrficken, and
there was shed the first blood in the
stupendous contest that was to follow.
The Emperor and the Prince Imperial
were present at the engagement. Na-
poleon magnified that little affair into
an episode, and sent an account back
to Pa'is which only excited ridicule;

particularly that part of it in which
he stated that Louis had received "le
baptme de feu." These proclamations
did not distm-b the Germans, and they
soon put an end to those grotesque fan-
faronades.
While these great events were in
progress, the two nations were in full
conflict, and blood was flowing like wa-
ter on both sides, the people of Paris
could get no reliable information from
the seat of war. While in New York
and London the particulaz-s of the bat-
tle of Weissenbourg were published by
the papers the next day, the people of
Paris were kept in entixe iorance of
them. The feeling of suspense and the
excitement were something most pain-
ful and extraordinary at this time, and
everybody was on the qui rive in search
of news.
On Thursday, the 4th of August, oc-
curred the battle of Weissenbourg, on
the French frontier, which resulted in
g practical defeat of the French army.
There was no inkling in the Paris jom--
nals of the next day that there had been
any fighting at all at Weissenbourg or
anywhere else ; and it was not until the
London Times of that morning arrived
that anybody in Pas had any particu-
lars of the battle which had taken place.
They had been kept in utter ignorance
of it until twelve or one o'clock that day,
when a very brief and unsatisfactory
notice of the affair was communicated
to the press by the French authorities.
The suppression of the intelligence for
so long a time excited a good deal of
indignation among the public, and the
Parisian newspapers were particularly
indignant that the London Times should
have published the news six or eight
hours before it was given out to them.
There was great uneasiness and discon-
tent all over the city, and the people
were prepared for anything.
At about noon on Satm'day one of
the most remarkable of those events
took place which show how easily large
masses of people may be imposed upon
and deceived. At twelve o'clock there
vas assembled, as usual at that hour, a
great crowd of people in front of the
Botu-se. It was then that a man in the
uniform of a courier, or messenger, rode
up in front of the Bourse where the

8 THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

crowd had assembled, and delivered nto
the hands of a person, who was evidently

Emile Ollivier.

his confederate, what he pretended was
an official despatch, vhich gave an ac-
count of a great battle having been
fought in vhich the lrench were vic-
torious, taking forty guns and twenty-
five thousand prisoners, among whom
was included the Crown
Prince. A spark of fire
falling upon a magazine
could hardly have pro-
duced a greater explo-
sion. The assembled
multitude broke out
into the wildest shouts,
and the contents of the
despatch were repeated
from mouth to mouth,
and men ran in every
direction commtmicat-
ing the jofful intelli-
gence. The people
rushed into the streets ;
the tricolor was every-
where displayed ; men
embraced and kissed
each other, shedding
tears of joy; shouts,
vociferations, and oaths

Italiens, and the Rue de la Paix were
filled with people singing the Marseil-
laise. Everybody declared that the news
was true; the official report had been
seen and closely scanned, and there
could be no doubt of its correctness.
Madame Sass, a distinguished opera-
singer, was found in the street, and
the crowd insisted upon her sinng
the Marseillaise from her carriage, which
she did three, times amid transports
of enthusiasm. In another part of the
streets the nultitude forced another dis-
tinguished singer to mount to the top
of an omnibus, also to sing the Mrseil-
laise.
Soon the fro-or of the enthusiasm be-
gan to abate; and some persons were
wise enough to suggest that it would
be well to inquire more particularly into
the news, and to see whether or not it
should be confirmed. The result of the
inquiry was that it was a stupendous
hoax. The songs at once ceased, the
flags were taken in, and the victims of
the canard began to feel indignant. As
the affair originated at the Bom-se, the
cry was raised in the crowd "d la
Bourse!" and away the people went,
breathing vengeance against the money-
changers and speculators, who, it was
alleged, had taken advantage of the

F'ac=simile of a Note from M. Ollivier.

filled the air, and such a delirium was false report to get the benefit of a
never before witnessed. Rue Richelieu, rise of about fore- per cent. in the
the Boulevards of Montmartre and the stocks. Never were money-changers

THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE. 9

more summarily driven out of their
temples. In a few moments all per-
sons in the Bourse were expelled, some
of whom, it was said, were thrown head
and heels out of the windows and doors.
About half-past three o'clock in the
afternoon the crowd, still greatly ex-
asperated, started from the Bourse and
directed themselves toward the Place
YendSme, halting under the windows
of the Ministry of Justice. There they
shouted for Emile Ollivier, the Minister
of Justice, and demanded of him the
closing of the Bom'se, from which the
false news had emanated. M. Ollivier
responded in a short and well-hu-ned
speech, closing by asking them to dis-
perse, which they did. But still there
was great excitement all over the city,
and there was intense indignation at be-
ing so easily made the victims of a vile
canard.
At half-past five o'clock in the after-
noon of that day I rode down to the
Place YendSme, and found another crowd
of about three thousand persons gathered
in front of the Ministry of Justice, de-
manding that hi. Ollivier should show
himself and make another speech. As
he had ah'eady made one speech to the
crowd, he considered that quite enough
for one day and so he refused to appear.
At this refusal the vociferations were in-
creased every instant and hostile cries
were raised against the minister by the
multitude, who demanded the author of
the false news and reclaimed the liberty
of the press, which, they insisted, had
been muzzled; for if it had been free
to give information, no such event could
have happened. I saw this turbulent
crowd in front of the ministry, and
stopped to ascertain the cause of it.
h-otwithstanding M. Ollivier had re-
fused to make his appearance at the
window in the first place, the pressm-e
was so great that he finally was obliged
to yield. Such was the tumult and noise
that it was impossible for me, from where
I stood, to hear precisely what he said;
but it was evidently not re1T satisfac-
tory, for the people did not disperse
immediately, as he had requested, but
began shouting in favor of the liberty
of the press and raising hostile cries
against M. Ollivier. The public held
him responsible for the terrible sever-

ity of the press-law which prevented
the journMs from giving the news from
the army. Everything was required to
come .through official channels, and it
was gven out at such times and in such
measure as might suit the purposes of
the government.
At ten o'clock on Saturday evening a
gentleman connected with my legation,
going do,m-town, found the Place Ven-
d6me again literally crammed with both
men and women who were in the highest
state of excitement, singing a new song
called the "Press song," and raising
menacing cries against the Minister of
Justice. Afterward, large crowds of peo-
ple collected in the Rue de la Paix, on
the boulevards, ,and in the Place de la
Madeleine, all singing and shouting,
and all in bad temper. But large bodies
of troops being in the immediate vicin-
ity, no acts of violence were perpetrated.
The Official Journal of the next day
(Sunday) contained a despatch of two
lines, dated at Metz, at eleven o'clock the
evening before (Satm'day). Here is the
text of the despatch: "The co])s of
General Frossard is in retreat. There
are no details." This and nothing more.
And it is not to be wondered at that such
a despatch inspired the greatest uneasi-
ness and anxiety. It gave no indication
of .where the battle was fought or what
was the extent of the losses ; and natu-
rally the great Paris public was tormented
with fear and suspense. A proclamation
of the Empres.s and her ministry ap-
peared at noon in the second edition of
the Official Jomm@ This proclamation
contained a bulletin from the Emperor,
dated at Metz, at half-past twelve o'clock
on Sunday, announcing that Marshal
MacMahon had lost a battle and that
General Frossard had been obliged to
retreat. Another bulletin from the Em-
peror, dated at Metz, three hours later,
announced that his communication with
Marshal MacMahon was interrupted, and
that he had had no news of him sinca
the day before; and still another de-
spatch, one hour later, from headquar-
ters at Metz, both of which were also
contained in the proclamation of the
Minister of the Interior, gave a brief ac-
count of the battles of MacMahon and
Frossard, but said that the details were
wanting. It further stated that the

10 THE DOIMNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

troops were full of "['lan," and that the
situation was not yet compromised ; but
that the enemy was on French terri-
tory and a serious effort was necessary.
Thereupon the proclamation went on to
say that in the presence of the grave
news the duty was clear ; and that there-
fore :
"The Chambers are convoked; we
shall place Paris in a state of defence ;
to facilitate the execution of military
preparations, we declare it in a state of
siege."
A decree of the Empress-Regent con-
voked the Senate and the Corps Lgis-
lat!f for Thursday, the llth of August.
Another decree placed the depalment
of the Seine in a state of siege. No per-
son not in Paris at the time could have
any adequate idea of the state of feeling
which the extraordinary news from the
battle-field had created ; and now these
declarations were added to it. Never
had Paris seen such a day since the time
of the first revolution. The whole peo-
ple appeared to be paralyzed by the ter-
rible events which had burst upon them
in such rapid and fearful succession.
The rain had some influence in keeping
the people from the street ; but on going
down-town, on the afternoon of Sunday,
I found them collected in knots about
the Grand H6tel and on the boulevards,
reading the newspapers and discussing
the situation. Soon after, I saw large
crovds of people proceeding in the rain
toward the Ministry of Justice, in the
Place VendSme, which seemed to be the
objective point, owing to the hostility
which existed against mfle Ollivier.
The rain, however, dampened the ardor
of the crowd and it soon dispersed.
After these exhibitions, which would
never have taken place had the people
been advised of the true state of things
in the field of military operations, the
French Government wisely concluded
that it was of no use to try any longer
to conceal the real state of facts. Then
they began to give out certain laconic
and ambiguous despatches, which still
increased the public anxiety. They all
summed up that the French arms had
been terribly beaten.
The full particulars of the fatal battles
had, by this time, reached the Empress

at the palace of St. Cloud. The last and
most fatal and disquieting news reached
her in the night of the 6th of August.
Overcome and almost distracted by the
terrible blow, she determined in the
night to go at once to Paris and take
up her residence at the Tuileries. Soon
after the Emperor left Paris I had re-
ceived a communication from my Gov-
ernment which, according to diplomatic
etiquette, had to be presented to the
Emperor in person. In his absence it
had to be presented to the Empress-
Regent. I had announced at the For-
eign Office the mission with which I
was charged, and asked when I could be
received by the Empress-Regent. An
early day was designated, and at the
palace of St. Cloud. Early in the morn-
ing of the day named I received a note
stating that I would be received at the
Tuileries at eleven o'clock of that day,
instead of at St. Cloud. It was the
night before that the terrible news had
been received from the battle-field which
had brought the Empress back.
At tte hour fixed I went to the pal-
ace to perform my mission. Received
by the Master of Ceremonies, I was soon
ushered into the presence of the Em-
press-Regent. After the ordinary salu-
tation and the delivery of my message,
we entered into conversation in respect
to the news which had just been made
public over Paris. She had evidently
passed a sleepless and agitated night,
and was in great distress of mind. She
at once began to speak of the news
which she had received, and of the effect
it would have on the French people. I
suggested to her that it might not be
as bad as reported, and that the conse-
quences, in the end, might be far bet-
ter than the present circumstances indi-
cated. I spoke to her about our first
battle of Bull Run and the defeat that
the Union armies had received; and
that such defeat had only stimulated
greater exertions, and had led to that
display of courage, heroism, and endur-
ance which had, in the end, suppressed
the Rebellion. She replied: "I only
wish the French, in these respects, were
like you Americans; but I am afraid
they would be too much discouraged
and give up too soon." On the same
day she issued a proclamation to the

THE DOI,'If'NFALL OF THE EMPIRE. 11

French people, in which she frankly was manifested in every possible way,
avowed that the French arms had sub- and the consequence was that there was
mitred to a check, and implored the

people to be firm in their reverse and
hasten to repair it; that there should be
among them only one party, that of
France; and only one thought, and that
of the national arms. She closed by
adjm-ing all good citizens to maintain
order; for to trouble it would be to
conspire with the enemy.
All Paris was now under the empire
of the most profound emotion. It was
in the evening that there was the great-
est excitement; the gatherings on the
boulevard were immense, and people
were singing, sweal'ing, and yelling by
turns. On one evening when I was
down-to an immense procession had
been formed, and the people were
marching in twos on the Boulevards
Italiens and Madeleine ; they kept step
to the words issuing from every mouth,
"' Vive c]assTot, rive chassepot !" At

the time of the declaration of war itwas ageneral desire amongthe Geznan pop-
estimated that there were thirty thou- ulation to get out of Paris as soon as
sand Germans in Pa'is, and I was possible;but the French Govelment
charged with their protection in the soon decided that they would not give
midst of these events. The news of passports to such Genans as owed rail-
German tlumphs "seemed to have in- ita5" service to their government. This
flamed the natural hatred of the Pari- gave me great embarrassment, for how
sians toward the German population, could I tell anything in respect to
This caused the greatest anety and those who owed military seMce and

those who did not ? I could give lais-
sez-passers to women, children, and old
men; but if I gave one to a German
who owed military service, he would
not be permitted to leave Pas and
France, and my laissez-passers might be
rejected. The consequence of this was
that in the first days the number of
passports I gave was comparatively
limited, although the number of Ger-
mans at the legation was very great,
seeking such permission as would en-
able them to get out of Pal"is.
The excitement seemed to increase
with every day and every hour. The
Corps Lgislatif was the great point of
interest, as everyone looked to that
body for some action that might stem
the tide of disaster which was rolling
over Paris and France. Its meeting on
Tuesday, the 9th of August, presented
one of the most extraordinaK)-specta-

uneasiness among that peaceable and cles which had ever taken place in a
law-abiding population. The hostility French legislative body, except in the

12 THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

,Jules Simon.

very heat of the revolution of '89. I
had seen much turbulence in our own
House of lpresentatives before the
War of the Rebellion. I had been
present when the Grow and Keitt fight
took place, at a night session, where
the members had a hand-to-hand scuffle
in the area in front of the Speaker's
chair--" All of which I saw and a part
of which I was ;" but never had I seen
anything that would parallel the scene
'hich took place in the Corps Lgislatif.
On the day for the opening of that
body, fully appreciating that the session
would be a remarkable one, I went early
to the Palais Bourbon in order to get a
good seat in the diplomatic tribune, so
that I could see and hear all that took
place. The President took his seat at
half-past one o'clock P.M., and then the
members came rapidly into the hall.
The ministers took their places on the
ministerial benches, and all were present
except the Minister of War, who was in
the field. The Corps Lgislatif at this
time ight be said to be composed of
men of more than ordinary ability, and
many of them of much political experi-
ence and somewhat distin,afished in one
way or another. As a body, it was made
up of older men than the members of
our House of lpresentatives at Wash-
ington, but the number of deputies was
about the same. The real ability, the
dash, the boldness, and the eloquence
appertained to the Left. Many of those
men had the qualities attributed to the

Girondists in the National Convention.
It was interesting to watch the deputies
coming into the hall; the members of
the Right and Centre quietly took their
seats, but there was much agitation
among the members of the Left. In
fact, it was easy to see that there was
a storia brewing.
The President, having declared the ses-
sion opened, had only read the fornml
part of the proclamation, reciting, "By
the grace of God and the national will,
Emperor of the French, etc.," when many
members of the Left broke out in furi-
ous exclamations, saying that they did
not want any more of that ; and it was
some time before the President could
finish reading the document. After he
had concluded he awarded the floor
to M. Ollivier, Minister of Justice, -ho
mounted the tribune and commenced
developing the reasons why the Cham-
ber was called together. He had only
said a few words when he was met with
the most boisterous and insulting inter-
ruptions. A member of the Left having
cried out that the country had been com-
promised, Jules Favre exclaimed, "Yes,
by the imbecility of its chief! Come
down from the tribme ! It is a shame !"
Arago cried out that the public safety
required that the ministers should get
out of the way. Pelletan said, "You
have lost the country, but it will save
itself in spite of you !" At length Ollivier
was able to complete his speech, which
he read from a written manuscript. The
floor was then given to General de Jean,
the Minister of War ad interim, who
proposed a law and stated the reason
therefor. Jules Favre then obtained the
floor, and proposed resolutions in rela-
tion to the defence of the country, look-
ing to the reorganization of the Nation-
al Guard. He mounted the tribune to
speak to his resolutions. A tall, heavy
man, with rough, strong features, plainly
dressed, and with an immense head of
hair, he was a great orator ; and at this
time he rose to the highest pitch of elo-
quence, and denounced in unmeasured
terms the weakness, mismanagement,
and folly of the ministers, and the
wretched manner in which the aany
had been commanded. He said that it
was necessary that the Emperor should
abandon his headquarters and retuxa to

THE DOIMNFALL
Paris; and that, in order to save the
country, the Chamber should take
the powers into its own hands. I-Ie
then proposed a decree providing for
an Executive Committee of fifteen depu-
ties, who should be invested with the
full p.ower .of government to repel for-
eign invasion. This proposition was
received with yells of denunciation by
the Right, who denotmced it as revolu-
tionary and unconstitutional, and the
President so decided.
After M. Favre had concluded, Granier
de Cassag-nac, a member of the Extreme
Right, rushed to the tribune, and his
first words were to denounce the propo-
sition of Favre as the commencement of
revolution. I-Ie proceeded in a strain of
bitter denunciation, amid the shouts,
vociferations, and the gestures of almost
the entire Left.. I-Ie accused them of
hiding behind their privileges to de-
stroy the government of the Emperor,
who was in the face of the enemy. I-Iere
there came interruptions, calls to order,
and threats. Thirty members of the
Left rose to their feet, yelling at Cas-

Garnier-Pags.

sagnac and shaking their fists toward
him, and he rettmaed the compliment
by shaking his fist at them. All this
time the members of the Right were ap-
plauding Cassagnac, who finally wound
up with the terrible threat that if he
were a minister he would send the mem-
bers of the Left to a military tribunal
before night. This was followed by one

OF THE EMPIRE. 13

of the most terrific explosions ever wit-
nessed in a legislative body. All the
deputies of the Left jumped to theh"
feet and raised their voices in most in-
dignant protest. And then rose up the
deputies of the Right to drown the cries
of the Left with their own vociferatios.
Jules Simon, who was then simply a
deputy from Paris, and who has since
occupied so many high positions in
France, rushed into the area in front
of the tribune, gesticulating with vehe-
mence and saying that if they dared to
send them to a council of war they were
ready to go ; and if they wanted to shoot
them they would find them ready. That
added to the tumult. Nearly all the
members were on their feet. The voice
of Simon was heard above the din : "H
you want violence, you shall have it."
Atthat moment, Estancelin, under great
excitement, cried out, "The Minister of
Foreign Affairs laughs !" And that ab-
sm'd ejaculation caused many others to
laugh.
gules Ferry, also a member of the
Corps LgislaUf at that time, and since
Prime Minister under President Gr6vy,
was heard in the uproar to say that it
was not proper "for a minister who was
attempting to negotiate peace to "
and here his voice was lost in the tu-
mult. learly the entire Left then started
from their seats and rushed to the area
in front of the tribune and up to the
seat of the ministers ; Estancelin, Ferry,
and old Garnier-PagSs in front. Es-
tancelin and Ferry were young men and
advanced republicans. Galier-Pagbs
was an old-time republican, at that time
nearly sevent h " years of age, and had for
a long time been a prominent man in
Francea republican always, but con-
sidered somewhat conservative. He was
a member of the p'ovisional govermnent
of 1848, and was assigned to the Min-
istry of Finance, but was not entirely
happy in his administration of it. At
this time he was a man of striking per-
sonal appearance. Tall and slim, and
with long white hair, he could not other-
wise than attract attention wherever he
went. As a speaker he was descl4bed
as having the "parole chaleureuse," and
such was his benevolent and exemplary
character that he enjoyed the esteem of
all men, even of his adversaries. After

THE DOI4/NFALL OF THE EMPIRE. 15

f -

Lon Gambetta.

deputies of the ttight were in their
seats, though the members of the Left
were ahnost all present. M. Palikao,
the Minister of War, took the floor
and said that in the presence of the
serious news which had been received,
he deemed it better not to take any
action at that time, but to postpone
everything until twelve o'clock of that
day--it was then Sunday morning. Af-
te Palikao had made this suggestion,
M. Jtfles Favre arose and said that he
should not propose any serious oppo-
sition to that motion, but he asked leave
to give notice of a proposition which he

had to submit, and which he wotfld dis-
cuss at the meeting at twelve o'clock
(on Sunday). The proposition which
le read was as follows-

" 1. Louis Napoleon Bonaparte and
his d)asty are declared fallen from the
povers which the constitution has con-
tided to them.
"2. There shall be named by the leg-
islative body a commission vested with
powers and composed of  members,
and you will designate yore-self the num-
ber )f members who shall compose this
commission, who will nmke it their first

16 THE DOIdINFALL OF THE EMPIRE.

duty to repel the invasion and dr" "e the
enemy from the territory.
"3. M. Trochu shall be maintained in

there was not a single person in the hall
of the deputies, though the galleries were
all well filled. Instead of the session

The Invasion of the Hall of Deputies.

his functions of governor-general of the
City of Paris."

There was no discussion whatever on
these propositions, and after a very brief
session of ten minutes the Chamber ad-
journed.
It was easy to foresee that the sitting
of the Corps Lgislatif on Sunday was
likely to become historic. I went ear-
ly to the hall. When I arrived there I
found a few troops stationed in the
neighborhood, and there was not a large
number of people in the immediate vi-
cinity. Indeed, I was quite sm])rised at
the tranquillity which seemed everywhere
to reign in the quarter of the Palais
Bourbon. Taking my seat in the diplo-
matic tribune at a quarter before twelve,

All the other ministers took their places
on the ministerial benches soon after.
The members of the Left came in al-
most simultaneously, Gambetta hurrying
along among the first, haggard with ex-
citement. The venerable Raspail took his
seat, and Garnier-Pagbs hurried across
the area in front of the President's chair
in a state of intense agitation. Arago,
Simon, Ferry, Estancelin, Guyot-Mont-
pa)won, entered and took their seats
Thiers, the little, brisk and vigorous old
man, walked quietly to his place. The
President sat in his chair quietly, and
seemed in no hurry to call the Chamber
to order. The members became impa-
tient and clamorous. There was loud talk
and violent gesticulation. At precisely
twenty minutes after one o'clock M.
Schneider swung his bell, and the gruff
voice of the huissier was heard above the
din : "Silence, messieurs .t s'il vous pldit."

18 THE DOWNFALL OF THE EMPIRE

FAC-SIMILE OF THE ORIGINAL PROCLAMATION
Delivered to Mr. Washburne.,

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

But she's got her dander up naow agin
somebuddy that beats them all holler.
They won't no Richardsons come puttin'
on airs 'raoun' here, an' takin' th' parlor
bedroom 'thaout askin', not ef th' ole
lady knaows herself--'n' I guess she
does."
"What Richardsons ?" asked Milton.
"Thought Sissly was th' last of 'em--
thet they wa'n't no more Richardsons."
"Why, man alive, ain't Albert's wife
a Richardson, th' daughter of Sissly's
cousin--you remember, that pock-pitted
man who kep' th' fast hess here one
summer. Of course she's a Richardson
--full-blooded! Vhen she come up
from th' train here this mornin', with
Albert, I see by th' ole lady's eye 't she
meant misch'f. I didn't want to see no
raow, here with a corpse in th' haouse,
'n' so I tried to smoothe matters over,
'n' kind o' quiet Sabriny daown, tellin'
her thet they had to come to th' fu-
neral, 'n' they'd go 'way soon's it was
through with, 'n' that Albert, bein' the
oldest son, bed a righ to th' comp'ny
bed-room."
"N' what 'd she say ?"
"She did n't say much, 'cep' thet th'
Richardsons hed never brung nothin'
but bad luck to this haouse, 'n' they
never would, nuther. ' then she
flaounced upstairs to her room, jis's
she allus does when she's riled, 'n' she
give Albert's wife sech a look, I said to
re'self, 'Milady, I wouldn't be in your
shoes fer all yer fine fixin's.'"
"Well, she's a dum likely lookin'
woman, ef she is a Richardson," said
Milton, with something like enthusiasm.
"Wonder ef she wears one o' them low-
necked gaowns when she's to hum, like
th' picters in th' Ledger. They say
they all dew, in New York."
"liaow sh'd I knaow I" Alvira sharply
responded. "I got enough things o
think of, 'thaout both'rin' my head abaout
city women's dresses. N' you ought to
hey, tew. Ef you'n' Leander 'd pay more
heed to yer work, 'n' dew yet chores up
ship-shape, 'n' spen' less time porin' over
them good-fer-nothin' story-papers, th'
farm wouldn't look so run-daown 'n'
slaouchy. Did yeh hear what Albert
said this mornin', when he looked
'raoun' ? 'I swan I' he said, 'I b'lieve
this is th' seediest lookin' place 'n all

Northern zNew York.' zNice thing fer
him to hey to say, wa'n't it!"
"Vhat d' I keer what he says ? lie
ain'tzt,h' boss here, by a jug-full !" .
".. more's th' pity, few. He'd make
yeh toe th' mark I"
"Yes, 'n' Sabriny 'd make it lively fer
his wife, few. Th' ole fight baout th'
Fairchfleses 'n' th' Richardsons would n't
be a succumstance to thet. Sissly 'd
thank her stars thet she was dead 'n'
buried aout o' th' way."
These two hired people, who discussed
their employer and his family with that
easy familiarity of Clnistian names to be
found only in Russia and rural America,
knew very well what portended to the
house when the Richardson subject came
up. Alvira Roberts had spent more than
twenty years of her life in the thick of
the gaseous strife between Fairchild and
Richardson. She was a mere slip of a
girl, barely thirteen, when she had first
hired out at the homestead, and now,
black-brewed, sallow from much tea-
drinking, and with a sharp, deep wrinkle
vertically dividing her high forehead, she
looked every year of her thirty-five.
Compared with her, Milton Squires was
a new comer on the farm, but still there
were lean old cows over yonder in the
bayard, lazily waiting for the night-
march to the pastures, that had been
ravenous calves in their gruel-bucket
stage when he came.
What these two did not know about
the Fairchild family was hardly worth
the knowing. Something of what they
knew the reader ought here to be told.

CHAPTER II.

THE STORY OF LEMUEL.

Lv.WL FCrLD, the bowed, gray-
haired, lumpish man who at this time
sat in the main living room within, fee-
bly rocking himself by the huge wood-
stove, and twing vaguely, as he had
been for thirty-six hours past, to realize
that his wife lay in her final sleep in the
adjoining chamber, had forty odd years
before been as likely a young farmer as
Dearborn County knew. He was fine-
looking and popular in those days, and
old Seth Fairchild, dying unexpectedly,
had left to this elder son his whole pos-

24: SETH'S BROTHER'S l/l/IFE.

sessions--six hundred acres of dair and
hop land, free and clear, a residence
much above the average farm-house of
these parts, and a tidy sum of money
in the bank.
The contrast now was sweeping. The
Fairchfld's house was still the largest
residential structure on the Burfield
road, which led from Thessaly across
the hills to remote and bai-barous lati-
tudes, but respect had long since ceased
to accrue to it upon the score of its size.
To the local eye it was the badge and
synonym of "rack and ruin ;" while
sometimes strangers of artistic tastes,
chancing to travel by this unfrequented
road, would voice regrets that such a
prospect as opened to the vision just
here, with the noble range of hills be-
hind for the first time looming in their
true proportions, should be spoiled by
such a gaunt, unsightly edifice, with its
tumble-down surroundings, its staring
windows cheaply curtained with green
paper, and its cheerless, shabby color--
that indescribable gray with which rain
and frost and Father Time supplant un-
renewed white. The garden, compris-
ing a quarter-acre to the east of the
house, was a tangled confusion of flow-
ers and weeds and berry-bushes run
wild, yet the effect somehow was mean
rather than picturesque. The very grass
in the yard to the west did not grow
healthfully, but revealed patches of sandy
barrenness, created by feet too indiffer-
ent or unruly to keep the path to the
barns.
Tet the neighbors said, and Lemuel
had come himself to feel, that the blame
of this sad falling off was not fairly his.
There had been a fatal defect in the
legacy.
The one needful thing which the Hon.
Seth Fairchild did not leave his elder
son was the brains by means of which
he himself, in one way or another, had
gathered together a substantial compe-
tency, won two elections to the State
Senate, and established and held for
himself the position of leading citizen
in his town that most valued and in-
tangible of American local distinctions.
But while Lemuel's brown hair curled
so prettily, and his eyes shone with the
modest light of wealthy and well-be-
haved youth, nobody missed the brains.

If there was any change in the manage-
ment of the farm, it passed unnoticed,
for all attention was centred on the
great problem, interesting enough al-
ways when means seeks a help-meet,
but indescribably absorbing in rural
communities, where everybody knows
everybody and casual gallants never
come for those luckless damsels neg-
lected by native swains--Vhom will he
marry ?
It boots not now to recall the heart-
burnings, the sad convictions that life
would henceforth be a blank, the angry
repinings at fate, which desolated the
village of Thessaly and vicinity when
Lemuel, returning from a mid-winter
visit to Albany, brought a bride in the
person of a bright-eyed, handsome, and
clever young lady who had been Miss
Cicely Richardson. He had known her,
so they learned, for some years--not
only during his school-days at the acad-
emy there, but later, in what was mys-
teriously known at Thessaly as "society,"
in whose giddy mazes he had mingled
while on a visit to his legislative sire
at the Capital City. qo, it is not worth
while to dwell upon the village hopes
rudely destroyed by this shock--for
they are dim memories of the far, far
past.
But to one the blow was a disappoint-
ment not to be forgotten, or to grow
dim in recollection. Miss Sabrina
child was two years younger than her
brother in age--a score of years his
senior in firmness and will. She had
only a small jointure in her father's
estate, because she had great expecta-
tions from an aunt in Ohio, in perpetual
memory of whose anticipated bounty
she bore her scriptural name, but she
was a charge on her brother in that she
was to have a home with him until she
chose to leave it for one of her own. I
doubt not that her sagacious father fore-
saw, from his knowledge of his daughter,
the improbability that this second home
would ever be offered her.
Miss Sabrina, even at this tender age,
was clearly not of the marrying kind,
and she grew less so with great steadi-
ness. She was at this early date, when
she was twenty-four, a woman of mark-
edly strong character, of which perhaps
the most distinct trait was family pride.

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE. 9.5

There has been a considerable army
of State Senators since qew York first
took on the honors of a Commonwealth,
and unto them a great troop of daugh-
ters have been born, but surely no other
of all these girls ever exulted so fondly,
nay, fiercely, in the paternal dignity as
did Sabrina. She -knew nothing of poli-
tics, and little of the outside world ; her
conceptions of social possibilities were
of the most primitive sort ; one winter,
when she went to Albany with her father,
and was passed in a bewildered way
through sundry experiences said to be
of a highly fashionable nature, it had
been temporarily apparent to her own
consciousness that she was an awkward,
ignorant, red-armed country-girlmbut
this only for one wretched hour or so.
Every mile-post passed ou her home-
ward ride, as she looked through the
stage window, brought restored self-
confidence, and long before the tedious
journey ended she was more the Sena-
tor's dughter than ever.
Through this very rebound from mor-
tification she queened it over the sim-
pler souls of the village with renewed
severity and pomp. The itinerant sing-
ing-master who thought to get her for
the asking into his class in the school-
house, Wednesday evenings, was frozen
by the amazed disdain of her refusal.
When young Smith Thurber, the kiln-
keeper's son, in the flippant spirit of
fine buttons and a resplendent fob,
asked her to dance a measure with
him at the Wallaces' party, the iciness
of her stare fairly took away his breath.
Something can be guessed of her
emotions when the brother brought
home his bride. With a half-coward-
ly, half-kindly idea of postponing the
trouble certain to ensue, he had given
Sabrina no warning of his intention,
and, through the slow marls of that
date, only a day's advance notice of his
return with Mrs. Lemuel. The storm
did not burst at once. Indeed it may
be said never to have really burst. Sa-
brina was not a bad woman, according
to her lights, and she did nothing con-
sciously to make her sister-in-law un-
happy. The young wife had a light
heart, a sensible mind, and the faculty
of being cheerful about many things
which might be expected to annoy.

But she had some pride, too, and
although at the outset it was the very
simple and praiseworthy pride of a well-
meaning individual, incessant vaunting
of the Fairchilds quite naturally gave a
family twist to it, and she soon was able
to resent slights in the name of all the
Richardsons.
After all, was she not in the right ?
for while the grass was scarcely green
on the grave of the first Fairchild who
had amounted to anything, there were
six generations of Richardsons in Al-
bany chronicles alone who had married
into the best Dutch families of that an-
cient, aristocratic town, to say nothing
of the qew England record antedating
that period. Thus the case appeared to
her, and came gradually to have more
prominence in her mind than, in her
maiden days, she could have thought
possible.
So this great Forty Years' War be-
gan, in which there was to be no single,
grand, decisive engagement, but a thou-
sand petty skirmishes and little raids,
infinitely more vexatious and exhaust-
ing, and was waged until the weaker of
the combatants, literally worn out in
the fray, had laid down her arms and
her life together, and was at peace at
last, under the sheet in the darkened
parlor.
The other veteran party to the feud,
her thin, iron-gray hair half concealed
under a black knit cap, her bold, sharp
face red as with stains of tears, sat at
the window of her own upper room,
reading her Bible. If Milton and Al-
vira had known that she was reading in
Judges, they might have been even
more confident of a coming "flare-up."

CHAPTER ]:[I.
AUIIT SABIIA.
qEmmoI plosophers who ced,
from cuosity or  loftier motive, to
study the Fairchild domestic problem,
h all its sod and stoc ramffica-
tions, generaEy emerged from the h-
qy th some pemonM bhs against
Miss Sabla, tempered by the conclu-
sion that, after , there was a good
deM to be said on e old lady's side.
Certly, as the  old maid h the

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

fruits of the soil, the cream off all the
milkmso the Aunt's mingled scriptural
and dairy metaphors ranmhad been his.
And what return had they had for it?
He had become a sound, successful law-
yer, with a handsome income, and he
had married wealth as well. Yet year
after year, as the fortunes of the 'air-
child homestead declined, he had never
interfered to prevent the fresh mort-
gage being placed--nay, had more than
once explicitly declined to help save it.
"Agriculture is out of date in this
State," she had heard him say once, with
her own ears, "Better let the old people
live on their capital, as they go along.
It's no use throwing good money after
bad. Farm land here in the East is
bound to decrease in value, steadily."
This about the homesteadmabout the
cradle of his ancestors l Poor old lady,
had the Fairchilds been sending baro-
nial roots down through all this soil for a
thousand years, she couldn't have been
more pained or mortified over Albert's
callous view of the farm which her
grandfather, a revolted cobbler from
Rhode Island, had cleared and paid for
at ten cents an acre.
Then there was his marriage, too.
In all the years of armed neutrality or
tacit warfare which she and Cicely had
passed together under one roof, they
had never before or since come so near
an open and palpable rupture as they
did over a city-bred cousin of Cicely's
--a forward, impertinent, ill-behaved
girl from New York, who had come
to the farm on a visit some ten years
before, and whose father was summoned
at last to take her away because other-
wise she, Sabrina, threatened to herself
leave the house. There had been a des-
perate scene before this conclusion was
reached. Sabrina had stormed and
threatened to shake the dust of the
homestead from off her outraged san-
dals. Cicely for the once had stood her
ground, and said she fancied even worse
things than that might happen without
producing a universal cataclysm. Lem-
uel had almost wept with despair over
the tumult. The two older boys, par-
ticularly John, had not concealed their
exuberant hope that their maiden Aunt
might be taken at her word, and allowed
to leave. And the girl herself, this ira-

pudent huzzy of a Richardson, actually
put her spoke in too, and said things
about old cats and false teeth, which
it made Sabrina's blood still boil to re-
call.
And it was this girl, of all others in
the world, whom Albert must go and
marry !
Yet Sabrina, in her present despon-
dent mood, felt herself able to rise above
mere personal piques and dislikes, if
there really was a hope for the family's
revival. She was not very sanguine
about even Albert, but beyond him
there was no chance at all.
John, the second brother, had talent
enough, she supposed. People said he
was smart, and he must be, else he could
scarcely have come in his twenty-eighth
year to be owner and editor of the
Thessaly Banner of Liberty, and put in
all those political pieces, written in the
first person plural, as if he had the
power of attorney for all Dearborn
County. But then he was mortally
shiftless about money matters, and
they did say that since his wife's death
--a mere school-teacher she had been
--he had become quite dissipated and
played billiards. Besides she was at
open feud with him, and never, never
would speak to him again, the longest
day he lived l So that settled John.
As for Seth, the youngest of the
brothers, it is to be doubted if she
would have thought of him at all, had
he not come in at the moment. He
had been down to the village to get
some black clothes which the tailor had
constructed on short notice for him, and
he, too, passed through the sitting-room
to the stairs with the serious look and
the dead silence which the awful pres-
ence imposes.
Then she did think of him for a mo-
ment, as she stood warming her fingers
over the bald, flat top of the stove--for
though bri.ght and warm enough out-
side, the mr was still chilly in these
great barns of rooms.
Seth was indisputably the handsomest
of all the Fairchilds, even haudsomer
than she remembered lfis father to have
been--a tall, straight, broad-shouldered
youth, who held his head well up and
looked everybody in the face with honest
hazel eyes. He had the Richardson corn-

'28 SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

plexion, a dusky tint gained doubtless
from all those Dutch intermarriages of
which poor Cicely used to make so
much, but his brown hair curled much
as Lemuel's used to curl, only not so
effeminately, and his temper was
even as his father's had been, though
not so submissive or weak. His hands
were rough and coarse from the farm
work, and his walk showed familiarity
with ploughed ground, but still he had,
in his way, a more distinguished air
than either Albert or John had ever
had.
Looking him over, a stranger would
lve been sm'prised that his aunt should
lve left him out of her thoughts of the
family's futurenor that, once pausing to
consider him, she should have dropped
the idea so swiftly. But so it was. Miss
Sabrina felt cold and aggrieved towm-d
Albert, and she came as near luting
John as a deeply devout woman safely
could. She simply took no account of
Seth at all, as she would have expressed
it. To her he was a quiet, harmless
sort of youngster, who worked pretty
steadily on the farm, and got on civilly
with people. She understood that he
ws very fond of reading, but that made
no special impression on her. If she
had been asked, she would undoubtedly
have said that Seth was her favorite
nephewbut she had never dreamed of
regarding him as a possible restorer of
the family glo'ies.
"Is yer oven hot enough ?" she asked
Alvira in the kitchen, a minute later.
"If they's anything I dew lte, it's
soggy undercrust."
"I guess I kin manage a batch o' pies
by this time," returned the hired girl
with a sniff. Through some unex-
plained process of reasoning, Alvira was
with the Fairchflds as against the Rich-
ardsons, but she was first of all for her-
self, against the whole human race.
"Milton gone aout with the caows ?"
asked the old lady, ignoring for once
the domestic's challenge. "XVhen he
comes back, he 'n' Leander better go
over to Wilkinses, and get what chairs
they kin spare. I s'pose thereql be
big craowd, ef only to git in and see if
there's any holes in our body-Brussels
yit, 'n' haow that sofy-backed set in the
parlor's holdin' out. loor Cicely I

think they better bring over the chairs
to-night, after dusk. What people don't
see they can't talk about."
"Heard Milton say he was goin' to
borrer some over at Wm-ren's," remarked
Alvira, in a casual way, but looking
around to see how the idea affected
Miss Sabrina.
"Well he jis' won't !" came the
answer, very promptly and spiritedly.
"If every mortal soul of 'em hes to
stan' up, he won't l I guess Lemuel
Fairchfld's wife can be buried 'thut
asking any help from Matfldy Warren.
I wouldn't ask her if 't was th' las' thing
I ever did."
"But Annie sent word she was corn-
in' over fus' thing in th' mornin', so's to
help clear up th' breakfast things. If
she's good enough fer that, I don't see
why you need be afeered o' borryin' her
clirs."
"They ain't her chairs, and you
knaow it, Alviry. I ain't got a word
to say agin' Annie Fairchild, but when
it comes to her gran'mother, I kin ride
a high horse as well's she kin. After
all the trouble she mle my family, the
sight of a single stick of her furnitur'
here 'd be enough to bring the rafters
of this haouse down over my head, I
do believe !"
"Well, of course, 'taint none o' my
business, but seems to me there ql be
a plaguey slim fun'r'l when your turn
comes if you're goin' to keep up all
these old-woman's fights with every-
body 'raound abaout."
"Naow Alviry !" began Miss Sabrina,
in her shrillest and angriest tone ; then
with a visible effort, as if remembering
something, she paused and then went
on in a subdued, almost submissive
voice, "You knaow jis' haow Matfldy
Warren's used us. From the very day
my poor brother William ran off with
her Jennynand goodness knaows what-
ever possessed him to dew it--thet old
woman's never missed a chance to run
us all daown--ez ef she oughtn't to
been praoud o' th' day a Fairchild took
up with a Warren."
"Guess you ain't had none the wu'st
of it," put in Alvira, with sarcasm.
"Guess your tongue's "baout as shm'p
as her'n ever was. B'sides she's bed-
ridden naow, 'n' everybody thought

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE. 81

if the grandmother of the Capulets had
remarked that of all the loathed lIonta-
gus perhaps young Romeo was person-
ally the least offensive to her sight.
And second, he was far from being in
a Romeo's condition of heart and mind.
He was not in love with Annie for her-
selfmmuch less for the Warren farm.
To state plainly what Seth had not yet
mustered courage to say in entire frank-
ness even to himself, he hated farming,
and rebelled against the idea of follow-
ing in his father's footsteps. And the
dreams of a career elsewhere which oc-
cupied the mutinous thoughts Seth con-
cealed under so passive an exterior had
carried him far away from the plan of
an alliance with the nice sol of country
cousin who would eventually own the
adjoining farm. So in this sense, too,
his mother's dying words were a sur-
pl"ise--converting into a definite and
almost sacred desire what he had sup-
posed to be merely a shapeless fancy.
lot all this crossed his mind, as he
watched Annie till she disappeared, and
then turned back to his work. But the
sight of her had been pleasant to him,
and her voice had sounded very gentle
and yet full of the substance of woman-
liness--and perhaps his poor, dear moth-
er's plan for him, after all, was the best.
The gate swinging properly at last,
there was an end to Seth's out-door
tasks, and he started toward the house.
The thought that he would see Annie
within was distinct enough in his mind,
almost, to constitute a motive for his
going. At the very door he encoun-
tered his brother Albert's wife, coming
out, and stopped.
Isabel Fairchild was far from deserv-
inff, at least as a woman, the epithets
with which Aunt Sabrina mentally
coupled her girlhood. There was noth-
ing impertinent or ill-behaved about
her appearance, certainly, as she stood
before Seth, and with a faint smile bade
him good-morning. She was above the
medium height, .as woman's stature goes,
and almost plump; her hair, much of
which was shown in front by the pretty
Parisian form of straw hat she wore, was
very hght in color ; her eyes were blue,
a hght, noticeable blue. She wore some
loose kind of black and gray morning
dress, with an extra fold falling in grace-

ful lines from her shoulders to her train,
like a toga, and she carried a dainty
parasol, also of black and gray, like the
ribbons on her dark hat. To Seth's eyes
she had seemed yesterday, when he saw
her for the first time, a very embodi-
ment of the luxtuT, beauty, refinement
of city life--and how much more so
now, when her dingy travelling raiment
had given place to this most engaging
garb, so subdued, yet so lovely. It
seemed to him that his sister-in-law
was quite the most attractive woman
he had ever seen.
"I thought of going for a httle stroll,"
she said, again with the faint half-smile.
"It is so charming outside, and so blue
and depressing in the house. Can I
walk along there through the orchard
now? I used to when I was here as a
girl, I know--and won't you come with
me ? I've scarcely had a chance for a
word with you since we came."
The invitation was pleasant enough
to Seth, but he looked deprecatingly at
his rough chore clothes, and wondered
whether he ought to accept it or not.
"Why, Seth, the idea of standing on
ceremony with me! As if we had
played together here as children--to
say nothing of my being your sister
I1OW ."
They had started now toward the
orchard, and she continued :--
"Do you know, it seems as if I did
know anybody here but you--and even
you almost make a stranger out of me.
Poor Uncle Lemuel, he is so broken-
down that he scarcely remembers me,
and of course your Aunt and I couldn't
be expected to get very intimate--you
remember our dispute? Then Jolm,
he's very pleasant, and all that, but he
isn't at all like the John I used to look
up to so, the summer I was here. But
you--you have hardly changed a bit.
Of course," she made haste to add, for
Seth's face did not reflect unalloyed
gratification at this, "you have grown
manly and big, and all that, but you
haven't changed in your expression or
manner. It's almost ten years--and I
should have known you anywhere. But
Jolm has changed he's more like a city
man, or rather a villager, a compromise
between city and country."
"Yes, I'm a countryman through and

82 SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

through, I suppose," said Seth with
something very like a sigh.
"John has seen a good deal of the
world they tell me, and been on papers
in large cities. I wonder how he can
content himself with that little weekly
in Thessaly after that."
"I don't think John has much am-
bition," answered Seth, meditatively.
"He doesn't seem to care much how
things go, if he only has the chance to
say what he wants to say in print. It
doesn't make any difference to him, ap-
parently, whether all New York State
reads what he writes, or only thirty or
forty fellows in Deaxborn County--he's
just as well satisfied. And yet he's a
very bright man, too. He might have
gone to the Assembly last fall, if he could
have bid against Elhanan Pratt. He will
go some time, probably."
"Why, do you have an auction here
for the Assembly ?"
"Oh, no, but the man who's willing to
pay a big assessment into the campaig
fund can generally shut a poor candi-
date out. John did n't seem to mind
much Ubout being frozen out though--
not half so much as I did, for him.
Everybody in Thessaly knows him and
likes him and calls him 'John,' and that
seems to be the height of his ambition.
I can't imaone a man of his abilities be-
ing satisfied with so limited a horizon."
"And, you, Seth, what is your horizon
like ?" asked Isabel.
They had entered the orchard, now,
and the apple blossoms close above them
filled the May morning air with that
sweet sping perfume which seems to tell
of growth, harvest, the fruition of hope.
"Oh, I'm picked out to be a country-
man all the days of my life I suppose."
There was the sigh again, and a tinge of
bitterness in his tone, as well.
"Oh, I hope not--that is, if you don't
want to be. Oh, it must be such a
dreary life! The very thought of it sets
my teeth on edge. The dreadful peo-
ple you have to know; men without an
idea beyond crops and calves and the
cheese-factory ; women slaving their
lives out doing bad cooking, mending
for a household of men, devoting their
scarce opportunities for intercourse
with other vomen to the weakest and
most wretched gossip; coarse servants

who eat at the table with their employ-
ers and call them by their Christian
names; boys whose only theory about
education is thrashing the school teach-
er, if it is a man, or breaking her heart
by their mean insolence if it is a woman ;
and girls brought up to be awkward
gawks, without a chance in life, since
the brighter and nicer they are the more
they will suffer from marriage with men
mentally beneath them--that is, if they
don't become sour old maids. I don't
wonder you hate it all, Seth."
"You talk like a book," said Seth, in
tones of unmistakable admiration. "I
didn't suppose any woman could talk
like that."
"I talk as I feel always, when I come
into contact with country life, and I get
angry with people who maunder about
its romantic and picturesque side.
Where is it, I should like to know ?"
"Oh, it isn't all so bad as you paint
it, perhaps, Isabel. Of course--"
inhere he hesitated a little--"you don't
quite see it at its best here, you know.
Father han't been a first-rate manager,
and things have kind o' run down."
"No, Seth, it isn't that; the trail of
the serpent is over it all--rich and poor,
big and little. The nineteenth century
is a century of cities; they have given
their own twist to the progress of the
age--and the farmer is almost as far out
of it as if he lived in Alaska. Perhaps
there may have been a time when a man
could live in what the poet calls daily
communion with Nature, and not starve
his mind and dwarf his soul, but this
isn't the century."
"But Webster was a farm boy, and so
was Lincoln and Garfield and Jackson ;
almost all our great men. Hardly any of
them are bo=a in cities, you will find."
"Oh, the country is just splendid to
be born in, no doubt of that ; but after
you axe born, get out of it as soon as
yOU can."
"I don't know as I can leave Father
very well," said Seth, slowly, and as if
in deep thought.
They walked to the end of the pasture
beyond the orchard, to within view of
the spot where all the Fairchflds for
three generations had been lid, and
where, among the clustering sweet-b'iars
and wild strawberry vines Milton

SETH'S BROTHER'S IMIFE. 133

only yesterday dug a new grave. The
sight recalled to both another subject,
and no more was said of cotmtry life as
they returned to the house. Indeed,
little was said of any sort, for Seth had
a thinking mood on. Nothing vas very
clear in his mind perhaps, but more dis-
tinctly than anything else he felt that
existence on the farm had all at once be-
come intolerable.

CHAPTER .V.
TIE FUNERAL.
THE American farm-house ftmeral is
surely, of all the observances with which
civilized man marks the ending of this
earthly pilgrimage, the most pathetic.
The rural life itself is a sad and sterile
enough thing, with its tmrelieved i)hysi-
cal strain, its enervating and destructive
diet, its mental barrenness, its stelly
narrowed groove of toil and thought and
companionship--but death on the farm
brings a desolating gloom, a cruel sense
of the hopelessness of existence, which
one realizes nowhere else. The grim,
fatalist habit of seizing upon the gro-
tesque side, which a century of farm life
has crystallized into what the world
knows as American humor, is not want-
ing even in this hour; and the comfort-
ing conviction of immortality, of the
shining reward to follow travail and
sorrow, is nowhere more firmly insisted
upon than among our cotmtry people.
But the bleak environment of the closed
life, the absence of real fellowship among
the living, the melancholy isolation and
vanity of it all, oppress the soul here
with an intolerable weight which neither
fund of sardonic spirits nor honest faith
can lighten.
Something of this Isabel felt, as the
mid-day meal was hurried through, on
,vira's sharp intimation that the room
couldn't be cleared any too soon, for
the crowd would begin coming now,
right along. There were three strangers
at the table--though they seemed to be
scarcely more strangers than the mem-
bers of her husband's family--of whom
two were clergymen.
One of these, who sat next to her, was
the Episcopalian minister at Thessaly,
a middle-aged, soft sort of man, with
fOL. I.--3

short hair so smooth and furry that she
was conscious of an impulse to stroke it
like a seal-skin, and little side-whiskers
which reminded her of a baby brush.
He impressed her as a stupid man, but
in that she was mistaken. He was ner-
vous and ill at ease, first because he
could not successfully or gracefully use
the narrow three-tined steel fork with a
bone handle that had been given him,
and second, because he did not under-
stand the presence of the Rev. Stephen
Bunce, who sat opposite him, offensively
smacking his lips, and devoting to loud
discourse periods Which it seemed might
letter have been employed in mastica-
tion.
If quiet M: Turner was ill at ease,
the Rev. Stephen was certainly not. He
bestrode the situation like a modern
Colossus. The shape of his fork did not
worry him, since he used it only as a
humble and lowly adjunct to his knife.
The presence of Mr. Turner too, neither
puzzled nor pained him. In fact, he was
rather pleased than otherwise to have
him there, where he could talk to him
before sympathetic witnesses, and make
him realize how the man of the people
who had a genuine call towered innately
superior to mere beneficed gentility.
"Beneficed gentility"--that was a good
plu-ase, and he made a mental note of it
for future use; then--the temptation
was too strong--he brindled it neck and
crop into the florid sentence with which
he was addressing Albert--and looked
at the Episcopalian to watch its effect.
Mr. Ttu'ner was occupied with his
javelin-shaped fork, and did not seem
to hear it.
Mr. Btmce suspected artifice in this,
and watched the rector's meek face for a
sign of secret confusion. After a moment
he said, with his full, pompous voice at
its loudest and most artificial pitch :--
"Ah, Mr. Trainer, this is a sad occa-
sion !"
The rector glanced up with some sur-
prise, for he had not expected this over-
ture, and answered : "Yes, truly it is ;
extremely sad."
"Yet it is consoling to feel that even
so sad an occasion can be converted into
a means of grace, a season of spiritual
solace as it were."
Mr. Turner only nodded assent to

34 SETH'S BROTHER'S I/FIFE.

this;he felt that the whole cnpany
around the table, hired people and all,
were eagerly watching him and the burly,
bold-faced preacher opposite, as if they
were about to engage in gladiatorial
combat.
But Mr. Bunce would not permit the
challenge to be declined. He stroked
his ochre-hucd chin-whisker, looked com-
placently around the board, and asked :
"I s'pose you're brought your white
and black rign's along, eh .9 Or don't
you wear 'era except in church .9"
" There was a pained looked in Mr.
Turner's face;he made a little gesture
toward the folding-doors leading to the
parlor, beyond which lay the dead, and
murmured :
"It will be better, will it not, to speak
of these matters together, after dinner .9"
Again the Rev. Stephen glanced around
the table, looking especially toward Miss
Sabrina for approval, and remarked
loftily:
"There is no need of concealment here,
sir. It is all in the family here. We
all know that the Mother in Israel who
has departed was formerly of your com-
mmion, and if she wanted to have you
here, sir, at her funeral, why well and
good. But the rest of this sorrowin'
family, sir, this stricken household, air
Baptists---"
"I declare ! there's the Burrells drivin'
into the yard, a'ready !" said Alvira, ris-
ing from her chair abruptly. "If you're
threw we better hustle these things aout,
.aow ; you women won't more 'n have
time to dress 'fore they'll all be here."
The interruption seemed a welcome
one to everybody, for there was a gen-
eral movement on both sides of Mr.
Bunce, which he, vith his sentence un-
finished, was constrained to join.
The third stranger, a small, elderly
man with a mobile countenance and rusty
black clothes, drew himself up, put on a
modifiedly doleful expression, and, speak-
ing for the first time, assumed control
of everything :
"Naow, Milton, you 'n' Leander git
the table aout, 'n' bring in all the extry
chairs, 'n' set 'era 'raound in rows.
Squeeze 'era pooty well together in
back, but the front ones kind o' spread
aout. You, Miss Sabriny, 'n' the lady"
--indicating Isabel with his thumb

"'n' Annie 'd better go upstairs 'n' git
yer bonnets on, 'n' things, 'n' go 'n' set
in the room at the head o' the stairs.
You men, few, git your gloves on, 'n'
naow be sure 'n' have your hankch'fs in
some pocket where you can git at 'era
with 'our gloves on--'n' have your hats
in your hands, 'n' then go 'n' set with
the ladies. Miss Sabriny, youl come
daown arm-in-arm with yer brother,
when I call, 'n' then Albert 'n' his wife,
'n' John with Annie, 'n' Seth with--
pshaw, there's odd numbers. Well,
Se.th can come alone. And dew keep
step comin' daown stairs !
"'N' naow, gents," tming to the
Rev. Mr. Turner, "your gaown's in the
lust room to the right on the landin',
and if you "--addressing Mr. Bunce--
"will go up with him, and arrange
'baout the services, so's to come daown
together--it 1 look pootier than to
straggle in by yourselves--'N' you, Mil-
ton, ain't you got somethin' besides
overalls to put on .9"
Thus the autocrat cleared the living
room. Then, going around through the
front hall, he entered the parlor to re-
ceive, with solemn dignity and a fine
eye to their relative social merit, the
first comers.
These were almost exclusively women,
dressed in Sunday garb. As each buggy
or democrat wagon drove up inside the
gate, and discharged its burden, the
men would lead the horses further on,
to be hitched under or near the shed,
and then saunter around to the kitchen
side of the house, where cider was on
tap, and other men were standing in
the sunshine, chewing tobacco and con-
versing in low tones, while the women
from each conveyance went straight to
the front door, and got seats in the
parlor as close to the coffin as possible.
The separation of the sexes could hardly
have been more rigorous in a synagogue.
There were, indeed, two or three meek,
well-brushed men among the women,
sitting, uncomfortable but resigned, in
the geranium-scented gloom of the cur-
tained parlor, but, as the more virile
brethren outside would have said, they
were men who didn't count.
The task of the undertaker was neither
light nor altogether smooth. There were
some dozen chairs reserved, nearest the

SETH'S BROTHER'S I/FIFE. 135

pall, for the mourners, the clergymen,
and the mixed quartette expected from
Thessaly. Every woman on ente'ing
made for these chairs, and the more
unimportant and "low-down" she was
in the rural scale of social values, the
more confidently she essayed to get one
of them. With all of these more or less
argument was necessalj--conducted in
a buzzing whisper from which some
squeak or guttural exclamation would
now and again emerge. With some, the
undertaker was compelled to be quite
peremptory; while one woman--Susan
Jane Squires, a slatternly, weak-eyed
creature who presumed upon her po-
sition as sister-in-law of Milton, the
hired man--had actually to be pushed
away by sheer force.
Then there was the further labor of
inducing all these disappointed ones to
take the seats furthest back, so that late
comers might not have to push by and
over them, but efforts in this direction
were only fitful at the best, and soon
were practically abandoned.
"Fust come, fust sawed!" said old
Mrs. Wimple. "I'm jes ez good ez
them that '11 come bimeby, 'n' ef I don'
mind their climbin' over me, you need
n't !" and against this the undertaker
could urge nothing satisfactory.
In the intervals of that ftmctionalT's
activity, conversation was quite general,
carried on in whispers which, in the ag-
gregate, sounded like the rustle of a
smart breeze through the dry leaves of
a beech-tree. ]VIany women were there
who had never been in the house before
could indeed, have had no other
chance of getting in. These had some
fleeting interest in the funeral appoint-
ments, and the expense incident there-
to, bat their chief concern was the ftu--
nishing of the house. They furtively
scraped the carpet with their feet to
test its quality, they felt of the fmiture
to see if it had been re-varnished, they
estimated the value of the cm'tains,
speculated on the cost of the melodeon
and its age, wondered when the ceiling
had last been whitewashed. Some, who
-knew the family better, discussed the
lamentable decline of the Fairchflds in
substance and standing within their
recollection, and exchanged hints about
the endemic mortgage stretching its

sbister hand even to the very chairs
they were sitting on. Others, still
more intimate, rehearsed the details of
the last and fatal illness, commented on
the character of individuals in the fam-
ily, and guessed how long old Lemuel
would last, now that Cicely was gone.
In the centre of these circling waves
of gossip lay the embodiment of the
eternal silence. Listening, one might
fain envy such an end to that living
death of mental stawation which was
the lot of all there, and which forced
them, out of their womanhood, to chat-
ter in the presence of death.
The singers came. They were from
the village, belonging to the Congrega-
tional Church there, and it was under-
stood that they came out of liking for
John Fairchild. None of the gathe'ing
knew them personally, but it was said
that the contraltothe woman with the
bird on her bonnet, who took her seat
at the melodeonhad had trouble with
her husband. A fresh buzz of whisper-
ing ran round. Some stray word must
have reached the contralto, for she col-
ored and pretended to study the music
before her intently, and, later, when
"Pleyel's Hymn" was being sung, she
played so nervously that there was an
utter collapse in the sharps and flats of
the third line, which nearly threw the
singers out.
The undertaker now stalked in, and
stood on tip-toe to see if the back
room was also filled. He had been out
with the men at the kitchen-door, fixing
crape on the arms of six of the best-
dressed and most respectable-looking
farmers in an almost jocular mood, and
drilling them affibly in theh" duties;
drinking cider, exchanging gossip with
one or two acquaintances, and conduct-
ing himself genertdly like an ordinary
mortal. He had now resumed his dic-
tatorship.
Most of the men had followed him
around to the front of the house, and
clustered now in the hall, or in a group
about the outer door, holding their hats
on a level with their shoulders.
A rustle on the stairs told that the
mommers were descending. Then came
the strains of the melodeon, and the
singing, very low, solemn and sweet.
A little pause, and the full voice of

86 SETH'S BROTHER'S Id/'IFE.

the Baptist preacher was heard in pray-
er--then in some eulogistic rearks.
What he said was largely nonsense,
from any point of view, but the voice
was that of the born exhorter, deep,
clear-toned, melodious; there seemed
to be a stop in it, as in an organ, which
at pathetic parts gave forth a tremulous,
weeping sound, and when this came,
not a dry eye could be found. He was
over-fond of using this effect, as are
most men possessing the trick, but no
one noticed it, not even Isabel, who
frown sitting sternly intolerant of the
whispering women around her, and
indignant at Mr. Bunce for his dinner
performance, found herself sobbing with
all the rest when the tremulo stop was
touched.
There was more singing, this time
fine, simple old "St. Denis," and then
the bearers were summoned in.
The men asked one another in ram'-
tours outside i the Episcopal clar- W-
man was to take no part in the services.
Within, Mrs. Wimple went straighter
to the point. She plucked hin by the
sleeve of his robe and leaning over with
some difficulty, for she was a corpulent
body, whispered to the hearing of a
score of her neighbors :
"What air you here fer, mister, if
you ain't goin' to say nor dew nothin'?"
"I officiate at the grave," he had said,
and then regretted all the remainder
of the day having answered her at all.

On the return of the procession from
the little knoll where the slate and mar-
ble tomb-stones of long dead Fairchilds
bent over the new brown mound, Annie
and Seth walked together. There was
silence between them for a time, which

I hate the sight of the whole of them. I
never realized till to-day how big a lf
there was between them and me. Did n't
you see it--what a mean, narrow-con-
tracted lot they all vere ?"
"Who do you mean, Seth ?"
"Why all of them. The Burrells, the
Wimples, old Elhanan Pratt, old Lyman
Tenney, that fellow Bunce--the whole
lot of them. And the women too! Did
you watch themor, what's worse, did
you hear them ? I wonder you can bear
them yourself, Annie, ny more than I
"Sometimes it is hard, Seth, I admit ;
when I first came back to grandma from
school it was awfully hard. But then
I've got to live here, and reconcile my-
self to what the place offers--and, after
all, Seth, they are well-meaning people,
and some of them are snart, too, in
their way."
"Oh, well-rSeaningin their way--
yes! But I haven't got to live here,
Annie, and I haven't got to reconcile
myself, and I won't! That's the long
and short of it. I can make my living
elsewherel)erhaps more than my liv-
ing-and be among people who don't
make me angry every time I set eyes on
them. And I can find friends, too, who
feel as I do, and look at things as I do,
instead of these country louts who only
know abominable stories, and these fool-
ish girls--who--who"
"Nobody can blame you to-day, Seth,
for feeling blue and sore, but you.ought
not to talk so, even now. They're not
all like what you say. Reuben Tracy,
now, he's been a good friend and a use-
ful friend to you."
"Yes, Rube's a grand, good fellow, of
course. I know all that. But then just

he broke suddenly, take his case. He's a poor schoohnaster
"It's all veLw hard, Annie, for you now, just as he was five years ago, and
know how much mother and I loved will be twenty years from now. What
each other. But, truly, the hardest kind of a life is that for a man ?"
thing of all is to think of staying here "And maybe the girls arefoolish, as
among these narrow dolts. While she you started to say, but "
was here I could stand it. But I can't "Now, Annie, don't think I meant

any more."
Annie said nothing. She felt his arm
trembling against hers, and his voice
was strained and excited. What could
she say?
"They're not like me," he went on;
"I have nothing in common with them.

anything by that, please ! I know you're
the dearest girl and the best friend in
the world. Truly, now, you won't think
I meant anything, will you ?" .
"No, Seth, I won't," said Annie softly.
It was her arm that trembled now.

(To be continued.)

38 THE STORY OF A NEH/ YORK HOUSE.

quick perception: "He would have
been a member of the new Historical
Society."
"Yes," he thought to himself, as he
found his hat and shuffled out into Pine
Street; "and John Pintard would have
had my good check in his pocket for his
tuppenny society. Pine Street is fine
enough for me."
Mr. Van Riper had more cause for his
petulancy than he would have acknowl-
edged, even to himself. He was a man

Systems and Avenues ! said he. That was
all the doing of those cursed Frenchmen.
He knew how it would be when they
brought their plaguy frigate here in the
first fever year --'93m and the fools
marched up from Peck's Slip after a red
nightcap, and howled their cut-throat
song all night long.
It began to hum itself in his head as
he walked toward Water Street--,( ira,
--a ira--les aristocrats d la lanterne. A
whiff of the wind that blew through

who had kept his shop open all through
Clinton's occupancy, and who had had
no trouble with the British. And when
they were gone he had had to do enough
to clear his skirts of any smirch of Tory-
ism, and to implant in his own breast a
settled feeling of militant Americanism.
He did not like it that the order of things
should change, and the order of things
was changing. The town was growing
out of all knowledge of itself. Here they
had their Orphan Asylum, and their ]30-
tanical Garden, and their Historical So-
ciety; and the Jews were having it all
their own way; and now people were
talking of free schools, and of laying out
a map for the upper end of the town to
grow on, in the " system" of straight
streets and avenues. To the dex-il with

Paris streets in the terrible times had
come across the Atlantic and tickled his
dull old Dutch nostrils.
BUt something worse than this vexed
the conservative spirit of Abram Van
Riper. He could forgive John Pintard
--whose inspiration, I think, foreran the
twentieth century--his fancy for Free
Schools and Historical Societies, as he
had forgiven him his sidewalk-building
fifteen years before; he could proudly
overlook the fact that the women were
busying themselves with all manner of
wild charities;he could be contented
though he knew that the Hebrew Hart
was President of that merchants' club at
Baker's, of which he himself would fain
have been a member. But there was
something in the air that he could neither

40 THE STORY OF A NEI4I YORK HOUSE.

for the timber of which the bYsa ][inor nearly as much notice on Broadway in
was built.  1807 as it might to-day. But it was re.7
And everybody seemed willing to ceived with far more reverence, or 1
make acquaintance with young Jacob's was a court coach, and it belonged to
London-made kerseymere  breeches, of the Des Anges family, the rich I-Iugue-
a bright canary-color, and with his lay- nots of New Rochelle. It had been
, -,..: ,,  --.. ...... .. - ,
',   , ., % ...- : .. -../, /:
. *:""'  .:, !#  7liZ(/-: " -. " ._

ender silk coat, and with his little chap-
eau de Paris. Indeed, young lacob
was quite the most prominent moving
spectacle on Broadway, until they came
to John Street, and saw something
rlling down the street that quite cut
the yellow kerseymeres out of all popu-
lar attention.
Tlfis was a carriage, the body of
which was shaped like a huge section
of a cheese, set up on its small end
upon broad swinging straps between
two pairs of wheels. It was not unlike
a piece of cheese in color, for it was of
a dull and faded grayish green, like
mould, relieved by pale-yellow panels
and gilt ornaments. It was truly an
interesting structure, and it attracted

built in lr,nce, thirty years before, and
had been sent over as a present to his
brother from the Count des Anges, who
had himself neglected to make use of
his opportunities to embrace the Prot-
estant religion.
When the white-haired old lady who
sat in this coach, with a very little girl
by her side, saw Mr. Dolph and his son,
she leaned out of the window and sig-
nalled to the old periwigged driver to
stop, and he drew up close to the side-
walk. And then Mr. Dolph and his son
came up to the window and took off
their hats, and made a great low bow
and a small low bow to the old lady and
the little girl.
"Madam Des Anges," said Mr.

42 THE STORY OF 4 NEI" YORK HOUSE.

Mr. Dolph continued on iis walk up
Broadway. As he passed the uppe end
of the Common he looked with interest
at the piles of red sandstone among the
piles of white marble, where they were
building the new City Hall. The Coun-
cil had ordered that the rear or north-
ward end of the edifice should be con-
structed of red stone ; because red stone
vas cheap, and none but a few suburbans
would ever look down on it from above
Chambers Street. Mr. Dolph shook his
head. He thought he knev better. He
had watched the growth of trade; he
knew the room for further growth; he
had noticed the long converging lines of
river-front, with their unbounded accom-
modation for wharves and slips. He be-
lieved that the day would come--and his
own boy might see it---when the busi-
ness of the city would crowd the dwell-
ing-houses from the riverside, east and
west, as far, maybe, as Chambers Street.
He had no doubt that the boy might
find himself, forty years from then, in a
populous and genteel neighborhood.
lerhaps he foresaw too much; but he
had a jealous yearning for a house that
should be a home for him, and for his
child, and for his grandchildren. He
wanted a place where his wife might
have a garden; a place which the boy
would grov up to love and cherish,
vhere the boy might bring a wife some
day. And even if it were a little out of
town--why, his wife did not want a rout
every night; and it was likely his old
friends wotfld come out and see him once
in a while, and smoke a pipe in his gar-
den and eat a dish of strawberries, per-
haps.
As he thought it all over for the hm-
dredth time, weighing for and against
in his gentle and deliberative mind, he
strolled far out of town. There was a
house here and there on the road, a house
with a tl"im, stiff little garden, full of
pink and white and blue flowers in or-
derly clam-shell-bordered beds. But it
was certainly, he had to admit, as he
looked about him, very countrified in-
deed. It seemed that the city must lose
itself if it wandered up here among these
rolling meadows and wooded hills. Yet
even up here, half way to Greenwich Vil-
lage, there were little outposts of the
town--clumps of neighboring houses,

mostly of the poorer class, huddling to-
gether to form small nuclei for sporadic
growth. There was one on his right,
near the head of Collect Street. Perhaps
that quizzical little old German vas right,
who had told hin that King's Bridge
property was a rational investment.
He went across the hill where Grand
Street crosses Broadway, and up past
what was then North and is to-day
Houston Street, and the turned down
a straggling road that ran east and west.
He walked toward the Hudson, and
passed a farmhouse or two, and came to
a bare place where there were no trees,
and only a few tangled bushes and
ground-vines.
Here a man was sitting on a stone,
awaiting him. As he came near, the
mall arose.
"Ah, it's you, Weeks ? And have you
the plan ?"
"Yes, Colonel--Mr. Dolph. I've put
the window where you want it--that is,
my brother Levi lid--though I don't
see as you're going to have much trouble
in looking over anything that's likely to
come betveen you and the river."
Mr. Dolph took the crisp roll of parch-
meat and studied it with loving interest.
It had gone back to Ezra Weeks, the
builder, and his brother Levi, the archi-
tect, for the twentieth time, perhaps.
Was there ever an architect's plan put
in the hands of a happy nest-builder
where the windows did not go up and
dovn fronl day to day, and the doors
did not crawl all around the house, and
the verandah did not contract and ex-
pand like a sensitive plant; or xvhere
the rooms and closets and corridors did
not march backward and forward and in
and out at the bidding of every fond,
untutored whim ?
"It's a monstrous great big place for
a country-house, Mr. Dolph," said Ezra
Weeks, as he looked over Jacob Dolph's
shoulder at the drawings of the house,
and shook his head with a sort of pity=
ing admiration for the projector's au-
dacity.
They talked for a vhfle, and looked
at the site as if they might see more in
it than they sav yesterday, and then
Weeks set off for the city, pledged to
hire laborers and to begin the work on
the morrow.

THE STORY" OF A NEI4/ YORK HOUSE. 4,:3

"I think I can get you some of that the fire flickering on the new hearth.
stone that's going into the back of the Then he looked over toward the Hudson,
City Hall, if you say so, Mr. Dolph. and saw the green woods on Union Hill
That stone was bought cheap, you know and the top of a white sail over the high
--bought for the city." river-bank. He hoped that no one would

"See what you can do, Weeks," said build a large house between him and the
Mr. Dolph ; and Mr. Weeks went whist- river.

ling down the road.
Jacob Dolph walked around his pro-
spective domain. He kicked a wild black-
berry bush aside to look at the head of
a stake, and tried to realize that that
would be the corner of his house. He
went to where the parlor fireplace would
be, and stared at the grass and stones,
wondering what it would be like to watch

He lingered so long that the smoke of
midday dinners was arising from Green-
wich Village when he tmed back to-
ward to. When he reached the Com-
mons on his homeward way he came
across a knot of idlers who were wast-
ing the hour of the noontide meal in
gaping at the tmfinished municipal build-
into

46 THE STORY OF A NEIM YORK HOUSE.

wonderful stock of fine clothes and of
finer manners, and with a pair o mous-
tachios that scandalized everybody but
Madam Des Anges, who had seen the
like in France when she visited her
brother. And a very fine young buck
was young Jacob, altogether, with his
knowledge of French and his ignorance
of Dutch, and a way he had with the
women, and another way he had with
the men, and his heirship to old Jacob
Dolph's money and his two houses.
For they stayed in the old house until
1822.
If'was a close, ho night in the early
summer; there was a thick, warm mist
that turned now and then into a soft
rain ; yet every window in the Dolphs's
house in State Street -,;as closed.
It had been a hideous day for New
-York. Frown early morning until long
after dark had set in, the streets had
been filled with frightened, disordered
crowds. The city was again stricken
with the old, inevitable, ever-recurring
scourge of yellow fever, and the people
had lost their heads. In every house,
in every office .nd shop, there was hasty
packing, mad confusion, and wild flight.
It was only a question of getting out of
town as best one might. Wagons and
carts creaked and rumbled and rattled
through every street, piled high with
household chattels, upheaped in blind
haste. Wonen rode on the swaying
loads, or walked beside with the snaller
children in their arms. Men bore heavy
burdens, and children helped according
to their strength. There was only one
idea, and that was flight--from a pesti-
lence whose coming might have been
prevented, and whose com-se could have
been stayed. To most of these poor
creattu-es the only haven seemed to be
Greenwich Village; but some sought
the scattered settlements above; some
crossed to Hoboken ; some to Bushwick ;
while others made a long jounaey to
Staaten Island, across the bay. And when
they reached their goals, it was to beg

Office and the Custom House were to be
transferred to Greenwich. There were
some who remained faithful throughout
all, and who labored for the stricken,
and whose names are not even written
in the memory of their fellow-men. But
the city had been so often ravaged be-
fore, that at the first there was one mere
animal impulse of flight that seized upon
all alike.
At one o'clock, when some of the bet-
ter streets had once more taken on their
natural quiet, an ox-cart stood before the
door of the Dolphs's old house. A little
behind it stood the family carriage, its
lamps unlit. The horses stirred uneasily ;
but the oxen waited in dull, indifferent
patience. Presently the door opened,
and two men came out and awkwardly
bore a plain coffin to the cart. Then
they mounted to the front of the cart,
hiding between them a muffled lantern.
They wore cloths ove: the lower part of
their faces, and felt hats drawn lov over
their eyes.-Something in theix gait
showed them to be seafaring men, or
the like.
Then out of the open door came Ja-
cob Dolph, noving with a feeble shuffle
between his son and his old negro coach-
man-this man and his wife the only
faithful of all the servants. The young
man put his father in the carriage, and
the negro went back and locked the
doors and brought the keys to his young
master. He mounted to the box, and
through the darkness could be seen a
.white towel tied around his arm--the
old badge of servitude's mourning.
The oxen were started up, and the two
vehicles moved up into Broadway. They
travelled with painful slowness; the
horses had to be held in to keep them
behind the cart, for the oxen could be
guided only with the whip, and not by
word of mouth. The old nan moaned
a little at the pace, and quivered when
he heard the distant sound of ham-
mers.
"What is it ?" he asked, nervously.
"They are boarding up some of the

or buy lodgings anywhere and anyhow; streets," said his son ; "do not fear,
to sleep in cellars and garrets, in barns father. Everything is prepared ; and if
and stables, we make o noise, we shall not be
The panic was not only among the troubled."
poor and io-norant. Merchants were "If we can only keep her out of the
moving their offices, and even the Post -Potter's Field--the Potter's Field!"

THE STORY OF A NEI4/" YORK HOUSE.

Then out of the open door came Jacob Dolph,"

SONNETS IN SHADOIM. 49

ress by familiar landmarks on the road ;
but the old man sat with his head bent
on his new black stock.
It was almost three, and the east was
benning to look dark, as though a
storm were settling there in the gray-
ness, when they turned down the strag-
ghng street and drew up before the great
dark mass that was the new house. The
carriage-wheels gritted against the loose
stones at the edge of the road-way, and
the great door of the house swung open.
The hght of one wavering candle-flame,
held high above her head, fell on the

black face of old Chloe, the coachman's
wife. There were no candles bttrning
on the high-pitched stairway; all was
dark behind her in the empty house.
Young Jacob Dolph helped his father
to the ground, and between the young
man and the negro old Jacob Dolph
wearily climbed the steps. Chloe lifted
her apron to her face, and turned to
lead them up the stair. Her husband
went out to his horses, shutting the
door softly after him, between Jacob
Dolph's old life and the new life that
was to begin in the new house.

SONNETS IN SHADOW.

By Arlo Bales.

 it should be we are watched unaware
By those who have gone from us ; if our sighs
Ring in their ears ; if tears that scald our eyes
They see and long to stanch ; if our despair

Fills them with anguish ; we must learn to bear
In strength of silence. Though doubt still denies,
It cannot give assurance which defies
All peradventure ; and, if anywhere

Our loved grieve with our grieving, cruel we
To cherish selfishness of woe. The chance
Should keep us steadfast. Tortured utterly,

This hope alone in all the world's expanse
We hold forloxly ; how deep love can be,
Grief's silence proving more than utterance.
VOL. I.--4

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

By F. I/. Greene, Captain U. S. Engineers.

To the great majority of the American
people the experience of Europe is of
no value as a guide. It is nothing to
us that other nations find it necessary
or advisable to pursue certain policies.
We believe that we are placed in excep-
tional circumstances; and we decide
and act upon our own judgment of the
matter in hand, regardless of the way in
which other nations have acted upon a
similar matter, lor can it be denied
that there is much to justify this self-
confidence. Our political system was
devised and adopted, not only without
the aid of foreign experience, but in di-
rect opposition and defiance of that ex-
perience. Yet it has been successful
beyond the wildest dreams of its de-
sigers ; it might fairly be called the
most successful system of modern
times, and no surer proof of this
could be adduced than the fact that
a large number of British statesmen
believe that the only remedy for Irish
misgovernment lies in grafting some of
its most important features upon the
venerable constitution of England.
As in politics, so in war. We have
thrown aside all the traditions of Eu-
ropean governments as to the necessity
of maintaining a large army for pur-
poses of defence ; we maintain only the
merest nucleus of a military organiza-
tion--a force which, in proportion to the
population, is now and always has been
utterly insignificant. Yet we have nev-
er been beaten in war. In less than
one century we prosecuted, with signal
success, four wars, one of them being
the mightiest conflict--the most far-
reaching in its consequences to the hu-
man race--of which there is authentic
record.
In nothing does this independence of
thought, this disregard of precedents
and foreign experience, this determina-
tion to decide our own questions on our
own judgment, show itself more clearly
than in the question of the necessity of
properly defending our coasts. And we
have now to consider whether, in decid-

ing to do absolutely nothing--as we
have done in the last ten years, while
other nations are spending millions--
we maintain a sturdy independence of
thought, or whether we display an ig-
norant arrogance which, like pride, goes
before a fall. "
The question is not a new one. It
was vigorously debated after the War of
1812 ; and in 1816 a competent board of
engineers was appointed, who laid down
the fundamental principles on which a
system of coast defences suited to our
needs should be constructed, and their
plans were approved by the President
and by Congress. The leading sph-it of
this board was Captain (afterward Gen-
eral) Joseph G. Torten, of the Corps of
Engineers. This eminent officer, whose
active service extended over a period of
fifty-nine years, not only devised the
entire system of defences for the Atlan-
tic coast--and subsequently for the Pa-
cific and the northern frontier--but lived
to complete it, nearly thi'ty years ago,
substantially as it is to-day. He served
in his youth in the War of 1812, was in
his prime the chief engineer of the
army in Mexico, and in his old age he
approved the plans for the defences of
Washington at the outbreak of the great
rebellion. He was also the first to make
use of iron in fortifications ; and his gran-
ite forts, with iron shutters for the gun
embrasures, built between 1850 and 1860,
were the finest models of military engi-
neering of their day.
The question of the necessity of sea-
coast defences, or--granted the neces-
sity-the principles on which they should
be constructed, was periodically revived
in Congress during the fifty years pre-
ceding the civil war, and at each period
there were corresponding boards of en-
gineers to make their reports to Con-
gress. These were the boards of 1816,
1826,1836,1840,1851,and 1861. The ex-
haustive reports of these various boards
were all written by General Torten, and
during his lifetime he spoke with the
voice of authority and almost without a

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

for a moment permit in his private usi- when the war broke out. The actual
ness. expenditures for fortifications, arsenals,
It is now necessary to examine the and armories have been, in round num-
causes which have brought about the bers, as follows:
present state of affairs, and see how it is
that out- coasts have come to be in a de- 1794-1812 ....................... $3,650,000
fenceless condition, what is necessary to 1813-1860 ....................... 39,400,000
put them in a state of defence, and what 1861-1875 ....................... 39,550,000
other nations have been doing while we 1876-1886 ....................... 4,500,000
have been idle. $87,100,000

Fort Wadsworth, West Side of the Narrows, New York Harbor.

The earlier reports of General Torten,
those of 1816 and 1826, contained a com-
plete project for the defence of the At-
lantic coast. His later reports contained
the plans for the 1)acific coast and the
lake ports. His first estimates, for the
Atlantic coast ozfly, were for 16,500,-
000, a sum which, gauged by the annual
expenditures then and now, is equivalent
to over thxee hundred million dollars to-
day.. The amount was large, but the ex-
pertence of the War of 1812 wasfresh in
people's minds, and Congress met the
case by appropriating a little more than
one million dollars (about seven per cent.
of the total revenue) for 1816, and about
six hundred thousand dollars per annum
for several years afterward. From 1794:
to 18"0 all appropz'iations for fortifica-
tions were in a lump sum, to be expended
at such points as the 1)resident might
select, but after 1820 specific appropria-
tions were made for each work. In his
subsequent reports General Totten's es-
tim-ares were increased, both on account
of enlargement of the pro]ectecl works,
and of new localities to be fortified ; bu
in his report of 180 he states the aggre-
gate cost of works, completed and pro-
jected, to be about thirty-three million
dollars, and this estimate was substan-
tially correct, the works having been
nearly completed for about that sum

of which about sixteen million dollars
have been expended for arsenals and
armories, one-half of it at the great in-
land arsenal at Rock Island, Ill. The
outbreak of the civil war caused a large
increase of expenditure, not only for the
fortifications of principal cities on the
sea-coast, but also of Washington, and
this expenditure was kept up after the
war until the first Democratic Congress
convened, in 1875. Then the money for
building forts was stopped entirely, and
during the last ten years the appropria-
tions have been limited to from one hun-
dred thousand to two hundred thousand
dollars annually for the care of fortifica-
tions, and certain sums for the purchase
of torpedo materials and experiments
with large guns. At the last session of
Congress the House proposed a bill of
this character, which the Senate amended
by carrying the amount to over six mill-
ion dollars, and between the two no bill
of any kind was passed ; so that the fort-
keepers and watchmen have at last had
to be discharged.
As an illustration of the history of
our fortifications, it will be well to take
the case of New York, and trace the de-
velopment of its defensive works. Each
of the entrances to New York Harbor
contains a point which a moment's glance
at the map shows to be specially suited

56 OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

Willet's Point. All work on fortifica- bore) arranged in several tiers. Fort
tions, as previously stated, stopped in Wadsworth and the fort near the
1875. The total cost of the works ter at Willet's Point are types of the
hitherto constructed for the defence of latter class, and the batteries near
New York is about nine million dollars. Fort Hamilton of the former.
The fortifications of New York illus- The advent of the civil war brought
trate very clearlythe progressive changes into practical application two new prin-
in the system of defence. The problem ciples. First, the application of iron
has always been to place more, or larg- armor to vessels, and, second, the use
er, guns ashore than can be brought of torpedoes, or submarine explosive
against them afloat, and to put them be- mines. Simultaneously with these came
hind walls stronger than the sides of a a great development in the size and
ship. Prior to 1860 the forts answered power of guns. The germs of all the
these conditions fully. In 1812 ha- modern ideas of guns, armored ships,
vies were composed of wooden sailing- and torpedoes were found in the war
vessels, and the largest of them carried of 1861-65. In guns we produced
seventy-foursmall guns. Castle Williams the 300-pounder rifled Parrotts, and
and Fort Lafayette mounted seventy- the 15-inch (450-pounder)smooth-bore
eight ons each, of a much heavier ca]i- Rodman. In ships we had the tur-
bre than those of the ships, and their retted monitors and the broadside
walls were incomparably uperior in mored "New Ironsides." In torpedoes
strength to the sides of the wooden we had the spar torpedo from an open
frigates. With the rapid development, boat, with which Cushing blew up the
between 1840 and 1860, of steam ships Albemarle, and the iron powder-kegs,
of war, propelled by screws, and carry- exploded by contact with electricity,
ing guns as large as 9-inch and 11- with which the Confederates destroyed
inch, it was evident that a con-espond- the monitor Tecumseh and other ves-
ing increase must be made in the sels. But at the close of the war our

Krupp's 40 Centimetre (15 Inch) Rifle, Mounted on Sea Coast Carriage.

strength of fortifications. This ws el- development (except in torpedoes)
fected, in part, by earthen batteries, ex- ceased, while the development of
terior to the fort, where the ground other nations went on with rapid
permitted their construction, and in strides. Every year new vessels were
part (where the site was restricted in constructed with ever-increasing thick-
size) by strong castellated structures of hess of armor, and every year still
the best granite masonry, with walls larger guns were produced. In this
eight feet thick, the embrasures (or gun- costly series of experiments between
ports) protected by iron shutters, and guns, on the one hand, and armor, on
the guns (10- gnd 12-inch smooth- the other, the United States took no

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS. 57

part. We calmly looked on, waiting for
the time when it should be demon-
strated whether the attacking or re-
sisting forces should prove superior.
The struggle virtually culminated, a few
years ago, in the 100-ton ns of Krupp
and Armstrong. These are colossal
steel machines, worked entirely by hy-
draulic engines, 40 feet long, 6 feet in
diameter at the base, carrying a projec-
tile 4 feet long and 17 inches in diame-
ter, weighing 2,200 pounds, and pro-
pelled by the explosion of over eight
hundred pounds of powder. Its veloc-
ity is a mile in three seconds, and its
range more than nine miles. At a
distance of over hull  mile it can pen-

A.The 42-pounder of 1812.
Length, 10 feet; weight 4 tons;
charge, 10 pounds; projectile, 42
pounds; muzzle energy, 800 foot
tons.

etrate thirty
inches of iron,
twenty-four
feet of con-
crete mason-
ry, or seventy-
five feet of

i
i
-- 4
B.--The 15-inch Rodman of 1862. Length, 16 feet;
weight 20 tons ; charge, 130 pounds; projectde, 450
pounds ; muzzle energy, 9,000 foot tons.

The engineers, therefore, confined their
attention to the development of a tor-
pedo system, and pending the solution
of the gun-and-armor problem they
built, as a temporary expedient, earth-
en batteries, and enlarged the ramparts
of some of the existing forts, intending
to arm them with 12-inch rifled guns
and large mortars. The guns, however,
were not built, and in 1875 the whole
work stopped. Our present stock of
heavy ordnance consists of 1518 smooth-
bore Rodmans, of various sizes, mostly
10-inch and 15-inch, and 210 8-inch
rifles, converted from 10-inch smooth-
bores by inserting a steel lining. None
of these can properly be called heavy
guns, as compared with the modern sea-
cost guns of Europe.
Thus we are to-day, in the matter of
coast defence, just where we were dur-
ing the civil war; we are a whole gen-
eration behind the other nations of the
world, and a generation, too, in which
more advance has been made in meth-
ods of coast attack than in the whole
previous period of the world's history.
And this in spite of the fact that we alone
of all the nations of the world have a
series of great cities on our ocean

C.--The 16-indl Rifle of 1886. Length, 45 feet 6 inches ; weight, 115 ona; charge, 800 pounds; projectile, fl,800
pounds ; muzzle cnergy, 55,000 foot tons.
The Great Guns of Different Periods of the Nineteenth Century.

earth. The only form of defence which
has successfully resisted it is the Gruson
cast-iron dome.
At the beginning of this development
of modern great guns, just after the
close of the war, our engineers made
some experiments with heaxy iron
shields placed in and around the em-
brasures of our granite forts, with a
view of seeing whether this adaptation
would not serve to continue the use-
fulness of our masonry works. But
while the iron shields resisted fairly
well the guns of that period, the ma-
sonry adjacent to them was soon de-
molished, and it was evident that our
masonry forts were already obsolete.

coasts. It is doubtful if all the na-
tions of Europe combined have as many
lives and as much property within
reach of hostile ironclads as we have,
since all their chief cities are inland.
Yet we have absolutely no means of de-
fence. There has been no such specta-
cle in the previous history of the world,
as this of a rich and pre-eminentlypow-
erful people inviting attack upon life and
property--or the payment of enormous
ransoms as the price of their safety--by
leaving its coasts wholly undefended
against the implements of war of the
period. Nor can any valid reason be
given whywe alone of all the world should
expect immunity fxom such attacks.

8 OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

lor nearly an entire generation ever ferent localities--- some places there
since 1859rathe progress of fortification were circular forts, composed wholly of
in Europe has been in the direction of iron; in others the iron was in the form

Gruson Cupola (Cast Iron), Forming Part of the Defences of Antwerp, Belgium.

the use of some form of iron armor. In
this the United States has taken no part.
Our forts were among the foremost dur-
ing the masonry age and the earthen
age, but during the iron age we have
as yet done nothing. In England the
necessity for using iron in fortifications
was apparent just as soon as this

of a shield in front of the gun only, the
spaces between guns being filled with
masonry and earth. The iron was also
used differentlymsometimes in a single
plate of great thickness, and at others
in a series of thinner plates separated
by layers of concrete; occasionally the
iron formed an exterior facing to ma-

  ' "' :"'  ,' ' ,o:
Wrought Iron Turret, Containing Two 80-ton Guns, Forming Part of the Defences of Dover, England.

terial began to be used in ships, and in sonry. Finally, within the last few
1861 England entered upon the work of years have come the solid iron ttuwets,
rebuilding her forts with iron. It was of enormous thickness, carrying two
substantially completed in 1878, at a 80-ton .guns each, which form part of
cost of $37,000,000, expended on nine the defences of Dover. While many
harbors, the total population and prop- of these forts, which were built while
erty within reach of which is far less the contest between guns and armor
than at lew York alone. The manner was still in progress, can be pierced by
in which the iron was used varied at dif- the more recent guns, yet the number

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS. 61

throughout the world, although this
opinion is by no means unanimous. 1o
immediate action was taken on this re-
port ; but at the next session of Congress
a select committee was appointed by the
Senate, of which Senator Logan was
chairman, to examine into the subject of
heavy ordnance and projectiles. This
committee reported in the winter of
1883, and its report was embodied in
legislation which appropriated 400,000
for heavy guns, and a beginning was
thus made with modern ordnance. Un-
der this appropriation contracts were

on our own resources for material of this
character was so vital that at the same
session of Congress, in 1883, an act had
been passed providing for another board,
known as the Gun Foundry Board, to
report whether we had any arsenals or
navy-yards suitable for a gun foundry,
or what other method, if any, should be
adopted for the manufacture of heavy
ordnance. This board met in the spring
of 1883, visited all the principal steel
factories of the United States and Europe,
and made two exhaustive reports in 1884
Their conclusions were tha the Govern"

E LEVATiON
SECTION
Fo Horse-Sand Forming Part of the Defences of Posmouth, England.

made for the conversion of fifty 10-inch
smooth-bores into 8-inch rifles, and for
seven experimental rifled guns of cali-
bres from eight to twelve inches. One of
these was wholly of cast-iron, one of cast-
iron with a steel tube, one of cast-iron
wrapped with steel wire, two of cast-iron
banded with steel hoops, and two entirely
of steel, learly all of them required
gun-steel in suitable masses and of the
requisite quality, and the question at
once arose whether this material could
be obtained in this country. Inquiries
addressed to the principal steel manu-
facturers developed the fact that they
had not the requisite plant for making
such metal, and could not afford to in-
vest in it for such small orders as Con-
gress had then authorized.
The steel had therefore to be im-
ported. But the importance of relying

ment should establish on its own terri-
tory a plant for the fabrication of can-
non, and should contract with private
parties for the delivery of the forged
and tempered material, the contracts
being of sufficient magnitude to justify
the investment of capital in the necessary
plant ; in other words, that the Govern-
ment should not establish a gun from&T,
but a gun factory, where it would fabri-
cate its own guns, while buying the ma-
terial from manufacturers. As sites for
gun factories they recommended the
Washington Navy Yard for the Na'y,
and the Wate-liet Arsenal, at Troy, for
the Army, and stated that $1,000,000
would be required to fit up each of them,
and that $15,000,000 should be appro-
priated for the purchase Of steel for
guns. These recommendations, how-
ever, were not acted upon at once, and

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS. 68

an armored fleet can run by them, and
with torpedoes alone a fleet can pick
them up or explode them harmlessly.
For the immediate protection of tor-
pedo lines from derangement some of
our present small guns and masonry
forts or earthworks would still be very
useful, provided there are forts and
great guns that can keep the hostile
iron-clads at a distance. But in our
present condition the armored ships,
with their 12-inch and 16-inch rifles,
can demolish our forts completely, and
then take up the torpedoes at their lei-
sure. The lesson of the bombardment
of Alexandria--the only instance of the
attack of forts by ships since the devel-
opment of the present types of iron-
clads and guns--should not be lost
upon us. These fortifications were
somewhat inferior in construction, but
in their general design and character
they were quite similar to ours, and
their armament was more powerful
than any that we have. The English
brought eight iron-clads against them,
and in one day's bombardment ren-
dered them useless and caused their
evacuation. If our relations with Eng-
land should become strained on account
of the fisheries, the interoceanic canal,
or any other question, the same, or a
stronger, fleet would naturally rendez-
vous at Halifax or Bermuda, just as a
similar fleet went to Constantinople in
1879, and to Alexandria in 1882. Forty-
eight hours would suffice to bring them
to New York, where a few days at the
most would be necessary to destroy our
existing fortifications, a few more to re-
move the torpedoes that we might mean-
while have placed, and then the city of
New York would be at its mercy. Its
destruction, or a ransom running into
the hundreds of millions, would be the
inevitable result, unless we yielded our
diplomatic claimsmwhich would not be
probable.
All these risks have been set forth
year by year in annual reports and mes-
sages, and in countless other publica-
tions, until the tale has become thread-
bare ; yet, up to this time, the only result
has been the well-worn expedient of an-
other board of officers to consider and
report. This board was authorized by
the act approved March 3, 1885. The

Secretary of War was its chairman, and
its members comprised four officers of

;ketch Showing the Cities on the Atlantic Coast and the
Proximity of Foreign Naval Stations.
the Army and two of the Navy., who were
well known as eminent authorities on
this subject, and two civilians, equally
well known as metal manufacturers.

OUR DEFENCELESS COASTS.

Their report was submitted, with rmark-
able promptness, in January, 1886. It
is probably the most exhaustive treatise
on coast defence ever made. It not only
gives a complete project for the defence
of our ports, with estimates of coast,
but in the various subreports attached
to it are found elaborate descriptions
and drawings of modern guns, gun-car-
riages, ships, torpedoes, and armor--all
forming a complete rsu of the entire
subject at the date of January, 1886
This information could not have been
collated in so short a time but for the
assistance of the Office of Naval Intelli-
gence in the Navy Department. This
office was established a few years ago,
for the purpose of collecting, classifying,
and indexing information of every kind
relating to naval and military affairs.
It fulfils the functions o.f the corre-
sponding bureau in the General Staff
Office, in Berlin, whose researches had
so marked an influence on the war of
1870. The Washington office is in no
way inferior to the one in Berlin, and if
we have no guns, or forts, or armored
ships, we at least know, in the minutest
detail, just what every other nation has,
and what can be brought against us.
The fortification board makes its es-
timate for 27 different ports, of which
11 are considered urgent, lor these
11 the total of expense, $102,970,450,
is itemized as follows :

For forts ....................... $44,444,000
For guns and carriages ........... 30,860,800
For floating batteries ........... 18,875,000
For torpedoes (submarine mines).. 2,450,650
For torpedo-boats ............... 6,840.,000

It repeats the recommendation of the
Gun Foundry Board, that the Govern-
ment buy its steel from private manu-
facturers and provide its own gun factory.
It urges that $8,000,000 be appropriated
for gun-metal, so as to induce the neces-
sary investment of capital for its manu-
facture;that $1,000,000 be voted for
the gun factory, and $12,500,000 for the
beginning of forts, glms, car'iages, float-
ing batteries, torpedoes, and torpedo-
boats. Starting thus with an appropria-
tion for the first year of 21, 500, 000,
it recommends future appropriations of
about nine million dollars annually until
the work is completed. This is cer-

tinly a comprehensive scheme, involv-
ing a large expenditure; but it is much
more within our present means than
was the scheme presented by General
Torten in 1826, and adopted by Con-
gress and carried out dm4ng the suc-
ceeding thirty years.
The plan of fortifications proposed by
this board consists of forts of three
khlds, viz., armored turrets, armored
casemates, and barbette batteries of
earth and concrete. These forts will
carry guns of size proportionate to the
importance of the harbor they defend.
They range in size from 16-inch (115
tons) to 8-inch (13 tons), and the total
number is 581. In addition to these
are 724 mortars of 12-inch and 10-inch.
Both guns and mortars are to be rifled,
and the board emphatically recommends
that they be built of steel In addition
to the forts the board recommends
auxiliary defences in the shape of sub-
marine mines, torpedo-boats, and float-
ing batteries, according to the necessities
of each particular harbor.
To illustrate their plan of defence, it
is well to again tke the case of New
York Harbor. Of ships that can cross
the bar at New York, and that carry
guns capable of piercing more than 12
inches of armor, England has 74, carry-
ing 352 guns ; France 35, with 100 guns ;
Italy 9, with 28 guns; Russia 24, with
56 guns ; and Germany 22, with 65 guns ;
yet of all these there are but 9 vessels,
with 22 guns, that can pierce more than
20 inches of alnor. To protect the har-
bor it is proposed to fortify three lines
of defence--two for the southern en-
trance (one being from Sandy Hook to
Coney Island, and the other at the Nar-
rows), and one for the eastern entrance
(from T]n'ogg's Neck to Willet's Point).
Each line would be protected by several
groups of torpedoes, and by a fleet of 6
torpedo-boats. At the Narrows, Fort
Lafayette would be demolished to give
place for two turrets, with walls of steel
three feet thick; opposite them, near
Fort Wadsworth, would be two similar
turrets, and two more at Sandy Hook.
Each of these turrets would carry two
ll5-ton (16-inch) guns. In or near
Fort Hamilton, on one side, and Fort
Tompkins, on the other, would be built
10 aTaored casemates, each holding a

66 IN A COPY OF THE LYRICAL POEMS OF ROBERT HERRICK.

hand, 15_r. Randall thinks it no good
politics for his party to spend large
sums on forts--and he is a re1T shrewd
judge of popular opinion.
As for the public at large, it is doubt-
ful if it is as yet actively in favor of
forts. The citizens of St. Louis, Cin-
cinnati, and Louisville know very well
that no foreign force can directly injure
them, and they hardly realize the in-
direct injury which would result to their
trade from a loss of property in New
York or other seaports. The vast pop-
ulation of the interior States is much
more anxious to see the public money
spent for improving their rivers, from
which, in spite of the abuses of the river
and harbor bills, they see an immediate
advantage, than to have it invested in
insurance for sea-coast cities. Even on
the lakes people do not realize their
danger. They have seen comparatively
small expenditures in making lake har-
bors and ports result in building up a
commerce which rivals that of the en-
tire sea-coast. They do not realize that
while under existing treaties neither
England nor the United States can main-
tain any naval force on the lakes, yet on
the outbreak of war England can send
through the Welland Canal 111 vessels,
with over four hundred guns, while we
are absolutely powerless. The Welland
Canal can carry vessels of 13 feet draft,
the Erie only 7 feet. So long as we

leave the Erie Canal in its present con-
dition we leave it in England's power,
on the outbreak of war, to destroy Buf-
falo, Cleveland, Toledo, Detroit, and 
number of smaller cities ; and, unless the
English vessels could be stopped by tor-
pedoes in the Detroit River, Chicago,
and Milwaukee as well. The State of
lqew York spent its money freely to
build this canal, and thereby gain the
commercial suprema.cy of the Western
Continent. It remains for the General
Government to enlarge the work, for
the protection of the great States from
whose lake-shores the commerce an-
nually passes through it. But it is one
thing to spend money for a purpose
which yields a quick commercial return ;
it is another and far harder thing to sink
money in insurance which yields no visible
return, and against a contingency which
millions of people insist on considering
too remote to take cognizance of.
The question finally resolves itself to
this: Our harbors on the ocean- and
lake-shores are defenceless against ex-
isting navies. Is it wise to leave them
so when we have the means to protect
them ? It never has been so considered
until within the last few years. Who
can name any reasons why such a risk
is more justifiable now than it has been
in the past ? Does not the enormous in-
crease in property values render the risk
greater now than it ever has been before ?

IN A COPY OF THE LYRICAL POEMS OF ROBERT
HERRICK.

By Austin Dobson.

lVIz suns have set and shone,
Many springs have come and gone,
Herrick, since thou sang'st of Wake,
Morris-dance, and Barley-break;
Many men have ceased from care,
Many maidens have been fair,
Since thou sang'st of Julia's eyes,
Julia's lawns and tiffanies ;
Many things are past--but thou,
Golden-Mouth, art singing now,
Singing clearly as of old,
And thy numbers are of gold.

IN MEXICO.

By Thomas A. Janwier.

GEOROV. RAND, of tough New England
stock, was as brisk and as capable an
engineer as ever held a transit. But
with his cool, practical Yankee blood
ran another strain. His grandfather,
more fortunate than most young Ameri-
cans of his day, had been sent over seas
to make the grand tour, and had vexed
sorely the Puritan prejudices of his fam-
ily by bringing home a Papist wife. The
land of her birth never was clearly known
in the family, for the respectable New
England folk to whom, thus unwarrant-
ably, she had become akin, simply and
decidedly refused to have anything to
do with her. Therefore, she lived with
her husband apart from the world, bore
him a child or two, and then, possibly
not unwillingly, yielded up the ghost.
Her portrait, hanging in the Rand draw-
ing-room--in the old-fashioned house up
at the State House end of the Common,
in a private way ceremoniously chained
off once a year to the end that its priv-
acy might be kept iniolatemwas proof
enough that she came from a southern
land: a gentle, gracious face of clear
olive brown; dark eyes, all fire and ten-
derness ; lips soft and full, on which warm
kisses seemed to wait.
As a little boy, Rand fell into the odd
habit of worshipping this portrait: not
metaphorically but literally. In the
doubtful light of dying day, in the
waln darksomeness of summer after-
noons when close-bowed shutters barred
the sunlight's entrance, he would steal
softly into the room and kneel before
the picture and make to it strange
prayers of his own devisingmuntil one
day he was fairly caught in the midst
of this irregular, not to say unholy,
adoration by his mother, lIrs. Rand
was a severely common-sensible young
woman, born in Newtonville, who, being
fair herself, and holding to sound Con-
gregational doctrine, hated black-haired
Papistical women as she hated the per-
sonal devil who was an important part
of her rigid creed. Therefore, finding
her offspring thus engaged, she was not

a little horror-stricken: which feeling
found characteristic expression upon
the person of the offender in a sound
spanking. Possibly this form of correc-
tion was not precisely suited to the of-
fence that it corrected. But it seemed
to have the desired effect. So far as
outward and visible worship went,
George Rand worshipped his grand-
mother's portrait no more.
With the years that followed at school
and college in the keen New England
atmosphere, with yet more years of
.sternly practical life passed in build-
mg railroads in the energetic West,
whatever had been moody and whimsi-
cal in the boy disappeared. When he
was seven- or eight-and-twenty, being
then back in New England at work on
a road that gave him, before it was fin-
ished, a couple of years of life in the
East, he married: as genuine a love-
match, he believed, as ever was made
by man. Mrs. Rand the elder was well
pleased with this marriage, for her
daughter-in-law was a woman after her
own heart: of good Salem stock, clever,
wholesome, and, withal, fair to look up-
on, and ha4ng a loving heart. That
her lovingness for her husband was
deep and genuine there could not be
a doubt, and very tender was her hus-
band's love for her--and these loves
were yet stronger and yet richer after
the boy was born. The marriage was
one of those ideal marriages in which
respect and trustfulness and feeling of
good comradeship unite to make an
earnest, lasting love.
Before the baby was a year old, Rand
went down to Mexico. It was tough
work for him to go, but his going
scarcely was a matter of choice. Such
a chance as was offered to him was not
likely to come twice in a lifetime-not
often in an eno4ueer's lifetime did such
a chance come once. The tide was turn-
ing, and he could not afford to miss so
fair an opportunity to take it at the
turn. Like the brave woman that she
was, his 4fe gave him brave words of

68 IN MEXICO.

cheer and comforting; bearing her
share, and more than her share, of the
bitter trial of parting, that his share
might be less. So, with great love for
her, and cherishing in his heart the lov-
ing God-speed with which she had sent
him forth, he jommeyed downward into
the South.

LATE D,Y is a very perfect time in
Mexico. As the sun sinks behind the
mountains, and the glare and heat go
after it, cool shadows come forth mod-
estly from where they have been in hiding
all day long ; and a cool, delicious breeze
sweeps down from the mountains com-
fortingly;and after the weariness of
long hours of scorching sunlight there
is coolness, and duskiness, and rest.
Then do the house-doors open slowly,
one by one, and those who have sought
shelter from the heat within their thick,
clay walls, arouse themselves from sleep
and come forth drowsily. Little groups
form here and there before the open
doors and talk about nothing--with the
ease that only a life-long habit of talking
about nothing can give. Women pass
and repass to and from the spring, or
the acequia, if the town is not lucky
enough to own a spring--bearing upon
one shoulder, gracefully, great water-
jars;" oyas," as they call them in the
softened Spanish, that is not of Spain.
Thin lines of smoke curl upward from
many little fires, and a smell of many
tortillas cooking comes most cheeringly
to the nostrils of a hungry man.
George Rand, standing in front of an
adobe house, waiting for his supper to
be got ready, dwelt upon this slow-going
activity and found therein great solace
for his soul. It was not new to lfim
now. In one little town or another,
where his headquarters for the time had
been, he had known it and greatly rel-
ished it each night for the past half
year. But custom could not stale for
him the charm of this easy-going lan-
guorous life ; that yet had underlying it
lava seas of passionate energymwhence,
at any moment, might burst forth
storms of raging hatred, or not less
raging storms of love.
In some strange way that he could
feel, but could not understand, Rund's
whole heart went out to these people,

whose life and customs and modes of
thought, though so unlike those of the
people from among whom he came, in
very truth seemed those to which he
had been born. It was an absurd fancy,
of course, but from the first day that
he was in Mexico he had felt not like
a stranger, but like one who, having
been for long years in foreign lands, at
last gladly and thankfully comes home.
Each day this feeling had grown stronger,
tmtfl now it well-nigh wholly possessed
his being--frightening him when, as
would happen now and then, he real-
ized how utterly he was becoming es-
tranged from his ova land. At first
he had given play to this queer fancy,
taking a humorous pleasure in strength-
ening it by throwing himself as cmn-
pletely as possible into the life that sur-
rounded him; by seeking to adopt not
merely Mexican customs of living but
Mexican views of life and modes of
thought. And now, when he was begin-
ning to realize how completely his whim,
as he had regarded it, had become him-
self, the way backward was beset with
difficulties hard to pass. Moreover, he
knew that he was losing his old-time
fighting power; that his moral strength
was slipping away from him; that he
was dropping each day more and more
into the very 5fexican habit of drifting
with the stream.
The only strong ties which bound
hin to the sterner, higher civilization
of which he had been a part, were his
wife and child. These still were real-
ities to him; but even these were be-
ginning to grow unreal. Each week
came loving letters from his wife, fresh
breezes which, for a little space, cleared
the warm, enervating atmosphere in
which he lived. }Vhfle the freshness
lasted his answers were written. I-Ie
found that if he suffered more than
a day to pass after the letter came,
the effort of writing was so great
that he had not strength to overcome
it. I-Ie believed that his love for his
wife still was strong and true--yet
would he be startled now and then
when he found himself fancying what
his life would have been had he not
married this fair Saxon woman, but
one of these Mexican women whom he
now saw around him: whose dark

70 IN MEXICO.

accomplished at a single stroke. It had
come about little by little, ten t]ollars
worth of him going at one time, five
dollars worth at anothermas gambling
. necessities, or the need for preparation
for some especially grand fiesta required
--until now he found himself bonded for
near two hundred dollars ; and he knew
perfectly well that without the blessed
saints worked a miracle in his behalf he
would be a bondsman for all the rest of
his days. tie also knew, in a general
sort of way, that he was not precisely
one of those shining examples of virtue
such as the blessed snts are in th6
habit of selecting to work miracles upon.
Therefore his case seemed to be about
hopeless.
When this respectable Mexican heard
of Rand's quest, he thought with much
satisfaction that the saints really were
lending him a helping hand; for the fact
that all Americanos possess inconceiv-
ably great wealth ws well known to
him, and he saw clearly an opportunity
for making money to an extent that
quite took his breath away. He could
not, of course, hope to pay off his bond
and be a free man again; but he cer-
tainly could get his hand on an amount
of hard cash that would assure to him a
grand time during the festival of the
Corpus Christi, now only a month away.
tie might evenmglorious thought
down to the great city of Chihuahua
and lie drunk there for a whole week
Therefore Pepe's heart was as leal
within him when Rand, by no means
prepossessed by his appearance and ad-
dress, firmly declined his offer of the
freedom of his home. But Rand at last
yielded so far as to consent to see the
house--and seeing that it was far more
habitable than he had been led to sup-
pose by the appearance of its proprietor,
and moreover seeing Josfa, he filled
Pepe's heart with joy again by accept-
ing his offer at once. Pepe, who was a
shrewd old scoundrel, saw the involun-
tary look of admiration that Rand cast
upon Jos6fa, and in his mind he began
to evolve a plan. Perhaps he might be
a free man again, after all !
Josfa had no knowledge of this plan,
but had she been made acquainted
with it, she could not have played more
dh-ectly into her father's hands. For

there was for her a rare attraction in
this Americano, who was so unlike the
men of her own race ; in whom, her in-
stinct told her, was a power for pas-
sionate love that equalled, if, indeed, it
did not exceed, her own. But as time
passed on, and the love that she knew--
knew better than Rand himseH--existed,
was not declared, her pride was piqued,
and her curiosity was aroused. What
manner of man was this, she thought,
who, with no lack of opportunity, failed
to make plain the feeling that was stir-
lng in his heart ? Under the sun of
Mexico never had such man been before.
Therefore was she perplexed, and her
own heart was troubled, and the more
went out to him. And the whole
strength of her being was bent upon
gaining a retm for her love.
Rand was not so dull, but that he
saw all this ; and because he saw it, and
because he knew how weak he had be-
come, he forced himself to fight against
it and to be strong. He called to his
aid the steadfast honesty and love of
honor for honor's sake that belonged to
him by right of his Saxon blood, and
with these he fought the weakness that
his Latin blood had brought him. But
his weakness had many strong allies.
The strangeness of lfis life, that was all
the stranger because it seemed so
familiar to him; the absence of the
bracing moral atmosphere, out of which
--even in the roughest of his frontier
life in the States--he had never lived;
a climate that filled him with a fuller,
richer, sense of life than he had ever
known; all these forces were allies to
his weakness ; all were united to arouse
that portion of his nature which had
slumbered ever since he was a boy.
And more than all else, Jos6fa wrought
upon him strangely and potently. Her
dark eyes, alight with fire and tender-
ness ; her clear, olive-brown skin, tinged
ruddily with her Southern blood; her
tall, supple, rounded form wherein were
grace and strength, and a vigorous vital-
ity--these characteristics made up a
type that was new to him, yet that he
felt to be as old as his own being, and
a very part of himself. Half uncon-
sciously, he would watch her come and
go about the house; and misty memo-
ries would rise up in his mind, as though

IN MEXICO. 71

all that he now saw and felt he had seen
and felt in some other existence in a
time long past. It was like living out
a dream, or dreaming vividly of that
which he had lived.
For a man constituted as he was, a
curious mixtm'e of adverse elements, a
dual being in whom were united, not
combined, the instincts of two civiliza-
tions, which must remain irreconcilable
to the end of time, the issue of such a
conflict as had arisen within his breast
was, to a great extent, a matter beyond
his own control. His will power, played
upon by antagonistic forces, which
counterbalanced and neutralized each
other, was reduced wellnigh to a nega-
tive quantity. A turn of chance would
decide the result.

