## The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine (June 1913)

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine (June 1913)

Author: Various

Release date: April 13, 2017 [eBook #54545]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jane Robins, Reiner Ruf, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURY ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY MAGAZINE (JUNE 1913) ***

Transcriber’s Notes

This e-text is based on ‘The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine,’ from June 1913. The table of contents has been added by the transcriber.

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have been retained, but punctuation and typographical errors have been corrected. Passages in English dialect and in languages other than English have not been altered.

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

TEMPLE OF ZEUS AT OLYMPIA

PAINTED FOR THE CENTURY BY JULES GUÉRIN

❏
LARGER IMAGE

Copyright, 1913, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.

TRAVEL NUMBER

# THE CENTURY MAGAZINE

VOL. LXXXVI
JUNE, 1913
NO. 2

## CONTENTS

VERSE

## THE GREAT ST. BERNARD

BY ERNST VON HESSE-WARTEGG

WITH PICTURES BY ANDRÉ CASTAIGNE

IN a popular guide-book to Switzerland, it is stated that of all Alpine passes the Great St. Bernard is the least interesting. With this view the traveling public does not seem to agree, for the St. Bernard is crossed every year by more people than any other pass. On an average, twenty thousand annually arrive at the hospice on the summit, and nine tenths of them during the short summer season, from the beginning of July to the end of August, which means over three hundred daily.

Now, the whole district of the St. Bernard for many miles around possesses not one of the vast caravansaries characteristic of the picturesque mountain-tops in Switzerland,—indeed, not even a modest inn,—where tourists may find shelter for a few days. Why, then, should these armies of tourists invade the pass every summer, if it really offers little of interest?

To me, who have seen almost all the passes from one end of the Alps to the other, the trip over the Great St. Bernard was most enjoyable. Though the scenery may not be so beautiful as that of the St. Gotthard, for instance, it surpasses by far even that and most of the others in wild grandeur; for nowhere else in the Alps can be found mountains of bolder aspect and greater height. On the west, near the French boundary, I need only mention Mont Blanc and Mont Dolent; on the east, the glacier-covered peaks of Mont Velan, and the towering masses of the Grand Combin.

The valley of the river Dranse, which is followed by the traveler from Martigny, in the Rhone valley, to very near the summit, more than eight thousand feet above the sea, is full of romantic beauty and wildness, closed in by snow-covered mountains of fantastic shapes, their steep slopes partly covered with dark pine forests. Nestling on the rocks or sleeping in the valleys there are a few straggling settlements, with heavy-visaged natives, apparently of a different race from the Swiss, and entirely untouched by modern life. They live in tottering, wooden houses of the quaintest shapes, dark brown with age, and with wooden barns on stilts attached to them. Only a few villages, as Orsières,[Pg 162] Liddes, and Bourg St. Pierre on the Swiss side, and St. Rémy on the Italian side, have stone houses along their narrow main thoroughfares.

During the summer months these roads are daily traversed by a motley crowd of tourists from all parts of the world, traveling on foot, or in private carriages or postal diligences, for the road is kept in capital order. Many wayfarers stop at the modest inns to rest and take a glass of kirsch, or even to seek shelter in the old houses when storms spring up suddenly, blowing furiously down the valleys; or they may repose on the rotten thresholds of the houses side by side with old matrons working at their spinning-wheels or with young girls knitting stockings, and converse with them in their French patois. The men are frequently employed as guides, and all are in constant intercourse with modern people from the great capitals of both continents, yet they do not depart from their ancient manners and ways.

The uncommon tenacity of these mountaineers is surprising, as the St. Bernard traffic is by no means new. True, the new carriage-road connecting central Europe, by way of Switzerland, with Italy was opened only in the first days of August, 1905, when the King of Italy himself was present, together with the authorities of the neighboring countries. But the St. Bernard has been a highway for thousands of years; it has seen many armies in war-time and many caravans with merchandise in times of peace. More than two hundred years before Christ, the great Hannibal passed over it with his Carthaginian legions; over the winding road which Hannibal had constructed Julius Cæsar led his Roman army down the valley of the Dranse for the conquest of Gallia and Germania. Emperor Augustus II improved and rebuilt the road, portions of which are still seen by the side of the new carriage-road wherever the latter has not been built on the foundation of the Roman highway.

At the beginning of the Christian era, the summit of the pass was crowned with a temple in honor of Jupiter, with rest-houses for travelers. Vestiges of this temple still exist, and in the large and well-stocked library of the present Hospice of St. Bernard the prior of the religious order in charge showed me a number of gold and silver coins, ex-voto figures, tablets, vessels, statuettes, and other objects found by the priests on the temple site. Indeed, owing to its situation on the direct geographical line between Italy and the North, the St. Bernard has been crossed in the course of time by more people than has any other pass.

The traveler of to-day, arriving at the hospice in a comfortable carriage within ten hours from the nearest railway-station, and provided with all the luxuries of modern life, can hardly picture to himself the terrible privations of the traveler in ancient times, when settlements were scarce. Provisions had to be carried along for many miles to these icy regions, most of the time covered with deep snow which obliterated every trace of roads.

On the evening of my arrival, I went to the plateau where once Jupiter was worshiped. The small lake beyond which it is situated had still some ice-cakes floating on its placid surface. Resting there on a stone, my fancy enlivened this scene of solitude and desolation with the savage soldiers of heathen times. I imagined that I heard the cracking and screaking of heavy cart-wheels, the clattering of armor, the clanking of spears, as the legions toiled wearisomely upward to the beating of drums and blowing of trumpets. My eyes pictured strange, stalwart warriors, exhausted from the arduous pull up those steep valleys, shivering with intense cold, fainting, sinking into the deep snow. And then an avalanche, breaking loose from the towering mountains above, came thundering down, dispersing this glittering array, and burying many under the soft, white, yet deadly, mass.

It was with the object of offering shelter to the weary and of rescuing those who succumbed to the inclemencies of these forbidding heights that in the year 962 a pious monk, Bernard, Count of Menthon, whose home was in Savoy, near Annecy, resolved to devote his life and fortune to the founding of a hospice on the summit of the pass. He succeeded in persuading other monks to share with him the dreary life, and thus founded a holy order, named to-day “Les Chanoines reguliers de St. Augustin.” Bernard of Menthon himself, afterward canonized by the pope, was elected first prior, and lived[Pg 164] forty years at the hospice. His tomb is still standing in the Italian town of Novara. According to the keeper of the royal archives at Turin, whom I consulted on the history of the hospice, it is first mentioned in a document in the year 1108.

Drawn by André Castaigne. Half-tone plate engraved by R. Varley

AN AVALANCHE ON THE ST. BERNARD PASS

❏
LARGER IMAGE

In the Middle Ages the hospice, being of great importance in the intercourse between the north and south of Europe, enjoyed the powerful support and protection of the great rulers of that period, notably the German emperors. In return for valuable services, the order was richly endowed, and became in time exceedingly wealthy and prosperous. At the beginning of the sixteenth century it possessed no fewer than ninety-eight livings. The Reformation, however, ended this prosperity, and since then various misfortunes have carried away most of its once very large revenues. Its total income is now about eight thousand dollars, and without the aid received from the Italian and Swiss governments it would be impossible to offer hospitality to the large number of tourists that come every year. As many as five hundred have received free board and lodging in a single day.

It is to be regretted that so few visitors take notice of the collection-box in the pretty little church. Many well able to pay for the hospitality they receive do not give even so much as they would pay for their entertainment in a third-rate inn. The total amount given by tourists is only a small fraction of the actual expense incurred in entertaining them. The present King of England, who visited the hospice when Prince of Wales, sent a piano, and I could not help wondering how this bulky instrument was brought up the steep mountains. Emperor Frederick of Germany, with his consort, came in 1883, and the prior showed me one of their valuable gifts—a volume of Thomas à Kempis, bearing their signatures.

One must bear in mind that provisions, wood, and all other necessities of life have to be brought up eight thousand feet from the valleys below. For miles about the hospice there is not a tree, not a bush or a single blade of grass, and the view from my window offered nothing but barren rocks, bleak mountains, glaciers, and snow-fields. The mean annual temperature is below the freezing-point, being about the same as Spitzbergen, within the Arctic Ocean! One cannot help admiring the little group of monks, about twelve in number, who, with an equal number of lay brothers and servants, live here, in this highest human habitation of Europe, summer and winter, year after year, till they die. They do not wear the monk’s capouch, but the ordinary black sacerdotal robe, with a white cord falling from the neck as a special distinction.

Their sufferings are sometimes intense. The climate is so severe, and their duties are so arduous, that their constitutions would soon be broken down if they were not allowed to recuperate temporarily at their house in Martigny, their places being taken by other members of this brave and devoted brotherhood.

On the St. Bernard summit the seasons are unknown. Winter is, so to speak, perpetual, without spring or autumn or summer, the only indication of our warm seasons being the melting of the snow, which sometimes drifts about the three tall stone buildings to a height of forty feet. The cold is often twenty degrees below zero Fahrenheit and has been in one instance twenty-nine degrees. When I stayed at the hospice early in August, the lake behind it was frozen over during the night, and the monks told me that there have been years when the ice on its surface did not melt.

Under these conditions, I was not surprised to find among the occupants of the hospice mostly young men, only one of them being over fifty, and he had spent twenty consecutive years on the St. Bernard. The hardest labors of these pious men are during the winter months, notably in November and February, when numerous poor laborers from Italy venture to cross in search of work. Unfamiliar with the hardships and dangers they have to face, they ascend from Aosta over St. Rémy, plodding wearily through the deep snow, which obliterates all traces of the road, sometimes covering even the telegraph-poles. At last their strength gives out, or they are buried under an avalanche, or they lose their way and cannot proceed from sheer exhaustion. Those who do not perish owe their lives to the zeal of the monks and the alertness of the famous dogs of St. Bernard.

Day after day all the monks are out on their beat through the “Valley of Death” on the north side opening immediately below the hospice, and the steep snow-fields to the south, each accompanied by a servant and a dog. They search the surroundings, where every dell, every rock is familiar to them, with powerful field-glasses. Breaks or dark spots are detected at once on the white surface, but the surest and never-failing discoverers of unfortunate victims are the dogs. Their extraordinary fine scent indicates to them the exact direction in which it is necessary to search, and the men follow on snow-shoes. Arrived at the supposed spot, the dogs begin to bark and to scratch in the snow, the men take to their shovels, and soon the poor wayfarer is discovered. If life has fled from him, the body is carried up to the hospice and placed in the little low, desolate stone hut standing at a short distance from the buildings, the abode of the dead. In this “morgue” rest the victims of the Alps till their bodies crumble to ashes. There is no other way of disposing of the dead, since for miles about the hospice not enough soil can be found to furnish a grave.

Drawn by André Castaigne.

INTERIOR OF THE CHAPEL IN THE HOSPICE

At the time of my visit, only one body of the preceding winter was lying among the remains of the victims of former years. The others who had been found had been restored to life.

Many thousands have been rescued[Pg 165] from certain death, principally owing to the cleverness of the dogs, carefully trained to their work. According to the register kept at the hospice, these dogs, originally a cross between Newfoundland and Pyrenean, were employed first in the fifteenth century, and the present breed is undoubtedly descended from them. To preserve it pure, several dogs are also kept at the two other settlements of the brotherhood, the Simplon hospice and Martigny. The expediency of this is shown by the accident of 1825, when nearly all the dogs at the St. Bernard hospice, together with three lay brothers, perished in a terrible avalanche on the Swiss slope near the present “Cantine de Proz,” the highest inn on the way to the hospice, kept by the Swiss Government as a postal station. Only two or three dogs survived, and they perpetuated the race.

Now there are about fifteen dogs at the hospice. They are objects of much petting on the part of travelers, especially ladies, to which they indulgently submit. In appearance they differ considerably from what we picture them to be. They are much smaller than the St. Bernard dog of other countries, but heavier-set and stronger. The hair is white, coarse, and tight to the skin, with large yellow or reddish-brown spots, the chest and the lower part of the body being always white. The long tail is heavy and shaggy, the[Pg 166] neck short-set and uncommonly strong, carrying a large head, with the muzzle short and broad. The front teeth are mostly visible, and the dogs would look rather ferocious without the intelligent and withal docile expression of their large, bright eyes. Many of them have been reproduced on postal cards, for sale in the large reception-room, one of the few rooms furnished with a stove. The prior, who is also Swiss postmaster, told me that on the average one thousand postal cards, mostly with pictures of the dogs, are daily sent “with hearty greetings” to all parts of the world. But in the “season,” as many as fifteen hundred have been mailed in a single afternoon, especially when snow-storms or rain keep the tourists indoors with nothing to do.

Drawn by André Castaigne.

A ST. BERNARD DOG

The best type of a St. Bernard dog was famous Bary, who, after saving thirty-nine lives, was unfortunately shot by an English traveler he was trying to rescue, who mistook him for a wolf. His stuffed skin is now in the museum at Bern. Since then there has always been a “Bary” among the dogs. The present dog of that name has already saved three lives, while Pallas and Diana have saved two each.

St. Bernard dogs, imported mostly from England in recent years, have become decidedly popular in America. They are chiefly of the long-haired kind, much larger and with rather flatter heads and longer muzzles than the dogs at the St. Bernard hospice. Nevertheless, they are genuine St. Bernards, and are descended from those originally brought to England from Switzerland for Lord Dashwood, about one hundred years ago.

In their home country this breed of dogs is by no means confined to the St. Bernard mountain. Raised in most Alpine valleys, they have become, so to speak, the[Pg 167] national dog of Switzerland, and are foremost in public favor. While the long-haired type prevails in the lower cantons, nothing but the short-haired variety are employed at the hospice, the former type being unfitted for the peculiar mountain work. Enormous snowfalls in spring and autumn force them sometimes to dig their way under the snow for two or three days; on occasions they remain in the icy fields for a week or two, returning to the hospice reduced to mere skeletons. The coat of the long-haired dogs dries much slower, and the dripping from the fur congeals, causing rheumatism and other ailments and making them soon unfit for their work.

Drawn by André Castaigne.

THE ST. BERNARD HOSPICE

The general belief that the original St. Bernard race died out long ago is unfounded. There can be no doubt that the present dogs are descended from those kept at the hospice in the Middle Ages, crossed with Danish bulldogs and Pyrenean dogs about five centuries ago, that they might inherit size and strength from the former and intelligence and keen scent from the latter. St. Bernard, the founder of the hospice, is represented in ancient pictures accompanied by a large white dog. The insecurity of the much frequented route between Italy and the North in early times caused the monks to keep dogs for their own protection, till their usefulness for life-saving purposes made them indispensable companions.

[Pg 169]

Drawn by André Castaigne. Half-tone plate engraved by H. C. Merrill

A BAND OF GIPSIES TRAVELING ALONG THE ST. BERNARD PASS

❏
LARGER IMAGE

Unfortunately, most of the early documents in regard to the dogs were destroyed by fire, but the existing traditions of the antiquity of the race are confirmed by the escutcheon of an ancient Swiss family which I discovered in the archives of the city of Zurich. Four families of the fourteenth century have dogs as ornaments of the escutcheon helmet. They are Stubenweg, Aichelberg, Hailigberg, and the counts of Toggenburg, the latter famous in history and still flourishing in Austria. The escutcheons are most carefully painted, and show four distinct and clearly defined types of dogs. The type over the escutcheon of the family of Hailigberg shows a striking resemblance to the St. Bernard dog of to-day, with all the characteristic signs. Mountains crowned by hospices used to be called sacred mountains or Hailigberg (present style Heiligberg) during the Middle Ages, and from this it may safely be deducted that the knights of Hailigberg, took the picture of a hospice dog for their helmet ornament.

For ages the St. Bernard dogs have been trained for their service in a peculiar manner: one old and one young dog are sent together daily down the Valley of Death toward the nearest human habitation; two others on the south side toward St. Rémy, their footprints in the snow indicating to lost travelers with unfailing certainty the exact line of the road buried under the snow. The younger dogs are taught by the older ones to show to travelers the way to the hospice by barking and jumping and running ahead of them toward the summit of the pass. If they happen to find a poor half-frozen victim, they try to restore animation by licking the hands and face. Then they hasten back to the hospice and announce their discovery by barking.

Great credit is due to the Kynological Society of Switzerland for the preservation, improvement, and popularization of the hospice dogs in their pure type. In the latter part of the last century the English type, as described above, threatened to become generally established as the correct one. At an international Kynological Congress convened by that society in Zurich in 1887, the characteristic marks of the pure hospice type were laid down and acknowledged by the delegates of all countries, England included. In 1885 the first pure St. Bernard dogs were introduced into Germany by Prince Albrecht of Solms-Braunfels, and as they became very popular in a short time, a St. Bernard Club was organized in Munich in 1891 for the express purpose of improving the St. Bernard breed by organizing an exposition with competent judges, and publishing annually a book of genealogy.

The first Napoleon, who crossed the St. Bernard with his army, cavalry, artillery, and all, between the fifteenth and twenty-first of May, 1800, was very fond of these dogs and kept some in his room while resting at the hospice. Near the entrance of the largest building, erected in the seventeenth century, there is a big bell, rung by travelers to announce their arrival. Opposite the bell a large marble tablet commemorates the passage of Napoleon, dedicated by the government of the then republic, now the Swiss canton of Valais. His army was the last to cross the St. Bernard, and in the place of armies of soldiers, those of tourists invade the historic pass every year. They are most numerous in August, for the snow rarely melts before July and begins to fall again early in September, to stay till the following July. The poor priests are then left to themselves for about ten months, when the next summer’s sun makes the carriage-road again practicable.

The founder of the hospice, with its brotherhood, has at last received a monument, which he well deserved. His statue was unveiled during the summer of 1905, and stands on the spot which the many thousands have had to pass who, after being rescued by his successors, have resumed their journey to the valleys below and to renewed life.

[Pg 170]

## THE TRAINING OF A JAPANESE CHILD

BY FRANCES LITTLE

Author of “The Lady of the Decoration,” “The Lady and Sada San,” etc.

THE stork has no vacation in Japan, neither does he sleep; and if he rests, the time and place are known of no man. On the stroke of the hour, nay, of the quarter, he is faithfully at his work distributing impartially among rich and poor small bits of humanity. He may be a wise bird, but if he thinks by the swiftness of his wings to find a home beneath roof of straw or palace tile unprepared for his coming, he is mistaken. He will discover that he has failed utterly to comprehend the joy of the mother to be. A childless woman is of no value in a land where the perpetuation of the family name is the most vital law prescribed in its religious and moral teachings. For a Japanese woman, therefore, the pinnacle of desire is reached when the white bird taps at her door and lays its precious bundle in her outstretched arms. For a time at least she has been able to forget the great terror of her life, divorce, and to make ready for the coming of the child with high hope and tender joy.

Only two little garments are prepared previously. For the inside, a tiny kimono of bright yellow, the color supposed to give health and strength to the body; and for an outer covering, a coat of red, which color means congratulation. Until the sex of the baby is known, the wardrobe is thus limited as a matter of economy in time and cloth. If a boy, he has the sole right to every shade of blue. To the girl fall the softest pinks and reds. Whichever the sex, every available member of the family lends a willing hand to the busy task of cutting and stitching into many shapes the flowered cloth necessary to decorate the small body.

The tiny wardrobe complete, the household turns its attention to the preparation of the feast with which to make merry and give thanks to the gods for so good a gift as a little child, whether it be boy or girl. The house is swept and garnished. Out in the kitchen, maids run hither and thither, hurrying the boiling pot, cleansing the already spotless rice, and scampering to bring the best wine. It is glad service. The happiness in the coming of the baby is shared by everybody from the parents to the water-coolie. Hence the eagerness with which the little house shrine is decorated and offerings of food and sake set before the benign old image who is responsible for this great favor. For days preparations go joyfully on, and though the small guest cannot indulge, a special table is set for him at the feast given in his honor, when neighbors and friends as[Pg 172]semble to offer congratulations and presents. Later, each present must be acknowledged by the parents sending one in return.

JAPANESE GIRLS PLAYING THEIR FAVORITE GAME, ONIGOTO

SUPPER-TIME

The baby is excused from being present at the festival, but custom demands that no other engagement interfere with the shaving of his head on the third day. In the olden days styles in hair-cutting were as rigidly adhered to as the wearing of a samurai’s sword, but progress must needs tamper even with the down on a baby’s head. Now the fashion has lost much of its quaintness, and is mostly uniform. The sides and back of the head are shaved smooth, while from the crown a fringe is left to sprout like the long petals of a ragged chrysanthemum. The length and seriousness of the hair-cutting ceremony depend upon the self-control of the young gentleman. Regardless of conduct, however, or of the cost to the nervous system, certain fixed rules are enforced, which are virtually the only training the child receives in early years.

DRAWING ON A NEW WHITE SHOJI

After the little stranger, all shaven and shorn, is returned to his private apartments, the elders of the family consult on the grave matter of choosing a name for him. Often the naming of the baby is a simple matter, the father or grandfather speaking before the company the name of some famous man, if the child is a boy, or of some favorite flower, if it is a girl. For girls, Hana, flower, Yuki, snow, Ai, love, are the favorites of parents with a poetical strain. The sterner country-folk choose for their daughters, Matsu, pine, Take, bamboo (the bamboo joints are exact; hence the exactness of virtue), Ume, plum, since the plum bears both cold and snow bravely. For boys, Ichiro, first boy, Toshio, smart, Iwao, strong, and Isamu, brave, are very popular.

Where belief is strong in the power of a name, the family, in holiday dress, often assembles in a large room. Each writes a name upon a slip of paper and lays it reverently before the house shrine. From the group a very young child is chosen and led before this shrine, and the fate of the name is decided by the small hand which reaches out for a slip. Though it is a festive occasion, the selection of a name is made with a seriousness worthy the election of a bishop. Many believe devoutly that this rite influences the baby’s entire future, and therefore the one whose[Pg 173] slip is chosen incurs from the moment of choice great responsibility for the child’s welfare.

The next great event in the baby’s existence is on the thirtieth day, when he is taken to the temple to be offered to the god that rules over that particular village or city. Dressed in his best suit of clothes, he is strapped to the back of his mother or nurse, with his body wrapped almost to suffocation, and usually with his head dangling from side to side with no protection for face or eyes. Why all Japanese babies are not blind is one of the secrets of nature’s provision. With tender women for mothers and affectionate servants for nurses, it is strange that the little face is seldom shielded from the direct rays of the sun or the piercing winds of winter. Possibly it is a training for physical endurance that later in life is a part of his education.

Arrived at the temple, the child is presented to the priest. This dignitary, with shaven head and clad in a purple gown, reads very solemnly a special prayer to the god whose image, enshrined in gilt and ebony, rests within the deep shadows of the temple. He asks his care and protection for the helpless little creature that lies before him. At the end of the reading the priest shakes a gohei to and fro over the child. A gohei resembles nothing so much as a paper feather duster. Its fluffy whiteness is supposed to represent the pure spirit of the god, and through some mysterious agency a part of this spirit is transferred to the child by the vigorous shaking.

For a few more coins, further protection can be purchased for the little wayfarer. The guaranty of his success and happiness comes in two small paper amulets on which the priest has drawn curious characters decipherable only to the priest and the god. Both amulets are given to the mother, who, with the baby on her back, trots home on her high wooden geta, or clogs, her face aglow with the contentment possible only to one whose faith in prayer and priest is sublime. One amulet, carefully wrapped with the cuttings of the first hair and with the name, is laid away safely in the house shrine, that the god may not forget. The other is carried in a gay little bag of colored crape, which is tied to the sash of the child; for it is believed that it will ward off sickness and hold all evil spirits at bay.

It must be with a sigh of relief that the baby comes to this stage of his existence. The numerous rites necessary to a fair start on life’s highway have been conscientiously performed, the watchful care of the spirits invoked. Now it is his sole business to kick and grow and feed like any small healthy animal, to be served as a young prince and to be adored as a young god. He is the pivot on which the whole household turns. Often, in the soft shadows of evening, on the paper doors of a Japanese house is silhouetted a picture where the child is the center about which the family is grouped in the great act of adoration. It is a bit of inner life that finds a tender response in the heart of any beholder.

“SEEKING SOME OBJECT ON WHICH TO BESTOW HIS ADORABLE SMILE”

[Pg 174]

FERTILE SOIL FOR MISCHIEF

The attitude of the usual family is that obedience is not to be expected of one so young, consequently nobody is disappointed, and the effect on the child is telling. He quickly learns his power, and becomes in turn the trainer and the ruler of the household. In fact, he is a small king, with only a soft ring of dark hair for a crown, and a chop-stick in his chubby fist for a scepter. His lightest frown or smile is a command to all the house, from the poodle with the ingrown nose to the bent old grandmother. But more willing subjects never bent before a king of maturer growth. Father and mother, with a train of relatives, yield glad obedience and stand ever ready for action at the merest suggestion of a wish.

Alas! for the tried and true theories on early training that have held for generations in other countries! Alas! for the scores of learned volumes on child culture! Useless the work of the greatest psychologists, who sound grave warning as to the direful results should one fail to observe certain hard-and-fast rules in the training of mind and body. Grant a few months to a fat, well-fed Japanese baby, and with one wave of his pink heels he will kick into thin air every tested theory that scholarly men have grown gray in proving. He snaps in twain the old saw, “As the twig is bent,” and sends to eternal oblivion that oft-repeated legend, “Give me a child till its seventh year, and neither friend nor foe can change his tendencies.” Even the promise of old, “Children, obey your parents,” loses its value as a recipe for long life when applied to the baby citizen of old Nippon. It is a rare exception if he obeys. He lives neither by rule nor regulation, eats when, where, and what he pleases, then cuddles down to sleep in peace.

“SPECIAL LESSONS FOR THE YOUNG IN HOW TO BOW”

[Pg 175]

To the specialist, one such ill-regulated day in a baby’s life would augur a morning after with digestion in tatters and a ragged temper. He does not take into account the strange mental and physical contradictions of the race. Unchecked, the baby has been permitted to shatter every precept of health, but he awakens as happy as a young kitten. Fresh, sweet, and wholesome, he crawls from his soft nest of comfortables and goes about seeking some object on which to bestow his adorable smile. He is ready to thrive on another lawless day.

There is a mistaken, but popular, belief that a Japanese baby never cries. There is really no reason why he should. Replete with nourishment and rarely denied a wish, he blossoms like a wild rose on the sunny side of the hedge, as sweet and as unrestrained. His life is full of rich and varied interests. From his second day on earth, tied safely to his mother’s back under an overcoat made for two, he finds amusement for every waking hour in watching the passing show. He is the honored guest at every family picnic. No matter what the hour or the weather, he is the active member in all that concerns the household amusements or work. From his perch he participates in the life of the neighborhood, and is a part of all the merry festivals that turn the streets into fairy-land. Later, his playground is the gay market-place or the dim old temples.

“UNDER AN OVERCOAT MADE FOR TWO”

Up to this time the child has had no suggestion of real training. His innate deftness in the art of imitation has taught him much. Continual contact with a wide-awake world has effectively quickened the growth of his brain, but the strings that have held him steadily to his mother’s back have stunted the growth of his body. The result is that when the time comes for that wonderful first day in the kindergarten, into the play-room often toddles a self-confident youngster whose legs refuse to coöperate when he makes his quaint bow, but whose keen brain and correspondingly deft hand work small miracles with blocks and paint-brush.

In Japan only a blind child could be insensible to color, after long days under the pink mist of the cherry-blossoms and the crimson glory of the maples, in the sunny green and yellow fields, or with mountain slopes of wild azalea for a romping-place and a wonderful sky of blue for a cover. By inheritance and environment he is an artist in the use of color. Form, too, is as easy, for when crude toys have failed to please, it is his privilege to build ships, castles, gunboats, and temples with every conceivable household article from the spinning-wheel to the family rice-bucket.

His instinct for play is strong, and after his legs grow steady he quickly masters games, and to his own satisfaction he can sing any song without tune or words. In the kindergarten he finds at first new joys in a play paradise of which he is, as at home, the ruler. Alas! for the swift coming of grief! For the first time in his life his will clashes with law, and for the first time he meets defeat, though he rises to conquer with all his fighting blood on fire. The struggle is swift and fierce, then behold the mystery of a small Ori[Pg 176]ental! After the first encounter, and often before the tears of passion have dried, he bends to authority, and with only occasional lapses soon becomes a devotee of the thing he has so bitterly fought. Henceforth kisoku, or law, becomes his meat and drink, the very foundation of living.

ARRANGING FLOWERS

CHILDREN IN A CHRYSANTHEMUM ARBOR

It is difficult to say whether this sudden change of heart comes from an inherited belief in the divine right of rulers or is the first cropping-out of that Eastern fatalism forcibly expressed in the word “Shikataganai” (“There is no help for it”). A partial explanation might be found in the attitude of most Japanese parents to the teacher in both kindergarten and school. By some strange reasoning they argue that it is the teacher’s business in life to train children; therefore from its earliest days the teacher is held before the child as a power from whose word there is no appeal. Frequently a mother says to her unmanageable offspring:

“What will happen when the sensei [teacher] hears of your rudeness?” or, “I shall speak to your teacher to command you to obey me.” Often the appeal is made direct to the teacher: “My daughter does not bow correctly,” or “She is neglectful of duty. Please remind her.”

The value of using the teacher as a prop or commander-in-chief lies in the fact that most of the profession realize their responsibility and earnestly endeavor to live up to the trust. They seek to share every experience of the pupil’s life, and are faithful leaders to the highest ideals they know.

There is a tendency in most Japanese kindergartens to make of them elementary schools in which much of the spirit of play is lost in an effort on the part of the teachers to give formal instruction. The inclination is to fit the child to the rule; to follow to the last detail a written law, at the sacrifice of spontaneity. Formality finds steady resistance in the buoyancy of youth; and how childhood will have its fling, refusing to wear the shackles till it must, is expressed in the despair of a little Japanese teacher who had worked in vain to make an unessential point in posture: “I have the great trouble. They just will kick up their heels spiritually [spiritedly].”

In addition to the gifts, games, and[Pg 177] songs usually found in the kindergartens, there is a specific training in patriotism, loyalty, and physical endurance by the constant repetition of certain stories emphasizing these virtues that have been told from generation to generation. Stories of brave men and women are dramatized. Day after day the child takes part in these simple plays. So earnest is the acting, so unwavering are the ideals presented at this very early age, that the mind is saturated with the principle of the sacrifice of the individual for the good of the whole.

In all circumstances, stress is laid upon outward courtesy, regardless of time or consequences. The key-note in the mimic plays is kindness to a fallen foe. Often there is an organized band of tiny Red Cross workers, who in full uniform are ever on the alert in the games to render quick aid to the supposedly wounded. The play is very real and sincere, and it fosters a spirit of kindness and sympathy never wholly lost in later years.

From babyhood the diminutive subject hears stories of his glorious ruler; but sometimes it is in the kindergarten that he is trained to perform his first great act of reverence to the throne in bowing before the picture of the emperor. It is a ceremony that touches deeply the most skeptical heart. On certain days groups of little children, many still unsteady on their feet, dressed in gay holiday clothes, come before the pictured image and pay homage to his Majesty by a low, reverent bow. It is like a flower-garden bending before the greater brilliancy of the sun. It is the tribute of innocence to power, and no sovereign lives who would not be a better man for having seen it.

As the first day in the kindergarten is wonderful, so to the child is the last. He is leaving babyhood behind, and half a day is barely sufficient for the imposing ceremonies. For weeks he has been patiently drilled. At the proper hour, with the precision of a mechanical doll and the dignity of a field-marshal, he graciously accepts from the hand of the teacher a roll of parchment only slightly shorter than himself. It is his certificate of graduation, stamped with a large seal, which inspires a deeper joy than comes later with the Order of the Rising Sun.

The transition from the kindergarten[Pg 178] to the primary grade is accomplished easily, and as the pupil is never supposed or expected to take the initiative, he has only to follow where he is led. A Japanese child is as responsive as are the strings of a samisen to the fingers of a skilled musician, and the leader has only to touch the notes to create the harmony desired.

During the period of elementary school, the training for boys and girls is much the same except in special cases when very young boys are instructed in fencing and jiu-jutsu. In these first years it is a sharing of all experiences, and the girls pluckily take their chances in the rough-and-tumble games with the boys. Then comes the parting of the ways. The sign-post for each points to a difference in school and subjects. For the boys, the road leads to the sterner things of life. Every step of the girls’ path is trained for the inevitable end—marriage. Whatever the future, it never yields—to the girl, at least—the same golden hours of freedom and equal right to joy and pleasure as in the glory days of youth. Every boy in Japan is a prospective soldier or sailor, every girl, a wife; and a training toward the end best fitting each for the duties involved is the principal aim of the carefully planned curriculum. In all grades the teaching is en masse; individual attention is rare.

From the first year of the primary course, through every grade, the study of morals heads the list. This rather formidable subject is presented to the very youthful in a most attractive way. Large pictures are shown illustrating in a charming manner the virtues to be emphasized. The teacher tells a set story. It is short, but so dramatic is the manner of telling it, so alluring the trick of hand and voice, the child’s interest is held as if by magic. The subjects of these early moral lessons are the “Teacher,” the “Flag,” “Attitude.” Later, family relations are studied; as, for instance, that of father and mother, grandparents, etc.

Training in pronunciation and simple lessons in drawing are included in the first year, with manual work for the boys. The girls begin preparation for their calling with the first principles of sewing and the first stitches of crocheting or knitting. In the latter part of the year practice begins in writing the kana, gradually intermixed with the Chinese ideographs. There are many thousands of these characters, and they are usually difficult. Necessarily the first steps are simple. The awkward little fist must be trained to lightness and poise of brush, delicacy and sureness in touch, for one false stroke in the intricate structure brings grief. Ignorant of the difficulties in store for him, the child begins his task merrily, delighted with the lines, big and bold at first, which resemble funny pictures more than an alphabet. He practises on everything at hand, from the fresh sand on the playground to the nearest new, white shoji.

A system of calisthenics, too, is begun early with the child, and only the unconquerable grace of childhood saves it from a permanent stiffening of bone and muscle. Happily, studies and gymnastics are interspersed with generous hours for free play. In all the training of Japanese children a great deal of outdoor life is planned. There are historical excursions, geographical excursions for practical instruction, and jolly ones merely for pleasure, when with a luncheon of cold rice and pickled plum tied in a furoshiki, or handkerchief, everybody scampers away to the river or mountain for a long happy day.

Every year at school means increased hours and more difficult studies. Added to these long periods are special lessons for the young in how to bow, how to stand, how to enter a room, how to lower the eyes, the placing of each finger on a book when reading, and endless other regulations. These rules are published in a text-book for the teacher, who is expected to drill them into the student to the minutest detail. It seems folly to expect anything from such training but a group of automata; but underlying this fixed formality is an air of controlled freedom that is really the foundation of the tremendous respect for law cherished by the entire nation. Nor is it to be imagined that continuous training in repression means permanent suppression of high spirits. This light-hearted race takes joy in the simplest pleasures, and the imp of mischief finds fertile soil in the brain of any healthy boy or girl.

During these years the hand of discipline is lightly laid in the home. The attitude of father and mother is kindly indulgent, and punishments, if any, cause[Pg 179] neither pain nor inconvenience. Current topics involving the welfare of the country and intimate matters of family life are freely discussed in the child’s presence. At an early age he absorbs much information, both wholesome and other. But whatever else may be neglected in his training, so insistently is held before the heir day by day the requirements necessary as a man to bear the honors of the family name, it often works something of a miracle in regulating conduct.

Next in reverence for the emperor is veneration for ancestors. There is one form of entertainment and instruction in the home which as an educative factor plays a large and delightful part in the life of the children. In the evenings, after the books have been put away, they gather around the glowing hibachi to hear the grandfather or grandmother weave the nondescript tales of gods and goddesses, of loyal, wise, and brave men. If any deed of the day calls for emphasis, it is skilfully marked by a special story cleverly worded by the aged narrator. Thus reward or punishment is effectively recited rather than administered.

But the training of the Japanese child is not all play and easy studies. Very soon the girls in the home begin lessons in light household duties, sewing, weaving, and cooking. Koto-playing is an accomplishment in the education of a girl, flower arrangement a necessity. To this most difficult art is usually allotted a period of five years. By tedious and patient practice the small hand must learn delicacy of touch and deftness in twists, that each leaf and blossom may express the symbol for which it stands. Every home festival and feast calls for a certain “poem” in arrangement. This is the duty of the young daughter of the house, who early must be well versed in the legends and meaning of flowers.

In ceremonial tea, “O Cha No Yu,” there are especial lessons in etiquette, which mean days and months of constant application and repetition of certain attitudes and definite postures, before supple muscles and youthful spirits are toned to the graceful formality and modest reserve requisite to every well-bred Japanese girl. Should the girl’s destiny point to the calling of geisha, or professional entertainer, the training is severe. At the age of three or four she is taken in hand by an expert in the business, and the strict discipline of the training soon robs childhood of its rights. Should a foolish law compel attendance for a year or so at school, it does not in the least interfere with long hours of music lessons, dancing lessons, flower arrangement, lessons in tea-serving, and the etiquette peculiar to tea-houses. The girl is persuaded or forced into quiet submission to the hard, tedious work by the glowing pictures of the butterfly life that awaits her. There is only one standard in the training of a geisha—attractiveness, and often the price of its attainment is an irretrievable tragedy.

Education for the child of the East calls for different methods from that of the West, and fully to understand the training of the Japanese child one must know the influence and demand for ancestor-worship, ethics, and the passion for patriotism. In fact, to understand any part of the system of training, it must be remembered that the whole moral and national education of the Japanese is based on the imperial rescript given the people by the emperor in 1890. The rescript is read in all the schools four times a year. The manner of reading, the silence, breathless with reverence, in which it is received by the students, young and old, is a profound testimony to the sacredness of the emperor’s desires for his people.

The following is a translation, given by the president of the Tokio University:

Know ye, Our Subjects:

Our Imperial Ancestors have founded Our Empire on a basis broad and everlasting, and have deeply and firmly implanted virtue; Our Subjects, ever united in loyalty and filial piety, have from generation to generation illustrated the beauty thereof. This is the glory of the fundamental character of Our Empire, and herein also lies the source of Our education. Ye, Our Subjects, be filial to your parents, affectionate to your brothers and sisters; as husbands and wives be harmonious; as friends, true; bear yourselves in modesty and moderation; extend your benevolence to all; pursue learning and cultivate the arts, and thereby develop intellectual faculties and perfect moral powers; furthermore, advance public good and promote common interests; always respect the Constitution and observe[Pg 180] the laws; should emergency arise, offer yourselves courageously to the State; and thus guard and maintain the prosperity of Our Imperial Throne coeval with heaven and earth.

So shall ye not only be Our good and faithful subjects, but render illustrious the best traditions of your forefathers.

The Way here set forth is indeed the teaching bequeathed by Our Imperial Ancestors, to be observed alike by Their Descendants and the subjects, infallible for all ages, and true in all places. It is Our Wish to lay it to heart in all reverence, in common with you, Our Subjects, that we may all attain to the same virtue.

From the early days to the present, the educational system, which enters more vitally into the training of a Japanese child than any other influence, has survived many changes. The authorities have sought earnestly in every country for the plan best adapted to the peculiar demands of a country that was progressing by leaps. After the Restoration, when every sentiment was swinging away from old customs and traditions, there was a reorganization with the American plan as a model. Soon, however, the wholesale doctrine of freedom proved too radical for a country lately emerged from isolation and feudalism, and much of the German system was introduced, and more rigid control was exercised over the students. The schools assumed something of a military atmosphere and the dangers of a too new liberty were laid low for a while.

It would be difficult in a brief space to estimate the whole influence of European and American methods on Japanese education. While these influences, especially those of America, have enjoyed successive waves of favor and disrepute, it is undoubtedly true that the educational department is slowly but surely feeling its way to the final adoption of a general American plan. So far, the most marked tendency of the Western spirit has been a bolder assertion of individual freedom, less tolerance of the teacher’s supreme authority, a demand for a more practical education and not so much eagerness for the Chinese classics.

While to an outsider the present system in many instances seems needlessly complex, and in frequent danger of a sad and sudden death from strangulation by its endless red tape, yet a glimpse of the internal workings of the department is reassuring.

Whatever criticism might be offered as to the methods of training or defects thereof in school or home, one undeniable truth stands out boldly: despite its faults, or because of its virtues, the system has produced men splendidly brave and noble, and women whose lives stand for all that is tender and beautiful in womanhood and motherhood.

[Pg 181]

## BROTHER LEO

BY PHYLLIS BOTTOME

WITH PICTURES BY W. T. BENDA

IT was a sunny morning, and I was on my way to Torcello. Venice lay behind us a dazzling line, with towers of gold against the blue lagoon. All at once a breeze sprang up from the sea; the small, feathery islands seemed to shake and quiver, and, like leaves driven before a gale, those flocks of colored butterflies, the fishing-boats, ran in before the storm. Far away to our left stood the ancient tower of Altinum, with the island of Burano a bright pink beneath the towering clouds. To our right, and much nearer, was a small cypress-covered islet. One large umbrella-pine hung close to the sea, and behind it rose the tower of the convent church. The two gondoliers consulted together in hoarse cries and decided to make for it.

“It is San Francesco del Deserto,” the elder explained to me. “It belongs to the little brown brothers, who take no money and are very kind. One would hardly believe these ones had any religion, they are such a simple people, and they live on fish and the vegetables they grow in their garden.”

We fought the crooked little waves in silence after that; only the high prow rebelled openly against its sudden twistings and turnings. The arrowy-shaped gondola is not a structure made for the rough jostling of waves, and the gondoliers put forth all their strength and skill to reach the tiny haven under the convent wall. As we did so, the black bars of cloud rushed down upon us in a perfect deluge of rain, and we ran speechless and half drowned across the tossed field of grass and forget-me-nots to the convent door. A shivering beggar sprang up from nowhere and insisted on ringing the bell for us.

The door opened, and I saw before me a young brown brother with the merriest eyes I have ever seen. They were unshadowed, like a child’s, dancing and eager, and yet there was a strange gentleness and patience about him, too, as if there was no hurry even about his eagerness.

He was very poorly dressed and looked thin. I think he was charmed to see us, though a little shy, like a hospitable country hostess anxious to give pleasure, but afraid that she has not much to offer citizens of a larger world.

“What a tempest!” he exclaimed. “You have come at a good hour. Enter, enter, Signore! And your men, will they not come in?”

We found ourselves in a very small rose-red cloister; in the middle of it was an old well under the open sky, but above us was a sheltering roof spanned by slender arches. The young monk hesitated for a moment, smiling from me to the two gondoliers. I think it occurred to him that we should like different entertainment, for he said at last:

“You men would perhaps like to sit in the porter’s lodge for a while? Our Brother Lorenzo is there; he is our chief fisherman, with a great knowledge of the lagoons; and he could light a fire for you to dry yourselves by—Signori. And you, if I mistake not, are English, are you not, Signore? It is probable that you would like to see our chapel. It is not much. We are very proud of it, but that, you know, is because it was founded by our blessed father, Saint Francis. He believed in poverty, and we also believe in it, but it does not give much for people to see. That is a misfortune, to come all this way and to see nothing.” Brother Leo looked at me a little wistfully. I think he feared that I should be disappointed. Then he passed before me with swift, eager feet toward the little chapel.

It was a very little chapel and quite bare; behind the altar some monks were chanting an office. It was clean, and there were no pictures or images, only, as I knelt there, I felt as if the little island in its desert of waters had indeed secreted some vast treasure, and as if the chapel, empty as it had seemed at first, was full of invisible possessions. As for Brother Leo, he had stood beside me nervously for a moment; but on seeing that I was prepared to kneel, he started, like a bird set[Pg 182] free, toward the altar steps, where his lithe young impetuosity sank into sudden peace. He knelt there so still, so rapt, so incased in his listening silence, that he might have been part of the stone pavement. Yet his earthly senses were alive, for the moment I rose he was at my side again, as patient and courteous as ever, though I felt as if his inner ear were listening still to some unheard melody.

We stood again in the pink cloister. “There is little to see,” he repeated. “We are poverelli; it has been like this for seven hundred years.” He smiled as if that age-long, simple service of poverty were a light matter, an excuse, perhaps, in the eyes of the citizen of a larger world for their having nothing to show. Only the citizen, as he looked at Brother Leo, had a sudden doubt as to the size of the world outside. Was it as large, half as large, even, as the eager young heart beside him which had chosen poverty as a bride?

The rain fell monotonously against the stones of the tiny cloister.

“What a tempest!” said Brother Leo, smiling contentedly at the sky. “You must come in and see our father. I sent word by the porter of your arrival, and I am sure he will receive you; that will be a pleasure for him, for he is of the great world, too. A very learnèd man, our father; he knows the French and the English tongue. Once he went to Rome; also he has been several times to Venice. He has been a great traveler.”

“And you,” I asked—“have you also traveled?”

Brother Leo shook his head.

“I have sometimes looked at Venice,” he said, “across the water, and once I went to Burano with the marketing brother; otherwise, no, I have not traveled. But being a guest-brother, you see, I meet often with those who have, like your Excellency, for instance, and that is a great education.”

We reached the door of the monastery, and I felt sorry when another brother opened to us, and Brother Leo, with the most cordial of farewell smiles, turned back across the cloister to the chapel door.

“Even if he does not hurry, he will still find prayer there,” said a quiet voice beside me.

I turned to look at the speaker. He was a tall old man with white hair and eyes like small blue flowers, very bright and innocent, with the same look of almost superb contentment in them that I had seen in Brother Leo’s eyes.

“But what will you have?” he added with a twinkle. “The young are always afraid of losing time; it is, perhaps, because they have so much. But enter, Signore! If you will be so kind as to excuse the refectory, it will give me much pleasure to bring you a little refreshment. You will pardon that we have not much to offer?”

The father—for I found out afterward that he was the superior himself—brought me bread and wine, made in the convent, and waited on me with his own hands. Then he sat down on a narrow bench opposite to watch me smoke. I offered him one of my cigarettes, but he shook his head, smiling.

“I used to smoke once,” he said. “I was very particular about my tobacco. I think it was similar to yours—at least the aroma, which I enjoy very much, reminds me of it. It is curious, is it not, the pleasure we derive from remembering what we once had? But perhaps it is not altogether a pleasure unless one is glad that one has not got it now. Here one is free from things. I sometimes fear one may be a little indulgent about one’s liberty. Space, solitude, and love—it is all very intoxicating.”

There was nothing in the refectory except the two narrow benches on which we sat, and a long trestled board which formed the table; the walls were whitewashed and bare, the floor was stone. I found out later that the brothers ate and drank nothing except bread and wine and their own vegetables in season, a little macaroni sometimes in winter, and in summer figs out of their own garden. They slept on bare boards, with one thin blanket winter and summer alike. The fish they caught they sold at Burano or gave to the poor. There was no doubt that they enjoyed very great freedom from “things.”

It was a strange experience to meet a man who never had heard of a flying-machine and who could not understand why it was important to save time by using the telephone or the wireless-telegraphy system; but despite the fact that the father seemed very little impressed by our modern urgencies, I never have met a more[Pg 183] intelligent listener or one who seized more quickly on all that was essential in an explanation.

“You must not think we do nothing at all, we lazy ones who follow old paths,” he said in answer to one of my questions. “There are only eight of us brothers, and there is the garden, fishing, cleaning, and praying. We are sent for, too, from Burano to go and talk a little with the people there, or from some island on the lagoons which perhaps no priest can reach in the winter. It is easy for us, with our little boat and no cares.”

“But Brother Leo told me he had been to Burano only once,” I said. “That seems strange when you are so near.”

“Yes, he went only once,” said the father, and for a moment or two he was silent, and I found his blue eyes on mine, as if he were weighing me.

“Brother Leo,” said the superior at last, “is our youngest. He is very young, younger perhaps than his years; but we have brought him up altogether, you see. His parents died of cholera within a few days of each other. As there were no relatives, we took him, and when he was seventeen he decided to join our order. He has always been happy with us, but one cannot say that he has seen much of the world.” He paused again, and once more I felt his blue eyes searching mine. “Who knows?” he said finally. “Perhaps you were sent here to help me. I have prayed for two years on the subject, and that seems very likely. The storm is increasing, and you will not be able to return until to-morrow. This evening, if you will allow me, we will speak more on this matter. Meanwhile I will show you our spare room. Brother Lorenzo will see that you are made as comfortable as we can manage. It is a great privilege for us to have this opportunity; believe me, we are not ungrateful.”

It would have been of no use to try to explain to him that it was for us to feel gratitude. It was apparent that none of the brothers had ever learned that important lesson of the worldly respectable—that duty is what other people ought to do. They were so busy thinking of their own obligations as to overlook entirely the obligations of others. It was not that they did not think of others. I think they thought only of one another, but they thought without a shadow of judgment, with that bright, spontaneous love of little children, too interested to point a moral. Indeed, they seemed to me very like a family of happy children listening to a fairy-story and knowing that the tale is true.

