LI E. RARY OF THE UN IVLR5ITY or ILLINOIS ?(05l CHAB V.5 ^ ILL. HIST. SURVtY THE CHAP-BOOK SEMIMONTHLY VOL. V. NO. I. MAY 15, 1896. Price, 10 Cents. $2.00 Per Year. THE CHAP-BOOK CONTENTS FOR MAT ij, i8g6. ENGLISH SPRING KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON A FRIEND OF MINE MARIA LOUISE POOL THE RAIN ETHELWYN WETHERALD DRAWING RAYMOND M. CROSBY ARTHUR RIMBAUD STEPHANE MALLARME PORTRAIT OF RIMBAUD F. VALLOTTON POE-CHOPIN JOHN B. TABB IN A GARDEN NEITH BOYCE DRAWING CLAUDE F. BRAGDON SPRING SONG ELEANOR B. CALDWELL NOTES PORTRAIT OF IBSEN IN i860 PORTRAIT OF H. G. WELLS OPHELIA DRAWN BY FRED RICHARDSON PICTURES FROM AN OLD CHAP-BOOK ANNOUNCEMENTS ^Copies of the fourth Volume of the CHAP-BOOK Well, I should think so; not that he knows tricks; he doesn't need any such super- ficial knowledge. It 's general intelligence and wit that you want in a companion, and a great, tender heart ; eh } Well, I should say so ; and I don't expect in this world to find more intelligence or a more loving heart than Mascot has. You may laugh if you want to, but I know what I'm talk- ing about. You think some human being is having a second existence in his form, perhaps. Oh, no ; no mere human being ever loved in that way ; he 's a dog, fast enough. Come here. Mascot ; give a paw, sir. Is n't he an ugly-looking fellow, with the rough hair standing up all over him, not long enough to droop and be graceful } He 's one of the kind that 's so ugly he's inter- esting. Scotch terrier with a few drops of bull-dog blood, I fancy ; no thoroughbred, you see. But look at his eyes — strong and true and loving — that 's enough. We Ve been the closest of friends ever since we met. I '11 tell you how that was — or have I ever told you ? Not ? My wife says I tell everybody two or three times over, and that she has noticed that all my friends are careful not to mention the subject of canines in general, lest I may begin on my partic- ular one. Sit down, Mascot, and lean against my knee. He likes to lie with his head on my foot, and I like to have him. It 's two years ago this spring. I was going down Clark Street almost on a run to catch a train. There happened not to be many teams in the street, for it was not yet seven MARIA LOUISE POOL o'clock in the morning. I heard a sharp cry across the way. It was so sharp and agonized that I stopped involun- tarily. On the other side was a group of boys with a dog in the midst. Though, at the first, I could 'nt see anything distinctly, yet I knew directly that the boys were infernal little scamps, and that they were torturing the animal. Another cry — there was smoke rising from the centre of the group, which was in a sort of alcove formed by two build- ings. I forgot my train and ran across, dashing right in among the ruffians. When I see a certain kind of boy I*m ashamed that I 'm a man, I swear I am ! They had this dog — lie still. Mascot ! — they had him muzzled, his jaws tied together so tightly that the rope which bound them had gnawed into the flesh and was bloody, and a boy was at each side of his head gripping fast the cord j two other boys held him by hips and hind legs, and what do you think a fifth was doing ? Holding one of those kerosene torches under the dog's belly. Yesj and I smelt the burning flesh as I jumped on the pavement. The tortured creature made a terrible effort, but he wouldn't have escaped if my coming hadn't confused the villains— as it was, the dog dashed at me and leaped on me. Good God ! What an agony of hope and appeal there was in his wild eyes! How he cried in his throat} for he could n't open his jaws. I wanted to kill every boy there was there. I did knock one over} the rest ran away. The torch was left smoking on the sidewalk } and then a policeman came along, saun- tering from somewhere, stared at the dog, and asked if he was mad. I shook my head and walked off", the dog so eagerly at my heels that I had to be careful how I moved. I hurried into a street where, at this time of day, there were still fewer people. I sat down on a step, took out my pocket-knife pnd cut the rope from the dog's mouth. A FRIEND OF MINE His gratitude was heart-breaking j it almost seemed at first as if he would die of it. And I cried j I could n't help it, and you know very well I'm not one of the snivelling kind. Yes, Mascot, it 's all right now j you need n't lick my face, and we 're not going to part. There, lie down again. Well, as soon as he became a little more calm, or I might say as soon as we became more calm, I looked at my watch. It was of no use to think of the train nowj I could n't pos- sibly catch it. The dog kept his gaze on me as if he feared I should leave him. We walked, he at my very heels, until we came to a hack stand. I took a carriage and I put Mascot — I had already named him in my mind — on the front seat j then I placed myself opposite, and told the driver to take us out to Northrup Street — that was a good half-hour's drive. So we started. Mascot did n't like to be as far away from me as the distance between the front and back seat. He was continually reaching out a paw, and presently I lifted him over beside me. I hurt his poor burned flesh as I did so, for he whined, then hurriedly licked my hand as if in apology and to assure me that he would allow me to hurt him if I wished to do so. We lived here then, and my wife was in the garden when the hack stopped at the gate. She saw me with a smooch of blood, the dog's blood, on my face, and gave a little scream as she ran forward. She had believed that I was already miles away on that train. ** I 'm all right," 1 hastened to say, ** and I 've come back because I 've saved this fellow. I hope you '11 like him." I stepped out, and Mascot stepped out after me, or rather with me, in his fear lest he should be left. He was not a reassuring object. His hair was full of mud and blood ; there was a gash in his under lip j and he / MARIA LOUISE POOL was now beginning to feel stiff and sore. He stood pressed against my ankle while I paid the driver. Fortunately my wife had had a dog when she was a child, and if you have ever been intimate with a good dog, it makes all the difference in your feeling toward the whole canine race. Having become convinced that I had met with no acci- dent, Margaret looked at the new-comer an instant, then she held out her hand and said softly : " Poor fellow ! what a hard time you *ve had ! " Mascot extended his head and licked the tips of her fingers J then he glanced up at me and said, **I*m going to love her, too — but not quite so well.'* We took him into the kitchen and put him into the sink. We washed him, we cleansed his wounds with warm water and castile soap. How gentle he was, and how he tried to bear it. Then we put an old blanket in the corner, and he sat stiffly down on it. He ate a basin of bread and milk, and then we left him. But he would cry. I went back to him three or four times, and he seemed perfectly happy while I remained. At last Margaret suggested that I leave him something of mine. I dropped my handkerchief beside him. He put his chin on it, and when we left him alone he didn't whine again, I was glad I called him Mascot, for that very night one of the firm, to whom I had sent word that I was detained from starting on my business trip that morning, came out and said they had decided to put me in another department, with five hundred dollars more salary. He said he knew I was able to fill that place, but he acknowledged that he should n*t have thought of promoting me just now if his wife had n"'t asked him if he couldn't do something for me. **And what do you think made her ask?" he inquired THE RAIN I ** Why, she was in a carnage on Clark Street early this morning, and she saw you rescue that dog. She was so thankful to see you do it that she said she knew you could fill a higher position in our house. That is a woman's way of reasoning, you know.** Maria Louise Pool. THE RAIN HEARD my lover pleading Beneath the ivied pane j I looked out through the darkness. And lo ! it was the rain. I heard my lover singing His low, heart-stirring songs j I went without and sought him To whom my soul belongs. I found him in the darkness, His tears were on my face j Oh, sweet, your voice has pierced me. And your unhurrying pace. He gave me, as we wandered Adown the winding lane, A thousand tender touches. And that heart-stirring strain. The lamps and fires and faces No longer did I see ; I walktd abroad with Music And Love and Poetry. Ethelwyn Wetherald. BY RAYMOND M. CROSBY ARTHUR RIMBAUD ARTHUR RIMBAUD A Monsieur Harrison Rhodes. J 'IMAGINE qu'une de ces soirees du Mardi, trop rares, ou vous me files Thonneur d'ouir, chez moi, quelques amis converser, le nom soudainement d' Arthur Rim- baud se soit berce a la fumee de plusieurs cigarettes, in- stallant, pour votre curiosite, du vague. Quel, le personnage, questionnez vous : du moins, avec des livres Une Soiree en Enfer, Illuminations et scs Poemesy naguerespubliees en I'ensemble, exerce-t-il sur les evenements poetiques recents une influence si particuliere que, cette allusion a lui faite, par exemple, on se taise, enigmatique- ment et reflechisse, comme si beaucoup dc silence, a la fois, et de reverie sMmposait ou d'admiration inachevee. Doutez, mon cher bote, que les principaux innovateurs, maintenant, voire un seul, a 1' exception, peut-etre, mystc- rieusement, du magnifique aine, qui leva Varchety Verlaine, aient, a quelque profondeur et par un trait direct, subi Ar- thur Rimbaud. Ni la liberte allouee au vers ou, mieux, jaillie telle par miracle, ne se reclamera de qui fut, a part le balbutlement de tous derniers poemes ou quand il cessa, un strict observateur du jeu ancien. Estlmez son plus magique effet produit par opposition d'un monde anterieur au Parnasse, meme au Romantisme, au tres classique, avec le desordre somptueux d'une passion on ne saurait dire rien que spirituellement exotique. Eclat, lui, d'un meteore, apparu sans motif autre que sa presence j issu seul et s'eteig- nant. Tout, certes, aurait existe, depuis, sans cc passant considerable, comme aucune circonstance litterairc vraiment n'y prepara : le cas personnel demcure, avec force. Mcs Souvenirs : plutot ma pensee, souvent, a ce Quelqu'un, voici : comme pent faire une causerie, en votre honneur immediate. PORTRAIT OF ARTHUR RIMBAUD BY F. VALLOTTON lO ARTHUR RIMBAUD Je ne I'ai pas connu, mais je I'ai vu, une fois, dans un des repas litteraires, en hate, groupes a Tissue de la Guerre — le Diner des Vilains BonshommeSf certes, par antiphrase, en raison du portrait, qu'au convive dedie Verlaine " L'homme etait grand, bien bati, presque atheletique, un visage parfaite- ment ovale d'ange en exil, avec des cheveux chatain-clair maJ en ordre et des yeux d'un bleu pale inquietant/* Avec je ne sais quoi fierement pousse, ou mauvaisement, de fille du peuple, j'ajoute, de son etat, blanchisseuse, a cause de vastes mains, par les transitions du chaud au froid rougies d'engclures. Lesquelles eussent indique des metiers plus tcrribles, appartenant a un garcon. J'appris qu'elles avaicnt autographic de beaux vers, non publics : la bouche, au pli boudeur et narquois n'en recita aucun. Comme je desccndais des Fleuves impassibles Je ne me sentis plus guide par les haleurs : Des Peaux-rouges criards les avaient pris pour cibles Les ayant cloues nus aux poteux de couleurs. et Plus douces qu'aux enfants la chair des pommes sures, L'eau vertc penetra ma coque de sapin Et des taches de vins bleus et de vomissures Me lava, dispersant gouvernail et grappin. tc J'ai reve la nuit verte aux neiges eblouies Baisers montants aux yeux des