AND the turn of chance came that
night in Santa Maria with the touch of
JosSfa's hand. Her touch thrilled him.
A flush came upon his face. There was
a ringing i his ears. There seemed to
come a fever into his brain.
She turned as she passed him, and
again their eyes met. From his, in the
moment, the look of sadness, of doubt,
had vanished; but the look of longing,
grown passionate, remained. In hers
there was a look of triumph in which
also was fear and a great tenderness:
for she "knew that she had conquered at
last.
Possibly Pepe had seen this encolm-
ter--he had keen eyes, this old villain.
Presently he rolled a cigarito deftly,
lighted it, and went forth upon the
plaza, closing the door behind him as he
passed, light had fallen, and Jos.fa
had lighted the kerosene lamp. Rand
leaned back in his seat, and slowly filled
his pipe and began to smoke. The puffs
came fast at first, then slowly and ir-
regularly, then not at all. He was
watching Josfa as she moved about the
room, with free, graceful steps, placing
the house in order for the night. She
did not look at him, for she knew that
his eyes were fastened upon her. She
grew a little pale, and her breath came
quickly.
He looked at her thus for a long while.
He could not think coherently. His
mind was in such strange confusion that
continuity of thought was impossible.

His only clear perceptions were of Jos-
fa's presence and of his consciousness
that with the touch of her hand she had
confessed her love for him, and that his
eyes had told her as plainly as in words,
that her love was returned. He sat in a
sort of trance, motionless, save that his
eyes moved as they followed her about
the room. There was a fascination up-
on him that his will, had he exerted it,
was powerless to break. But he did not
in the least degree exert his will : he was
dully conscious of the desire to sit thus
silently looking at her always--in a
vague way he felt that ages before he
had gazed at her thus ; that he was liv-
ing over again a life that was bmied in
the depths of the past.
Josfa drew nearer to him, making a
feint of placing straight a pictm'e of the
Madonna hanging against the wall, and
paused by his side. He saw that she
trembled. She did not look at him.
"The Sefor is very sad and silent to-
night," she said. Her voice was broken.
The sound dispelled the charm that held
him still. Their eyes met. In a mo-
ment he had clasped her in his arms.
"I love you, Josfa !"
For answer she gave him her lips.
Then the door opened suddenly, and
Pepe entered. Rand thrust Josfa from
him and quicker than thought covered
Pope with his revolver.
"Do not shoot, Sefior," said Pope,
calmly. "Come out with me; I have
some words to speak."
Still holding his revolver ready for
prompt ser4ce, Rand followed Pope out
into the night.
"Put away your pistol, Sefior. It is
my right, but I shall not kill you You
are safe." Then for a little time Pope
was silent. In the dim starlight Rand
regarded him doubtingly, wonderingly.
"I am a poor man,"he went on, slow-
ly. "I have lost all that I possessed.
Worse yet, I am a bond-servant until
the money that I owe be paid. Will
you pay that money for me, Sefior ? I
beg of you, I pray you to pay it. And
I offer you a rich return. Pay it, and
Josfa shall be yours."
Rand shuddered. He felt as men
feel who are bargaining with the devil
for their own souls. For a time he was
silent. When at lust he spoke, it was

7 IN MEXICO.

as men speak who have come close waste land--where foraging pigs and
enough to the devil to make bargaining dogs maintained an armed neutrality,
possible, and where sad-hearted burros strayed.
"Yes, I will pay the debt," he said. Standing a little apart was a ruinous
chapel, wherein a priest held service at
1)ovaTY is common enough, but squa- long intervals--yet often enough to sat-
lor is rare in Mexico. Cleanliness and isfy the community's not excessive spir-
neatness are two strong ]iexican vir- itual needs. Ordinarily, feast days and
rues that, finding practical expression, Sundays were celebrated in gambling
make the meanest jacals pleasant to look and drinking booths, set up expressly
upon. This rule is the more sharply for the obselwance of these rites, and by
emphasized by the fact that here and evening there usually was a fight or
there through the land are found not two, and now and then a man was
merely single houses, but whole villages killed. Not much excitement attended
where utter squalor reigns ; little coin- these incidental murders. In some odd
munities which in some unaccountable cmer a hole was dug for the dead
way have lost every vestige of decent man's burial, and then things went on
self-respect. Los Muertos--so called as before. There were few men in Los
because there had been a bloody mas- Muertos whose death could be anything
sucre there by Indians in the long-past but a benefit to the survivors.
time--was one of the exceptions; and A dozen rods or so away from the
so wretched, so forlorn was it, that no village, on a bluff above the river-bed,
great stretch of the imagination was stood what was left of the great house
required to believe that it was hope- of which the smaller houses once hal
lessly under the spell of its evil name. been the dependencies--fo Los Muer-
Yet the site of the village was very tos, in its better days, had been a thriv-
beautiful. Here four cations met and, ing hacienda, and the village had been
merging, made a delectable little cup-like inhabited by the work-people of the es-
valley dotted here and there with lo% tare. Now the land was cut up into
rock)- hills, between which grew great small holdings, and the owner of the
cottonwoods and pecans, and having great house--if it had an owner had
broad sweeps of gently undulating land, suffered it to fall into decay. Only a
yellow with fields of barley that rippled room or two of all the building re-
in the wind. Along the edges of the mainedmeasurablyweather-proof. Else-
dry water-course---tapped at a higher where the roof had fallen in, and over
level to supply the aceqeias which the fragments of the fallen roof the un-
brought water to the fields of grin protected wails vere crumbling down.
--were matted masses of cactus in The walls of the corral had fallen, also,
rich red and yellow bloom, and wide in places, and in the gaps had been
coverts made up of little shrubs and heaped piles of mesquite-brush and cac-
tangles of mesquite; and standing sen- tus. In some of the deserted, roofless
tinel above these lowly things were rooms, and over the broken walls, cac-
many palms. Rising solemnly around tus plants were growing rankly, their
and over all were the grand moun- vigorous life marking, with greater era-
rains, grave and worshipful. And in phasis, the wreck and desolation in the
the fall of day the sun--through the midst of which they grew.
caon leading westward--sent long Across the valley, from the cation on
glinting rays of golden light across the north toward the caon on the
the golden beauty of the barley-fields south, curving around the bases of the
and into and under the waving branches little hills, ran the course of the railway ;
of the trees. There are many places marked by the line of cuts and fills that
beautiful as this in the fair Mexican every day was a little farher advanced.
land. Upon the mountain side, that the rare
Los Muertos was no more than a luxury of a spring of sweet water might
hamlet; a dozen little adobe houses be to the full enjoyed, were the white
clustered irregularly about an open tents of the contuctor and engineers;
space that was less a plaza than a bit of and clustered around these the queer

IN MEXICO. 73

abodes--wicker huts and shelters of palm
thatch and sleeping-places under trees
---of the Mexican workers on the grade.
In the Mexican part of the camp bits
of bright-colored clothing hung around
the bushy shelters, women stood beside
little fires cooking not unsavory messes
in little earthen pots, or boiling clothes
in old powder-cans ; hag-naked children
ranged about in amicable companion-
ship, with pigs and dogs, and hobbled
burros went sadly and solemnly from
place to place, with a motion fit to be
likened only to that of automatic kan-
garoos-and the whole made a picture
very good for eyes appreciative of the
picturesque to dwell upon.
But Rand, who was in charge of the
work, did not live in the camp. He had
taken up his quarters in the ruinous
hacienda: and with him was JosSfa.
Those who had known him only before
he came into Mexico, would not have
known him now. In the year that had
passed the whole expi'ession and tone
and manner of the man had changed.
His briskness and erectness were gone,
and in their stead he had acquired a
slouching slowness. Grim taciturnity
had taken the place of his habit of frank,
cheery speech. His eyes, which had
been wont to look straight into other
men's eyes, were cast downward, or
raised only in quick, furtive glances.
And in his eyes, and over all his face and
form, there was an unlifting weight of
melancholy. Jim Post, axeman, ex-
pressed the sense of the corps in the
premises tersely, and with precision:
"Looks as if he felt hisself atween hell
and high water all the time !"
And, in truth, the life that Rand had
led in the half year since he had struck
the bargain with Pepe in Santa Maria,
had been the life that Jim Post's rough
thrust of speech described. The very
act of going over the precipice had
aroused himmwhen it was too late---to
a partial realization of what he had done ;
and as time passed on, the deadening of
his soul that he had hoped for did not
come. His two natures remained in
open war, and the more that he sought
to crush the one with the other the more
steadily the fight went on. His wife's
letters,, loving, tender, came down to
him--and were thorns in his flesh giving

him keenest agony. She knew, she could
not fail to know, that a change of some
sort had come over him ; but no suspic-
ion of what the change really was could
for a moment enter her faithful heart.
She feared that his life was too severe,
his labor too hard for him, and she
begged him to cancel his engagement
and come home. She told him of the joy
it would be to her to have him with her
once again; she told him of her quiet
home life; she told him of their boy--
and all this gentle lovingness and trust-
fulness brought infinite bitterness to his
soul. Sometimes for days after her let-
ters came he would suffer them to re-
main unopened, dreading the pain that
reading them would give ; sometimes he
would open them the moment that they
arrived, so that the pain might sooner
come and go. His answering letters
filled her with a strange dread and grief.
At times he would write only a few cold
words, telling dryly of his work; and
then again he would write with despair-
ing tenderness, as a condemned criminal
might write on the eve of his execution ;
and yet again he would write, darkly,
mysteriously, in bitter seg-reproach of
his own unworthiness of her pure love.
The strangeness of his moods struck into
her warm, true heart a deadly chill.
JosSfa's instinct told her that these
letters which came to Rand werein
sharp opposition to her love for him.
Little by little, questioning him shrewd-
ly, she learned the truthmand hated
with a fierce intensity of jealous hate
this "Mary" (for she caught the name
and held it rankling in her heart)who
stood between her and the fulness of
love that should be hers. And when,
after a fresh letter had come, he turned
from her coldly, her jealous hate in-
cluded him also. More than once she
had stood over him as he slept with
knife in hand and arm upraised to strike
--and had not struck because before the
knife could fall the hate in her heart had
changed to love again. For, after all,
she thought, the other woman might
claim him, but she, JosSfa, possessed
him : if this possession should be threat-
ened, then, indeed, the time would come
to act; even at her own cost!
Rand did not know that he was living
almost in the shadow of death; but had

IN MEXICO. 77

him food, and with it coffee. There was
a strange look in her eyes that puzzled
him; even as he had been puzzled by
her silence since his return, llacing
the coffee upon the table, but not within
reach of his hand, she looked down upon
him curiously. In her eyes shone a
deep, glowing light, yet over them a
shadow seemed to rest and veil their
meaning. Slowly she asked:
"Then all is ready, and you go ? And
when ?"
"Now, to-night."
"And you leave me for ever ?"
"My poor Josfa, yes."
"Ah, well, it is a long jomney that you
go upon. You need refreshment. Drink,"
and she placed the coffee by his side.
Her tone and manner amazed him.
As he raised the cup he turned and
looked at her.
"Drink," she said, again; while a
faint smile hovered on her full, red lips ;
while a deeper shadow gathered fil the
strange duskiness of her eyes.
She stood before him in the glory of
her perfect womanhood. There was a
royal splendor in her fon and pose.
Her beauty was overpowering. For a
moment he could not resist the feeling
of intense admiration that swept into his
heart. Involuntarily some sign of this
feeling shone in his eyes. She saw it in an
instant, and the shadow passed from her
eyes and left them bright with the radi-
ance of love. She struck the cup from
his hand and fell upon her knees beside
him, clasping him close in her soft,
strong arms.
"It is all a lie. You will not go.
You do love me. Ah, why have you
been so cruel ?" and with these quick
sentences came a flow of the sweet love-
names, in which Spanish is so 'ich and
English is so poor.
Rand gently unclasped her arms.
"No, it is not a lie, my poor little
one," he said. "I must go. This is
the very truth. Better for you, better
for me, it would have been had I never
come. But now is the end." There
was a grave firmness in his tone that
struck dead all hope.
"Yes, now is the end !" echoed Josg-
fa, slowly. "See," she added, "I give
you another cup of coffee. Drink it
and then go."

losfa's voice had not a tremor in it
as she spoke, nor did her hand tremble
as she gave him the cup. She stood
rigid as a figure carved from stone un-
til he had drained the last drop. Out-
side the rain was falling as it falls only
among the mountains of Mexico. From
the southern cation came the sound of
the roaring of a mighty wind.
"Yes," Josfa repeated, "now is the
end !"
She seated herself, as Mexican women
are wont to sit, in a huddled bunch
upon the floor, her back against the
wall. She regarded Rand fixedly, with
glittering eyes, while he went on with
his writing. There was no sound save
the rushing of the rain and the wind's
moaning.
At the end of an hour Rand paused
in his work, and pressed his hand upon
his forehead. Jostfa leaned forward
eagerly. He continued his writing, but
uneasflympassing his hand across his
eyes, resting his head upon his hand,
pressing his hand upon his heart, stop-
ping now and then to hold his body
erect while he drew in a deep breath.
tie tmed at last and said: "I thirst,
Josfa ; give me water."
"I fear that I am falling into a fever,"
he said, as he gave her back the earthen
cup empty. "I have a dizzy feeling in
my head, and my hands are hot and dry,
and there is pain about my heart."
Jostfa nodded. "I also have a pain
about my heart," she saidmbut more to
herself than to him.
He tried to write again, but presently
pushed away the paper from before him.
He rose from the table, staggered and
nearly fell; then steadied himself by an
arm outstretched against the wall.
"How oddly things dance about ! It
is very strange!" he murmtu-ed, lie
breathed deeply and laboriously. A
spasm of pain distorted his face, and he
pressed his hand upon his heart and
then upon his throat. "Give me more
water, my throat is btu'ning," he said--
but he spoke in English and Josfa did
not move. She was sitting erect, watch-
ing him--her muscles tense, her hands
clenched, her teeth set fast, her ees
ablaze with a fierce light, lier revenge
had cone, and it had brought her a sav-
age oy.

78 IN MEXICO.

He staggered to the corner f the she sprang to 'her feet and moved to-
room where the olla rested in its forked ward him--and stopped, chilled and
stick, and drank a long draught of the woe-struck, as she saw him moving his
cool water. "Ah ! it hurts me so to swal- hands as one searching in the dark ;
low," he said piteously, but still in Eng- saw that his eyes, in which the love-light
lish, so that on Jos6fa the pitifulness of that she knew so well had come again,

his words was lost.
After drinking he stood, with the cup
in his hand, leaning against the wall.
In a few moments he began to move the
cup slowly, and then more rapidly, from
side to side, a vacant look upon his face.
1)resently this gave way to an expres-
sion of interest.
"It is like a juggler's trick. All six
of the cups are in the air at once. See
how cleverly I catch them! And now
here are the rats come to look at the
performance. But you must sit quite
still, rats ; and the short rats must have
the front seats. It would be very un-
fair to give the long rats front seats
when they can see perfectly well over
the short rats' shoulders.--No! I will
not hold the rod steady. If you can't
get a sight when the rod is moving
then you are not fit to run a level.
Anyhow, I am not the rod-man, I am
the engineer in charge of this corps;
and if I choose to wiggle the rod I have
a right to do it.--Why, you stupid Mex-
ican, I am pumping. Of cotrse you
don't know what pumping is, for you
haven't a pump in your whole country.
But this is the way it's done, you see.
And oh ! how fresh and sweet the water
is! Give me more of it, more, there is
fire in my throat--and oh l the pain I
the pain !" and he broke into a moan.
Of all this JosSfa did not understand
a word. But Rand's tone and gestures
made clear to her how surely the tolo-
ache was doing its work and horror
was beginning to possess her as she
saw what she had done: for the very
hate that ws in her was love in its
most powerful form. This man was
everything in the world to her--and
she had brought upon him what was
worse than death. And the pain that
he suffered: she had not counted upon
that. His moaning, drawn from him
by his agony, was like a knife in her
heart. When the spasm had passed he
spoke again, but now in Spanish:
" Josfa, my little one, where art
thou ?" gosfa's heart bounded, and

were turned on empty space.
"Come to me, my 1)epita, " he went
on. "Come to me, my little heart.
Yes, thou art very beautiful--and thy
beauty is that of which I have dreamed
all my life long. Let me kiss thee on
thy eyelids, so. Dost thou know,
that the moment I sw thee--that day
when thy father led me to his house--
thy eyes seemed to look down into and
stir the depths of my hea ? I think that
it was because of thy eyes that I came
to love thee so deeply. For I do love
thee; love thee as I never thought that
I could love. Give me a kiss, my
my Chepita, a little kiss, and say that
thou also hast love for me. Ah! nestle
close to me in my arms, and give thy
love for mine. For I love thee--help
help! Josfa! I am in torture; my
heart is wrenching me to pieces; my
throat is on fire; I cannot breathe.
Help me. I am dying." And so ex-
quisite was the pain that Rand's whole
body writhed convulsively, and foam
gathered upon his lips.
With a cry of anguish not less keen
than his, JosSfa caught him in her arms.
Had she possessed ten thousand lives
she would have given them all then that
her devil's work might have been un-
done. But nothing could undo that
work now.
As the pain ebbed again a great
weakness came upon him. But for her
supporting arms he would have fallen.
Half leading him, half carrying him, she
placed him upon one of the cots, and
knelt upon the floor by his side.
The wind moaned hollowly, and the
rain fell upon the clay roof with a muf-
fled, thunderous sound; but Jos6fa "
heard only Rand's wearily drawn breath
and sobs, and the wild beating of her
own heart.
lesting upon the cot in some meas-
ure eased his pain. For a long while
he spoke no more. From time to time
his legs and arms twitched spasmodi-
cally, and his body trembled with the
irregular throbbing of his heart. The

IN MEXICO. 79

pupils of his eyes were horribly dilated.
There was a convulsive motion of the
muscles of his throat.
Josdfa had ceased to think. A numb-
ness had fallen upon her mind that
mercifully shut out thought. For more
than an hour sho remained thus, bend-
ing over him, in a sort of stupor. She
was aroused by a pattering upon the
floor, and, turning, saw a tiny stream
of water trickling down from the roof.
Her eyes followed along the beam by
the side of which the water fell. It was
the same beam that she had noticed
that evening as she entered the house.
In the interval tho crack in the wall had
widened, and the beam had settled yet
more deeply. As she looked she saw
the water visibly eating away the clay;
she fancied that she could see the beam
slowly sinking, and she -knew that she
was in the awful presence of death.
But death had nothing in it of fear
for Jos6fa now; and tho torturing sor-
row that had entered her heart had
driven out her longing for revenge.
Her scheme, begot of jealous hate, for
ending her lover back to his wife a mad-
man, had lost its charm for her as she
had seen the racking pain that its exe-
cution had brought upon his dear body
mhis body, that had been her life, her
god. Rather than that he should live on
now, though his sharp pain should pass
away, better deathmand she thought of
old Pedro at Santa Mafia, and shud-
dered. For herself, death could not
come too Soon.
"Mary, I have come at last; come
back to you and the boy."
Jos6fa started at the sound of Rand's
voice, still more at the sound of this

hated name. She knew that even in his
madness his love no longer was hers.
She looked at the beam. The water was
melting away the clay beneath it till
more rapidly. This time it was not
fancy that made her believe that she suw
it move. Yet she gazed at it, as it slow-
ly sank beneath the crushing weight of
the clay above, calmly, sternly. For
her there was no more of hope, of Sweet-
ness, in life; only in death could she
have rest. Death already had lid his
hand upon her heart.
"Will you forgive me, Mary? God
knows, I do not deserve yotu-forgive-
ness nor your love. But yet be merci-
ful and take me to your heart again."
A gush of water burst in, and the
crack in the wall became a wide gap in-
to which the beam dropped. The wall
tottered. There was a sound of grind-
ing, rending wood, as the light canes
above the rafters, on which the clay
rested, were wrenched and broken.
Masses of clay fell upon the floor. Josd-
fa's body remained motionless, rigid;
her eyes were fixed steadfastly upon the
wreck, and in them was a look of lonely
longing, of harsh despair. Half uncon-
sciously, in her bitter searching for
some faint sign of sympathy in her
desolate strait, she clasped Rand's hand
in hers. As he felt the touch his face
brightened.
"Ah! you do forgive me, Mary! I
swear to you that for the sin which I
have wrought against you, and before
God, the atonement shall go on through
all the coming years. In all my life to
come, only for you. "
With a dull thud the wall fell outward.
With a crash the roof came down.

THE earliest printing-press was a seal,
and the cylinder-seal may be said to
have been an archaic rotary press. Al-
though the rolling seal is much less
simple than the flat seal, it appears to
have been quite as antique, and to have
had even more currency. The cylinder-
seal had its origin in Babylonia, where,
so far as we can learn, the arts of civili-
zation had an independent origin at as
early a period as in Egypt. The physi-
cal conditions of Egypt and Babylonia
are the same--a sedimentary soil of
exhaustless fertility, deposited from a
mighty river, on whose waters, in the
absence of rain, the cultivator must de-
pend for his crop. Such conditions fa-
vor a dense and permanent population,
with all the varied arts which they must
produce.
In the opening civilization of such a
country it would become necessary to
indicate the ownership of property or
the authenticity of a document by a
seal. For that purpose nothing would
be simpler, in a land where there was no
stone, and where the one abundant ma-
terial used for building purposes, and
for nearly everything else, was the reed,
than to take a short section of a reed
and cut on it one's own private mark.
This reed probably gave shape and de-
sign to the permanent stone cylinder-
seal, pierced, like the reed, through its
axis of length.
If papyrus was ever used as a writ-
ing material in Babylonia but the slight-
est traces of evidence exist to prove it.
The indigenous writing material of the
Babylonians was their clay, and admira-
bly adapted it was for the purpose.
Kneaded and shaped into little cakes of

the size and forn employed for toilet
soap (the Arabs who dig for them call
them pillows), it was adhesive enough
not to crumble, unbaked as well as
baked, and hundreds of both sorts, cov-
ered over with writing, have been ex-
humed. At the present day every vis-
itor to the shrine of All at Kerbela car-
ries home with him, as a memento, an
octagonal or semicircular cake of this
clay, shaped as sharply, and impressed
as delicately with Persian traceries and
writing, as if it were wrought on the
finest stone with a graver's tool; and
seemingly about as permanent as stone
itself, on such clay the old Babylo-
nian scribes wrote, not with a pointed
stylus of metal or ivory, but with a
wooden stick, cut square at one end,
and at the other flattened, to use as an
eraser. The solid angle of the square
end made the wedge-shaped charac-
ters ; and after the writing was finished,
the seal, if it were a document requir-
ing it, was rolled over on the edge of
the tablet, so as to impress a portion of
its device, especially the name if the
seal bore a name (Fig. 1). Beautiful
specimens of these tablets are in the
British Museum, containing records of
sales of land, wills, and other legal doc-
uments, and authenticated with the seal
of the official scribe who drew them up.
If we can trust the date given by Na-
bonidus, on a fine, barrel-shaped record
of his, lately found at Abu-habba, King
Sargon first reigned in Agade, on the
Euphrates River, thirty-eight hundred
years before Christ. That date is gen-
erally accepted, and is not unreasona-
ble, although it may be some centuries
too early. The cylinder-seal was in use

THE BABYLONIAN SEALS.

before his time, for a magnificent one
has been found bearing his name (Fig.
2). Such seals continued in use, though
their use had probably become chiefly
magical, nearly or quite to the date of
our own era ; at least some are found

eighty-four cylinders (besides its cone-
seals), was followed by a volume of text
of absolutely no value. De Clercq's even
finer folio volume of photo-lithographs
of over four hundred seals in his own
private collection is not yet completed.

Fig. 1.--Edge of Clay Tablet with Seal Impressions. After Pinches.

with Sassanian legends, although the
inscription may be later than the seal.
Vhile all Assyriologists have paid
more or less attention to these cylin-
ders, and especially l,enormant in his
"Fragments de Berose," and George
Smith in his "Chaldean Genesis," the
only one who has published any full
study of them is Menant. His "le-
cherches sur la Glyptique Orientale"
is an important work, in two octavo vol-
umes, on the cylinders of Chaldea, As-
syria, and the adjacent countries. Soldi
and Iinches have written valuable

As De Clercq's collection is the best in
existence, except that in the ]3ritish Mu-
seum, it is a great boon to students to
have it published. Many of the best
cylinders in the British Museum, and in
the Louvre and the Bibliothque Natio-
nale have been published in the volumes
of Cullimore and Lajard, but it is much
to be desired that they might be edited
as is that of De Clercq. Next after the
collections of the British Museum and
of M. De Clercq comes that of the Metro-
politan Collection, augmented as it has
lately been by my own of two hundred

F,g. 2.--Seal of Sargon I. 3800 B.C. After De Clercq.

short papers. For the study of these and sixty-five specimens, so that it now
seals it is essential to be able to consult numbers over four hmdred. The col-
the engraq_ngs published, especially in lections of the Louvre and of the Biblio-
the three collections of Cullimore, l,a- thSque Nationale have each over two
jard, and De Clercq. Cullimore accompa- hundred, while those of a number of
nied the one hundred and seventy-four other museums and of private gentle-
cylinders figured in his volume with no men have from fifty to a hundred each.
text whatever. Lajard's magnificent fo- The shape and general appearance of
lio volume, with its two hundred and these cylinders can be seen in the en-
Vois. I.--6

The Louvre in 1789, From an Old Print.

GLIMPSES A T

THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.

SOCIAL LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE PARIS OF THE REVOLUTION.

By Annie Cary Morris.

FIRST PAPER.

THAT Gouverneur Iorris, the )Iinister
of the United States to France during
the French Revolution, was one of the
most voluminous and entertaining cor-
respondents of his time has long been
known to students of the lives of our
early statesmen.
To those of his descendants whose
pleasure it has been to read the careful
notes he kept of his own remarkable
experience, it has seemed that some day
his countrymen should share the privi-
lege, and see through his eyes the old
world of which he wrote so apprecia-
tively and with so much of personal in-
terest.
Some fifty'years ago Mr. Jared Sparks
had possession of some of these papers,
and while he undoubtedly extracted from
them much that was important on politi-
cal matters, especially connected with
the American correspondence which he
incorporated into a "Life" made on the
model of his other biographies of the fa-
thers of the Republic, and now chiefly

relegated to the top shelves of libraries--
yet he managed, with masterly ingenuity,
so to leave out the human element in
what he used, and saw so shoz a dis-
tance into the great collection, that he
gave hardly a glimpse of what it really is.
What has already been published of
this interesting material has often in-
duced those who have mentioned Mr.
Morris to express the wish that a full-
er knowledge of it might be accorded.
And although many applications have
been made to allow its examination,
nothing has ever appeared to give a
true idea of its nature.
Vho would think, from the few quo-
tations Mr. Sparks made from a diary,
that there is a great journal extending
over years of the most eventful period
in history, recording events in which
Mr. Morris personally acted; minutely
putting before us the daily life of men
and women whom he knew, and whose
actions and thoughts he has vividly
pictured, making them so wonderfully

1

I-NGRArED BY G. KRUELL II0M THE PAINTING AT OLD MORRISANIA.

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUUERNEUR MORRIS. 95

alive that, to those who have read it, it
makes the men and women of those
years real, eager participants in what
all other reading had left merely in a
far-off .historical world? The present
paper can give little more than glimpses
of this narrative; but a fuller account
of it and its unpublished portions has
been for some time in preparation.
M_r. Morris had nearly reached middle
life before his journey to Europe was
made; and felt and said that he was
"weary with public work." He had in-
deed accomplished a full life's task dur-
ing the Revolutionary struggle, when he
was forced into the front rank among
men of twice his years--taking part in
the most stirring events, and winning
honors for himself at the earliest pos-
sible age.
He speaks of having "led the mos
laborious life which can be imagined "
while a member of Congress and chah--
man of the standing committees, at
the same time being obliged occasionally
to labor in the law his profession--to
augment an insufficient salary ; and al-
though not in active military life, he
shared Washington's pivations at Val-
ley Forge, during a bitter cold winter,
when, in co-operation with him, he was
intrusted with the responsible task of
feeding and clothing the army, then in
need of almost every comfort.
His labors with the makers of the
Constitution, and in the many responsi-
ble positions in which he was placed,
are matters of history. They were but
poorly rewarded by attacks, untrue, but
none the less cruel; statements that he
was aiding the enemy through letters to
his mother, then inside the British lines.
As a matter of fact, for seven years he
never saw his mother or his home, and
dm-ing that time held little communica-
tion with her.
When quite a boy he had ardently
desired to go to Europe--" To rub off,"
as he said, "in the gay circles of foreign
life, a few of those many barba-isms
which characterize a provincial educa-
tion." But becoming deeply absorbed
in affairs of so much importance at
home, the wish was dismissed for the
present, and the plan indefinitely post-
poned.
The circumstances which finally

brought it about, were in the begin-
ning purely personal. Complications
arose, toward the end of 1788, in the
commercial schemes of his f,iend Rob-
ert Morris, which made it necessary
for him to go to France; and, accord-
ingly, in the ship Henrietta he made
a stormy crossing of the Atlantic, and
reached Paris in Feb-uary, "at the mo-
ment," he writes to a friend, "when the
most important scene acted for many
years on the European theatre was about
to be displayed."
"Horace tells us," he says, in a letter
to De Moustier, French Ambassador at
New York, "that in crossing the seas
we change our climate, not ore- souls.
But I can say what he could not, that
I find on this side of the Atlantic a
strong resemblance to what I left on the
other--a nation which exists in hopes,
prospects, and expectations."
At once deeply interested in the
struggle commencing in France, and
seeing with a peculiarly clear sight the
dangers into which the nation was d-ift-
ing, he soon became rather an oracle in
the society in which he moved. "Vous
dites toujours les choses extraordinaires,
qui se ralisent," said the Marquis de 1,
Luzerne to him, with a slight tone of ex-
asperation in his voice, restive under the
many prophecies Morris had made which
had been realized.
It was the strangest possible employ-
ment Mr. Morn'is found, as it were, al-
ready arranged for him, a republican, as
he says, "but just emerged from that
assembly which had formed one of the
most republican of all republican con-
stitutions, to preach incessantly respect
for the prince, attention to the rights of
the nobles, and, above all, moderation."
Wl"iting to a friend of this, he says:
"You will say this is none of my business ;
but I consider France the natural ally of
my countT, and I love her, and believe
the king to be an honest and a good
man, and that he earnestly desb-es the
felicity of his people."
He was considered too much af an
aristocrat in the republican salon of
Madame la Comtesse de TessS, "where
republicans of the fit feather met"
and aired their extreme ideas; and it
amused him to learn tat his views were
too moderate for that company, and that

GLIMPSES" AT THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS. 101

him to take measures to set the king at
ease on the strength of this secret."
He found madame at her toilette one
morning, with her dentist in attendance,
and submitted to her a project respect-
ing the debt. She, in return, confided
to him the Bishop of Autun's plan on
the same subject, and expressed the
wish that he and the bishop should
have an interview with Montesquieu,
who she had reason to "think would
be made minister of the marine."
This interview she will "endeavor to
arrange." "Continuing on that," Mr.
Morris says, "we arrange a ministry, and
dispose of several persons--Mirabeau to
go to Constantinople, Biron to London.
I tell her that this last is wrong, as he
does not possess the needful talents;
but she says he must be sent away, be-
cause without talents he can influence,
in some degree, the proposed chief, and
a good secretary will supply the want
in London." "After discussing many
points, ' Enfm,' she says, ' mon ami, vous
et moi nous gouvernerons la France.'
It is an odd combination, but the king-
dom is actually in much worse hands.
She tells me," he continues, "that she
has conveyed to lIontesquieu an ex-
pression of mine, which, by the manner
of relating, is turned into an elegant
compliment; and if he is brought into
the ministry, she says I may boldly visit
him, with the certainty of a good re-
ception. That he may do valuable busi-
ness, in which, as in other objects where
she may be useful, she is to participate."
Monsieur de Flahaut having gone to
Spain, madame found much consolation
in giving "excellent dinners, where the
conversation was always extremely gay."
Numerous were the schemes started and
discussed over this well-appointed table
and in her salon. Often it was a partie
carrie, consisting of Talleyrand, Montes-
quieu, Morris, and the fair hostess, per-
haps the most infatuated schemer of
them all, bent on getting her friends
into the ministry, and on increasing
her income by their help. "Madame
tells the bishop and me," Mr. Morris
says, "that if he is made minister we
must make a million for her."
Long evenings were absorbed in dis-
cussing with Talleyrand the important
question of the finances. "I find," says

Morris, "that he has many just ideas on
the subject, but I tell him that he must
get men about him who understand and
love work. He appreciates the fact that
there are very few of the kind of men
needed, but is not willing to acknowl-
edge that he does not love work him-
self."
The bishop, having prepared his
speech on the finances, arranged to
meet Mr. Morris at lIadame de
haut's, "to consider the discourse, and
he asks my advice as to whether he had
better speak at all." "I advise him,"
Mr. Morris says, "to speak. Urge him
to treat the caisse d'escopte with great
tenderness. To blame the administra-
tors, as such, for their imprudence in
lending the government more than their
capital; but excuse them, at the same
time, as citizens, for their patriotism. I
beg him to criticise lIonsieur Neckers'
plan very lightly, if it is likely to fall, but
if he thinks it will be adopted, very se-
verely; and to deal much in predictions
as to the fatal effects of paper money,
the stock-jobbing which must ensue,
and the prostration of morals arising
from that cause."
All this sound advice was wasted.
When it was too late, the bishop
told Mr. Morris that he saw the mis-
take he had made in not following his
advice. "For he is blamed," says Mor-
ris, "particularly for those things which
I had advised him to alter. .... The bish-
op has something of the orator about
him," lir. Morris goes on to say, "but
the attachment to our literary produc-
tions is by no means suitable to a minis-
ter-to sacrifice great objects for the
sake of small ones is an inverse ratio of
moral proportion."
The constant appeal to his opinion
and desire for his advice, in most im-
portant affairs, shows with what confi-
dence he had inspired these men, striv-
ing, as they were, for some way out of
their difficulties. His advice and assist-
ance were always freely and helpfully
given, and his time was very much occu-
pied with public affairs. As matters grew
worse in Paris, no one of the lookers-on
took a more living interest--and from
a sincere love for France, which he often
expressed. Willing to work for her, he
labored over estimates for Necker and

102 GLIMPSES OF THE DIARIES OF GOUUERNEUR MORRIS.

Lafayette for the purchase of food,_when
provisioning the army, and indeedaris
itself, became a problem. I-Ie realized
so strongly "that the evils they were
suffering arose from their own folly,"
and that a strong hand was needed to
help them out of their troubles, that he
said to Clermont-Tonnerre, meeting him
one day in Madame de StaSl's salon, "Al-
though I have abandoned public life, I
hope forever, if anything could prompt
a wish for a return, it would be the
pleasure of restoring order to this coun-
try."
His interest was well known among
his friends, and his clear common-sense
view of affairs gave them a certain cour-
age ; and often, he says, he was able to
"animate their conversation with a gay-
ety they sadly needed." It was less in
jest than earnest that IIadame de Chas-
tellux told him that she would make her
don patriotique, by "presenting me to
the king for one of his ministers.
laugh at the jest, and the more so as it
accords with an observation made by
Cantellux to the same effect, which
considered as bordering on persiflage
at least, and answered accordingly."
I-Ie gave free scope to his ideas, on
occasions when he hoped they might be
of use, and spared no pains, even at the
risk of losing his friendship, to put
plainly before Lafayette the dangers
izto which he and his army were drift-
ing--the one from the "besoin de
briller," the other from want of disci-
pline. I-Ie urged upon him the neces-
sity to "immediately discipline his troops
and make himself obeyed. This nation
is used to be governed, and must be
governed; and I tell him that if he ex-
pects to lead them by their affections,
he will be the dupe."
Estimating Lafayette, however, at his
true worth, he expected little from him.
"I have known my friend Lafayette,"
he says, "now for many years, and can
estimate at the just value both his
words and actions. I-Ie means ill to no
one, but he is very much below the busi-
ness he has undertaken ; and if the sea
runs high, he will be unable to hold the
helm."
All the latest new from Versailles,
the last bit of town or court gossip,
quickly found its way to Madame de

Flahaut's boudoir, or bedroom, where
were generally one or more of her
intimes, ready for any excitement--an
agreeable scandal, news of a disastrous
riot in the Faubourg St. Antoine, or
the latest rumor as to who the next set
of ministers might be.
It was here that ]VIr. hIorris heard the
latest particulars of the terrible October
night, when royalty, as by a miracle,
escaped, with just life enough to be
brought to laris in procession, sad and
almost desperate, to be put into the des-
olate chambers of the Tuileries;heard
that the queen, seeing into the future,
"had said that she would never leave
laris "--" a sad presage," he says, "of
what is too likely."
It seems quite possible, even at this
distance of time, to feel the intense ex-
citement of the moment, as one realizes
that ]VIr. Morris saw the heads of the
gardes du corps brought into laris, and
learned from persons who had been at
Versailles during that miserable night
of how the "queen was obliged to fly
from her bed in her shift and petticoat,
with her stockings in her hand, to the
king's chamber for protection, being pur-
sued by the Poissardes." So vivid is his
description of the "tumult" and excite-
ment, that it is not difficult to share his
feelings of fatigue and disgust of such
atrocities. "Being heartily tired of my-
self," he says, "and of everything about
me, I go home with one consolation, that
being very sleepy, I shall in that oblivion
lose a thousand disagreeable thoughts."
His short entry of the condition of the
weather, "which," he says, "has been all
day raixg, and I believe (at sea) a
high gale, if not a storm," makes the
picture all the more vivid; and he fin-
ishes with the comparison, that man
turbulent, like the elements, disorders
the moral world, but it is action which
supports life.
It is shocking enough to read what
history tells of the tragedy of October
5th. What must it have been to have
lived so near to it ? to have seen Lafay-
ette weak when he should have been
strong--"marched," Mr. Morris says,
"by compulsion, guarded by his own
troops ? Dreadful situation--obliged
to do what he abhors, or suffer an
ignominious death, with the certainty

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUUERNEUR MORRIS. 108

that the sacrifice of his life will not
prevent the mischief. .... And what an
unfortunate prince! the victim of his
own weakness, and in the hands of those
who are not to be relied on even for
pity. What a dreadful lesson it is for
man that an absolute prince cannot with
safety be indulgent! The troubles of
this country are begun, but as to the
end it is not easy to foresee it."
Movement was everywhere ; hundreds
in terrible alarm, fleeing for their lives ;
homes broken up, family ties severed;
no one safe; disorder in every place.
No wonder lIr. Morls expressed him-
self as "weary and disgusted with
everything in lrance."
Madame de llahaut and the inhabi-
tants of the Louvre were in great dis-
tress. "The national assembly is to
come to Paris," she tells Mr. Morris,
"and it is supposed the families in the
Louvre will be d$niches." Madame, in
fear and confusion, declares she will go
off on Monday. "At supper this night,"
he says, "the company is reduced al-
most to a tte--tte ; the guests all de-
cline from the public confusion." Mr.
Morris was horrified to learn that in the
district of St. Roch the despatches to the
ministers were opened, and read to the
blackguards, to see if they contained
anything against the nation.
His feeling of "being heartily out of
humor with everything in France" was
not lessened by finding Lafayette at
this crisis in conference with Clermont-
Tonnerre, whom he knew to be a "man
of moderate abilities," and a "man of
duplicity besides," and Madame de La-
fayette with Monsieur de Stall and Mon-
sieur de Simiane, his friend, in commit-
tee in the salon. "This is all petit," is
his comment. With a very good knowl-
edge of the men of affairs at this impor-
tant moment, he might have been of
much service to Lafayette in the ar-
rangement of a new ministry, which, he
told him, should be "composed of men
of talent and firmness. And for the
rest it is no matter," had not the ambi-
tion to be in all places at once so strong-
ly possessed Lafayette. "I tell him
plainly," Mr. Morris says, "that he can-
not act both as minister and soldier;
still less as minister of every depart-
ment."

Having some confidence in Talley-
rand's knowledge of finance, Mr. Morris
proposed him to Lafayette for that posi-
tion, and controverted his objections
to him as a "bad man, and false." "I
assm-e him," he says, "that in taking the
bishop [Talleyrand] he gets Mirabeau,
and as my information is the best, he is
thrown into the style of a man greatly
deceived. I tell him fm-ther the idea of
the bishop's, that the king should im-
mediately have given him a blue ribbon."
Knowing so well how to touch Lafay-
ette's vanity, he must have enjoyed see-
ing this suggestion work. The effect
was what he expected it to be, for he
says: "This goes farther toward con-
vincing him that he is an honest man
than many good actions. I tell him
that the coalition I propose will drive
lecker away by the very populace which
now support him; lecker is already
frightened, and sick of the business he is
engaged in."
Mr. Morris strongly opposed Lafay-
ette's wish to bring Mirabeau into the
ministry, on the ground that "a man so
profligate would disgrace any adminis-
tration, and that one who has so little
principle ought not to be trusted." He
warned Lafayette against Mirabeau, and
considered that he had made a great
blunder when he opened his plans to
him, for he says : "If he employs him it
will be disgraceful, and if he neglects
him it will be dangerous." Mirabeau's
strength, Mr. Morris said, lay in "oppo-
sition, where he would always be power-
ful," he thought ; "but that he would
never be great in administration."
Commenting on Mb-abeau's motion on
finance, he says : "Mirabeau shows very
truly, in his motion, the dreadful situa-
tion of credit in this country; but he is
not so successful in applying a remedy
as in disclosing the disease." He al-
ways expressed the belief that Mira-
beau's "understanding was impaired by
the perversion of his heart, and that
a sound mind cannot exist where the
morals are unsound." Reviewing Mira-
beau's character, after his death, Mr.
Morris says: "Vices, both de,o-fading
and detestable, marked this extraordi-
nary being. I have seen tbs man, in
the short space of two years, hissed,
honored, hated, and mourned. Enthu-

106 GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.

that she rather invites than repels
those who incline to be attentive."
Giving this remark time to take effect,
she followed it with the suggestion,
"that perhaps I may become an admh--
er." "I tell her that it is not impossible ;
but as a previous condition, she must
agree not to repel me, which she prom-
ises."
What an ideal feast a dinner party
must have been, where the oppolunity
to choose a companion was accorded
to a guest! A dinner of herbs would
be attractive under such circumstances,
with the contentment that must come
from the easy interchange of sentiments
with a kindred spirit selected to suit the
mood of the moment. A dinner com-
panion of a rare kind must Madame de
Stall have been; and taking advantage
of his privilege, Mr. Morris put him-
self beside her at dinner, with the cer-
tainty of being thoroughly entertained.
"We become engaged in an animated
conversation at table," he says, "and she
desires me to speak English, which her

husband does not understand. In look-
ing round the room I observe in him
very much emotion, and I tell her that he
loves her distractedly, which she says she
knows, and that it renders her miser-
able." "I condole with her a little on
her widowhood, the Chevalier de Nar-
bonne being absent in Franche CorerS."
"She asks me if I continue to think
she has a preference for Monsieur de
Tonnerre. I reply only by observing
that they have each of them wit enough
for one couple, and therefore I think
they had better separate and take each a
partner who is un peu bte."
"After dinner I seek a conversation
with the husband, which relieves him.
He inveighs bitterly against the man-
ners of the country, and the cruelty of
alienating a wife's affection. I regret
with him, on general grounds, that pros-
titution of morals which unfits them
for good government, and convince him,
I think, I shall not contribute toward
making him any more uncomfortable
than he already is."

The Gardens of Marli, 1789. From an Old Print.

SOCIALISM.

By Francis ,4. Walker.

THREE words have, of recent years,
become very familiar, and yet not of
less and less, but of more and more,
formidable sound to the good and quiet
citizens of America and of Vestern Eu-
rope.
These words are: Nihilism, Commu-
nism, Socialism.
Nihilism, so far as one can find out,
expresses rather a method, or a means,
than an end. It is difficult to say just what
Nihilism does imply. So much appears
reasonably certain--that the primary ob-
ject of the Nihilists is destruction ; that
the abolition of the existing order, not
the construction of a new order, is in
their view; that, whatever their ulterior
designs, or whether or no they have any
ultimate pro:pose in which they are all or
generally agreed, the one object which
now draws and holds them together, in
spite of all the terrors of arbitrary power,
is the abolition, not only of all existing
governments, but of all political estates,
all institutions, all privileges, all forms
of authority; and that to this is post-
poned whatever plans, ptu:poses, or
wishes the confederation, or its mem-
bers individually, may cherish concern-
ing the reorganization of society.*
Confining ourselves, then, to the con-
templation of Socialism and Commu-
nism, let us inquire what are the distinc-
tive features of each.
]Vere one disposed to be hypercritical
and harsh in dealing with the efforts of
well-meaning men to express views and
feelings which, in their nature, must be
very vague, he might make this chapter
as brief as that famous chapter devoted
to the snakes of Ireland--" There are no
snakes in Ireland." So one might, with
no more of unfairness than often enters
into political, sociological, or economic
controversy, say that there are no feat-
ures proper to Commtmism as sought
to be distinguished from Socialism ; no
* M. Anatole Leroy-Beaulieu in an essay on lgihilisml
maya : '" Under its standard we find revolutionists of all
kinds--authoritarians, federalists, mutualists, and com-
raunists--who agree only in postponing till, after their
triumph shall be e(nred all discussion of a futm organ-
ization of the world. '

features proper to Socialism as sought
to be distinguished from Communism.
If, however, one will examine the liter-
ature of the subject, not for the pin-pose
of obtaining an advantage in controversy,
or of finding phrases with which malice
or contempt may point its weapons, but
in the interest of trnth, and with the
spirit of candor, he will not fail to ap-
prehend that Communism and Social-
ism are different things, although at
points one overlays the other in such
a way as to introduce more or less of
confusion into any statement regarding
either.
May we not say ?
1st. That Communism confines itself
mainly, if not exclusively, to the one sub-
ject matter--wealth. On the other hand,
Socialism, conspicuously, in all its mani-
festations, in all lands where it has ap-
peared, asserts its claim to control every
interest of human society, to enlist for
its purposes every form of energy.
2d. That so far as wealth becomes the
subject matter of both Communism, on
the one hand, and of Socialism, on the
other, we note a difference of treatment.
Communism, in general, regards wealth
as produced, and confines itself to effect-
ing an equal, or what it esteems an
equitable, distribution.
Socialism, on the other hand, gives its
first and chief attention to the produc-
tion of wealth ; and, passing lightly over
the question of distribution, with or
without assent to the doctrine of an equal
distribution among producers, it asserts
the right to inquire into and control the
consumption of wealth for the general
good, whether through sumptuary laws
and regulations or through taxation for
public expenditures.
3d. That Communism is essentially
negative, confined to the prohibition
that one shall not have more than an-
other. Socialism is positive and aggres-
sive, declaring that each man shall have
enough.
It purposes to introduce new forces
into society and indush T ; to put a stop

110 SOCI,/I LISM.

present discussion. The policeowers
embrace, of course, all that is necessary
to keep people fl-om picking each other's
pockets and cutting each other's throats,
including, alike, punitive and preventive
measures. They embrace, also, the ad-
judication and collection of debts, inas-
much as, otherwise, men must be suf-
fered to claim and seize their own,
which would lead to incessant breaches
of the peace. They embrace, also, the
punishment of slander and libel, since,
otherwise, individuals must be left to
vindicate themselves by assault or homi-
cide. Whether we will or no, we must
also admit the war power among those
necessarily inherent in government.
Is this all which is included in the
police powers ? There are several other
functions, for the assumption of which
by the State the preservation of life and
liberty, the protection of property, and
the prevention of crime are either cause
or excuse.
loremost among these is the care and
maintenance of religious worship. It
is not meant that, in all or most coun-
tries, the justification for the exercise
of ghostly functions by the State is
found in the utility of relious observ-
ances and services in repressing violence
and crime. But in the countries farthest
advanced politically, the notion that the
ruler has any divine commission to direct
or sustain religious services and obsel-
ances is practically obsolete ; and, so far
as this function is still performed, it is
covered by the plea which has been ex-
pressed. Eminently is this true of France,
England, and the United States. lew
publicists, in these countries, would pre-
sume to defend the foundation of a State
religion, de novo, as in the interest of re-
ligion itself. So far as the maintenance
of existing establishments is defended, it
is upon the ground that violence, disor-
der, and crime are thereby diminished.
Take the United States, for instance,
where the only survival of a State re-
ligion is found in the exemption of eccle-
siastical property from taxation, equiv-
alent to a subsidy of many millions
annually. Here we find this policy de-
fended on the ground that this consti-
tutes one of the most effective means at
the command of the State as conservator
of the peace. It is claimed that the set-

vices of this agent are worth to govern-
ment more than the taxes which the
treasury might otherwise collect from
the smaller number of churches and
missions which would survive the assess-
ment of the ordinary taxes ; and that the
remaining taxpayers really pay less, by
reason of the reduction in violence and
crime hereby effected.
Now, in so far as this plea is a genu-
ine one, it removes the exemption of
Church property from the class of social-
istic measures. The prevention of vio-
lence and crime is the proper function
of the State, according to the lowest view
that can be tken of it ; and if a certain
amount of encouragement and assist-
ance is extended to religious bodies and
establishments, genuinely in this inter-
est, no invasion of individual initiative
and enterprise can properly be com-
plained of.
Another and apparently a closely re-
luted instance of the extension of State
functions is found in the promotion of
popular education, either through the
requirement of the attendance of pupils,
or through provisions for the public
support of schools, or through both
these means.
Now, here we reh an instance of an
impulse almost purely socialistic for the
.enlargement of the functions of the State.
It is true that the plea of a service to gov-
ernment in the way of reducing violence
and crime through the influence of the
public schools, is often urged on this be-
half; but I, for one, do not believe that
this was the real consideration and mo-
tive which, in any instance, ever actually
led to the establishment of the system of
instruction under public authority, or
which, in any land, supports public in-
struction now. Indeed, the .immediate
effects of popular instruction in reducing
crime are even in dispute.
In all its stages this movement has been
purely socialistic in character, springing
out of a conviction that the State would
be stronger, and the individual members
of the State would be richer and happier
and better, if power and discretion in
this matter of the education of children
were taken away from the family and
lodged with the government.
Of course, it needs not to be said that
this is a socialistic movement which de-

SOCIALISM.

serves the heartiest approval. Not the
less is it essentiully of that nature, dif-
fering from a hundred other proposed
acts and measures, which we should all
reject with more or less of fear or hor-
ror, solely by reason of its individual
merits as a scheme for accomplishing
good, through State action, in a field
properly pertaining to individual initia-
tive and enterprise.
There is another important extension
of State functions, very marked in re-
cent times, for which a non-socialistic
excuse might be trumped up, but for
which the real reason was purely and
simply socialistic. This is the con-
struction and maintenance of bridges
and roads at the public expense for
public uses. One might, if disposed to
argue uncandidly, adduce the military
services rendered by the great loman
roads ; and, thereupon, might pretend
to believe that a corresponding motive
has led to the assumption of this func-
tion by the State in modern times. The
fact is, that until within seventy, fifty,
or thirty years the bridges and roads
of England and America remained, to
an enormous extent, within the domain
of individual initiative and enterprise.
Even when the State assumed the respon-
sibility, it was a recognized principle
that the cost of construction and repair
should be repaid by the members of the
community in the proportions i/ which
th. e.y severally took advantage of this pro-
vision. The man who travelled much,
paid much ; the man who travelled little,
paid little ; the man who stayed at home,
paid nothing.
The movement, beginning about sev-
enty years ago, which has resulted in
.making free ne.arly all roads and bridges
m the most progressive countries, was
purely socialistic. It did not even seek
to cover itself by claims that it would
selwe the police powers of the State. It
was boldly and frankly admitted that the
change from private to public manage-
ment and maintenance was to be at the
general expense for the general good.
Is there any other function arrogated
by the State which may be claimed to
be covered by the strict police powers ?
I think that the repression of obtru-
sive immorality--that is, immorality of
a gross nature which obtrudes itself up-

111

on the unwilling--may reasonably be
classed as coming within the minimum
of government function. Sights and
sounds may constitute an assault as
well as blows ; and i falls fairly within
the right and duty of the State to pro-
tect the citizens from offences of this
nature.
Have we now exhausted the catalogue
of things which may be claimed to be cov-
ered by the police powers of the State ?
I answer, No. One of the most impor-
taut remains; yet one of the last--indeed,
the very latest--to be recognized as pos-
sibly belonging to the State under any
.theory of government. I refer to what
is embraced under the term sanitary
inspection and regulation.
That it was not earlier recognized as
the duty of the State to protect the
common air and the common water
from pollution and poisoning was due,
not to any logical difficulty or to any
troublesome theory regarding govern-
mental action, but solely to the fact that
the chemistry of common life and the
causation of zymotic diseases were of
such late discovery. We now know
that there is a far heavier assault than
can be made with a bludgeon; and
that men may, in the broad daylight,
deal each other typhus, diphtheria, or
small-pox more murderously than ever
a bravo dealt blows with a dagger un-
der cover of darkness. Yet, so much
more are men moved by tradition than
by reason that we find intelligent citi-
zens who have swallowed the exemption
of five hundred millions of Church prop-
erty from taxation, on the ground that
a certain quantum of preaching will
prevent a certain quantum of crime,
have very serious doubts about the pro-
priety of inspecting premises which can
be smelled for half a mile, and whence
death may be flowing four ways, as
Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel, and Euphrates
parted from Eden and " became into
four heads."
I do not mean to say that I should
hesitate to approve of sanitary inspec-
tion and regulation, carried to their
extremes, if they were as socialistic
as anything ever dreamed of by Marx
or Lasalle. For such good as I see
coming from this source, in the re-
duction of vicious instincts and appe-

112 SOCIALISM.

tires, in the purification of the bod of
the race, in the elimination of disease,
I would, were it needful, loin one of
Fourier's "phalanxes," go to the barri-
cades with Louis Blanc, or be sworn
into a nihilistic circle. But in cor-
rect theory it is not necessary for the
strictest adherent of the doctrine of
limited powers to desert his principles
in this matter. The protection of the
common air and the common water
comes within the police powers of the
States by no forced construction, by no
doubtful analogy.
Is there any important function re-
maining which may properly be classed
among the purely police powers?
think not. Does someone say, You
have not mentioned the care and sup-
port of the helpless poor ? The expe-
rience of the Romans, and even the con-
dition of the law of almost all coun-
tries of Europe in modern times, proves
that this is not one of the necessary func-
tions of a well-ordered State.
Is it said that Christian morality will
not permit that the helpless poor shall
suffer or, perhaps, starve? Whenever
the State shall undertake to do all or
any very considerable part of what
Christian morality requires, it will be-
come very socialistic indeed.
Having now beaten the bounds of the
police powers, and having decided that
all extension of government activity
beyond those bounds is to be held and
deemed socialistic, it is proposed to of-
fer certain distinctions which appear
important.
And, first, a measure is not necessari-
ly of a strong socialistic savor merely
because it implies a large, perhaps a
vast, extension of the actual work of
the State. Take, for example, the Eng-
lish Government's acquisition of the tel-
egraph lines, and its performance of the
work connected therewith. This was
not done under a socialistic impulse.
In England the telegraph service has
ways been closely affiliated in the public
mind with the postal service ; and, con-
sequently, when the former had come to
be of sufficiently wide and general use to
make it worth while for the State to as-
sume the charge, it was done in the most
matter-of-fact way. It was no more so-
cialistic than the addition of a few thou-

sands of new post-offices to the existing
number would have been.
On the other hand, the assumption of
a new service by the State is not re-
lieved from the charge of being social-
istic, even grossly socialistic, by the fact
that such a service is closely analogous
to some other which all citizens have
long agreed to place in the hands of
government. Take, for example, the
matter of "free ferries," which has been
mooted in Boston and in New York, and
doubtless elsewhere. This proposition
has always been greeted by conservative
men of all parties as highly and danger-
ously socialistic; and yet the analogy
between free ferries and bridges free
from toll is very strong. A_ ferry-boat
is little other than a section of a bridge,
cut away from moorings, and propelled
backward and forward by steam ; and it
may conceivably cost less and create less
disturbance to navigation to use the
latter than the former means. For in-
stance, it might cost two millions of dol-
lars to throw an adequate bridge from
Boston to East Boston, for the transit
of passengers and freight. But suppose
the point is raised that the bridge will
interfere continually with the use of the
harbor, to an extent involving immense
losses to trade, and that the amount
proposed to be expended upon the bridge
would pay for the construction and
operation of a line of ferry-boats. Is not
the analogy close ? And yet I agree with
the objectors in this case, that the estab-
lishment of free ferries would be a long
and dangerous step toward Socialism.
Even where the new function appears
to be only the logical carrying out and
legitimate consequence of another func-
tion well approved, there may be a step
toward Socialism involved in such an ex-
tension of the State's activity and respon-
sibility.
In illustration, I might mention the
matter of free text-books in our public
schools. Public provision for gratuitous
elementary education, although mani-
festly socialistic within our meaning of
that term, has come to be fully accepted
by nearly all citizens as right and de-
sh'able. In discharging this duty, the
State, at immense expense, builds and
fulishes school-houses, employs teach-
ers and superintendents, buys supplies,

SOCIALISM.

and gives each boy or girl the use of a
desk. Yet the proposition to make the
use of text-books free, has met with vi-
olent opposition; has been defeated at
many points ; and wherever it has been
carried, is still regarded by many judi-
cious persons as a very dangerous inno-
vation. Yet, as has been shown, this
measure seems to be but the logical car-
tying out and legitimate consequence of
a function already assumed by practically
unanimous consent.
Still another distinction has become
necessary of recent years, and that is
between the assumption by the State
of functions which would otherwise be
performed wholly or mainly by indi-
viduals and those which would other-
wise be performed wholly or mainly by
corporations. We shall have occasion
hereafter to speak of the relation of the
State to the corporation.
One further distinction it may be
well to suggestviz., that the vast im-
portance, even the absolutely vital neces-
sity, of a service, whether to the com-
munity at large or to the subsisting
form of government, does not, by itself,
constitute a reason for the performance
of that function by the State. Let me
illustrate. In his address, as President
of the Association for the Advancement
of Science, at Aberdeen, in 1859, Prince
Albert said : "The State should recog-
nize in science one of the elements of
its strength and prosperity, to foster
which the clearest dictates of self-inter-
est demand." Last year, Sir Lyon Play-
fair, in his address as President of the
Association, quotes these words, and
enforces the same thought. Yet it does
not follow from the importance of sci-
ence to the State, that science should be
directly fostered or suppoled by gov-
ernment. It might conceivably be that
science would do its work for the State
better if the State itself did nothing for
science, just as many persons who hold
that religion is essential not only to the
peace and happiness of communities
but even to the existence of well-ordered
governments, yet hold that the State
can do nothing so beneficial to religion
as to let it completely and severely
alone.
Still another class of considerations
must be borne in mind in measuring
VOLo I.--8

the extent of the socialistic advance in-
volved in any given extension of the
functions of government. These are
considerations which arise out of the
peculiar genius of a people, politically,
socially, industrially. A certain act, or
measure, which would be a monstrous
invasion of personal libely and individ-
ual activity in one country, would be
the merest matter of course in another.
The natural aptitudes, the prevailing
sentiments, the institutions, great and
small, the political and economic history
of a nation, have all to be taken into ac-
count in deciding how far an extension
of the powers of government in a given
direction indicates socialistic progress.
Yet, while this is true, there will be
observed some very strange contradic-
tions in the adoption, in certain coun-
tries, of principles of legislation and
administration which cross, in an unac-
countable way, the general spirit of
their people.
Thus England, whose population is
decidedly the most strongly anti-social-
istic in the world, was for hundreds of
years the only country in Europe in
which was formally acknowledged the
right, the complete legal right, of any
and every man to be supported by the
State, if he could not, or did not, find
the means of his own subsistence.
From the foregoing definition and
distinctions let us proceed briefly to
characterize certain measures of a so-
cialistic nature proposed or advocated
by men who are not Socialists; who
neither avow nor would admit them-
selves to be such;who, accepting, on
the whole, the sufficiency of individual
initiative and enterprise to achieve the
good of society, have yet their scheme,
or budget of schemes, for the general
welfare, which would operate by re-
stricting personal liberty and by sub-
stituting public for private activity.
Time would not serve to canvass the
merits or defects of these schemes as
measures for accomplishing certain spe-
cific social objects. We can only dwell
upon each, in turn, long enough to in-
dicate its individual character as more
or less socialistic.
1st. The most familiar of schemes for
promoting the general welfare, by di-
minishing the scope of individual initia-

SOCIALISM.

tire and enterprise, is that knon by
the name of Protection to local or, as it
is in any locahty called, native industry.
Protectionism is nothing if not social-
istic. It proposes, in the public interest,
to modify the natural course of trade
and production, and to do this by de-
priving the citizen of his privilege of
buying in the cheapest market. Yet the
protectionist is not, therefore, to be
called a Socialist, since the Socialist
would not only have the State deter-
mine what shall be produced, but he
would have the State itself undertake the
work of production. It is not my pur-
pose to discuss protection as a scheme
for accomplishing its professed object.
Indeed, I should have had occasion to
bestow upon it but a single word, merely
to characterize it as a socialistic measure,
were it not for the conviction that the
forces of the age are tending strongly
in this direction. In my judgment we
are on the eve of a great protectionist
agitation.
And the demand for the so-called pro-
tection of native industry is to be a pop-
ular one in a degree never before known.
In England the restrictive system of the
earlier period had been imposed by priv-
ileged classes, and was broken down by
a truly poplar uprising. In the Ignited
States the history of the restrictive sys-
tem has been different. My esteemed
friend, Professor Sumner, took the plat-
form, three years ago, with the avowed
purpose of attacking protectionism, no
longer as inexpedient, but as immoral;
and he proceeded, with a vigor which
no other writer or speaker on applied
economics in this country has at com-
mand, to stigmatize the forces which
have initiated and directed our tariff
legislation as all selfish and false and
bad. ow, I can't go with Professor
Sumner in this. Fully recognizing that
our successive tariffs have largely been
shaped by class or sectional interests,
with, at times, an obtrusion of mean
motives which were simply disgusting,
as in 1828, I am yet constrained to be-
lieve that the main force which has im-
pelled Congress to tariff legislation has
been a sincere, if mistaken, conviction
that the general good would thereby be
promoted. Yet, after all, it has been
the employing, not the laboring, class

which has conducted the legislation,
maintained the correspondence, set up
the newspapers, paid the lobby, in the
tariff contests of the past.
The peculiarity of the new movement
is that it is to owe its initiative and its
main impulse to the laboring class.
What strikes me as most important,
with regard to the future, is the consid-
eration that, while protectionism is to
become a dogma and a fighting demand
of the out-and-out Socialists everywhere,
it would be in a consummated system
of protection that the rampant, aggres-
sive, and destructive Socialism, which is
such an object of terror to many minds,
would find an insurmountable barrier.
Socialism can never be all we dread un-
less it become international; but the
consummation of protectionism is the
destruction of internationalism.
2d. Another threatened invasion ofthe
field of industrial initiative and enter-
prise is through laws affecting labor,
additional to the body of factory legis-
lation now generally accepted.
There is not a feature in the existing
body of factory legislation in England
which owes its introduction to political
forces set in motion by mill and factory
operatives. Even in the United States,
except solely in the instance of that
piece of wretched demagogism known
as the Eight Hour Law, passed by Con-
gress without any intention that it
should be enforced, our labor legislation
has not, in general, been due to the ef-
forts of the operative classes as such,
but to the general conviction of the pub-
lie mind that so much, at least, was fair
and just and wise. The labor legislation
now impending is not intended to abide
the decision of an impartial jury. It is
asserted, by those who claim especially
to represent the interests of labor, that
their class are about to undertake to
carry, by sheer weight of numbers, meas-
ures to few of which could they hope to
obtain the assent of the disinterested
portion of the community.
Surely we have here a very grave
situation. It may be that the power, of
wealth and trained intellect, superior
dialectical ability, the force of political
and parliamentary tactics, with the con-
servative influence of the agricultural
interest, would, in any case, defeat leg-

SOCIALISM. 115

islation hostile to the so-called interests
of capital. Doubtless, too, we of the
class who are disposed to maintain the
status underrate the moderation, self-
control, and fairness likely to be exer-
cised by the body of laborers. Yet it is
not easy to rid one's self of the apprehen-
sion that this new species of socialistic
leslation will be carried so far, at least
under the first enthusiasm of newly ac-
quired power, as seriously to cripple the
industrial system, tie must be a con-
firmed pessimist who doubts that, sooner
or later, after however much of mlsad-
venture and disaster, a modus vivendi
will be established, which will allow the
emplo)4ng class to reassume and reas-
sert something like their pristine author-
ity over production--unless, indeed, this
harassment of the employer is to be
used as a means of bringing in the
rgime of co-operation, so ardently de-
sired by many economists and philan-
thropists as the ideal industrial system.
If this is to be so, there will not be
lacking a flavor of poetic justice, so far
as the American manufacturer is con-
cerned.
The advocate of co-operation, appeal-
ing to the admittedly vast advantages
which would attend the successful estab-
lishment of the scheme of industrial
partnership, might say that thus far co-
operative enterprises have not succeeded
because, with small means, they have had
their experiments to make; their men
to test and to train ; their system to cre-
ate. Let us, he would continue, handi-
cap the long-established, highly organ-
ized, well-officered, rich, and powerful
entrepreneur system, so that vast bod-
ies of goods, made with the highest
advantages from wealth, capital, and
organization, may not be poured out
upon the market in floods, to sweep
away the feeble structures of newly un-
dertaken co-operative enterprises. Let
the community consent, for the general
good, to pay a somewhat higher price,
as the consideration for the establish-
ment of a system which will, in the re-
sult, not only secure a larger creation of
wealth, but will settle the questions of
distribution, promote good citizenship,
and forever banish the spectre of Social-
ism from the world !
3d. Other measures of a socialistic

nature, strongly urged at, the present
time, have in view the control by govern-
ment of the ways and agencies of trans-
portation and communication. All over
Europe the telegraph service has been
assumed by the State; and, to a large
extent, the railroads also have come un-
der government ownership or manage-
ment. In some degree this has been
due to the suggestions and promptings
of military ambition, but in a larger de-
gree, probably, it expresses the convic-
tion that all railroad service "tends to
monopoly ;" and that, therefore, alike
fiscal and military reasons and the gen-
eral interest unite in dictating that the
monopolist shall be the State.
On the continent of Europe the
State's acquisition of these agencies of
transport, so far as it has gone, has not
been due to popular impulse; the man-
agement of the roads so acquired has
suited well the bureaucratic form of gov-
ernment, while the thoroughness and
efficiency of the civil service has, in the
main, secured good administration.
tIere or in England, on the other
hand, such an extension of the powers
of the State would have a very different
significance, a significance most porten-
tous and threatening; while even the
regulation of railroad management, ex-
cept through the establishment of effec-
tive and summary tribmals for the
correction of manifest and almost un-
contested abuses, would, according to
my individual judgment, be highly prej-
udicial, and even pernicious, upon any-
thing resembling our present political
system.
4th. Still another suggested enlarge-
ment of public activity is in the direc-
tion of exercising an especial oversight
and control over Industrial Corporations,
as such.
The economic character of the in-
dustrial corporation very much needs
analysis and elucidation. A work on
this subject is a desideratum in political
economy. So little has the economic
character of this agent been dwelt upon,
that we find reviews and jomals of
pretension, and professional economists
in college chairs, speaking of legislation
in regulation of such bodies as in viola-
tion of the principle of Laissez Faire.
But the very institution of the industrial

116 SOCIALISM.

corporation is for the purpose o avoid-
ing that primary condition upon which,
alone, true and effective competition can
exist.
Perfect competition, in the sense of
the economist, assumes that every per-
son, in his place in the industrial order,
acts by himself, for himself, alone ; that
whatever he does is done on his own in-
stance, for his own interest. Combina-
tion, concert, cohesion, act dh-ectly in
contravention of competition.
Now, combination will enter, more or
lgss, to affect the actions of men in re-
spect to wealth. But such combinations
are always subject to dissolution, by rea-
son of antagonisms developed, suspicions
aroused, separate interests appearing ;
and the expectation of such dissolution
attaches to them from their formation.
The cohesion excited, as between the
particles of the economic mass which
the theory of competition assumes to be
absolutely free from affiliations and at-
tractions, is certain to be shifting and
transitory. The corporation, on the
other hand, implies the imposition of a
common rule upon a mass of capital
which would otherwise be in many hands,
subject to the impulses of individual
owners. But it is because the hand into
which these masses of capital are gath-
ered is a dead hand that the deepest in-
jury is wrought to competition.
The greatest fact in regard to human
effort and enterprise is the constant
imminence of disability and death. So
great is the importance of this condition,
that it goes far to bring all men to a
level in their actions as industrial agents.
The man of immense wealth has no such
superiority over the man of moderate
fortune as would be indicated by the
proportion of their respective posses-
sions. To these unequals is to be add-
ed one vast common sum, which might-
ily reduces the ratio of that inequality.
The railroad mac-mate, master of a hun-
dred millions, leaning forward in his
eagerness to complete some new com-
bination, falls without a sign, without
a groan ; his work forever incomplete ;
his schemes rudely broken; and at
once the fountain of his great fortune
parts into many heads, and his gathered
wealth flows away in numerous streams.
No man can buy with money, or obtain

for love, the assurance of one hour's
persistence in his chosen work, in his
dearest purpose. Here enters the State
and creates an artificial person, whose
powers do not decay with years ; whose
hand never shakes with palsy, never
grows senseless and still in death; whose
estate is never to be distributed; whose
plans can be pursued through succes-
sive generations of mortal men. -
I do not say that the services which
corporations render do not afford an
ample justification for this invasion of
the field of private activity. I am far
from saying that, whatever injuries one
might be disposed to attribute to the
unequal competition between nattu-al
and artificial persons, thus engendered,
the evil would be cured by State regu-
lation and control. Government will
never accomplish more than a part of
the good it intends ; and it will always,
by its intervention, do a mischief which
it does not intend. My sole object is
to point out how deeply the industrial
corporation violates the principle of com-
petition, and how absurd it is to claim
for it the protection of Laissez l'aire !
5th. Another direction in which prog-
ress toward Socialism has been made,
of late years, is in respect to the hous-
ing of the poor. In the first instance,
and this was but a few years ago, the
measures proposed to this end were
covered by a plea which veiled its so-
cialistic character. Here, it was said, is
a railway entering a city. By authority
of law it blazes its way over the ruins
of hundreds or thousands of working-
men's houses. At least let the govea:n-
ment repair the wrong it has done!
Let it put the working-men where they
were before this exertion of authority.
In like manner parks are created for the
public good, narrow streets are widened
into magnificent boulevards, always
through the destruction of hundreds
of humble homes. In like manner,
again, the State, in a proper care for
the life or health of its citizens, con-
demns certain dwellings as unsanitary,
and orders them torn down. But what
of the men, the women, and the chil-
dren, who, with their scanty fmiture
and ragged bundles, crouch homeless
on the sidewalk as the officers of the
law do their work ?

SOCIALISM. 117

But the demand for the exertion of
the powers and resources of the State
in the housing of the poor, has not
stopped upon this initial line. The
views of many persons of high intelli-
gence, in no way Socialists, have ad-
vanced, during a few years of discus-
sion, to the conviction that the State
has a large and positive part to perform
in respect to the habitation of its citi-
zens. It is not in contemplation that
the State shall build all the houses in
the land ; nor, on the other hand, is pro-
vision for the pauper class at all in view.
What is intended is that the State shall
set the standard for the minimum of
house accommodation which is consist-
ent with health and decency; building
houses enough to provide, in the sim-
plest and cheapest manner, for all who
cannot do better for themselves else-
where ; and thereafter to wage relentless
war on all "shanties," "rookeries," and
"beehives" used for human habitation;
to pull down all that stand, and to pre-
vent the erection of any resembling
them in the future.
Of com-se, the virtue of this scheme,
from the point of view of anyone, how-
ever favorably disposed, who is not a
professed Socialist, would depend on the
simplicity and sincerity with which the
principle of the minimum of accommoda-
tion was adhered to. The moment the
State began building houses for anyone
above the poorest of self-supporting
workmen, it would not only double and
quadruple the certain cost and the lia-
bility to evil consequences, but it would
be taking a monstrous step toward So-
cialism. In undertaking such a scheme
a State would, in effect, say, there is a
class of our citizens who are just on the
verge of self-support. The members of
this class are, in the matter of house
accommodation, almost absolutely help-
less ; they must take what they can find ;
they cannot build theh" own houses;
they cannot go out in the country to
make their home--that is reserved for
the fortunate of their class ; they cannot
protest effectually against foul and dan-
gerous conditions. Nay, the miserable
.liability is, that they should, after be-
ing crowded down into the mire of life,
become indifferent to such conditions
themselves, ready, perhaps, to join the

mob that pelts the health officer on his
rounds.
In regard to this class the State may
proceed to say that neither Christian
charity nor the public interest will tol-
erate the continuance of the utterly hid-
eous and loathsome condition of things
which disfigures the face of civilization.
The rookeries shall be pulled down,
the slums shall be cleaned out, once and
forever. For the pauper there shall be
a cot in the wards of the workhouse,
with confinement for all, Separation of
sexes, and compulsory, labor for t.he
able-bodied. For every man who is
trying to earn his living there shall be
an apartment at a very low rent, graded
to correspond with the lowest of pri-
vate rents, in buildings owned by the
State, or built and used under State
inspection and control. Lower than
this the man shall not go, until he
passes into the wards of the workhouse.
He may do what he pleases in respect
to his clothes, his food, his drink; but
in this matter of habitation he shall
live up to the standard set by the State.
He shall not make the home of his
family a hot-bed for scarlet fever and
diphtheria ; he shall not, even if he likes
it, live in quarters where cleanliness and
decency would be impossible.
Regarding this scheme I have only to
say, that if we are not disposed to look
favorably on a proposition that the
State should undertake an enterprise
so new and large and foreign to our
political habits (and I sincerely trust no
American would be disposed to favor it),
let us not shelter ourselves behind the
miserable mockery of the Economic Har-
monies, as applied to the very poor of
our large cities. To assert a communi-
ty of interest between the proprietor of
a rookery, reeking with every species of
foulness, and the hundreds of wretched
human animals, who curl themselves up
to sleep in its dark corners, amid its
foul odors, is to utter a falsehood so
ghastly, at once, and so grotesque, as to
demand both indignation and ridicule.
6th. The last of the socialistic meas-
ures to which I shall advea't is the pro-
posal for the Nationalization of the Land.
Now, I think I hear one-half my read-
ers exclaim, "The nationalization of the
land! Surely, that is Communism, and

THE NEI4/ YEAR. 119

formance, and introduces new and
stronger motives to social and industrial
progress ?
For myself, I will only say, in general,
that wldle I repudiate the assflmption
of the Economic Harmonies which un-
derlies the doctrine of Laissez Faire, and
while I look with confidence to the State
to perform certain important functions
in economics, I believe that every prop-
osition for enlarging the powers and in-
creasing the duties of the State should
be long and closely scrutinized ; that
heavy bin-den of proof should be thrown
upon the advocates of every such scheme;
and that for no slight, or transient, or
doubtful object should the field of indus-
trial activity be trenched upon in its re-
motest cmer. There is something in the
very name of liberty to which the heart
of man responds; freedom itself thus
becomes, in a certain sense, a force, and
those who thoroughly believe in indi-
vidual initiative and enterprise are the
best and safest judges of the degree to
which restraint may, on account of the
imperfections of human society and the
hardness of men's hearts, require, in any
given time and place, to be imposed
upon the choices and actions of citizens.
That enlarging the powers of govel-
ment at any point where, after due de-

liberation, it abundantly appears that,
iv spite of the reasonable preference for
preserving individual activity, a large
practical gain to the order of society
and the happiness of its constituent
members will, in the long result, accrue
from the interposition of the State ; that
dealing thus with projects of social and
economic reform will, as so many seem
to fear, only arouse in the mass of the
people a passion for further and further
encroachments, and push society more
and more rapidly on toward an all-en-
grossing Socialism--I do not believe. It
is the plea of despots that they cannot
remit impositions, redress wrongs, or
promote reforms, without awakening
dangerous aspirations in their subjects
and provoking them to ever-increasing
demands.
To no such slavish dread of doing
right are free nations subjected. It is
the glorious privilege of govemments
of the people, by the people, for the
people, that they derive only strength
and added stability from every act hon-
estly and prudently conceived to pro-
mote the public welfare. In such a State
every real and sel"ious cause of com-
plaint which is removed becomes a fresh
occasion for loyalty, gratitude, and de-
votion.

THE NEW YEAR.

By Maybury Fleming.

ASHES of o---Are there no more trees ?
What if the Yule-log whiten and
Blaze and redden and die--what then ?
Are there no more trees ?

No trees left ? Let the old year go,
And the old years go, with their bloom
and blight ;
Sated with joy and drunk with pain,
Let the old year go.

Fallen from pride and gray with fire,
Slain by it, never to glow again--
But life is more than ashes and night ;
In it lies new fire.

Ended at last--and to come, more trees,
Leaf and pleasure and--ay, and grief.
Over dead ashes light new fire---
Are there no more trees ?

A VIOLIN OBLIGATO.

By Maael Crosy.

Go down some spring afternoon to
Washington Square. Sit on one of the
benches, and after a half-hour, if you
have not known it long ago, you will be
convinced that you are in the only dig-
nified spot in New York the only place
that seems to have the sanctity of age,
the stateliness of permanency. The
ample, red-brick houses, with their white
doors, are ranged on the north side ; at
the east is the cool grayness of the Uni-
versity Building. In spite of its mod-
ern date, it looks mellow and weather-
stained; at the spring season of which
I speak an atmosphere of youtlfful
green and freshness pelneates the whole
square, and seems by contrast to point
its air of picturesque age.
The neighborhood below the square
keeps the last-mentioned charm, but
effectually loses all claim to freshness
and dio-nity. .4. jumble of nationalities
infest the shabby old houses that have
known, unlike their occupants, better
days. From the window of a room that
I occupied---at a period which I may
term my decadence---I had a full view of
a row of these desecrated buildings.
Red brick, three stories high, sometimes
with the addition of a slanting roof and
dormer windows; the upper windows
with battered shutters, and dirty scraps
of curtain fluttering disconsolately when
a whiff of spring breeze loitered down
the street. Usually a squalid man or
woman lounged in these windows, in an
immemorial attitude---an elbow on the
sill, and the chin resting in the palm of
one hand, looking out with careless sto-
lidity. The lower floors were usually
ttumed into third-rate restaurants or
saloons, with brilliant signs above the
windows in various languages. Oppo-
site my lodgings was a little eating-house
whose legend, emblazoned above the
door, captivated my fancy--" Ladies and
Gents Chop Palace."
The host of the Chop Palace was one
Pierre Lepont, a stout Frenchman, who
had inherited his restaurant and its sign
from an American predecessor. He was

the ideal of a bon bourgeois. I never
looked at his broad, sallow face, radiat-
ing good humor, his well-balanced head,
the curving, material sweetness of his
lips, that I did not instantly become
reconciled to life under its existing con-
ditions. The impossible ceased to tan-
talize me ; and the actual, no longer in-
tolerable from its limitations, lay around
me full of good, if I would but stretch
out my hand and grasp it.
Next to this row of houses was an
alley, whose dirt and poverty was to that
of the street as a thousand is to one.
By leaning out of my window I could
catch a glimpse of the square--calmly
beautiful and well ordered;sometimes
irritating me by its contrast to my sur-
roundings; sometimes consoling me
with the thought that, at a moment's
notice, I could escape to it. My lodging-
house only boasted two stories ; my land-
lady, a widow named Ellis, kept a flour-
ishing bakery on the first floor, and lived
in two rooms behind her shop. I occu-
pied the front room up-stairs, and Pin-
sing, an old violinist, the buck room.
Pinsing was between fifty and sixty, tall,
thin, and gray-haired, with a visionary,
childlike look in his eyes. Sitting in
my room, at my easel, I experienced a
confusion of sensations. There arose
from below whiffs of baking pastry and
cake, and occasionally my landlady passed
my door. I traced a vague analogy be-
tween her glossy brown hair and pink
cheeks and the chocolate and strawberry
iced cakes which graced her shop-win-
dow. All this suggested a sort of Mo-
hammedan's paradise of houris and deli-
ciouseatables. From thedjoiningroom
came the sound of 1)insing's violin, al-
loying the paradise with a musical In-
ferno. Between these two influences I
found it hard to preserve an artistic
equilibrium.
I dignify Pinsing with the name of
violinist, but the fact that he possessed
a violin and continually played upon it
was his only claim to this title. I found
that he was first violin in a small orches-

A VIOLIN OBLIGATO. 19.1

tra of dubious quality. He practised all
day, and disappeared n the evening.
The scene of his labors was an obscure
Bowery theatre. Each night he crept
off on his pilgrimage, carrying his violin,
which was tenderly shrouded in green
baize and coffined in a little black casket.
It was curious to me that such an amount
of ardent labor should not produce a
more harmonious result. His playing
had all the most trying qualities of the
violin when badly played. His tone was
piercing and scraping, and at the same
time tremulously weak. He used to
practise the most intricate exercises for
hours, and then apparently regale him-
self with some lofty composition. There
was a Beethoven concerto that he labor-
ed through with fltfle incapacity. Still,
the mere sound of those notes in such
a place, and in such surroundings, drew
me to him with passionate sympathy.

Who aims a star
Shoots higher far than he that aims a tree.

His efforts were like my own in try-
ing to make my little flower of art
bloom in that harsh, unfruitful soil.
lrom motives of economy and con-
venience I took my meals at "Pierre's,"
by which familiar term the Chop Pal-
ace was usually indicated. My intima-
cy with Pinsing, begun by civil greet-
ings in the passage between our rooms,
was cemented at the restaurant. He
also dined there, and we fell into the
habit of sitting at the same table;
across the somewhat dusky square of
table-cloth that divided us we ex-
changed confidences. It is not neces-
sary to specify mine. His had all the
tra-comedy of mistaken effort, lusic
in itsemusic and its world, where
only its priests serve at its high altar--
was the mirage that had led him on.
As a boy in a lew England village, he
fed his passion on such poor food as it
could find--some stray books of sa-
cred music, the family melodeon, and a
broken fiddle. A few years later, when
he had pushed his way to Boston, and
worked in a warehouse on one of the
wharves, the longing for a musical ed-
ucation consumed him. His position
was a kind of slavery. He had chanced
upon a battered copy of Consuelo ; the

title-page was torn off, and in the most
thrilling passages whole pages were
gone. In his ignorance it read to him
like inspired history. The story of
Haydn seemed a divine message. Like
him, he would go to Italy, and seek a
Porpora, and brush his boots and mend
his clothes for the privilege of sitting at
his feet and learning of him. In a fit of
desperation he made his way, as a stow-
away on an outgoing steamer, through
unheard-of miseries, as far as England ;
but he never reached the promised land:
One bright spot shone in the dark pict-
ure of his struggle for life in England.
He found, at length, not a Porpora,
but the kindly organist of a church in
Liverpool. lrom him he gained what
knowledge of music he possessed. When
the organist left his post in Liverpool
for another city, he gave Pinsing two
things which fixed his destiny with a
fatal certaintyDhis violin and an origi-
nal autograph of Beethoven. The first
reigned in his heart--his goddess, his
love ; the second was the embodiment of
his deity. He looked at it, and ap-
proached it, with awe.
After our acquaintance had pro-
gressed for some time, he invited me
to his dingy room, and showed me his
treasure. He had bought a good pho-
tograph of Beethoven, and pasted be-
neath it the precious autograph. The
whole was framed carefully, and covered
with glass. He dilated with an almost
crazy enthusiasm when he spoke of the
autograph.
"The first time I touched that writ-
ing with my hand," he said, " I felt
as though the master's hand clasped
mine. I felt then as though I could in-
terpret him rightly. I live for thismto
stand between him and the world, that
it may know him through me."
His hope and enthusiasm were so un-
dying that he did not realize that life
had slipped noiselessly by and found
him, nearing sixty, no nearer the fulfil-
ment of his hopes than he had been as
a boy.
Below these heights on which he
dreamed he played an unconscious part
in a little comedy, which went on as ff for
my benefit. Mrs. Ellis, our landlady, was
a simple soul without coquetry, despite
her good looks and widowhood of five

1'22 A VIOLIN OBLIGATO.

years' standing. Between her and Pierre
of the Palace existed a friendl inter-
course, the tokens of which I used to
watch from my win.dow. Pierre supplied
her with hot chops and beefsteak, and
found it equally convenient when he
was short of pastry to run over to the
bakery, where Mrs. Ellis smilingly fur-
nished him with all that he needed.
Pierre's attitude toward her was one of
evident courtship, which she received
with what was either unconsciousness
or indifference. My sense of the fitness
of things made me feel that they should
be united. As I sat in my room paint-
ing, I used to hear their conversation
across the counter. Pierre, in his white
apron, would cross the street, and his
sonorous, even tones and Mrs. Ellis's
hearty laugh floated up to me. With
Pierre she was at ease, but Pinsing im-
pressed her profoundly. She regarded
his spare form, his iron-gray hair, and
air of abstraction with evident admira-
tion. Even what Pierre spoke of pity-
ingly as his "thread-naked coat" failed
to detract from the respect she paid
him. She sometimes appeared in the
hall when he was playing, and leaned
against the open door of his roommone
plump hand resting on her hip, her
handsome head bent forward in genuine
attention. When he perceived her, Pin-
sing would rise and offer her a chair with
punctilious civility, and then go on play-
ing, forgetting her presence in five
minutes.
When we repaired to the restaurant,
Pierre showed his jealousy at this pref-
erence in an openly childlike manner.
Vhen Pinsing gave an order he affected
not to hear. If it were repeated, he
moved away with an absurd flounce and
pout, and called to his colleague, an oily,
active little Frenchman :
"Jules, servez monsieur/"
The scornful emphasis on these words
contained all the contempt which he felt.
Sometimes the climax was capped by the
gratuitous appearance of Mrs. Ellis's
handmaid, a white, dejected little girl
of twelve, with what she calleda "grape-
jell ptty" for Mr. Pinsing's dessert.
On such occasions Pierre usually doffed
his apron and left the restaurant, not to
return until our short meal was over.
All this went on under Pinsing's feet, as

it were; his head 'was in the clouds;
and he took no 'cognizance of what hap-
pened upon earth. On mild afternoons
we went to the square, and sitting there,
talked idly beneath the fight shadows of
the early foliage. It was on such occa-
sions that Pinsing became eloquent.
"I am a fatalist," he used to say;
"my life has proved to me that all is
decided by fate. It was my fate to be
a musician; everything was against it.
By myself I could and can do nothing.
Again and again my destiny has been
decided without my volition. When I
was despairing in Liverpool, there came
a musician who helped me in a way be-
yond all that I had dreamed. When he
left me he gave me my violin and my
sacred relic. Then, when I most needed
it the spirit of the master musician filled
me. I have lived for music. For that
I have given up everything--the love
of woman, the love of home. When
my musical destiny is accomplished, as
I feel it will be soon, all that will come.
In time it will come."
I looked at his haggard face and gray
hair. "In time !" I thought. "Make
haste, Pinsing !"
He heartily despised the flimsy
waltzes and comic songs that he was
obliged to play every evening, and con-
fessed that he became so weary of them
as to fall asleep in his chair in the or-
chestra. One evening I went with him
to the theatre where he was employed.
It was a shabby place, and I stood in
the dusky flies and watched the prepa-
rations for the performance.
Before Pinsing took his place in the
orchestra the manager spoke to him
shalply : "Look here now, Pinsing!" he
said. "Don't let your wits go wool-
gathering, as they did last night, or
you'll go out of this double-quick."
The awkward eagerness with which
Pinsing promised attention had some-
thing pathetic in it.
When the play began, at Pinsing's
suggestion, I took a seat in the gallery
and watched the performance of a roar-
ing farce.
Between the acts I watched Pinsing
He sat in the orchestra with an abstract-
ed expression, playing mechanically.
During the last act, what with heat and
the noisy dulness of the farce I lost my

12,1 A VIOLIN OBLIGATO.

cited interest. Pierre was evidently too
happy to be with her, on any terms, for
any other feeling but pleasure.
I glanced at the programme, and saw
that beneath Pinsing's name were the
words : "His first appearance." This
announcement struck me as being sin-
gularly inappropriate, and even satirical.
The hall was gorgeously frescoed and
brilliantly lighted. The audience was
what might have been expected---small
tradespeople, and a mixture of a rougher
element. A flashily dressed youth who
sat near to me remarked audibly to a
friend, "All our set are here to-night."
"Our set" was in an appreciative
mood, and received each performance
with much good-humored applause. Af-
ter the orchestra had played a stirring
march, and a pretty young girl had sung
a popular ballad, a snub-nosed little man
made his appearance, carrying a guitar
and a chair. His face looked as if it
had been modelled by a child in put-
ty, and then flattened against a wall.
There was a deep, knowing twinkle
in his eyes. He seated himself on a
chair and made a feint of playing on
his guitar, giving the while a rambling,
comic speech, full of local hits and
broad humor. Every sally was received
with more uncontrollable laughter, and
when he picked up his chair and left
the stage he was recalled with energetic
applause. He came back with an oblig-
ing smile and seated himself again.
Then, as if he had forgotten something,
he rose hastily.
"Just excuse me for a moment, will
you ?" he said, colloquially. He left the
stage, and the audience waited breath-
lessly for several minutes. Then, as he
did not return, the joke dawned on
them with a crushing completeness. It
was in the midst of the peals of laughter
that followed this stroke of comedy that
Pinsing made his appearance.
His shabby, antiquated figure and
wistful, moon-struck eyes were strange-
ly out of keeping with the tone of the
place and the mood of the audience.
The laughter gradually died away, now
and then bm'sting forth in little jets of
remembered amusement. As he began
to play they eyed him with unrepressed
disapproval. I thought that I had re-
alized the thinness and poverty of his

playing, but it never struck me as keen-
ly as in that large, echoing space. By a
fatal predilection he had selected the
Beethoven concerto. At its best ren-
dering it would have been far above the
heads of his listeners. As he played it,
it lost almost all of its own beauty. He
was wretchedly accompanied by a small
orchestra, and the length of the piece
seemed interminable. The audience be-
came restless, but Pinsing was uncon-
scious of everything but his music. He
was filled with the dignity and beauty
of the music itself. It was plain that
the possibility that his listeners were
not in sympathy with him had not en-
tered his consciousness.
At length he came to the end, and
stood motionless in a sort of dream. I
began to applaud; but I was the only
person who did so, and several loud
hisses warned me to be silent. A mem-
ber of the orchestra, in passing him,
touched him on the shoulder to remind
him that it was time to go. He started,
and after a puzzled stare bowed and
hurried off the stage. It is a sligh
hing to say that he bowed, but a diffi-
cult thing to describe. He held his vio-
lin and bow above his head as far as
he could reach and bent almost double,
with an extraordinary scrape of his foot.
The audience was ready either to hiss or
to laugh, and his bow turned the scale.
They laughed and applauded vocifer-
ously, fmally stamping on the floor in
a kind of rhythm. Pinsing reappeared
with a glowing, transfigtu-ed face. The
applause, of which he missed the ridi-
cule, intoxicated him like fine wine.
Beneath his excitement I saw that he
was unneved by the strain of his emo-
tion. He raised his violin and began
to play. I_nstantly a chorus of shouts
and hisses arose.
"Don't give us any more of that
scraping !"
"Put up your fiddle! Let's have that
bow again!"
The rough element in the audience,
roused by the comic speech before Pin-
sing's performance, now broke forth.
Pinsing stopped playing and stood in
dazed bewilderment. The shouts were
redoubled, and as their full meaning
broke on him, he lingered a moment in
a sorrow-stricken stupor. Then, turn-

VIOLIN OBLIGA TO. 125

ing suddenly, he left the stage with a
stumbling, wavering step. At the thresh-
old of the stage-door he fell, dropping
his violin. Someone within helped him
to his feet and picked up the violin, and
the door was shut.
I left my seat, and, in spite of the prot-
estations of one of the ushers, made my
way through one of the side passages to
the green-room. Quick as I was, some-
one else had been quicker. Pinsing sat
in a chair, his gray head dropped in his
hands, a picture of broken, helpless
misery. Irs. Ellis stood by him, her
hand on his shoulder, and tears of the
tenderest sympathy in her eyes. Pierre
was in the doorway, in his face a mixt-
ure of jealousy and pity. Pinsing raised
his head and spoke convulsively, as if in
answer to Mrs. Ellis.
"Go home !" he exclaimed. "I can't.
I haven't any home ! I have owed you
for my lodging for months. I haven't
a cent in the world. I thought I could
pay you after this; but do you think
they would take me here now ?"
He stopped, and sank back in his
former despairing attitude.
"You're welcome to a place in my
house as long as you want to stay," said
Mrs. Ellis.
Her deep blush and the tremor in her
voice made her meaning, however un-
conscious, unmistakable. Here was hap-
piness-prosaic, it is true, but none the
less actual knocking at Pinsing's door.
I think a glimmer of it dawned on him.
He staggered to his feet.
"You are a good, kind woman," he
said, brokenly, "but how can I accept
so much from you ?"
"All in time," I broke in, with a sud-
den inspiration. "Mrs. Ellis is right;
you ought to go home now."
His violin lay on the floor beside him.
I handed it to him, and as he took it I
saw that the violence of his fall had
broken both the strings and the sound-
ing-board. He examined it in silence.
"It's too bad it's broke," murmured
lIrs. Ellis.
"It makes no difference," he answered,
with dead quietness. "I shall never play
again."
The manager came up with some
grudging apologies for the disturbance
in the house ; said he guessed such high

art wasn't exactly in their line. "About
that engagement," he added, in an un-
dertone to Pinsing. "To tell the truth,
your style of playing don't exactly suit
here. We won't do anything more about
the matter now."
Our way home led through Washing-
ton Square, and although I had helped
Pinsing, his weakness began to seem
alalning. He made no answer to my
remarks, but seemed to be lost in a pro-
found reverie. We left the street and
came into the strange, shadowy region
of the square, where the electric lights
and the moonlight blended in a white,
unearthly radiance and cast exquisite
traceries of leaf and branch on the pave-
ment. Pinsing suddenly swerved aside,
and sank on one of the benches.
"Let me rest here for a moment," he
said, tremulously. "I can't go any far-
ther now."
I could not persuade him to go on;
Mrs. Ellis and Pierre were walking slow-
ly before us, but as we stopped they
turned back.
"Come home soon, Mr. Pinsing," said
lIrs. Ellis, "and we'll have some supper
together."
The moonlight gave her blooming
beauty a certain grace and refinement.
Pinsing thanked her with something of
his old manner; after they left us he
was silent again, and this silence became
so oppressive that I broke it in self-de-
fence.
"Come, Pinsing," I ventured to say,
"don't make it worse than it is. You
began in the wrong place. The best
musicians have had poor receptions.
Wagner's operas were hissed off the stage
in Paris."
He looked at me for a moment in si-
lence. It seemed to me that the un-
worldly, visionary enthusiasm of his ex-
pression was gone, and that a hard,
desperate common-sense had taken its
place.
"Don't try and blind me any more,"
he said, coldly. "My eyes are open. It
is not long since I left that pl,ce, but I
have thought--I have thought. I see my-
self as Iron." He emphasized these words
in a way that made me uncomfortable.
"I am a fool, and an old one, too. I have
no life to live over again. I have had
my life, and wasted it. I have dreamed,

128 A VIOLIN OBLIGA TO.

"Yes, Mr. Lepont," I heard Mrs.
Ellis say. "But poor Pinsing. "
"4h ! c'est vrai," said Pierre. "Poor
Pinsing ! But enfin, madame, he is dead,
dead, and I am alive."
He spoke not cynically, but with
hearty practicality. Mrs. Ellis made no
reply, and I passed through the shop,
leaving her standing meditatively in the
doorway.
Not long after this the wheel of fort-
une turned again, and took me away
from the region where Pinsing had lived
and died. I was not sorry to leave be-
fore the consummation of Pierre's ardent
courtship, which was continued in spite
of the widow's unwillingness.
Before I went away Pierre told me,

with a beaming face, that he was to
marry Mrs. Ellis. I conTatulated him,
and then, almost mechanically, echoed
the words I had heard the widow speak :
"Poor Pinsing !"
"Yes; but he had his chances," said
Pierre.
"How hard he worked, poor fellow !"
I continued.
"He could not play," replied Pierre.
"He should have found it out, and
worked at something he could do. When
I was young I wished to be a great actor ;
but, my faith! I soon found I could not
act, and so---I kept a restaurant. At
present," he ended, complacently, "]
have enough. In this world it is a mis.
take to be too ideal!"

132 THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C7.SAR.

busts than I have been able to obtain, head is well covered with hair, and the
I hope, indeed, someone will take the whole appearance is that of a man not
subject up seriously, ,and pursue it thor- over thirty-five years of age.
oughly and systematically. Such a work Perhaps the next likeness in order of

might well be done at the expense of
one or more of our great art galleries--
the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, or
the Metropolitan Museum in New York,
for instance--and Harvard and Yale
might, with great propriety and advan-
tage, lend their assistance to the search.
We may, I think, consider the toga
statue* of Cesar in the Museum at
Berlin (No. 295, Roman Room) as the
earliest of all his likenesses. It is a
beautiful statue, and has always been
much admired (Plate I.). The head en-
larged is also given in Plate H. Cesar
is represented in the attitude of an ora-
tor, with the right arm extended. The
* It is said by Libke, Oeschichte der Plastik, p. 7, that
the head does not belong to the body. In one of thc de-
scriptions of the antique statues in the Berlin Museum it is
said that the body was found, in 1824. near Rome, and that
the head is from the Polignac Collcction. Burckhardt,
Cicerone, p. 520, speaks highly of the head.

time is the bust numbered
107 in the Museo Chiara-
monti, in the Vatican
seum, at Rome * (Plate ]:[I.).
This is well worth a careful
examination--the features
are perfect ; the workman-
s.hip excellent ; the expres-
sion, so calm, penetrating,
serious, and determined,
is characteristic of all the
best likenesses of Cesar.
This bust is also note-
worthy for showing very
clearly a mark by which one
can generally recognize the
authentic busts of Cmsar,
namely, a scar, or furrov,
on the left side of the face,
caused, perhaps, by some
wound, or by some fistul
which had healed, or by tho
removal of one or more
teeth. In this bust this pe-
culiar feature is given with
great exactness. In some
busts it is passed over very
lightly; but it is, I think,
always indicated. In the
toga statue of Berlin, which
we first mentioned, it is
clearly shown.
If I am right in my con-
jectures, Cesar's face now filled out some-
what, and our next pictures (Plates IV.
and V.) are of a man in the neighbor-
hood of forty. These are from the fa-
mous Farnesiano bust in the Museum
at Naples (No. 162), a colossal marble
bust, absolutely perfect, of the gran-.
deur of which no picture can give one-
any idea. I take this to be Cesar be-
fore he went to Gaul, before he was sub-
jected to the wearing fatigues and ex-
posures of those active campaigns in
which the Swiss, the German, and the
Gaul went down before his untiring
audacity and energy; when he was still
a man of society, of pleasure, of politi-
cal affairs, and a civilian. The likeness.
is, I should say, somewhat flattered;

* A copy of this may be seen in the Palazzo Borghese,.
Settima Stanza.

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS C./ESAR. 137

scar or furrow on the left cheek---every-
thing is the same, save as the features
are naturally affected by the stress
and toil and responsibilities and natu-
ral infirmities of twenty or twenty-five
years.
We have now seen, in their turn,
nearly all the authentic likenesses of
Julius Cmsar, and we can, I think, trace
the resemblances in each to tle others
from the first to the last. I have not a
particle of doubt that all these are por-
traits of Ceesar made in his lifetime;
they all have the same char-
acteristics, and in no one of
them, save the colossal bust at
Naples, is there any attempt
at flattery. We can, therefore,
as it seems to me, get a very
correct idea of Ceesar's ap-
pearance.
There are other likenesses of
Cmsar, however, wlfich claim
our attention. The first among
these is the bronze bust in
the Villa Ludovisi (No. 27), at
Rome, of which we give a pict-
ure here (Plate X]Z[.). Many
rank this as among the best
(so Murray's Guide-Book, p.
343 ; Braun, Ruins and Monu-
ments of Rome, p. 355). Am-
pere, however (Histoire, etc.,
p. 469), makes this, to my
thinking, more pertinent crit- .
icism: "Le buste de la Villa
Ludovisi passe pour le plus
ressemblant ; il a un carac-
tbre trs-individuel, mais qui
manque enti5rement de gran-
deur, et l'air assez piteux et
grognon. I1 est impossible
que CSsar air eu cet air-l'5."
This bust differs so much from
the others, it lacks so utterly eate
the alert, energetic, vigorous
attitude and expression that are so plain
on each and all of them, that I cannot
but regard it as the work of some artist
who never saw Cmsar at all, but who
depicted hbn as he imagined he must
have looked when carrying the respon-
sibilities of the world on his shoulders.
It resembles in this respect Paul Dela-
roche's famous picture of Napoleon at
Fontainebleau, now in the Metropolitan
Iuseum in the Central Park in New

York--a striking picture, but a much-
idealized portrait.
To the same category belongs the
bronze bust in the Uffizi GallmT, at Flor-
ence, which resembles greatly the Ludo-
visi bust. Burckhardt actually doubts
its genuineness ; but it is certainly very
like the Ludovisi bust, and there can be
little doubt that it was intended as a por-
trait of Cmsar. As a likeness it is prob-
ably without value.
'here is also a draped marble bust in
the Palazzo Casale, at Rome, muchresem-

 - :i-:-- ::.::: :---
.. - :-: ..... :z:_ ;i - _
_
_
7- _ -__.. - .
-_ _ --- -
.
Vlll.The Green Basalt Bust in the Museum at Berlin.

bling this. Shakspere Wood, in his
Catalogue of the Capitol Museum (p. 96),
speaks of this.
I have mentioned the smaller of the
two casts in the Boston Athenmum. The
original of this is the marble bust of
Cmsar in the Hall of the Emperors in the
Capitol hIuseum, at Rome (Plate X1-V.).
It is certainly not much like the portraits
we have been looking at. Its genuine-
ness is denied by Aml)bre, and, I think,

THE LIKENESSES OF JULIUS CESAR.

to the heroes of the Iliad and the kings
of Rome, and in fact to the Venus-Aph-
rodite common to both nations--he
spent the years of his boyhood and
early manhood as the genteel youth of
that epoch were wont to spend them.
He had tasted the sweetness as well as
the bitterness of the cup of fashionable
life, had recited and declaimed, had
practised literature and made verses in
his idle hours, had prosecuted love-in-
trigues of every sort, and got himself
initiated into all the mysteries of shav-
ing, cm'ls, and ruffles pertaining to the
toilette-wisdom of the day, as well as
into the far more mysterious art
of always borrowing and never
paying. But the flexible steel of
that nature was proof against
even these dissipated and flighty
courses ; Cmsar retained both his
bodily vigor and his elasticity of
mind and heart unimpaired. In
fencing and in riding he was a
match for any of his soldiers,
and at Alexandlia his swimming
saved his life. The incredible
rapidity of his journeys, which
usually, for the sake of gaining
time, were performed by night
a thorough contrast to the pro-
cession-like slowness with which
lompeius moved from one place
to anothermwas the astonish-
merit of his contemporaries, and
not the least among the causes
of his success. The mind was
like the body. His remarkable
power of intuition revealed itself
in the precision and practicabil-
ity of all his arrangements, even
where he gave orders without
hving seen with his own eyes. I-Iis
memory was matchless, and it was easy
for him to carry on several occupa-
tions s.imultaneously with equal self-
possession. Although a gentleman, a
man of genius, and a monarch, he had
still a heart. So long as he lived he
cherished the ptu'est veneration for his
worthy mother, Am-elia (his father hav-
ing died early) ; to his wives, and above
all to his daughter Julia, he devoted an
honorable affection which was not with-
out reflex influence even on political
affairs. With the ablest and most excel-
lent men of his time, of high and humble

rank, he maintained noble relations of
mutual fidelity with each after his kind.
As he himself never abandoned any of
his partisans after the pusillanimous
and unfeeling manner of lompeius, but
adhered to his fiends---and that not
merely from calculationmthrough good
and bad times without wavering, several
of these, such as Aulus Hirtius and
Gaius Marius, gave, even after his death,
noble testimonies of their attachment to
him.
"If in a nature so harmoniously organ-
ized there is any one trait to be singled
out as characteristic, it is this--that he

_-
Plate XIV.Bust in the Hall of the Emperors, Capitol Museum at
Rome.
stood aloof from all ideology and every-
tlfing fanciful. As a matter of course,
Cmsar was a man of passion, for with-
out passion there is no genius; but his
passion was never stronger than he could
control. He had h,d his season of
youth; and song, love, and wine hd
taken joyous possession of his mind,
but with him they did not penetrate to
the inmost core of his nature. Litera-
ture occupied him long and earnestly;
but while Alexander could not sleep
for thinking of the I-Iomeric Achilles,
Cmsar in his sleepless hours mused on
the inflections of the Latin nouns and

THE RESIDUAR Y LEGATEE. 145

the scarlet fever, over at Roxbury, and
nobody to provide for 'em, for John
Tarbox--says I to Cynthia when he
come up to Augusta from the Provinces
(I come from Augusta, Maine, Mr. May),
he ain't but a shiftless fellow, you mark
my words, says I ; and says she, you let
me alone, Miranda, and I'll do as much
by you, s' she; an' so it turned out,
an' many's the time I've said to Mr.
Eastman, Mr. Eastman, I must go an'
see Cynthia s's I, for there she is on
her back, with her hands full of chil-
dren, an' no one to do for 'em but just
John Tarbox; an' s's he, Miranda, it
would be tempting Providence for you
to go with your rheumatism, an' s's I,
I can't help that, Mr. Eastman (he's a
member o' the church, Mr. Eastman),
I guess Providence ain't got no more to
say about it than my horse-chestnuts in
my dress pocket, an' I always wear
flannel next my skin ; an' s's I, I'd go,
come what may, but for Mr. May's sil-
ver, s's I (I keep it under my bed, Mr.
May, and have slept upon it every mor-
tal night since I took this house), an' I
know I saw a moth in the best parlor
lust week, an' the furniture not beaten
since April ; an' so six weeks gone since
I saw my sister; an' since there's a
foreigner in the kitchen, s'I to Mr.
Eastman, Mr. Eastman. "
"My dear Mrs. Eastman," interposed
May, gently, "I had no idea you thought
it necessary to stick so close to the
house. Now I beg that you will go at
once. My servant will get all I want
for dinner. You and Mr. Eastman
must both go, and don't think of com-
ing back before to-morrow--haven't you
any other visits to pay ?"
Mrs. Eastman, who had started at the
"my dear Mrs. Eastman" as if May had
offered to kiss her, admitted, ungra-
ciously, that her husband's sister lived
in Jamaica Plain. But the foreign
valet was, evidently, still in her mind;
and, after sundry prognostications
as to the domestic evils to result from
"that man's " presence in the kitchen,
she finally removed herself, with some
precipitation, only when May began to
take off his coat. Left to himself, May
resumed his coat, drew a chair to the
window, sighed, and lit a cigarette.
Mrs. Eastma's disappearance was fO1-
VOL. I.--10

lowed by a distant shriek ; and shortly
afterward there was a slight scratching
at the door. May opened it, and the
St. Bernard dog walked gravely in and
stretched himself by the chair; a cer-
tain humorous expression about his
square jowl indicating that he had
been the cause of the shriek in ques-
tion. It was a bad quarter of an hour
for Mrs. Eastman's nerves. Fides was
the dog's name, and his master patted
his head approvingly.
May sat down again, and his eye roamed
over the stretch of green tin'f, a view
broken above by the huge arms of but-
tonwood, and canopies of English elm.
Shortly afterward he saw the valet
emerge from a side entrance, and step
hastily across the lawn into the shade of
a great hemlock, where he stood, ges-
ticulating xvildly. _& minute or two
later Mrs. Eastman, in an India shawl
and purple bonnet, appeared in prog-
ress down the carriage-road, limply ac-
companied by her lord and master.
Vhen she disappeared, with her hus-
band and a red and roomy carpet-bag,
behind the avenue of elms, the sinuous
oriental emerged from the hemlock, and
shook his fist. May lit a large cigar,
the valet returned to the house, and no
sound was audible but the chirping of
the birds, the rustle of leaves, and the
dignified and heavy breathing of the
hound of St. Bernard.