After supper the superior took me to his office. The rain had ceased, but the wind howled and shrieked across the lagoons, and I could hear the waves breaking heavily against the island. There was a candle on the desk, and the tiny, shadowy cell looked like a picture by Rembrandt.

“The rain has ceased now,” the father said quietly, “and to-morrow the waves will have gone down, and you, Signore, will have left us. It is in your power to do us all a great favor. I have thought much whether I shall ask it of you, and even now I hesitate; but Scripture nowhere tells us that the kingdom of heaven was taken by precaution, nor do I imagine that in this world things come oftenest to those who refrain from asking.”

“All of us,” he continued, “have come here after seeing something of the outside world; some of us even had great possessions. Leo alone knows nothing of it, and has possessed nothing, nor did he ever wish to; he has been willing that nothing should be his own, not a flower in the garden, not anything but his prayers, and even these I think he has oftenest shared. But the visit to Burano put an idea in his head. It is, perhaps you know, a factory town where they make lace, and the people live there with good wages, many of them, but also much poverty. There is a poverty which is a grace, but there is also a poverty which is a great misery, and this Leo never had seen before. He did not know that poverty could be a pain. It filled him with a great horror, and in his heart there was a certain rebellion. It seemed to him that in a world with so much money no one should suffer for the lack of it.

“It was useless for me to point out to him that in a world where there is so much health God has permitted sickness; where there is so much beauty, ugliness; where there is so much holiness, sin. It is not that there is any lack in the gifts of God; all are there, and in abundance, but He has left their distribution to the[Pg 184] soul of man. It is easy for me to believe this. I have known what money can buy and what it cannot buy; but Brother Leo, who never has owned a penny, how should he know anything of the ways of pennies?

“I saw that he could not be contented with my answer; and then this other idea came to him—the idea that is, I think, the blessèd hope of youth: that this thing being wrong, he, Leo, must protest against it, must resist it! Surely, if money can do wonders, we who set ourselves to work the will of God should have more control of this wonder-working power? He fretted against his rule. He did not permit himself to believe that our blessèd father, Saint Francis, was wrong, but it was a hardship for him to refuse alms from our kindly visitors. He thought the beggars’ rags would be made whole by gold; he wanted to give them more than bread, he wanted, poverino! to buy happiness for the whole world.”

The father paused, and his dark, thought-lined face lighted up with a sudden, beautiful smile till every feature seemed as young as his eyes.

“I do not think the human being ever has lived who has not thought that he ought to have happiness,” he said. “We begin at once to get ready for heaven; but heaven is a long way off. We make haste slowly. It takes us all our lives, and perhaps purgatory, to get to the bottom of our own hearts. That is the last place in which we look for heaven, but I think it is the first in which we shall find it.”

“But it seems to me extraordinary that, if Brother Leo has this thing so much on his mind, he should look so happy,” I exclaimed. “That is the first thing I noticed about him.”

“Yes, it is not for himself that he is searching,” said the superior. “If it were, I should not wish him to go out into the world, because I should not expect him to find anything there. His heart is utterly at rest; but though he is personally happy, this thing troubles him. His prayers are eating into his soul like flame, and in time this fire of pity and sorrow will become a serious menace to his peace. Besides, I see in Leo a great power of sympathy and understanding. He has in him the gift of ruling other souls. He is very young to rule his own soul, and yet he rules it. When I die, it is probable that he will be called to take my place, and for that it is necessary he should have seen clearly that our rule is right. At present he accepts it in obedience, but he must have more than obedience in order to teach it to others; he must have a personal light.

“This, then, is the favor I have to ask of you, Signore. I should like to have you take Brother Leo to Venice to-morrow, and, if you have the time at your disposal, I should like you to show him the towers, the churches, the palaces, and the poor who are still so poor. I wish him to see how people spend money, both the good and the bad. I wish him to see the world. Perhaps then it will come to him as it came to me—that money is neither a curse nor a blessing in itself, but only one of God’s mysteries, like the dust in a sunbeam.”

“I will take him very gladly; but will one day be enough?” I answered.

The superior arose and smiled again.

“Ah, we slow worms of earth,” he said, “are quick about some things! You have learned to save time by flying-machines; we, too, have certain methods of flight. Brother Leo learns all his lessons that way. I hardly see him start before he arrives. You must not think I am so myself. No, no. I am an old man who has lived a long life learning nothing, but I have seen Leo grow like a flower in a tropic night. I thank you, my friend, for this great favor. I think God will reward you.”

Brother Lorenzo took me to my bedroom; he was a talkative old man, very anxious for my comfort. He told me that there was an office in the chapel at two o’clock, and one at five to begin the day, but he hoped that I should sleep through them.

“They are all very well for us,” he explained,[Pg 186] “but for a stranger, what cold, what disturbance, and what a difficulty to arrange the right thoughts in the head during chapel! Even for me it is a great temptation. I find my mind running on coffee in the morning, a thing we have only on great feast-days. I may say that I have fought this thought for seven years, but though a small devil, perhaps, it is a very strong one. Now, if you should hear our bell in the night, as a favor pray that I may not think about coffee. Such an imperfection! I say to myself, the sin of Esau! But he, you know, had some excuse; he had been hunting. Now, I ask you—one has not much chance of that on this little island; one has only one’s sins to hunt, and, alas! they don’t run away as fast as one could wish! I am afraid they are tame, these ones. May your Excellency sleep like the blessed saints, only a trifle longer!”

Drawn by W. T. Benda     Half-tone plate engraved by R. C. Collins

“HE WAS LOOKING OUT OVER THE BLUE STRETCH OF LAGOON INTO THE DISTANCE, WHERE VENICE LAY LIKE A MOVING CLOUD AT THE HORIZON’S EDGE”

❏
LARGER IMAGE

I did sleep a trifle longer; indeed, I was quite unable to assist Brother Lorenzo to resist his coffee devil during chapel-time. I did not wake till my tiny cell was flooded with sunshine and full of the sound of St. Francis’s birds. Through my window I could see the fishing-boats pass by. First came one with a pair of lemon-yellow sails, like floating primroses; then a boat as scarlet as a dancing flame, and half a dozen others painted some with jokes and some with incidents in the lives of patron saints, all gliding out over the blue lagoon to meet the golden day.

I rose, and from my window I saw Brother Leo in the garden. He was standing under St. Francis’s tree—the old gnarled umbrella-pine which hung over the convent-wall above the water by the island’s edge. His back was toward me, and he was looking out over the blue stretch of lagoon into the distance, where Venice lay like a moving cloud at the horizon’s edge; but a mist hid her from his eyes, and while I watched him he turned back to the garden-bed and began pulling out weeds. The gondoliers were already at the tiny pier when I came out.

“Per Bacco, Signore!” the elder explained. “Let us hasten back to Venice and make up for the Lent we have had here. The brothers gave us all they had, the holy ones—a little wine, a little bread, cheese that couldn’t fatten one’s grandmother, and no macaroni—not so much as would go round a baby’s tongue! For my part, I shall wait till I get to heaven to fast, and pay some attention to my stomach while I have one.” And he spat on his hands and looked toward Venice.

“And not an image in the chapel!” agreed the younger man. “Why, there is nothing to pray to but the Signore Dio Himself! Veramente, Signore, you are a witness that I speak nothing but the truth.”

The father superior and Leo appeared at this moment down the path between the cypresses. The father gave me thanks and spoke in a friendly way to the gondoliers, who for their part expressed a very pretty gratitude in their broad Venetian patois, one of them saying that the hospitality of the monks had been like paradise itself, and the other hasting to agree with him.

The two monks did not speak to each other, but as the gondolier turned the huge prow toward Venice, a long look passed between them—such a look as a father and son might exchange if the son were going out to war, while his father, remembering old campaigns, was yet bound to stay at home.

It was a glorious day in early June; the last traces of the storm had vanished from the serene, still waters; a vague curtain of heat and mist hung and shimmered between ourselves and Venice; far away lay the little islands in the lagoon, growing out of the water like strange sea-flowers. Behind us stood San Francesco del Deserto, with long reflections of its one pink tower and arrowy, straight cypresses, soft under the blue water.

The father superior walked slowly back to the convent, his brown-clad figure a shining shadow between the two black rows of cypresses. Brother Leo waited till he had disappeared, then turned his eager eyes toward Venice.

As we approached the city the milky sea of mist retreated, and her towers sprang up to greet us. I saw a look in Brother Leo’s eyes that was not fear or wholly pleasure; yet there was in it a certain awe and a strange, tentative joy, as if something in him stretched out to greet the world. He muttered half to himself:

“What a great world, and how many children il Signore Dio has!”

When we reached the piazzetta, and he looked up at the amazing splendor of the ducal palace, that building of soft yellow, with its pointed arches and double loggias of white marble, he spread out both his hands in an ecstasy.

“But what a miracle!” he cried.[Pg 187] “What a joy to God and to His angels! How I wish my brothers could see this! Do you not imagine that some good man was taken to paradise to see this great building and brought back here to copy it?”

“Chi lo sa?” I replied guardedly, and we landed by the column of the Lion of St. Mark’s. That noble beast, astride on his pedestal, with wings outstretched, delighted the young monk, who walked round and round him.

“What a tribute to the saint!” he exclaimed. “Look, they have his wings, too. Is not that faith?”

“Come,” I said, “let us go on to Saint Mark’s. I think you would like to go there first; it is the right way to begin our pilgrimage.”

The piazza was not very full at that hour of the morning, and its emptiness increased the feeling of space and size. The pigeons wheeled and circled to and fro, a dazzle of soft plumage, and the cluster of golden domes and sparkling minarets glittered in the sunshine like flames. Every image and statue on St. Mark’s wavered in great lines of light like a living pageant in a sea of gold.

Brother Leo said nothing as he stood in front of the three great doorways that lead into the church. He stood quite still for a while, and then his eyes fell on a beggar beside the pink and cream of the new campanile, and I saw the wistfulness in his eyes suddenly grow as deep as pain.

“Have you money, Signore?” he asked me. That seemed to him the only question. I gave the man something, but I explained to Brother Leo that he was probably not so poor as he looked.

“They live in rags,” I explained, “because they wish to arouse pity. Many of them need not beg at all.”

“Is it possible?” asked Brother Leo, gravely; then he followed me under the brilliant doorways of mosaic which lead into the richer dimness of St. Mark’s.

When he found himself within that great incrusted jewel, he fell on his knees. I think he hardly saw the golden roof, the jeweled walls, and the five lifted domes full of sunshine and old gold, or the dark altars, with their mysterious, rich shimmering. All these seemed to pass away beyond the sense of sight; even I felt somehow as if those great walls of St. Mark’s were not so great as I had fancied. Something greater was kneeling there in an old habit and with bare feet, half broken-hearted because a beggar had lied.

I found myself regretting the responsibility laid on my shoulders. Why should I have been compelled to take this strangely innocent, sheltered boy, with his fantastic third-century ideals, out into the shoddy, decorative, unhappy world? I even felt a kind of anger at the simplicity of his soul. I wished he were more like other people; I suppose because he had made me wish for a moment that I was less like them.

“What do you think of Saint Mark’s?” I asked him as we stood once more in the hot sunshine outside, with the strutting pigeons at our feet and wheeling over our heads.

Brother Leo did not answer for a moment, then he said:

“I think Saint Mark would feel it a little strange. You see, I do not think he was a great man in the world, and the great in paradise—” He stooped and lifted a pigeon with a broken foot nearer to some corn a passer-by was throwing for the birds. “I cannot think,” he finished gravely, “that they care very much for palaces in paradise: I should think every one had them there or else—nobody.”

I was surprised to see the pigeons that wheeled away at my approach allow the monk to handle them, but they seemed unaware of his touch.

“Poverino!” he said to the one with the broken foot. “Thank God that He has given you wings!”

Brother Leo spoke to every child he met, and they all answered him as if there was a secret freemasonry between them; but the grown-up people he passed with troubled eyes.

“It seems strange to me,” he said at last, “not to speak to these brothers and sisters of ours, and yet I see all about me that they do not salute one another.”

“They are many, and they are all strangers,” I tried to explain.

“Yes, they are very many,” he said a little sadly. “I had not known that there were so many people in the world, and I thought that in a Christian country they would not be strangers.”

I took another gondola by the nearest bridge, and we rowed to the Frari. I hardly knew what effect that great church, with its famous Titian, would have upon him. A group of tourists surrounded the picture. I heard a young lady exclaiming:

Drawn by W. T. Benda     Half-tone plate engraved by C. W. Chadwick

“HE STOOD QUITE STILL FOR A WHILE, AND THEN HIS EYES FELL ON A BEGGAR”

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 189]

“My! but I’d like her veil! Ain’t she cute, looking round it that way?”

Brother Leo did not pause; he passed as if by instinct toward the chapel on the right which holds the softest, tenderest of Bellinis. There, before the Madonna with her four saints and two small attendant cherubs, he knelt again, and his eyes filled with tears. I do not think he heard the return of the tourists, who were rather startled at seeing him there. The elder lady remarked that he might have some infectious disease, and the younger that she did not think much of Bellini, anyway.

He knelt for some time, and I had not the heart to disturb him; indeed, I had no wish to, either, for Bellini’s “Madonna” is my favorite picture, and that morning I saw in it more than I had ever seen before. It seemed to me as if that triumphant, mellow glow of the great master was an eternal thing, and as if the saints and their gracious Lady, with the stalwart, standing Child upon her knee, were more real than flesh and blood, and would still be more real when flesh and blood had ceased to be. I never have recaptured the feeling; perhaps there was something infectious about Brother Leo, after all. He made no comment on the Madonna, nor did I expect one, for we do not need to assert that we find the object of our worship beautiful; but I was amused at his calm refusal to look upon the great Titian as a Madonna at all.

“No, no,” he said firmly. “This one is no doubt some good and gracious lady, but the Madonna! Signore, you jest. Or, if the painter thought so, he was deceived by the devil. Yes, that is very possible. The father has often told us that artists are exposed to great temptations: their eyes see paradise before their souls have reached it, and that is a great danger.”

I said no more, and we passed out into the street again. I felt ashamed to say that I wanted my luncheon, but I did say so, and it did not seem in the least surprising to Brother Leo; he merely drew out a small wallet and offered me some bread, which he said the father had given him for our needs.

I told him that he must not dream of eating that; he was to come and dine with me at my hotel. He replied that he would go wherever I liked, but that really he would prefer to eat his bread unless indeed we were so fortunate as to find a beggar who would like it. However, we were not so fortunate, and I was compelled to eat my exceedingly substantial five-course luncheon while my companion sat opposite me and ate his half-loaf of black bread with what appeared to be appetite and satisfaction.

He asked me a great many questions about what everything in the room was used for and what everything cost, and appeared very much surprised at my answers.

“This, then,” he said, “is not like all the other houses in Venice? Is it a special house—perhaps for the English only?”

I explained to him that most houses contained tables and chairs; that this, being a hotel, was in some ways even less furnished than a private house, though doubtless it was larger and was arranged with a special eye to foreign requirements.

“But the poor—they do not live like this?” Leo asked. I had to own that the poor did not. “But the people here are rich?” Leo persisted.

“Well, yes, I suppose so, tolerably well off,” I admitted.

“How miserable they must be!” exclaimed Leo, compassionately. “Are they not allowed to give away their money?”

This seemed hardly the way to approach the question of the rich and the poor, and I do not know that I made it any better by an after-dinner exposition upon capital and labor. I finished, of course, by saying that if the rich gave to the poor to-day, there would still be rich and poor to-morrow. It did not sound very convincing to me, and it did nothing whatever to convince Brother Leo.

Drawn by W. T. Benda     Half-tone plate engraved by R. Varley

“‘IT SEEMS STRANGE TO ME NOT TO SPEAK TO THESE BROTHERS AND SISTERS’”

❏
LARGER IMAGE

“That is perhaps true,” he said at last.[Pg 191] “One would not wish, however, to give all into unready hands like that poor beggar this morning who knew no better than to pretend in order to get more money. No, that would be the gift of a madman. But could not the rich use their money in trust for the poor, and help and teach them little by little till they learned how to share their labor and their wealth? But you know how ignorant am I who speak to you. It is probable that this is what is already being done even here now in Venice and all over the world. It would not be left to a little one like me to think of it. What an idea for the brothers at home to laugh at!”

“Some people do think these things,” I admitted.

“But do not all?” asked Brother Leo, incredulously.

“No, not all,” I confessed.

“Andiamo!” said Leo, rising resolutely. “Let us pray to the Madonna. What a vexation it must be to her and to all the blessed saints to watch the earth! It needs the patience of the Blessed One Himself, to bear it.”

In the Palazzo Giovanelli there is one of the loveliest of Giorgiones. It is called “His Family,” and it represents a beautiful nude woman with her child and her lover. It seemed to me an outrage that this young brother should know nothing of the world, of life. I was determined that he should see this picture. I think I expected Brother Leo to be shocked when he saw it. I know I was surprised that he looked at it—at the serene content of earth, its exquisite ultimate satisfaction—a long time. Then he said in an awed voice:

“It is so beautiful that it is strange any one in all the world can doubt the love of God who gave it.”

“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful; do you believe there is anything more beautiful?” I asked rather cruelly.

“Yes,” said Brother Leo, very quietly; “the love of God is more beautiful, only that cannot be painted.”

After that I showed him no more pictures, nor did I try to make him understand life. I had an idea that he understood it already rather better than I did.

When I took him back to the piazza, it was getting on toward sunset, and we sat at one of the little tables at Florian’s, where I drank coffee. We heard the band and watched the slow-moving, good-natured Venetian crowd, and the pigeons winging their perpetual flight.

All the light of the gathered day seemed to fall on the great golden church at the end of the piazza. Brother Leo did not look at it very much; his attention was taken up completely in watching the faces of the crowd, and as he watched them I thought to read in his face what he had learned in that one day in Venice—whether my mission had been a success or a failure; but, though I looked long at that simple and childlike face, I learned nothing.

What is so mysterious as the eyes of a child?

But I was not destined to part from Brother Leo wholly in ignorance. It was as if, in his open kindliness of nature, he would not leave me with any unspoken puzzle between us. I had been his friend and he told me, because it was the way things seemed to him, that I had been his teacher.

We stood on the piazzetta. I had hired a gondola with two men to row him back; the water was like beaten gold, and the horizon the softest shade of pink.

“This day I shall remember all my life,” he said, “and you in my prayers with all the world—always, always. Only I should like to tell you that that little idea of mine, which the father told me he had spoken to you about, I see now that it is too large for me. I am only a very poor monk. I should think I must be the poorest monk God has in all His family of monks. If He can be patient, surely I can. And it came over me while we were looking at all those wonderful things, that if money had been the way to save the world, Christ himself would have been rich. It was stupid of me. I did not remember that when he wanted to feed the multitude, he did not empty the great granaries that were all his, too; he took only five loaves and two small fishes; but they were enough.

“We little ones can pray, and God can change His world. Speriamo!” He smiled as he gave me his hand—a smile which seemed to me as beautiful as anything we had seen that day in Venice. Then the high-prowed, black gondola glided swiftly out over the golden waters with the little brown figure seated in the smallest seat. He turned often to wave to me, but I noticed that he sat with his face away from Venice.

He had turned back to San Francesco del Deserto, and I knew as I looked at his face that he carried no single small regret in his eager heart.

EX-SENATOR GEORGE F. EDMUNDS

Born in Vermont February 1, 1828: Member of the Vermont Legislature 1854–59 and 1861–62; United States Senator from Vermont 1866–91; only surviving member of the Electoral Commission formed in 1877 to settle the disputed Hayes-Tilden election.

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 193]

## ANOTHER VIEW OF “THE HAYES-TILDEN CONTEST”

A REPLY TO COLONEL WATTERSON IN THE MAY “CENTURY”

BY EX-SENATOR GEORGE F. EDMUNDS

The sole surviving member of the Electoral Commission

THE rather astonishing article of Mr. Henry Watterson in the May number of THE CENTURY opens to me the opportunity and the duty of giving my recollections of such of the inside history, as well as of the outside, as came to my knowledge at the time, in connection with the Hayes-Tilden contest for the Presidency. I believe that the time has come when, among fair-minded and intelligent Americans who will investigate the public and printed documents and papers in existence on the subject, there will be few divergent opinions touching the justice and lawfulness of the election of Mr. Hayes. They will find that he was lawfully elected and instituted to the office by fair and lawful means. I wish that such investigators could have the benefit of the correspondence and other papers to which Mr. Watterson refers, as well as of all other documents and papers touching the subject. All the papers relating to the action of the Senate committee on the Electoral Bill, and of our conferences with the House committee, are in my possession and are open to the examination of the student, the politician, and the historian.

In the year 1876 many of the States which had been engaged in the war for secession were still in a condition of unrest, and their Negro citizens, as well as many whites who had supported the United States and were lawfully in those of the Southern States under consideration (and opprobriously called “carpet-baggers”), were under great apprehension of personal danger. The Negro citizens in many instances had suffered, and they were continually in danger of violence from the efforts of a secret association known as “the Ku-Klux Klan” to prevent their voting as they were entitled to do under the provisions of the Fifteenth Amendment. In this state of things small detachments of the army of the United States were stationed in various places where the greatest danger of intimidation and violence appeared to exist. The civil operations of the Government required the presence of these troops in such places, not only to assist the state authorities in preserving the peace at a national election when there should be one, but also to protect the operations of the United States in carrying on its share of the civil government, such as customs, internal revenues, post-offices, etc. I suppose everybody will agree that the army of the United States must be somewhere, and has a right to be somewhere within the country; and nobody has yet maintained that any State has a right[Pg 194] to exclude their presence. I think not a soldier interfered with any right or peaceable conduct, or was present at any polling-place in the late “Confederate States” in the election of 1876. When the elections came on nothing but violence could prevent either whites or Negroes who were lawfully entitled to vote from doing so in peace, as in most instances they did. In the States where Negro citizens were in great majority the Hayes ticket, naturally, should have prevailed. In some of them it did prevail, and the necessary certificates of the result were sent to the president of the Senate, as required by the Constitution. The “grandfather” legislation had not yet been invented.

The election was very close; and immediately agents of the Democratic party were sent to South Carolina, Florida, and Louisiana for some purpose. They were at first, apparently, under the direction of Colonel Pelton, a nephew of Mr. Tilden, and by Pelton were authorized, in substance and in effect, to bribe some of the canvassing boards to make false returns of the choice of Tilden electors instead of those electors who had been actually chosen on the Hayes ticket, or to bribe some of the Republican electors. This scheme very early became known to the Republican National Committee, and steps were immediately taken to send Republican gentlemen, well known and of high standing, to those States where, it was feared, efforts at bribery were being, or were to be, attempted, in order to preserve, so far as lawfully could be done, the real results of the election. Among these men so sent were, as stated by Mr. Watterson, John Sherman, Stanley Matthews, James A. Garfield, William M. Evarts, John A. Logan, and some others, one of whom, as I remember, was Senator Howe of Wisconsin, a fine lawyer and a man of absolutely upright private and public life. As everybody knows who reads or remembers the history of those times, none of the gentlemen mentioned would be directly or indirectly a party to intrigue or dishonesty of any kind. They found on investigation that the Hayes electors had been duly chosen and that, unless some one of them, after being elected on the Hayes ticket, should be induced to dishonor himself by Peltonian expedients, all would vote for President Hayes. The corrupt dealers in canvassing boards and votes apparently sought a market only with the Democrats, who, as Mr. Watterson says, declined to buy.

When the Republicans before mentioned returned to Washington I learned from more than one of them, in relating their experiences at New Orleans, that the States had truly gone Republican and that the only danger, if any, was the exertion of evil influences to change the result. The actual experiences related by Mr. Watterson in this connection illustrate and confirm what I have said. The political “book-makers” were undoubtedly on hand, but that they were acting under the authority of any of the Returning Board there was no proof. There are speculators in politics as well as in stocks, and they often act without having a principal behind them or any principle within them. I remember an instance occurring in the Senate at Washington when a bill of much financial importance was under consideration. I learned afterward that a lobbyist whom I did not know had contracted my vote in favor of the bill with one interest, and my vote against the same bill in favor of the opposing interest. He had sold me to both sides, and whichever side lost he would get his lobbyist reward.

Mr. Watterson quotes from a speech of Mr. Abram S. Hewitt, in which Mr. Hewitt is made to say that the vote of Louisiana was offered to him for money and that he declined to buy it. So far Mr. Hewitt of course personally knew the truth of what he was saying; but when he says, “The vote of that State was sold for money,” he could not have stated what he personally knew, though he doubtless believed what he said. He was careful not to say that he personally knew of the sale of the vote of Louisiana, nor did he refer to any evidence of it. He was evidently at New Orleans when, as he says, the vote of that State was offered him for money. Why did he not, then and there, in the presence of the body of the gentlemen of both parties mentioned by Mr. Watterson, make known the guilty person, and so explode and destroy the corruption which was contemplated and begun by Colonel Pelton, nephew of Mr. Tilden, at the Democratic headquarters in New York and which compelled the sending of Republican gentlemen to New Orleans?

[Pg 195]

I was invited to go there as one of the Republican Committee, but I thought it better to remain in Washington and help to the best of my ability in framing and passing a law in which the Democratic House of Representatives and the Republican Senate could agree, and which would execute the letter and spirit of the Constitution and preserve the people of the whole United States from the apparent great danger of disorder, tumult—and possibly anarchy—likely to arise from the fire of party passion if a clear and exact law of procedure and final determination should not be enacted speedily.

Historically, it is very unfortunate that Mr. Watterson did not include in his enlivening article copies of his telegraphic and other correspondence with Mr. Tilden from New Orleans, and elsewhere, for it would certainly and truly, so far as it went, throw much light on the existing drama being displayed, as well as the plans and work behind the curtain whereby (we may believe) it was hoped to produce the election of Mr. Tilden. We Republicans at Washington were forced to believe that an effort was being made, by every means that could be employed, to overcome the Hayes majority of one. During that whole period, so far as I personally knew or was informed, there never was any scheme or act of the Republicans to bribe any state canvassing board or elector by money or promise in support of Mr. Hayes’s election. We did (if I may borrow an ancient classic simile) fear “the Greeks bearing gifts.” We were morally certain that a large majority of the legal voters in the States of South Carolina, Florida, and Louisiana were earnestly in favor of the election of Mr. Hayes, and we believed that if violence or some other kind of unlawful influence were not brought to bear the electoral votes of those States would be cast for him; but when the secret though bold operations of Colonel Pelton became partly known we were astonished and alarmed, though not disheartened, and we went forward in our efforts to provide by law for the final act in the great drama.

The scene of action was now transferred to Washington. Mr. Watterson in his usual charming style gives a clear description of the next steps taken by the Democratic managers to achieve the wished-for triumph of Mr. Tilden. He was advised by Mr. McLane—referring to the contest over the English Reform Bill of 1832, when he had seen the powerful impression produced by “the direct force of public opinion upon law-making and law-makers”—that an analogous situation now existed in America; that the Republican Senate was like the Tory House of Lords, and that the Democrats must organize a movement such as had been so effectual in England. But there was neither precedent nor analogy except violence and riots, for Parliament was engaged in considering discretionary legislation enlarging and purifying the franchise, in which peaceful persuasion and petition were right, as they would have been for or against the passage of the Electoral Commission Bill. Mr. Watterson tells us it was agreed that he return to Washington and make a speech “with the suggestion that in the National Capital there should assemble” a mass convention of at least one hundred thousand peaceful citizens exercising the freemen’s right of petition. Mr. Watterson tells us that it was a venture in which he had no great faith; but that he prepared the speech, and that, after much reading and revising of it by Mr. Tilden and Mr. McLane, to cover the case and meet the purpose, Mr. Tilden wrote Mr. Randall, Speaker of the House, a letter which was carried by Mr. McLane to Mr. Randall “instructing him what to do in the event that the popular response [which did not come] should prove favorable.” It is a great pity that this letter is lost to the historian, for it would doubtless illuminate the real meaning of the speech of Mr. Watterson prepared in New York and there ratified by Mr. Tilden; for the speech that was delivered at Washington soon after Christmas, 1876, was of such a character that “the Democrats at once set about denying the sinister and violent purpose ascribed to it by Republicans.” Mr. Watterson says,—I have no doubt with absolute frankness,—that no thought of violence had entered his mind. But Mr. Pulitzer, who immediately followed him in the speech-making, said without rebuke that he wanted the one hundred thousand to come “fully armed and ready for business.”

At the time of the delivery of these[Pg 196] speeches action in all the States must already have been concluded, and the documents required by law, showing the action of the several States, had already been forwarded to the president of the Senate to be held by him to be opened and acted upon as required by the Constitution. These speeches, then, must have been intended to frighten members of Congress by the threatened presence of at least one hundred thousand men assembling at Washington, under color of the right of petition, to persuade them by some means to win a triumph for Mr. Tilden by procuring the rejection of some vote or votes appearing in the electoral documents to have been cast for Mr. Hayes. It would seem that the framers of the speech of Mr. Watterson had overlooked the provisions in the Constitution of the United States on the subject, which left no discretion or policy to be exercised by any one, and the fact that so-called public opinion or partizan wishes had no place in the procedure of receiving and counting the electoral votes.

This great army of petitioning citizens could as well have been assembled to influence the Supreme Court in the consideration of some great cause, or the House of Representatives or the Senate in an impeachment proceeding. This mode of influencing administrative or judicial procedure, which has been and is supposed to be for the ascertainment of the law and the truth, would be retrogression to Roman times, when the populace sometimes flocked into the Forum to influence by their voices and uproar the trial of causes.

I come now in my recollections (which are verified by the volume of the “Proceedings of the Electoral Commission,” by the official “Journals” of the two Houses, and by the “Congressional Record”) to the details of the proceedings of the two Houses and of the Electoral Commission. On December 14, 1876, the Democratic House of Representatives passed a resolution in the following words:

Whereas there are differences of opinion as to the proper mode of counting the electoral votes for President and Vice-President, and as to the manner of determining questions that may arise as to the legality and validity of returns made of such votes by the several States;

And whereas it is of the utmost importance that all differences of opinion and all doubt and uncertainty upon these questions should be removed, to the end therefore that the votes may be counted and the result declared by a tribunal whose authority none can question and whose decision all will accept as final: Therefore,

Resolved, That a committee of seven members of this House be appointed by the Speaker, to act in conjunction with any similar committee that may be appointed by the Senate, to prepare and report without delay such a measure, either legislative or constitutional, as may in their judgment be best calculated to accomplish the desired end, and that said committee have leave to report at any time.

This resolution was sent to the Senate, and in response thereto, on December 18 the Republican Senate passed a resolution in the following words:

Resolved, That the message of the House of Representatives on the subject of the presidential election be referred to a select committee of seven Senators, with power to prepare and report, without unnecessary delay, such a measure either of a legislative or other character, as may, in their judgment, be best calculated to accomplish the lawful counting of the electoral votes, and the best disposition of all questions connected therewith, and the due declaration of the result: and that said committee have power to confer and act with the committee of the House of Representatives named in said message, and to report by bill or otherwise.

On December 21 the Senate appointed, as members of its select committee, Messrs. Edmunds, Morton, Frelinghuysen, Logan, Republicans; Messrs. Thurman, Bayard, and Ransom, Democrats. (Mr. Logan declined the appointment and Mr. Conkling was appointed in his place.) On December 22 the House of Representatives appointed, as the members of its committee, Messrs. Payne, Hunton, Hewitt, Springer, Democrats, and Messrs. McCrary, Hoar, and Willard, Republicans. These two committees proceeded to consider the subject separately; and they held conferences from time to time with a view to agreeing upon one measure to accomplish the great objects named in the reso[Pg 197]lutions of the two Houses. After much discussion and deliberation, the two committees agreed that there should be reported in the Senate the bill which, without amendment in either House, became the law under which the procedure of the two Houses and the Electoral Commission took place. This bill was reported by me to the Senate January 18, 1877. After much debate and the rejection of sundry amendments it passed the Senate, January 24, by a vote of forty-seven yeas and seventeen nays. The negative votes were nearly all cast by Republicans. The bill was then sent to the House, where, on January 26, it was referred to the House committee on the subject, and on the same day was reported to the House by Mr. Payne without amendment. After debate it passed the House without any amendment, by a vote of one hundred and ninety-one yeas and eighty nays. The negative vote was composed, as in the Senate, very largely of Republicans. In the Senate, before the final vote was taken, it was perfectly understood that the bill would pass by a large majority in the form in which it came from the committee. It was seen, apparently, that some gentlemen who were supposed to have hopeful visions of their political future felt that they could safely vote against the bill, of which, if it were followed by the success of Mr. Hayes, it could be said to be quite unnecessary; and if it were followed by the success of Mr. Tilden it could be said that disaster to the Republican party had been brought about by the foolish conduct of the Republicans who supported it.

Previous to the passage of the bill no law existed providing what should be done, when in pursuance of the Constitution the two Houses should meet and the president of the Senate open and cause to be read the certificates of electoral votes from the various States, if a difference of opinion between the Houses should arise concerning the validity of any electoral vote. Two radical and opposing contentions were being put forward by the more excited of the two parties. One side said that the Constitution gave the president of the Senate the power and duty to decide the result after the state certificates should be opened and read. The other side maintained that the president of the Senate had no power other than to preside, open the sealed packages received by him from the various States, and cause them to be read; and that it was in the power of the two Houses concurrently to decide what votes should or should not be counted. Both these contentions were thought by the Senate committee—and I hope by the House committee also—to be absolutely erroneous. The Constitution had not made the president of the Senate the judge of election returns. His only duty was to receive, preserve, open, and cause to be read and summed up the certificates of the action of each of the States, which he had received as provided by the Constitution. To decide what persons mentioned in the certificates were lawful electors was no part of his duty.

If the concurrent power of the two Houses to judge of the elections existed, no votes on which the two Houses disagreed could be counted. In such a case how long would each House “in the heat of conflict keep the law”? The only things certain to happen in such instances would be reprisals, and then—anarchy and open war.

I think few sane persons of intelligence can believe that the wise and far-seeing builders of the Constitution intended to leave open such an avenue to destruction; and so they did provide, after granting to Congress affirmative powers on enumerated subjects, that Congress should have power “To make all Laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying into Execution the foregoing Powers and all other Powers vested by this Constitution in the Government of the United States or in any Department or officer thereof.” On this firm rock the select committees of the two Houses rested the provisions of the Electoral Law which we reported.

In framing this act the two committees carefully and intentionally refrained from changing in any way any law then existing that might affect either way the fundamental merits of the existing controversy; and so, when the bill was under debate in the Senate, and Mr. Morton, a member of the committee, who did not concur in its report or in the passage of the bill, moved to amend the same by providing[Pg 198] “That nothing herein contained shall authorize the said commission to go behind the finding and determination of the canvassing or returning officers of a State authorized by the laws of the State to find and determine the result of an election for electors,” I moved to amend the amendment so as to make it declare that the commission should have authority to go behind the returns. The purpose of my motion was to make it impossible that any inference should exist from Mr. Morton’s proposition being rejected that the commission should be granted by the act any authority either way that did not already exist. I, of course, voted against my own amendment and only one senator voted for it. The amendment of Mr. Morton was defeated by a majority of more than two to one. Thus the bill passed without any amendment at all, as before stated.

The act provided that the Electoral Commission be composed of fifteen members consisting of five justices of the Supreme Court of the United States, five senators, and five members of the House of Representatives. The members of the commission were the following: Justices, Clifford from Maine, Miller from Iowa, Field from California, Strong from Pennsylvania, and Bradley from New Jersey; Senators, Edmunds of Vermont, Morton of Indiana, Frelinghuysen of New Jersey, Bayard of Delaware, and Thurman of Ohio; Members of the House, Payne of Ohio, Hunton of Virginia, Abbott of Massachusetts, Hoar of Massachusetts, and Garfield of Ohio.

The law provided that the fifth of the five justices to compose that part of the commission was to be selected by those justices assigned to the First, Third, Eighth, and Ninth Circuits, and that the senior in service should be president of the commission. It required that each House, by a viva voce vote of its members, should appoint the five senators and the five representatives provided by the law, which was done. Mr. Watterson says that it was believed by the Democratic members of the House that justice Davis of Illinois would be appointed as the fifth justice composing the commission, and that it was also believed that Justice Davis would be “sure for Tilden.” I had no belief upon the subject other than that founded upon my knowledge of the capacity and character of Justice Davis; and that led me to believe that he, as well as the other justices, would follow what they thought, after hearing the cases, was the law; and I believed that neither the Constitution nor the law authorized the commission to overthrow the regular returns of any State and make what must necessarily be an endless inquiry into what the votes of the people of any State had been in point of numbers, either for or against the Republican or Democratic electors. That right, by the letter and the spirit of the Constitution, was given to the States alone.

After the Electoral Act had been passed Justice Davis was elected senator from Illinois and consequently became ineligible; and the four justices selected Justice Bradley (from New Jersey) as the fifth justice of the commission. Mr. Watterson thinks that if Justice Davis had been a member of the commission he would have voted as Justice Bradley did. I agree with him in that belief.

Although the act made no provision in respect of the political character of the members of either House to be appointed, it was agreed by those representing the two parties in each House that the members selected for the commission should be three Republicans and two Democrats of the Senate and three Democrats and two Republicans of the House. Each side had faith enough in the honor of the other to be sure such would be the case, as it was. Thus the Electoral Commission was formed.

The commission met and organized January 31, 1877, only thirty-four days before the final ceremony of the election of the President must take place.

All its members were present, and the certificates of the appointments of its members, before named, were presented and recorded, showing that the Senate had by a unanimous vote appointed the persons before mentioned to be members of the commission, and that the House had appointed as its members of the commission the gentlemen named above. All the members of the commission took and subscribed the oath of office required by the statute—that they would “impartially examine and consider all questions submitted to the Commission and a true judgment give thereon, agreeably to the Constitution and the Laws.” The commission adopted simple rules of procedure and[Pg 199] notified the two Houses that it was ready for business.

On the first day of February the two Houses met in the Hall of the House, and the opening of the electoral certificates was begun, proceeding in alphabetical order, as the act required. The votes of the States of Alabama, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, and Delaware were read without objection and recorded as returned. The next State alphabetically was Florida. Three separate packages, which had in due course come to the hands of the president of the Senate from that State, were presented by him, the first one of which, purporting that the electors of the State had voted for Mr. Hayes, was objected to by Democratic members of the House and Senate in the manner authorized by the Electoral Act; and objections to the other certificates were in like manner made by Republican members of both Houses. Whereupon all these papers and objections were transmitted to the commission for consideration and decision. The case was correctly understood to involve substantially the same questions that would arise in respect of Louisiana and South Carolina; and the case was argued on both sides by eminent counsel and patiently heard by the commission until February 9, when, after consultation and discussion, the majority of the commission decided that the certificate showing the election of Hayes and Wheeler was the true and lawful certificate of the State of Florida and should be counted as such, upon the ground stated, as required by the act; “That it is not competent under the Constitution and the law, as it existed at the date of the passage of said act, to go into evidence aliunde the papers opened by the president of the Senate in the presence of the two Houses, to prove that other persons than those regularly certified to by the Governor of the State of Florida, in and according to the determination and declaration of their appointment by the board of state canvassers of said State prior to the time required for the performance of their duties, had been appointed electors, or by counter-proof to show that they had not.”

The members of the commission voting in favor of this decision were (alphabetically stated) Mr. Justice Bradley, Messrs. Edmunds, Frelinghuysen, Garfield, Hoar, Mr. Justice Miller, Mr. Morton, and Mr. Justice Strong. Those who voted in the negative were Messrs. Abbott, Bayard, Mr. Justice Clifford, Mr. Justice Field, and Messrs. Hunton, Payne, and Thurman.

In the course of the discussions in the consultations of the commission on the Florida case, Senator Frelinghuysen, in support of his view that there was no power to go behind the regular returns, called the attention of the commission to the debates in the Senate on January 7, 1873, as reported in the “Congressional Record,” to the opinion expressed by Senator Thurman in the consideration of a resolution authorizing an investigation as to whether the election for President and Vice-President had been conducted in Louisiana and Arkansas in 1872 in accordance with the laws of the United States, in which Mr. Thurman was reported as saying, “There seems to be no way provided by Congress, and no way, I believe, that Congress, as the Constitution stands, can provide to try the title of an elector to his office”; and he proceeded to say, “I take it that the entire control over the manner of appointing the electors is one of the reserved rights of the State.”

Mr. Thurman, on hearing this read by Mr. Frelinghuysen, said: “I have changed my mind.” Mr. Frelinghuysen, also quoting from the “Congressional Record” reporting the proceedings of the Senate on February 25, 1875, in considering the bill then pending to provide for counting the votes for President and Vice-President, read from the speech of Senator Bayard on the subject, in which Mr. Bayard said, “There is no pretext that for any cause whatever Congress has any power, or all the other departments of the Government have any power, to refuse to receive and count the result of the action of the voters of the States in that election, as certified by the electors whom they have chosen.” (See official report of the Proceedings of the Commission compiled and printed by order of Congress, page 847.)

But it is a duty and a pleasure to say that I am sure both Mr. Bayard and Mr. Thurman voted with perfect honesty and sincerity. Thus it will be seen that the fundamental and controlling question in the three disputed elections before mentioned was not new.

[Pg 200]

That these decisions of the majority of the commission, recognizing the conclusive authority of the several States in holding elections and determining the result of their choice of Presidential electors, were fully in accordance with the Electoral Act and with the Constitution, is absolutely confirmed by the non-partizan action of Congress itself—at a time when there was no possible party bias or emotion upon the subject—in the passage of the act of February 3, 1887, wherein the very principles controlling the decisions of the majority of the commission were recognized and adopted, and whereby the very substance and almost the very form of the Electoral Act was enacted into law so far as it respected the rights of the States and the proceedings of the two Houses, without the intervention of an Electoral Commission. (See Supplement to the “Revised Statutes of the United States,” 1874–91, page 525.) If the Republican members of the Electoral Commission needed any vindication of their action, I feel sure (though the “Journals” of 1887 are not available in the city where I write) that this act of Congress, passed without party division, gives it completely.

The case of Florida having been thus disposed of, that of Louisiana was sent to the commission on February 12, and was decided upon the same principle governing the Florida case; but it was not finally determined and the vote counted until February 20. From that time until the second day of March, at four o’clock in the afternoon, when the final declaration of the election of Hayes and Wheeler was made, there was a continual and successful effort, growing more and more intense and violent, by the Democratic majority of the House of Representatives to delay final action by the two Houses in counting the whole electoral vote; and in the last case but one the House of Representatives rejected the vote of one of the Vermont electors by a party vote including, I think, that of Mr. Watterson; while the Senate, by a unanimous vote on the yeas and nays, declared that the vote should be counted, which under the law validated the disputed vote. (See “Journal of the House,” and the “Congressional Record.”)

This illustrates the extremities to which the majority of the Democrats in the House went to prevent any final conclusion of the electoral proceedings under the very law that they themselves had almost unanimously voted for. What would have followed had this effort to prevent a regular conclusion of the proceedings been successful it was and is impossible to know. What might have followed was a declaration of a majority of the House that there had been no election at all, after which Mr. Tilden (according to the law in case of failure to elect) could have been elected by the House,—as against the inevitable claim of Mr. Hayes that the returns as made to the president of the Senate in accordance with the requirements of the Constitution, showed that he had been elected President of the United States.

In the then state of public feeling I think there can be little, if any, doubt that an armed collision of the supporters of the respective claimants would have taken place.

Mr. Watterson states that when the election by the people in the various States “ ... came to an end, the result showed on the face of the returns 196” votes for Mr. Tilden “in the Electoral College, 11 more than a majority.” The returns he speaks of must have been the newspaper returns, for, of course, on November 8, 1876, the day after the election, there could have been no official returns of any character in existence excepting, possibly, precinct and district returns of the local votes in some sections. He states that on the evening of the eighth of November Senator Barnum, the financial head of the Democratic National Committee, sent a telegram to “The New York Times” asking for the latest news from Oregon, Louisiana, Florida, and South Carolina, and that from that unlucky telegram sprang all the woes of the Democratic party! The next day, after some telegraphic correspondence with Mr. Tilden—of the contents of which the public never has been informed—Mr. Watterson left Louisville for New Orleans, being joined en route by Mr. Lamar of Mississippi; and they were soon followed by the body of Democrats chosen by Mr. Tilden to go to the “seat of war.” President Grant, having been informed of the Pelton enterprise, appointed a body of Republicans to go there also to ascertain the truth and support a lawful and peaceable course. The names of some or all of these Repub[Pg 201]licans visiting New Orleans are given in Mr. Watterson’s article and have been already mentioned. His recital of what happened I have already referred to, though the object and purpose is not stated. But he does say, “There was corruption in the air,” and “It was my own belief that the Returning Board was playing for the best price it could get from the Republicans, and that the only effect of any offer to buy on our part would be to assist this scheme of blackmail.”

The last scene in this eventful history mentioned by Mr. Watterson was “the Wormley conference,” as the consequence of what he correctly calls the Democratic “bluff” “filibuster” intended merely to induce the Hayes people to make certain concessions touching some of the Southern States; and he says that “It had the desired effect,” and that, satisfactory assurances having been given, the count proceeded to the end.

I have no personal knowledge whatever of the doings of the so-called conference, and had then no information even of its existence, and have therefore no comment to make upon it except that the filibuster was a “bluff” and would have died in time without issue from very shame of its bluffing actors.

I am glad that Mr. Watterson’s article has appeared at this time, before all the gentlemen, who in one form or another were personally connected with public affairs during the years 1876–77, have passed to the future life. Such as survive may now have an opportunity, if they think it worth while to take it, to defend themselves from accusations stated or implied in his article.

Recollections of ancient conversations, hearsays, or traditions are of very little value in showing what the very facts were; while written correspondence or other writings of the time would clarify and illuminate the events supposed to have happened. Mr. Watterson most correctly says that “Once in a while the world is startled by some revelation of the unknown which alters the estimate of the historic event or figure.” It is, therefore, very much to be regretted that he did not print every writing (of which he appears to know many) within his reach relative to the subject. He imputes to the members of the Republican party at that time officially or otherwise connected with public affairs the crime of bribing the State canvassing boards of the disputed States “at least in patronage, to make false returns in favor of the Republican electors.” As one of the few survivors of that stormy time, as the last survivor of the members of the select committees of the two Houses who conducted the passage of the Electoral Bill, and as the last survivor of the members of the Electoral Commission, I feel bound to repel the imputation as wholly groundless. In all our frequent consultations during the whole time there never was a proposal, suggestion, or hint of ours, or on the part of any one of us, resorting to bribery in any form, or of promise of office or other benefit, or influencing or trying to influence any of the canvassing boards or other state officials to depart from their lawful duty.

I, and I believe all the others, thought that the Republican ticket had been truly and lawfully elected; and everything we did was to try by lawful means to save the cause we believed our party had fairly and lawfully won. We had not been educated under, and did not believe in, the standard of political morality Mr. Watterson sympathetically imputes to us; but we feared, as well we might from the Pelton work and other revelations of occurrences in the disputed four Southern States, that unlawful and more practical methods were being resorted to by our adversaries to pervert, if possible, the lawful course and result of the election. I cannot close this condensed statement without expressing my earnest and grateful admiration of the conduct of all the justices of the Supreme Court who were members of the Electoral Commission. They were pure, high-minded, and patriotic, trying earnestly to expedite our work. The venerable Justice Clifford, the president, performed his arduous duties with promptness and perfect impartiality. My memory of him and of his associates is among the most pleasant of my public life.

(For Colonel Watterson’s rejoinder, see page 285.)

[Pg 202]

❏
LARGER IMAGE

##

[Pg 203]

THE GREAT TEMPLE

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 204]

A RIFT IN THE WALLS

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 205]

A STORM PASSING OVER THE CAÑON

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 206]

IN THE GLOW OF SUNSET

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 207]

MISTS IN THE CAÑON

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 208]

From a photograph by Hanfstaengl.     Half-tone plate engraved by H. Davidson

RICHARD WAGNER

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 209]

## IF RICHARD WAGNER CAME BACK

BY HENRY T. FINCK

Author of “Wagner and His Works,” “Chopin,” “Success in Music,” etc.

THE outcome of the first Bayreuth Festival, in 1876, was a deficit of $37,500. There was need of thirteen hundred subscriptions to cover the expenses, but barely one half that number had been secured, thanks to the hostility of the German press, which for years in advance had systematically decried the project as a humbug, and at the last moment actually got up a fake smallpox scare in order to frustrate the festival. Wagner was only sixty-three years old at that time, and therefore quite too young to be appreciated in a country where it seems to be held that the only real genius is a dead genius. A series of concerts given in London in the hope of covering the deficit referred to resulted in further losses. The plan of repeating the Nibelung performances in Bayreuth every year or two consequently vanished like a rainbow, and it was not till Wagner was ready with his swan-song, “Parsifal,” in 1882, that he found it possible again to invite the world to that Bavarian town. This time there was actually a surplus of $1500. Wagner was beginning to be appreciated! Six months later he died.