mers avec lenteur, La circulation des seves inouies Et Tevcil jaune et bleu des phosphores chanteurs. et Parfois martyr lasse des poles et des zones La mer dont le sanglot faisait mon roulis doux Montait vers moi ses fleurs d'ombre aux ventouses jaunes Et je restais ainsi qu'une femme a genoux. I STfPHANE MALLARMf 1 1 et J'ai vu des archipels sideraux ! Et des iles Dont les cieux delirants sont ouverts au vogueur : Est-ce en mes nuits sans fond que tu dors et t' exiles Million d'oiseaux d'Or, 6 future Vigueur? et tout ! qu 'il faudrait derouler comme primitivement s'etire un eveil genial, en ce chef-d'oeuvre, car Le Bateau Ivre etait fait, a Tepoque, deja: tout ce qui, a peu de la, parerait les memoires et qui ensurgira tant qu' on dira des vers, se taisait parmi le Nouveau-venu ainsi que Les AssiSjLes Chercheuses de PouXy Premieres Communiantes, du meme temps ou celui d'une puberte perverse et superbe. Notre curiosite, entre fami- liers, sauves des maux publiques, omit un peu cet ephebe au sujet de qui courait, cependant, que c' etait, a lyans sonqua- trieme voyage, en 1872, effectue, ici, comme les precedents, a pied : non, le premier ayant eu lieu, de Tendroit natal, Charleville dans les Ardennes, vers Paris, fastueusement, par la vente de tous les prix de la classe, celle de rhetorique, a cet efFet, par le collegien. Rappels de la-bas, or hesitation entre la famille, une mere d'origine campagnarde, dont etait separe le pere, officier en retraite, et des camarades les freres Cros, Forain futur, le caricaturiste Gill, d'abord et toujours et irrestiblement Verlaine. Un va-et-vient resultait ; au risque de coucher, en partant sur les bateaux a charbon du canal j en revenant, de tomber dans un avant poste de federes cu combattants de la Commune. Le grand gars, adroitement, se fit passer pour un franc-tireur du parti, en detresse et in- spira le bon mouvement d'une collecte a son benefice. Menus-faits, quelconques et, du reste, propres a un ravage violemment par la litterature, le pire desarroi, apres les lentes heures studieuses aux bibliotheques, aux bancs, cette fois maitre d'une expression certaine prematuree, intense, I'excitant a des sujets inouis, — en quete aussitot de " sensa- tions neuves" insistait-il "pas connues" et il se flattait de 12 ARTHUR RIMBAUD les rencontrer en Ic bazar d' illusion des cites, vite vulgairej mais qui livre au demon adolescent, un soir, comma eclair nuptial, quelque vision grandiose et Active continuee, en suite, dans la seule ivrognerie. L'anccdote, a bon marche, ne manque pas, lefil contradic- torement, mille fois, rompu d'une existence telle, en laissa c^o'iT dans les journaux : a quoi bon faire, centieme, miroiter ces details jusqu'a les enfiler en sauvages verroteries et com- poser le collier du roi negre, que ce fut la plaisanterie plus tard de representer dans quelque peupladc inconnuc, le poete. Vous nc me demandez pas autre chose que suivre, comme je les percois et pour y infuser le plus de belle probabilite les grandes lignes d'un destin signicatif j lequel doit garder dans ses ecarts d'apparence le rythme, etant d'un poete et quelque etrange simplicite. Toute fois en remerciant de m'aider, par votre question a evoquer pour moi-meme, la premiere fois dans T ensemble, cette personalite qui vous seduit, mon cher ami, je veux comme exception rememorer une historiette qu'avec des sourires me contait delicieuse- ment Theodore de Banville. La bonte de ce Maitre etait secourable. On le vint trouver. A Tintention d'un des notres j et precisait-on en quelque jargon, de permettre qu'il fit du grand art. Banville opina que pour ce resultat, d'abord, le talent devenant secondaire, une chambre impor- tait, ou giter, la loua dans les combles de sa maison rue de Bucyj une table, I'encre et les plumes comme accessoircs^ du papier, un lit blanc aussi pour les moments ou I'on ne reve debout, ni sur la chaise. Le jeune homme errant y fut installe : mais quelle, la stupefaction du donateur methodique, a I'heure ou la cour interne unit, par leur arome, les diners, d'entendrc des cris pousses a chaque etage, et, aussitot, de considerer, nu, dans un cadre de mansarde la-haut, quelqu'un agitant cperdument et lancant par dessus les tuiles du ST^PHANE MALLARM^ 13 toit, peut-etre pourqu'ils disparussent aves les derniers rayons du soleil, des lambcaux de vetcments : et comme il s'inquietait, pres du dieu, de cctte tenue enfin mythologique, "C'est/* repondit Arthur Rimbaud a Tauteur dc^ Exiles, qui dut convenir de la justesse impliquee, certainment, par cette observation et accuser sa propre imprevoyance ** que je ne puis frequenter une chambre si propre, virginale, avec mes vieux habits tous cribles de poux." Le bote ne se trouva correct qu'apres avoir addresse des efFets a lui de rechange et une invitation a partager Ic repas du soir, car 'M'habillement, outre le logis ne suffit pas, si Ton vcut produire des poemes remarquables, il importe egalement de manger."** Le prestige de Paris use vite j aussi, Verlainc entre de naissantes contrarietes de menage et quelque apprehension de poursuite comme fonctionnaire humble de la Commune, certes dcciderent Rimbaud a visiter Londres. Ce couple y mena une argiaque misere, humant la libre fumee de char- bon, ivre de reciprocite. Une lettre de France bientot par- donnait, appellant Tun des transfuges, pourvu qu'il aban- donnat son compagnon. La jeune epouse, au rendez-vous, attendait une reconciliation avec mere et belle-mere. Je crois au recit superieurement trace par M. Paterne Berrichon *ct in- dique selon lui une scene,poignante au monde, attendu qu'elle compta pourheros, Tun blesse comme Tautre delirant, deux poetes dans leur farouche mal. Prie par les troisfemmes en- semble, Verlaine renoncait a I'ami, mais le vita la porte de la chambre d'hotel fortuitement, vola dans sesbras pour le suivre et n'ecouta Tobjurgation par celui-ci, refroidi, de n'en rien faire et "jurant que leur liaison devait etre a jamais rompue" — "memesans le sou" quoique a Bruxelles en vue seule- ment d'un subside pecuniaire pour regagner le pays **il partirait." Le geste repoussait Verlaine qui tira, egare, d*un *La Revue Blanche, 15 Fevrier 1896. 14 ARTHUR RIMBAUD pistolet, sur rindifferent et tomba, en larmes au devant. II etait dit que les choses ne resteraient pas, j'allais enoncer, en famille. Rimbaud revenait, panse, de Thospicc et dans la rue, obstine a partir, regut une nouvelle balle, publiquc maintenant; que son si fidele expia, deux ans, dans la prison dc Mons. Solitaire, apres cette circonstance tragique, on pent dire que rien ne permet de le dechifFrer, en sa crise definitive, certes, interessante puisqu'il cessetout litterature: camarade ni ecrit. Des faits ? il devait selon un but quel- conque, retourner en Angleterre, avant 1875, etqu'importc} puis gagna TAllemagne, avec des situations pedagogiques, et un don pour les langues, qu'il collectionnait, ayant objure toute exaltation dans la sienne proprej atteignit Tltalie, en chemin-de-fer jusqu'au Saint-Gothard, en suite a pied, franchissant les Alpes: sejourne quelques mois, pousse aux Cyclades et, malade d'une insolation, se trouve rapatrie officiellement. Pas sans que Teffleurat une avant-brlse du Levant. Voici la date mysterieuse, pourtant naturellc, si Ton convient que celui, qui rejette des reves, par sa faute ou la leur, et s'opere, vivant, de la poesie, ulterieurement, ne sait trouver que loin, tres loin, un etat nouveau. L'oubli comprend Tespace du desert ou de la mer. Ainsi les fuites tropicales moins, peut-etre, quant au merveilleux et au decor: puisque c*est en soldat racolle, 1876, sur le marche Hol- landais, pour Sumatra, deserteur des quelques semaines, rem- barqu au cout de sa prime, par un vaisseau anglais, avant de sefaire, audacieusement, marchandd'hommes, a son tour, y amassant un peculc perdu en Danemark et en Suede, d'ou rapatriement j — en chef des Carrieres de Marbre, dans I'ile de Chypre, 1879, apres une pointe vers TEgypte, a Alexan- drie et — on verra, le reste des jours, en traltant. L'adieu total a r Europe, aux climat et usages insupportables egalement est ce voyage au Arar, pres de I'Abyssinnie (theatre d'evenc- STl^PHANE MALLARM^ ^5 ments militaires actuels) ou, comme les sables, s'etcnd le silence relativement a. tout geste exterleur de Texile. II trafiqua, sur la cote et Tautre bord, a Aden, le rencontra- on toutefois a ce point extreme! feeriquement d'objets precicux encore, comme quelqu'un dont les mains ont caresse jadis des pages j ivoire, poudre d'or, ou encens. Sensible a la qualite rare de sa pacotille, peut-etre pas, comme entachee d^orientalisme Mille et Une Nuits ou de couleur locale: mais aux paysages bus avec la soifde vastltude et d'independence ! et si, Tinstinct des vers par quelqu'un renonce, tout dcvient inferieur en s'en passant, meme vivre, au moins que ce soit brutalemcnt, sauvage- ment, la civilisation ne survivant, meme chez Tindividu, a un signe supreme. Une nouvelle inopinee, en 1892, circula par les journaux : que celui, qui avait t-te et demeure, pour nous, un poete, voyagcur, malade, a Marseille, revenu avec une fortune et opere, arthritique, apres le debarquement, vcnait d'y mourir. Sa biere prix le chemin de Charleville, accueillie dans ce re- fuge, jadis, de toutes agitations, par la piete d'une soeur. Je sais a tout le moins la gratuite de se substituer, aise- ment, a une conscience : laquelle dut, a Toccasion, parler haut, pour son compte, dans les solitudes. Ordonner, en fragments intelligiblcs et probables, pour la traduire, la vie d'autrui, est, tout juste, impertinent : il ne me rcste qu'a pousser a ses limites ce genre de mcfait, Seulcment je me renseigne — Une fois, entre des migrations, vers 1875, ^^ compatriote de Rimbaud, et son comarade au college, M. Delahaye, a une reminscence dc qui ceci puise, discretement Tinterrogea sur ses vieillcs visees, en quelqucs mots, que j'entends, comme — *'et! bien, la litterature ? " Tautre fit la sourde oreille, enfin repliqua avec simplicite que "non, il n' en faisait plus," sans accentuer le regret ni Porgueil. "Verlaine"? a propos duquel la causerie 1 6 ARTHUR RIMBAUD le prcssa : rien, sinon qu*il evitait, plut6t commc depiaisante, Ic memoire de precedes, a son avis, excessifs. LMmagination de plusieurs, dans la presse participant au sens, habituel chez la foule, des tresors a Tabandon ou fabu- Icux, s* enflamma de la merveiilc que des poemes restassent» inedits, peut-etre, composes la-bas. Leur largeur d'inspira" tion et Taccent vierge! on y songe comme a quelque chose qui eut pu etrej avec raison, parce qu'il ne faut jamais neg- liger, en idee, aucune des possibllites qui volent autour d*une figure, elles appartiennent a Toriginal, meme contrc la vraisemblance, y pla^ant un fond legendaire momentane, avant que cela se dissipe tout-a-fait. J*estime, neanmoins, que prolonger Tcspoir d'une oeuvre de maturite nuit, ici, a Tin- terpretation exacte d'une aventure unique dans Thistoire de Tesprit. Celle d'un enfant trop precocement touche et im- petueusement par I'aile litteraire, qui avant le temps presque d'cxister, epuisa d'orageuses et magistrales fatalites : sans recours a du futur. Une supposition, autrement forte, comme interet, que d'un manuscrit demente par le regard perspicace sur cette destinee, hante, relative a I'etat du vagabond s'il avait, de retour, apres le laisser volontaire des splendeurs des la jeu- nesse, appris leur epanouissement, parmi la generation, en fruits feeriques non moins et plus en rapport avec son gout jadis, ou de gloire, que ceux quittes aux oasis : les aurait-il renies au cueillis ? Le Sort, avertissement a Thomme de son role accompli, sans