PAVILION BY THE LILIES.

As MAY was knocking off the last
white ash from his cabaiia, his servant
knocked softly, entered and bowed.
Rising, May, followed by the St. Ber-
nard, descended and entered the din-
ing-room. Upon the walls were six
pictures, four of which were portraits
of persons, and two of indigestible
fruit. The portraitswere all Copleys
and comprised, first, a gentleman in a
red coat and a bag-wig ; second, a young
lady with a sallow complexion and a
lilac satin dress cut so low that only
a profusion of lace concealed her de-
ficiencies of figure; third, an elderly
scholar with long transparent fingers.
and sinister expression; fourth, a nice
old lady with a benignant grin. Upon

THE RESIDUAR Y LEGATEE. 147

comfortable rustic seat and a soft and
grassy surface. May pressed a small
knob in the wall near the window, and
coming back from it, took a heavy book
from one of the dwarf bookcases that
lined the large room. The book was a
qualto edition of Burton's "Anatomy of
Melancholy ;" and immediately after-
ward the adjoining section of bookcase
swung slowly forward from the wall,
revealing a descending passage-way.
Through this May disappeared, and the
bookcase swung itself back into place.
Some minutes later, Schmidt entered,
after several knocks, with a large ja-
panned tray. Upon this tray was a
small paper of bromide of potassium,
two boxes of cigars, strong and mild, a
carafe of cognac, seltzer, a large opera-
glass, a powerful dark lantern, and a
six-barrelled silver-mounted revolver.
Fides lay on a mat on the floor ; but his
master was nowhere visible in the room.
Schmidt set the tray upon the table and
looked about him. Being alone, it must
be confessed that his cosmopolitan face
showed traces of stu'prise.
The whole interior of the pavilion ob-
viously contained but one room ; and in
that room Austin May was nowhere to
be seen. In the centre was a huge long
centre-table of carven oak; it was cover-
ed with dust, and upon it was but one
large book -- Burton's "Anatomy of
Melancholy." All the four walls were
lined with filled bookcases, and, above
them were serried ranks of engravings,
etchings, drawings, but nothing that
was not in black and white. Most of
these had woman for a subject, but wo-
man always either in her least agreeable
or most unspiritual aspect--Katherines
and Petruchios, Madame de Staels, Har-
riet ]Iartineaus, Manon Lescauts, Cres-
sidas and Marneffes ; Messalinas, He-
cubas, Danafis, Judiths, daughters of
Herodias; and of such as were not his-
torical characters, there was but one
common characteristic, namely, that all
were shamelessly naked of body and un-
spiritual of face. The sole exception to
this lle stood at the farther end of the
room from Schmidt; it was a full-sized
and marvellously perfect reproduction
of the Yenus of Milo; having the cyni-
cal inscription upon its pedestal, "A
woman without rights !"

Schmidt gave a long low whistle, as
he went about the room to examine
these engravings; then he returned to
the centre-table, wholly at a loss. May
surely had not left the pavilion; but
where was he? He looked out of the
windows, and saw only the pine-grove,
the house, the lawn, and the lake. In the
centre of the lake was a large fountain,
plashing merrily, and shaped like the
coronal of some huge lily. As he was
watching this, the fountain suddenly
stopped; the water-petals wavered and
fell, revealing a small grass island that
had been screened by the circlet of play-
ing water. A moment after, he started
at his master's voice; May was immedi-
ately behind him, calmly putting a book
back in the bookcase. It was the Bur-
fort's "Anatomy."
"You may go now, Schmidt; I shall
not want you until to-morrow. You will
stay in the under part of the house; and
not go out under any ch-cumstances, un-
less you hear a pistol-shot. If I want
you to do anything, I will send Fides
with a note."
Schmidt bowed his comprehension
and was about to withdraw.
"Stop," said May, "there is one thing
more. You must go to Brookline
lage and hire a fast horse and a buggy,
without a diver ; put the horse in the
stable, but don't unharness him, and
shut the door. You may go." Schmidt
went.
Left once more to himself, May ex-
amined the stores that had been left by
his familiar upon the oaken table. The
inspection seemed to be satisfactory.
He then consulted his watch, and found
with a start of stu'plse that it was al-
ready after=noon. The watch was an
elaborate repeater, giving the hour,
minute, and second, the signs of the
zodiac, the year of otu" Lord, and the
day of the month. This latter was
August 14th, as has been said; the
time, after twelve.
May's behavior upon this discovery
was precipitate and peculiar. First, he
arranged with great care the calcium
light apparatus so that it commanded
the front stoop of the house; then he
carefully closed all the shutters of the
pavilion save the one toward the house.
By this window he sat, peeing through

18 THE RESID U4 R Y LEG 4 TEE.

the slats of the blind The sun, ettin
into the west, shone full upon the stone
front porch; and May kept still there
watching it, in the silence of the mid-
summer afternoon.

I].mTHE I)RUOS OF APmY.

THUS fortified in a material way
against the approach of any enemy,
and exalted in spirit above the slings
and arrows of outrageous fortune, the
minutes seemed hours and space and
time but mediums of his own control.
When his first pipe was finished he
threw it aside and walked openly out
upon the lawn. The very bb-ds were
sleepy, and the park lay spellbound in
the shimmer of its own wan light. Aus-
tin took his way along the margin of the
pool; it was studded with white still
lilies that lay dreamily upon the green
water ; great gaudy dragon-flies hung
motionless upon the lily-petals, like silk-
robed ladies in some spotless marble
hall.
Vhat was it that gave such interest
to the little familiar pool to him, who
had smoked his cigar by the lotos-pools
of Yeddo's moats, or dreamed these
same summer hours away by the foun-
tain of the Court of Lions in far
Granada ? Well enough knew Mr.
Austin May what memory it was that
hung about the place; and he smiled
his mature and mocking smile as he re-
membered his boyish love. Many times
had they two wandered there, May
Austin and himself, wandering together
through crusty Uncle Austin's strange
demesne ; his uncle and her aunt's hus-
band. Old John Austin had married
for love a poor and beautiful cousin
whose mother had engineered the mar-
riage against the girl's will; and they
had hated one. another cordially. Too
proud to be divorced, John Austin had
built himself this strange pavilion where
his wife had promised she would never
go ; they met in company, and with the
greatest courtesy, and gave their grand
due dinners of sixteen, each at one end
of the long table with a splendid high
pergne between. Mrs. Austin had
taken May Austin into her lonely bosom,
and Uncle John had had Austin May

hoe from college, where his bounty
kept him, and iven him his taste for
claret and tried to give his knowledge of
the world. And they used to sit there,
he and his uncle, in this same pavilion,
smoking, close hedged in from woman-
kind. And when the old man had fallen
asleep, Austin would creep out into the
park, and walk there with his lovely
cousin May. And on one summer day,
for all the world like this, he won her
heart, this gay young Harvard senior,
all among the rushes by the lily pool.
And Austin had gone back into the
pavilion, quaking, to tell his uncle, and
found the latter very dionified and
dead, a bottle of the famous Eclipse
Tafite close by his elbow. As with the
old French poet
" Hear ye, who are soon to die m
What Villon did before he started--
He drank one glass of Burgundy ;
This he did ; and then, departed."
the claret had not been wasted; its
very last glass had been savored by its
master before his spirit took flight.
Austin May was overcome with horrm:
He ran and gave the alaTa at the house,
and then sought his cousin May, whom he
found, standing lovely, in the twilight
by the lilies. He kissed her, prelimina-
lly, and put his strong arm about her
slender waist; then he broke the news
to her, and then he kissed her again, by
way of peroration.
Now May Austin was shocked; but
not so much so as if she had seen her
uncle since her aunt's death, which had
happened some three years before. He
had sufferedeven commandedmthat
she should go on living at the house;
but since then, there being no conve-
nance requiring his attendance at the
family table, he had lived, eaten, and
drunk, entirely in the pavilion. Miss
Austin had had a fancy that she had seen
him groping about in the s]n-ubbery from
time to time, and spying at her through
the leaves ; but upon the only occasion
when she had gone to see himit 'as
to thank him for some birthday present,
distantly conveyed---he had most mys-
teriously disappeared. But, as if he
appreciated her visit and were doing her
all the honor possible, the fountain play-
ed its highest--an almost unheard-of
thing since Mrs. Austin's death.

THE RESIDUAR Y LEGATEE. 140

But the next memory was clearer yet
to Austin May ; and even now a twinge
of sadness, as he recalled it, spoiled one
puff or so of his fragrant cabaSa. For
it was by this same lily pool, a few days
later. Uncle Austin's remains had been
duly disposed of, according to the terms
of the will, and he and pretty May had
met for the last time ; the last time for
a few years, he had said ; the last time
forever, as she had feared. Austin, in-
deed, had rebelled at this, and spoken
boldly of renouncing everything; but
she had persevered, and made him see
that it was best, at least for a trial term
of years, for him to comply with his
uncle's last behest. And so he was go-
ing abroad ; and she walked with him,
by the lily-pool, through the lawn,
through the hedge to the little seat be-
neath the linden that had been her fa-
vorite ; and there they had said good-
by., with kisses and tears ; and the same
glare station-master, messenger of fate!
had car4ed him off in his carryall. Ap-
propriately named! The kisses had
been very sweet, but the tears had been
superfluous.
lIay smiled as he thought of this, and,
lighting another cigar, went back to the
pavilion. There he threw back a drawer
in the carven oak table and drew out
the queer old will. It as nothing but
a.copy, bearing the lu-mbrious skull and
cinerary urn which form the seal of the
Suffolk County probate cotu't ; but it
was ah-eady yellow with time, and as
May tuled amusedly over the old leaves
the dust dropped from them upon his
spotless Poole-built trousers. Ah, a
good judge of claret was old Uncle Aus-
tin ; a good judge of claret and of other
things. May opened another bottle of
the famous Eclipse (it was only the sec-
ond pint that day and there is a certain
worldly wisdom about claret very in-
spiring to those who meditate a practi-
cal course of action), and began to read.
"In the name of God, Amen. I,
John Austin, gentleman, being of sound
mind and disposing memory, and a
widower, for which I am reverently
thankful" (it has been mentioned that
Mrs. Austin died some years before)
"do make and declare this my last will
and testament.
"My body I consign to ashes, and di-

rect that it be duly cremated under su-
pervision of my executors;my soul I
recommend to Him who made it, pro-
vided that He have not already taken
the soul of Georgiana Austin Austin, my
late wife, under his same supervision, in
which case I reverently pray that it be
left to my own disposition.
"I bequeath to my executors the sum
of Five Thousand dollars, and direct
that it be expended in the erection of
a large white marble monument to my
late wife, aforesaid, said monument to
be designed after the florid manner of
the later Gothic and to be placed upon
my family lot at Mount Auburn, and to
bear, besides the name of my late wife
aforesaid, but one inscription, viz. :A
PRrcT WomAn.
"'I direct my executors to pay the
sum of five hundred dollars annually to
the niece of my late wife aforesaid, May
Austin, until she be married ; and upon
her marriage I direct that said sum be
annually paid to her husband, for his
sole use and consolation.
"I devise and bequeath my bin of
Lafite claret, so-called Eclipse, to my
nephew, Austin May, together with all
my other estate, real and personal,
stocks, bonds, moneys, goods, and chat-
tels, wherever the same be found, but
subject only to the following condition,
namely: I direct my executors to man-
age and invest all such moneys and es-
tate, save the use of my estate in Brook-
line, Massachusetts, which I give to my
said nephew directly ; and all the income,
rents, and profits of such estate to pay
over to my said nephew annually upon his
sole receipt ; provided, that if he marry
at any time within eleven years after
my death, or before he shall reach the
age of thirty-five, whichever shall first
occur, then and in that case I revoke all
the devises and bequests to my said
nephew aforesaid ; but direct my exec-
utors to deliver such of my Eclipse
claret as then remains, to the most
prominent Total Abstinence Associa-
tion which shall then exist in the town
of Boston ; and all the rest and residue
of my estate I devise and bequeath ab-
solutely and in fee to my residuary leg-
atee. And I have written the name of
said--"
At this point in his reading, May

150 THE RESIDUAR Y LEGA TEE.

heard a woman's laugh. It seethed to
come from the shrubbery close by. In
order to get more light for the will, he
had opened the middle slats of the blind
toward the trees ; so that it almost seemed
possible for a tall girl, standing close to
the pavilion, to look directly in. With
inconceivable agility, May dropped to
the floor, beneath the window-sill, and
ran rapidly around the large room on
his hands and knees, close to the wall.
When beneath the table where he had
left his opera-glass, he took it up, and
adjusting it hastily, stood upon his
knees, high enough to look through the
open shutter in the window toward the
house. Sure enough, he had hardly got
the proper focus, when a young girl
emerged from the shrubbery and walked
down the road. But she was very young,
only eighteen or so, and though ad-
mirably pretty, May was confident that
he had never seen her before. I-Ie
watched her until she had disappeared
in the distance; and then, rising to his
feet, retrained to the reading of the will.
But first he altered the angle of the
slats of the blind, so that it would be
impossible for anyone standing outside
to look into the room.
"_&nd I have written the name of the
said residuary legatee in a sealed enve-
lope, which I hereby incorporate as part
of this will and append thereto ; and I
direct that said envelope be not opened,
but remain in the custody of my exec-
utors, or of the proper court, until my
said nephew marry, or reach the age of
thirty-five, or until eleven years have
elapsed from the date of my death,

whichever shall first happen ; and there-
upon my said executors may open the
same and deliver a copy thereof to my
said nephew; and proceed to pay over
and deliver all my estate, real and per-
sonal, to my residuary legatee therein
mentioned.
"And I will explain, for the benefit of
the gaping and the ctuous, that this I
do that my nephew may profit by my
experience of early marriages. For no
man should by law be allowed to choose
what woman shall be his wife until he
be arrived at the age when he may be
hoped to have sufficient discretion not
to choose any woman at all." Then fol-
lowed the appointment of executors;
and that was all.
May laid aside the scandalous old
will and began to think.
How he had laughed at the last clause,
he and May Austin, as they wandered
by the lily-pond that evening! And
when she had persuaded him not at
once to give it all up and marry penni-
less, he had tried to make the best of it.
If she would not marry him then, what
were eleven years ? Eleven years--bah !
August 14, 1886 why he would only be
thirty-threeand she twenty-seven! But
she had refused to make it an engage-
ment, refused even to .write to him;
and the poor young Bachelor of Arts had
gone off to his steamer most unhappily.
And that farewell kiss under the lindens !
And the letters he had written back--
from Liverpool--beseeching May Austin
to reconsider her determination ! Austin
May took another cigar from the box,
and smiled pensively.

HALF A CURSE.

By Octave Tbanet.

On a certain April day, in the year
1862, the stage-coach was waiting at the
plaza, corner of the oldest Floridian
town. At that time the plaza was
merely an unkempt common, where
cows and pigs might ramble at will,
taking their siestas in the ruined old
market-house, or sunning themselves at
the base of the stubbed pyramid erected
by the last Spanish rulers. Where now
the smart little shops elbow the grim
old cathedral, then high coquina wails,
over which waved orange- and palmetto-
trees, joined the ancient house-fronts,
and hanging .balconies cast a grateful
shade on the sand below. Then as now
the wharf and the sea-wail bounded the
eastelal side, and the water glittered be-
hind a little flock of saris. If one stepped
on the sea-wail he could see the hated
Yankee flag flying over the old fort, and
a blue-coated officer was watching the
crowd about the coach. High above
the hats and bonnets towered a gay
turban and a black cheek pressed ten-
derly against the white cheek of a child,
while tears ran unrestrained down both
faces alike. The child sobbed aloud;
but the woman, not uttering a sound,
only strained the small body closer, and
looked through her tears at the young
gentlewoman beside her. She was a
beautiful creature--Jotmny Tindail, the
young Federal captain, thought---so
slender, graceful, and high-bred looking,
with such a touching sweetness of ex-
pression, and yet such a tropical fire in
those brilliant, almond-shaped, dark eyes.
He caught her last words : "Yes, it is
hard, hard ; but what should I do with-
out you to take care of theplace? I
know I shall find you here whatever
happens."
"Yes, Miss 2qannie," was the answer ;
"I keep de place good's I kin, an' you
sholy fin' me yere waitin'."
"All aboard ! " shouted the driver.
The parting came, and was over;
Johnny had the impression that all ttu-ee
cried at once.
"What is the matter ?" said he.

He spoke to his next neighbor; but
another man--a stout, florid man in ci-
vilian's dress, though wem4ng a mili-
tary cap--replied; "Oh, jess some rebs
leavin' ruther'n swaller the oath."
"Such a trifle wouldn't send you
away, would it, Baldwin ?" said Johnny,
glancing with undisgafised contempt at
the speaker, a sutler in his own regiment.
"Of course I'd take the oath, captain ;
I ain't a Southerner."
"I thought you came from South
Carolina."
"I was only there for a while," said
Baldwin, sullenly; but directly, with a
more cheerful air, he added : "Did ye
notice them people ? That there lady's
hlrs. Legree. Her pa was a Charleston
big-bug, and she married Renny Legree.
He's off in the rebel army. They've a
mighty fine place here. Say, did you
ever see a mortal critter fall's that there
colored woman ?"
"I want to see her," said Johnny,
walking off; but Venus was gone.
Afterward he learned something of
her history. Venus Clinch was born a
slave on the Clinch plantation in South
Carolina. She claimed to have Indian
blood in her veins, which is quite possi-
ble, since her father was one of the
"negro allies" of the Seminoles, capt-
ured during the Florida wars. Venus
was a famous cook ; and on Miss Nannie
Clinch's marriage, she was one of the
wedding-gifts. With her went Ambrose,
her husband, a handsome, amiable, in-
dolent, utterly worthless mulatto. It
was supposed that Venus might want
her husband's company. She, however,
was a most philosophical spouse. "Now,
ole marse," said she, kindly, "don' ye
poturb yoseff 'bout Ambros'. I ain't
no-ways 'tickler 'bout dat ar nigger. Ef
you all kin git 'ira trowed in wid de
hosses, I says, fotch 'ira long; but he
ain't wuth no bu34u' no ticket fo', dat's
sho !"
Nevertheless Ambrose came, and often
enough Venus regretted her qualified
assent.

152 HALF A CURSE.

"Mazin' how come I taken up _id dat
triflin', ornery, yaller nigger," she would
say. "Nebber done a stroke fo' me,
nebber guy me nuffin'm'cept de measles,
an' dem I wan't seekin'. Dese yere
yaller niggers dey's no nation; got de
good er none, an' bad er all. Ambros'
am bad down to he heel."
Venus never had but one child, and it
died in infancy. After that her sore
heart's entire and lavish devotion was
given to Nannie Clinch. She was a faith-
ful servant to all the Clinches, but she
worshipped "Miss Nannie."
All these particulars gradually came to
Johnny, who very soon made Venus's
acquaintance.
The beginning was his noticing her as
she walked daffy on the beach before
the barracks ; indeed, no one could help
noticing a figm-e built on such an enor-
mous scale. Besides, there was a cer-
tain massive dignity, and even symmeh T,
about her form, and her features, Indian
rather than negro, were brightened by a
smile of true African good-humor. Her
costume recalled the best days of the
vanished rgime. Her gay turban and
her white apron were always fresh from
the iron ; and on her head was poised a
great basket filled with enticing tropical
sweet-meats, the secrets of which Aunt
Venus had guarded for years.
Vhen neither vending her wares nor
making them, she toiled in the Legare
garden. Meanwhile, Ambrose led a life
of elegant leisure as skipper of a sail-
boat so leaky and unlly that only a
suicide could care to hire it. A little
lubor would have made a tidy sloop out
of this relic of the Legares, but Ambrose
always said: "Dar's udder t'ings en life
dan toilin' fo' money!"
Johnny was Venus's best customer.
Nothing pleased the faithful creature
more than to talk of her mistress.
"I 'members," said she, "de ve'y fustis
time I sot heyes on Miss Nannie, to
know 'er. Ye muss know, sah, dat I
wuz bawn on de plantation an' raised
dar 'twel rse risin' er sixteen, w'en my
mummy she done die up. She wuz a
witch'ooman, my mammy wuz ; an' one
er witchin's, 'e done got twurn' roun',
some'ow, an' hit kill' 'er dead. De ob-
berseer, he owed 'twuz kase 'twuz fall-
in' wedder, an' she done cotch cold en

de wet. But/knows 'twuz de witchin'/
So, den, dey sen' me ter Chawlston, an'
de cook she l'arn me ter cook, an' spat
me good wh'n she's mad; an' onct she
guy me amos' outrigeous lick wid a
stick er fat wood, an' runned a splenter
enter my awm. So, den, I wuz pick-
in' at it outside, an' a grievin' fo' my
mammy m dat nebber taken nuffin'
wuss'n a shengle to meman'a belier-
in' ve'y sorf like, dat Aunt Phoebe don'
heah my lammertatioris, an' give me
too' ter lammertate fo', w'en in runs
my Miss Nannie. De angil looks er
dat chile in 'er sweet li'le w'ite frock,
an' de lile black slippers, an' de big blue
sash. An', ef ye please, she taken pity
on me an' guy me a big chunk er cake,
an' calls her paa ter cut out de splenter.
She did so. He wuz a ve'y kin' man, ole
marse ; an' so wuz ole miss, too, dat's
cole an' dead now, po' t'ing !"
It was curious what a sense of intima-
cy Jolmny came to feel in this unseen
rebel family. He knew all about "ole
marse" and "ole miss," who had been
an invalid (" ole marse kep' 'era inva-
leed fo' twenty yeahs "), and Marse Tim,
and Marse Bertie.
Johnny's cheeks were rosy, and he
had a chubby little figure; but there
was a streak of romance in his kind
heartvhy, indeed, should only the
thin be romantic .gmand it pleased him
to be indirectly serving these absent
enemies through Venus.
She always received him in the gar-
den. "I wud like mazin' ter ax ye in,
marse cap'n, but I knows Miss Ian-
nie's 'pinyuns, an'I cay'nt; but de
kitchen, dat 'long ter me, an' you is right
welcome dar allus. I ain't none er yo'
cooks dat's skeered fo' hab folks see dar
cookin'."
Johnny's eyes twinkled. North, his
chubby form was hailed with delight by
all the mothers of his acquaintancefor
Johnny had great possessions. South,
it appeared, he might be glad to visit the
kitchen. He did visit the kitchen, and
was content to view the mansion from
the garden. Venus regarded the house
with awe, and even to Johnny's eyes it
looked imposinga Southern house of
the last generation, built in fond imita-
tion of a South Carolina home, with its
lofty Doric portico, and the galleries

154 HALF A CURSE.

"Now tell me what this all means,"
said he.
"Dey done take hit, sah. Fust dey
steal all de gyardin truck an' de chickins,
an' dey 'rice 'way po' o1' Strawberry, de
onlies' cow we all hab left- "
"Why didn't you complain ?"
"I done de bes' I knowed, sah.
cotch one t'ief an' I take my slipper to
'ira de same like his own mudder; an'
den I tote 'im to de cunnel by de collar.
Dey done punish 'ira. But I cudn't cotch
no too'; dey wuz too spry. Den dey putt
de wah-tax on, an'I done went prompt
fo' ter pay, wid de change e'zact ; but de
boss, he say Miss lannie am a rebfl, an'
de loil peoples dey's de onlies' ,,people
kin pay taxes ; an' he refuge-
"But he hadn't any right to refuse!"
"Dunno. Dat am w'at he done.
Dey done Mr. Dee Medeecis de same
way ; dey twurn 'im hour on de pa'metto
scrub kase he hab two sons wid de 'fed-
erates, an' den dey sole 'im up. Dat t'ief,
Bal'win, he git de 'ous. 'Spec' he git
de town, d'rectly. Well."
Her head sank hopelessly on her
breast ; but in a moment she looked up ;
she even made an effort at the conver-
sation which her notions of politeness
demanded. "You's lookin' right peart,
sah. I hopes you is gittin' on smart.
I'se made some dem fig po'serbs an'
guavas fo' ye, sah, an' ef ye cayn't tote
'em wid ye, whar will I sen' dem kase I
won' hab no mo'---place."
A kind of dry sob shook her frame,
though it brought no tears. I-Ier woful
patience affected Johnny so that the
good fellow couldn't sleep that night.
He did what he could--protested against
the sale as illegal, and even offered Bald-
win twice his purchase money for the
title-deeds.
"Ye cayn't buy it of me," said Bald-
win, grinning in a very irritating fashion.
Thanks to Johnny, he was no longer in
the army and he let his old captain
understand that he remembered.
"I'm hanged but I21 get the house
in spite of you, you scoundrelly cad,"
vowed Johnny at last. At which Bald-
win only grinned again.
For the present, however, nothing
could be done. Johnny helped Venus
move Mrs. Legare's property into the
house of a Minorcan, the same De'

lIedici whose wrongs had been recited
by Venus. Venus herself worked like a
horse, and never spoke a superfluous
word. She showed a curious patience
over all the delays and annoyances of
such a flitting; even Ambrose did not
get a hard word. I-Ie lent his amiable
countenance to the occasion, advising, di-
recting, criticising, everything but work-
ing; and the next morning he pre-
sented himself to Johnny very smartly
dressed, with a travelling bag in his
hand, like one ready for a jo ,urney.
"rse called, sah," said Ambrose, in his
softest voice, "ter 'trust ye, sah, wid my
ados ter Venus. I'se gwine 'way, sah,
wid Cap'n Grace. Venus, she sut'nly
comical, an'I wisht, sah, you hab de
kin'hess ter look ayfter 'er dis yere maw-
nin' ; she up yonder ter de place, an'I'se
unner de impression, sah, she aimin' fo'
ter chop Mr. Bal'win's head open wid de
ax ! Yes'ah. 1No, sah"---as Johnny made
an impulsive movementm" dar ain't no
call fo' aggitatin' yo' serf; wait twell
comes ter de squeal 'er de story.
done seen Venus sharpin' dat ax, an' I
seen 'er guvin' de stockin'--dat same
stockin' she kep 'er money in, ye unner-
start', sah, an' nebber so much's let 'er
lawfil husban' peek enter hitmshe guy
dat stockin' ter Miz Dee Medeecis fo'
ter keep fo' Miz Legree. She done so ; I
seen 'er. I wuz present, pussonly, my-
serf, unner de bed. So, sah, habin' de
bes' wishes fo' Venus, dough she hab no
right notions 'bout de duties er de
weaker vessel, I'se done gone ter Mr.
Bal'win, an he won' go dar 'tall, but send
de sogers."
"But she may resist the soldiers. "
"1o, sah ; pardin', sah ; I'se guy 'em
de key er de back do,' an' w'ile Venus she
darin' dem in front, torrers kin come in
behin'. I hates ter argy wid Venus ; she
am so pregedeeced like, she ain't reason-
able. So ye be so kin', please, sah, gib
my bes' respec' ter Venus, an' tell 'er
forgibs ev'yt'ing an' I'se done gone fo'
good ; an' ef we all don' meet up en dis
worl', I hopes ter meet up with 'er en de
bright worl' above, whar dey ain't no
merryin' nur givin' up merryin' an' de
wicked cease deir trubblin' an' de weary
am at res'."
Here Ambrose took out a white hand-
kerchief, and, so to speak, dusted his

156 HALF A CURSE.

"Hey ?" said Baldwin. "Welh I don't
guess yell expect me to say I'm pleased
to meet ye, ma'am."
"I thought I was coming home, Ve-
nus," said the poor lady.
Johnny couldn't bear any more.
"Confound it all, Baldwin," said he,
"let's see if we can't settle this. You
say you will sell for five thousand; YI1
give you your price."
"No, ye don't, colonel," said Baldwin.
"I aint sellin', and what's more, I aint
goin' to sell. The land will rise, and I
kin afford to wait. An' if I was sellin',
d--d if I'd sell to you."
"You cur," said Johnny, "if you say
another word YI1 thrash you." I-Ie looked
as though he might not wait for the other
word.
"An' I holp him," said Venus.
"No, Venus," Mrs. Legare cried. "No,
sir ; you are kind, but it would be use-
less ; I know the man now. He was an
overseer on my uncle's plantation, and
was sent away for cheating. I-Ie went
into the Yankee army afterward as a
suffer, but he had to leave because he
would get provisions for the people here
from the commissary and then sell the
provisions."
Baldwin ground his teeth, but it was
not easy to deny this with Tindall look-
ing on, so he forced a sickly kind of
laugh, saying : "You're a lady, ma'am,
an' you kin talk an' I have to listen, if it
is on my own grounds, but it's gittin'
late an' I have to be goin'."
lIrs. Legare turned her back on him,
not deigning to answer. Venus accom-
panied her mistress; but she rather
marred the dignity of their departure
by shaking her fists at Baldwin all the
way to the gate, and screaming unin-
telligible imprecations, backing out,
meanwhile, as if from a royal pres-
ence.
She informed Johnny, later, that she
had launched at Baldwin a cm-se of ter-
rific power. "Dat same haft er cuss my
mammy l'arn me," said she, "reek dat
Bal'win squeal fo' sho, fotch de wuss
sorter trubbel on him. Mabbe he git
out dough, kase dey's jess de fust haft.
Mos' like gre't trubbel, deft, mabbe,
come ter me, too, kase er meddlin' wid
de debbfl's tings. Dat ar's w'yfo' I
done nebber cuss 'im befo'. I like fo'

ter lib an' see 5Iiss Nannie. Dess see
'er, dat's a satisfaction ter me."
This was after Venus had taken 1VIrs.
Legare to her home, and when she was
bidding good-by to Johnny, who must
leave the town that night, having re-
ceived a telegram from the North about
business requiring his presence.
Venus wept as she blessed him and
implored him to return soon.

Tie derepi o1 Spanish "town" was
transformed into a fashionable "winter-
reso-t" before Johnny saw it again. I-Ie
stared discontentedly at the smart new
shops and the huge wooden hotels which
had taken the place of the modest hos-
telries of his knowledge. "Confound
it, how they have spoiled the place!"
thought Colonel Tindall.
Strolling along, he found himself at
last in one of those lane-like streets
which are interrupted by the plaza for
a space and then go crookedly on until
they melt into the marshes beyond the
town. He stopped before a house, such
a house as used to be common as pos-
sible, but which was ah'eady growing
rare. The pink plaster hiding the co-
quina front was richly mottled by lich-
ens, chipped away, also, in places, show-
ing the stone. It rose in a straight line
from the sand (sidewalk the street had
none), and was continued in a garden
wall. The steep roof made an upward
and forward slant over a hanging bal-
cony, and some queer little dormer
windows blinked out above. The door
to the house was the garden gate. Over
the brass knocker hung a sign--" Fur-
nished Rooms."
"Now, this is a decent house," said
Johnny. "By Jove !"
The exclamation was caused .by the
appearance of  gigantic negress on the
balcony. She looked down, saw, clapped
her hands together, and disappeared.
In an incredibly short time she was
below, kneeling-before Jolmny the bet-
ter to embrace him, and blessing the
Lord.
"De chari'ts er Isril an' de hossmen
darof," shouted Venus, swaying Johnny
backward and forward; "de rose er
Sharon an' de lily er de valley, praise de
Lawd, O, my soul, dis am you fo' sho',
honey ! De lamb, wid him same yaller

HALF A CURSE. 157

ha'r, an' lubly red cheeks de ve'y same
--dess fatter ! Hallelooger ! laws, laws
--kin ye hole yo'seff stiddy, marse cun-
nel, dess a minit twell I res' my hart' on
yo' shoul'er 'n h'ist myseff hup--I ain't
de rigger fo' knellin', dat's sho'."
Of com-se Venus would have him go
into the house to Mrs. Legare, who re-
ceived him with a cordiality amazing to
the modest fellow.
"Laws, my baby," said Venus, "ye
ain't s'pose Miss Nannie Legree an' me
done forgit ye ? We all 'members ye
regular en our ev'nin' supperclations, we
does. An' dat ar check er ye done sen'
me,.rse got it safe en de stockin'. Miss
lannie, she guy de stockin' ter de bank
fo' ter keep in deir big iron box"
"But the check was for your law-suit
--to get back your property," said John-
ny. He sat blushing in the most extraor-
dinary way, and thinking Mrs. Legare
handsomer every minute. Gray hair ?-
well, what could suit those divine dark
eyes better? Thin ?--yes, to be sure;
but the stouter Johnny grew in his own
person, the slimmer became his ideal
woman's shape.
Meanwhile, Venus answered in the
fulness of her heart: "De 'serbs, dey
pays fo' de lawin'. An' we rents rooms ;
sleeps 'em, don' eat 'era; an' we alls
roomers don' make a mite er trubbel.
An' de lawin' ar gwine on prosperin' an'
ter prosper ; be'n frow two co'ts a'reddy.
We alls lawyer, he says ef we kin dess
git de 'session we'se git de propputty.
Dey's a right smart er folkses lawed bout
deir propputty, an' some dey's comper-
romised, but dat Bal'win he won' gib
in--I lay de debbfl holp him. "
"How about the curse, Venus ?"
Johnny could not resist asking.
He got a portentous roll of head and
eyes together, and "Nebber you rain' de
cuss," said Venus ; "hit come. Ain'the
done los' de onlies' chile he hab ? An' I
know dis, he don' durst lib in dat ar
house hisseff; lets it ter a po' cracker
man fo' mos' nuffin', he so skeered."
Johnny soon found from Mrs. Legare
that Venus was not misinformed as to
the value of the possession of the prop-
erty in a legal sense.
"Venus," said Johnny, "I think I see
my way ; I'll manage the cracker."
"Yes, marse cunnel," said Venus, in

nowise surprised, "an' dis time, I lay de
debbil holp us."
Johnny and Venus had resumed their
confidential relations at once. He had
explained that his long absence was
caused by his being in Europe. "Wid
yo' wife, honey ? "said Venus, rather anx-
iously.
"I am not so fortunate as to be mar-
ried, Venus."
"I "lows twar de lad_v dat am forter-
hate," said Venus, sire'ply. "Den you
ain't merriad, an' Miss /gannie Legree
am a widder ? Singler ! Singler ! But
ain't she dat sweet, marse cunnel"
"She certainly is,Venus," said Johnny,
with rather a doleful smile, for he had
begun to think that he was likely to ex-
change a few delicious days for a long
heartache. "However, rll get her place
back," thought he, "then I can go."
The cracker was induced to move out
by night--how, Johnny best knew--and
that same night Venus and Johnny
moved hits. Legare's furniture back into
the house. They had unloaded the last
cartload, and were standing in the hall,
and Venus had chuckled to herself,
"Got de debbfl on we alls side dis time,"
when they both heard the same noise--
the rapid thud of hoofs, as if a furious
rider were galloping do:n the avenue.
Somehow, Baldwin had discovered
the plot. "Let him come," said Venus,
grimly, flinging the door open wide,
"me an' de debbfl kin match him !"
Bald-in jumped off his horse and rushed
at her. She had a candle in her hand,
and by its flare her vast bulk loomed up
like a black mountain. Wih one arm
she caught the raging man by the
shoulder and held him writhing and
sputtering vith fury, but helpless as a
kitten in her grasp, while with the other
she slowly and impressively wagged the
candle at him in the manner of a finger,
saying : "I 'clar' rse 'spised at ye, boss,
mos' knockin' me down dat a way ; clean
ondecent !"
"You git outer my house !" roared
Baldwin.
"Dis yere am Miss Nannie Legree's
house," said Venus ; "it ain't yo' house
nebber no mo'. We alls got de 'session,
and rse tell ye plain, boss, ef ye'se gwine
on dis a way, 'sturbi' de quality an'
tryin' ter raze 'era, I'se trow ye down,

158 HALF A CURSE.

right yere, an' sot on ye twell ye ca'm an'
peacerful an' readdy go home. "Fo' de
Lawd, I will so. Ye heah me !"
Baldwin blustered something about
wanting to talk to a man.
"Try me," said Johnny.
"Iq_l fix you to-morrer," snarled
Baldwin. "If there's a law in the land
I'll have it, and- "
But the rest of his threats were lost,
for he turned on his heel, mounted his
horse, and rode off, swearing.
"Bress de good debbil, fo' so much !"
said Venus.
All the next day they expected him--
an anxious day it was ; but he did not
come, nor did he come the day after, and
so a week went by without any sign from
him, until it was rumored about the
town that he had fallen ill. Then they
said that his wife and a servant had taken
the disease, linally the oldest doctor in
town reined in his horse to say a few low-
spoken words to Mrs. Legare on the
street. The horse was jaded and the
doctor pale ; he had been riding in dif-
ferent directions, but all his patients
had the same disease, and all had been
with Baldwin.
"I-Ie went to Savannah and brought it
back with him," said the doctor. "%Vhen
he knew he had it, he let people come to
see him. Yes, ma'am. He has always
been a curse to this town, but this is the
worst of all, for it's yellow fever sure as
death."
Mrs. Legare went home and warned
her boarders. There were only three
of them, the time being early in Novem-
ber. Two of them left the town that
day. The third was Johnny Tindall.
I-Ie flatly refused to stir unless he might
take Mrs. Legare and Venus with him.
"But/have had the fever ; there is no
danger for me," pleaded Mrs. Legare,
"and the negroes don't take it. Be-
sides, I am a Southerner, these are my
people, my place is here. But you, sir,
why should you risk your life .9"
Johnny looked at her, a longing that
shook his heart rising in him, to tell her
that it was because it would be sweeter
to die with her, beside her, for her, as it
were, than to live apart from her. But
he only said : "Well, it would be rather
a scrubby thing to run off and leave you,
don't you think .9"

He was the stronger--he stayed.
The fever grew worse and worse.
People shut themselves in their houses,
so that it became hard to get nurses for
the sick. It was such a new calamity that
the townspeople were stunned. "There
never was a case of yellow fever in the
town before," they would repeat pite-
ously, as though there were some hope
in their past immunity. Then they
cursed the man who had brought this
horrible mischief upon them. lqo soul
would go near him, and the house where
he and his wife lay sick was shunned
like one haunted.
"Let them live or die as the devil
pleased," the people said. So the weeds
choked the garden, and the wind rat-
fled the blinds, and the rain poured in
through an open window, while the few
passers-by only crossed themselves and
hurried on.
"Hit am de cuss," said Venus, with
solemnity, not without a touch of gloomy
pride, "de cuss dat I cussed .9"
One day, a lady, passing on the other
side of the street, observed a little girl
mount the steps, and called to her,
"Don't go in there, dearie; they have
the fever !"
"Oh, yes, ma'am, I must !" answered
the child, looking back brightly. "I
take care of them ; I'm their little girl!
They're awful sick." Before the lady
could cross the street she had entered
the house.
"Oh, the poor little thing," thought
Mrs. Legate. "Who can she be.9 They
have no children. And oh, how like she
is to Tessie !"
She told Venus about the incident.
"'Clar' dat ar muss er be'n dat li'le
gyurl dey done 'dopt," said Venus, "an'
dey does say dat debbfl am right petted
on her. Dar now, Miss lannie, you lay
down an' res' or I'se tell Marse Tindall."
A/ready Johnny had come to play
an important part in Mrs. Legare's
thoughts. In those days of selfish fear
and frantic misery brave souls were
drawn together. She admired Johnny's
clear head and his military cheerful-
ness, so independent of outside gloom.
She would not let him assist her di-
rectly in nursing ; but he was invaluable
outside, the right hand of the mayor,
the commandant of the post, and the

HALF A CURSE. 1,50

doctors. Yet she was conscious, all the
time, of a vigilant watch over her health
and comfort, and of a hundred unobtru-
sive attentions. "Nobody but Venus
could take such good care of me as you
do," She said once, gratefully.
Venus, of course, was a tower of
strength.
"Laws," said she, "I wisht I cud reek
myseff inter ten folks, den I mought
go 'roun'! Say, dough, Miss lannie,
dar am one pow'full comfort en dis yere
hour er 'fliction--dat ar ole Bal'win ain't
g .vne to bodder we all no too,' kase his
gwme die, sho'. Miz' Dee Medeecis,
she say she go by 'is 'ouse dis mawnin',
an' she heah dat ar' li'le gyurl, po' ring!
moanin', an' moanin' rale pittible, an'
dey wuz clean deserted, an' dat debbil
he come ter de winder, an' he z look-
in' like deft, an' he h'ist down a tin
pail, tied on a sheet tored in two, an' he
done holler on Mis' Dee Medeecis, how
he'd gin 'er ten dolla' fo' ter fotch 'ira a
pail er watter fo' ter guy dat ar baby.
' I know ye hates me,' sezee, ' but de
chile nebber burred ye.' So Miz' Dee
Medeecis she got 'im de wafter, an' she
'lows by dis time dey's all drinked dey-
serf ter deft, mos' like--laws, honey,
whar ye gwine ?"
Mrs. Legare did not look at the ne-
gress as she replied that she was going
to the Baldwins.
"Oh, my heavenly Marster," screamed
Venus, "de chile am gone clean 'stracted
crazy. Dar, honey, you sot right down
an' left dat ar old debbil die comf'uble ;
he's got all dat ar wafter !"
"Venus," said Mrs. Legare, "I nust
go. I have been thinking of it for two
days. I said if the child got sick--Oh,
Venus, the poor little child, the baby
that looks like Tessie !"
"Well den," said Venus, sullenly, "if
dat chile hab be sabe kase she favor
Miss Tessie, den rse de one ter do it,
an'I does it. I goes an' nusses de w'ole
batch er dem. I knowed dat debbfl git
eben wid me, foolin' wid he cusses!"
She was as good as her word, and in
spite of Mrs. Legare's expostulations
went to Baldwin's within the hour.
She faithfully nursed them until the
fever turned and the new nurse secured
by Johnny arrived. Then she went
home. It is doubtful if, in their weak-

ness and delirium, they quite realized
why she was there.
The night of her return was rainy,
and when Johnny looked in on Mrs. Le-
gare, the next morning, he found Ve-
nus wrapped in shawls over the fire and
Mrs. Legare busy with medicines.
"She ought not to have come out in
the rain last night, " said Mrs. Legare ;
"she was tired and heated, and she has
caught cold."
"Laws, Miss Nannie," said Venus, fee-
bly, "I cudn't holp comin', I wuz dat
'omesick. rse cl'ar sides myseff wid j'y,
gittin' back ter my own ratably ag'in.
An' dis yere cole am dess de spite er de
debbfl, nuliin else on earth."

dall, sitting with his bowed head on his
hands, vaguely conscious of the fragrance
of roses all about him, heard the knock-
er on the front door clank and clank.
The man outside was Baldwin. Mrs.
Legare opened the door. She was look-
ing worn and pale, her eyelids were
swollen with weeping, and her eyes had
the glaze of recent tears, but they blazed
into their old brilliancy at the sight of
him and his words. "You see I've come,
ma'am, like I said. Now, I want to
know how soon you'll be ready to move
out I"
He was prepared for everything ex-
cept the one thing that happened. She
drew aside her skirts ; she said, "Come
in!"
"Well !" said Baldwin ; but he came
in, stumbling a little because of his
weakness and the dark hall, and she, lead-
ing, opened the parlor door.
Tindall had jumped up, and Baldwin
saw him standing behind some large dark
object. Looking more closely he per-
ceived the object to be a coffin, and with-
in the coffin, above the flowers and the
soft wool draperies, was the peaceful
mask that had been Venus's face.
Mrs. Legare laid her hand on the fold-
ed hands which would never work for
her again.
"There," she said, very quietly, "there
is my last friend. She lies there because
she went to help you. She came home
from your house and died. Now, if you
will, turn me--and her out of our
home l"

160 IUOR Y AND GOLD.

Baldwin's hat was still on his head, he
took it off; his face was changed, and he
leaned against the wall.
"Damn it all," said he, hoarsely, "I
ain't goin' to turn ye out. She came and
nursed us, true enough. I know now.
Look a here, she's always be'n tryin' to
buy it--I give her the house."
He stumbled back through the hall.
They heard the door swing--not loudly.
Johnny came and stood by Mrs. Le-
gare.
"Dear," he said, "don't say your last
friend, because that can't be while I am
alive. I want to tell you what Venus

said to me just before she died. You
know, dear soul, she believed that she
was dying on account of that foolish
curse. ' The devilwfllkill me, ' she said ;
'but I don't care, I got the house for
Miss Nannie. I give it to her and you.
Keep it for her, won't you, ]VIarse Tindall,
for you love her, too ?' Truly, she has
given you the house now, and if--the
other--Oh, my darling, I love you with
all my heart, don't send me away!"
She was crying bitterly; but when
he took her hand she did not repulse
him.
"It is Venus gives it to me," he said.

IVORY AND GOLD.

By Charles Henry Litders.

I PLVCD you in the August noon,
When all the hills were hazy
With mists that shimmered to the croon
Of doves-- belated daisy.

You grew alone; the orchard's green,
Which May and June had whitened,
Save for your modest bloom was e'en
Content to go unbrightened.

For this, the one I love, at last,
With countless charming graces,
Upon her bosom made you fast
Amid the folded laces.

You had not dreamed that you would rest--
What thought could so embolden?-
Above the treasures of a breast
So white, u heart so golden.

162 THE SIEGE OF PARIS.

as to how long Paris will hold ut. It
can resist shells and bombardments but
it cannot resist starvation. The long
processions at the butcher-shops are
ominous."

Entry in diary, October 6, 1870:
"18th day of the Siege.
"For the first time for weeks we have
had a dull, foggy morning. Iy servant
comes in and says the streets are vacant
and sombre. My feelings are in uni-
son with the appearance of the streets.
This being shut out from all intercourse
with the world, when you are on dry
lund, is becoming tedious.
"(Evening.) The day is run out with-
out any incident of importance. Some
little glimmer of news has come in from
the Prussians, and the Parisians are a
little more cheerful. But it all ammmts
to nothing, in my judgment. Nothing is
being done. The days go and the pro-
visions go. Speaking of provisions, I
saw day before yesterday in the streets
a barrel of flour made at Waverly, Iowa,
some seventy or eighty miles west of
Galena.
"Made a visit to the Prefect of Police,
Count de Keratry, now 'Citizen' de
Keratry. I-Ie formerly belonged to the

French army, and is regarded as a man
of courage and ability. He spoke quite
hopefully about affairs, but I do not see
it. Curious place is that old, dismal,
dilapidated, gloomy, sombre, dirty Pre-
fectttre of Police, the theatre of so many
crimes and so many punishments. If
these frowning walls could speak, what
tales of horror they might tell! Here
were the headquarters of Pierre, the
Prefect of Police who had become so odi-
ous under the Empire. And what may
be esteemed a little curious under this
new deal, I have learned that the sume
system is in actual operation now as un-
der the Empire.
"lews crept in on the mornhg of
the 2d of October that Strasbourg
and Totfl had fallen. This created a
very sad impression all over the city.
Public opinion is voiced by Gambetta,
who issues a proclamation saying that
'in falling, these places cast a glance
toward Paris to affirm once more the
unity and indivisibility of the republic ;
that they leave us a legacy, the duty to
deliver them, the honor to avenge them.'
Lofis Blanc makes an appeal to the
people of-England, and he calls upon
the Englishmen in Paris to bear witness
to the fact that the windows of the
Louvre are being stuffed with sand-bags
to preserve the treasm'es there from the
risks of bombardment. The clubs be-
gin to denotmce the government. There
are many changes in the names of the
streets. The Avenue de l'Imp6ratrice
has been changed to theAvenue 'Uhrich,'
a hero of the passing horn'. The journals
continue to publish the Tuileries papers,
which minister to the morbid taste of a
portion of the public. Paris wears a
sombre aspect. The gtms from the forts
no longer attract much attention.
There are very fev carriages in the
Champs ElysSes, and the cafes chantants
have disappeared. The aspect of the
villages outside of Paris, at this time,
was a sad one. The houses 'ere de-
serted, the streets were vacant ; but one
would constantly run across certain in-
scriptions intended to be insulting to
the common enemy, such as ',lort au
Prussiens,' 'Deux ttes pour trois sos,
Bismarck et Guillaume.' And that is
called making war!"
On the 19th of October, Cotmt de

The Three Hussars.

THE SIEGE OF PARIS. 167

of the government, and held them all
prisoners in a room in the H6tel de
Ville. Some of the people demanded
that the members of the government
should be sent to the prison of Vin-
cennes ; others demanded that they
should be shot, but Flourens pledged his
head that he would have them safely
guarded where they were.
"Then the Reds went to work to make
up their new government in the Hall
of the Municipality, at the same place
'here I was at half-past six. A gentle-

erable Blanqui, and denounced this one
and that one as not among the patriots.
But in all this confusion they issued or-
ders and gave commands like a regxflar
government. Theother government be-
ing in jail while this pleasant sort of
amusement was going on, some of the
National Guard, faithful to the govern-
ment, got into the building and effected
the release of Trochu and Jules Ferry,
who immediately took steps to release
their associates from durance vile.
"At ten o'clock the 'rappel' was
beaten all over
Paris--that ter-
rible sound
which in the first
revolution so of-
ten curdled the
blood. I heard
it under the win-
dow of the lega-
tion. It meant,
'every man to
his post.' About
ten o'clock the
troops began to
pour in from
every direction
toward the
HStel de Ville.
They soon filled
' the Place Ven-
dome and the
neighboring
streets, and
formed in a line
of battle in the

Rue Castiglione,
which they corn-

pletely sur-
rounded.  the
presence of this
mense force,
and ' )'ve,Trochu !'
la
Commune  the

lCac-simile of Note from Marshal Bazaine. red forces of
Flourens
man 'ho was present during this time seemed to have realized their weakness,
describes the scenes which took place as and before midnight they had mostly
ludicrous. There was no harmony or disappeared, the government released,
concert among them, and they were all and comparative quiet restored all over
quarrelling among themselves; according the city. I left the legation to go to my
to him, they pulled the venerable beard lodgings in the lue de Londres at half-
and kicked the venerable body of the yen- past twelve, and going by the Champs

168 THE SIEGE OF PARIS.

ElysSes, the boulevards, and the Chaus- whole crowd appeared listless and indif-
see d'Antin, I found all of the streets ferent. The suffering in Paris and the
deserted and the stillness of death every- devastation outside and inside surpass
where. What a city--one moment rev- belief. The destruction of that great
ohltion, and the next the mostprofound historical palace of St. Cloud by the
calm ! French themselves was a piece of van-
"To-day is the great fte day of All dalism. To-day, for the first time, I saw

Bivouac of National Guards in the Champs ElysSes.

Saints. I went to the It6tel de Ville at
half-past nine this morning. The streets
were comparatively deserted and most
of the shops closed; the great square in
front of the hotel was pretty well filled
with soldiers. There were a good many
people about there, but not the least ex-
citement. I went there again this after-
noon, and found the square densely
packed with soldiers and people. No
man seemed to know anything ; each one
was inquiring of his neighbor. The

and in the revolutions of a century,
to build barracks for soldiers. I-Iow
I thought of the hundreds of thou-
sands of little children who have
played beneath their shades."

"November 2, 1870.
"45th day of the Siege.
"One of the most violent of the insur-
rectionary organs, "La Patrie en Dager,"
proclaims in the most violent manner
that all churches must be closed to relig-
ious services and used as halls for the
meetings of. clubs or for any other rev-
olutionary purpose. All the ambulances
must be purged of priests, who must be
arrested, armed, and placed before the
patriots in the most dangerous places.
Barricades must be erected. This is the
first thing to think of. No citizen must
go out unless armed--revolvers, daggers,
bayonets, all are good. All the Bona-
partists must be arrested. All provisions
must be put into the common stock, and
each citizen placed on strict rations.
Every individual who knows a hiding-
place of gold, silver, or valuables must

THE SIEGE OF PARIS. 169

make a declaration thereof at the Mairie.
Every house must bear a paper stating
the name, age, and occupation of all its
inhabitants. All women and children
must be placed in places sheltered from
projectiles. Their cries and their fears
will hinder the action and paralyze the
courage of some men. In the midst of
such madness and fury one might well
inquire if it were possible for any good
to come out of Paris."

"Wednesday evening,
November 16, 1870.
"59th day of the Siege.
"Legation full of people reading all
the old English and American news-
papers, which I have left upon the table
in the Secretary's room. As they con-
rain no war news that could be made
use of, I was glad in this way to gratify
my country-men, who for so long a time
had nothing of our home news. There
was a great deal of talk about the fall of
Metz and what was called the "treason
of Bazaine." I asked I. Jules Favre
what he thought of it. I-Ie said he
would not pass a judgment on so grave
a matter without further evidence, but
the fact that Bazaine had not made a
single communication to the government
since the 4th of September, and his go-
ing to see the Emperor had a bad look.
"It is evident that the siege begins to
pinch. Fresh meat is getting almost
out of the question ; that is, beef, mut-
ton, veal or pork. Horse-meat and
mule-meat are very generally eaten now.
They have commenced on dogs, cats, and
rats, and butcher-shops have been regu-
larly opened for the last mentioned.
The gas is almost giving out, and to-day
the order appears that only one lamp in
six is hereafter to be lighted at night.
Only to think, Paris in darkness ; but
then, no longer Paris except in name.
No more foreigners. The govelment
last night decided that in view of the
fact that such large numbers had ap-
plied to go when they could go and did
not, they cannot now stop their military
operations to permit them to go out.
The 1)russians have also decided to let
none hereafter go through their lines
ex.ce.pt those who already have had per-
mission. Count de Bismarck writes
that some of those who have gone out

have violated their paroles. Few Ameri-
cans would like to go now, but have to
stay. I was very fortunate in getting
the great body of them out before the
gates were finally closed."

"Sunday afternoon,
qovember 20, 1870.
"63d day of the Siege.
"One of the features of the siege is
the thousand rumors and reports that
are constantly flying about. The most
absurd and ridiculous canards are circu-
lated every hour in the day. These
French people are in a position to be-
lieve anything, even that the moon is
made of green cheese. Some of the ed-
itors are the most deliberate and inven-
tive liars of model times. One of the
papers said the other dayit had received
a number of the London Standard of
November llth, and went on to give va-
rious extracts and news taken from it.
Everybody wondered how so late a pa-
per could get into Paris, and when the
matter was investigated, it was shown
that no such paper had ever been re-
ceived, and that the whole thing was a
deliberate and wilful fabrication. The
news that has come by 'pigeon tele-
graph' in regard to the French success
at Orleans has had a great effect. Small
favors thankfully received, and larger.
ones in proportion.
"For three days it has been war, war,
but now, when these long, dreary days
are running out, nothing is accomplished
except every few days a letter or a high-
sounding proclamation of Trochu. It
has been a dead cahn since the 31st of
October, not excitement enough to stir
the blood of a cat. These people, gay,
light, frivolous, as they are, would en-
dure wonders, could you convince them
that anything was to be gained. They
are getting down to what we called
in the Galena lead-mines 'hard pan."
Fresh meat cannot last much longer, in-
cluding horse and mule. The vegetables
really seem to be holding out very well,
but the prices are so high that the poor
can buy but very little. Butter is sell-
ing for $4 a pound ; turkeys, $16 apiece ;
chickens, $6 apiece; rabbits, $4 each;
eggs, $1.50 a dozen, and so on. The price
of bread, however, fixed by the city, is
about as cheap as usual. Wine is also

THE SIEGE OF PARIS. 178

continued on through the village of
Arcuefl. There had been a little fight
in the morning, but it amounted to noth-
ing. We went within eight hundred
yards of the Prussian out-posts, but we
saw nothing of interest and heard but
little."

"Friday, 5 P..,
December 2, 1870.
" 75th day of the Siege.
"This is a cold, frosty morning. Ice
made last night half an inch thick. The
battle seems to have commenced very
early in the morning. The cannon has
been thundering all day, but as I have
not been where I could leal or hear
anything, I am in ignorance of the events
of the day. I have just come up from
the Boulevard Prince EugSne, and I saw
many crowds shivel-ing in the street and
apparently much excited. I went up to
our house this afternoon to see how
things looked there. While waiting, our
old atre d'h6tel rushed into the room,
pale as a ghost, and half dead with
fright, and utterly unable to speak for
the moment. As soon as he was able to
articulate he said the Prussians had just
broken over the ramparts at the Point
de Jour, and were coming right upon us.
I laughed at him, but he said it was so,
because a soldier had so informed him.
I-Ie soon took courage and went out in
the further pursuit of knowledge, and
returning, reported that instead of the
Prussians coming in, the Mobiles and
llational Guard were going out to take
the Prussians--' over the left,' I presume.
The soldiers must suffer dreadfully from
the cold. From all I can hear, there has
been a great movement to-day. All
Paris at this moment trembles withanx-
iety. There is talk of the bravery dis-
played by Ducrot. I-Ie stands pledged
before all France to break out of Paris
or die in the attempt.
"On Wednesday night, one of the
American ambulance carriages was un-
able to come in from the field, and as
Ducrot knew that it belonged to our
ambulance, he invited two or three
Americans in charge of it to stay that
night with him. He took them to a
house denuded of furniture and asked
them to supper, which consisted only of
bread and wine. lot a single thing be-

sides that. After supper the general
laid down on the floor with his guests,
and thus passed the night. The men
say he was cheerful and filled with
hope."

"Friday evening,
December 23, 1870.
"96th day of the Siege.
"A cold, bright, clear day. llo mili-
tary movements and the great sortie has
proved a grand fizzle, resulting in noth-
ing but loss to the French. One of
their best generals has been killed. I
understand their whole losses ll
amount to fifteen hundred men, besides
the vast number who have been put hors
du combat by the excessive cold. The sit-
uation is becoming daily much more
grave in Paris; the suffering intense,
and augmenting daily. Clubs b%-dn-
ning to agitate; hunger and cold are
doing their work. From the misery I
heard of yesterday, I begin to think it
impossible for the city to hold out to
the 1st of February as I have predicted.
They are killing off the horses very fast.
I heard that the omnibuses will stop
running next week. Very few cabs in
the street at present, and they will soon
disappear. In passing along the Champs
ElysSes at noon the other day I could
not count half a dozen vehicles all the way
from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place
de la Concorde. Without food, without
carriages, without lighted streets, there
is anything but a pleasant prospect
ahead. There is a certain discourage-
ment evidently creeping all through
Paris, and the dreay days and weeks
run on. In the beginning no man was
wild enough to imane that the siege
would last until Christmas."

"Christmas, Sunday,
December 25, 1870.
"98th day of the Siege.
"llever has a sadder Cln-istmas
dawned on any city. Cold, hunger,
agony, grief, and despair sit entlu-oned
at every habitation in Paris. It is the
coldest day of the season and the fuel is
very short; and the government has had
to take hold of the fuel question, and
the magnificent shade-trees that have
for ages adoed the avenues of this
city are all likely to go in the vain

17-1: THE SIEGE OF PARIS.

struggle to save France. So sas the
Official Journal of this morning: The
sufferings of the past week exceed by
far anything we have seen. There is
scarcely any meat but horse-meat, and
the government is now rationing. It
carries out its work with impartiality.
The omnibus-horse, the cab-horse, the
work-horse, and the fancy-horse, all go
alike in the mournful procession to the
butcher shops--the magnificent blood-
ed steed of the Rothschilds by the side of
the old plug of the cabman. Fresh beef,
mutton, pork are now out of the ques-
tion. A little poultry yet remains at
fabulous prices. In walking through
the Rue St. Lazare I saw a middling-
sized goose and chicken for sale in a
shop-window, and I had the curiosity to
step in and inquixe the price (rash man
that I was). The price of the goose was
$25, and the chicken $7.

"5Ionday,
December 26, 1870.
"99th day of the Siege.
" Quite a little dinner of ten covers
yesterday evening at seven o'clock at my
house at No. 75. I could not afford to
let Christmas go entirely unrecognized.
The cold was intense, but I managed to
get the petit salon and the salle d manger
quite comfortable by the time the guests
arrived. Here is the bill of fare for the
98th day of the Siege :

1. Oyster Soup.
2. Sardines with Lemons.
3. Corn Beef with Tomatoes and Cranberries.
4. Preserved Green Corn.
5. Roas Chicken.
6. Green Peas.
7. Salad.
8. Dessert--Pumpkin Pie andCheese Macaroon
Cakes, uga Cherries, Strawberries,
Chocolates, Plums, and Apri-
cots, Caf heir.

"The cold is notas great as yesterday.
The papers this morning speak of the
awful sufferings of the troops. Many
have frozen to death. I take it that all
military movements are at an end for
the present. The papers say bad fort-
une pursues the French everywhere.
We are now getting long accounts from
the German papers of the fighting on
the Loire, and fearftfl work it must have
been; and yet the Prussians go every-

where, but they purchase their successes
at a dear price.
"There is now high talk in the clubs.
This last terrible defeat has produced
intense feeling. Trochu is denounced
as a traitor and an imbecile. They say
he is staying out at one of the forts and
don't care about coming back into the
city. He cannot fail more than once
more without going to the wall. Never
in the history of the world has any army
of half a million men cut such an ignoble
fiore. It should, not be said that the
soldiers are not brave, for they are. It
is the want of a leader that has paralyzed
France for fern-teen mortal weeks."

"Monday evening,
December 26, 1870.
"99th day of the Siege.
"I add to my diary of yesterday:
This has been a very cold day, and the
sufferings of the troops must have been
intense. I did not leave the legation
until 6 .., having been. kept busy in
getting my despatches and letters ready
for the bag which leaves in the morn-
ing. A great many people of all nations
calling; a greater number of poor Ger-
mans than ever. The total number I
am feeding up to-night is fifteen hun-
dred and forty-seven, and more are com-
ing. It is now a question of fuel as well
as food. Wood riots have commenced.
The large square across the street di-
agonally from our house was filled with
wood from the Bois de BoulSgne which
has been sawed up to burn with char-
coal. At about one o'clock this after-
noon a crowd of three thousand men
and women gathered in the Avenue Bu-
geaud, the Rue Stontine, and the Rue
Bellefeuille, right in the neighborhood,
and they went for this wood. 'Old
PSre,' the naitre d'hdtel, undertook to
pass through the crowd in an old cab,
but they arrested him as an aristocrat,
crying out'I1 ne passe pas!' Nearly
all the wood was carried off. These
people cannot freeze to death or starve
to death."

"Tuesday evening,
December 27, 1870.
"100th day of the Siege.
"And who would have thought it ? It
is a cold, gray, dismal morning, spite-

THE SIEGE OF PMRIS. 175

fully spitting snow. Started on foot for
the legation at eleven o'clock, nearly
two miles. The butcher-shops and the
soup-houses surrounded by poor, half-
starved, and half-frozen women. At the
corner of the Rue de Com-celles and the
Rue Monceau the people had just cut
down two large trees and were carrying
them off'. Every little twig was carefully
picked up. At a wood-yard in the lue
Billaud the street was blocked up with
people and carts. I hear that several
yards were broken into last night. The
high board fences enclosing the vacant
lots on the Rue Chafllot, near the lega-
tion, were all torn down and carried off
last night.
"The news this evening is that the
Prussians commence this morning the
bombardment of some of the old forts,
but we do not learn with what success.
The bag came in at 1 P.M., bringing
my official despatches and a very few
private letters, but not a single news-
paper. What an outrage! I can look
for nothing more for a week. The Prus-
sians sent in news yesterday, by par-
lementaire, that the army of the North
had been beaten and dispersed. An-
other 'blessing in disguise' for the
French."

"January 1, 1871.
"105th day of the Siege.
"What a New Year's Day ! With a
sadness I bid adieu to the fatal 1870,
and with sadness I welcome the new
year 1871. How gloomy and triste is
the day ! A few callers only, among the
number M. 1)icard, the Minister of Fi-
nance, who made quite a long call and
seemed to be in very good spirits. But
the government has not heard a word of
news since the 14th of December from
the outside world. It is rather a heavy
btu-den for me to carry around all the
news from the outside which there is in
Paris. I only made three calls to-day
and dined at Mr. Moulton's, and a good
dinner it was for the 105th day of the
siege. Up to this time there had been
no deficiency in certain articles, and no
ch.ange in the price of coffee, chocolate,
wine, liqueurs, and tea. The weather
has been so cold for some time that
several hundred soldiers had either been
disabled or had perished by the cold.

The boulevards, dimly righted, were
thronged with people who were bent up
and shivering with cold."

"Wednesday evening,
January 4, 1871.
"108th day of the Siege.
"N/1. It is cold still, and more dreary
than ever. I have been busy, however,
with the current matters at the legation
and receiving calls. ]Iore people than
ever seem to be coming to the legation.
Indeed, there are so many that it is al-
most impossible to do any work there.
We seem to be the great centre, as the
only news that comes to Paris comes to
me, or through me ; but as I can make
no use of it I am tired of receiving it.
The newspapers all like to talk. One
says it has news that comes through me.
Another says: ' I have got news, but as
it is favorable to the French I won't let
it out.' And then they made an attempt
yesterday to bribe old 1)re. They
offered him a thousand francs for the
latest London paper, but he stood firm.
I have concluded that it is too much for
me to have the news for two millions of
people, and I don't care to bear the bur-
den ; besides, it may get me into trouble.
I have therefore written Bismarck that I
will have no more London newspapers
sent to me. I had rather be without
them than to be bothered as I am. I
will have the home papers, however."

"Sunday, 5 P.m,
January 8, 1871.
" 112th day of the Siege.
"4th day of the Bombardment.
"One more day and we don't seem to
be any nearer the end, unless this bom-
bardment shall effect something. It is
so hard to get at the real. truth as to
what the Prussians have actually accom-
plished since they commenced bombard-
ing the forts of the East, eleven days
ago. They certainly have not yet got a
fort. The bombardment of the forts of
the West has now continued four days
without intermission, and with all the
violence and power that could be
brought to bear, and it is plain that no
particular harm has yet been done.
How long this thing can continue I can-
not, of course, judge; but one thing is
certain, that the Prussians have fired

THE SIEGE OF PARIS. 177

when a shell came in and struck his foot.
It fractured it to such an extent that he
had to have his leg amputated. He was
taken to our American ambulance, where
the operation was performed by Doctors
Swinbme and Johnston. It has beer
snowing a little all day, but I have been
very busy in my room writing despatches
and letters. A short time before my bag
was ready to be closed, I got word from
the military headquarters that they could
not send it out to-morrow morning on
account of military reasons. It may now
be detained a whole week. The French
have some news this morning, the first
from the outside government for three
weeks. If to be credited, it is rather
good. Baked pork and beans for din-
ner to-day. I showed the cook how to
prepare the dish in Yankee fashion."

"Thursday evening,
January 12, 1871.
"115th day of the Siege.
"8th day of the Bombardment.
"From what I can learn I think the
bombardment is slackening a little to-
day, but it is possibly only ' getting off
to get on better.' Much indignation is
expressed at the bombardment of the
hospitals, ambulances, and monuments of
art, and if the city be not taken by bom-
bardment or assault they will only hold
out longer and suffer more. The weather
has become colder within the last two
or thz-ee days. We have snow enough
just to whiten the ground. It looks
like young winter to-day. They are
now cutting down the big trees in the
great avenues of the city, in the Champs
ElysSes and the Montaigne. It made
me sick to pass thz-ough the Avenue
Bugeaud, that splendid avenue, with
its magnificent shade-trees, adding so
much to the beauty of our neighbor-
hood. How pleasant of a June morn-
ing to be protected by theix grateful
shades. ]qot one single tree left."

"Thursday, 5
January 19, 1871.
"123d day of the Siege.
"15th day of the Bombardment.
"This is the day of the great sortie.
At this hour nothing is known of results,
but it has undoubtedly been the bloodiest
yet seen about the walls of la14s. The
VoL. I.--12

great fighting seems to be between St.
Cloud and Versailles, or rather to the
north of St. Cloud. It is said, how-
ever, that other parts of the lrussian
lines have been attacked also, but I
hardly believe it; but the attack has
been terrific on St. Cloud. At 2.30
Colonel I-loffman and myself went to
the Ch'teau de la Muette, in 1)assy,
which is the headquarters of Admixal
de Langle. This is a historic chateau
once owned by the Duke of Orleans,
lhilip Egalit, and where he held high
carnival. qature made it a magnificent
spot, elevated and beautiful, and it was
adoled by everything that money and
taste could supply. It is now oed
by Madame Erard, the widow of the
celebrated piano manufacturer. From
the cupola of this chhteau is the most
mao-nificent view on that side of laris,
and it was there that we went to look
through the great telescope into the
Prussian lines. We found there M. Jules
Favre, Ernest licard, Minister of Fi-
nance, M. Durey, the Minister of Public
Instruction under the Empire, Henri
Martin, the French historian, and others.
We first look at Mount Yalerien, that
noted and renowned fortress, standing
in its majestic grandeur, overlooking
and commanding this ill-fated city and
holding in awe its proud enemy for miles
around. We then look at the Aque-
duct, where we see the lrussian Staff as
plainly as we could see a group of men
at the house of a neighbor from our o
balcony. Then we turn to St. Cloud
and see the ruins of that renowned
palace, for centuries the pride of Frcce.
qow we look right in the eyes of those
terrible lrussian batteries, which for
two weeks have been vomiting fire and
flame, death and deshction, upon de-
voted laris.
"But, strange to say, they are compara-
tively silent, only now and then a dis-
charge from each battery. They have
apparently other business to attend to
besides fi4ng into the streets o this
sombre capital. Five hundred thou-
sand men are struggling to break through
that ci-cle of fire and iron, which has
held them for four long, long months.
The lay of the country is such that we
cannot see the theatre of the conflict
which has been raging all day. The low

THE SIEGE OF PARIS. 181

members of the government and the
commissioners in repairing to Versailles
to enter upon negotiations for peace.
On the 28th of February, 1871, I
wrote an official despatch to my Govern-
ment, in which I stated that the treaty
of peace between France and the new
German Empire, to be ratified there-
after by the national assembly at Bor-
deaux, was signed at Versailles a day or
two previous. The principal conditions
were well understood at Paris, and the
news of the signing of the treaty created
there a very profound impression. The
condition that a portion of Paris was
to be occupied by thia-ty thousand Ger-
man troops until the ratification of the
treaty produced an intense feeling, but
still I was in hopes that the city would
pass through that trying ordeal without
any scenes of violence. The provision
in the treaty that the German troops
should remain in Paris until the ratifica-
tion of the treaty seemed to be intended
as a pressure on the national assembly
to hasten its action. The government
made a strong appeal to the people of
Paris, counselling forbearance and mod-
eration, and the press with great unan-
imity seconded such appeal. Indeed, all
the papers agreed to suspend their pub-
lications during the Prussian occupa-
tion. The principal negotiators of the
treaty on the French side were )I. Thiers
and M. Favre. A more cruel task was
probably never before imposed on
triotic men, and it was only during the
final hours of the armistice that the
treatywas signed. It was said that there
was a great "hitch" in regard to the
cession of the fortress of Belfort. That
was persistently demanded by the Ger-
mans, and equally persistently refused
by the French negotiators; and at last
M. Thiers declared absolutely that he
would si.-,n no treaty which ceded Bel-
fort, though the Germans were willing to
agree that they would not enter Paris
if they could retain that fortress. The
Germans finally yielded that point, see-
ing how much M. Thiers had his heart
upon it, and how resolved he was never
to sign a treaty which yielded it up.

The treaty having been signed, pro-
viding for the entry of thirty thousand
troops into Paris, until it should be rat-

ified by the assembly at Versailles, the
German troops came into the city on
the first day of )Iarch, 1871. At nine
o'clock in the forenoon three blue hus-
sars entered the Porte Maillot, proceeded
up the Avenue of the Grand Army, and
walked their horses slowly down the
magnificent avenue of the Champs Ely-
ses, with carbines cocked and fingers
upon the trigger. These hussars looked
carefully into the side streets, and pro-
ceeded slowly down the avenue. But
few people were out at that early hour
in the morning. Soon after this, six
more hussars made their appearance by
the same route, and every few minutes
thereafter the number increased. Then
came in the main body of the advanced
guard, numbering about one thousand
men, consisting of cavah T and infantry
(Bavarian and Prussian), forming part
of the Eleventh Cms, under the com-
mand of General Kanamichi. By this
time the crowd on the Champs Elyses
had increased, and met the advancing
Germans with hisses and insults. A
portion of the German troops halted,
and, with great deliberation, loaded
their pieces, whereat the crowd, com-
posed mostly of boys and "roughs," in-
continently took to their heels. Ac-
cording to a previous understanding
among the French, all the shops and
restaurants along the route had been
clSsed ; but, notwithstanding their vig-
orous asseverations that no considera-
tion whatever would induce them to look
upon or speak to the Prussias, I found,
on going down the Champs Elyses
at half-past nine o'clock, a large number
of them attracted thither by curiosity
which they were unable to resist. In
walking down the avenue to the point
where the main body of the force had
halted, in front of the Palace of Indus-
try, notwithstanding the vehement prot-
estations that had been made that no
Frenchman would look at or speak to
a German soldier, I counted a body of
twenty-five French people-men, women,
and children--in the most cordial fra-
ternization with the German soldiers.
Stopping for a moment to listen to the
agreeable conversation which appeared
to be carried on, a German soldier ad-
vanced to salute me, and addressed me
by name. tie tmed out to be the clerk

182 THE SIEGE OF PARIS.

at a hotel at Homburg les Bains where
I had lodged during my visit to that
place in 1867 and 1869. lrom what I
could learn, the great body of the Ger-
man troops were reviewed by the Em-
peror at Long Champs, before their
entry into laris. Instead, therefore, of
the mass of the troops entering at ten
o'clock, as had been previously
nounced, it was not until half-past one
o'clock in the afternoon that the royal
guard of lrussia, in four solid bodies,
surrounded the Arc de Triomphe. Then
a company of Uhlans, with their spears

with their shining casques and glittering
bayonets, which had been massed around
the world-renowned Arc de Triomphe,
erected (and with what bitter sarcasm
it might be said) to the glory of the
grand army. I witnessed this entry
from the balcony of the apartment of a
friend, Mr. Cowdin, of Tew York City,
which was at the head of the Champs
Elys6es. 2r good many lrench people
were on the sidewalks on either side of
the avenue. At first the troops were
met with hisses, cat-calls, and all sorts
of insulting cries ; but as they poured in

Fac-simile of a Note from M. Jules Favre.

stuck in their saddles, and ornamented
by the little flags of blue and white,
headed the advancing column. They
were followed by the Sxons, with their
light-blue coats, who were succeeded by
the Bavarian rifle-men, with their heavy
uniform and martial tread. Afterward
followed more of the Uhlans, and oc-
casionally a squad of the Bismarck cui-
rassiers, with their white jackets, black
hats, and waving plumes, recalling to
mind, perhaps, among the more intelli-
gent lrench observers, the celebrated
cuirassiers of Tansousty and La Tour
Maubourg, in the wars of the first
poleon. Tow came the artillery, with
its pieces of six, which must have ex-
torted the admiration of all military
men by its splendid appearance and
wonderful precision of movement. Text
fell into line the royal guard of lrussi,

thicker and faster, and forming by com-
panies, as they swept down the avenue
to the strains of martial music, the
crowd seemed to be awed into silence,
ad no other sound was heard but
the tramp of the soldiery and the
occasional word of command. The only
disturbance that I saw was occasioned
by some individual advancing from the
sidewalk and giving his hand to a Ger-
man cavalry-man, whereat the crovd
"went" for him. But his backing
seemed so powerful that the discon-
tents soon dispersed without any further
disturbance. The entry of the main
body of the troops occupied about two
hours, and after that they began to dis-
perse into the various quarters of the city
to which they had been assi-naed, in search
of their lodgings. We were busily en-
gaged at the legation almost the entire

THE SIEGE OF PARIS. 183

day, endeavoring to secure protection
for the American apartments and prop-
erty. At five o'clock I went to see
]I. Jules Faw-e in relation to the sudden
and indiscriminate billeting of the Ger-
man soldiers upon the American resi-
dents, and learned from him of the
probabilities of the ratification of the
treaty of peace by the assembly at Bor-
deaux that evening, and of his hopes
that everything would be settled before
the next morning, when the German
troops would be withdrawn from the
city. He told me that there would be
no doubt about the ratification of the
treaty. He hoped it would have been
ratified the night before, and thus have
prevented the entry of the Germans into
Paris at all. But hi. Thiers unfortu-
nately had been delayed in reaching
Bordeaux, and which had postponed the
action on the treaty in the assembly
until that day. M. Favre was kind
enough to tell me in this inteliew that
he would send me a notice of the raiifi-
cation of the treaty the moment he re-
ceived it, and he kept his word, for as
soon as the matter was completed he
sent me the notice. I returning from
the Foreign Office, on the other side of
the Seine I found the bridge guarded
by French soldiers who resolutely re-
fused to let me pass. Soon a large
crowd of roughs appeared and attempt-
ed to force the guard, and it appeared
for a short time as if a sharp little battle
was to be improvised. After standing
around for about an hour, I was enabled
by the courtesy of a French officer to slip
tlrough the guard and finally to reach
my residence. My coachman was so
thoroughly penetrated with fear of the
Prussians that he utterly refused to har-
ness his horses again during the day.
I wrote an account of this entry of the
Prussians into Paris at eleven o'clock

the same night. The day had opened
cloudy and sombre, with a raw and
chilly atmosphere. A little after noon
the sun had come out bright and warm,
and the close of the day was magnificent.
I sent two gentlemen out of the legation
in the evening to go through the city
and report to me the situation. From
the Boulevard du Temple to the Arc of
Triumph not a store or a restaurant was
open, with the exception of two of the
latter on the Champs ElysSes, which the
Germans had ordered to be kept open.
There were no excited crowds on the
boulevards. What was very remarkable,
and without precedent in the memory
of the oldest inhabitants, not an omni-
bus was running in the whole city, and
every omnibus office was closed.
ther was there a private or a public car-
riage to be seen, unless a hearse could
be deemed and taken as a "public car-
riage ;"unfortunately, too many of these
were then seen in every hour of the day.
Paris seemed literally to have died out.
There was neither song nor shout in all
her streets. The whole population was
marching about as if under a cloud of
oppression. The gas was not yet lighted,
and the streets presented a sinister and
sombre aspect. All butcher and barber
shops in that part of the city occupied
by the Germans were closed, and if the
people had not provided themselves for
the emergency there would have been
an increase of suffe14ng. The Bourse
was closed by the order of the syndics
of change. No newspapers appeared on
that day except the Journal Officiel.
placards were posted upon the walls of
Paris, and I could hear of no act of vio-
lence of any significance. It is but just
to say that the people of Paris bore
themselves during all that cruel experi-
ence with a degree of dignity and for-
bearance which did them infinite credit.

SETH'S BROTHER'S 14/'IFE. 18.5

amongst folks, ther's got to be a change
o' some sort right away. Your father's
let everything slide year after year, till
there's pesky little lef naow to slide on.
He's behine hand agin in money mat-
ters, even with th' Pratt mortgage on
top of t'others. What's mass, it's in
everybody's maouth. They've left him
off th' board at th' cheese-factory this
year, even; of course they say, it's cuz
he never 'tended th' meetin'smbut I
knaow better! It's jis' cuz Lemuel
Fah-chfld's goin' deown hill, 'n' the
farm's goin' to rack 'n' latin, 'n' ev'ry-
buddy knaows it. Jis' think of it?
Why, 'twas th' Fairchflds made that
cheese-factory, 'n' it's allus gone by aour
name, 'n' we used to sen' th' milk of a
hundred 'n' thh'tv caows thereNalmost
as much as all tt' rest of 'era put to-
gither--'n' ez I said to Leander Crump,
when he was squirmin' raound tryin' to
make me b'lieve they didn't mean nothin'
by droppin' Lemuel aout o' th' board,
says I---' Nobuddy ever 'spected a table-
spoonfial o' water in aour milk!'--'n'
he colored up, 1 tell yeh !"
"1o doubt," said Albert, impassively.
Miss Sabrina paused to mentally re-
trace her argument, and see if this
remark had any special bearing. She
could discover none, and grew a little
angrier.
"Well, then, th' question's right here.
My father, your grandfather, made a
name fer hisself, and a place for his fam-
'ly, here in Dearborn Caounty, second
to nobuddy. Fer years 'n' years I kin
remember thet th' one question peo-
ple ast, when it was proposed to dew
anything, was ' Vhat does Seth Fair-
child think 'baout it ?' He went to th'
Senate twice ; he could 'a gone to Con-
gress from this deestrick time 'n' time
agin, if he'd be'n a mine to. Ev'ry-
buddy looked up to him. Vhen he
died, all of a suddent, he lef Lemuel th'
bes' farm, th' bes' stock, th' bes' farm-
haouse, fer miles raound. Well, thet's
forty year ago. I've lived here threw it
all. I've swallered my pride every day
in th' week, all thet time. I've tried to
learn myself a humble spirit--but I've
hed to see this place, and the famqy, go-
ing daown, daown, daown !"
There were tears in the old maid's
eyes now, as she spoke, tears of morti-

fication and revolt against her helpless-
ness, for she seemed to read the failure
of her appeal in the placid face of her
nephew, with its only decent pretence of
interest. She went on, with a rising
voice :
"You knaow a lithe of haow things
hey' gone, though you've allus took pre-
cious good pains to knaow ez little ez yeh
could. You knaow that when you were
a boy you were a rich man's son, with
yer pony, 'n' yer dancin' lessons, 'n' yet
college eddication; 'n'yer mother di-essed
well, 'n' had a kerridge, 'n' visited with
th' bes' people of Albany, people who
were my friends tew when I used to go
to Albany with yer grandfather. 'Iq'
what hey we come to ? Yer mother
slaved her life aout, lost all her ambition,
lost all her pride, saw things goin' to th'
dogs and didn't knaow haow to stop
'era--sakes forbid thet I should say any-
thing agin Siss]y ; she did all she could;
p'raps 'twould 'ev gone different if she'd
be'n a different kine o' woman, p'raps
not ; there's no use talkin' 'baout thet.
'Iq' ef I'd hed my say, few, maybe
things'd be'n different ; but it's ez it is,
'n' it's no use cryin' over spilt milk.
"Father never meant to be hard with
me. When he lef me nothin' but a
living aout o' th' farm, he expected,
ev'rybuddy expected, my Aunt Sabrina'd
leave me a clean sixty thaousand dollars
when she died. She was an ole woman,
'n' a widow, 'n' she hed no childern.
She'd allus promised my father thet if
I was named after her--confaound her
name !---I shaould be her heh'. 'N' then,
less'n a year after his death what does
the old huzzy up 'n' do but marry some
fortune hunter young enough to be her
son, 'n' give him every cent she bed in the
world. He led her a fine dance of it,
few, 'n' serve her right! But there I
was, lef 'thaout a thing 'cep' a roof over
my head.
"'N' then Lemuel, nothin' 'ud do but
he must go to Californy when the gold
cry riz, 'n' no sooner 'd he git there than
he was homesick 'n' bed to come back;
'n' when he got back, 'n' begun to hear
what fortunes them who'd gone aout
with him were a making, than he must
start aout again. But where it'd be'n
wildel:ness a few months b'fore, he faound
cities naow, 'n' ev'ry chance took up ; then

186 SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

he got robbed o' all his money, 'n' bed to
borrer, 'n' then he took chills 'n' fever off
th' isthmus, 'n' bed to lay in quarantine
fer weeks, on 'caount o' th' yellah fever ;
it'd be'n a poor year on the faln, 'n'
when he got back, it took ev'ry cent of
his ready money to set himself right.
"From thet day to this, his Californy
luck has stuck to him like death to a
nigger, tell here, to-day, the Fitches
don't think it wuth while to come to
your poor mother's fun'ral I kin re-
member Lije Fitch when he was glad
enough to beg beans o' my father fer
seed--'n' I'm wearing borrered mournin'
of Sarah Andrewses, a nile tew big for
e ?"
"It seems to me I've been told all this
a good many times, Aunt Sabrina," said
Albert, as his aunt stopped and glared
at him, trembling with the excitement
of her peroration. "There's nothing
very pleasant in it, for either of us, to
listen to or talk about; but I don't see
that there's anything more than I've
heard over and over again, except about
your having on another woman's dress,
and I don't assume that I'm expected to
interfere about that !"
Poor Miss Sabrina was too deeply
moved, and too much in earnest, to
note the sarcastic leity underl.4ng the
lawyer's conclusion. She caught only
the general sense of a negative response,
and looked at her nephew steadily with
a gaze half indignant, half appealing.
"Then you won't dew anything, ay?"
she asked at last.
"Oh, I am very far from saying that.
That's another thing. You send for me,
saying that you have an important com-
munication to make to me--at least, I
assume that it is important, from the
circumstances surrounding the request.
I come, and you first insist that I know
as well as you do what you mean, and
then, when I demur, you rehearse all the
unfortunate details of my father's failure
in life. I suggest that these are already
tolerably familiar to me, and this mild
statement you construe as a definite re-
fusal on my part to do something--what,
I don't know."
"I declare, Albert, you better send in
a bill fer givin' me this consultation. I
never knew a son wlo could take his
father's ruin 'n' his fam'ly's disgrace so

cool before. I s'pose that's th' lawyer of
it, few "
"Perhaps it's an advantage that some
one of the family should keep cool, Aunt,
and look at things one by one, in their
true relation. Now, if you have any
proposition to make to me, any plan to
present for my consideration, I should
like to hear it--because really this other
style of conversation is profitless beyond
description. In a vord, what do you
want me to do ?"
"What do I want yeh to do ?" The
old maid leaned forward and put a thin,
mitred hand on Albert's knee, looking
eagerly into his face, and speaking al-
most shrilly. "I want yeh to take this
farm, to come here to live, to make it a
rich gentleman's home agin! to ut the
Fairchilds up once more where my father
left 'era."
"Yes ?" was the provokingly unen-
thusiastic response.
Miss Sabrina felt that she had failed.
She put her spectacles on, and took the
Bible into her lap, as if to say that she
washed her hands of all mundane mat-
ters. But it did not suit Albert to re-
gard the interview as closed.
"There is one thing you don't seem
to see at all, Aunt," he said; "that is,
that Dearbo County is relatively not
altogether the most important section
of the Republic, and that it is quite
possible for a man to win public recog-
nition or attain professional distinction
in other communities which might rec-
oncile him to a loss of prestige here. It
may sound like heresy to you, but I am
free to admit that the good opinion of the
business men of New York City, where I
am regarded as  successful sort of man,
seems to me to outweigh all possible
questions as to how I am regarded by
Elhanan Pratt and Leander Crump and
--and that Baptist gentleman, for in-
stance, whom you had here to-day. The
world has grown so large, my dear aunt,
since your day, that there are thousands
upon thousands of Americans now who
go all their lives without ever once think-
ing about Dearborn County's opinion. Of
course I can understand how deeply you
must feel what you regard as a social de-
cline in the eyes of your neighbors. But
truly, it does not specially affect me.
They are not my neighbors ; if I seem

SETH'S BROTHER'S I/VIFE. 18"/

to them to be of less importance than I
was in my boyhood, when I had a pony,
I can't help it, and I am sure I don't
want to. Frankly, to use my mother's
old phrase, I don't care a cotton hat for
their opinionmgood, bad, or indifferent.
It is this, I think, which you leave out
of your calculation."
Iiss Sabrina had listened, with the
Book opened only by a finger's width.
The elaborate irony of her nephew's
words had escaped her, but she saw a
gleam of hope in his willingness to dis-
cuss the matter at all.
"But then this is the home o' the
Fairchilds; the fam'ly belongs to Dear-
born Caounty; father was allus spoken
of ez Seth Fairchild o' Dearborn, jis' as
much ezmez Silas Wright o' Dutchess."
"Of course that last is a powerful
argument," said Albert with a furtive
smile twitching a5 the corners of his
mouth. "But, after all, the county-
family idea doesn't seem to attract me
much. Why, aunt, do you know that
your grandfather Roger was a journey-
man shoemaker, who walked all the way
here from Providence ? There was noth-
ing incongruous in his son becoming a
Senator. Very well; if you have a state
of society where sudden elevations of
this sort occur, there will inevitably be
corresponding descents m just as lean
streaks alternate with fat in the bacon
of commerce. The Fah-childs went up
--they come down. They have exhausted
the soft. Do you see ?"
":Nao ! I don't see a bit! "N' I b'lieve
at heart you're jis' ez praoud ez I
be !"
"Proud ? Yes ! Proud of myself,
proud of my practice, proud of my po-
sition. But proud because tln-ee or four
hundred dull countrymen, seeing my
cows sleek, my harness glossy, my farm
well in order, and knowing that my
grandfather had been a State Se.ator,
would consider me a 'likely' man--no,
not at all."
Albert rose at this to go, and added,
as he turned the door-knob :
"As soon as he's equal to it, Aunt
Sabrina, I ql get father to go over his
affairs with me, and I'll try and straight-
en them out a trifle. I dare say we can
find some way out of the muddle."
"But yeh won't take up the thing yer-

self ? Yeh won't dew what I wanted yeh
tew ?"
The lawyer smiled, and said: "What
really? Come here and be a farmer ?"
Miss Sabrina had risen, too, and came
toward her nephew. ":No," she said,
"'not a farmer. Be a country gentle-
man, 'n'---'n'---a Congressman !"
Albert smiled again, and left the room.
He smiled to himself going down the
stairs, and narrowly escaped forgetting
to change his expression of countenance
when he entered the living room, where
were sitting people who had not en-
tirely forgotten the fact that it was a
house of mourning.
For Albert had a highly interesting
idea in his mind, both interesting and di-
verting. Curiously enough he had be-
gun developing it from the moment when
his aunt first disclosed her ambition for
him. At the last moment, in a blind
way she had suggested the first political
office that entered her mind as an added
bribe. She could not know that her
astute nephew had, from the first sug-
gestion of her plan, been trying to re-
member whether it was Jay and Adams
Counties, or Jay and Morgan, that were
associated with Dearborn in the Con-
gressional District; or that, when she
finally in despair said, "Be a country
gentleman and a Congressman," his
brain had already turned over a dozen
projects in as many seconds, every one
Congressional.

CHAPTER VII.

THE THREE BROTHERS.

AFTER the early supper of stale bread,
saltless butter, dark ded apple-sauce,
and chippy cake had been disposed of,
Lemuel returned to his rocking-chah"
by the stove, Aunt Sabrina and Isabel
took seats, each at a window, and read
by the fading light, and Albert put on
his hat, lighted a cigar, and went out.
His brother John stood smoking a pipe
in the yard, leaning against the high
well-curb, his hands deep in his panta-
loons pockets, and his feet planted fal
to the front and wide apart. Seth was
coming from the barns toward the wel],
with a bucket in his hand. Albert

190 SETH'S BROTHER'S I/IFE.

the spirit of my oration; the form
doesn't matter so much."
"Well, I will tell you, John," said
Albert, slowly, still feeling his way, "to
speak frankly, no doubt there's a good
deal in what you say. I feel that there
is. But you ought to consider that it
isn't easy for a man living in a great
city, immersed in business cares, and
engrossed in the labors of his profession,
to realize all these things, and see them
as you, who are here on the ground,
see them. It's hardly fair to attack me
as heartless, when you present these
facts to me for the first time."
"For the first time! You ought to
have seen them for yourself without
presenting. And then you said Sabrina
had often discussed the subject with
you."
"Oh, but her point of view is always
family dignity, the keeping up of the
Fairchflds' homestead in bronial state,
and that sort of thing. You should
have heard her this afternoon, telling
me how her father's name used to be
coupled with Dearborn County, just as
Sfls Wright's was with Dutchessm
either Dutchess or Delaware, I forget
which she said but it was very funny."
"Sabrina and I haven't spoken for I
don't -know how long, and we're not
likely to again in a hurry, but for all
that I'm bound to say I wish some others
of the family had as much pride as she's
got," said John. "Whatever else she
may be, she's as loyal and faithful to the
family idea, as jealous of the family's
name, as any old Spanish grandee. And
I confess the Silas Vright thing doesn't
seem funny to me at all any fellow with
the right kind of a heart in him would
feel that it was deucedly patheticmthe
poor old maid clinging through the
shipwreck to that one spar of support
rathe recollection of a time when her
father was bigger than his county. Such
things oughtn't to be laughed at."
Albert lost his patience. "Confound
it, man, do you want to force me into a
quarrelthis night of all others ? By
George, was there ever such a brace of
brothers! I come out here to get you
by yourselves, to talk over with you
some plans that have occurred to me
for setting things right heremand I
haven't had a civil answer yet from

either of you. First it's the youngster
who scowl and snarls at me, and then
you read me lofty lectures on my be-
havior, and then both together in con-
certed condemnation. No wonder I
come rarely to the farm! It's enough
to sicken any man of family ties, to be
bullyragged in this way. I've a good
mind to ell you you can all go to the
devil, and be hanged to you !"
The figure on the bucket rose to its
feet with a spring, so energetically that
there seemed a menace in the action.
The village editor restrained this move-
ment with a quiet hand, and a whisper-
ed "Keep cool, Seth." Then he said
with exaggerated calmness of voice"
"Personally, perhaps, I shouldn't mind
much if you did. But there are others
to look after, and so, before you do, it
might be worth while to learn what the
fine alternative was to have been. It
would be a great pity not even to hear
these noble plans with which you were
primed, you say, when you came out."
"But you must admit, John, that you
and Seth to-night have been enough to
try the patience of a saint."
"Oh, yes, we admit that. Go on!"
"Well, you've made it a little diffi-
cult for me to develop my plansmthey
were scarcely formed in my mind. In
a general way, I wanted to consult you
about freeing the farm, perhaps buying
back some of the original land that has
gone, putting the house in shape again,
improving the stock, placing father and
Sabrina beyond the chance of ever be-
ing embarrassed agaiuandanddo-
ing something for Seth."
"Nobody wants youm" began the im-
patient Seth.
"Youngster, you shut up !" said John,
again using the quieting hand. "Do
you really mean all this, Albert ?"
"I should scarcely have spoken in de-
tail as I have, otherwise," answered the
lawyer loftily.
"Well, this" said John, "this takes
a fellow's breath away."
"If you hadn't been in such haste to
impute bad motives and convict me
without judge or jury, perhaps the ef-
fect of my plans might not have been
so overpowering."
"Yes, we did you an injustice, Albert,
clearly we did. We were full of the idea

SETH'S BROTHER'S I/FIFE.

that all these troubles rolled off you like
water off a duck's back. It seems that
was our mistake. But--what's your
scheme ?"
"Definiteiy, I have none, except to do
all I can in the way we may decide will
be best all around. I have been thinking
some of coming to live here myself, say
from May to November of each year,
and taking the farm into my own hands."
"H'm--m! That might have its ad-
vantages, perhaps--but "
"Oh, I know what you mean. If I
do, everybody's rights shall be respected.
We'll fix that beyond question, to your
satisfaction, before a thing is done."
"I don't care about myself, particu-
larl,; you know that; but then there's
Seth, you -lmowe've always figxred
on the farm as his. It's trne he don't
want to be a farmer, that he hates the
whole thing, but still, that represents
all his capital, so to speak, and--"
"My dear John, that shall all be ar-
ranged. I am a childless man--probably
always shall be. As long as Father lives
the farm shall remain in his name. Ei-
ther his will can be in my favor, or I can
manage the farm as a trustee for all
three of us, after he's gone. In either
case, you shall both be protected in
turn by my will--absolutely protected.
Meantime, what do you want me to do
for Seth ? What does he want to do ?"
"Nothing needs to be done for me,"
began Seth, "I can. "
"Now, youngster, will you be quiet !"
said John, in mock despair. "I'll tell
you what you can do for Seth, and do
easily. Get him a place on some decent
newspaper, in New York or one of the
larger cities of the State, and let him
have money enough to eke out a small
salary at first, so that he can begin at
editorial work instead of tramping up
through the reporter's treadmill, as I
had to. That's all Seth'll ask, and it
will be the making of him."
"Begin at editorialwork--Seth ? Non-
sense !"
"No nonsense about it. For two
years back Seth has been doing some
of the best work on my paper--work
that's been copied all over the State."
"Bless my soul, what a literary family
we are!" said the lawyer." Does Aunt
Sabrina write, too? Perhaps those love

poems you have on the last page are
hers."
John continued, without noticing the
interjection. "Do you remember that
long article on ' Civil Service lefoxzn' we
had in the Banner last January ?"
"I don't think I do, John. To be
frank, although we enjoy having you
send us the Banner immensely, occa-
sionally it happens that the stress of
professional duties compels me to miss
reading a number."
"Well that article was reprinted in
all the big papers, from Boston to Chi-
cago. I never knew any other thing
from a little village paper to travel so
far, or attract so much attention. I had
lots of letters about it, too. That article
was Seth's--all his own. I didn't change
a word in it. And he's hardly seen any-
thing of the world yet, either."
The lawyer was heard chuckling, when
John's voice died away in the darkness.
The cigars had long since burned out,
and the men could with difficulty see
one another. The two younger brothers
waited, the one surprised, the other in-
creasingly indignant, to learn the cause
of Albert's hilarity.
"Do you realize, John," he said at
last, with merriment still in his voice,
"what a delightful commentary on civil
service reform yore- words make? The
best article on that doctrine is written
by a youngster who has never left the
farm--who doesn't know the difference
between a Custom House and a letter-
box on a lamp-post ! tIo, ho ! I must
tell that to Chauncey when I see him."
An hour later, John and Seth still
leaned against the mossy curb, smoldng
and talking over the words of their
elder brother, who some time before had
gone in to avoid the dew-fall.
"I wonder: .if we have misjudged him,
after all," said Seth. "I'm almost
ashamed to accept his favors, after the
way I pitched into him."
"I wonder what his scheme really
is," mused the more experienced village
editor.
CHAPTER VIH.
ALBERT'S PLANS.
IT became generally known, before
Sunday came again, that Albert was to

192
take the farm, and that Seth was to go
to the city--known not only along the
rough, lonesome road leading over the
Burfield Hills, which had once been a
proud turnpike, with hospitable taverns
at every league, and the rumbling of
great coaches and the horn of the Post-
boy as echoes of its daffy life of bustle
and profit, and now was a solitary thor-
oughfare to no place in particular, with
three or four gaunt old farm-houses,
scowling in isolation, to the mile--not
only on this road, and at the four cor-
ners below, but even at Thessaly people
learned of the coming change as if by
magic, and discussed it as a prime sen-
sation. It need not be added that the
story grew greatly in telling--grew too
ponderous to remain an entity, and div-
ided itself into several varying and, ulti-
mately, fiercely conflicting sections.
The Misses Cheesborough had the
best authority for sayingthat Albert had
acted in the most malignant and shame-
ful manner, seizing the farm, and turn-
ing poor Seth out of doors, and it was
more than a suspicion in their minds
that the feeble old father would soon be
railroaded off to an asylum.
On the other hand, Miss Tabitha Wil-
cox, who by superior vigor and resource
held her own very well against the com-
bined Misses Cheesborough, knew, ab-
solutely knew, that Albert had behaved
most handsomely, paying off all the
mortgages, making a will in favor of
Jolm and Seth, and agreeing to send
Seth to college, and what was more,
Miss Tabitha vould not be surprised,
though some others might be, if the
public-spirited Albert erected a new li-
brary bldlding in Thessaly as a donation
to the village.
Between these two bold extremes
there was room for many shades of vari-
ution in the story, and many orinal
bents of speculation. Down at the
cheese factory they even professed to
have heard that a grand coal deposit
had been surreptitiously discovered on
the Fairchild farm, and that Albert was
merely the agent of a syndicate of city
speculators who would presently begin
buying all the land roundabout. Old
Elhanan Pratt did not credit this, but
he did write to his son in Albany, a clerk
in one of the departments, to find out if

SETH'S BROTHER'S kt/'IFE.

a charter for a railroad near Thessaly
had been applied for. The worst of it
was, neither John nor Seth would talk,
and as for Albert, he had gone back to
lew York, leaving his wife behind.
On the farm the fortnight following
the funeral passed without event. In the
lull of field labor which precedes haying
time, there was not much for Seth to
do. He went down to the river several
times on solita 3, fishing trips ; it seemed
to him now that he was saying farewell
not only to the one pastime which never
failed him in interest or delight, but to
the valley itself, and the river. Iow
fond he was of the stream, and all its
belongings !
More like home than ever the old
farm house on the hill seemed some of
these haunts to which he now said good-
by--the shadowed pool under the but-
ternut-tree, with its high, steep bank of
bare clay where, just under the over-
hanging cornice of sod, the gypsy swal-
lows had made holes for their nests, and
at the black base of which silly rock
bass lay waiting for worms and hooks ;
the place farther up where the river
grew sharply narrow, and deep, dark
water sped swiftly under an ancient jam
of rotting logs, and where by creeping
cautiously through the alders, and gain-
inga foothold on the birch which was the
key to the obstructing pile, there were
pike to be had for the throwing, and
sometimes exciting struggles with anoTy
black bass, who made the pole bend like
a whip, and had an evil trick of cutting
the line back under the logs ; and then
the broader stretch of water below the
ruined paper-mill's dam, where the wad-
ing in the thigh-deep rifts was so pleas-
ant, and where the white fish would bite
in the swift water almost as gamely as
trout, if one had only the knack of play-
ing his line rightly in the eddies.
A score of these spots Seth had known
and loved from the boyhood of twine
and pin-hooks ; they seemed almost
credly familiar now, as he wandered up
and down the stream, dividing his atten-
tion between the lures and wiles of the
angler's art and musings on the vast
change of scene which was so close be-
fore him. Ah, how fair were the day-
dreams he had idly, fondly built for him-
self here in these old haunts, with king-

191 SETH'S BROTHER'S Id/'IFE.

stock-farm. I'm thinking of a trout-
pond, up beyond the orchard, m the
ravine there, too."
"Oh, Albert, this is what I've be'n
prayin' for this thirty year !" It was
Sabrina who spoke. There were tears
of joy in her eyes.
Iemuel Fairchild seemed rather dazed,
not to say dismayed, at the prospect
thus bewilderingly unfolded. "Itql cost
a heap o' money, Albert," he said at last,
rather dubiously, "an' I dunnao' 'baout
yer gittin' it back agin."
"That will be my look out," said the
lawyer, confidently. "At any rate, Isa-
bel and I will make a good home for you
and Aunt Sabrina, as long as you both
live. It will be a pleasant change for us
both. As for Seth. "
There was a pause, and Annie nestled
closer to Isabel, with a soft, "Oh yes,
about Seth."
"As for Seth, it's time he saw some-
thing of life besides grubbing here like
a farm-hand. We will try and get along
without him here. I've talked the mat-
ter over with a friend of mine, the pro-
prietor of the Tecumseh Chronicle, and
he is willing to give him a start there
under the most favorable conditions.
The salary will be small at first, of course,
but I will supplement it with enough to
give him a decent living, if he is frugal.
After that, of course, it all depends on
himself."
Seth stood up, as these last words
were spoken, and replied, stammeringly:
"You needn't be afraid of my not trying
nard, Albert. I'm sure I'm very grate-
ful to you. It's more than I dared ex-
pect you would do for me." He pushed
his way past the women to shake hands
with his brother, and say again, "It's so
good of you."
Albeit received these expressions of
gratitude benevolently, adding some
words of advice, and concluding with,
"You had better get ready to start as
early next week as you can. One of the
Chronicle men is going on a vacation,
and it's Workman's idea that you would
be handy in his absence. You could go,
say, Wednesday, couldn't you .9"
"So far as getting ready is concerned,
I don't know that there is anything to
do which couldn't be done in a day. But
--but "

"Of course you will need some things.
I'll talk with you about that in the morn-
ing. We'll drive down to Thessaly day
after to-morrow together."
Albert rose with this to go out and
see Milton, and the family interview was
dt an end.
Miss Sabrina hm-ried out to the kitch-
en, impatient to begin discussing with
Alvira, as had been her wont for years,
this new development in the affairs of
the household.

CHAPTER IX.

AT  M'TILDY'S " BEDSIDE.

LElgUEL FAIRCHILD sat still, smoking
his wooden pipe, and looking absently,
straight ahead, into the papered wall.
This habit of gazing at nothing was fa-
miliar to them all, and when, at Isabel's
suggestion, the three young people
started for a stroll through the orchard
path, they left him entirely without cere-
mony. This was growing to be the rule;
no one in the family now consulted him,
or took the trouble to be polite to him.
He seemed to have become in his own
house merely an article of aninaated fur-
niture, of not much more importance
than the rough-furred sickly old cat who
dozed his life away back of the stove.
He sat thus in solitude for some time,
blankly studying the grotesque patterns
in the old-fashioned wall-paper, and
drawing mechanically at the pipe in his
mouth, unconscious that no smoke came.
Thus Miss Sabrina found him when, after
a more than ordinarily sharp passage at
arms with Alvira, she retmaed from the
kitchen.
"I swaow ! thet girl gits wuss temper-
ed 'n' more presumin' ev'ry day o' her
life," she exclaimed.
"Who--Annie .9" asked her brother,
rousing himself as if from a nap.
"Annie ! nao ! who's talkin' abaout
her ?"
"Oh, nothin', unly I was thinkin' 'baout
Annie'baout her 'n' Seth, yeh knaow,"
answered Lemuel, apologetically.
"Well, what abaout 'era ?" The query
was distinctly aggressive in tone.
"Oh, nothin' much. I was sort o'
thinkin'---well, you knaow, S'briny, haow

SETH'S BROTHER'S I, UIFE. 195

Sissly used to lot on their makin' a match
of it--'n' I was kine o' wond'rin' ef this
here notion o' Seth's goin' away wouldn't
knock it all in th' head."
"Well?" Miss S-sbrina's monosyl-
labic comment had so httle of sympathy
or acquiescence in it, that Lemuel con-
tinued in an injured tone and with more
animation, not to say resolution:
"Well, I've hed kine of an idea o'
goin' over 'n' talkin' it over with M'tildy.
Mebbe that'll be the best thing to dew ?"
"Oh, you think so, dev yeh.9 Thet's
all th'pride you've got lef', is it? I think
I see myself goin' hangin' raound
tildy Warren, beggin' her to let her
granddaughter marry a Fairchild! I'm
ashamed of yeh, Lemuel."
"I don' see, much, what ther' is to
be ashamed on." I-Ie added, with the
faintest shadow of a grin on his face:
"'N' b'twixt you 'n' me, I don't see's
there's so blamed much fur me to be
praoud abaout, nuther. 'Tain't's if
was goin' to ask a favor o' M'tfldy, at all.
She 'n' Sissly used to talk 'baout the
thing's if 'twas settled. N' now 't she's
gone, 'n' Seth's talkin' o' quittin' th' farm,
seems to me it'd be the sensible thing to
kind o' fine aout ef hI'tildy wouldn't offer
th' young folks her farm, ef they'd stay."
"Very well, sir. ttev' yer own way,"
answered Miss Sabrina, with stern for-
mality. "You allus would hev' yer own
way--and yeh kin go muddle things up
to yer heart's content, for all o' me
Lemuel watched his sister march to
the stairs-door and close it decisively
behind her. He was accustomed of old
to this proof of her wrath; as far back
as he could remember it had been Sa-
brina's habit to figuratively wash her
hands of unpleasant complications on
the ground-floor by slamming this self-
same door, and going up to Sulk in her
own room. She did it as a young girl,
in the first months of her disagreements
with his young wife; it seemed to him
a most natural proceeding now, when
they were both old, gray-headed people.
Just now, it was a relief to him that
she had gone, for if she had stayed he
might not have had the courage to put
his thoughts into actions. As it was, he
took his hat from its nail back of the
kitchen-door, and started across lots for
the Warren homestead.