If he came back to-day, thirty years after, what would he find? If he glanced at the newspapers and the musical periodicals, he would note, perhaps not without some surprise, that no trace is left of the virulent opposition to his music-dramas which had thwarted his plans and made life a burden to him. He would see himself ranked with the classics, the musical world no longer divided into Wagnerites and anti-Wagnerites, and most of those who do not personally care for his music yet willing to pay him the tribute of respect which they give to Bach and Beethoven.

It is not generally known that Wagner was forty-four years old and had written all but three of his operas before a single one of them was produced in Vienna, Munich, or Stuttgart, and that he was fifty-six and over before even his early works were staged in France, Italy, and England. He was obliged to publish “Rienzi,” “The Flying Dutchman,” and “Tannhäuser” at his own expense, and never got his money back. The leading musical firms in Germany were aghast at his asking $7500 for the publishing rights of “Das Rheingold,” “Die Walküre,” “Siegfried,” and “Götterdämmerung.” He needed money, and reduced his demand by one half; but again his offer was declined. Breitkopf and Härtel did buy “Lohengrin,” only to be jeered at for so doing by Mendelssohn, who thought it was a bad bargain. The same firm purchased “Tristan and Isolde,” but had to wait years to get back the sum expended.

Soon after Wagner’s death the tide turned, and if he came back to-day, he would enjoy a spectacle which would perhaps surprise him as much as the disappearance of his detractors. Though he had great faith in his “music of the future” (it was not he, but one of his enemies who dubbed it so), he would hardly be prepared to find that in New York, as in all the cities of Germany, his operas year after year now have a greater number of performances than those of any other composer, and that the same is true even in the cities of Italy, Spain, and France whenever it is possible to secure for them competent singers and conductors. But the most astonishing spectacle would be presented to him in the warehouses of the publishing firms, nearly all of which have whole floors stacked to the ceiling with reprints of his scores ready to be rushed into the markets the moment the copyright on them has expired a few months hence. While he might be wroth at a law which will thus suddenly reduce the income of his heirs, he could not but feel flattered on discovering that no other composer had ever been reprinted in such wholesale fashion, proof of unprecedented popularity.

If it were possible to communicate with him to-day, would he join his widow and son and their followers in petitioning parliament to make an exception to the copyright law in favor of preserving[Pg 210] “Parsifal” forever for Bayreuth? I very much doubt if he would. In all probability he would say to them:

“My prose writings and letters should have made it clear to you that my chief reason for building a theater at Bayreuth for special model performances of my music-dramas was that the royal opera-houses of the empire had neither the means nor the good-will to produce these works in a satisfactory manner. To-day I find the situation entirely changed, the opera-houses vying with one another in their efforts to present my works in exact accordance with my wishes. There is therefore no reason for withholding ‘Parsifal’ from them any longer. They will stage it conscientiously, and henceforth not only those who are wealthy enough to travel to Bayreuth, but hundreds of thousands of others, will be able to hear it. That the Bayreuth atmosphere is not a necessity for the appreciation of my last work I infer from the reports from New York, where ‘Parsifal’ is always listened to in the devotional attitude which this semi-religious composition calls for.”

In 1852, Wagner wrote that a Lohengrin singer was yet to be born. Twenty-four years later, for the Bayreuth performances of the Nibelung dramas and “Parsifal” he selected his singers from all the German opera-houses; yet it is not difficult to read between the lines of his subsequent comments, appreciative and cordial though they were, that few of these singers approximated to his ideal, and in most cases he had to turn instructor to impart correct ideas of his new vocal style, in which melody and declamation are amalgamated. Emil Scaria, the wonderful Gurnemanz of the Parsifal festival in 1882, was the nearest approach to his ideal. Lilli Lehmann was too young in 1876 to assume the part of Brünhild in which she afterward established a new standard of singing, combining the Italian bel canto with German realism of dramatic accent and emotional coloring.

That it was at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York that Lilli Lehmann first revealed this new art is a detail of operatic history which would interest Wagner if he came back to-day. When he composed “Tristan and Isolde” he had in his mind prophetic visions not only of Lehmann, but of Jean de Reszke, who established the same new standard for tenors. While good dramatic singers are still scarce, the general level has been raised, as Wagner would be the first to acknowledge. How happy he would have been could he have had at Bayreuth masters of his style as Nordica, Eames, Ternina, Krauss-Seidl, Gadski, Fremstad, Schumann-Heink, Matzenauer, Homer, Knote, Burrian, Reiss, Goritz, Alvary, the De Reszke brothers, Urlus, Braun, and Fischer, all of whom are or have been associated with the Metropolitan.

One of the most important changes Wagner would note relates to the importance now attached to orchestral conductors. Before he wrote his essay on conducting, the orchestral leaders as a rule were little more than mere time-beaters. He taught them by example and precept to be real interpreters, molding an orchestral performance to their own will as much as a pianist does the piece he plays.

What would Wagner say about the operas composed since his death? Of all of them he would, I believe, like best Humperdinck’s “Die Königskinder,” which, while written entirely in his own style, nevertheless is charmingly original in its melodies. He would certainly not admire the operas of Richard Strauss, partly because of their repulsive subjects, partly because of the violence they do to the human voice, but chiefly because this composer too often uses his large orchestral apparatus to hide his poverty of invention. On the other hand, he would be likely to denounce Debussy for his boycotting of melody in “Pelléas et Mélisande” and for his neglect of modern orchestral means of expression and coloring. Turning to Italy, he would smile at the two short operas of Mascagni and Leoncavallo, which, when first launched, were supposed to have dethroned him. Possibly he might admire Puccini’s “Madama Butterfly” and the last act of “Tosca.” In any case, he could not but feel flattered on noting how, after his death, Verdi, who was born in the same year as himself, but lived nineteen years longer, followed his methods in “Otello” and “Falstaff.” In other countries Wagner would find no indication of a genius able to alienate the affections of opera-goers from his music-dramas. There has been no progress, no important development, since his death.

[Pg 211]

PORTRAIT OF DOROTHY McK——

FROM THE PAINTING BY WILHELM FUNK

(THE CENTURY’S AMERICAN ARTISTS SERIES)

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 213]

## “BLACK BLOOD”

BY EDWARD LYELL FOX

WITH PICTURES BY WILLIAM H. FOSTER

DRIFTING mists enveloped the landscape, a thousand gray wraiths crawling through the air, their thin bodies changing, contracting, vanishing. Over toward Massapequa the sky was brightening, distant lights of purple and pink fighting their way through the mists, a dim burning of color like that of fire through smoke. Somewhere a rooster crowed; a dog barked drowsily. Already the vague shadows of the night were congealing into trees, a rail fence, farm buildings. Beyond them more trees, a stone wall, a red barn appeared. From the earth rose the fresh odors of a new day.

In the windows of the house on the opposite side of the road lights appeared. The figure of a man moved into shadow on a curtain and was gone. No sound came from within. Then a door creaked open, feet shuffled. Four men, carrying lanterns, issued forth and waited on the porch. They began to talk in hoarse, early morning voices. The door opened again; a powerful, soldierly looking man appeared. He said something in a foreign tongue, and the others, lighting their lanterns, hurried toward the barn.

When they were gone, Léon Giron, whom the newspapers called “the greatest automobile race-driver in the world,” lighted a cigarette and scowled. Indeed, he had begun the last ten days in the same way—the cigarette, the scowl. This daybreak practice on the Vanderbilt Cup Course had become distasteful. It was unnecessary, with the race as good as won. Still, his employees had insisted. Scowling again, Giron waited for his mechanicians to roll out the big Saturn.

He had thought of trying the twenty-mile cup course for speed or of studying the turns, most particularly the one just opposite, where the Jericho Turnpike bent into a right angle and continued as a narrow road. He was still undecided when from down the pike came the low rumbling of a motor. Louder and louder it grew, a growing succession of reports that split the quiet air like volleys of musketry. Now Giron could see the flames of its exhausts, the yellow and red flashes, wild fire shining through the mists. Now he saw the white bulk of the machine, the long, lean hood, the tilted steering-post, the two black forms crouched behind.

On it came, faster than the wind, a spew of flame and smoke, a voice-breathing thunder, a monstrous white dragon bursting the dawn. As Giron watched, as his trained eye timed instantly the frightful speed, as his experience whispered that for a car to rush the Jericho turn meant disaster, possible death, the man’s face showed only cold interest. Years before men had called him steel-nerved, ruthless, abnormally cruel.

But now the white car crashed past. Swerving, it threw up a wall of flying dirt, skidded terribly, shot across the road, seemed about to go off, but, righting, bellowed round “the Jericho,” and rushed toward Westbury. And as it went, as its dust-cloud trembled and fell, as its explosions grew fainter and fainter, Giron stood watching, a startled figure leaning far over the porch-rail, unbelief and venom in his face. And as he watched, waiting until the white car was only a speck dissolving toward Westbury, his lips began to move. To the air he talked doubtfully, musingly, saying aloud:

“I thought there was only one man who could take a turn like that. One man,”—his eyes glittered,—“Jean Lescault was his name, and I fixed him seven years ago.”

Turning abruptly, he walked toward the garage.

Meanwhile the white car, passing Westbury, had turned off the course and, rumbling contentedly, had come to a stop before Krugs. As you may know, Krugs, an old-fashioned Long Island road-house kept by a tidy German woman, has for[Pg 214] years been the quarters of the cup-racers. Here in spacious stables are kept the machines of two companies, sometimes of three. Here in the uncomfortable rooms of the inn sleep their crews, drivers, mechanics, team-managers. In its low-ceilinged dining-room they sit, a score of them, smudgy-faced and in overalls, a careless, boyish company whose faces, were they not so lined, you would call young.

Nobody paid much attention to the white car as its heavy panting became quieter and then died away, nor did they notice the tall, strapping man with the boyish face who climbed out from the driver’s seat, nor the broken little figure who climbed with him. As one of the reporters had said, “Sammy Stevenson always looks as if he had just jumped out of a cold plunge.” The expression was very pat. The boyish Stevenson’s skin always seemed tingling, coloring; his eyes clear and wide-open; his body tense, full-blown, strong. And as he kept step with his companion in their walk toward the house, one would have said that the contrast was pitiless; for the other man was a cripple. One of his legs was shorter than the other; as he walked, his body swayed from side to side; his left sleeve was empty. His whole frame looked gaunt, emaciated, racked—racked, one thought immediately, by some terrible accident that had disfigured his face, lining it with a long, white scar. Though hideously ugly, broken in body, the little man walked with his head well up, his chin high. And Stevenson regarded him as he might have regarded a deity.

Out in Detroit, at the Mercury Motor-Car Company factory, everybody knew the little man as “Old Lescault.” Five years before this time he had appeared mysteriously, and in a few hours the factory had hired him as a “racing expert.” He had taken Sammy Stevenson from the testing service, put him on one of the racing-cars, and taught him “the game.” In his department his word was law. Even John Willard, the company’s gruff and positive president, who never had been known to take advice, obeyed this hideous little Frenchman, who ruled all with a word, a grimace, and made the sturdy, self-reliant Stevenson his personal worshiper and the hostile factory hands his sympathetic friends.

Just now Jean Lescault was busy explaining something to Stevenson. The young man listened intently.

“You’ll lose time on those turns,” Lescault was saying, “unless you take them the way I tell you. Instead of swinging wide and describing a curve, I want you to do this: rush the car right into the turn, jam on the brakes, skid around on your front wheels, and then shoot ahead. Look!” He quickly sketched a diagram on the breakfast-cloth. “There,” he exclaimed, looking up, “that shows how you’ll cut time on the fellow who curves around. It’s dangerous, but not if you keep your head. You tried it at Jericho this morning and made it. Do it at every turn hereafter.”

Stevenson nodded. Jean Lescault would be obeyed.

But Lescault wanted to tell him other things. It was his first morning on the course. For some reason he had seen fit to remain in New York despite Stevenson’s urging him to come down. Now, as they finished breakfast, and Stevenson, pushing back his chair, remarked that he was going out to see that the mechanics put away the car properly, a last question came to Lescault’s lips:

“How”—he paused—“how is Giron getting along?”

Stevenson hesitated before answering.

“Do you know him?” he asked.

“No,” said Lescault.

“I asked,” said Stevenson, “because if, being a countryman, he happened also to be a friend of yours, I shouldn’t want to repeat certain things. Most of the American drivers dislike him. They criticize him for not stopping when he knocked down that boy and broke his leg during practice the other morning. They say Giron couldn’t have known whether he killed him or not, and cared less. They say, too, that his manner is unbearable, conceited, and sneering.”

“But his work,” interrupted Lescault, impatiently,—“his driving, his skill, his nerve,—what of these things? Of the others I have heard.”

“His driving,” replied Stevenson, “is really wonderful. He’s a daredevil, cool, thorough, and skilled. The newspapers say nothing like his ability has ever been seen on the Vanderbilt Cup Course.”

“Damn the newspapers!” cried Les[Pg 215]cault in a rage. “We’ll beat him. I tell you, we’ll beat him.”

As he slid up abruptly from the table and limped away, Stevenson noticed his eyes. In them was an expression that was not good to see.

Going to his room, Lescault locked the door behind him. He listened for a moment at the keyhole, and then; seizing his traveling-bag, emptied it on the bed. From a confusion of socks and shirts he rooted out a small tin box, set it aside, put back the bag, and composed himself on the edge of the bed. His slightest movement had become eager, stealthy. Holding the tin box on his knee, he patted it fondly. He produced a key, and chuckled as it grated in the lock. His hands were shaking as he threw back the cover and carefully took out the contents. Not gold or precious stones rolled out before him, not the hoard of a miser, the collection of a seeker of rare things, or the sacred relics of a family trust, but a heap of photographs! On the bed he spread them, arranged in some accustomed order, and as he bent over each his breath came with a low, hissing sound. His eyes, half shut, blazed queerly—eyes that looked not upon memoirs of love, but of hate.

It was a full minute before he moved. Then he snatched one of the photographs and held it from him, tearing the edges with his clenched hands. It was a full-length picture of a straight, soldierly looking man who might be called good looking were it not for the curl of his mouth. Below it was written:

“Léon Giron, taken upon his arrival in New York.”

As he gazed at the man’s straight and powerful figure, Lescault’s mutilated face became savage in its hate.

“And I’d have been like you, Léon Giron, if you’d played square,” he accused the picture. “I’d have been like you, with my body whole and young and vigorous. Bah!” He threw it from him and picked up another.

“Ho!” he cried, “this is how you looked when you won the Grand Prix, when they pelted you with flowers after you had crossed the line, when with your dirty driving you sent me into a ditch and left me out on that road, dying, as you thought. But I didn’t die, Léon Giron.”

His voice had fallen to a whisper, strained, harsh, the way a man talks when some overpowering emotion takes him. He snatched up picture after picture,—racing scenes all of them,—only to examine each feverishly and fling it away.

“Here you are when you won the Targa Floria,—” he was talking rapidly, addressing one picture after another,—“when you won the Berlin cup, the Czar’s trophy, all my races, all of them—mine, if you’d played square. And this is after you won at Brooklands. That was a year ago. I could have beaten you then, Giron. For three years I’ve been training a boy for you, teaching him all I know, more than you’ll ever know, about racing. I’ve given him every trick that used to beat you, confound you! that maddened on into throwing me into the ditch.

“And I’ve given that boy more. I’ve devised new tricks, new strategies, skill you’ve never dreamed of; and he’ll beat you, Léon Giron. He’ll beat you in the Vanderbilt. He’ll break you on the greatest day of your career. He, a boy, will make you a laughing-stock—you, the favorite. You’ve come from Europe, your great reputation preceding you but you’ll fail. And it’ll be the clean, strong body of young Stevenson, like mine was. But more than that, the brain of Jean Lescault will break you, Giron—the brain of poor old Lescault, working down in the pits.”

As he dropped the pictures one by one back into the box, as, trembling and leering, he gazed and spat upon the image of Giron, it seemed as though the beast in him might be trying to overpower the God. Thus it was Lescault’s custom to drink deeply of the vials of hate, to nurse his spleen, to envenom his whole being against this one man.

The idea had come to him one winter morning seven years before, when he had just left the hospital at Lariboisière. In a shop-window he had seen the photograph of Giron, flower-showered, coolly triumphant in his Grand Prix car. With rancor slowly filling his soul, Lescault had bought the picture, carried it to his room, brooded over it, conceived his awful hate, planned the reckoning that alone could satisfy it. Then he happened upon another picture in which Giron was again the central figure, and bought that, too,[Pg 216] placed it alongside the other, and brooded. The overthrow of Giron became an obsession, in time a paranœa. Indeed, during the days immediately preceding the Vanderbilt race, Lescault, when not busy with Stevenson, spent most of his time in his room; and the pictures, shrine of his hatred, were always before him.

Meanwhile Giron had become a byword with those thousands and thousands who a day hence would swarm Hempstead plains and watch him guide the big Saturn on its quest for the cup. The newspapers were full of him. They told of his rise, of his quarters at Jericho, of his mannerisms, of the almost slavish obedience that he exacted of his helpers; but they always spoke, too, of his nerve, his utter fearlessness, his immobile face, his calmness when the wind was singing in his ears and the wheels were sweeping the ground beneath him, as the whirlwind sweeps chaff. Yet of all the “stories” there was only one that presented Giron as he actually was. And that was done by a noted writer who had visited the course for “color.” This man saw beyond Giron’s indifference and coldness, and guessed ruthlessness and cruelty to be a strong part of him. Telltale lines had long ago written their revelations on Giron’s mouth, so that all might read who could.

And so came the eve of the race, with Giron the word on the public’s lips. The favorite, conceded beyond all doubt as the winner, he sat alone in his quarters at Jericho, scorning the gossip of the camps, hearing no word of the cripple who had been seen on the course with Stevenson, coolly confident, an eternal sneer on his lips, the ruthless fires of a Messala in his eyes. No man could come between him and this greatest triumph of his career; no man could do it and live. He unconsciously felt it.

All that night the spectators descended upon the course, coming by train and trolley, luncheon-boxes and blankets in hand. Numberless droves of them came by motor, an endless, fiery-scaled snake that writhed slowly down the roads from New York, coiled round the course, moaned constantly, and waited. At dawn the race was to start; thirty of the most powerful automobiles ever made would pit their speed for three hundred miles, a harsh test, over an oblong of country road, with half a million people looking on.

Lescault, shivering despite his warm wraps, was in the repair pits as the cars began to come to the line. Tints of violet and pink were creeping over the fields, and in the growing light of morning the headlights of a row of automobiles drawn up behind the grand-stand fence began to look self-conscious and absurd. Behind him, in a box, he saw a party of men, their eyes heavy-lidded for want of sleep. They were drinking something from a metal bottle. Lescault decided it was coffee, and wished he had some. Then he forgot about the coffee, for far in the distance a sound, deep and droning, caught his ear. It was the voice of the Saturn. Lescault recognized it instantly.

In perfect control of himself he waited. He had left hysteria behind at Krugs, locked it in the same drawer with the pictures. Now, if never before, he must restrain himself. This day he must become again the old Lescault of the race-course, calm, emotionless. It would be hard at the sight of Giron, but he must be cool. And now he heard the booming of an engine; saw the fires of the Saturn’s exhausts burning the morning; saw the big red car come nearer and nearer, its engine, shutting off, thundering intermittently; saw it advance with its speed throttled, calmly, majestically, as a car of triumph should come; and on the conqueror’s seat sat Giron. Slowly it rolled past the repair trenches, past the Jupiter, the Green Dragon; now it was almost abreast the Mercury, and Lescault, timing his move, scrambled suddenly from the pit, and stood waiting on the road.

That Giron had seen him he knew. Lescault had caught the momentary surprise on his face, the exclamation on his lips. But Giron had swiftly regained his habitual sneer—a sneer that curled his lips as he passed the pit and spit deliberately at the feet of the man below him.

But Lescault’s self-control was superb, and as the Saturn rolled past, he looked after it, smiled, and spoke as he had spoken to the pictures, saying sweetly under his breath:

“Léon Giron, I’ve got you.”

The road was now jammed with masses of shaking, smoking steel. One car followed another, manœuvered for position,[Pg 217] choked the course, thickened the bluish haze that, rising from the exhausts, hung almost as motionless as a canopy. Here were the trim-looking Vegas and their French drivers; the Green Dragons, with fierce-looking Italians behind the wheels; a curious cartridge-shaped car entered by an American concern; and the Mercury, called the “Ninety,” because of its tremendous horse-power. Stevenson was at the wheel, and as the grand stand saw his boyish, good-looking face, there were exclamations, then a rattle of applause, growing into steady cheering. Waving his hand and grinning, Stevenson stopped before the pit and, swinging himself over the rail, joined Lescault. He was dressed in white,—suit and skull-piece,—with black gloves, black streamers trailing from his hat, black puttees to his knees, a picturesque figure with his broad chest and shoulders. It had been Lescault’s wish that Stevenson, like the car, be in white and black. He remembered that some of the crusaders of old used to dress that way.

During those last minutes Lescault’s words to Stevenson were as an exhortation. Of technic he could give the boy no more, for his skill had been transmitted completely, astoundingly to him. So now, with his voice lowered, Lescault spoke with all his long-growing, loosened emotions; he impressed upon him that Giron was the one to beat, the only rival he need fear, and commanded him particularly to obey orders, do all that he said, nothing more. And Stevenson, who long ago had caught the fervor of this broken-bodied little Frenchman, felt a fierce yearning to be at the wheel, to be riding the wind, with all others falling as he rode. With an exclamation he sprang from the pit and scrambled into the car. The soul of jean Lescault would be driving the “Ninety” that day.

By this time chaos had opened its gates. Thirty engines were roaring, their steel throats belching. Flame and smoke burst from them. A clamor of machinery smote the ear. Gears rattled shrilly, levers ground and rasped. A stench of oil assailed the nostrils. Now the bluish canopy, thickening, descended as a curtain. Through it Lescault saw the “Ninety” sliding like a great specter, creeping along until its front wheels almost touched the red tanks of the Saturn.

Above the crash of machinery he heard a man’s voice intoning the seconds from one to ten backward. He could not see the man, for the drifting smoke shrouded all; but he listened, and suddenly a voice shouted “Go!” Then came a rattling from the Saturn, a succession of sharp reports, a deep boom, a savage cry from Giron: the Vanderbilt was on.

Three minutes later the white “Ninety” loomed through the smoke, paused on the line, licked at the starter with thin tongues of yellow flame, and, snorting eagerly, crashed away.

Twenty-seven other cars followed, but upon none of them would Lescault deign to glance. With pad and pencil in hand he was busy figuring how fast Stevenson would have to go to lead Giron at the end of the first lap. He knew that the best Giron had done in practice was a circuit of the twenty-mile course in eighteen minutes. This was at the rate of sixty-seven miles an hour. And Lescault grinned, for he had told Stevenson to keep his speedometer at seventy-five miles an hour, gain a two-minute lead at the outset, and confound Giron when the race was only a lap old.

His figures verified, Lescault waited impatiently for the Saturn to appear. If it came just one minute ahead of the “Ninety,” his schedule was true. Time dragged; the crowd settled back; the tense vigil disintegrated into stretchings and yawnings. The stage of a Vanderbilt is not reset quickly, but long before the signal “Car coming!” passed for miles from mouth to mouth, grew from a murmur to a shout, and threw the grand stand into tumult, Lescault’s trained ear had caught the distant rumble of the Saturn. Giron was driving hard. Lescault saw that he passed the grand stand with the engine “wide open,” forcing the car to its utmost. Then the Saturn roared away, and out of the distance came another apparition that, flashing by in a blur of white, cast up dust and was gone. Down in the pits, Lescault, one of few who had recognized the white car, so great was its speed, drew his hideous features into a smile.

His stop-watch had told him that Stevenson’s first lap was at seventy-seven miles an hour, a gain of more than two minutes on the unbeaten Giron! And he[Pg 218] grinned again when back of him men began to ask of one another in surprise:

“Who is this Stevenson? He’s beaten the life out of Giron. Who is he?”

No one knew anything but what the program had printed, and down in the pits the crippled little Frenchman was enjoying himself as he never had before. Each bewildered question was as music to his ears.

Quarter of an hour later the white “Ninety” and the red Saturn again crashed past, only this time Giron was behind. Even the advantage that his starting position had given him was gone, and Stevenson led by five minutes. So one lap followed another, a whirligig of blurred wheels and flaming hoods, sweeping round and round that oblong of Long Island country-side, strewing men and machines as it went.

Soon reports of accidents began to come in. In trying to keep up with the awful pace, the other drivers were overtaxing their machines. Already two cars had collapsed on the course, burying their crews beneath them. Others,—a score of them, with the Vegas, and the Germans, painted gray,—limping, had stopped at the repair pits, and Lescault had laughed. What chance had they with the white “Ninety” and his brain?

Complacently he saw Stevenson push his car past the Saturn a second time. Near Westbury he had driven wonderfully, and obtained a lead of more than a length of the course over the favorite. And this time, when the Saturn rushed by, Lescault saw that Giron had stopped his waving to the grand stand. Clever driver that he was, Giron now realized that the early lead of the “Ninety” was more than a fluke, more than sensational forcing of a car beyond its limits, only to have it collapse with the goal miles away. In Stevenson he had come to recognize a new driver of rare power, a rival worthy of his steel. All Giron’s attention was demanded on the wheel.

Another swift rimming of the course, and Lescault saw the “Ninety” slacken speed coming up the stretch. Stevenson would stop, probably for gasolene or water. And Lescault was glad. Indeed, fortune seemed to be favoring him that day. It was tremendously important that he have a word with Stevenson at this stage of the race. Lescault had remembered that it was at such a time in the Grand Prix that Giron had broken him—waited on a lonely stretch of road until he had tried to pass and then had ditched him.

“Don’t,” he told Stevenson, while mechanics swarmed about the throbbing “Ninety”—“don’t pass Giron again unless you can do it in front of the judges’ stand.”

Stevenson showed his amazement. A question was on his lips.

“Obey me!” snapped Lescault, anticipating him. “Remember you’re pledged to that—to carry out my commands. I’ve made you, and you must do just what I say,” he added.

And Stevenson, excited, abashed, regretting his moment of doubt, nodded, and turned to the men who were pouring gasolene down the thirsty throat of the “Ninety.” Then he swung into the seat, threw in his clutch, and went snorting away. Jean Lescault would be obeyed.

As though by telepathy, there came to Giron at this time the same thought that had made Lescault speak his warning. Stevenson must be done away with. As Giron had seen him draw steadily away lap by lap, displaying more and more daring and skill; as he had seen him manœuver as only a master could manœuver, put trick against trick, and, winning, outdo all who would cut him down; as he had watched the big “Ninety” roar by again and again, always about the same time, a “limited” on schedule, the keen Frenchman admitted finally that Stevenson’s was no half-charged sensation, but a decided menace.

Setting his mouth in a thin, cruel line, he made his plans. He would wait for this boy—wait as he had waited for Lescault years before. To him it was only an incident, a sweeping aside of an unforeseen obstacle that had risen between him and victory. That Stevenson might die, that a young and wonderfully brilliant driver might he maimed for life, did not interest him. The boy was in the way. He must go.

Giron waited patiently for the “Ninety” to draw near. Just as he was about to pass he would obey the law of the race—turn out and give room. Then he would veer in suddenly, and, to avoid collision,[Pg 219] Stevenson would be forced into the ditch. In just that way he had disposed of Lescault and of others whose names do not matter. Snarling at his mechanician to warn him of the approach of the “Ninety,” Giron drove on. The wait, he felt, would not be long.

Drawn by William H. Foster

“ON IT CAME, FASTER THAN THE WIND” (SEE PAGE 213)

But for some reason the “Ninety” never overtook him. It hung so close to his rear wheels that Giron could hear the crunch of the tires, the cries of its mechanician; but it came no nearer. Its front wheels were always just out of reach; but it never came farther. Stubbornly and tenaciously it hung like a shadow that would not shorten.

In his desperation Giron began jockeying. Slackening his speed almost imperceptibly, he waited grimly; but the “Ninety” slackened, too. For a moment Giron was puzzled; then, thinking it might be a coincidence, he lowered his pace even more, but the “Ninety” lowered, too. Suddenly suspicious, he tried again; but still the “Ninety” hung back. Then it burst upon Giron amazingly clear. How blind he had been! This was not Stevenson who refused to be tricked; this was no impetuous, lusty boy who couldn’t be tempted into the ditch. This was the cool mind of the master driver, the calm, scheming mind of Lescault—old Lescault back in the pits, the hideous cripple at whom he had spat, now pulling him down at the top of his career.

So they rushed into the straightaway, headed for the grand stand, and came booming and pounding until a report from one of the “Ninety’s” rear tires brought that car to a stop while the red Saturn whirled away in a screen of dust. Stevenson drove in on a flat tire, and, reaching the pits, shouted to his mechanics to hurry their work; and while he waited, chafing and fretting, Lescault clutched at his arm and said impressively:

“Remember, don’t pass Giron unless it’s in front of the judges’ stand. Remember you promised to obey.”

Then the “Ninety” rushed away. Somewhat nervous now, for the race was drawing to a close, Lescault saw the Saturn appear again and knew that Stevenson must come soon after. Impatiently he strained his ear, hoping to catch the rumble of the “Ninety” before it swung round the “Hairpin” into view of the stands. But no rumble came. Soon Stevenson was overdue. Concern and worry, then fear, followed upon impatience. Seconds grew into minutes, and to Lescault the minutes were as ages. He began to ask himself questions. What was wrong? Had Stevenson disobeyed orders?

Lescault feverishly jotted down some figures. Yes, the boy could have passed Giron over by Westbury; but Giron had swept by, and Stevenson—

The pitmen, now alarmed at the delay, had climbed out upon the side of the track. One of them, a little fellow, standing on the shoulders of the others, was trying to see far down the road. Lescault watched his face for some expression of relief, but the pitman’s worry seemed to grow.

“Stevenson’s hurt!”

In a trice the rumor had spread among the crowd. Wild stories spread. The minutes were now dragging on feet of lead[Pg 220]—agonizing minutes to Lescault, who felt an overpowering weakness coming over him, a sickening of the heart, an overwhelming of conscience that undermined his iron nerve. Giron had beaten him again! His painstaking work, his self-denials, all the plans of years, had been for naught. And by using Stevenson,—God help him!—he had sent the boy to a fate perhaps worse than his own. Into the scarred face came sorrow.

Then he heard an exclamation; he saw the pitmen dancing about like children.

“He’s coming! He’s coming!” they cried.

Far down the road Lescault made out the white blur of the “Ninety.”

“Busted valve!” cried Stevenson as he jumped down. “Thought we’d never fix it.”

Lescault saw that the boyish face looked old, ages old, that his hands were moving nervously, his whole body tense with repressed eagerness.

“You’ve lost the lead,” a tireman shouted. “Giron’s a minute ahead!”

Lescault could have killed the speaker. The effect of his words was obvious. Stevenson’s nervousness increased.

“As bad as that!” he exclaimed. “Hurry it up, boys! Only two more laps—just enough to catch Giron.”

Swinging into the car, he threw on the engine, drowning the warning that Lescault was shouting, and rushed away. The grand stand was in an uproar as he swept past, but Stevenson did not hear. He heard only the words of the tireman, and kept repeating them:

“Giron’s a minute ahead. Giron’s a minute ahead.”

He now opened his engine to the limit, and driving faster than he had ever driven before, burst into the “S” turn and reeled round it on two wheels. Past Massapequa he whirled, dirt and oil flying in a trembling wall of brown. Downhill, over bridges, he rushed, the wind shrieking in his ears. Into the straight stretch of the Parkway he burst, the “Ninety” gathering momentum on the smooth road, faster and faster, until the front wheels, bending to the sonorous rhythm of the engine, jumped up and down in a weird dance.

Drawn by William H. Foster

“‘DON’T PASS GIRON AGAIN UNLESS YOU CAN DO IT IN FRONT OF THE JUDGES’ STAND’”

Yes, no speck of red had taken shape on the road ahead. The lead of the Saturn was even greater than he had feared. It must be still miles away, and Giron,[Pg 221] supreme again, driving like the wind. That streak of red! If he could only see it, just to know that it really was within reach.

Then Stevenson caught a glimpse of car far ahead. An exclamation escaped him, only to leave him more grimly silent; for the car was gray, one of the Germans. Then he made out other cars,—white, green, and blue cars, the Jupiter, the Vegas, and the Crowns,—and soon he had overtaken them, roared past them, with their crews appalled at the awful speed, the awful daring. Now he began to curse the “Ninety” for not bearing him more swiftly, for not bringing to him that red-painted goal. And so he crashed, skidded, and battered through mile after mile, forgot the perils of “the Jericho,” the “S,” and the “Hairpin,” and drove in the grip of a mania, a boyish giant on whom the race had laid its spell.

Out of the distance there finally came to him the speck of red, a vague, blurry shape that quickly took on the lines of the Saturn. It gave him a sense of fierce pleasure, an unnatural desire to laugh aloud; and then he thought of Lescault, of his warning:

“Don’t pass Giron unless it’s in front of the judges’ stand.”

But surely Lescault could not mean for him to wait now—now when he was behind, when he had caught the red car and in a trice could snatch back a race almost lost! Of course Lescault didn’t mean that. Stevenson compressed his lips, pressed down on the accelerator, leaned slightly forward, his eyes peering over the steering-wheel.

A minute of terrific driving, and the “Ninety” had come near enough for Giron to hear the thunder of its exhausts. Employing a signal that racing crews have, he ordered his mechanician to watch its approach. The mechanician, after craning his head, turned swiftly around.

“He’s coming like the wind,” he bawled in Giron’s ear. “He’s driving like a madman!”

And Giron, who had waited patiently for this moment, who knew even when he had gained the lead that he could not hold it, that the “Ninety” was faster, the brain guiding it craftier, parted his lips as a panther does before the leap; for he thought again that the soul of Lescault was no longer driving the “Ninety,” that lusty, unthinking youth, mad with speed, had risen, overwhelming caution and sending Stevenson down into the ditch, as it had another years before.

“I’ll get him,” he murmured, and bent lower over the wheel.

Past Hicksville came the two cars, the “Ninety” creeping up at every turn of the wheel.

“Not here,” Giron told himself; “the crowd might see.”

Round “Death Turn,” they shot, skidded, righted in a whirl of dust, bellowed, and were gone down a lonely road, narrow, slippery, black with oil, the “Crossover,” which the crowds had avoided because of the marshy land on each side. Half a mile away the road lay over a swamp, and the ditch was deep. Not a soul was there.

As the cars rushed toward it, Giron almost imperceptibly lowered his speed just enough for the “Ninety” to come up before the swamp was crossed. Listening carefully, his ears attuned by long practice, he read the thunder of the “Ninety’s” engine, calculated to a foot how much nearer Stevenson was being borne with each detonation. Louder and louder grew the clamor, the harsh shrieking and rasping of machinery, the booming of the exhausts, until it deafened him. Then Giron acted.

Bracing his feet, he sank lower in the seat, gripped the wheel, and made as though to turn out, to obey the law of the race. Up crept the “Ninety” closer and closer, until with a snarl Giron threw over the wheel suddenly, tugged sharply, and, shooting his own car back across the road, blocked the way.

But, hours before that, Fate had made a workman blunder. The workman had put on more oil than safety allowed. The oil had made the surface slippery and dangerous at just this place. No driver had noticed it because none had tried to turn in it. But now, catching the big Saturn veering suddenly under high speed, the treacherous mixture of dirt and oil slid away from under the front wheels. With all the power of inanimate things breaking loose, the huge red car careened across the road. As though possessed, it ran to destruction, dug its flat snout into the embankment, lifted slowly end on end, swayed a moment, and, as the[Pg 223] “Ninety” shot by, lurched forward, somersaulting down into the swamp.

Drawn by William H. Foster.     Half-tone plate engraved by R. Varley

“WITH ALL THE POWER OF INANIMATE THINGS BREAKING LOOSE, THE HUGE RED CAR CAREENED ACROSS THE ROAD”

❏
LARGER IMAGE

No sooner had Stevenson crossed the finish-line than the Mercury Motor-Car Company’s representatives telephoned Garden City and arranged for a banquet. But banquets were not for Stevenson that night. The fate of Giron lay heavy upon him. It had shadowed his joy in winning. The strain of the race over, he had broken down; and in breaking down it seemed to him that he had rushed to success over another man’s body.

At the hospital, where he had gone to inquire as soon as he could tear himself away from the swarms at the finish-line, the day nurse had told him that Giron would be a cripple for life. She had added that, oddly enough, a crippled little Frenchman had been there an hour ago, and that he, too, had been anxious to know about Giron.

“Good old Lescault!” thought Stevenson as he drove back to Krugs. “Always the first to think of a man in danger.”

Then he found himself wishing that Lescault were at his side. Now more than ever before he felt the need of the strange little Frenchman, the man who had made him, the man to whom he could now turn in this time of depression, of worried conscience, and even of half-guilt, he thought with a start. Had not Giron gone into the ditch to avoid a collision, to save him? He wasn’t the hero, he thought bitterly. It was Giron—poor Giron!

Stevenson found Lescault in his room. The little fellow had his chair drawn up close to the old-fashioned fireplace, in which wood was burning. He was smoking a cigarette, and if he heard Stevenson enter, he gave no sign. Instead, he gazed steadily at some charred bits of cardboard strewn about the edges of the fire—thick cardboard, and one piece only partly burned appeared to be a photograph.

The red glow of the fire shone on the little man’s face as Stevenson drew a chair beside him. In the flickering light the boy thought he saw him grin; but it might have been only the play of the shadows.

“It’s terrible about Giron, isn’t it, Jean?” he said abruptly, unable to endure the silence. “Think of it—that man at the height of his power suddenly crippled, never able to drive again, a great career ended so terribly!”

The little man at his side looked up.

“No, he’ll never drive again,” said Lescault.

Stevenson wondered at his tone, the look that had come into his face, the queer burning of his eyes, eery, unholy.

“Léon Giron will never drive again,” Lescault repeated. “It’s sure? You’re certain of it?” he asked suddenly, clutching Stevenson’s sleeve. “It’s sure, isn’t it?” he begged.

Bewildered, Stevenson said that it was so. Then he felt his flesh creep, for the little Frenchman had begun to smile, a horrible smile, with a hideous face, changing expression in the fire’s glow; began to rub his one hand over his knee, to slide it up and down creepily and unpleasantly, like a snake at play; to leer, and gloat over disaster not like a man, but a beast.

Horrified, unable to understand, Stevenson slid silently from his chair and backed slowly from the room. At the door he stopped, hesitated, and, as though unwilling to believe, looked again at the hunched little figure in the chair. There came to him faintly the sound of a voice chuckling!

## OFF CAPRI

BY SARA TEASDALE

WHEN beauty grows too great to bear,
How shall I ease me of its ache?
For beauty, more than bitterness,
Makes the heart break.
O sunlight on the dreaming sea,
With isles like flowers against her breast!
Is there a voice in all the world
To give me rest?

[Pg 224]

## SKIRTING THE BALKAN PENINSULA

FROM TRIEST TO CONSTANTINOPLE

FOURTH PAPER: DELPHI AND OLYMPIA

BY ROBERT HICHENS

Author of “The Spell of Egypt,” “The Holy Land,” “The Garden of Allah,” etc.

WITH PICTURES BY JULES GUÉRIN (SEE FRONTISPIECE) AND PHOTOGRAPHS

THERE are two ways of going from Athens to Delphi: by sea from the Piræus to Itea and thence by carriage or by motor. Despite the rough surfaces of the roads and the terrors of dust, I chose the latter; and I was well rewarded. For the drive is a glorious one, though very long and fatiguing, and it enabled me to see a grand monument which many travelers miss—the Lion of Chæronea, which gazes across a vast plain in a solitary place between Thebes and Delphi.

Leaving Athens early one morning, I followed the Via Sacra, left Eleusis behind me, traversed the Thriasian plain, the heights of Mount Geraneia, and the rich cultivated plain of Bœotia, passed through the village of Kriekouki, and arrived at Thebes. There I halted for an hour. After leaving Thebes, the journey became continually more and more interesting as I drew near to Parnassus: over the plain of Livadia, through the village and khan of Gravia, where one hundred and eighty Greeks fought heroically against three thousand Turks in 1821, over the magnificent Pass of Amblema, across the delightful olive-covered plain of Krissa, and up the mountain to Delphi.

Throughout this wonderful journey, during which I saw country alternately intimate and wild, genial and majestic, and at one point almost savage, I had only one deception: that was on the Pass of Amblema, which rises to more than eight thousand feet above the level of the sea. Delphi, I felt, ought to be there. Delphi, I believed, must be there, hidden somewhere among the rocks and the fir-woods, where wolves lurk, and where the eagle circles and swoops above peaks which are cold and austere. Only when we began to descend in serpentine curves, when I saw far below me great masses of olive-trees, and, beyond, the shining of the sea, did I realize that I was mistaken, and that Delphi lay far beyond, in a region less tragically wild, more rustic, even more tender.

During this journey of, I believe, about three hundred kilometers or more, I realized fully the loneliness that happily shadows a great part of Greece. We seemed to be almost perpetually in the midst of a delightful desolation, gloriously alone with nature, now far up on bare flanks of the hills, now traveling through deserted pine-woods or olive-groves, now upon plains which extended to shadowy ranges of mountains, and which here and there reminded me of the plains of Palestine. Strange it seemed to come upon an occasional village of Greeks or Albanians, strayed, surely, and lost and forgotten in the wilderness; stranger still to see now and then some tiny Byzantine church, perhaps with a few cypresses about it, perched on a mountain height that looked as if it never had been trodden by foot of man. The breezes that met us were alive with a tingling purity of hilltop and sea, or sweet and wholesome with the resinous odor of pine. And the light that lay over the face of the land made nearly all things magical.

From a photograph, copyright by Underwood & Underwood

VIEW OF MOUNT PARNASSUS

Again we met Turkish Gipsies. In Greece they have made the wild life their own. No longer one hears of brigands, though only a few years ago these highways were dangerous, and men traversed them armed and at their own peril. Now the Gipsies are in happy possession, and travel from place to place in small caravans, with their mules, donkeys, and dogs, and their tiny peaked tents, telling the bonne aventure to the superstitious,[Pg 225] and, so the Greeks declare, stealing whatever they can lay their dark hands on. They look wild and smiling, crafty rather than ferocious; and they greet you with loud cries in an unknown tongue, and with gestures expressive of the perpetual desire to receive which seems inherent in all true vagabonds. They pitch their tents usually on the outskirts of the villages, staying for days or weeks, as the luck serves them. And, so far as I could judge, people receive them with good nature, perhaps grateful for the excitement they bring into lives that know little variation as season follows season and year glides into year. Just outside Thebes I found eleven of their tents set upon some rough ground, the beasts tethered, the dogs on guard, the babies toddling and sprawling, while their mothers were cooking some mysterious compound, and the men were away perhaps on some nefarious errand among[Pg 226] the excited Thebans. For that day Greek officers were visiting the town, and in front of the café, among the trees, and above the waterside, where we stopped to lunch, there was a parade of horses, mules, and donkeys from all the neighborhood. War was taking its toll of the live-stock, and the whole population was abroad to see the fun.

From a photograph, copyright by Underwood & Underwood

RUINS OF THE TEMPLE OF APOLLO AT DELPHI

As soon as I had descended from the car and begun to unpack my provisions, an elderly man came up, asked whether we were from Athens, and then put the question that is forever on the lips of the Greek, “What is the news?” Every Greek has a passion for the latest news. Often, when I was traveling through the country, people I passed on the way called out to me, “What is the news?” or, “Can you give us a newspaper?”

Thebes, where, according to legend, Hercules was born; where the stones gathered themselves together when Amphion struck his lyre; where blind Tiresias proph[Pg 227]esied; and, seated upon a block of stone, the Sphinx asked her riddle of the passers-by and slew them; where Œdipus ruled and suffered his hideous fate; where the Epigoni took their vengeance; and Epaminondas showed how one man can lift a city and set it on a throne above all the cities of its fatherland—Thebes, where letters were first brought into use among the Greeks, and where weak-voiced Demosthenes by his eloquence persuaded the people to march to their glorious death against Philip of Macedon, is now just a busy village on the flank of a hill. Frequently devastated by earthquakes, which are the scourge of this region, it looks newly built, fairly clean and neat. It dominates the plain in which Plutarch was born, and the murmur of its waters is pleasant to the ear in a dry and thirsty land. But though Thebes is not specially interesting, below it, in that plain once celebrated for its flowers,—iris and lily, narcissus and rose,—beyond all sound of the voices of chattering peasants or determined soldiers, solitary in its noble rage and grief, is that most moving of monuments, the Lion of Chæronea.

I came upon it unexpectedly. If I had not happened to be looking toward the left my chauffeur would have driven me on without pause to Parnassus, the mighty flanks of which were already visible in the distance. When he pulled up we were already almost out of sight of the lion. And I was glad as I walked back alone, still more glad when I stood before it in solitude, surrounded by the great silence of the plain.

There where the lion sits, raised now on a high pedestal and with cypresses planted about him, was fought the great battle of Chæronea between the Greeks and Philip of Macedon; and there the Greeks lost much, but not their honor. Had it been otherwise, would the lion be there now after so many centuries, testifying to the grief of men long since dead, to their anger, even to their despair, but not to their cowardice or shame? I have heard people say that the face of the lion does express shame. It seems to me nobly passionate, loftily angry and sad, but not ashamed. The Thebans raised it to commemorate those of their comrades in arms who died on the battle-field. What shame can attach to such men? For long years the lion lay broken in pieces and buried in the earth. Only in 1902 were the fragments fitted together, though long before that they had lain above ground, where many noted travelers had seen them. The restoration has been splendidly successful, and has given to Greece one of the most memorable manifestations in marble of a state of soul that exists not merely in Greece, but in the world. Lion-hearted men are superbly commemorated by this lion.

The height of the statue from the top of the pedestal is about twenty feet. The material of which it is made, marble of Bœotia, was once, I believe, blue-gray. It is now gray and yellow. The lion is sitting, but in an attitude that suggests fierce vitality. Both the huge front paws seem to grasp the pedestal almost as if the claws were extended in an impulse of irresistible anger. The head is raised. The expression on the face is wonderful. There is in it a savage intensity of feeling that is rarely to be found in anything Greek. But the savagery is ennobled in some mysterious way by the sublime art of the sculptor, is lifted up and made ideal, eternal. It is as if the splendid rage in the souls of all men who ever have died fighting on a losing side had been gathered up by the soul of the sculptor, and conveyed by him whole into his work. The mysterious human spirit, breathed upon from eternal regions, glows in this divine lion of Greece.

Various writers on the scenery of Greece have described it as “alpine” in character. One has even used the word in connection with some of the mountain-ranges that may be seen from the plain of Attica. Such distracting visions of Switzerland did not beset my spirit as I traveled through a more beautiful and far more romantic land, absolutely different from the contented little republic which has been chosen by Europe as its playground. But there were moments, as we slowly ascended the Pass of Amblema, when I thought of the North. For the delicate and romantic serenity of the Greek landscape did here give way to something that was almost savage, almost spectacular. The climbing forests of dark and hardy firs made me think of snow, which lies among them deep in winter. The naked peaks, the severe uplands, the precipices, the dim ravines, bred gloom in[Pg 228] the soul. There was sadness combined with wildness in the scene, which a premature darkness was seizing, and the cold wind seemed to go shivering among the rocks.

It was then that I thought of Delphi, and believed that we must be nearing the home of the oracle. As we climbed and climbed, and the cold increased, and the world seemed closing brutally about us, I felt no longer in doubt. We must be close to Delphi, old region of mysteries and terror, where the god of the dead was thought to be hidden, where Apollo fought with Python, where men came with fear in their hearts to search out the future.

But presently we began to descend, and I learned that we were still a long way from Delphi. The sun set, and evening was falling when we were once more down on the sea-level, traversing one of the most delightful and fertile regions of Greece, the lovely plain of Krissa, which extends to the sea. The great olive-gardens stretch away for miles on every hand, interspersed here and there with plane-trees, mulberry-trees, medlars, cypresses, and the wild oleander. Many battles have been fought in that sylvan paradise, which now looks the home of peace, a veritable Garden of Eden lying between mountains and sea. Pilgrims traveling to Delphi were forced to pay toll there, and eventually the extortion became so intolerable that it led to war. That evening, as we drove along a road cut straight through the heart of the olive-woods, the whole region seemed sunk in a dream. We met no one; we heard no traffic, no voices, no barking of dogs. The thousands of splendid trees, planted symmetrically, were moved by no breeze. Warmth and an odorous calm pervaded the shadowy alleys between them. Here and there a soft beam of light shone among the trees from the window of a guardian’s dwelling. And once we stopped to take Turkish coffee under a vine-trimmed arbor, solitary and lost in the sweet silence, in the silver dusk of the forest. A lodge in the wilderness! As I looked at the dark, bright-eyed man who served us, I, perhaps foolishly, envied him his life, his strange little home, remote, protected by his only companions, the trees.