doute afin qu'il ne vaccille pas en trop de perplexite, trancha ce pied qui venait de se poser sur le sol natal etranger : ou, tout-de-suite et par surcrolt, la fin arrivant, etablit, entre le moribond et diverses voix qui, souvent, I'applerent notamment une du grand Verlaine, le mutisme que sont le mur ou le rideau d'un hopital. Inter- diction que, pour aspirer la surprise de sa renommee et sitot Tecarter ou, a Toppose, s'en defendre et jeter un regard STlfPHANE MALLARMf ^7 d'envie sur ce passe grand! pendant Tabsence. Lul se re- tournat a la signiiication, neuvc, proferee en le parlcr natal, des quelques syllabes Arthur Rimbaud : Tepreuve, alter- native, gardait la meme durete et mieux la valut-il, efFec- tivement, omise. Cependant, on dolt, approfondissant d'hypothese pour la doter de la beaute eventuelle, cette car- riere hautaine, apres tout, et sans compromission, presumer que I'interesse en eut accueillt, par une Here incurle, cet aboutissement en celebrite comme concernant, certes, quelqu'un qui avait ete lui, mais ne Tetalt plus, d'aucune fagon : a moins que ce fantome impersonnel ne poussat la deslnvolture jusqu' a reclamer traversant Paris, pour les joindre a I'argent rapporte, simplement, ses droits d'auteur. Stephane Mallarme. O POE-CHOPIN 'ER each the soul of Beauty flung A shadow mingled with the breath Of music that the Sirens sung. Whose utterance is death. John B. Tabb l8 IN A GARDEN IN A GARDEN OVER the wall of the Mission, against the glowing west, the tops of the trees flickered in the wind from the sea, shot through with level glancing arrows of clear light. The sky was all astir with little soft, gold-tipped clouds. To the languid hush of the hot day had succeeded a subtle animation like the smile on the lips of a sleeping woman. On this awakening air the last organ-notes of the vesper service died away, and were echoed by the slow, rhythmic swing of the tall eucalyptus trees. The rustle of the leaves imitated the sound of the devout dispersing from the chapel j and a magnolia shook out from its great white chalices an incense more penetrating than any wafted before the altar. Suddenly all this gentle derision seemed to voice itself in a burst of mocking laughter, faint and far away, like the airy merriment of elves. The sound approached and grew louder, running through the notes of a treble scale. And the trees in the monks' garden seemed to bend and listen and to beckon while they shook all over with malicious glee. Scurrying over the ground beyond, with bare, dusty feet, appeared a group of creatures pulling each other by extended arms or brown garments which seemed a part of the earth, or by their braids of strong, black hair. Writhing in this rough play they flung themselves against the wall. A pale- faced girl in a scarlet blouse, like a cactus-flower bursting from its dull sheath, threw up her arms into the dense, dark foliage of an overhanging fig-tree and dragged down the bough. " They are ripe ! — what did I tell you ? *' she cried, as at a touch a purple, bloomy fig fell into her hand. She tore it open and fastened her teeth, sharp and white as those of a squirrel, in the pink flesh. NEITH BOYCE I 9 Her companions hung back, looking at her. ** If we are caught " •*What do we care? Cowards! There — now you can put all the blame on me. Eat, then, little pigs that you are ! " Her heavy-lidded eyes were cold and contemptuously smiling. Hanging to the bough with both hands, she shook it roughly, and the ripe figs fell in a shower, some flattening to pulp on the ground. The girls flung themselves down, and, chattering, gathered the unspoiled fruit into the skirts of their gowns. **It is true; they are better than ours," cried one. " Trust the holy fathers to have the best," added another, lowering her voice. "They taste better," said Fiora, the tall girl in the scarlet blouse, "because we are stealing them." And she licked her red lips with satisfaction. " There must be better ones higher up," said a fourth greedily, standing with her hands on her broad hips and her head thrown back. "Let us see," responded Fiora. Again she caught hold of the drooping branch, drew her- self up, and in an instant the thick foliage hid her from sight. Her companions, half-smothered with laughter, be- sought her to return. " Oh, if you are seen ! " ** Catch ! " cried Fiora. A rain of soft bodies fell, thumping them about the shoulders. Through the parted leaves an impudent face looked down, framed like a young faun's in living green. " I am going higher — I am going to look into the gar- den ! " " Oh ! Oh ! " in frightened and delighted chorus. " You dare not ! " 20 IN A GARDEN ** Listen, my children," said Fiora condescendingly. ** They say no woman has ever seen this garden. Well, I have a great mind to be the first ! " Lying along the thick branch, she listened smilingly. " It is forbidden ! " •** You will be punished ! " ** The holy fathers " **What have they in their garden," she cried at last, *'that IS so sacred that we may not see it? Would our feet soil the grass or the paths ? '* The girls looked at one another slyly and hid their faces ; and their malicious laughter, stifled with difficulty and un- controllable, mingled again with the eager murmurs of the trees. Fiora, herself laughing, she scarcely knew why, disap- peared, the leaves closing behind her like a green sea. She crept along the great branch until her feet found something firm — the top of the wall. Clinging to the trunk of the tree which leaned against this wall, she tried to pierce the thick layers of foliage below her, but in vain j nothing was to be seen of the garden. She swore softly. Then, in trying to extend herself upon a branch which projected into the garden she slipped, catching vainly at the nearest twigs, and with a thrill of alarm came to her feet upon the forbidden soil. She clenched her hands, full of bruised leaves, against her breast, as she crouched in the shelter of the drooping boughs. Startled by the noise of her fall, her companions took flight like a covey of birds, with a rustle, a faint murmur — silence. Fiora sank to her knees and remained for some moments motionless, gazing out into the garden. In the dusk, deep- ened by the shadow of encircling trees, nothing was visible save narrow paths strewn with opal-colored sea-shells glim- mering amid fresh turf, and roses blooming in masses along these walks and hiding the wall under their heavy leaves. NEITH BOYCE thick with flowers like pale flames. Silence— except for the applauding whisper of the trees and the plash of water. There was no one in the garden. Taking courage, the intruder pushed her way out from under the boughs of the fig-tree. The freshly sprinkled grass caressed her feet. The perfume of the roses and the magnolia blossoms, becoming more intense as the dew began to gather, surrounded her like an invisible presence, seeming to draw her on. She stole softly forward, her eyes alert for the least warning and alive with curiosity. The path led her through an arbor drifted deep with the perfumed snow of wisteria, and between banks of golden pansies set in mosaic borders. At the intersection of this gleaming streak with another a fountain played in a white basin, toss- ing high in the air a crystal ball. The crest of the plume of water caught a gleam of golden light, and the transparent ball glittered as it rose every instant from shadow. Flora paused to watch it and to follow the arrowy glidings of the gold-fish in the basin. The short southern twilight was already ended. It was now dark — the hour at which the fathers took their evening meal. Yielding, therefore, to her fancy, she followed the windings of the paths, stopping reck- lessly to pluck now a scarlet pomegranate, which she ate with puckered lips j now a rose, crimson or yellow, or a long spray of white roses with pink hearts, set close together on the stem. Huge cacti, their gray, distorted bodies spot- ted with blood-colored blossoms, stood here and there in clumps. Banana trees waved softly their long, graceful fronds. The wind stirred with a dry rustle among palms with broad trunks and large fans, and others, slender and lofty, with crests like stacked swords, and among masses of pampas-grass tufted with great white plumes. Along the wall, to which now and then Flora's wanderings in the confined space brought her, grew apricot and peach trees 22 IN A GARDEN heavy with ripe fruit. These perfect sweets also she tasted capriciously and threw away half-eaten. The place exerted a strange influence over her. The hour, the delicious thrill of danger, the heavy perfumes, intoxicated her. It seemed that the trees bent toward her to murmur something, that the pale faces of the flowers held some mysterious message. They looked friendly j they appeared to smile knowingly at her, to encourage her, to urge her on. Vaguely she felt all this breathing, eager life a part of her, belonging to her. She threw back her head, turning it from side to side with an air of satisfied possession, drawing in the cool air through her nostrils and parted lips with sensuous delight — this pale creature whose eyes showed a savage response to the cajol- ing beauty about her. Convinced at last that the garden held no secret, save that of certain flowers and fruits cultivated to unknown perfec- tion, — for she had explored it from the limiting wall to where the pallid outline of some building of the Mission gleamed through the trees, — she came back to the fountain and sat down on the wooden bench at the path's edge, her flowers heaped in her lap. She gave herself a few moments more to watch the leaping ball, which now sparkled like silver in the midst of glittering spray. A shaft of moonlight, strik- ing through the trees upon the jet of water, crept steadily downward. The girl, her eyes fixed on this trembling col- umn of white fire and foam, fell into a vague, trance-like dream. The ripple of the fountain in her ears drowned the echo of slow footsteps advancing along the path. It was Father Anselmo's custom, while digesting his suf- ficient supper of meat pasty and chocolate, to pace the garden, whose beauty seldom failed to inspire him with po- etical images, and to add each evening some dozen lines to his panegyric ode on Saint Francis. Anselmo was, in fact, a poet — but a poet whose strictly regulated fancy never NEITH BOYCE 23 openly strayed beyond the confines of the cloister. His gentle muse sang consecrated themes alone. And if, sur- rounded by an indolent, veiled fervor of tropical nature, apt to long, arid trances, and to sudden outbursts of fierce lux- uriance, his imagination was sometimes troubled, these secret vagaries were repressed or found no acknowledged utterance. In his black, shapeless robe, above which his placid face showed like a sickly moon, the father, whether meditating on the pasty or Saint Francis, seemed no prey to the poetic ardor; its afflatus left him undizzied and peaceful. Yet the mystery of the night, the garden's magic, must have struck some responsive chord within him. For how else should his bodily eyes have beheld beneath the shadow of the acacia bushes a creature not human, surely not divine ; no spiritual vision, but an apparition born of the earth and evil. It sat half-visible, buried to the chin in flowers, mo- tionless, its face a mere pale shimmer, its great shadowy eyes fixed upon him. These eyes were terrifying. Anselmo retreated some steps upon their discovery j then, after much hesitation, advanced again, extending the cross of his rosary and muttering with trembling lips certain words of proved potency. But neither holy