There was no danger of not finding
Mrs. Warren at home. For seven or
eight years she had scarcely stirred be-
yond her own door, and for the past
eighteen months she had been bed-
ridden. The front door was opened to
Mr. Fairchild by a young slip of a girl,
one of the brood of daughters with
which a neighboring poor family was
weighted down, and all of whom had
been driven to seek work at any price
among the farmers of the vicinity. It
seemed as if there was a Lawton girl in
every other farm-house the whole length
of the Burfield load.
The girl ushered him into the gloomy
hall, gloomier than ever now in the
gathering twilight, and unceremoniously
left him there, while she went to an-
nounce his presence. He heard through
a door ajar at the end of the hall a thin,
querulous voice ask, "Which one of the
Fairchflds is it?" and the girl's reply,
"The old man."
Then the selwant returned to him, and
with a curt, "Come ahead," led him to
the mistress of the house, who lay in
her bed-home, in a recess off the living
room.
Mrs. Matilda Warren had never been
what might be called a popular woman
in the neighborhood. She and her hus-
band, the latter dead now for many
years, had come from Massachusetts.
They were educated people in a sense,
and had not mingled easily with their
rougher neighbors. The widow War-
ren had, after her daughter's escapade,
carried this exclusiveness to a point
which the neighborhood fotmd disagree-
able. Gradually she had gro into the
recluse habit, and younger generations
on the hill-side, eking out the gossip of
their elders with fancies of their own,
born of stray glimpses of her tall, gaunt
figure and pale face, came to regard her"
with much that same awe which, two
centuries before, reputed witches had for
children, young and old.
Something of this feeling Lemuel
himself was conscious of, as he stood
before her. The coverlet came up close'
under her arms. She wore a wrapper-
dress of red flannel. As he entered she
raised herself, with an evidently cruel
effort, upon her elbow, dragging the
pillow down to aid in supporting her

196 SETH'S BROTHER'S I/FIFE.

shoulder. She punted-with tl@ exer-
tion as she confronted him. Herscanty
white hair was combed tightly back
from her forehead, and bound in place
with a black-velvet band ; a nattu-al part-
ing on the side of the hair gave the
withered face a suggestion of juvenile
jauntiness, in grotesque, jarring contrast
with the pale blue eyes which glittered
from cve:ns of dark wrinldes, and the
sunken, distorted mouth. She had
changed so vastly since their last meet-
ing that Lemuel stood bewildered and
silent, staring at her.
She spoke first. "I'm trying to think
--it must be twenty year since we've
met, Lemuel Fairchild."
"Nigh onto that, M'tildy," he replied,
turning his hat in his hands.
"I didn't expect ever to lay eyes on
you again, I couldn't come to you, and
wouldn't if I could, and I didn't dream
you would ever show yore" face here."
The aged woman said this in a high,
sharp voice, speaking rapidly and with
an ungracious tone.
Lemuel fidgeted with his hat and
moved his feet uneasily on the dog-skin
rug. "Yeh needn't be afeered, M'tildy,
I wouldn't hey' come naow ef it hadn't
been somethin' partikler 'baout Annie."
The invalid raised her shoulder from
the pillow with a sudden movement, and
bent her head forward. "What's hap-
pened to her ? Is she hurt ? Tell me,
quick !"
"Oh nao, they ain't nothin' th' matter
with her. It's unly 'baout her 'n' Seth.
I kine o' thought we ought to talk it
over 'n' see haow the land lay. That's
ll. '
"Oh, that's it, is it ? Samantha/"
Betrayed out of her shrewdness by
the suddenness of the smnmons the ser-
vant girl made her immediate appear-
ance through the hall door.
"Yes, I knew you were listening, you
huzzy," said Mrs. Warren, glumly. "You
get along up stairs, go into Annie's
room, an' make a noise of some sort on
the melodeon till I call you. Hot too
much noise, mind; jest enough so I can
know you're up there."
As the gift left the room, the invalid
explained : "Vhat she don't hear, the
rest of the Lawtons won't know. That
family's as good as a detective force for

the whole county." Then, in a less ami-
able tone: "You might as well set
down. Vhat is it about my girl an'
Seth ?"
As Lemuel awkwardly seated himself
near the bedside and prepared to answer,
a wailing, discordant series of sounds
came from the floor above. The knowl-
edge that the girl was creating this
melancholy noise to order, and on his
account, confused his thought and he
found himself stating the case much
more baldly than he had intended. "The
fact is," he said, stroking his hat over
his knee, "Seth's thinkin' o' goin' away
to Tecumsy--Albert's got him a place
there--'n' so I s'pose it'll be all up
b'twixt him 'n' Annie."
The grandmother never took those
light, searching eyes off her visitor's
face. He felt himself trueing uncom-
fortably red under their malevolent gaze,
and wished she would speak. But she
said nothing. At last he explained, def-
erentially :
"I thought it'd only be right to tell
yeh. I know Sissly 'n' you use to talk
abaout th' thing. Th' way she useto
talk, speshly jis' 'fore she died, it 'peared
's if you tew hed it all settled. But
Albert's goin' to take th' farm, it seems,
'n' Seth, he's fig'rin' on goin' away to be
a neditor, 'n 'it looks to me's if th' hull
plan'd fell threw."
Still no reply from the bed. He add-
ed, helplessly, "Don't it kind o' seem so
to you, M'tfldy ?"
The wretched discords from the cham-
ber above mocked him. The witch-
like eyes from the shadows of the recess
began to burn him. It was growing
into the dusk, but the eyes had a light
of their own, a cold, steely, fierce light.
Would she never speak ? How he re-
gretted having come !
"I'll tell you what seems to me, Lem-
uel Fairchild," she said at last, not
speaking so rapidly now, and putting a
sharp, finishing edge on each of her
words. "It seems to me that there's
never been but one decent, honorable,
likely human bein' in your whole family,
an' she came into it by the mistake of
marrying you. I blame myself for not
remembering the blood that was in you
all, an' for thinking that this youngest
son of yours was different from the rest.

SETH'S BROTHER'S 14/IFE. 197

I forgot that he was a Fairchild like the
others, an' I forgot what I owed that
family of men, so mean and cowardly
and selfish that they have to watch each
other like so many hyenas. An' so
you've come to tell me that Seth has
ttumed out like his father, like his uncle,
like all of his name, eh ? The more
fool I, to need to be told it !"
Lemuel's impulse was to rise from his
chair, and bear himself with offended
dignity, but the glitter in the old wom-
an's eyes warned him that the attempt
would be a failure. He scowled, put his
hat on the other knee, crossed his legs,
pretended to be interested in the antics
of a kitten which was working havoc
with a ball of ya at his feet. Finally
he said :
"You ain't fair to Seth. He's a good
boy. He ain't said nothin' nor done
nothin' fer yeh to git mad at. Fer that
matter, you never was fair to any of us,
'cept Sissly."
"Fair ! Fair !" came the answer
promptly, and in a swifter measure.
"Hear the man! Why, Lemuel Fair-
child, you know that you cheated your
own brother out of the share in that
farm that was his by all rights as much
as yours. You know that your father
intended you both to share alike, that
he. died too suddenly to make a new
will, and that you grabbed everything
under a will made when your brother
William was thought to be too sicldy to
ever raise. You know that you let him
grow up an idle, worthless coot of a fel-
low, an' then encouraged him--yes,
don't deny it, encouraged him, I say---
to make a fool of my daughter, and run
away with her. You knew I wouldn't
look at him as a suitor for Jenny; but
you thought I would be soft enough,
once they were married, to give him my
farm, an' you counted on getting it
away from him afterward, just as your
father got the Kennard farm before you.
You egged him on into the trouble, an'
you let him die in it, without help. Oh
I know you, Lemuel Fah-child--I know
your breed !
"Your wife was a good woman--a
million times better than you deserved.
She knew the wrongs that had been
done me, an' Annie, an' her poor ne'er-do-
well of a father before her; she was anx-

ious to make them good, not I. It was
she who talked, year after year, when
she ran over here on the sly to visit me,
of squaring everything by the young
folks' marriage. For a long time I
didn't like it. I distrusted the family,
as, God knows, I had reason to. But all
that I heard of Seth was in his favor.
He was hard-working, patient, even-
tempered, so everyone said. What little
I saw of him I liked. An' I felt sorry
for him, too, knowing how dear he was
to his mother, and yet how helpless she
was to give him advantages an' make
something besides a farm-drudge out of
him. So, little by little, I gave in to the
idea, an' finally it became mine almost as
much as Cecily's.
"As for Annie, I don't know how
much she has grown to care for him;
rm afraid she's known about ore- talks,
and lotted on 'era, though if anything
has passed between them she would have
told me. lor she's a good gixl--a good
girl and she'll stand by me, never fear,
and say, as I say now, that it's good rid-
dance ! D'ye mind ? Good riddance to
bad rubbish--to your whole miserable,
conniving, underhanded family ! There
ain't an honest hair in your head, Lemuel
Fairchild, and there never was. And
you can go back to them that sent you,
to your old catamaran of a sister and
your young sneak of a son, and tell 'em
what I think of them, and you, and the
whole caboodle of you, that ruined and
killed my Jane, and made me a broken
old woman before my time, and now
tries to break my granddaughter's heart !
And the longest day you live, don't ever
let me lay eyes on you again. That's
all !"
Lemuel groped his way out again
through the dark hall, to the front door.
The groaning discords from upstairs
rose to a triumphant babel of sound
as he knocked against the hat-rack, and
fumbled for the latch, as if to emphasize
and gloat over his discomfiture. The
cold evening air, after the swelte4ng
heat of the sick-room, was a physical
relief, but it brought no moral comfort.
Old Lemuel was much pained, and
even more confused, by the hard words
to which he had had to listen. They
presented a portrait of himself which
he felt to be in no way a likeness, yet

198 THE LAST FURROV.

he could not say wherein a sidle line
should be altered. He knew that he
was not a bad man ; he felt conscious of
having done no special wrong, intention-
ally, to anybody ; he had always tried to
be fair and square and easy-going with
everybody; yet the mischief of it was
that all these evil things which the
witch-like M'tildy had piled at his door
were of indubitable substance, and he
could not prove, even to himself, much
less to her, that they did not belong
there. It was a part of the consistently
vile luck of his life that all these malig-
nant happenings should be charged up
against him, and used to demonstrate
his wickedness. He had not enough
mental skill or alertness to sift the un-
fair from the true in the indictment she
had drawn, or to put himself logically in
her place, and thus trace her mistakes.
He only realized that all these events
which she enumerated had served to
convince Mrs. Warren that he was a
villain. The idea was a new one to him,

and it both surprised and troubled him
to find that, as he thought the matter
over, he could not see where she was
particularly wrong. Yet a villain he
had certainly never intended to be--
never for a moment. Was this not cru-
elly hard luck ?
And then there was this business
about Seth. He had meant it all in the
friendliest spirit, all with the best of
motives. And how she had snapped him
up before he had a chance to explain,
and called him a scoundrel and his boy
a sneak, and driven him from the
house! Here was a muddle for one--
and Sabrina had said he would make a
muddle of it, as he had of everything
else, all through his life. The lonely,
puzzled, discouraged old man felt wo-
fully like shedding tears, as he ap-
proached his own gate--or no, it was
Albert's gate now--and passed the
young people chatting there, and real-
ized what a feeble old fool they all must
think him.

(To be continued.)

THE LAST FURROW.

By Charles Edwin Marhbam.

THE Spirit of Earth, with glad restoring hands,
VIid ruin moves, in glimmering chasm gropes,
And mosses mantle and the bright flower opes;
But Death the Ploughman wanders in all lands,
And to the last of Earth his furrow stands.
The grave is never hidden; fearful hopes
Follow the dead upon the fading slopes,
And there wild memories meet upon the sands.

When willows fling their banners to the plain,
When rumor of winds and sound of sudden showers
Disturb the dream of winter--all in vain
The grasses hurry to the graves, the flowers
Toss their wild torches on their windy towers;
Yet are the bleak graves lonely in the rain.

]'he Palais Royal at the Time of the Revolution. From an old Print.

GLIMPSES ,,4 T

THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.

SOCIAL LIFE AND CHARACTER IN THE PARIS OF THE REVOLUTI01'.

B.y Annie Cary Morris.
SECOND PAPER.

Ir hardly seems possible that lIr.
Morris really found himself "not suffi-
ciently brilliant for the constellation"
which gathered round Madame de Stall;
and his own reason for not entering
into the ton of this society, "that I
should not please here, because I am not
sufficiently pleased," seems to offer the
only excuse for the feeling he expressed
almost every time that he made one of
the "constellation." There was no lack
of "bel esprit" and brilliant conversa-
tion on all topics, and it is possible the
key to his feeling may be found in a little
lurking sarcasm in his criticism on the
few observations he made himself, which,
he says, "have more of justice than
splendor, and therefore cannot amuse."
Meditating on the quality of the con-
versation in "this upper region of wits
and graces," he concluded that there

was a road to success "here, which I
am half tempted to try. It is the sen-
tentious style. To arrive at perfection
in it one must be very attentive, and
either wait till one's opinion be asked
or else communicate it in a whisper. It
must be clear-pointed and perspicuous,
and then it will be remembered, repeted,
and respected. This, however, is play-
ing a part not natm'al to me ; I am not
sufficiently an economist of my ideas."
Mr. Morris gives a most interesting
description of the fashion among the
members of the national assembly, of
submitting their arguments, before read-
ing them in public, to the criticism of a
small, select circle of persons interested
in the ortor--mong whom, Mr. Mor-
ris says, "is generally the intimate friend
of the speaker, or else the fair whom he
intends to make his friend; and this

,00 GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.

ceremony does not fail to affect the
form at least, and perhaps the sub-
ject."
It happened sometimes, however, that
a subject appealed strongly to the lis-
teners-the personality of the reader, the
pathos of his voice and words, so over-
powered their better judgment that, de-
spite the unsoundness of the principles
he advocated, his argument met with
the fullest applause. Often present at
these readings, Mr. lYiorris's criticism
was generally asked for, and given with
the candor he usually displayed.
I-Ie gives a particularly interesting ac-
count of one evening in Madame de
Stall's salon, where a party of choice
spirits were assembled to listen to Cler-
mont-Tonnerre, "one of the greatest or-
ators of the day," read an oration which
he intended to deliver in the national as-
sembly. "It was a very pathetic oration,"
he says ; the object of which was to show
that penalties are the legal compensa-
tion for injuries and crimes. The man
who is hanged, having by that event
paid his debt to society, ought not to
be held in dishonor; and, in like
manner, he who has been condemned
for seven years to be flogged in the gal-
leys should, when he had sewed out his
apprenticeship, be received into good
company as if nothing had happened."
This seems a strange doctrine; but
was really a strong reaction against the
extreme to which the matter had been
carried the other way. "Dishonoring
thousands for the guilt of one has so
shocked the public that this extreme
has become fashionable." "The oration
was very fine," hit. Morris says ; "very
sentimental, very pathetic, and the style
harmonious. Shouts of applause and
full approbation greeted it."
"Extremely eloquent," he told Ion-
sieur de Tonnerre, he found his speech;
but made one or two observations on
the reasoning, telling him candidly that
"his principles were not very sound."
This opinion creted universal surprise,
and a few more remarks from Mr. Ior-
ris "changed the face of things, and
brought the company to an opinion so
adverse to the reader that his position
was universally condemned, and, appar-
ently much mortified, Clermont-Ton-
nerre left the room. I fear," adds

Mr. lYiorris, "that I have made an enemy
of him."
Did Clermont-Tonnerre really have
any faith in an argument that could be
killed by one adverse opinion ? seems a
natural question; and it finds a ready
answer in the fact, which Mr. Morris
notes, "that the discourse was never
delivered in the assembly," and yet he
goes on to say: "It was of the kind
which produces a decree by acclama-
tion, for sometimes an orator gets up
in the midst of another deliberation,
makes a full discourse, and closes with
a good snug resolution which is car-
ried with a huzza and the clapping of
hands," which so shocked Mr. Morris's
sense of propriety.
Taking the active interest he did in
public affairs, with his ready wit always
on the alert to turn a pretty speech or
to amuse the society he was in, and
with a vein of sarcasm difficult for him
to subdue when called out by a con-
descending person or by one whose
mind was not responsive to hisand, as
he says, often expressing his sentiments
and opinions too openly was a fault not
easy for him to curbit is not to be
wondered at that, insignificant as he
thought he was, he should occasionally
hve found himself an object of dislike.
It is impossible not to be amused by
the account he gives of having inadver-
tently offended a hot-headed gentleman
he met at dinner, simply by answering
an observation of his to the effect that
" Paris maintained the kingdom of
France." "I said," says Morris, "Oui,
monsieur, comme moi je nourris les
515phants de Siam. This excited the
choleric humor of a pedant, and he
takes revenge by circulating the report
that I am an intriguant, a v, auvais
sujet, and a partisan of the Duke of Or-
leans." Madame de Flahaut, to whom
the story of the man's wrath and threats
had been told by her physician, knew
the fellow to be himself a "mauvais
sujet," and a very dangerous person be-
sides; and was most solicitous that Ir.
Morris should speak to Lafayette, and
ask protection against a man "whom
she is sure," she tells him, "would not
scruple to bring him to the lanthorn
in other words, to have me hanged.
This would be  rather sharp retri-

204 GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.

the priests shut up in the Carries and
the prisoners in the Abbaie" were, as
he says, "all killed, and that the mur-
dering goes on all day; and that there
were about eight hundred men con-
cerned in it." But to have been quietly
eating dinner and to be told "that a
friend is on his way to the place of
execution," and not to know which of
the guests partaking of his hospitality
would be the next victim of the scaf-
fold, must have made life nearly un-
bearable.
Of course there was little hope that
the brutal passions, aroused and stimu-
lated by the sight of blood, would quiet
down after the sacrifice of a few victims ;
for Mr. Morris says- "Everything wears
an appearance of confusion--no author-
ity anywhere ; and, notwithstanding the
common danger, the factions seem daily
more embittered against each other, and
are far from a disposition to unite. It
seems probable that those who possess
1)aris will dictate to the others. 1)eople
have been amusing themselves in the
streets to-day tearing the ear-rings out
of women's ears nd stealing watches."
Such is the history Mr. Morris gives
of many days, gradually growing worse
as the new government and the mob
gained strength. It would be useless
to go into details in the short space
allotted to this article, and it is a much
more grateful task to pass over them
and go back a few months, when, al-
though there was plenty of trouble, and
clouds of impending danger hung over
society, people rose above the depres-
sion, and, bravely trying to accept the
change from the old order to the new,
enjoyed themselves in many ways.
Goncourt says that during 1790 and
1791 the only commerce that prospered
was the "commerce de la gueule." The
pleasures of the palate were, in some
degree, made to compensate for the dis-
agreeable disorder and general wretch-
edness of life. A feeling of "let us eat,
drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we
die," seemed to animate society, and
much ingenuity was exercised to create
an endless variety of delicious dishes,
with names to fit the particular excite-
ment of the moment. Arthur Young
gives a very interesting picture of the
well-appointed French table of that day,

with its clean linen, which he found
everywhere of a coarse quality, but in
great profusion. The poorest French-
man never thought of eating a meal
without a napkin ; and he contrasts this
with the rather unpleasant habit in the
houses of "well-to-do people" in Eng-
land--of not using them because, owing
to the extreme fineness of the English
linen, the expense of it was enormous.
Mr. Morris does not go into the de-
tails of the linen as A-thur Young does ;
nor has he, like Goncourt, noted the
menus of most enticing dinners. These
items, so interesting to the general
reader, have, unfortunately, escaped his
notice.
He does mention, in a casual way,
going to dine with Madame de Foucault,
and being informed by her that "the
maitre d'h6tel has shot himself this
morning, so we dine late." As a rule,
he was more occupied with the guests
than the dinner, though he did, on one
occasion, remark that the Duchess of
Orleans had profited by changing her
maitre d'h6tel, and he was never slow to
acknowledge the good quality of the
entertainment. His province seems to
have been to, if possible, counteract the
tone of depression and sadness which
possessed his friends, and by a jest, a
well-turned compliment, or a verse, to
turn their thoughts, for the moment at
least, from their troubles.
I-Ie did not hesitate to make mer T
with Madame de Montmorris over her
reduced circumstances, when she showed
him an almanac the Duke of Dorset had
just sent her from England, "in which,
among other things, is a table of weights
and measures. She says it is one among
many things which will be useless to
her." This was too good an opportu-
nity to lose ; so the ever-ready verse was
forthcoming, intended to amuse her and,
at the same time, give a sly hit at the
wearying discourses and endless conver-
sutions he was forced to listen to--"and
on a blank leaf of the almanac," he
says, "I wrote the following lines:

A table of weight and measure,
In times like these it is a treasure ;
For each one measures now the State,
And what his reasons want in weight
He makes up as a thing of course
By the abundance of discourse."

'206 GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.

stage and .crown it, which is codnplied in the course of conversation that I ex-
with amid repeated acclamations." pect he will get the hat the Cardinal de
About the same time that the revo- Lomerice has sent back. And I further
lution was stretching its hand out to- tell him that the holy father has done
ward the properties of the Church, and wrong in laying the kingdom under an
the priests, after making a desperate interdict. He answers, 'that opinion
fight for their possessions, and inci- is no longer with the Sainte Liege, and
dentally for their religion, were almost that without an army to support the
ready to say with the Trappist monk, interdict it would be laughed at; that
"t'rres, il faut mourir," the play of the instance of England makes Rome
"Charles Ieuf" was put upon the stage, cautious.' I reply that the cases are
by way of assisting the Assembly in its somewhat different; but further, as the
crusade against the priests and irritat- Assembly have left the pope nothing,
ing still more the ah'eady half-distracted he might play a sure game, since he
clergy. "It is a tragedy founded on can lose no more, and at any rate he
the massacre of St. Bartholomew," Mr. had better have done nothing than only
Morris says, "and a very extraordinary one-half of what he might do, because
piece to be represented in a Catholic mankind may by degrees be habituated
country. A cardinal who excites the to everytlg.
king to violate his oaths and murder "He agrees to the truth of this, and
his subjects, then in a meeting of the owns that he should have preferred ex-
assassins consecrates their daggers, ab- tremities. I tell him that from the
solves them from their crimes, and moment when the Church property was
promises everlasting felicity--all this seized I considered the Catholic religion
with the solemnities of the established at an end, because nobody would be
religion. A murmur of horror runs priest for nothing. He agrees fully."
through the audience. There are sev- 5Ir. gared Sparks, in one of his quota-
eral observations calculated for the pres- tions from his diary, has given Mr.
ent times, and I think this piece, if it Morris's first impression of Talleyrand,
runs through the provinces, as it prob- which was not particularly favorable to
ably will, must give a fatal blow to the worthy bishop. "Sly, cool, cun-
the Catholic religion. My friend, the ning, malicious, and, of course, ambi-
Bishop d'Autun (Talleyrand), has gone tious," was his verdict after seeing and
a great way toward its destruction by talking to him one evening in Madame
attacking the Church property. Surely de Flahaut's salon. And although after-
there never was a nation which verged ward he saw him constantly and in the
faster toward anarchy. Io law, no most intimate way he never seems to
morals, no principles, no religion." have trusted the Bishop of Autun.
Of all the different persons in many Mr. Morris's introduction to this por-
walks of life and of various degrees tion of the community was soon after
of moral excellence whom lIr. Morris his arrival in France, at Madame de
met, there are none that he handles so Durfort's, one evening, when, much to
severely as he does these same priests his surprise, for he evidently expected
and high ecclesiastical dignitaries who, more di-mity in a member of the
th the Abb6 Maury as their leader, Church, he says- "A bishop from
fought for the rich benefices of the Languedoc makes tea, and the ladies
Church. "The Abb6 Maury," he says, who choose it stand round and take
"is a man who looks like a downright each their dish. This would seem
ecclesiastical scoundrel." He met him strange in America; and yet it is by no
in Madame de Iadaillac's salon, where means more so than the Chevalier de
were "apartyof fierce aristocrats. They Louis, who begged alms of me this
have the word 'Valet'written on their morning after introducing himself by
foreheads in large characters. Maury his own letter."
is formed to govern such men, and such The Bishop of Orleans, with whom he
men are formed to obey him, or anyone dined at the table of the Duchess of Or-
else. But Maury seems to have too leans, did not escape his criticism, as
much vanity for a great man. I tell him that reverend father evidently did full

GLIMPSES AT THE DIARIES OF GOUUERNEUR MORRIS. 207

justice to the princess's dinner, for Mr.
Morris says : "This bishop seems to be of
that kind whose sincerest prayer is for
the fruit of good living, and to judge by
his manner of talking one would sup-
pose that he deems it of more impor-
tance to speak than to speak the truth."
Mr. Morris cannot help showing his
amusement, and a little of his sarcastic
vein crops out in the short mention he
makes of a conversation he had with
the celebrated Cardinal de Rohan, the
hero of the diamond-necklace scandal.
He met him at Madame de Flahaut's
one eveningm" and we talk," he says,
"among other things about religion, for
the cardinal is very devout. He
once the lover of Madame de Flahaut's
sister. Accidentally he mentions his pro-
cs," at the time of the diamond-necklace
excitement, "and after relating the cir-
cumstances which brought it to his mind,
he declares that he thinks it a weakness
to talk of it; and he is right." "He has,"
is Mr. Morris's comment, "plus de grace
que d'esprit, but he speaks in too good
style to write in a style as bad as Ma-
dame de la Motte has attributed to him."
It is quite evident that Mr. Morris
found the society of prelates the least
congenial in Paris. I-Ie was much more
in the element that pleased his fancy when
the house of the British ambassador was
opened to him, and he and Lord Gower
became very good friends. He found as
well a charming friend and companion
in the wife of the British ambassador,
Lly Sutherland, who seems to have
been a most lovely woman, and the
friendship she and Mr. Morris formed
lasted many years. She it was who
showed her snpathy for the queen
when the royal family, after the break-up
of the 10th of August, were put into a
cellin the ancient monastery of the Feuil-
lants, by sending, in a very private way,
some linen for the dauphin. The queen
told Madame Campan, who mentions this
incident, that Lady Sutherland alone, of
all the foreign representatives, noticed
their misery and actual want. In the
drawing-rooms were to be found all the
distinguished English people pa.ssing
through Paris, as well as many well-
known French people. Here he met
" Lady Ann Lindsay, with whom," he
says, "I have a curious conversation.

She is desperately in love with Mr. Wind-
ham, and toltured with jealousy. I tell
her that if she wishes to bring back
lover she must alarm his fears, and if
she chooses to make use of me I am at
her orders. I tell her how she ought to
act, and she says that if it becomes nec-
essary she will apply to me." Of course
he wrote verses to Lady Sutherland's
charms, and when he gave them to her,
"her countenance," he says, "shows me
that they are not thrown away. She
afterward confides to me that she was
ashamed, flattered, and delighted."
She asks his sympathy and interest in
the fact that "she and Lord Gower have
quitted playing, and she thinks I like
them well enough to be pleased at it. I
assure her of my attachment more in
tone and manner than by words." It is
impossible to comment on the style of
conversation and the blinage indulged
in by the highest society in Paris and
France. It must stand on its own
merits, if it has any; as it was then,
so it is now. Startling in its freedom
to the uninitiated, but by no means un-
grateful to the ladies of France, who
then, as now, made but a feeble protest,
with the slightly drooped eyelid, the
little characteristic shrug of the shoul-
ders, and a gentle exclamationrather
inviting than repelling a continuance of
the insinuating flattery or the risque
anecdote.
Mr. Morris had one advantage over
most persons, which he was not slow to
turn to profit, for under cover of English,
which was not understood by many of
his friends, he could observe to the am-
bassadress, his hostess, "that she doesn't
eat, but is merely a dish at her own
table, and that not the worst, but that
she has not the politeness to ask anyone
to partake of it. Madame de Mont-
morris wants to know," he says, "the
subject of our conversation, which she
does not understand. Lly Suther-
land tells her: 'll e dit des
cets.' 'Oh,' was her answer, 'il en
est bien cpable.' Madame de Stall
comes in late, and the Princesse de
Tarent makes mouths at her. After
dinner the princess tells me that the
queen often talks to her of me when
they are riding together. I reply only
by a bow. She repeats it and dwells on

GLIMPSES" AIT THE DI/IRIES OF GOUI/ERNEUR MORRIS. 209

August, 1791, Mr. Morls made an effort
to influence the king. in the acceptance
of the constitution, which he did not
hesitate to say was "a ridiculous one,"
and gave into the hands of Monsieur de
Montmorin what he calls "a plan of a
discourse for the king," to be presented
to his majesty. Morris's advice to the
king was to accept the constitution, to
"make clear and pointed observations
on it, and assign as a reason for accept-
ing it the mischief which would inev-
itably follow from his refusal." The
character of his advice all through was
exceedingly bold, and it startled Mon-
sieur de Montmon, "who," says Mor-
ris, "finds it too forcible ; that the tem-
per of the people will not bear it. I leave
the paper with him, however, and he is
to show it to the king on Monday. I
gave him leave (which he otherwise
would have taken)to show it to his
daughter, [adame de Beaumont, as I
know that she will encourage such a
step, having previously mounted her im-
anation to that point."
Iadame de Sta61, in her most mis-
chief-making mood, is to be thanked for
making an interesting history for this
memoir, which otherwise might have
remained unheard of, like several others
presented to the king at the same time
on the same subject. That lady put into
practice what no less a person than her
father said "was a common trick with
her, to pretend in order to leam," and,
Mr. Morris says, "requests me at her
own dinner-table to show her the me-
moir I have prepared for the king. I am
surprised at this, and insist on know-
mg how she became acquainted with
it. She tells me pretty nearly. I read
it to her and the Abb5 Louis, through
whom she gained her intelligence, and
they are, as I expected, very averse to
so bold a tone. I am well persuaded
that a poor conduct will be adopted."
Madame de Stasl's next move was to
speak to the Bishop of Autun of the
work, forgetting or not caring that what
she said would get back to Mr. Morris.
"Madame de Flahaut tells me," he says,
"that Madame de StaS1 had formal my
work veT weak, and that she had tol[l
the bishop that this is false, for that,
on the contraT, Madame de Stall had
feared only from its being too strong.
VOL. I.14

I expected that conduct from Madame
de Stall. She has told other persons
that she has seen my work. She is a
devilish woman."
When he next met her he says: "I
have not the opportunity to tll her
what I intended, for she seems a little
conscience-shck and avoids me; but
I tell the Abb Louis that I renounce
all influence in the business, and shall
desire that my plan be not followed.
Monsieur de Montmorin tells me that
Madame de Sta(l played the same trick
on him. I tell him that I have caused
her to believe that I have given up the
idea eutirely, and desire him to speak of
it lightly and as a thing I haw aban-
doned." The question was, Who could
be hsted? Madame de Stall could
make mischief and try to spoil things
with her tricks, but Monsieur de Mont-
morin was not bove saying one thing
and doing another; for he told Mr.
Morris that "the plan was in the king's
possession, and that his majesty found
the discourse prepared for him diffi-
cult to swallow, because it acknowl-
edges the loss of the crown. But he re-
plied to this that it was only defective
because he had not the command of
150,000 men." The king accepted the
constitution on the 14th of September.
The day before, "Monsieur de la Marck
tells me," Mr. Morris says, "that the
king's observations will be made to-mor-
row. He seems a little cool and shy on
the subject. Dining at Madame de Fla-
haut's to-night, I lem the purport of
the king's letter, which is meagre enough.
It would seem that intrigue has at
length succeeded, and caused the poor
monarch to adopt a middle party which
is good for nothing." "This morning
is introduced by peals of artillery," 5Ir.
Mor'is says. "It is a high festival on the
adoption of the constitution. As no
carriages can move I walk out, at one,
and go to the Palais Royal. In the even-
ing, having deposited my watch, purse,
and pocketbook at home, I walk through
the Rue St. Honor5 to the Champs
ElysSes, thence to the Tuileries. The il-
lmnination of the chateau and avenues
is superb."
"I see Monsieur de Montmorin, and
on inquiry find that he didnot deliver my
paper until after his majesty had accept-

THE STORY OF ,4 NEI4/ YORK HOUSE.

combination of two homes old Mr.
Dolph sat himself down to fiish his
stint of life. He got up each morning
and found that twenty-four hours of sleep
and waking lay before him, to be got
through in their regular order, just as
they were lived through by men who hal
an interest in living. I-Ie went to bed
every night, and crossed off one from a
tale of days of which he could not know
the length.
Of course his son, in some measure,
saved his existence from emptiness. I-Te
was proud of young Jacob--fond and
proud. I-Ie looked upon him as a prince
of men, which he was, indeed. I-Ie
trusted absolutely in the young man, and
his trust was well placed. And he knew
that his boy loved him. But he had an
old man's sad consciousness that he was
not necessary to Jacob--that he was an
adjunct, at the best, not an integral part
of this younger existence. I-Ie saw Ja-
cob the younger gradually recovering
from his grief for the mother who had

left them; and he knew that even so
would Jacob some day recover from
grief when his father should have gone.
He saw this ; but it is doubtful if he
felt it acutely. Nature was gradually
dulling his sensibilities with that won-
derful aneesthetic of hers, which is so
much kinder to the patient than it is to
his watching friends. After the first

wild freak of selling the house, he
showed, for a long time, no marked
signs of mental impairment, beyond his
lack of interest in the things which he had
once cared about--even in the growth of
the city he loved. And in a lonely and
unoccupied man, sixty-five years of age,
this was not unnatural. It was not un-
natural, even, if now and then he was
whimsical, and took odd fancies and
prejudices. But nevertheless the work
was going on within his brain, little by
little, day by day.
He settled his life into an almost me-
chanical routine, of which the most ac-
tive part was his daffy walk down into
the city. At first he would not go be-
yond St. Paul's church-yard; but after
awhile he began to take timorous strolls
among the old business streets where
his life had been passed. He would
drop into the offices of his old friends,
and would read the market reports with
a pretence of great interest, and then
he would fold up his spectacles and put
them m their worn
leather case, and walk
slowly out. He was al-
ways pleased when one
of the younger clerks
bowed to him and said,
"Good-day, Mr. Dolph !"
It was in the fourth
year of his widowhood
that he bethought him-
self of young Jacob's
need of a more liberal
social life than he had
been leading. The boy
went about enough; he
was a good deal of
beau, so his father heard ;
and there was no desir-
able house in the
that did not welcome
handsome, amiable
young Dolph. But he
showed no signs of tak-
ing a wife unto himself, and in those
days the bachelor had only a provisional
status in society. He was expected to
wed, and the whole cixcle of his friends
chorussed yearly a deeper regret for the
lost sheep, as time made that detestable
thing, an "old bachelor," of him.
Young Jacob was receiving many
courtesies and was making no adequate

THE STORY OF A NEllWYORK HOUSk: 215

return. He felt it himself, but he was
too tender of his father's changeless
grief to urge him to open the great
empty house to their friends.
The father, however, felt that it
was his duty to sacrifice his own
desire of solitude, and when the
winter of 1825 brought home the
city's wandering childrenmthere
were not so many of the wander-
ing sort in 1825mhe insisted that
young Jacob should give a dinner
to his friends among the gay young
bachelors. That would be a be-
ginning ; and if all went well they
would have an old maiden aunt
from Philadelphia to spend the
winter with them, and help them
to give the dinner parties which
do not encourage bachelorhood,
but rather convert and reform the
coy celibate.
[[he news went rapidly through
the town. The Dolph hospitality
had been famous, and this was
taken for , signal that the Dolph
doors were to open again. There
was great excitement in Hudson
Street and St. John's Park.
Maidens, bending over their

pected consignment of wines or Havana
cigars, sent up from Little Dock Street
--or what we call Water Street now, the
,.-   " -_ ..
/'" ' ' " "   '" "-
-. ,.  ....  ,..

tambour - frames, working ._=-_-
secret hopes and aspirations
in with their blossoming
silks and worsted, blushed,
with faint speculative smiles, as they
thought of the vast social possibilities of
the mistress of the grand Dolph hoase.
Young bachelors, and old bachelors, too,
rolled memories of the Dolph Madeira
over longing tongmes.
The Dolph cellar, too, had been fa-
mous, and just at that period
Yorkers had a fine and fanciful taste in
wine if they had any self-respect what-
ever.
I think it must have been about then
that Mr. Dominick Lynch began his mis-
sionary labors among the smokers and
drinkers of this city; he who bought a
vineyard in France and the Vuelta Abajo
plantations in Cuba, .solely to teach the
people of his beloved New York what
was the positively proper thing in wines
and cigars. If it was not then, it could
not have been much later that Mr. Dolph
had got accustomed to receiving, every
now and then, an unordered and unex-

lower end of it. And I am sure that he
paid Mr. Lynch's bill with glowing pride ;
for Mr. Lynch extended the evangeliz-
ing hand of cultm-e to none but those of
pre-eminent social position.
It was to be quite a large dinner ; but
it was noticeable that none of the young
men who were invited had engagements
of regrettable priority.
Jacob Dolph the elder looked more
interested in life than he had looked in
four years when he stood on the hearth-
rug in the drawing-room and received
his son's guests. He was a bold figure
among all the young men, not only be-
cause he was tall and white-haired, and
for the moment erect, and of a noble and
gracious cast of countenance, but be-
cause he clung to his old style of dress
--his knee-breeches and silk stockings
and his long coat, black, for this great
occasion, but of the "shadbelly" pat-
te. He wore his high black stock,

2'20 THE STORY OF ,,4 NEI4 z YORK HOUSE.

seven o'clock in the evening. And after late white columbines, for which Mr.
it was over, and the young coupl*e had Jacob Dolph the younger had scoured
digested what St. Paul had to say about the woods neax Fort Washington.
the ordinance of wedlock, and had in- There was to be a grand supper, later ;
audibly promised to do and be whatever and the time of waiting was tilled up
the dominie required of them, they were with fashionable conversation.
led by the half-dozen groomsmen to the That dear old doctor, who was then

long glass between the front windows,
and made to stand up there, with their
faces toward the company, and to re-
ceive the congratulations of a mighty
procession of friends, vho all used the
same formulas, except the very old ones,
who were delicately indelicate.
The bridegroom wore a blue coat and
trousers, and a white satin waistcoat
embroidered with silver-thread roses
and lilies-of-the-valley. The coat was
lined with cream-colored satin, quilted
in a most elaborate pattern; and his
neck-tie was of satin, too, with embroid-
ered ends. The frills on his shirt were
a miracle of fine linen. As to the bride,
she was in white satin and lace, and at
her throat she wore a little bunch of

a dear young doctor, and whose line
snow-crowned face stood in later years
as an outward and visible sign of all
that was brave, kindly, self-sacrificing,
and benevolent in the art of healing,
was seated by Madam Des Anges, and
was telling her, in stately phrase, suited
to his auditor, of a certain case of hero-
ism with which he had met in the course
of his practice. Mr. Blank, it appeared,
had been bitten by , dog that was sup-
posed to be possessed by the rabies. For
months he had suffered the agonies of
mental suspense and repeated cauterizing
of the flesh, and during those months
had concealed his case from his wife, that
he might spare her pain--suffering in
silence enough to unnerve most men.

'222 THE STORY OF A NEIM YORK HOUSE.

at her broad front doo-, and whe they
had the largest room in her large, old-
fashioned house, for one night. Madam
Des Anges wished to keep them longer,
and was authoritative about it. But
young Jacob settled the question of
supremacy then and there, with the
utmost courtesy, and Madam Des
Anges, being great enough to know
that she was beaten, sent off the victor
on the morrow, with his trembling ac-
complice by his side, and wished them
bon voyage as heartily as she possibly
could.
So they started afresh on their bridal
tour, and very soon the travelling-car-
riage struck the old Queen Anne's Road,
and reached Yonkers. And there, and
from there up to Fishkfll, they passed
from one country-house to another,
bright particular stars at this dinner
and at that supper, staying a day here
and a night there, and having just the
sort of sociable, public, restless, rat-
fling good time that neither of them
wanted.
At every country house where they
stayed a day they were pressed to stay
a week, and always the whole neighbor-
hood was routed out to pay them social
tribute. The neighbors came in by all
manner of conveyances. One family of
aristocrats started at six o'clock in the
morning, and travelled fourteen miles
down the river in an ox-cart, the ladies
sitting bolt upright, with their hair
eluborately dressed for the evening's en-
tertainment. And once a regular assem-
bly ball was given in their honor, at a
town-hall, the use of which was granted
for the purpose specified by unanimous
vote of the town-council. Of course,
they had a very good time; but then
there are various sorts of good times.
lerhaps they might have selected an-
other sort for themselves.
There is a story that, on their way
back, they put up for severA days at a

poor little hostelry under the hills be-
low Peekskill, and spent their time in
wandering through the woods and pick-
ing wild-flowers ; but it lacks confirma-
tion, and I should be sorry to believe
that two well-brought-up young people
would prefer their own society to the
unlimited hospitality of their friends in
the country.
Old Jacob Dolph, at home, had the
great house all to himself ; and, although
black Chloe took excellent care of his
material comforts, he was restless and
troubled. He took most comfort out
of a London almanac, on whose smudgy
pages he checked off the days. Letters
came as often as the steamboat arrived
from Albany, and he read them, after
his fashion. It took him half the week
to get through one missive, and by that
time another had arrived. But I fear
he did not make much out of them.
Still, they gave him one pleasure. He
indorsed them carefully with the name
of the writer, and the date of receipt,
and then he laid them away in his desk,
as neatly as he had filed his business let-
ters in his old days of active life.
Every night he had a candle alight in
the hallway ; and if there were a far-off
rumble of carriage-wheels late at night,
he would rise from his bedhe was a
light sleeper, in his agemand steal out
into the corridor, hugging his dressing-
robe about him, to peer anxiously down
over the balusters till the last sound and
the last faint hope of his son's retm
had died away.
And, indeed, it was late in July when
the travelling-carriage once more drew
up in front of the Dolph house, and old
Julius opened the door, and old Mr.
Dolph welcomed them, and told them
that he had been very lonely in their
absence, and that their mother--and
then he remembered that their mother
was dead, and went into the house with
his head bowed low.

OUR NAVAL POLICY--A LESSON FROM t86t. 225

what we could accomphsh in a war with
that power ; and in all probability they
have a plan of operations with the details
of the campaign already prepared, care-
fully modified in accordance with every
variation for the better or the worse in
our effective force, and ready to be put
in operation at a few hours' notice.
Apart from the probabihty of actual
war, the necessity of an armed force is
manifest as an element, although an un-
recognized element, in international
negotiation. To recur to our illustra-
tion, the private individual in an unor-
ganized state of society, though he
might keep out of qualels by uniform
conciliation, would find his vohtion and
his action constantly fettered by his in-
ability to assert his rights through the
only ultima ratio known to the commu-
nity around him. So it is with the state.
In the controversies of nations it is not
the just cause that prevails, but the just
cause aided by the strong arm. It has
not been the habit with us Americans to
think much of this silent factor in in-
ternational negotiation. But with our
friends, the Great Powers, it lies rooted
in every question of foreign policy; and
the other powers are coming rapidly to
the same view, as may be seen from the
tone of their diplomatic communications
and the increased efficiency of their naval
armaments. A certain sense of decency
may deter states from unjust aggres-
sions toward their diminutive or feeble
neighbors, but there is nothing to re-
strain them in a dispute with a great
rival that refuses to protect its rights by
maintaining an adequate force. The ex-
ecutions at Santiago de Cuba, in 1873,
would never have taken place if we had
had a respectable squadron at the time
in West Indian waters ; and it must be
clear to everyone that the nagging and
offensive policy of the British provinces
toward our fishing-vessels would not
be continued for a day if we had a really
efficient fleet. As the Secretary of the
Navy said in his report of last year:
"This country can afford to have, and it
cannot afford to lack, a naval force at
least so formidable that its dealings with
foreign powers will not be influenced at
any time, or even be suspected of being
influenced, by a consciousness of weak-
ness on the sea."
VoL. I.--15

It is clear that these views receive a
vague sort of assent in the popular mind,
for otherwise we should not have two
out of the seven great departments of
the Government employed in carrying
them out. But in the popular mind,
and in Congress, which reflects it, the
notion of a fighting force is chiefly rep-
resented by the army; while the navy
is regarded doubtfully as a conventional,
though possibly a useful, adjunct in mili-
tary operations. Yet this country above
all others, except England, must look to
its navy to meet the most re'gent de-
mands of belligerent operations. Its
position is such that neither it nor its
enemy is likely to present a vulnerable
land frontier. Whether its wars are
offensive or defensive, the attack will
be made from the sea, and will be met
on the sea or at the sea-coast, which-
ever party attempts to stlke the first
blow. The land forces would sooner
or later bear a most important part,
but an invasion of any foreign terri-
tory, except Mexico or Canada, would
be impossible without a supporting
squadron, while a foreign invasion of
our own territory could be rendered
equally impossible by our ability to
concentrate a sufficient maritime force.
In any case, therefore, the indispensa-
ble element of attack and of defence
would be the fleet.
It may fairly be assumed from what
has been said that the United States
need a navy, and that, to be of any real
use, it must be capable of instantaneous
conversion--that is, in the space of a
few days---to an instrument for wag-
ing effective war. To see how far the
establishment may fall short of this re-
quirement, we have only to look at our
experience in 1861. At that time our-
enemy had a sea-coast of three thousand
miles, full of vulnerable points, nearly
all his important cities were within strik-
ing distance from the sea, and he began
the contest without a single armed ves--
sel afloat, so that both our seaports and
our merchantmen had complete immu--
nity from attack. The land campaign,
in which two armies composed of raw.
levies held each other in check, was
practically at a standstill Could a com--
bination of circumstances be imagined
more favorable for utilizing an efficient

OUR NAUAL POLICY--A LESSON FROM t86t. 227

man machines, is, at best, broken, fitful,
interrupted. On board the ship at sea,
wlere the physical horizon is unob-
structed, the mental horizon is narrow-
ed down to companionship for three
years with a dozen or a score of men in
the sme profession, saturated with the
same ideas, absorbed in the same oc-
cupations, surrounded and cramped by
the same routine. The officer may have
his books, but the conditions of ship-
life are unfavorable to study. He visits
other countries, but he cannot reap the
benefits that come from foreign travel;
he is tied to the ship, he skims the coast
and puts in at the seaports, he is always
confined by the limitations of the cruise.
If he goes on leave, after the binding
restraints of ship-life, what he needs
and must have is relaxation, pure and
simple. It is a rare man who would get
much else from such short and infre-
quent holidays. In his service afloat,
which fills the larger part of his career,
especially of the first half, he is cut
off from that general and broadening
intercourse with men in other occupa-
tions, that stimulating metropolitan
atmosphere, that eternal movement of
thought and of aft-airs which rubs away
the sharp edges of prejudice and tradi-
tion, and which makes the great centres
of activity, in whatever directionmintel-
lectual, artistic, commercial the only
places in which a man can acquire
breadth of view and mental vigormin
which he can meubler l'esprit, as the
French say--in this nineteenth century.
Great as are the barriers to an all-
round development, those in the way
of professional development are even
greater, but with this difference, that
while the former are inseparable from
the profession, the latter can to some
extent be remedied. The first of these
lies in the fct that the officer's career
is chiefly spent in preparation for his
real business, and that the real business,
to which all the preparation has been
directed, is in the nnttu-e of a sharp
crisis, which comes and goes like a flash.
The oldest officer in our navy to-day,
who has been seventy years in the ser-
vice, has seen only six years of actual
war ; and out of the total of seven hun-
dred and fifty line officers on the active
list, six hundred have seen no war

service whatever. In the course of
twenty years even this small propor-
tion of veterans will have disappeared
from the list.
The long intervals of peace are not
periods of rest. They are periods of
training. But the effect of an occupa-
tion where the whole effort is directed,
not to final results, but to results
which are only preparatory to the final
results, which at best only serve to
get the machine in working order until
the moment comes when it may do its
work, is in itself a source of discourage-
ment. In civil occupations the strain
of effort and the stimulus of results
accomplished are spread out over the
labors of each year and month, if not of
each day and hour; but the officer,
accomplishing no results, refreshed by
no encouragement, must persist in his
daily exertions in order to be ready for
a sharp spasm of intense activity, to be
followed only by fatigue and reaction.
Although this peculiar difficulty is
inherent in the naval career, it may be
partly obviated by opening to naval
officers all those branches of govem-
mental employment which, while closely
allied to their professional work, form
in themselves a worthy object of effort.
It may be still further remedied by
making a more living subject of that art
of war which should be the main object
of their attention. It is to meet this
want that the schools of application
which exist to-day in most foreiga ser-
vices have been established; and to this
end, also, are directed the admirable fleet
exercises, or manoeuvres, such as those
of the English Navy in Bantry Bay and
at Milford Haven, not for routine
drills, but for practice carried on as
nearly as possible under the actual con-
ditions of battle.
In this respect we have not been alto-
gether stationary. The establishment
of the War College two years ago at
Newport was certainly one of the most
sagacious measures of naval administra-
tion that has been adopted since the close
of the war. Like the torpedo station,
which, however, deals with only one
branch of naval science, it is a school of
application for officers. Being an estab-
lishment of a most original character, it
was wisely decided not to engraft it

228 OUR NAVAL POLICY--A LESSON FROM t86t.

on the Naval Academy, an elementary
school with which it has nothing in
common, and whose deeply-rooted tra-
ditions, excellent as they are for the
Academy, would have made it a mere
course for resident graduates. This is
perhaps not the p.lace to dwell much
upon the work that the College is do-
iflg; it is enough to say that its lectures
and discussions upon the art of war,
conducted by special students who are
neither amateurs nor dilettanti, include
the exact treatment of such subjects as
military and naval strategy, the criti-
cal examination of naval campaigns,
practical gunnery, the evolutions of
combat, coast defence and the attack of
coast defences ; while others are in prep-
aration upon the resources of foreign
navies, the plan of future campaigns,
the strategic value of geographical
points, and the problems in construc-
tion presented by the modern conditions
of naval war. It only remains to sup-
plement these discussions by exercises,
with guns and with vessels, in the best
harbor to be found on our coast for
the purpose. To this duty the Home
Squadron, temporarily increased by the
addition of every available vessel, may
be devoted each summer, and the ma-
noeuvres so conducted would be the one
event of importance in the operations of
the year.
Even with such an enlargement, the
training of our officers will still be in-
complete as long as they are compelled
to work with obsolete tools. Their ships
and guns are twenty years behind the
standard of foreign navies, and they
know that with such weapons the at-
tempt to carry out their vocation would
be a hopeless struggle. One of our ves-
sels, not long ago, being in the neighbor-
hood of a French flagship, was visited in
turn by the admiral and the captain.
As the admiral was taking his leave, on
the quarter-deck, he paused in a medita-
tive way at the pivot gun, remarking:
"Ah, les vieux canons !" A few hours
later the captain, pausing in the same
spot, remarked in the same contempla-
tive manner, "Ah, l'ancien systme !
Nous l'avons eu." How can anything
be looked for in the American navy when
its present is everybody else's past? Or
what right have we to expect that our

officers will take their profession seri-
ously when the policy of neglect has
made it such a burdensome farce ? Or,
finally, if in .spite of all their discourage-
ment they still go manfully through the
treadmill of routine, how are they to
learn to use the tools that have never
been put into their hands ?
The third and last obstacle to a sound
and normal development of the naval
personnel, the most harmful, and at the
same time the most difficult to reach, is
the system of promotion by seniority.
In every civil occupation, and in most
military and naval services, advancement
in the profession, barring the accidents
of luck, is a question of ability and ef-
fort. In the navy of the United States,
ability and effort count for nothing.
Through all the seven hundred steps of
advancement in the line, priority of the
date of entry, or, with those of the same
date, priority of academic rank, fixes un-
alterably the relative position of officers.
The head of the class of 1890 is always
at the heels of the last man of the class
of 1889. No zeal or capacity or eager
attention to duty will help him to pass
above his weaker comrade ; and no shirk-
ing or dulness or misconduct will re-
move the other from his place, if he
can stand his pro forma examinations
and avoid incurring court-martial. The
same blank prospect stares the meritori-
ous officer in the face after he reaches
the period of command. No matter
what he does for the benefit of the ser-
vice or the country--whether he fills one
of the many positions of administrative
trust with signal ability, or conducts a
brilliant series of researches and experi-
ments, or leads an expedition through
danger and difficulty to final achieve-
ment-his performance is barren of those
rewards which in every other career
form the incentive to effort and the crown
of success; unless, indeed, he receives the
thanks of Congress upon the recommen-
dation of the President, a distinction so
marked that it is rightly reserved for the
most eminent services in war. The con-
sciousness of work well done is in ordi-
nary cases alI that the officer has for his
efforts, and few men will be satisfied to
put forth their energies merely for this.
Gradually a brooding lethargy creeps
over his mind, until at last he sinks into

OUR NAVAL POLICY--A LESSON FROM 86. 229

apathetic indolence and a mechanical
performance of the routine of duty. The
willingness, nay the very ability, to
sume responsibility in an emergency is
lost, for no one will take risks where
there is no prospect of a compensating
benefit. Such was the condition of the
personnel at the beginning of the last
war, and the signs are not wanting of
tendency in the same direction now.
Conceive for a moment the situation
of any great civil organization, that of
the Pennsylvania Rilroad, for instance,
under such a system, with a corps of
officials holding their places by a per-
manent tenure, promoted strictly in the
order in which they entered, each one
regarding it as an indefeasible right that
he should forever be the superior of all
those who had ever been his juniors,
and all forever debarred from any rec-
ompense for capacity or effort. With
such a system it is safe to say that in
ten days the organization would go to
pieces. It is objected that considera-
tions of social or political influence
would occasionally make bad promo-
tions. The experience of the army,
where promotion by selection obtains
to a limited extent, is against such a
theory. The promotions are perhaps
not absolutely the best that could be
made, but they are never bad; while
with a system of promotion by seniority
they must often be bad. It is also said,
and truly, that a system of selection
would cause disappointment and heart-
burnings. But what disappointment of
inferior men who are passed over is to
be compared with the bitterness of soul
of the man who, conscious of his worth
and of his powers, finds himself handi-
capped in the struggle of life and sink-
ing into apathy from the want of recog-
nition ? Would the railroad company
abstain from promoting a good man be-
cause of the heart-burnings and jealous-
ies of the unpromoted ? The remedy
lies largely in their own hands. The
company is only following out the law of
nature and of society--that force, char-
acter, talents, zeal have their price in
the market of life, and that the man
who has them can obtain a reward which
is denied to less capable or less active
.competitors; while the navy, disregard-
mg this wholesome and normal rule,

would reduce its members to a Procrus-
tean standard of irresolution, indolence,
and mediocrity.
If any further illustration is needed
of the comparative merits of the two
systems of promotion, it may be found
in the operations of the first six months
during our two greatest naval wars,
those of 1812 and 1861. The command-
ing officers in the first war had got their
places through that most rigorous meas-
ure of selective promotion, the Peace
Establishment Act of 1801 : the seventy-
five captains in the second had risen to
command solely by virtue of age, and,
with perhaps four exceptions, were
totally unfit for service. The perfoazn-
ances of these captains during the first
six months--those of them who could
be employed at all in a war where their
enemy was destitute of naval resources,
are summed up in the trifling affair at
Hatteras Inlet, the stupendous blun-
ders at Norfolk and Pensacola, and the
shameful panic at the Head of the
Passes; while the captains of the earlier
war gave to the country during the
same period a succession of six brilliant
victories over the greatest naval power
in the world,--victories that astonished
and delighted their countrymen as much
as they astonished and mortified the
enemy.

In the matter of naval organization
there are many points open to discus-
sion, but of these there are two espe-
cially whose importance was shown in
the opening events of the cLil war. The
first is the creation of a naval reseawe.
It is our policy, and a truly wise policy
it is, to keep our standing force within
the lowest possible limit; but there
must be a provision for enlargement.
When the war broke out the Navy De-
partment had but two hundred men
available for immediate service in the
home ports; and another war might
find us in nearly the same condition.
In the come of he Rebellion the force
of seamen, with the utmost difficulty
and at great expense, was increased
from seven thousand to fifty thousand;
and any war would compel us to treble
or quadruple the existing complement.
To meet this increase we have nothing
in the shape of an organized reserve. If

230 OUR NAVAL POLICYmA LESSON FROM t86t.

we had had no militia in 1861 to answer
the President's first call for volhnteers,
of what would our army have been com-
posed? Yet the navy needs its trained
reserves even more than the army, for
it must draw them from a small frag-
ment of the population.
The organization of a naval reserve
is, therefore, a necessary element in na-
val efficiency. Its members, who will
come from the seafaring population--
the merchant seamen, fishermen, water-
men, and crews of coasters--should be
enrolled, their residence and employ-
ment kno, and they should be con-
nected in a permanent way, be it ever
so slight, with the standing force. At
intervals they should receive training
for short periods on board a man-of-war,
enough, at least, to teach them the
handling of guns and the drills of the
ship. For the latter purpose the Home
Squadron, temporarily enlarged and
converted into a summer squadron of
evolutions, would answer exactly. The
navy, at the first sigm of war, would
then be capable of immediate expan-
sion, and the calling out of the naval
resexve would be as simple as calling
out the militia.
The second point is one which lies at
the very foundation of all naval admin-
istration. This administration is divided
into two great branches: one concerned
with the supply of materialsmships, guns,
engines, equipments, stores, and so on;
the other, with the regulation and di-
rection of the working establishment.
About the first there is little to be said;
it is a matter of business, the direction
of a branch of technical industry, like
the management of a private shipyard
or foundry, and is administered for the
navy by the eight business offices or
bureaus of the Department. Its exist-
ing defects are pointed out in recent
reports of the Secretary, and have ex-
cited no tittle comment, but they are
not within the range of our present dis-
cussion. The second branch of adminis-
tration, comprising the direction of the
fleet, is as purely military as the other
is purely civil, and requires, above all
things, unity of purpose. In modern
organizations in most countries, it is
in the hands of a body of officers who
constitute the General Staff of the navy,

with a chief of staff at their head. The
chief of staff is the lieutenant of the
secretary or minister in all that relates
to the existing force, whether of men or
of vessels. The duty of the general staff,
in time of peace, is to keep itself and the
force under it constantly up to the mark,
in preparation for war; and when the
war breaks out it furnishes the respon-
sible professional assistance required by
the head of the department for the con-
duct of naval operations.
It will readily be seen how indispen-
sable such a branch of administration is
to secure the one end and aim of the
navy's existencemthat without which it
becomes the merest shamits immediate
readiness and efficiency for war. It is
the corner-stone of the whole strncture.
To be of any real service, the navy must
have its plan of operations ready, not
six months after the war has begun, but
before the war begins. The Secretary
of the lavy cannot evolve such a plan
himself, nor is it any part of his busi-
ness. His duty is to know the policy of
the Government, to be able to discern
the coming crisis, and to see to it that
his coadjutors are always bending their
energies to meet it. When the clisis
comes, the initial plan must be ready.
It must be a comprehensive plan, in-
cluding attack, if need be, and defence
from the enemy's supposed attack; in-
volving measures of mobilization, con-
centration, the rapid preparation of the
whole available force, whether already
in commission or laid up in ordinary;
the increase of the fleet by the addition
of suitable vessels from private service,
and of suitable menRthat is, seafaing
menRfrom private occupation. It must
be a well-digested plan, not devised on
the spur of the moment, under the press-
ure and anxiety of hostilities threatened
or begun, but based upon an accurate
and intimate knowledge of the naval re-
sources of both belligerents, which can
only be obtained by long and laborious
investigation.
In the early period of its history there
was no such branch of administration
at the Department. The first of our
great wars, that of 1812, began when
there were only twenty ships in the
navy, and its organization was still of
the simplest character. But these ships,

OUR NAVAL POLICYuA LESSON FROM ,,86,,. 231

owing to the wise foresight of Washing-
ton and his advisers, who recognized
that a navy exists only for war, were the
best of their class afloat; and there
being little demand at that time for
foreign service, most of them were in
the home ports. The plan of operations
was therefore a simple matter. The
commanding officers of the navy were
sent to sea in charge of vessels, and they
were left, in the main, to decide upon a
course of action for themselves. There
was no opportunity for concerted action
by fleets, and as a matter of fact the
ships never acted in concert. Their
captains, Bainbridge, Hull, Decatur,
Porter, Stewart, Biddle, Blakelymall
of them young men, some of them very
young, and all of them capable men--
were genuine rovers of the seas; they
were the Drakes, the I-Iawkinses, the
Grenvilles, of this Tudor period of
Amelcan naval history. Even on the
lakes, where alone we had squadrons,
everything, from laying the keel of the
vessels to firing the last gun before the
enemy surrendered, was left to the young
commodores in command.
Upon the expansion of the force to-
ward the close of the war, and during
the perlod immediately following it, it
became necessary to substitute a definite
scheme of organization in place of the
system, or want of system, of 1812.
Accordingly, in 1815, a board of three
officers was appointed, styled the Navy
Commissioners, who had charge of all
the work of the Department--" per-
forming," as the law said, "under the
secretary, all the ministerial duties of
his office." As a substitute for a gen-
eral staff the board would certainly
have been found defective, if it had been
tried by the test of actual war, since the
civil organization of a board, implying
equality among the members, can never
answer for a staff, the first requisite of
which is military subordination. As an
office of supply the board failed com-
pletely, especially toward the end of
its existence, when the introduction of
steam complicated this branch of its
work. In 1842 it was replaced by the
bureau system, which, with some expan-
sion, has continued until the present
time.
The bureaus, as ori-4aally organized,

proved efficient for the business of sup-
ply, but they were incanable of directin-
the actual establishment-t, and the latter ,
in the absence of a general staff, was left
to take care of itself. The navy, as a
working force, was entirely without naval
direction. There was no responsible of-
ricer at the Department, with a body of
responsible subordinates, to supervise
the detail and training of officers, the
enrolment, assignment, and training of
seamen, the disposition of the vessels, the
organization of a reserve, the formation
of plans for naval operations, not only
against all enemies in general, but against
each probable or possible enemy in par-
ticular, the determination of the require-
ments of the fleet in order to keep it
abreast of modern invention, and finally,
as the groundwork of the whole system,
the collection of naval intelligence---that
is, precise information in regard to
naval development abroad, to the mili-
tary and naval resources of foreign
states, to their means of attack and de-
fence, and to the strength of their forti-
fications: everything, in short, beyond
the manufacture or purchase of mate-
rials, that goes to make a navy efficient
for the prosecution of war.
The effect of this half-reform became
apparent at once at the crisis in 1861.
The Department was suddenly plunged
into war, and no one at the Department
had the faintest idea what was to be
done, nor, indeed, was there anyone
whose business it was to have such an
idea. As to the chiefs of bureaus, the
duty of one was to manage the navy-
yards, of another to construct vessels,
of a thh-d to build guns, of a fourth to
supply provisions. None of them had
anything to do with the conduct of
naval operations. To have asked it of
them would have been very much as if
the Pennsylvania Railroad, to recur to
our former illustration, should call upon
the engineer of the shops at Altoona to
furnish a summer schedule for excur-
sion travel at outlying points of the
road.
Soon after he came to the Department,
Mr. Velles, realizing his inability to
grapple with the situation, called to his
assistance Captain Fox, a man of con-
siderable executive capacity, who had
formerly been an officer of the navy.

232 OUR NAVAL POLICYmA LESSON FROM ,86,.

Fox was at first appointed chiefclerk
of the Navy Department, and in a short
time he became the professional adviser
of the secretary in all that related to
the conduct of the naval war. He was
ultimately appointed assistant secretary,
but his duties were essentially of a mil-
itary character. As the chief of staff,
which was what he really became, he had
an herculean task before him. The De-
partment had no office organized for
staff work ; it contained no information
upon which such an office could act ; it
had not even any machinery by which
the information could be procm-ed, and
much less classified and digested. At
this. critical moment, when the fate of
the nation was trembling in the balance,
when that very contingency of war had
risen, to meet which was the purpose of
its existence, the navy, an establishment
which had been maintained for sixty
years for the service of a state embrac-
ing thirty millions of people, was found
by its secretary to be entirely destitute
of any organized means of conducting
the operations of war, except five bu-
reaus of supply and his own office of
supervision--an office containing half
dozen clerks, who knew as little of naval
campaigns as they did of Hindu mythol-
ogy. It was five months after the
ministration came in, five weary months,
before it could even secure the passage
of a law providing for an assistant sec-
retary and the appointment of Fox to
the office. Five months were required
to accomplish this first step in the ne-
cessary organization for warmand dur-
ing the whole time, as far as any estab-
lished authority went, the navy continued
under its Pinafore system of administra-
tion.
It would be interesting to follow out
the difficulties that were encountered by
the new official, who was called an assist-
ant secretary, but who was really the
chief of staff, and see how they were met.
Boards were organized to satisfy the vari-
ous exigencies of the moment. One
of these boards, composed of Captains
Dupont and Davis, the Superintendent
of the Coast Survey, and Major
of the engineers, devoted itself to get-
ring up the plan of a campaign. The
device was ingenious, but it is a striking
illustration of the defects we have point-

ed out. So little did the Navy Depart-
ment know of the defensive capacity of
the coast of its own country, that it was
compelled to have a board in session for
months, in consultation with the direc-
tor of its coast survey and an army
engineer, while the war was in progress,
to ascertain where it might strike an
effective blow, and that, too, with an
enemy that was powerless on the sea.
Another board of three naval officers
proceeded early in August to study the
subject of iron-clads, which had been
used with effect five years before in the
Black Sea, but of which so little was
known at the Department that it took
the board until the middle of Septem-
ber to reach a conclusion!
When Fox left the Department, at the
close of the war, his attributions as
chief of staff fell for a time into a
species of decay;but since then the
bureaus, whose nmnber was increased
during the war to eight, have been
given or have possessed themselves of
various functions, in the management
of the fighting force, entirely foreign to
their legitimate business of supply. It
should be added that this course was
forced upon them by the abs.ence of
any properly organized office to do the
work. Thus the Bm'eau of Engineer-
ing has obtained a quasi-supelwision of
the engineer force on board ship ; the
Bureau of Provisions and Clothing be-
comes a sort of guardian of the inter-
ests of the paymasters; the Bureau of
Equipment, by a curious jumbling to-
gether of attributes, takes charge of the
recr.uiting of seamen; the Bm-eau of
Ordnance directs gunnery drills on
ship-board, with which, as far as its
ordinary duties are concerned, it has no
more to do than the superintendent of
a gun-foundry ; the detail of officers falls
to the chief of the Bureau of -avigation,
doubtless because the others ah-eady
have their share ; the training of officers
and men is in part conducted inde-
pendently, and in part divided between
Ordnance, Navigation, and Equipment ;
while an independent board of inspec-
tion has been organized to take a look
at the condition of vessels proceeding
to and returning from sea.
One step has, however, been tken to
improve the system. In the summer of

OUR NAUAL POLICY--A LESSON FROM t86t. 233

1882 an office was established at the
Navy Department called the Office of
Naval Intelligence, to collect and system-
atize information upon the actual re-
sources of foreign navies and the actual
demands of naval war. Its work has
been supplemented by correspondents
in the cruising-ships, and by energetic
naval attaches in Europe. It was cre-
ated by a purely ministerial act, without
any noise or flourish, but it contains the
germ of a revolution in our naval admin-
istration. It is the first recognition in
practice of the necessity that the admin-
istration should be prepared to carry on
war. Of the work accomplished by the
office during the four years of its exist-
ence, work that has been performed
wholly by junior officers of the navy, it
would be difficult to speak too highly;
upon every subject other than the man-
ufacture and supply of materials, which
last is within the province of the bu-
reaus, it has become the reservoir of
naval intelligence of the Department;
not a day passes that its stores of in-
formation, admirably classified, exact,
minute, always kept up to date, are not
drawn upon, and the only wonder is that
the organization was ever able to do
without it. With the first war it can
hardly fail to be recognized for that
which it is in fact, though not in name--
the nucleus of a most efficient working
staff.
Onlv one more step is needed to com-
plete he system--a measure which was
in substance recommended by the Sec-
retary of the Navy in his report of last
year. Take away from the bureaus of
supply the staff duties, or military duties,
which have been parcelled out among
them, the detail of officers, the recruit-
ing and training of seamen, the move-
ments of vessels, the gunnery drills and
practice, the collection of naval intelli-
gence, the higher training of officers for
war, whether with books and lectures
and war-games, or with ships, guns, and
torpedoes, and weld them together in a
single organization. It makes no differ-
ence whether ve call it a bureau of per-
sonnel, or a bureau of the fleet, or a gen-
eral staff; it will be a general staff what-
ever name it goes by, and it will give to
the navy the one thing which it lacks to
make it an efficient working machine.

The question of naval material is
much more difficult now than it was in
1861. Before 1840 the science of naval
construction had been nearly stationary
for two hundred years. The next two
decades were marked by rapid and radi-
cal changes, but the close of the period
still showed the prevalence of a single
definite opinion as to the requisites of
a typical man-of-war. But since 1861
the rush of invention, for it can be called
nothing less, has produced a multiplic-
ity and complexity of t)Tes and of ac-
cessories, presenting a problem of which
the most dextrous minds have as yet
been unable to grasp the key. The evi-
dence ofthe technical experts is con-
flicting. The result in the mind of the
layman is utter bewilderment, and a
conviction of the "anarchy," as a recent
French treatise has well called it, of mod-
ern naval science. He finds himself
asked to discover the comparative
merits of the gtm, the ram, and the tor-
pedo, and whether they are best united
in a single organism or made the pre-
dominant feature in specially adapted
structures ; of armored, partly armored,
and unarmored ships, of broadside bat-
teries and turret batteries, of barbette
guns and casemate guns, of steam with
full sail-power and steam with limited
sail-power, of single screws and twin
screws, of sheathed bottoms and un-
sheathed bottoms, of big tolpedo-boats
and little torpedo-boats. He finds that
these minor points and many others like
them, are vital elements in determin-
ing the qualities which the new struc-
ture will possess--her speed, handiness,
flotation, stability, draft, power of
tack, vulnerability, and, by no means
least, her cost; and back of all these de-
tails lies the broad question of the gen-
er] necessities of our naval policy, the.
demands which future wars may make
upon the navy. This involves a knowl-
edge of the size, character, and distribu-
tion ofthe forces of our probable enemies,
their possible mode of attack, the way in
which the attack is to be met, repelled,
perhaps returned, the vulnerable points
on our coast, the supply of coal abroad,
the requirements of blockade service, of
the prevention of contraband trade, of
the destruction of an enemy's com-
merce and the protection of our o,

OUR NAVAL POLICY--A LESSON FROM 86.

and, finally, the capacity of the mchant
marine to afford a reserve--the'whole
question, in short, of naval strategy, un-
der the conditions found in the situa-
tion of the United States.
In order that the Secretary of the
Navy, who presents the scheme, and
Congress, which provides the money,
may be enabled to act, it is necessary to
have an au-horitative opinion from ex-
perts who have come to a substantial
agreement upon both these questionsm
the.general demands of our naval policy,
and the specific way in which they are
to be met. The first is pre-eminently
question for the general staff. The sec-
ond involves the elaboration in detail of
a definite programme, and can only be
accomplished by a special board. It is
too many-sided a question to be dealt
with by a single man. The details not
coming within the province of the board
are filled out by the bureaus.
The board cannot expect to escape
criticism--no board could expect that.
But its conclusions, being the result of
a general agreement, at least as far as
the outside world knowsmfor its duty
is to present to the world a decision,
not a discussion--should receive, while
awaiting Congressional action, the as-
sent and support of individuals, and
the latter must sink for the moment
their individual hobbies. 1o Congress
will vote money to carry out the recom-
mendations of a board, when their ears
are stunned by a chorus of dissentient
voices proceeding from the service it-
self. The first Advisory Board made
]ority and minority reports, which was
enough of itself to kill any project. The
decisions of the second board called
forth violent opposition, and though the
discussion was instructive to the service,
it was wellnigh destructive of the plan.
Until this freedom of speech, always ir-
responsible and sometimes unreflecting,
can be cm-bed by the self-restraint of
officers, which is the only way of curbing
it, the efforts of the Department will be
neutralized, and the acquisition of
modern navy will be indefinitely post-
poned.
In regard to the types to be selected
for the modern fleet, it is only necessary
to say a word. In the present experi-
mental condition of naval science, we can

not afford to pin our faith to any extreme
theory. We cannot rely for the protec-
tion of our cities upon forts, or floating
batteries, or torpedoes alonemwe must
have them all. For the composition of
our fleets we must-have vessels in con-
siderable numbers, and we cannot satis-
fy our wants with two or three monster
iron.clads, even if professional opinion
was more united than it is as to their
efficiency. Seagoing ironclads there
must be of some kind, and swift crnis-
ers, and swifter gunboats of light draft,
carrying one or two heavy guns, and
torpedo-boats, the swiftest of all
At the present time the navy does not
contain a single modern representative
of these four elements of the fighting
force, except the cruiser Atlanta. The
rest of its seagoing fleet is composed of
thirty-four ships, mostly of wood, of an
obsolete type, with obsolete guns ; ships
which have neither strength for combat
nor speed for escape, and which are de-
caying so rapidly that in six years less
than ten of them will be able to keep
the sea. There are also fourteen old-
fashioned monitors, whose alnor and
guns are unserviceable, and a dozen sail-
ing-vessels, a few of which are useful for
training purposes. Among these sixty
vessels there are no seagoing ironclads
of any kind, no modern ironclads for
harbor defence, no modern cruisers, no
modern gunboats, or rams, or torpedo-
boats; nor do any of the vessels carry
modern guns. In short, as far as war is
concerned, they are sixty names, and
nothing more.
I have said that we have one modern
cruiser, the Atlanta. The Chicago and
Boston, also modern steel clisers, are
approaching completion. By recent
legislation provision has been made for
two armored ships of the second class,
ttn-ee additional cruisers, two gunboats,
one dynamite-gun vessel, and one tor-
pedo-boat. The larger of these vessels
can hardly be built in less than tTo
years. Provision has also been made
for the completion of the five double-
tin-retted monitors, which should be
efficient vessels for coast defence.
This represents a respectable begin-
ning, but nothing more. If we are to
have a modern navy, the policy of con-
structing new ships must be steadily per-

OUR NAVAL POLICYnA LESSON FROM t86t. 235

sisted in, so that each year may show a
considerable addition to the fleet. In
the ten years preceding the civil war,
twenty screw-steamers were built for the
navy, and the impression prevailed that
by reason of these additions the country
had a really powerful fleet. It was one
of the many lessons taught by the first
year of the war, that a fleet of ninety
ships is not formidable, when seventy
out of the nominal total are obsolete for
puloses of war. To-day we are worse
off than in 1861, for at the present
rate of decay of our wooden ships,
which cannot, however, be considered
cause for regret, we shall shortly lose
even our nominal total, and the new
constructions will be our only ships
afloat ; unless we go back to the ruinous
policy of rebuilding old hulks, under the
name of repairs, which until 1882 was
in fashion. In the one matter of mod-
ern torpedo-boats, which are not costly
vessels, we are pitiably defective. The
Endicott board decided that one hun-
dred and fifty were necessary for
poses of harbor defence ; as yet we have
but one even projected. In the matter
of guns, the Ordnance Btu-eau in recent
years has been making steady progress,
and has accomplished results which have
excited admiration abroad as well as at
home ; but the whole fleet must be armed
anew, and so inadequate are the resota'-
ces of our steel-works that we are com-
pelled to go abroad for our muterials.

It is the part of wisdom to study the
lessons of the past, and to learn what we

may from the successes or the failures
of our fathers. The history of the last
war is full of these lessons, and at no
time since its close has the navy been in
a condition so favorable for their appli-
cation. At least their meaning cannot
fail to be understood. They show clearly
that, if we would have a navy fitted to
carry on war, we must give some rec-
ognition to officers on the ground of
merit, either by the dvancement of the
best or, what amounts to nearly the
same thing, by the elimination of the
least deserving ; that we must give them
a real training for war, in modern ships
and with modern weapons; that the
direction of the establishment, in so far
as it has naval direction, must be given
unity of purpose, and the purpose to
which it must be directed is fighting
efficiency; that a naval reserve of men
and of vessels must be organized, capa-
ble of mobilization whenever a call stroll
be made ; and, finally, that a dozen or a
score of new ships will not make  navy,
but that the process of renewal must go
on until the whole fleet is in some degree
fitted to stand the trial of modern war.
Until this rehabilitation can be accom-
plished, the navy will only serve the
pro:pose of a butt for the press and a
foot-ball for political parties; and its
officers, a body of men whose intelli-
gence and devotion under a proper
system would be equal to any trust,
will be condemned to fritter away their
lives in a senseless parody of their pro-
fession.

THE DUCHARMES OF THE BASKATONGE.

By Duncan Campbell Scott.

I the heart of a northern wilderness,
on the shore of an unnamed lake, stands
the ruin of a small hut. tIalf the roof
has fallen in. The logs are rotted and
covered with moss. In the dark corners
spectral weeds and ferns die longing for
the sun. The winter wind, untamed out
of the north, charges against its crum-
bling walls and drives the sifted snow,
hissing like steam, across the surface of
the lake. The haunts of men seem as
far away as the stars that throb faintly
in the lonely vastness of the summer
sky. The silence that dwells forever in
the waste places of the world is shaken
by unheeded storms and the muffled
cries of life in the gloom of the immense
forests that darken beneath her brood-
ing wings.

"Ducharme ! Ducharme ! Frangois--
has--gone--over--the--rapids !" The
words came in short gusts across the
water to where Octave Ducharme stood,
pike-pole in hand. They were running
the logs on the St. Joseph. The river
was racing over the rapids to where the
falls were roaring and pulsing under the
dome of mist which the April sun was
smiting with rainbow shafts that broke
and glanced upon its shifting sides.
I)ucharme struck his pole deep into
the boom, and gazed under his hand up
the gleaming river. The water was
broken and cm-led, and came training
the sudden bend with foam-topped
waves that were bright now in the af-
ternoon sun. He looked steadily for a
moment;then, as he saw something
drift into sight other than the dipping
logs, he pulled off his heavy boots, threw
down his hat, and watched again. There
was a rush of men on the river road,
with waving of arms and confused cries.
But Ducharme ever watched the speck
in the swift water, that drew near to him
and took the shape of a white face drawn
with pain and rocked to and fro in the
current. They were shouting from the
bank : "I)on't go in ! "---" You'll both go
over ! "-- "Francois !" -- "Octave !" --

shouts--groans--wild jostling of men,
and waving of arms. But he stood as
calmly as if he were watching a musk-rat
cleave the brown waters of some quiet
lake in an ever-widening wedge. Sud-
denly he drew himself up and plunged
just in front of the floating face. The
two men spoke to one another quickly
as they were drifted swiftly together.
"Oh! Octave, my leg, my leg!"
"lever mind, little brother ; put
your hand on my shoulder."
The strong arms were making new
eddies in the tom water. The crowd
ran along the bank shouting wildly:
"Get into the eddy !"---" Ducharme !"---
"Ducharme ! "---" Strike into the eddy,
or you'll go over !"--" My God !"--
"Catch the boom ! "---" Strike in !"---
"Wel pull you out!"
They ran out on the boom where it
was swinging dangerously at the mouth
of the chute. The water there was
curved in a great glassy heap with long
wiry streaks. Above was the eddy,
wheeling and training. To get into its
power was safety. The swimmer kept
edng in. In a few moments he would
be abreast of it. tie was mutte'ing,
under his breath: "Keep up, little
brother; keep up, little brother."
The men on the shore strained for-
ward, struck in the air as if swimming,
stamped with theh- feet, and reached out
over the river.
"My God ! he's safe ! "--" 1o ! he's
missed it!" One huge fellow sank
on his knees and hid his face. "1o!
boys, he's in ! "--" Theyl get him ! "---
"They're against the boom ! "--" Bap-
tiste has him !"---" They're safe !"--and
a wild yell of joy tore through the air.
"Take him first," Octave was sa)4ng;
"two of you hang on--the water will
carry him under--I'm all right--pull him
along out of the current--there now."
The men stood around as they strove
to bring Fran;ois to, and when he opened
his eyes they went back to their work
and left him with Octave and the three
who had taken him out of the water.

THE DUCHARMES OF THE BASKATONGE. 237

His leg was broken in two places and his
head was gashed; but he was all right,
he said, and they carried him into the
shanty.

That was almost the first year they
were on the river together, and all the
dangers that crowded thickly about
them in the years of toil that followed
were warded off by the strength of four
arms; for one Ducharme was never
alone, and it was always "The Du-
charmes," not "Francois" or "Octave,"
but "The Ducharmes, .... The I)u-
charmes of the Baskatonge." Whether
hunting, or logging, or driving, or run-
ning the rafts down to the St. Lawrence,
or at home on the Baskatonge, it was
always the same. "Have you the Du-
charmes ?" one foreman would say to
another; "then you're all lght."
How the work went when there was
Octave to sing and lran;ois to lead the
musical cT, when all arms strained to-
gether! And they never seemed to
think of one another. They went along
unconsciously, working together, and
when lranois was hurt it was Octave
who stayed with him until he was better.
"Octave, Octave," lranois would say,
but in return it was always "Little
brother." No one could tell why. One
was as tall as the other, and as strong.
They were like two stalwart young pines,
straight and towering; only, if you
watched them closely, lranois never
even lit his pipe until he saw the smoke
part Octave's lips and curl about his
face. Octave was always first. They
did not know it themselves, but lran-
'ois always followed.
Their little house back on the Baska-
tonge was heaped round with snow in
the winter, and the frosty wind blew no
wreaths of smoke from the chimney
into the pines. But that had not al-
ways been so; there had been a time
when there were four Ducharmes instead
of two, and when the frost drew cultains
across the windows of the happiest home
in the north.
Hypolite Ducharme was a trapper and
hunter who sold his furs to the traders,
and never swung an axe except to cut
his own firewood. He had lived for
some years on the Baskatonge, and did
not find himself lonely until one day,

when he took his winter's haul of furs
down the Gatineau, he saw a pair of brown
eyes that told him plainly that he could
not visit his traps day after day, and hear
the sound of the wild fowl driving in a
wedge southward to the sunlit sweeps
of reeds and curved reaches of moving
marsh grass, without seeing that house,
back from the river about the flight of a
wounded partridge, and the girl with
the plaited hair working to the music
of her own voice.
At noon the next day many were the
bends and rapids between him and the
three logs where he had landed the
night before ; but, as his canoe steadied
and swung out into the current, he was
watched from the bushes, and until the
river hid behind the stony spur of the
hill, that never before looked as cold
and hopeless, the dark eyes under the
arch of brown hands timed the flashing
paddle, and when the sun burned red for
a moment on the canoe, as it turned
behind the hill--would it ever come
back?--the November mists came into
that May day, and the wind kept turn-
ing the dead leaves in the forest.
The way had never seemed so long
before; the canoe was never so heavy,
and one season he had twice as many
furs. But when he turned north again
it was a short road he had to travel ; and
when he reached the rocky point the
current bore him a white wood-lily, which
he took out of the water as it grazed the
canoe-side.
He travelled north again, but not
alone, and many were the thickets that
trembled to the unknown sound of a
woman's voice, lor it was a little matter
whether it was on the Baskatonge or
the Gatineau that Marie Delorme lived
so long as she was with the man she
loved.
But that was long ago;and all the
marks which Hypolite Ducharme blazed
on the trees have grown over in ridges,
and when an otter is caught he is always
the finest the trapper ever saw.
Before Hypolite was killed by the
bear, and before Marie died, the boys
had learned all their father could teach
them of hunting and trapping ; but when
they were left to themselves they chose
to go to the shanties, where there was
company and better pay. But in the

'238 THE DUCHARMES OF THE BASKATONGE.

summer, when the season's work was
over, they went back to their old home
and hunted and fished until the autumn
came again.
When they were there alone they
would often talk of their father and
mother. Octave always remembered his
father as he saw him striding through
the bushes with a young doe across
his shoulders; but Francois always re-
membered him as he found him, that
night, dead under the bear. Their
mother, too--whenever Octave spoke her
name a cheery face looked out into the
night to welcome the tired trappers;
but Francois saw her pale, and heard
the thin voice, "Fran;ois, Francois, I
am dying!" And now they were not so
much alone as they had been. Gradually
the settlement had crept boldly from the
Desert, up the river and back into the
country, and now in a day's journey
there were many families; on the Bras
d'Or, Dubois and Granden; on the
Claire, Charbonneau and Faubert ; and
on the Castor, McMorranWhite Mc-
lIorran, to distinguish him from his
brother, who, however, was never called
Black McMorranand the Phelans and
O'Dohertys.
The Castor, where there were no
beavers, but only broken dams, was five
miles from the Baskatonge. There was
a path through the woods, and an hour
and a quarter would take a good walker
from the Baskatonge to the McMorrans:
Octave Ducharme could walk that dis-
ance easily in an hour, but then few
could walk as fast as Octave.
Already the MclVlorrans' place began
to look like a farm; there were always
fires eating into the bush, and the small
barn was getting too small.
The Ducharmes were favorites with
their neighbors. Octave always did
most of the talking; and as Francois
was quick-tempered, he had sometimes
to step forward and take the lead in a
conversation that would have surely
ended in blows. It was seldom that
this last ever happened, as the general
saying was, "fight one Ducharme, fight
two," and so Frangois's hot words usu-
ally passed unnoticed. But Octave was
so good-tempered that the balance was
kept even.
The brothers seemed so entirely at

one that the people were not surprised
when they learned in after years that they
had both fallen in love with the same
girl. It seemed quite natural ; and then,
"you couldn't blame them, for everyone
was in love with Keila h.lcMorran."
There were some things about it,
though, that nobody could understand.
"One of them didn't know the other
was in love with her."
"Well, I used to see them down there
together, and they'd walk off home like
two lambs."
"That couldn't last you know."
"No, and it didn't last."
This was the general drift of the re-
marks the neighbors made when they
commenced to talk on the subject. It
was an ever-recurring topic of conversa-
tion, and never was settled to the satis-
faction of everyone, although some had
decided for themselves.
tIowever these talks commenced, they
always ended in one way. There would
be a pause, then the words would come
slowly, as if the speakers were dreaming
of a form they could not forget.
"Strong ? I believe he could lift an
OX."
"Yes; and he was the best chopper
on the river."
"And what a man on the drive !"
"And kind-hearted !"
"Humph !"
"Poor Octave !"

It was a bright August morning, and
Francois was sitting at his door smok-
ing. He was watching a squirrel that
was seated at the root of a tree, twirling
something between his front feet, when
a small, tattered boy, with wide, fright-
ened eyes that turned to all sides as if
he expected to be pounced on by some
hidden enemy, came toward him from
the bush. Francois turned and spoke
to him. He answered :
"I--I--want Octave."
' Gone away."
"But I must see Octave."
"Can't."
"But I must."
"Can't ; gone away."
"Is he going to come back ?"
"To-night."
"But I must see him before to-night.
I have to tell him something."

THE DUCHARMES OF THE BASKATONGE. '280

"Can't ; home to-night. Tell me."
It was the youngest of the lIcMorran
boysmTim. He could not understand
Franois's French, and Francois could
speak but little English.
"I can't tell you. Will you tell Oc-
tave ?"
"Yes."
"Well, when I was fishing last night,
down by the bank, two fellows came and
talked near where I was, and I heard
them, and one of the Phelan boys is
going to shoot Octave to-night."
" To shoot Octave ! " Francois
jumped to his feet. "Why 7"
"Because our Keila won't marry him,
and he thinks she's going to marry
Octave."
"Vhen ?"
"I don't know."
"To shoot Octavemwhen ?"
"To-night, down at the old road."
"To shoot OctaveBto-night--one of
the Phelan boysBold road."
"Will you tell Octave ?"
"ho ! "--in a tone that set Tim's teeth
chatteringm"Yes, yes, yes; go home."
The small boy ran away, but was soon
stealing back. "Will--willmyou tell
Octave ?"
"Yes ; go home."
Francois thought a long time, and
then began to throw chips at the squir-
rel that was hanging head downward
half way up the tree.

It was twilight ; and down where the
path from the Ducharmes' joined the
old road a figure crouching in the bushes
held a gun, steadied in the low crotch of
a shrub and pointed right across the
path. His jaws were tightly locked, and
whenever he chanced to open them his
teeth chattered as if the warm evening
breeze that just stirred the bushes was a
blst from the north. Every now and
then his whole body shook convulsively,
and the gun rattled in the forked branch.
He was listening for a step in the path.
Now he thought he heard it, and drew
himself together with a great effort ; but
it was some other sound in the woods.
He noticed nothing stirring behind him ;
and when a collie, with an angry growl,
jumped out into the path and ran away,
with its tail between its legs, the cold
sweat burst out on his face and hands.

But now he could make no mistakem
there was someone coming, and he hud-
dled over the gun. The twigs were
cracking in the still air, and he thought
he could hear the bushes sway; but be-
fore he could be sure, there was a grip
on his neck like a vice, and his hands
left the gun to grasp a pair of iron
wrists. He turned slowly over on the
ground, and a figure knelt on his chest,
choking him until his eyes glared
whitely in the darkness and his tongue
shot out between his teeth, and held
him among the little ferns and mosses
so tightly that he could not even have
stirred them with his breath. And now
the twigs commenced to break, the
rustle of leaves grew louder, and some-
one passed with long, swinging stlides.
They could hear him breathe, and it
seemed like a century before the air was
quiet again. Then the hands relaxed
and an arm reached for the gun. The
figure rose slowly, but the other did not
stir. I-Ie drew in his tongue, grasped
his throat with his hands, and continued
gla14ng with white, distended eyes into
the face of the form above him. The
hands had grasped the gun, and had torn
the stock from the barrel and thrown each
in a different direction. Then the foot
stirred the man who was struggling for
breath on the ground. I-Ie tmed over
slowly and lay still for a moment ; then
he rose on his hands and knees and
crawled, like a wounded snake, into the
low, uncertain cedar shadows. Watch-
ing for  while where the darkness had
swallowed up that cringing form, part-
ing the bushes and standing on the
path, where the first trembling star of
evening was shining, Francois Ducharme
stepped homeward to the Baskatonge.
Octave had walked steadily until he
came to.where the path tmed along
the lake-side. There was a thin screen
of bushes between the path and the
shore, but where the gTound rose sud-
denly the point that jutted into the
water was bare of trees, save a maple or
two. As he approached this point the
sound of singing reached his ears, and
he almost knelt as he stretched him-
self at full length to listen.
From where the shore line shone like
silver against the clear, blck shades,
from where the night was bending earth-

THE DUCHARMES OF THE BASKATONGE. 2-11

"No ; I have something to say." It
was when he heard these words that he
put his hand to his head. That was, it
must be, he knew it was Francois.
He stepped off the path on the op-
posite side from where they were talk-
ing, and leaned against a young tree,
twining his arms through the low
branches. The words came very dis-
tinctly to him, mingled with the light
shivering rustle of the poplars.
"I know that you love me, Kefla,"
Frangois was saving. .
"You lnust not say so."
"But I cannot live without you."
"You must. We must think of Oc-
tave ; he is so good."
"Yes ; but I wish he had never seen
you. Why did you ever tell him you
loved him ?"
"I did love him, Frangois--only--onl;
you should never have come near me,
then I would always have loved him the
best."
"But now, Kefla ?"
"Oh! Francois, you must not talk to
me ; you don't know how Octave loves
"And you don't know how I love
you."
"Yes; but think of Octave. How
many times he has fought for you, and
saved your life."
"Yes; it is true. But what can we
do ?"
"Ve can both be true to Octave. Yes,
Frangois, I must be true to Octave."
"Why can't you go away with me
down the river and never come back ?"
"You must go away alone, and never
see me
"Kefla, I cannot leave you."
"You must. Do promise me, Fran-
cois ! Think of poor Octave."
There was a long silence. The wind
had risen and all the trees were sighing
softly.
"Do promise me!"
"Yes, Keflu,
must go away. I can never come back.
Only let me see you once again, here, to-
morrow night, and I will promise you
anything."
"Well, Frangois, I will come for a lit-
fie while. You must not come home
with me. Octave will come to-night.
Good-by !"
VOL. I.--16

"Good-by !"
They came out onto the path and
walked in opposite directions.
Octave seemed to be thinking the
words as they came to him so slowly.
It could never be that they were there
talking ; but Frangois passed quite close
to him, and he could have no doubt.
The words kept recun4ng as he had
heard them, only the rustle of the trees
was still, and from about his feet rose
the smell of crushed moss and wet
leaves. Very near him were a few large
white lilies that shone through the
darkness dimly, like shrouded stars.
He hung there, like a stag caught by the
antlers, waiting for death, until the dark
forest pools commenced .to brighten with
the dawn, and the birds near him began
to wake; then he drew himself up and
walked away.
He went, by paths through the tangled
forest, toward the lake that was lying
silvered somewhere in the north. He
passed the spots where they used to set
their traps when his father was alive.
He seemed to be back in that faded time
again, and paused often to wait for the
little brother who would always lag be-
hind.
The lake was reached at last. He
tln'ew himself down where a group of
poplars and a few maples made a shady
place, where the shore was high and the
water stretched away to the island, where
the wrecked cedars lay blanched, like the
bones of giants, on the broken shore.
The day wore on. Now and then a
small, shadowy, cloud drifted dreamily
out of the west and vanished like a vi-
sion. The winds touched the water light-
ly, making ripples that never reached the
shore.
All day long he lay quietly, as if asleep,
and the shadows of leaves kept flut-
tering over him with countless soothing
hands. The sun sank, leaving no color
in the sky, and ah-eady the twilight was
falling.
The water was ve T quiet, and seemed
to be heaving toward him as he gazed
at it. He folded his arms, and a great
calm stole over him, as he looked past
the island where the lake seemed shore-
less. And when it was dark he rose and
went back by the track that he had fol-
lowed in the moing, and stood at las

THE DUCHARMES OF THE BASKATONGE.

very near to the place where he had
paused the night before.
There was a low talking in the bushes.
He waited for a moment, and then part-
ed the branches and stood just within
the little ch-cle.
"Francois !" he said. I-Iis voice was
very clear. They were seated on the low
stone, and had not heard him. They
started, lranois stood up and looked
at Octave standing in among the ghostly
white poplars.
"lran;ois, do not speak. Last night
I heard you. You need not go away,
you and Keila. She loves you, and I--
I love you both. I am older than you,
little brother. And do you remember
when I gave you the little doe I caught
back by the Ruisseau ?--so long ago;
and now--now it is Keila that I give
you. You need not go away, and I will
come and see you sometimes."
Keflu had hidden her face and was
trembling, and lranois had tin-ned
away. When the voice ceased he came
forward, but Octave said: "o, little
brother, do not come near me--you will
see me often but I will go home now,"
and the bushes closed behind him.

The sun was setting one October
evening, and under a steep ridge of
rock, that rose in steps and nade a
jagged outline against the sky, two men
were talking.
"Vhere are you going, Octave ?"
"Iome." 
"To-night ?"
"Yes, to-night. You will stay here ?"
"Yes. Vill you be down in the
morning ?"
"I don't know."
"You will come down for the wed-
ding ?"
"Yes, I think so."
"You must come, Octave."
"Yes, I must cone."
"Are you going now ?"
"Yes."
It was growing dark rapidly. The
sun had set and the sky was flushed and
knotted like the forehead of an angry
god. lranois tmed his back to the
hill, but lingered to look after Octave.
He could not see him leaping up from
ledge to ledge, but suddenly he sprang
fl'om t]e low brow of the hill and stood

for a moment outlined firmly against
the sky, then as suddenly vanished.
Into the gloom, lranois thought ; but
all the little hollow was filled with clear
light, and away where the low bushes
crouched along the stream a wakeful
bird was uttering a few long-drawn,
passionate notes. The night that fol-
lowed was dark and starless, and the
wind, searching for forgotten paths
among the trees, heaved long, low,
tremulous sighs.

On the morrow there was a wedding
at the Mission; but hearts would have
been happier for the presence of one
who never came, and eyes would have
been brighter for the sight of one they
never saw again.

Years have passed. On many silent
hills and in many lonely valleys the
stumps of pines stand where the sun
used to touch the green tops a hundred
feet above them. The stalwart thinks
have gone to cover homes in the south,
and to shelter the he0As of happy chil-
dren from the storms which they learned
to resist on their native hills in the
north.
But greater changes have taken place
at the Castor. The lake seems wider
now, but that is because there is only
one little strip of forest on the west
side. The fields rise gradually on the
rounded hill, and the sun, which used
to cast gloomy shadows into the lake,
has to smile now across golden fields
of ripe oats and barley.
The rocky eastern shore remains un-
changed ; but on the west there are two
houses, with their barns and low out-
buildings.
In the evening the collie drives home
the cows, and the bells clang wildly
through the bushes. A young voice
keeps calling to him, and he answers
with sharp yelps. Soon a stalwart lad
bursts through the underbrush into the
path, and goes singing after the cows.
He hears a voice calling from the bars.
"Octave ! Octave ! Octave !" I-Iis
brother waits there for him to pass,
and they put up the bars and go home
together.
Then there is often singing in the
evening, and laughter ; and White Mc-

AFTER DEATH. 248

l[orran loves to come oer and smoke,
and listen to his grandchildren talk,
and hold the youngest on his knees.
But now it is always the Ducharmes of
the Castor; no more the Ducharmes of
the Baskatonge.

In the heart of a northern wilderness,
on the shore of an unnamed lake, stands
the ruin of a small hut. Half the roof
has fallen in. The logs are rotted and
covered with moss. In the dark cor-
ners spectral weeds and fels die long-
ing for the sun. The spring winds,
touching the water lightly, make ripples
that never reach the shore. In early
summer the small, shadowy clouds drift
dre.a.mily out of the west and vanish like
a wmon. In autumn the sky is flushed

and knotted, like the forehead of an
angry god; a wakeful bird, somewhere
in the bushes, utters a few long-drawn,
passionate notes; the night that follows
is dark and starless, and the wind,
searching for forgotten paths among
the trees, heaves long, low, tremulous
sighs. The winter wind, untamed out
of the north, drives the sifted snow, hiss-
ing like steam, across the surface of the
lake. The haunts of men seem as far
away as the stars that throb faintly in
the lonely vastness of the summer sky.
The silence that dwells forever in the
waste places of the world is shaken by
unheeded storms and the muffled cries
of life in the gloom of the immense
forests that darken beneath her brood-
ing wings.

AFTER DEATH.

By Louise Chandler Moulton.

'And very sweet it is
To know he still is warm, though I am cold.
-- 6' firistina Rossetti.

I wo) not have thee warm when I am cold;
But both together--'neath some sylvan mound,
Amid the pleasant secrets under ground,
Where green things flourish in the embracing mould,
And jealous seeds the souls of blossoms hold--
In some sweet fellowship of silence bound,
Deeper than life, more exquisite than sound,
Rest tranquilly while Love's new tales are told.

We will not grudge the waking world its bliss--
Its joy of speech, its gladness of sm'prise,
Vhen lovers clasp each other's hands and kiss,
And earth puts on new glory to their eyes:
We, 1)4ng there, with Death's deep knowledge wise,
Will know that we have found Life's best in this.

M. COQ..UELIN.

Yet to me the artistic interest of the
performance overshadowed the historic.
In consequence, no doubt, of the excite-
ment on the stage and in the house, the
"Femmes Savantes" was acted with a
bro and a brilliancy very rarely seen
even in the acting of Molire's come-
dies in the house of hIolire. I can
recall now, distinctly and without dif-
ficulty, the effect one scene had on me
--the quarrel between Trissotin and
Vadius, which is in comedy very much
what the quarrel of .Brutus and Cassius
is in tragedy. M. Got's rendering of the
self-satisfied and self-seeking Trissotin
was most masterly, although at times his
lines were a little hard and stiff, hi. Co-
quelin's Vadius was that very rare thing
in any art--perfection.
That an actor of hi. Coquelin's reputa-
tion should appear in the single scene
of which the part of Vadius consists, is
as though hir. Jefferson should now play
the Gravedigger in "Hamlet." In both
cases the characters, although brief, are
rich enough to be worthy of the best act-
ing. hi. Coquelin's Vadius was a marvel
of unintelligent lemming and dull pedan-
try-most amusingly ridiculous, and no-
waere overcharged with color. I re-
member remarking with astonishment
that M. Coquelin, whose eye is piercing
and fiery, kept it down to a dead, leaden
level, and never allowed a chance flash
to suggest that he was other than
the character he had assumed. Not
long after, in rereading the "Random
Records" of the younger Colman, I was
pleased to see the statement that David
Garrick had "an uncommon brilliancy
of the eye, but he had the art of com-
pletely quenching it." hiore recently,
hir. Austin Dobson has described how
Garrick came "bounding on the boards,
filling them as of our own day we have
seen M. Coquelin fill them in 'L']tourdi,'
with his mercurial presence and the
ma-metism of his impetuous ubiquity."
In hi. Coquelin, both as a man and as
an actor, I can detect not a few points
of similarity to Garrick, who no doubt
derived from his French descent some
of his great gifts for the drama. The
French comedian is like the English-
man whose death "eclipsed the gayety
of nations," in the range and variety and
value of the parts he has played, in his

indisputable supremacy in the chief comic
characters of the national drama, in his
abounding vitality, in his career of un-
broken success, in his incursions into
literature, in his honorable position in
society, and in his close frendship with
the chief authors and artists of his day.
Garrick's fellowship with Burke, for ex-
ample, was not as iin or as solid as
Coquelin's with Gambetta. Of course, the
parallel must not be pressed too far--
and the points of dissimilarity are obvi-
ous enough. Garrick was a great trage-
dian, and M. Coquelin, although he has
played successfully both heroic and pa-
thetic parts, is rather a great comedian.
Over Garrick, however, hi. Coquelin has
at least this advantage, that the English
actor has been dead and gone these hun-
dred years, and that now his name is lit-
tle more than a peg on which to hang a
string of dry anecdotes, while hi. Coque-
lin is alive to delight us to-day.
hL Coquelin will be the fourth of the
distinguished performers of the French
stage who have crossed the Atlantic to
act in America, and although the other
three were Rachel, Fechter, and hime.
Sarah-Bemhardt, he is not the least of
the four. It may be that he is less
known in the United States than they
were, and that his coming has been less
widely heralded. It is true that he has
never striven for that mere notoriety
which sometimes serves a public per-
former in place of fame. No fantastic
tales are told of his eccentricities. He
is quite without the touch of charlatanry
which taints the sayings and doings of
Mine. Sarah-Bernhardt. He has gone
about his business quietly, and he has
done his work as best he could. His
success has not been achieved in a day,
and there is no danger that his fame will
fade over-night. He has won his way
steadily and the ground is solid under
his feet.
hi. Coquelin has risen to be now the
first comedian of the Theatre Franais, as
Rachel was the first tragedian, and he be-
longs there of right as she did; while
neither Fechter nor hime. Sarah-Bern-
hardt was wholly at ease within its walls.
hime. Sarah-Bernhardt, an extraordinary
personality, three-fifths genius and two-
fifths sheer fudge, as hir. Lowell said of
Poe, uneasily broke away from the Corn-

46 M. COQUELIN.

die-Frangaise as soon as she might.
Fechter's position on the Parisian stage
is generally misunderstood, and often
overrated ; he never held an undisputed
place; he had passed through the
Th6tre Frangais unperceived, and his
chief attempt in classic comedy, an elab-
orate revival of "Tartuffe" at the OriSon,
was a lamentable--I had almost written,
a ludicrous--failure.
M. Coquelin's acting has none of the
affectation of noveltywhich was the bane
of Fechter's. That he had been sent in-
to the world to overturn all tradition,
was Fechter's opinion. M. Coquelin,
one might ventm'e to suggest, recognized
early that what are often ignorantly
denounced as traditions are, in fact,
precious heirlooms from the finest per-
formers of the past, a store of accumu-
Lated wisdom to be considered rever-
ently, to be selected from judiciously,
and to be cast aside only for good reason.
While M. Coquelin's native gifts are
richer and more abundant than Fech-
ter's (at least they seem so to me), he
has "school," and he has been trained
with a thoroughness of which the egotism
of Fechter was incapable. Fechter was
picturesque, romantic, passionate--these
are the three qualities strenuously in-
sisted upon in Dickens's brief paper "On
Mr. Fechter's Acting," which preceded
the French actor's first appearance in
America. In "Gringoire," and in the
"Luthier de CrSmone," M. Coquelin is
poetic and pathetic with a touching
simplicity, but he cannot claim that
fervor in love-making which was Fech-
ter's chief charm and which he could
intensify until he seemed to offer up
himself and all the other characters in
the play, and the whole world, as a sac-
rifice to the goddess of his fiery adora-
tion.
At bottom, Fechter was monotonous;
his variety was superficial only; it was
in pictorial details, not in the inner
man. As Hamlet, or as tuy Blas, or as
Don Csar de Bazan the spectator saw
essentially the same person, with only
external modifications. The hero of the
play might be a weak-willed son wishing
to avenge his father's murder, or a proud
lackey in love with a queen, or a ne'er-
do-well Spanish nobleman exchang-
ing places with the king, but the actor

was always himseff--he was always pict-
uresque, romantic, and passionate; he
had always the same method, which he
applied to all plays. I do not say this
in disparagement of Fechter, who was a
very remarkable actor and who admin-
istered a welcome stimulus to the slug-
gish English stage of his day. Real
versatility is one of the rarest of the
actor's gfts--a versatility, I mean, that
is more than skin-deep. Fechter was,
in the main, a melodramatic actor. That
is to say, what he saw in a play was the
situation rather than the character. Ie
poured himself into the situation and
he made over the character to suit him-
self as best he could.
M. Coquelin has a far deeper and truer
variety--he has real versatility. Ie en-
ters into the character he assumes and
gets inside of it, and divests himself,
temporarily, of those attributes which
are not consonant with it.* Ple makes
himself into the other man, and he lets
this other man then reveal himself in
situation. His 2lascarille in "L']tour-
di," his Duc de Septmonts in "L']tran-
gre," his Gringoiremand the names of
these three parts serve to show the wide
range of his accomplishment--are not
merely M. Coquelin in the situations of
these plays and the costumes of those
parts, they are wholly different beings
--different outwardly and inwardly, in
action and in thought, and each ex-
pressing himself after his own kind.
To say this is to say that M. Coquelin's
acting is of a far rarer kind than Fech-
ter's, and on a far higher intellectual
level. M. Coquelin has an intellectual
flexibility and subtlety to which Fech-
ter could not pretend. Fechter's acting,
indeed, picturesque as it was, passionate
and romantic, was essentially not intel-
lectual, but sensual One can see how
* Just as I was reading the proof of this little paper, I
received the bovember number of the new and excellent
Revue efar$ dramatique, in which I found this most in-
teresting statement (apparently taken down from ]I. Co-
quelin's own lips} of his method of study : "When I have
to create a part, I begin by reading the play with the great-
est attention five or six times. First, I consider what po-
sition my character should occupy, on what plane in the
picture I must put him. Then I study his psychology,
knowing what he thinks, what he is morally. I deduce what
he ought to be physically, what will be his carriage, his
manner of speaking, his gesture. These characteristics
once decided, I learn the part without thinking about it
further ; then, when I know it, I take up my man again
and, closing my eyes, I say to him, ' Recite this for me.'
Then I see him delivering the speech, the sentence I asked
him for ; he lives, he speaks, he gesticulates before me ;
and then I have only to imitate him."

"M. COQUELIN. 7

Dickens came to be enthusiastic over
lechter's force and over his felicity in
expressing the external, but one may
fancy that Thackeray or George Eliot
would have found a keener and a finer
enjoyment in the acting of M. Coque-
lin.
I have never been able quite to under-
stand exactly what it is that the dra-
matic critics mean when they talk-of
the several schools of acting. I have
seen two kinds of acting, good acting
and bad acting. And I perceive two
broad classes of actors--those who act
by instinct and those who act by in-
telligence. Most actors fall into the
former division; they are inconscient ;
they do not know why they say a cer-
tain speech in a certain way, or why they
accompany it with a certain gesture ; yet
they feel that it ought to be said in that
manner. More often than not they are
right in the result, although their per-
formance is instinctive and almost auto-
matic and though they would probably
give a wrong reason for the blind faith
that is in them. These are actors who
have, in a greater or less degree, the
innate histrionic faculty. They were
"born so"; they are actors and nothing
else; and as anything else they would
fail. Far different are the actors with-
out this congenital gift for the stage,
but endowed with the powers which
make for success. These men think out
their work; their acting is the result
of intelligent effort ; and for every effect
they can give you chapter and verse.
They plan their performance of a part
from beginning to end, and they force
their organs and members to obey their
will. By dint of intelligence and energy
and hard labor, sometimes they succeed
on the stage ; but then they would have
succeeded quite aswell in any otherpro-
fession--at the bar, for instance, or in
the pulpit. To the former class belong
Spranger Barry and probably Edmund
Kean; to the latter, Macready and
Charles Kean. Of course no hard and
fast line can be drawn, and the boun-
dary between the two classes is vagme
and uncertain. The greatest actors are
those who are both born and made, who
have both energetic intelligence and the
histrionic faculty, and who, in addition
to the endowment of nature, are accom-

plished in all that the schools can teach.
Garrick is the chief exemplar of this
combination, and Talma is hnother. In
our own time and in diffel"ing degrees we
can see it in Mr. Edwin Booth, in Mr.
Joseph Jefferson, and in M. Coquelin.
M. Coquelin has abundant natural gifts
for the stage. He has a trim figure and a
clever face--the tip-tilted nose may be a
disqualification for tragedy but it is an
advantage in comedy. His eye is alert
and penetrating, and, as we have seen, the
actor has learnt how to quench its fire
when need be. His voice is wonderful,
at one moment it rings out in clarion
tones and at the next it is most exqui-
sitely modulated to the gentlest whisper.
M. Coquelin is a master of diction as the
lrench call it, of delivery, of the art of
speech, as we must name it. He has a
faculty of indescribable volubility, but,
despite the utmost rapidity of utterance,
he is always clearly and distinctly audi-
ble in all parts of the theatre. He has a
memory remarkable even among actors;
a part once learnt is never forgotten and
may be picked up at will and performed
unhesitatingly after twenty years' inter-
val. He has a broad and liberal humor
and an exuberant and contagious gayety.
It is small wonder that at first his
master, legnier, doubted for M. Coque-
lin's future, fearing that, as nature had
done so much for him, he might be led
to think he had no need of art. But his
powers were ripened by rigid training un-
der R%o-nier at the Conservatory, and later
at the Theatre lrangais, where the pupil
and the teacher played together. The
young comedian had a high intelligence,
a resolute will, and an energetic ambition ;
and he never spared pains to do his best
at all times. As he grew older his skill
in the composition of his parts increased,
and so did his sense of values, as the
painters phrase it. Under Regnier's eye
he practised himself in the great come-
dies of the lrench stage. Gifted by nat-
ure, he was favored by fortune in fall-
ing at once into the light place for the
complete development of his powers.
At the Comdie-Frangaise his intelligence
was not jaded nor his brilliancy faded by
the pernicious system of long runs ; no
play is acted there more than three times
a week, and at least two nights out of
seven are given up to the plays of the

M. COQUELIN. 251

had never seen him act the part so means hard work. In my copy of the in-
badly, valuable "Register" of La Grange, which
After all, the actor's art would be an is the chief contemporary record of the
easy thing and of little value if the doings of Molire's company and which
actor could rely on the inspiration of the Com6die-lranaise caused to be
the moment and trust to a chance of published ten years ago in most sump-
"feeling the part." Acting, like any tuous fshion, M. Coquelin has written
other art, is long; and good acting his name:

hen we behold 1. Coquelin (de la Comdie-Frangaise) as the Mascarille of the
"lr6cieuses Ridicules," we shall see a surpassingly natural performance, the result
of unremitting study and consummate rt.