In this plain camels are used for transport, and, I believe, for plowing and other work. They are to be found nowhere else in Greece. I saw none that night; but one morning, after leaving Delphi, I met a train of them pacing softly and disdainfully along the dusty road, laden with bales and with mysterious bundles wrapped round with sacking.

In the dark we began to climb up once more. At last we were actually on Parnassus, were approaching the “navel of the earth.” But I was not aware of any wildness, such as that of Amblema, about us. The little I could see of the landscape did not look savage. I heard goat-bells tinkling now and then not far off. Presently some lights beamed out above us, as if in welcome. We passed through a friendly village street, came out on the mountain-side, and drew up before a long house, which stood facing what was evidently a wide view, now almost entirely hidden, though a little horned moon hung in the sky, attended by the evening star. The village was Kastri; the long house was the “Hôtel d’Apollon Pythien.”

Delphi is memorable, but not because of wildness or terror. In retrospect it rises in my mind as a lonely place of light, gleaming on volcanic rocks and on higher rocks that are gray; of a few mighty plane-trees, pouring a libation of green toward olive-trees on the slopes beneath them; of a perpetual sweet sound of water. And beside the water travelers from the plain of Krissa, and travelers from Arachova, that wonderfully placed Parnassian village, renowned for its beautiful women, are pausing. They get down from their horses and mules to lave their hands and to drink. They cross themselves before the little Christian shrine under the trees by the roadside. They sit down in the shadows to rest.

It is very sweet to rest for long hours by the Castalian fountain of Delphi, remote from all habitations upon the great southern slope of Parnassus, under the tree of Agamemnon; to listen to the voice of the lustral wave. There, in the dead years, the pilgrims piously sprinkled themselves before consulting the oracle; there, now, the brown women of the mountains chatter gaily as they wash their clothes. The mountain is bare behind the shrine, where perhaps is a figure of Mary with Christ in her arms, or some saint with outspread wings. Its great precipices of rock are tawny. They bloom with strong reds and yellows, they shine with scars of[Pg 229] gold. Among the rocks the stream is only a thread of silver, though under the bridge it flows down through the olive-gardens, a broad band of singing happiness.

THE HERMES OF PRAXITELES (FOUND AT OLYMPIA AND NOW IN THE MUSEUM THERE)

Delphi has a mountain charm of remoteness, of lofty silence; it has also a seduction of pastoral warmth and gentleness and peace. Far up on the slope of gigantic Parnassus, it faces a narrow valley, or ravine, and a bare, calm mountain, scarred by zigzag paths, which look almost like lines sharply cut in the volcanic soil with an instrument. In the distance, away to the right, the defile opens out into the plain of Krissa, at the edge of which lies a section of sea, like a huge uncut turquoise lying in a cup of the land. Beyond are ranges of beautiful, delicate mountains.

The ruins of Delphi lie above the highroad to the left of it, between Kastri and the Castalian fountain, unshaded, in a naked confusion, but free from modern houses and in a fine loneliness. At one time, and not very long ago, the village of Kastri stood close to the ruins, and some of it actually above them. But when excavations were undertaken seriously, all the houses were pulled down, and set up again where they stand to-day. Like the ruins at Eleusis and Olympia, the remains at Delphi are fragmentary. The ancient Hellenes believed that the center of the earth was at a certain spot within the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, where the eagles of Zeus, flying from the two ends of the earth, had met. The foundations,[Pg 230] and some portions of the walls of this celebrated shrine, in which two golden eagles stood, may be visited, but very little of it remains. On the foundation has been set up a large Roman column, upon which once stood a statue. The fallen blocks of Doric columns are gigantic, and from them it is possible to gain some faint idea of the temple’s immense size and massiveness. In the midst of a pit of stone, not far from the columns, I found a solitary fig-tree growing. It is interesting to notice that the huge outer wall of the temple was constructed of quantities of blocks, each one differing in shape from its neighbors. These were ingeniously fitted close together without the aid of any joining material. Although it is impossible not to wonder at and admire the cleverness shown in this wall, it produced on my mind an impression of confusion that was almost painful. The multitudes of irregular lines distressed my eyes. There is little repose in a puzzle, and this wall is like a mighty puzzle in stone.

Among the masses of broken fragments which cover much of the hillside stands out a small, solid building of Parian marble, very pure, very clean, almost shining under the rays of the sun. It resembles a great marble casket in which something very precious might be placed and sealed up. This is the treasury of the Athenians, which has been reconstructed since Kastri was moved from the fragments of the original temple. It is, in fact, a tiny Doric temple. The marble, of a beautiful yellow-white color, is mingled here and there with limestone. This little temple stands on a platform, with the clearly defined Sacred Way winding up the hill beside it. The front of it is approached by two steps, and it has two Doric columns, containing, however, only two blocks of the original marble, brown, with touches of old gold. The remaining blocks of these columns are of white Poros marble, brought from a distance, and they look rough and almost glaring. Poros marble may always be recognized by the minute shining grains, like specks of gold, that are scattered through it. Although a fine substance, it looks vulgar when placed beside Parian marble.

The semicircular places in which the priests of Delphi used to sit may still be seen, facing a fine view. The sea is hidden by a shoulder of the mountain, but the rolling slopes beyond the road are covered thickly with olive-trees, among which the goat-bells chime almost perpetually; and on the far side of the narrow valley the bare slopes, with their tiny, red paths, lead calmly toward rocky summits. To the left the highroad turns sharply round a rock in the direction of the Castalian fountain.

In the fairly well-preserved theater to the northwest, quantities of yellow flowers were growing, with some daisies. Among the gray limestone blocks of the orchestra I found a quantity of excellent blackberries. Where once was the stage, there are now brown grasses dried up by the sun. This theater is very steep, and above it towers a precipice. Near by, between the theater and the stadium, Parnassus gives back to your cry a swift and sharp echo. The gold, red-gold, and gray stadium, which lies farther up the mountain than the theater, is partly ruined, but in parts is well preserved. As I stood in it, thinking of the intellectual competitions that used to take place there, of the poems recited in it, of the music the lyre gave forth, and of the famous Pythian games, which, later, used to be celebrated in this strange mountain fastness, I saw eagles wheeling over me far up in the blue, above the wild gray and orange peaks.

In the museum, which stands in a splendid position on the mountain-side, with a terrace before it, there are many fine things. Delphi in the time of its greatness contained thousands of statues, great numbers of which were in bronze. Nero, Constantine, and others carried hundreds of them away. One which they left, a bronze charioteer in a long robe, faces you as you enter the museum. It is marvelously alive, almost seems to glow with vitality. The feet should be specially noticed. They are bare, and are miracles of sensitiveness. Farther on there is a splendid Antinous, robust, sensual, egoistic, a type of muscular beauty and crude determination, without heart or any sparkle of intellect. Two other statues which I thought exceptionally interesting are of a sturdy, smiling child and of a headless and armless woman. The latter, numbered in the catalogue 1817, is very gracious and lovely. The back of the figure and the drapery, especially that part of it which flows from under the left arm to[Pg 233] the heel of the right foot, are exceptionally beautiful.

SITE OF ANCIENT DELPHI

PAINTED FOR THE CENTURY BY JULES GUÉRIN

❏
LARGER IMAGE

There is a very fine view from the terrace. Toward evening it becomes wonderfully romantic. Far off, the village of Arachova, perched on its high ridge, bounds the horizon. It is a view closed in by mountains yet not oppressive; for there is width between the two ranges, and the large volcanic slopes are splendidly spacious. Here and there on these slopes are large wine-colored splashes such as you see often on the mountains of Syria, and these splashes give warmth to the scene. Above the Castalian fountain the two peaks of the Phædriadæ, a thousand feet high, stand up magnificently. Between them is the famous cleft from which the cold stream issues, to flow down through the olive-groves.

When evening falls, follow the winding white road a little way toward Arachova. From the soft dusk of the defile that spreads out into the plain of Krissa the goat-bells still chime melodiously. I have heard them even very late in the night. The section of sea that was turquoise now looks like solid silver. Behind it the mountains, velvety and black, flow away in delicate shapes. They are dreamlike, but beyond them rise other ethereal ranges which seem to you, as you gaze on them, impalpable, fluid almost, like a lovely imagination of mountains summoned up in your mind. Black-green is the plain. Under the tree of Agamemnon glows a tiny light, like an earth-bound star. Where once the pilgrims gathered who knew only the gods, Christian hands have tended the lamp before the holy picture. And a little farther on, among the foliage of the olive-trees, shines another of these Christian stars, which, in the darkness of Delphi’s solitudes, shed their light, faintly perhaps, but faithfully, upon a way once often trodden by pagans who now sleep the last long sleep. To what changes in the human soul do these earth-bound stars bear witness! I sat beneath Agamemnon’s tree, listening to the cry of the fountain, watching the little lights, till the night was black about me.

I must always think of Olympia as the poetic shrine of one of the most poetic statues in the world. As the Parthenon seems to be the soul of Athens, so the Hermes of Praxiteles seems to be the soul of Olympia; gathering up and expressing its aloofness from all ugly things, its almost reflective tenderness, its profound calm, and its far-off freedom from any sadness. When I stayed there I was the only traveler. Never did I see any human being among the beautiful ruins or hear any voice to break their silence. Only the peasants of that region passed now and then on the winding track below the hill of Cronus, to lose themselves among the pine-trees. And I heard only at a distance the wonderful sound, like eternity’s murmur withdrawn, that the breeze makes among their branches, as I sat by the palace of Nero.

Nature has taken Olympia into her loving arms. She has shed her pine-needles and her leaves of the golden autumn upon the seats where the wrestlers reposed. She has set her grasses and flowers among the stones of the Temple of Zeus. Her vines creep down to the edge of that cup of her earth which holds gently, as a nurse holds a sleeping child, palaces, temples, altars, shrines of the gods and ways for the chariots. All the glory of men has departed, but something remains which is better than glory—peace, loveliness, a pervading promise of lasting things beyond.

Among the ruins of Nero’s palace I watched white butterflies flitting among feathery, silver grasses and red and white daisies. Lizards basked on the altar of Zeus. At the foot of the Heræum, the most ancient temple that may be seen in Greece at this time, a jackal whined in its dwelling. Sheep-bells were sounding plaintively down the valley beyond the arch leading to the walled way by which the great stadium, where the games took place, was entered. When I got up presently to stroll among the ruins, I set my foot on the tiny ruts of an uneven pavement, specially constructed so that the feet of contending athletes should not slip upon it.

The ruins lie in a sheltered and remote valley far away from the sea, and surrounded by gentle hills, woods, and delightful pastoral country. At some distance is the last railway-station of the Peloponnesian railway line, which connects with the main line at Pyrgos. Between the station and the low hill on which stand the hotel and the museum is strung out a small, straggling hamlet of peasants’ houses. It is very difficult to realize that this remote[Pg 234] sanctuary, hidden away in the green glades and amid the pastures of Elis, where the waters of Cladeus and Alpheus glide among reeds and rushes, was ever crowded with people from all parts of Greece; that emperors dwelled there; that there the passions of the mob were roused to intense expression; that there men gained the desire of their hearts or were exposed to the sneers and opprobrium of their fellows. For Olympia to-day looks like an ideal home for the great god Pan.

I have called the ruins beautiful, and I think them so, partly because of their situation, with which they seem to me to combine harmoniously, and partly because of nature’s collaboration with them, which is lacking from the ruins at Eleusis and even at Delphi. At Olympia many trees grow among the remains of the temples. A river runs by them. Excavations, though usually interesting, are often both dusty and ugly. At Olympia they are pastoral. Dryads might love them. Pan might sit happily on almost any bit of the walls and play his pipe. They form a unique sylvan paradise, full of wonderful associations, in which one is tempted to rest for hours, whereas from many ruins one wishes only to get away once they have been examined. And yet Olympia is so fragmentary that many persons are bitterly disappointed with what they find there, as the visitors’ book in the little hotel bears witness.

In all the mass of remains, and they cover a very large extent of ground, I think I saw only four complete columns standing. Two of these were columns of the Heræum, in which the Hermes of Praxiteles was found lying among the remnants. They are golden-brown in color, and are of course Doric, very massive and rather squat. The temple, the base of which is very clearly marked, must have looked very powerful, but, I should think, heavy rather than really majestic. I cannot imagine the wonderfully delicate Hermes standing within it. It is believed that the original columns of the Heræum were of wood, and that when they began to rot away the stone columns were put up in their places. Much of the temple was made of brick. The Hermes stood between two of the columns.

It will be evident to any one who examines carefully all that is left of the Temple of Zeus that it must have been very grand. Fragments of the shafts of its columns, which are heaped in confusion on the ground, are enormous. One block, which I found poised upright on its rounded edge, was quite six feet high. This temple was made of limestone, which is now of a rather dreary, almost sinister, gray color. Exposure to the weather has evidently darkened it. The foundations are terrific. They suggest titanic preparations for the bearing up of a universe of stone. It seems to me that from what is left of this celebrated building, which stands in the middle of the sacred precinct, and which once contained Phidias’s statue of Zeus, about forty feet high, one can gather something of what was the builder’s conception of the chief of all the gods of Olympus. To them he must surely have been simply the Thunderer, a deity terrific and forbidding, to whose worship must be raised a temple grand but probably almost repellent. Legend relates that when Phidias had completed his great statue of Zeus, and it had been placed in position, Zeus sent down a thunderbolt which struck the ground close to the statue. The Greeks considered the thunderbolt to be the god’s characteristic expression of content. Instead of the eagles of Zeus, I saw hovering over, and perching upon, this ruin black and white birds, with long tails, not unlike magpies. The statue of Zeus disappeared. It is known to have been taken to Constantinople, and in that tempestuous city it vanished, like so much else. In the time of Olympia’s glory the temple was elaborately decorated, with stucco, painting, gilding, marble tiles, shields, and vases, as well as with many statues. But despite this, I think it must have been far less satisfying than the calm and glorious Parthenon, in which seems to dwell rather the spirit of a goddess than the spirit of any human builders.

Earthquakes are frequent at Olympia, and have been so since the most ancient times. One destroyed the greater part of Zeus’s temple about four hundred years after Christ. By that time the Olympic games had ceased to be held, and no doubt the place was beginning to fall into the neglect which, with the lapse of the centuries, has become so romantic. After it was forgotten by men, nature began to[Pg 235] remember and love it. Very little of the famous stadium has been excavated. I found flocks of sheep and goats feeding peacefully above it, and near by a small, barefooted boy, with a little gun, out after quail.

On the first day of my visit to Olympia, after spending a few hours alone among the ruins I crossed the river, where I saw some half-naked men dragging for fish with hand-nets, and mounted the hill to the museum, which looks out over the delicious valley, and is attended by some umbrella-pines. It was closed, but the keeper came smiling from his dwelling close by to let me in. He did not follow me far, but sat down in the vestibule among the Roman emperors.

On my right I saw the entrance to what seemed a small gallery, or perhaps a series of small rooms. In front of me was a large, calm, well-lighted hall, with a wooden roof and walls of a deep, dull red, round which were ranged various objects. My eyes were attracted immediately to one figure, a woman apparently almost in flight, radiantly advancing, with thin draperies floating back from an exquisitely vital form—the celebrated “Victory” of Pæonius, now more than two thousand years old. Beyond this marvel of suggested motion I saw part of another room very much smaller than the hall and apparently empty. It drew me on, as in certain Egyptian temples the dim holy of holies draws the wanderer onward with an influence that may not be resisted. I took no more heed of the “Victory,” of Hercules winning the apples of the Hesperides, or of anything else, but walked forward, came into the last room, and found myself alone with the Hermes of Olympia.

The room in which the Hermes stands—alone save for the little child on his arm—is exactly opposite the distant entrance of the museum. The keeper, when letting me in, had left the big door wide open. In my heart I thanked him, but not at that moment, for just then I did not notice it. I was looking at the Hermes.

A great deal of sad nonsense is talked in our day by critics of art, music, and literature about “restraint.” With them the word has become a mere parrot cry, a most blessed word, like Mesopotamia. They preach restraint very often to those who have little or nothing to restrain. The result is nullity. In striving to become “Greek,” too many unhappy ones become nothing at all. Standing before the Hermes of Olympia, one realizes as never before the meaning, the loveliness, of restraint, of the restraint of a great genius, one who could be what he chose to be, and who has chosen to be serene. This it is to be Greek. Desire of anything else fails and lies dead. In the small and silent room, hidden away from the world in the green wilderness of Elis, one has found that rare sensation, a perfect satisfaction.

Naked the Hermes stands, with his thin robe put off, and flowing down over the trunk of a tree upon which he lightly leans. He is resting on his way to the nymphs, but not from any fatigue. Rather, perhaps, because he is in no haste to resign his little brother Dionysus to their hands for education. Semele, the mother, is dead, and surely this gracious and lovely child, touching because of his innocent happiness, his innocent eagerness in pleasure, looks to Hermes as his protector. He stretches out one soft arm in an adorable gesture of desire. The other clings to the shoulder of Hermes. And Hermes watches him with an expression of divine, half-smiling gentleness, untouched by sadness, by any misgiving, such as we often feel as to the future of a little child we love; Hermes watches him, contemplative, benign, celestial.

There is a pause in the hurry, in the sorrow, of this travailing world; there is a hush. No more do the human cries sound in the midst of that darkness which is created by our misunderstanding. No longer do the frantic footfalls go by. The golden age has returned, with its knowledge of what is not needed—a knowledge that we have lost.

I looked up from Hermes and the little brother, and, in the distance, through the doorway of the museum, I saw a tiny picture of Elis bathed in soft, golden light; a calm hillside, some green and poetic country, and, in the foreground, like a message, a branch of wild olive.

That is what we need, what secretly we desire, our branch, perhaps our crown, of wild olive. And all the rest is as nothing.

(To be continued)

[Pg 236]

## AN ELEPHANT ROUND-UP

BY D. P. B. CONKLING

NINETY miles from the mouth of the Menam River lies the city of Ayuthia, the old capital of Siam. The jungle has taken back to itself miles of its ancient grandeur, and temples, palaces, and brick roadways lie crumbling and half buried in the rank luxuriance of the tropical forest. To the north, east, and west, except on the very banks of the river, the country stretches out in one unbroken line of wilderness, and this primeval jungle-land forms the great elephant preserve of the king. Here the huge herds wander in absolute freedom, making unmolested raids upon the paddy-fields and palm-orchards of the river villages, lords of the land except in the event of a great “round-up,” when the royal mahouts, mounted on tame tuskers, form in an immense circle and slowly drive one or more herds steadily toward the kraal at Ayuthia.

With the exception on some few miles of roadways in Bangkok, Siam is destitute of the ordinary modes of communication, and the entire transportation of the country is by rivers and canals or by elephants. All the great up-country produce is packed by them through the jungle to the waterways, over roads made by themselves and quite impassable for any other beast of burden. Therefore the capture of young tuskers to be tamed and trained for this work forms, perhaps, the event of the year to the natives.

The kraal at Ayuthia is four hundred feet square, formed of teak-wood logs, set about two feet apart and fifteen feet high, bound strongly with iron and forming a barrier which is seldom broken even by the strongest tuskers. The entrance is at the end immediately adjoining the jungle, and two lines of stockade extend in the shape of a fan a mile or more into the forest. In the center of the paddock is a small square of ten feet, built in the same way as the outer barrier, and used as a place of refuge for the natives employed in cutting-out and tying up the captives.

In the round-up that we had the good fortune to see there were exactly two hundred and thirteen wild elephants brought in. Thirty trained mounts, each with his two mahouts, together with hundreds of natives on foot, had been at work for two or more weeks getting this herd together, and safely into the kraal. The driving of this huge mass of beasts day after day until finally the last rush is made and the herd is well inside the fan, requires more nerve, patience, and skill than perhaps any other form of capture in the world. It is not unusual that many men are killed in this work, for if once the herd gets scent of danger, nothing can withstand their fearful charge. While there is no animal in which docility and kindness are more strongly marked than in the elephant, let him once become wicked, or “rogue,” as a man-killer is called, and there is no other beast which shows equal ferocity and cruelty, combined with an absolutely devilish cunning.

The first signs of the approaching herd were a great cloud of dust and a dull roar like a heavy freight-train, making the ground fairly tremble; and then out of the mist came the huge beasts, pushing and fighting as they were packed closer in the converging fan, and making the air ring with their shrill trumpetings.

The large swinging beams at the entrance were pulled aside, and in they came with a rush, by twos and threes, stopping suddenly, and looking about in a dazed way at the yelling crowd of natives perched out of danger high on the walls beyond the stockade. When the whole herd was in and the paddock closed, they were left to themselves for a time before the real work of the day, from a spectator’s point of view at least, began.

Half-tone plate engraved by S. Davis

A ROUND-UP FESTIVAL—TWO HUNDRED ELEPHANTS IN THE OUTER PEN

❏
LARGER IMAGE

In a herd of this size it is remarkable how few elephants there are that are fit for training—only eight in this case. They must be young, strong, and well built, with promise of good tusks. The cutting-out proceedings opened in a truly circus-[Pg 238]like style. The exit by the side of the pavilion was opened, and seven of the largest tame tuskers entered in single file, led by the king’s chief mahout mounted on a superb animal.

Each elephant carried two men, the mahout sitting astride the neck and guiding his mount by the pressure of his knees as well as by shouting, the second man sitting over the hind quarters and by means of the goad urging the beast to quicken his pace either forward or backward. The mahouts carried a long bamboo pole, to one end of which was fastened the detachable noose of a coil of rope on his elephant’s back.

When the seven tuskers had formed in line, they drove the herd in a circle around the center refuge. After a short time, one of the young elephants would drift to the rear rank, and a mahout, urging his mount forward, would slip the noose under one of the youngster’s hind feet, detach the pole by a quick jerk, and turning sharply and paying out the coil of rope at the same time, would bring the line taut and fix the noose firmly in place. The end would then be untied from the saddle of the tame mount, and the young tusker would go racing madly back to the herd, dragging fifty yards of rope after him. This operation was repeated for each of the eight captives, and in some instances, when the youngsters seemed particularly fractious, both hind feet would be roped.

After all the ropes were made fast, the herd was let loose, the tame mounts mingling with it, and gradually forcing the roped animals closer to the posts to which they were respectively tied, the slack being taken up by men outside the stockades, and made fast, leaving them secured within a small radius of ten or fifteen yards. The mahouts now left the kraal for a short breathing-space, and the herd wandered about sucking up every possible drop of water from the pools made by the rain of the night before, throwing it high over their backs to cool their hot hides from the burning sun.

It was amusing to watch the frantic efforts of the baby elephants, of which there were a considerable number, to keep from being trampled upon by the herd. In every instance their coign of vantage was immediately beneath their mother, and they showed the greatest cleverness in keeping their position as she swayed about, backward or forward, in the throng.

After a time the beams of the exit were pulled widely open, and the chief mahout entered, urging his mount to a run, and feigning what looked like a most foolhardy charge at the entire herd. When only a few yards away, he turned sharply and rushed back through the exit, thus acting as a leader for the herd, and the whole lot dashed simultaneously for the gateway. The ford of the river was well patrolled by tame elephants, and as the herd came rushing down the bank to the stream, they were kept in a confined space, where they swayed about in the cool water, grunting with satisfaction, and sending up a perfect fountain through their trunks. After a reasonable rest had been given them, they were cautiously driven into the jungle, and at a good distance from the city were turned loose, to wander as they pleased and seek again their old haunts.

While all this was going on, the young tuskers left tied in the kraal were giving vent most strenuously to their feelings. Some, evidently having given themselves up to despair, stood quite still and uttered the most plaintive groans, while others seemed to go quite beside themselves with rage, rolling in the mud, straining every nerve at their ropes, and trumpeting wildly. One youngster, charging madly at the post to which he was tied, managed to break one of his tusks sharp off at the base, bringing down the most fearful amount of wrath on his head from the mahouts, as it knocked some fifty per cent. off his value.

In many cases it seemed to be a particularly exasperating job to get these captives out of the kraal. Two trained mounts would finally be driven up on each side of the young elephant, and a sort of collar made of cocoanut-fiber rope was slipped under his neck. These collar ropes are crossed at the top, and an end is made fast to the neck of the tame mounts, which, being a good deal taller than the little chap in the middle, would be able to lift him nearly off his front legs by raising their heads, and so compel him to walk, the youngster’s great act being to lie down and refuse to budge. The leg-ropes were then thrown off, and in this way they[Pg 239] made a start for the exit, with a third elephant bringing up the rear to push the captive forward in case of any signs of balking. When he was gracefully shoved through the gateway, two others would meet him outside the stockade, and he would be marched off across the river to the stables, to be chained up to his post, and there either sensibly accept his lot and start to learn to work, or else be starved into submission. In some few cases captivity seems to take all the spirit out of the beasts, and rather than endure it, they will refuse all food and water and finally die, a sort of martyr at the altar of freedom.

FIRST STEPS IN THE EDUCATION OF A YOUNGSTER IN THE INNER PEN

The attachment the elephant has for his keeper is something marvelous. Almost incredible accounts are told of their devotion. Perhaps this is due to the inseparable life that the mahout and his elephant lead, for the keeper and his charge are constantly together. Always the same hand feeds and tends him, always the same voice commands him, whether at work in the lumber-yards, charging through the jungle at a round-up, or moving slowly in some royal procession. If by any chance a mahout becomes too ill to work or dies, there is often the greatest difficulty to induce the elephant to accept a new master, and it is very seldom that the new man can gain the complete mastery over the brute that its original trainer had.

There is a wrong impression prevalent that the Siamese regard the white elephant as a deity. That they hold it in special regard is true, for each Buddha, in passing through a series of transmigrations, is supposed to have inhabited the body of some white animal, either a monkey, a dove, or an elephant; and therefore a white animal is yet worshiped as having at some time been the superior of man.

[Pg 240]

##

BY CHARLES MOSER

FROM time immemorial, Eastern princes have captured wild elephants by driving them into a stockade and noosing them from the backs of tamed beasts. It has been virtually the only means of replenishing their stables, for elephants in captivity do not breed well. Nevertheless, elephant kraals, the common name from Jeypore to Siam, have always been events of great interest and excitement. The enormous size of the game, its inevitable danger, and the wonderful exhibition of brute intelligence often seen, account for the fascination of the sport.

Kraals are usually conducted by the minor prince or chieftain who holds in feudal tenure the villages of the district in which the kraal is held; and it was our privilege to be at the one last mentioned as the guests of Ratemahatmeya Meduanwella, lord of the villages of Panamure and Wellawe, in the province of Sabaramamuwa.

We left Colombo at sunrise in a motor-car (I can never get over that; I am still near enough to my boyhood’s dreaming over the pages of old Sir Samuel Baker not to accept that!) and swept along the muddy Kelani, alive in the early morning with cadjan boats and women bathing. It is a lovely, undulating valley; we saw coolies treading out the grain in the paddy-fields, svelte arecas and talipot-palms smoking with dew, low hills thickly feathered with the dark-green plumage of young rubber-trees, and bevies of brown girls plucking leaves among the sparse tea-bushes. By nine o’clock we had reached the rest-house at Ratnapura, nestled close by Kelani’s sullen lip, and were calling loudly for breakfast. The most striking ornament in the dining-room was a placard advertising American buckwheat cakes, and our roving eye fell upon a two-months’-old copy of the Kansas City “Star,” sure signs of the miracle of mere living in our times. Ratnapura is the capital of the famous gem district, and our host, a wily Cingalese with a prodigious tortoise-shell comb in his back hair, showed us some rough stones—rubies, sapphires, and cats’-eyes—which he had “found,” and would part with as a very special favor.

At noon we left the motor-car and took to the jungle on foot. Our route lay for eight miles along a path cut and burned through the densest jungle specially for this occasion, and toward dusk we came at last, drenched, yet thirsty, through dim, green aisles of tall ebony-and satinwood-trees, to a wide meadow and the dark, swift stream that flows through it along the hem of Panamure. We saw a man far up in a giant palm-tree, clinging to the bole with his naked feet, cutting branches; then a great gaunt beast in the jungle twilight, feeding on the white, succulent trunks of banana-trees; and the pathetic figure of a baby elephant, captured only the week before, tugging hopelessly, but incessantly, at his ankle-ropes, and we knew that we were near the scene of the kraal. We crossed the stream on a bridge half crushed in by ponderous, pachydermous feet, and at once found ourselves among lines of bare brown men squatting under palm-leaf shelters. These were the beaters surrounding the[Pg 241] wild herds. The long line of their fires dotted the dusk of the jungle, and the smell of wet wood smoke, flavored with the odors from their cooking-pots, made a kind of wild incense, strangely grateful and reminiscent to our civilized nostrils. At a distance an occasional faint snort, or the soft crackling of undergrowth followed by the thudding of some distant beater’s drum, betrayed the locality where the quarry fed uneasily.

The plan and strategy of an elephant kraal is very simple. A wooded country, over which elephants rove and through which a suitable stream flows, is selected. A stockade from twelve to sixteen feet in height, and inclosing part of the stream and from four to six acres of jungle, is constructed of stout logs lashed together with rattan withes. At one side of the inclosure is a gate, with a V-shaped approach leading to it. When the stockade has been completed, the villagers arm themselves with guns, spears, tom-toms, old pots, horns—anything that will make a noise—and pour into the jungle to beat up the wild herds. They spread out in a circle, sometimes twenty-five miles long, but gradually lessening as the herds are driven nearer the stockade. The main object is to keep the elephants from reaching water except by entering the inclosure, and sometimes this is very difficult. Fires are kept alight at distances of a few feet; and sometimes at night, when the huge beasts charge in a body, the din of drums, bells, shouts, and horns is enough to daunt bolder spirits than the jungle denizens. Frequently a herd succeeds in breaking through and making its escape, occasionally not without a heavy loss to the enemy; but usually after being kept from water for three or four days their terrible thirst drives the poor creatures to the water within the stockade, and the gate closes forever between them and the dear free life of their native jungle.

THE LORD OF THE KRAAL AND HIS HEIR

Panamure is a lovely little village, idling along the banks of its streamlet and cuddled in between two tall and softly wooded peaks as delicately rounded as the breasts of a woman. Its daughters are tender-eyed and domestic, performing the family washing at the front gate, while the men are of mild manner and much given to the business of gentling noosed elephants. They are Buddhists, but their real god is the snowy-bearded old Ratemahatmeya, who is also their father, lord of their lands, and of every grain of rice that goes into their mouths.

We found the old gentleman waiting for us at the “hotel.” He had laid aside the garments of his high estate and put on the long-tailed shirt of the coolie, as being more in keeping with one who had watched five nights in the jungle; but for all that he was a memorable figure, with his small, sharp nose and eyes like those of a sparrow-hawk, his patriarchal beard and imperious voice. Even more distinguished-looking was his brother-in-law, the imperturbable Kalawane. Clad to lead the beaters in nothing but a breech-clout and his shining black beard, he seemed at that moment to have stepped out of the pages of Kipling especially for this occasion.

[Pg 242]

NATIVE BEATERS IN CAMP

READY TO PROD THE ELEPHANTS

[Pg 243]

NATIVES BINDING A WILD ELEPHANT TO A TREE

TWO TAME ELEPHANTS CAJOLING A WILD SISTER

[Pg 244]

“HE SCREAMED, FROTHED, AND LUNGED AGAINST HIS FETTERS”

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 245]

They took us to get a first glimpse of the stockade in the now fast-dying light. It was the old Ratemahatmeya’s fourteenth kraal, he told us, and he had had 2500 villagers out for many days. He hoped to catch thirty or forty elephants, but some might escape through the line of beaters that night, as the elephants were desperate and the beaters nearly exhausted. Even as he talked there were sounds of trampling and crashing of underbrush a few yards to our right, and the whole line of beaters rushed toward the spot, beating brass pots and yelling. After torches had been thrown, the crashing ceased suddenly, and not another sound was heard. Not a line of living form could be seen; not even a leaf stirred, but one had the most vivid sense that all about us the jungle was permeated with mysterious forces, tremendous, yet impalpable.

The stockade itself was worth a fortune, could it have been brought to market. It was constructed of peeled ebony and satinwood logs, many from twenty to thirty feet long and as thick as a man’s body. Seven hundred and fifty coolies had spent three weeks in building it, sinking the upright logs ten feet into the earth and with rattan thongs lashing to them the horizontal logs at three-foot intervals. It looked enormously strong and resistant. Overlooking the stockade on three sides, towers had been built from which the Ratemahatmeya and his principal guests were to view the grand spectacle of noosing and tying up the kraaled elephants.

Dinner in the hotel that night was eaten on bare boards, within gunny-sack walls, and with damp earth underfoot. As we sat about the boards afterward, in bare feet and pajamas, a small, breathless figure dashed up and flung his torch of dried stalks down before us. Some elephants had entered the kraal and the gate had been closed behind them! It was not a moment for reflection. Away we ran through the black night, barefooted and pajama-clad, unmindful of thorns, and deadly cobras, perhaps, lying in wait along the path. Guided by the weird little figure with his torch, who was immensely proud to have been the bearer of great tidings, we reached the stockade and found the Ratemahatmeya seated on a log rocking himself in glee. Ten elephants, led by a furious old cow, he explained, had been trapped. To-morrow the rest of the herd would be caught. In this, however, he proved a bad prophet, for during the night the elephants outside the kraal broke through the beaters’ lines and escaped.

Around the circle of the stockade they were now lighting hundreds of fires. Flames and smoke shot up half-way to the tops of the trees, and the whole jungle was an endless moving parade of black shadows. Scores of men lined the barricade, their bodies dripping sweat, points of light flashing from their sharpened spear-heads. The business was eery and serious. Twice the fear-maddened animals had charged the stockade and twice had been driven back with spear-thrusts and firebrands. Now they were hiding somewhere in the gulf of blackness beyond the fires, as silent as the dark, plotting, full of hatred, and terribly dangerous.

We went back to the hotel and to a sleep of troubled dreams. There is no doubt that the presence of wild elephants in the neighborhood of one’s slumbers produces a curious impression. Some might even call it “funk.” Throughout the night the shouting of the beaters and the muffled trumpetings of giants in distress told how mighty Hathi and his sons struggled to break through the cordon of their enemies. And when morning came we knew from the scattered fire-lines that the lords of the jungle had bravely won their freedom. The Ratemahatmeya held a sunrise court-martial over it, but no one knew anything. He was forced to content himself with the ten animals safe within the kraal.

Early as we were at the stockade, the village, bringing its breakfast in fresh kos leaves and gourds, was there before us. A thin stream of sunlight, penetrating the kraal, revealed the captured herd standing together in the deep shadows beneath a giant unga-tree, brooding and sinister, their alinement as perfect as that of a line of infantry. They were absolutely motionless, yet somehow conveyed the impression of hair-trigger alertness. We could count two half-grown bulls, two yearling calves, and a two-year-old. The other five were cows. There were no tuskers among them, but it soon became evident that an old cow, which always took her position on the extreme right, was “boss” of the herd. The moment she[Pg 246] cocked her ears the others stiffened their tails and gathered themselves to charge.

We had not long to wait for the first charge in daylight. Ratemahatmeya Kalawane came upon the scene riding his brother-in-law’s finest decoy, a magnificent brute in the prime of his vigor and intelligence. Apparently without a command, the big elephant majestically approached the stockade at a point nearest the beleaguered herd, lifted his trunk over the barricade and gave the call of his kind. The whole herd at once swung toward him, as if in obedience to the voice of a friend. They had covered barely twenty paces, however, when suspicion entered the mind of the old cow. At her signal they all paused, waving their trunks uncertainly. One of the village headmen thought this an auspicious moment to step through the stockade for a clearer view. Instantly the old cow’s tail shot into the air as stiff as a rod, and she charged with the speed of an express-train, the others following her, but half-heartedly. A volley of yells from the spearmen and beaters greeted her as she came, but she struck the stockade with a tremendous impact, rocking the piles in their sockets and making the earth tremble. The beaters stood fearlessly to their work, however, and a score of spear-thrusts from the heavy twelve-foot staves sent her back, sullen and bloody. The others, seeing their leader’s discomfiture, contemptuously turned their backs to the enemy and continued their interrupted coquetting with the decoy elephant.

But those trapped cows, though frightened and no doubt bewildered beyond anything in their experience, were not foolish. The big, handsome bull, sent out to court and mollify them, continued his outrageous attempts at flirtation through the interstices of the stockade all in vain. Not that they were not flattered, perhaps, by his attentions, for they paralleled his amiable saunterings up and down the barricade for an hour, but always at the safe distance of a hundred yards; ten pairs of little, bright, malicious eyes the while keeping watch of his every movement and of every movement inside the kraal. Satisfied at last of his treacherous intentions, and, perhaps, tiring of the sport, they ignored him altogether and turned their energies again toward their human foes.

The rest of the morning was given to beating back charge after charge. The old cow, especially, was a veritable demon in temper and courage. Sometimes she charged alone, her calf bellowing and coughing his ridiculous rage in her wake. Sometimes, with one impulse, the whole herd charged with her, as if at a preconcerted signal. Once, indeed, she nearly got our photographer. The elephants were standing quiet for the moment, a hundred yards away, trunks down and slack, apparently oblivious to their enemies. A fugitive patch of sunlight, finely illuminating their heads, tempted the camera man to advance a few steps inside the gate in the hope of obtaining a picture. The next instant the whole herd was almost upon him. He had barely time to fling himself headlong between the posts when the old cow, in the lead, crashed against the gate. Another yard, and she would have got him. It took half an hour and two brandy sodas to coax his nerve back, but the imperturbable Kalawane, who had been lying sound asleep beneath the gate timbers till the crash awakened him, merely raised himself long enough to curse camera man, elephants, and beaters fluently and indiscriminately, and then resumed his nap.

I had often heard of the speed of an elephant’s charge, and had marveled without enlightenment. I had even scoffed, because those who told of it never were able to explain it. Their descriptions seemed to me the result of “nerves,” justifying effect by cause. Now that I have seen it for myself, I marvel no more, but am simply dazed. You cannot explain the charge because you do not really see him make it. One instant he is standing over there, a hundred yards away, as motionless as the tree-trunks; at the end of that same instant he is upon you, overwhelming, monstrous, like a mountain falling upon you. And you did not even see him start!

I have a theory about it. An elephant’s loose skin is a sort of bag that conceals the most flexible and finely articulated set of muscles in the animal kingdom. He has no bulge of muscles anywhere. They are all as smooth and flat as ribbons, as elastic as rubber, tempered like steel wire. Wherefore he can wheel that vast bulk of his instantly and in a space the size of a tea-table. He can hurl the whole four or five[Pg 247] tons of him into action with a single impulse and strike his top speed in a single stride. Place an enemy in front of him, and I believe he can run ten yards or two hundred from a standing start faster than any other creature on legs.

Meantime, the decoys to be used for the noosing in the afternoon had come up from their teak-piling duties in the low country. Seven gigantic beasts, far larger than the captured ones, they moved like conquerors, majestic and grand. It was not to be comprehended that these colossi, the mightiest of the earth’s creatures, were willing servants of those pygmies astride their necks. Yet all through the subsequent proceedings the mahout’s word was law, and I never once saw a tame elephant pricked with the ankus. This is the more remarkable when it is understood that with one exception they had all been wild elephants fewer than ten years before.

After they had been bathed and scraped and holystoned till their hides shone like polished slate, the decoys were led before the Ratemahatmeya to receive the ceremonial anointment with oil and make their salaams. As the great beasts fell on their knees before the old man and made their dumb, strange genuflections of obeisance, my eyes were filled with a picture of the galleries of old Rome and of the German gladiators stooped before some palsied Cæsar, and through my brain pulsed again the echo of their grand and solemn valedictory.

But it was two o’clock, and the ladies of the Ratemahatmeya’s family were in the tower, the village was in the tree-tops, or chattering like schools of monkeys in the undergrowth, and all was ready for the great spectacle of the kraal, the contests in the arena. Kalawane, on the largest elephant, headed the procession of the seven decoys, followed by a small army of spearmen and elephant shikarees, carrying ropes. Each of the decoys bore on his back a mahout and a nooser, the latter armed with a coil of rope noosed at one end and attached at the other to a stout collar around the decoy’s neck.

For some time before the procession set out for the kraal gate the wild herd had been clustered in thick cover on the far side of the stream from the Ratemahatmeya’s tower. As we could neither see nor hear anything of them, Ricalton and I ran around the stockade to a point nearest them and no more than forty yards from the little hillock on which they stood. We could hear the decoys pulling down the gate far away on the other side, and it was evident that the wild herd was quite as plainly aware that something new and decisive in their affairs was about to occur. They stood stone-still, indifferent to our presence, their eyes alert, but their heads a little drooping. Nothing but actual speech could have better expressed that, though sore perplexed, they all but understood. As for us, we were so lost in the contemplation of them in this greatest moment of their lives that we did not hear the approach of the decoys, and they, if they heard it, gave no sign.

Suddenly we heard the sharp crackle of voices—Kalawane’s and the mahouts’—shouting, “Yunga! Yunga! Yunga!” (“Charge! Charge! Charge!”) and saw the decoys swiftly looming through the underbrush. The wild ones saw them at the same time, and for just a moment the whole herd, trunks uplifted in welcome, swung forward to meet them. The next instant they realized their mistake, turned tail, and went crashing down the slope in a panic. After them came the whole band of decoys, spearmen, and noosers barking a staccato chorus that set the blood tingling all over me. I never have had such a feeling. It was a little like the first shock of a shower-bath on a frosty morning. I found myself plunging knee-deep through the stream in the wake of the rushing animals, with Ricalton, sixty-six years old and as white as Mount Hood, not a foot behind me.

On the other bank the decoys overtook their quarry, and two big bulls separated one of the yearlings from his mother for the fraction of a second—just time enough for a nooser to drop off behind and slip the loop around his right hind leg. He suddenly found himself being dragged backward on his fore legs and belly, and such squalling never was heard. At first his frantic mother fought furiously to reach him, but two powerful bulls so unceremoniously butted her about that she gave up and rushed off for help; for I never will believe that she deserted him. The little fellow was dragged and butted to a convenient tree, to which he was securely tied by both ankles, while a decoy[Pg 248] on each side alternately bullied and cozened him. The moment he was tied, just as he was on the point of thinking his new-found friends not such bad fellows after all, and was preparing to console himself for the loss of his mother, they heartlessly left him. Oh, how angry he was! He screamed, frothed, lunged and lunged against his fetters, bit the earth, and broke off the point of an embryonic tusk trying to demolish a stone he had dug up in his frenzy. But it was all in vain; and at last the poor little baby, just like other babies, broke down and cried. I saw him, and later I saw his mother, the terrible old cow, crying, and they shed real tears.

Meanwhile the chase had gone on across the kraal, and on the other side one of the cows had been wedged in between two decoys for the needful moment. A nooser had slipped down under the decoy’s belly for protection, and actually had the noose over her ankle when she felt him, and let loose that four-ton kick he had sought protection from. Luckily it missed him a hair’s-breadth; but the savage old lady got free by it, and the nooser was a crumpled, fearful ruin for the rest of that day. Again they caught her, but she snapped the inch-and-a-quarter hawser as if it had been twine. The third attempt was successful, but by now madam had regained her wits and gathered together her scattered forces for rescue work. No doubt she ached also to avenge her baby, for she headed a tremendous charge against the decoys, and the bulls had to knock her off her feet time after time before she gave up the project. Kalawane then decided that the rest of the herd would be subjugated more easily after she had been disposed of.

This was more easily decided upon than accomplished. The old cow was a tactician of the highest order, and her gifts as a fighter amounted to positive genius. Several times they had her cornered, but she smashed her way through. They scattered her followers, and finally managed to isolate her on a small knoll between the stockade and a deep gully. Here she successfully eluded the skill of the decoys for at least half an hour, and it was while I was endeavoring to obtain a closer view of this heroic last stand that I was treated to a bit of insight into elephant cunning that I am not likely to forget.

The decoys had the old cow nearly cornered in a space close to the stockade and about one hundred and fifty yards from me, with the gully before mentioned running between us. I started to cross to the scene of conflict, but before descending into the gully, and thus losing sight of the jungle about me for a moment, I took a glance around. It was fortunate that I did so, for about two hundred yards below me, on the same side of the gully, was one of the young bulls coming stealthily through the underbrush, and there was something in his manner which warned me that he “had intentions.” But the very moment I became aware of his state of mind he apparently became as exactly aware of mine; for he dropped his ears, stopped, and then, seemingly disgusted that he should have betrayed himself, deliberately turned his back on me and walked off in the direction whence he had come. Nor did he once glance back, but near the brink of the gully stopped again in some scrub and, with his head wholly averted from me, appeared to be lost in thought. This seemed my chance, so I ran rapidly down the side of the gully, and for only a few seconds lost sight of him.

But what was my astonishment, upon climbing up the other side, to see him coming toward me like a hurricane and not more than seventy yards away! He must have started at full speed the moment my back was turned. Fortunately the stockade was not far off, and I made for it—hurriedly. It is possible, though, that I might not have escaped him, for thin, wiry, and almost invisible creepers clutched my legs at every step, had not some of the spearmen rushed to my rescue. They actually threw sticks at him! But for me it was a very interesting moment.

However, I was in time to see the defeat of the old empress. After many vain and furious struggles she was noosed around the left ankle with the rope attached to the biggest of all the decoys. At the word, this magnificent, six-ton brute picked out a tree, and without even a pause dragged the old lady off her feet. To make her humiliation more complete, he actually “wiped up the earth with her” when she spread herself out on the ground in protest, dragging her along with no more effort than if she had been a baby-[Pg 249]carriage. But madam had not done with them yet. Arrived at the tree, she put up a glorious fight, even breaking two ropes, and she might have won a brief liberty had not two of the decoys shown marvelous intelligence in blocking her flight, butting her into place and firmly lashing her there by winding their powerful trunks around her neck from each side. Then, while the ropes that forever withheld her from her liberty were being securely knotted about her legs, these two gigantic old frauds, looking all the while wonderfully benignant and solemn, alternately bullied and flattered her. While one caressed her gently with his trunk the other thumped her in the ribs, and sometimes, under the guise of affection, both of them together would lean their vast bulk against her and force her gently but irresistibly into the position desired of their masters. One knew that in elephant language they were talking to her somewhat after this fashion:

“Come, my dear, be reasonable! A little more to the right! Softly! Softly! Tut, tut! It’s for your own good. There, now; that’s better. Just look at us; and we used to be as wild and foolish as you are.”

And then they cuddled her a little, gave her a final pat while the last knot was being tied, and left her! For a little while the old cow raged horribly; and then, like her abandoned baby, she broke down and cried. It is in such scenes that the fascination of elephant-kraaling, is found. The animals not only display a really wonderful intelligence and the possession of those lovable qualities we are pleased to term “human,” but they exhibit at all times, the trained elephants especially, a noble temper and that kind of profound character which is associated in our thoughts with only the simplest and noblest of men. It must be admitted that the elephants that have been gentled and trained by man exhibit the finest intelligence and a majesty of port rarely if ever observed in the wild ones. They impress one as having become grand under servitude. It is difficult to observe them and believe that they would wish to return to their wild state. This is no doubt sentimentality on my part, but it is hard to be on close terms with a noble elephant and not be awakened to sentiment concerning it.

The noosing of their leader sealed the fate of the rest of the herd (not that it had ever been in doubt); but by sunset all had been tied to trees save two, and it was reasonably certain these could not escape. The last glimpse I had of them they were standing in grief-stricken silence before the prostrate figure of a tethered calf whose struggles had worn him out. All night the hoarse trumpetings of the fettered-up mothers and the wails of their calves filled the jungle with lamentation. Occasionally, far off in the wilderness, a deep-throated bull would send out a long call of sympathy. Somewhere in the darkness the herd that had escaped hovered near, but the beaters’ line of fires kept them back. The captured ten were lost to the jungle forever.

Next morning, in the earliest light, I went up to the stockade to have a last look. The youngsters were still bawling and plunging frantically against their fetters, but the old empress was motionless and silent. So still she stood that in the pale light I took a time exposure of her. Her hind quarters and her flanks sagged, and her head expressed all the ache of utter despair. Youth might still cry and struggle against its fate, but she had given up the fight. Two hours later they had harnessed her securely between two mighty bulls, and a pygmy man had climbed upon her back. Then she uttered one last and mighty burst of anguished rage before she fell into the captive’s stride that was to carry her to her new life of labor down on the low-country estates.

I have always been fond of big-game shooting, and I have longed to include this mightiest of beasts in my huntsman’s bag; but I came away from the kraal with one clear idea in my mind, dominating all others: I never shall willingly kill an elephant.