symbol nor ex- orcism availed against the evil spirit. It refused to flee ; sat dumb — it seemed to Anselmo disdainful. Suddenly, wrath- ful, he took another step forward; the creature drew in its breath sharply, with an audible sound ; its lips parted, show- ing a row of gleaming teeth. Anselmo paused. This was, he perceived, the spirit of the garden, and It was plainly hostile. Was he, then, the intruder .? Vaguely a sense of helpless fright invaded his soul. Yes, the trees were in league with this being ; they bent towards him threateningly ! The air was full of veiled alarms. What of the rose-bushes which even now reached out clutching hands to detain him ? An overblown white rose broke and 24 IN A GARDEN fell in a soft shower about his shoulders, and he started j a bat swooped down with swift, filmy wings, just grazing his headj he shrank back. Could it be that he was in danger, that his wandering thoughts were known, that his sinful fancies had thus taken shape to confound him ? Anselmo crossed himself. It was true — moved by the garden's spell he had sometime in reverie invoked the animating principle of this beauty of earth, which he knew well was soulless and evil — and behold it in- carnate ! Yet the apparition did not menace him overtly , perhaps it felt his spiritual armor proof. Nevertheless, it was his part to fly possible danger, to deliver over the unhallowed domain to its true possessor. What part had he in these caresses of the breeze, these wooings of flowers, these mar- riages of insects, this glamor of nocturnal magic? Knowing, as he did, the evil power of the moon at its full, how had he been persuaded to walk in debatable ground where that demoniac glory, rising warm and wanton above the trees, could mock and threaten him ? Under the branches of the acacia the shadow sat still in deeper shadow ; save that the rays of the moon fell upon two slim, naked feet, which the short grass could not cover. It had taken, then, the form of a woman, that the garden and Its tradition might be doubly desecrated ! Anselmo's indignation was not fierce enough to nerve his soul, weakened by mystic terrors. He turned to fly, but, instead, uttered an exclamation, calling in a trembling voice. ** Brother Emanuel ! " **I am coming," was the answer. Another black robe, another pale face, appeared beside him, and, like him, started back at perceiving the strange figure. After consultation In whispers the bolder monk ap- proached the acacia. NEITH BOYCE 25 ** This is no spirit, Brother Anselmo — it is a woman ! " he cried. " A woman ! How could a woman get into the garden ? '* The first speaker cast a troubled glance in the direction of the high wall. **True," he said uncertainly. " Still it must be." But involuntarily he moved a step nearer his companion. Both glanced down at the slender feet in the grass. These seemed to move, and the spirit, or woman, turned her head swiftly from side to side. Her breath came quicker, but the monks could not hear it, or they might have taken courage. ** It is astonishing," murmured Brother Emanuel uneasily. While they stood undecided between the attack and the retreat, suddenly from the chapel near by the organ gave voice in a deep, swelling chord, which climbed by subtle and tender modulations and soared aloft into a tender melody. '*It is Brother Angelo,'* whispered Anselmo. ** It is holy music ! " said Emanuel devoutly, and he made the sign of the cross in the air before him. The tremulous notes, growing louder, drowned the rustle of the leaves, the plash of the fountain, the sigh of the wind. It seemed as though the garden hushed half-unwillingly to listen, when a voice, humanly deep and sweet, but spirit- ualized into something not less than divine, took up the melody and bore it higher and heavenward, pouring out into the night a flood of ecstasy and aspiration. The march of the music was solemn and splendid, and its soul was a joy unearthly and beyond utterance. The black-robed brothers stood and listened, rebuked and dumb, turning their faces toward the glimmering wall of the chapel, and forgetting for a moment the fears which had agitated them, with their cause. What were all the 26 IN A GARDEN potencies of the passionate earth, so easily diverted from good, against this royal dominion ? The evil-seeming spell was broken. A sudden move- ment, no sound but a stirring of the air, recalled their atten- tion. The foliage of the acacia trembled as though a bird had taken wing. The bench was vacant, flowers strewed the ground before it, the presence had vanished. Her white feet or a breath of air had borne her away. The diapason of the organ drowned the sound her flight might have madej and the trees bent as though to bury in shadow her possible path. Emanuel made a long step forward. ** Woman or spirit, she is gone!** he cried, and stooped to see what trace of her those scattered roses might show. Anselmo grasped his companion's sleeve. ** Do not touch them," he entreated, glancing fearfully over his shoulder. ** Who knows what spell is upon them ? " True, when found next morning, withered and scentless, these flowers appeared commonplace enough. Nor did there exist other proof that on this spot two brothers of the order had beheld a strange and dangerous vision. None the less was their sober account accepted implicitly by the brethren, of whom the wiser ever thereafter avoided to walk in the garden at the moon*s full j though certain of the more youth- ful were known to adventure themselves at that place and season. It is not recorded that their daring and zeal met with any reward or recognition. Nor, perhaps, is this to be wondered at. For if any wandering spirit, coveting, yet not daring to enter the garden, had strayed near to the confining wall, it must have heard daily the solemn chant of the Church's exorcism directed against all powers unholy j it must daily have beheld a slow procession of monks make the circuit of the shell-strewn paths, sprinkling the ground with holy- water to purify it from the contaminating touch of a woman's NEITH BOYCE 27 foot. And if, spirit or woman, It were still undeterred, there was Angelo's music at evening — like another flaming sword at the gate of this Eveless Eden ! Neith Boyce. BY CLAUDE F. BRAGDON. SPRING SONG 9. SPRING SONG HE joy In me rises, rises, And will not be suppressed — The joy in me rises, rises Into my throat and breast. The sea today is a light, bright blue. The joy in me rises, rises- Over it, now, a red bird flew : Red is for love and blue means true — The joy in me rises, rises. Up ! stand not there so calm, my dear, The joy in me rises, rises : We '11 laugh a laugh into the air Dancing upon the sea-beach here — The joy in me rises, rises. Eleanor B. Caldwell. i NOTES 29 NOTES ^On our horizon appears of late the strange figure of a Russian musician, Moussorgski. It is true that he died in 1 88 1, but it is only within a year or two that Western Europe and America have known more than a rumor of his name. Bred a soldier, and for a time considered *• distin- guished, elegant, and something of a fop," he left this life for one of extreme poverty and suffering, and produced ex- traordinary music. Wagner's dream of a union of music and drama was reduced by Moussorgski's pitiless logic to a development where one could not exist without the other. **Art,'* he wrote in one of his letters, "is the means of talking with men. It is not in itself an end. I believe that, however, human speech itself is subject to musical laws, and I see in music not only the expression of sentiments by means of sounds, but, above all, the notation of the human voice.*' Music, then, in its essence, for him is the melody in which a human voice speaks its words — a sort of universal plain chant. It need have no harmonies, it can defy all laws of rhythm. It can reproduce the babblings of a child and the heroic chant of an army. Also it can give you a new sensation. ^Mr. John Lane, the publisher of the Yellow Book, has again made a journey through our country-clad in a brown Norfolk jacket, with a soft hat of the same color, doing a thriving trade in poets and prose-writers of the Bodley Head. In his rooms in London, at the Albany, Mr. William Wat- son is writing verse as the guest of Mr. Lane during his American trip. This is illustrative of the relation between author and publisher which Mr. Lane has succeeded in establishing. So large indeed is the personal element in Mr. Lane's 30 NOTES affairs that I have often thought that he knew much less of good literature than of the men who made it. He has believed in the author's work because he believed in the author himself, and he has a veritable fiair for the coming man. I am not sure that he could select the work of genius from a pile of manuscript, but I know he could pick out the poets from a crowd, if only by the way the hair grew behind their ears. ^The methods that are employed by the modern advertiser to draw attention to his wares are, to say the least, marvel- lous. A recent example, which is of the most unexpected, comes to my mind. I had not thought that new publi- cations could ever be touted like soap or tobacco ; but Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. announce — as a curiosity of book making — that " Hopkinson Smith's new novel, Tom Grogan, will go down to fame as the first book ever bound by workmen wearing kid gloves. The cover is unique, and the peculiar sensitiveness of the process by which the delicate gloss of the covers is produced precludes the touch of the bare hand to the unfinished book; there- fore, clean white gloves are employed." This will certainly go a long way to give the book a place in history, but one would fancy Mr. Smith might prefer to achieve immortality from his own labors rather than from those of the white-gloved employe of a Cambridge binder. ^It is with real pleasure that I record the increasing good taste that Messrs. Rand, McNally & Co. are using in mak- ing their books. Ugly books have always been rather the rule in Chicago, and this house conformed to the rule. But new blood is evidently having its effect. The last few books, if not perfect, have been at least very good to look at. PORTRAITS OF CONTEMPORARIES Ife il iliii'iH!!ii H. G. WELLS 32 NOTES ^ What I hinted at some while ago is now an assured fact. The next novel of one of the best known American authors, whose work is always sure of acclaim, is to be published under a pseudonym which is a woman's name. His pub- lisher is so sure of the increased interest which so virile and imaginative a book will excite if it is supposed to be the work of a woman, that he is paying a greatly increased price to the author, and will spend more money in advertising than he has for some years. The author is enabled to pay some of his old debts, and doubtless thinks that in addition it is an interesting experiment. Meanwhile the public will do well to watch carefully the novels of the next six months. ■[jl have serious doubts whether we really ever come to feel what " style " in a foreign language really is. For example, you may read French with perfect ease, you may always understand, you may appreciate the wit and brilliancy of the writer, the grandeur or the pathos of his story ; but do you feel the charm which comes entirely from how a thing is said and not from what is said? Do you feel the balance of phrases, the turn of a sentence, the use of exactly the right word in the right place, the infinite subtleties of which the language is capable ? A little crowd of men discussed this question the other night. All of them read French well and constantly; but every one was forced to confess that technicalities of style eluded him. They knew that Georges Ohnet, for example, was always banal, and that De Maupassant was keen-witted and an artist ; but that a sentence of the latter' s was better written than one of the former's was to every one a matter of faith and not of experience. My own especial argument was that the French were so extraordinarily lucid that we forgot everything else about their style. I was immediately offered a page of Mallarme*s NOTES 33 prose to read, and I was at once convinced that here was style of some sort, whether good or bad I was not sure, but obtrusively style. Later I found a definition of Mallarme as a man ** who thinks in German, constructs in English, and does the French the honor to borrow their vocabulary." The result is a rhetoric which never was by sea or land, and as well a peculiar piquancy of style very remarkable. ^Stephane Mallarme is now ** poete des poetes,'* crowned king of the versemakers of France. When Leconte de Lisle died. La Plume held a congress of poets, and took the votes of all to see who stood in his place as leader in the minds of the members of the guild. Paul Verlaine was chosen, and when he died, La Plume again called upon the poets to name "the master.'