RUSSIAN NOVELS. 253

to personal freedom. Our ancestors,
by breaking away from the feudalism
that still lingers in Europe, and by the
nature of the task that awaited them in
this cotmtry, laid the foundations of an
amount of individual freedom that to
Russians, for example, might well seem
like anarchy ; but with us literary tra-
ditions have known the fondest piety.
In Russia, on the other hand, with no
proper outlet for the energies of a
mighty people save such as has been
found in letters, the old forms have
never impressed themselves deeply on
whole generations of men, and now they
scarcely exist. The field, then, is free,
and the intensity of national feeling is
not hampered by the necessity of wor-
shipping the ghosts of the past. They
have reched a point thut other nations
find still blocked by old-fashioned lik-
ings and habits.
In other lauds the national energy is
absorbed and scattered in a thousand
necessities and opportunities that lead
men into various fields of action and ad-
venture which here are closed by a rigid
despotism. In the rest of Europe the
trifling novel of mere amusement has
sufficient reason for existing, but in
Russia life is too serious; entertaining
fiction has to be imported along with
clmmpagne, and silks, and ribbons, and
the native who writes speaks for the
whole compressed an-mish of a people
in chains. Mere entertainment would
be a degrading aim for a Russian novel-
ist---that is, the luxury of ease and se-
curity, and not even the masters in that
.country know either of these. All writ-
mg is under the control of a vigilant
censorship ; students are forbidden &c-
cess to what are regarded as dangerous
books ; yet the novel, by confining itself
to the representation of familiar or pos-
sible facts, manages to elude repression.
Even the sharpest-eyed censor does not
read wlt is written between the lines ;
but it is this part, printed, as it were, in
invisible ink, that helps to fill out the
terrible picture of despair that almost
every Russian novel contains. Hot
merely, then, are the literary hobgob-
lins dead; they have never lived long;
their shoulders were too weak to bear
the burden of expressing real suffering
and hopeless misery. Their absence is

certainly a natural result of the condi-
tion of affairs ; for just as cruelty begets
deceit, so the despotism of that unlmp-
py land has taught men to attack the
abuse of power by portraying its re-
sults without uttering an aggressive
word of abuse or criticism. Perhaps
the most marked instance of the efficacy
of this method is Gogol's comedy, "The
Inspector," of which M6rime's French
tr&nslation, under the name of " Le
Reviseur," is readily to be had. The
play is amusing enough to be as frivo-
lous as a ghost story, or any other fairy
tale, while yet it is as serious an attack
upon official cou'uption as there is in
literature. The plot is as simple as
possible: All the officials of a provincial
town haste heard that an inspector is to
visit them inognito, and they at once
prepare to throw dust in his eyes. A
traveller happens to arrive at the inn
just at that moment, and he is at once
taken for the disguised inspector. They
all immediately crowd about him, flat-
tering him, backbiting theh- rivals, lend-
ing him money. Although the stranger
is puzzled beyond measure, he readily
adapts himself to the agreeable position,
until, when everything is at the wildest,
the real inspector suddenly appears,
and the play ends. The fun is like that
of a farce, and it seems as innocent;
but all the bullying and cringing, the
lies and intriguesthe whole array of
petty vices--with their extravagant droll-
ery, and their freedom from any vord
of condemnation and any apparent de-
sire of giving offence, are more convinc-
ing than any indignant outcry or lofty
blame. The matter is laid before us,
&nd if anyone ishes to dxaw & moral
and it is not easy to see how this is to
be avoided---he is at least neer re-
minded of it by Gogol.
Indeed, as & valuable means of drill
in the teclmicalities of literature, des-
potism has never received, from writ-
ers upon education, half the praise tlt
it deserves. The writer is sure to be
c&reful in his phraseology when a rash
word may mean life-long exile; and
one of the results of the terrors of the
Russian penal code was that novelists
learned compression and vigor, as well
as all the possibilities of seriousness.
We find this forcible reserve even dur-

ENGRAVED FROM THE PkINTING BY HEALY IN THE POSSESSION OF EX-MINISTER WASHBURNE.
LOUIS ADOLPHE THIERS.

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE.

Vow,. I. MARCH, 1887. No. 3.

THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH.

By N. S. Sbaler.

HvM, society is organized for a
stable earth; its whole machinery sup-
poses that, while the other familiar ele-
ments of air and water are fluctuating
and untrustwolhy, the earth affords a
foundation which is firm. Now and
then this implied compact with nature
is broken, and the ground trembles be-
neath our feet. At such times we feel
a painful sense of shipwrecked con-
fidence ; we learn how very precious to
us was that trust in the earth which
we gave without question. If the dis-
turbance be of a momentary and unim-
portant kind we may soon forget it, as
we forget the rash word of a friend ; if
it be violent, we lose one of the sub-
stantial goods'of life, our instinctive
confidence in the earth beneath our
feet.
Although we know as yet little con-
cerning the continent of North America,
our experience has taught us that it is
subject to frequent earthquake shocks ;
it is, therefore, woxh our while to pre-
pare to meet them by studying their
nature, their dangers, and, so far as
they exist, their remedies. In this way
we shall at least escape from the fear
which comes with unknown evils;we
may, perhaps, be prepared to mingle a
little philosophy with the tribulations
which these disturbances bring to us.
The notion that the ground is naturally
steadfast is an error--an error which
arises from the incapacity of our senses
to appreciate any but the most palpable
and, at the same time, most exceptional
of its movements. The idea of terra

firma belongs with the ancient belief
that the earth was the centre of the
universe. It is, indeed, by their mobil-
ity that the continents survive the un-
ceasing assaults of the ocean waves, and
the continuous down-wearing which the
rivers and glaciers bring about.
Were it not that the continents grow
upward, from age to age, at a rate
which compensates for their erosion,
there would be no lands fit for a theatre
of life; if they had grown too slowly,
their natural enemies, the waves and
rain, would have kept them to the ocean
level ; if too fast, they would lift new
surfaces into the regions of eternal cold.
As it is, the incessant growth has been
so well measured to the needs, that for
a hundred million years, more or less,
the lands have afforded the stage for
prosperous life. This upward growth,
when measured in terms of human ex-
perience, is slow; it probably does not
exceed, on the average, one foot in three
or four thousand years. The rate var-
ies in times and places. Under varying
conditions, as when a glacial sheet is
imposed on the continent---as it was, in
the immediate past, on the northern part
of North Americana wide area of the
ice-laden land sank beneath the sea, to
recover its level when the depressing
burden was removed. Still the ten-
dency of the continents is to elevation,
and even the temporary sinking of one
poion of their area is probably, in all
cases, compensated by uplifts on another
pa by which new realms are won from
the sea.

Copyright, 1887, by Charles Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved.

260 THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH.

Street in Charleston
Showing the relative effect of a moderately strong earthquake on timber and masonry buildings.

Although access to the deeper earth
is denied us, we are probably safe in our
belief that this steadfast upward growth
of the lands is due to a simple cause,
which is as follows, viz. : The diameter
of the earth depends, in part, upon the
amount of heat it contains. This heat
is constantly flying out into space. Each
moment, from every part of its surface ;
some portion of the original store es-
capes into the cold realms of space.
With every volcanic eruption a great out-
rush of heat occurs. Thus, the earth is
steadfastly shrinking: each age, it is
girdled by a shorter line. If, by this
escape of heat, every part of the earth
were equally cooled, there would be no
continents, for the whole mass would
fall equally toward the centre ; but the
deeper parts of the earth lose by far the
most heat, for the simple reason that
they have the most to part with. The
superficial portions long since parted
with the larger part of their original
caloric.
Thus, this upper portion, or crust, as
it is commonly called, does not contract

as much as the interior mass, and there-
fore the inner part tends to leave the
outer crust behind. But for the weight
of this outer section, it would be left
more or less separated from the interior
mass ; but as its weight is much greater
than it can sustain, it is compelled to
wrinkle, or, ih other words, to form the
great ridges and furrows which consti-
tute the continents and the ocean basins.
Geologists are still in debate as to the
precise manner in which this wrinkling
comes about, and as to the way in which
it has effected the construction of contin-
ents and mountains ; but they very gen-
erally believe that it is due to the cause
above mentioned--i.e., to the loss of
heat, which is greater from the interior
than from the superficial parts of the
earth. In a rough way, this folding of the
outer part of the earth may be compared
to the wrinkling of the skin of a dried
apple ; only in the fruit the shrinkage of
the interior is due to the escape of water,
while in the case of the earth it is due to
the loss of energy in the form of heat.
It is easy for the reader to see that

THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH. 261

this wrinkling sets a vast amount of tensive disturbances of vast masses of
machinery in operation, and compels the earth; these uplifted arches of the

Section through Mont. Blanc, Switzerland,
Showing folds of strata in a mountain.

the movement of masses which cannot mountains have to be underpinned, or
be expected to stir without shock. In supported from below, else they would
the upward folding of continents and crush down by their own weight; this
of mountains the rocks must bend and support from beneath demands the
break, masses of rock must slide over transfer from considerable distances
eachother, making such flexures as within the crust on either side of the
are seen on existing mountains, or in mountain of great masses of rocky mat-
reons where mountains have once ter. Although this rock is greatly

Dyke of Volcanic Rock,
In lgnite on the shore, in Marblehead, Mass. The horizontal plan shows many small faults which have been formed
since the Dyke was made, each giving rise to an earthquake.

liked their ridges, though they may heated, it is probably not, in a strict
now be worn down to their roots, and sense, fluid, and so moves with a certain
no longer have any trace of their orig- difficulty, and only under the compul-
inal altitude. This folding is titanic sion of inconceivably great strains which
work, and the movements at great cannot be expectedto actwithoutacer-
depths beneath the surface made neces- rain measure of disturbance. Thus, by
sary by this wrinkling demand very ex- the folding, breaking, and slipping in-

'262 THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH.

volved in the production of the geater Into this region of deeply buried water-
reliefs of the earth, a certain amount of charged beds the heat comes, not only
sudden and irregular motion is neces- by conduction from the earth's interior,
sarily brought about, but also by the action of streams of
Beneath the sea and along the shores molten rock, which rush upward from
below, forming

Dagram showing the Geological History of the Temple of Jupiter Serapis.
The first figure shows the original position of the temple ; the second, the condition at
the time of the greatest submergence ; the third, the present position of the ruins.

we have another disturbing agent in
the volcanic impulse. On the sea-floors
the mountain and continent-building
forces appear in the main to be want-
ing, while the volcanic conditions are
at rest beneath the interior of the
continents. The conditions producing
volcanoes appear to originate in the
following manner : The deposits of sed-
imentary matter which are constantly
making in the sea-floors contain a great
deal of water ; from five to twenty per
cent. of their mass consists of the fluid
which is imprisoned between the grains
of mud or sand as the beds are formed.
When, in time, any of these beds become
deeply buried, they become greatly
heated by the heat of the earth's in-
terior, the exit of which is hindered by
the strata laid down after the lower
beds were formed. When, in this way,
a bed is buried to the depth of twenty
thousand feet or more, the imprisoned
water may be raised to a temperature
fax above its ordinary boiling-point.

dykes or veins of
lava, such as may
often be seen when
ancient and once
deeply btuied strata
are disclosed to view
by the wearing away
of the deposits which
fonerly lay upon
them.
This greatly heat-
ed water of the rocks
is constantly seeking
to pass into the state
of vapor ; if it finds
any line of weakness,
it rends it open, with
more than the en-
ergy of exploding
gunpowder, a n d
forms a volcano.
Volcanoes are es-
sentially gigantic
explosions, such as
are faintly imitated
in bursting steam-

boilers. In the volcanic explosion the
steam is so hot that it may melt the
rocks through which it passes, or drive
those beds in which it was formed up-
ward to the surface in the form of lavas
or finely divided dust.
Thus in the upgrowing of the lands to
replace'the continued down-wearing
which assails them, and in the outbreaks
of the heated water deeply buried in
the sediments derived from these worn
lands, we have two evident sources of
earthquake movements. These distm'b-
ances express themselves on the surface
simply as movements, with no distinct
evidence as to the origin of the shock;
just as when we hear a loud noise we
may find it to be due to any one of many
causes--to a falling meteor, a cannon-
shot, a bursting boiler, or something else
in the way of sound-producing action--
so with these earthquake shocks; they
tell us little of their causation; that is
the subject for troublesome and often
baffling inquiry. Leaving aside the great

9,68 THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH.

Erosion Arch
Showing a type of structure likely to be destroyed by powerful shocks.

]YIont Blanc the tremors may have been
numbered by the million.
Another most evident class of shocks
have their origin in the movement of
rocks which have been melted by vol-
canic action, and driven on hurried in-
cursions into crevices which are formed
in the deep buried parts of the earth's
crust. To see the origin of these dis-
turbances, we have only to visit any of
those regions of the earth once deeply
covered by strata which have been worn
away, revealing to us rocks which, by
their crystalline structure, indicate their
long sojourn in the depths where the vol-
canic forces are developed.
We find, in almost any region where
these crystalline rocks are well exposed
to view, many long tongues of lava, which
have been violently driven into fissures
of the rock, riving them with destruc-
tive power. The formation of such a
dyke-fissure and the inrush of the lava
must have occasioned a very great jar-
ring of the earth's surface beneath which
the movement occurred. If the reader
is familiar with the sea-shore, he must
often have noticed, in times of storm,
the quiver which the stroke of a great

wave gives to the rocks vhen it rushes
into some crevice or chasm, and is tossed
into spray by the blow. This phenom-
enon will help him to fancy how great
must be the disturbance when a molten
lava, three or four times as heavy as
water, is driven into the rocks, perhaps
with a greater impulse than that which
propels the ball from a cannon.
These dykes are, like the faults, in-
conceivably numerous. All the evidence
goes to show that they exist to the num-
ber of hundreds beneath each square mile
of the earth's surface. In certain places,
the rocks are fairly laced with them.
Leaving out of account the minor
sources of disturbance which come from
the tumult of volcanic explosions, and
the stresses arising from the change in
the volume of rocks undergoing altera-
tions in chemical composition, and from
loss and gain of heat, we see that in the
evident mechanism of the earth we have
the natural source of innumerable earth-
quake shocks. It is almost certain that
at one time or another every portion of
the earth's surface has felt these disturb-
ances; it is equally clear that the shocks
have not at any time been equally corn-

THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH. 269

mort on all parts of the earth's surface,
for the reason that the machinery which
produces them is often dormant for
long periods over large areas. A moun-
tain system, after continuing to grow
for ages, may for ages cease to grow;
the relief of the pressure which led to
its construction being afforded by fold-
ings of the crust at other points, some-
times far away from the original seat of
distm-bance. So, too, that other class of
distm-bing actions involved in the for-
mation of dykes appears to be only local-
ly active in any geo- -

In Africa there is, save in Egypt,
little architecture to suffer from earth-
quake disturbance, and even little
history to record it. Egypt seems to
have been, on the whole, singularly ex-
empt from great earthquakes, while the
western portion of the Iediterranean
face of the continent shares the disturb-
ances from which the Spanish peninsula
has repeatedly suffered. The vast Aus-
tralian and Polynesian district of the
Pacific affords a number of regions of
great earthquake activity, of which Tew

270 THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH.

Spring Hole
Formed during the Charleston earthquakes oE 1886. Type oE fissure springs Eormed by earthquakes when the soil is very
deep.

erupt from these indications of activity
in the crust than any other equally ex-
tensive part of the earth's surface.
We come now to the twin continents,
North and South America. The obvious
resemblances in the physical configura-
tion of these continents lead us to ex-
pect a likeness in their conditions of
stability. This resemblance in a certain
measure exists. The western shore of
both of these continents, the seaward
face of the great Cordilleran range of
mountains, is the seat of the most fre-
quent and, on the whole, the most ener-
getic disturbances which occur within
their limits, while the eastern shore of
each is comparatively little assailed by
shocks. The northern, or Venezuelan,
district of South America, which is ap-
parently the seat of an active mountain
growth, of which there is no parallel
in the northern continent, is a district
of recurrent shocks of great violence,
such as have never been observed in high
latitudes on our own continent. On the
other hand, the region from the mouth
of the Amazon to the La Plata liver,

which corresponds to our sea-board At-
lantic States and the provinces of Can-
ada, enjoys an immunity from disturb-
ances probably not exceeded by any
other equally extensive area occupied by
the Aryan race, while the corresponding
region in North America is much less
fortunate.
It is worth our while to look more
closely to the seismic history of our own
continent than we have been able to do
in the case of other lands, not alone
because of our momentary personal in-
terest, but because it is the future dwell-
ing-place of our race and the home of
the type of civilization which that race
is developing.
There can be no question that where
a people is exposed to recurrent and
overwhelming danger, such as menace
the inhabitants of Peru, Venezuela, or
Calabria, a danger which as yet is not
foretold by science or effectively guarded
against by art, the conditions will tell
upon its character. "To the firm ground
of nature trusts the hand that builds
for aye," is true in a real as well as in a

272 THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH.

THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH. 9,73

trict to the southward, we have a record
which comprises nearly five hundred
years ; but of the rest of the continent
our longest records are only of about
half that duration, and these concern
only a little strip of country along the
Atlantic coast of the continent; for
the remainder the information is for a
brief term of a single century. It has oc-
curred to the present writer that it may
be possible to supplement this extreme-
ly imperfect historical record by an ex-
amination of the very numerous poised
blocks as well as the detached and frail
columns of stone which abound in many
districts, natural monuments which
would be overturned by a succession of
great earthquakes as easily as a Gothic
steeple or other frail work of human archi-
tecture. Although little has been done
with this method of investigation, it will
be possible to make some use of it in
extending an inquiry which, if it rested
on human testimony alone, would be ex-
tremely imperfect and unsatisfactory.
These natural indices of a quiet earth
have been formed in two different ways,
viz.: in the glaciated districts, which
practically comprise the northern half
of the continent, including all of lew
England, lew York, a great part of
1)ennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and the
northern tier of the Western States and
Territories, to the lacific, as well as all
the vast territory to the northward of
the United States, we often find perched
boulders, or erratics, left upon the sur-
face at the melting of the glacial sheet.
These blocks not infrequently were
dropped in positions from which a great
earthquake shock would easily dislodge
them ; occasionally we find a large block
which, when the ice melted away, came
to be lodged on supporting stones, or
on the summit of a rocky hill, in a very
insecure position. Yet more often we
find a spheroidal block, say two or three
feet in diameter, perched on a larger
boulder. In great part these poised
stones have been overturned by snow-
slides and falling trees; those which
escaped these mischances have often
fallen a prey to boys who take a natural
delight in assisting gravitation. In New
England and other glaciated districts,
the present writer has observed many
hundreds of such natural indications of
Vow.. I.--18

immunity from earthquakes. The other
class of these indicators is that of col-
umns or other unstable masses of rock
which have been preserved, while the
surrounding rock has been worn away,
either by the action of rain and streams,
or, more rarely, by the beating of the
ocean waves when the sea was higher
than it is at present. All these pinna-
cled rocks date from times which, in a
historic sense, are very ancient, perhaps
hundreds of times as remote as the first
written records of this continent. The
most of these pillared stones having a
height of twenty feet, may be safely reck-
oned as of an age of at least twenty
thousand years, and thus give us evi-
dence of long-continued immunity from
shocks of the first or second order in the
districts in which they are found.
It is to be noted that many of the
pinnacled rocks, such as are figured in
these pages, are much more substantial
than they seem, and that they may on
that account survive the assault of a
single shock of considerable violence,
just as detached chimneys withstood the
late Charleston shock with little injury.
But it seems certain that these frail and
time-worn columns, such as those figtu'ed
from the gorge of the Kentucky River
or from Cumberland Gap, could net
have endured the frequent and violent
movements to which they would have
been subjected if they occupied a re-
gion liable to great earthquakes.
It is true that in those regions where
these pinnacles stand as witnesses of a
quiet earth, the long dormant move-
ments of the nether world may at any
time be awakened. But it is clear that
where a region has enjoyed an immu-
nity from violent earthquake shocks
during a period of twenty thousand
years or more, we may safely trust it
for another millennium. At any rate,
the natural evidence, despite its occa-
sional obscurity, deserves to be taken
into account along with the historic rec-
ord of the earthquakes of any country.
Proceeding in this way, by combining
the natural and the historic evidence,
we find that this continent is as diverse
as any other of the great land masses
in the distribution of the earthquakes of
dangerous intensity. Leaving out the
districts of Central America and Mexico,

THE STtBILITY OF THE EtRTH.

where the distribution of shock, is ex-
tremely complicated, and where they are
not likely to be a matter of practical im-
portance to our English race, we may
advantageously consider, first, the Atlan-
tic sea-board region ; then, in succession,
the Mississippi Valley and the great
lakes basin, the Rocky Mountain dis-
trict; and, lastly, the border region of
the Pacific.
For our Iurpose it is necessary to di-
vide the Atlantic sea-board region of
North America into a number of dis-
tricts: First of these is the country
north of the St. Lawrence, a district
doomed to sterility, where earthquakes
might well be allowed to rage, but which
appears to be exempt from such dis-
turbances. In the southern part of this
region, on the Mingan shore of Labra-
dor, there are many slender columns of
rock which attest a long-continued ex-
emption from earthquake shocks.
Next we have the maritime provinces
of Canada, which, by the historical as
well as the natural evidence, appear long
to have enjoyed an equal freedom from
severe shocks. Still farther south we
have the New England district, extend-
ing from the Bay of Fundy to the
Hudson. This region, from the natural
evidence, appears to have been pretty
generally exempt from severe shocks;
this evidence is clearest on the coast of
Maine, where there are numerous poised
boulders and, on Mount Desert, occa-
sional columnar masses, detached by the
action of the sea, where many thousand
years ago it stood at higher levels than
it does at present. The other parts of
New England afford frequent poised
blocks, which lead us to the conclusion
that the whole of this district has, since
the glacial time, escaped severe earth-
quakes, though the evidence on this
point is less conclusive than in the re-
gion along the shore to the northward.
It is to be noted, however, that since
the settlement of this New England
country there have been several shocks
of an alarming nature, which have prin-
cipally affected the State of Massachu-
setts. That of 1727 and several following
years was one of the most peculiar dis-
turbances which have ever been recorded.
The first movements of this long-contin-
ued series of shocks disturbed a tolera-

bly large area; but in a short time the
shocks became confined to the region
near the old town of Newbury, Mass.,
where, from 1727 to 1740, each shock,
though the motion was slight, was ac-
companied by loud and terrif)4ng
sounds proceeding from the depths of
the earth. We have the story of this
strange convulsion from the journal of
the Rev. Matthias Plant, the pastor of
the Puritan church at Newbury. Al-
though he viewed the matter rationally,
many people believed that the tumult
was caused by the devil at work i his
nether realm.
In 1755, almost coincidently with the
great Lisbon earthquake, Central New
England was visited by a disturbance
of considerable violence, one which,
though a single shock, was probably
nearly, if not quite, as violent as any of
the several movements which have re-
cently occurred in South Carolina. This
disturbance, though not hurtful to life
or limb, did a good deal of minor dam-
age to the buildings of Boston and vi-
cinity; a good part of the chimneys
were overturned, and wherever a heavy
weight was supported on a tall, frail
base the effects were considerable. John
Winthrop, then professor of physics
and astronomy in Harvard College, one
of the few eminent American men of
science of the eighteenth century, states
that the bricks from the chimney of his
house, in Cambridge, the top of which
was thirty-two feet from the ground,
were thrown to a point thirty feet from
the base of the structure. If we may
trust this observation, it is clear that
the shock, though not of great violence,
was of sufficient force to bring havoc to
many flimsy structures of the present
day. Since 1755 there has been no
earthquake in this district, which can be
termed menacing in its violence, though
movements of slight importance have
been numerous.
We may reasonably conclude that
while the New England district has
probably long been exempt from dis-
turbances of great severity, the Massa-
chusetts district appears to be liable to
shocks of a violence sufficient to wreck
buildings which are not well fitted to
sustain such assaults.
From the Hudson southward to the

THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH. 27,5

James River, and westward to the me-
ridian of Cincinnati, we have a region
which, from the natural as well as the
historic evidence, we may consider as
far free from earthquake action of
a dangerous sort as any part of the
United States. In this region frail
pinnacled rocks and those remnants of
old caves, the so-called natural bridges,
themselves often very frail, abound, and
afford good evidence that earthquakes
of great force, those which we have
classed as of the first and second order,
have for many thousand years been
wanting in this district. Moreover, the
historic evidence goes to show that for
two centuries or so there have been
no disturbances of importance in this
region.
South of the James River we enter
upon the wide lowlands of the Atlantic
shore. In this region, owing to the low
nature of the topography, there can be
none of the natural shock-indicators
which we have sought to use in exploring
the past history of earthquakes. Parts of
this re.on have been twice shaken with
considerable violence--first in the earth-
quake of 1811, which mainly affected a
small area on the borders of the Missis-
sippi, but propagated its waves to this
part of the Atlantic sea-board ; and again
in the late Charleston earthquake. That
of Charleston, though in violence not to
be compared with the greater shocks
of South America, Jamaica, or Central
America, was, next to that of 1811,
the most violent which within the his-
toric period has ever affected any part
of the United States east of the Rocky
Mountains. Still it probably should be
classed as of the third order in violence.
If the edifices of Charleston had been
built according to the les which should
guide architects who intend to guard
against such calamities, it seems certain
that the disastrous consequences of that
shock would have been avoided.
The sea-board section of the Gulf
States, like that of the Ca-olinian region,
affords us no satisfacto T geological evi-
dence as to its earthquake history. But
the mountainous region of the southern
Appalachians, which is not far removed
from this district, abounds in sph'e-
shaped rocks which are delicately poised
on their bases and appear to show that

great shocks have long been unknown
in those uplands. They especially abound
in the valleys in which flow the upper
tributaries of the Tennessee River. The
greater part of the Mississippi Valley,
as far as the natural and historic evi-
dence goes to show, appears to be the
seat of but slight distm'bances; but in
the central portion of that area, from
the junction of the Ohio and Missis-
sippi Rivers southward, in a region
where the natural indices of the earth's
stability are wanting, we have the seat
of the greatest disturbance that has
been recorded on any part of this conti-
nent north of the dishict of the isthmus.
The shocks of 1811-13 are, by their
violence and continuity, to be ranked
among the first score of recorded earth-
quakes. Save perhaps that which, in
1819, disturbed the delta of the Indus,
in Western Hindostan, the Mississippi
earthquake of 1811 directly produced
more extensive and permanent local
geographical changes than any other of
which we have an account; so violent
and continuous were the shakings that
the alluvial land in the neighborhood of
New Madrid was lowered below its pre-
vious level, and into the depressed region
the stream of the Mississippi poured in
such violence that for a time its lower
waters, for a considerable part of their
course, turned-backward toward their
source. Although the colonizing of the
district had just begun, the area of
country ah'eady cleared by settlers which
was converted into morasses by the
shock was so great that the Govern-
ment was compelled to furnish some
hundreds of thousand acres of new lands
on higher ground to those whose dwell-
ing-places had been made uninhabitable.
It seems likely that an area of not less
than five thousand square miles was, on
the average, though irregularly, lowered
to the depth of ten feet below its origi-
nal level. The energy of these shocks
was so great that the low, strongly built
cabins of the frontiermen were wrecked,
the forest-trees were beaten against each
other, and their branches interlocked
as they swung to and fro. The irregu-
lar movements of the ground led to the
formation of numerous great crevices,
from which turbid waters were thrown
up to a considerable height. To protect

276 THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH.

themselves from being engulfed'these
fissures, the people felled trees sb that
they lay on the ground at right angles
to the general trend of the fissures, and
built places of refuge on the broad foun-
dations which they thus secured. There
can be no question that a disturbance of
this magnitude would, in the present con-
dition of the region where it occurred,
cause greater destruction than did that
which recently occurred at Charleston,
S.C.
These two series of shocks, that of
1811 and 1886, have a close general re-
lation to each other. So alike are they,
indeed, as to suggest that the great
series of repeated shocks, gradually di-
minishing in intensity, may be the type
of disturbance characteristic of the low-
land districts of the southern part of
this continent. The lew Madrid earth-
quake of 1811 was, however, by far the
more extended phenomenon ; the shocks
were more frequent and of much greater
violence, and the period during which
they recurred was far longer than in the
Carolinian disturbances.
lorth of the Ohio and Missouri Rivers
we have no historic record of decided
seismic disturbances. In Ohio, Indiana,
and Illinois the natural evidence is ob-
scure, there being few detached columns
of rock which could serve as indices of
the past condition of the country. In
the district about the upper great lakes
the natural evidence coincides with the
historic record in showing that great
disturbances have not occurred in that
section. Of the region of the great
plains, including Texas, there is no in-
formation of much value, though in an
indecisive way the topographic evidence
is in favor of the conclusion that it has
not been seriously shaken for a consid-
erable period.
The topography of the central and
eastern section of the Rocky Mountains
gives fairlyclear evidence that the sur-
face of that region has been, as a whole,
tolerably exempt from great shocks.
The light rainfall of that part of the
continent causes the erosion which pro-
duces pinnacled rocks and steep-walled
cations to take place in a much less rapid
manner than in the Appalachians, yet
parts of this region abound in such pin-
nacles, which are evidently very ancient,

though often extremely susceptible to
strong shocks.
The western coast-line region of the.
Cordilleras district, from Northern Cali-
fornia southward to the Mexican line,
is more or less subjected to earthquakes
of considerable energy, as is shown
by historic records. One, in 1812, de-
stroyed a church in Ios Angeles, Cal.,
killing a score or more people. To-
gether with the late Charleston earth-
quake, this shock is entitled to a pecul-
iar place in our history; these two
shocks being the only earthquakes which
have caused any loss of life in this coun-
try. There have been several consider-
able shocks in the region about San
Francisco, of which that in October,
1868, caused the overthrow of many
frail buildings, and led to precautions
in the construction of important edifices
which seem likely to ensure them from
serious accidents.
The vast district of the lorth Ameri-
can Cordilleras contains so many sepa-
rate centres of action of the mountain-
building and volcanic forces, which have
evidently been, in some cases, active in
very recent times, that it will not do to
extend the conclusions obtained from
poised and pinnacled rocks very far from
the places where these features occur.
It may well be the case that many limited
areas in this field are at present liable to
shocks of a severe nature.
This brief and unsatisfactory review of
the seismology of North America clearly
indicates that while the region of the
United States and, we may say, of the
habitable part of the continent north
of Mexico, has many districts which
are subjected to earthquake shocks of
moderate intensity, by far the greater
part of its surface shows, within the
narrow limits of historic records, no
evidence of great seismic dangers, and
indicates by its topographical features
that it has long been preserved from
the action of very violent shocks. The
only region which we can say has ever
been exposed to shocks of anything like
the first magnitude is a district probably
including an area of not exceeding twenty
thousand square miles, with its centre
about fifty miles below the junction of
the Ohio and the Mississippi Rivers.
Shocks of the second order a-e almost

278 THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH.

The prescriptions which the architect
has to follow in preparing his buildings
to resist the strains of a moderate earth-
quake are simple, and do not require
any great increase in the cost of con-
struction. It is well to understand that
the actual movement of the ground,
even in violent shocks, is slight. In
those which we have termed of the first
order it is doubtful if the movement
ever amounts to a foot in amplitude,
while the shocks which we may antici-
pate in this country, such as have re-
cently occurred in Charleston for in-
stance, probably swing the earth to and
fro within the space of an inch. The
destruction is done in part by the sud-
denness of the to-and-fro motion, which
breaks the foundation from the super-
structure, but in larger measure by the
pendulum-like vibration which is set up
in the building. This pendulum move-
ment may cause an oscillation of one
inch at the foundations to be several
feet in a sixth floor, or, say one hundred
feet above the ground. The rending
effect of this pendulum-like swinging,
especially in weak masonry, may easily
be imagined.
Many well-considered directions for
the protection of buildings from earth-
quake shocks have been given: of these
the best may be found in the excellent,
though imperfectly phrased, work on
earthquakes by Professor John Milne, of
Tokio University, Japan.* From these
directions we extract the following,
which seem applicable to our conditions :
1. "So arrange the openings in a wall
that for horizontal stresses the wall
shall be of equal strength for all sections
at right angles."
2. "Place lintels over flat arches of
brick or stone."
3. "Let all portions of a building
have their natural periods of vibration
nearly equal."
4. "Avoid heavy topped roofs and
chimneys."
5. "In brick or stone work use good
cement."
6. "Let archways curve into their abut-
ments."
7. "Let roofs have a low pitch, and

* Earthquakes and other Earth lIovements. By John
Milne. (International Science Series.) New York : D. Ap-
pleton & Co. 1886.

their tiles, especially upon the ridges,
be well secured."
It is also important where the prevail-
ing direction of motion of the shocks
is known to have the blank walls of the
house placed so as to be parallel to the
course of the shocks. It is also worthy
of note that generally hill-tops are more
shaken than the ground at the base, for
the same general reason that the upper
part of a house swings more dming a
shock than the basement. Last of all,
the higher the edifice the more risk of
disastrous oscillation and the more need
of binding its parts firmly together.
Besides the immediate effect of earth-
quakes on the surface of the land there
are certain secondary consequences, of
importance to man, arising from the ac-
tion of the sea when considerable shocks
originate beneath its floor. When a
strong disturbance is produced beneath
the se-floor it is propagated for a great
distance through the water in exactly
the same way as it is through rock.
When a ship is near above the point
where the earthquake occurs her peo-
ple feel a sensation as if the vessel had
run upon a rock. The vessel may be
dismasted or her seams opened by the
blow. There are many stories extant
which recount the narrow escape of
vessels from destruction by these sub-
marine earthquakes, and it seems most
probable that many good ships which
have disappeared in the deep have been
overwhelmed by such calamities.
The most important results of great
earthquakes beneath the sea are the
broad waves which they produce ; waves.
which may run for thousands of miles
before they break upon the shore. We
may fairly represent the formation of
these waves by a simple experiment.
Taking a flat-bottomed, wide pan, of any
sheet metal, partly filled with water, let
us strike a sharp, upward blow upon its
base. Ve see that the water rises in
the centre and rolls off in a broad cir-
cular wave toward the margin. In the
seas this wave may have a diameter of
some scores of miles, though its height
probably never exceeds a few feet. It
is so wide and low that as long as it is
in deep water it may slip unnoticed be-
neath a ship ; but when the front edge
of the wave comes into the shallows

THE STABILITY OF THE EARTH. 9.79

near the shore, its advance is somewhat
retarded by the friction of the bottom,
while the part which is farther out to
sea retains its swift motion. The wave
is thus crowded into a less space, and so
becomes constantly higher until, when
it rushes on the shore, it may have
rained a height of fifty feet or more.
These waves are, as may be imagined,
exceedingly destructive: on the westel:n
coast of South America, and elsewhere,
they constitute one of the most fearful
incidents of great earthquake shocks.
It is a matter for congratulation that
the coasts of the United States appear
to be exempt from disasters of this nat-
tu'e. Slight movements of the sea, pro-
duced in the manner above described,
occasionally visit the lacific shores ; but
they appear to be derived from shocks
which have taken place at great distances
from tha coast-line. The Atlantic shore
of the United States, and indeed the
whole shore-line of that ocean north of
the Antilles and of Portugal, appear to
be free from this danger. The present
writer has observed along the rocky
ortion of the Atlantic shore, from New
ork to Nova Scotia, a great number of
delicately poised blocks, resting at
height a little above the present level
of the surf, which clearly indicate that,
for a very long period in the past, this
coast has been free from such violent
incursions of the sea. Similar and even
more conclusive evidence, to show the
exemption of this shore from these vio-
lent invasions of the sea, is afforded by
the delicately moulded surfaces of glacial
debris which are found just above high
water along the Atlantic coast, from
Tew Jersey northward. These curiously

combined ridges and pits, termed by
geologists, Kames, are as frail as foot-
prints on the sand. They could not
have survived a single flooding by such
resistless waves. Thus the natural as
well as the historic evidence points to
the conclusion that the North Atlantic
sea-bed is not at present the seat of vio-
lent earthquakes.
We may sum up the foregoing consid-
erations as follows: The continent of
North America north of 3[exico seems,
from histo'ic as well as natural evidence,
to be in the main free from any consid-
erable danger of earthquakes which are
necessarily destructive to architecture.
Nevertheless, a large part of its surface
appears to be liable to shocks, which
though slight may be very destructive to
life and property, if we persist in our
present flimsy methods of architectural
construction. Good fortune has given
us a tolerably safe abiding-place for our
race in this country. We can almost
everywhere safely put our trust in it, pro-
vided we are willing to take some care
as to methods of constructing buildings.
When we consider the magnitude of
the work done by the subterranean
forces, we are impressed with the slight
nature of the disturbance by which
their activity is manifested to us. It is
only in  limited portion of the earth's
surface where these disturbances are a
serious menace to man. The damage
they cause to human life is far less than
that brought about by war or prevent-
able disease; and the injury to edifices,
though appalling by its suddenness, is
on the whole less detrimental than that
arising from bad methods of construc-
tion.

AUNT FOUNTAIN'S PRISONER.

By Joel Chandler Harris.

IT is curious how the smallest inci-
dent, the most unimportant circum-
stance, will recall old friends and old
associations. An old gentleman, who
is noted far and near for his prodigious
memory of dates and events, once told
me that his memory, so astonishing to
his friends and acquaintances, consisted
not so much in remembering names,
and dates, and facts, as in associating
each of these with some special group
of facts and events; so that he always
had at command a series of associations
to which he could refer instantly and
confidently. This is an explanation of
the system of employing facts, but not
of the method by which they are accu-
mulated and stored away.
I was reminded of this some years
ago by a paragraph in one of the coun-
ty newspapers that sometimes come
under my observation. It was a very
commonplace paragraph ; indeed, it was
in the nature of an advertisemenS--an
announcement of the fact that orders
for "gilt-edged butter" from the ffersey
farm on the Tomlinson Place should be
left at the drug-store in Rockville, where
the first that came would be the first
served. This business-like notice was
signed by Ferris Trunion. The name
was not only peculiar, but new to me;
but this was of no importance at all.
The fact that struck me was the bald
and bold announcement that the Tom-
linson Place was the site and centre
of trading and other commercial trans-
actions in butter. I can only imagine
what effect this announcement would
have had on my grandmother, who died
years ago, and on some other old people
I used to know. Certainly they would
have been horrified; and no wonder, for
when they were in their prime the Tom-
linson Place was the seat of all that was
high, and mighty, and grand in the so-
cial world in the neighborhood of Rock-
ville. I remember that everybody stood
in awe of the Tomlinsons. ffust why
this was so, I never could make out.
They were very rich; the Place era-

braced several thousand acres; but if
the impressions made on me when a
child are worth anything, they were ex-
tremely simple in their ways. Though
no doubt they could be formal and con-
ventional enough when occasion re-
quired.
I have no distinct recollection of Judge
Addison Tomlinson, except that he was
a very tall old gentleman., much older
than his wife, who went about the streets
of Rockville carrying a tremendous gold-
headed cane carved in a curious man-
ner. In those days I knew more of Mrs.
Tomlinson than I did of the judge,
mainly because I heard a great deal
more about her. Some of the women
called her Mrs. Judge Tomlinson ; but
my grandmother never called her any-
thing else but Harriet Bledsoe, which
was her maiden name. It was a name,.
too, that seemed to suit her, so that
when you once heard her called tIarriet
Bledsoe you never forgot it afterward.
I do not know now, any more than I did
when a child, why this particular name
should fit her so exactly ; but, as I have
often been told, a lack of knowledge
does not alter facts.
I think my grandmother used to go to
church to see what kind of clothes Har-
riet Bledsoe wore; for I have often heard
her say, after the sermon was over, that
Harriet's bonnet, or Harriet's dress, was
perfectly charming. Certainly Mrs.
Tomlinson was always dressed in the
height of fashion, though it was a very
simple fashion when compared with the
ilounces and furbelows of her neighbors.
I remember this distinctly, that she
seemed to be perfectly cool the hottest
Sunday in summer, and comfortably
warm the coldest Sunday in winter ; and
I am convinced that this impression,
made on the mind of a child, must bear
some definite relation to Mrs. Tomlin-
son's good taste.
Certainly my grandmother was never
tired of telling me that Harriet Bledsoe
was blessed with exceptionally good
taste and fine manners, and I remember

AUNT FOUNTAIN'S PRISONER. 281

that she told me often how she wished
I was a girl, so that I might one day
be in a position to take advantage of the
opportunities I had had of profiting by
tIarriet Bledsoe's example. I think there
was some sort of attachment between
my grandmother and Mrs. Tomlinson,
formed when they were at school to-
gether, though my grandmother was
much the older of the two. But there
was no intimacy. The gulf that money
sometimes makes between those who
have it and those who lack it lay between
them. Though I think my grandmother
was more sensitive about crossing this
gulf than Mrs. Tomlinson.
I was never in the Tomlinson house
but once when a child. Whether it was
because it was two or three miles away
from lockville, or whether it was be-
cause I stood in awe of my grandmother's
tIan'iet Bledsoe, I do not know. But I
have a very vivid recollection of the only
time I went there as a boy. One of my
playmates, a rough-and-tumble little
fellow, was sent by his mother, a poor,
sick woman, to ask Mrs. TomlJnson for
some preserves. I think this woman
and her little boy were in some way re-
lated to the Tomlinsons. The richest
and most powerful people, I have heard
it said, are not so rich and powerful but
they are pestered by poor kin, and the
Tomlinsons were no exception to the
lille.
I went with this little boy I spoke of,
and I was afraid afterward that I was
in some way responsible for his bold-
ness. He walked right into the pres-
ence of Mrs. Tomlinson, and, without
waiting to return the lady's salutation,
he said in a loud voice :
"Aunt Harriet, ma says send her some
of your nicest preserves."
"Aunt Harriet, indeed !" she exclaimed,
and then she gave him a look that was
cold enough to freeze him, and hard
enough to send him through the floor.
I think she relented a little, for she
went to one of the windows, bigger than
any door you see nowadays, and looked
out over the blooming orchard ; and then
after awhile she came back to us, and
was very gracious. She patted me on
the head, and I must have shrunk from
her touch, for she laughed and said she
never bit nice little boys. Then she

asked me my name; and when I told
her, she said my grandmother was the
dearest woman in the world. Iore-
over, she told my companion that it
would spoil preserves to carry them
about in a tin bucket, and then she
fetched a big basket and had it filled
with preserves, and jelly, and cake.
There were some ginger-preserves among
the rest, and I remember that I appre-
ciated them very highly; the more so,
since my companion had a theory of his
own that ginger-preserves and fruit-cake
were not good for sick people.
I remember, too, that Mrs. Tomlinson
had a little daughter about my own age.
She had long yellow hair and very black
eyes. She rode around in the Tomlin-
son carriage a great deal, and everybody
said she was remarkably pretty, with a
style and a spirit all her own. The ne-
groes used to say that she was as affec-
tionate as she was wilful, which was
saying a good deal. It was characteris-
tic of Harriet Bledsoe, my grandmother
said, that her little girl should be named
Lady.
I heard a great many of the facts I
have stated from old Aunt Fountain, one
of the Tomlinson negroes, who, for some
reason or other, was permitted to sell
ginger-cakes and persimmon-beer under
the wide-spreading China trees in 1Rock-
ville on public days and during court-
week. There was a theory among cer-
tain envious people in lockvillemthere
are envious people everywheremthat the
Tomlinsons, notwithstanding the extent
of their landed estate and the num-
ber of their negroes, were sometimes
short of ready cash, and it was hinted
that they pocketed the proceeds of Aunt
Fountain's persimmon-beer and ginger-
cakes. Undoubtedly such stories as
these were the outcome of pure envy.
When my grandmother heard such gos-
sip as this, she sighed and said that
people who would talk about Harriet
Bledsoe in that way would talk about
.anyb.ody under the sun. lIy own opin-
ion is, that Aunt Fountain got the
money and kept it ; otherwise she would
not have been so fond of her master and
mistress, nor so proud of the family and
its position. I spent many an hour
near Aunt Fountain's cake and beer-
stand, for I liked to hear her talk. Be-

'282 AUNT FOUNTAIN "S PRISONER.

sides, she had a very funny ham and I
thought there was always a probability
that she would explain how she got it.
But she never did.
I had forgotten all about the Tom-
linsons until the advertisement I have
mentioned was accidentally brought to
my notice, whereupon memory sud-
denly became wonderfully active. I am
keenly alive to the happier results of the
war, and I hope I appreciate at their
full value the emancipation of both
whites and blacks from the deadly
effects of negro slavery, and the won-
derful development of our material re-
sources that the war has rendered pos-
sible ; but I must confess it was with
a feeling of regret I learned that the
Tomlinson Place had been turned into
a dairy-farm. Moreover, the name of
Ferris Trunion had a foreign and an
unfamiliar sound. His bluntly worded
advertisement appeared to come from
the mind of a man who would not hesi-
tate to sweep away both romance and
tradition if they happened to stand in
the way of a profitable bargain.
I was therefore much gratified, some
time after reading Trunion's advertise-
ment, to receive a note from a friend
who deals in real-estate, telling me that
some land near the Tomlinson Place had
been placed in his hands for sale, and ask-
ing me to go to lockville to see if the land
and the situation were all they were de-
scribed to be. I lost no time in under-
taking this part of the business, for I
was anxious to see how the old place
looked in the hands of strangers, and
unsympathetic strangers at that.
It is not far from Atlanta to Rockville
--a day and a night--and the journey
is not fatiguing; so that a few hours
after receiving my friend's request I
was sitting in the veranda of the Rock-
ville Hotel, observing, with some degree
of wonder, the vast changes that had
taken place--the most of them for the
better. There were new faces and new
enterprises all around me, and there
was a bustle about the town that must
have caused queer sensations in the
minds of the few old citizens who still
gathered at the post-office for the pur-
pose of carrying on ancient political
controversies with each other.
Among the few familiar figures that

attracted my attention was that of Aunt
Fountain. The old China tree in the
shade of which she used to sit had been
blasted by lightning or fire ; but she still
had her stand there, and she was keep-
ing the flies and dust away with the
same old turkey-tail fan. I could see
no change. If her hair was grayer, it
was covered and concealed from view
by the snow-white handkerchief tied
around her head. From my place I
could hear her humming a tune---the
tune I had heard her sing in precisely
the same way years ago. I heard her
scolding a little boy. The gesture, the
voice, the words were the same she had
employed in trying to convince me that
my room was much better than my com-
pany, especially in the neighborhood of
her cake-stand. To see and hear her thus
gave me a peculiar feeling of homesick-
ness. I approached and saluted her. She
bowed with old-fashioned politeness, but
without looking up.
"'De biggest uns, dee er ten cent,"
she said, pointing to her cakes; "en de
littlest, dee er fi' cent. I make um all
myse'f, sub. En de beer in dat jug--
dat beer got body, sub."
"I have eaten many a one of your cakes,
Aunt Fountain," said I, "and drank
many a glass of your beer ; but you have
forgotten me."
"l[y eye weak, sub, but dee ain' weak
nuff fer dat." She shaded her eyes with
her fan, and looked at me. Then she
rose briskly from her chair. "De Lord
he'p my soul!" she exclaimed, enthusi-
astically. "W':; I know you w'en you
little boy. W'at make Iain' know you
w'en you big man ? My eye weak, suh,
but lee ain' weak hUff fer dat. Well,
sub, you mus' eat some my ginger-cake.
De Lord know you has make way wid
um w'en you wuz little boy."
The invitation was accepted, but
somehow the ginger--cakes had lost their
old-time relish; in me the taste and
spirit of youth were lacking.
We talked of old times and old
friends, and I told Aunt Fountain that
I had come to Rockville for the purpose
of visiting in the neighborhood of the
Tomlinson Place. -
"Den I gwine wid you, suh," she
cried, shaking her head vigorously. "I
gwine wid you." And go she did.

284 AUNT FOUNTAIN'S PRISONER.

in' 'g'inst Chris'mus'; en den I sa ' Ef I
wuz free ez you is, suh, I'd fling you
down en take dem ginger-cakes'way rum
you.' Yes, sub. I role 'ira dat. It make
me mad fer see de way dat man walk
off wid my ginger-cakes.
"I got so mad, sub, dat I loller 'long
atter 'im little ways ; but dat ain' do no
good, kaze he come ter whar dee wuz
some yuther men, en dee 'vide up dem
cakes till dee want no cake lef'. Den I
struck 'cross de plan'ation, en walked
'bout in de drizzlin' rain tell I cool off
my madness, sub, kaze de flour dat
went in dem cakes cos' me mos' a hun-
derd dollars in good Confedrick money.
Yes, sub ; it did dat. En I work for dat
money mighty hard.
"Well, sub, I ain' walk fur 'fo' it seem
like I year some un talkin'. I stop, I
did, en lissen, en still I year urn. I ain'
see nobody, sub, but still I year urn. I
walk fus' dis away en den dat away, en
de.n I walk 'rotm' en 'roun', en den it
pop in my rain' "bout de big gully. It
ain' dar now, sub, but in dem days we
call it de big gully, kaze it wuz wide en
deep. Well, sub, 'fo' I git dar I see
hoss-tracks, en dee led right up ter de
brink. I look in, I did, en down dar
dee wuz a man en a boss. Yes, sub;
dee wuz bofe down dar. De man wuz
layin' out flat on he back, en de boss he
wuz layin' sorter up en down de gully
en right on top er one er de man legs,
en eve'y time de hoss'd scrample en try
fer git up de man 'ud talk at 'ira. I
know dat boss mus' des a nata'lly groun'
dat man legs in de yeth, sub. Yes, sub.
It make my flesh crawl w'en I look at
urn. Yit de man ain' talk like he mad.
No, sub, he ain' ; en it make me feel like
somebody done gone en hit me on de
funny-bone w'en I year 'im talkin' dat
away. Eve'y time de hoss scuffle, de
man he 'low, ' Hol' up, ole fel, you er
mashin' all de shape out'n me.' ]:)at
w'at he say, sub. En den he "low,' Ef
you know how you hurtin', ole fel, I
des know you'd be still.' Yes, sub.
Dem he ve'y words.
"All dis time de rain wuz a-siftin'
down. It fall mighty saft, but 'twuz
monst'ous wet, sub. Bimeby I crope
up nigher de aidge, en w'en de man see
me he holler out, 'Hol' on, aunty;
don't you fall down yer !'

"I ax 'ira, I say,' Marster, is you hurt-
ed much ?' Kaze time I look at 'ira I
know he ain' de villyun w'at make off
wid my ginger-cakes. Den he 'low, '
speck I hurt purty bad, aunty, en de
wuss un it is dat my boss keep hurtin'
me too'.'
"Den nex' time de boss move it er-
rortate me so, sub, dat I holler at 'ira
loud ez I ken,' Wo dar, you scan'lous
villytm ! Wo !' Well, sub, I speck dat
boss mus' a-bin use'n ter niggers, kaze
time I holler at 'ira he lay right still,
sub. I slid down dat bank, en I kotch
holter dat .bridle---I don't look like
I'm mighty strong, does I, sub ?" said
Aunt Fountain, pausing suddenly in her
narrative to ask the question.
"Well, no," said I, humoring heras
much as possible. "You don't seem to
be as strong as some people I've seen."
"Dat's it, sub !" she exclaimed. "
w'at worry me. I slid down dat bank,
en I kotch dat boss by de bridle. De
man say, ' Watch out dar, aunty ! don't
let he foot hit you. Dee one cripple
too much now.' I ain' pay no' 'tention,
sub. I des grab de bridle, en I slew
dat boss head rotm', en I fa'rly lif' 'ira
on he loots. Yes, sub, I des lif' 'im on
he loots. Den I led 'ira down de gully
en turnt 'im a-loose, en you ain' never
see no hoss supjued like dat hoss wuz,
sub. Den I went back whar de man
layin', en ax 'ira ef he feel better, en he
"low dat he feel like he got a big load
lif' often he rain', en den, mos' time he
say dat, sub, he faint dead away. Yes,
sub. He des faint dead away. I ain'
never is see no man like dat, w'at kin be
jokin' one minnit en den de nex' be
dead, ez you may say. But dat's Marse
Fess Trunion, sub. Dat's him up en
down.
"Well, sub, I stan' dar, I did, en I
ain' know w'at in de name er de Lord
gwine do. I wuz des ez wringin' wet ez
if I'd a-bin baptize in de water; en de
man he wuz too' wetter dan w'at I wuz, en
goodness knows how long he bin layin'
dar. I run back ter de big-'ouse, sub,
mighty nigh a mile, en I done my level
bes' fer fin' some er de niggers en
um fer go wid me back dar en git de
man. But I ain' fin' none un urn, sub.
Dem w'at ain' gone wid de Sherman
army, dee done hide out. Den I went

'286 AUNT FOUNTAIN'S PRISONER.

never go 'bout 'ira wiles he sick ; n Miss
Lady, she keep mighty shy, en see tu'n
up her nose eve'y time she year 'ira laugh.
Oh, yes, sub. Dee cert'n'y spize de
Yankees endurin' er dem times. Dee
hated um rank, sub. I tell urn, I say,
' You-all des wait. Dee ain' no nicer
man dan w'at he is, en you-all des wait
tell you know 'ira.' Shoo ! I des might
ez well talk ter de win', sub--dee hate
de Yankees dat rank.
"By de time dat man git so he kin
creep 'bout on crutches, he look mos'
good ez he do now. He wuz dat full er
life, suh, dat he bleeze ter go down-sta'rs,
en down he went. Well, sub, he wuz
mighty lucky dat day. Kaze ef he'd a
run up wid Mistiss en Miss Lady by he-
se'f, dee'd er done sumpn' her fer ter
make 'ira feel bad: Dee cert'n'y would,
suh. But dee wuz walkin' 'roun' in de
yard, en he come out on de peazzer
whar Marster wuz sunnin' hese'f en
singin'. I wouldn' blieve it, suh, ef I
ain' see it wid my two eyes ; but Marster
got up out'n he cheer, en straighten he-
se'f en shuck ban's wid Mars Fess, en
look like he know all 'bout it. Dee sot
dar, sub, en talk en laugh, en laugh en
talk, tell bimeby I 'gun ter git skeerd on
de accounts er bole un urn. Dee talk
'bout de war, en dee talk 'bout de Yankees,
en dee talk politics light straight 'long
des like Marster done 'fo' he bin strucken
wid de polzy. F,n he talk sense, sub.
He cert'n'y did. Bimeby Mistiss en
Miss Lady come back fum dee walk, en
dee look like dee gwine drap w'en dee
see w'at gwine on. Dem two mens wuz
so busy talkin', sub, dat dee ain' see de
wimmen folks, en dee des keep right
on wid dee argafyin'. Mistiss en Miss
Lady, dee ain' know w'at ter make er
all dis, en dee start' dar lookin' fus' at
Marster en den at one er n'er. Bimeby
dee went up de steps en start to go by,
but Marster he riz up en stop urn. Yes,
suh. He riz right up en stop urn, en
right den en dar, suh, he make um
interjuced ter one an'er. He start' up
en he say, ' Mr. Trunion, dis my wife ;
Mr. Trunion, dis my daughter.'
" Well, suh, I wuz stannin' back in de
big hall, en w'en I see Marster gwine on
dat away my knees come mighty nigh
failin' me, sub. Dis de fus' time w'athe
reckermember anybody name, an de fus'

time he do like he useter, sence he bin
sick wid de polzy. Mistiss en Miss
Lady, dee come long in after w'ile, en
dee look like dee skeerd. Well, sub, I
des fa'rly preach at urn. Yes, sub ; I did
dat. I say, ' You see dat ? You see how
Marster doin'? F,f de ban' er de Lord
ain'in dat, den he hart' ain' bin in nuttin'
on de top side er dis yeth.' I say, 'You
see how you bin cuttin' up 'roun' dat
sick w'ite man wid yo' biggity capers,
en yit de Lord retch down en make
Marster soun' en well time de yuther
w'ite man retch 'ira. Well, sub, dey wuz
dat worked up dat dey sot down en cried.
Yes, sub; dey did dat. Dey clied. En
I ain' tellin' you no lie, sub, I stood dar
en cried wid urn. Let 'lone dat, I des
fa'rly boohooed. Yes, sub; dat's me.
W'en I git tercryin', sho' hUff, I bleeze
ter boohoo.
"lum dat on, Marster do like hese'f
en talk like hese'f. It look like he bin
sleep long time, sub, en de sleep done
'ira good. All he sense come back; en
you know, suh, de Tomlinsons, w'en dey
at deese'f, got much sense ez dee want
en some fer give way. Mistiss and Miss
Lady, dee wuz mighty proud 'bout Mars-
ter, sub, but dee ain' fergit dat de yuth-
er man wuz Yankee, en dee hol' deese'f
monst'ous stiff. He notice dat hese'f, en
he want ter go 'way, but Marster, he
'fuse ter lissen at 'ira right pine-blank,
sub. He say de dead Tomlinsons would
in about turn over in dee graves ef dee
know he sont a cripple man 'way from
he 'ouse. Den he want ter pay he board,
but Marster ain' lissen ter dat, en needer
is Mistiss; en dis mighty funny, too,
kaze right dat minnit dee want a half er
dollar er good money in dee whole rata-
bly, ceppin' some silver w'at I work fer
en w'at I hide in er chink er my chim-
bly. No, sub. Dee want er half er dol-
lar in de whole ratably, suh. F,n yit dee
won't take de greenbacks w'at dat man
offer urn.
"By dat time, sub, de war wuz done
done, en dee wuz tough times. Dee cer-
t'n'y wuz, sub. De railroads wuz all
broke up, en eve'ything look like it
gwine helter-skelter right straight ter
de Ole Boy. Dey want no law, sub, en
dey want no nuttin' ; en ef it hadn't er
bin fer me en my ole man I speck de
Tomlinsons, proud ez dee wuz, would er

AUNT FOUNTAIN'S PRISONER. 287

bin mightily pincht fer fin' bread en
meat. But dee ain' never want fer it
yit, sub, kaze w'en me en my ole man
git whar we can't move no fm'der, Marse
Fess Trunion, he tuck holt er de place
en he fetcht it right side up terreckerly.
He say ter me dat he gwine pay he
board dat away, sub, but he ain' say it
whar de Tomlinsons kin year 'ira, kaze
den dee'd a-bin a fuss, sub. But he
kotch holt, en me, en him, en my ole
man, we des he't eve'ything hot. Mo'
speshually Male l%ss Trunion, sub.
You ain' know 'ira, sub, but dat ar w'ite
man, he got too' ways ter work, en too'
short cuts ter de ways, sub, dan any
w'ite man w'at I ever see, en I done see
lots un urn. It got so, suh, dat me en
my ole man ain' have ter draw no too'
rashuns rum de l'eedman Bureau; but
dee wuz one spell, sub, w'en wuss ra-
shuns dan dem wuz on de Tomlinson
table.
"Well, sub, dat w'ite man, he work en
he scuffle ; he hire niggers, and he turn
um off ; he plan, en he projick ; en 'rain'
so mighty long, sub, 'fo' he got ere'y-
thing gwine straight. How he done it
I'll never tell you, sub; but do it he did.
He put he own money in dar, sub, kaze
dee wuz two times dat I knows un w'en
he git money out'n de pos'-office, en I
see 'ira pay it out ter de niggers, sub.
En all dat time he look like he de hap-
pies' w'ite man on top er de groun', sub.
Yes, sub. En w'en he at de 'ouse Mars-
ter stuck right by 'im, en ef he bin he
own son he couldn't pay him too' 'ten-
tion. Dee wuz times, sub, w'en it seem
like ter me dat Marse l%ss Trunion wuz
a-cuttin' he eye at Miss Lady, en den
I 'low ter myse'f, 'Shoo, man! you
nighty nice en all dat, but you Yankee,
en you nee'nter be a-drappin' yo' wing
'roun' Miss Lady, kaze she too high-
strung fer dat.'
"It look like he see it de same way
I do, sub, kaze after he git eve'ything
straight he say he gwine home. Mars-
ter look like he feel mighty bad, but
Mistiss en Miss Lady, dee ain' say nut-
tin' 'tall. Den, after w'fle, sub, Marse
l%ss Trunion fix up, en off he put. Yes,
sub. He went off what he come fum,
en I speck he folks wuz mighty glad ter
see 'im after so long, kaze ef dee ever
wuz a plum nice man it wuz dat man.

He want no great big man, sub, en he
ain' make much fuss, yit he lef' a mighty
big hole at de Tomlinson Place w'en he
pulled out rum dar. Yes, suh ; he did
dat. It look like it lonesome all over
de plan'ation. Marster, he 'gun ter git
droopy, but eve'y time de dinner-bell
ring he go ter de foot er de stays en
call out, ' Come on, Trunion !' Yes,
sub. He holler dat out eve'y day, en
den, wiles he be talkin', he'd stop en
look roun' en say, ' Whar Trunion ?' It
ain' make no diffunce who he talkin'
wid, sub, he'd des stop right still en ax,
'Vhar Trunion ?' Den de niggers, dee
got slack, en eve'ything 'gun ter go een'-
ways. One day I run up on Miss Lady
settin' down cryin', en I ax her w'at de
name er goodness de matter, en she say
nuff de matter. Den I say she better
go ask her pappy whar Trunion, en den
she git red in de face, en 'low I better
go 'ten' ter my business; en den I tell
her dat ef somebody ain' tell us whar
Trunion is, en dat mighty quick, dee
won't be no business on dat place fer
'ten' ter. Yes, sub. I tol' her dat right
p'intedly, sub.
"Well, sub, one day Marse less
Trunion come a-drivin' up in a shiny
double-buggy, en he look like he des
step right out'n a ban'-box; en ef ever
I wuz glad ter see anybody, I wuz glad
ter see dat man. Marster wuz glad ; en
dis time, sub, Miss Lady wuz glad, en
she show it right plain; but Mistiss, she
still sniff de a'r en hol' her head high.
'Twant long, sub, 'fo' we all knowd dat
Marse l%ss wuz gwine marry Miss
Lady. I ain' know how dee fix it, kaze
Mistiss never is come right out en say
she 'greeable 'bout it, but Miss Lady
wuz a Bledsoe, too, en a Tomlinson
ter boot, en I ain' never see nobody
w'at impatient nuff fer ter stan' out
'g'instdat gal. It ain' all happen, sub,
quick ez I tell it, but it happen; en
but fer dat, I dunno w'at in de name
er goodness would er 'come er dis
place."
A few hours later, as I sat with Trun-
ion on the veranda of his house, he veri-
fied Aun lountain's story, but not un-
til after he was convinced that I was
familiar with the history of the family.
There was much in that history he could
afford to be proud of, modex though he

388 AUNT FOUNTAIN'S PRISONER.

was. A man who believes in the results
of blood in cattle is not likely to gnore
the possibility of similar results in hu-
man beings; and I think he regarded
the matter in some such practical light.
He was a man, it seemed, who was dis-
posed to look lightly on trouble once it
was over with, and I found he was not
so much impressed with his struggle
against the positiv scorn and contempt
of Mrs. Tomlinson--a struggle that was
infinitely more important and protracted
than Aunt Fountain had described it to
be--as he was with his conflict with
Bermuda grass. He told me laughingly
of some of his troubles with his hot-
headed neighbors in the early days after
the war, but nothing of this sort seemed
to be as important as his difficulties
with Bermuda grass. Here the practi-
cal and progressive man showed himself ;
for I have a very vivid recollection of
the desperate attempts of the farmers of
that region to uproot and destroy this
particular variety.
As for Trunion, he conquered it by
cultivating it, for the benefit of himself
and his neighbors, and I suspect that
this is the way he conquered his other
opponents. It was a great victory over
the grass at any rate. I walked with
him over the llace, and the picture of
it all is still framed in my mind---the
wonderful hedges of Cherokee roses, and
the fragrant and fefle stretches of green
Bermuda through which beautiful fawn-
colored cattle were leisurely making
their way. He had a theory that this
was the ouly grass in the world fit for
the dainty Jersey cow to eat.
There were comforts and conveniences
on the Tomlinson llace not dreamed of
in the old days, and I think there was
substantial happiness there, too. Trun-
ion himself was a wholesome man, a man
full of honest affection, hearty laughter,
and hard work--a breezy, companion-
able, energetic man. There was some-
thing boyish, unaffected, and winsome in

his manners, and I can easily understand
why Judge Addison Tomlinson, in his
old age, insisted on astonishing his
family and his guests by exclaiming
"Where's Trunion ?" Certainly he was
a man to think about and inquire
after.
I have rarely seen a livelier woman
than his wife, and I think her happiness
helped to make her so. She had inher-
ited a certain degree of cold stateliness
from her ancestors, but her experience
after the war and Trunion's unaffected
ways had acted as powerful correctives,
and there was nothing in the shape of
indifference or haughtiness to mar her
singular beauty.
As for Mrs. Tomlinson--the habit is
still strong in me to call her Harrie
Bledsoe---I think that in her secret soul
she had an ineradicable contempt for
Trunion's extraordinary business energy.
I think his "push and vim," as the phrase
goes, shocked her sense of propriety" to
a far greater extent than she would have
been willing to admit. But she had
little time to think of these matters;for
she had taken possession of her grand-
son, Master Addison Tomlinson Tamion,
and was absorbed in his wild and bois-
terous ways, as grandmothers will be.
This boy, a brave and manly little fellow,
had Trunion's temper, but he had inher-
ited the Tomlinson air. It became him
weft, too, and I think Trunion was proud
of it.
"I am glad," said I, in parting, "that-
I have seen Aunt Fountain's lisoner. ''
"Ah !" said he, looking at his wife,
who smiled and blushed, "that was dur-
ing the war. Since then I have been a
lrisoner of leace. "
I do not know what industrial theo-
ries Trunion has impressed on his neigh-
borhood by this time, but he gave me a
practical illustration of the fact that one
may be a Yankee and a Southerner too,
simply by being a large-hearted, whole-
souled American.

292 THE COMMUNE OF PARIS.

I had no idea that such startling vents
were to be so soon precipitated upon us.
I shall describe briefly how the knowl-
edge of them first reached me, and then
return to the events themselves in more
detail.
My friends, Mr. and Mrs. Moulton,
who had remained in Paris throughout
the whole siege, and from whom I had
received so much hospitality, had a
country-seat in the little village called
Petit Val, some ten or fifteen miles from
Paris. The Germans had been in pos-
session of their house during the siege.
Mrs. Moulton and her daughter-in-law,
Mrs. Charles J. Moulton, had invited
me to go there with them on the 18th.
On the morning of that day I received
a despatch from Count Bismarck to be
immediately delivered to M. Jules lavre,
Minister of loreign Affairs. On going
to the Ministry of loreign Affairs at nine
o'clock, to deliver my despatch, I found
an unusual excitement. M. Thiers and
all the members of the Cabinet were
there, and also a large number of military
men. I was not apprised of the gravity
of the situation which had brought all
these people together at that compara-
tively early hour in the morning. Tak-
ing a carriage at Mr. Moulton's, we start-
ed a little before noon on our trip.
Everything was then comparatively
quiet in Paris. There was no excite-
ment in the streets, and there appeared
to be nothing unusual going on, except
at the loreign Office. Just as we were
starting, Mr. Moulton said there were
rumors flying about that there had
been a collision between the regular
troops and certain insurrectionary
forces at Butte Montmartre, and that
two generals had been killed. As the
citywas always full of rumors, frequently
of the most absurd and ridiculous char-
acter, which almost invariably turned
out to be false, I paid no particular at-
tention to them. And so we started on
our little journey.
We remained at Petit Val nearly all
day, and left at quite a late hour on our
return home. We came into Paris about
six o'clock in the evening by way of the
Bastille. To my surprise I found the
circulation of carriages interdicted on
the principal streets, and I was obliged
to turn into the by-streets. I soon found

my way impeded by the barricades which
had been improvised everywhere by the
insurrectionary ational Guard. After
showing my card to the various com-
mandants, I was enabled to go through
the obstructed quarters. While I saw
so many evidences of great public com-
motion, I had no adequate conception
of how serious matters were until the
next morning, when Mr. liggs came to
my house to give me information of
what had happened the day before.
This was Sunday morning. I imme-
diately started for my legation, and
found the city full of the most fearful
rumors. It seemed that the govern-
ment had made an attempt on the
morning of Saturday, the 18th, to dis-
lodge the insurgents from the Butte
Montmartre and to get possession of
the cannon there, which had been placed
in position on lriday. The troops of
the line fraternized with the lational
Guard, put their muskets crosse en air,
and refused to fire upon them. All was
lost from that moment, though the
government did not appear to realize
it. Various feeble demonstrations were
made during the day to vindicate pub-
lic authority, but they amounted to
nothing. All day long, whenever the
troops of the line and the lational
Guard came within reach of each other
they reversed their muskets in token of
peace.
Reaching my legation, I realized the
serious character of the situation and at
once took a carriage and started for the
loreig-n Office to find out what had really
happened. There were a good manyla-
tional Guards wandering about and Paris
had a sinister appearance. A gentleman
who had got into my carriage to go to
the loreiga. Office with me did not very
much like the look of things, and as we
were crossing one of the bridges over
the Seine wlfich led to the loreign Of-
rice, at a slow pace, I found that he had
quietly slipped out of the carriage, leav-
ing me alone. I proceeded, however,
on my mission. I drove into the court,
and went into the building by the usual
entrance. Entering the antechamber,
I found therein the old messenger whose
business it was to receive people and to
take in their cards to the Minister. On
addressing him, how great was my sur-

THE COMMUNE OF PARIS. 293

prise when he told me that M. Jules the diplomatic corps. It therefore be-
Favre and the whole government had came necessary to follow the government
left laris for Versailles at half-past nine to Versailles. I was obliged to leave, like
the night before. He said that mat- the others of my colleagues, and I imme-
ters had been hastened by a battalion of diately sent my secretary to Versailles
the National Guard, which passed the to secure a place for the legation. But
Quai d'Orsay, in front of the Foreign the city was full, and he was only enabled

The Palace of Justice.

Office, at four o'clock in the afternoon,
uttering menacing cries. Leving the
magnificent palace, then utterly deserted,
I went on to the Boulevard and to the
Washington Club, and found that the
news of the shooting of General Clem-
ent Thomas and Lecomte by the in-
surgent troops the day before was con-
firmed. Before I reached the legation I
found out that the Ministry of the In-
terior and the Ministry of Justice, as
well as the lrefecture of lolice, and the
H6tel de Ville, were all occupied by the
insurgents. The regular government of
France, constituted by the will of the
people, as expressed through the
tional Assembly at Bordeaux, having
been driven from laa-is by the insurrec-
tionary movement, had established itself
at Versailles. That being the case, there
was no longer a government at laris
with which I could hold any diplomatic
relations ; and it was the same with all

to hire a small room in a side street.
For the first time since the foundation
of our Government was the Minister of
the United States obliged to write his of-
ficial despatches from any place in France
other than the city of Paris. But, as I
informed my Government, while my of-
ficial residence and the legation would
be technically at Versailles, I should go
into laris every day and occupy the ac-
tual legation, in which there had been
no change whatever.

I shall now come to a fuller descrip-
tion of the instu-rection itself which
had so suddenly brought bout these
extr,ordinary results.
When M. Thiers and lfis Ministers
came into Paris after the siege to take
the reins of the government, there were
two hundred and fifty thousand soldiers
of the National Guard fully armed and
equipped and drawing their regular pay

THE COMMUNE OF PARIS.

and rations. This force showed itself
hostile to the government, and was un-
willing to come under its supreme will.
Unfortunately, the authorities not only
did not at once disarm this National
Guard, at whatever cost, but it took no
resolute steps in that direction, and the
spirit of insubordination grew by what it
fed on. This weakness encore-aged all
the elements of discontent, and some of
the National Guard defied all authority.
The time coming when it was abso-
lutely necessary that the govelment
should try titles with the insurgents,
it was found that the whole force had
been tinctured with the revolutionary
and insurrectionary spilit, and that no
reliance could be placed upon it.
The new power of the "Central Com-
mittee of the National Guard," which
was then formed, held its sitting in
secret, and it was soon seen that its
decisions became insm-rectionary acts
which overthrew all constituted author-

ity. It was in vain that M. Ernest
Picard, Minister of the Interior, is-
sued his proclamation pointing out the
lawless and insurrectionm-y acts of the
central committee and appealing to all
good citizens to aid in stifling in the
germ such culpable manifestations. But
the insurrectionists laughed at all these
proclamations and appeals, holding, as
it were, possession of Paris, and backed
up by such a vast military force. The
Butte Montmartre soon became a
table camp of the insurrectionists.
Guards were mounted regularly day and
night, and like old campaigners were
relieved at regular intewals. There
were drummers and trumpeters. The
officers, with broad red belts, high boots,
and long swords, paraded with cigars in
their mouths, and seemed almost over-
powered with the importance of the high
mission which had devolved upon them.
The regular govemment was evidently
afraid to confront the threatening state

29(; THE COMMUNE OF PARIS.

ory of these commissions will main troubles were over, I had the curiosity
forever to dishonor the second empire, to visit the place. It was a good-look-
At the breaking out of the insurrec- ing house for that part of the city, and
tion of the 18th of lIarch, General there was a large garden in front. In a
Thomas, having learned that one of his small room in the house, on the first
old aides had been arrested by the in- floor, which I entered, a mock tribunal,
surgents, started off in citizen's clothes or a bm'lesque com't-martial, assembled,
to go to Montmartre to look after him. which, without form or ceremony, and

Reaching the Place Pigalle, a National
Guard recognized him, from his long,
white beard, and went up to him and
suid, "Are you not General Thomas?"
The general answered, "Whatever be
my name, I have always done my duty."
"You are a wretch and a traitor !" cried
the National Guard, and seizing him by
the collar, took him to the Chateau
Rouge, where General Lecomte had
previously been imprisoned. In the
course of that day, the 18th of )larch,
a force of about one hundred National
Guards went to their prison and escorted
them to the top of Montmartre, where
they stopped before an apartment-
house, To. 6 Rue des Rosiers. After the

without a hearing, decided, sance te-
nante, that the two generals should be
immediately executed. Accordingly, a
platoon of the assassin Tational Guard
was at once called and the two men were
taken into the garden, and Clement
Thomas was ordered to take his place
against the wall. The order was given,
the report of muskets rent the air, and
General Thomas fell with his face to the
earth. "It is your turn now," said one
of the assassins to General Iecomte.
Standing near by, the general advanced,
and, stepping over the body of Gen-
eral Clement Thomas, took his place
with his back to the-wall. The order
"Fire !" was given, and General Le-

-302 THE COMMUNE OF PARIS.

of authority--such as it was--after the
communal assembly should be elected.
But this in reality was an pretence,
and the c ontroning members of the
committee never intended that the
power shoed so far go out of their
hands but that they wod be enabled
to control it iu the cornmeal assembly.
The central committee was composed
of thirty-seven members, and twenty
out of the number managed to be
The Commune, thus elected, was uost
entely composed of unknown and
utterly obsce men, with bu few ex-
ceptions. Those exceptions were men
who had made themselves notorious,

Delescluze.

to-day. The Post Office is 'burst up ;'
the Commune seized the whole concern,
and all the employ6s have left. Every-
thing now will have to go to Versailles to
be mailed. There never was such a' hell
upon earth' as this very Paris. I don't
o(,n I shall be ol ig d to
ill: aw y. The Americans
a arm d, and if the gates
e,  th.  l,,m in increase
pa aic. ' How long, oh, ho ....
this time many of the
Dung
es ere open and service was
There were funers and wed-
nor,, of t s foer th  of
,Ve would occasionany see

know how soon I shall be obliged to
take my family away.
begin to be alarmed, and if the gates
continue closed that alarm will increase
to a regular panic. ' How long, oh, how
long !'"
churches were open and service was
held.
dings, but more of the fm:mer than of
the latter.
a wedding-party on its way to the Mairie
to a marriage. If you would peep into
the first carriage you would see the
prospective bride, young and pretty,
as all brides are supposed to be, and
generally, under these circumstances,
in tears. In the second carriage you
would find the prospective bridegroom
looking distracted and anxious, for he
was not certain as to what the condi-
tion of things might be at the Mairie.

such as Felix Pyat, Delescluze, Blanqui,
llourens, and Gambon. This new and
bogus city government was composed
of one hundred and six members. It
sat in one of the magnificent halls of
the ttStel de Vflle, which had been
occupied for municipal purposes pre-
.viously by the city government of Par-
m. It is difficult to conceive what was
the sensation of those wretched creat-

Felix Pyat.

The Comit4 Central had made a great ures, who found themselves the deposi-
parade by the surrender of its mandate tory of an insurrectionary and lawless

804 THE COMMUNE OF PARIS.

The Burning of the Guillotine before the Statue of Voltaire.

THE COMMUNE OF PARIS. 807

"All acknowledged that they had been
badly handled, some attributing their
disasters to one cause and some to an-
other. Some said they were sent off
without ammunition, and that they were
therefore unable to return fire. Others
declared that they were assured they
would meet no opposition from the gov-
ernment troops, but, on the contrary,
would be received with open arms. In-
stead thereof they were welcomed ' with
bloody hands to hospitable graves.'
One thing, however, is quite certain, the
insurgents have met with a repulse which
may possibly lead to important results.
I went to the Champs Elyses at half-
past twelve and found a regiment of
the insurgent Iational Guard had ad-
vanced upon the avenue and halted near
the Arc de Triomphe. On the other
side of the Arc there was an immense
crowd of people and lational Guards, all
looking in the direction where the firing
had been going on within half an hour.
While standing there, some excitement
was created by a few artillery-men dash-
ing along with a piece of six, and although
they were yelling and brandishing their
swords they failed to obtain anything
but a feeble acclamation as they passed
by the crowd, and a regiment of soldiers.
The most distinct recognition that
heard was from an enthusiastic little
Frenchman at my side, who cried out,
' Vive l'artillerie terrible I'"
The 3d of April was a day of great
excitement in Paris. The lational
Guards were roaming around every-
where, singly, in squads, in companies
and regiments. In the afternoon
body of several hundred women formed
at the Place de la Concorde and took
up theh- line of march to Versailles, in
poor imitation of those who marched
upon the same place in the time of
Louis the Sixteenth. They paraded up
the Champs ElysSes and through the
Avenue Montaigne. A portion of them
passed over the Pont de l'Alma, while
the others took the route by the Point
du Jour. Many of them wore the "bon-
net rouge," and all were singing the
Marseillaise. Whenever they met an
omnibus they stopped it, caused the
passengers to get out, and took posses-
sion themselves. One old woman, sixty
years of age, mounted on the top of an

omnibus, displayed the red flag and
gave the word of command. How far
they got and what became of them I
did not know.
The greatest quiet prevailed through-
out the 4th ; but on the 5th I made this
entry in my journal :

"All last night the cannon thundered
on the site of Vanves and Issy forts.
It was a regular artillery duel between
these forts and the Versailles batteries.
' lobody hurt,' as far as heard from. An
American physician went out into the
neighborhood of Issy with the ambulance
carriage and got right under the fire.
The ambulance party saw no wound-
ed. The papers of this morning gave no
account of the fighting; indeed, we
shall not be likely to get at the truth in
regard to operations, as the Commune
will suppress every paper that tells the
broth."

There was a curious proceeding on
the 7th of April. The communards had
conceived a great hatred for the guillotine
(and for a good reason). It was de-
nominated "an infamous instrument of
monarchical domination," and the Com-
mune, therefore, in order to emphasize
its hatred for that instrument, decreed
that one should be set up and burned
before the statue of Voltaire in the
Eleventh arrondissement, and this was
made the occasion of a great ceremony.
The guillotine was brought out and sur-
rounded with huge pieces of wood and
other combustible material. The order
was given to burn this guillotine "for the
purification of the arrondissement and
for the preservation of the new liberty."
This piece of foolery and absurdity at-
tracted great attention. A vast crowd
assembled to witness the spectacle,
which was honored by the presence of
a battalion of the lational Guard. There
was a large crowd of men, women, and
children, who were very brave and
shook their fists at the instrument which
inspired in them so much hatred. At
the proper time the fire was communi-
cated and huge flames broke forth; and
soon there was nothing but a heap of
glowing ashes which the crowd looked
upon with joy and sent up many
huzzas.

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

By Harold Frederic.

CHAPTER X.

THE IISHING PARTY.

T young people were arranging, as
Lemuel slunk past them in the dark,
a fishing party for the following day.
The proposal had been Isabel's--she
had a fertile mind for pleasure-planning
--and Annie and Seth were delighted
with it. They would take a basket of
food, and make the tea over a fire in
the woods, and the two women could
take turns in playing at fishing with a
little rod which Seth had made for him-
self as a boy. It would be an ideal way
of bidding good-by to Seth, said his
pretty sister-in-law, and Annie, feeling
more deeply both the significance of
s.uying good-by and the charm of hav-
ing a whole day to herself along the
river, and in his company, had assented
eagerly.
As for Seth, this sudden accession of
feminine interest in, and concern for,
him was extremely pleasant and grateful.
The very suggestion of the trip, in his
honor, was like a sweet taken in advance
from the honeyed future which he was
so soon to realize. Long that night, after
he had walked over to the Warren gate
with Annie, and returned to the unlathed
attic where Milton lay already s=oring,
he thought fondly of the morrow's treat.
The morning came, warm but over-
cast, with a soft tendency of air from
the west. "It couldn't have been better
if it had been made to order," Seth said
enthusiastically, when Isabel made her
appearance before breakfast. "It will
be good fishing and good walking, not
too hot and not wet."
Albert smiled a trifle satirically when
the project was unfolded to him--with
that conceited tolerance which people
who don't fish always extend to those
who do. "You'll probably get wet and
have the toothache," he said to his wife,
but offered no objection.
The lunch was packed, the poles were
ready, the bait-can stood outside the

shed door, breakfast was a thing of the
past, and Isabel sat with her sun-hat and
parasolbut Annie did not come. Seth
fidgeted and fumed as a half-hour went
by, then the hour itself. It was so un-
like Annie to be late. He made an er-
rand to the hay-barn, to render the
waiting less tedious, and it was there
that Milton found him, rummaging
among some old harness for a strap.
"Annie's come over," said Milton, "I
heerd her say somethin' 'baout not goin'
fishin', after all. Looks 'sif she'd be'n
cryin' tew. I role 'era I'd fetch yeh."
Seth came out into the light, slapping
the dust off his hands. "What's that
you say ? Why isn't she going ?"
"I dunnao nothin' more'n I've told
yeh. Ask her yerself. I s'pcse she's
be'n cryin' at the thought of yer goin'.
That'll be the eend o' ev'rythin' atwixt
you two, won't it ?"
"Oh, do mind your own business,
Milton !" Seth said, and hurried across.
the barnyard to where the two young
women stood, on the doorstep. "Why
aren't you going, Annie ? What's the
matter?" he called out as he ap-
proached.
Poor Annie looked the picture of de-
spair. Her face bore the marks of re-
cent tears, and she hung her head in
silence. Isabel answered for her.
- "Going? Of course she is going.
It would be ridiculous not to go, now
that everything's arranged. Get the
things together, Seth, and let us make
a start."
"But Milton said she wasn't going,"
persisted Seth.
"Dear, dear, how downright you are !
Don't I tell you that she is going, that
there is nothing the matter, that we
are waiting for you ?" And there was
nothing more to be said.
The sun came out before the trio had
gone far, but not before they had begun
to forget the cloud at the start. The
grass in the pastures was not quite dry
yet, but wet feet were a part of the fun
of the thing, Isabel said gayly. The

SETH'S BROTHER'S I4IFE. 809

meadow larks careered in the air about
them, and the bobolinks, swinging on
the thistle4ops, burst into chorus from
every side as the sunlight spread over
the hill-side. There were robins, too,
in the juniper-trees beyond the white-
flowering buckwheat patch, Seth pointed
out, too greedy to wait till the green
beres ripened. A flock of crows rose
from the buckwheat as they passed, and
who could help smiling at Isabel's citi-
fied imitation of their strident hawing?
They came upon some strawberries, half
hidden in the tall grass beside the rail-
topped wall, and Isabel would gather
them in her handkerchief, to serve as
dessert in their coming al fresco dinner,
and Annie helped her, smiling in spite
of herself at the city lady's extravagant
raptures.
When they stopped to rest, in the
flesh-scented shadow of the woods, and
sat on a log along the path, two wee
chipmunks came out from the brake op-
posite and began a chirping altercation,
so comical in its suggestions of human
wrangling that they all laughed out-
right. The sound scared away the tiny
rodents in a twinkling, and it banished
as swiftly the restraint under which the
excm-sion had begun.
From that moment it was all gayety,
jesting, enjoyment. Isabel was the life
of the party; she said the drollest
things, passed the quaintest comments,
revealed such an inexhaustible store of
spirits that she lifted her companions
fairly out of their serious selves. Seth
found himself talking easily, freely, and
even Annie now and again made little
jokes, at which they all laughed merrily.
The fisherman's judo-ment as to the
day was honored in full measure. The
fish had never bitten more sharply, the
eddies had never carried the line better.
It seemed so easy to let the line wander
back and forth between the two currents,
to tell when the bait was grabbed un-
derneath, and to haul out the plunging,
flapping beauty, that Isabel was all ea-
gerness to try it, and Seth rigged the
little pole for her, baited the hook self-
sacrificingly with his biggest worm,
which he had thought of in connection
with a certain sapient father of all pike
farther up the river, and showed her
where and how to cast the line.

Alas, it was not so simple, after all
this catching of fish.
First she lost a hook on a root ; then it
seemed to her that ages passed in which
nothing whatever happened, and this was
followed by the discovery that her hook
had been entirely stripped of bait with-
out her suspecting it. At last there
came a bite, a deep, determined tug,
which she answered with a hysterical
pull, hurling through the air and into
the thistles far back of her a wretched
little bull-head, which they were unable
to find for a long time, and which miser-
ably stung her thumb with its fin when
she finally did find it.
After this exploit Annie must try, and
she promptly twitched her line into the
tree overhead. And so the day went
forward, with light-hearted laughter and
merriment, with the perfect happiness
which the sunshine and color and per-
fume of June can bring alone to the
young.
They grew a trifle more serious at
dinner-time. It was in the narrow defile
where the great jam of logs was, and
where the river went down, black and
deep, under the rotting wood with a
vicious gurgle. Just above the jam
there was a mound, velvety now with
new grass, and comfortably shaded--a
notable spot for dinner and a long rest,
and there the girls could watch to much
advantage Seth's fishing from the logs,
of which great things were prophesied.
Here, then, the cloth was spread on the
grass, the water put on over a fire lighted
back of the mound, and the contents of
the basket laid in prandial a,Tay. It
was, in truth, a meagre dinner, but were
appetites ever keener or less critical ?
Once during the forenoon, when allu-
sion was made to Seth's coming depart-
ure, Isabel had commanded that nothing
be said on that subject all day long.
"Let us not think of it at aM" she had
said, "but just enjoy the hours as if
they would never end. That is the only
secret of happiness." But now she her-
self traversed the forbidden line.
"How strange it will all seem to you,
Seth," she mused, as she poured out the
tea. "As the time draws near, don't
you almost dread it ?"
"Vhat I've been thinking most about
to-day is your coming to the farm to

310 SETH'S BROTHER'S I4IFE.

live. It can't be that you ar alto-
gether pleasedafter what I've heard
you say .9"
"Oh, yes, why not.9" said Isabel. "My
case is very different from yours. I shall
be just as idle as I like. I shall have
horses, you know, and a big conservatory,
and a piano, and all that. We shall have
lots of people here all summer longm
just think what fishing parties we can
make up !mand whenever it gets stupid
we can run down to lew York. Oh,
I've got quite beyond the reconciled
stage now. I am almost enthusiastic
over it. When you come back in a
year's time, you won't know the place.
It will have been transformed into a
centre of fashion and social display. I
may get to have a veritable salon, you
know, the envy and despair of all Dear-
borh County. lancyElhanan Pratt and
Sfle Thomas in evening dress, with pat-
ent-leather pumps and black stockings,
scowling at Leander Crump, with a
crushed hat under his arm, whom they
suspect of watering his milk! Oh, we
shall be gay, I assure you !"
Seth looked at her attentively, puzzled
to know how much of this was badinage,
how much sincerity. She smiled archly
at him what a remarkably winning
smile she had !--and continued:
"Then Annie will be company for me,
too. I mean to bring her out, you
know, and make her a leader of society.
In a year's time, when you come back,
and I introduce you to her, you won't
be able to credit your senses, her air
will be so distingue, and her tastes so
fastidious."
She ceased her gay chatter abruptly,
for Annie had turned away and they
could see that her eyes were filling with
tears.
Seth bethought him of those earlier
tears, the signs of which had been so
obvious when they started, and it was
natural enough to connect the two.
"Something has happened, Annie," he
said. "Can't you tell us what it is.9"
And then he bit his tongue at having
made the speech, for Annie turned a
beseeching look at him, then at Isabel,
and burst into sobs.
"Isn't it reason enough that you are
going away.9" said Isabel. "What
more could you ask "

"1o, it isn't that alone," protested
Annie through her tears. I-Ier pride
would not brook the assumption.
"There is something else ; I can hardly
tell you--but---but---my grandmother
has suddenly taken a great dislike to
Seth; if she knew where I was she
would be very angry ; I never deceived
her, even indirectly, before, but I
couldn't bear not to come after I got to
the house, and if I've done wrong"
"low, now dear," cooed Isabel, lean-
ing over to take Annie's hands, "what
nonsense to talk of wrong ; come now,
dry your eyes, and smile at us, like a
good girl. You are nervous and tired
out with the task of tending your grand-
mothermthat's all and this day in the
woods will do you a world of good.
Don't let us have even the least little bit
of unhappiness in it."
Seth watched his sister-in-law caress
and coax away Annie's passing fit of
gloom, with deep enjoyment. The ten-
derness and beauty of the process were
a revelation to him ; it was an attribute
of womanhood the existence of which
he had scarcely suspected heretofore,
in his untutored bucolic state. Annie
seemed to forget her grief quickly
enough, and became cheerful again ; in
quaint docility she smiled through her
tears at Isabel's command, and the latter
was well within the truth when she
cried :
"There! You have never looked
prettier in your life !"
Seth nodded acquiescence, and re-
turned the smile. But somehow this
grief of Annie's had bored him, and he
felt rather than thought that his country
cousin, even in this radiant moment,
was of slight interest compared with the
city sister-in-law, who not only knew
enough not to cry herself, but could so
sweetly charm away tears from others.
Seth tested all the joints of his pole,
and changed the hook and baited it
with studious care, before he climbed out
on the jam. Gingerly feeling his way
from log to log, he got at last upon the
wet mossy birch which projected like a
ledge at the bottom of the pile. The
women watched his progress from the
mound, and gave a little concerted shout
of triumph when, at the very first cast
of his line into the froth of the dark

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE. 311

eddy, it was caught and dragged swiftly
across the stream, and a handsome pik e
a moment later paid the penalty.
"That's by far the biggest yet, isn't
it ?" Annie asked.
"Wait, there are bigger yet. Watch
this !"
The line, thrown in again, had been
sharply jerked, and was now being drawn
up stream under the logs. Seth moved
down to the end of the birch, stooping
under the jutting heap of logs above, to
be able to play the pole sidewise and
save the fish. It was a difficult position
to stand in ; he held the rod far forward
with one hand, and grasped a bough
above for support as he leaned out over
the stream.
The thing snapped--exactly how it
was no one knew--a log released from
its bondage shifted position, a dozen
others rolled over it rumbling, and the
women held their breath afS-ighted as
they saw, without moving, the whole top
of the jam tremble, lift a jagged end or
two, and then collapse with a hollow
noise. As they found voice to scream,
the water was covered with floating
d$bris, and the air filled with a musty
fungus-like smell.
There was no sigm of Seth.
The roar of the falling timber had
scarcely died away before Annie had left
the mound, had torn her way through
the alders at the bottom, and stood
panting on the wet, slimy rocks at the
edge of the stream. She hardly heard
the frightened warning which Isabel,
pale and half-fainting, called out to her:
"Keep away from the water, Annie !
][ou'll surely be drowned!"
She was painfully intent upon another
thing, upon the search for some indica-
tion of her cousin. The logs were mov-
ing but slowly in the current, and were
heaped so irregularly that no clear sur-
vey of the whole surface could be had.
There seemed an eternity of suffering in
every second which she spent thus, scan-
ning the scene. Could the crush of
logs have killed him ? Even if he had
escaped that, would he not be drowned
by this time ? The grinding of the logs
against each other, the swash of the
water at her feet, Isabel's faint moaning
on the mound above, seemed to her
dazed terror a sort of death dirge.

Oh, joy! She caught sight of some-
thing in cloth between two great tree-
trunks, drenched, covered with the red
grime of rotten wood, motionless; but
it was Seth. His face she could not see,
nor whether it was under water or not.
She walked boldly into the stream--
knee-deep at the outset, and the slip-
pery rocks shelving off swiftly into un-
known brown-black depthsDbut there
was no hesitation. A half-dozen steps
and she disappeared suddenly beneath
the water. Isabel wrung her hands in
despair, too deep now to find a voice;
but Annie had only slipped on the
treacherous slates, and found her foot-
ing again. The water came to her
shoulders now, and was growing deeper
steadily.
With a strength born of desperation
she clambered up on the birch which
floated nearest her, and pulled herself
along its length, swaying as it rolled in
the current under her weight, but man-
aging to keep on top. It was nothing
short of miraculous to Isabel's eyes, the
manner in which she balanced herself,
clambered from log to log, overcame all
the obstacles which lay between her and
the inanimate form at the other side.
The distance was not great, and a swim-
mer would have made nothing of the
feat, but for a girl encumbered with
heavy wet skirts, and in deep water for
the first time, it was a real achieve-
ment.
At last she reached Seth her prog-
ress had covered three minutes, and
seemed to her hours long--and, throw-
ing herself across both logs, with a final
effort lifted his head upon her shoul-
der.
"He is alive !" she said to Isabel, fee-
bly now, but with a great sigh of re-
lief.
The city woman ran down at this, all
exultation. At Annie's suggestion she
tied their two shawls together, fastened
one end to a pole, and managed to fling
the other over to the rescuer; it was
easy work after that to draw the logs to
the bank, and then Annie, standing
knee-deep again in the water, made
shift to get the heavy dead-weight safe
on land. The two women tugged their
burden through the alders, and up to
the place where the dinner dishes still

812 SETH'S BROTHER'S I/V'IFE.

lay, with scarcely a word. Then ex-
hausted, excited, overjoyed, Isabel threw
herself in Annie's arms and they both
found relief in tears.
Seth had been struck on the head and
stunned by the first falling log; how
much he had been in the water, or how
near he had been to drowning could not
be discovered.
He presently opened his eyes, and
smile came almost instantaneously to
his face as he realized that his head
was resting in Isabel's lap, that he was
muffled up in her shawl, and that she
was looking down upon him anxiously,
tenderly. A second sufficed to bring
the whole thing to his mind, or at least
the fact that he had gone under with
the logs and by some agency had been
landed here safe and comfortable, if not
dry--and to bring also the instinctive
idea that it would be the intelligent part
to lie still, and be petted and sympa-
thized with.
Isabel scarcely returned his smile.
She had not recovered from her fright.
"Oh, Seth," she asked earnestly, "are
you hurt .9 Do you feel any pain .9"
"lot a bit," he replied ; "only dizzy
like. By George ! How they did come
down though. I must have had a pretty
narrow squeak of it. Funny--I don't
remember coming out at all."
She smiled now. "I should think
not. You lay perfectly senseless way
out there among the logs. We fished
you out, and dragged you up here.
feel like a heroine in a Crusader's ro-
mance, really !"
It entered Seth's mind to say some-
thing nice in reply, that she looked like
one, or that they were not equal in
those benighted ages to producing such
women, or something of that sort; but
his tongue did not seem to frame the
words easily, and as he looked up at her
he grew shy once again, and felt him-
self flushing under her smile, and only
said vacuously, "Mighty lucky I wasn't
alone, isn't it.9"
Annie appeared on the scene now,
her clothes steaming from the heat of
the fire, over which she had endeavored
to dry them, and her teeth displaying
spasmodic tendency to knock together
between sentences. She, too, was full
of solicitude as to Seth's condition, and

to satisfy this he reluctantly sat up,
stretched his arms out, felt of the
bump on his forehead, beat his chest,
and finally stood erect.
"rm all right, you see," he said,
"only, bo-o-o, I'm cold," and he made
for the fire, upon which Annie had
heaped brushwood, which crackled and
snapped now, giving forth a furious
heat.
They stood about the fire for a con-
siderable time. Isabel was opposite
Seth, rather ostentatiously drying sun-
dry damp places in her dress which
had come in contact with the rescued
man's dripping hair and clothes. He
was so interested in watching her, and
in thinking--half-regretfully, half-jubi-
lantly-that she had been put to this
discomfort in saving his life, that he
failed to notice how completely drenched
his cousin had been. The conversation
turned entirely, of course, upon the re-
cent great event, but it was desultory
and broken by long intervals of silence,
and, somehow, Seth did not get any clear
idea of how he was saved, much less of
the parts the two women had respect-
ively played in the rescue.
It would be unfair to say that Isabel
purposely misrepresented anything ; it
is nearer the truth to describe her as
confounding her own anxiety with her
companion's action. At all events, the
narrative to be gleaned from her scat-
tering descriptions and exclamations
had the effect of creating in Seth's mind
the impression that he could never be
sufficiently grateful to his sister-in-
law.
As for Annie, the whole momentous
episode had come so swiftly, had been so
imperative, so exhaustive in its demands
of all her faculties, and then had so sud-
denly dwindled to the unromantic con-
ditions of drying wet clothes at a brush
fire, that her thoughts upon it were
extremely confused. She scarcely took
part in the conversation. Perhaps she
felt vaguely that her own share in the
thing was not made to stand forth with
all the prominence it deserved, but she
took it for granted that, in his first
waking moments, while he was alone
with Isabel, Seth had been told the
central fact of her going into the water
for him, and, if he was not effusively

SETH'S BROTHER'S IMIFE. 313

grateful, why--it was not Seth's way to
be demonstrative. Besides, she said
to herself, she did not want to be
thanked.
Still, late that night, long hours after
Seth had said good-night to her at the
Warren gate, and she had almost guilt-
ily stolen up to her room without brav-
ing her grandmother's questions, Annie
could not go to sleep for thinking:
"He might at least have looked some
thanks, even if he did not speak them."

Three days later, Seth departed for
the city. It was not a particularly im-
pressive ceremony, this leave-taking, not
half so much as he had imagined it
would be.
He had risen early, dressed himself in
one of the two new, ready-made, cheap
suits Albert had bought for him at
Thessaly, and packed all his possessions
in the carpet satchel which had been in
the family he knew not how long, and
still found, when he descended the
stairs, that he was the first down. It
was a dark, rainy morning, and the
living room looked unspeakably deso-
late, and felt disagreeably cold. He sat
for a long time by a window pondering
the last copy of John's Banner, and try-
ing to thus prepare his mind for that
immense ordeal of daily newspaper
work, that struggle of unknown, titanic
proportions, now close before him.
Alvira at last came in to lay the break-
fast -table.
"Hello, you up already ?" was all she
said; but he felt she was eyeing him
furtively, as if even thus soon he was a
stranger in the house of his birth.
Aunt Sabrina next appeared. "There !
I knew it'd rain," she exclaimed. "I
told Alviry so last night. When th'
cords on th' curtains git limp, yeh can't
fool me 'baout it's not rainin'. "N' Seth,
I hope youql go to Church regular,
whatever else you dew. 'IN' ef yeh could
take a class in th' Sunday-schewl, it'd
go a long ways tow'rd keepin' yeh aout
o' temptation. Will yeh go to th' Bap-
tist Church, think ? Th' Fairchilds 'v'
allus be'n Baptists."
The breakfast passed in constrained
silence, save for Albert, who delivered a
monologue on the evils of city life, and
the political and ethical debauchery of

the press, to which Seth tried dutifully
to pay attention--thinking all the while
how to say good-by to Isabel, how to in-
vest his words with a fervor the others
would not suspect.
When the time came, all this planning
proved of no avail. He found himself
shaking hands as perfunctorily with her
as with her husband, and his father and
aunt. Only the latter kissed him, and
she did it with awkward formality.
Then he climbed into the buggy, where
Milton and the carpet-bag were already
installed, and, answering in kind a
chorus of "Good-byes," drove out into
the rainmand the World[

CHAPTER XI.

ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE WORLD.

SETH'S first impressions of the World,
gathered when he found himself and his
valise alone on the sidewalk of one of
Tecumseh's chief streets, were distinctly
gloomy.
Other passengers who had left the
train here, and in whose throng he had
been borne along thus far, started off
briskly in various directions once they
reached the busy thoroughfare, elbow-
ing their way through the horde of
clamorous hotel-porters much as one
might push through a clump of ob-
structing bushes, lie had firmly fixed
in his mind the cardinal rule of travel-
ling countrymen, that these shouting
runners were brigands intent upon rob-
bing him, and he was clear in his reso-
lution to give them no hold upon him,
not even by so much as a civil expres-
sion of countenance, lie said "No,
thank you l" sternly to at least a dozen
solicitations, so it seemed to him, and
walked away steadily, fearful that their
practised eyes had detected in him an
utter stranger, and intent only upon
proving to them that he knew where he
was going. When at last it seemed
likely that they were no longer watch-
ing him, he stopped, put his bag down
in a door-way, and looked about.
It was half-past six of a summer after-
noon (for a failure to make connections
had prolonged the sixty-mile journey
over eight hours), and the sun, still

14 SETH'S BROTHER'S IMIFE.

high, beat down the whole length f the
street with an oppressive glare and heat.
The buildings on both sides, as far as
eye could reach, were of brick, flat-
topped, irregular in height, and covered
with flaring signs. There was no tree,
nor any green thing, in sight.
Past him, in a ceaseless stream, and
all in one direction, moved a swarm of
humanity--laborers and artisans with
dinner-pails, sprucely dressed narrow-
chested clerks and book-keepers, and
bold-faced factory girls in dowdy clothes
and boots run down at the heels--a be-
wildering, chattering procession. No
one of all this throng glanced at him,
or paid the slightest attention to him,
until one merry girl, spying his forlorn
visage, grinned and called out with a
humorous drawl, "Hop-pick ers ! "and
then danced off with her laughing com-
panions, one of whom said, "Aw, come
off! You're rushin' the season. Hops
ain't ripe yet."
Seth felt deeply humiliated at this.
He had been vaguely musing upon
the general impudence of his coming to
this strange city to teach its people
daily on all subjects, from government
down, while he did not even know how
to gracefully get his bag off the street.
This incident added the element of
wounded self-pride to his discomfort--
for even casual passers-by were evident-
ly able to tell by his appearance that he
was a farmer. Strange! neither Albert
nor John had told him anything calculat-
ed to serve him in this dilemma. They
had warned him plentifully as to what not
to do. Indeed his head was full of nega-
tive information, of pit-falls to avoid,
temptations to guard against. But on
the affirmative side it was all a blank.
John had, it was true, advised him to
get board with some quiet family, but
if there were any representatives of such
quiet families in the crowd surging past,
how was he to know them ?
Vhile he tormented himself with this
perplexing problem, two clerks came
out of the store next to which he stood,
to pull up the awning and prepare for
night. A tall young man, with his
hands deep in his trousers' pockets,
and a flat straw hat much on one side
of his head, sauntered across the street
to them, and was greeted familiarly.

"Well, Tom," shouted one of these
clerks, "you just everlastingly gave it
to that snide show to-night. Wasn't it
a scorcher, though ?"
The young man with the straw hat
put on a satisfied smile. "That's the
only way to do it," he said lightly.
"The sooner these fakirs understand
that they can't play Tecumseh people
for chumps, the better. If the Chroni-
cle keeps on pounding 'era, they'll begin
to give us a wide berth. Their advance
agent thought he could fix me by open-
ing a pint bottle of champagne. That
may work in Hornellsville, but when he
gets to-night's Chronicle I fancy he'll
twig that it doesn't go down here."
"Oh, by the way, Tom," said the
other clerk, in a low tone of voice, "my
sister's engaged to Billy Peters. I
don't know that she wants to have it
given away, that is, names, and every-
thing, but you might kind o' hint at it.
It would please the old folks, I think--
you know father's taken the Chronicle
for the last twenty years."
"I know," said Tom, producing an
old envelope from a side pocket, and
making some dashes on it with a pencil
m,, the regulation gag : ' It is rumored
that a rising young hat-dealer will short-
ly lead to the altar one of the bright,
particular social stars of Brewery Street,'
eh ? Something like that ?"
"Yes, that's it. You know how to
fix it so that everybody'll know who is
meant. Be around at Menzel's to-
night ?"
"I don't know. Maybe I'll look in.
The beer's been fearfully flat there,
though, this last carload. So long,
boys !"--and Tom moved down the street
while the clerks re-entered the store.
Seth followed him eagerly, and touch-
ed him on the shoulder, saying:
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I heard
you mention the Chronicle just now. I
would be much obliged if you could tell
me where the office is."
The young man turned, looked Seth
over, and said, affably enough:
"Certainly. But you'll find it shut
up. The book-keeper's gone home."
Then he added, as by a happy after-
thought: "If you want to pay a weekly
subscription, though, I can take it, just
as well as not."

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE. 315

"No," answered Seth, "I've come to
work on the Chronicle."
"Oh--printer .9 I guess some of the
fellows are there still, throwing in their
cases. If you like, I'll show you."
Seth replied, with some embarrass-
ment: "No, I'm not a printer. I've
come to be--to be--an editor."
Tom's manner changed in a twinkling
from civility to extreme cordiality.
"Oh--ho ! you're the new man from
Thessaly, eh.9 Jack Fairchfld's brother!
By Jove ! How are you, anyway.9
When did you get in .9 Where are you
stopping ?"
"I'm not stopping anywhere, unless
it be this stairway here," Seth replied,
pointing to his carpet-bag with a smile,
for his companion's cheerfulness was
infectious. "I came in half an hour
ago, and I scarcely knew whdre to go,
or what to do first. I gather that you
are connected with the Chronicle."
"Well, I should remark !" said Tom,
taking the bag up as he spoke. "Come
along. We'll have some supper down
at Bismarck's, and leave your grip there
for the evening. We can call for it on
our way home. You'll stop with me to-
night, you know. It ain't a particularly
fly place, but we'll manage all right, I
guess. And bow's Jack ?"
In the delight of finding so genial a
colleague, one, too, who had known and
worked with his brother, Seth's heart
rose, as they walked down the street
again. I-Ie had been more than a little
dismayed at the prospect of meeting
those unknown writers whose genius
radiated in the columns of the Chroni-
cle, and in whose company he was hence-
forth to labor. Especially had he been
nervous lest he should not speak with
sufficient correctness, and should shock
their fastidious ears with idioms insen-
sibly acquired in the back-country. It
was a great relief to find that this gen-
tleman was so easy in his conversation,
not to say colloquial.
They stopped presently at a broad
open door, flanked by wide windows, in
which were displayed a variety of bright-
tinted play-bills, and two huge pictures
of a goat confidently butting a small
barrel. There was a steep pile of these
little, din-k-colored barrels on the side-
walk at the cm'b, from which came a

curious smell of resin.. As they entered,
Seth discovered that this odor belonged
to the whole place.
The interior was dark, and, to the
country youth's eyes, unexpectedly vast.
The floor was sprinkled with gray sand.
An infinitude of small, circular oak
tables, each surrounded with chaia-s,
stretched out in every direction into the
distant gloom. Away at the farther end
of the place, somebody was banging
furiously on a piano. In the middle dis-
tance, three elderly men sat smoking
long pipes and playing dominoes, silent-
ly, save for the sharp clatter of the
pieces. Nearer, three other men, seated
about a table, were all roaring in Ger-
man at the top of their lungs, pounding
with their glasses on the resounding
wood, and making the most excited and
menacing gestures. While Seth stared
at them, expecting momentarily to see
the altercation develop into blows, he
felt himself clutched by the arm, and
heard Tom say :
"Bismarck, this is )Ir. Fairchild, a
new Chronicle man. You must use him
as well as you do me."
Seth turned and found himself shak-
ing hands with an old German, mon-
strous in girth, and at once fierce and
comical in aspect, with short, upright
gray hair, a huge yellowish-white mus-
tache, and little piggish blue eyes near-
ly hidden from view by the wave of fat
which rendered his great purple face as
featureless as the bottom of a platter.
"Who effer vas hIisder Vott's frent,
den you bed he owens dis whole
houwus," this stout gentleman wheezed
out, smiling warmly, and releasing Seth's
hand to indicate, with a sweeping gest-
ure of his pudgy paw, the extent of
Seth's new and figurative possessions.
On the in4tation of the host they all
took seats, and a lean, wolfish-faced
young man named "Owgoost," who
shuffled along pushing his big slippers
on the floor, brought three tall, foaming
glasses of dark-brown beer. Seth did
not care for beer, and had always, in a
general way, avoided saloons and drink,
but of course, under these circum-
stances, it would be ridiculous not to do
as the others did. The beverage was
bitter, but not unpleasant, and with an
effort he drank it half down at a time, as

316 SETH'S BROTHER'S IMIFE.

he saw his companions do. Then he
looked about, while they discussed the
merits of this new "bock," Tom speak-
ing with an air of great authority, and
pronouncing it better than the last, but
a bit too cold.
The piano was still jangling, and the
dominoes were being rattled around for
a new game. The three noisy old men
had grown, if possible, more violent and
boisterous than ever. One of themnow
sprang to his feet, lifted his right hand
dramatically toward the dusky ceiling,
and bellowed forth sonorously some-
thing which Seth thought must be at
least a challenge to immediate combat,
while the others hammered their glasses
vehemently, and fairly shrieked dissent.
"I'm afraid those men are" going to
fight," he said.
"Fight ? Nonsense ! They're rather
quieter than usual," remarked Tom.
"What are they chewing on to-night,
Bismarck--the Sigel racket ?"
"Yes," said their host, listen'.mg indif-
ferently. "Dot's Sigel." Then, address-
ing Seth, he explained : "Somedimes it's
Sigel, unt somedimes the reffolution uff
forty-eighd, unt den somedimes der
k-vestion of we hal a vood bafement by
Iain streed. It all makes no differunce
to dem, vicheffer ding dey shdards mit,
dey git yust so much oxcited. Dot
rooster you see standing up mit der
spegtacles, dot ttenery Beckstein, he's a
tailor ; he sits mid his legs tvisted all
day, den when night comes he neets
some exercises. Efery night for tweluf
years he comes here, unt has his liddle
dalk, und de udders, dey alvays pitches
into him. He likes dot better as his
dinner. De vurst is, dey all don't know
vat dey talk aboud. I bleef, so help me
Gott, no one of 'era ever laid eyes by
Sigel, unt dey all svear he was deir
dearest frent. Now--hear dot ! Dot
Beckstein say uff he didn't shleep mid
him four years in his dent, in de same
bet ! How was dot for lies, huh ?"
The host, pained and mortified at this
mendacity, left his seat and waddled
over to the disputants, shouting as he
went, and joined the conversation so
earnestly that his little eyes seemed
bursting from his beet-red face.
"Great old man, that," said Tom,
pounding with his glass for the waiter;

"there's no flies on him ! I named him
Bismarck three or four years ago--
everybody calls him that now--and it
tickled him so, there's notlfing here too
good for me. You like cheese, don't
you ?"
"Well, yes, I eat cheese sometimes."
Seth never had eaten this kind of
cheese which Owgoost presently slapped
down before them, along with a mustard
cup, a long, bulging roll of black bread,
and more beer. It was pale and hard and
strong of scent, was cut in thick slabs,
and was to be eaten, he judged from
Tom's procedure, under a heavy top-
dressing of the brown mustard. He
liked it, though, and was interested to
find how well beer went with it, or it
went with beer. Then they had each a
little pickled lamb's-tongue, pink and
toothsome, to be eaten with plenty of
salt, and it was quite remarkable how
ideally beer seemed to go with this, too.
In all, three large glasses went.
Tom was a delightful companion. It
was simply charming to hear him talk,
as he did almost continuously, describ-
ing the round of life in Tecumseh, re-
lating gay little anecdotes of personal
experience, and commenting trenchantly
on various men as they came in. To
some of these he introduced Seth. They
seemed extremely affable young people,
and some of them who took seats near
by invited Tom and him with much
fervor, and still greater frequency, to
have their glasses filled up. The former
accepted these proffers very freely, but
the beer did not taste as good to Seth
as it had during supper, and he kept to
his one glass--the fourth sipping at it
from time to time. Tom was so urgent
about it, though, that he did take a
cigar, a dark, able-bodied cigar which
annoyed him by burning up on one
side.
The beer-hall presented a brilliant
appearance now, with all the lights flam-
ing, with most of the chairs filled by
merry young men, with three or four
white-jacketed waiters flitting about,
bearing high in air both hands full of
foaming glasses--a fine contrast to the
dingy, bare interior of the twilight,
with only the solitary Owgoost. Above
the ceaseless hum of conversation and
laughter rose, at intervals, the strains

320 SETH'S BROTHER'S I/'IFE.

headed printers to throw on the floor!"
"That Mayhew matter's been stahding
on the galleys so long already that it's
got gray-headed!" "By the Lord
Harry, I'll make a rule that the next
time we miss the Wyoming marl it shall
be taken out of your wages!"
Here the inky boy galloped through
to Seth with a proof-sheet, shouting,
"You've got a minute and a half to read
this in !" The bald, elderly gentleman,
who seemed to be Mr. Workman, came
and stood over Seth, watch in hand,
scowling impatiently. Under this em-
barrassment the wet letters danced be-
fore his eyes, and he could find no errors,
though it turned out later that he had
passed "elephant" for "elopement," and
ruined Watts's chief sensation. A few
minutes later, the clang of the presses
in the basement shook the old building,
and the inky boy bustled through the
room again, pitching a paper into each
of the stalls. There was a moment of
silence, broken only by the soft rustling
of the damp sheets. Then simultane-
ously from the several tables rose a
chorus of violent objurgation.
Seth heard the voice which he had
learned was Samboye's roar out, "What
dash-dashed idiot has made me say
'our martyr President Abraham Sin-
clair ?' Stop the press !" There were
other voices: "Here's two lines of
markets upside down !" "Oh, I say,
this is too bad. ldyen age is 'mayon-
aise' in my Shylock notice, and it's
Mrs. McCullough instead of Mr." "I'm
dashed if the paper looks as if it had
been read at all. We can't have such
proof-reading as this !"
While these comments were still pro-
ceeding the noise of the press suddenly
ceased. The silence was terrible to
Seth's guilty consciousness, for he had
heard enough to know that it was his
fault. Mr. Workman entered the room
again, and again Samboye's deep voice
was heard, repeating the awful Sinclair-
Lincoln error. Seth had looked at his
fresh copy of the Chronicle, with some
vague hope that the editor was mis-
taken, but, alas! it was too true. Mr.
Workman came over to his stall ; he had
put his watch back in his pocket, but
his countenance was stern and unbend-
ing.