[Pg 250]

## JOHN QUINCY ADAMS IN RUSSIA

EXTRACTS FROM HIS CORRESPONDENCE RELATING TO THE WAR OF 1812, NAPOLEON’S RETREAT FROM MOSCOW, AND CONVERSATIONS WITH MADAME DE STAËL

INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS

A CENTURY ago at this time the Napoleonic wars, so-called, or the convulsions which succeeded the French Revolution of 1789, were rapidly drawing to a close. Beginning with the capture of the Bastille, July 14, 1789, the final catastrophe occurred at Waterloo, June 18, 1815. Meanwhile, during the last half of 1812 and the whole of 1813, it is no exaggeration to say that the whole world was at war. Up to June, 1812, the United States had kept out of the actual fray, maintaining, by hook or by crook, a species of so-called neutrality. The affair of the Leopard and the Chesapeake, unspeakably disgraceful to the United States, had occurred off the capes of Virginia in June, 1807. In the following December Jefferson’s embargo had been proclaimed; but, having proved utterly futile as either a remedial or a protective measure, it was removed in March, 1809.

Needless to say, this was for the United States a period of tension and deep humiliation. Threats of disunion were freely made, and the first steps looking to a secession of the New England States from the Union had been taken. On March 4, 1809, James Madison was inaugurated as the fourth President, and war with Great Britain was declared in June, 1812. One of the earliest acts of Madison after taking the oath of office had been to nominate John Quincy Adams to represent the United States at the court of St. Petersburg. Alexander I, then thirty-five years old, was Czar of Russia. Two years before that he had, with Napoleon, effected the treaty of Tilsit, so-called, theatrically signed on a raft moored in the river Niemen. A temporary peace, therefore, existed between the Russian czar and Napoleon, then at the zenith of his career; a truce, rather than a peace, destined to be rudely broken in the summer of 1812. Napoleon’s disastrous Russian campaign, and the War of 1812–15 between the United States and Great Britain, then ensued; the latter was drawing to a close just at the end of 1814 (December 25), six months before the battle of Waterloo.

Mr. Adams’s residence in Russia (1809–1814) covered, therefore, the whole of the period of Napoleon’s Russian experience, as also his campaign during the subsequent year (1813), intervening between the retreat from Moscow and Waterloo. Mr. Adams thus held an official position at the very center of conflict during the four most troubled years of the nineteenth century. He was in the midst of things. During that period also he maintained a constant interchange of familiar, family letters, so far as the facilities for such an interchange then existed,[Pg 251] between St. Petersburg and Quincy, his home in Massachusetts. These letters never have seen the light.

On Wednesday, October 16, 1912, the American Antiquarian Society celebrated its centennial anniversary at Worcester, Massachusetts. As president of a sister, but senior, organization—the Massachusetts Historical Society—the writer was invited to take part in this affair, contributing to it. His thoughts, therefore, naturally reverted to the events taking place at the particular time the society, whose birth was thus celebrated, came into existence; and those events were of a very exciting and memorable character.

Napoleon was in Moscow that day, anxiously awaiting the results of certain negotiations he had undertaken, looking to a possible escape from the situation in which he had involved himself. Tidings of the utter failure of the negotiations reached him, and the order to evacuate Moscow, preliminary to the fatal retreat, was given on October 18—just two days subsequent to the occurrence we were to celebrate.

On this side of the Atlantic the memorable action between the Constitution and the Guerrière had occurred on August 19—just two months before; and exactly one week later—October 25—the frigate United States captured the Macedonian. Thus, during the latter half of the year 1812, memorable events followed close on one another’s heels. Of all of these, Mr. Adams, in Russia, and his relatives in Massachusetts, were deeply interested observers; and a recurrence to the letters then interchanged, canvassing these events from the contemporary point of view, could hardly fail to be of interest and even of historical value.

A portion of the material from the yellowing letter-files of that intimate family correspondence is offered in the following extracts. They relate exclusively to the events then occurring in Russia and America, and to characters now become historic. One letter, of the most informal character, describes a long interview with the famous Madame de Staël in St. Petersburg, at the time of Napoleon’s Russian campaign, the conversation taking place on the day preceding that on which the great battle of Borodino was fought (September 7, 1812). It will be remembered that Napoleon, considering Madame de Staël an enemy in no way to be despised, had some years before treated her accordingly, so that in 1812 she was still in exile.

Correspondence between Europe and America in those days was carried on under extreme difficulty. Letters, whether passing through the post, or confided for delivery to private hands, were freely opened by officials in nearly every country. To such a degree was this practised that in a letter written from St. Petersburg to his brother, Thomas Boylston Adams, John Quincy Adams observed: “Almost every letter I write is opened and read either by French or English officers.”

Correspondence, therefore, had to be carried on with great discretion. This is apparent in the letters of Mrs. John Adams to her son. In one of them, dated from Quincy, July 29, 1812, she says:

“The declaration of war by the United States against Great Britain, the necessity for which is deplored, renders the communication between us so hazardous that I despair of hearing from you or conveying intelligence to you.... We have not any letters from you of a later date than the 4th March, and we wait in anxious expectation of hearing. I have written to you by various opportunities, and I could not fill many pages with subjects which ought to come to your knowledge of a political nature, if I did not feel myself restrained by the desire I have, that this letter may reach you, as it contains no subject to gratify the curiosity of any one and can be only interesting to yourself as a testimony of the health of your friends.”

And again, writing under date of November 30 following, she says:

[Pg 252]

“Your letters gave us the more pleasure, as we had despaired of hearing again from you during the winter. It is almost a forlorn hope to expect any communication between us. The war between France and Russia on the one hand, and America and England on the other, leaves few chances for private correspondence. If while peace existed so little regard was had to letters addrest to a publicke minister that they must be broken open and family and domesticke concerns become the subject of public investigation, there can be but little satisfaction in writing.... Notwithstanding that blundering Irish Lord Castlereagh[1] denies the fact, I cannot expect more respect or civility when the nations are hostile to each other. Should this be destined to similar honor I request Sir William or any of their Lordships to awaken in their own Bosoms some natural affection and kindly forward this letter to the son to whom it is addrest, and whom three years’ absence from his parents and children render it particularly necessary that it should go with safety.”

Curious light on this subject of tampering with correspondence is shown in a letter from J. Q. Adams to his mother, dated St. Petersburg, April 7, 1813:

“I know not whether it was generosity, or any other virtue, or merely a disposition to receive the postage, that induced the transmission of your favour of 30 December to Mr. Williams of London; for by him it was kindly forwarded to me, and on the first day of this month, to my inexpressible joy, came to hand. It was but so short a time before that I had received your letter of 29 July!—and excepting that, not a line from Quincy later than April of the last year. This last letter had apparently been opened, although the impression of your Seal upon the wax was restored—a circumstance which indicates that it was done in England, where they still affect the appearance of not breaking seals at the Post-Office.

“On this Continent they are less scrupulous about forms. When they open letters, they break the seals, and do not take the trouble of restoring them. They send them open to their address. It reminds me of an anecdote I have lately met with of Prince Kaunitz when he was prime Minister of the Empress Maria Theresa. One of his clerks whose business it was to copy the opened letters, coming to foreign Ministers at Vienna, in the hurry of reclosing a despatch to one of the Envoys, sent him his copy instead of the original. The Envoy went to Prince Kaunitz, showed him the copy that he had received, and complained that the original was withheld from him. The Prince immediately sent for the Clerk, severely reprimanded him in the Envoy’s presence for his blunder, and directed him to bring instantaneously the original despatch. The Clerk brought it accordingly, and the Prince gave it to the Envoy, with many apologies for the trouble occasioned him by the Clerk’s mistake, and assurances of his hope that it would never occur again.”

### THE SITUATION IN 1812

John Quincy Adams to his mother, Mrs. John Adams

“St. Petersburg, 24 October, 1812.

“ ... There is now scarcely a spot upon the habitable globe but is desolated by the scourge of War. I see my own Country writhing under it, and every hope of better prospects vanishing before me. If I turn my eyes around me, I see the flame still more intensely burning. Fire and the Sword are ravaging the Country where I reside. Moscow, the antient Metropolis, one of the most magnificent and most populous Cities of Europe in the hands of an invader, and probably the greatest part of it buried in ashes.[2] Numerous inferior Cities daily devoted to the same Destruction, and Millions of People trampled under the feet of oppression of fugitives from the ruins of their habitations, perishing by hunger, in woods or deserts....

“We live indeed in an age when it is not lawful for any civilized Nation to be unprepared for or incapable of War. Never, with an aching Heart I say it, never did the warlike Spirit burn with so intense a flame throughout the civilized World as at this moment. Never was the prospect of its continuing to burn and becoming still fiercer, so terrible as now. It would perhaps not be difficult to show that the State of War has become indispensable to the existence both of the French and British Governments. That in Peace they would both find their destruction....”

[Pg 253]

John Quincy Adams to Thomas Boylston Adams

“St. Petersburg, 24 November, 1812.

“ ... You know how deeply I was disappointed at the breaking out of our War,[3] precisely at the moment when I entertained the most ardent and sanguine hopes that War had become unnecessary. Its Events have hitherto been far from favourable to our Cause, but they have rather contributed to convince me of its necessity, upon principles distinct from the consideration of its Causes.... Our Means of taking the British possessions upon our Continent are so ample and unquestionable that if we do not take them it must be owing to the want of qualities, without which there is no Independent Nation, and which we must acquire at any hazard and any loss.

“The acquisition of Canada, however, was not and could not be the object of this War. I do not suppose it is expected that we should keep it if we were now to take it. Great Britain is yet too powerful and values her remaining possessions too highly to make it possible for us to retain them at the Peace, if we should conquer them by the War. The time is not come. But the power of Great Britain must soon decline. She is now straining it so excessively beyond its natural extent that it must before long sink under the violence of its own exertions. Her paper credit is already rapidly declining, and she is daily becoming more extravagant in the abuse of it. I believe that her Government could not exist three years at Peace without a National Convulsion. And I doubt whether she can carry on three years longer the War in which she is now engaged, without such failure of her finances as she can never recover. It is in the stage of weakness which must inevitably follow that of overplied and exhausted strength that Canada and all her other possessions would have fallen into our hands without the need of any effort on our part, and in a manner more congenial to our principles, and to Justice, than by Conquest.

“The great Events daily occurring in the Country whence I now write you are strong and continual additional warnings to us not to involve ourselves in the inextricable labyrinth of European politicks and Revolutions.”

John Quincy Adams to Mrs. John Adams

“St. Petersburg, 30 January, 1813.

“ ... There are several Americans residing here, who continue to receive frequent letters from their friends at home. Through them and through the English Newspapers we collect the information of the most important events occurring on our side of the Water.

“ ... The English Government and Nation have been told, and have probably believed that Mr. De Witt Clinton would be elected President instead of Mr. Madison, and that he would instantly make peace with England upon English terms. Of the real issue of the Election we are here not yet informed; though accounts from the United States have reached us to late in November, and they lead us to expect Mr. Madison’s re-election.[4]

“I never entertained very sanguine hopes of success to our first military efforts by land. I did not indeed anticipate that within six months from the Commencement of the War they would make us the scorn and laughter of all Europe, and that our National Character would be saved from sinking beneath contempt, only by the exploits of our Navy upon the Ocean. Blessing upon the names of Isaac Hull[5] and Decatur,[6] and their brave Of[Pg 254]ficers and Men! for enabling an American to hold up his head among the Nations!—The capture of two British frigates successively, by American ships but little superior to them in force has not only been most profoundly felt in England, but has excited the attention of all Europe. It has gone far towards wiping away the disgrace of our two Surrenders in Canada. I believe if the English could have had their choice they would rather have lost Canada the first Campaign, than their two frigates as they have lost them. I hope and pray that the effect of these occurrences upon the national mind in our own Country will be as powerful as it has been in England, but with a different operation.

“After the news of the Guerrière’s capture, I saw an Article in the ‘Times,’ a Wellesley Paper, written evidently under the impression of great alarm; and explicitly declaring that ‘a new Enemy to Great Britain has appeared upon the Ocean, which must instantly be crushed, or would become the most formidable Enemy to her naval supremacy with which she ever had to contend.’ We must rely upon it that this will be the prevailing sentiment of the British Nation. That we must instantly be crushed upon the Ocean—and unless our Spirit shall rise and expand in proportion to the pressure which they can and will apply to crush us, our first success will only serve more effectually to seal our ultimate ruin upon the Sea.

“The disproportion of force between us and Britain at Sea is so excessive that the very idea of a contest with her upon that Element has something in it of desperation. To her it is only ridiculous. Upon a late debate in the House of Peers, something having been said of the American Navy, Lord Bathurst, one of the Ministers, told their lordships that the American Navy consisted of five frigates—and the House burst into a fit of laughter. These five frigates, however, have excited a sentiment quite different from laughter in the five hundred frigates of the British Navy, and if the American People will be as true to themselves as their little despised Navy has proved itself true to them, it is not in the gigantic power of Britain herself to crush us; neither instantly nor in any course of time, upon the Ocean.

“Hitherto, Fortune, or rather with a grateful Heart would I humbly say Providence, has favoured us in a signal manner. But we must not expect that our frigates will often have the luck of meeting single ships a little inferior in strength to themselves, or of escaping from ships greatly superior to them. That they have not already all fallen into the Enemy’s hands, is matter of surprise as well as of gratulation....

“The first wish of my heart is for Peace. But the Prospects of Peace, both in Europe and America, are more faint and distant than they have been for many years. War has in the course of the year 1812 consumed in the North of Europe alone, at least half a million of human lives, without producing the slightest indication in any of the parties engaged in it of a disposition to sheathe the sword....”

John Quincy Adams to Thomas Boylston Adams

“St. Petersburg, 31 January, 1813.

“ ... The spirit of 1775 seems to be extinct in New England,[7] but I hope the profligacy of British policy will not be more successful now than it was then.

“The War between us and them is now reduced to one single point—Impressment!—A cause for which we should not have commenced a War, but without an arrangement of which our Government now say they cannot make Peace. If ever there was a just cause for War in the sight of Almighty God, this cause is on our side just. The essence of this Cause is on the British side Oppression, on our side personal liberty. We are fighting for the Sailor’s Cause. The English Cause is the Press-gang. It seems to me that in the very Nature of this Cause we ought to find some resources for maintaining it, by operation upon the minds of our own Seamen, and upon those of the Adversary’s. It is sometimes customary for the Commanders of Ships to address their crews, on going into action; and to in[Pg 255]spirit them by motives drawn from the cause they are called to support. In this War, when our Ships go into action, their Commanders have the best possible materials for cheering their men to extraordinary exertions of duty. How the English Admirals and Captains will acquit themselves on such occasions I can easily conjecture. But I fancy to myself a Captain telling them honestly that they are fighting for the Cause of Impressment. That having been most of them impressed themselves, in the face of every principle of Freedom, of which their Country boasted, they must all be sensible how just and how glorious the right of the Press-gang is, and how clear the right of practising it upon American Sailors as well as upon themselves must be. I think they will not very readily recur to such arguments.... The English talk of the Seduction practiced by us upon their Seamen. There is a Seduction in the very Nature of this Cause, which it would be strange indeed if their Seamen were insensible to. I have heard that many of their Seamen taken by us have shown a reluctance at being exchanged, from an unwillingness to be sent back to be impressed again. A more admirable comment upon the character of the War could not be imagined. Prisoners who deem it a hardship to be exchanged! With what heart can they fight for the principle which is to rivet the chains of their own servitude?

“I have been reading a multitude of speculations in the English Newspapers, about the capture of their two Frigates Guerrière and Macedonian. They have settled it that the American forty-fours are line of battle-ships in disguise, and that henceforth all the frigates in the British Navy are to have the privilege of running away from them![8] This of itself is no despicable result of the first half-year of War. Let it be once understood as a matter of course that every single frigate in the British Navy is to shrink from a contest with the large American frigates, and even this will have its effect upon the Spirits of the Tars on both sides. It differs a little from the time when the Guerrière went out with her name painted in Capitals on her fore-topsail, in search of our disguised line of battle-ship President.[9]

“But the English Admiralty have further ordered the immediate construction of seventeen new frigates, to be disguised line of Battle ships too. Their particular destination is to be to fight the Americans. Their numbers will be six to one against us, unless we too taking the hint from one success can build frigate for frigate and meet them on their own terms; in which case if our new ships are commanded and officered, and manned like the Constitution and the United States and Wasp,[10] I am persuaded they will in process of time gain one step more upon the maxims of the British Navy, and settle it as a prin[Pg 256]ciple that single English ships are not to fight Americans of equal force. Thus much I believe it will be in their power to do. And further I wish them never to go. I hope they will never catch the indolent affectation of seeking Battle against superior force. An English pretension which has been so well chastised in the fate of their two frigates.

“Our Navy, like all our other Institutions, is formed upon the English model. With regard to the Navy at least the superiority of that model to all others extant is incontestable. But in the British Navy itself there are a multitude of abuses against which we may guard, and there are many improvements of which it is susceptible, and for which the field is open before us. Our three 44 gun ships were originally built not as the English pretend for line of Battle ships, but to be a little more than a match in force to the largest European Frigates, and the experience both of our partial War with France, in 1798 and 1799 as well as of our present War with England has proved the wisdom of the principle upon which they were constructed. It has been a great and momentous question among our Statesmen whether we should have any Navy or not. It will probably still be a great question, but Great Britain appears determined to solve all our doubts and difficulties upon the subject. She blockades our Coast, and is resolved to crush us instantly upon the Ocean. We must sink without a struggle, under her hand, or we must have a Navy....”

### NAPOLEON’S RETREAT FROM MOSCOW

John Quincy Adams to Mrs. John Adams

“St. Petersburg, 30 November, 1812.

“ ... It may well be doubted whether in the compass of human history since the Creation of the World, a greater, more sudden and more total reverse of Fortune was ever experienced by man, than is now exhibiting in the person of a man, whom Fortune for a previous course of nearly twenty years had favored with a steadiness and a prodigality equally unexampled in the annals of mankind. He entered Russia at the head of three hundred thousand men, on the 24th of last June. On the 15th of September he took possession of Moscow, the Russian armies having retreated before him almost as fast as he could advance; not however without attempting to stop him by two Battles, one of which [Borodino] was perhaps the most bloody that had been fought for many ages. He appears really to have concluded that all he had to do was to reach Moscow, and the Russian Empire would be prostrate at his feet. Instead of that it was precisely then that his serious difficulties began. Moscow was destroyed; partly by his troops, and partly by the Russians themselves. His Communications in his rear were continually interrupted and harassed by separate small Detachments from the Russian Army. His two flanks, one upon the Dvina, and the other upon the frontier of Austria were both overpowered by superior forces, which were drawing together and closing behind him; and after having passed six weeks in total inaction at Moscow, he found himself with a starving and almost naked army, eight hundred miles from his frontier, exposed to all the rigour of a Russian Winter, with an Army before him superior to his own and a Country behind him already ravaged by himself, and where he had left scarcely a possibility of any other sentiment than that of execration and vengeance upon himself and his followers.

“He began his retreat on the 28th of October, scarcely a month since, and at this moment, if he yet lives, he has scarcely the ruins of an Army remaining with him. He has been pursued with all the eagerness that could be felt by an exasperated and triumphant Enemy. Thousands of his men have perished by famine,—thousands by the extremity of the Season, and in the course of the last ten days we have heard of more than thirty thousand who have laid down their arms almost without resistance. His Cavalry is in a more dreadful condition even than his Infantry. He has lost the greatest part of his Artillery,—has abandoned most of the baggage of his army, and has been even reduced to blow up his own stores of ammunition. The two wings of the Russian Armies have formed their junction and closed the passage to his retreat; and according to every human probability within ten days the whole remnant of his host will be compelled like the rest to lay down their arms[Pg 257] and surrender at discretion. If he has a soul capable of surviving such an Event, he will probably be a prisoner himself.

“Should he by some extraordinary accident escape in his own person, he has no longer a force nor the means of assembling one which can in the slightest degree be formidable to Russia. Even before his Career of victory had ceased, commotions against his Government had manifested themselves in his own Capital, on a false rumour of his death which had been circulated. Now, that if he returns at all, it must be as a solitary fugitive, it is scarcely possible that he should be safer at the Thuileries [sic], than he would be in Russia. His allies, almost every one of whom was such upon the bitterest compulsion, and upon whom he has brought the most impending danger of ruin, may not content themselves merely with deserting him. Revolutions in Germany, France, and Italy must be the inevitable consequence of this state of things, and Russia, whose influence in the political affairs of the World he expressly threatened to destroy, will henceforth be the arbitress of Europe.

“It has pleased Heaven for many years to preserve this man, and to make him prosper, as an instrument of divine wrath to scourge mankind. His race is now run, and his own term of punishment has commenced.—‘Fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass—for yet a little while, and the wicked shall not be; yea, thou shalt diligently consider his place and it shall not be.’ How often have I thought of this Oracle of divine truth, with an application of the Sentiment to this very man upon whom it is now so signally fulfilling. And how ardently would I pray the supreme disposer of Events that the other and more consolatory part of the same promise may now be also near its accomplishment—‘But the meek shall inherit the Earth, and shall delight themselves in the abundance of Peace.’”

John Quincy Adams to Mrs. John Adams

“St. Petersburg, 31 December, 1812.

“ ... In my last letter I gave you a sketch of the situation at that time of Napoleon the Great. There is no Account yet that he has personally surrendered himself;[11] but he has only saved himself by the swiftness of his flight, which on one occasion at least he was obliged to pursue in disguise. Of the immense host with which six months since he invaded Russia, nine tenths at least are prisoners, or food for worms. They have been surrendering by ten thousands at a time, and at this Moment there are at least one hundred and fifty thousand of them in the power of the Emperor Alexander. From Moscow to Prussia, eight hundred miles of road have been strewed with his Artillery, Baggage-Waggons, Ammunition-Chests, dead and dying men who he has been forced to abandon to their fate. Pursued all the time by three large regular armies of a most embittered and exasperated Enemy, and by an almost numberless militia of peasants, stung by the destruction of their harvests and cottages which he had carried before him, and spurr’d to Revenge at once themselves, their Country and their Religion. To complete his disasters, the Season itself during the greatest part of his Retreat has been unusually rigorous even for this Northern Climate. So that it has become a sort of bye-word among the Common People here that the two Russian Generals who have conquered Napoleon and all his Marshals are General Famine and General Frost. There may be and probably is some exaggeration in the accounts which have been received and officially published here of the late Events; but where the realities are so certain and so momentous the temptation to exaggerate and misrepresent almost vanishes.

“In all human probability the Career of Napoleon’s conquests is at an end. France can no longer give the law to the[Pg 258] Continent of Europe. How he will make up his account with Germany, the victim of his former successful rashness, and with France, who rewarded it with an Imperial Crown is now to be seen. The transition from the condition of France in June last to her present State is much greater than would be from the present to her defensive campaign against the Duke of Brunswick in 1792. A new Era is dawning upon Europe. The possibility of a more propitious prospect is discernible; but to the great disposer of Events only is it known whether this new Revolution is to be an opening for some alleviation to human misery or whether it is to be only a variation of Calamities.

“ ... I have already mentioned that the season has been unusually rigorous. In the course of this month of December, we have had seventeen days in succession with Fahrenheit’s thermometer almost invariably below 0. I now write you at that temperature, and notwithstanding the stoves and double windows my fingers can hardly hold the pen. The Sun rises at a quarter past 9 in the morning, and sets a quarter before 3 in the afternoon; so that we must live almost by Candlelight. We are all literally and really sick of the Climate. It is certainly contrary to the course of Nature, for men of the South to invade the Regions of the North. Napoleon should have thought of that....”

John Quincy Adams to Mrs. John Adams

“St. Petersburg, 19 July, 1813.

“ ... The Battle of Lützen[12] was claimed by both parties as a Victory, and was here celebrated as such by a Te Deum. But in its consequences it was the most important Victory ever won by Bonaparte—for it proved to all Europe that France was still able to cope with her Enemies, and even to make head against them. A second Battle[13] three weeks after had a similar and more unequivocal result. Between the first and second Battles Napoleon had proposed that a Congress should be assembled at Prague in Bohemia, to which all the powers at War, including the United States of America, should be invited to send Plenipotentiaries for the purpose of concluding a general Peace; and he offered to stipulate an Armistice, during the Negotiation. After the second Battle, Russia and Prussia, with the concurrence of Austria, accepted the proposition for an Armistice, limited however to the term of six weeks, probably with a view to receive the answer from England, whether she should choose to be represented at the Congress or not. This Armistice is now on the point of expiring, but is said to have been prolonged for six weeks more. In the meantime Napoleon has quartered his army upon the Territory of his Enemy in Silesia, is levying a contribution upon Hamburg of about ten Millions of Dollars, is doubly fortifying all his positions upon the Elbe, and receiving continual reinforcements to be prepared for renewing an offensive campaign. He has made sure of the aid and support of Denmark and Saxony, and strongly confirmed Austria in her propensities to neutrality. If the War should be renewed his prospects, though infinitely below those with which he invaded Russia, last Summer, will be far above those with which he entered upon the present Campaign in April. If the Congress should meet he will not have it in his power to give the law to Europe; but the Peace must be in effect of reciprocal and important concessions.

“There has nothing occurred since the commencement of the French Revolution which has occasioned such astonishment throughout Europe as this state of things. There are many examples in History of the extraordinary defeat and annihilation of immensely powerful armies. But the reappearance of a second overpowering host, within five Months after the dissolution of the first, is I believe without a parallel....”[14]

[Pg 259]

John Quincy Adams to Mrs. John Adams

“St. Petersburg, 19 November, 1813.

“ ... Since the renewal of the War in Germany the odds of force have been too decisive against the French, and the catastrophe of their Army [at Dresden and Leipsic] has been nearly equal to that of the last year.[15] Napoleon himself has been defeated and overpowered by the four combined armies of Austria, Russia, Prussia and Sweden, and on the 19th of October escaped from Leipsic leaving his ally the king of Saxony a Prisoner, more than twenty of his Generals, and forty thousand men also prisoners, and 400 pieces of Cannon, Ammunition, baggage, etc., in proportion to the conquerors. All his other German Allies have deserted him and taken side against him; the Austrians are advancing in Italy, and Lord Wellington with his English, Spaniards and Portuguese, are invading France from the Pyrenees....”

John Quincy Adams to Thomas Boylston Adams

“St. Petersburg, 24 January, 1814.

“ ... The Events of the last two years have opened a new prospect to all Europe, and have discovered the glassy substance of the Colossal Power of France. Had that power been acquired by Wisdom, it might have been consolidated by Time and the most ordinary portion of Prudence. The Emperor Napoleon says that he was never seduced by Prosperity; but when he comes to be judged impartially by Posterity, that will not be their sentence. His Fortune will be among the wonders of the age in which he has lived. His Military Talent and Genius will place him high in the Rank of Great Captains; but his intemperate Passion, his presumptuous Insolence, and his Spanish and Russian Wars, will reduce him very nearly to the level of ordinary Men. At all Events he will be one of the standing examples of human Vicissitude—ranged, not among the Alexanders, Cæsars and Charlemagnes, but among the Hannibals, Pompeys and Charles the 12ths. I believe his Romance is drawing towards its close; and that he will soon cease even to yield a pretext for the War against France. England alone will be ‘afraid of the Gunpowder Percy, though he should be dead.’”[16]

John Quincy Adams to Mrs. John Adams

“Reval, 12 May, 1814.

[Pg 260]

“ ... The Coalition of all Europe against France has at length been crowned with complete success. The annals of the World do not I believe furnish an example of such a reverse of Fortune as that Nation has experienced within the last two years.[17] The interposition of Providence to produce this mighty change has been so signal, so peculiar, so distinct from all human co-operation, that in ages less addicted to superstition than the present it might have been considered as miraculous. As a Judgment of Heaven, it will undoubtedly be considered by all pious Minds now and hereafter, and I cannot but indulge the Hope that it opens a Prospect of at least more Tranquility and Security to the civilized part of Mankind than they have enjoyed the last half Century. France for the last twenty-five Years has been the scourge of Europe; in every change of her Government she has manifested the same ambitious, domineering, oppressive and rapacious Spirit to all her Neighbours. She has now fallen a wretched and helpless victim into their hands—dethroning the Sovereign she had chosen, and taking back the family she had expelled, at their command; and ready to be dismembered and parceled out as the Resentment or the Generosity of her Conquerors shall determine. The final Result is now universally, and in a great degree justly imputable to one Man. Had Napoleon Bonaparte, with his extraordinary Genius, and transcendent military talents, possessed an ordinary portion of Judgment or common Sense, France might have been for ages the preponderating Power in Europe, and he might have transmitted to his Posterity the most powerful Empire upon Earth, and a name to stand by the side of Alexander, Cæsar and Charlemagne—A name surrounded by such a blaze of Glory as to blind the eyes of all humankind to the baseness of its origin and even to the blood with which it would still have been polluted. But if the Catastrophe is the work of one Man, it was the Spirit of the Times and of the Nation, which brought forward that Man, and concentrated in his person and character the whole issue of the Revolution. ‘Oh! it is the Sport (says Shakespear) to see the Engineer hoist by his own petard.’ The sufferings of Europe are compensated and avenged in the humiliation of France.... The great danger of the present moment appears to me to be that the policy of crippling France to guard against her future power will be carried too far....”

### MADAME DE STAËL

John Q. Adams to Thomas B. Adams

“St. Petersburg, 22d November, 1812.

“ ... Toward the close of the last summer arrived here as a sort of semi official appendage to the British embassy an old acquaintance of yours, Sir Francis D’Ivernois, who as you know has been for many years a distinguished political writer in the French language and in the Interest of the British Government. He came not I believe with, but very soon after, the Embassador Lord Cathcart.[18] just at the same time a lady of celebrated fame, Madame de Staël, the daughter of Mr. Necker, was also here on a transient visit.[19] As I had not the honor of being personally known to Madame de Staël and as we had just received information of the American Declaration of war against Britain, I had no expectation of having any communication or intercourse either with the Embassador or the lady. And I regretted this the less as my whole soul was at that period absorbed in the distressed situation of my family.... Early one morning I received a note from Madame de Staël, requesting me to call on her at her lodgings that same day at noon as she wished to speak to me on a subject respecting America.

“I went accordingly at the hour appointed and upon entering the lady’s salon found there a company of some fifteen or twenty persons, not a soul of whom I had ever seen before. An elderly gentleman in the full uniform of an English General was seated on a sofa and the lady whom I immediately perceived to be Madame de Staël was complimenting him with equal elegance and fluency upon the glories of his nation, his countryman, Lord Wellington, and his own. The Battle of Salamanca and the bombardment of Copenhagen were themes upon which much was to be said and upon which she said much.[20]

“When I went in she intermitted her discourse for a moment to receive me and offer me a seat which I immediately took and for about half an hour had the opportunity to admire the brilliancy of her genius as it sparkled incessantly in her conversation. There was something a little too broad and direct in the substance of the panegyrics which she pronounced to allow them the claim of refinement. There was neither disguise nor veil to cover their naked beauties, but they were expressed with so much variety and vivacity that the hearers had not time to examine the thread of their texture. Lord Cathcart received the compliments pointed at himself with becoming modesty; those to his nation with apparent satisfaction and those to the conquest of Salamanca with silent acquiescence. The lady insisted that the British was the most astonishing nation of antient or modern times, the only preservers of social order, the defenders exclusively of the liberties of mankind, to which his lordship added that their glory was in being a moral nation, a character which he was sure they would[Pg 261] always preserve. The glittering sprightliness of the Lady and the stately gravity of the Embassador were as well contrasted as their respective topics of praise, and if my mind had been at cast to relish anything in the nature of an exhibition I should have been much amused at hearing a Frenchwoman’s celebration of the generosity of the English towards other nations and a lecture upon national morality from the commander of the expedition Copenhagen.

Owned by the Century Association, New York.     Half-tone plate engraved by H. Davidson

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS

FROM THE PORTRAIT, PAINTED IN 1835, BY ASHER B. DURAND

“During this sentimental duet between the ambassador and the Embassadress, kept my seat, merely an auditor. The rest of the company were equally silent. Among them was an English Naval Officer, Admiral Bentinck, since deceased. He was then quite the chevalier d’honneur to Madame de Staël but whether the scene[Pg 262] did not strike him precisely as it did me or whether his feelings resulting from it were of a more serious nature than mine the moment it was finished he drew a very long breath and sighed it out as if relieved from an offensive burden saying only ‘thank God that’s over.’ He and all the rest of the company immediately after that retired and left me tête-à-tête with Madame de Staël.

“The subject respecting America was to tell me that she had a large sum in the American funds and to enquire whether I knew how she could contrive to receive the interest which she had hitherto received from England. I gave her such information as I possessed. She had also some lands in the State of New York of which she wished to know the value. I answered her as well as I could but her lands and her funds did not appear to occupy much of her thoughts.

“She soon asked me if I was related to the celebrated Mr. Adams who wrote the book upon Government. I said I had the happiness of being his son. She said she had read it and admired it very much, that her father. Mr. Necker, had always expressed a very high opinion of it. She next commenced upon Politics and asked how it was possible that America should have declared war against England. In accounting for this phenomenon I was obliged to recur to a multitude of facts not as strongly stamped with British generosity or British Morality as might be expected from the character which she and the Embassador had just been assigning that nation. The orders in council and the press gang afforded but a sorry commentary upon the Chauvinesque defence of the liberties of mankind and no very instructive lessons of morality. She had nothing to say in their defence but she thought that the knights errant of the Human race were to be allowed special indulgence and in consideration of their cause were not to be held by the ordinary obligations of war and peace.

“There was no probability that any arguments of mine could make any impression upon opinions thus toned. She listened, however, with as much complacency as could be expected to what I said and finally asked me why I had not been to see her before. I answered that her high reputation was calculated to inspire respect no less than curiosity and that however desirous I had been of becoming personally acquainted with her I had thought I could not without indiscretion intrude myself upon her Society. The reason appeared to please her. She said she was to leave this city the next day at noon. She was going to Stockholm to pass the winter and then to England. She wished to have another conversation with me before she went and asked me to call on her the next morning.

“I readily accepted the invitation and we discussed politics again two or three hours. I found her better conversant with Rhetoric than with Logic. She had much to say about social order, much about universal monarchy, much about the preservation of religion in which she gave me to understand she did not herself believe, and much about the ambition and supremacy of Buonaparte upon which she soon discovered there was no difference of sentiment between us. But why did not America join in the holy cause against the tyrant? First because America had no means of making war against him, she could neither attack him by sea or land. 2d because it was a fundamental maxim of American policy never to intermeddle with the political affairs of Europe. Thirdly because it was altogether unnecessary. He had enemies enough upon his hands already. What! Did not I dread his universal monarchy? Not in the least. I saw indeed a very formidable mass of force arrayed under him, but I saw a mass of force at least as formidable arrayed against him. Europe contained about 100 millions of human beings. He was wielding the means of 15 millions and the means of 85 millions were wielding against him. It was an awful spectacle to behold the shock, but I did not believe nor ever had believed that he would ever be able to subjugate even the continent of Europe. If there had ever been any real danger of such an event it was passed.

“She herself saw that there was every prospect of his being very shortly driven out of Spain. And I was equally convinced he would be driven out of Russia. It was the very day of the battle of Borodino. ‘J’en accepte l’augure,’ she said.[Pg 263] ‘Everything that you say of him is very just. But I have particular reason for resentment against him. I have been persecuted by him in the most shameful manner. I was neither suffered to live anywhere nor to go where I would have gone, all for no other reason but because I would not eulogize him in my writings.’ As to our war with England I told her that I deeply lamented it and yet cherished the hope that it would not last long. That England had forced it upon us by measures as outrageous upon the rights of an independent nation as tyrannical as oppressive as any that could be charged upon Buonaparte. Her pretences were retaliation and necessity. Retaliation upon America for the wrongs of France and necessity for man Stealing. We asked of England nothing but our indisputable rights, but we allowed no special prerogatives to political Quixotism. We did not consider Britain at all as the defender of the liberties of mankind but as another Tyrant pretending to exclusive dominion upon the ocean. A pretension full as detestable and I trusted in God full as chimerical as the pretension of universal monarchy upon the land.

MADAME DE STAËL

“Madame de Staël was of her own opinion still but on the point of empressment she owned that my observations were reasonable. I have not yet found a European of any nation except the English who on having this question in its true state brought to a precise point had a syllable to say for the English side. In conclusion I told her that the pretended retaliation of England had compelled us to resort to real retaliation upon them and that as long as they felt a necessity to fight for the practice of stealing men from American merchant vessels on the high seas we should feel the necessity of fighting against it. I could only hope that God would prosper the righteous cause.

“Madame de Staël charged me if I ever should be again in any place where she should be at the same time not to neglect paying her a visit which I very willingly promised. She left St. Petersburg the same day. I should ask Sir Francis D’Ivernois pardon. I began this letter with him, but whom can one help deserting for Madame de Staël? I will return to Sir Francis by the next opportunity. Dutifully and affectionately yours.”

[Pg 264]

Half-tone plate engraved by H. Davidson

MY DAUGHTER

FROM THE PAINTING BY FRANK W. BENSON

(THE CENTURY’S AMERICAN ARTISTS SERIES)

❏
LARGER IMAGE

[Pg 265]

## SIGIRIYA

“THE LIONS’ ROCK” OF CEYLON

BY JENNIE COKER GAY

WITH PICTURES BY DUNCAN GAY

“AND after that, that wicked ruler of men (Kassapa) sent his groom and his cook to his brother (Moggallana) to kill him. And finding that he could not fulfil his purpose, he feared danger, and took himself to Sihagiri rock, that was hard for men to climb. He cleared it round about and surrounded it by a rampart, and built galleries in it ornamented with figures of lions; wherefore it took its name of Sihagiri (‘The Lions’ Rock’). Having gathered together all his wealth, he buried it there carefully, and set guards over the treasures he had buried in divers places. He built there a lovely palace, splendid to behold....

“He planted gardens at the gates of the city.... He observed the sacred days ... and caused books to be written. He made many images, alms-houses, and the like; but he lived on in fear of the world to come and of Moggallana.”[21]

That is what history has to say about the founding of Sigiriya (or “Sihagiri,” as it is called in “The Mihavansa,”) and all that it has to say; just enough to arouse our interest, and not enough to satisfy it. At Anuradhpura we had come across numerous traces of Kassapa’s father, Dhatusena, who was counted a great king when he ruled Ceylon fifteen hundred years ago. And we were curious to see the place where Kassapa had sought safety after he had killed Dhatusena and usurped the throne, and had been forced to flee into the jungle for fear of his brother Moggallana; so we decided to follow this bold, wild patricide to his hiding-place not by the exact trail that he took, for no one knows by what roundabout wandering he finally reached the rock, but by the more modern and convenient, if somewhat dustier, way that leads along the iron rails of the Ceylon Government railroad.

Sigiriya is southeast of Anuradhpura, and only about fifty miles away from it in a direct line; but around by way of Kandy, as we purposed to go, it is fully three times that far. It lies just north of the mountainous center of Ceylon at the edge of the great plain that stretches on the one hand to the Indian Ocean and on the other to the small waters that separate the island from the Indian peninsula.

A long, hot ride through the western lowlands brought us to Polgahawela, where the road we were to follow diverges at a right angle from the main line, and we began to climb the magnificent mountains; past rice-fields, so substantially terraced up the sides of the hills that they looked like monstrous and never-ending fortifications; past forests of palms and masses of brilliant flowers; past the world-famed botanical gardens of Peradeniya, until just at dusk we came into the lovely town of Kandy, which seemed delightfully fresh and cool after the heaviness and heat of the plains. Beyond Kandy the road[Pg 266] began to descend again, until at Matale it suddenly came to an end, and we were obliged to look out for some less-modern conveyance for the continuance of our journey.

SIGIRIYA ROCK

On the northeast coast of the island is a little place called Trincomali. For the convenience of this village and the scattered native settlements that lie between, a daily coaching service is maintained, and this we found we might take as far as Dambolo. The vehicle that was called a coach had a seat in front for the Cingalese driver and the mail-bags, and behind this, two lengthwise seats facing each other, which on a pinch could hold six persons, three on a side. Into this conveyance we climbed; in climbed also a shiny, round-headed Tamil, two wild-looking, magnificently dressed gentlemen from Afghanistan, and a mild and smiling Mohammedan. All the morning we rode, and at noon we changed horses and took lunch at a wayside rest-house. The Afghans left us here, and I felt more comfortable, for their mustaches curled in such a terribly fierce way, and their remarkable costumes offered such unlimited opportunity for the carrying of concealed weapons, as to warrant a certain uneasiness. We alighted at Dambolo, and the stage went on and left us. And yet Dambolo is a long way from Sigiriya—a long, long way in point of time.

The little rest-house that the Government places wherever one wishes to spend the night took us in and gave us a room, and its Mohammedan keeper advised us to use the rest of the afternoon seeing the rock temples that have made Dambolo famous. Obediently we went to visit these gorgeously decorated caverns, but, I am[Pg 267] sorry to confess, they gave me no pleasure. They are wonderful, or would be if one were given an opportunity to look at them in peace and quiet; but one cannot wonder or admire or enjoy, or do anything but fume, with dozens of sleek yellow priests hanging about and holding out hands for Money! money!” at the opening of every door and at the entrance and exit of every cavern. This is a nuisance that the Government most certainly should correct, for it spoils the enjoyment of many of the island’s remarkable ruins.

VIEW OF THE WESTERN PORTION OF THE GALLERY LEADING TO THE CITADEL OF SIGIRIYA

We came down from the caves rather discouraged, but were somewhat cheered when we looked upon the decorations of the table that had been set for our dinner. An elaborate design was traced on the table-cloth by a sprinkling of rice that had been dyed a bright pink. The very holes in the cloth, and these were numerous, were turned into part of the decoration; for they were made the centers of flowers or the eyes of a bird, and one triangular rent formed the roof of a little cottage. The keeper of the rest-house, who seemed to be cook, waiter, and chambermaid, told us as he served the rice and chicken that he had engaged a bullock-cart to take us the rest of the way. It was late the next morning before the bullock, the cart, and the driver appeared at our door. A bullock about the size of a three-months’-old calf, an equally tiny cart, with an arched cover woven of split bamboo, and of course without a suggestion of springs, and a Tamil driver, his head tied up in the brightest of handkerchiefs, and with the ubiquitous sarong (only it is not called a sarong in Ceylon) dangling about his[Pg 268] heels, made up our equipment for the last stage of the journey.

THE AUDIENCE-HALL ROCK

The fabled tortoise was an animal of speed compared with that bullock. Had we made an earlier start, I am sure we could have walked the whole way; but the terrible sun made walking impossible, and we were forced to keep huddled down under the cart’s protecting thatch. We could count the seconds while the little animal seemed to stand poised after each step. Even twisting his tail did little good, and beating none at all. Along each side of the road the jungle formed a solid wall too dense for beauty. Occasionally a bright-plumed bird peeped out through the trees, and once a small panther-like animal showed himself at the roadside, and our bullock actually ran until he was well away from the danger.

ONE OF THE ENTRANCES TO THE GALLERY LEADING TO SIGIRIYA

We were hot and dusty and tired when at last we came in sight of Sigiriya, but in the presence of the strange impressiveness of this enormous rock, heat, dust, and weariness passed from our thoughts like a dream. It rose, this great shaft of granite, high above the trees, like some enormous mushroom sprung suddenly from the dank flatness of the jungle. Against the dusty green of the surrounding forest and the burned-out blue of the pale, hot sky its simple and majestic outline showed clean and sharp. But past all understanding was the brilliance of coloring that[Pg 269] marked its walls. In the glare of the declining sun it looked as though a mighty battle had been fought upon the level crown, and the blood of thousands of warriors had spilled and trickled over the edge and down the cliff, and so set an indelible mark of fierceness and anger on the face of this somber jungle monster.

At first we could see no evidence of past human occupation; but by and by, as we drew nearer, we were able to detect a little spiral line, broken here and there, that seemed to be wound about the face of the cliff. What concerned us more at the time, however, was that we could see no signs of present human habitation, and we were in sore need, after the jolt, jolt, jolt of our wretched little cart, of food and a place where we might sleep. Our Tamil driver, while he belabored his bullock to make him hurry, had been telling us of the elephants and tigers that lived out here in the jungle, and we could easily see for ourselves that the woods were thick enough to shelter a whole menagerie of animals; so it was with the greatest relief that we presently saw a little rest-house in front of us, and leaving the small bullock and his black driver to come as they pleased, we took to our own feet and hurried on to the protecting inclosure. After a long rest and a long good supper, we took our “Mihavansa,” and, there under the brow of the great “Lions’ Rock,” read again the strange, fragmentary history of Kassapa and his crime.

“ ... And he (Dhatusena) had two sons,—Kassapa, whose mother was unequal in rank to his father, and Moggallana, a mighty man, whose mother was of equal rank with his father. Likewise also he had a beautiful daughter, who was as dear unto him as his own life. And he gave her to wife unto his sister’s son, to whom also he gave the office of chief of the army. And he (the nephew) scourged her on the thighs, albeit there was no fault in her. And when the king saw that his daughter’s cloth was stained with blood, he learned the truth and was wroth, and caused his nephew’s mother to be burnt naked. From that time forth the nephew bare malice against the king; and he joined himself unto Kassapa, and tempted him to seize the kingdom and betray his father. And then he gained over the people, and caused the king his father to be taken alive. And Kassapa raised the canopy of dominion after that he had destroyed the men of the king’s party and received the support of the wicked men in the kingdom. Thereupon Moggallana endeavored to make war against him. But he could not obtain a sufficient force, and proceeded to the Continent of India with the intent to raise an army there.

“And that he might the more vex the king, who was now sorely afflicted ... this wicked general spake to Kassapa the king, saying, ‘O king, the treasures of the royal house are hidden by thy father.’ And when the king said unto him, ‘Nay,’ he answered, saying, ‘Knowest thou not, O Lord of the land, the purpose of this thy father? He treasureth up the riches for Moggallana.’ And when the base man heard these words he was wroth, and sent messengers unto his father, saying, ‘Reveal the place where thou hast hid the treasure.’ Thereupon the king thought to himself, saying: ‘This is a device whereby the wretch seeketh to destroy us’; and he remained silent. And they (the messengers) went and informed the king thereof. And his anger was yet more greatly increased, and he sent the messengers back unto him again and again. Then the king (Dhatusena) thought to himself, saying, ‘It is well that I should die after that I have seen my friend and washed myself in the Kalavapi.’ So he told the messengers saying, ‘Now, if he will cause me to be taken to Kalavapi, then shall I be able to find out the treasure.’

“And when they went and told the king thereof he was exceedingly glad, because that he desired greatly to obtain the treasure, and he sent the messengers back to his father with a chariot. And while the king, with his eyes sunk in grief, proceeded on the journey to Kalavapi, the charioteer who drove the chariot gave him some of the roasted rice that he ate....

“And when his friend, the Elder, heard that the king was coming, he preserved and set apart a rich meal of beans with the flesh of water-fowls that he had obtained, saying, ‘The king loveth this sort of meat.’ ...

[Pg 270]

“Then the king went up to the tank, and after that he had plunged therein and bathed and drank of its water as it pleased him, he turned to the king’s servants and said, ‘O friends, this is all the treasure that I possess!’ And when the king’s servants heard these words they took him back to the city and informed the king. Then the chief of men was exceeding wroth and said, ‘This man hoardeth up riches for his son; and so long as he liveth will he estrange the people of the island from me.’ And he commanded the chief of the army, saying, ‘Kill my father.’ Thereupon he (the general), who hated him exceedingly, was greatly delighted and said, ‘Now have I seen the last of my enemy.’ And he arrayed himself in all his apparel, and went up to the king, and walked to and fro before him.... Then this violent man stripped the king naked, and bound him with chains inside the walls of his prison with his face to the east and caused it to be plastered up with clay. What wise man, therefore, after that he hath seen such things, will covet riches, or life, or glory!”

Kassapa was most certainly a wicked man,—the reading of “The Mihavansa” leaves no doubt of that,—but when we came next day to look over the remains of his city and to study this formidable rock that he had subjugated and turned into a citadel, we knew that he was also a man of genius. When he found that he was in danger from his brother Moggallana, whom he had attempted in vain to kill, he led his host of half-naked warriors out from the ancient capital of Anuradhpura into the jungle, seeking for a refuge. Whether design or accident led him to Sigiriya we do not know, but we do know that once having looked upon its four hundred feet of towering walls and upon its uplifted acres, he had the wisdom to see its possibilities and the genius to overcome the difficulties, to an ordinary man the impossibilities, of the situation. I dare say the abundance of his need helped his genius to speak; but no matter what his incentive, when he conceived the notion of building against this gigantic, cylindrical rock a spiral gallery which would place at his disposal the four flat acres that crowned the summit, he laid claim to the respect and admiration of ages.