* This time Mallarme was adjudged the honor. What he may say now is to a certain extent ex cathedra. ^In a certain sense, the young of America, when they do care for art, care for it more **for art's sake" than do their brothers on the farther side of the water. This is not the usual view. In the moods when we spell art with a very large A, and deplore the fate that keeps us here, we usually claim exactly the opposite. I remember, however, that when I was in Paris we were even more intensely political than literary in our interests. In a general way we all agreed j that is, we were of the school of revolt. But in a particular way our dissensions were lively and conflict raged constantly between anarchisteSy socialistes^ collecti'vistes, and so forth. Such literary prowess as we had was brought into the service of political reform, and in that dim, smoky basement room of the Soleil d'Or, where the Soirees de la Plume are held, and where anyone may read his verses, there were perhaps as many sonnets " a P Anarchie " as to love and art. So turbulent and enthusiastic is young France 34 NOTES that the field of literature will not contain it. It lays hold of politics and religion as well. In England the case is as marked, but it is rather among the older, at least the more dignified men. Mr. Ruskin would lay claim to the title of political economist. Mr. Swinburne's utterances are latterly almost all political. Mr. William Morris is as well known for a socialist and reformer as he is for a poet, and Mr. Wil- liam Watson's stirring verses on the wrongs of Armenia are hawked about the London streets in a sixpenny pam- phlet. Is there anything like this in these United States ? Do you know among the young men who are trying to write any who arecapable of folly or serious thought in the name of pol- itics or religion } Among the known figures is the case differ- ent in any wise? Could you tell Mr. Thomas Bailey Aldrich's politics, or whether Mr. Brander Matthews has any religion? Now that Whitman has gone, do you know anyone besides Stephen Crane who has "revolted" in verse? And, in- deed, did we ever take any interest in Whitman ? Mr. Howells ventures, from time to time, into fresh fields of thought, and is rewarded by being told that he is, after all, a journalist, and a much better journalist than novelist. All our political sagacity we want in the halls of Congress, and all our literary ability applied solely to literary ends. Divis- ion of labor such as this equals the Hindoo caste system. ^One day last summer, the publisher of a long established and more or less prominent Chicago newspaper came into my ofRce. He wished to talk business and began by re- minding me what kind things his paper had said of the books first published by my firm. He added that during the months just past his journal had contained no mention of any book bearing the house's imprint. Also during that time we had refused to advertise. He then said he had a proposi- tion to make. It was this : he would guarantee that a good NOTES 35 notice of every book published should appear in his paper, if we would place with him advertising to a reasonable amount — say as much as we used in the other Chicago papers. Now it happens that the Literary Editor of his paper al- ways signed reviews, and I was at particular pains to ask if the **good notices'* promised would appear over this signature. They would, he assured me. **In fact," I said, "the literary editor's judgment is based absolutely on the patronage in the advertising columns. You say practically to me that if I will pay you a certain sum of money, nomin- ally for advertising, you will assure me a good review of anything we publish, whether it 's good or bad." My visitor was not enthusiastic over my presentation of the case, but he agreed it was his proposition. Then I told him what I thought of him and his paper or of any other paper, or writer, whose judgment was to be bought like groceries or dry goods. I showed the man the door with as much reserve as I could command, promising him that so long as he was connected with the paper it would never get one cent's worth of advertising from me. Now I see by a note in The Bookseller that the Boston ;^6 NOTES Daily Globe ** has the book-revioring department run on scientific, money-making principles." " Every book received," it is said, " has first to go through the business department. The publisher's business with the paper is considered, and if no advertising has been given, a very small notice is made. But, if the publisher deals with the Globe in a generous way, pains will be taken to see that the book will be given a good and striking review." The note goes on to say that — " This principal of mutual co-operation is generally in vogue, and every publisher to-day recognizes the fact." If this is true, it is well-nigh time some action were taken. A paper that sinks to the level of a common bribe-taker in bookish matters would do the same in other things. How do we know that all of its opinions are not bought and sold — what weight its political stand must have with the com- munity, and what respect can wc have for its proprietor and manager ? ^Itis said in Paris that Mme. Bernhardt's venture as man- ager of her own theatre, the Renaissance, did not prove successful, and that she has signed a contract with the Porte St. Martin for next winter's season. Americans, rather than Parisians, will regret this, if it be so, for it was they who appreciated being able to reserve seats in advance with- out extra charge, not being forced to pay the owvreuses their salaries in tips — innovations which Sarah brought back to France from her American tours. Life-long custom has made these troubles seem of small moment to Paris- ians, and the acting of the greatest actress of France will be the same anywhere. OPHELIA DRA^VN BY FRED RICHARDSON 38 NOTES ^Yesterday I gave advice to a young woman who wished to be doing whatever was most down-to-date in art, the ab- solute last word. I told her that an interest in the revival of lithography seemed to me her best move. To-day, were she here, I should say to her, ** Embroider." A young Ger- man, Hermann Obrlst, has lately become known as a master decorator in embroidery. This art has always been one of exquisite but petty details. Obrlst has a bold and firm stitch, if one may put it that way, and has shown that there are tremendous possibilities in the needle. ^ Bradley His Book has an admirable and original cover by Will H. Bradley, who stands sponsor for the whole under- taking. Inside there are some delightful things by Penfield, and some drawings by Bradley which are in no way up to the ordinary merit of his work. Miss Harriet Monroe's verses are in her best style, though why they should so care- fully be labeled " Poem,'* I do not understand. The remain- der of the letter-press is beneath notice. There are two bad little sketches by Richard Harding Davis, an uninteresting article by Bradley (who had better stick to drawing) on Penfield, and exclamatory and rapturous paragraphs like the following scattered here and there without apparant reason ; "THE HEART'S DESIRE. Oh! Lily! Though in raiment fair thy ^virtue is expressed, the settled : so does this little restaurant keep the atmosphere of a generation or so back in England, when the proprietor left the mother country. A small room panelled in oak on which are hung old racing cuts and colored pictures of "The London Mail'* and other coaches, a sanded floor, a cupboard where tankards are kept, another where chops, steaks, salads and bottled ale are displayed in a riot of color: these are bits of the picture. Last of all there is the host, and " the host " is what has disappeared from England. He is a man to whom you are guest as well as customer, with whom you will con- fer as to the merits of two chops, who will carve your steak for you if you wish, and, seated at your table, divert you with conversation more intelligent than that at your club. In essence, a man to whom eating is an important, serene, almost sacred thing. Good eating would furnish him subject for a sonnet, were he a poet, and padding for many a page, were he a novelist. His gayest wit and his finest similes would be gladly spent in praise of good living. I remember one night when a Stilton cheese had just arrived 44 NOTES from England. It stood gloriously rotund on the desk, and the host bent over it in doting fondness. He smoothed and patted it and surveyed it from this side and that. His wife forsook her tomatoes and mushrooms, and with approving smiles watched the sacred rites of cheese-cutting. Never have I been so impressed with the dignity, the sweetness of eating. With me was a man whose name is known everywhere as that of a writer of extreme delicacy of touch. I begged him to sketch the scene, to preserve something of its special atmosphere, but he refused in a confession of sheer inability. "I like it all," he said, "but it won't go into my writing." Nor will it into that of any one else. From our books we might, as a nation, be supposed to live on vegetable^ and comfits, drinking seltzer water. . Mrs. Perinell, however, has encouraged me to believe in a reaction. to meat and drink in letters. I am placid. I take stock of the things Ihave eaten, and, more to the point, of the tilings I mean to eat. My conversation at dinner is enlivened with-numerdus anecdotes of gourmets and gourmands, tales of the most delectable oyster and the magnificent mushroom ; jth^nksito-tliis delightful book. •|It is tibt quite cleat to me why one day I see the name Katherine Tynan appended to a poem or a story, the next week find something new signed Katherine Tynan Hinkson, and the following week observe a reversion to Katherine Tynan; ' I'know that' perhaps a year ago Katherine Tynan marrie*d*Mr. Hinkson, and that she was offered the choice of signing her work with the old or the new name. But this present arrangement suggests an alternation of divorce and remarriage, performed witli a rapidity which makes the liveliest times in Dakota seem stagnant. Will Mrs. Hink- son, or Miss Tynan, as she perhaps is to-day, explain.? PORTRAIT OF IBSEN IN i860 46 NOTES Jackson, Miss., May ist, 1896 To THE Editor of the Chap-Book, Dear Sir: — I have just been suffering from an attack of Stephen Crane, and Paul Verlaine, and the enclosed **poem " is a result of the ravages of the decadent bacteria. It is utterly worthless, and I send it for publication } not so much as being peculiarly suited to your columns, but as an awful warning to your readers against too much dallying with modern poetry. The idea that I intend to conceal in these lines is the mental condition of Alexander when he sighed for more worlds to conquer. I give you the poem's esoteric meaning, as I am sure, from my own experience in perusing it after it was cold, your unaided intellect would never discover it had any more meaning than a political platform. I am, dear sir, very truly yours. ALEXANDER Girth with a glory of gold was his brow. Bowed low in the clasp of his azarine hands. Blushes of blooms fawning fair at the fall of his feet. Splashes of splendor, crimson in clots and bluish in bands; Dazzles of thought a flower in the deeps of his eyes. Struggling through tears as the stars that gleam through a tangle of clouds j Voices of masterful men in a psean of praise and in cries, Lavish of love from feminine crowds ; Jewels for the reach of his hand, and a jingle of gold, Just for the touch of a finger outheld j "God, oh, my God," in a wail from his lips outrolled, ** Grant me yon star, a-bloom in that plot of purpled sky." NOTES 47 •^An English gentleman, after a sojourn of some months in our country, remarked that we were the best half-educated people in the world. All of this happened some years ago, but superficiality endures as the mark by which we are known. One manifes- tation of it, which has of late become peculiarly evident, is in the attention now paid to books and literature. It may sound at first like an extravagant and unconsidered assertion to say that nobody reads books in these days, yet the remark is true, and true in spite of the entertaining advertisements of publishers who placard their books with " 49th thou- sand," or " 1 8th edition," and so forth. It is curious and paradoxical that, in a day when real reading has become an entertainment of the dying generations, more books should be sold than ever before. None, I fancy, will deny that never in the world's history have books sold in such vast numbers as during the past few years. Think of Trilby, The Manxman, The Bonnie Brier Bush, The Prisoner of Zenda, The Heavenly Twins, the novels of Rider Haggard and Conan Doyle, and the stories of Rudyard Kipling I And yet, I maintain, books are read less than ever. What is done with then .> Why do people buy them ? one asks. The reply is difficult. Most persons purchase books with the intention of reading them j others buy them for table decorations J others purchase them on the recommendation of thoughtless friends, and still others for presents. Times have been hard, and a book was the cheapest respectable gift one could make : thousands recognize this fact, and at the holidays, even in the days of panic, the bookshops have fared well. We do n't even read the magazines now j the older peri- odicals are dying out and the new ones are not literary : they are merely picture books issued periodically. These are all we really read, and, like children, our reading is looking at 48 NOTES ** the pretty pictures." A man buys three or four of them for what one literary paper costs, and gets half-tone portraits of actresses, celebrities and places j a few pages of gossip and personality ; short, crisp interviews. As for the stories and verse, they are much the same in all the periodicals. It is no wonder that Munsey' s and the Cosmopolitan and Mc- Cluris succeed ; there is no surprise in the sales of the Sketch and the 5'/<5r«^^ri/ and the Ladies' Home Journal \ their ed- itors merely give the public what it demands} they sacrifice literature to pictures, day by day, and they base their whole scheme on the superficiality of our public They advertise stories by well-known writers, for the public likes juggling with names. They stick a name plainly before one j it suf- fices—the story we do n't really want. It takes hours to read Harper s or the Century. It takes a minute to look through M««/f)''j j it is interesting} there are many photographs of prominent persons. When one finishes, one appreciates the pastime. How can literature live under these circumstances ? What chance is there now for real reading? We are going back to the beginning of things. Letters are dying j picture-writing comes again into vogue, and we are once more where we were in the uncivil- ized days of early centuries. Oh'e la decadence ! ANNOUNCEMENTS IX The Chap-Book SEMI-MONTHLY SUBSCRIPTION : TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. THE TRADE SUPPLIED BY THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY AND ITS BRANCHES. ADVERTISING RATES TO BE HAD ON AP- PICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS H. S. STONE AND COMPANY, CHICAGO. Entered at the Chicago Post Office as Second Class Matter. The Publishers beg to call the attention of readers to the list of contributors to recent issues : Robert Louis Stevenson Thomas Bailey Aldrich St£phane Mallarme Richard Henry Stoddard Gilbert Parker Bliss Carman Charles G. D. Roberts H. B. Marriott Watson Norman Gale Maria Louise Pool William Sharp Archibald Lampman Richard Burton H. W. Mabie F. Vallotton j. F. Raffaelli H. H. Boyesen H. G. WelU Kenneth Grahame Paul Verlaine William Ernest Henley Eugene Field Hamlin Garland 1. Zangwill Louise Imogen Guiney Gertrude Hall John Davidson Alice Brown Julian Hawthorne Clyde Fitch Edmund Gosse Maurice 'I hompson C. F. Bragdon Will H. Bradley Louise Chandler Moulton Max Beerbohm Henry James THE CHAP-BOOK ^5? ^^ ^5? ^? ^? ^? ^5? ^j? There are two classes of bicycles Columbias and others Columbias sell for $100 everyone alike^ and are the finest bicycles the world produces. Other bicycles sell for less^ but they are not G>lumbias« POPE MANUFACTURING CO. Hartford, Conn. -Ntfs. -Nte. 4it(t -.Nte. ^^ ^^ -Nte. -»>t(!. ADVERTISEMENTS XI 'T^HE CHAP-BOOK is now two years old. Bound Copies of Volume I entirely out of print, and now selling at about $15.00. Volume II is also out of print. Volumes III and IV are to be had at $1.00 and $1.50 respectively. H. S. 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Bound volumes may he had from the publishers at one dollar and a half Subscribers pay postage, fifteen cents, both ways. ADVERTISEMENTS 111 Just Published by The Century Co. THE PUPPET-BOOTH Henrj B. Fuller's New Book. "Mr. Fuller now ventures into a field wholly dififerent from either of the two where we had learned to look for him. It is a field new not alone to him, indeed, but untilled by any native author. If there is a weirdness about some of the themes and situations suggestive of Poe, and a pervasive moral quality that reminds one of Hawthorne, it is in the matter, not the form, that the resemblance lies, in either case, and in a highly imagina- tive power that places these twelve little one-act plays on a level with the work of the masters we have named." —The Critic. Price, $1.25. A STRANGE, SAD COMEDY By M0II7 Elliot Seawell. Author of "Maid Marian, and Other Stories,'' "The Berkeley s and their Neighbors,'' etc. An international romance. Price, $1.25. NOTES OF THE NIGHT By Charles C. Abbott. Author of "A Naturalist's Rambles about Home," M Colonial Wooing,'' etc. A group of delightful essays and sketches. Price, $1.50. THE COLLECTED POEMS OF S. WEIR MITCHELL Author of" When All the Woods are Green," "In War Time," "Characteristics," etc. A complete collection of the poems of Dr. S. Weir Mitchell. Price, $1.75. THE WHITE PINE : A STUDY By Gi£ford Pinchot and Henry S. Graves. An invaluable contribution to the natural history of the most important lumbering tree in North America. Price, $1.00. PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO., N. Y. IV THE CHAP-BOOK THE REVIEW OF REVIEWS. Edited by Albert Shaw. FOR JUNE. ALL ABOUT ALASKA, 1. SHELDON JACKSON, ALASKA'S APOSTLE AND PIONEER. By John Eaton, with portraits of Dr. Jackson, and other illustrations. 2. THE GOLD FIELDS OF ALASKA. By Robert Stein. 3. THE BOUNDARY QUESTION. The general aspects and resources of Alaska, summarized and reviewed from the latest leading articles on those subjects, with two maps. NICHOLAS II, CZAR OF RUSSIA. An exceptionally brilliant sketch of the newly crowned Czar, with portraits of the Czar, Czarina, and their child. THE FRANCO-RUSSIAN ALLIANCE. By Pierre de Coubertin. THE PEOPLES' FOOD— A Great National Inquiry. Professor W. O. Atwater and his work, with numerous illustrations. THE JOURNALISTS OF THE ROSEWATER FAMILY. With portraits. Besides these contributed special articles, the departments of the Review of Reviews for June give a thorough and readable discussion of the world's history during the past thirty days. The Editor's Progress of the World, illustrated with dozens of timely portraits and pictures, covers a great range of the most significent human activities and interests. If one has not seen a newspaper during the whole month, a half hour in this department will leave one with a well proportioned and accurate idea of the great events valuable for any intelligent mind. Other departments furnish the best substance of all the important period- ical literature that has just appeared, review the newest books, print the notable cartoons which illustrate the salient political and social happenings, and give concise tables of events and bibliographies of the periodicals. Ifits subscribers' judgments are to be trusted, the Review of Reviews is " the one magazine indispensable twelve months out of the year." For sale at all news stands, 25 cents. Subscription price $2.50 Per year. THE REVIEW OF REVIEWS, ^ i?ew* york'city: ADVERTISEMENTS Announcements of Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Company NEARLY READY Episcopo and Company by Gabriele d'Annunzio TRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY Myrta Leonora Jones Gabriele d'Annunzio is the best known and most gifted of modern Italian novelists. His work is making a great sensation at present in all literary circles. The translation now offered gives the first opportunity English-speaking readers have had to know him in their own language. To be had of all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers HERBERT S. STONE & CO. CHICAGO VI THE CHAP-BOOK Announcements of Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Company Ready Early in June Prose Fancies SECOND SERIES BY Richard Le Gallienne i6mo, $1.25 Mr. Le Gallienne is never more entertaining and his style is never more charming than in Prose Fancies. The first series is now in its fourth edition in England, and it is accounted along with " The Book Bills of Nar- cissus," his best prose work. The new series, being the first volume issued by Messrs. H. S. Stone & Company, will have especial care bestowed on its manufacture, and it will be attractively printed on deckle-edged paper. To be had of all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers HERBERT S. STONE & CO. CHICAGO ADVERTISEMENTS Vll Announcements of Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Company Ready Early in June Checkers A HARD-L UCK STOR T BY Henry M. Blossom, Jr. Author of*' The Documents in Evidence.''