"You are Mr. Fairchild, I presume,"
he said.
Seth rose to his feet, blushing, and
murmured, "Yes, sir."
"I understood from your brother that
you were used to newspaper work."
"Well, I thought I was. I have been
around the Banner of Liberty office a
great deal, but it seems so different on
a daily."
"H'm--yes. Well, I dare say you'll
learn."
Luckily the press started up again
here, and Mr. Workman, looking at his
watch once more, went downstairs.
Seth felt most grievously depressed.
Looking back, his first day had been full
of mortification and failure. The use of
scissors and mucilage brush was pain-
fully unfamiliar to his clumsy fingers.
The scope and intention of the various
news departments he had been told to
take charge of were unknown to him,
and he had watched Murtagh go over
the matter he submitted, shq_king out
page after page, saying curtly, "We've
had this," "This is only worth a line or
two," or, "This belongs in 'County
lotes,'" with a sinking heart. His dut-
ies were so mechanical and common-
place, after what he had conceived an
editor's functions to be, that his inepti-
tude was doubly humiliating.
Then there was this dreadful proof-
reading failure. Murtagh had given
him the sample proof-sheet in the back
of the dictionary to copy his marks
frommand he had copied them with
such scrupulous efforts after exactness
that the printers couldn't understand
them. These printers--he could see
them through the windows opposite,
standing pensively over their tall cases,
and moving their right arms between
the frames and their sticks with the
monotonous regularity of an engine's
piston-rod--seemed a very sarcastic and
disagreeable body of men, to judge by
the messages of criticism on his system
of marking which the inky boy had de-
livered for them with such fidelity and
enjoyment during the day. He had
eaten nothing since the early breakfast,
and felt faint and tired. The rain out-
side, beating dismally on the window
and the tin roof beyond, added to his
gloom, and the ceaseless drumming of

$26 THE STORY OF A NEtt/ YORK HOUSE.

. - ,
/

" Mons'us gran' dinneh, Seh ! "

THE STORY OF A NEI4," YORK HOUSE. 89,7

lence, seemingly unconscious of the
world about him ; and if he was aroused
from his dreamy trance, his wandering
speech would show that his last thought
--and it might have entered his mind
hours before, at the suggestion of some
special event--was so far back in the
past that it dealt with matters beyond
his son's knowledge.
He was allowed to do as he pleased,
for in the common affairs Of daily life
he seemed to be able to care for himself,
and he plaintively resented anything that
looked like guardianship. So he kept
up his custom of walking down into the
city, at least as far as St. Paul's. It was
thought to be safe enough, for he was
a familiar fiore in the town, and had
friends at every turn.
But one afternoon he did not return
in time for dinner. Young Jacob was
out for his afternoon ride, which that
day had taken him in the direction of
the good doctor's house. And when he
had reached the house, he found the doc-
tor likewise mounted for a ride. The
doctor was going up to Bond Street--
the Dolphs' quarter was growing fash-
ionable already--to look at a house near
Broadway that he had some thoughts of
bu%ng, for he was to be married the
coming winter. So they had ridden
back together, and, after a long exami-
nation of the house, young Jacob had
ridden off for a gallop through the
country lanes ; and it was five o'clock,
and dinner was on the table, when he
came to his father's house and learned
from tearful Aline that his father was
missing.
The horse was at the stable-door
when young Jacob mounted him once
more and galloped off to Bond Street,
where he found the doctor just ready to
turn down the Bowe T ; and they joined
forces and hurried back, and down
Broadway, inquiring of the people who
sat on their front stoops--it was a late
sprng evening, warm and fair--if they
had seen old Mr. Dolph that day.
Many had seen him as he went down ;
but no one could remember that the old
gentleman had come back over his ac-
customed path. At St. Paul's, the sex-
ton thought that Mr. Dolph had pro-
longed his walk down the street. Fur-
ther on, some boys had seen him, still

going southward. The searchers stopped
at one or two of the houses where he
might have called; but there was no
trace of him. It was long since old
Jacob Dolph had made a formal call.
But at Bowling Green they were
hailed by Mr, Philip Waters, who came
toward them with more excitement in
his mien than a young man of good so-
ciety often exhibited.
"I was going for a carriage, Dolph,"
he said : "Your father is down there in
the Battery Park, and rm afraid I'm
afraid he's had a stroke of paralysis."
They hurried down, and found him
lying on the grass, his head on the lap
of a dark-skinned, ear-ringed Spanish
sailor. He had been seen to fall from
the bench near by, another maritime
man in the crowd about him explained.
"It was only a minute or two ago,"
said the honest seafarer, swelled with
the importance that belongs to the nar-
rator of a tale of accident and disaster :
"He was a-setting there, had been for
two hours 'most, just a-staring at them
houses over there, and all of a sudden,
chuck forward he went, right on his
face. And then a man came along that
knowed him, and said he'd go for a ker-
ridge, or I'd 'a' took him on my sloop--
she's a-layin' here now, with onions from
Weathersfield--and treated him we---
I see he wa'n't no disrespectable charac-
ter. Here, Pedro, there's the old man's
folks---let 'era take him. A-setting there
nigh on two hours, he was, just a-study-
ing them houses. B'long near here?"
Young Jacob had no words for the
Connecticut captain. Waters had ar-
1-ived, with somebody's carriage, confis-
cated on the highway, and they gently
lifted up the old gentleman and set off
homeward. "They were just in time,
for Waters had been the earliest of the
evening promenaders to reach the Bat-
tery. It was dinner hour--or supper
hour for many-and the Park was given
up to the lounging sailors from the
riverside streets.
The doctor's face was dark.
"No, it is not paralysis," he said:
"Let us proceed at once to your own
home, Mr. Dolph. In view of what I am
now inclined to consider his condition,
I think it would be the most advisable
course."

330 THE STORY OF ,4 NEI4 YORK HOUSE.

porarily embarrassed.
you need, and give me
a mortgage on the
house ?"
Ten years had given
Jacob Dolph a certain
floridity; but at this
he blushed a hot red.
"Mortgage on the
house .9 No, sir," he
said, with emphasis.
"Ve11, any other se-
empty, then," was Yan
R i p e r' s indifferent
amendment.
Again Jacob Dolph
strode to the window
and back again, staring
hard at the carpet, and
knitting his brows.
Mr. Yan Riper wait-
ed in undisturbed calm
until his friend spoke
once more.
"I might as well tell
you the truth, Yan
Riper," he said, at last ;
"I've made a fool of
myself. I've lost mon-
ey, and I've got to pock-
et the loss. As to bor-
rowing, I've borrowed
all I ought to borrow.
I won't mortgage the
house. This sale sim-
ply represents the hole
in my capital."
Something 1 i k e a
look of surprise came
into Mr. Yah Riper's
wintry eyes.

Mr. Dolph put his hands in his ockets, strode to the window and back again,
and then said, with an uneasy little laugh:
"I beg your pardon, Yah Riper ; you're quite right, of course. The fact is, I've
got to do it. I must have the money, and I must have it now."
Mr. Yan Riper stroked his sharp chin.
"Is it necessary to raise the money in that particular way.9 You are tem-
I don't wish to be intrusive--but why not borrow what "

"It's none of my business, of course," he obseed ; "but if you haven't any
objection to telling me--"
"What did it.9 What does for everybody nowadays.9 Western lands and Wall
Street--that's about the whole story. Oh, yes, I know I ought to have kept out
of it. But I didn't. I was nothing better than a fool at such business. I'm
properly punished."
I-Ie sighed as he stood on the hearth-rug, his hands under his coat-tails, and
his head hanging down. I-Ie looked as though many other thoughts were going
through his mind than those which he expressed.
"I wish," he began again, "that my poor old father had brought me up to

THE STORY OF ,4 NEV," YORK HOUSE. 881

business ways. I might have kept out of
it all. College is a good thing for a man,
of course ; but college doesn't teach you
how to buy lots in Western cities--espec-
ially when the Western cities aren't built."
"College teaches you a good many
other things, though," said Van Riper,
frowning slightly, as he put the tips of
his long fingers together; "I wish I'd
had your chance, Dolph. My boy shall
go to Columbia, that's certain."
" Your boy ?" queried Dolph, raising
his eyebrows.
Yah Riper smiled.
"Yes," he said, "my boy. You didn't
know I had a boy, did you ? He's nearly
a year old."
This made Mr. Jacob Dolph kick at
the rug once more, and scowl a little.
"I'm afraid I haven't been very neigh-
borly, Yah Riper--," he began ; but the
other interrupted him, smiling good-
naturedly.
"You and I go different ways, Dolph,"
he said. "We're plain folks over in
Greenwich village, and you--you're a
man of fashion."
Jacob Dolph smiled--not very mirth-
fully. Yah Riper's gaze travelled around
the room, quietly curious.
"It costs money to be a man of fashion,
doesn't it ?"
"Yes," said Dolph, "it does."
There was silence for a minute, which
Van Riper broke.
"If you've got to sell, Dolph, why, it's
a pity; but I'll take it. I'll see Ogden
to-day, and we can finish the business
whenever you wish. But, in my opinion,
you'd do better to borrow."
Dolph shook his head.
"rye been quite enough of a fool," he
replied.
"Well," said Mr. Yah Riper, rising, "I
must get to the office. You'll hear from
Ogden to-morrow. I'm sorry you've got
in such a snarl ; but--" his lips stretched
into something like a smile--" I suppose
you'll know better next time. Good-
day."
After Mr. Dolph had bowed his guest
to the door, Mrs. Dolph slipped down
the stairs and into the drawing-room.
"Did he take it ?" she asked.
"Of course he took it," Dolph an-
swered, bittexly, "at that price."

"Did he say anything," she inquired
again, "about its being hard for us to--
to sell it ?"
"He said we had better not sell it
now--that it would bring more a few
years hence."
"He doesn't understand," said Mrs.
Dolph.
"He couldn't understand," said Mr.
Dolph.
Then she went over to him and kissed
him.
"It's only selling the garden, after
all," she said; ':it isn't like selling our
home. "
He put his arm about her waist, and
they walked into the breakfast-room,
and looked out on the garden which to-
morrow would be theirs no longer, and
in a few months would not be a garden
at all.
High wafts hemmed it in--the wafts
of the houses which had grown up
around them. A few stalks stood up out
of the snow, the stalks of old-fashioned
flowers---hollyhock, and larkspur, and
Job's-tears, and the like--and the lines
of the beds were defined by the tiny
hedges of box, with the white snow-
powder sifted into their dark, shiny
green. The bare rose-bushes were there,
with their spikes of thorns, and little
mounds of snow showed where the glo-
ries of the poppy-bed had bloomed.
Jacob Dolph, looking out, saw the clear
summer sunlight lying where the snow
lay now. He saw his mother moving
about the paths, cutting a flower here
and a bud there. He saw himself, a little
boy in brave breeches, "following her
about, and looking for the harmless
toads, and working each one into one
of the wonderful legends which he had
heard from the old German gardener
across the way. He saw his father, too,
pacing those paths, of summer evenings,
when the hollyhocks nodded their pink
heads, and glancing up, from time to
time, at his mother as she sat knitting
at that very window. And, last of all in
the line, yet first in his mind, he saw his
wife tripping out in the fresh morning
to smile on the flowers she loved, to lin-
ger lovingly over the beds of verbena,
and to pick the little nosegay that stood
by the side of the tall coffee-urn ,t every
summer morning breakfast.

332 AN INTERLUDE.

And the wife, looking out by hi, side,
saw that splendid boy of theirs running
over path and bed, glad of the flowers
and the air and the freedom, full of
young life and boyish sprightliness,
his long hair floating behind him, the
light of hope and yquth in his bright
face.
And to-morrow it would be Van li-
per's; and very soon there would be
houses there, to close up the friendly
window which had seen so much, which

had let so much innocent joy and glad-
ness into the old breakfast-room; and
there would be an end of flower-bor-
dered paths and nodding hollyhocks.
She put her face upon her husband's
shoulder, and cried a little, though he
pretended not to know it. When she
lifted it, somehow she had got her eyes
dry, though they were painfully bright
and large.
"It isn't like selling our house," she
said.

AN INTERLUDE.

By q. Armytage.

smi, she spoke, and leaning clasped her knees ;-
"Well hast thou sung of living men and dead,
Of fair deeds done, and far lands visited.
Sing now of things more marvellous than these!
Of fruits ungathered upon wondrous trees,
Of songs unsung, of gracious words unsaid,
Of that dim shore where no man's foot may tread,
Of strangest skies, and unbeholden seas!

lull many a golden web ore- longings spin,
And days are fair, and sleep is over-sweet;
But passing sweet those moments rare and fleet,
Vhen red spring sunlight, tremulous and thin,
hIakes quick the pulses with tumultuous beat
lor meadows never won, or vcandered in."

THE BI YFUX TIPFS TRY.

The Surrender of Dinah.

The design of the central portion of
the tapestry is divided into scenes or
compartments, the separation between
them being usually made by trees or
buildings. But one scene sometimes
runs into another in a way to make any
count uncertain. A Latin inscription,
placed generally near the top of each
di,-ision, tells its story in a few words.
Thug the tapestry is a history of the
conquest, told from the Norman side.
But more valuable than the record it
bears of important events is its testi-
mony concerning the little affairs of dai-
ly lifemthe clothing, armor, and weap-
ons, the food, manners, and fashions--
of our ancestors.
In the first compartment King Ed-
ward the Confessor is seen, seated on a
cushioned throne. His crown is on his
head, his sceptre in his hand. He wears
the full beard, which was then going out
of fashion both in England and France.
His long white hands, mentioned by
Villiam of Malmesbury, are clearly
shown, as he raises a finger in admoni-
tion. Beside him stand two figures in
short tunics and long hose, with man-

from the Vetusta Monumenta, and rather roughly executed
elucidated by Rev. John Collingwood Bruce, LL.D.,
was published in 5356. They are about two inches wide.
(London, John lussell Smith.) Articles on the tapestry
are printed in the 17th and 19th volumes of the Archveolo-
gia of the Society of Antiquaries of London ; a treatise "on
the Banners of the Bayeux Tapestry, and some of the ear-
liest heraldic charges, by Gilbert J. French, e' was reprinted
from the Journal of the Archaeological Association of Great
Britain and Ireland, for July, 1857. (London, T. Rich-
ards.) ldward A. Freeman has an appendix on the tapes-
try in the third volume of his "' History of the qorman Con-
quest," and there are many references to it in the history
itself. The Roman de. R'ouo written by lobert Wace,
about a century after the battle, has been much used in the
preparation of this article. It was very carefully published
by Dr. ]-Iugo Andresen, tIeilbronn, 1877. lany works on
arms and armor have been consulted, and especially the fifth
volume of the Dictionnaire raisonn du Mobilier lranai
by Viollet le Duc. laris, 1874.

tles (a distinction of nobility) draped
about them. The young men wear
moustaches only, as was usual among
Englishmen, the ormans being clean-
shaven. These men are probably Earl
Harold and a companion, taking leave
of the king before their jommey to
France. In the next scene theyride to the
sea-coast. Harold goes first, with his
hawk on his hand and his dogs running
before him. Although these dogs are
colored blue and green, they are drawn
with much life and spi4t. Before sail-
ing, Harold goes into a church, and af-
terward partakes of a banquet. The
latter is enjoyed in. a hall supported
by round arches and covered by a tiled
roof. Some of the guests dnk from
round cups, some from carved ox-horns.

W=lham arming Harold.
Vhen the meal is over they come down
.a flight of steps to the water, and, hav-
ng taken off their long hose, wade out
to the ship, carrying their dogs under
their arms. They then step their mast
and push off from the shore. The ac-

THE BI YE UX TI PES TRY. 3 3 7

tion of the men shoving with poles is
well given.
The ships are long galleys, propelled
by sails and by oars. The bows and
sterns are high, and in many instances
capped with a carved head. The sails
hang from a long yard, which keeps a
horizontal position, not holding one end
much higher than the other, as do the
lateen sails of the Lake of Geneva, or the
ile. Along the gunwale of each galley
the shields of the warriors are displayed,
lapping over each other to form a bul-
warko
Soon land is seen from the mast-head,
and presently the ship is run on a beach
and an anchor set out to keep her firm.
Here Harold is seized by Wido, or Guy,

Vi[JL_ LMO DVCI:-
....::V ?- + . : :-- :: .: ::...

Harold's Oath.

Count of Ponthieu, and taken off as a
prisoner to Beaurain le Chfiteau, whence
he is finally ransomed by William, Duke
of Normandy. The whole incident is
characteristic of the manners of the
time. Whether it was by mistake or
by stress of weather that Harold land-
ed in the count's dominions we do not
know. But in either case he became
the lawful spoil of the lord of the land.
The claim is undisputed, and William, al-
though he is Count Guy's overlord, does
not think of demanding the prisoner
without ransom. The adventure has its
value, moreover, in the story of the con-
quest of England. Harold, ransomed
by Villiam for a great price, is put un-
der a heavy obhgation to him.
The Duke of Normandy takes the
Enghsh earl to Rouen, where he gives
him solemn audience in a great hall
surmounted by an arcade of seventeen
Romanesque arches. Harold, the only
VOL. I.--22

Englishman present, seems to expostu-
late with William. The story at this
point presents a mystery. The scene
immediately following the interview be-
tween the duke and the earl at Rouen
represents a woman, against whose face
a tonsured man is. laying his hand. The
inscription, apparently mutilated, or
intentionally left incomplete (for there
are no stitch-marks), reads, in Latin,
"where a clerk and Aelgyva." Mr.
Fowke, in his excellent notes accom-
panying the photograph of the tapestry,
has made a guess at the meaning of
this picture, which, although incapable of
proof, seems to bring it into the general
course and story of the work. He sm +-
raises that Aelgyva was a noble English
lady (as, indeed, is shown
by her name) ; that she was
possibly even the sister of
Harold ; that this lady was
insulted or outraged by a
member of the clergy ; that
this may have taken place
at the Breton town of Dol;
and that Harold entreated
William to assist him in
obtaining revenge. There-
upon we see, in the next
compartment, the expedi-
tion into Brittany ; the
flight of the culprit, who
lets himself down from the
walls of Dol by a rope and escapes to
Dinah ; the siege and capitulation of that
place. This theoT, however, is contra-
dicted by the fact, mentioned by Wilham
of Poitiers, that William's expedition to
Dol was made for the pro-pose of rais-
ing the siege of the town, which was
attacked by Conan, Duke of Brittany.
Indeed, the flight of Conan from before
the walls of Dol is shown in the tap-
estry; it is he that surrenders Dinah ;
and if Aelgyva's clerical lover were of
the party, his affair had been lost sight
of by the artist. The scandal is eight
centuries old, after all, and no one but
an archaeologist can be expected to care
much about it.
Some incidents of the Breton expedi-
tion, however, deserve notice. Passing
by Mont St. Michel, the army crossed
the great sandy beach which surrounds
that picturesque fortress. Here the
river Couesnon flows into the sea,

THE BMYEUX TMPESTRY. 339

and William assembled a great council
at Bayeux to hear the oath. The duke
then got together all the relics he could
find---the bodies of the saints--and filled

showed Harold what was within and on
what relics he had sworn. Harold was
indeed aghast at what he saw.
This story, with its curious primitive

..
Building the Ships.

a tub with them. Over the tub was notion of cheating your prisoner and
thrown a silken cloth, so that Harold taking liberties with the saints, and en-
neither knew nor saw what it contained, listing the powers of heaven against
On the cloth was laid a reliquary, the your enemy by tempting him to offer
best that could be had and the most them an unintended insult, is neither
precious ; it was called the ox-eye, conclusively affirmed nor denied by the
When Harold stretched his hand over evidence of the tapestry. Harold stands

Arms and Provisions.

it, his hand trembled and his flesh crept.
Then he swore and pledged himself, as
was dictated to him, to marry Ele, the
duke's daughter, and to give up England
to the duke, to the best of his power,
after Edward's death, if he himself
should be alive, so help him God, and
the holy relics that were there. And
several of those present said, "God
grant it!" Vhen Harold had kissed
the relics and had risen to his feet, the
duke led him to the tub and took off the
silken cloth which had covered it, and

between two altars, one apparently per-
manent and the other movable. The
front of each is conce,led by drapery,
and on each stands an ornamental box,
or reliquary, of elaborate architectural
design, such as the bones of saints are
kept in to this day. On top of one of
these boxes is a projection, terminat-
ing in a ball or knob, which may well
be the "ox-eye" mentioned by the old
poet. Toward each Harold extends a
hand. It is clearly the intention of the
artist to show that the English earl

340 THE BAYEUX TAPESTRY.

swore on many relics ; else why th two reliquaries. If the story of the pious
fraud be true, it may not have suited the bishop, or his patron, to publish it,
but rather to intimate that Harold swore with full knowledge of what he was do-
ing. On the other hand, if the story were notorious, the draped altars would
suggest the hidden tub. The objection afterward raised to this oath by Harold
was not fraud, but duress ; he said that he was William's prisoner when he took

The Mora,
ing his eyes with his hand, looks for the coming sail.

it. Moreover, the exact
ture of the oath taken is as
doubtful as the story of the
tubful of relics. That some
solemn promise was actually
made, or some solemn act of
fealty performed, there can
be little doubt.
After taking the oath
Harold returns to England.
We see his boat on the chan-
nel, which may here well be
called "the narrow seas,"
for while her stern almost
overhangs the coast of
France her bow is within
half a lance's length of Eng-
land. From the terrace of
a castle a watchman, shad-
tIarold and a companion

ride to London, and present themselves before King Edward.
As the best authorities are quite uncertain as to the exact date of the inci-
dents hitherto, narrated, it is impossible to say how long an interval of time
should be supposed to have elapsed between thescene last mentioned and that
which occm-s next in the tapestry. We see Westminster Abbey, whose building
had been the principal interest of King Edward the Confessor's later years, and

whose completion he sm-vived
but a few days. The church
was consecrated three days
a fte r Christmas, 1065, al-
though Edward was too ill to
be present, and on the 6th of
January, 1066, the king died.
He was bm'ied the next day,
in his own abbey chm-ch, the
most interesting spot on Eng-
lish soil. The building has
since his time been almost en-
tirely renewed and rebuilt;
but in its choir, in the place
corresponding to that where
the high altar of most cathe-

Norman Cooks.

drals stands, is the wooden
tomb of Edward, the work of a later age ; while around this cluster the monuments
of kings and heroes, and above hangs the armor of an English monarch who won
on French soft a battle as brilliant, if not as important, as that of Hastings.* The
original building, in which the body of the Confessor was first laid, was neither
small nor mean. A long nave of round arches, a central tower or lantern, an apse,
and transepts (the last perhaps unfinished) are shown in the tapestry. On the roof

* The saddle helmet and shield used by Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt hang in the chapel of King Edwar
the Confessor.

THE BAYEUX TAPESTRY. 13-11

a workman is setting up a
weather-cock--the cock that
crowed to leter on Saint le-
ter s Church.
Towa,rd this stately edifice
Edward s funeral is advancing.
The bier is borne by eight lay-
men, and a party of the clergy
follows it. One" carries a bish-
op's crook; others have books.
Beside the bier two boys are
carr)4ng bells, one in each hand.
The body is seen wrapped in
a shroud and shaded by a can-
opy.
The artist goes back a step
and shows us the last scene in Edward's
life. A contemporary chronicler has pre-
selwed the names of the group of stiffly
drawn but expressive figures that clus-
ter round the bed of the dying man.
The cushion that supports his head and
shoulders is in the hands of Wymarc,
one of the great officers of his house-
hold. On the further side of the couch
stands Stigand, the Archbishop of Can-
terbury, easily recognized by his em-
broidered robe and his tonsure. At the
king's feet sits his queen, Eadgyth, and
wipes her eyes. Nearest the spectator
is a kneeling figure in the cloak of a
nobleman. To him the dying man ap-
pears to speak, even in this tapestry
made for a Norman bishop. For this is
Harold, the hero of the great tragedy,
the man destined to be the last English

oI

querors. King Edward named him as
his successor, but the nomination was
preceded by a prophecy of woe. Two
holv monks, known to him in his youth,
sai the dying monarch, had lately ap-
peared to him in a vision. The great
men of the kingdom, they had told him,
were not what they seemed. Earls,
bishops, abbots, and men in holy orders
--they were ministers of the fiend.
Within a year and a day the whole land
would be a prey to devils. Thus with
prophecy and injunction the old king
passed away.
The great council of the nation was
at that time assembled at Westminster.
Without delay it elected Harold to the
royal office. In the tapestry two noble-
men are seen offering him the crown.
Edward had died childless, and there

The First Attack.

king of England until the nation shall was no male descendant of the royal
have conquered and absorbed its con- house living and grown to manhood.

8-12 THE BM YEUX TMPESTR Y.

The crown, moreover, was elective ; al-
though it was usual to choose a member
of the royal family, if an available mem-
ber were forthcoming. Harold accepted
the crown in spite of his oath to William.
The considerations--that it had been
taken under duress, and that he had
had no right in any case to dispose of
the crown of England--were reasons
strong enough for his ambition. Yet
the oath itself, and the tubful of relics,
may well have weighed on his conscience.
In the tapestry the funeral of King
Edward and the coronation of King
Harold are separated by the compart-
ments representing the death of the
former king. But in reality one cere-
mony followed closely on the other. On
the moluing of the day following that of
his death the body of the Confessor was
laid in the tomb, in his new church;
and on the same day, and perhaps in
the same building, Harold was crowned
king in his stead. In times like those,
it would not have been safe to run the
risks of an interregnum. We see Harold
on his throne, with a crown on his head,
a sceptre in his right hand, and an orb
in his left. On one side of him are two
nobles, one of whom carries the sword
of state. On the other is Stigand, the
Archbishop of Canterbury. There is
some doubt whether Stigand really offi-
ciated at the coronation. His position
in the church was not unquestioned, and
an office performed by him might not
have been considered valid. We con-
.sequently find Norman accounts, includ-
ing this one, asserting that it was he
who crowned Harold. The English writ-
ers, on the other hand, say that the cere-
mony was performed by Ealdred, the
Archbishop of York. The crowd, placed
in an adjoining compartment (or an ante-
chamber), raise their hands and bend
eagerly forward toward the new monarch.
But another group, farther from the pres-
ence, in a vestibule or under a cloister,
are turned away from the throne. They
point toward the sky, where blazes a
comet, most elaborately represented.
lrom chroniclers we learn that this
portent was generally supposed by con-
temporaries all over Westea Europe
to be connected with the crisis in Eng-
land, and to prefigxtre the misfortunes
of that country. Iater scientific re-

searches have established the proba-
bility that it was Halley's comet which
so disttu-bed our ancestors. In a build-
ing, over whose roof the flaming star
is shining, we see Harold again. The
new king, wearing his crown, but hold-
ing a spear in his hand, listens, with
bent head and troubled face, to a mes-
senger of bad tidings. In the border
below is a rough representation of boats
dancing on the waves, the sight which
a king of England, fearing invasion,
might well see before his troubled eyes.
The realization of Harold's fears is
shown in the compartments which fol-
low: An English ship crosses the seas
to Normandy. Duke William sits in his
palace. He has heard the news and he
prepares for war. By his side sits his
half-brother Odo, the Bishop of Bayeux.
A carpenter, carrying a broad-axe, re-
ceives the duke's orders. On the other
side of the duke a Norman gentleman
gesticulates violently, but receives little
attention. We next see the workmen
felling trees, shaping planks, and build-
ing boats. The tools employed are axes,
broad-axes, hatchets, hammers, and a
boring instrument with an elaborate but
rather awkward handle. The ships are
long and low, rising at the bow and stern.
Indeed, this type is never departed
from in the tapestry, whether for large
vessels or small boats. I do not think
any of the ships were decked. William's
fleet, hastily constructed, was not in-
tended for long or difficult navigation.
In fact, he waited for weeks for a fair
south wind before embarking his army.
We see in the tapestry how the boatsare
launched and the arms and provisions
put aboard--swords, helmets, and coats
of armor, shields and spears, casks of
wine, and carcasses of pork.
The principal garment worn in battle
at this thne by both Normans and Eng-
lishmen who were rich or powerful (for
the ordinarypeople fought in their every-
day clothes) was so shaped as to cover
the arms to the elbow and the legs to
the knee. It was made of leather or
strong cloth, on which were sewed small
plates or rings of metal It was prob-
ably also wadded, as an additional pro-
tection. Sometimes, instead of the plates
or rings, a trellis-work of leather was
made and strengthened with studs. The

THE B./I YEUX T./IPESTR Y. 343

garment had  square opening in the
breast, to enable the wearer to struggle
into it, first his legs, then one arm,
then the other. When he was in, a flap
was buckled or buttoned across the
opening. A hood, of the same material
as this body garment, covered the head
and shoulders. On top of the hood was
placed a helmet of iron and bronze, coni-
cal or nearly so in shape, and fitting
round the head like a hat. A piece of
iron came down

from the rim in
f r o n t, protecting
the nose, and par-
tially masking the
face. There was
sometimes a similar
piece to Cover the
back of the head
and the nape of the
neck. These hel-
mets must have
been both heavy
and uncomfortable,
as the whole weight
rested on the head,
and a perfect fit
must have been dif-
ficult to obtain.

SI VL: jLN GLI i\\, FR
A Part of the Battle.

Villiam and one or two of his greatest
nobles wore hose protected by plates or
rings, like their coats ; but most men,
noble and simple, relied in battle on an
elaborate arrangement of straps reach-
ing from the knee to the ankle, and re-
calling that worn to-day by the peasants
of the Roman Campa-ma. On their left
arms the warriors carried almond-shaped
shields, three or four feet long. For
these the English sometimes substituted
round or oval shields. The shield was
probably made of wood, covered with
leather, and having a border of metal
and a proiection , or boss, of metal in the
widest part. The studs which held the
straps by which the shield was caTied
also appeared on the outside. The sur-
face, slightly curved and generally of one
plain color with a border, was some-
times decorated with colored lines, a
cross, or the figure of a dragon. Armo-
rial bearings did not appear on shields
until a later date.
The weapons in use were swords, axes,
lances, darts, bows and arrows. The
swords appear to have been sharp on both

edges, and blunt at the point, intended
to cut and not to stab ; their guards were
simple cross-pieces. The axe was the
national weapon of the English. With
it King Harold is said to have been able
to strike down horse and man at one
blow. It was also considered appropri-
ate for ceremonial occasions ; thus, when
the crown is first presented to Harold
both he and the man who presents it
carry axes. It has been noticed that the
blades of both these
axes are turned to-
ward the newly
chosen king. I be-
lieve, however, that
this is accidental.
The designers of
the tapestry were
not given to alleg-
ory, and the attempt
to attach hidden
meanings to their
plain pictures is
fanciful. It may be
noted that the axe
carried in war dif-
fers entirely in
shape from that
used for felling
trees. The former has a broad curved
edge, and becomes very narrow at the
back ; the latter approaches our modern
shape. In one of the mles of the battle
of Hastings, however, a man is seen
fighting with a workman's axe. It is
known that some of Harold's forceswere
the hastily armed levies of the neighbor-
hood of the field of battle ; but as the
man wielding this axe is dressed in ar-
mor, the appearance of the common axe
in his hands is probably due to careless-
ness in the embroiderer.
The lance was used both by the Nor-
roans and the English. It was not held
under the shoulder when charging, like
the heavier lance of a later date, but
carried free in the hand, which was often
raised beside the head. Vhen not in
use it rested in the stirrup. The wood
was about eight or nine feet long ; the
head varied in form, being oftenest
leaf-shaped or barbed. The principal
knights canied a pennon on theh-
lances. The devices on these pennons
are interesting as coming singularly near
the beginning of the science of heraldry.

THE BA YEUX TAPES TRY. 347

The Death of Harold.

king fall one by one. An arrow struck
Harold in the right eye ; and soon after-
ward he was despatched by a Norman
sword. We see him fall, the axe drop-
ping from his nerveless grasp. One
standard was taken; another trampled
under foot. In the tapestry both are
figured as dragons, and the one that is
stricken down seems to bite at s Tor-
man horse's hoof. It was twilight when
the English churls turned and fled, some
of them on foot, some on the horses that
had brought their lords to the field of
battle. But the men of Kent and the
citizens of London, the personal follow-
ers of the king, neither asked nor re-
ceived quarter, nor yet did they fly,
while axe could split shield. Of the dis.
ciplined soldiers who, on the day before,
had accompanied King Harold from Lon-
don, none escaped alive from the field of
battle save those few who, stricken down
among the wounded, were revived by
the cool night air and wandered away in
the darkness. And even those who fled
did not lose a chance to deal a last blow

at their conquerors. The eastern end
of the hill of Senlac falls off abruptly on
the northern side to a marshy ravine.
In the ardor of pursuit, and misled by
the increasing darkness, many of the
Norman riders plunged headlong do=n
the steep bank, and were either smoth-
ered in the morass or despatched by the
English fugitives. The place long kept
the name of the JIalfosse. Thus ended
the most important battle ever fought
on English soil, perhaps the most
important battle in its results to all who
now speak the English tongue that ever
was fought at all. The Bayeux tapestry
carries us through the fight, to the last
resistance of the English soldiers and the
flight of the English peasants. In this
account I have followed mainly the order
of the tapestry, taking its authority as
final on those details concerning which
chroniclers and historians have differed,
but getting what light I could from
other sources. Few histories or chroni-
cles can smpass it in authority ; none
can have a more heroic theme.

Moat St. Michel.

THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE;

OR, THE POSTHUMOUS JEST OF THE LATE JOHN AUSTIN.

By J. S. of Dale.

PART SECOlqD: THE CODICIL.

I. AN IROQUOIS IN TROUVILLE.

IROH Liverpool Austin lay went to
London; from London to Paris; from
Paris by the special marl to Constanti-
nople ; thence to Athens and Alexandria ;
and thence to Bombay and Calcutta
and Hong Kong ; and the impetus of his
flight had almost carried him over the
Pacific and back to America again, but
that he held back on the shore of Japan.
He travelled in that country, then in
Thibet orin Tm-kestan. Three years were
spent by him in the acquisition of strange
dings, curious pipes, and embroideries,
wild songs, and odd languages. He
lived in Damascus, Samarcand, Morocco,
possiblyin Timbuctoo. History records
not nor does May Austin, how often he
wrote to her. But the summer of 1879
saw him alight at the Gare de Lyon, in
Paris. The heat and solitude of that
city were equally oppressive, and he
fled to the nearest coast. That evening
he was seated, robed in soft cloth and
starched linen, on the wide veranda of
the great H6lel des tochers Voirs, at
Trouville.
lqo one who pines for outdoor life,
primitive conditions, and barbarismm
and May was one of the wildest of these
but must admit that the trammels,
conventions, and commodities which so
annoy him are, after all, the result of in-
finite experiments of the human race,
conducted through all time ; and as such,
presumably, each one was deemed suc-
cessful when made, and adopted accord-
ingly, lqo question but that men had
flannel shirts before starched linen, wo-
men flowing robes and sandals before
corsets and high-heeled shoes ; and the
prehistoric "masher" knocked down his
lady-love with a club before he learned
to court her with a monocle and a bunch
of unseasonable roses. But all these

changes were, at the time, deemed im-
provements; and one who has lived
three years in Thibet or Crim-Tartary,
and arrives suddenly at Trouvlle, is in
a fair position to judge impartially.
And it is not to be denied that lIay
was conscious of a certain Capuan com-
fort, of an unmanly, hot-house luxury,
as he sat before the little table with
his carafe of ice, brandy, and seltzer,
felt the cool stiffness of his linen shirt,
smoked his pressed regalia, and watched
the ladies with their crisp and colored
dresses and their neat and silken ankles
as they mounted in their landaus for
their evening drive. A full string-or-
chestra was stationed among the electric
lights near by, which dispensed, with
much verve, the light-hearted rhythms
of the latest opera bouffe; and beyond
the planes and lindens shone the moon-
lit sea, as if it also were highly civilized,
and part of the decoration of the place.
May knocked the ashes from his cigar as
who should say, "I, too, am a Parisian
of the nineteenth century ;" quaffed a few
sparkles from the iced carafe and bottle,
and pretended to be interested in the
latest Fairs-Paris of tigaro. He was
beginning to realize the delights of youth
and riches and free travel; he had been
nothing but a school-boy in America,
and a sort of wild man since.
And as he so sat, there came to a table
next him two people, and sat down.
One was a middle-aged man, with an
iron-gray imperial, a tight white waist-
coat, and the rosette of the legion of
honor at his button-hole. The other
was the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen. She was dressed in the most
delicate and languorous cloud of violet
and gray, strengthened here and there
by black lace ; no ribbon, jewel, or flower
was on her lustrous black hair, or about
the soft and creamy neck ; and she was

THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE. 849

evidently much absorbed in what her
companion was saying, for lIay could
see that she clinched her fan in her hand
that was beneath the table until the deli-
cate ivory broke. They talked very
rapidly, in French; but lIay, whose ac-
quaintance with unknown oriental dia-
lects was so manifold and various, knew
hardly French enough "to last him over
night."
Whatever they were saying, they were
reiterating it with continually increas-
ingforce. The man in the tight frock-
coat began hissing it between his pointed
teeth, and the pretty woman crushed
the last fragment of the fan to ivory
slivers on the floor. At last, the gentle-
man rose, and with a pardieu which even
May's untrained ear could recognize,
upset a champagne glass, and strode
hastily away; the lady eyed him until
he disappeared, and then drooped her
long lashes, and hid her eyes in her
pretty hand. Her bosom rose and fell
convulsively, and lIay's chivalric heart
beat sympathetically in the same time.
Suddenly her deep eyes opened, and
opened full on Austin lIay's.
"Sir," said she, in English, "you are
a gentleman--save me !" Save her ? Aye,
Austin May would have saved her from
the devil or the deep sea, and with no
thought of salvage. All he said was,
"Vhy, certainly." It afterward occurred
to him that he should have said, "Pray,
command me, madam." But this seemed
to satisfy her, for she unbosomed her-
self directly.
"I know I may trust an American,"
said she. "Listen--I will confide to you
my true name. That man--that mouch-
ard--with whom you saw me, sinks I
am ze Comtesse 1)olacca de Yalska.
Well, I am ze Comtesse 1)olacca de
Valska. How you know all."
Unfortunately, Austin h[ay knew very
little. But evidently the Comtesse Po-
lacca de Valska was a personage of Euro-
pean reputation. He bowed.
"What can I do ?" said he, earnestly.
"Madam de Valska -has but to com-
mand." (This was better.)
"Hist !" said she, mysteriously. "
lacca de Valska--never mention ze name.
It is a spell, in Poland; even now my
noble 1)olacco languishes in Siberia; but
in France, in Russia---it is  doom. Say

zat I--say zat I am your compatriot--
Mrs. Walkersmanysing." And the nerve
which the unhappy countess had shown
throughout the interview suddenly col-
lapsed. She burst into tears. As she
dissolved, the American congealed, all
the blue blood of Boston rigid in his
veins. When the little Frenchman
appeared, h[ay offered his arm to the
countess; and together they swept
proudly to the door of the hotel.
"Arrtez,'" cried the Frenchman.
" Connaissez-vous--do you know, sare,
who it is ?"
"It is my friend--my friend, Mrs.
Peter Faneuil, of Boston," said May,
with a readiness that charmed him at
the time.
"Mais, monsieur--- "
"Do you dare, sir, to--"
May glared at him for a moment, and
the latter recoiled, like any Frenchman,
before his Anglo-Saxon attitude. They
entered the hall of the hotel; the count-
ess pressed his arm convulsively in her
gratitude, her heart too full for words.
"Merci, chevalier," said she, simply.
May's heart bounded at the compliment,
and with satisfaction that he under-
stood her French. "I have a carriage
here," said she ; and they found the ele-
gant landau still at the door.
"Where shall we go ? ".
"I will tell you later," said she.
hIay got in, and a footman closed the
door of the carriage. The liveried
coachman whipped up the horses, and
the pair rolled forth into the darkness
of the summer night.
At this point in his recollections,
May replenished his glass of claret and
lit another cigar ; and though he did not
know it, this was precisely the course of
action that had been adopted at the time
by the Frenchman with the rosette. He
drew his chair up to the table where the
countess had been sitting, with a slight
shrug of his padded shoulders, and
more imperturbability of manner than
would have flattered the valiant defend-
er of oppressed beauty, had he been
there to see it.
But at this period Iay was whirling
along in the countess's carriage, through
the darkness of the night, close by the
sea-beach and the pale shining of the
long, slow stuff.

350 THE RESIDUAR Y LEGATEE.

AND ARIADNE.

THE next morning May rose after a
sleepless night, and wandered pensively
along the beach. His head was full of
the Comtesse Polacca de Valska ; perhaps
a drop or two of that charming person-
age had brimmed over from his head
into his heart. Their romantic drive
had ended in no more romantic a locality
than the railroad station ; there he had
parted from her, perhaps forever. For
she had assured him that after her
meeting with the rosetted Frenchman
the air of Trouville would not be good
for her, and she had taken the night
mail for Paris. Her maid was to follow
on the next day with luggage. As soon
as she was safely established, and had,
at least temporarily, thrown the enemies
of her unhappy country off her track,
she was to let May (her deliverer, as she
entitled him) know, and he could see
her again. But, alas! as she tearfully
remarked, that might never be. The
French republic was now seeking to
curry favor with the despotism of the
Czar, and even P14nce Obstropski had
had to leave Paris for Geneva. Austin
wanted to kiss her hand as she depart-
ed, but feared lest this trivial homage
should jar upon a heroine like her. The
bell rang, the guard cried out; one last
glance of her dark eyes, and all was over.
She was gone, and May felt that per-
haps the most romantic episode of his
life was ended.
He went back to the hotel, but, un-
fortunately, none of the famous Eclipse
claret was at hand. So he contented
himself with brandy and soda. Visions
of nihilistic fair ones, of Polish patriots
and Italia irredenta kept him wakeful
through the night. For the Comtesse
had told him of her Italian descent, of
her alliance with the great patriot Mi-
lanese house, the Castiglioni dei Casca-
degli. And the Count Polacco de Valsko
was immured for life in the Siberian
mines. Poor devil! May cut another
cigar, and reflected upon the Count's
unhappy condition.
In a few days, he received a letter
from the countess. It was a mere line,
incidentally telling him that she had
not established herself at Paris, but at
Baden-Baden; but it was principally

filled with pretty thanks for his "heroic
chivalry." The expression seemed a trifle
too strong, even to Austin ]Via)-.
But when he arrived at Baden-Baden,
and saw how charming the countess
was in her now elaborate entourage, he
made allowances. Man is generous by
nature, especially to beautiful heroines
with husbands in Siberian mines, lIay
had been much exercised in mind how to
explain his sudden trip to Baden-Baden,
and had devised many plausible reasons
for going, all of which proved superflu-
ous. The countess did not seem in the
least surprised. He found her weeping
over a letter. "See," said she, "it is
from Serge."
"Really .9" said May.
The countess folded the letter, kissed
it, and replaced it in her bosom.
"Shall we go for a drive .9" said she,
at last.
"Delighted," said Austin ]Via),.
The drives about Baden-Baden are
charming. You wind for miles upon
the brows of castle-crowned hills, over-
hanging the gay little valley ; and then
you plunge into the ancient gloom of
the Black Forest, and the eerie pines,
and a delicious shiver of wildness and
solitude, all the time with the feeling
that the Kursaal and its band are close
at hand, should the silence grow oppres-
sive. The countess drove two little
cream-colored ponies, and encouraged
May to smoke his cigarette most charm-
ingly .... Bah! why go on with it .9
Even now, over the Eclipse claret, May
could not but admit that he had spent in
Baden-Baden three of the most charm-
ing weeks of his life. He would not
mind passing tln'ee such weeks again,
could he be sure they would be just
three such weeks, and that they would
end at the same time. And May ner-
vously glanced at the window, as he
thought he heard the sound of carriage-
wheels again. He had smoked too much
strong tobacco, probably ; but, after all,
it was even now only the middle of the
afternoon--not sunset, or near it. He
might have to come to stronger drugs
than tobacco, to stronger deeds than to-
bacco-smoke, ere the evening was over.
Well, to cut it short, he fell in love
with her. Of course he did. He adored
her. Possible ! He wanted to marry

THE RESIDUAR Y LEGATEE. 351

her. I-Ie was barely twenty-four, and
she--well, she was older than he was.
And she had a husband in the Siberian
mines. But, after all, it was her patri-
otism that first attracted himmher hero-
ism, her devotion to her unhappy cause,
or causes. Italia irredenta ! Poland
qihflism ! For May was not quite clear
which one or more of these was chief in
her mind ; and nihilism was a new vord
then, but it sounded dangerous and
tractive. Could he not be her chevaher,
her lieutenant, her esquire ? It was no
more than Byron had done for Greece,
after all. He was free, independent (for
the next eight years)---broken-hearted,
he was going to add, but stopped. After
all, May Austin had not refused to marry
him; and three of the eleven years were
gone. At all events, there was nothing
to prevent his attaching himself to a for-
lorn hope, if he chose. He lay awake
many nights thinking of these things,
and at last he was emboldened to speak
of them to her.
How well he remembered the day he
did so ! The day--but no, it was even-
ing. They had driven out after dinner,
and the scene was a moonlit glade in the
Black Forest. The two ponies stood
motionless; but their fair owner was
much moved as he poured into her deli-
cate ear his desires and devotions. It
was so noble of him, she said, and vas
moved to tears. And then his devotion
to her unhappy country! and she wiped
away another tear for Poland or Italia
irredenta. How she wished Serge could
have met him, and could know of this!
And she wiped away another tear for
Serge. But no, my noble American
mnoble citizen of a free country! It
could never be. Poland and she must
bear their woes alone. They could never
consent to drag down a brave young
Bostonian in theh- wreck. And then,
how could she ever reward him .9 With
her friendship, said Austin. But the
Comtesse seemed to think her friend-
ship would be inadequate.
The scene was becoming somewhat
oppressive ; and .Iay, at least, was con-
scious of a certain difficulty in provid-
ing for it a proper termination. In the
excitement of the occasion, he had felt
emboldened to take one of her hands,
which he still retained; the other was

holding the reins of the two cream-
colored ponies. I-Ie could hardly sim-
ply drop it--the hand and the cnver-
sation--without more; and yet what
suitable catastrophe could there be for
the situation ? height he kiss it, and
cut the conversation ? It were a mere
act of courtesy, no breach of respect
to the absent Serge. As a boy of twenty-
two he had never dared ; but as a man
of twenty-five--
She did not seem in the least sur-
prised. Possibly she had thought him
older than twenty-five. But May, after
that little ceremony, had dropped the
hand most unmistakably; and she
tmaed the ponies' heads away. May
gave a last look to the forest-glade, as
they drove out from it, and reflected
that the place would be impressed upon
his memory forever.
A restless week followed. He saw
the Countess de Valaka every day ; but
there was something uncomfortable in
their relations--a certain savor of an un-
accepted sacrifice, of an offering burned
in vain.
The countess would not let him seek
the Austrian foe on her own behalf, nor
yet bedew the soil of Poland with his
blood; and it was very difficult to say
what he was to do for her in Baden-
Baden, or, for matter of that, what the
noble Polacco de Valako could do in
Siberia. Poor Serge !
Yes, poor Serge ! On the eighth day,
Austin .lay, calling on the countess,
found her in a lovely n$glig$, dissolved
in tears. (He had been refused her
door, at first, but finally, after a little
pressing, had been admitted.) The
countess did not look up when he en-
tered ; and Austin stood there, twisting
his hat in sympathy, and looking at her.
Suddenly she lifted her head, and trans-
fixed his blue eyes with her dewy black
ones.
"Dead !" said she.
"What ?" responded May, anxiously.
"Poland ? Ital- "
"/o, no !" she cried. "Serge--
Serge !"
"Your husband ?" cried he--" the
Count Polacco "
The countess dropped her lovely head
in a shower of tears, as when a thick-
leaved tree is shaken by the wind, just

352 THE RESIDUMRY LEGMTEE.

after rain. "He has been dead  year
and a half," she moaned.
"A year and a half ?"
"Nineteen months. He died on the
23d of February, 1877--three. weeks
after the last letter that I ever got from
him."
"But how but how did you never
know ?" said May, wildly.
"Was it not cruel ? The despotism
of the White Czar! Sometimes they
would keep his letters for a year, some-
times they would let them come directly.
They would not let me know for fear
that I--ah, God!" She sprang to her
feet with a sweep of her long robe, and
shook her jewelled finger at the chande-
lier.
"Can you blame us that we kill and
die for such a despotism, such a tyran-
ny, as that ?" Then suddenly, as she
crossed by a sofa, she straightened up
to her full height, like a wave crest-
ing, poised a brief second, then fell in a
heap--a graceful heap .--her head rest-
ing on the sofa in her hands.
Then the young man had to seek, not
to console her, but to calm her, to lift
her from the floor, to bring her ice-
water, a fan, a feather, pour oil and salt
upon the wound, toilet-vinegar, or other
salads. May never knew exactly what
he did; but it was like consoling an
equinoctial gale. Hardly had she got
fairly calm, and sobbing comfortably,
and sitting in a chair, and he beside
her--and he remembered patting her
clasped hands, as one does a spoiled
child's--when she would dash upright,
upsetting the chair, and swear her ven-
geance on the cruel Czar .... And
at this point in his reminiscences May
winced a little, and took another glass
of the Eclipse claxet ; for he had by no
means a distinct recollection that he
had not sworn his vengeance on the
Czar with hers. And when you come
to think of it, the Czar's injuries to
Mr. May cried not as yet for deeds of
blood.

DIDO AND 2NEAS.

MAY repeated his visit of condolence
every day for several weeks. At the
end of that time the season at Baden-
Baden was drawing to a close, and it

became necessary that the countess
should betake herself and her sorrowing
heart to some other refuge. May knew
this, and it troubled him.
For he now felt that he not only ad-
mired Mine. de Valska as a patriot, but
that he loved her as an exceedingly
beautiful and fascinating woman. Sin-e-
ly, here was the heroine of his youth-
ful dremns--a life that were a poet's
ideal.
To link himself with her and her noble
aims, to be a Byron without the loneli-
ness, to combine fame in future history
with present domestic bliss--what a
career !
He loved the countess, he adored her;
and he fancied that she deigned to be
not indifferent to his devotion, to his
sympathy. But--there was the shadow
of the late count.
And the countess seemed much broken
by his death. True, she no longer gave
way to wild bursts of passion ; she never
wept ; in fact, in Austin's presence, she
rarely mentioned him. But there was
a sadness, a weak and lonely way about
her, as if she could not live without her
Serge's protecting arm. It must have
been a moral support, as he could have
done but little from his Siberian mine ;
but, whereas she used to be brave, en-
terprising, facing the world alone, now
she seemed helpless, confiding, less he-
roic, perhaps, but still more womanly.
Austin only loved her the more for that.
And it emboldened him a little. After
all, her husband had been dead a year
and a half, though she had only known
of it a few weeks. He determined to
speak. Vhy should his life's happiness
--possibly hers--be wrecked upon a
mere scruple of etiquette ?
He took his opportunity, one day,
when she spoke of Italy. (ow, that
the count was dead, she seemed to think
less of unhappy Poland, and more of
unredeemed Italy; as was natural, she
being a Cascadegli.) He took her hands
at the same time, and begged that she
would redeem him with Italy. His
life, his fortune, were at .her service,
should she but give him the right to
protect her, and fight her battles for
her always. "I know," he added earn-
estly, "how your heart still bleeds for
your noble husband. But your duty is

BALLADE OF THE PENITENTS.

and he had found a letter. The counSess
had gone, leaving the note behind her.
It was edged with deep black ; and May
took it now from his pocket"book, yel-
low and worn, with a smile that would
have been cynical had it not been slightly
nervous.
"Trs-cher !" it began, "I cannot
bear" (it was all in French, but we will
make clumsy English of the countess's
delicate phrase, as did May, when he
read it now) "that your love for me
should be your ruin. It is too late for
me to deny that you also have my
heart; I can only fly. Otherwise my
woman's weakness would destroy either
you or myself. If you do not wish to
betray me, seek not my refuge out.
I shall keep the ring as a pledge"
(she says nothing about the necklace, it
occurred to May, at this late date)m"a
pledge that I shall be faithful to you, as,
I hope, you to me. For what are six or

seven years ?" (At her age ! thought
May, with a shudder.) "I will devote
them to my unhappy countrymen."
(Compatriotes was the original.) "But
wait for me until you are free ; and per-
haps, who knows ? my Italy redeemed !
I will loin you, and be one with you
forever. Meantime you will travel, pos-
sibly forget me ! But on the fourteenth
of August, 1886, you will be at home.
On that day you will hear from me !"
l[ay laid the letter down. This was
most unquestionably the fourteenth day
of August in the year eighteen hundred
and eighty-six. He looked nervously
at the door of the pavilion, and then
through the blinds, in the direction of
the house. His face grew fixed and
rigid; and the countess's note fell un-
heeded to the floor.
A carriage was standing before the
front door, and beside it stood a foot.
man in livery.

BALLADE OF THE PENITENTS.

By A ndrew La rig.

"Le repentir de leur premier choix les rend des Pnitens du .Diable, comme dit Tertullien."--
PASCAL, "Perishes," 1672, p. 178.

"OH, who be ye that doubtful tread
And listless through the glad array ?
With languid look, with drooping head,
In all this rout of ladies gay ?
Ye walk with them, but not as they,
Ye tarry sadly in their tents,
/hy fare ye thus half-hearted, say ? "--
"We are St. Satan's Penitents!

"A straiter path we once would tread,
Through wilds that knew not of the May,
The loads that weighed on us like lead,
We bore through thorns and sloughs of clay.
No time had we to pause or play
With music of glad instruments,
But still we clambered: Well-a-day !
We are St. Satan's Penitents.

856 I, UHAT IS AN INSTINCT?

and obstreperous thing called a dogap-
pears there he must retire, if at a dis-
tance, and scratch if close by; that he
must withdraw his feet from water and
his face from flame, etc. His nervous
system is to a great extent a preorgan-
ized bundle of such reactions--they are
as fatal as sneezing, and as exactly cor-
related to their special excitants as it
is to its own. Although the naturalist
may, for his own convenience, class these
reactions under general heads, he must
not forget that in the animal it is a par-
ticular sensation or perception or image
which calls them forth.
At first this view astounds us by
the enormous number of special adjust-
ments it supposes animals to possess
ready-made in anticipation of the outer
things among which they are to dwell.
Can mutual dependence be so intricate
and go so far? Is each thing born fitted
to particular other things, and to them
exclusively, as locks are fitted to their
keys? Undoubtedly, this must be be-
lieved to be so. Each nook and cranny
of creation, down to our very skin and
entrails, has its living inhabitants, with
organs sted to the place, to devour
and digest the food it harbors and to
meet the dangers it conceals; and the
minuteness of adaptation, thus shown
in the way of structure, knows no
bounds. Even so are there no bounds
to the minuteness of adaptation in the
way of conduct which the several in-
habitants display.
The older writings on instinct are
ineffectual wastes of words, because
their "authors never came down to this
definite and simple point of view, but
smothered everg in vague wonder
at the clairvoyant and prophetic power
of the animals--so superior to anything
in man--and at the beneficence of God
in endowing them with such a gift. But
God's beneficence endows them, first of
all, with a nervous system ; and, turning
our attention to this, makes instinct im-
mediately appear neither more nor less
wonderful than all the other facts of
life.
Every instinct is an impulse. Whether
we shall call such impulses as blushing,
sneezing, coughing, smiling, or dodging,
or keeping time to music, instincts or
not, is a mere matter of terminology.

The process is the same throughout.
In his delightfully fresh and interesting
work, "Der Thierische Wille," Herr G. tt.
Schneider subdivides impulses (Triebe)
into sensation-impulses, perception-im-
pulses, and idea-impulses. To crouch
from cold is a sensation-impulse; to turn
and follow, if we see people running one
way, is a perception-impulse; to cast
about for cover, if it begins to blow and
rain, is an imagination-impulse. A sin-
gle complex instinctive action may in-
volve successively the awakening of im-
pulses of all three classes. Thus a hungry
lion starts to seek prey by the awaken-
ing in him of imagination coupled with
desire ; he begins to stalk it when, on eye,
ear, or nostril, he gets an impression of
its presence at a certain distance; he
springs upon it, either when the booty
takes alarm and flees, or when the dis-
tance is sufficiently reduced; he pro-
ceeds to tear and devour it the moment
he gets a sensation of its contact with
his claws and fangs. Seeking, stalking,
springing, and devouring are just so
many different kinds of muscular con-
traction, and neither kind is called forth
by the stimulus appropriate to the other.
Schneider says of the hamster, which
stores corn in its hole : "If we analyze
the propensity of storing, we find that
it consists of three impulses : First, an
impulse to pick up the nutritious object,
due to perception ; second, an impulse
to carry it off into the dwelling-place,
due to the idea of this latter ; and third,
an impulse to lay it down there, due to
the sight of the place. It lies in the
nature of the hamster that it should
never see a full ear of corn without
feeling a desire to strip it; it lies in
its nature to feel, as soon as its cheek-
pouches are filled, an irresistible desh'e
to hurry to its home ; and finany, it lies
it its nature that the sight of the store-
house should awaken the impulse to
empty the cheeks" (p. 208). In certain
animals of a low order the feeling of
having executed one impulsive step is
such an indispensable part of the stimu-
lus of the next one, that the animal can-
not make any variation in the order of
its performance.

Now, why do the various animals do
what seem to us such strange things, in

I/I/HAT IS AN INSTINCT? 359

to obey impulses of a certain lofty sort,
such as duty, or universal ends. And
"instinct" might have its significance so
broadened as to cover all impulses what-
ever, even the impulse to act from the
idea of a distant fact, as well as the im-
pulse to act from a present sensation.
Were the word instinct used in this
broad way, it would of course )e impos-
sible to restrict it, as we began by do-
ing, to actions done with no prevision
of an end. We must of course avoid a
quarrel about words, and the facts of
the case are really tolerably plain ! Man
has a far greater variety of i.mpulses than
any lower animal ; and any one of these
impulses, taken in itself, is as "blind"
as the lowest instinct can be ; but, owing
to man's memory, power of reflection,
and power of inference, they come each
one to be felt by him, after he has once
yielded to them and experienced their
results, in connection with a foresight of
those results. In this condition an im-
pulse acted out may be said to be acted
out, in part at least, for the sake of its
results. It is obvious that every instinc-
tive act, in an animal with memory, must
cease to be "blind" after being once re-
peated, and must be accompanied with
foresight of its "end" just so far as that
end may have fallen under the animal's
cognizance. An insect that lays her eggs
in a place where she never se.es them
hatch must always do so "blindly ;" but
a hen who has already hatched a brood
can hardly be assumed to sit with per-
fect "blindness" on her second nest.
Some expectation of consequences must
in every case like this be aroused; and
this expectation, according as it is that
of something desired or of something
disliked, must necessarily either re-en-
force or inhibit the mere impulse. The
hen's idea of the chickens would proba-
bly encourage her to sit; a rat's mem-
ory, on the other hand, of a former es-
cape from a trap wolfld neutralize his
impulse to take bait from anything that
reminded him of that trap. If a boy
sees a fat hopping-toad, he probably has
incontinently an impulse (especially if
with other boys) to smash the creature
with a stone, which impulse we may sup-
pose him blindly to obey. But some-
thing in the expression of the dying
toad's clasped hands suggests the mean-

hess of the act, or reminds him of sayings
he has heard about the sufferings of ani-
mals being like his own; so that, when
next he is tempted by a toad, an idea
arises which, far from spurring him
again to the torment, prompts kindly
actions, and may even make him the
toad's champion against less reflecting
boys.
It is plain then that, no matter .how
well endowed an animal may oiginally
be in the way of instincts, his resultant
actions will be much modified if the in-
stincts combine with experience, if in ad-
dition to impulses he have memories, as-
sociations, inferences, and expectations,
on any considerable scale. An object
O, on which he has an instinctive im-
pulse to react in the manner A, would
directly provoke him to that reaction.
But O has meantime become for him a
sign of the nearness of t ), on which he
has an equally strong impulse to react
in the manner B, quite un]ike A. So
that when he meets O the immediate
impulse A and the remote impulse B
struggle in his breast for the mastery.
The fatality and uniformity said to be
characteristic of instinctive actions are
so little manifest, that one might be
tempted to deny to him altogether the
possession of any instinct about the ob-
ject O. Yet how false this judgment
would be! The instinct about O is
there; only by the complication of the
mental machinery it has come into con-
flict with another instinct about P.
Here we immediately reap the good
fruits of our simple physiological con-
ception of what an instinct is. If it be
a mere excito-motor impulse, due to the
pre-existence of a certain "reflex-arc"
in the nerve-centres of the creature,
of course it must follow the law of all
such reflex-arcs. One liability of such
arcs is to have their activity "inhibited"
by other processes going on at the same
time. It makes no difference whether
the arc be organized at birth, or ripen
spontaneously later, or be due to ac-
quired habit, it must take its chances
with all the other arcs, and sometimes
succeed, and sometimes fail, in draught-
ing off the currents through itself. The
mystical view of an instinct would make
it invaable. The physiological view
would requixe it to show occasional Jr-

860 IMHAT IS AN INSTINCT?

regularities in any animal in whom, the
number of separate instincts, and the
possible entrance of the same stimulus
into several of them, were great. And
such irregularities are what every su-
perior animal's instincts do show in
abundance.*
Wherever the mind is elevated enough
to discriminate ; wherever several dis-
tinct sensory elements must combine to
discharge the reflex-arc;wherever, in-
stead of plumping into action instantly
at the first rough intimation of what sort
of a thing is there, the agent waits to see
which one of its kind it is and what the
circumstances are of its appearance;
wherever different individuals and dif-
ferent circumstances can impel him in
different ways; wherever these are the
conditions--we have a masking of the
elementary constitution of the instinctive
life. The whole story of our dealings
with the lower wild animals is the his-
tory of our taking advantage of the way
in which they judge of everything by its
mere label, as it were, so as to ensnare
or kill them. Nature, in them, has left
matters in this rough way, and made
them act always in the manner which
would be oftenest right. There are more
worms unattached to hooks than impaled
upon them; therefore, on the whole,
says Nature to her fishy children, bite
at every worm and take your chances.
But as her children get higher, and their
lives more precious, she reduces the
risks. Since what seems to be the same
object may be now a genuine food and
now a bait ; since in gregarious species
each individual may prove to be either
the friend or the rival, according to the
circumstances, of another; since any
entirely unknown object may be fraught
with weal or woe, Nature implants con-
trary impulses to act on many classes
of things, and leaves it to slight alter-
ations in the conditions of the individ-
ual case to decide which impulse shall

* In the instincts of mammals, and even of lower creat-
ures, the uniformity and infallibility which, a generation
ago, were considered as essential characters do not exist.
The minuter study of recent years has found continuity,
transition, variation, and mistake, wherever it has looked
for them and decided that what is called an instinct is
usually only a tendency to act in a wayof which the average
is pretty constant, but which need not be mathematically
"true2' Cf. on this point, Darwin's Origin of Species ;
Romaness Mental Evol., chaps, xi. to xvi., incl., and Ap-
pendix ; Lindsay's lIind in Lower Animals, vol. i., 133-141
--ii., chaps, v., xx.; and Semper's Conditions of Existence
in Animals, where a great many instances will be found.

carry the day. Thus, greediness and
suspicion, curiosity and timidity, coy-
ness and desire, bashfulness and vanity,
sociability and pugnacity, seem to shoot
over into each other as quickly, and to
remain in as unstable equilibrium in the
higher birds and mammals as in man.
They are all impulses, congenital, blind
at first, and productive of motor reac-
tions of a rigorously determinate sort.
Each one of them, then, is an instinct,
as instincts are commonly defined. But
they contradict each other--" experi-
ence" in each particular opportunity of
application usually deciding the issue.
The animal that exhibits them loses the
"instinctive" demeanor and appears to
lead a life of hesitation and choice, an in-
tellectual life; not, however, because he
has no instincts--rather because he has
so many that they block each other's
path.
Thus, then, without troubling our-
selves about the words instinct and rea-
son, we may confidently say that how-
ever uncertain man's reactions upon his
environment may sometimes seem in
comparison with those of lower creat-
m-es, the uncertainty is probably not
due to their possession of any principles
of action which he lacks, but to his pos-
sessing all the impulses that they have,
and a great many more besides. In
other words, there is no material an-
tagonism between instinct and reason.
Reason, per se, can inhibit no impulses;
the only thing that can neutralize an im-
pulse is an impulse the other way. Rea-
son may, however, make an inference
which will set loose the impulse the
other way; and thus, though the ani-
mal richest in reason might be also the
animal richest in instinctive impulses
too, he would never seem the fatal au-
tomaton which a merely instinctive ani-
mal would be.

Let us now turn to human impulses
with a little more detail. All we have
ascertained so far is that impulses of an
originally instinctive character may ex-
ist, and yet not betray themselves by
automatic fatality of conduct. But in
man what impulses do exist ? In the
light of what has been said, it is obvious
that an existing impulse may not always
be superficially apparent even when its

bt/'HAT IS AN INSTINCT? 361

object is there. And we shall see that
some impulses may be masked by causes
of which we have not yet spoken.
Were one devising an abstract scheme,
nothing would be easier than to dis-
cover from an animal's actions just how
many instincts he possessed. He would
react in one way only upon each class
of objects with which his life had to deal ;
he would react in identically the same
way upon every specimen of a class ; and
he would react invariably dtu4ng his
whole life. There would be no gaps
among his instincts ; all would come to
light without-perversion or disguise.
But there are no such abstract animals,
and nowhere does the instinctive life
display itself in such a way. Hot only,
as we have seen, may objects of the
same class arouse reactions of opposite
sorts in consequence of slight changes
in the circumstances in the individual
object or in the agent's inward condi-
tion ; but two other principles, of which
we have not yet spoken, may come into
play and produce results so striking
that observers as eminent as Messrs. D.
A. Spalding and Romanes do not hesi-
tate to call them "derangements of the
mental constitution," and to conclude
that the instinctive machinery has got
out of gear.
These principles are those of the inhi-
bition of instincts by habits and of the
transitoriness of instincts. Taken in con-
junction with the two former principles
--that an object may excite ambiguous
impulses, or suggest an impulse different
from that which it excites, by suggest-
ing a remote object---they explain any
amount of departure from uniformity of
conduct, without impl)4ng any getting
out of gear of the elementary impulses
from which the conduct flows.
Take first the inhibition of instincts
by habits. The law is this: When ob-
jects of a certain class elicit from an
animal a certain sort of reaction, it
often happens that the animal becomes
partial to the first specimen of the class
on which it has reacted, and will not
afterward react on any other specimen.
The selection of a particular hole to
live in, of a particular mate, of a. par-
ticular feeding-ground, a particular va-
riety of diet, a particular anything, in
short, out of a possible multitude, is a

very wide-spread tendency among ani-
mals, even those low down in the scale.
The limpet will return to the same
sticking-place in its rock, and the lob-
ster to its favorite nook on the sea-
bottom. The rabbit will deposit its
dung in the same corner; the bird
makes its nest on the same bough. But
each of these preferences carries with it
an insensibility to other opportunities
and occasions--an insensibility which
can only be described physiologically
as an inhibition of new impulses by the
habit of old ones already fox, ned. The
possession of homes and wives of our
own makes us strangely insensible to
the charms of those of other people.
Few of us are adventurous in the mat-
ter of food; in fact, most of us think
there is something disgusting in a bill
of fare to which we are unused. Stran-
gers, we are apt to think, cannot be
worth knowing, especially if they come
from distant cities, etc. The original
impulse which got us homes, wives,
dietaries, and friends, at all, seems to
exhaust itself in its first achievements
and to leave no surplus energy for re-
acting on new cases. And so it comes
about that, witnessing this torpor, an
observer of mankind might say that no
instinctive propensity toward certain ob-
jects existed at all. It existed, but it
existed niscellaneously, or as an instinct
pure and simple only, before habit was
formed. A habit, once grafted on an
instinctive tendency, restricts the range
of the tendency itself, and keeps us from
reacting on any but the habitual objects,
although other objects might just as
well have been chosen had they been
the first comers.
Another sort of arrest of instinct by
habit is vhere the same class of objects
awakens contrary instinctive impulses.
Here the impulse first followed toward
a given individual of the class is apt to
keep him from ever awakening the op-
posite impulse in us. In fact, the whole
class may be protected by this individ-
ual specimen from the application to it
of the other impulse. Animals, for ex-
ample, awaken in a child the opposite
impulses of fearing and fondling. But
if a child, in his first attempts to pat a
dog, gets snapped at or bitten, so that
the impulse of fear is strongly aroused,

I/UHAT IS AN INSTINCT? 365

pass them by and shrink back from the
effort of taking those necessary first
steps the prospect of which, at an ear-
lier age, would have filled him with
eager delight. The sexual passion ex-
pires after a protracted reign ; but it is
well known that its peculiar manifesta-
tions in a given individual depend al-
most entirely on the habits he may form
during the early period of its activity.
Exposure to bad company then makes
him a loose liver all his days ; chastity
kept at first makes the same easy later
on. In all pedagogy the great thing is
to strike the iron while hot, and to
seize the wave of the pupil's interest in
each succcessive subject before its ebb
has come, so that knowledge may be
got and a habit of skill acquired--a
headway of interest, in short, secured,
on which afterward the individual may
float. There is a happy moment for
fixing skill in drawing, for making boys
collectors in natural history, and pres-
ently dissectors and botanists ; then for
initiating them into the harmonies of
mechanics and the wonders of physical
and chemical law. Later, introspective
psycholog T and the metaphysical and
religious mysteries take their turn ; and,
last of all, the drama of human affairs
and worldly wisdom in the widest sense
of the term. In each of us a saturation-
point is soon reached in all these things ;
the impetus of our purely intellectual
zeal expires, and unless the topic be one
associated with some urgent personal
need that keeps our wits constantly
whetted about it, we settle into an
equilibrium, and live on what we learned
when otr interest was fresh and instinc-
tive, without adding to the store. Out-
side of their own business, the ideas
gained by men before they are twenty-
five are practically the only ideas they
shall have in their lives. They cannot
get anything new. Disinterested curi-
osity is past, the mental grooves and
channels set, the power of assimilation
gone. If by chance we ever do learn
anything about sonde entirely new topic
we are afflicted with a strange sense of

insecurity, and we fear to advance a res-
olute opinion. But, with things learned
in the plastic days of instinctive curios-
ity we never lose entirely our sense of
being at home. There remains a kin-
ship, a sent'.rment of intimate acquaint-
ance, which, even when we know we
have failed to keep abreast of the sub-
ject, flatters us with a sense of power
over it, and makes us feel not altogether
out of the pale.
Whatever individual exceptions might
be cited to this are of the sort that
"prove the rule."
To detect the moment of the instinc-
tive readiness for the subject is, then,
the first duty of every educator. As for
the pupils, it would probably lead to a
more earnest temper on the part of
college students if they had less belief
in their unlimited future intellectual
potentialities, and could be brought to
realize that whatever physics and politi-
cal economy and philosophy they are
now acquiring are, for better or worse,
the physics and political economy and
philosophy that will have to serve them
to the end.
The natural conclusion to draw from
this transiency of instincts is that most
of them are implanted for the sake of
giving rise to habits, and that, this pur-
pose once accomplished, the instincts
themselves, as such, have no raison d'etre
in the psychical economy, and conse-
quently fade away. That occasionally
an instinct should fade before circum-
stances pelnit of a habit being formed,
or that, if the habit be formed, other
factors than the pure instinct should
modify its course, need not surprise us.
Life is full of the imperfect adjustment to
individual cases, of arrangements which,
taking the species as a whole, are quite
orderly and regular. Instinct cannot be
expected to escape this general rule.
The most interesting thing possible
now would be to test our principles by
going through the human instincts in
detail. But as I have ah-eady exceeded
my allotted space, that must be reserved
for another opportunity.

FATHER ANDREI. 367

ready for him." Then with August
watching intently, Father Andrei loaded
his new pistol carefully, not stopping
when he had loaded one or two cham-
bers, but, with a half-apologetic glance
at August, continuing till the revolver
was fully charged.
A knock at the door made both men
tram. August opened the door.
"Who is it ?" he asked. Then as the
light fell on the face of the snow-covered
figure outside, he exclaimed angrily,
"Ivan Ivanovitch ! What do you want
of me ?"
"Is the priest here?" asked Ivan
Ivanovitch, in a surly tone, without
making a move to enter the house.
"I am here," said the priest, step-
ping toward the door. "Do you want
me ?"
"Come you inside," said August ; and
he stood aside to let Ivan pass him.
The latter entered. He was a tall
young Russian, darker than most of his
country-people, about as old as August
tIummel himself. There was a look of
habitual sullenness on his face, how-
ever, that marred his otherwise good
looks.
"What do you want of me ?" asked
the priest at last. He had restuned his
seat, but August stood leaning against
the dresser, looking angrily at Ivan.
"I want you, father, to appoint me
organist again," began Ivan. The priest
looked up at him curiously.
"I have already made my appoint-
ment," he said, coolly. "I dismissed
you for being drunk so often. "
"I will be drunk no more," cried Ivan,
eagerly. "At least,.not in the organ-
loft."
"I have already appointed August
tItunmel," remarked the priest.
"August Hummel?" repeated Ivan,
glancing toward his unwilling host with
a look of hatred fully returned by the
latter. The priest nodded.
Ivan's anger and disappointment
broke forth :
"You always hated me," he cried.
"Now you've put this man in my place
simply because I was drunk and played
the wrong tune in church. No one
knew I was wrong except yourself,
and you knew I wouldn't have made the
mistake if I had been sober. You all

think he is so good and great just be-
cause he's not like the rest of us. He
did not dare to do it while I was here,
but waited until I was away from home,
to marry Mal'fa Mikhaflovna, and now
he has waited until I was drunk in
church to .get my organ away from
me."
"You cursed liar !" shouted August,
darting around the table at Ivan. The
priest as quickly opposed himself to the
young German, and endeavored to quiet
him. Ivan stepped back before August's
onslaught, but still continued his taunts.
The priest's opposition increased Au-
gust's rage. He seized him by the col-
lar, trying to throw him off, while Father
Andrei, on his part, resisted to his
utmost.
Just then the door into the inner
room opened, and Marfa ttummel ap-
peared in the doorway. She stood dis-
mayed at the struggle. Her sudden
appearance startled both August and
the priest; like two school-boys sur-
prised by their master in a fight, the
two men dropped their hands, and
looked at each other almost sheepishly.
"Quarrelling with Father Andrei,
August ? For shame !" cried Marfa.
"Why should you quarrel?" she con-
tinued, suddenly, looking around the
room. August looked toward Ivan
but Ivan had vanished.
"You must not quarrel !" cried Marfa ;
and then, as a baby-cry was heard in
the inner room, "August meant no harm,
Father Andreiyou will forgive him,"
and she was gone.
Father Andrei drew a long breath of
relief.
"I was afraid she would see that
drunken fellow Ivan," he said in an
undertone, as he closed the door after
Marfa Hummel. In the little gun-corner
behind it stood Ivan.
"You had, then, some sense of shame,
Ivan Ivanovitch," said the priest, sternly.
"It is a good thing, and unexpected in
you, that you do not dare to face Marfa
Mikhaflovna."
"I mn not afraid," said Ivan, with a
swagger, laying his hand on the door
into the inner room. Again Father
Andrei inter'posed.
"That will do," commanded the priest.
"Go out of this house at once, Ivan

38 FATHER ANDREI.

Ivanovitch ! Go !" And Ivan o eyed
without a word.
The priest resumed his place at the
table, and finished his glass of vodki in
silence.
"Cheer up, August Hummel," he said
at length. "Do not think of that fel-
low ; he was drunk to-night. But it is
late--I must be going."
"It is late," said August with an effort.
Then he helped Father Andrei put on
his heavy coat, and went with him to the
door.
"That fellow Ivan must be fond of
snow," said the priest, as he stepped out
of the door. "See, here are my foot-
steps as I came, but his are not with
them. From the tracks, you might think
I was the only guest you had to-night."
"The only guest, but not the only
visitor," said August, gloomily. Then
he slowly closed the door and returned
to the table. As he turned toward the
stove he saw the chair lying on the floor
where he had upset it when he sprang
at Ivan.
"Liar !" he said between his teeth, as
he picked it up and set it fiercely on its
four legs. As he did so he felt a sud-
'den draught of wind on his back. He
wheeled around.
The window at the back of the house
was open, and, a dark figure in the midst
of the snow that drove through it, Ivan
Ivanovitch stood by the table.
August Hummel stood stock-still,
but his brows knitted, and his hands
clinched as he looked at his enemy.
For a moment neither said a word.
"Let this teach all German dogs not
to meddle with us Russian bears," said
Ivan at last, picking up something
bright from the table. August made
a step toward him and raised his hands
menacingly. But as he did so, there
was a flash, a loud report; then the
room was filled with smoke. Before it
cleared away the light had been put out,
and the room was empty.
In the inner room sat Iarfa Hummel,
wondering between her maternal anx-
ieties why Father Andrei and August
should have quarrelled.
Suddenly she heard a loud report in
the next room, and then a heavy fall.
Then, strain her ears as she might, she
could hear nothing.

"August!" she cried, softly, not dar-
ing at first to move. Then, not caring
whether her boy slept or waked, she
moved quickly to the door, her heart
seeming to stop beating as she did so.
"August !" she cried, as she opened
the door. The outer room was dark.
"August, speak to me." But there was
no answer. Marfa laid the baby, still
asleep, on the bed in the inner room,
and with the lamp in her hand, returned
to the outer room.
On the floor, beyond the table, by
which it was half-concealed, lay the
body of a man. Trembling, Mafia
knelt by it, and set the lamp on the
floor. Then she saw that she was look-
ing on the face of her husband.
"August, August, my husband ! speak
to me!" she cried, throwing herself on
her husband's body. But though the
face was warm, there was no motion in
the heart, and no voice answered the
entreaties the woman uttered so con-
stantly, o
Suddenly, Marfa brought the light
closer and looked again at her hus-
band's face. The eyes were open, the
brows knitted in rage. The hands were
clinched. Against whom ? Iarfa rose
and carried the light to the table.
"My God!" she said, very softly, as
she looked over the table. Then she
knelt again by her husband.
"August, August!" she cried. "Why
did the priest kill you, why did the priest
kill you ?"

/EANTIIE Father Andrei fought his
way through the snow until he had
passed the little church, quite at the
other end of the village, and had reached
his own house beyond it. Someone
had evidently been watching for him,
for as he approached the house the
door was flung open.
"Well," cried a harsh voice, "it is
high time you were at home." But the
harshness was all in the voice, for hands
anything but rough took the coat from
the old priest's shoulders and received
his fur cap. But then the owner of the
voice, a thin old woman with a long nose
and high cheek-bones, looked at the
priest, and began again to upbraid him.

870 F.4 THER .4 ND REI.

but triumphant answer from van.
Then from his place in the confessional
]ather Andrei tottered, his face white,
his eyes standing out, his whole frame
shaking. He clung to the door of the
confessional to support himself, and
looked in horror at Ivan as he came out
from his place.
"You demon!" gasped the priest.
Ivan smiled at him diabolically. "Devil !
damned one I You--you--But, by God
in Heaven, you shall suffer for it. I will
send to Kiev to-night--I will go myself
--to inform the authorities "
"Oh, no," laughed Ivan ; "I have told
you everything under the seal of the
confessional." "My God, the devil speaks the truth !"
cried the priest, falling upon his knees,
while tears of impotent but just wrath
ran down his face. Ivan looked at him
a moment in silence, as though con-
sidering some question. Then he shook
his head, and went out through the main
door of the church, leaving the priest
alone.
Vhen at last Anfissa came in search
of her master, she found him kneeling
before, the high altar, as if in prayer.
He was so still, however, that the old
woman was frightened.
"Master," she said, touching him on
the shoulder. The priest sprang to his
feet.
"I know nothing about it," he cried.
"I can tell you nothing." Then he
passed his hand over his eyes. "Oh,
it's you, Anfissa," he said, in a tone of
inexpressible relief.
"You must go to bed,"said the old
woman, leading him toward the door
into the house, and Father Andrei, after
looking once hastily around the church,
submitted quietly to her directions.
Hardly, however, had they reached the
living-room, when, for the second time,
there came a loud knocking at the door.
Grumbling more than usual, Anfissa
opened the door, and peered about to
see who the new visitor might be.
Without the formality of asking per-
mission Zakaroff, the police-officer of the
village, pushed the old woman aside and
entered. The priest started when he
recognized his visitor, but instantly re-
covered himself.
"You are welcome, Anthony Dmitri-

vitch," he said. "What can I do for
you? Tea, Anfissa." But Zakaroff
raised his hand in token that he wanted
no tea, and looked at Father Andrei.
He seemed to find some difficulty in an-
swering the priest's question, for he
hemmed and hawed a good deal. At
last he burst out:
"I am--hem--sent to bring your
reverence. I--I hope your reverence
won't find any fault with me for doing
my duty--it's what one has to do very
often, as your reverence doubtless
knows, "
"Certainly, I shall not blame you,"
said the priest. "But what do you
mean by 'duty' in this case ? rho
sends you here ?"
" Why, your reverence," said Zaka-
roff, after more hesitation, "the inspec-
tor-he it is who sent me to bring you;
and as I'm a police-officer, your rever-
ence knows I must obey the inspector.
So "--resuming his official tone--" you'll
be kind enough to come with me to
August tIummel's house."
"He's just come from there," exclaimed
Anfissa. Zakaroff looked hard at the
priest.
"You have just come from there ?"
he said, shaly. "Were you there to-
night ?"
"Yes, he was," snapped Anfissa. "I-Ie
is not to go out of this house again to-
night," she added, "Zakaroff or no Za-
karoff."
"The inspector--" began Zakaroff.
"I am coming," said the priest, be-
ginning to put on his heavy boots and
coat.
"I shall go with you," announced
Anfissa, and forthwith disappearing, she
returned equipped for the journey
through the snow, before the dazed
priest had finished his preparations.
Vhen the little party came out of the
drifts into the triangular patch of snow
in front of August tIummel's new house,
the priest noticed that there was more
light in the house than there had been
an hour before ; and then he saw three
or four men in a little group in front
of the house, just where the light shone
upon them through one of the windows.
Two of them were on their knees, exam-
ining something in the snow close to the
door-step and a tall man stood by, watch-

FATHER ANDREI. 371

ing them. As the priest approached
they stood up, and just then the tall man
caught sight of the little party coming
across the snow.
"Ah, Zakaroff," he said. "Is that
Father Andrei .9"
"Yes, captain," answered Zakaroff,
saluting. And the priest, trembling
violently, he knew not why, answered,
too. "It is I, Captain likolas. Are my
services needed .9"
"Doubtless," answered the inspector,
shortly. Then turning to the men, he
said : "You two stay here, and see that
those footprints are not filled 1119 or lost.
low, Father Andrei, have the goodness
to follow me." So saying, he advanced
to the door, which he pushed open, him-
self entering first, while the man with
him stood aside to let the priest pass.
In the centre of the brightly lighted
room, immediately in front of the door,
lay the dead body of August Hummel,
the owner of the new house. On his
back he lay, his head toward the door,
his dead eyes staring straight up from
under angry brows, his hands clinched
as thoughin anger, in front of his breast,
and a little red spot visible on the coarse
white linen shirt.
For a moment the priest stood horli-
fled, not raising his eyes from the face of
his dead friend. Then, with a long sigh,
he looked up. At the table where he
had sat not two hours before was a
clerkly-looking man, and by his side
Captain l'ikolas, the Inspector. By the
great dresser, the pride of August Hum-
reel's heart, stood the head man of the
village, Iikhail Mikhaflovitch, the father
of the dead man's wife. Each of these
men looked steadily at the staaled
priest, who returned their gaze help-
lessly.
Just then Anfissa touched his shoul-
der.
"This was the noise you made with
August Hummel, was it,9" she asked.
For a moment Father Andrei looked
now at the inspector, nov at Anfissa.
Suddenly the meaning of her question
dawned upon him.
"lIy God, woman ! No!" he almost
shrieked. "Do you think that of me .9
Do you think I would kill August ?"
The priest's voice was evidently recog-
nized by someone in the inner room,

for" the door was flung open, and Marfa
Hummel rushed into the room where
her husband's body lay. Behind her
followed her mother and her sister.
"You priest !" she cried, rushing up
to where Father Andrei stood, "why
did you kill August .9 Father Andrei,
Father Andrei, why did you murder m'y
husband,9 Oh, you evil man, to kill
your best friend !" and she stepped to-
ward him threateningly. The priest in-
stinctively put up his hands to protect
himself.
"Ye.s," cried lIarfa, "kill me too, as
you have killed my husband! Oh! Au-
gust, August !" and she fell on her knees
by her husband's body, rocking herself
to and fro. Her mother and Anfissa ran
to her assistance, and presently took her
away to the inner room.
There was a long silence in the room.
At length the priest looked up.
"Surely you do not think I killed
that man .9" he asked, huskily, looking
from one to another of the men.
"Who else could have done so ,9"
asked the inspector. The priest shud-
dered. "This woman accuses you to
your face. She tells me that she saw
you struggling with her husband when
she looked into this room du14ng the
evening." The priest looked toward the
door into the inner room. The in-
spector continued: "Only one man has
been to this house this evening, and only
one man left the house. Compare the
priest's boots with the footpints, " he
suddenly ordered.
Involuntaaily Father Andrei made a
motion to resist; but while one held
him in a chair, Zakaroff and another of-
ricer pulled off one and then the other
of his boots, and followed by Mikhail
Mikhaflovitch, went out into the dark-
hess.
"Release him," said the inspector at
length. The priest sat still in the chair,
rubbing his forehead with his hand, and
gazing vacantly .arolmd the room. The
inspector leaned back in his chair, the
clerk held the pen in his mouth, and
turned over the papers he had in front
of him.
At length, after a time that seemed
an hour, Zakaroff and the others re-
turned with the priest's boots, the soles
of which rere moist with snow.

FATHER ANDREI. 373

snow with the boots Father Andrei had
worn, and the priest looked up rather
wearily, and said :
"It is quite true that I made those
footprints." But when the procurator,
continuing, read Zakarofi's testimony to
the effect that he had searched the priest's
house and the church and had found a
pistol with seven barrels, and six of them
loaded, behind the high altar, Father
Andrei turned pale and trembled like a
leaf, and clung to the railing of the
dock until his knuckles were white.
Vhen the assessor with the harsh
voice spoke to him, after Magter Ser-
gins Kubensky had finished reading, the
priest tried to answer, but could not, and
opened his mouth like a thirsty dog. At
last he spoke:
"I--I---do not know. I did not put
the pistol there," he said, and shook his
head again and again.
The procurator sat doom, and coughed,
and in a minute the youngest of the three
judges leaned forward, resting his elbows
on his desk, and looked at Father An-
drei.
"Father Andxei ikolavitch," began
the judge; "you have said that the
testimony of Marfa Mikhaflovna was
correct, except that you and August
Hummel were not quarrelling; what,
then, were you doing when Mafia ]Ii-
khaflovna surprised you ? Had you laid
hands on him ? Had he laid hands on
you ?" To these last questions Father
Anch-ei had to answer, "Yes."
"Yet you say you were not quarrel-
ling? Do you now deny that Mafia
Mikhaflovna stu]rised you struggling
with August Hummel ? Why, tell me
now, were you struggling with August
Hummel ?"
The priest shook his head. He feared
that he might say something to break
the seal of the confession which Ivan
Ivanovitch had made to him;he could
not trust himself, and so he held his
peace. The judge fumbled among the
papers on his desk, and then held a
pistol up so that the priest could see it.
"Do you "know whose pistol this is ?"
he asked at length, watching Father
Andrei steadily.
"It--it looks like mine."
The judge examined his notes, and
then began his questions again.

"Your servant, Anfissa Dmitrievna,
says she found you in the church, kneel-
ing before the high altar ; she spoke to
you, and you sprang to your feet, crying
out, ' I can say nothing, I can tell you
nothing.' What did you mean by that ?"
The priest turned very pale. The
question he feared most had been put
to him. How should he answer it. He
bowed his head a moment.
"God help me," he prayed, silently.
Then he raised his head and looked
funly at the chief judge.
"I will not say," he answered.
"Vhat ? You refuse to answer ?"
asked the chief judge after a moment.
The priest nodded.
"Do you know what you are doing ?"
exclaimed the younger of the assessors ;
and again, with a prayer in his heart, the
priest nodded.
Presently the chief judge leaned for-
ward and spoke to him again.
"For the third and last time, Andrei
Nikolavitch, I ask you, what did you
mean by saying to Anfissa Dmitrievna,
'I can say nothing, I can tell you noth-
ing.' Why did you say those words
to her ? What did you mean by them ?"
And the three judges looked at him
earnestly.
Father Andrei trembled all over, and
clung to the rail for support. He looked
around the room. The public procura-
tor was looking intently at him, the
clerks at the desks below the judges,
with pens dipped in their inkstands,
were looking intently at him; so, too,
were the few lawyers and the policemen.
With a long sigh, the priest looked at
the chief judge.
"I will not say," he answered, and shut
his eyes, as he prayed.
There was a murrain- in the room.
The three judges consulted together a
moment ; then the chief judge began to
speak to him.
"We have heard the testimony in the
case against you, Andrei Iikolavitch,"
he said, slowly and distinctlv. "We
have listened to your admissions, to
your explanations, and to your refusal
to make explanations of damaging testi-
mony against you. The evidence is cir-
cumstantial, it is true; but such an
array bf circumstantial evidence I have
never before seen. Eve-y circumstance

7 FATHER ANDREI.

points strongly at you as being the
murderer of August Hummel."
"On the other side," continued the
chief judge, "is your good character,
and that alone is opposed to the weight
of testimony against you. Unluckily for
you, however, character is not evidence,
and what you have in character you lack
in evidence. After lengthy and thorough
deliberation, therefore, we have reached
a decision--that you are guilty of the
crime charged against you, the murder
of August Hummel. Have you anything
to sy befor zencncc is 2ssc1 uzp-
you?"
Leaning heavily on the raft before
him, the priest began slowly to speak
in a trembling, husky voice. The words
sounded to him as though they did not
come from himself, and his lips were so
dry that he could hardly articulate.
Sa "
"I have nothing to y, he said, at
length, " except--that---everything--is
against me--and that I did not kill Au-
gust Hummel." And he bowed his head
and waited silently.
"Everything in the testimony is
sa "
against you, as you y, retorted the
judge, quickly. Then more calmly,
"You are tmdoubtedly the murderer of
August Hummel. There seems to have
been no reason for the crime ; it was a
wanton murder ; but as it seems to have
been done without premeditation, and
as your character before the murder had
been so excellent, we have decided to be
merciful toward you. We therefore
sentence you to imprisonment dtu-ing
the term of your natural life."
The chief judge paused, and the
priest drew a long breath, while every-
body in the room stared at him to see
how he would receive the sentence.
"During the term of my natural life,"
he repeated, aloud. Then he turned to
the judges and bowed. "I thank your
excellencies during the term--" he
caught himself up; "I thank your ex-
cellencies," he said, and left the dock.

THAT Colonel Ivan Kalof was brave
was shown by the cross of St. George he
wore on his left breast, pinned there by
the Grand Duke Michael himself one day

in the Russian trenches before Plevna.
That he was brave was also proved by
the fact that, during the Turkish war, he
had served on General Skobeleff's staff.
For Skobeleff chose the members of his
military family for their individual brave-
ry, and for some military instinct each
possessed, rather than for any merely
theoretical knowledge of the art of war.
So it was that Ivan Ivanovitch, entering
the Turkish war as a sergeant, came out
of it a colonel, promoted and made an
officer on Skobeleff's staff because of the
bravery - had svv_  sc often, beck_use
of his bual-dog ferocity and tenacity of
grip. His promotion was not unexam-
pled. In a service where princes serve
enthusiastically as privates, and a carpet-
general sees service with the shoulder-
straps of a lieutenant, it is not strange
if a sergeant becomes a colonel. And it
was a colonel that Ivan Ivanovitch came
out from the war, with scars of numer-
ous wounds, and a reputation for great
and persistent bravery.
Besides being brave, Colonel Ivan
Kalof was also accomplished--at least
he had been accomplished. Twenty odd
years before the war his friends consid-
ered him an excellent musician, and in-
deed, he could play the organ in church,
and the piano out of church. But for
many years he had not needed to make
use of his accomplishment, while his in-
stinctive bravery had often been needed
during that feverish Turkish war. But
he never needed his bravery more than
he did when, three years after the war,
he was chief of police of the Holy City
of Kiev.
Colonel Ivan Kalof was unmarried.
He had loved a girl years ago ; but she
had married a foreigner, a young German,
and though her husband had been killed
in a quarrel with the village pope, leaving
her a young widow, Ivan Kalof--he was
not a colonel then--had never renewed
his offer of marriage to her. He never
talked about his disappointment, and
simply remained a bachelor.
Mafia Hummel talked freely about
her grief, but she remained a widow, as
Colonel Kalof a bachelor. At first she
lived in the new house her husband had
taken her to, where her boy was born,
her husband killed. But as soon as
she could, she moved into the city of

FATHER INDR EI. 3 7 5

Kiev, where she lived as she imagined
August would like to have her live,
in a style that was neither entirely
German nor entirely Russian. As her
boy, August Augustovich, grew up, he
went to school and finally to the Uni-
versity, where he was still a student
when Colonel Ivan Kalof became chief
of police.
The university of Kiev is one of the
chief hot-beds o -ihilism in Russia, and
in watching the doings of its students,
Colonel Kalof spent much of his time.
Generally, he was successful in his
watches, and in their results. One
morning, after a successful raid on a
band of young lihilists, a woman asked
to see him.
"Have her searched," said the chief of
police to the soldier who brought him
word of the woman's presence; and he
went on with his wlting. There was a
scuffle in the outer room, a woman's
scream, and then the report of a pistol.
Kalof strode to the door.
"What is the matter??" he cried,
angrily. The scuffle ceased instantly.
"The pistol went off;" answered a
soldier, confusedly.
"They would have searched mere"
cried the woman, looking at Kalof in-
dignantly.
"Was it your pistol??" he asked
shortly. The woman looked at him
defiantly and nodded.
"You have arrested my son," she said,
dogged.ly. A trick of her voice caught
his ear. He looked at her intently for
a moment.
"Come in," he said at last, opening
the door, and closing it behind her as
she entered. "You are hlarfa hIildaai-
lovna," he added, and his voice shook a
little. The woman looked at him, half
terrified, half astonished.
"Vho are you .9" she cried, and tried
in. vain to recall his features. The chief
of police smiled grimly.
"I am Ivan Ivanovitch" he answered.
Marf Hummel fell on her knees before
him.

"Your boy is August Augustovich,"
he said, at lst. "I did not know he
was your boy. So you would have shot
me--I would not have blamed her," he
added, in an undertone. Then aloud:
"I am glad you are come. You can
save your son's life, and you only. You
must persuade him to turn Crown's
evidence. He will not hear me--you
are his mother, and he may listen to
yOU."
"I will do everything I can," said the
unfoaunate hlarfa. Kalof shook his
head.
"You must do more than that," he
said. "You must persuade him."
"He has never disobeyed me," said
Marfa ; then, as Kalof rang the bell for
a messenger, she came to his side; "I
am sorry I brought the pistol," she said,
humbly. Kalof looked up at her quickly,
with a significant glance.
"You nust," he said, sternly ; then,
as a messenger entered, he gave direc-
tions about Marfa Hummel's visit to her
son, and saw her start on her errand
with little expectation of success.
He was right. Tot even his mother's
commands or tearful entreaties could
move the young Nihilist to betray his
comrades ; and in course of time, with
four others of them, August Augusto-
rich was condemned to death.
Usually a condemned Tihifist saw
none of his family before his death, but
Colonel Ivan Kalof had influence enough
to procure for Marfa Hummel permis-
sion to see her boy before he was put to
death. One morning, therefore, the
chief of police entered hlarfa Hummel's
house. He went up to the widow as she
sat looking into the fire, and touched her
on the shoulder.
"hIarfa Mikhailovna," he said, and
his voice shook a little. "Marfa, do
you wish to see your son .9"
"My son !" she cried, springing to
her feet. "Is he here .9" and she looked
eagerly around the room.
"He is not here," answered Kalof ;
"but you can see him, with me,"

"Ivan, Ivan," she cried; "save nay "Ivan, Ivan, you are very good to
boy-save August's boy for me--he is me," cried the widow, and in her oy at
my only boy, my all in this world ;" and the idea of seeing her son, she embraced
she clung to his knees. He raised her the tall man.
to her feet, and held both her wrists He shook her off roughly ; then added,
tightly, as he looked into her eyes. more gently, "Well, will you come .9"

76 FATHER ANDREI.

It was summer, and through the olden
windows of the prison came the sound
of many feet shuffling in the yard out-
side. The two great stoves in the hall
were cold and dusty, and everything
looked so bare and gloomy that a sight
of the prisoners would have been a re-
lief. Presently in his green student's
uniform, with heavy shackles on his
wrists and ankles, August Augustovich
came slowly toward his mother. With
a little cry, she ran toward him and led
him tenderly to the bench by the cold
stove.
"Sit here," she said, and Colonel Kalof
rose slowly from the bench and walked
away. Only two soldiers stood near at
hand, watching, vith looks of evident
pity, the leave-taking between mother
and son.
Presently, as the chief of police stood
at a little distance, with his back to the
unhappy iarfa, the sound of the shuf-
fling feet came nearer and nearer, and
then the prisoners began to file in from
the yard. At the head of the long line
of prisoners marched an old man, bent
with age. tIis scanty hair was white, his
beard was white, and his faded blue eyes
looked vacantly at Colonel Kalof out of a
face almost as white as his hair. The
old man walked slowly to the end of the
room, and then suddenly turning about,
raised his hands as though in benedic-
tion. The other prisoners, however, had
not waited for him, but had broken line
almost at once. The appearance and
action of the old man attracted Kalof's
attention.
"Who is that old prisoner ? "he asked
one of the prisoners.
"That, little father," answered the
man, with a low bow, "is old Father
Andreimat least, so we call him. We
do not know his real name, but they say
he was a p4est once. We do not know;
only, he can read and write, and I have
heard him say his prayers just like the
pope when he comes here."
"What is the old man here for?"
asked Kalof, a sudden suspicion cross-
ing his mind.
"We do not know, but we hear that
he killed a man years ago," answered the
prisoner.
"How many years?" asked Kalof,
hastily, with a shudder.

"Who knows ? Longer than any of
us. Peter has been here eight years,
and the old man was here when he
came. Shall I call Peter, little father?
Peter !" called the man, without waiting
for an answer. But KMof shook his
head and turned away hastily. His
suspicion was correct ; the old prisoner
was the priest, suffering the punishment
for his crimemand such a punishment !
Kalof shuddered.
Unsteadily, feeling dizzy and ill the
chief of police walked up the room
toward Iarfa tImnmel and her son.
His legs bent beneath lrim, he staggered
like a drunken man, and had not one of
the soldiers guarding young August
suddenly seized him, he would have
fallen against the stove.
"I shall be all right in a moment," he
said, unsteadily. But he sat down on a
bench opposite Marfa and her boy, and
gasped several times. And as he sat
there, limp and dejected, he thought
confusedly of the murder of August
Hummel, and of the priest, and of Mar-
fa, and then he wondered what the buzz-
ing in his head was. It was very loud,
and grew louder and louder, and just
as it seemed that it couldn't grow any
louder, it stopped entirely. It stopped
so suddenly that Kalof looked up.
He was lying on the floor by the great
stove. By his side knelt the governor
of the prison, and several officers and
soldiers stood near him. Back of them
were some of the prisoners. Directly in
front of him, looking at him with
winking stare from under the arms of
some of the officers, was the old man
with the white hair and beard. A little
to one side Kalof could see ]Iarfa and
her boy still together.
"Are you better ?" asked the governor
of the prison. Xalof began to say that
he was, when his eye met that of the old
prisoner, over whose face such a gleam
of recogniibn passed that the chief of
police shuddered and closed his eyes
agaxn.
"I am not well," he said. Then he
struggled to his feet, and stumbled over
to where Mafia was sitting.
"Marfa," he said, hoarsely. A sound
like a gasp caught his ear, and he turned
suddenly ; but only the governor of the
prison and the officers stood near him.

FATHER ANDREI. 377

Marfa Hummel looked up hurriedly.
Then she threw her arms around her
son's neck, and burst into tears. Au-mst
Augustovich struggled to his feet, still
embracing his mother.
"You would separate mother and
son !" cried a voice, at which both
heartbroken Iarfa and agonized Kalof
staled. "Ivan Ivanovitch, have you
not done enough,9" and the old man
with the white beard pushed his way
through the soldiers until he stood in
front of the chief of police.
"Iafa, Marfa Mikhailo-na, do you
not know me .9" he cried. "I am Father
Andrei likolavitch, and this man "--
and he turned toward Kalof, and then
crammed his fingers into his mouth, as
a child does to prevent himself from
telling something.
"Stand back," said the governor,
grasping him by the shoulders roughly.
Kalof raised his hand.
"Do not hm't him," he said.
"Hurt me ! "c-ied the old man, break-
ing from the governor. "Do you say
' hurt me .9' You, Ivan Ivanovitch .9
Ma'fa, trust him not, trust him not !"
As the old man spoke, Kalof tul:ned
ashy white, and looked around as though
in molal fear. Thrice he passed his
hand across his brow, as though uncer-
tain what to do or say. At last he spoke.
"It is quite true," he said in a loud,
monotonous voice, "Father Andrei lik-
olavitch had nothing to do with it. I
killed August Hummel with the priest's
pistol ; I put it behind the high altar in
the church, and then I confessed every-
thing to the priestmha! ha!" and he
laughed a hollow laugh that made his
listeners shudder and look one at an-
other in horror. But lIarfa Mikhaflovna,
August Hummel's widow, took her hand
from Colonel Kalof's arm, and looked
at him steadily, and at him alone.
"Vhere is the priest ?" she asked.
"I am here," answered the old pris-
oner. Marfa looked at him.
"Is it true .9" she asked. "Did he
kill my husband, and are you being pun-
ished for his deed ? Speak ! is it true .9"
The priest looked at her a moment
before he answered.

"Is it te .9" he repeated. Then, with
a shrug of his shoulders, "I am being
punished, yes. But for his deed,9I
may not say, I may not say." Then he
looked at Kalof. "Speak you!" he
cried. "Say, is it true, is it true .9"
And the old man, overcome with re-
membrance of his wrongs, sprang at the
chief of police, seizing him by the throat
and shaking him furiously, crying out
the while, "Is it true, is it h-ue .9"
"O God !" c-ied Kalof. "He is kill-
ing me ! Help !"
The govemor drew his revolver and
fired, once, twice, at the priest. There
was an instant's hush; the two strug-
gling, swaying figures were still a second,
and then both fell heavily to the floor.
Kalof was underneath.
There was a rush from all parts of
the roomofficers, soldiers, prisoners--
but for an instant nothing could be seen
through the smoke, biafra felt herself
embraced by someone.
"Hush," whispered her son's voice.
"Good-by ;" then she felt a kiss on
her lips, and the arms which held her
were withdrawn. When the smoke
cleared away she could not see her son
in the crowd. She felt very happy for an
instant ; then the governor touched her,
and pointed to the floor near the stove.
On his back, his hands dra:n up, lay
Colonel Ivan Kalof, unwounded, but
quite dead, a few drops of bright red
frothy blood on his lips. By his side
lay the old priest, desperately wounded,
but alive. He looked at her with a
smile. "I may not say, indeed, I may
not say," he said, ealestly. Then he
saw Kalof's body, and bent over it.
"Ivan Ivanovitch, Ivan Ivanovitch, I
am sorry this has happened. You were
a brave man, they say--you should have
died at Plevna. We---" then his
head sank on his breast. When he
raised it again, though he looked at
Marfa Hummel, he did not seem to see
her, and repeated a few Words softly to
himself. And the governor of the prison,
who bent over him, said afterward that
the words were, "During the term of
my natural life--the term of my natural
life."

"CORDON I"

By T. R. Sullivan.

"IT is a bargain, monsieurma bar-
gain! The rent is a mere nothing;
louisqu'il y a du comfort ici," said the
old con.cierge, as he threw open one of
the shutters, and flooded the room with
dusty sunshine.
The apartment was au premier, at the
back of a small court numbered 59 of
the rue Neuve St. Augstin. No. 59m
I give it fearlessly, since even its founda-
tion-stones have long been tIaussman-
nized away.
The court was flooded with sunshine
that was not dusty, and a great plane-
tree grew in one corner, close against
an ivy-covered wall. Theyellowplacard,
 LOUER, hanging at the door, had
been the bait luring me into this mouse-
trap, as it certainly proved to be.
But all that comes later on. lor the
present, it is enough to say that the
room was comfortably furnished after
the old Yenetian manner, and hung with
Cordova leather, old too, and real ; be-
yond, there was a salon, with a floor so
highly polished that I narrowly escaped
a sprained ankle in crossing it; and a
chamber, commonplace enough, but for
the chintz hangings with which its walls
and ceiling were draped oppressively, in
wide plaits that met overhead in a cen-
tral rosette, somehow suggesting the
interior decoration of a coffin. In spite
of this untimely thought, and of the
superfluous anlichambre and ealle-d-
manger, useless incumbrances in bach-
elor quarters, I took the apartment for
a month, to the evident delight of old
Casimir, whose feather-duster twitched
expressively in his palsied hand.
The tremulous eagerness of this good
gentleman made me half suspect that he
had not the remotest right to let the
rooms at all. But he told a well-varn-
ished tale of an old proprietor who
hated women, and who passed his life
in search of a country so civilized as to
do without them. lrom this journey
of desperation he retraced now and then
to restore his tired senses in the coffined
chamber, and to gather courage for a

new departure. It was midsummer; I
might keep the rooms until the autumn ;
not an hour longer, since the patron
would then be likely to pounce down
upon his possessions, unannounced, at
any moment. Just now, he was believed
to be in Lapland.
When I moved in, that very afternoon,
a guilty feeling of intrusion overcame
me. The place was so luxurious, so
well ordered, so unlike the four walls of
lodging for which one pays. In the lib-
rary of the leather hangings the patron's
books were upon the shelves ; his port-
folio, his paper-knife upon the table;
the ink in the miniature helmet of blue
steel was dry, it is true; but there lay
the well-worn quill beside it. The room
reveals the man, says Diderot ; granting
this, the patron was a man of taste and
well informed. I took down some of
the books; here were superb bindings,
old and rare editions. Upon one fly-
leaf his name was writtenmMarius
3Iorizot--the hand clear and fine, like
a woman's. Casimir had said that he
was old. Bibliophile and traveller, with
the means to follow his fantastic bent,
this patron would certainly be an agree-
able man to meet on his own ground;
that is, if one came properly introduced.
All here was as if he had left it yester-
day. What if the door were to open
and admit him at the next moment ?
Just then the door did open, but only
Casimir came in, bringing firewood ; for
the sun had ah-eady left the little com
in shadow, and there was an unseason-
able chill in the waning summer day.
The old man wore a black skull-cap over
his thin, gray hair, and a green baize
apron that swathed him nearly to the
ankles. He chattered about the fire as
he built and lighted it; all the time
holding under his arm the eternal feath-
er-duster, which seemed to be his badge
of office. I had lately seen, at the Co-
mSdie Frangaise, Regnier's masterpiece,
the sly old servant in La ]oie fair 19cur.
The picture of amiable senility. Here
was the thing itself.