The sides of the rock, which we had at first supposed to be perpendicular, are really concave, and perhaps it would be more exact to speak of this gallery as being built into, rather than against, the mighty column. With such surpassing genius is it placed that it literally makes itself one with the rock it embraces. To gain some sort of foothold for the masonry, deep grooves were cut in the face of the cliff, and from these a wall of brick and mortar was erected, and this in turn supported the great limestone blocks which form the surface of the road. This roadway was wide enough for four men to walk abreast, and was protected by a wall nine feet high.

It is hard to emphasize sufficiently the wild boldness of the conception and achievement. From base to summit the splendid gallery mounted. Breaking the gentle slope here and there to lift itself suddenly by a short flight of stairs, buttressed at one too abrupt corner, snuggling at places under the brow of the rock, and at the one terrace that breaks the height on the north side, it rose in direct steps between the paws and up through the body of a great masonry lion that Kassapa had built against the cliff. Finally it sought out the only place where the top does not overhang the sides for its last hurried dash before flinging itself triumphantly over the edge of the summit.

The walls of this gallery were finished with some smooth, shining white cement. It must have looked, when it was all in place, like a huge, gleaming serpent wound about the face of the rock. Of course at the present day much of it, indeed most of it, has fallen away; but the fact that, despite the washing rains that for many years have come pouring over the sides of the rock, one hundred yards of it remains in almost perfect condition is proof of its splendid construction. For the rest of the way the gallery can be traced by the deep grooves that supported its base.

When, with the help of these grooves and the protecting bars that the Government has kindly placed to give the adventurous traveler at least a chance to reach the summit in safety, we had climbed to the very top, we understood at last the unnatural markings on the face of the cliff that had before puzzled us. Kassapa built his citadel of bright-red brick. The whole crown of the rock was covered with his palaces, and after they had fallen and crumbled, the heavy rains smeared the walls with great streaks and patches of this brilliant stain.

[Pg 271]

PLAN OF THE TOPMOST PORTION OF THE INNER CITY OF SIGIRIYA. (BASED ON A CEYLON GOVERNMENT SURVEY MAP)

The right-hand side of the map is the north side, the top is the west.

❏
LARGER IMAGE

The ground that lies at the base of the rock is not less interesting than that upon its summit. Over the wooded sides of the little hill that culminates in the great shaft, and spreading out into the jungle about its foot, are the remains of the city that Kassapa built for his army and followers. A strange city it must have been. The main houses were of brick with tiled roofs, but these more formal dwellings were supplemented by semi-caves tucked under the sides of every available boulder. All the large stones show notches, cut evidently to hold the ends of rafters and roof-beams. Up many of the highest boulders steps have been hewn, possibly to make them accessible as watch-towers, and at almost every turn one comes upon the indispensable cistern that made living through the long dry season possible. Some of these reservoirs were hewn out of solid stone, but most were built of brick and cement, and the one little stream in the neighborhood was dammed to form a large pond, which even now lies like a lake at the foot of the little hill. So there was an outer city interspersed with gardens, an inner city set on innumerable terraces up the slope of the hill, and surmounting all, lifted four hundred feet above the crest of the hill on its gigantic pedestal, stood the king’s palace and citadel. And about all the city Kassapa built great protecting walls. So three times over Kassapa fortified himself.

We tried to trace the main passageway from the outer fortification to the foot of the gallery, but we had only our imagination for a guide. When we came to the huge balloon-like boulders that form a gateway to a flight of steps, we felt sure that we had found the main entrance to the inner city. The face of these boulders showed the usual cuts for the support of rafters, and we could trace about them in masses of decaying brick the outer walls of what might have been watchmen’s lodges. Up these steps and a few feet farther on lies the stone that is called the audience-hall rock. This is the half of a[Pg 272] great elliptical rock laid round side down. Its upper surface has been cut to form a floor, with an elevated platform at the upper end, and about its edges a heavy coping, all cut from the rock itself. Here presumably the lord of the city sat to receive ambassadors and visitors from the outside world, as no one not a follower of Kassapa was admitted to the central citadel.

But strangest of all the Sigiriya ruins, as unique in thought and masterly in execution as the great spiral gallery itself, are the remains of a pictured procession that some believe once marched across the whole face of the cliff. The fragments of this great picture show female figures, larger than life, carrying in their hands bunches of fruit and flowers. They are painted on smooth, white plaster in colors that apparently have lost none of their brilliancy, and are so strongly drawn in face and figure that by some they are held to be portraits of the women of Kassapa’s court. Though this fresco may have encircled the rock, it remains now only in the protected crevices of its western face.

For eighteen years Kassapa lived and reigned at Sigiriya. He was as secure in his fortress as though he lived in the clouds. His army remained faithful. His colony was thriving, and yet in the end he fell into the hands of that dreaded Moggallana. One day word was brought to him that his brother had returned from India, and with an army was advancing against him. Instead of remaining within his fortifications and challenging his brother to penetrate to his citadel, he went down from his rock to meet his enemy.

Even then he might have been victorious had not blind chance interfered. In the course of the battle, Kassapa, riding in advance of his army, came to a marsh, and turned his elephant to avoid it. When his followers saw this, the cry went up that the king was retreating, and the whole army broke in confusion, and fled through the woods. Kassapa tried in vain to check the panic, and finally cut his own throat. And “Moggallana was pleased with this deed of boldness of his brother, and performed the rite of cremation over his dead body; and having gathered all his spoils, went up to the royal city.”

So Sigiriya fell from being a kingly citadel, and was given over to the priesthood. Why it was finally abandoned by the priests we do not know, but for centuries now it has stood in majestic loneliness watching over the jungle.

## AT THE CLOSED GATE OF JUSTICE

BY JAMES D. CORROTHERS

TO be a Negro in a day like this
Demands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow,
Betrayed, like him whose woe-dimmed eyes gave bliss,
Still must one succor those who brought one low,
To be a Negro in a day like this.
To be a Negro in a day like this
Demands rare patience—patience that can wait
In utter darkness. ’Tis the path to miss,
And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate,
To be a Negro in a day like this.
To be a Negro in a day like this
Demands strange loyalty. We serve a flag
Which is to us white freedom’s emphasis.
Ah! one must love when truth and justice lag,
To be a Negro in a day like this.
To be a Negro in a day like this—
Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done?
Still shines the gate, all gold and amethyst,
But I pass by, the glorious goal unwon,
“Merely a Negro”—in a day like this!

[Pg 273]

## BELLES DEMOISELLES PLANTATION[22]

BY GEORGE W. CABLE

Author of “Old Creole Days,” “The Grandissimes,” “Madame Delphine,” etc.

WITH PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR AND NEW PICTURES BY W. M. BERGER

(NOTEWORTHY STORIES OF THE LAST GENERATION)

THE original grantee was Count——

Assume the name to be De Charleu; the old Creoles never forgive a public mention. He was the French king’s commissary. One day, called to France to explain the lucky accident of the commissariat having burned down with his account-books inside, he left his wife, a Choctaw comtesse, behind.

Arrived at court, his excuses were accepted, and that tract was granted him where afterward stood Belles Demoiselles Plantation. A man cannot remember everything. In a fit of forgetfulness he married a French gentlewoman, rich and beautiful, and “brought her out.” However, “All’s well that ends well”; a famine had been in the colony, and the Choctaw comtesse had starved, leaving naught but a half-caste orphan family lurking on the edge of the settlement, bearing our French gentlewoman’s own new name, and being mentioned in monsieur’s will.

And the new comtesse—she tarried only a twelvemonth—left monsieur a lovely son, and departed, led out of this vain world by the swamp-fever.

From this son sprang the proud Creole family of De Charleu. It rose straight up, up, up, generation after generation, tall, branchless, slender, palm-like, and finally, in the time of which I am to tell, flowered, with all the rare beauty of a century-plant, in Artémise, Innocente, Félicité, the twins Marie and Martha, Léontine, and little Septima, the seven beautiful daughters for whom their home had been fitly named Belles Demoiselles.

The count’s grant had once been a long point round which the Mississippi used so to whirl and seethe and foam that it was horrid to behold. Big whirlpools would open and wheel about in the savage eddies under the low bank, and close up again, and others open and spin and disappear. Great circles of muddy surface would boil up from the depths below and gloss over and seem to float away; sink, come back again under water, and with only a soft hiss surge up again, and again drift off and vanish. Every few minutes the loamy bank would tip down a great load of earth upon its besieger, and fall back a foot, sometimes a yard, and the writhing river would press after, until at last the pointe was quite swallowed up, and the great river glided by in a majestic curve and asked no more. The bank stood fast, the “caving” became a forgotten misfortune, and the diminished grant was a long, sweeping, willowy bend, rustling with miles of sugar-cane.

Coming up the Mississippi in the sailing-craft of those early days, about the time one first could descry the white spires of the old St. Louis Cathedral, one would be pretty sure to spy just over to the right, under the levee, Belles Demoiselles mansion, with its broad veranda and red-painted cypress roof, peering over the embankment, like a bird in the nest, half hidden by the avenue of willows which one of the departed De Charleus—he that married a Marot—had planted on the levee’s crown.

The house stood unusually near the river, facing eastward, and standing foursquare, with an immense veranda about its sides, and a flight of steps in front spreading broadly downward, as we open arms to a child. From the veranda nine miles of river were seen; and in their compass, near at hand, the shady garden, full of rare and beautiful flowers; farther away broad fields of cane and rice and the distant quarters of the slaves; and on the[Pg 274] horizon everywhere a dark belt of cypress forest.

The master was old Colonel De Charleu—Jean-Albert-Henri-Joseph De Charleu-Marot, and “Colonel” by the grace of the first American governor. Monsieur—he would not speak to any one who called him “Colonel”—was a hoary-headed patriarch. His step was firm; his form erect; his intellect strong and clear; his countenance classic, serene, dignified, commanding; his manners were courtly; his voice was musical, fascinating. He had had his vices all his life, but had borne them, as his race does, with a serenity of conscience and a cleanness of mouth that left no outward blemish on the surface of the gentleman. He had gambled in Royal Street, drank hard in Orleans Street, run his adversary through in the dueling-ground at Slaughter-House Point, and danced and quarreled at the St. Phillippe-Street Theater quadroon balls. Even now, with all his courtesy and bounty, and a hospitality which seemed to be entertaining angels, he was bitter-proud and penurious, and deep down in his hard-finished heart loved nothing but himself, his name, and his motherless children. But these! Their ravishing beauty was all but excuse enough for the unbounded idolatry of their father. Against these seven goddesses he never rebelled. Had they even required him to defraud old De Carlos—I can hardly say.

Old De Carlos was his extremely distant relative on the Choctaw side. With this single exception, the narrow, thread-like line of descent from the Indian wife, diminished to a mere strand by injudicious alliances, and deaths in the gutters of old New Orleans, was extinct. The name, by Spanish contact, had become De Carlos, but this one surviving bearer of it was known to all, and known only, as Injin Charlie.

One thing I never knew a Creole to do: he will not utterly go back on the ties of blood, no matter what sort of knots those ties may he. For one reason, he is never ashamed of his or his father’s sins; and for another, he will tell you, he is “all heart.”

So the different heirs of the De Charleu estate had always strictly regarded the rights and interests of the De Carloses, especially their ownership of a block of dilapidated buildings in a part of the city which had once been very poor property, but was beginning to be valuable. This block had much more than maintained the last De Carlos through a long and lazy lifetime, and as his household consisted only of himself and an aged and crippled Negress, the inference was irresistible that he “had money.” Old Charlie, though by alias an “Injin,” was plainly a dark white man, about as old as Colonel De Charleu, sunk in the bliss of deep ignorance, shrewd, deaf, and, by repute at least, unmerciful.

The colonel and he always conversed in English. This rare accomplishment, which the former had learned from his Scotch wife, the latter from up-river traders, they found an admirable medium of communication, answering better than French could a purpose similar to that of the stick which we fasten to the bit of one horse and to the breast-gear of another, whereby each keeps his distance. Once in a while, too, by way of jest, English found its way among the ladies of Belles Demoiselles, always signifying that their sire was about to have business with old Charlie.

Now, a long-standing wish to buy out Charlie troubled the colonel. He had no desire to oust him unfairly, he was proud of being always fair; yet he did long to engross the whole estate under one title. Out of his luxurious idleness he had conceived this desire, and thought little of so slight an obstacle as being already somewhat in debt to old Charlie for money borrowed, and for which Belles Demoiselles was of course good ten times over. Lots, buildings, rents, all, might as well be his, he thought, to give, keep, or destroy. Had he but the old man’s heritage! Ah, he might bring that into existence which his belles demoiselles had been begging for “since many years—” a home, and such a home, in the gay city! Here he should tear down this row of cottages and make his garden wall; there that long rope-walk should give place to vine-covered arbors; the bakery yonder should make way for a costly conservatory; that wine warehouse should come down; and the mansion go up. It should be the finest in the State. Men should never pass it but they should say:[Pg 275] “The palace of the De Charleus, a family of grand descent, a people of elegance and bounty, a line as old as France, a fine old man, and seven daughters as beautiful as happy. Whoever dare attempt to marry there must leave his own name behind him.”

The house should be of stones fitly set, brought down in ships from the land of “les Yankees” and it should have an airy belvedere, with a gilded image tiptoeing and shining on its peak, and from it you should see, far across the gleaming folds of the river, the red roof of Belles Demoiselles, the country-seat. At the big stone gate there should be a porter’s lodge, and it should be a privilege even to see the ground.

Truly they were a family fine enough and fancy-free enough to have fine wishes, yet happy enough where they were to have had no wish but to live there always.

To those who by whatever fortune wandered into the garden of Belles Demoiselles some summer afternoon as the sky was reddening toward evening, it was lovely to see the family gathered out upon the tiled pavement at the foot of the broad front steps, gaily chatting and jesting, with that ripple of laughter that comes pleasingly from a bevy of girls. The father would be found seated among them, the center of attention and compliment, witness, arbiter, umpire, critic, by his beautiful children’s unanimous appointment, but the single vassal, too, of seven absolute sovereigns.

Now they would draw their chairs near together in eager discussion of some new step in the dance or the adjustment of some rich adornment. Now they would start about him with excited comments to see the eldest fix a bunch of violets in his buttonhole. Now the twins would move down a walk after some unusual flower, and be greeted on their return with the high-pitched notes of delighted feminine surprise.

As evening came on they would draw more quietly about their paternal center. Often their chairs were forsaken, and they grouped themselves on the lower steps one above another, and surrendered themselves to the tender influences of the approaching night. At such an hour the passer on the river, already attracted by the dark figures of the broad-roofed mansion and its woody garden standing against the glowing sunset, would hear the voices of the hidden group rise from the spot in the soft harmonies of an evening song, swelling clearer and clearer as the thrill of music warmed them into feeling, and presently joined by the deeper tones of the father’s voice; then, as the daylight passed quite away, all would be still, and the passer would know that the beautiful home had gathered its nestlings under its wings.

And yet, for mere vagary, it pleased them not to be pleased.

“Arti,” called one sister to another in the broad hall one morning, mock amazement in her distended eyes, “something is goin’ to took place!”

“Comm-e-n-t?” in long-drawn perplexity.

“Papa is goin’ to town!”

The news passed up-stairs.

“Inno,”—one to another meeting in a doorway,—“something is goin’ to took place!”

“Qu’est-ce-que c’est?” in vain attempt at gruffness.

“Papa is goin’ to town!”

The unusual tidings were true. It was afternoon of the same day that the colonel tossed his horse’s bridle to his groom, and stepped up to old Charlie, who was sitting on his bench under a china-tree, his head, as was his fashion, bound in a madras handkerchief. The “old man” was plainly under the effect of spirits, and smiled a deferential salutation, without trusting himself to his feet.

“Eh, well, Charlie,”—the colonel raised his voice to suit his kinsman’s deafness,—“how is those times with my friend Charlie?”

“Eh?” said Charlie, distractedly.

“Is that goin’ well with my friend Charlie?”

“In the house; call her,” making pretense of rising.

“Non, non; I don’t want,”—the speaker paused to breathe,—“’Ow is collection?”

“Oh,” said Charlie, “every day he make me more poorer.”

“What do you hask for it?” asked the planter, indifferently, designating the house with a wave of his whip.

“Ask for w’at?” said Injin Charlie.

“De house. What you ask for it?”

“I don’t believe,” said Charlie.

“What you would take for it?” cried the planter.

[Pg 276]

“Wait for w’at?”

“What you would take for the whole block?”

“I don’t want to sell him.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand dollah’ for it.”

“Ten t’ousand dollah’ for dis house? Oh, no, that is no price. He is blame’ good old house, that old house.” Old Charlie and the colonel never swore in presence of each other. “Forty years that old house didn’t had to be paint’! I easy can get fifty t’ousand dollah’ for that old house.”

“Fifty thousand picayunes, yes,” said the colonel.

“She’s a good house. Can make plenty money,” pursued the deaf man.

“That’s what make’ you so rich, eh, Charlie?”

“Non, I don’t make nothing. Too blame’ clever, me, dat’s de troub’. She’s a good house; make money fast like a steamboat; make a barrelful in a week. Me, I lose money all the days. Too blame’ clever.”

“Charlie.”

“Eh?”

“Tell me what you’ll take.”

“Make? I don’t make nothing. Too blame’ clever.”

“What will you take?”

“Oh, I got enough already; half drunk now.”

“What you will take for the ’ouse?”

“You want to buy her?”

“I don’t know,”—shrug,—“maybe, if you sell it cheap.”

“She’s a bully old house.”

There was a long silence. By and by old Charlie began:

“Old Injin Charlie is a low-down dog.”

“C’est vrai, oui,” retorted the colonel in an undertone.

“He’s got Injin blood in him.”

The colonel nodded assent.

“But he’s got some blame’ good blood, too, ain’t it?”

The colonel nodded impatiently.

“Bien. Old Charlie’s Injin blood says, ‘Sell the house, Charlie, you blame’ old fool!’ Mais, old Charlie’s good blood says, ‘Charlie, if you sell that old house, Charlie, you low-down old dog, Charlie, what de Comte De Charleu make for you’ grace-gran’muzzer, de dev’ can eat you, Charlie, I don’t care.’”

“But you’ll sell it, anyhow, won’t you, old man?”

“No!” And the no rumbled off in muttered oaths like thunder out on the gulf. The incensed old colonel wheeled and started off.

“Curl!” [“Colonel”] said Charlie, standing up unsteadily.

The planter turned with an inquiring frown.

“I’ll trade with you,” said Charlie. The colonel was tempted. “’Ow’ll you trade?” he asked.

“My house for yours.”

The old colonel turned pale with anger. He walked very quickly back, and came close up to his kinsman.

“Charlie,” he said.

“Injin Charlie,” with a tipsy nod.

But by this time self-control was returning. “Sell Belles Demoiselles to you?” he said in a high key, and then laughed, “Ho! ho! ho!” and rode away.

A CLOUD, but not a dark one, overshadowed the spirits of Belles Demoiselles Plantation. The old master, whose beaming presence had always made him a shining Saturn, spinning and sparkling within the bright circle of his daughters, fell into musing fits, started out of frowning reveries, walked often by himself, and heard business from his overseer fretfully.

No wonder. The daughters knew his closeness in trade, and attributed to it his failure to negotiate for the old Charlie buildings, so to call them. They began to depreciate Belles Demoiselles. If a north wind blew, it was too cold to ride. If a shower had fallen, it was too muddy to drive. In the morning the garden was wet. In the evening the grasshopper was a burden. Ennui was turned into capital, every headache was interpreted a premonition of ague, and when the native exuberance of a flock of ladies without a want or a care burst out in laughter in the father’s face, they spread their French eyes, rolled up their little hands, and with rigid wrists and mock vehemence vowed and vowed again that they laughed only at their misery, and should pine to death unless they could move to the sweet city. “Oh, the theater! Oh, Orleans Street! Oh, the masquerade, the Place d’Armes, the ball!” and they would call upon Heaven with French irreverence, and fall into[Pg 278] one another’s arms, whirl down the hall singing a waltz, end with a grand collision and fall, and, their eyes streaming merriment, lay the blame on the slippery floor, which some day would be the death of the whole seven.

Engraved on wood by Timothy Cole

GEORGE W. CABLE

Author of “Belles Demoiselles Plantation.”

FROM AN EARLY PORTRAIT BY ABBOTT H. THAYER

Three times more the fond father, thus goaded, managed, by accident—business accident—to see old Charlie and increase his offer; but in vain. He finally went to him formally.

“Eh?” said the deaf and distant relative. “For what you want him, eh? Why you don’t stay where you halways be ’appy? This is a blame’ old rat-hole; good for old Injin Charlie, tha’s all. Why you don’t stay where you be halways ’appy? Why you don’t buy somewhere else?”

“That’s none of your business,” snapped the planter. Truth was, his reasons were unsatisfactory even to himself.

A sullen silence followed. Then Charlie spoke:

“Well, now, look here; I sell you old Charlie’s house.”

“Bien, and the whole block,” said the colonel.

“Hold on,” said Charlie. “I sell you de ’ouse and de block. Den I go and git drunk and go to sleep; de dev’ comes along and says: ‘Charlie, old Charlie, you blame’ low-down old dog, wake up! What you doin’ here? Where’s de ’ouse what Monsieur le Comte give your grace-gran’muzzer? Don’t you see dat fine gentyman De Charleu done gone and tore him down and make him over new, you blame’ old fool, Charlie, you low-down old Injin dog!’”

“I’ll give you forty thousand dollars,” said the colonel.

“For de ’ouse?”

“For all.”

The deaf man shook his head.

“Forty-five,” said the colonel.

“What a lie? For what you tell me ‘What a lie?’ I don’t tell you no lie.”

“Non, non; I give you forty-five,” shouted the colonel.

Charlie shook his head again.

“Fifty.”

He shook it again.

The figures rose and rose to “Seventy-five.”

The answer was an invitation to go away and let the owner alone, as he was, in certain specified respects, the vilest of living creatures, and no company for a fine “gentyman.”

The fine “gentyman” longed to blaspheme; but before old Charlie, in the name of pride, how could he? He mounted and started away.

“Tell you what I’ll make wid you,” said Charlie.

The other, guessing aright, turned back without dismounting, smiling.

“How much Belles Demoiselles howes me now?” asked the deaf one.

“One hundred and eighty thousand dollars,” said the colonel, firmly.

“Yass,” said Charlie. “I don’t want Belles Demoiselles.”

The old colonel’s quiet laugh intimated it made no difference either way.

“But me,” continued Charlie—“me, I’m got le Comte De Charleu’s blood in me, any’ow—a litt’ bit, any’ow, ain’t it?”

The colonel nodded that it was.

“Bien. If I go out of dis place and don’t go to Belles Demoiselles, de peoples will say—dey-will say: ‘Old Charlie he been all doze time tell a blame’ lie. He ain’t no kin to his old grace-gran’muzzer, not a blame’ bit. He don’t got nary drop of De Charleu blood to save his blame’ low-down old Injin soul.’ No, sare! What I want wid money, den? No, sare! My place for yours.”

He turned to go into the house just too soon to see the colonel make an ugly whisk at him with his riding-whip. Then the colonel, too, moved off.

Two or three times over, as he ambled homeward, laughter broke through his annoyance as he recalled old Charlie’s family pride and the presumption of his offer. Yet each time he could but think better of not the offer to swap, but the preposterous ancestral loyalty. It was so much better than he could have expected from his “low-down” relative, and not unlike his own whim withal, the proposition which went with it was forgiven.

This last defeat bore so harshly on the master of Belles Demoiselles that the daughters, reading chagrin in his face, began to repent. They loved their father as daughters can, and when they saw their pretended dejection harassing him seriously, they restrained their complaints, displayed more than ordinary tenderness,[Pg 279] and heroically and ostentatiously concluded there was no place like Belles Demoiselles. But the new mood touched him more than the old, and only refined his discontent. Here was a man, rich without the care of riches, free from any real trouble, happiness as native to his house as perfume to his garden, deliberately, as it were with premeditated malice, taking joy by the shoulder and bidding her be gone to town, whither he might easily have followed only that the very same ancestral nonsense that kept Injin Charlie from selling the old place for twice its value prevented him from choosing any other spot for a city home.

Drawn by W. M. Berger.     Half-tone plate engraved by R. Varley

“‘I’LL GIVE YOU TEN THOUSAND DOLLAH’ FOR IT’”

Heaven sometimes pities such rich men and sends them trouble.

By and by the charm of nature and the merry hearts around prevailed; the fit of exalted sulks passed off, and after a while the year flared up at Christmas, flickered, and went out.

New-Year came and passed; the beautiful garden of Belles Demoiselles put on its spring attire; the seven fair sisters moved from rose to rose; the cloud of discontent had warmed into invisible vapor in the rich sunlight of family affection; and on the common memory the only scar of last year’s wound was old Charlie’s sheer impertinence in crossing the caprice of the De Charleus. The cup of gladness seemed to fill with the filling of the river.

How high it was! Its tremendous current rolled and tumbled and spun along, hustling the long funeral flotillas of drift, and how near shore it came! Men were out day and night watching the levee. Even the old colonel took part, and grew light-hearted with occupation and excitement, as every minute the river threw a white arm over the levee’s top, as though it would vault over. But all held fast, and, as the summer drifted in, the water sank down into its banks and looked quite incapable of harm.

[Pg 280]

Drawn by W. M. Berger.     Half-tone plate engraved by R. Varley

“A SOUND REVEL FELL ON THE EAR, THE MUSIC OF HARPS: AND ACROSS ONE WINDOW ... FLITTED ONCE OR TWICE THE SHADOWS OF DANCERS”

❏
LARGER IMAGE

On a summer afternoon of uncommon mildness, old Colonel Jean-Albert-Henri-Joseph De Charleu-Marot, being in a[Pg 281] mood for reverie, slipped the custody of his feminine rulers and sought the crown of the levee, where it was his wont to promenade. Presently he sat upon a stone bench, a favorite seat. Before him lay his broad-spread fields; near by, his lordly mansion; and being still, perhaps by female contact, somewhat sentimental, he fell to musing on his past. It was hardly worthy to be proud of. All its morning was reddened with mad frolic, and far toward the meridian it was marred with elegant rioting. Pride had kept him well-nigh useless, and despised the honors won by valor; gaming had dimmed prosperity; death had taken his heavenly wife; voluptuous ease had mortgaged his lands: and yet his house still stood, his sweet-smelling fields were still fruitful, his name was fame enough, and yonder and yonder, among the trees and flowers, like angels walking in Eden, were the seven goddesses of his only worship.

Just then a slight sound behind him brought him to his feet. He cast his eyes anxiously to the outer edge of the little strip of bank between the levee’s base and the river. There was nothing visible. He paused, with his ear toward the water, his face full of frightened expectation. Ha! There came a single plashing sound, like some great beast slipping into the river, and little waves in a wide semicircle came out from under the bank and spread over the water.

“My God!”

He plunged down the levee and bounded through the low weeds to the edge of the bank. It was sheer, and the water about four feet below. He did not stand quite on the edge, but fell upon his knees a couple of yards away, wringing his hands, moaning, weeping, and staring through his watery eyes at a fine, long crevice just discernible under the matted grass, and curving outward on each hand toward the river.

“My God!” he sobbed aloud—“My God!” and even while he called, his God answered: the tough Bermuda grass stretched and snapped, the crevice slowly became a gap, and softly, gradually, with no sound but the closing of the water at last, a ton or more of earth settled into the boiling eddy and disappeared.

At the same instant a pulse of the breeze brought from the garden behind the joyous, thoughtless laughter of the fair mistresses of Belles Demoiselles.

The old colonel sprang up and clambered over the levee. Then forcing himself to a more composed movement, he hastened into the house and ordered his horse.

“Tell my children to make merry while I am gone,” he left word. “I shall be back to-night,” and the big horse’s hoofs clattered down a by-road leading to the city.

“Charlie,” said the planter, riding up to a window from which the old man’s nightcap was thrust out, “what you say, Charlie—my house for yours? Eh, Charlie, what you say?”

“’Ello!” said Charlie. “From where you come from dis time of to-night?”

“I come from the Exchange.” A small fraction of the truth.

“What you want?” said matter-of-fact Charlie.

“I come to trade.”

The low-down relative drew the worsted off his ears. “Oh, yass,” he said with an uncertain air.

“Well, old man Charlie, what you say? My house for yours, like you said, eh, Charlie?”

“I dunno,” said Charlie; “it’s nearly mine now. Why you don’t stay dare you’se’f?”

“Because I don’t want,” said the colonel, savagely. “Is dat reason enough for you? You better take me in de notion, old man, I tell you, yes!”

Charlie never winced; but how his answer delighted the colonel! Said Charlie:

“I don’t care, I take him. Mais, possession give’ right off.”

“Not the whole plantation, Charlie; only—”

“I don’t care,” said Charlie; “we easy can fix dat. Mais, what for you don’t want to keep him. I don’t want him. You better keep him.”

“Don’ you try to make no fool of me, old man,” cried the planter.

“Oh, no,” said the other. “Oh, no; but you make a fool of yourself, ain’t it?” The dumfounded colonel stared; Charlie went on:

[Pg 282]

“Yass, Belles Demoiselles is more wort’ dan t’ree block like dis one. I pass by dare since two weeks. Oh, pretty Belles Demoiselles! De cane was wave in de wind, de garden smell like a bouquet, de white-cap was jump up and down on de river, seven belles demoiselles was ridin’ on horses. ‘Pretty, pretty, pretty!’ says old Charlie. Ah, Monsieur le père, ’ow ’appy, ’appy, ’appy!”

“Yass,” he continued, the colonel still staring, “le Comte De Charleu have two famil’. One was low-down Choctaw, one was high-up noblesse. He give the low-down Choctaw dis old rat-hole; he give Belles Demoiselles to your gran’fozzer; and now you don’t be satisfait. What I’ll do wid Belles Demoiselles? She’ll break me in two years, yass. And what you’ll do wid old Charlie’s house, eh? You’ll tear her down and make you’se’f a blame’ old fool. I rather wouldn’t trade.”

The planter caught a big breath of anger, but Charlie went straight on:

“I rather wouldn’t, mais, I will do it for you—just de same, like Monsieur le Comte would say, ‘Charlie, you old fool, I want to shange houses wid you.’”

So long as the colonel suspected irony he was angry, but as Charlie seemed, after all, to be certainly in earnest, he began to feel conscience-stricken. He was by no means a tender man, but his lately discovered misfortune had unhinged him, and this strange, undeserved, disinterested family fealty on the part of Charlie touched his heart. And should he still try to lead him into the pitfall he had dug? He hesitated. No, he would show him the place by broad daylight, and if he chose to overlook the “caving bank,” it would be his own fault. A trade’s a trade.

“Come,” said the planter—“come at my house to-night; to-morrow we look at the place before breakfast, and finish the trade.”

“For what?” said Charlie.

“Oh, because I got to come in town in the morning.”

“I don’t want,” said Charlie. “How I’m goin’ to come dere?”

“I git you a horse at the liberty-stable.”

“Well, anyhow, I don’t care; I’ll go.” And they went.

When they had ridden a long time, and were on the road darkened by hedges of Cherokee rose, the colonel called behind him to the “low-down” scion:

“Keep the road, old man.”

“Eh?”

“Keep the road.”

“Oh, yes, all right; I keep my word. We don’t goin’ to play no tricks, eh?”

But the colonel seemed not to hear. His ungenerous design was beginning to be hateful to him. Not only old Charlie’s unprovoked goodness was prevailing; the eulogy on Belles Demoiselles had stirred the depths of an intense love for his beautiful home. True, if he held to it, the caving of the bank at its present fearful speed would let the house into the river within three months; but were it not better to lose it so than sell his birthright? Again, coming back to the first thought, to betray his own blood! It was only Injin Charlie; but had not the De Charleu blood just spoken out in him? Unconsciously he groaned.

After a time they struck a path approaching the plantation in the rear, and a little after, passing from behind a clump of live-oaks, they came in sight of the villa. It looked so like a gem, shining through its dark grove, so like a great glow-worm in the dense foliage, so significant of luxury and gaiety, that the poor master, from an overflowing heart, groaned again.

“What?” asked Charlie.

The colonel only drew his rein, and, dismounting mechanically, contemplated the sight before him. The high, arched doors and windows were thrown wide to the summer air, from every opening the bright light of numerous candelabra darted out upon the sparkling foliage of magnolia and bay, and here and there in the spacious verandas a colored lantern swayed in the gentle breeze. A sound of revel fell on the ear, the music of harps; and across one window, brighter than the rest, flitted once or twice the shadows of dancers. But, oh, the shadows flitting across the heart of the fair mansion’s master!

“Old Charlie,” said he, gazing fondly at his house, “you and me is both old, eh?”

“Yass,” said the stolid Charlie.

“And we has both been bad enough in our time, eh, Charlie?”

Charlie, surprised at the tender tone, repeated, “Yass.”

“And you and me is mighty close?”

“Blame’ close, yass.”

“But you never know me to cheat, old man?”

“No,” impassively.

[Pg 283]

Drawn by W. M. Berger.     Half-tone plate engraved by R. C. Collins

THE OLD COLONEL AND HIS NURSE

“And do you think I would cheat you now?”

“I dunno,” said Charlie. “I don’t believe.”

“Well, old man, old man,”—his voice began to quiver,—“I sha’n’t cheat you now. My God! old man, I tell you—you better not make the trade!”

“Because for what?” asked Charlie in plain anger; but both looked quickly toward the house. The colonel tossed his hands wildly in the air, rushed forward a step or two, and, giving one fearful scream of agony and fright, fell forward on his face in the path. Old Charlie stood transfixed with horror. Belles Demoiselles, the realm of maiden beauty, the home of merriment, the house of dancing, all in the tremor and glow of pleasure, suddenly sank, with one short, wild wail of terror—sank, sank, down, down, down, into the merciless, unfathomable flood of the Mississippi.

TWELVE long months were midnight to the mind of the childless father. When they were only half gone, he took to his bed; and every day and every night old Charlie, the “low-down,” the “fool,” watched him tenderly, tended him lovingly, for the sake of his name, his misfortunes, and his broken heart. No woman’s step crossed the floor of the sick chamber, the western dormer-windows of which overpeered the dingy architecture of old Charlie’s block. Charlie and a skilled physician, the one all interest, the other all gentleness, hope, and patience, only these entered by the door; but by the window came in a sweet-scented evergreen vine, transplanted from the caving hank of Belles Demoiselles. It caught the rays of sunset in its flowery net and let them softly in upon the sick man’s bed; gathered the glancing beams of the moon at midnight, and often wakened the sleeper to look, with his mindless eyes, upon their pretty silver fragments strewn upon the floor.

By and by there seemed—there was—a twinkling dawn of returning reason. Slowly, peacefully, with an increase unseen from day to day, the light of reason came into the eyes, and speech became coherent; but withal there came a failing of the wrecked body, and the doctor said that monsieur was both better and worse.

One evening as Charlie sat by the vine-clad window with his fireless pipe in his[Pg 284] hand, the old colonel’s eyes fell full upon his own, and rested there.

“Charl—,” he said with an effort, and his delighted nurse hastened to the bedside and bowed his best ear. There was an unsuccessful effort or two, and then he whispered, smiling with sweet sadness:

“We did’nt trade.”

The truth in this case was a secondary matter to Charlie; the main point was to give a pleasing answer. So he nodded his head decidedly, as who should say, “Oh, Yes, we did; it was a bona-fide swap.” But when he saw the smile vanish, he tried the other expedient, and shook his head with still more vigor to signify that they had not so much as approached a bargain; and the smile returned.

Charlie wanted to see the vine recognized. He stepped backward to the window with a broad smile, shook the foliage, nodded, and looked smart.

“I know,” said the colonel, with beaming eyes; “many weeks.”

The next day he said:

“Charl—”

The best ear went down.

“Send for a priest.”

The priest came, and was alone with him a whole afternoon. When he left, the patient was very haggard and exhausted, but smiled, and would not suffer the crucifix to be removed from his breast.

One more morning came. Just before dawn Charlie, lying on a pallet in the room, thought he was called, and came to the bedside.

“Old man,” whispered the failing invalid, “is it caving yet?”

Charlie nodded.

“It won’t pay you out.”

“Oh, dat makes not’ing,” said Charlie. Two big tears rolled down his brown face. “Dat makes not’ing.”

The colonel whispered once more:

“Mes belles demoiselles—in paradise—in the garden. I shall be with them at sunrise.” And so it was.

[Pg 285]

## COLONEL WATTERSON’S REJOINDER TO EX-SENATOR EDMUNDS

COMMENTS ON “ANOTHER VIEW OF ‘THE HAYES-TILDEN CONTEST’” (SEE PAGE 193)

To the Editor of THE CENTURY:

Sir: If I may say so without departing from the respect and regard in which I hold Senator Edmunds, he has made rather a case at law than a contribution to history. With the trained skill of an expert, he emphasizes all that may be pleaded on his own side, whilst either ignoring or belittling the strength of the other side. The ultimate verdict in the matter of Tilden versus Hayes will turn on issues which the Electoral Commission refused, by a party vote of eight to seven, to consider; on evidence in equity which was not allowed to become a part of the record; upon rulings of the majority which the minority claimed, and justly claimed I think, to have been sometimes erroneous and sometimes inconsistent, but in every instance obedient to the party exigency.

I have neither the mind nor the heart to recall the wrangles and passions of the controversy. To me they mean nothing more than the half-forgotten dreams of a very dark night of the long ago. One may dismiss the exciting incidents: the conflicting testimony in Florida and Louisiana; the contested elector in Oregon; the tergiversation in opinions of some of the members of the court; the playing State law against National law, and vice versa, in a shuttlecock process all on one side, the unescapable inference being that from the first the majority was bent upon denying Tilden the one vote needed to make him President and securing to Hayes the twelve votes needed to make him President.

One may likewise dismiss the long list of questionable persons appointed to office under the Hayes administration, apparently from no other consideration than their service as members of returning boards and officers of election, most of them charged with corrupt practices.

At the election of the seventh of November, 1876, the popular vote was as follows:

For Tilden | 4,300,316
For Hayes | 4,036,016
Tilden’s majority | ,264,300

The total vote for Tilden was nearly 700,000 larger than Grant’s against Greeley. Of the electoral vote, the Republicans conceded Tilden 184. The electoral votes of Louisiana and Florida, thrown into dispute before Congress and the Electoral Commission, but finally cast by the commission for Hayes, determined the result. Referring to my narrative of the events immediately succeeding the election and preceding the creation of the electoral tribunal, judge Edmunds says:

Historically, it is very unfortunate that Mr. Watterson did not include in his enlivening article copies of his telegraphic and other correspondence with Mr. Tilden from New Orleans, and elsewhere, for it would certainly and truly, as far as it went, throw much light on the existing drama being displayed, as well as the plans and work behind the curtain whereby (we may believe) it was hoped to produce the election of Mr. Tilden. We Republicans at Washington were forced to believe that an effort was being made, by every means that could be employed, to overcome the Hayes majority of one. During that whole period, so far as I personally knew or was informed, there never was any scheme or act of the Republicans to bribe any State canvassing board or elector by money or promise in support of Mr. Hayes’s election. We did (if I may borrow an ancient classic simile) fear “the Greeks bearing gifts.” We were morally certain that a large majority of the legal voters in the States of South Carolina, Florida, and Louisiana were earnestly in favor of the election of Mr. Hayes, and we believe that if vio[Pg 286]lence or some other kind of unlawful influence were not brought to bear the electoral votes of those States would be cast for him; but when the secret though bold operations of Colonel Pelton became partly known we were astonished and alarmed, though not disheartened, and we went forward in our efforts to provide by law for the final act in the great drama.

It is quite certain that all the telegraphic correspondence I had with Mr. Tilden reached Republican headquarters as soon as it reached Gramercy Park. Assuredly I never wrote or wired him a word that I should be unwilling to have appear in print. May I not claim the circumstance that the Republicans used none of it as going to the credit either of my prudence or my patriotism, or of both?

At no time did I apprehend any physical collision, although General Grant seemed to fear one, and although two of the most famous and popular heroes among the general officers of the Union army at Washington were pressing armed organization upon the Democrats. It was distinctly the South that would not listen to the suggestion of force. Truth to say, both sides were playing something of a “bluff.” Neither was either ready or anxious for a fight, and, in extremis, whichever won, the other was bound to submit. My sole thought was publicity, agitation; this I urged from the outset and continued to urge to the end.

In reverting to these events, my purpose was chiefly to vindicate the personal integrity of Mr. Tilden. Neither he nor Mr. Hewitt nor any one in authority was willing to win by fraud. As I have stated, and as Mr. Hewitt stated, fraudulent possession was offered, and I directly know that Mr. Tilden refused to accept the Presidency as the result of an arrangement perfectly simple and obvious and absolutely certain.

One might imagine, by a perusal of Judge Edmunds, that the Republican lambs were greatly afraid of the Democratic wolves, and put themselves to many pains to circumvent the Democratic conspiracy set on foot immediately after the election. As a matter of fact, the reverse is true. The returning boards were made up of Republicans, not Democrats. The Southern States were still under military surveillance and martial law. All were invoked to coerce the vote and the counting of the vote. Whatever the worst of Democrats may have contemplated, the Republicans overmatched by deeds. They held the resources and the power of possession; the State governors, the President of the United States, the Senate, the Supreme Court, the army and navy; the Democrats held only the lower House of Congress, and what they believed the justice of their case.

Hayes had to receive every vote in dispute to be elected. The loss of a single vote would have defeated him. Hence the majority of the Electoral Commission could not throw out Florida and Louisiana, as many thought the equities in each instance required. In his speech on the vote of Louisiana, the very eminent Julius H. Seelye, president of Amherst College, who sat in the Forty-fourth Congress as a Republican from Massachusetts, said:

Wiser and more candid men would be hard to find than those of this Electoral Commission who have pronounced the decision on which we are now called to vote. I acknowledge I think I appreciate the strength of their position. We cannot be too jealous of the constitutional right of a State to choose its Presidential electors “in such manner as the Legislature thereof may direct.” We cannot be too careful of congressional interference with the duly accredited results of such a choice. Whether we like or dislike it, the right of a State to choose its electors in its own way, and to ascertain and certify as to the method of their choice, is beyond our lawful control. All this I accept as a formal and technical statement of a clear principle of our Constitution; a principle, moreover, in its general application as wise as it is clear.

But, Mr. Speaker, there are cases where the summum jus becomes the summa injuria; cases where the law, strictly interpreted and strenuously enforced, works out results contrary to all law; and in such cases equity lays the letter of the law aside and lifts her voice in judgment as the sovereign spirit of the law, the spirit of righteousness and truth declares. I find such a case in the pending issue.

Granted—and I hold this to be incontestable—that this Electoral Commission has clearly interpreted and accurately ap[Pg 287]plied the Constitution and the laws to the question submitted to them, yet what if the very principle on which the Constitution and the laws must ultimately rest becomes thereby subverted? Granted that the decision reached is fairly within the bond; yet what if the pound of flesh cannot be taken without its drop of blood? What if this jealous care for State rights and constitutional prerogatives may so foster faction, and so blunt the sense of justice, and so increase the prevalence of fraud that the very foundation of prerogatives and rights has disappeared?

... No nation, said Niebuhr, ever died except by suicide; and the suicidal poison is engendered not so much in the unjust statutes of a government as in the immoral practices of a people, which the government is unable to punish and unable to restrain. It is because I fear that the strict and accurate interpretation of the Constitution, applied to the electoral vote of Louisiana, would imperil that vote in the future, and increase the very danger which the Constitution intended to avoid, that I am unable to concur with such an application.

I commend this to the perusal of Senator Edmunds, though it is unlikely to impress a mind which could declare, as Senator Edmunds does declare in the April issue of THE CENTURY MAGAZINE, “that the constitutional amendments and reconstruction and other laws were passed by Congress as the best measures available in the complicated and untoward situation. These measures were not measures of cruelty or tyranny, but of justice and hopefulness. After the lapse of years it is evident to me that nothing better could have been done, and that nothing done by Congress should have been omitted.”

Against the plan of reconstruction, here approved so unreservedly and despite the events that came after, unremembered if not condoned by Judge Edmunds, I set the plan of Abraham Lincoln, laid in a larger conception of human nature and better knowledge of the character of the people of the South. None of the dangers apprehended and foreshadowed by Mr. Edmunds would have come to pass had Lincoln lived to put his plan on foot and conduct it to achievement. The South was in desolation. The leaders of the secession movement had been wholly discredited by the result of the war. All their calculations and promises had been disastrously falsified. They could no more escape the consequences of their failure than could other public men, baffled and defeated by events.

The murder of Lincoln removed the sun from the heavens. The clouds of hate and fear, or both, overspread the sky. The policy of “thorough,” adopted by the Radicals in Congress, was not only cruel, taking no account of the myriads in the South who had perpetrated no wrong, but was obtusely senseless, on one hand breeding an oligarchy of corruption, and, on the other, driving a whole people to desperation. It was thus, and thus alone, that a “solid South” was created.

God was more merciful than Congress. The North came to see that the South was a part of itself. Nothing happened in the South that, in the same circumstances and conditions, would not have happened at the North. We are indeed the most homogeneous people on the face of the globe. Our balanced system of representative government, strong in the hearts of the people, is the best and freest, because the most flexible and adjustable, on earth. We have outlived secession; we have survived reconstruction; we have weathered a disputed succession, complicated and embittered; we are passing through, and shall surely surmount, other and still more insidious approaches of revolution. Tilden is dead. Hayes is dead. They were but atoms in a sum total which sweeps onward unaffected by either of them, then, or since—a few loaves and a few fishes the while involved—toward the goal, the yet more perfect day, that shines before us.

HENRY WATTERSON,
“Courier-Journal” Office,
Louisville, Kentucky.

[Pg 288]

## TO ALFRED NOYES

APOSTLE OF POETRY AND PEACE

AN APRIL GREETING ON HIS RETURN FROM THE SOUTH

BY EDWIN MARKHAM

AGAIN the mood of Eden on the earth!
Again the summons and the mystic mirth,
The beauty and the wonder and the dare,
Thrilling the heart, the field, the delicate air!
So now once more the old remembering:
The lyric hosts come out of the South with song,
With music that can save the soul from wrong—
The immemorial multitudes a-wing
Down bright savannas, over the greening trees.
Hark, the first warbling in the bough soft-stirred!
And you, O Poet, with your wingèd word,
You come convoyed by these!
You come with all the buds and birds astart—
You with the heart of April in your heart.
So take our banded welcome as we drink
A health to you on April’s flowering brink—
To you come hither from that elder clime,
Where April has been wreathed in poet’s rhyme,
Been touched with love and tears
By English minstrels down a thousand years.
[Pg 289]
And now that Sherwood Forest calls you home
Over the furrows of the ocean foam,
Take message from this people to your own—
To England, with her scented hawthorns blown,
And all her skylarks in a rapture-pain
Sprinkling the happy fields with lyric rain.
Tell her that, lordlier than her cliffs and towers,
Tell her that, mightier than her pomps and powers,
We see her line of poets stretching back
Ten centuries, a bright, immortal track.
Tell her that while she builded the things that seem,
They built her glory out of deathless dream.
Ah, more is that wild beauty left by Keats
Than all the blazon of her kingly seats;
More is that wonder from the hand of Blake
Than all her guns that make the nations quake;
More is her Shelley, with his starry dare,
Than all her flags ringed round with battle blare;
More her blind Milton voyaging the vast
Than all her squadrons shearing down the blast;
And more is Shakspere, lord of lyric seers,
Than all her conquests of a thousand years.
But none of all the line
(Save only Shelley, darling of the Nine)
Has cried as you have cried the valorous vow
Of Love’s heroic heart, God’s prayer to men
To cease the wolfish battles of the den.
And so the Muses bind upon your brow
The olive with the laurel; for your song
Bears on that dauntless prayer against the wrong,
The cry the embassy of angels sent
Of old across the Syrian firmament,
Above the stable door.
For in your voice we still can hear their cry
Sound down into our sky:
“Let there be peace: let battles be no more!”

(Original Images)

[Pg 290]

## A PAPER OF PUNS

BY BRANDER MATTHEWS

WHEN two major artists have chosen to turn aside from the practice of their art to discuss one of its principles, there may be an intrusive impropriety in a mere outsider’s rashly urging a reconsideration of any point they have felicitously sharpened. Yet it was only by impaling himself upon the acute weapons of his adversaries that Arnold von Winkelried was able to make way for liberty—an act of self-sacrifice which cost him his life and gained him immortality.