* i6mo, $1.25 A story of the American Derby, partly in dialect, being the real speech of the streets of our great cities presented truthfully for the first time. In the greater part, a simple, pathetic picture of country life, told with a con- stant undercurrent of satire. The book is wholly new and likely to be widely popular. To be had at all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers HERBERT S. STONE & CO., CHICAGO VIll THE CHAP-BOOK 'BaII=Bearing'# Biqrcle Shoes ^ There is something" more in life than just gettins: through it. Why not make the journey comfortably and eas* ily. Perhaps you spend a good portion of the time on a wheel. If so, you should have on your feet a pair of "Ball-Bearing" Bicycle Shoes of the Fargo make. They are easy to ride in, and just as easy to walk in, because they "Fit and Feet Like a Glove." They support the foot at every point. Thev are known by the patented Trade-Mark of a bicycle wheel with a shoe in the center of it. There are imitations of our trade- mark similar in design, but look for the brand and accept no substitute. The "Ball-Bearing" Bicycle Shoes are equip- ped with Pratt Lace Fasteners which hold the laces without tying. Ask your dealer for "Ball- Bearing" Bicycle Shoes. For Sale Everywhere. C. If. Fargo & Co. (Makers). Chicago. VOL.V THE CHAP-BOOK no.. Copyright, 1896. by H. S. STONE & COMPANY G ILLUSION OD and I in space alone. And nobody else in view. And ** Where are the people, O Lord,*' I said, **The earth below and the sky o'erhead And the dead whom once I knew ? ' ' "That was a dream,'* God smiled and said; *' A dream that seemed to be true. There were no people living or dead. There was no earth and no sky o'erhead — There was only Myself and you." "Why do I feel no fear," I asked. Meeting YOU here this way ? " For I have sinned, I know full well; And is there heaven, and is there hell. And is this the Judgment Day ? ' ' "Nay! those were but dreams," the great God said; " Dreams that have ceased to be. There are no such things as fear, or sin ; There is no you — you never have been — There is nothing at all but me!" Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 50 S. PATRICK AND THE PEDANTS S. PATRICK AND THE PEDANTS AT the place, close to the Dead Man's Point, at Rosses, where the disused pilot-house looks out to sea through two round windows like eyes, a mud cottage stood in the last century. It also was a watch-house ; for a certain old Michael Bruin, who had been a smuggler in his day, and was still the father and grandfather of smugglers, lived there ; and when, under the shadow of night, a tall schooner crept over the bay from Roughley O' Byrne, it was his business to hang a horn lanthorn in the southern window, that the news might travel to Dorren's Island, and from thence, by another horn lanthorn, to the village of Rosses ; and but for this glimmering of messages, he had little communion with mankind, for he was very old, and had no thought for anything but the making of his soul at the foot of the Spanish crucifix of carved oak that hung by his chimney, or bent double over the rosary of stone beads brought to him in a cargo of silks and laces out of France. One night he had watched hour after hour, because a gentle and favorable wind was blowing, and La Mere de Misericorde was much overdue ; and was about to lie down upon his heap of straw, seeing that the dawn was Copyright, 1896 W. B. YEATS 51 whitening the east, and that the schooner would not dare to round Roughly O' Byrne and lie at anchor by the second Rosses, except under the shadow of night, when he saw a long line of herons flying slowly from Dorren's Island and towards the pools which are half-choked with reeds in the midst of Rosses. He had never before seen herons flying over the sea, for they are shore-keeping birds, and partly because this had startled him out of his drowsiness, and more because the long delay of the schooner kept his cupboard empty, he took down his rusty shotgun, of which the barrel was tied on with a piece of string, and followed them towards the pools. When he came close enough to hear the sighing of the rushes in the outermost pool, the morning was grey over the world, so that the tall rushes, the still waters, the vague clouds, the thin mist lying among the sand heaps, seemed carved out of an enormous pearl. In a little he came upon the herons, of whom there were a great num- ber, standing with lifted legs in the shallow water, and, crouching down behind a bank of rushes, looked to the priming of his gun, and bent for a moment over his rosary to murmur : '* Patron Patrick, let me shoot a heron ; made into a pie it will support me for nearly four days, for I no longer eat as in my youth. If you keep me from missing I will say a rosary to you every night until the pie is eaten." Then he lay down, and, rest- ing his gun upon a large stone, turned towards a heron who stood upon a bank of smooth grass over a little stream that flowed into the pool, for he feared to take rheumatism by wading, as he would have to do if he shot one of those who stood in the water. But when he looked along the barrel the heron was gone, and, to his wonder and terror, a man of infinitely great age and infirmity stood in its place. He lowered the gun, and the heron 52 S. PATRICK AND THE PEDANTS Stood there with bent head and motionless feathers, as though it had slept from the beginning of the world. He raised the gun, and no sooner did he look along the iron than that enemy of all enchantment brought the old man again before him, only to vanish when he lowered the gun for the second time. He laid the gun down, and crossed himself three times, and said a Paternoster and an Ave Maria ^ and muttered half aloud : ** Some enemy of God and of my patron is standing upon the smooth place and fishing in the blessed water," and then aimed very carefully and slowly and with an exultant heart. He fired, and when the smoke had gone saw an old man huddled upon the grass, and a long line of herons flying with clamor towards the sea. He went round a bend of the pool, and, coming to the little stream, looked down at a figure wrapped in faded clothes of black and green of an ancient pattern, and spotted with blood. He shook his head at the sight of so great a wickedness. Suddenly the clothes moved, and an arm was stretched upward towards the rosary which hung about his neck, and long, wasted fingers almost touched the cross. He started back, crying : "Wizard, I will let no wicked thing touch my blessed beads !" and the sense of a great danger just evaded made him tremble. **If you listen to me," replied a voice so faint that it was like a sigh, **you will know that I am not a wiz- ard, and you will let me kiss the cross before I die." "I will listen to you," he answered, '*but I will not let you touch my blessed beads;" and, sitting on the grass a little way from the dying man, he reloaded his gun and laid it across his knees and composed himself to listen. **I know not how many generations ago we, who are now herons, were Ollamhs of King Leaghaire; we neither W. B. YEATS 53 hunted, nor went to battle, nor listened to the Druids preaching by their grey stones, and even love, if it came to us at all, was but a transitory fire. The Druids and the poets told us many and many a time of a new Druid Patrick, and most among them were fierce against him, while a few held his doctrine merely the doctrine of the gods set out in new symbols, and were for giving him welcome; but we yawned in the midst of their tale. At last they came crying that he was coming to the foss of the king and fell to their dispute, but we would listen to neither party, for we were busy with a dispute about the merits of the great and little metres; nor were we dis- turbed when they passed our door with staves of enchant- ment under their arms, traveling towards the forest to contend against his coming, nor when they returned after nightfall with torn robes and despairing cries, for the click, click of our knives filled us with peace and our dis- pute filled us with joy; nor even when in the morning crowds passed us to hear the strange Druid preaching the commandments of his God. The crowds passed, and one who had laid down his kiiife to yawn and stretch himself heard a voice speaking far off, and knew that the Druid Patrick was preaching within the foss of the king, but our hearts were deaf, and we carved and disputed and read, and laughed a thin laughter together. In a little we heard many feet coming towards the house, and presently two tall figures stood in the door, the one in white, the other in a crimson robe, like a great lily and a heavy poppy; and we knew the Druid Patrick and our King Leaghaire. We laid down the slender knives and bowed before the king, but when the black and green robes had ceased to rustle it was not the loud, rough voice of King Leaghaire that spoke to us, but a strange voice in which there was a rapture as of one speaking 54 S. PATRICK AND THE PEDANTS from behind a battlement of Druid flame : * I preached the commandments of the Maker of the world,' it said; 'within the foss of the king and from the centre of the earth to the windows of Heaven there was a great silence, so that the eagle floated with unmoving wings in the white air, and the fish with unmoving fins in the dim water, while the linnets and the wrens and the sparrows stilled their ever-trembling tongues in the heavy boughs, and the clouds were like white marble, and the rivers became their motionless mirrors, and the shrimps in the far-off^ sea pools were still enduring eternity in patience, although it was hard.* And as he named these things it was like a king numbering his people. *But your slender knives went click, click upon the oaken staves, and, all else being silent, the sound shook the angels with anger. Oh, little roots, nipped by the winter, who do not wake although the summer pass above you with innumerable feet. Oh, men who have no part in love, who have no part in song, who have no part in wisdom, but dwell with the shadows of memory where the feet of angels cannot touch you as they pass over your heads, where the hair of demons cannot sweep about you as they pass under your feet, lay upon you a curse, and change you to an example for ever and ever; you shall become grey herons and stand pondering in grey pools and flit over the world in that hour when it is most full of sighs, having forgotten the flame of the stars and not yet perceived the flame of the sun, and you shall preach to the other herons until they also are like you, and are an example for ever and ever, and your deaths shall come to you by chance and unforeseen that no fire of certainty may visit your hearts.' " The voice of the old Ollamh became still, but the voteen bent over his gun with his eyes upon the ground. W. B. YEATS 55 trying in vain to understand something of this tale ; and he had so bent for no little while had not a tug at his rosary- made him start out of his dream. The old Ollamh had crawled along the grass, and was now trying to draw the cross down low enough for his lips to reach it. "You must not touch my blessed beads ! ** he cried, and struck the long, withered fingers with the barrel of his gun. He need not have trembled, for the old man fell back upon the grass with a sigh, and was still for ever. He bent down and began to consider the black and green clothes, for his fear began to pass when he came to understand that he had something the Ollamh wanted and pleaded for, and now that the blessed beads were safe, it was nearly all gone ; and surely, he thought, if that ample cloak, and that little tight-fitting cloak under it, were warm and goodly, St. Patrick would take the enchantment out of them and leave them fit for human use. Unhappily the black and green clothes fell away wherever his fingers touched them, and while this was a new wonder, a slight wind blew over the pool and crumbled the old Ollamh and all his ancient gear into a little heap of dust, and then made the little heap less and less until there was nothing but the smooth green grass. W. B. Yeats. 