"" CORDON ! "" 379

"The patron has his treasures," I said, sents himself. He has been nearly two
stroking tenderly the crushed levant years away."
that enshrined a numbered reprint of I changed the subject, though I doubt-
Andr Chnier. ed him instinctively.
 Casimir looked at the shelves with a "What is Monsieur Morizot like ?" I
certain respect, and then shrugged his asked.
shoulders. "A lamb, monsieur; amiable, as one
"Yes, but not there," he answered, cannot be more so. lIonsieur, then, has
Thinking that he referred to the glit- not remarked his portrait ?"
tering objects of the salon, I treated my- The pictures were chiefly modern, and

self to a complacent smile, as I quietly
put up the book.
"lot there," he repeated, shuffling
toward me in his loose slippers, and let-
ting his voice die away into the impor-
tant whisper that is the emphasis of a
French man-of-all-work. "Ah, if mon-
sieur knew !"
"Knew what ?" I asked. "Have we
a gold mine at our feet ?"
He chucked and nodded. "Better
than that, monsieur. See!"
Then he pushed aside one of the
hangings, and showed me that it covered
a door of burnished steel.
"A safe ?"
"Yes, monsieur, in the wall."
"And of such size !" I continued, for
the doorway, though narrow, was higher
than my head. "Vhat can he keep
there ?"
"Jewels, monsieur," said Casimir, en-
joying my supise. "Jewels from the
ends of the earth, laid away in little
drawers, lined with velvet as soft as the
down of a bird. It is a passion with
him ; the collection is a property in it-
self."
I laid my hand gently upon the shin-
ing metal ; it might have been the door
of a tomb. I drew back, shivering. The
thought of these untold riches, hardly
out of reach, disturbed me ; I felt in a
measure responsible for their safety.
"The door is locked, of course," said I.
"Oh, yes, monsieur ; only the patron
has the key." He brushed the door
lightly with his feather-tips, as though
he were dealing with some fragile work
of art, and then dropped the curtain
over it.
"Casimir! You have your master's
leave to let those rooms ; you are sure ?"
"Oh, certainly, monsieur ; monsieur
need give himself no uneasiness, it is
permitted at this season. In the sum-
mer-time, Monsieur Mozot always ab-

were none too well lighted ; I had barely
glanced at them. Casimir led me to
this one, which hung in a dark corner,
so high that the flame of a candle held
up at arm's length but just revealed it.
The face was long, thin, sharp-featured
and sallow, with the prevailing moustache
and imperial of the time. But the eyes
were fine and friendly. On the whole, I
felt happier about Monsieur Moizot.
He had the gentle, high-bred look of
that Van Dyck father in the long gallery
of the Louvre.
"And yet he hates women. Was he
never married ?"
"lever, monsieur;in youth he had
a disappointment, they say, and now it
would be somewhat late for him to think
again of that. At his age one no longer
makes such plans."
His hand shook more than ever, and
the melted wax of the candle ran over,
one drop falling upon the floor. "He
is good, the patron," he murmured, so
tenderly that the drop might have been
a tear from his own failing eyes.
When the old retainer had left me I
dismissed all scrulles , and unpacked
my trunk in the little chamber, singing
to myself in the happiest of moods. I
was in luck, eidently. Even should
lIonsieur lIorizot ttun up, I felt sure
that he would accept my explanation,
supposing one to be necessary. But he
would not come. I doubted Casimir no
longer.
I found in the libra T an arm-chair
covered with stamped leather like that of
the walls ; the arms supported by hard
featured goddesses- wood-nymphs,
perhaps--redundant in the matter of
bust, tape4ng off like terminal figures
into the chair-legs below. Wheeling
this up to the table, I sat do for a
while to do nothing and devour my
brain, as the inhuman proverb puts it.
In the gathering twilight the room was

380 "" CORDON! "'

almost dark, but I saw it all, or nea ly
all, over the mantel in a narrow, oblong
mirror, there reflected by Casimir's
cheerful blaze. The first fire of the sea-
son invites contemplation, and my
thoughts wandered as fitfully as the
mellow light that played about the tar-
nished gilding of the leather. When I
am alone I am apt to grow inconse-
quent, to a degree that would distress
one who makes a labor of thinking.
Hunger is a sharp reminder, and be-
fore long I realized that I was hungry.
So I hastily pulled myself together, and
shutting the door upon my golden walls,
strolled up the Boulevard to the Passage
des Princes. I dined well at Peter's,
opposite the window of innumerable
meerschaums ; and, after dinner, went
out by the side gate of the Passage in-
to the rue Favart. The doors of the
OpSra Comique stood invitingly open,
and I was tempted to cross the street
and read the bill of the play: "L'Om-
bre," of Flotow; Gounod's "Gallia."
In the first, Madame Priola. Lovely
Madame Priola, long since forgotten!
Do you live on, to look into your glass
and sigh for those dear old days when
all Paris adored you,9 Or have you
made, in truth, your final exit into Pre-
la-Chaise or Montparnasse, to sleep out
there a longer night than any other you
have known .9 To one cruelty of life all
a man's experience can never reconcile
him: that a pretty woman may not hold
her own forever.
I went in, stayed the performance out,
and left the theatre somewhat dashed
in spirits ; the echo of Gounod's solemn
music seemed to follow me like a ghostly
footfall under the flaring lights, by the
painted kiosk-windows. The sky was
overcast; a drop or two of rain fell.
The great doors of No. 59 were closed
and locked, of course; at that hour I
could have expected nothing else. But
Casimir slept soundly ; it was long be-
fore I could make him hear, though I
pulled the bell till the whole place re-
sounded. The rain came on in earnest,
and I was at the despairing point, when
the door gave a welcome click and
swung back an inch or two. I stumbled
in through the darkness, passed the
1.odge where I could hear Casimir swear-
lng to himself drowsily, without a

thought of challenging me ; and guided
myself by the hand-rail of the staircase
straight to my own door. I struck a
match, found the key, and went in.
The outer rooms were black and un-
friendly ; through them I saw a thread
of light from the library door to which
I groped my way. The light came from
a stately odiratetr lamp that stood up-
on the table, and I blessed Casimir for
his forethought. But for the lamp, the
room, at the first glance, seemed to be as
I left it. The carved chair was drawn
up before the fire, which still bmed
brightly. That I found a fire and not a
heap of ashes, might have struck me as
a curious circumstance, but I set this
down to Casimir's forethought, too ; all
the more readily that my clothes were
xvet and that I needed it to dry them, as
I proceeded to do.
Standing thus before the chimney with
the crackling fagots at my heels, I ob-
served a book upon the table. It lay
close to the arm of the great chairso
close, in fact, that one sitting there
could hardly fail to see it even at twi-
light. Yet it had escaped my notice
until now. Vhat book .9 The moment
my unspoken question was answered, I
felt absolutely sure that it had never
before been in my hands. Its vellum
covers were worn and worm-eaten; its
musty leaves were yellow with age. I
read the title, "'The Trial of Frangois
Ravaillac for the Murder of King
Henry IV. 1610." I could hardly have
forgotten that book had I taken it
down.
Immediately, a strange terror seized
me; vague, unreasoning it was, like a
child's in the dark. I dropped the book,
caught up a candle and peered into the
chamber ; then searched the other
rooms throughout. I saw no one, heard
no sound. I was alone. Yet this knowl-
edge failed to reassure me. I spoke,
and was startled at my own voice. I
tried to sing, but the walls gave back a
mocking echo that was unendurable.
And I returned to the library with the
same childish dread of nothing still op-
pressing me, like the remembrance of a
nightmare.
I can recall distinctly my struggle to
conquer this feeling, and I know that I
must have conquered it; for I sat

"" CORDON ! "" 381

down in the arm-chair, and began to
read the trial of Ravaillac :
"The prisoner is sworn; and asked
his name, age, rank, and place of abode.
"He said that his name was Frangois
Ravaillac, born and dwelling at Angou-
16me, between thirty-one and thirty-two
years of age."
I can see those lines now, in all their
quaintness of type, as one makes a sun-
picture by a sudden closing of the eyes.
I remember that I read on and on, till I
came to a page so stained as to be in-
distinct, part of which had been torn
away. Then I must have fallen into a
dozema lnere cat-nap of a moment only.
I woke with a start, unable, at first, to
recognize the surroundings.
The lamp had lan down, after the
provoking manner of French od$ra-
teurs. I knew that it only needed wind-
ing, and, leaning over the table, I gave
the key a turn or two, but I was-too
late; the lamp went out in a long,
smoky trail. Yet the room was not
quite dark. The fire burned on, flicler-
ing at my feet, and making fantastic
shadows in the glass.
In the glass. I looked at it, and grew
numb with horror. For I saw there
the reflection of a man's face, so hideous
in its expression that, even in a crowd,
one would have turned from it with
loathing. I have never been able to
describe it; in that uncertain light it
had no color, I could barely trace its
outline. But I should know that face,
if I saw it at the top of the great
pyramid, or in the plains of Arizona
anywhere, indeed, upon the instant ; and
I should shudder at the sight, as I do
now at the thought, like a frightened
animal.
For a few seconds I was helpless.
Iy muscles refused to act ; I could not
even turn my head to look behind me.
Thus, with all senses gone but one, I saw
the face drawing nearer to my chair and
looking down at it. The lines grew
more distinct ; a strange mark came out
upon the cheek, as if the skin there had
contracted. Then, with an effort that
seemed like a trial of strength with
some force unseen, I caught the arm of
the chair, and springing to my feet,
wheeled about upon the dark, silent
spaces of the room, conscious only of a

sudden draught of cold air that chilled
me to the bone.
Darkness, there was nothing else.
Yet I turned again to the glass, finding
only my own figure, scarcely recogniz-
able. Then, for the first time, I was
aware that my left hand, cold and damp
like a dead man's, still clasped the old
book, marking my place between its
leaves. I shivered, and would have laid
it down ; but, instead of that, I flung it
from me into the fire with a shriek that
set the room ringing. For the stain
upon its torn page had deepened and
freshened, and was oozing out upon
my fingers; they were red with it.
Kneeling at the hearth, I wiped away
the drops with my handkerchief, and
burned that, too.
Still on the hearth I crouched, and
listened. If there were only something
human to face and challenge! Not a
sound. But again the current of cold
air, as if from an open door or window.
That, at least, was real. I found my
candle, lighted it at the fire, and searched
the room once more. To my great sur-
prise, I discovered in the darkest corner
a small door that I had never seen--
one of those blind doors so common in
French apartments, cunningly contrived
to fit a panel of the wall. It stood ajar,
moreover, as though forced open by
some mischievous gust of the night
wind, that had lost its way in the house
and then made a frantic effort to get
out again, lejoiced to account so easily
for one disturbing element at least, I
pushed the door aside, and saw merely
a narrow, flagged corridor, leading to a
servants' stairway communicating with
the floor belowmthe ground floormfor
the house had no entresol. By the dim
light I held, I could distinguish three
steps leading down into awful black-
ness, like a murderous oubliette of
the middle ages. I strained my eyes
and listened. There was nothing more
to be seen, but my ears caught a faint
sound, startling at that hour, though
by day I hould have laughed at it
--simply the noise of running water,
gently falling, as if from a pipe, upon
the pavement below. I went on cau-
tiously to the stair-raft, leaned over it
and looked down. No one; but under
the stairs, in the dark, the water went

382 "" CORDON ! "'

splashing on intermittently, as thoalgh court, where, however, I found nothing
it fell first upon invisible handsmwash- more terrible than Casimir, watering his
ing them, perhaps. The thought sug- flowers and talking to a gray cat, that
gested itself instantly, rubbed itself affectionately against his

"Who is there.9" I shouted, lower-
ing the light toward the dark corner,
but in vain.
The water stopped. There was no
other answer.
"Who is there.9"I repeated, in
voice that was not mine.
I heard a shuffling step;mad there
came a blast of the night air, strong
enough to put out the light, if I had not
drawn back, shielding the flame with my
hand. A door below me quietly closed,
and all was still again.
I rushed down the stairs, and found
the door. It was securely bolted; the
bolts were rusted; I tried one, and
could not stir it.
Then, out in the court, a harsh cry
rang back along the walls : "Cordon I"
the familiar call to the sleeping con-
cierge. "Cordon I" the same rough voice
repeated. The heavy street-door fell
into place with a dull, jarlSng sound.
The presence, whatever it was, had es-
caped scot-free into the world of
Paris.
Drip, drip, behind me I heard the
water, falling now, drop by drop, upon
the stones. There was nothing else to
show that I had not been dreaming.
gave one searching look at the dismal
little corner, and then fled from it and
from the house forever. In less time
than it takes to tell it, I had rushed
through the rooms overhead, and down
again by the main staircase;out into
the court, and on through the falling
rain, shouting to Casimir as I went:
"Cordon--cordonmcordon I" I woke
echoes there that drove me half mad;
I beat upon the door. At last the cord
was drawn, mad I found myself in the
street, where I recovered my senses suf-
ficiently to put on my hat and coat,
snatched up in my flight, mechanically,
from the ruble in the antichambre.
I went back to my hotel, and passed
a night to which that uneasy one of
Clarence was as nothing. In the morn-
ing, very early, I hurried out again,
laughing at my folly. The day was fine
and bright, as only Paris can be;and
yet I trembled upon turning into the

shins. The old man started when he
saw me, and looked from me to the win-
dew, behind which he supposed I had
been sleeping.
"Monsieur rises early," said he.
"Yes. I am called away. You will
be kind enough to pack my trunk and
send it after me."
"Monsieur gives up the rooms .9"
"Unavoidably. It does not matter;
they are paid for, all the same."
Surprise made him speechless for a
moment. The cat came slowly towm-d
me, purring. I stooped and stroked it
between the ears.
"He is called Chambord, monsieur ; he
lives upon raw meat, but he is very kind
and gentle. I regret that monsieur
goes away."
"Thank you. Casimir, what strange
man was in the house last night .9"
"Monsieur, I do not understand.
There was no one."
"You let no one out, then .9"
"Oh, that, of course. The house has
many apartments, many lodgers. I do
not count them in my sleep."
"lqevertheless," I said, with some
warmth, "there was a stranger in my
rooms last night. I saw him."
"Monsieur was dreaming. It is im-
possible."
"But I can describe him to you."
And I tried to do so, making only a
stammering failure of it.
Casimir shrugged his shoulders.
Then I remembered the curious maxk
upon the man's cheek, and put in that
evidence, triumphantly.
The dull eyes opened a little wider ;
but he smiled, and shook his head.
"Sapristil Now I know that mon-
sieur was surely dreaming. That is the
Brazilian, Cornelio, the good patron's
valet de chambre."
"Well, then, I tell you, he has come
back."
"But, monsieur-----"
"I swear it to you."
"Impossible. Monsieur Morizot keeps
him always at his side. They are both
in Lupland."
I argued with him to no purpose. He

"" CORDON! " 383

grew angry, and, in his excitement,
tipped over his watering-pot upon
Chambord, who turned taft and disap-
peared. I could convince him of noth-
ing but my own imbecility: and so I
left him, muttering strange oaths among
his flowers.

One rarely fails to recall a startling
bit of his own experience, the first time
its date comes round again. So it hap-
pened that this adventure was upper-
most in my mind one midsummer night
of the following year, on board the good
steamer "Baron Osy," bound from Lon-
don to Antwerp. We had left the
White Tower just at noon, and had
dropped leisurely down the overbur-
dened Thames, threading our cautious
way through larger and smaller ocean
craft, in and out among tow-boats and
barges, and awkward little luggers with
red sails and spankers; past the big
guns of WooLvich, and Greenwich Hos-
pital with its white-haired veterans,
whose reckoning leaves off where ours
begins ; by Tilbury Fort and Gravesend,
where the great river, broadened to an
estuary, stretches out its arms to greet
the Medway, and the two go wandering
off here and there in a tangle of green
hills that know no winter, but are always
green. So we had come out into yel-
lower and wilder water; the sun had
set in a bank of cool, gTay clouds; the
white cliffs and glimmering lights of
Margate were already low on the hori-
zon ; and the long twilight crept down
upon us slowly, imperceptibly.
I had seen but few passengers, all of
the heaviest and most uninteresting
modern Flemish pattela. But a chance
remark of one of the stewards led me to
think that there were others of conse-
quence, holding themselves aloof in their
cabins. One by one, those who were
about me on the after-deck had gone be-
low as the night breeze strengthened. I
knew that the stars were coming out, that
under the pale-green streak of western
sky the English coast was fast receding.
But my thoughts were hundreds of miles
away. With them I was really strolling
through the Passage des Princes and
back along the Boulevard, humming, as
I walked, the doctor's air in "L'Om-
bre :"

"lIidi--minuit--
Le jour--la nuit I
Midi, c'est la vie,
lIinuit la mort-oui ! "
And so on, through all the details of
that troubled night. I lived again in
lIonsieur Iorizot's apartment; I saw
his chair at the fire, his book upon the
table;nay, even the old letter-press
danced before my eyes:
"The prisoner is sworn; and asked
his name, age, rank, and place of abode.
"He said that his name was Franpois
Ravaillac, born and dwelling at Lngou-
14me--"
The sound of my voice brought me
back to the deck of the "Baron Osy."
I had spoken the words aloud. I turned,
and saw that they must have been
overheard by a passenger who stood at
the rail, not ten feet away. He wore a
close-fitting, pointed cap and a long
dark coat, buttoned tightly under his
chin, and these garments had a sugges-
tive lchness in them. A splendid jewel,
too, shone upon his hand. But his eyes
were fixed on me with a look in which
fear and wonder mingled strangely ; his
face seemed white as death ; and it was
the face of the valet, Cornelio.
I realized an unknown power in the
words which I had spoken; and with-
out moving from my place, I finished
the broken sentence from the trial of
lavaillac, then repeated it word for
word from the beginning. With that,
the mark upon his cheek quivered con-
vulsively ; he gave a wild cry, like some
brute brought to bay, and with one ap-
pealing look, as if toward imaginary
pursuers closing in upon him, he flung
himself over the raft into the sea.
I rushed to the ship's side, as one of
the hands, who had seen him jump, tore
a life-preserver from the guards, and
threw it after him. We caught sight of
an ara tossed up in the foaming wake
far behind. A wave swept over it. The
engines were stopped, and a boat was
lowered. After a long time it came
back, bringing only the wet corks. The
old gray sexton of the sea works quickly
and well.
We found his name registered upon
the list--lamon Quizhs, rentier, of lio.
I-Ie had no companion, and his trunks
were stored somewhere on the quay a

38 "" CORDON !"

Antwerp. When I left the city the still
remained there unclaimed.

Three years later, in one of the conti-
nental reading-rooms, I took up the
Figaro, to divert myself with its fairs
divers and chos de Paris. Between the
last mot of VIadame X., and the an-
nouncement of a f6te at Asnibres, I
found a line of reference to a matter
familiar enough, as it seemed, to all but
casual readers, viz., the division among
the heirs-at-law of a handsome property
mthat of one Monsieur Morizot. The
name, and the mysterious importance
given it, roused my curiosity, and I
wrote at once to a Parisian crony for
fuller information. This was his an-
swer :
"Have you "retired from the world,
that you cease to read the news of it?
We are worn out with details of the
life and death of Monsiem" Morizot.
Pardon me, then, if I recite them to
you very briefly. The worthy man
lived, en gargon, in one of those houses
of the rue Neuve St. Augustin already
condemned to make way for the new
avenue which 41l be a marvel. Like
you, he was a traveller, and he often
remained for years an absentee, stay-
ing away, at last, longer than the code
allows. He became to all intents and
purposes a dead man, and his heirs
demanded to share his estate, and to
break up his collection of jewels, known
to be of great value. Man proposes!
The safe was opened, but it had been
rifled, men ami. They found there, in-
stead, the owner's body, stabbed through
and through. The good soul had made
a hard fight of it. His hand still
clutched a bit of watch-chain, identified
as the property of a certain Brazilian
ape of a servant who never left him.
Our haute police is enormously cunning.
Bit by bit, the case has been worked
up, and this is what happened. The
two arrived late one night at the North-

ern Railway station, where, to save time,
at the servant's suggestion, their trunks
were left to be claimed in the morning.
Thus they installed themselves at home
without stir, and unannounced. Then
the man got the better of his master,
and became in his turn an absentee.
No one ever dreamed of the arrival or
the departure, yet now it is all clear as
though we saw it in a glass--the very
date proved by the fragment of a jour-
nal found in the pocket of what was
once Monsiem- Morizot. Heed the warn-
ing, and travel no more, but marry, and
let madame watch over you. Get thee
a wife, men amour ! JEt voild tout !"
I answered my foreig correspondent
in good American fashion, by asking a
question. pon what date, I prayed
him, was the crime committed ? His
reply brought me a printed slip, fixing
upon the very night of my adventure,
but in the year preceding it. And on
this point all known records of the affair
obstinately agree.
That Sefior Ramon Quizs and the
valet, Cornelio, were one and the same,
I have no manner of doubt; but that
he ever could have revisited the scene
of his double crime is inconceivable.
Whose face, then, appeared to me in
the mirror ? Vhose hands were washed
in the running water ? Vho, besides
myself, clamored there in the dark for
release from his own haunting fears?
Did I, by some strange coincidence,
dream these things, one after another,
in quick succession ? Or did the mur-
derer leave behind him in his flight a
ghostly presence, to play his hideous part
out, time and time again ; while the faith-
fttl glass of Venice reflected line for line,
moment for moment ? I cannot answer.
But now, when I walk in the Avenue de
l'Opra, I am grateful even for that dull-
est of improvement's dull marches,
sweeping, as it does, all memory but
mine of my grim lodging from the face
of the earth.

ENGRAVED Y G. KRUELL AFTER THE CRAYON PORTRAIT IY SAIUEL LAURENCE.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

392 UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF THACKERAY.

a place as this ought to belong to the
old religion. How somebody of my
acquaintance would like to walk into
a beautiful calm confessional and go
and kiss the rood or the pavement of
a'Becket's shrine. Fancy the church
quite full; the altar lined with ponti-
fical gentlemen bobbing up and down ;
the dear little boys in white and red
flinging about the incense pots; the
music roaring out from the organs ; all
the monks and clergy in their stalls, and
the archbishop on his throne---O! how
fine ! And then think of the @, of our
Lord speaking quite simply to simple
Syrian people, a child or two maybe at
his knees, as he taught them that love
was the truth. Ah ! as one thinks of it,
how grand that figure looks, and how
small all the rest; but I dare say I am
getting out of my depth.
I came on hither [to Brussels] yester-
day, having passed the day previous at
Dover, where it rained incessantly, and
where I only had the courage to write
the first sentence of this letter, being

utterly cast down and more under the
influence of blue devils than I ever re-
member before; but a fine bright sky
at five o'clock in the morning, and a
jolly brisk breeze, and the ship cutting
through the water at fifteen miles an
hour, restored cheerfulness to this
wearied spirit, and enabled it to par-
take freely of beefsteak and pommes-de-
terre at Ostend ; after an hour of which
amusement, it was time to take the train
and come on to Brussels. The country
is delightfully well cultivated ; all along
the line you pass by the most cheerful
landscapes with old cities, gardens, corn-
fields and rustic labour.
At the table d'hdte I sat next a French
Gentleman and his lady. She first sent
away the bread; she then said "mais,
mon ami, ce potage est abominable ;" then
she took a piece of pudding on her fork,
not to eat, but to smell, after which she
sent it away. Experience told me it
was a little grisette giving herself airs,
so I complimented the waiter on the
bread, recommended the soup to a man,

UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF THACKERAY. 395

or to some deserving person, when, 0
gioja efelicitd (I don't know whether that
is the way to spell gioja, but rather pique
myself on the g) when O! bonheur su-
prgme, the waiter enters my door at 10
o'clock this moz=ning, just as I had fin-
ished writing page seven of PEbTDEbT-
IS, and brings me the Times newspa-
per and a beautiful thick 2/4 letter, in
a fine large hand. I eagerly seized--
the newspaper, (ha ha! I had somebody

Drawing by Thackeray in water colour and pencil (Mrs. Brookfield).

O'Brien, and indeed by Popery altogeth-
er ! &c. &c.
One day is passed away here very like
its defunct predecessor. I have not lost
any more money at the odious gambling
table, but go and watch the players
there with a great deal of interest.
There are la]ies playingyoung and
pretty ones too. One is very like a lady
I used to know, a curate's wife in a street
off Golden Square, whatdyoucallit street,
where the pianoforte maker
lives ; and I daresay this person
is puzzled why I always go and
stare at her so. She has her
whole soul in the pastime, puts
out her five-franc pieces in the
most timid way, and watches
them disappear under the croup-
ier's rake with eyes so uncom-
monly sad and tender, that I feel
inclined to go up to her and say
"]Iadam, you are exceedingly
like a lady, a curate's wife whom
I once knew, in England, and as
I take an interest in you, I wish
you would get out of this place
as quick as you can, and take
your beantiful eyes off the black
and red." But I suppose it
would be thought rude if I were
to make any such statement and
Ah! what do I remember?
There's no use in sending off
this letter to-day, this is Fz-iday,
and it cannot be delivered on
Sunday in a Protestant metrop-
olis. There was no use in hurry-
ing home from Lady ,
(Never mind, it is only an Irish
baronet's wife, who tries to dis-
guise her Limerick brogue, but
the fact is she has an exceedingly
pretty daughter), I say there was
no use in hurrying home so as
to get this off by the post.
Yesterday I didn't know a soul

in this place, but got in the course
there) and was quicldy absorbed in its of the day a neat note from a lady who
contents. The news from Ireland is of had the delight of an introduction to me
great interest and importance, and we at D-v-nsh-re House, and who proposed
may indeed return thanks that the de- tea in the most flattering manner. Now,
plorable revolution and rebellion, which I know a French duke and duchess, and
everybody anticipated in that country, at least six of the most genteel persons
has been averted in so singular, I may in Spa, and some of us are going out
say unprecedented a manner. How pit- riding in a few minutes, the rain l.aving
iful is the figure cut by Mr. Smith cleared off, the sky being b'ight, and

UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF THACKERA Y. 399

genny Lind, charming bally, box 72.-- and saw the publishers, who begged and
I am going to dine at home with the implored me so, not to go out pleasur-
children and shall go to the opera, and ing, &c., that I am going to Brighton
will leave your name down below. Do instead of Bury. I looked in the map,
come and we will sit, we 2, and see the I was thinking of coming to Weston-
piece like 2 lords, and we can do the Super-Mare, monly it seemed such a
other part afterwards. I present my re- hint.
spectful compliments to Mrs. Brookfield [Club]
and am yours,
W. hi. T. October 1848.
[To Sir. Brookfield]
If you can come to dinner, there's a MY DEAR REVERENCE:
curry. I take up the pen to congratulate you
on the lovely weather, which must, with
Oct. 4th 1848 the company of those to whom you are
Dr MRS. BROOKFrD : attached, render your stay at Clevedon
If you would write me a line to say so delightful. It snowed here this morn-
that you made a good journey and were ing, since which there has been a fog
pretty well, to Sir Thomas Cullam's, succeeded by a drizzly rain. I have

Note from Thackeray (actual size)

Hardwick, Bury St. Edmunds, you would
confer indeed a favour on yours respect-
fully. William dined here last night
and was pretty cheerful. As I passed
by lortman Street, after you were gone,
just to take a look up at the windows, the
usual boy started forward to take the
horse. I lughed a sad laugh. I didn't
want nobody to take the horse. It's a
long time since you were away. The cab
is at the door to take me to the raflroa,d.
Mrs. Procter was very kind and Ade-
laide sympathised with me. I have just
opened my desk, there are all the papers
I had at Spa-Pendennis, unread since,
and your letter. Good bye dear Mrs.
Brookfield, always yours,
W. M. T.

L'home propose. Since this was
wrote the author went to the railroad,
found that he arrived a minute too
late, and that there were no trains for
4 3 hours. So I came back into to

passed the day riting and trying to
alter lendennis, which is without any
manner of doubt, awfully stupid; the
very best passages, which pleased the
author only last week, looking hideously
dull by the dull fog of this day. I pray,
I pray, that it may be the weather. Will
you say something for it at church next
Sunday .9
My old parents arrived last night, it
was quite a sight to see the poor old
mother with the children: and Brad-
bury, the printer, coming to dun me for
lendennis this morning. I shmk away
from home, where writing is an utter
impossibility, and have been operating
on it here. The real truth is now, that
there is half an hour before dinner, and
I don't know what to do, unless I write
you a screed, to pass away the time.
There are secret and selfish motives in
the most seemingly generous actions of
men.
T'other day I went to Harley Street

UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF THACKERAY. 401

respects of lIephistopheles, as also to
any other persons with whom I am ac-
quainted in your numerous and agree-
able family circle.

1848

[To Mr. Broolcfield.]

Ya diner chez ton classique ami, rant
renomm pour le Grec. Je ne pourrais
mieux faire que de passer la soiree avec
une famille que j'ai negligee quelque
peu la mienne. Oui, Monsieur, dans
les caresses innocentes de rues enfans
churls, dans lu conversation 4difiante de
Monsieur mort beau-pre, je tacherai de
me consoler de ta seconde infidelitY.
Samedi je ne puis venir : J'ai d'autres
engagemens auxquels je ne veux pas
manquer. Ya. Sois heureux. Je te
pardonne.
Ton mluncholique ami
CHEVALIER DE TITMARSII.

[1st November, 1848.]
DI bias. BaooFz,T,) :
I was at Oxford by the time your din-
ner was over, and found eight or nine
jovial gentlemen in black, feasting in
the common room and drinking port
wine solemnly .... We had a great
sitting of Port wine, and I daresay the
evening was pleasant enough. They
gave me a bed in College,--such a bed,
I could not sleep. Yesterday, (for this is
half past seven o'clock in the morning,
would you believe it ?) a party of us drove
in an Oxford Cart to Blenheim, where
we saw some noble pictures, a portrait
by R.aphael, one of the great Raphaels
of the world,--(-Look, this is college
paper, with beautiful lines already made)
--A series of mao-nificent Rubens, one
of which, representing himself walking
in a garden with Mrs. Rubens and the
baby, did one good to look at and re-
member; and some very questionable
Titians indeed I mean on the score of
authenticity, not of morals, though the

4:02 UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF THACKERAY.

subjects are taken from the loves of
those extraordinary gods and goddesses,
mentioned in Lempribre's Dictionary,--
and we walked in the park, with much
profit ; surve)5ng the gTeat copper-col-
oured trees, and the glum old bridge and
pillar and Rosamond's Well; and the
queer, grand, ugly but mao-nificent house,
a piece of splendid barbarism, yet grand
and imposing somehow, like a chief rad-
dled over with war-paint, and attired
with careful hideousness. Well, I can't
make out the simile on paper, though
it's in my own mind pretty clear. What
you would have liked best was the
chapel dedicated to God and the Duke
of Marlborough. The monument to the
latter, occupies the whole place, almost,
so that the former is quite secondary.
O ! what comes.9 It was the scout who
brought me your letter, and I am very
much obliged to you for it. . .
I was very sorry indeed t hear that
you have been illmI was afraid the jour-
ney would agitate you, hat was what I
was thinking of as I was lying in the Ox-
ford man's bed awake.
After Blenheim I went to VIagdalen
Chapel to a High VIass there. 0 cher-
ubim and seraphim, how you would like
it! The chapel is the most sumptuous
edifice, carved and frittered all over with
the richest stone-work like the lace of a
lady's boudoir. The windows are fitted
with pictures of the saints painted in
a gTey colour,--real Catholic saints, male
and female I mean, so that I wondered
how they got there; and this makes a
sort of rich twilight in the church,

which is lighted up by a multitude of
wax candles in gold sconces, and you
say your prayers in carved stalls wadded
with velvet cushions. They have a full
chorus of boys, some two dozen I should
think, who sing quite ravishingly. It is
a sort of perfection of sensuous gTatifi-
cation; children's voices charm me so,
that they set all my sensibilities into a
quiver ; do they you.9 I am sure they
do. These pretty brats with sweet in-
nocent voices and white robes, sing quite
celestially ;--no, not celestially, for I
don't believe it is devotion at all, but
a high delight out of which one comes,
not impurified I hope, but wih a thank-
ful pleased gentle frame of mind. I
suppose I have a great faculty of enjoy-
ment. At Clevedon I had gratification
in looking at trees, landscapes, effects
of shine and shadow &c., which made
that dear old Inspector who walked
with me, wonder. Well there can be
no harm in this I am sure. What a
shame it is to go on bragging about
what is after all sheer roaring good
health for the most part ; and now I am
going to breakfast. Good bye. I have
been lionising the town ever since, and
am come home quite tired. I have
breakfasted here, lunched at Christ
Church, seen VIerton, and All Souls
with qorman VIacdonald, where there is
a beautiful library and a boar's head in
the kitchen, over which it was good to
see qorman's eyes gloating; and it be-
ing All Saints' day, I am going to chapel
here, where they have also a very good
music I am told.

406 UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF THACKERAY.

exceedingly well. I could only say, "My
dear, you have grown older," that was
the only bit of truth, that passed, and
she didn't like it. Quand vous serez bien
vieille, and I say to you, "my dear you
are grown old" (only I shall not say
"my dear," but something much more
distant and respectful), I wonder whether
you will like it. Now it is time to go to
the Chamber, but it was far pleasanter
to sit and chatter with Madame.
I have been to see a piece of a piece
called the Myst&es de Londres, since the
above, and most tremendous mysteries
they were indeed. It appears that there
lived in London, three or four years ago,
a young grandee of Spain and count of
the Empire the Marquis of Rio Santo,
an Irishman by birth, who in order to
free his native country from the intoler-
able tyranny of England, imagined to
organize an extraordinary conspiracy of
the rogues and thieves of the metropo-
lis, with whom some of the principal
merchants, jewellers and physicians were
concerned, who were to undermine and
destroy somehow the infamous British
power. The merchants were to forge
and utter bank-notes, the jewellers to
sell sham diamonds to the aristocracy,
and so ruin them ; the physicians to mur-
der suitable persons by their artful pre-
scriptions, and the whole realm being
plunged into anarchy by their manoeu-
vres, Ireland was to get its own in the
midst of the squabble. This astonish-
ing marquis being elected supreme chief
of a secret society called the "Gentlemen
of the ight," had his spies and retain-
ers among the very highest classes of
society. The police and the magistra-
ture were corrupted, the very beef-eaters
of the Queen contaminated, and you saw
the evidence of such a conspiracy as
would make your eyes open with terror.
Vho knows, madame, but perhaps some
of the school inspectors themselves were
bought over, and a Jesuitic C k,
an ambitious T -, an unscrupulous
B himself, may have been seduced
to mislead our youth, and teach our
very babes and sucklings a precocious
perverseness ? This is getting to be so
very like print that I shall copy it very
likely,* all but the inspector part, for a
periodical with which I am connected.
* He did reproduce part of it in Putsch.

Well, numbers of beautiful women were
in love with the Marquis, or otherwise
subjugated by him, and the most lovely
and innocent of all, was employed to go
to St. James' on a drawing-room day,
and steal the diamonds of Lady Bromp-
ton, the mistress of his grace P4nce
Demetri Tolstoi, the Russian ambassa-
dor, who had lent Lady Brompton the
diamonds to sport at St. James', before
he sent them off to his imperial mas-
ter the Emperor of Russia, for whom
the trifles in question were purchased.
Lady Brompton came to court having
her train held up by her jockey; Su-
sanna came to court, her train likewise
carried by her page, one or both of
them were adds of the association of
the "Gentlemen of the ight." The
jockeys were changed, and Lady Bromp-
ton's jewels absolutely taken off her
neck. So great was the rage of his grace
Prince Demetri Tolstoi, that he threat-
ened war should be declared by his
emperor unless the brilliants were re-
stored. I don't know what supervened,
for exhausted nature would bear no
more. But you should have seen the
Court of St. James', the beef-eaters, the
Life Guards, the heralds at arms in their
tabards of the sixteenth century, and
the ushers announcing the great folks,
as they vent into the presence of the
great sovereign. Lady Campbell, the
Countess of Derby, and the Archbishop
of Canterbury were announced. O!
such an archbishop ! he had on a velvet
trencher cap, and a dress something
like our real and venerated prelates',
and a rich curling wig, and he stopped
and blessed the people, making crucifi-
cial signs on the stairs. The various
lords went into the chamber in red
robes and long flowing wigs. The won-
der of the parody was, that it was so
like and yet so absurdly unlike. O'Con-
nell appeared, saluted as Daniel by the
Count of Rio Santo, and announcing
that he himself, though bris$par la lutte
with the oppressors of his country, yet
strongly reprobated anything like vio-
lent measures on the part of hi. de Rio
Santo and his fellow-patriots. The band
played "God safe the Quin" in the
most delightful absurd manner. The
best of it is that these things, admirably
as they tickled me, are only one degree

"NO HAID PAWN ".

By Thomas Nelson Page.

IT was a ghostly place in broad day-
light, if the glimmer that stole in through
the dense forest that surrounded it when
the sun was directly overhead deserved
this delusive name. At any other time
it was--why, we were afraid even to talk
about it! and as to venturing within its
gloomy borders, it was currently be-
lieved among us that to do so was to
bring upon the intruder certain death.
I knew every foot of ground, wet and
dry, within five miles of my father's
house except this plantation, for I had
hunted by day and night every field,
forest, and marsh within that radius;
but the swamp and "ma'shes" that sur-
rounded this place I had never invaded.
The boldest hunter on the plantation
would call off his dogs and go home if
they struck a trail that crossed the sobby
boundary line of "1o ttaid 1)awn. ''
"Jack'my lanterns" and "evil sperits"
only infested those woods, and the ear-
nest advice of those whom we children
acknowledged to know most about them,
was, "Don't you never go nigh dyah,
honey; hit's de evil-speritest place in
dis wull."
I-Iad not Big William, and Cephas,
and 1)oliam followed their dogs in there
one night, and cut down a tree in which
they had with their own eyes seen the
coon, and lo! when it fell "de warn no
too' coon dyah 'n a dog!" and the next
tree they had "treed in" not only had
no coon in it, but when it was cut down
it had fallen on Poliam and broken his
leg. So the very woods were haunted.
From this time they were abandoned to
the "jack 'my lanterns" and ghosts, and
another shadow was added to "Vo Haid
.Rawer."
The place was as much cut off from
the rest of the country as if a sea had
divided it. The river with marshy banks
swept around it in a wide horseshoe on
three sides, and when the hammocks
dammed it up it washed its way straight
across and scoured out a new bed for
itself, completely isolating the whole
plantation.

The owners of it, if there were an3;
which was doubtful, were aliens, and in
my time it had not been occupied for
forty years. The negroes declared that
it was "gi'n up" to the "ha'nts an' evil
sperits," and that no living being could
live there. It had grown up in forest
and had wholly reverted to original
marsh. The road that once ran through
the swamp had long since been choked
up, and the trees were as thick, and the
jungle as dense now in its track, as in
the adjacent "ma'sh." Only one path re-
mained. That, it was currently believed
by the entire portion of the population
who speculated on the subject, was kept
open by the evil spirits. Certain it was
that no human foot ever trod the nar-
row, tortuous line that ran through the
brakes as deviously as the noiseless, stag-
nant ditches that curved through the
jtmg'le, where the musk-rat played and
the moccasin slept umnolested. Yet
there it lay, plain and well-defined, month
after month, and year after year, as 1o
ttaid Pawn itself stood, amid its sur-
rounding swamps, all undistm-bed and
unchanging.
Even the runaway slaves who occa-
sionally left their homes and took to the
swamps and woods, impelled by the cru-
elty of their overseers, or by a desb-e for
a vain counterfeit of freedom, never tried
this swamp, but preferred to be caught
and returned home to invading its awful
shades.
YV-e were brought up to believe in
ghosts. Our fathers and mothers
laughed at us, and endeavored to rea-
son us out of such a superstition the
fathers with much of ridicule and satire,
the mothers giving sweet religious rea-
sons for their argmnent---but what could
they avail against the actual testimony
and the blood-curdling experiences of 
score of witnesses who recounted their
personal observations with a degree of
thrilling realism and a vividness that
overbore any arguments our childish
reason could grasp ! The old mammies
and uncles who were our companions

"" NO HAID PA 14ZN. "" 411

and comrades believed in the existence
of evil spirits as truly as in the existence
of hell or heaven, as to which at that
time no question had ever been raised,
so far as was known, in that slumberous
world. [The Bible was the standard,
and all disputes were resolved into an
appeal to that authority- the single
question as to any point being simply,
"Is it in the Bible?"] tIad not Laz-
arus, and lIam' Celia, and William, and
Twis'-foot-Bob, and Aunt Sukie Brown,
and others seen with their own eyes the
evil spirits, again and again, in the bod-
ily shape of cats, headless dogs, white
cows, and other less palpable forms!
And was not their experience, who lived
in remote cabins, or wandered night
after night through the loneliest woods,
stronger evidence than the cold reason-
ing of those who hardly ever stirred
abroad except in daylight! It certainly
was more conclusive to us; for no one
could have listened to those narrators
without being impressed with the fact
that they were recounting what they
had actually seen with their bodily eyes.
The result of it all was, so far as we
were concerned, the triumph of faith
over reason, and the fixed belief on our
part, in the actual visible existence of
the departed, in the sinister form of
parition known as "evil sperits." Every
graveyard was tenanted by them ; every
old house, and every peculiarly desolate
spot was -knom to be their rendezvous ;
but all spots and places sank into insig-
nificance compared with No Haid Pawn.
The very name was uncanny. Origi-
nally it had desig-nated a long, stagnant
pool of water lying in the centre of the
tract, which marked the spot from which
the soft had been dug to raise the eleva-
tion on which to set the house. More
modernly the place, by reason of the
filling up of ditches and the sinking of
dykes, had become again simple swamp
and jungle, or, to use the local expres-
sion, "had turned to ma'sh," and the
name applied to the whole plantation.
The origin of the namethe pond had
no source; but there was a better ex-
planation than that. Anyhow, the very
name inspired dread, and the place was
our terror.
The house had been built many gen-
erations before by a stranger in this

section, and the owners never made it
their permanent home. Thus, no ties
either of blood or friendship were
formed with their neighbors, who were
certainly open-hearted and open-doored
enough to overcome anything but the
most persistent unneighborliness. Why
this spot was selected for a mansion was
always a mystery, unless it was that the
newcomer desired to isolate himself com-
pletely. Instead of following the cus-
tom of those who were native and to
the manor born, who always chose some
eminence for their seats, he had selected
for his a spot in the middle of the wide
flat which lay in the horseshoe of the
river. The low ground, probably owing
to the abundance of land in that country,
had never been "taken up," and up to
the time of his occupation was in a con-
dition of primeval swamp. He had to
beg4n by making an alificial motmd
for his mansion. Even then, it was
said, he dug so deep that he laid the
corner-stone in water. The foundation
was of stone, which was brought from
a distance. Fabulous stories were told
of it. The negroes declared that under
the old house were solid rock cham-
bers, which had been built for dun-
geons, and had served for purposes
which were none the less awful because
they were vague and indefinite. The
huge structure itself was of wood, and
was alleged to contain many mysterious
rooms and underground passages. One
of the latter was said to connect with
the No Haid Pawn itself, whose dark
waters, according to the negroes' tra-
ditions, were some day, by some pro-
cess not wholly consistent with the laws
of physics, to overwhelm the fated pile.
An evil destiny had seemed to over-
shadow the place fl'om the very begin-
ning. One of the negro builders had
been caught and decapitated between
two of the immense foundation stones.
The tradition was handed down that
he was sacrificed in some awful and
occult rite connected with the l-ing of
the corner-stone. The scaffolding had
given way and had precipitated several
men to the ground, most of whom had
been fatally hurt. This also was alleged
to be by hideous design. Then the
plantation, in the process of being re-
claimed, had proved unhealthy beyond

412

"" NO HAID PA kVN."

all experience, and the negroes em-
ployed in the work of dyking and re-
claiming the great swamp had sickened
and died by dozens. The extension of
the dangerous fever to the adjoining
plantations had left a reputation for ty-
phus malaria from which the whole sec-
tion suffered for a time. But this did
not prevent the colored population from
recounting year after year the horrors
of the pestilence of :No Haid Pawn, as a
peculiar visitation, nor from relating
with blood-curdling details the burial by
scores, in a thicket just beside the pond,
of the stricken "befo' dee daid, honey,
befo' dee daid !" The bodies, it was said,
used to float about in the guts of the
swamp and on the haunted pond; and
at night they might be seen, if anyone
were so hardy as to venture there, row-
ing about in their coffins as if they were
boats.
Thus the place from the beginning
had an evil name, and when, year after
year, the river rose and washed the
levees away, or the musk-rats burrowed
through and let the water in, and the
strange masters cursed not only the
elements but Heaven itself, the contin-
ued mortality of their negroes was not
wholly unexpected, nor unaccounted for
by certain classes of their neighbors.
At length the property had fallen to
one more gloomy, more strange, and
more sinister than any who had gone
before himma man whose personal char-
acteristics and habits were unique in
that country. He was of gigantic stat-
ure agd superhuman strength, and pos-
sessed appetites and vices in propo.rtion
to his size. He could fell an ox with a
blow of his fist, or in a fit of anger
could tear down the branch of a tree,
or bend a bar of iron like a reed. He,
either from caprice or ignorance, spoke
only a patois not unlike the Creole
French of the Louisiana parishes. But
he was a West Indian. His brutal tem-
per and habits cut him off from even
the small measure of intercourse which
had existed between his predecessors
and their neighbors, and he lived at No
Haid lawn completely isolated. All the
stories and traditions of the place at
once centred on him, and fabulous
tales were told of his prowess and of his
life. It was said, among other things,

that he prese,wed his wonderful strength
by drinking human blood, a tale which
in a certain sense I have never seen rea-
son to question. Making all allowances,
his life was a blot upon civilization. At
length it culminated. A brutal temper,
inflamed by unbridled passions, after a
long period of license and debauchery,
came to a climax in a final orgy of fero-
city and fury, in which he was guilty of
an act whose fiendishness surpassed be-
lief, and he was brought to judgment.
In modern times the very inhumanity
of the crime would probably have proved
his security, and as he had destroyed
his own property while he was per-
petrating a crime of appalling and un-
paralleled horror, he might have found a
defence in that standing refuge of extra-
ordinary scoundrelism--insanity. This
defence, indeed, was put in, and was
pressed with much ability by his counsel,
one of whom was my father, who had
just then been admitted to the bar ; but
fortunately for the cause of justice,
neither courts nor juries were then so
sentimental as they have become of late
years, and the last occupant of 1o Haid
Pawn paid under the law the full pen-
alty of his hideous crime. It was one
of the curious incidents of the trial that
his negroes all 1,umented his death and
declared that he was a good master
when he was not drunk. He was hanged
just at the rear of his own house, within
sight of the spot where his awful crime
was committed.
At his execution, which according to
the custom of the country was public,
a horrible coincidence occurred which
furnished the text of many a sermon on
retributive justice among the negroes.
The body was interred near the pond
close by the thicket where the negroes
were buried; but the negroes declared
that it preferred one of the stone
chambers under the mansion, where it
made its home, and that it might be seen
at any time of the day or night stalk-
ing headless about the place. They
used to dwell with peculiar zest on the
most agonizing details of this wretch's
dreadful crime, the whole culminating
in the final act of maniacal fury when the
gigantic monster dragged the hacked
and headless corpse of his victim up the
staircase and stood it up before the open

"" NO HMID PM IMN.'"

window in his hall, in the full view of
the terrified slaves. After these narra-
tions, the continued reappearance of the
murderer and his headless victim was as
natural to us as it was to the negroes
themselves; and, as night after night
we would hurry up to the great house
through the darkness, we were ever on
the watch lest he should appear to our
fi-ighted vision from the shades of the
shrubbery-filled yard.
Thus it was that of all ghostly places
1o ]=Iaid Pawn had the distinction of
being invested, to us, with unparalleled
horror, and thus to us, no less than
because the dykes had given way and
the overflowed flats had turned again to
swamp and jungle, it was explicable
that 1o ]=Iaid Pawn was abandoned, and
was now untrodden by any foot but that
of its ghostly tenants.
The time of my story was 185-. The
splng previous continuous rains had
kept the river full, and had flooded the
low-ga'ounds, and this had been followed
by an exceptionally dense growth in
the summer. Then, public feeling was
greatly excited at the time of which I
write, over the discovery in the neigh-
borhood of several emissaries of the
underground railway, or--as they were
universally considered in that country
--of the devil. They had been run off
or had disappeared suddenly, but had
left behind them some little excitement
on the part of the slaves, and a great
deal on the part of their masters, and
more than the usual number of negroes
had run away. All, however, had been
caught, or had retut'ned home after a
sufficient interval of freedom, except one
who had escaped permanently, and who
was supposed to have accompanied his
instigators on their flight.
This man was a well-known character.
He belonged to one of out" neighbors, and
had been bought and brought there fa-om
an estate on the Lower Mississippi. I-Ie
was the most brutal negro I ever knew.
I-Ie was of a type rarely found among
our negroes, who, judging from their
physiognomy and general characteris-
tics, came principally from the coast of
Africa. They are of moderate stature,
with dull but amiable faces. This man,
however, was of immense size, and he
possessed the features and expression of

413
a Congo desperado. In character also
he differed essentially from all the other
slaves in our country. He was alike
without their amiability and their do-
cility, and was as fearless as he was
brutal. He was the only negro I ever
knew who was without either superstition
or reverence. Indeed, he differed so
widely from the rest of the slaves in
that section that there existed some
feeling against him almost akin to a
race feeling. At the same time that he
exercised considerable influence over
them they were dreadfully afraid of
him, and were always in terror that he
vould trick them, to which awful power
he laid well-known claim. His curses in
his strange dialect used to terrify them
beyond measure, and they would do any-
thing to cdnciliate him. He had been
a continual source of trouble, and an
object of suspicion in the neighborhood
from the time of his first appearance;
and more than one hog that the negwoes
declared had wandered into the marshes .
of 1o Haid Pawn, and had "cut his thote
jes' swinin' aroun' an' aroun'in de ma'sh,"
had been suspected of finding its way
to this man's cabin. His master had
often been urged to get rid of him, but
he was kept, I think, probably because
he was valuable on the plantation. He
was a fine butcher, a good work-hand,
and a first-class boatman. Moreover,
ours was a conservative population, in
which every man minded his own busi-
ness and let his neighbor's alone.
At the time of the visits of those
secret agents to which I have referred,
this negro was discovered to be the
leader in the secret meetings held under
their auspices, and he would doubtless
have been taken up and shipped off at
once ; but when the intruders fled, as I
have related, their convert disappeared
also. It was a subject of general felici-
tation in the neighborhood that he was
gotten rid of, and his master, instead of
being commiserated on the loss of his
slave, was congratulated that he had not
cut his throat.
1o idea can be given at this date of
the excitement occasioned in a quiet
neighborhood in old times by the dis-
covery of the mere presence of such
characters as Abolitionists. It was as
if the foundations of the whole social

416
manded through the open door the
entire len--4h of the vacant hall,and
could look straight out of the great bow-
window at the head of the stairs, through
which appeared against the dull sky the
black mass of the graveyard trees, and
a stretch of one of the canals or guts of
the swamp curving around it, which
gleamed white in the glare of the light-
nmg.
I had expected that the storm would,
like most thunder-storms in the latitude,
shortly exhaust itself, or, as we say,
"blow over ;" but I was mistaken, and
as the time passed, its violence, instead
of diminishing, increased. It grew
darker and darker, and presently the
startling truth dawned on me that the
gloom which I had supposed simply the
effect of the overshadowing cloud had
been really nightfall. I was shut up
alone in No ttaid I)awn for the night !
I hastened to the door with the inten-
tion of braving the storm and getting
away; but I was almost blown off my
feet. A glance without showed me that
the guts with which the swamp was
traversed in every direction were now
full to the brim, and to attempt to find
my way home in the darkness would be
sheer madness; so, after a wistful smwey,
I returned to my wretched perch. I
thought I would try and light a fire, but
to my consternation I had not a match,
and I finally abandoned myself to my fate.
It was a desolate, if not despairing, feel-
ing that I experienced. My mind was
filled, not only with my own unhappi-
ness, but with the thought of the dis-
tress my absence would occasion them
at home ; and for a little while I had a
fleeting hope that a party would be sent
out to search for me. This, however,
was untenable, for they would not know
where I was. The last place in which
they would ever think of looking for me
was No ttaid Pawn, and even if theyknew
I was there they could no more get to
me in the darkness and storm than I
could escape from it.
I accordingly propped myself up on
my bed and gave myself up to my reflec-
tions. I said my prayers very fervently.
I thought I would try and get to sleep,
but sleep was far from my eyes.
lIy surroundings were too vivid to
my apprehension. The awhtl traditions

"" NO HA ID P A VN."

of the place, do what I might to banish
them, would come to mind. The original
building of the house, and its blood-
stained foundation stones ; the dead who
had died of the pestilence that had
raged afterward;the bodies carted by
scores and buried in the sobby earth of
the graveyard, whose trees loomed up
through the broken window ; the dread-
ful story of the dead paddling about the
swamp in their coffins; and, above all,
the gigantic maniac whose ferocity even
murder could not satiate, and who had
added to murder awful mutilation- he
had dragged the mangled col"pse of his.
victim up those very steps and flung it
out of the very window which gaped
ju.st beyond me in the glare of the light-
nmg. It all passed through my mind as
I sat there in the darkness, and no effort
of my will could keep my thoughts from
dwelling on it. The terrific thunder,
outcrashing a thousand batteries, at
times engrossed my attention;but it
always reverted to that scene of horror ;
and if I dozed, the slamming of the loose
blinds, or the terrific fury of the storm,
would suddenly startle me. Once, as
the sounds subsided for a moment, or
else I having become familiar with them,
as I was sinking into a sleepy state, a
door at the other end of the hall creaked
and then slammed with violence, bring-
ing me bolt upright on the bed, clutch-
ing my gun. I could have sworn that I
heard footsteps ; but the wind was blow-
ing a hurricane, and after another period
of wakefulness and dreadful recollection,
nature succumbed, and I fell asleep.
I do not know that I can be said to
have lost consciousness even then, for
my mind was still enchained by the hor-
rors of my situation, and went on cling-
ing to them and dwelling upon them
even in my slumber.
I was, however, certainly asleep ; for
the storm must have died temporarily
away about this hour without my know-
ing it, and I subsequently heard that it
did.
I must have slept several hours, for
I was quite stiff from my constrained
posture when I became fully aroused.
I was awakened by a very peculiar
sound; it was like a distant call or
halloo. Although I had been fast asleep
a moment before, it startled me into a

THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE.

By H. C. Bumter.

go

ACOB DOLPH got
out of the Broadway
stage at Bowling
Green, followed by
Eustace Dolph. Eus-
race Dolph at twenty-
two was no more like
his father than his
patlcian name was

like simple and scriptural Jacob. The
elder Dolph was a personable man, cer-
tainly a handsome man, even, who looked
to be nearer forty than fifty-two, and he
was well dressedmperhaps a trifle out of
the modemand carried himself with a
certain genial dignity, and with the
lightness of a man who has not forgot-
ten that he has been a buck in his time.
But Eustace was distinctly and unmis-
takably a dandy. There are superficial
differences, of course, between the dandy
of 1852 and the dandy of 1887; but the
structural foundation of all types of dan-
dy is the same through all ages. Back
of the clothes--back of the ruffles, or the
bright neckcloth, or the high pickardill
mwhich may vary with the time or the
individual, you will ever find clearly dis-
played to your eyes the obvious and
unmistakable spiritual reason for and
cause of the dandymand it is always
self-assertion pushed beyond the bounds
of self-respect.
Now, as a matter of fact, young
F, ustace's garments were not really worse
than many a man has worn from sim-
ple, honest bad taste. To be sure, the
checked pattern of his trousers was for
size like the design of a prison grating ;
he had a coat so blue that it shimmered
in the sunlight; his necktie was of
purple satin, and fearfully and wonder-
fully made, and fringed and decked with
gems fastened by little gold chains to
other inferior guardian gems, and his
waistcoat was confected of satin and
velvet and damask all at once ; yet you
might have put all these things on his
father, and, although the effect would

not have been pleasant, you would never
have called the elder gentleman a dandy.
In other words, it was Why young
Eustace wore his raiment that made
it dandified, and not the inherent gor-
geousness of the raiment itself.
The exchange of attire might readily
have been made so far as the size of the
two men was concerned. But only in
size were they alike. There was nothing
of the Dolph in Eustace's face. He
bore, indeed, a strong resemblance to
his maternal great-grandmother, now
many years put away where she could
no longer trouble the wicked, and where
she had to let the weal T be at rest.
(And how poor little Aline had wept and
wailed over that death, and lamented
that she had not been more dutiful as a
child !) But his face was not strong, as
the face of Madam Des Anges had been.
Some strain of a weaker ancestry re-
appeared in it, and, so to spe.ak,
changed the key of the expression.
What had been pride in the old lady
bordered on superciliousness in the
young man. Vhat had been sternness
became a mere haughtiness. Yet it was
a handsome face, and pleasant, too, when
the young smile came across it, and you
saw the white, small teeth and the bright,
intelligent light in the dark eyes.
The two men strolled through the
Battery, and then up South Street, and
so around through Old Slip. They
were on business; but this was also a
pleasure trip to the elder, tie walked
doubly in spirit through those old
streetsma boy by his father's side, a
father with his son at his elbow, lie
had not been often in the region of late
years. You remember, he was a man
of pleasure, lie was one of the first
fruits of metropolitan growth and social
culture, liis father had made an idler
and dilettante of him. It was only half
a life at best, he thought, happy as he
had been ; blessed as he was in wife and
child. He was going to make a business-

420 THE STORY OF ,,4 NEll/ YORK HOUSE.

or of the nature of his business, t was tropic dreams of spice, to the positively
assumed that all the people knew who offensive--the latter varieties predomi-
Abram Van Riper's Son was, and that hating.
his (Abram Van Riper's) shipchandlery But certain objects upon a long table
trade had long before grown into a great were so peculiar in appearance that the
"commission merchant's" business, visitors could not pass them by with a

It was full summer, and there were no
doors between the pillars to bar en-
trance to the gloomy cavern behind
them, which stretched in semi-darkness
the whole length and width of the build-
ing, save for a narrow strip at the rear,
where behind a windowed partition
clerks were writing at high desks, and
where there was an inner and more
secluded pen for Abram Van Riper's
SOil.
In the front of the cave, to one side,
was a hoistway, where bales and boxes
were drawn up from the cellar or swung
twisting and twirling to the lofts above.
Amidships the place was strewn with
small tubs, matting-covered bales and
boxes, coils of bright new rope, and odd-
looking packages of a hundred sorts, all
of them with gaping wounds in their
envelopes or otherwise having their
pristine integrity wounded. From this
it was not difficult to guess that these
were samples of merchandise. Most of
them gave forth odors upon the air,
odors ranging from the pro-ely aro-
matic, suggestive of Oriental fancies or

mere glance of wonder. They look-
ed like small leather pies, badly
warped in the baking. A clerk in
his shirt-sleeves, with his straw hat
on one side of his head, whistled as
he cut into these, revealing a livid
interior, the color of half-cooked veal,
which he inspected with care. Eus-
*ace was moved to positive curiosity.
"What are they ?" he inquired of
the clerk, pride mingling with dis-
gust in his tone, as he caught a smell
like unto the smell which might
arise from raw smoked salmon that
had lain three days in the sun.
"Central American," responded
the clerk, with brevity, and resumed
his whistling of
"My name is Jake Keyser, I was born in
Spring Garden ;
To make me a preacher my father did
try."
"Central American what ?" ptu'-
sued the inquirer.
"Rubber !" said the clerk, with a scol
so deep and far beyond expression that
the combined pride of the Dolphs and
the Des Anges wilted into silence for the
moment. As they went on toward the
rear office, while the clerk gayly whis-
tled the notes of
" It's no use a-blowing, for I am a hard 'un--
I'm bound to be ,' butchcr by heavens or
die

Eustace recovered sufficiently to de-
mand of his father :
"I say, sir, shall I have to handle that
damned stuff ?"
"Hush !" said his senior ; "here's Mr.
Van Riper."
Mr. Van Riper came to the office
door to welcome them, with his thin
face set in the form of a smile.
"Ah !" he said, "here's the young man,
is he ? Fine big fellow, Dolph. Well,
sir, so you are going to embrace a mer-
cantile career, are you? That's what
they call it in these fine days, Dolph."
".I am going to try to, sir," replied
the young man.

THE STORY OF ,,4 NEI/I/ YORK HOUSE. 4'21

"I-Ie will, Van Riper," put in his
father, hastily ; "he'll like it as soon as
he gets used to it---I know he will."
"Well," returned Mr. Van Riper,
with an attempt at facetious geniality;
"we'll try to get his nose down to the
grindstone, we will. Come into my
office with me, Dolph, and I'll hand this
young gentleman over to old lIr. Daw.
Mr. Daw will feel his teeth--eh, Mr.
Daw ?--see what he doesn't know--bow's
that Mr. Daw? You remember Mr.
Daw, Dolph--used to be with your
father before he went out of business--
been with us ever since. Let's see,
how long is that, Daw? Most fifty
years, ain't it ?"
Mr. Daw, who looked as though he
might have been one hundred years at
the business, wheeled around and de-
scended with stiff deliberation from his
high stool, holding his pen in his mouth
as he solemnly shook hands with Jacob
Dolph, and peered into his face. Then
he took the pen out of his mouth.
"Looks like his father," was Mr.
Daw's comment. "Forty-five years the
twenty-ninth of this month, sir. You
was a little shaver then. I remember
you comin' into the store and whittlin'
timber with your little jack-knife. I was
only eleven years with your father, sir
--eleven years and six months--went to
him when I was fourteen years old.
That's fifty-six years and six months in
the service of two of the best houses
that ever was in New York--an' I can
do my work with any two young shavers
in the town--ain't missed a day in nine-
teen years now. Your father hadn't
never ought to have gone out of busi-
ness, Mr. Dolph. I-Ie did a great
business for those days, and he had
the makin' of a big house. Goin' to
bring your boy up like a good New York
merchant, hey ? Come along here with
me, young man, and I'll see if you're
half the man your grandfather was.
I-Ie hadn't never ought to have given
up business, Mr. Dolph. But he was all
for pleasurin', an' the play-houses, an'
havin' fine times. Come along, young
man. What's your name ?"
"Eustace Dolph."
"tim ! Jacob's better."
And he led the neophyte away.
"Curious old case," said Mr. Van

Riper, dryly. "Best accountant in New
York. See that high stool of his ?-
can't get him off it. Five years ago I
gave him a low desk and an arm-chair.
In one week he was back again, roost-
ing up there. Said he didn't feel com-
fortable with his feet on the ground.
He thought that sort of thing might do
for aged people, but he wasn't made of
cotton-batting."
Thus began Eustace Dolph's appren-
ticeship to business, and mightily ill he
liked it.

There came a day, a winter day in
1854, when there was great agitation
among what were then called the real
old families of New York. I cannot use
the term "fashionable society," because
that is more comprehensive, and -ould
include many wealthy and ambitious
families from New England, who were
decidedly not of the Dolphs' set. And
then, the Dolphs could hardly be reck-
oned among the leaders of fashion. To
live on or near the boundaries of fash-
ion's domain is to lower your social
status below the absolute pitch of perfec-
tion, and fashion in 1854 drew the line
pretty sharply at Bleecker Street. Above
Bleecker Street the cream of the cream
rose to the surface; below, you were
ranked as skim milk. The social world
was spreading up into the wastes sacred
to the circus and the market garden,
although if Admiral Farragut had stood
on his sea-legs where he stands now he
might have had a fairly clear view of
Chelsea Village, and seen Alonzo Cush-
man II., or Alonzo Cushman IlL, per-
haps, going around and collecting his
rents.
But the old families still fought the
tide of trade, many of them neck-deep
and very uncomfortable. They would
not go from St. John's t)ark, nor from
North Moore and Grand S*reets. They
had not the bourgeois conservatism of
the Greenwich villagers, which has held
them in a solid phalanx almost to this
very day; but still, in a way, they re-
sented the up-town movement, and re-
sisted it. So that when they did have to
buy lots in the high-numbered streets
they had to pay a fine price for them.
It was this social party that was
stirred by a bit of scandal about the

422 THE STORY OF A NEV YORK HOUSE.

Dolphs. I do not know why I sould
call it scandal; yet I am sure Society
so held it. For did not Society whis-
per it, and nod and wink over it, and
tell it in dark corners, and chuckle, and
lift its multitudinous hands and its myr-
iad eyebrows, and say in innumerable
leys: "Well, upon my word!" and
"Well, I should tlfink-- !" and "Who
would ever have thought of such a
thing ?" and the like ? Did not Society
make very funny jokes about it, and
did not Society's professional gossips
get many an invitation to dinner be-
cause they professed to have authentic
details of the way Mr. and Mrs. Dolph
looked when they spoke about it, and
just what they had to say for them-
selves ?
And yet it was nothing more than
this, that Mr. Dolph being fifty-four,
and lfis wife but a few years younger,
were about to give to the world an-
other Dolph. It was odd, I admit ; it
was unusual ; if I must go so far, it was,
I suppose, unconventional. But I don't
see that it was necessary for Mr. Philip
Waters to make an epigram about it. It
was a very clever epigram;but if you
had seen dear old Mrs. Dolph, with her
rosy cheeks and the gray in her hair,
lnitting baby-clothes with hands which
were still white and plump and comely,
wldle great dark eyes looked timorously
into the doubtful, fear-clouded futtu-e,
I think you would have been ashamed
that you had even listened to that epi-
gram.
The expected event was of special and
personal interest to only three people
--for, after all, when you think of it, it
was not exactly Society's business--and
it affected them in widely different ways.
Jacob Dolph was all tenderness to his
wife, and all sympathy with her fears,
with her nervous apprehensions, even
with her morbid forebodings of impos-
sible ills. He did not repine at the se-
clusion wlfich the situation forced upon
them, although his life for years had
been given up to Society's demands,
until pleasure-seeking and pleasure-giv-
ing had grown into a routine, which oc-
cupied his whole mind. His wife saw
him more than she had for many years.
Clubs and card-parties had few temp-
tations for him now; he sat at home

and read to her and talked to her, and
did his best to follow the injunctions of
the doctor, and "create and preserve in
her a spirit of cheerful and hopeful
tranquillity, free of unnecessary appre-
hension."
But when he did go to the club, when
he was in male society, his breast ex-
panded, and if he had to answer a polite
inquiry as to Mrs. Dolph's general
health, I am afraid that he responded :
"lirs. Dolph is extremely well, sir, ex-
tremely well!" with a pride which the
moralists will tell you is baseless, un-
worthy and unreasonable.
As for Aline herself, no one may
know what timorous hopes stirred in
her bosom and charmed the years away,
and brought back to her a lovely youth
that was almost girlish in its innocent,
half-frightened gladness. Outside, this
great, wise, eminently proper world that
she lived in girded at the old woman
who was to bear a child, and laughed
behind tasselled fans, and made won-
drous merry over llature's work; but
within the old house she sat, and sewed
upon the baby-clothes, or, wandering
from cupboard to cupboard, found the
yellowing garments, laid away more
than a score of years before--the poor
little lace-decked trifles that her first
boy had worn ; and she thanked heaven,
in her humble way, that twenty-fotu-
years had not taken the love and joy of
a wife and a mother out of her heart.
She could not find all her boy's
dresses and toys, for she was open-
handed, and had given many of them
away to people who needed them. This
brought about an odd encounter. The
third person who had a special interest
in the prospect of the birth of a Dolph
was young Eustace, and he found noth-
ing in it wherewith to be pleased. For
Eustace Dolph was of the ultra-fashion-
ables. He cared less for old family
than for new ideas, and he did not let
himself fall behind in the march of so-
cial progress, even though he was, as he
admitted with humility born of pride,
only a poor devil of a down-town clerk.
If his days were occupied, he had his
nights to lfimself, and he lengthened
them to suit ldmself. At first this cmsed
his mother to fret a little; but poor
Aline had come into her present world

THE STORY OF A NEI/V YORK HOUSE.

from the conventual seclusion of Kgs-
bridge, and her only authority on ques-
tions of masculine license was her hus-
band. He, being appealed to, had to
admit that his own hours in youth had
been late, and that he supposed the
hours of a newer generation should
properly be later still. Mr. Dolph for-
got, perhaps, that while his early pota-
tions had been v.inous, those of the later
age were distinctly spirituous; and that
the early morning cocktail and the mid-

night brandy and soda were abomina-
tions unknown to his own well-bred
youth. With port and sherry and good
Bordeaux he had been familiar all his
life; a dash of liqueur after dinner did
not trouble his digestion; he found a
bottle of champagne a pleasant appetizer
and a gentle stimulant; but whiskey and
gin were to him the drinks of the vulgar,
and rum and brandy stood on his side-
board only to please fiercer tastes than
his own. Perhaps, also, he was igno-
rant of the temptations that assail a
young man in a great city, he who had
grown up in such a little one that he
had at one time known everyone who
was worth knowing in it.
However this may have been, Eustace
Dolph ruled for himself his going out
and his coming in. He went further,
and chose his own associates, not al-
ways from among the scions of the
"old families." He found those ex-
cellent young men "slow," and he se-
lected for his own private circle a set
which was mixed as to origin and
unanimously frivolous as to tendency.
The foreign element was strongly rep-
resented. Bright young Ia-ishmen of ex-

cellent families, and mysterious French
and Italian counts and marquises, bor-
rowed many of the good gold dollars of
the Dolphs, and forgot to return an
equivalent in the local currency of the
O'Reagans of Castle Reagan, or the
d'Arcy de Montmorenci, or the Monte-
scudi di Bajocchi. Among this set
there was much merry-making when
the news from the Dolph household
sifted down to them from the gossip-
sieve of the best society. They could
not very well chaff young Dolph openly,
for he was muscular and high-tempered,
and, under the most agreeable condi-
tions, needed a fight of some sort every
six months or so, and liked a bit of
trouble in between fights. But a good
deal of low and malicious humor came
his way, from one source or another,
and he, with the hot and concentrated
egotism of youth, thought that he was
in a ridiculous and trying position, and
chafed over it.
There had been innuendoes and hints
and glancing allusions, but no one had
dared to make any direct assault of wit,
until one evening young Haskins came
into the club "a little flushed with
wine." (The "wine" was brandy.) It
seems that young Haskins had found at
home an ivory rattle that had belonged
to Eustace twenty years before, and
that Mrs. Dolph had given to Mrs.
Haskins when Eustace enlarged his
horizon in the matter of toys.
Haskins, being, as I have said, some-
what flushed with brandy, came up to
young Dolph, who was smoking in the
window and meditating with frowning
brows, and said to him-
"Here, Dolph, I've done with this.
You'd better take it back--it may be
wanted down your way."
There was a scene. Fortunately two
men were standing just behind Dolph,
who were able to throw their arms
about him, and hold him back for a
few seconds. There would have been
further consequences, however, if it had
not been that Eustace was in the act
of throwing the rattle back at Haskins
when the two men caught him. Thus
the toy went wide of its mark, and fell
in the lap of Philip Waters, who, old as
he was, generally chose, to be in the
company of the young men at the club ;

428 MODERN AGGRESSIVE TORPEDOES.

low copper float, to which it is attaced containing two copper wires ; upon
by upright bronze rods. The float is it- passing a current through the wires,
self somewhat longer than the torpedo, one end of a balanced lever is attracted,
and may be repeatedly perforated by and the torpedo moves to the right;
the enemy's bullets without destroy- when the current is reversed the oppo-
.ing its buoyancy. The torpedo is pro- site end of the lever is attracted, caus-
pelled by its own engines, developing ing the torpedo to turn to the left. The

The Controllable Auto-Mobile Torpedo.

45 horse-power, the motive power being torpedo is divided into four separate
carbonic acid gas, which, as is well compartments, the forward one carry-
known, becomes liquefied under a press- ing a charge of 200 pounds of gun-cot-
ure of forty atmospheres. The liquid ton or dynamite, and the others con-
gas is carried in a small tank within raining, respectively, the gas reservoir,
the .torpedo, and on its passage to the the coiled cable, and the engines and
engines, through a coiled copper tube, steering machineT. At its extreme for-

SECTION ....

The Sims-Edison Torpedo.
is highly expanded by an intense heat ward end the torpedo is provided with
produced by the chemical action of di- a percussion-lock, which iites the
lute sulphuric acid and quicklime. It charge upon impact with the enemy's
has a speed of 20 miles per hour, which ship. Practical tests of the torpedo
is greatest at the end of its run, and a were recently made at College Point,
.'ange of 1 mile. The steering mechan- L. I., before a commission of officers
1sin is controlled by an electric cable representing the United States, France,

MODERN AGGRESSII/E TORPEDOES. 429

Turkey, and Japan, all of whom made
favorable reports of its action to their
respective governments.
The Sims-Edison torpedo is another

Willet's Point, New York, dtuing the
last six years, has resulted in the pur-
chase of a number of these torpedoes by
the United States Government.

The Whitehead Torpedo.

type of the controllable class, and in its
constlmction and general appearance very
closely resembles that just described;
but it differs from the latter in some im-
portant respects. The power by which
the Sims-Edison is propelled, steered,
and exploded is electricity. The requi-
site electric current is generated by a dy-
namo-machine on shore and conveyed to
the to])edo by a flexible cable contain-
ing two wires, one of which supplies the
motive power to the engine, while the
other actuates he teering

The torpedo that has been adopted
ly nearly every naval power of Europe
is known as the Whitehead, and belongs
to what may be designated as the "pro-
jectile class," that is, having been start-
ed on its course toward the enemy, no
control of it is retained by the opera-
tor. Most of the various types of this
class are wholly submerged when oper-
ated against an enemy, and are generally
arranged to run at a given depth below
the surface, varying from 5 to 15 feet.

machinery. So complete is
the control of the operator
over this torpedo that he
can easily cause it to main-
tain a perfectly straight
course, turn to the right or left, move
in a circle, or dive under obstructions.
In order that the position of the torpedo
may be always known to the operator, two
hinged guide-rods, projecting upward
from the float to a height of about two
feet above the surface of the water, are
surmomted by small globes, and at
night carry differently colored lanterns,
so screened as to be invisible from ahead.
For convenience in handling, the tor-
pedo is made in four sections, which can

The Hall Torpedo.

lattu-ally, one of the main objects of
inventors of torpedoes, as well as of
those engaged in other fields of inven-
tion, is financial profit. The Yvhitehead
is the only torpedo that has yet proved
a success in this respect. It is btdlt of
thin sheets of steel, is cigar-shaped, like
those ah-eady described, but without the
attached float, and is made in three sizes,
the largest being 19 feet long by 16
inches diameter, and the smallest 9 feet
long by 11 inches diameter. The motive

The Howell Torpedo.

be quickly put together, and no one of
which weighs more than 800 pounds.
It has a speed of about 11 miles per
hour, with a range limited only by the
length of its cable, and carries a charge
of 250 to 400 pounds of dynamite, which
is exploded at the will of the operator
by an electric fuse. A series of trials,
under the supeTision of Gen. Henry L.
Abbot, Corps of Engineers, made at

power is compressed air, carried at a
pressure of about 70 atmospheres, in a
cylindrical reservoir within the torpedo.
The speed attained is about 25 miles
per hour for a distance of 450 yards.*
The torpedo is divided into three sec-

* Since the above was put into type a report has been
received of very recent trials of the Whitehead, made in
England, in which it is stated that the torpedo attained a
speed of 29 9/10 miles per hour for a distance of 600 yards,
and 31 miles for 400 yards.wW. S. H.

430 MODERN /IGGRESSII/E TORPEDOES.

The Falke.

tions--"forward," "middle," and "rear"
--containing, respectively, the charge of
70 to 93 pounds of gun-cotton ; the ad-
justing mechanism, wherein lies the se-
cret of the inventor, and by which the
hydrostatic pressure of the surround-
ing water is made to regulate the depth
of immersion ; and the air-engines and
steering machinery. It is designed to
be carried on board a very swift torpedo-
boat, capable of overtaking the fastest

iron-clad, and, when within effective
range, to be discharged from the boat
with the steering rudder of the torpedo
set in such a position as to direct its
course toward the enemy. The first mo-
tion, or "discharge," is effected through
a guide-tube in the bow of the boat,
either above or below the surface of the
water, usually by means of a very small
charge of powder, after which, upon
reaching the water, the torpedo is pro-

Italian Second-class Boat, built by Messrs. Thornycroft.

MODERN ,4GGRESSII/'E TORPEDOES. 481

pelled by its own engines. The explo-
sion may be made to take place either
upon impact with the enemy or after
the torpedo has run a given distance.
Necessarily, a torpedo of this class
should lossess great direct-ice force, in
order to be not easily deflected from its
original course. In this quality the
Vhitehead is lacking, for, although pre-
serving its direction in smooth water,
its flight is not always acctu-ate when
aimed across tides or ctu-rents. With
the view of overcoming this defect, Cap-
tain John A. Howell, of the nited
States 'avy, has very recently invented

tides or currents, tends simply to cause
the torpedo to roll around its longitu-
dinal axis, which motion brings into
action, automatically, a side-zdder that
counteracts the effect of the deviating
force and quickly restores the torpedo
to a state of equilibrium. To maintain
a constant depth below the surfdce, the
torpedo is provided with a di'ing d-
der, controlled by the lressure of the
sur.rounding water, which, of com-se,
varies with different depths of immer-
sion. This ldder remains inactive as
long as the torpedo is at the desired
depth, but opposes automatically any

Torpedo Boat recently built by Messrs. Thornycroft, of London, for the Government of Denmark.

a torpedo that now bids fair to supplant
all its rivals. It has been called a "ly-
wheel torpedo," from the fact of the
motor being a heavy steel fly-wheel to
which a high velocity of rotation, in the
vertical, longitudinal plane of the tor-
pedo, has been given by suitable machin-
ery on board the boat before the torpedo
is launched. The energy thus stored in
the wheel imparts motion to the screw-
propellers of the torpedo and drives it
through the water, while at the same
time the rapidly revolving wheel, from
a well-known principle of the gyroscope,
prevents any divergence from the plane
of rotation. A deflecting agent, such as

tendency of the latter to either rise or
dive. The torpedo is composed of thin
sheets of copper, and has the same out-
ward form as the Y'hitehead, but is much
smaller and more simple in its constc-
tion. Only seven of the Howell tor-
pedoes have been yet built, but the
results of experiments with these are
such as to warrant the highest exlecta
tions for their futm-e. They carry a
charge of 70 lounds of gun-cotton or
dynamite, and in the trials recently
made the directive power was found to
be so great that, from the deck of a
steamer at full speed, the torpedo could
be launched, in a direction at Hght angles

432 MODERN 4GGRESSIUE TORPEDOES.

Improved " Batoum " Type, built by Messrs. Yarrow & Co.

to the vessel's course, without suffering
any perceptible deflection.
The latest experiments were made at
Wood's ttoll, Mass., in qovember, 1886,
with a torpedo 8 feet 6 inches long, 13
inches in diameter, and weighing, with
its explosive charge, only 325 pounds.
Owing to the want of proper tzal
ground, the tol])edo was not tested at
full power; but with half-power it de-
veloped an average speed of 28 miles
per hour for 100 yards, and 20T 0 miles
for 200 yards, with a total range of 750
yards.
Another ve13 ingenious to]0edo is
that lately invented by Lieutenant 1I. E.

Hall, U. S. lq. It is still in the experi-
mental stage, but has already developed
high speed, and a remarkable capability
for maintaining a straight course and
uniform depth below the surface.
Besides the torpedoes we have select-
ed as types of their classes, a number of
others have attracted considerable at-
tention, among which may be mentioned
the laulson, the Brennan, and the so-
called "Rockets," designed to move
upon the surface of the water. Some
of the last-named class proved to be
equally as dangerous to friends as to
foes--as was demonstrated in a trial
which the writer recalls, where the rock-

The Stiletto, built by Messrs. Herreshoff. '

MODERN AGGRESSIVE "TORPEDOES. 438

VOL. I.--28

et, after rushing a few hundred feet toward its imaginary
enemy, turned nearly directly back in its course and
caused considerable commotion among its friends.
Since most torpedoes of the projectile class are in-
tended for use in conjunction with torpedo-boats, it will
hardly be a digression to call attention to these remark-
able little vessels.
The most noted torpedo-boat builders of the world
are lIessrs. Yarrow, and lessrs. Thornycroft, of London,
to whom the writer is indebted for the accompanying
illustrations of their latest boats. Each of these great
firms employs from 1,000 to 1,200 workmen, and can ttu
out at least one completed boat per week. The chief
peculiarity of torpedo-boats is their almost phenomenal
speed. They are built of steel, the different classes rang-
ing in length from 55 feet, intended for harbor defence,
to vessels of 166 feet, capable of making an extended
cruise at sea. One of our illustrations shows the lalke,
a boat recently built bythe Messrs. Yarrowfor the Austro-
Hungarian Government. It is 135 feet long, 14 feet wide,
draught of water 5 feet 6 inches, and attained on the
trial trip a speed of 25 miles per hour. The armament
consists of two Nordenfeldt machine-guns, carried on
deck, and two bow-tubes for discharging Whitehead tor-
pedoes.
The development of torpedo-boats is now so rapidly
progressing that any description becomes almost out of
date during the writing. A vessel just completed by the
]Iessrs. Yarrow for the Japanese Government is the
largest that has been yet built. It is 166 feet long, 19
feet wide, is provided with twin screws, to give greater
facility in turning, and maintains a speed of 24 miles per
hour. The engines are protected by a steel deck one inch
thick ; and, in addition to two bow-tubes for discharging
torpedoes directly ahead, two turn-tables are mounted
on deck, from which torpedoes can be launched in any
desired direction.
Very similar in their construction, and no less famous
for speed and manceuvring qualities, are the boats built
by the Messrs. Thornycroft. The illustration on page
431 represents one of their boats recently constructed
for the Danish Government.
In this country, the Messrs. Herreshoff, of Bristol, R. I.,
have built a number of very fast boats, designed to be used
with torpedoes. One of these is the noted steam-yacht
Stiletto, which may well be taken as a representative of
the American type. The Stiletto is built of wood, with
iron braces ; length, 94 feet ; width, 11 feet ; draught of
water, 4 feet 6 inches, and has attained a speed of 25 miles
per hour.
A very formidable torpedo-vessel has been built in re-
cent years by that greatest of living engineers, Captain
John Ericsson. It has been appropriately named the
Destroyer. Once, at a critical moment in the history of
our country, as every American well knows, Captain
Ericsson came to the rescue with a Monitor. Since then
his genius, energies, and mechanical skill have been

434 MODERN AGGRESSIVE TORPEDOES.

devoted to the problem of saving our steel torpedo, 25 feet long, 16 inches in
great coast cities from destructibn in diameter, and carrying a charge of 300
the event of war with a foreign naval pounds of gun-cotton. It has a range
power. The result of these years of of 300 feet during the first three sec-

Captain Ericsson's Submarine Gun and Projectile.

study and experimenting is the De- onds of its flight.
stroyer, armed with a torpedo-gun
which discharges under the water a
projectile carrying a charge sufficient
to sink the largest iron-clad afloat. The
submarine gun is mounted in the bow
of the vessel, near the keel, as shown in
one of the accompanying illustrations,

The form of the tor-
pedo is cylindrical, with a conical point
in which is placed the percussion-lock
and firing-pin, and the explosion takes
place upon impact.
While Captain Ericsson's submarine
torpedo-gun may be applied to vessels
of almost any class, the Destroyer is

Er{csson's Steel Torpedo.

and is thus nearly ten feet below the
surface of the water. It consists of a
cylinder of gun-metal, or steel, 30 feet
long, additionally strengthened at the
breech by broad steel rings. It is
loaded at the breech, the muzzle being
incased by the vessel's stem, and closed
bv a valve to exclude the water. This

Percussion Lock and Firing-pln, Ericsson's Torpedo.

valve is opened by suitable levers just
before the gun is to be discharged, and
closes automatically as the projectile
leaves the muzzle.* The projectile is a

* A light, wooden disk, which is shot away at each dis-
charge, is inserted in the muzzle just before the gun is
loaded, and prevents the entrance of water during the time
the valve is open.

so well adapted to such an armament as
to merit a description. The vessel's
lines are very sharp, and alike at both
the bow and stern, thus enabling her to
move ahead or astern with almost equal
facility. The hull is 130 feet in length,
built wholly of iron, partially armored
at the bow ; width, 17 feet ; draught of
water, 11 feet. Two iron decks, sepa-
rated by a distance of about 3 feet, extend
the whole length of the vessel, sheltering
the crew and machinery, the space be-
tween the decks being filled with cork
floats and bags of air to increase the
buoyancy. A heavy iron shield, 2 feet
thick, backed by 5 feet of sohd timber,
crosses the deck near the bow, inclining
backward at an angle of 30 degrees, so
as to deflect any shot that may strike it,
below and behind which the crew, the
gun, and all the vital" parts of the ma-
chinery are situated. When equipped
and ready for action, only a few inches
of the Destroyer show above the water,
thus exposing to an enemy but a small
target, and at the same time affording

46 MODERN AGGRESSIVE TORPEDOES.

Gatling machine-guns. In actiqn, it is
intended that, simultaneously with ram-
ming a hostile ship, the gun should be
fired and the torpedo exploded.
A submarine torpedo-boat, bearing
the suggestive name of Peacemaker,

the will of the pilot. It is designed to
approach the enemy's ship under water,
and, in passing beneath the latter's keel,
to release two torpedoes connected by
a short rope. The torpedoes are im-
bedded in cork floats, to which powerful

Lieutenant Zalinski's Eight-inch Pneumatic Dynamite Torpedo Gun.

has recently undergone in -ew York
harbor a series of trials that have excited
both the curiosity of the public and the
interest of naval and military men. This
vessel, the invention of Mr. J. H. T,.
Tuck, is built of iron and steel ; length,
30 feet ; width, 7 feet 6 inches ; depth, 6
feet. The crew consists of a pilot and
an engineer. The former stands with
his head in a little dome projecting a
foot above the deck, from which small
plate-glass windows permit him to see
in every direction. Compressed air for
breathing is stored in a series of reser-
voirs within the .boat. Tot the least
notable feature of the Peacemaker is
the "fireless engine," an invention based
upon the discovery that a solution of
caustic soda can be utilized under certain
conditions to produce the heat neces-
sary for generating steam. Side-rud-
ders, or deflectors, are placed at the
bow and stern, with which; by varying
their angle of inclination from a hori-
zontal plane, the vessel is made to dive,
or rise to the surface of the water, at

magnets are attached, which cause them
to rise as soon as detached from the
boat, and to adhere to the ship's bottom.
Connection is still retained with the tor-
pedoes by electric wires, and after the
boat has steamed away to a safe dis-
tance, the explosion is caused by an
electric fuse. In the recent trials the
vessel ran a distance of two and a half
miles without coming to the surface,
and demonstrated that, although sub-
merged to a depth as great as fifty feet,
it was still 1ruder perfect control of the
pilot. It is proposed by the inventor
to make a number of improvements in
the vessel prior to the trials soon to
take place before a board of almy and
navy officers at Fortress Monroe.
Lieutenant Zalinski, of the United
States Army, has been engaged during
the last two years in developing a very
novel and formidable weapon of war, a
view of which, taken from a photograph,
is shown on this page. It is described
in his official report to the Secretary oi
War as a "pneumatic, dynamite torpe-

FOR TUNE.

do-gun." The barrel of this remarkable
piece of ordnance is 60 feet long, made
of iron tubing, and lined with brass to
give a smooth interior. It throws a
cylindrical brass or steel torpedo, eight
inches in diameter, carrying a charge of
60 pounds of dynamite, a distance of 2
miles. Compressed air, as the name of
the gun implies, is the projecting force
employed, the rear end of the gun-bar-
rel being connected with an air reser-
voir-, kept under great pressm' by an
engine and any suitable pumping ma-
chinery. The gun is so accurately bal-
anced on its supports, and the mechani-
cal ar.rangements are so perfect, that but
one man is required to aim and fire it.
It is loaded at the breech, and the dis-
charge is effected by a "firing lever,"
which opens the valves of the reservoir,
allowing the highly compressed air to
enter the gun behind the torpedo, and
as the latter leaves the muzzle the valves
close automatically. T.he charge is ex-
ploded by means of an electric fuse, the
current for which is derived from a

small battery carried within the torpe-
do. Two forms of this fuse have been
designed--one closing the circuit and
causing the explosion upon impact with
the enemy's vessel, by forcing back a
small steel plunger projecting from the
extreme forward end of the torpedo;
while the other, requiring to be moist-
ened in order to render the battery
active, ignites the charge after the tor-
pedo has sunk below the surface of the
water.
While the main object of this paper is
to lay before its readers simply a descrip-
tion of the mechanical features of some
of the most approved torpedoes and tor-
pedo-vessels of the present day, the writer
desires to correct, so far as he may in a
closing sentence, the popular fallacy that
our great seaport cities and the coast-
line of our country can be protected by
torpedoes alone. Such weapons, valua-
ble adjuncts as they are to any system
of coast defence, must be. regarded as
only supplemental to modern ships,
guns, forts, and floating batteries.

FORTUNE.

By Elyot PlZeld.

INDIFFERENT, yet Fortune still pursues ;m
Hesperides' ripe fruit falls at their feet,
Uncaringly they glean the harvest sweet,
Nor dream their lot all the less blest would choose.
The wind blows high and brings the evil news
My ship has sunk. For them the tidings meet
Their sails skim harbor-bound their eyes to greet.
Though seeking not they find, while I but lose.
Beneath the sun life's magic waters glancem
My bark drifts wide. Not mine the power to guide
It nearer thine. Some wanton wind of chance
Compels the wandering currents, and they glide
And merge. To-day our prows float side by side.
Is Fate all cel when this joy she grants ?

THE RESIDUARY LEGATEE;

OR, THE POSTtlU)IOUS JEST OF THE LATE JOHN AUSTIN.

By J. S. of Dale.

PART THIRD : THE ADMINISTRATION.

I. h Lrar ov tIARTS.

T three years following May's un-
happy affair with the Countess t)olacca
de Valska had been uneventful. He had
not plunged again into foreign parts,
but became a student of the barbarities
of civilization. He saw what is termed
the world, particularly that manifestation
of it which attains its most perfect growth
in London and Paris. Perhaps it would
be too much to say that he forgot the
Countess de Valska, but certainly his
feelings toward that unhappy fair one
underwent certain modifications. And
as he was in the meantime in the receipt
of some twenty thousand a year from
the estate of the late John Austin, he by
degrees became more reconciled to the
extremely practical view the cruel count-
ess had taken of their duties in relation
to that gentleman's will.
He very often wondered as to who
might be the residuary legatee. It
would be a wild freak, that he was sure
of. It was quite on the cards for Uncle
Austin to have provided that, since his
nephew did not want the money, it
might go to the devil for all he cared.
It is more sad to say that, as time
went by, certain metaphysical doubts as
to the objective reality of the Cascadegli
and the Siberian mine began to obtrude
themselves. Faith of the most stubborn
description remained to him, so far as
the countess's Paris salon and her beau-
tiful self was concerned, but he failed to
see the necessary connection between
Trouville, Baden-Baden, Italia Irredenta,
and the Parisian police.
But May was a man of his word ; and
he looked forward, at first eagerly, and
afterward with mingled emotions, to
their promised next meeting in Brook-
line, Mass.
However, it gave him no serious
trouble until after his acquaintance with

the beautiful Mrs. Terwilliger Dehon.
Youth has a long falture ahead of it, and
a young man of twenty-seven easily dis-
counts obligations maturing only in six
years. But when May was thirty, and
well launched in London society--
whether it was the charms of Mrs.
Dehon aforesaid, or the vanishing of
youthful heroism and that increase of
comfort which attends middle life--a
political heroine like the Countess t)o-
lacca de Valska no longer seemed to
him the ideal consort for a man of his
temperament.
But 1Vh-s. Terwilliger Dehon--ah, Mrs.
Dehon ! Great heavens ! why had they
not met earlier before she had sacri-
ficed herself upon Terwilliger's com-
monplace altars, before her radiant
youth had been shrouded in tragedy ?
The Russo-lrench police may be suc-
cessfully evaded, but not so the laws of
society. Naught but misery could he
see in store for them both--one long
life-agony of divided souls.
Of course, it took some time before
this dismal prospect lay fairly out before
them. At their first meeting there was
nothing sadder in sight than the purple
hills of Exmoor and the clear cascades
of Bagworthy Water ; and their talk was
broken only by the cheerful yelp of
hounds. And there had been fortune,
too, in this; fortune we call fate, when
fortune turns out ill. He had hardly
seen her at the Cloudsham Meet, and but
just knew who she was. Thithei" he had
gone with his friends, the Leighs, to see
the red deer hunted in his ancient lair ;
and as he stood there, snuffing with his
horse the sea-breeze that came up from
Porlock Bay, immaculate in coat and
patent-leathers, she had ridden up with
a fat and pursy citizen sitting another
square-built brute beside her. A Diana,
by heaven! thought he; and, indeed,
she sat her horse as any goddess might,

440 THE RESIDUIR Y LEGal TEE..

Lynn, by Oare Church and Brendon, she
turned and rode up in the direction of
Chalk-water. May followed ; and hardly
had they left the Lynn and gone a fur-
long up the Chalk-water Combe, when
she struck sharp to the right, breasting
the very steepest part of Oare Oak Hill.
If she knew that he was behind her, she
did not look around; and May again
had all that he could do to keep his
guide in sight.
And now the event proved her skilful
venery. For as they crested Oare Oak
Hill, and the long bare swell of the moor
rolled away before them, the sharp cry
of the hounds came up like sounds of
victory in the valley just below. Well
had Diana known that either way of
the Iynn would be too full of his ene-
mies for the now exhausted deer to
take. It must make for Bagworthy
Water. Long ere they had ridden down
the Lynn to the meeting of the streams,
the hunt would have passed ; but now,
as they looked across and along the
lonely Doone Valley, they saw the full
pack far down at their feet, close by
the foaming stream.
Then May could see his leader whip
her horse, as if she would open the gap
between them ; and he set his teeth and
swore that he would overtake her, this
side the death. And he gained on her
slowly, and the purple and yellow
patches mingled to a carpet as they
whirled by him, and he felt the spring-
ing of his horse's haunches like the
waves of a sea ; and below them, hardly
apace with them, was the hunt and the
cry of hounds. Down one last plunging
valleymno, there was another yet to
cross, a deep side-combe running trans-
versely, its bottom hid in ferns. But
the hounds were now abreast of them,
below, and there was no time to ride up
and around. May saw her take it ; and
as she did, a great shelf of rock and turf
broke off and fell into the brook below.
He saw her turn and wave him back ; it
was the first notice she had taken of him ;
and he rode straight at the widened
breach and took it squarely, landing by
her side. Then, without a word, they
dashed down, alongside of the slope,
and there, in upper Bagworthy waters,
found the deer at bay, and the hounds ;
but of the hunt no sign, save Nicholas

Snow, the huntsman, with reeking knife.
He had already blooded his hounds ; and
now he sat meditatively upon a little
rock by the stream, his black jockey-cap
in his hands, looking at the body of the
noble stag, now lifeless, that had so
lately been a thing of speed and air. A
warrantable deer it was, and its end was
not untimely.
May pushed his panting horse up
nearer hers. She was sitting motion-
less, her cheeks already pale again, her
eyes fixed far off upon the distant moor.
"Mrs. Dehon !" said he, hat in hand.
The faintest possible inclination of
her head was his only response.
"I have to thank you for your lead,"
said May.
For one moment she turned her large
eyes down to him. "You ride well, sir,"
said she.
When the M. D. H. and others of the
hunt came up, they found these two
talking on a footing of ancient friend-
ship. The slot was duly cut off and
presented to Mrs. Dehon; and many
compliments fell to our hero's share, for
all of which May gave credit to the
beautiful huntress beside him.
Tom Leigh cocked his eye at this, but
did not venture to present him to her
after that twenty-mile run. And thus
it happened that to her our hero was
never introduced.
When Mr. Dehon arrived, some horn's
later, Tom Leigh led him up. "Mr.
Dehon," said he, "I think that you
should know my particular friend, lVh-.
Austin May." And Tom Leigh cocked
his eye again.
May looked at the pursy little old
man, and felt that his hatred for him
would only be buried in his enemy's
grave. But his enemy was magnani-
mous, and promptly asked them both
to dinner, which May did not scruple to
accept.

L I:}ERSEUS AND NDRO]HEDA.

AUSTIN MAY fell devoutly in love with
Mrs. Dehon. This was without doubt
the grande passion of his life. And it
was hopeless.
He was just at the age when such af-
fah's are sternest realities to modern

THE RESIDUAR Y LEGATEE.

men. He was beyond the uncertainty
of youth, and before the compromises
and practicalities of middle life. And
there was something about Gladys De-
hon to make a man who cared for her
ride rough-shod, neck or nothing, over
all things else. All the world admired
her; would have loved her had it dared.
There was no daling about it in Aus-
tin's case; his audacity was not self-
conscious ; he simply followed her as he
had followed her over combe and bea-
con on that Exmoor day.
People could tell him little about her,
save that she had been very poor and
very proud, and was very beautiful.
Gladys Darcy--that had been her name
---last of a broken family of Devon and
of Ireland. She had neither sister nor
brother, only a broken-down father, long
since sold out of his Household cap-
taincy. She had sold herself to Terwil-
liger Dehon, the lich speculator;and
she was his, as a cut diamond might
have been his ; bought with his money,
shining in his house, and he no more
within her secret self than he might
have been within the diamond's brilliant
surface. And two months after the
wedding her old father had died and
made the sacrifice in vain. Then she
became the personage that the world
-knew as the "beautiful Mrs. Dehon."
May used to dream and ponder about
her, long hours of nights and days;
and he fancied that something about
her life, her lonely bringing-up, her fa-
ther's precepts, had made her scornfully
incredulous of there being such a thing
as the novelist's love in life. She had
been a greater nature than her father,
and all mankind had been nothing to
her as compared 4th even him. Too
early scorn of this world's life prepaa-es
the soul for evil compromises.
Her character, her nature, she ex-
pressed in no way whatever. She had
neither intimate friends, charitable oc-
cupations, tastes, follies, nor faults. She
shone with a certain scornful glitter of
splendor, but even of old Dehon's mill-
ions she was not prodigal. She never
ilixted; she never looked at one man
long enough for that. Her one occu-
pation was hunting, and she rode to
hounds in a way to shake the nerves of
every hi. F. H. in England.

Tom Leigh was afraid of her; and
when they were asked for a week's visit
that autumn, in their box in Leicester,
refused to go. May went. And if there
was a man of whom she was not utterly
unconscious, he surely was the one.
Perhaps there was something about his
way that she liked. For, with neither
much speech, delay, nor artifice,
hero made his heart and soul up into a
small packet and threw them into her
deep eyes;and when she looked at him,
he had them; and when she looked
away, they were gone. And this he did
perfectly frankly and directly, but with-
out spoken words. The world saw it as
clearly as did she, and liked him none
the less for it. He was quite incapable
of any effort to conceal it ; old Terwilli-
ger might have seen it had he been so
minded. Possibly he did, and the
knowledge lent an added value to his
chattel in the old stockbroker's mind.
Mrs. Dehon herself treated May with
perfect simplicity, but with an infinite
gentleness, as the moon-goddess might
have looked upon Endymion.
This state of things got to be per-
fectly well known to the world. Such
things always are well known to the
world; nothing is more stl_king than
the perfect openness with which our
heart-histories are revealed in modern
life, except perhaps the ease with which
those most intimately concerned main-
rain a polite and unembarrassed ap-
pearance of utter ignorance upon the
subject. All the world loves a lover,
particularly a hopeless one ; and it was
quite the vot d'ordre of society that
year for people to ask Mrs. Dehon and
the handsome American to their houses
together.
And Mrs. Dehon ? Well, before the
coming of spring she felt a great and
trustful friendship for this incidental
castaway upon the waters of her troubled
life. May afterward remembered that
she told him many things about herself;
and she had spoken of herself to no one
else before, her own father included.
She even let him see a little of her heart.
And it is an axiom that he who sees ever
so little of a woman's heart has but to
take it. Seeing is possession. This is
the wisdom of the fair hlelusine, and
other wise old mediaeval myths.

THE RESIDUARY LEG4TEE.

It is needless to say that Ma had
absolutely forgotten the Colmtess de
Valska ; more completely than even she
had forgotten the Siberian mausoleum
of her Serge. If May thought of her
once in that year, it was to dismiss her
memory with a curse for his own folly,
and a mental oath that no Trouvillian
countess would part hiln, should his
way ever be clear to Gladys Darcy. He
would not recognize the hated name of
Dehon, even in his thoughts.
Now, it is probable that ours is the
first civilization known to history where
this state of things could exist, be mutu-
ally known, and continue in tranquil per-
manency. But it does--that is, it nearly
always does--and it is a credit, after
all, to our teaching and our times that
it does so. The ancient Perseus cut
Andromeda's chains and departed with
her by the next P. and O. steamer they
could signal ; the modern one sits down
on the strand beside her, and he and
Andromeda die to slow music--that is,
in case either should chance to die before
the malady is cm'ed. And Andromeda's
master relies on the strength of his
chains and on Perseus's good bi4nging-
up, and is not wholly displeased at the
situation. Particularly for a sly old
stock-broker like Terwilliger Dehon,
whose idea of values is based on the
opinion of the street, a Perseus to his
Andromeda is half the fun. The world,
on the whole, approves the situation ; but
the husband Dehon is not a popular char-
a6ter, and it likes the Perseus better.
But Austin May stood the passive rSle
for precisely twelve months; and then
he made up his mind that something
would have to break. He hoped it might
be the neck of old Terwilliger ; butProv-
idence seldom spoils a dramatic situa-
tion by so simple a denouement. And,
to tell the truth, conside14ng the way
the three rode to holmds, it was much
more likely to be his own or Gladys's.
One thing was sure: their triangular
relations were too strained to continue.
He came to this conclusion after one
precisely similar day upon Exmoor, a
year after their first meeting; except
that upon this occasion the deer took
to the sea below Glenthorne and was
drowned, and he and Gladys rode side
by side in silence.

Accordingly, that night Austin May
wrote a letter; and in the morning
showed Terwilliger a telegram from
America, took his departure, shook
hands hard with old Terwilliger, barely
touched the slender fingers of his wife,
but, when he did so, left the letter in
her hand. May kept no copy of this
letter ; but he remembered it very well.
It ran as follows:

"GIDYs :
"I must not stay in England any
more. I cannot bear it. I know that
you are tmhappy, and I must go where,
at least, I shall not see it. Nor can I
trust myself with you after our ride of
yesterday.
"Remember always that, wherever I
am, I am always and only yours. This
is a very strange thing to say; but I
think there are times when men and
women should show each other their
hearts, however much the truth may
shock the prudes and pedants. And I
do very much wish to say that if ever
you are free, I ask you to marry me.
"It is a sad thing that the circum-
stances of your wedded life are such
that I can say these things to you and
not offend you. But you have shown
me enough of your heart for this.
"I go now into Asia. A trivial duty
will call me to my family home for one
day, on August 14, 1886. Then, if I do
not hear of you there, I shall disappear
again. After that I shall wte you once
a year.
"Good-by,
"A. M."

I/I. E,AS AV CAntatA.

Poos Austin! A boy's love feeds on
the romance of hopelessness, flourishes
apace in the shadow of despair; it de-
lights in patient waiting, in faithful
fidelity, in lapses of years; but a man's
is. p.eremptory, immediate, uncompro-
mising. Some secret instinct bids a
Romeo to contemplate a tragedy with
cheerfulness; and ten to one that his
years of gloom change, as they fall be-
hind him, to "un joli souvenir." But
a man, middle-aged, knows when he
wants his Dulcinea, and he wants her

THE RESIDU.,,4R Y LEC,.,,4TEE.

here and now. No glamour of blighted
affections can make 111 ) for the hard facts
of life to him.
When a middle-aged man can't get
the woman he wants, there are three
recognized and respectable courses open
to him. He works a little harder, plays
a good deal harder, or he marries some-
one else. The last was out of the ques-
tion for a man so consumed by the
fires of passion as Austin May, but the
fuel of his heart was transformed into
nervous energy of the entire system.
He plunged again, like a rocket, into a
rapid and circtitous course of travel
and adventure; and, after a brilliant
career through the remote East, de-
scended, like the burned-out stick, some
fifteen months later, in San Francisco.
Thence he went home.
The fact was, he wanted rest. His
heart was tired of throbbing, his head
weary with thnHng. And all his mad
adventure had only tired the body, had
made him sleep at night, nothing more.
He had been through the world again,
but Gladys Dehon was all of it to him.
He thought of her now with a certain
dull pain---less madly, more hopelessly,
than in England the two years before.
He could not bear to go back to his
home. He went to Boston, and he saw
his lawyers; but he did not go out to
Brookline. This he vowed he would not
do until that day when he had promised
Gladys he would be there. He did not
forget that he had promised the cotmt-
ess, too ; but he was no longer so much
troubled by the countess. He would
kill her, if necessary.
Meantime, he went to pass the win-
ter in New York. He had himself
elected a member of two fashionable
clubs. He followed the hotmds in
Long Island and in Jersey. He went
to dinners and he danced at ger-
mans, albeit with an aching heart. He
renaturalized himself; he made friends
with his countrymen, and he studied his
countrywomen. He got himself once
more dsorient in American society.
He observed what respect was every-
where shown to the VanDees, and how
little, comparatively, one thought of the
McDums. He found that civilization
was pitched on a higher scale, finan-
cially, than he had supposed. Thirty

thousand a year ,was none too much for
a man to marry on. Now, Austin had
not over twenty thousand, even if he ful-
filled the hard conditions of his uncle's
will.
He took an interest in yachting, and
gave orders for a cutter that was to beat
the prevailing style of sloop. He also
imported a horse or two, and entered
one of them at Sheepshead Bay. He
had a luxuriously furnished flat, near
Madison Square. He went to St. Au-
gustine in the spring, with the Van-
Dees, and while there was introduced
to Georgiana lutherford. He saw her
afterward in New York. Early in Jtme
he asked her to marry him.
Miss Ruthelord was a young lady of
supreme social position, great wealth,
and beauty. She had for two years
been the leading newspaper belle of
New York society. Her movements,
her looks, her dresses, the state of her
health, the probable state of her affec-
tions-everything about her, to the very
dimples in her white shoulders had
been chronicled with crude precision in
the various metropolitan journals hav-
ing pretensions to haut ton (for high
tone is not a good translation), and
had thence been eagerly copied through-
out the provincial weeklies of the land.
Miss Rutherford was absolutely a per-
son to be desired.
It would not be fair to May to say
that he was false to Gladys Dehon. His
passion for her, too vehement, had
fairly burned itself out. In the two
years since he had left her, May's heart
had, as it were, banked its volcanic fires.
However fissured were its ravined
depths, the surface was at rest, and the
lava-flood that concealed it was ah-eady
cool. And a beautiful huntswoman
who had ridden out of sight of her first
husband, as had Gladys Dehon, was not
at all the sort of person for middle-
aged Austin May to marry and bring to
Boston. These things he felt for some
weeks before he proposed to Miss Ruth-
erford, and she was precisely the sort of
girl he saw was best. If old Uncle Aus-
tin had selected her himself, he could
not have made a better choice. And
well, thought May, he saw the motives
of his kind old tmcle's will, and the
wisdom born of much experience, and

REMEMBRANCE. 445

Vernons, at Beverly, and to spend three
weeks with the Breezes, at Mount Des.-
err, in August. He could not trail
about after her ; and it was only three
months, after all. So lVIay had con-
sented, with an ill grace ; and when she
left, two days later, he found nothing
better than to join Van_Knyper on a
yachting cise. Then he had gone up
on the Restigouche, salmon-fishing ; and
on the 12th of August he was in the
Maine woods.
We have told how, on the 14th of
August, he arrived at Brookline, true
to his appointment with all tl-ee. It
was awkward to leave the woods at such
a time; but May was a man of his word.
He got to Boston late in the evening
before, went to his club, and took an
early morning train for Brookline, as
we have seen.
And, perhaps, as we have also seen,
a much more awkward thing than this
had happened. Austin May was there,
ready to meet any one of them. The pe-
riod of probation requh'ed by the will
had elapsed.
But as May travelled up to the city in
that hot weather, he had been wonder-
ing to himself which and how many of
them he should see, and it had become
very clear to him that he did not feel

the least desire to see any one of the
tln'ee.
His uncle's will had well been justi-
fied. With shocked shamefacedness he
thought of the countess, that Trouville
heroine that he believed to be little bet-
ter than an adventuress, a gambler,
tracked by the police. And Mrs. De-
hon--well, if Mrs. Dehon were to ride
madly up that quiet Boston lawn, May
felt sure that he should flee in terror.
And Edith Rutherford mnow that it
came to the point, and after his three
months' consideration, May did not feel
that.he wished to marry even Edith
Rutherford.
In fact, as the day wore on, and the
reaction followed the artificial strength
given by the stimulants, his state of
mind had approximated to an abject
and unreasoning terror. And in this
mood he was, late in the afternoon,
when he turned and saw, stationary be-
fore his front door, that carriage, with
its footman in livery.
His one instinct was to conceal him-
self. Nervously he grabbed the heavy
"Burton's Anatomy ;" the secret door
swung open; the fountain in the lake
began to play, and in a score of sec-
onds May was hiding in its cool and
watery depths.