The art of punning has had few practitioners more accomplished than Charles Lamb and Oliver Wendell Holmes. A century ago Lamb declared in a letter that “a pun is a noble thing per se: O never lug it in as an accessory. It is entire; it fills the mind; it is as perfect as a sonnet,—better. It limps ashamed in the train and retinue of humor; it knows it should have an establishment of its own.” And in a more formal essay Elia discussed the popular fallacy that the worst puns are the best. Half a century ago the Autocrat in his turn expressed an adverse opinion of a form of wit in which he delighted and for which he was marvelously gifted. Lamb analyzed at length and with intense enjoyment the immortal query of the Oxford scholar meeting a porter carrying a hare and astounding him with the extraordinary question, “Is that your own hare or a wig?” And Holmes once pretended to have overheard a remark about “the Macaulay-flowers of literature”; and he recorded the conundrum, “Why is an onion like a piano?” declaring that it[Pg 291] was incredible for any person in an educated community who could be found willing to answer it in these words, “Because it smell odious.”

The difference between Lamb and Holmes is that Elia is frank in declaring his delight in the ingenious dislocation of the vocabulary, whereas the Autocrat pretends to deprecate it, to depreciate it, and to disparage it as evidence in favor of the doctrine of the total depravity of man. He even invented a polysyllabic quotation from an earlier autocrat, the ponderous Doctor Johnson: “To trifle with the vocabulary which is the vehicle of social intercourse is to tamper with the currency of human intelligence. He who would violate the sanctities of his mother tongue would invade the recesses of the paternal till without remorse, and repeat the banquet of Saturn without an indigestion.”

This is an appalling overstatement of the case; and Holmes was happier in another of the remarks made in the same chapter of the book in which he expressed the utmost of his own witty wisdom: “People that make puns are like wanton boys that put coppers on the railroad tracks. They amuse themselves and other children, but their little trick may upset a freight-train of conversation for the sake of a battered witticism.” Here the doctor is on solid ground; a pun may be a good thing in itself, as good as a sonnet even, but it is only dirt—that is to say, matter in the wrong place—when it is injected into good talk only to throw the conversational locomotive off the track. Oddly enough, the Autocrat was once himself derailed by a pun a score of years after he had thus laid down the law; and, as it happens, I had the full particulars of the fatal accident from the punster who placed the penny on the track. In this case the disturber of traffic was the late Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

When Matthew Arnold paid his first visit to America thirty years ago, Aldrich gave him a dinner and invited the best that Boston and Cambridge had to show to do honor to his alien guest. He put Arnold on his right and Holmes on his left; and early in the dinner he discovered that the Autocrat was in fine form and ready to discourse in his best manner. Holmes began by suggesting that it must be amusing to meet unexpected characters, burglars, for example, and pirates, and cannibals. “What would you do,” he asked, “if you were to meet a cannibal walking down Beacon Street?” And he paused for the reply that he did not desire, whereupon Aldrich saw his chance and responded promptly, “I think I should stop to pick an acquaintance.” The rest of the company laughed at this sally, but Holmes looked at his host reproachfully and then shut up absolutely, saying scarcely a word during the rest of the dinner. The witticism, even if it was bright and not battered, had upset the freight-train of the Autocrat’s conversation. And as Aldrich asserted, in telling the sad story, the host had to repent in a sack-coat and cigarette-ashes for the rest of his life. Autocrats are autocrats, after all; and not with impunity are their unlimited expresses to be flagged by an unauthorized pun.

Possibly it was the painful memory of this unfortunate experience which led Dr. Holmes to omit from the final edition of his complete works the very amusing account of his “Visit to the Asylum for Aged and Decayed Punsters,” which he had included in an earlier volume—“Soundings from the ‘Atlantic’”—now out of print. He tells us in this paper that he was surprised to find that the asylum was intended wholly for males; and yet on reflection he admitted the remarkable psychologic fact that “there is no such a thing as a female punster. At least,” he adds, “I never knew or heard of one, though I have once or twice heard a woman make a single detached pun, as I have known a hen to crow.” And when we recall the proverbial fate of the crowing hen, the fair sex may rejoice that there are no female punsters, whatever may be the psychological explanation of the remarkable fact itself. The fact might indeed be accounted for easily by those ungallant cynics who maintain that women are careless in the employment of words (which are the raw material of puns), commonly using them as counters to convey emotions rather than as coins to express thoughts.

Holmes’s account of his visit to the asylum reverberates with the rattle of a corps of conundrummers; and every one of the inmates is ready with his contribution, from the superintendent who ex[Pg 292]plained why “they did not take steppes in Tartary for establishing insane hospitals, because there are nomad people to be found there,” to the retired sailor who had gone as mate on a fishing-schooner, giving it up because he “did not like working for two-masters.” The most imaginative touch is at the end of the paper when the visitors are introduced to a centenarian inmate, who asks affably, “Why is a—a—a like a—a—a? Give it up? Because it is a—a—a.” Then he smiled pleasantly; and the superintendent explained that the ancient man was “one hundred and seven last Christmas. He lost his answers about the age of ninety-eight. Of late years he puts his whole conundrums in blank—but they please him just as well.”

Lowell, who was Holmes’s chief rival among the Cambridge wits, did not pretend to disdain the pun, as Holmes affected to do. But he insisted upon the absolute identity of sound with an equally absolute and therefore ludicrous disparity of meaning. Lowell pointed out that Hood, who is said to have lain on his death-bed “spitting blood and puns,” abounded in examples of this sort of fun, “only his analogies are of a more subtle and perplexing kind.” To illustrate this assertion Lowell quoted Hood’s elegy on the old sailor, whose

“... head was turned, and so he chewed
His pigtail till he died.”

And the American critic called this “inimitable, like all the best of Hood’s puns. To the ear it is perfect, but so soon as you attempt to realize it to yourself, the mind is involved in an inextricable confusion of comical non-sequiturs. And yet observe the gravity with which the forms of reason are kept up in the and so.”

Another quotation from Hood also won high commendation from Lowell. It was taken from the peddler’s recommendation of his ear-trumpet:

“I don’t pretend with horns of mine,
Like some in the advertising line,
To magnify sounds on such marvelous scales
That the sounds of a cod seem as large as a whale’s.
There was Mrs. F.
So very deaf
That she might have worn a percussion-cap
And been knocked on the head without hearing it snap.
Well, I sold her a horn; and the very next day
She heard from her husband in Botany Bay.”

Is that last line wit or humor? It is a play on a word, no doubt, and that would relate it to wit. But it has the imaginative exaggeration that we are wont to associate with humor. Lowell noted that we find it natural to speak of the breadth of humor, while wit, by the necessity of its being, is “as narrow as a flash of lightning, and as sudden.” Humor has also its unexpectedness, and while most good puns must be classed as specimens of wit, some few transcendent examples may fairly claim to be specimens of humor—that last line of Hood’s, for example. Many other instances might be advanced. A very distinguished British scientist had the foible of inventing thrilling episodes in his own autobiography; and on one occasion after he had spun a most marvelous yarn, with himself in the center of the coil, a skeptical friend looked him in the eye and asked sternly, “Clifford, do you mean to say that this really occurred to you?” Whereupon the imaginative man of science laughed lightly and with a most imperturable assurance calmly answered, “Yes—it just occurred to me!”

It is wit and not humor, no doubt, when Holmes promulgates the law of financial safety: “Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust.” It is wisdom as well as wit, but is it a pun? Is it only a play on words? Is it not also a play on the idea? And take the somewhat parallel remark about the rising fortune of a successful man, to the effect that “he got on, he got honor, he got honest.” That again is wit; but is it fairly to be termed a pun? Merely verbal playfulness is more obvious in a recent remark that “some men stand for office, some men run for it, and some have a walk-over,” and yet that somehow fails to fall completely within any acceptable definition of the pun. If it is a pun, it is something more also. With these specimens may be grouped three other remarks which have not hitherto been recorded in print. When a certain critic of limited equipment was appointed to the chair of comparative literature in one of our uni[Pg 293]versities, the question was asked why he was assigned to this particular professorship, since his information was mainly confined to English; and the explanation was instantly forthcoming that comparative literature was the position for which he was best fitted, because his own literature was neither positive nor superlative. A certain former Vice-President of the United States has been described as “a very cold-blooded proposition,” and yet his speeches were the usual flowery and perfervid political oratory which led an observer to make the assertion that “to hear —— speak is like catching nature in the act of self-contradiction, since it is the emission of hot air from an ice-box.”

And it was the same anonymous observer who pointed out the difference between two contemporary British authors, insisting that “Mr. George Bernard Shaw always writes with his tongue in his cheek, whereas when Mr. Gilbert K. Chesterton is writing he keeps thrusting his tongue out at the public.” Now, are these remarks, strictly speaking, puns? They conform at least to one of Lamb’s definitions that a pun “is a pistol let off at the end, not a feather to tickle the intellect,” and that it is “not bound by the laws which limit nicer wit.” He warns us that “a pun may be easily too curious and artificial”; and he held that a pun, at least in actual conversation, ought to stand alone and not be followed by another. “When a man has said a good thing it is seldom politic to follow it up.” This is true enough of conversation; but it does not apply to literature. The spoken word and the written have different rules. A large part of the humorous effect of the trumpet-peddler’s eulogy of the wares he is vending is due to the heaping-up of the puns, one tumbling over another, like salmon flashing swiftly in the sunshine as they follow each other up the falls. Here our pleasure is akin to that we take at the circus as we behold the acrobats going on from one impossible stunt to its equally impossible successor and accomplishing these feats as if each was the easiest thing in the world.

There is in many passages of that rollicking satire, “A Fable for Critics,” wise as it is in its author’s acute valuation of his contemporaries, a riot of complicated riming and of unexpected punning,—passages which impress us with an abiding sense of spontaneous humor and good humor. These passages overflow with fun, and we are carried along by Lowell’s delight in displaying his verbal dexterity. For once he appears before us dancing on a metrical tight-rope and setting off iridescent fireworks at the ends of his balancing-pole. Consider, for example, these lines at the very beginning, where Apollo is discussing his plight after he had pursued Daphne and she had turned into a tree:

“‘My case is like Dido’s,’ he sometimes remarked;
‘When I last saw my love she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as she thought—but (ah, how fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it—
You’re not always sure of your game when you’ve treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one’s mistress!
What romance would be left?—who can flatter or kiss trees?
And for mercy’s sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,—
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you’ve less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting, but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue had a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.’”

Almost worthy to be set beside Lowell’s lines is Mr. William A. Croffut’s “Dirge concerning the late lamented King of the Cannibal Islands” in which he rings the changes on a single theme:

[Pg 294]

“And missionaries graced his festive board,
Solemn and succulent, in twos and dozens,
And smoked before their hospitable lord,
Welcome as if they’d been his second cousins.
When cold he warmed them as he would his kin—
They came as strangers, and he took them in.
“He had a hundred wives. To make things pleasant
They found it quite judicious to adore him;
And when he dined, the nymphs were always present—
Sometimes beside him and sometimes before him.
When he was tired of one, he called her ‘sweet,’
And told her she was ‘good enough to eat!’
“We grow like what we eat. Bad food depresses;
Good food exalts us like an inspiration,
And missionaries on the menu blesses
And elevates the Feejee population.
A people who for years saints, bairns, and women ate
Must soon their vilest qualities eliminate.
“How fond he was of children! To his breast
The tenderest nurslings gained a free admission.
Rank he despised, nor, if they came well dressed,
Cared if they were plebeian or patrician.
Shade of Leigh Hunt! O, guide this laggard pen
To write of one who loved his fellow-men!”

Lamb would have enjoyed the stanzas of this elegy, with the effortless ease of the long succession of puns, playing leap-frog; and Hood would have appreciated them without envy. Perhaps Lamb would have liked even better than Hood a superbly impossible pun in John Brougham’s burlesque of “Pocahontas,” a long popular piece, which perhaps owed a part of its success to the unhistoric marrying off of Captain John Smith and the dusky heroine. When Smith is bound to the sacrificial rock and the war-club of Powhatan is raised aloft to dash out the Englishman’s brains, Pocahontas rushes in with the plaintive cry, “For my husband I scream!” Whereupon Smith lifts his head and asks, “Lemon or vanilla?” This has not a little of the illogical impossibility of “Is that your own hare or a wig?” and like that immortal query it defies analysis. It is not merely a play on a word; it is a play on an idea, which we cannot ourselves formulate.

Brougham was an Irishman who was a past-master in the art of punning. Perhaps his chief rival was the British playwright Henry J. Byron, who once wrote a burlesque on a theme from the “Arabian Nights” which he entitled “Ali Baba, or the Thirty-Nine Thieves—in accordance with the author’s habit of taking one off.” Byron, however, was wont to besprinkle the dialogue of his more ambitious comedies with puns not always fresh and not always appropriate. In one of his forgotten farces a retired soldier who had served in India makes a bore of himself by talking forever about the Bungalura River. Finally, one of the other characters, in a moment of natural irritation, ejaculates, “Oh, damn the Bungalura River!” To which the old officer responds instantly, “Sir, they have vainly endeavored to do so!” This is an ingenious quip in itself; but it was not at all in keeping with the character, since it was a remark the bore was quite incapable of making.

An earlier British dramatist, Douglas Jerrold, is said by his son and biographer never to have put a pun in the dialogue of any one of his plays; and if this assertion is well founded, the fact is the more curious since Jerrold was prolific of puns in conversation and in correspondence. In a letter written just after Queen Victoria had been fired at, Jerrold declared that he had seen her out driving, adding that “she looked very well, and—as is not always the case with women—none the worse for powder.” And it was at one of the “Punch” dinners that he made his cruellest retort, a pun with a venomous sting in the tail of it. Gilbert A Becket—author of a “Comic History of England” and a frequent contributor to “Punch” at the time when Jerrold was providing that weekly with “Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures”—claimed a friendly interest from his associate, declaring, “You know we row in the same boat.” To which Jerrold[Pg 295] retorted brutally, “Yes—but with different skulls.”

One of the pleasantest of the protean appearances of the pun is to be found in the familiar quotation, made unexpectedly pertinent by a felicitous suggestion of an unforeseen meaning hitherto concealed in one of its words. A neat example of this is the Shaksperian motto which the late Edwin Booth caused to be inscribed on the mantelpiece of the grill-room in the club he founded for the practitioners of the allied arts: “Mouth it, as many of our Players do.” When Mrs. Stowe was on her way to Liverpool a fog suddenly shut the ship in after it had taken on the pilot; and the authoress suggested that the pilot might sing, “That Mersey I to others show, that Mersey show to me.” And in the “Autocrat” again Dr. Holmes, after dwelling on the delight he had in beholding noble oaks and spreading elms, mentioned one tree which was more than eighteen feet in girth, and expressed a hope that he might meet a tree-loving friend under its branches. “If we don’t have youth at the prow, we shall have pleasure at the ’elm.” This is added evidence, were any needed, that Holmes was not sincere in his denunciation of punning, or at least that he was willing to damn “the sins he had no mind to.”

The derogatory old saying that a pun is the lowest form of wit has been explained by the apt addition that this is because a pun is the foundation of all wit. This explanation is not strictly true, of course; the best wit is often independent of any flavor of word-play. But there is a kind of pun which is really lower than any other effort to arouse laughter; this is the pun which is due to a violent wrench made visible only by the use of italics. As a general principle we may assert that any pun is beneath contempt when it needs a typographic sign-post before it can be seen. And the unfortunate who descends to this dismal form of near-wit is of a truth the “mournful professor of high drollery” that George Eliot once castigated. Pitiable specimens of his lamentable handiwork—if anything so mechanical may fairly be described by this term—can be discovered abundantly in more than one of the inferior comic weeklies of Great Britain; and even the superior weekly “Punch” is not always free from it.

When an observer of international characteristics shall undertake the task of differentiating the British from the Americans he can scarcely fail to note that the mechanical pun, the bare play upon the sound of a word without any corresponding diversity of idea, is far commoner in the older branch of the English-speaking race than it is in the younger. This strikes us at once when we compare the comic papers or the comic operas of Great Britain with those of the United States. The transatlantic relish for purely verbal juggling is probably an inheritance from the Elizabethans, for we find it displayed in even the mightiest of them, Shakspere. Curious it is, therefore, that we colonists did not import it in the original package as we imported so many other Tudor characteristics, some of which are still discoverable on this side of the Western ocean although on the other they have fallen into “innocuous desuetude.”

## FINIS

BY WILLIAM H. HAYNE

NO blood-stains on the polished floor—
Not one drop has been shed—
No wound in heart or brow or breast,
And yet the man is dead.
No dirk or pistol in the room—
No sign of death’s dark goal—
And yet the man who seems alive
Has murdered his own soul.

[Pg 296]

## T. TEMBAROM

BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

Author of “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s,” “The Shuttle,” etc.

WITH DECORATIVE PICTURES BY CHARLES S. CHAPMAN

### CHAPTER XVII

FORM, color, drama, and divers other advantages are necessary to the creation of an object of interest. Presenting to the world none of these assets, Miss Alicia had slipped through life a scarcely remarked unit. No little ghost of prettiness had attracted the wandering eye, no suggestion of agreeable or disagreeable power of self-assertion had arrested attention. There had been no hour in her life when she had expected to count as being of the slightest consequence. When she had knocked at the door of the study at Rowcroft Vicarage, and “dear papa” had exclaimed irritably: “Who is that? Who is that?” she had always replied, “It is only Alicia.”

This being the case, her gradual awakening to the singularity of her new situation was mentally a process full of doubts and sometimes of alarmed bewilderments. If in her girlhood a curate, even a curate with prominent eyes and a receding chin, had proposed to her that she should face with him a future enriched by the prospect of being called upon to bring up a probable family of twelve on one hundred and fifty pounds a year, with both parish and rectory barking and snapping at her worn-down heels, she would have been sure to assert tenderly that she was afraid she was “not worthy.” This was the natural habit of her mind, and in the weeks which followed the foggy afternoon when Tembarom “staked out his claim” she dwelt often upon her unworthiness of the benefits bestowed upon her.

First the world below-stairs, then the village, and then the county itself awoke to the fact that the new Temple Barholm had “taken her up.” The first tendency of the world below-stairs was to resent the unwarranted uplifting of a per[Pg 297]son whom there had been a certain luxury in regarding with disdain and treating with scarcely veiled lack of consideration. To be able to do this with a person who, after all was said and done, was not one of the servant class, but a sort of lady of birth, was not unstimulating. And below-stairs the sense of personal rancor against “a ’anger-on” is strong. The meals served in Miss Alicia’s remote sitting-room had been served at leisure, her tea had rarely been hot, and her modestly tinkled bell irregularly answered. Often her far from liberally supplied fire had gone out on chilly days, and she had been afraid to insist on its being relighted. Her sole defense against inattention would have been to complain to Mr. Temple Barholm, and when on one occasion a too obvious neglect had obliged her to gather her quaking being together in mere self-respect and say, “If this continues to occur, William, I shall be obliged to speak to Mr. Temple Barholm,” William had so looked at her and so ill hid a secret smile that it had been almost tantamount to his saying, “I’d jolly well like to see you.”

And now! Sitting at the end of the table opposite him, if you please! Walking here and walking there with him! Sitting in the library or wherever he is, with him talking and laughing and making as much of her as though she were an aunt with a fortune to leave, and with her making as free in talk as though at liberty to say anything that came into her head! Well, the beggar that had found himself on horseback was setting another one galloping alongside of him. In the midst of this natural resentment it was “a bit upsetting,” as Burrill said, to find it dawning upon one that absolute exactness of ceremony was as much to be required for “her” as for “him.” Miss Alicia had long felt secretly sure that she was spoken of as “her” in the servants’ hall. That businesslike sharpness which Palford had observed in his client aided Tembarom always to see things without illusions. He knew that there was no particular reason why his army of servants should regard him for the present as much more than an intruder; but he also knew that if men and women had employment which was not made hard for them, and were well paid for doing, they were not anxious to lose it, and the man who paid their wages might give orders with some certainty of finding them obeyed. He was “sharp” in more ways than one. He observed shades he might have been expected to overlook. He observed a certain shade in the demeanor of the domestics when attending Miss Alicia, and it was a shade which marked a difference between service done for her and service done for himself. This was only at the outset, of course, when the secret resentment was felt; but he observed it, mere shade though it was.

He walked out into the hall after Burrill one morning. Not having yet adjusted himself to the rule that when one wished to speak to a man one rang a bell and called him back, fifty times if necessary, he just walked after Burrill and stopped him.

“This is a pretty good place for servants, ain’t it?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good pay, good food, not too much to do?”

“Certainly, sir,” Burrill replied, somewhat disturbed by a casualness which yet suggested a method of getting at something or other.

“You and the rest of them don’t want to change, do you?”

“No, sir. There is no complaint whatever as far as I have heard.”

“That’s all right.” Mr. Temple Barholm had put his hands into his pockets, and stood looking non-committal in a steady sort of way. “There’s something I want the lot of you to get on to—right away. Miss Temple Barholm is going to stay here. She’s got to have everything just as she wants it. She’s got to be pleased. She’s the lady of the house. See?”

“I hope, sir,” Burrill said with professional dignity, “that Miss Temple Barholm has not had reason to express any dissatisfaction.”

“I’m the one that would express it—quick,” said Tembarom. “She wouldn’t have time to get in first. I just wanted to make sure I shouldn’t have to do it. The other fellows are under you. You’ve got a head on your shoulders I guess. It’s up to you to put ’em on to it. That’s all.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Burrill.

[Pg 298]

His master went back into the library smiling genially, and Burrill stood still a moment or so gazing at the door he closed behind him.

Be sure the village, and finally circles not made up of cottagers, heard of this, howsoever mysteriously. Miss Alicia was not aware that the incident had occurred. She could not help observing, however, that the manners of the servants of the household curiously improved; also, when she passed through the village, that foreheads were touched without omission and the curtseys of playing children were prompt. When she dropped into a cottage, housewives polished off the seats of chairs vigorously before offering them, and symptoms and needs were explained with a respectful fluency which at times almost suggested that she might be relied on to use influence.

“I’m afraid I have done the village people injustice,” she said leniently to Tembarom. “I used to think them so disrespectful and unappreciative. I dare say it was because I was so troubled myself. I’m afraid one’s own troubles do sometimes make one unfair.”

“Well, yours are over,” said Tembarom. “And so are mine as long as you stay by me.”

Never had Miss Alicia been to London. She had remained, as was demanded of her by her duty to dear papa, at Rowcroft, which was in Somersetshire. She had only dreamed of London, and had had fifty-five years of dreaming. She had read of great functions, and seen pictures of some of them in the illustrated papers. She had loyally endeavored to follow at a distance the doings of her Majesty,—she always spoke of Queen Victoria reverentially as “her Majesty,”—she rejoiced when a prince or a princess was horn or christened or married, and believed that a “drawing-room” was the most awe-inspiring, brilliant, and important function in the civilized world, scarcely second to Parliament. London—no one but herself or an elderly gentlewoman of her type could have told any one the nature of her thoughts of London.

Let, therefore, those of vivid imagination make an effort to depict to themselves the, effect produced upon her mind by Tembarom’s casually suggesting at breakfast one morning that he thought it might be rather a good “stunt” for them to run up to London. By mere good fortune she escaped dropping the egg she had just taken from the egg-stand.

“London!” she said. “Oh!”

“Pearson thinks it would be a first-rate idea,” he explained. “I guess he thinks that if he can get me into the swell clothing stores he can fix me up as I ought to be fixed, if I’m not going to disgrace him. I should hate to disgrace Pearson. Then he can see his girl, too, and I want him to see his girl.”

“Is—Pearson—engaged?” she asked; but the thought which was repeating itself aloud to her was “London! London!”

“He calls it ‘keeping company,’ or ‘walking out,’” Tembarom answered. “She’s a nice girl, and he’s dead stuck on her. Will you go with me, Miss Alicia?”

“Dear Mr. Temple Barholm,” she fluttered, “to visit London would be a privilege I never dreamed it would be my great fortune to enjoy—never.”

“Good business!” he ejaculated delightedly. “That’s luck for me. It gave me the blues—what I saw of it. But if you are with me, I’ll bet it’ll be as different as afternoon tea was after I got hold of you. When shall we start? To-morrow?”

Her sixteen-year-old blush repeated itself.

“I feel so sorry. It seems almost undignified to mention it, but—I fear I should not look smart enough for London. My wardrobe is so very limited. I mustn’t,” she added with a sweet effort at humor, “do the new Mr. Temple Barholm discredit by looking unfashionable.”

He was more delighted than before.

“Say,” he broke out, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do: we’ll go together and buy everything ‘suitable’ in sight. The pair of us ’ll come back here as suitable as Burrill and Pearson. We’ll paint the town red.”

He actually meant it. He was like a boy with a new game. His sense of the dreariness of London had disappeared. He knew what it would be like with Miss Alicia as a companion. He had really seen nothing of the place himself, and he would find out every darned thing worth looking at, and take her to see it—theaters, shops, every show in town. When[Pg 299] they left the breakfast-table it was agreed upon that they would make the journey the following day.

He did not openly refer to the fact that among the plans for their round of festivities he had laid out for himself the attending to one or two practical points. He was going to see Palford, and he had made an appointment with a celebrated nerve specialist. He did not discuss this for several reasons. One of them was that his summing up of Miss Alicia was that she had had trouble enough to think over all her little life, and the thing for a fellow to do for her, if he liked her, was to give her a good time and make her feel as if she was at a picnic right straight along—not let her even hear of a darned thing that might worry her. He had said comparatively little to her about Strangeways. His first mention of his condition had obviously made her somewhat nervous, though she had been full of kindly interest. She was in private not sorry that it was felt better that she should not disturb the patient by a visit to his room. The abnormality of his condition seemed just slightly alarming to her.

“But, oh, how good, how charitable, you are!” she had murmured.

“Good,” he answered, the devout admiration of her tone rather puzzling him. “It ain’t that. I just want to see the thing through. I dropped into it by accident, and then I dropped into this by accident, and that made it as easy as falling off a log. I believe he’s going to get well sometime. I guess I kind of like him because he holds on to me so and believes I’m just It. Maybe it’s because I’m stuck on myself.”

His visit to Strangeways was longer than usual that afternoon. He explained the situation to him so that he understood it sufficiently not to seem alarmed by it. This was one of the advances Tembarom had noticed recently, that he was less easily terrified, and seemed occasionally to see facts in their proper relation to one another. Sometimes the experiments tried on him were successful, sometimes they were not, but he never resented them.

“You are trying to help me to remember,” he said once. “I think you will sometime.”

“Sure I will,” said Tembarom. “You’re better every day.”

Pearson was to remain in charge of him until toward the end of the London visit. Then he was to run up for a couple of days, leaving in his place a young footman to whom the invalid had become accustomed.

The visit to London was to Miss Alicia a period of enraptured delirium. The beautiful hotel in which she was established, the afternoons at the Tower, the National Gallery, the British Museum, the evenings at the play, during which one saw the most brilliant and distinguished actors, the mornings in the shops, attended as though one were a person of fortune, what could be said of them? And the sacred day on which she saw her Majesty drive slowly by, glittering helmets, splendid uniforms, waving plumes, and clanking swords accompanying and guarding her, and gentlemen standing still with their hats off, and everybody looking after her with that natural touch of awe which royalty properly inspires! Miss Alicia’s heart beat rapidly in her breast, and she involuntarily made a curtsey as the great lady in mourning drove by. She lost no shade of any flavor of ecstatic pleasure in anything, and was to Tembarom, who knew nothing about shades and flavors, indeed a touching and endearing thing.

He had never got so much out of anything. If Ann had just been there, well, that would have been the limit. Ann was on her way to America now, and she wouldn’t write to him or let him write to her. He had to make a fair trial of it. He could find out only in that way, she said. It was not to be denied that the youth and longing in him gave him some half-hours to face which made him shut himself up in his room and stare hard at the wall, folding his arms tightly as he tilted his chair.

Then arrived a day when one of the most exalted shops in Bond Street was invaded by an American young man of a bearing the peculiarities of which were subtly combined with a remotely suggested air of knowing that if he could find what he wanted, there was no doubt as to his power to get it. What he wanted was not usual, and was explained with a frankness which might have seemed unsophisticated, but, singularly, did not. He wanted to have a private talk with some[Pg 300] feminine power in charge, and she must be some one who knew exactly what ladies ought to have.

Being shown into a room, such a feminine power was brought to him and placed at his service. She was a middle-aged person, wearing beautifully fitted garments and having an observant eye and a dignified suavity of manner. She looked the young American over with a swift inclusion of all possibilities. He was by this time wearing extremely well-fitting garments himself, but she was at once aware that his tailored perfection was a new thing to him.

He went to his point without apologetic explanation.

“You know all the things any kind of a lady ought to have,” he said—“all the things that would make any one feel comfortable and as if they’d got plenty? Useful things as well as ornamental ones?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, with rising interest. “I have been in the establishment thirty years.”

“Good business,” Tembarom replied. Already he felt relieved. “I’ve got a relation, a little old lady, and I want her to fix herself out just as she ought to be fixed. Now, what I’m afraid of is that she won’t get everything she ought to unless I manage it for her somehow beforehand. She’s got into a habit of—well, economizing. Now the time’s past for that, and I want her to get everything a woman like you would know she really wants, so that she could look her best, living in a big country house, with a relation that thinks a lot of her.”

He paused a second or so, and then went further, fixing a clear and astonishingly shrewd eye upon the head of the department listening to him.

“I found out this was a high-class place,” he explained. “I made sure of that before I came in. In a place that was second or third class there might be people who’d think they’d caught a ‘sucker’ that would take anything that was unloaded on to him, because he didn’t know. The things are for Miss Temple Barholm, and she does know. I shall ask her to come here herself to-morrow morning, and I want you to take care of her, and show her the best you’ve got that’s suitable.” He seemed to like the word; he repeated it—“Suitable,” and quickly restrained a sudden, unexplainable, wide smile.

The attending lady’s name was Mrs. Mellish. Thirty years’ experience had taught her many lessons. She was a hard woman and a sharp one, but beneath her sharp hardness lay a suppressed sense of the perfect in taste. To have a customer with unchecked resources put into her hands to do her best by was an inspiring incident. A quiver of enlightenment had crossed her countenance when she had heard the name of Temple Barholm. She had a newspaper knowledge of the odd Temple Barholm story. This was the next of kin who had blacked boots in New York, and the obvious probability that he was a fool, if it had taken the form of a hope, had been promptly nipped in the bud. The type from which he was furthest removed was that of the fortune-intoxicated young man who could be obsequiously flattered into buying anything which cost money enough.

“Not a thing’s to be unloaded on her that she doesn’t like,” he added, “and she’s not a girl that goes to pink teas. She’s a—a—lady—and not young—and used to quiet ways.”

The evidently New York word “unload” revealed him to his hearer as by a flash, though she had never heard it before.

“We have exactly the things which will be suitable, sir,” she said. “I think I quite understand.” Tembarom smiled again, and, thanking her, went away still smiling, because he knew Miss Alicia was safe.

There were of course difficulties in the way of persuading Miss Alicia that her duty lay in the direction of spending mornings in the most sumptuous of Bond Street shops, ordering for herself an entire wardrobe on a basis of unlimited resources. Tembarom was called upon to employ the most adroitly subtle reasoning, entirely founded on his “claim” and her affectionate willingness to give him pleasure.

He really made love to her in the way a joyful young fellow can make love to his mother or his nicest aunt. He made her feel that she counted for so much in his scheme of enjoyment that to do as he asked would be to add a glow to it.

“And they won’t spoil you,” he said.[Pg 301] “The Mellish woman that’s the boss has promised that. I wouldn’t have you spoiled for a farm,” he added heartily.

And he spoke the truth. If he had been told that he was cherishing her type as though it were a priceless bit of old Saxe, he would have stared blankly and made a jocular remark. But it was exactly this which he actually clung to and adored. He even had a second private interview with Mrs. Mellish, and asked her to “keep her as much like she was” as was possible.

Stimulated by the suppressed touch of artistic fervor, Mrs. Mellish guessed at something even before her client arrived; but the moment she entered the showroom all was revealed to her at once. The very hint of flush and tremor in Miss Alicia’s manner was an assistance. Surrounded by a small and extremely select court composed of Mrs. Mellish and two low-voiced, deft-handed assistants, it was with a fine little effort that Miss Alicia restrained herself from exterior suggestion of her feeling that there was something almost impious in thinking of possessing the exquisite stuffs and shades displayed to her in flowing beauty on every side. Such linens and batistes and laces, such delicate, faint grays and lavenders and soft-falling blacks! If she had been capable of approaching the thought, such luxury might even have hinted at guilty splendor.

Mrs. Mellish became possessed of an “idea.” To create the costume of an exquisite, early-Victorian old lady in a play done for the most fashionable and popular actor manager of the most “drawing-room” of West End theaters, where one saw royalty in the royal box, with bouquets on every side, the orchestra breaking off in the middle of a strain to play “God Save the Queen,” and the audience standing up as the royal party came in—that was her idea. She carried it out, steering Miss Alicia with finished tact through the shoals and rapids of her timidities. And the result was wonderful; color,—or, rather, shades,—textures, and forms were made subservient by real genius. Miss Alicia—as she was turned out when the wardrobe was complete—might have been an elderly little duchess of sweet and modest good taste in the dress of forty years earlier. It took time, but some of the things were prepared as though by magic, and the night the first boxes were delivered at the hotel Miss Alicia, on going to bed, in kneeling down to her devotions prayed fervently that she might not be “led astray by fleshly desires,” and that her gratitude might be acceptable, and not stained by a too great joy “in the things which corrupt.”

The very next day occurred Rose. She was the young person to whom Pearson was engaged, and it appeared that if Miss Alicia would make up her mind to oblige Mr. Temple Barholm by allowing the girl to come to her as lady’s-maid, even if only temporarily, she would be doing a most kind and charitable thing. She was a very nice, well-behaved girl, and unfortunately she had felt herself forced to leave her place because her mistress’s husband was not at all a nice man. He had shown himself so far from nice that Pearson had been most unhappy, and Rose had been compelled to give notice, though she had no other situation in prospect and her mother was dependent on her. This was without doubt not Mr. Temple Barholm’s exact phrasing of the story, but it was what Miss Alicia gathered, and what moved her deeply. It was so cruel and so sad! That wicked man! That poor girl! She had never had a lady’s-maid, and might be rather at a loss at first, but it was only like Mr. Temple Barholm’s kind heart to suggest such a way of helping the girl and poor Pearson.

So occurred Rose, a rather pretty creature whose blue eyes suppressed grateful tears as she took Miss Alicia’s instructions during their first interview. And Pearson arrived the same night, and, waiting upon Tembarom, stood before him, and with perfect respect, choked.

“Might I thank you, if you please, sir,” he began, recovering himself—“might I thank you and say how grateful—Rose and me, sir—” and choked again.

“I told you it would be all right,” answered Tembarom. “It is all right. I wish I was fixed like you are, Pearson.”

When the Countess of Mallowe called, Rose had just dressed Miss Alicia for the afternoon in one of the most perfect of the evolutions of Mrs. Mellish’s idea. It was a definite creation, as even Lady Mallowe detected the moment her eyes fell upon it. Its hue was dull, soft gray, and[Pg 302] how it managed to concede points and elude suggestions of modes interred, and yet remain what it did remain, and accord perfectly with the side ringlets and the lace cap of Mechlin, only dressmaking genius could have explained. The mere wearing of it gave Miss Alicia a support and courage which she could scarcely believe to be her own. When the cards of Lady Mallowe and Lady Joan Fayre were brought up to her, she was absolutely not really frightened; a little nervous for a moment, perhaps, but frightened, no. A few weeks of relief and ease, of cheery consideration, of perfectly good treatment and good food and good clothes, had begun a rebuilding of the actual cells of her.

Lady Mallowe entered alone. She was a handsome person, and astonishingly young when considered as the mother of a daughter of twenty-seven. She wore a white veil, and looked pink through it. She swept into the room, and shook hands with Miss Alicia with delicate warmth.

“We do not really know each other at all,” she said. “It is disgraceful how little relatives see of one another.”

The disgrace, if measured by the extent of the relationship, was not immense. Perhaps this thought flickered across Miss Alicia’s mind among a number of other things. She had heard “dear papa” on Lady Mallowe, and, howsoever lacking in graces, the vicar of Rowcroft had not lacked an acrid shrewdness. Miss Alicia’s sensitively self-accusing soul shrank before a hasty realization of the fact that if he had been present when the cards were brought up, he would, on glancing over them through his spectacles, have jerked out immediately: “What does the woman want? She’s come to get something.” Miss Alicia wished she had not been so immediately beset by this mental vision.

Lady Mallowe had come for something. She had come to be amiable to Miss Temple Barholm and to establish relations with her.

“Joan should have been here to meet me,” she explained. “Her dressmaker is keeping her, of course. She will be so annoyed. She wanted very much to come with me.”

It was further revealed that she might arrive at any moment, which gave Miss Alicia an opportunity to express, with pretty grace, the hope that she would, and her trust that she was quite well.

“She is always well,” Lady Mallowe returned. “And she is of course as interested as we all are in this romantic thing. It is perfectly delicious, like a three-volumed novel.”

“It is romantic,” said Miss Alicia, wondering how much her visitor knew or thought she knew, and what circumstances would present themselves to her as delicious.

“Of course one has heard only the usual talk one always hears when everybody is chattering about a thing,” Lady Mallowe replied, with a propitiating smile. “No one really knows what is true and what isn’t. But it is nice to notice that all the gossip speaks so well of him. No one seems to pretend that he is anything but extremely nice himself, notwithstanding his disadvantages.”

She kept a fine hazel eye, surrounded by a line which artistically represented itself as black lashes, steadily resting on Miss Alicia as she said the last words.

“He is,” said Miss Alicia, with gentle firmness, “nicer than I had ever imagined any young man could be—far nicer.”

Lady Mallowe’s glance round the luxurious private sitting-room and over the perfect “idea” of Mrs. Mellish was so swift as to be almost imperceptible.

“How delightful!” she said. “He must be unusually agreeable, or you would not have consented to stay and take care of him.”

“I cannot tell you how happy I am to have been asked to stay with him, Lady Mallowe,” Miss Alicia replied, the gentle firmness becoming a soft dignity.

“Which of course shows all the more how attractive he must be. And in view of the past lack of advantages, what a help you can be to him! It is quite wonderful for him to have a relative at hand who is an Englishwoman and familiar with things he will feel he must learn.”

A perhaps singular truth is that but for the unmistakable nature of the surroundings she quickly took in the significance of, and but for the perfection of the carrying out of Mrs. Mellish’s delightful idea, it is more than probable that her ladyship’s manner of approaching Miss Alicia and certain subjects on which she desired enlightenment would have been[Pg 303] much more direct and much less propitiatory. Extraordinary as it was, “the creature”—she thought of Tembarom as “the creature”—had plainly been so pleased with the chance of being properly coached that he had put everything, so to speak, in the little old woman’s hands. She had got a hold upon him. It was quite likely that to regard her as a definite factor would only be the part of the merest discretion. She was evidently quite in love with him in her early-Victorian, spinster way. One had to be prudent with women like that who had got hold of a male creature for the first time in their lives, and were almost unaware of their own power. Their very unconsciousness made them a dangerous influence.

With a masterly review of these facts in her mind Lady Mallowe went on with a fluent and pleasant talk, through the medium of which she managed to convey a large number of things Miss Alicia was far from being clever enough to realize she was talking about. She lightly waved wings of suggestion across the scene, she dropped infinitesimal seeds in passing, she left faint echoes behind her—the kind of echoes one would find oneself listening to and trying to hear as definitely formed sounds. She had been balancing herself on a precarious platform of rank and title, unsupported by any sordid foundation of a solid nature, through a lifetime spent in London. She had learned to catch fiercely at straws of chance, and bitterly to regret the floating past of the slightest, which had made of her a finished product of her kind. She talked lightly, and was sometimes almost witty. To her hearer she seemed to know every brilliant personage and to be familiar with every dazzling thing. She knew well what social habits and customs meant, what their value, or lack of value, was. There were customs, she implied skilfully, so established by time that it was impossible to ignore them. Relationships, for instance, stood for so much that was fine in England that one was sometimes quite touched by the far-reachingness of family loyalty. The head of the house of a great estate represented a certain power in the matter of upholding the dignity of his possessions, of caring for his tenantry, of standing for proper hospitality and friendly family feeling. It was quite beautiful as one often saw it. Throughout the talk there were several references to Joan, who really must come in shortly, which were very interesting to Miss Alicia. Lady Joan, Miss Alicia heard casually, was a great beauty. Her perfection and her extreme cleverness had made her perhaps a trifle difficile. She had not done—Lady Mallowe put it with a lightness of phrasing which was delicacy itself—what she might have done, with every exalted advantage, so many times. She had a profound nature. Here Lady Mallowe waved away, as it were, a ghost of a sigh. Since Miss Temple Barholm was a relative, she had no doubt heard of the unfortunate, the very sad incident which her mother sometimes feared prejudiced the girl even yet.

“You mean—poor Jem!” broke forth involuntarily from Miss Alicia’s lips. Lady Mallowe stared a little.

“Do you call him that?” she asked. “Did you know him, then?”

“I loved him,” answered Miss Alicia, winking her eyes to keep back the moisture in them, “though it was only when he was a little boy.”

“Oh,” said Lady Mallowe, with a sudden, singular softness, “I must tell Joan that.”

Lady Joan had not appeared even after they had had tea and her mother went away, but somehow Miss Alicia had reached a vaguely yearning feeling for her and wished very much the dressmaker had released her. She was quite stirred when it revealed itself almost at the last moment that in a few weeks both she and Lady Mallowe were to pay a visit at no great distance from Temple Barholm itself, and that her ladyship would certainly arrange to drive over to continue her delightful acquaintance and to see the beautiful old place again.

“In any case one must, even if he lived in lonely state, pay one’s respects to the head of the house. The truth is, of course, one is extremely anxious to meet him, and it is charming to know that one is not merely invading the privacy of a bachelor,” Lady Mallowe put it.

“She’ll come for you,” Little Ann had soberly remarked.

Tembarom remembered the look in her quiet, unresentful blue eyes when he came in to dinner and Miss Alicia related to him the events of the afternoon.

[Pg 304]

### CHAPTER XVIII

THE spring, when they traveled back to the north, was so perceptibly nearer that the fugitive soft days strayed in advance at intervals that were briefer. They chose one for their journey, and its clear sunshine and hints at faint greenness were so exhilarating to Miss Alicia that she was a companion to make any journey an affair to rank with holidays and adventures. The strange luxury of traveling in a reserved first-class carriage, of being made timid by no sense of unfitness of dress or luggage, would have filled her with grateful rapture; but Rose, journeying, with Pearson a few coaches behind, appeared at the carriage window at every important station to say, “Is there anything I may do for you, ma’am?” And there really never was anything she could do, because Mr. Temple Barholm remembered everything which could make her comfort perfect. In the moods of one who searches the prospect for suggestions as to pleasure he can give to himself by delighting a dear child, he had found and bought for her a most elegant little dressing-bag, with the neatest of plain-gold fittings beautifully initialed. It reposed upon the cushioned seat near her, and made her heart beat every time she caught sight of it anew. How wonderful it would be if poor dear, darling mama could look down and see everything and really know what happiness had been vouchsafed to her unworthy child!

Having a vivid recollection of the journey made with Mr. Palford, Tembarom felt that his whole world had changed for him. The landscape had altered its aspect. Miss Alicia pointed out bits of freshening grass, was sure of the breaking of brown leaf-buds, and more than once breathlessly suspected a primrose in a sheltered hedge corner. A country-bred woman, with country-bred keenness of eye and a country-bred sense of the seasons’ change, she saw so much that he had never known that she began to make him see also. Bare trees would be thick-leaved nesting-places, hedges would be white with hawthorn, and hold blue eggs and chirps and songs. Skylarks would spring out of the fields and soar into the sky, dropping crystal chains of joyous trills. The cottage gardens would be full of flowers, there would be poppies gleaming scarlet in the corn, and in buttercup-time all the green grass would be a sheet of shining gold.

“When it all happens I shall be like a little East-Sider taken for a day in the country. I shall be asking questions at every step,” Tembarom said. “Temple Barholm must be pretty fine then.”

“It is so lovely,” said Miss Alicia, turning to him almost solemnly,[Pg 305] “that sometimes it makes one really lose one’s breath.”

He looked out of the window with sudden wistfulness.

“I wish Ann—” he began and then, seeing the repressed question in her eyes, made up his mind.

He told her about Little Ann. He did not use very many words, but she knew a great deal when he had finished. And her spinster soul was thrilled. Neither she nor poor Emily had ever had an admirer, and it was not considered refined for unsought females to discuss “such subjects.” Domestic delirium over the joy of an engagement in families in which daughters were a drug she had seen. It was indeed inevitable that there should be more rejoicing over one Miss Timson who had strayed from the fold into the haven of marriage than over the ninety-nine Misses Timson who remained behind. But she had never known intimately any one who was in love—really in love. Mr. Temple Barholm must be. When he spoke of Little Ann he flushed shyly and his eyes looked so touching and nice. His voice sounded different, and though of course his odd New York expressions were always rather puzzling, she felt as though she saw things she had had no previous knowledge of—things which thrilled her.

“She must be a very—very nice girl,” she ventured at length. “I am afraid I have never been into old Mrs. Hutchinson’s cottage. She is quite comfortably off in her way, and does not need parish care. I wish I had seen Miss Hutchinson.”

“I wish she had seen you,” was Tembarom’s answer.

Miss Alicia reflected. “She must be very clever to have such—sensible views,” she remarked.

If he had remained in New York, and there had been no question of his inheriting Temple Barholm, the marriage would have been most suitable. But however “superior” she might be, a vision of old Mrs. Hutchinson’s granddaughter as the wife of Mr. Temple Barholm, and of noisy old Mr. Hutchinson as his father-in-law was a staggering thing.

“You think they were sensible?” asked Tembarom. “Well, she never did anything that wasn’t. So I guess they were. And what she says goes. I wanted you to know, anyhow. I wouldn’t like you not to know. I’m too fond of you, Miss Alicia.” And he put his hand round her neat glove and squeezed it. The tears of course came into her tender eyes. Emotion of any sort always expressed itself in her in this early-Victorian manner.

“This Lady Joan girl,” he said suddenly not long afterward, “isn’t she the kind that I’m to get used to—the kind in the pictorial magazine Ann talked about? I bought one at the depot before we started. I wanted to get on to the pictures and see what they did to me.”

He found the paper among his belongings and regarded it with the expression of a serious explorer. It opened at a page of illustrations of slim goddesses in court dresses. By actual measurement, if regarded according to scale, each was about ten feet high; but their long lines, combining themselves with court trains, waving plumes, and falling veils, produced an awe-inspiring effect. Tembarom gazed at them in absorbed silence.

“Is she something like any of these?” he inquired finally.

Miss Alicia looked through her glasses.

“Far more beautiful, I believe,” she answered. “These are only fashion-plates, and I have heard that she is a most striking girl.”

“A beaut’ from Beautsville!” he said. “So that’s what I’m up against! I wonder how much use that kind of a girl would have for me.”

He gave a good deal of attention to the paper before he laid it aside. As she watched him, Miss Alicia became gradually aware of the existence of a certain hint of determined squareness in his boyish jaw. It was perhaps not much more than a hint, but it really was there, though she had not noticed it before. In fact, it usually hid itself behind his slangy youthfulness and readiness for any good cheer.

One may as well admit that it sustained him during his novitiate and aided him to pass through it without ignominy or disaster. He was strengthened also by a private resolve to hear himself in such a manner as would at least do decent credit to Little Ann and her superior knowledge. With the curious eyes of servants, villagers, and secretly outraged neighborhood upon him, he was shrewd enough to know that he might easily become a perennial fount of grotesque anecdote, to be used as a legitimate source of entertain[Pg 306]ment in cottages over the consumption of beans and bacon, as well as at great houses when dinner-table talk threatened to become dull if not enlivened by some spice. He would not have thought of this or been disturbed by it but for Ann. She knew, and he was not going to let her be met on her return from America with what he called “a lot of funny dope” about him.

“No girl would like it,” he said to himself. “And the way she said she ‘cared too much’ just put it up to me to see that the fellow she cares for doesn’t let himself get laughed at.”

Though he still continued to be jocular on subjects which to his valet seemed almost sacred, Pearson was relieved to find that his employer gradually gave himself into his hands in a manner quite amenable. In the touching way in which nine out of ten nice, domesticated American males obey the behests of the women they are fond of, he had followed Ann’s directions to the letter. Guided by the adept Pearson, he had gone to the best places in London and purchased the correct things, returning to Temple Barholm with a wardrobe to which any gentleman might turn at any moment without a question.

“He’s got good shoulders, though he does slouch a bit,” Pearson said to Rose. “And a gentleman’s shoulders are more than half the battle.”

What Tembarom himself felt cheered by was the certainty that if Ann saw him walking about the park or the village, or driving out with Miss Alicia in the big landau, or taking her in to dinner, or even going to church with her, she would not have occasion to flush at sight of him.

The going to church was one of the duties of his position he found out. Miss Alicia “put him on” to that. It seemed that he had to present himself to the villagers “as an example.” If the Temple Barholm pews were empty, the villagers, not being incited to devotional exercise by his exalted presence, would feel at liberty to remain at home, and in the irreligious undress of shirt-sleeves sit and smoke their pipes or, worse still, gather at “the Hare and Hounds” and drink beer. Also, it would not be “at all proper” not to go to church.