REMEMBRANCE.

By Julia C. R. Dorr.

I Do remind me how, when, by a bier,
I looked my last on an unanswering face
Serenely waiting for the grave's embrace,
One who would fain have comforted, said" "Dear,
This is the worst. Life's bitterest drop is here.
Impartial fate has done you this one grace,
That till you go to your appointed place,
Or soon or late, there is no more to fear."
It was not true, my soul! it was not true!
"Thou art not lost while I remember thee,
Lover and. friend!" I cry, with bated breath.
What if the years, slow-creeping like the blue,
Resistless tide, should blot that face from me ?
Not to remember would be worse than death!

448 THE DOIMNF4LL OF THE COMMUNE.

Though I knew all about the .oncert,
I did not deem it a fitting occasion to
be present myself, on a Sabbath day; but
I sent one of my secretaries, to see what
was to be seen and to report to me. IIe
stated that what he there beheld was a
most remarkable and interesting sight.
Ten thousand people filled all the apart-
ments, wandering everywhere at their
ease, and examining into every nook and
corner of the vast palace. The com-
ments of the rabble were most amusing.
My secreta T kept along with the crowd
everywhere, seeing all that was to be
seen, and listening to all that was said.
Great interest centred in the private
apartments of the Empress. The gor-
geous belongings were everywhere com-
mented upon by the mob. The bath-
room of the Empress attracted great
attention. It was represented as very
handsome, and as a marvel of luxury,
beauty, and taste. It was surrounded
by heavy plate mirrors. The bath was
cut out of solid marble. The ceilings
were covered with rich blue silk-velvet.
The faucets in the bath were of solid
silver. All that was seen was described
by the Communards as evidence of the
profligacy and the luxury of the Court,
in the vast increase of the taxes levied
upon them. Not one man in the crowd,
it is safe to say, had ever paid a cent of
taxes in his life.
The Journal Oiciel of the 18th of
May contained the proceedings of the
Commune of the previous day. Rigault,
Urbain, and Protot were the master-
spiiits of this meeting, and it was on this
occasion that a "Jury of Accusation"
was constituted. The judgments of this
jury were to be rendered summarily,
with or without evidence, with or with-
out hearing of the parties involved, and
the proceedings were not to be governed
by any rules. The judoznents rendered
were to be executed in twenty-four
hours. The greatest possible violence
was manifested by the members of the
committee on this occasion. In the
course of discussion one of the mem-
bers declared that the great question of
the moment was, "to annihilate our
enemies; we are here in a revolution,
and we are to act as revolutionaires ;
to constitute a tribunal which shall
judge, and whose decrees shall be ex-

ecuted without mercy and without de-
lay."
It was six o'clock on Monday morn-
ing, May 22d, when a friend came to my
room and awakened me, to tell me that
the government troops were in the city
and that the tri-color was floating on
the Arc de Triomphe. I dressed hur-
riedly and went out to see for myself,
as this great monument was but a short
distance from my lodgingu. When I
beheld that proud ensign of France
floating in the breeze, I felt that Paris
was saved, and that a terrible bur-
den had been lifted from my shoul-
ders. I then realized for myself what
was the effect of the sight of a flag
under similar circumstances, and re-
membered what had once been told me
by an old Galena friend. He was in
the State of Mississippi when the Rebel-
lion broke out, and had been ordered
summarily to leave the country. He
was fortunately enabled to reach a Mis-
si.ssippi steamboat on her way up the
river. When nearing Cairo the sight
of the Star Spangled Banner burst upon
him. "Never in the world," said he,
"had I had such a feeling come over me
as when I then beheld the American
flag, not a star blotted out nor a stripe
erased; the emblem of the glory and
grandeur of the Republic."
After a cup of coffee I started for
my legation, and learned that some Yer-
sailles troops had passed down the Rue
Frangois Premier. The long-looked-for
had come at last. There was great de-
moralization in the city, and particularly
among the National Guard;indeed, it
had seemed to me that if the govern-
ment had made the attack with more
energy its troops would certainly have
been inside before that time. The fight-
ing for a few days previous, around the
south side of the city, had been vex T fu-
rious. The Fort de Yanves had been
captured from the Communards a week
before, and the Fort de Montrouge
seemed to be at the end of its defence.
Confusion had been all the time increas-
ing in Paris. The Commune had been
torn by intestine dissensions and furi-
ous quarrels among its members; yet
the city was held--not so much by the
military strength of the insurrection-
ists, as by the failure of the attacking

450

THE DOI4NFALL OF THE COMMUNE.

inside the city. The few insurgent who
were there lost no time in getting out
of the way. lotice having been given,
the firing from the forts at this point
was soon stopped, and then it was that
the division of General Verg5 entered
the gate, at half-past three in the after-
noon, and took possession of the 1)oint
du Jour, having captured on their way
several barricades. Ducatel then be-
came the bearer of a flag of truce to
the insurgents, who seized him, and,
though he was suffering from a b.ayo-
net wound, carried him off to the Ecole
Mflitaire, tried him by a court-martial,
and condemned him to death. He was
rescued, however, by the sudden arrival
of the Versailles troops, at two o'clock
the next morning (Monday).

Raoul Rigault.

The military organization of the city
was as loose as possible ; and although
the Versailles troops had passed the
enceinte before four o'clock in the after-
noon, yet it was not known in the city
until after midnight, when the Commu-
nm-d authorities were fully advised of
what had happened. And then it was,
when it became too late, that there was
"hurrying to and fro ;" the tocsin was

sounded all over the city, the "gnrale"
was beaten, and the orderlies dashed
furiously in every direction; but all to
no practical purpose. The forces of the
lational Guard in the neighborhood
became completely demoralized and be-
gan to retreat hastily before the advanc-
ing forces, which were entering into the
city by the Porte St. Cloud. The con-
sequence was that the Communards,
who had been guarding the enceinte and
all the gates from the 1)orte St. Cloud to
the 1)orte des Ternes, found themselves
taken in the rear, and by four o'clock,
Monday morning, they had abandoned
all their positions and fled to the interior
of the city. The gates of Auteuil, 1)assy,
and Ia Muette, being then left unde-
fended, the troops of the line began pour-
ing in through all of them. It was not
long before the head of one column of
the Versailles troops advanced into the
city and passed along the right bank
of the Seine, on the Cours la Reine, and
cautiously advanced toward the 1)lace
de la Concorde. At the same time an-
other column crossed the Champs Ely-
s6es near the Arc de Triomphe, and
passed down by the Avenue de Fried-
land to the Rue St. I-Ionor& At this
time the insurgents had a formidable
battery on' the heights of Montmartre.
As soon as it was known that the Ver-
sailles troops were in the city this-bat-
tery began shelling the Place de l'Etoile.
By this time I had got down to my lega-
tion, was fairly seated for my work, and
had commenced dictating a despatch to
one of my secretaries. The shells soon
began falling in the immediate neigh-
borhood of the legation, but fortunately
we received no damage. There were
heavy defences about the 1)lace de
Concorde, and as the attack of the Ver-
sailles troops was not pressed with
much vigor they gained but very little
ground. At three o'clock in the after-
noon, the invading troops having got
possession of all that part of the city in
which my legation was situated, I in-
vited a friend to take a ride with me all
along those portions of the rampaas
commanded by Mont ValSrien.
We passed around by the 1)orte de
Dauphine (which was very neax my
residence) to the Porte St. Cloud.
had not been at my house for two weeks,

THE DOVNFALL OF THE COMMUNE. 451

but I found it only a very little injured.
Two pieces of shell had entered, but be-

_.

Protot,

sides the breaking of considerable glass
there was no material damage. Some
houses in the vicinity received more
shells than mine, and several of them
haA been pillaged. My servants had
continued to live in the cellar, where
they had considered themselves very
safe, and were enabled to keep out the
National Guard.
In going from the Porte de Dauphine,
which had not been very severely bom-
barded, to the Porte St. Cloud, we passed
the gates of La Muette, Passy, and Au-
teuil, treaches had been made in all of
them, and the destruction of property
in the enceinte was immense. Nothing
could live under the terrible fire of Mont
Valrien and Montretout. Military men
told me that the battery of Montretout
was the most terrible battery the world
had ever seen. Never could I have con-
ceived of such a "wreck of matter."
Guns dismounted, their carriages torn
in pieces, barricades levelled, and build-
ings entirely demolished. We saw along
the line of the ramparts many dead
bodies of the National Guard. Return-
ing from the Point du $our we saw ad-
ditional troops going in, and the streets
of Passy were crowded with them. It
was supposed there would be one hun-
dred thousand troops of the line with-
in the city before moling. As they

tvanced, driving all the Communards
before them, they were received with
unbounded joy by the few people re-
maining. The citizens were especially
congratulating each other that they were
finally delivered from the oppression
and terror of the last two months. Late
in the afternoon of Monday, May 22d,
Marshal MacMahon, who had command
of all the government forces, had en-
tered Paris and established his head-
quarters at Passy. In the evening I
rode out to see him, to advise him of
what I knew in relation to the Arch-
bishop of Paris (who, as I shall soon de-
scribe, was then held as a hostage in the
hands of the Communists), and to ex-
press the hope that the government
troops might yet be enabled to save
him. The interview was anything but
reassuring to me, and I left the head-
quarters of the Marshal feeling that the
fate of the Archbishop was sealed. In-
deed, it tmed out that before this time
he had been removed fl-om Mazas to the
prison of La Roquette, preliminary to
his assassination.
The night of Monday and Tuesday,
lIay 22 and 23, 1871, was a frightful
one. The firing continued all night.

Urbain.

Shells fl'om the Communard battery on
Montmartre were contintmlly falling in
our quarter, but it was remarkable how
little the damage had been. After I
reached the legation, Tuesday morning,
I mounted to the top of the building,
in order to get a view from ttt emi-

THE DOVNFALL OF THE COMMUNE. 55

on the spot. The state of feeling in
Paris at this time was beyond descrip-
tion. What had passed had filled the
whole population opposed to the Com-
mune with horror and rage. Arrests
were made by the government authori-
ties by the wholesale. The innocent
and the guilty were alike embraced.
On the afternoon of the 25th I went
dow into the heart of the city, to see
for myself what was the progress of
events. Very little had been done to-
ward putting matters into shape in those
parts of the city which had been already
captured. The fire was still raging in the
lue loyale. The lIinistry of Finance
was completely consumed, with every rec-
ord and paper--a loss that was utterly
incalculable. The insurgents having
been driven to the Place de la Bastille,
I was enabled to go much farther out
than I did the day before. I passed up
the Rue de livoli, by the smoking ruins
of the Tuileries, and had the inexpres-
sible satisfaction of seeing for myself
that the Louvre, with all its untold and
priceless treasures, had been saved. As
I continued up the lue loyale, it seemed
as if I were following in the track of
an army. I{eaching the tIStel de Ville,
I found all the appearance of an in-
trenched camp. Immense barricades
had been erected on every street lead-
ing into the square. I am told that the
insurgents abandoned it without resist-
ance, finding themselves on the point of
being hemmed in ; but, before leaving,
they had applied the torch to that pile
so associated with the history of Paris
and of all France, and the pride of all
Frenchmen for centuries gone by. low
there was nothing but a mass of smoul-
de14ng ruins. Two squares of magnificent
buildings near the Place de !'HStel de
Ville had also been destroyed. There
was a regiment of troops of the line on
the quay, but scarcely another soul was
to be seen in the entire neighborhood.
Eight dead bodies of insurgents,
partly consumed by fire, lay on the
ground right in front of what was the
main entrance to the building, and they
presented the most horrible appear-
ance; indeed, there were sad sights on
every hand. On my return to my lega-
tion I took the Place de l'Opra on my
way, and I do not recollect a sadder spec-

tacle than that which there presented
itself. I saw some five hundred ps-
onersmmen, women, and childrenm
who had been arrested, indiscrimi-
nately, in some of the worst parts of
the city, who were being marched out
to Versailles. There was a squad of
cavalry marching both in front and rear
of them, and troops of the line on either
side. I must say they were the most.
sinister and hideous-looking persons
that I had ever seen in the whole course
of my life. It is, perhaps, not to be
wondered at, that the sight of these
prisoners excited the people to the
highest pitch of wrath and indignation,
and every opprobrious epithet was be-
ing heaped upon them. The escort
alone prevented violence from being in-
flicted upon them at about every step.
Indeed, I saw a well-dressed woman
deliberately leave her escort and walk
toward the prisoners and inflict many
blows on some of the women. The rage
seemed to be greater against the women
than against the men, for in reality they
were the worse of the two. An officer
told me that the order was to shoot
every man taken in arms against the
government. I could not vouch for the
truth of what he told me, but I do know
that large numbers of members of the
lational Guard and many others had
been summarily executed.
On Friday noon, May 26th, the sound
of battle was still heard in the remote
parts of the city, and new fires had broken
out. I had no news of the fate of the
Archbishop of Paris, but it was the gen-
eral belief that all the hostages had been
shot. Unfortunately, that belief was
too soon made a certainty.

After an insurrection of seventy-one
days, such as had never been known in
the annals of civilization, Paris was
finally delivered, Sunday, lIay 28, 1871.
The last positions held in the city by
the Communard troops were captured
at four o'clock of the afternoon of that
day. Some of the insurgent troops had
gone into the Fort of Vincennes, but,
being surrounded by General Vinoy,
they surrendered unconditionally on
hIonday, the 29th day of hIay. The
reign of the Commune cf Paris, pursu-
ing its career of murder, destruction,

THE DOIMNFALL OF THE COMMUNE. 4:57

Yet it was hardly possible to suppose
that any injury could come to a man like
the Archbishop Darboy.
The bloodthirsty Raoul l%gault had
signalized his brutality, after reaching
almost supreme power in the Commune,
by ordering this arrest. The order was
in these words : "Order the arrest of citi-
zen Darboy (Georges), calling himself
Archbishop of Paris," and on the 4th of
April the Archbishop was arrested at his
residence. The agents of the Commune
told him that they arrested him simply
as a "hostage," that they wished to treat
ldm with all the respect due to his rank,
and that he would be permitted to have
his servant with him. They transported
him from his residence to the :prefectm-e
of :police in his own carriage, but when
once in prison, instead of receiving the
respect due to his rank, he was treated
like a vulgar criminal. He was soon re-
moved from the prison of the :Prefecture

of :Police to the prison of Mazas, in an
ordinary prison-caniage. No sooner
was he in his cell than his isolation be-
came complete. I-Ie received no news,
he heard nothing from the outside, and
saw no persons, not even his fellow-pris-
oners.
Shut up as he was in his dreary cell,
forbidden communication with any per-
son, it should not be wondered at that
I temporarily lost sight of him, in the
whirl of the terrible events then passing
in :Paris. But on the 18th of April the
:pope's nuncio, lavius Chigi, wrote me
a confidential communication, asking me
to receive kindly four ecclesiastical can-
ons of the Metropolitan Church of :paris,
who would come to me to claim my pro-
tection in favor of their Archbishop from
the insurgents ; and he asked to be per-
mitted to join his prayers to those of the
good canons, and to assm-e me of his
great gratitude for all that I thought I

An Arrest of Ptroleuses

THE DOIMNFALL OF THE COMMUNE. 459

from prison. I said that the incarcera-
tion of such a man, under the pretext of
holding him as a hostage, was an out-
rage, and that the Commune, in its own
interest, should at once release him. He
answered that it was not a matter within
his jurisdiction, and however much he
would like to see the Archbishop re-
leased, he thought, in consideration of
the state of affairs then in Paris, it would
be useless to take any steps in that direc-
tion. The people would never permit
the release ; and if he (Cluseret) should
attempt to intervene in his behalf, it
would not ouly render the situation of
the prisoner more deplorable, but it
would be fatal to him (Cluseret). Indeed,
I very much doubted myself whether the
Commune would dare, in the excited
state of feeling st the moment, to release
the Archbishop; but I told General
Cluseret that I must see him and ascer-
tain his real situation, the condition of
his health, and whether he was in want
of anything, lie replied that he could
see no objection to that, but said that it
was necessal T to get a permission from
the Procurer of the Commune, laoul
ligault, and suggested that he would
go with me himself to see the latter, at
the Prefecture of Police. We at once
descended the gilded staircase into the
court-yard, where we found his splendid
coup5 and driver in livery awaiting us.
tie invited me to take a seat with him in
his coupS, while my secretary followed in
my own.
In reaching the apartment occupied
by ligault we had to traverse the
crooked and dirty alleys of the horrid
old prison of the Prefecture, all filled
with the brigand National Guard. lec-
ognizing the Iinister of War, they sa-
luted him with the touch of the kepi,
and we passed unmolested. Demanding
to see ligault, though it was now eleven
o'clock, we were told that he was not
yet up, and my private secretal T and my-
self were then ushered into the magnifi-
cent salon of the Prefecture, to wait
until Cluseret should have had an inter-
view with the Procurer of the Commune
in bed. While we were waiting we saw
the servants preparing for the midday
breakfast in the beautiful dining-hall
adjoining the salon. I should think the
table was set for at least thirty covers,

and it presented that elegant appearance
which belongs to the second breakfast
in all well-to-do households in Paris.
It was fully a half-hour before Cluseret
returned, and he brought with him
document all in the hand-writing of
ligault, containing the desired permis-
sion.
Aned with this unquestionable au-
thority, my private secretary and myself
immediately started for the prison of
Mazas, where we were admitted without
difficulty, and treated with every consid-
eration by the guardians. Theh- callous
hearts seemed to have softened toward
the Archbishop, and they appeared glad
to welcome us as his friends. As
special favor, we were pexnitted to en-
ter into his gloomy and naked little cell.
He had been in prison more than two
weeks, and had seen no person except
the jailers, and he was utterly ignorant
of what had been done during his im-
prisonment. I-Ie seemed delighted to
see me, and I was deeply touched by
the appearance of the venerable prelate.
With his slender person, his form some-
what bent, his long beard (for he appar-
ently had not been shaved since his
confinement), his face haggard with ill-
health mhe could not have failed to
move the most indifferent observer.
told him what the object of my visit
was, and he at once entered upon an ex-
planation of his situation. I was struck
with his cheerful spirit, and captivated
with his interesting conversation. I-Ie
was one of the most charming and
agreeable of men, and was beloved alike
by the rich and poor. I-Ie had spent
his whole life in acts of charity and be-
nevolence, and was particularly distin-
guished for his liberal and catholic
spirit. The cruelty of his position and
prescience of his coming fate had not
changed the sweetness of his disposi-
tion nor the serenity of his temper. No
words of bitterness or reproach for his
persecutors escaped his hps, but he
seemed desirous rather to make excuses
for the people of 1)aris, to whom he had
been alhed by so many ties during his
whole life. I-Ie said he was patiently
awaiting the logic of events, and praying
that Providence might find a solution
to the terrible troubles in Paris without
the further shedding of blood, and he

460 THE DOI/I/'NFALL OF THE COMMUNE.

added, in a tone of melancholy, tne ac- allowed to send him newspapers and
cents of which will never be effaced from other reading-matter, and told him that
my memory : "I have no fear of death ; I should avail myself of the permission
it costs but little to die ; I am ready, granted to often visit him, in order that
That which distresses me is the fear of I might alleviate his situation, if possi-
what will come to the other prisoners; ble. From my conversation with him,
the drunken men, the cries of death, the and from all I saw, and from all I knew
knife, the hatchet, the bayonet." in respect to the Commune, I could not

The Prison of Mazas.

I found him confined in a cell about
six feet by ten, possibly a little larger,
which had the ordinary furniture of the
Mazas prisona wooden chair, a small
wooden table, and a prison-bed. The
cell was lighted by one small window.
As a political prisoner, he was permitted
to have his food brought to him from
outside of the prison, and in answer to
my suggestion that I would be glad to
send him anything he might desire, and
furnish him all the money he might
want, he said he was not in need at that
time. We were the only persons that
he had seen from the outside world
since his imprisonment. He had not
even been permitted to see the news-
ppers, or have any intelligence what-
ever of passing events. Before leaving
the prison I made application to be

conceal from myself the real danger that
he was in, and I hoped more and more
strongly that I might be instrumental
in saving him from the fate that seemed
to threaten him. It was shortly after my
first visit to the Archbishop, on the 28th
of April, that he addressed me the note
which is reproduced on page 458.

The permission given me by Raoul
Rigault to see the Archbishop, which
has been referred to, having been an-
nulled by a general order to revoke all
permissions given to anybody to see any
prisoners, I was obliged to procure an-
other special permit for this purpose.
On the 18th of May, therefore, I sent
my private secretary to Raoul Rigault
to obtain such permit. I-Ie reported to
me that he found Rigault very much in-

THE DOIMNFALL OF THE COMMUNE. 461

disposel to give what I desired ; but he
insisted so strongly that ligault finally
sat down and, with his own hand, wrote
a permission, a fac-simile of which is
given on page 466.
This is a cynical and characteristic
document, and there are no words
wasted, lIr. McKean was my private
secretary. I was not designated as
Minister of the United States, but styled
"Citizen Washburne," and the Arch-
bishop is simply described as the "pris-
oner (dtenu) Darboy." The first use I
made of the permit was on the 21st of
May, as will be seen by the indorsement
of the date made by the guardian of the
prison. ("Seen lIay 21, 1871.") The
permit, of course, enabled me to enter
freely. I no sooner got inside than I saw
that there was a great change in affairs.
The old guardians, whom I had often
seen there, were not present, but all were
new men, and apparently of the worst
character, who seemed displeased to see
me. They were a tittle dl-unk, and were
disputing each other'..s authority. I asked
to see the Archbishop, and expected to
be permitted to enter his cell as I had
hitherto. This request was somewhat
curtly refused, and they then brought
the unfortunate man out of his cell into
the corridor, to talk with me in their
presence. The interview was therefore,
to me, very unsatisfactory, both from
the surroundings and from the condi-
tion of distress in which the Archbishop
seemed to be. It was impossible to
talk with him freely, and I limited my-
self to saying that, while I regretted
that I had nothing encouraging to com-
municate to him, I had taken pleasure
in calling tO see him in order to ascer-
tain the state of his health, and if it
would not be possible for me to ren-
der him some further personal service.
Such was the situation that I thought
proper to bring my interview to a
speed)-close; then it was that for the
last time I shook the hand of the Arch-
bishop, and bade him what proved to be
a final adieu.
The entry of the troops into Paris on
Monday, lIay 22d, and their advance
into the heart of the city during that
forenoon, completely cut all the lines
between the legation and the prison
of Mazas, where the Archbishop had

been confined. It was therefore ut-
terly impossible to have any commu-
nication with him. When the Commu-
nard authorities began to realize their
situation, there was no limit to their
madness and desperation. They had
at this time a very large number of
persons held as hostages, and prompt
action in respect to them became neces-
sary. The leading spirits of the exph-ing
Commune united in council to decide
upon their fate. That, indeed, had been
practically decided on before, but it was
now necessary to carry out the foregone
determination. Without any considera-
tion of the matter whatever, a decision
was soon reached that the hostages
should be put to death.
I never knew.exactly for what reason
it was determined by those who formed
the council that the hostages should be
transferred from the prison of lIazas to
the prison of La loquette. In the even-
ing of the 22d this removal of the pris-
oners took place. The prison-carriages
were called and stationed in the court
of lIazas. The victims were brought
out and ordered to take their places in
the carriages, lews had spread in the
neighborhood that the prisoners were to
be transferred, and an immense crowd of
men, women, and chilch-en soon gathered
and surrounded the carriages, and com-
menced to heap upon the victims the most
shameful insults. The passage from the
one prison to the other was a long and
painful one. The carriages allwent at a
walk, and by a long route, in order to
take the prisoners through that part of
the city most densely populated by the
Communards. They did not reach La
loquette until eight o'clock in the even-
ing, and it was a long time before cells
were assig-ned to them.

The particulars of what followed I
learned later, when, on June 2d, after
the downfall of the Commune, I visited
the prison.
The change in Paris in the two or three
days before that date had been marvel-
lous. Though ingress and egress were
difficult, the city was alive with peo-
ple. The smouldering fires had been
extinguished and the tottering walls had
been torn down. The barricades had
been everywhere in incredible numbers

462 THE DOId/NFALL OF THE COMMUNE.

and strength. They were on the *boule-
vards, on the avenues, and on the by-
streets, and now they had nearly all dis-
appeared. Every afternoon I had taken

by the Archbishop. These little trifles
were of no value except as souvenirs,
and the guardian was kind enough to
permit me to take some of them.

' The Abb Deguerry.
..-
a ride through those parts of the city
where there had been the most fighting,
and it was on the afternoon of June d,
when making my last round, going to
Belleville, Pre Lachaise, La Villette,
Place de 1 Bastille, etc., that I went to
L Roquette in order to get information
in regard to the last hours of the _M-ch-
bishop. Everything relating to the fte
of that illustrious man excited within me
the deepest interest. By the courtesy
of the officer in charge, who was one of
the old guardians of the prison, I was
shown into the cell which the Archbishop
had occupied from the time he was
brought from Vlazas to the moment that
he was taken out to be shot.
The cell was even smaller than the one
he occupied at Vlazas, but it was higher
up, better lighted, and more cheerful.
There was a small chair, a little table,
and a few loose things lying upon the
table which had evidently been left there

deliver up the prisoners,
saying that he would not
consent to such a massacre
of men confided to his care without more
formal orders. A long dispute thereupon
arose, which finally ended by the direc-
tor's giving consent to deliver up six
victims who had been especially desig-
nated. The men awaited the decision im-
patiently in the court, and as soon as the
delegates had got the consent of the di-
rector to give up the prisoners they all
mounted the staircase pell-mell to the
first story, where the hostages were then
confined.
In the presence of such a contemplated
crime a silence came over these assas-
sins, who awaited the call of the names
of the victims. The names of the six
martyrs were called. The President
Bonjean, occupying cell No. 1, was the
first; the Abb Deguerry, occuping cell
No. 4, was the second; and the last
called was Monseigneur Darboy, Arch-
bishop of Paris, who occupied cell No.
3. The doors of the cells were then

THE DOI4/NFALL OF THE COMMUNE. 468

opened by the officer of the prison,
and the victims were all ordered to
leave. They descended, going to the
foot of the staircase, where they em-
braced each other, and had a few words,
the last on earth. 1Never was there a
more mournful cortege, nor one cal-
culated to awaken sadder emotions.
Monseigneur Darboy, though weak and
enfeebled by disease, gave his arm to
Chief Justice Bonjean, and the venerable
man, so well known in all Paris, Abb4
D%-merry, leaned upon the alns of the
two priests. A good many straggling
National Guards and others had gath-
ered around the door of the prison as
the victims went out, and they heaped
upon them the vilest epithets, to an
extent that aroused the indignation of a
sub-lieutenant, who commanded silence,
sa)4ng to them, "that which comes to
these persons to-day, who
knows but what the same
r-ill come to us to-mor-
row?" And a man in a
blouse added, "men who
go to meet death ought
not to be insulted; none
but cowards will insult the
unfortunate." When they
arrived in the court of La
Roquette, darkness had al-
ready come on, and it was
necessary to get lanterns
to conduct the victims be-
tween the high walls which
surrounded the court.
Nothing shook the filn-
hess of these men when
they were thus marched to
assassination. The Arch-
bishop was the coolest and
firmest, because the great-
est. He shook each one
by the hand and gave him
his last benedic,tion. When
they arrived at the place
where theywere to be shot,
the victims were all placed
against the walls which

fired their fatal shots. He did not fall
at the first volley, but stood erect, calm,
and immovable, and before the other
discharges came which launched him
into eternity, he crossed himself three
times upon his forehead. The other vic-
tims all fell together. The marks of
the bullets after they had passed through
their bodies were distinctly visible. The
Archbishop was afterward mutilated and
his abdomen cut open. All the bodies
were then put into a cart and removed
to Pre Tachaise, which was but a few
squares off, where they were thrown into
a common ditch, (from which, however,
they were happily rescued before decom-
position had taken place.)

On returning from Ta loquette I
came by the Palace of the Archbishop,
where his body was lying in state. He

President Bonjean.

enclosed the sombre edifice of the prison was so changed that I hardly knew him.
of Ta Roquette. The Archbishop was Great numbers of the good people of
placed at the head of the line, and the Paris were passing through the palace,
fiends who murdered him scratched with to look for the last time upon him who
their knives a cross upon the stone in was so endeared to them by his benev-
the wall at the very place where his head olent acts, his kindly disposition, and
must have touched it at the moment they his consideration for the poor and the

464: THE DOIMNFALL OF THE COMMUNE.

lowly. In all the six or seven interviews
I had with him in prison, except the last,
I always found him cheerful, and some-
times even gay, and never uttering a
word of complaint. No man could be
with him without being captivated by
his cheerful disposition, his Christian
spirit, and interesting conversation. I-Ie
was leaed, accomplished, and elo-
quent ; and, above all, he was good. In
his religious and political sentiments he

expense of the public treasury. Great
preparations were made for the funeral
ceremonies, and it was one of the most
emotional and imposing funeral services
that I ever attended.
After the executions just described
the prison of La loquette was the the-
atre of one of the most extraordinary
incidents connected with the Commune ;
and when the guardian had shown me
everything connected with the last hours

&chbishop Darbo] in his Cell in [a oquee.
(The cell and suoundings from a phoaph made lair.)

was most liberal. He met his fate with
the fianness of a Christian martyr, and
anyone who knew him could not but
join in a tribute of sincere mourning.
For myseff, I can never think of him
without being overwhelmed with emo-
tions that I am scarcely able to express.
His funeral, and that of the other vic-
tims massacred with him, took place at
the church of Totre Dame, in Paris,
June 7, 1871. The Tational Assembly,
at Versailles, worthily interpreting the
sentiments of all lrance, decided that
the interment should take place at the

of the hostages, he said he wanted to
show me that portion of the prison
where, had taken place  most terrible
struggle between the Tational Guard
and some psoners whom it had been
detenined by the Commune authorities
to mm-der. On lriday, May 26th, thir-
ty-eight gendaanes, and sixteen priests
were conducted from La 1Roquette to
l6re Lachaise and there shot. The next
day, May 27th, as the Versailles troops
approached nearer and nearer the Com-
mune, the Committee of lublic Safety.
which had sought La Roquette as a place

THE DOI/VNFALL OF THE COMMUNE. 465

of refuge, issued an order to shoot in
cold blood all the priests, soldiers, and
Sergents de Ville who were still in the
prison. These fiends installed them-
selves in the office of the register of the
prison for the purpose of seeing their
orders carried out. On the afternoon
of the 25th of May everything was got
ready for this promiscuous assassina-
tion. One of the jailers, M. Pinet, who
had observed all that was going on, and
had been advised of what was to take
place, determined, if possible, to save the
prisoners, even at the sacrifice of his own
life. Just before the order was to be
given for them to be taken down into the
court, he rushed in and opened all their
cells and told the prisoners that it had
been determined to murder them, and
charged each one to arm himself with
whatever he could get into his hands for
the purpose of defence.
The guardian took me into the room
where a fearful contest had then taken
place. The prisoners had fastened the
doors, and built barricades inside, be-
hind which they could defend them-
selves when attacked. Mattresses had
been put up, but these were set on fire
for the purpose of suffocating the men
behind them. The whole place pre-
sented to me the most extraordinary ap-
pearance. Every possible effort was
made by the Communards to capture
the prisoners, who defended themselves
with the energy of despair ; and this des-
perate attack continued for four days.
Finding that they could not capture
them by force, they then resorted to se-
duction, assuring them that they were
there simply for the purpose of restor-
"ing the prisoners to liberty. Unfortu-
nately, some priests and soldiers who
were prisoners allowed themselves to be
deceived by these wretches and were
persuaded to leave their defences, ex-
pecting to be placed at liberty. No
sooner, however, were they outside than
they were all seized and shot.
The night of Saturday, the 27th, in
the prison was one of the most ex-
traordinary and horrible that could be
conceived of. The prison was sur-
rounded by.howling crowds uttering
menacing cres, and as the prisoners
began to see some chance of escape, they
grew more determined in their defence.
VOLo I.---O

At last, at daybreak, on Sunday, May
28th, there came to the besieged victims
the sound of the musketry-firing of the
Versailles troops, and at half-past five in
the morning the barricade opposite the
prison was carried by a vigorous attack
of the infantry of marine which then took
possession of the building. The assas-
sins, who for some time had been on the
look-out for the advance of the Versailles
troops, prepared themselves for their es-
cape. Unfortunately, too many of them
got away. There were ten ecclesiastics,
forty Sergents de Ville, and eighty-two
soldiers of the line who were restored
to liberty after four days of combat and
of cruel agony which it is almost impos-
sible to describe.
On the afternoon of May 28, 1871,
M. Thiers, Chief of the Executive Power,
issued a proclamation, announcing the
successful operations in Paris, and com-
plimenting the army for the bravery
that had been displayed.
On the same day Marshal lIacMahon
issued the following proclamation : "In-
habitants of Paris : The army of France
came to save you;Paris is delivered;
our soldiers carried, at four o'clock, the
last positions occupied by the insur-
gents. To-day the struggle is finished.
Our labor and security will now revive."

Later there was also published the
following order :

"Soldiers and Sailors: Your courage
and devotion have triumphed over all
obstacles. After a siege of two months,
and after a battle of eight days in the
streets, Paris is delivered. In tearing
this City from the hands of the wretches
who projected burning it to ashes, you
have preserved it from lndn ; you have
given it back to France. The entire
country applauds the success of your
patriotic efforts, and the National Assem-
bly, by which it is represented, has ac-
corded you the recompense most worthy
of you."

Never was so completely demonstrated
the vitality and energy of the French
people as immediately after the sup-
pression of the insurrection in Paris.
The disastrous termination of the war
with Germany, followed by the Corn-

THE QUIET PILGRIM.

By Edith M. Thomas.

What shall I say ? He hath both spoken unto me and Himself hath done it: I shall go softly
all my years in the bitterness of my soul.--IsAIA xxxvlII. 15.

WHEN on my soul in nakedness
I-Iis swift, avertless hand did press,
Then I stood still, nor cried aloud,
Nor murmured low in ashes bowed;
And, since my woe is utterless,
To supreme Quiet I am vowed:
Afar from me be moan and tears--
I shall go softly all my years.

Whenso my quick, light-sandalled feet
Bring me where Joys and Pleasures meet,
I mingle with their throng at will;
They know me not an alien still,
Since neither words nor ways unsweet
Of stored bitterness I spill:
Youth shuns me not, nor gladness fearsm
For I go softly all my years.

xVhenso I come where Griefs convene,
And in my ear their voice is keen,
They know me not, as on I glide,
That with Arch-Sorrow I abide.
They haggard are, and droop'd of mien,
And round their brows have cypress tied:
Such shows I leave to light Grief's peers--
I shall go softly all my years.

Yea, softly! heart of hearts unknown.
Silence hath speech that passeth moan,
More piercing-keen than breathed cries
To such as heed, made sorrow-wise.
But save this voice without a tone,
That runs before me to the skies,
And rings above thy ringing spheres,
Lord, I go softly all my years!

AMERICAN ELEPHANT MYTHS.

By W. B. Scott.

ATouo it is now a well-known fact
that the earth was formerly inhabited
by many races of animals which have
entirely disappeared, it is only within

Priest with Elephant Head-dress Palenque (Waldeck).

the last century that the notion of ex-
tinct animals has been accepted even
by scientific men. The attempts which
before that were made to explain the
presence of huge bones and teeth in the
soft of Europe, America, and Northern
Asia, seem very amusing when read by
the light of our present knowledge.
The range of conjecture was, however,
a limited one, and it is interesting to
observe the strong likeness of the theo-
ries constructed by the sages of Greece
and Rome, India and China, medimval
and modern Europe, to the myths and
traditions found among the savages of

Siberia and the two Americas. The
giants, dragons, and griffins and other
monsters which abound in the folk-lore
of all nations, may often be distinctly
traced to conjectures as to the bones of
extinct elephants.
The attention of Greek and loman
naturalists was early drawn to the tusks
and bones of fossil elephants, which are
so abundant in the soft of Europe, from
which they constructed vast giants.
Thus we have the bones of Orestes dug
up at Tegea by the Spartans, the skele-
ton of Antmus in Mauritania, that of
Ajax in Asia Minor, a giant forty-six
cubits high found in Crete, and a host
of others. Herodotus, Strabo, Pliny,
and Philostratus give much space to
descriptions of these monsters. Even
the Christian fthers did not disdain to
make use of these tales. St. Augustine,
in proof of the greater stature of the
Antediluvians, says : "I myself, along
with some others, saw on the shore at
Utica a man's molar tooth of such a size
that, if it were cut down into teeth such
as we have, a hundred, I fancy, could
have been made out of it."
Medimval hterature abounds in giants.
A monstrous one was found in England
in 1171 ; the bones of 1)olyphemus were
dug up in Sicily, and from time to time
such remains were discovered all over
Europe, and as the tinders always knew
the particular individual to whom the
bones belonged, many duly labelled were
hung up in the churches. Thus an ele-
phant's shoulder-blade did duty for St.
Christopher in a Venetian church, and
the bones of Teutobocchus, king of the
Teutons (now known to be a mastodon's
skeleton), were, according to Mazuya,
found in a brick tomb bearing the in-
scription, "Teutobocchus rex." Felix
1)later's famous giant, which still figm'es
in the arms of Lucerne, arose from some
elephant remains found in 1577. Alarge
elephant's tooth was sent from Constan-
tinople to Vienna and offered to the
emperor for two thousand thalers. The
discoverers pretended to have found it

AMERICAN ELEPHANT MYTHS. 471

Curiously enough, the earliest men-
tion of any American elephant is from

Brandt's Restoration of the Mammoth.

the pen of " smattering, chattering,
would-be college-president, Cotton Ma-
ther" (as ttolmes calls him). This is a
letter published in the " Philosophical
Transactions" for 1714: The great
witch-catcher confirms the scriptural
account of antediluvian giants, just as
St. Augustine had done before him, by
describing elephants' bones and teeth,
particularly by a tooth brought to lew
York in 1705, with a thigh-bone seven-
teen feet long. "There was another
[tooth], near a pound heavier, found
near the banks of ttudson's liver,
about fifty leagues from the sea, a
great way below the surface of the
earth, where the ground is of a dif-
ferent color and substance from the
other ground for seventy-five feet long,
which they supposed to be from the rot-
ting of the body to which these bones
and teeth did, as he supposes, once be-
long." Governor Dudley, of Massachu-
setts, wrote of these same bones to Cot-
ton Mather, that he was "perfectly of
opinion that the tooth will agree only to
a human body, for whom the flood only
could prepare a funeral; and, without
doubt, he waded as long as he could
keep his head above the clouds, but
must, at length, be confounded with all
other creatures."
The remains of mastodons and ele-
phants are scattered so abundantly over
the United States that they very soon
attracted the general attention of the
settlers, as they had already done in the
case of the Indians. The early accounts
deal much with the mam'ellous, the giant

theory of Mather and Dudley being
the favorite, though the Indian tradi-
tions found acceptance
with many. The French
anatomist, Daubenton,
first showed that these
were elephants' bones,
but William Hunter (in
1767) advanced a theory
which has shown an as-
tonishing vitality, being
repeated with variations
down to a comparatively
recent period. Hunter
showed to his own com-
- plete satisfaction that
the mastodon (and he
supposed the mammoth
to be the same) was not an elephant at all,
but a huge carnivorous animal, and con-
cludes : "And if this animal was indeed
carnivorous, which I believe cannot be
doubted, though we may as philoso-
phers regret it, as men we cannot but
thank heaven that its whole generation
is probably extinct."
Washington and Jefferson, little as we
are accustomed to think of them as men
of science, both showed considerable
interest in the subject of these curious
bones, lobert Annan had a collection
of such remains at his house in Central
lew York, and writes : "I-Iis Excellency,
General Washington, came to my house
to see these relics. I-Ie told me he had
in his house a grinder, which was-found
on the Ohio, much resembling these."
Jefferson, on the other hand, wrote
voluminously on the subject. In his
"lotes on Virginia" he breaks a lance
with Buffon, who had ventured to cast
aspersions on the size of American ani-
mals. In speaking of the mastodon,
which, like all the writers.of his time, he
confounds with the mammoth, he says :
"That it was not an elephant, I think
ascertained by proofs equally decisive.
I  not avail myself of the authority
of the celebrated anatomist who, from
an examination of the form and struct-
ure of the tusks, has declared they were
essentially different from those of the
elephant, because another anatomist,
equally celebrated, has declared, on a
like examination, that they are precisely
the same. But (1)the skeleton of the
mammoth bespeaks an animal of five o

AMERICAN ELEPHANT MYTHS. 473

have been the terror of the forest and full of physicians' certificates that these
of man .... In fine, 'huge as the were human bones.
frowning precipice, clel as the bloody In 1840 "Dr." Koch, a German char-
panther, swift as the descending "eagle, latan, created a great sensation by
and terrible as the angel of night' must nouncing the discovery of the leviathan
have been this tremendous animal when of Job, which he called the Missomium,
clothed with flesh and animated with from the State where it was found. It

principles of life. . .
From this rapid review o
these majestic remains it
nust appear that the creature
to whom they belonged was
nearly sixty feet long and
twenty-five feet high" (Thom-
as Ashe, 1801).
But all this fine rhetoric
was ruthlessly dashed by
Cuvier, who early in the
present century showed that
the dire destroyer was only
an extinct elephant. The
great lesson which Cuvier
taught the world was, that
many races of animals were entirely
extinct, and that nature's chain of ex-
istence had not one, but many missing
links. From his recognition of that
fact the science of palmontology may
be said to date. But the carnivorous
nature of the mastodon was too fas-
cinating an absurdity to be so easily
killed, and it continued to appear at
intervals. As late as 1835 we find a
New England medical professor writing
as if it were an unquestionable fact.
The giant theory lingered still longer,
and even yet cannot be considered en-
tirely extinct among the unlearned. The
dictum that the superstitions of one age
are but the science of preceding ages
receives ample confirmation in the his-
tory of this subject. Not longer ago
than 1846 a mastodon skeleton was ex-
hibited in NewOrleans as that of a giant.
The cranium was made of raw hide, fan-
tastic wooden teeth were fitted in the
jaws, all missing parts were restored
after the human model, and the whole
raised upon the hind legs. It certainly
conveyed the notion of "a hideous,
diabolical giant," and was no doubt re-
sponsible for many nightmares. As a
sad commentary on the state of the
medical profession in the Southwest at
that time, it may be added that the ex-
hibitor was perfectly honest in his belief,
and to support his faith he had a trunk

Koch's Missouri Leviathan.

turned out, however, to be nothing but
a mastodon preposterously mounted.
Koch had added an extra dozen or more
joints to the back-bone and ribs to the
chest, turned the tusks outward into a
semicircle, and converted the animal
into an aquatic monster which anchored
itself to trees by means of its sickle-
shaped tusks and then peacefully slum-
bered on the bosom of the waves. Like
the Siberians, he found interesting con-
firmations of his views in the book of
Job, that refuge of perplexed monster-
makers. Koch took his leviathan to
London, where it was purchased by the
British ]Iuseum, and reconverted into a
mastodon by Professor Owen, who at
once recognized its true nature.
From this time on, discoveries of
mastodon bones were so frequently
announced that popular interest in the
matter gradually died away until it was
revived by evidence that these elephants
had become extinct since the appear-
ance of man on the continent. This
evidence is threefold---geolocal, tradi-
tional, and the proof derived from works
of art. In Europe the evidence has
been submitted to the most searching
examination, and there is no possible
room for doubt that, on that continent,
the mammoth or hairy elephant coexisted
with prehistoric man. Not only are the
bones of these animals found in the same

474 AMERICAN ELEPHANT MYTHS.

caves and deposits with human bones
and implements of human workmanship,
but we have a number of unmistakable
portraits of the mammoth engraved on
ivory and stone. One of these on ivory,
from the Vladelaine cave in France, is an

Elephant Carving from La Madelaine Cave, France.

exceedingly spirited and accurate draw-
ing. The prehistoric artist who drew
that figure must have been very familiar
with the hying animal.
In America the evidence was long
doubtful, but cannot be considered so
any longer. Vlastodon bones occur in
this country in much more recent de-
posits than they do in Europe, often
covered by only a few inches of soft or
peat, and in such a state of preservation
as to make it difficult to beheve that
they are more than a few centuries old.
In California human bones and stone

Mexico embedded in a calcareous deposit
which also contained elephant bones.
These facts remove all reasonable doubt
that man had appeared in America before
the disappearance of the elephants. A
much more difficult question is to decide
what race of men they were.
The discoveries in Cahfornia
point to a very high antiquity,
as the gold-bearing gravels are
covered over with great beds
of hard lava which have been
completely cut through into
cations by the action of the
streams, and the topography
of the country materially
changed. These processes are
slow, and indicate a great lapse
of time. In the East there is
reason to believe that the antiquity is not
so high. In this connection the Indian
traditions are of importance.
Longueil, the French traveller, who
saw the great skeletons at Big-bone Lick
in 1739, mentions the reverence in which
the Indians held these, and states that
they never removed or disturbed them.
Jefferson gives the following tradition of
the Delawares, about the "big buffalo :"
"That in ancient times, a herd of these
tremendous animals came to the Big-
bone Licks, and commenced a universal
destruction of the bear, deer, elks, buffa-

The Lenape Stone.
imllements have been found in the gold-
bearing gravels associated with the re-
mains of mastodons, mammoths, and
other extinct animals. In Oregon the
mastodon bones so abundant near Silver
Lake are commingled with flint arrow-
and spear-heads; and very recently a
human skeleton has been discovered in

loes, and other animals which had been
created for the use of the Indians ; that
the Great Man above, looking down and
seeing this, became so enraged that he
seized his lightning, descended on the
earth, seated himself on a neighboring
mountain on a rock, on which his seat
and the prints of his feet are still to be

IMERICIN ELEPHINT MYTHS. 475

seen, and hurled his bolts among them
till the whole were slaughtered, except
the big bull, who, presenting his fore-
head to the shafts, shook them off as
they fell, but missing one at length, it
wounded him in the side ; whereupon,
springing round, he bounded over the
Ohio, over the Wabash, the Illinois, and
finally over the great lakes, where he is
living to this day." Jefferson also quotes
the narrative of a Mr. Stanley who was
captured by the Indians near the mouth
of the Tennessee River and carried west-
ward beyond the Missouri to a place
where these great bones were abundant.
The Indians declared that the animal to
which they belonged was still living in
the north, and from their descriptions
Stanley inferred it to be an elephant.
Pre Charlevoix, a Jesuit missionary,
mentions in his history of lew France
an Indian tradition of a great elk, "be-
side whom others seem like ants. He
has, they say, legs so high that eight feet
of snow do not embarrass him ; his skin
is proof against all sorts of weapons, and
he has a sort of arm which comes out of
his shoulder, and which he uses as we
do ours." As Tyler has remarked, this
tradition seems to point to a remem-
brance of some elephant-like animal, for
nothing but observation of the living
form could give a savage a notion of
the use of an elephant's trunk. Even
the perfectly preserved frozen carcasses
of Siberia did not give the natives any
idea of it, and their myths make no
mention of such an organ. An old
Sioux who had seen an elephant in a
menagerie described it to his friends at
home as a beast with two tars, which
would certainly be the view suggested
to an Indian by the carcass of such an
animal.
Still more explicit is a tradition given
by Marker of some Ohio Indians, which
seems to refer to the mastodon, and
according to which these animals were
abundant ; they fed on the boughs of a
species of lime-tree; they did not lie
down, but leaned against a tree to sleep.
The Indians of Louisiana named one
of the streams Carrion-crow Creek, be-
cause in the time of their fathers a
huge animal had died near this creek,
and great numbers of crows flocked to
the carcass; a mastodon skeleton was

found near the spot indicated by the
Indians.
Traditions of a similar import are re-
corded from the Iroquois, Wyandots,
Tuscaroras, and other tribes, and per-
haps most interesting of all is a widely
spread legend among the tribes of the
lorthwest British provinces, that their
ancestors had built lake-dwellings on
piles like those of Switzerland, "to pro-
tect themselves against an animal which
ravaged the country long, long ago.
This, from description, was no doubt the
mastodon. I find the tradition identi-
cal among the Indians of the Suogualami
and Peae Rivers, who have no connec-
tion with each other ; but in both locali-
ties remains of that animal are found
abundantly." So suggestive were these
Indian tales that on some of the early
maps of lorth America the mammoth is
given as an inhabitant of Labrador.
In Mexico and South America we
meet with a series of myths which form
a curious parallel to those of the Old
World. Bernal Diaz del Castillo re-
ports among the Mexicans at the time
of the Spanish conquest the existence
of legends of giants, founded upon the
occurrence of huge bones. The follow-
ing is related of Tlascalla: "The tra-
dition was also handed down from their
forefathers that in ancient times there
lived here a race of men and women
of immense stature, with heavy bones,
and were a very bad and evil-disposed
people, whom they had for the most
part exterminated by continual war, and
the few that were left gradually died
away. In order to give us a notion of
the huge frame of these people they
dragged forth a thigh-bone of one of
these giants, which was very strong, and
measured the length of a man of good
stature. This bone was still entire from
the knee to the hip-joint. I measured
it by my om person, and found it to be
of my own length, although I am a man
of considerable height. They showed
us many similar pieces of bones, but
they were all woln-eaten and decayed ;
we, however, did not doubt for an in-
stant that this country was once in-
habited by giants. Cortes observed
that we ought to forward these bones
to his Majesty in Spain by the very first
opportunity." He also fotmd similar

476 AMERICAN ELEPHANT MYTHS.

bones placed as offerings in the temple
at Cojohuacan, near Mexico.
Humboldt collected similar legends
in South America. In Guayaquil the
tale of a colony of giants grew out of
the mastodon bones which are found
there. The finding of such bones near
Bogota produced speculations which
are a curious repetition of medimval phi-
losophy. "The Indians imagined that
these were giants' bones, while the half-
learned sages of the country, who assume
the right of explaining everything, grave-
ly asserted that they were mere sports
of nature and little worthy of attention."
The natives who guided Darwin to
some mastodon skeletons on the
na River had a tradition which is very
important as showing how the same
myths can arise independently in very
widely separated localities. As these
bones occurred in the bluffs of the
river, the conclusion was reached that
the mastodon was a burrowing ani-
mal, exactly as the Siberians had in-
ferred from similar evidence in the
case of the mammoth. In the pam-
pas, on the other hand, the ever-re-
curring myth of giants prevails, and
such local names as the lield of
the Giants, Hill of the Giant, require
no comment.

The Davenport elephant pipes would
seem to remove this difficulty, but very
grave doubts have been cast upon their
authenticity. There is, however, in Grant
County, Vis., a large mound, the shape
of which is very suggestive of an elephant,
but even here the latest surveys tend to
cast doubt upon the elephant theory.
In Mexico there are many indications
that elephants were knowa to the an-
cient inhabitants. Some of the bas-
reliefs of 1)alenque figured by Waldeck
are very strikingly like elephants, and
the resemblance can hardly be the result
of accident or coincidence. Close to an
ancient causeway near Tezcuco, in what
may have been the ditch of the road, an
entire mastodon skeleton was found,
which "bore every appearance of hav-
ing been coeval with the period when

Reliefs from Palenque (Waldeck).

Remains of aboriginal art which point the road was used." Humboldt repro-
to a knowledge of living elephants are duces a figure from a Mexican manu-
not numerous. Tone is certainly known script representing a human sacrifice,
of Indian workmanship, as the famous and says of it: "The disguise of the
Lenape stone is altogether too question- sacrificing priest presents a remarks-
able to be allowed any weight in the ble and apparently not accidental re-
argument. Tor do the Mound Builders semblance to the Hindoo Ganesa [the
elephant-headed god]..
Had the peoples of
zlan derived from Asia
some vague notions of the
elephant, or, as seems to
me much less probable, did
their traditions reach back
to the time when America
was still inhabited by these
gigantic animals, whose
petrified skeletons a r e
found buried in the marly
ground on the very ridge
of the Mexican Cordil-
leras .9"
Davenport Elephant Pipe (after Barber). Taken altogether, the evi-
seem to have made use of the elephant's dence from tradition and art is strongly
form in their pottery or sculptures, in favor of the view that the ancestors of

AMERICAN ELEPHANT MYTHS. z177

existing American races knew these mon- furies ago elephants were an important
strous animals familiarly. Undoubtedly element in American life.

there is much of fable and absurdity
in their legends, but there is some-
thing in these tales that is very like
truth. The traditions of Europe,
Siberia, and South America are plain-
ly derived only from the finding of
the bones, and in all the elaborate
and often-repeated stories of giants
and subterranean monsters we may
search in vain for any knowledge of
the living animal. The myths of the
North American Indians, on the con-
trary, are irresistibly suggestive of ele-
phants, and, as we have already seen,
they convinced some of the early settlers
that these animals were still to be found
in the north. Traditions from other
regions--the burrowers of Siberia, the
dragons of China, and the giants of
nearly all countries--are plainly nothing
but attempts to account for the large
bones which occur in the ground ; but
the Indian legends can be explained in
no such way. Other Indian traditions,
such as that of the "naked bear," seem
to point clearly to the gigantic extinct
sloths ; and the fact that the mythical
animals can be distinguished apart, and
referred to appropriate originals in the
extinct animals of the continent, speaks
strongly for the accuracy of the stories.
The Mexican sculptures are of less
value in this discussion, as there are so
many striking correspondences between
the ancient Mexican civilization and that
of certain Asiatic tribes that, as Hum-
boldt suggests, the form of the elephant
may have been derived from Asia. But
from the geological evidence this is un-
likely. At all events the existence of the
giant-myth in Mexico is no argument
against a traditional knowledge of the liv-
ing animals, as the oral tradition of the
latter may well coexist with the conject-
ures about huge bones, resulting in tales
of giants. Elephants are certainly famil-
iar enough objects in India, and yet even
there the petrified elephant bones of the
Sivalik I-Iills are called by the natives
giants' bones, belonging to the slain
Rakis, the gigantic Rakshasas of Hindoo
mythology.
Altogether, then, the testimonymgeo-
logical, archmological, and traditional--
goes to show that not very many cen-

Lower Jaw of Mastodon.

Now, what manner of beasts were
these American elephants? At least two
species, the mammoth and the masto-
don, and perhaps others, occurred on
this continent after the ice of the gla-
cial period had melted and a more tem-
perate climate again prevailed. The
mastodon differed from other elephants
in the shape and structure of the grind-
ing teeth, and in the fact that the males
possessed a small tusk in the lower jaw.
The animal was of a comparatively low
stature, averaging less than that of the
living species of India; but the body
was long and the limbs very massive;
there may have been a hairy coat, but
this is very Uncertain. The mammoth
(whose name is a Siberian word of prob-
ably Finnish origin) was a very differ-
ent type of elephant from the mastodon
or either of the existing species, though
most like the Indian form. It was of
vast size, reaching, in some cases, a
height of sixteen feet; the tusks were
very long, and spirally curved outward
and backward, and the body was thick-

Lower Jaw of Mammoth.

ly covered with hair, which fozmaed three
distinct coats. The outer coat was long
and coarse; beneath this was a layer

478 AMERICAN ELEPHANT MYTHS.

of finer fur, and under this again a danse had the stomach separated and brought
mass of soft, brownish wool. Both of on one side. It was well filled, and

these animals were adapted to a cold
climate, and ranged far beyond the
Arctic Circle, though the mastodon is
rare in the far north ; their food, as we
may learn from the still preserved con-
tents of the stomach, was chiefly the
tender shoots and cones of the pine and
fir.
The frozen carcasses of Siberia are
in such a wonderful state of preserva-
tion that the mammoth is the best
known of all extinct mammals, and the
following description, by a Russian en-
gineer who had the good fortune to see
one of these giants disentombed by a
flood, will serve to give a vivid concep-
tion of what the creature was like:
"Picture to yourself an elephant, with a
body covered with thick fur, about thir-
teen feet in height and fifteen in length,
with tusks eight feet long, colossal
limbs, and a tail naked up to the end,
which was covered with thick, tufty
hair .... The whole appearance
of the animal was fearfully strange and
wild ; it had not the shape of our pres-
ent elephants. . . Our elephant is
an awkward animal; ut compared with
this mammoth it is an Arabian steed to
a coarse, ugly dray-horse .... I

the contents well preserved and instruc-
tive. The principal were the young
shoots of the fir and

Crown of Mastodon Tooth.

pine ; a quantity of
young fir-cones, also
in a chewed state,
were mixed with the
mOSS."
It is very difficult
to explain why these
gigantic animals

should have so completely vanished from
the New World within (geologically
speaking) such recent times. The agency
of primeval man may have had some-
thing to do with it, but this cause
alone is insufficient. Some unfavorable
change, of which we do not yet know
the nature, swept away a great population
of large American mammals, leaving be-
hind them but sparse and pigmy repre-
sentatives. The strangest, hugest, and
fiercest of these forms have entirely dis-
appeared ; a fact over which we may well
rejoice, as, from our point of view, the
world is a much pleasanter place with-
out them, and we can heartily re-echo
Hunter's pious ejaculation, and "thank
heaven that the whole generation is ex-
tinct."

THE OLD EARTH.

By Charles Edwin Marhham.

How will it be there if we find no traces--
There in the Golden Heaven---if we find
No memories of the old Earth left behind,
2qo visions of familiar forms and faces--
Reminders of old voices and old places ?
Yet could we bear it if it should remind ?

5ETI-I'$ BROTHER'S WIFE.

By Harold Frederic.

CHAPTER XIII.

THIRTEEN IONTHS OF IT.

GRowI familiarity with his work did
not restore to Seth the lofty concep-
tions of journalism's duties and delights
which he had nourished on the hill-side
farm, and which had been so ingloriously
dimmed and defaced by his first day's
experience.
The tasks set before him, to which he
gradually became accustomed, seemed
almost as unintellectual and mechanical
asthe ploughing and planting he had for-
saken. The rule of condensation, com-
pression, continually dinned into his
ears by his mentors, robbed his labors
of all possible charm. To "boil down"
columns of nalTative into a few lines of
bald, cold statement; to chronicle, day
after day, in the curtest form, fires, fail-
ures, crimes, disasters, deaths, in a
wearying chain of uninteresting news
notes ; to throw remorselessly into the
journalistic crucible all the work of im-
agination, of genius, of deep fine thought,
which came into his hands, together
with the wordy dross spun out by the
swarm of superficial scribblers, and ex-
tract from good and bad alike only the
meaningless, miserable factthis was a
task against which, in the first weeks of
experience, his whole soul revolted.
By the time he had become reconciled
to it, and had mastered its tricks, his
dream of journalism as the most exalted
of all departments of activity seemed to
him like some far-away fantasy of child-
hood.
He not only had failed to draw inspira-
tion from his work ; it was already ceas-
ing to interest him. Under pleasanter
conditions, he felt that he would have
at least liked the proof-reading portion
of the daily routine; but the printers
were so truculent and hostile, and
seemed so predetermined to treat him
as their natural enemy, that this was
irksome, too. There was no relief to
the distasteful monotony in the other

branches of his work. Even the agri-
cultural column, which he had promised
himself to so vastly improve, yielded
no satisfaction. The floating, valueless
stuff from which his predecessors had
selected their store came so easily and
naturally to the scissors that, after a
week or two, he abandoned the idea of
preparing original matter : it saved time
and labor, and nobody seemed to know
the difference. These words, in fact,
came to describe his mental attitude
toward all his work. He had no pride
in it. If he escaped curses for badly
read proofs, and criticism for missing
obvious matters of news, it was enough.
Seth did not arrive at this condition
of mind without much inner protest, or
without sundry efforts to break through
the crust of perfunctory drudgery which
was encasing him. At the start he be-
stowed considerable thought and work
upon an effort to brighten and improve,
by careful reworking of materials, one
of the departments intrusted to him,
and, just when he expected praise, Tyler
told him to stop it. Then he tried to
make his religious column a feature by
discarding most of the ancient matter
which revolved so drolly in the Obago
Evening Mercury, and picking out elo-
quent bits from the sermons of great con-
temporary preachers; but this elicited
denominational protest from certain
pious subscribers, and Mr. Workman
commanded a return to the old rut.
But the cruel humiliation came when
Seth took to Mr. Samboye an editorial
paragraph he had written with great
care. It was a political paragraph, and
Seth felt confident that it was exactly in
the Chronicle's line, and good writing as
well. The Editor took it, after regard-
ing the young writer with a stony, half-
surprised stare, and read it over slowly.
He delivered judgment upon it, in his
habitual pomposity of phrases: "This
is markedly comprehensive in scope and
clarified in expression, Mr. Fairchild."
Then, as Seth's heart was warming with
a sense of commendation and success,

480 SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

the Editor calmly tore the manuscript
in strips, dropped them in his wste-
basket, and tuled reflectively to his
newspaper.
Seth's breath nearly left him: "Then
you can't use it .9" he faltered. - "I thought
it might do for an editorial paragraph."
There was the faintest suggestion of
a patronizing smile on VIr. Samboye's
broad, ruddy face.
"Oh, I am reminded, Mr. lairchild,"
he answered, with bland irrelevance;
"pray do not allow Porte to pass again
with a small p, as you did yesterday in
the proof of my Turkish article. It
should be capitalized invariably."
The beginner went back to his stall
both humiliated and angry. The cool
insolence with which he had been re-
minded that he was a proof-reader, and
warned away from thoughts of the edi-
torial page, enraged and depressed him.
He passed a bitter hour at his table,
looking savagely through the window
at the automatic motions of the print-
er directly opposite, but thinking evil
thoughts of Samboye, and cursing the
fate which had led him into newspaper
work. So uncomfortable did he make
himself by these reflections that it re-
quired u real effort to throw off their
effects when Watts came up-stairs and
the two left the office for the day. It
was impossible not to relate his griev-
ance.
Tom did not see its tragic side, and
refused utterly to concede that Seth
ought to be cast down by it.
"That's only Samboye's way," he said,
lightly. "He won't let any of the fel-
lows get onto the page, simply because
he's afraid theyql outwrite him. He'd
rather do it all himself--and he does
grind out an immense load of stuff
than encourage any rivals. Besides, he
never loses a chance to snub youngsters.
Don't let it worry you for a minute. If
he sees that it does, he'll only pile it on
the thicker. In this business you've got
to have a hide on you like the behemoth
of Holy Writ, or you'll keep raw all the
while."
Seth found some consolation in this
view, and more still in Tom's cheery
tone. The two young men spent the
evening together at Bismarck's.
This came gradually but naturally to

be Seth's habitual evening resort. It
represented to him, indeed, all that was
friendly and inviting in Tecumseh so-
ciety. He was able to recall dimly some
of the notions of coming social distinc-
tion he indulged in the farm days--
dreams of a handsome young editor
who was in great request in the most
refined and luxurious home circles, who
said the most charming things to beau-
tiful young ladies at parties and balls,
who wavered in his mind between wed-
ding his employer's daughter and tak-
ing a share in the paper, or choosing
some lowlier but more intellectual maid
to wife, and leading with her a halcyon
and exaltedly literary career in a cot-
rage--but they were as unreal, as indis-
tinct now as the dreams of night before
last. All the social bars seemed drawn
against him as a matter of com-se.
This did not impress him as a hard-
ship, because he was only vaguely con-
scious of it, at first, and then grew into
the habit of regarding it as a thing to
be grateful for. Tom Watts pointed
out to him frequently the advantage of
being a Bohemian, of being free from
all the fearsome, undefined routine and
responsibility of making calls, of dress-
ing up in the evening, and of dangling
supine attendance upon girls and their
mammas. This "social racket," the city
editor said, might please some people;
Dent, for instance, seemed to like it.
But for his part it seemed quite the
weakest thing a young man could go
in for--entirely incompatible with the
robust and masculine character de-
manded in a successful journalist.
This presented itself to Seth as an
extremely sound position, and he made
it his own so willingly that very soon he
began to take credit to himself in his
own eyes for having turned a deaf ear
to the social siren, and having deliber-
ately rejected the advances of fashion-
able Tecumseh. He grew really to be-
lieve that it was by preference, by a
wise resolution to preserve his freedom
and individuality, that he remained out-
side the mysterious, impalpable regions
which were labelled in his mind as
"Society." On the other hand, there
was no nonsense at Bismarck's, or at
the other similar beer-halls to which
Tom introduced him. One dressed aa

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE. 481

one chose, and did as one liked ; seven-
up or penochle provided just the mental
recreation a wearied literary brain de-
manded ; and the fellows one met there
were cheerful, companionable young
men, who likewise had no nonsense
about them, who put on no airs of su-
periority, and who glided swiftly and
jovially through the grades of acquaint-
anceship to intimacy.
Seth was greatly strengthened in his
liking for this refuge from loneliness in
a strange city by what he saw of Arthur
Dent, whom Watts had prepared him to
regard as the embodiment of the other
and straitlaced side.
This yotmg man was not at all tmcivi],
but he was delicate, almost effeminate
in frame, wore eye-glasses, dressed with
fastidious neatness, never made any
jokes or laughed heartily at those of
others, and rarely joined the daily lounge
and smoke arotmd Tyler's table after
the paper had gone to press---and in all
these things he grated upon Seth's sensi-
tiveness. I-Ie was the one member of
the staff whom Mr. Workman seemed
to like and vhom Mr. Samboye never
humiliated publicly by his ponderous
ridicule, and these were added griev-
ances. I-Ie worked very steadily and
carefully, and was said to do a good
deal of heavy reading at home, evenings,
in addition to the slavish routine of
high social duties in which Seth indef-
initely understood him to be immersed.
tIis chief tasks were the book reviews,
the editing of correspondence, and the
preparation of minor editorial para-
graphs in a smaller type than Mr. Sam-
boye's. Seth thought that his style,
though correct and neat, was thin and
emasculated, and he came to associate
this with his estimate of the writer, and
account for it by his habits and associa-
tions which the further confirmed him
in his judgment as to the right way to
live.
But there was something more than
this. The first few days after his return
from his vacation, Dent had tried to be
courteous and helpful to the new-comer
from the country, in his shy, tmdemon-
strative way, and Seth, despite his pre-
conceived prejudice, had gone a little
way on the road to friendship. Then
one night, as he and Watts were return-
Vow,. I.--31

ing am-in-am to their joint lodgings
from Bismarck's, a trifle unsteadily per-
haps, they had encotmtered Dent walk-
ing with a yotmg lady, and Tom had
pleasantly accosted themmat least it
seemed pleasantly to Seth--but Dent
had not taken it in the right spirit at
the time, and had been decidedly cool
to Seth ever since. This was so tmrea-
sonable that the country boy resented it
deeply, and the two barely .spoke to each
other.
tIis relations with the others were less
strained, but scarcely more valuable in
the way of companionship, hlr. Tyler
did not seem to care much for his com-
pany, and never asked him to go to the
"Roast Beef"---a sort of combination of
club and saloon where he spent most of
his evenings, where poker was the chief
amusement and whiskey the principal
drink. From all Seth could learn, it was
as well for him that he was not invited
there. As for Murtagh, all his associa-
tions outside the office seemed to be with
young men of his own race, who formed
a coterie by themselves, and frequented
distinctively Irish resorts. Like most
other American cities, Tecumseh had
its large Irish and German elements,
and in nothing were ethnographic lines
drawn so clearly as in the matter of
amusements. There were enough yotmg
Americans holding aloof from both these
foreign circles to constitute a small con-
stituency for the "Roast Beef," but a
far greater number had developed a
ling for the German places of resort,
and drank beer and ate cheese and rye
bread as if to the manner bolm. Seth
fotmd himself in this class on his first
step over the threshold of city life ; he
enjoyed it, and he saw very little of the
others.
The two most important men on the
Chronicle, Mr. Workman and Mr. Sam-
boye, were far removed from the plane
upon which all these Bohemian divi-
sions were traced. They belonged to the
Club--the Tuscarora Club. Seth knew
where the club-house wasmbut he felt
that this was all he was ever likely to
know about it. The first few days in
Tecumseh had taught him the hopeless-
ness of his dream of associating with his
employer. Socially they were leagues
al)art at the outset, and if the distance

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE. 483

very grass seemed greener, the bend-
ing of the boughs more graceful, the
charm of sky and foliage and verdure
far more apparent. The cattle were
plumper and cleaner;there were car-
tinge-horses now, with bright harness
and sweeping tails, and a costly black
mare for the saddle, fleet as the wind;
the food on the table was more uniform-
ly toothsome, and there were now the
broad silver-plated forks to which Seth
had somewhat laboriously become ac-
customed in his Tecumseh boarding-
house. He admired all these changes,
in a way, but somehow he could not feel
at home among them They were
tractive, but they were alien to the mem-
ories which, in his crowded, bricked-up
city solitude, had grown dear to him.
There were droll changes among the
hired people. For one thing, they no
longer all ate at the table with the
family. An exception was made in
favor of lIilton Squires, who had burst
through the overalls chrysalis of hired-
manhood, and had become a sort of
superintendent. He had not learned to
eat with a fork, ,and he still talked loud-
ly and with boisterous familiarity at the
table, reaching for whatever he wanted,
and calling the proprietor "Albert," and
his aunt "Sabriny." He did not bear
his social and industrial promotion
meekly. He bullied the inferior hired
mennLeander had a colleague now,
rough, tow-headed, burly young fellow
named Dana Pillsburynand snubbed
loftily the menials of the kitchen. This
former hannt scarcely knew him more, and
his rare conversations with Alvira were
all distinctly framed in condescension.
This was only to be expected, for Milton
wore a black suit of store-clothes every
day, with a gold-plated watch-chain and
a necktie, and met the fa-mers round
about on terms of practical equality.
He was reputed to be a careful and
capable manager; his wrath was feared
at the cheese-factory ; his judgment was
respected at the corners' store. Natu-
rally, such a man would feel himself above
kitchen associations.
Of course this defection evoked deep
wrath in Alvira's part of the house,
some overflowings of which came to
Seth's notice before he had been a day
at the farm. Alvira was not specially

changed to the young man's eyesin-
deed, her sallow, bilious visage, dark,
snapping eyes, and furrowed forehead,
seemed the most familiar things about
the homestead, and her acidulous tones
struck a ter note in his chords of
memory than did any other sound.
Aunt Sabrina, wrapped as of old in
her red-plaid shoulder-shawl, but seem-
ingly less erect and aggressive, spent
most of her time in the kitchen, osten-
tatiously pretending to pay her board
by culinary labor. Behind her back A1-
vira was wont to say to her assistant,
a slatternly young slip from the ever-
spreading Lawton family tree, that the
old lady only hindered the work, and
that her room would be better than her
company. But when Aunt Sabrina was
present, Alvira was customarily civil,
sometimes quite friendly. The two were
drawn together by community of griev-
ance.
They both hated Isabel, with her citi-
fied notions, her forks and napkins, and
stuck-up ah's generally. It had pleased
Aunt Sabrina's mood to regard herself
as included in the edict which ordained
that sewants should eat in the kitchen,
and only the sharpest words she had
ever heard Albert speak had prevented
her acting upon this. She had come to
the family table then, but always with
an air of protest ; and she had a grim
pleasure in leaving her napkin unfolded,
month after month, and in keeping
everybody waiting while she paraded
her inability to eat rapidly or satis-
factorily with the new-fangled "split
spoon."
She and Alvira had a never-failing
topic of hostile talk in the new mistress.
To judge by their threats, their gibes,
and their angry complaints, they were
always on the point of leaving the house
on her account. So imminent did an
outbreak seem to Seth, when he first
heard their joint budget of woes and
bitter resolves, that he was frightened,
but the Lawton girl reassured him.
They had talked just like that, she said,
every day since she had been there,
which would be "a year come August,"
and she added, scornfully:" They go
away? You couldn't chase 'era away
witha - w',
clothes-pole.
The two elderly females had another

484 SETH'S BROTHER'S I4/'IFE.

bond of sympathy, of course, in Milton's
affectation of superiority. They debated
this continually ; though as Sabrina had
the most to say about her niece-in-law,
with Alvira as a sympathetic com-
mentator, so the hateful apotheosis of
the whilom hired-man was recognized to
be Alvira's special and personal griev-
ance, in girding at which Sabrina bore
only a helping part.
Seth accounted for this by calling up
in recollection an old, vague under-
standing of his youth that Milton was
some time going to malty Alvira. He
could remember having heard this union
spoken of as taken for granted in the
family. Doubtless Alvira's present at-
titude of ugly criticism was due to the
fear that Milton's improved prospects
would lead him elsewhere. The Lawton
girl, indeed, hinted rather broadly to him
that there were substantial grounds for
Alvira's rage. "I'd tear his eyes out if
I was her, and he wouldn't come up to
the scratch," she said, "after all that's
happened." Seth understood her sug-
gestion, but he didn't believe it. The
Lawtons were a lov-down race, anyway.
He had seen one of the girls at Tecum-
seh once, a girl who had gone utterly to
the bad, and this sister of hers seemed
a bold, rude hussy, with a mind prone
to mean suspicions.
It was a relief to go back again to the
living-room, where Isabel was, and he
both verbally and mentally justified her
gentle hint that the kitchen was not a
good place for young men to spend
their time.
"You have no idea," she said, letting
her embroidery fall in her lap for the mo-
ment, "how ruinous to discipline and to
household, management generally this
country plan of making companions of
your servants is. I had to put a com-
plete stop to it, very soon after I came.
There would be no living with them
otherwise. There's not much comfort
in living with them as it is, for your
aunt sits out in the kitchen all day long,
pretending that she is abused--and en-
couraging them to think that they are
ill-used, too. She makes it very hard for
me--harping all the time on my being
a Richardson, just as she did with your
mother.
"Then, there's Milton. I did not

want to make any difference between
him and the other hired people, but
your brother insisted on it--on having
him at the table with us, and treating
him like an equal. He is as coarse and
rough and holTid as he can be, but it
seems that he is very necessary on the
farm, and your brother leaves so much
to him and relies so much on him that
I couldn't help myself. He hasn't got
to calling me' Isabel' yet, but I expect
him to begin every day of my life. You
can't imagine what an infliction it is to
see him eatmor rather, to hear him, for
I try not to.look."
Isabel took up her work again, and
Seth looked at her more closely than he
had done before. She sat at the win-
dow, with the full summer light on her
bright hair and fair, pretty face. Her
tone had been melancholy, almost
mournful ; looking at her, Seth felt that
she was not happy, and moremfor he
had never supposed her to be particu-
larly happynthat she was bitterly dis-
appointed with the result of the farm
experiment. She had not said so, how-
ever, and he vas in doubt whether it
would be wise for him to assume it in
his conversation.
"Albert seems to thrive on country
fare," he said, perhaps unconsciously
suggesting in his remark what was
turning in his mind--that she herself
seemed not to have thrived. The round-
ed outlines of her chin and throat were
not so perfect as he remembered them.
She looked thin and tired now, in the
strong light, and there was no color to
speak of in her face.
"Oh, yes," she said, with that falling
inflection which is sister to the sigh,
and keeping her eyes bent upon her work,
"he grows fat. I did not imagine that
a man who had always been so active,
who was so accustomed to regular office
work and intellectual professional pur-
suits, could fall into idle ways so easily.
But it is always a bore to him now when
he has to go down to New York at term
time. Once or twice he has had a cool-
ness with his partners because he failed to
go at all. I shouldn't be surprised if he
gave New York up altogether. He talks
often of it---of practising at Tecumseh
instead. Oh, and that reminds me.
You can tell. What relation does Te-

SETH'S BROTHER'S I4/'IFE. 485

cumseh bear to this place ? I know they
have some connection in his mind, be-
cause he spoke once of the' pull '---what-
ever that may mean--being a Tecumseh
lawyer would give him here. I know
they are not in the same county, for I
looked on the map. Whatever it is
that would be his purpose in going
there, I am curious to learn. You
know," she added, with a smile and
tone pathetic in their sarcasm, "a wife
ought to be interested in whatever con-
cerns her husband."
"They are in the same Congressivnal
district," Seth replied. "There are
three counties in the district--Dearborn
(where we are now), Jay, which lies east
of us, and then Adams, which is a long,
narrow county, and runs off south of
Dearborn. Tecumseh is away at the
extreme southern end of Adams Coun-
ty. Perhaps that is what you have in
mind."
"It is what he has in mind," she said.
"But how does Albert fill his time
here--what does he do ?"
"In about equal parts," she made an-
swer, lifting her eyes again, with the
light of a little smile in them now, "he
reads novels here in the house, and
drives about the neighborhood. What
time he is not in the easy-chair up-stairs,
devouring fiction, he is in his buggy on
the road. He won't let me have any-
body up from New York, even of the
few I know, but he has developed a
wonderful taste for striking up ac-
quaintances here. He must by this
time know every farmer for twenty
miles around. First of all, in buying
his stock when he took the farm, he
spread his purchases around in the
queerest way--getting a cow from this
man, a colt from another, a pig here
and a bull there. Milton and he went
together, and they must have driven
two hundred miles, I should think, col-
lecting the vaious animals.
"I didn't understand it at first, but I
ben to now. He wanted to establish
relations with as many men here as he
could. And the farmers he invites here
to dinner--you should see them ! Some-
times I think I shall have to leave the
table. It's all I can do, often, to be
decently civil to them--rough, vulgar
men, unwashed and untidy, whom he

waylays out on the road and brings in.
He thinks I ought to exert myself to
make them feel at home, and chat with
them about their wives and children,
and ugh! call on them and form fiend-
ships with them. But I draw the line
there. If he enjoys b'inging them here,
why I can't help it; and if he likes to
drive about, and be haft-fellow-well-
met with them, that is his own affair.
But.--"
She stopped, and Seth felt that the
silence was eloquent. He began to
realize that his pretty sister-in-law was
in need of sympathy, and to rank him-
self, with indignant fervor, on her side.
Annie Fairchild came in. Seth had
seen and spoken with her several times,
during the period of his father's death
and funeral, but hurriedly and in the
presence of others. Her appearance
now recalled instantly the day of the
fishing trip--a soft and pleasant mem-
ory, u-hich during his year's exile had at
times been truly delicious to him.
The women thought of it too, now,
and talked of it, at Seth rather than to
him, and with a plafful spirit of badi-
nage. As of old, Isabel did most of the
talking. Annie had become quite a
woman, Seth said to himself, as she took
off her hat, tidied her hair before the
glass, and laughingly joined in the con-
versation. She talked very well, too, but
she seemed always to think over her
words, and there appeared to be in her
manner toward him a certain something,
intangible, indefinite, which suggested
constraint. He could feel, though he
could not explain, it.
During his stay in Tecumseh he had
seen almost nothing of the other sex.
There were often some young women at
the boarding-house, but he had not got
beyond a speaking acquaintance at the
table with any of them, in the few in-
stances where his shyness had permitted
even that. His year in a city had im-
proved him in many ways. He could
wear good clothes now without awk-
wardness ; he spoke readily among men,
and with excellent choice of language ;
he knew how to joke without leading
the laughter himself. But he had had
no chance to overcome by usage his dif-
fidence in female company, and he had
not been quite at ease in his mind since

SETH'S BROTHER'S kVIFE. 4=87

that all at once set her against me so.
You remember--the day before we went
fishing and Isabel saved my life."
The answer did not come immedi-
ately. In the dim star-light Seth could
see that his cousin's face was turned
away, and he guessed rather than saw
that she was agitated.
on "
"I will tell y , she said at last,
nervously, "why grandmother--or, no,
I will no tell you ! You have no right
to ask. Don't come any farther--I am
near enough to the house now. Good-
night."
She had hurried away from him. He
watched her disappear in the darkness,
then turned and walked meditatively
home.
He was not so sure as he had been
that it was easy to understand women.

CHAPTER XV.

MR. IICHARD ANSDELL.

IT was no light task to spend a vaca-
tion contentedly on the farm. There
were thousands of city people who did
it, and seemed to enjoy it, but Seth
found it difficult to understand how
they contrived to occupy themselves.
What work on a faxn meant, he knew
very well ; but the trick of idling in the
country was beyond him. It was too
hot, in these July days, for driving much,
and besides, Albert rarely invited him
into the buggy when the grays were
brought around to the step. The two
brothers saw little of each other, in fact.
It was not precisely a coolness, but Al-
bert seemed to have other things on his
mind beside fraternal entertainment.
The old pastime of fishing, too, failed
him. In the renovation of the house
his fine pole and tackle had somehow
disappeared, and he had no money
wherewith to replace them. He had
entered upon his vacation unexpectedly,
at a time when he happened to be par-
ticularly short of cash--and there was
something in Albert's manner and tone
which rendered it impossible to apply
to him, even if pride had not forbid-
den it
There was, it is true, the increasing
delight of being in Isabel's company,

but alongside this delight grew a doubt
ma doubt which the young man shrunk
from recognizing and debating, but
which forced its presence upon his
mind, none the less--a doubt whether
it was the part of wisdom to encourage
too much of a friendship with his sister-
in-law. This friendship had already
reached a stage where Aunt Sabrina
sniffed at its existence, and she hinted
dimly to Seth of the perils which lurked
in the lures of a citified siren, with an
expression of face and a pointedness of
emphasis which clearly had a domestic
application. There was nothing in this,
of course, but the insensate meddle-
someness of a disagreeable old maid,
Seth said to himself, but still it annoyed
him.
Iore serious, though, was his sus-
picionmlying dormant sometimes for
days, then suddenly awakened by a
curt word or an intent glance--that Al-
bert disliked to see him so much with
Isabel. Often this rendered him ex-
tremely nervous, for Isabel had no dis-
cretion (so the young man put it to him-
self), and displayed her pleasure in his
society, her liking for him, quite as
freely in her husband's presence as when
they were alone. There was nothing in
this, either, only that it made him uneasy.
Hence it came about that, just when
one set of inclinations most urgently
prompted him to stay about the house,
another set often prevailed upon him to
absent himself. On these occasions he
generally walked over to Thessaly and
chatted with John.
"John and I have so much to talk
about, you know, being both newspaper
men," he used to say, with a feeling that
he owed an explanation of some sort to
Isabel. "And then I can see the daily
papers there. That gets to be a neces-
sity with a journalist--as much so as his
breakfast."
"I scarcely dare to read a paper
now," Isabel once replied. "It drives
me nearly mad with longing to get
back among people again. I only read
heavy things, classic poetry and his-
tory--and then, thank Heaven ! there is
this embroidery."
It was at John's, or rather on the way
there, that Seth met one day a man of
whom he was in after-life accustomed to

SETH'S BROTHER'S IMIFE. 489

you had the makings of a big man in
you; I believed that all you needed was
the chance, and you would rise. You
were given the chancemput right in on
the ground-floor, and there you are, just
where you were put. You haven't risen
worth a cent."
"What do you expect a fellow to do
Get to be editor-in-chief in thirteen
months ? What could I do that I haven't
done ? There have been no vacancies,
so no one has climbed over my head.
I've done the work I was set to dora
and done it. well, too. Vhat more can
you ask ?"
Seth spoke in an aggrieved tone, for
this attack seemed as unjust as it had
been unexpected.
John replied : "Now keep cool, young-
ster! Nobody expected you to get to
be editor-in-chief in thirteen months, so
don't, talk nonsense. And I am not
blaming you for not getting promotion,
when there have been no vacancies.
What I do mean, if you want to know,
is that you have failed to make a good
impression. You are not in the line of
promotion. Workman doesn't say to
himself, when he thinks of you,' There's
a smart, steady, capable young man on
vhom we can count, who's able to go as
high as we are able to put him.'
instead of that he saysbut no, never
mind. I don't want to hm-t your feel-
ings."
"Oh, you re mighty considerate, all
at once," retorted Seth, angrily. "Go
on ! Say what you were going to say
Yhat is it that Workman says, since
you've been spying on me behind my
back ?"
"Now you are talking like a fool,"
said the elder brother, keeping his tem-
per. "I haven't been spying on you.
I have only been commenting on facts
which have come to my knowledge with-
out seeking, and whic were brought t.o
me by one who has your interest at heart.
I have only been talking to you as I ought
to talk, with the sole idea of benefiting
youmhelping you. If you don't want to
hear me, why I can shut up."
Seth did not reply for a minute or so ;
then he growled, moodily: "Go ahead
Let's hear it alL"
"The 'all' can be said in a fewwords.
You have been wasting your time. I

grant that you have done your work
well enough to escape blamebut what
credit is there in that ? a million me-
chanics do that every day. Instead of
improving yourself, elevating and pol-
ishing yourself, by good reading, by
studying the art of writing, above all by
choosing your associates among men
who are your superiors, and from whom
you can lea, you have settled down in
a Dutch beer-saloon, making associates
out of the commonest people in town,
and having for your particular chum
that rattle-headed loafer Tom Watts.
Do you suppose Mr. Workman doesn't
know this ? Do you suppose he likes it,
or that it encourages him to hope for
your future ?"
Seth was silent longer than ever, this
time. When he spoke it was to utter
something which he instantly regretted :
"I haven't been able to gather from
your old friends that you were altogeth-
er a bigot, yourself, on the subject of
beer, when you were my age."
Fortunately, John did not get angry ;
Seth honestly admired and envied his
elder brother's good temper as he
heard the reply:
"That's neither here nor there. Per-
haps I did a good many things that
I want you to avoid. Besides, there
was nothing in me. I am good enough
as far as I go, but if I had worked on a
daily paper till my teeth all fell out I
should never have got any higher than I
was. With you it is different ; you can
go up to the head of the class if you are
a mind to. But the beer-saloon isn't the
way--and Tom Watts isn't the guide."
"He is the only fiend I have got.
Vhat was I to do .9 It is easy enough to
talk, John, about my knowing good peo-
ple and all that, but how ? That is the
question. It isn't fair to blame me as
you do. All the men like Workman and
SamboyeI-suppose you mean them
hold themselves miles above me. Do
you suppose I've ever seen he inside
of their house or of their club ? Not
I! You dump a young countryman in
a strange city, new at his work, with-
out knowing a solitary so--and then
you complain because he gets lonesome,
and makes friends with the only people
who show any disposition to be friendly
with him. Do you call that fair play ?"

490 SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

"Well, there's something in that, "
Jolm replied, meditatively. "Some
time I'm going to write a leader on the
organized indifference of modern city
society to what becomes of young men
who deserve its good offices, and drift
into beer-saloons because they are not
forth-coming. It would make the Ban-
ner immensely solid with orthodox peo-
ple."
"You wouldn't have wanted me to go
to the Young Men's Christian Associa-
tion, I suppose ?"
"No-o, I don't know that I would. I
don't know, after all, that you could
have done much differently. But you've
done enough of it, do you understand?
You have served your time; you have
taken your diploma. It is time now to
quit. And I can put you onto a man
now who will help you on the other
tack. Do you see Ansdell, ahead there ?"
"Yes--is he the man who told you
about Workman and me ?"
John ignored the question. "Arts-
dell is one of the cleverest men going ;
he's head and shoulders over anybody
else there is in Tecumseh, or in this
part of the State. For you to know
him will be a college education in itself.
He is more than a big lawyer, he is a
student and thinker;more than that,
he is a reformer; best of all, he is a
man of the world, who has sown more
wild-oats than would fill Albert's new
bins, and there's not an atom of non-
sense about him. He knows about you.
We've talked you over together. He
understands my idea of what you ought
to be, and he can help you more tln
any other ma alive--and what is more,
he will."
"It was he who told you about me,
wasn't it ?" Seth persisted.
"If you will know, it was and it
wasn't. All he said was that he had
heard Workman speak of you ; that he
had got the idea from his tone that you
were not making the most of your op-
portunities ; that he thought this was a
great pity; and that if he could be of
any use to you he would be very glad.
That is all and not even your sulkiness
can make anything but kindness out of
it."
This practically ended the dialogue,
for the others had stopped to let the

brothers come up, and John shortly
after left the party.
The three men had a long stroll back
to the hill-side road, with a still longer
lounge on the grass under the elms by
the bridge. Seth watched and listened
to this swarthy, boyish-looking mentor,
who had, so to speak, thrust himself
upon him, very closely, as was natm-al.
Did he like him? It was hard, he
found, to determine. Mr. Ansdell was
extremely opinionated. He seemed to
have convictions on almost every sub-
ject, and he clung to them, defended
them, expanded them with almost tear-
ful earnestness. His voice was as strong
and powerful as his figure was diminu-
tive; he talked now chiefly about the
Tariff, which he denounced with a vi-
brating intensity of feeling. Seth knew
nothing about the Tariff, or next to
nothing, but he admired what Ansdell
said, mainly because it vas said so r-ell.
But he grew quite enthusiastic in his
indorsement when he heard his editor,
Mr. Samboye, used as a typical illustra-
tion of the dishonesty with which public
men treated that question. After that
he felt that it would be easy to make
friends with Mr. Ansdell.

CHAPTER XVI.

I)ER ISABEL.

IT was the lst day but one of Seth's
vacation on the farm. I-Ie was not
sorry, although the last week, by com-
parison, had been pleasant enough. I-Ie
had seen a good deal of Mr. Ansdell,
who interested him extremely, and who
had come for him three or four times
for long walks in the fields. I-Ie sat
now in the living-room, near Isabel,
dividing his attention between her and
his book--one of Albert's innumerable
novels. The desultory conversation
mixed itself up with the unfolding work
of fiction so persistently that he pres-
ently gave over the attempt to read,
and drew his chair nearer to his sister-
in-law. It was raining outside, and wet
weather always made her want to talk.
She said :
"Tell me, Seth, if you have noticed
any change in Alvira."

SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE. 491

"No, I can't say that I have. In fact,
she seems to me the one person about
the place who has not altered a bit."
"See what eyes men have ! Why, she
has grown ages older. She goes about
now muttering to herself like an old, old
woman. And the way she looks at one,
sometimes--it is enough to give one
the chills. I tell Albert often that I
am almost afraid to have her in the
house."
Seth chuckled audibly, in good-naN
ured derision. "What a mountain out
of a mole-hill! Why, Alvira has glared
at people that way, with her little black-
bead eyes, ever since I was a boy. She
doesn't mean anything by it--not the
least in the world. The trouble is,
Isabel, that you let your imagination
rtm away with you. You are desperate-
ly lonesome here, and you amuse your-
self by conjuring up all sorts of tragic
things. You will have Aunt Sabrina a
professional witch next thing you know,
and Milton a mystic conspirator, and
this plain old clap-boarded farm-house a
castle of enchantment."
lie had never before assumed even
this jocose air of superiority over his
blonde sister-in-law, and he closed his
sentence in some little trepidation lest
she should resent it. But no, she re-
ceived it with meekness, and only pro-
tested mildly against the assumption
underneath.
"No, I am sure there is something in
it. She is brooding about Milton. Not
in any sentimental way, you know, but
it used to be understood, I think, that
they were to marry, and now he carries
himself way above her. Why, I can re-
member, as long ago as when I visitod
here that summer, when we were all
boys and girls and cousins together, I
heard your mother say they would make
a match of it some time. But now he
avoids the kitchen and her. It sounds
ridiculous, doesn't it, for me to be
speculating in this way about the love-
affairs of the servants. But you are
driven to it here. You have no idea
how grateful one gets to be, here in the
country, for the smallest item of human
gossip."
Seth was still considering whether it
was possible for him, in careful lan-
guage, to suggest his own--or rather

the Lawton g@l's--view of the lIilton-
Alvira affai; when Isabel spoke again :
"Speaking of gossip, there is some-
thing I have been tempted half a dozen
times to mention to you--something I
heard almost every day during the little
time that the women round about were
calling on me. You will guess what I
mean--the talk about you and Annie."
Seth did not immediately answer, and
she continued :
"Of course you know, Seth, that I
wouldn't speak of it if I thought i
would be distasteful to you. But I
know it used to be the idea that you
two were marked for each other. I
have heard ever so much about it since
we have lived here. And yet you don't
seem to me to be at all like lovers---
hardly even like affectionate cousins. I
think she has rather avoided the house
since you have been here, although that,
of com'se, may be only imagination.
She is such a dear, good girl, and I am
so fond of her, but still I can hardly
imagine her as your wife. You don't
mind my speaking about it, do you ?"
Seth was still at a loss what to say,
or, better, how to say it. While she had
been speaking, the contrast between the
two young women, which had been slum-
bering in his mind for a year, had risen
vividly before him. The smile, half-
deprecating, half-inviting, with which
she looked this last question at him, as
she laid the everlasting embroidery
down, and leaned slightly forward for
a reply, gave the final touch to his
vanishing doubts.
"Mind your speaking about it ? 1o,
no, Isabel." lie scarcely knew his o-n
voice, it was so full of cooing softness.
"I am glad you did--for--for who has
a better right ? 1o, there is nothing in
the gossip. Our people--my mother,
her grandmother--had it in mind once,
I believe, but Annie and I have never so
much as hinted at it between ourselves.
Ever since mother's death old Mrs.
Warren has, however, taken a deep dis-
like to me---you remember how she for-
bade Annie to go with us on that fish-
ing trip--but even without that. "
"Ah, I sha'n't forget that fishing
trip," Isabel whispered, still with the
tender smile.
"lor I, you may be very sure." The

49: SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

Next morning Seth prepared ,once
again to leave the homestead, but this
time with a light heart and a gay de-
meanor. A month's absence had served
so to remodel his views of the Chroni-
cle that he already felt himself to be a
personage of importance in its control.
tie had been constantly spoken of in
the village as "one of the editors" of
that journal, and found so much pleas-
ure in the designation that he had come
to use it in thinking of himself. I-Ie felt
himself fired, too, with new enthusiasm
and power by his talks with Ansdell,
and he believed, not only that he saw
where his past errors had lain, but that
he knew now the trick of success. Above
all, he was to write long letters to Isa-
bel, and receive answers equally long
and nice from her, and---this gave him
an especial sense of delight--it was all
to be a secret between them.
The sun shone brightly, too, after the
rain, as if to be in harmony with his
mood. Albert was more affable than
he had been before, and after breakfast,
and while the carriage was being brought
around, gave him some cigars for the
journey, and a twenty-dollar bill for
pocket-money. These were pleasant prel-
udes to a little brotherly conversation.
"I wish you would hurry up and get
to have a say on the Chronicle as soon as
you can, Seth," said the lawyer, holding
him by the lapel in fraternal fashion.
"You can help me theremhelp me very
materially. I am going to be nominated
for Congress in this district next year
--don't whisper about it yet, but I've
got it solid. I haven't let any grass
grow under my feet since I moved here,
and they can't beat me in the Conven-
tion. But the Chronicle can do a good
deal in the election, and I look to you
for that. I am not going to Washing-
ton without knowing my business after
I get there. There is a big thing on
hand--big for me, big for you too.
Good-by now, my boy; I must get
up-stairs to my writing. You won't for-
get !"
No, Seth promised, very cordially and
heartily, he would not forget.
When his traps had been piled again
into the carriage, and he said good-by
to his aunt and to Alvira, no Isabel was
to be seen. She had been at breakfast,

but had subsequently disappeared. Seth
went into the living-roommno one was
there. He opened the door to the stairs
and called out her namemno answer.
As he closed the door again, he heard
the faintest tinkle imaginable from a
piano-key. I-Ie had not thought of the
parlor, which was ordinarily unused, but
he hastened to it now. Isabel stood at
the instrument, her head bowed, her
finger still pressing the key. She tmed
with a dear little exclamation, which
might be either of surprise or satisfied
expectancy, and held out her hand.
"So you wouldn't go, after all, with-
out saying good-by to me !"
"Why, Isabel, you know better !" an-
swered Seth, still very downright for his
years. I-Ie was actually pained at her
having fancied him capable of such 
thing, and while he held her hand he
looked at her with mild reproach in his
eyes.
"Oh, do 1.9" she answered, rather in-
consequently. Then she sighed, and
bowed her fair head again. "Have you
given it a thought at all---how lonely it
will be after you are gone for--for those
who are left behind.9 I can't bear to
think of it--I came in here because I
couldn't stand and see the horses at the
door, and the preparations for your go-
ing. It is as if the tomb-door were
swinging back on me again. I am foolish,
I know"- here the words were much
hampered in their flow by incipient sobs
m,, but if you could realize my position
rathe awful desolation of it, thethe---"
She broke down altogether, and, with
the disengaged hand, put her handker-
chief to her eyes.
Seth had never seen a young and
beautiful woman in tears before, off the
stage, but his racial instincts served him
in the emergency. He gently took her
hand down again, holding them both,
now, in his. He told her, again surpris-
ing himself by the smoothness and fe-
licity of his words, how delightful she
had made his visit, how deeply he prized
her sympathy and compassionated her
lot, and how the pangs of regret at part-
ing were only solaced by the thought
that she had permitted him to write.
Then he kissed herand hurried out to
the carriage.
The handsome, high-bitted grays

SETH'S BROTHER'S 4IFE. 495

made short work of the drive to Thes-
saly station, where John was waiting
to have a parting word, so that Seth
scarcely had time to collect his thoughts
and settle accounts with himself before
the train started. Three hours later,
when he got off at Tecumseh, he had pro-
gressed no further in his work of strik-
ing a moral balance than :
"After all, she is my cousin as well as
my sister-in-law."

CHAPTER XVII.

AN PWARD LEAP.

"WHAT man of achievement cannot
recall some one short period of his life
which seems to transcend in significance
and value all the rest of his careerm
when great things, for which he had
only unconsciously waited, came to him
without the asking; when the high
court of events rendered its sudden, un-
expected verdict of success, without
costs to him who had never made a
plea; when the very stars in their
courses seemed to have privily con-
spired to fight for him ? How swift,
inexplicable, even amazing it all was!
And yet how simple, too! And when
the first flush of astonishment--half de-
light, half diffidence--had passed, how
natm-al it all seemed; how mind and
manners and methods all expanded to
meet the new reqtfirelnents ; how calm-
ly and as a matter of course the dig-
nity was worn, the increment appropri-
ated the mental retina adapted to the
widened focus! How easily, too, he
sloughed off his own conviction that it
was all pure luck, and accepted the
world's kind judgment of deserved suc-
cess! Who is it that accuses the world,
and rails at its hardness of heart ?
What man among us all, in the hour of
honest introspection, does not know
that he is rated too high, that he is in
debt to the credulity, the generosity,
the dear old human tendency to hero-
worship, of his fellows ?"
This is an extract fl'om a letter which
the successful Seth Fairchild wrote a
few months ago. Chronolocally, it is
dated only a couple of years after the
occurrences with which we are now con-

cerued but to him an interval of dec-
ades doubtless seemed to separate the
periods. Perhaps the modesty of it is
a hfle self-conscious, and the rhetoric
is of a flamboyant kind which he will
never, apparently, outgrow ; but at all
events it shows a disposition to be fair
as between himself and history. The
period of great fortune, to which he al-
ludes, is to be glanced at in this pres-
ent chapter--to be limned, though only
in outline, more clearly no doubt than he
himself could be trusted to do it. For,
though a man have never so fine a tal- .
ent for self-analysis, you are safe to
be swamped if you follow him a step
beyond your own depth. In cold fact,
Seth could no more tell how it was that,
within one short year, he rose from the
very humblest post to become editor of
the Chronicle, than Master Tom here
can explain why he has outgrown his
last summer's knickerbockers while his
twin brother hasn't.
lie had been back at his work in Te-
cunseh only a month when word came
to the office one morning that Mr.
ler could not come--that he had been
seriously injm-ed in the havoc wrought
by a runaway horse. It was too early
for either editor or proprietor to be on
the scene, and Arthur Dent at that hour
was the visible head of the staff. He and
Seth had scarcely spoken to each other
for months--in fact, since that disagree-
able evening encounter--but he walked
over now to otu- young man's desk and
said :
"Mr. Fairchild, you would better take
the News to-day. Tyler has been badly
hurt."
Marvelling much at the favoritism of
the selection, for Dent had not only
passed Murtagh over, but had waived
his own claims of precedence, Seth
changed desks. He got through the
work well enough, it appeared, but he
mistrusted deeply his ability to hold the
place. Mr. Samboye did not seem to
approve his promotion, though he said
nothing, and the manner in which Mr.
Workman looked at him in his new
chair seemed distinctly critical.
Mter the paper had gone to press,
and some little routine work against
the next morning's start was out of the
way, he wavered between idling the re-

496 SETH'S BROTHER'S WIFE.

maining two hours away amon khe ex-
changes or attempting an editorial
article for the morrow, such as Mr. Ty-
ler occasionally contributed. His for-
mer experience with Mr. Samboye dis-
mayed him a bit, but he concluded to
try the editorial experiment again.
Some things which Ansdell had said one
day on the silver question remained in
his mind, and he made them the basis
of a half-column article. He was finish-
ing this when the office-boy told him
Mr. Workman wished to see him below.
He took his silver article with him,
vaguely hoping, hardly expecting, to be
congratulated on his day's work, and
told to keep the desk.
Seth's impressions of his employer
were that he was a hard, peremptory
man, and he searched his face now for
some sign of softness in vain. 15r.
Workman motioned him to a seat, and
said, abruptly :
"You were on the News desk to-day.
Did you take it yourself, or were you
sent there ?"
"Mr. Dent told me to take it, sir."
"Why didn't he take it himself, or put
lurtagh on ?"
Seth had it in mind to explain that
Murtagh did not come down early
enough, but he remembered how stren-
uous the rules were in the matter of
matutinal punctuality, and concluded to
say simply that he didn't know. Mr.
Workman looked at him for a moment,
made some arabesque figures with his
pencil on the edge of the blotter, looked
at him again, and then said, in a milder
tone than Seth had supposed his voice
capable of :
"I may as well be candid with you.
have been very much disappointed in you
so far. You haven't panned out at all as
your brother led me to expect you would."
This was a knock-down blow. Poor
Seth could only turn his copy about in
his hands and stammer: "I am very
sorry. In what way have I failed?"
"It would be hard to tell exactly in
what way. I should say it was in a
general failure to be the sort of young
man I thought you were going to be.
5ou have shown no inclination, for ex-
ample, to write anythingmand yet your
brother praised you up to the skies as
writer."

"But what was the good? I did
write a long paragraph when I first
came here, and handed it in to Mr.
Samboye, and he tore it up before my
eyes! That would be enough to dis-
courage anybody!"
"Oh, he did that with you, too, did
he?" Mr. Workman made more ara-
besques on his blotter, shading them
with great neatness.
Seth thought this was a favorable
opportunity to get in his Silver article,
and handed it to the proprietor with
a word of explanation. Mr. Workman
read it over carefully, and laid it aside
without a syllable of comment. -There
was nothing in his face to show whether
he liked it or not. He surrounded all
his pencilled figures with a wavy border,
and said again:
"Then, there are your associations.
Before ever you came I was discouraged
at the amount of money and time and
health my young men were squandering
in saloons. It had become a scandal
to the town. I get a young man in from
the country whose habits are vouched
for as perfect, vith an idea that he will
influence the rest, and lo and behold!
he becomes the boss guzzler of the
lot !"
"There is a good deal of justice in
that, Mr. Workman--or there was. But
since I've been back this time it has
been changed. I have moved into an-
other boarding-house where I have a
room to myself, and I have read at home
almost every evening when I was not
with Mr. Ansdell. I think I see the
folly of that old way as clearly as any-
one can."
"Ansdell and I had a long talk about
you the other day. It was he who gave
me my first idea that there was any-
thing in you. He is something of a
crank on certain subjects, but he knows
men like a book. I have been saying to
myself that if he liked you there must be
more in you than I had discovered. If I
am right in this, now is your time to
show it. It is a toss up, the doctors
say this afternoon, whether poor Tyler
lives or dies. In any case he won't be
about in months. You can keep on at
the desk for a while. We21 see how you
make it go."
The next afternoon, when the inky

498 SETH'S BROTHER'S kl/'IFE.

nestness. Conceive such a man, if'you
can--for there will never be another
like him--and then endow him in your
mind with a malwellous accumulation of
knowledge, with convictions upon every
conceivable subject, and with nothing
short of a passion for enforcing these
upon those of whom he was fond---and
some idea of the perfect ascendency
he gained over Seth will have been ob-
tained.
Mr. Ansdell was neither impeccable
nor omniscient. There was much in
both his theories and his practice which
would not commend itself to the moral
statutes of the age; he attempted no
defence, being incredulous as to the
right of criticism upon personal predi-
lections. But he had a flaming wrath,
a consuming, intolerant contempt, for
men who were unable to distinguish be-
tween private tastes and public duty.
On this subject of public duty he was so
streiuous, so deeply earnest, that often
there seemed but a microscopic line be-
tween his attitude and fanaticism. But
this zeal had its magnificent uses. Of-
ten it swayed, despite themselves, the
politicians of his party who had least in
common with him, and who disliked
him and vaunted their conventional su-
periority to him even while they were
being swept along toward nobler pur-
poses than their own small souls could
ever have conceived, in the current of
feeling which his devotion had created.
I-Ie took complete possession of Seth's
mind, and he worked wonders upon it.
There is neither room here, nor pow-
er, to analyze these achievements. The
young man, heretofore through circum-
stances slow and mechanical, revealed un-
der the inspiration of this contact his true
temperament. He became as receptive
as a sensitized plate in the camera. He
seemed to take in facts, theories, emo-
tions, prejudices, beliefs, through the
very pores of his skin. He found him-
self hating one line of public action, and
all its votaries, vividly; he found him-
self thrilling with violent enthusiasm
for another line, and its exponents---
such an enthusiasm as exiled men trem-
ble under when they hear the national
air of their native land.
I-Ie was not always right. Very often,
indeed, he did injustice, in his mind, and

in the types as well, to really well-mean-
ing men who, after their lights, were just
as patriotic as he was. He condemned
with undue ferocity where he could not
unreservedly praise, and, like most men
of three-and-twenty who sit on the tri-
pod of judgment upon their fellow-mor-
tals, he made many mistakes. But his
mental and moral advance, despite these
limitations, was tremendously swift, and,
in the main, substantial. No man ever
made the world budge an inch ahead
who had not well developed the capaci-
ty for indignation at weak and wrong
things. This indignant faculty grew
and swelled in Seth's nature like a
strong vine, spreading upon the tree of
his admiration for his ideals.
He had a fair income now--twenty
dollars a week--and he lived very well,
having a room in a good house, and tak-
ing his meals down-town. This was a
condition of life which had always com-
mended itself to his imagination, and he
revelled now in realizing it. Of course
he saved no money. Through Ansdell
and others he had made the acquaintance
of a number of Tecumseh men of posi-
tion, and he had been asked a little to
their houses, but he had not gone more
than once. This single experience did
not dismay or humiliate him; he flat-
tered himself that he came out of it with
credit. But it did not interest him ; it
was wofully difficult to talk to the women
he met--to know what to say to them.
It was the easier to come back from this
one excursion to his old Bohemian bach-
elor notions, and justify them to himself.
The correspondence with Isabel had
not been altogether so attractive as he
had anticipated. It had its extremely
pleasant side, of course, but there were
drawbacks. She wrote well, but then
most of her writing was about herself,
which grew wearisome after a time. It
was difficult, too, to find time to answer
her letters always when the philandering
mood was upon him, and in this matter
he found himself curiously the creature
of his moods. The routine of daily
newspaper toil had rendered him largely
independent of them in his ordinary
work. He wrote about as well one day
as another. But there were seasons
when he could not write to Isabel at all.
Then he would say to himself that the

TEDESCO "S R UBINA. 499

need of doing so was a nuisance, and in
this flame of mind he would generally
end by reproaching himself for even en-
tertaining the idea of a mild flirtation
with his brother's wife. lot that there
was anything wrong in it, of course ; he
was quite clear on this point; but it was
so useless, such a gratuitous outlay of
time and talent !
But then next day, perhaps, a good
dinner, or a chance glimpse of fresh
romance in the exchanges, or some af-
fecting play at the theatre of an even-
.ing, would bring back all the glamour

of her pretty, tender face, the magic of
her eyes, the perfume of her tawny hair.
And then he could write, and did write,
often with a force of sweet rhetoric, a
moving quality of caressing ardor, which
it is difficult to distinguish from love-
making.
To him these letters did not mean
that at all ; they were really abstract re-
flections of the sentimental side of his
nature, which might have been evoked
by almost any likable, intelligent woman.
But to the wife on the farm they
seemed deeply, deliciously, personal.

(To be continued.)

TEDESCO'S IUBINA.

By F. D. Millet.

AYoE may see among the fragments
of antique sculpture in one of the mu-
seums of Rome a marble head of a
young maiden which has been rudely
broken off at the neck. It bears no
marks of restoration, and is mounted on
the conventional pedestal or support.
There is a half-coquettish twinkle in the
lines of the mouth and eyes, and a most
bewitching expression of innocent youth-
ful happiness about the face, which at
once attracts and fascinates the eye of
even the most careless observer of these
relics of ancient art. The head is grace-
fully poised and exquisitely propor-
tioned, but is not conventionalized to
the degree usual in busts of a similar
character. Indeed, notwithstanding its
classical aspect, there is a mm-ked indi-
viduality of treatment noticeable in its
composition, if I may so call the ar-
rangement of the hair and the pose of
the head. The features are small and
regular, the chin a trifle too delicate, if
possible, to complete the full oval sug-
gested by the upper part of the face,
and the hair, in which a wreath of ivy
is twined, clusters in slender, irregular
curls around a low forehead, and is
gathered behind in a loose knot. One

tress of hair, escaping from the embrace
of the ivy-br