Pearson produced a special cut of costume for this ceremony, and Tembarom walked with Miss Alicia across the park to the square-towered Norman church.

In a position of dignity the Temple Barholm pews overlooked the congregation. There was the great square pew for the family, with two others for servants. Footmen and house-maids gazed reverentially at prayer-books. Pearson, making every preparation respectfully to declare himself a “miserable sinner” when the proper moment arrived, could scarcely restrain a side glance as the correctly cut and fitted and entirely “suitable” work of his hands opened the pew-door for Miss Alicia, followed her in, and took his place.

Let not the fact that he had never been to church before be counted against him. There was nothing very extraordinary in the fact. He had felt no antipathy to church-going, but he had not by chance fallen under proselyting influence, and it had certainly never occurred to him that he had any place among the well-dressed, comfortable-looking people he had seen flocking into places of worship in New York. As far as religious observances were concerned, he was an unadulterated heathen, and was all the more to be congratulated on being a heathen of genial tendencies.

The very large pew, under the stone floor of which his ancestors had slept undisturbedly for centuries, interested him greatly. A recumbent marble crusader in armor, with feet crossed in the customary manner, fitted into a sort of niche in one side of the wall. There were carved tablets and many inscriptions in Latin wheresoever one glanced. The place was like a room. A heavy, round table, on which lay prayer-books, Bibles, and hymn-books, occupied the middle. About it were arranged beautiful old chairs, with hassocks to kneel on. Toward a specially imposing chair with arms Miss Alicia directed him with a glance. It was apparently his place. He was going to sit down when he saw Miss Alicia gently push forward a hassock with her foot, and kneel on it, covering her face with her hands as she bent her head. He hastily drew forth his hassock and followed her example.

That was it, was it? It wasn’t only a matter of listening to a sermon; you had to do things. He had better watch out and see that he didn’t miss anything. She didn’t know it was his first time, and it might worry her to the limit if he didn’t put it over all right. One of the things[Pg 307] he had noticed in her was her fear of attracting attention by failing to do exactly the “proper thing.” If he made a fool of himself by kneeling down when he ought to stand up, or lying down when he ought to sit, she’d get hot all over, thinking what the villagers would say. Well, Ann hadn’t wanted him to look different from other fellows or to make breaks. He’d look out from start to finish. He directed a watchful eye at Miss Alicia through his fingers. She remained kneeling a few moments, and then very quietly got up. He rose with her, and took his big chair when she sat down. He breathed more freely. That was the first round.

It was not a large church, but a gray and solemn impression of dignity brooded over it. It was dim with light, which fell through stained-glass memorial windows set deep in the thick stone walls. The silence which reigned throughout its spaces seemed to Tembarom of a new kind, different from the silence of the big house. The occasional subdued rustle of turned prayer-book leaves seemed to accentuate it; the most careful movement could not conceal itself; a slight cough was a startling thing. The way, Tembarom thought, they could get things dead-still in English places!

The chimes, which had been ringing their last summons to the tardy, slackened their final warning notes, became still slower, stopped. There was a slight stir in the benches occupied by the infant school. It suggested that something new was going to happen. From some unseen place came the sound of singing voices—boyish voices and the voices of men. Tembarom involuntarily turned his head. Out of the unseen place came a procession in white robes. Great Scott! every one was standing up! He must stand up, too. The boys and men in white garments filed into their seats. An elderly man, also in white robes, separated himself from them, and, going into his special place, kneeled down. Then he rose and began to read:

“When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness—”

Tembarom took the open book which Miss Alicia had very delicately pushed toward him. He read the first words,—that was plain sailing,—then he seemed to lose his place. Miss Alicia turned a leaf. He turned one also.

“Dearly beloved brethren—”

There you were. This was once more plain sailing. He could follow it. What was the matter with Miss Alicia? She was kneeling again, everybody was kneeling. Where was the hassock? He went down upon his knees, hoping Miss Alicia had not seen that he wasn’t going to kneel at all. Then when the minister said “Amen,” the congregation said it, too, and he came in too late, so that his voice sounded out alone. He must watch that. Then the minister knelt, and all the people prayed aloud with him. With the book before him he managed to get in after the first few words; but he was not ready with the responses, and in the middle of them everybody stood up again. And then the organ played, and every one sang. He couldn’t sing, anyhow, and he knew he couldn’t catch on to the kind of thing they were doing. He hoped Miss Alicia wouldn’t mind his standing up and holding his book and doing nothing. He could not help seeing that eyes continually turned toward him. They’d notice every darned break he made, and Miss Alicia would know it. He felt quite hot more than once. He watched her like a hawk; he sat down and listened to reading, he stood up and listened to singing; he kneeled, he tried to chime in with “Amens” and to keep up with her bending of head and knee. But the creed, with its sudden turn toward the altar, caught him unawares, he lost himself wholly in the Psalms, the collects left him in deep water, and the Litany baffled him by changing from “miserable sinners” to “Spare us Good Lord.” If he could have found the place he would have been all right, but his anxiety excited him, and the fear of embarrassing Miss Alicia by going wrong made the morning a strenuous thing. He was so relieved to find he might sit still when the sermon began that he gave the minister the attention of a religious enthusiast.

By the time the service had come to an end the stately peace of the place had seemed to sink into his being and become part of himself. The voice of the minister bestowing his blessing, the voices of the choir floating up to the vaulted roof, stirred him to a remote pleasure. He liked it, or he knew he would like it when he knew what to do. The filing out of the choris[Pg 308]ters, the silent final prayer, the soft rustle of people rising from their knees, somehow moved him by its suggestion of something before unknown. He was a heathen, but a heathen vaguely stirred.

He was very quiet as he walked home across the park with Miss Alicia.

“How did you enjoy the sermon?” she asked with much sweetness.

“I’m not used to sermons, but it seemed all right to me,” he answered. “What I’ve got to get on to is knowing when to stand up and when to sit down. I wasn’t much of a winner at it this morning. I guess you noticed that.”

But his outward bearing had been much more composed than his inward anxiety had allowed him to believe. His hesitations had not produced the noticeable effect he had feared.

“Do you mean you are not quite familiar with the service?” she said. Poor dear boy! he had perhaps not been able to go to church regularly at all.

“I’m not familiar with any service,” he answered without prejudice. “I never went to church before.”

She slightly started and then smiled.

“Oh, you mean you have never been to the Church of England,” she said.

Then he saw that, if he told her the exact truth, she would be frightened and shocked. She would not know what to say or what to think. To her unsophisticated mind only murderers and thieves and criminals never went to church. She just didn’t know. Why should she? So he smiled also.

“No, I’ve never been to the Church of England,” he said.

(To be continued)

## INVULNERABLE

BY WILLIAM ROSE BENÉT

THE armorers met me at the marge of life,
The weapon-bearers, calling each his ware,
Praising sword or spear or sinuous knife
Fashioned for the strife
In the forest depths that lay before,
To ward off malice or to pierce despair;
Shields that could affright
All the hissing snakes in Envy’s hair;
Or, when Peril’s sudden arrow sped,
Crying how bucklers, stern of proof and bright,
Glanced the shaft, the rancor overbore;
Or iron helms, securely vizarded,
Turned the thrusts of mockery and spite.
Loudly “Arm you! Arm you!” rose their cry;
And I chose a shield, Indifference,
And a blade, Sharp Wit, for my defense.
Close-meshed mail beneath my gaberdine
Glittered all unseen.
Proud I strode and whirled my sword on high.
Then my friend went by,
Passing in his shining joy unarmed,
With not even an amulet that charmed;
Singing for the innocence confessed
In his sparkling eyes, his buoyant breast;
Swiftly, gaily thrusting through the trees
To his deep and darkling forest doom,
As I thought. But still before me goes,
Blithe and wonderful, his candid smile
Every ambushed shadow to illume,
And the quickening sympathy that glows
Sudden on his cheek when friends seem foes,
And his utter radiance without guile,
Merry ignorance where I am—wise?
Where they lurk and snarl and close with me,
All unscathed of foemen passeth he,
Seeing no strife, unarmed eternally,
And e’en the Terrors turn away their eyes!

[Pg 309]

##

### UNDER WHICH FLAG, LADIES, ORDER OR ANARCHY?

THE PENNSYLVANIA ASSOCIATION FOR WOMAN SUFFRAGE DISAVOWS VIOLENCE

IN the April CENTURY, in an editorial article, “The Silent Suffragists of America,” we called upon the official organizations in the United States advocating woman suffrage to abandon their passive and tolerant attitude toward the methods of the English militants, a plea which we had also made in the number for November last.[23] We have received letters of approval of this article from representative women on each side of the suffrage question. It is a matter of sincere gratification to us to publish at the first opportunity the letter which follows from Miss Eleanor Cuyler Patterson of Chestnut Hill (Philadelphia):

I have read with interest the temperate and wise opinion printed in “Topics of the Time” in the April number of THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. It gives me great pleasure to send you the resolution on this subject passed by the executive committee of the Pennsylvania Association for Woman Suffrage on March 7, 1913.

“Although we do not pass judgment on the methods of other organizations, we disclaim all connection with militant organizations, and do not indorse or intend to use militant methods, but shall continue to employ educational methods as in the past.”

Here at last we have from an official suffrage organization in America a sober-minded expression of opinion on this burning subject. It ought to be the beginning of a sincere effort to rescue the whole woman movement from the shallow thinking and super-emotionalism that are likely to wreck it.

That this sort of protest is much needed is shown from the following passage from a letter to “The New York Times” from a leading advocate of the suffrage, Mrs. Eunice Dana Brannan, which is the first public expression of what we must regard as a very unfortunate, not to say shocking, frame of mind on the part of many refined and well-educated American women:

The suffragists in America are agreed in their belief that militant action is not called for. Injustice to women is not so evident nor so general as in England, and the attitude of the majority of American men is certainly fairer and more honestly chivalrous. But, in spite of these amiable differences, it is quite possible that if the Eastern States continue to deny enfranchisement to their women, while the Western States continue to grant it, the women thus discriminated against would find the political anomaly of their position so impossible to bear that even militancy would seem to them justifiable.

The words we have italicized are deplorably significant. They mean, for instance, that the immunity of New York City from similar outrages is to be dependent only upon the granting of the suffrage by the State. “Militant action is not called for”—yet, but will be called for if the voters of the East, however conscientiously, shall deny the suffrage to women!

In striking contrast is this extract from an open letter, printed in “The New York Times” of April 14, from Mrs. Helen Magill White (Mrs. Andrew D. White) of Ithaca, New York, addressed “To the Treasurer of the National American Woman Suffrage Association.” After recording her friendly attitude toward the movement, Mrs. White closes her letter with these downright words:

I never until lately admitted to myself the possibility of our essential inferiority—such that, in matters of government, we could[Pg 310] without outrage be classed with children, with idiots and insane, and with criminals.

But now that I see our own kinswomen across the sea sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind—sowing seeds of lawlessness which we may see in our own day, I greatly fear, blossoming in an anarchism more terrible than anything yet known to history—and when I see our own women protesting feebly or not at all, and even, to some extent, encouraging, I have not a cent to contribute nor a word of sympathy for any association of women which does not publicly and earnestly protest against such a line of procedure. It resembles the kicking and biting of spoiled children, the raving and gibbering of insane and idiots—and the unbridled license of the most abandoned criminals. All these classes think solely of what they want, and self-constitute themselves arbiters of what they should have. What it may cost other human beings, innocent though they be, for them to grasp at the objects of their desire by whatever means may come to hand, does not touch their minds; and so it would seem to be with those women of England; and so, also, with those of our own women who condone their offenses—who would condone such action in any cause.

Mrs. White here indicates both the responsibility of sincere, educated, and thoughtful suffragists and an effective method whereby they may hold the official organizations to their duty. Not a dollar should be subscribed to their work until they have pledged themselves that no part of their funds shall go to the support of lawlessness, and have made as definite a disclaimer of sympathy and intention as the Pennsylvania society, the action of which, at this time, is a patriotic public service of the highest order.

We have nothing but respect for the women of America who are earnestly convinced that the extension of the suffrage gives promise of a brighter day for humanity, and we take this opportunity to record our abhorrence not only of violence by women but of such interference with peaceable parades as disgraced the city of Washington on the third of March. In these days of turbulence of action and of thought, there is no securer anchorage to the mind than Chatham’s saying, “Where law ends, tyranny begins.”

### NEWSPAPER INVASION OF PRIVACY

IS THE PAUL PRY AND PEEPING TOM TYPE OF REPORTING ON THE INCREASE?

THE newspapers printed the initial paragraph of Mr. Pierpont Morgan’s will, and some of them made it the theme of very respectful and profitable comment. It was as intimate a statement as can well be imagined, a solemn committal of the soul of the maker of the will into the hands of his Saviour, and a charge to his children to maintain and defend “the blessed doctrine of the complete atonement for sin through the blood of Jesus Christ.”

But Mr. Morgan was a public person. All of us, in that sense, became members of his family. We had made our way to his bedside as he lay dying in Rome, and we expected to be given his will to read as soon as his wife and son and daughters had read it. They were obliged to give it to us: what could they do? Mr. Morgan, by reason of his great wealth and his distinguished public service had lost the privilege of privacy.

At the same time, there were those who read the will, and especially the beginning of it, with a certain sense of embarrassment, as if they had been found reading a neighbor’s private letters. The situation is one which arises in connection with some modern biographies and autobiographies, but the newspapers present it to our conscience every day. Now is abundantly fulfilled the prediction of an old book which said, “There is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.” When the book promises further that that which is spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops, we seem to see the reporter in the midst of his characteristic activities. All the closet doors are now wide open; or, if they are shut and locked against us, there are dictagraphs inside.

The other day at a great college a student was found dead in bed. The reporter who put the fact in the paper reported also that the president and the dean, and other persons much older and perhaps wiser than himself, had done their best to keep the matter private. Their endeavors appear to have been entirely for the sake of the[Pg 311] student’s family and friends. There was no suspicion of anything wrong except such as the reporter himself conveyed to heighten the interest. These kindly endeavors the reporter, according to his own frank and impudent confession, had frustrated. No purpose seems to have been served by the publication except that the reporter got his money for it.

The other day, in the midst of a suit for divorce, the wife was stricken with a mortal disease, and the husband was sent for. She was unconscious when he arrived, and he knelt by her bedside, praying. Then she opened her eyes and saw him, and told him that she loved him still. Behind the door was a reporter, with his paper in one hand and his pencil in the other, putting down what he saw and heard through the crack, and going out to shout it through a megaphone in the street.

Two lads in a high school fought a duel over the attentions which one was paying to the other’s sister. The local newspapers gave it nearly as much space as they gave to the floods in Ohio. The little girls who looked on were all interviewed, and we were told what the sister said when she went to see her wounded lover in the hospital. Of course the perspective was absurd, but the performance was by no means absurd.

So with the divorce-suits that are tried in the court-rooms, which have no walls, where the busy reporters prepare themselves to tell us a hundred things that we have no right to know. A brutal husband forces his wife to sue him for divorce as her only defense against his cruelty, and the newspapers coöperate with him in exposing to the common gaze all the tender privacies of the woman’s soul.

We read such revelations, at first ashamed, as if we were looking through a keyhole, then somewhat brutalized ourselves by the experience. Thus the line is blurred between the publicity which is for the good of the people and for the terror of offenders, and the publicity which is only gossip and scandal printed for no other purpose than to sell the papers and make money. Whatever the remedy, the fact is plain that our sense of the honest rights of privacy is dulled. If Lady Godiva were to ride through the streets of Coventry to-day, there would be Peeping Toms in groups at every window with cameras and machines for taking moving pictures.

It is not improbable that one of the next important movements in this country will be for a greater sense of responsibility to wholesome public opinion on the part of the press. There is so much that is good and helpful and truly progressive in the better newspapers, and they are so sound on the larger questions of national policy, that it is to be hoped that the reformation of the grosser faults of journalism will be initiated by them. And in saying this we must not forget the offenses against good taste and good morals which are continually being perpetrated by certain periodicals that appear but once a month.

### THE CHANGING VIEW OF GOVERNMENT

A GROWING SENSE OF ITS DUTIES TO THE PEOPLE

A MEMBER of Congress summed up the strongest impression from his latest electoral campaign as being that the people in this country are coming to have a much more vivid sense of the Government as “a political entity” which “owes duties.” He obviously means something more than Secretary Hay’s famous phrase about the “administrative entity” of China. This is no mere quibble about Pope’s “forms of government.” It implies a wide departure from the old view that government is a necessary evil, to be kept as limited as possible. However we explain or interpret the new conception, its existence and increasing sway over the minds of men will not be questioned by any one who keeps his eyes open to the facts. He may call the tendency socialistic or simply an extension of the democratic principle, but that it has now become a part of American political thinking he cannot well deny.

Equally undeniable is it that the idea that people have of the nature and function of their Government is more important than any mere question of governmental machinery. We hear much of a movement to “restore the government to the people.” All manner of political devices are commended, or else condemned, to bring about a more direct participation by the citizen in the work of government. Be these proposals wise or foolish, it is[Pg 312] plain that the chief question lies behind them. It is what the people wish their Government to be; what they would now have done by those responsible for its conduct; what they themselves would undertake by means of governmental agencies in case those agencies were somehow made more quickly responsive to the popular will. Show a political philosopher what the driving forces of a republic really desire it to be or to become, and he will be able to get much more instruction out of that, much more material on which to base prophecies respecting future development, than he possibly can from endless talk about primaries and conventions, ballot-laws and corrupt-practices acts. Those are only means and machinery; the end aimed at is the main thing.

Looking back at the recent enlargement of governmental activities, and endeavoring to read in them the new sense of duties owed, we are able to detect at least a few general indications and even certain principles. For example, it is clear that the people are demanding, and will more and more demand, that their governments, local and national, do a great deal more than was formerly expected to conserve the physical health of the nation. Here is the origin of pure-food laws, of meat-inspection, of statutes against the adulteration of drugs. In this feeling of the vital relation that ought to exist between the Government and the bodily well-being of its subjects we have also the explanation of official campaigns against disease, of the movement for a national quarantine, and of the great broadening of the work everywhere laid upon health officers.

All this has not come about through a deliberate or reasoned change in the point of view. It is, rather, the result of quiet pressure from the practical side. Large problems of public health have pushed themselves to the front; and in seeking to solve them, the people have merely laid hold of the powers of government as ready and efficient instruments. It is now tacitly assumed that the Government is under a continuing obligation to guard the people against epidemic disease and exposure to impure food and deleterious drugs. This is now distinctly one of the duties owed.

But life is more than meat, liberty and equality of opportunity are more precious than health. And in seeking to preserve these, the work of our Government during the last few years has made of official activity something very different from the conceptions and standards of 1787 or 1850—something which is no doubt open to abuse, but which, we are persuaded, has thus far been largely beneficial in its practical manifestations.

When the Government takes hold of the evil of railway rebating with a strong hand, it is not alone a question of enforcement of the law, but of striking down an insidious and dangerous form of special privilege. The real offense in the old rebate system, now happily so nearly a thing of the past, was not alone its secret favors to a secret few, but its gross discrimination against the unprotected many. It was the denial of the right to compete on equal terms. This is the intolerable thing in a free democracy. It can endure the sight of great wealth, of vast fortunes honestly gained, but it cannot submit to a method of accumulating property which destroys the opportunities of thousands in order to give unfair advantages to one. It is the determination to keep the career open to talent, not to shut it up to favoritism, which has been the animating spirit in the long struggle to prevent the railroads from virtually creating private fortunes at their own sweet will, and bringing whom they please to penury by means of rebates.

A like attitude and animus are seen in the other forms of legislative restriction upon great corporations. All the anti-monopoly laws and anti-trust suits, all the regulating statutes and the public-utilities commissions, have one principle at bottom, and it is to make all men stand equal before the law. On the one hand to strike down oppression, on the other to equalize opportunity, has been the intent of these new activities of government which, whatever else they show, leave no doubt of an altogether changed view of what governments owe.

In all these matters, the greatest peril that lurks in our path is that of being misled by abstractions. If we talk overmuch of “government,” we are in danger of forgetting the human beings who make it up. If we are afflicted by bad rulers, it is no help to us to fall back upon an ideal conception of “the state.” The state is simply men acting. Much amusement[Pg 313] was created in Paris by an innocent peasant who passed from one public building to another demanding that he be allowed to see l’état. He had heard of it all his life; he thought it was something at the capital; being there, he wanted to inspect it at close range. He was an unsophisticated rustic, but was he not right in his instinct? We are not, after all, governed by an “entity.” Government is the most concrete of human affairs. It is vested in mortal men. And in all the agitations and the hopes and fears of our day respecting the extension of governmental functions, and the quickening of the whole idea of what the state owes to citizens, it would be fatal to forget that government cannot be made better except by putting better men in charge of it.

### THE TWO-BILLION-DOLLAR CONGRESS

A NATIONAL BUDGET THE REMEDY FOR EXTRAVAGANCE IN APPROPRIATIONS

THE time is overripe for a fundamental change in our method of making annual appropriations for the cost of the National Government. A glance at the result of the work done by the various congressional committees charged with the duty of preparing appropriation bills is enough to bring conviction that order and system must be substituted for the present chaotic methods; while, if we could penetrate the secrets of the committee-rooms, the country would stand appalled at the ignoble tricks and devices by which the “pork-barrel” is filled and the money of the taxpayers wantonly and wickedly wasted.

The Democrats in their platform of 1912 “denounce the profligate waste of money wrung from the people by oppressive taxation through the lavish appropriations of recent Republican Congresses,” and they demand “a return to that simplicity and economy which befits a democratic Government.” How did they keep faith with the people under this self-denying ordinance? In the session of Congress immediately following, the second regular session of the Sixty-second Congress, which adjourned on March 4, they passed appropriation bills aggregating $1,098,647,960, and authorized contracts on public works committing the Government to a further expenditure of $76,956,174, making a total demand upon the treasury for the year ending June 30, 1914, of $1,175,604,134, a sum that surpasses all previous congressional achievements in extravagance. Not only that, but the grand total of the appropriations and contracts authorized in the two years of the Sixty-second Congress was $2,238,470,990, which is to be compared with $2,151,610,940 of the Sixty-first Congress. This is democratic economy and simplicity with a vengeance. The Democrats surpassed by more than $86,000,000 the exploits of the previous Republican Congress, which they had denounced as profligate.

But the Republican pot cannot call the Democratic kettle black. The blame falls upon both parties, for both have been profligate. Not only is the method of drawing up the appropriation schedules indefensible, but many of the senators and congressmen of both parties exhibit a degree of greed and rapacity in grabbing for the people’s money that is fairly comparable with the behavior of a drunken army looting a captive city. The river-and-harbor appropriation of $41,000,000, and the public-buildings appropriation amounting to $45,000,000 more, cover multitudes of log-rolling sins, of costly improvements of streams never navigable, of imposing buildings for small towns, veritable “grabs” of money to foster local pride, put district constituents in a good humor, and lay the foundation for safe majorities in the next congressional elections. The sin here is not alone that of profligate wastefulness; it is a pretty direct form of bribery of the voter. The staggering appropriation for pensions belongs in this category. The Service Pension Act added $25,000,000 to this item of expenditure, which in this fiscal year is raised to the great sum of $180,300,000. And we are now observing the fiftieth anniversaries of events of the war!

The national balance-sheet for the year which this “return to that simplicity and economy which befits a democratic Government” presents for the scrutiny of the voter and the taxpayer stands thus: estimated revenue of the Government under existing laws, $991,791,508; direct appropriations, $1,098,647,960; deficit, $106,856,452. But there must be added[Pg 314] to the appropriations $76,976,174 of contract commitments authorized, raising the deficit to the colossal total of $183,812,626.

How shall this riot of extravagance be checked? By concentrating the power of control over appropriation bills and by establishing a definite responsibility for them. Two methods have been proposed. President Taft in a special message urged upon Congress the plan of a national budget. The various departments would prepare the estimates as now; these would be diligently studied and coördinated, with constant reference to the estimated revenue of the year; and the Executive would then submit to Congress such a budget statement as in most other countries the legislative body receives from the Government. In the House of Representatives this budget would be considered by a budget committee, or, if the old name were retained, by the Committee on Appropriations. And the report of that committee, of course, would be subject to discussion and amendment by the House. Representative Fitzgerald of the Appropriations Committee and ex-Speaker Cannon agree in advising a return to the practice of intrusting, the preparation of appropriation bills to a single Committee on Appropriations.

Prior to the year 1865, the Committee on Ways and Means had control of appropriation bills. Then the Committee on Appropriations was created, with full control of supply bills. In 1885, because of jealousy of the great power exercised by Samuel J. Randall, the bills making provision for the army, the diplomatic and consular service, the military academy, the navy, Indian affairs, and the post-office, were taken away from the Committee on Appropriations. This change marked the beginning of the era of extravagance. Under the present system, appropriations are made in thirteen annual bills, and “eight different committees, unrelated to one another, without coöperation, are charged with the duty” of preparing these bills. No fairer invitation to extravagance could be issued. Each committee works with regard only to itself, and, as we have seen, all together work without regard to the revenue side of the account. Coordination is impossible, and no balanced and well-apportioned budget could be the result of such a system.

The national-budget plan proposed by Mr. Taft should have the most serious consideration of Congress and of the country. Objection is made that this plan is “wholly inapplicable to our system of government.” It may be admitted at once that it is wholly incongruous with the present “system” of Congress in respect to appropriations. It would smash in both heads of the “pork-barrel,” and apprehension of that catastrophe, rather than any constitutional scruple, we imagine, is the motive of the objections that have been raised. It is true that the House under the Constitution originates revenue bills. But there is no constitutional impediment to the submission of estimates by the Executive, since that has been the practice of the Government since the beginning. A budget based upon the “needs of the Government economically administered,” and scrupulously adjusted to the revenue account, is the most promising remedy for the evils of the present method of preparing bills in eight committees, working with no recognized relation or understanding, under which extravagance has grown into a habit.

### ERRATUM

IN the April CENTURY, on page 821, by a misapprehension M. André Tardieu was spoken of as the editor of the “Revue des Deux Mondes,” to which he is a contributor. The editor is M. Francis Charmes of the French Academy.—THE EDITOR.

[Pg 315]

##

### ON THE LADY AND HER BOOK

A Plea for the Suppression of a Catchword

BY HELEN MINTURN SEYMOUR

My dear George:

The magazine containing “Confessions of a Novel Reader” arrived not two hours ago, and I have just come from its perusal. When a young man cares enough about his spinster aunt to send her his latest literary production on the very day it appears it does seem ungracious to do what I am about to do—make the letter of acknowledgment one continuous complaint. But you touched me on a sensitive spot, George. Your essay proved the proverbial straw, the drop that filled a cup of bitterness to overflowing.

Perhaps you suspect that this tirade comes from an elderly New Englander’s aversion to those very outspoken writers whom you admire. Not a bit of it. Worship at whatever shrine you please. I, too, in my young days, distressed my elders by my attachment to strange gods. It is a waste of time to be shocked, since most of us have gone in for “daring” literature when we were green in judgment. It is a phase of youth, like a boy’s swagger. No, all the trouble came from one little paragraph, which you probably never dreamed would upset me. You said—oh, you said—that no woman enjoys Dumas! That cut me to the heart, George,—and coming from you!

“A woman cannot read—” “A woman does not like—” We have heard those expressions so often! Sometimes the statement is used to illustrate the limitations of feminine sympathy. Sometimes the supposed limitations of feminine sympathy are used to support the statement. I don’t know which is worse, to go softly all one’s days, lest some individual weakness be foisted on the whole unfortunate sex, or to feel that individual tastes avail nothing as examples of female character.

Hark to Mr. Paul Elmer More on Christina Rossetti. He finds her “perfectly passive attitude toward the powers that command her heart and soul” makes her “the purest expression in English of the feminine genius.” Mrs. Browning sinks to a lower level because “her political opinions, her passion for reform, her scholarship ... simply carry her into the sphere of masculine poets, where she suffers by comparison.” But, “even within the range of strictly feminine powers her genius is not simple and typical.” How he comes to his conclusion regarding the typical woman Mr. More neglects to tell us. But you will observe the advantage of this method for the doctrinaire. One has only to accept a certain premise (it matters not what), and by excluding as “not typical” every instance which might contradict it one can prove anything. Thus, a certain book on the Negro proved, some years ago, that the colored race was a hopeless mass of laziness, vice, and stupidity. The writer hastened to forestall criticism by declaring that the well-conducted Negro, wherever and whenever found, was not typical of the race.

Here comes Dr. William Lyon Phelps, all amazement because women have enjoyed the soldier tales of Kipling. To him the preference is as out of place in a woman as her presence in a bar-room amid oaths and tobacco-juice. Well, if there were as much color, adventure, and excellent broad comedy in the bar-room as in the best of these stories a lady might even forgive the profanity and the filthy floor. And you must remember that life, for all the realists may say, is not literature. We take our broad comedy, selected and arranged, from an author. Life is like a variety show; we sit through a deal of vulgar stupidity for the sake of a laugh or two. Furthermore, I believe plenty of men who enjoy Mistress Doll Common when Ben Jonson leads her on the stage would find her sadly dull in real life. Perhaps I have grown more pa[Pg 316]tient with the limitations of sex since the days when I read “Monte Cristo” in the hayloft; but I still fume under that particular form of petticoat tyranny which would extend to books. Sex may pervade all the departments of life, but I hold that it should stop at the library door.

Divest yourself of certain odious catchwords, my dear boy. Toss certain theories into the waste-basket, where they belong. Forget that any one ever called woman “the subjective sex,” and that somebody described her as a “divine totality” (I think it was divine). Any superfluous subjectiveness is wearing away in the freer air which has done so much to destroy woman’s “personal outlook.” Remember that women are no more of a piece than are their fathers or brothers, but a hodge-podge of miscellaneous and often contradictory tastes. “Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are,” runs the saying. “Tell me what you read and I will tell you what you are,” says the critic by implication. Now, what is that middle-aged relative of mine who keeps a place in her heart of hearts for “Pride and Prejudice” and “Pan Michael,” for “The Essays of Elia” and “Junius’s Letters”? Verily, we seek our books as we seek the society of many friends, to suit a mood, with no regard for totalities.

By the way, is not this just another instance of that mania for pigeonholing human tastes and playing them off against one another? If you appreciate Sienkiewicz, you must share the opinion of “The Virginian” (and Mr. Wister) regarding Jane Austen; and if you find entertainment in the human comedy as played in English country towns at the end of the eighteenth century, it stands to reason that you are not the person for the Poland of the seventeenth. It avails you little to protest that you find an equal pleasure in routing Lady Catherine with Elizabeth and Tartars with Volodyovski. One of these days I intend to found a society for the suppression of useless comparisons. I can understand how a Trinitarian and a Unitarian, a Democrat and a Republican, a suffragist and an anti-suffragist might drift naturally into discussion. But why, when I speak a good word for the canine race, must my acquaintance, B, launch aggressively into praise of cats, as if my love of dogs were a challenge? Why may I not enjoy Tennyson without calling down on myself the scorn of the Browningite? It annoys me to have my pets or my poets made the excuse for a wrangle. I refuse to commit myself to any type of novel.

But, you may remind me, I went so far as to keep a parrot “once, long ago.” I plead guilty, yet, Mark Twain to the contrary, a parrot is no index to character. John Silver kept one, but nobody ever compared him to a maiden lady.

So, dear George, when you meet some gentle spinster with a flavor of “Cranford” about her, give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she likes nothing better than to swagger in imagination through the streets of old Paris in company with the immortal three, brandishing a sheaf of rapiers taken from the cardinal’s guard.

—And between you and me, George, I never saw a “typical woman.”

Your affectionate aunt,

Anne Coddington.

### ON THE USE OF HYPERBOLE IN ADVERTISING

From a Lady who Suffers from Skepticism to a Friend who is Healthily Credulous

BY AGNES REPPLIER

My dear Eleanor:

No, Eleanor, I have not read “The Three Golden Apples.” I have not even read the reviews. But I have read the publishers’ notice, because they were good enough to send it to me. They say the book is the literary masterpiece of our day, that it stands unrivaled in tensity of situation, that it is an epoch-making narrative, and a masterly contribution to the problems that confront the thinking world. Upon which I find myself murmuring with Sancho Panza, “Nothing else, mine honest friend?” Why not say simply and plainly that it is the greatest novel ever written, and that Clarence Coventry (have you ever met him, Eleanor? He is a charming man) is the greatest novelist ever born? Why, when people are soaring in the pure and limitless realms of fancy, should they stop short, as if they were impeded by facts?

Now even if I did not know Clarence—who writes quite as well as his neighbors—[Pg 317]I should be chilled into apathy by the publishers’ red-hot enthusiasm. The phrase “epoch-making” is calculated to chill any reader who has encountered it before and who remembers what it usually means. And though I am well aware that epochs are not made or marred by even a readable novel, I don’t like being told pure nonsense, and I don’t like being hounded by advertisements. Why, Eleanor, since I have been running over to New York every few weeks to see Amy and the children, and staring out of the car-windows at ninety weary miles of continuous advertising, I am cured forever of touching pills or pickles.

Yet they tell me (though I don’t believe it) that the success of any business venture depends wholly and entirely on its advertisements; that if people are told often enough to buy a thing they end by buying it; that if they are told imperatively or persuasively they buy it a little sooner; and that they can be startled into buying it at once. I have been given to understand that the artless expedient of printing an advertisement upside-down impels hundreds of men and women to purchase the object or visit the attraction so derided.

But we are not, in other respects, a child-like nation; I find a great deal of incredulity in this world when it comes to things worth believing. Why, then, this touching simplicity in the face of a transparent artifice? Does a young man really believe that if he eats one kind of cereal rather than another he will become a great financier? That is virtually what he is told. But if he will add up the financiers on the one hand, and the cereal-eaters on the other, he will find his figures disheartening.

The other day I received a long and exceedingly intimate communication, which began “Why not be Beautiful?”, and which (assuming ungraciously that I was ugly) gave me so many good reasons for altering my estate, that I began to fear I was “resisting grace” by retaining a single feature. A beautiful woman, I was reminded, “has the world at her feet, and can nobly mold the characters of men.” All this for thirty dollars, Eleanor! And I have so many friends whose characters—or at least whose habits—would “thole a mend.” Do you think, if I paid thirty dollars to be beautiful—in an elderly fashion—I could break Archie Hamilton of contradicting every innocent statement made in his presence (he’d say the sea wasn’t salt if he had a chance), and induce Dr. Nett not to tell us any more about the Panama Canal? It would be money well invested; but I fear—I fear—

The amazing thing about the whole business is that it should be worth while. Last winter in a magazine I read a very serious and sanguine paper called “A Revolution in Advertising.” The writer—it is always a woman who believes in the perfectibility of our fallen race—wanted advertisers, one and all, to abandon romance and become educational mediums. She begged them to give us their aid in apportioning our incomes, to tell us “facts about economy and expenditure,” to impart to us the secrets of skill and the principles of science. She sought to make our department stores “museums of vital importance.” As the stores are already concert-halls and picture-galleries, cooking-schools, day nurseries, and vaudeville shows, it seems grasping to ask them to be museums as well; but to expect them to teach us the value of economy is like expecting the steamship companies to teach us the advantages of staying at home. It is not, after all, the money we save, but the money we spend, which benefits the shopkeeper. He may tell us that we economize when we buy a seventy-five-dollar costume for thirty-nine dollars and a half. According to his computation we shall save thirty-five dollars and fifty cents—quite a comfortable sum—by so doing. Who was it that said that figures lie more than anything in the world except facts; and by what system, I often wonder, does the advertiser regulate his choice of numerals? Human greed and human credulity are his only guides. If he said the costume was reduced from seventy-five dollars to sixty dollars, we’d say it wasn’t worth while; and if he said it was reduced from seventy-five to fifteen, we’d say we didn’t believe it; so he has to choose some happy medium which will sound both tempting and trustworthy. He depends on our gullibility, and he does not depend in vain.

What I like best, however, are the ingenious appeals that cast all cramping veracities to the winds. I like being invited (don’t laugh, I can show you the advertisement) to grow potatoes in a closet, or in my spare room. “Method cheap, simple, and sure.” “No digging, no hoeing” (I should think not, in my spare room!). All the potatoes I want to eat, and “immense profits” if I send them to market. No labor involved, and no annoyance, save possibly the loss of an occasional guest, as I could not well have friends sleeping in my potato-patch. I have heard of people raising mushrooms and angleworms in their cellars (I’d as soon eat one as the other); but a truck-garden in the next room would be living in the heart of nature.

And now Massachusetts, in a spasm of integrity, is trying to restrain the exuberance of the advertiser, to clip his wings, and[Pg 318] teach him the worth of sobriety. The State proposes to abolish fraudulent advertisements, and to construe the word “fraudulent” so that it will cover any statement that can be proved to be false. A thing must really and truly be just what the advertiser says it is. But oh, Eleanor, what a tangle for the law to smooth out! If, like the three rogues in the Hindoo legend, you sell a dog for a sheep, that, of course, is a transparent lie. But if you say that Clarence Coventry’s book is an “epoch-making narrative,” who shall prove the contrary? We’d have to wait so long to find out the truth that our graves would yawn for us in the interval. And if in 1950 the student of social science were asked, “Who wrote ‘The Three Golden Apples,’ and what influence did it have upon its day?” and he should answer—very naturally—that he never had heard of it, the time for investigation would be over. Clarence, and the publishers, and “The Three Golden Apples” would all be dead together.

Your affectionate friend,

Agatha Reynolds.

P.S. Don’t send me the book for a birthday present.

##

###

TEXT AND PICTURES BY OLIVER HERFORD

A SCULPTOR once, in search of fame
(I can’t recall the sculptor’s name),
Turned Cubist, and at once began
A statue on the Cubist plan.
The statue, I need hardly say,
Was something in the Venus way,
And as its form grew bit by bit,
The sculptor fell in love with it.
Then came a wonderful idea:
He named his statue Galatea,
Which, by the way, reminds me that
His own name was Pygmalion Pratt.
One day it chanced Pygmalion came
To read the legend of his name
And hers, and prayed that fiction might
Repeat itself for his delight.
When, lo! the cubic feet of stone
Turned all at once to flesh and bone,
And Galatea’s cubic face
Met his in angular embrace.
Short-lived was Galatea’s bliss;
She soon guessed something was amiss,
And from the wall, in modish dress,
A Gibson girl confirmed her guess.
“Pygmalion dear,” she cried, “oh, please
Buy me some pretty frills like these!”
Then, meeting his astonished stare,
Blushed to the cube roots of her hair.
Picture the curious crowds they drew
As they strolled up Fifth Avenue!
Think of the modistes asked to drape
Miss Galatea’s cubic shape!

[Pg 319]

When Galatea came to see
The sheer impossibility
Of getting clothes, without ado
She took to posing for le nu.
And now she leads (to end my tale)
A model life in Bloomingdale,
Painted and sculptured and adored
By inmates of the Cubist ward.

### AN AFTER-DINNER STORY

BY SILAS HARRISON

AN ANECDOTE OF MCKINLEY

PRESIDENT MC KINLEY’S scrupulous loyalty to his cabinet officers is spoken of as one of his characteristics. It is said that he never went over the heads of his secretaries to consult an assistant, but held each to responsibility for his department.

Of all the events of his administration probably none was a source of more anxiety to him than the decision of the Supreme Court on the status of the colonies. It was a matter of great moment whether the highest judicial body should uphold the view of the Administration that the Constitution sanctioned the possession of colonies which were not granted full representation. There were conflicting rumors and forecasts of the color of the decision, and these added to the tension felt at Washington. Shortly before the announcement of the finding of the court a subordinate officer of one of the Departments appeared at the White House, at an unusual hour, and insisted upon seeing the President on the plea of important business. Having been admitted, he came at once to his errand.

“Mr. President, I have some good news for you. I have just learned authoritatively that the decision of the Supreme Court is to be in your favor.” He fairly glowed with the importance of his welcome message.

“Thank you,” said Mr. McKinley quietly, “that is good news. But have you informed your chief?”

“No, Mr. President; I thought you ought to be the first to know it.”

“Well, Mr.——, I’m sorry for that. Now, will you please do me the favor to go at once to your chief and give him the information, so that he may communicate it to me.”

### OLD DADDY DO-FUNNY’S WISDOM JINGLES

BY RUTH MCENERY STUART

THE JACK-O’-LANTERN

SENCE he los’ ’is brains to git ’is smile,
Brer Jack-o’-lantern grins lak a ’wilderin’ chile,
Widout no secrets out or in;
An’ de lighter in de head de broader is ’is grin.
An’ he ain’t by ’isself in dat, in dat—
No, he ain’t by ’isself in dat.

ANTS

DEM ants is sho got savin’ ways,
An’ even de scripture ’lows ’em praise;
But dey hoa’ds for deyselves f’om day to day,
An’ dey stings any man wha’ gits in de way.
An’ dey ain’t no new co’poration in dat—
No, dey ain’t by deyselves in dat.

THE CANARY

DAT little yaller cage-bird preems ’is wings,
An’ he mounts ’is pyerch an’ sings an’ sings
He feels ’is cage, but I ’spec’ he ’low
To take what comes an’ sing anyhow.
An’ you ain’t by yo’self, little bird, in dat—
No, you ain’t by yo’self in dat.

[Pg 320]

### LIMERICK

TEXT AND PICTURE BY OLIVER HERFORD

THE KIND ARMADILLO

THERE once was a kind armadillo,
Who solaced a lone weeping-willow.
Said he: “Do not weep!
What you need is some sleep;
Pray rest on my shell as a pillow.”

THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Robert Stewart, second Marquis of Londonderry, was known by courtesy until the death of his father in 1821, as Lord Castlereagh. He held at this time the position in the British ministry, then in power, of First Secretary for Foreign Affairs.

[2] The retreat from Moscow had been ordered and begun just six days before this letter was written.

[3] The United States had formally declared war with Great Britain on the eighteenth of June preceding the writing of this letter.

[4] The Presidential election of 1812, occurring in the midst of the war with England, was closely contested. James Madison was a candidate for reëlection, representing the so-called Republican party. De Witt Clinton of New York was the candidate of the Federalist party. A change of twenty electoral votes would have turned the scale. The Federalists in Massachusetts had a majority of 24,000, and the Peace party swept the Congressional districts throughout New England and New York. Madison, however, received 128 votes in the Electoral College, out of a total of 217.

[5] The name “Isaac” was underlined and emphasized in this letter by Mr. Adams to distinguish the commander of the Constitution, in its flight with the Guerrière, from the uncle of that commander, General William Hull, who had surrendered Detroit to the British commander on the sixteenth of August—three days before the naval battle. General William Hull was subsequently [January, 1814] tried before a court-martial, and convicted. His sentence—that of death—was modified in execution, however. His name was ordered to be struck from the army roll.

[6] Stephen Decatur had been in command of the frigate United States when it captured the British frigate Macedonian, in the engagement referred to.

[7] The reference is here to the recent Presidential election. Massachusetts had then by a very large majority thrown its vote in favor of De Witt Clinton, the Federalist, or Peace party, candidate against Madison, who was a candidate for reëlection.

[8] A circular to British naval officers was at this time issued by the Secretary of the Admiralty. It read as follows: “My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty having received intelligence that several of the American ships of war are now at sea, I have their Lordships’ commands to acquaint you therewith, and that they do not conceive that any of his Majesty’s frigates should attempt to engage, single-handed, the larger class of American ships, which, though they may be called frigates, are of a size, complement and weight of metal much beyond that class and more resembling line-of-battle ships.

“In the event of one of his Majesty’s frigates under your orders falling in with one of these ships, his captain should endeavor in the first instance to secure the retreat of his Majesty’s ship; but if he finds that he has an advantage in sailing he should endeavor to manœuvre, and keep company with her, without coming to action, in the hope of falling in with some other of his Majesty’s ships, with whose assistance the enemy might be attacked with a reasonable hope of success.

“It is their Lordships’ further directions that you make this known as soon as possible to the several captains commanding his Majesty’s ships.” (The Croker Papers, I, 44.)

In a paper recently prepared by him on the American Navy, Rear-Admiral French Ensor Chadwick pronounces this “the finest tribute ever paid any navy.” (Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society for November, 1912, Vol. 46, pp. 207–208.)

[9] This incident resulted from what was known as the affair of the Little Belt. It occurred May 16, 1811, off Cape Charles, Virginia. The United States frigate President, of forty-four guns, and the British corvette, of twenty guns, were concerned in it. The affair was accidental, and the Little Belt escaped being sunk, but, at the time, asserted that after a sharp engagement it had driven off the American frigate of greatly superior force. It was alleged that the commander of the President had mistaken the Little Belt for the Guerrière; and consequently the captain of the Guerrière, it was said, subsequently had the name of the ship painted as indicated by Mr. Adams, in order that in future there should be no possibility of mistake.

[10] Reference is here made to the engagements between the frigates Constitution and Guerrière, August 19, between the frigates United States and Macedonian, October 25, and between the Wasp and the Frolic, both eighteen-gun sloops of war, October 17—all in 1812. The Wasp was commanded by Captain Jacob Jones of Delaware. The action lasted forty-three minutes, was desperately fought, and resulted in the capture of the Frolic.

[11] This statement illustrates the slowness with which news then traveled in Russia, or the degree to which information was suppressed during the campaign of 1812. St. Petersburg is about four hundred and fifty miles from the river Niemen, which constituted the boundary between East Prussia and Russia. Mr. Adams occupied an official position at St. Petersburg. What remained of Napoleon’s army had succeeded in effecting its escape by the crossing of the Beresina during the closing days of November. On the fifth of December Napoleon had left his army at Smorgoni, a town in the Russian province of Vilna, and about one hundred and twenty-five miles east of the river Niemen.

At the time this letter was written he had been thirteen days in Paris, having reached that place on the evening of December 18. Thus tidings of what had occurred on the fifth of December, in Russia, less than four hundred and fifty miles from St. Petersburg, had not reached St. Petersburg and become generally known on the thirty-first of that month.

[12] Fought May 2, 1813, near Leipsic, Saxony, between the French under Napoleon and the allies, Prussian and Russian. The French greatly predominated in numbers, and claimed the victory, which, however, proved fruitless.

[13] Bautzen, fought May 21, 1814, between the allies and the French, at a point some thirty miles east of Dresden, and about one hundred and fifty miles from Lützen. It was another nominal French victory. In these two engagements the loss of Napoleon’s army is computed as having been between forty and fifty thousand men.

[14] Of the 600,000 men Napoleon is believed to have, first and last, led into Russia, only about 12,000, in a wholly disorganized condition, reached the Niemen. The French army was virtually destroyed. Napoleon got to Paris December 18, 1812, and again took the field at the head of a fresh army of about 700,000 men, the following April, fighting the battle of Lützen May 2.

[15] The battle of Leipsic, resulting in the total defeat of the French army under Napoleon, with a loss in killed, wounded, and prisoners of about 70,000 men, occurred October 16–19, 1813. Wellington, as the result of his Peninsular campaign, entered French territory on the seventh of the same month.

[16] Henry IV, Part I, Act V, Sc. 4.

[17] The Fontainebleau abdication of the emperor had taken place on the eleventh of April. Napoleon had reached Elba, after his abdication, on the fourth of May, eight days before the date of this letter.

[18] William Shaw Cathcart, created Earl Cathcart July 16, 1814. He had served in the American Revolutionary War 1777–1780. He was Ambassador from the Court of St. James’s to that of Russia in 1812–1814.

[19] Anne Louise Germaine Necker, Baronne de Staël-Holstein, better known as Madame de Staël, was born at Paris, April 22, 1766, and died there July 14, 1817. Exiled from France in 1812 by order of Napoleon, she visited Austria, Russia, Sweden, and England. She was then forty-six years of age, and at the height of her great reputation. The following letter was written by John Quincy Adams to his brother, Thomas Boylston Adams, in the latter part of November, 1812, but the interviews described and the conversations related had taken place on the sixth and the eighth of the previous September.

[20] The battle of Salamanca, between the British army, under the Duke of Wellington, and the French army, under Marshal Marmont, was fought July 22, 1812. The bombardment of Copenhagen under the command of Lord Cathcart had occurred in September, 1807.

[21] “The Mihavansa,” Wiiesinha’s translation.

[22] Reprinted from “Scribner’s Monthly” (now THE CENTURY) for April, 1874, and included in “Old Creole Days,” by George W. Cable. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.)

[23] “Wanted: Straight Thinking about Militant Suffragists.” See also previous editorial articles of the same tenor: “Grace before Lawlessness” (March, 1912) and “Teaching Violence to Women” (May, 1912).

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURY ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY MAGAZINE (JUNE 1913) ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE

## THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

> This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.
- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.
- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.