1 ! ^^^ 3 k^ '^ M t- If > S^»1SSSEBBI rhI M 3 1 ^^s ^bH 56 A NORTHERN SUBURB N A NORTHERN SUBURB ATURE selects the longest way. And winds about in tortuous grooves: A thousand years the oaks decay; The wrinkled glacier hardly moves. But here the whetted fangs of change Daily devour the old demesne. The busy farm, the quiet grange. The wayside inn, the village green. In gaudy yellow brick and red. With rooting pipes, like creepers rank. The shoddy terraces o'erspread Meadow and garth and daisied bank. With shelves for rooms the houses crowd. Like draughty cupboards in a row: Ice-chests, when wintry winds are loud; Ovens, when summer breezes blow. Roused by the fee'd policeman's knock. And sad that day should come again. Under the stars the workmen flock In haste to reach the workmen's train: For here dwell those who must fulfil Dull tasks in uncongenial spheres. Who toil through dread of coming ill. And not with hope of happier years — The lowly folk who scarcely dare Conceive themselves perhaps misplaced. Whose prize for unremitting care Is only not to be disgraced. John Davidson. BY CLAUDE F. BRAGDON 58 THE PLEASURES OF HISTORIOGRAPHY THE PLEASURES OF HISTORI- OGRAPHY I THE PLEASURES OF THE CHASE 1AM an historiographer ; and being desirous and assiduous of accuracy in my statements, I am given to recourse to first sources of authority, to the fountain springs of great events ; I am a scientifically his- torical Gradgrind ; I build up my histories inductively from facts by the most approved scientific processes. And I can say with feeling and with emphasis, in the words of Sir Thomas Browne : ** Sure, a great deal of conscience goes into the making of a history.'* A few days ago the need of exact knowledge upon a certain point in the criminal history of the colonies determined me to seek my information in the most un- erring and unimpeachable historical records we have, those of the Criminal Court. Those I sought were of a large city, I might say of Chicago, only she has no colonial records ; so I frankly reveal that I wished to search the records of the criminal courts of New Amsterdam. Now I had read a score of times, and heard a score of times more in the glibly-rounded sentences of elegant historical lectures, patriotic addresses, commemorative "papers" of patriotic-hereditary societies, that to the municipal honor of that very large frog in a puddle, viz. : New York, which grew out of the polly-wog New Amsterdam, all records of colonial times of that city were still preserved, were cherished as sacred script in that fitting cabinet, the venerable Hall of Records in the City Hall Park. Thus introduced, I ventured to its gates. It is an ancient, dingy building, whose opening portals A DEGENERATE 59 thrust you upon a cage-like partition strongly suggestive of a menagerie, and also olfactorily suggestive of the menageries' accompaniment, *'an ancient and a fish- like" — nay, more, a bird- and beast-like smell. A doorvi^ay on either side of the cage lead to various desks and rooms, and enclosure* and closets, all labelled writh well-worn signs ; and as I glanced bewildered from placard to placard, from sign to sign, there approached that blessed and gallant metropolitan engine for the succor of feminine ignorance, incapacity and weakness — a policeman. Gladly did I follow in his sturdy wake to the office of the Clerk of Records, who would know all about it. Alas ! he was out. A callow, inky youth, his deputy, had never heard of any Dutch records and didn't believe there were any in New York. My policeman had vanished. The youth leaned out of his latticed window, pointed round a corner to an enclosed office: ** Go ask bim, he can tell you." I went and asked him ; for a third time I told my tale, already rehearsed to policeman and youth. *' I wish to see the colonial records of the criminal courts in New York in the seventeenth century. Part are in Dutch. I hear they have been translated, and that the English transla- tion is here, for the use of the public. If this is not so, I wish to see the original Dutch and English records from the year 1650 to 1700." It is impossible to overstate the expression of blank surprise and incredulity with which this inquiry was greeted. The official vouchsafed one curt answer : '*I never heard of such a thing as a Dutch trial in the criminal courts of New York, and I don't believe there ever was one. If so, he will know." ** He " was a haven, for his office was labelled Satis- faction — and he was satisfactory. After a fourth 6o THE PLEASURES OF HISTORIOGRAPHY explanation of my desires, he answered me with the elaborately patient and compassionate politeness usually employed by men in business and public offices to a woman's apparently useless inquiries. He said gently : *' Only deeds and transfers are here in the Hall of Records ; those records you wish to see are all in the County Clerk's office, over there." Over there was the court-house of Tweed's inglorious fame. Within the said office four transfers, from book- keeper to messenger, to civil clerk, to County Clerk, found me, after four more dogged repetitions, encaged myself in a dingy wire prison, surrounded by millions of compartments with papers and deeds and flanked by scores of spittoons. Errand boys, messengers, aged porters, young attorneys, came and went, papers were given and received with mechanical rapidity and precision by the monarch of the cage, an elderly Irishman, smooth-shaven, massive-featured, inscrutable, blank of expression, who finally turned to me with civil indiffer- ence. But this was not the right place for me to come: those records were at the court-house at Ninth Street, where the criminal courts were held. I patiently prepared to assail the Ninth Street abode of Themis, not without an unworthy suspicion that this Hibernian Sphinx sent me there to get rid of me. But a gentleman-like and eavesdropping bystander proffered his advice : ** Those records you want are in the off.ce of the Clerk of the Court of Common Pleas, in the third story of this build- ing." And he thrust me with speed in the ascending elevator. The room pointed out to me as my goal proved to be the Supreme Court, a scene of peaceful dignity, but, alas, there was no such officer anywhere as the Clerk of the Court of Common Pleas. Gloomily turning to the Surrogate's office to examine the will of A DEGENERATE 6 1 this Dutch criminal whom I was running to earth, mine eyes encountered this sign : Office of the Court of Com- mon Pleas. Certainly this was the office and the records were here, though the clerk was not. Other clerks there were ; to the most urbane for the tenth time I told my tale, and finally was shown the records. "These are in Dutch," I said; ''will you show me the English trans- lation ? " ** Are they in Dutch?" he answered with some animation. **I never knew that. I have been here twenty years, and no one has ever asked to sec them before." Of course there was no English translation. I can read and translate printed Dutch with ease; but seven- teenth century Dutch differs more from modern Dutch than does old French from the French of to-day. Add to this the unique variations in spelling of the Dutch clerks, the curious chirography, the faded ink, and no antiquary will be surprised to learn that an hour had passed ere I had read enough of those records to learn that they were wholly civil cases, boundary disputes, adjustment cases, etc. I wearily rose to leave, when a newly-arrived person of authority said airily: "I can tell you all about those old Criminal Court records. They are all over in the City Hall, in the office of the Super- intendent of City Affairs." I trust I showed becoming credulity and gratitude. I walked out into the beautiful little park, aglow with beds of radiant scarlet and yellow tulips, who remembered and significantly commemorated their Holland ancestors and the old Dutch-American town even if the city's servants knew them not; and I strolled under the trees and breathed with delight the fresh air of heaven; for wherever men congregate in offices, there ventilation is as naught. 62 THE PLEASURES OF HISTORIOGRAPHY I sought the Superintendent's office. To him, igno- miniously but cheerfully ensconced in the cellar-like base- ment, I descended, where glimmered a light so dim, so humid, that I had a sense of being in subaqueous rather than subterranean depths, and I was struck with the civic humor that placed the Superintendent subter omnia. He really knew nothing about these records, but there was a man in the Library who would know. Through subterranean tunnels and cemented passages and up a narrow staircase, I reached the noble above-ground abode of our municipal corporation. Here all was radiant with prosperity. No lean and hungry race filled those corridors and chambers; jocund and ruddy were all, as were our city fathers of yore who drank vast tuns of sack-posset and ale. Well may we say when on those men and on these we gaze: Nobly wert thou named Manhattan ! — the place where all drank together! Mighty is Manhattan and great even the reflection of her power. Neither poverty-stricken nor meagre of flesh am I, but I shrank into humble insignificance before those well-fed aggrandizations of the city's glory and prosperity who bourgeoned through the corridors of our modern Stadt Huys; and I fain would have saluted them with respectful mien and words as of yore as **Most Wor- shipful, Most Prudent, and Very Discreet, their High Mightinesses," — not Burgomasters and Schepens, but Aldermen and Councilmen, — but the tame convention- alities of modern life kept me silent. In the Library the sought-for man sent me to the Clerk of the Common Council, who in turn bade me be seated while he lured from an adjoining ** closet," as old Pepys called his office, one who would be glad to tell me all about everything relating to those ancient days. A DEGENERATE 63 Here was something tangible. Glad to tell me ! In truth he was. Never have I seen such a passion for talking. Forth poured a flood of elaborate Milesian eloquence, in which intricate suggestions, noble patriotic sentiments, ardent historical interest, warm sympathy in my re- searches, and unbounded satisfaction and glowing pride over New York's honorable preservation of the records of her ancestors all joined. Nevertheless and notwithstand- ing, when I ran my fat but sly and agile political fox to earth, and made him answer me directly, I simmered down merely this one solid fact: "If ye go to Mr. De Lancy's office in the Vanderbilt Building, he can tell ye where thim ricords is, an' no one ilse in this city can." I tendered as floriated and declamatory a farewell ex- pression of gratitude as my dull tongue could command to my city authority, who was, I am led to believe from the tablet on the office from which he emerged, a com- mon councilman, but who might have been a score of glorious aldermen distilled and expressed and condensed into one; so rotund, so rubicolored, so shining, so truly grand was he; so elegant, albeit loose, of attire; so glit- tering with gold and precious stones. As I thanked him in phrases sadly etiolated in comparison with his own glowing pauses, <* Madam," said he, **are you satisfied, and may I ask your name and residence?" "You may," said I, "I came to study history, and I was sent to the Satisfaction Clerk, and I found satisfaction, though not in the wonted legal form." "But ye haven't told me yer name," said he. "I have not," said I; "good day." A Degenerate. PHYLLIS IN^E JUNE m J UNE skies are bryte and blue; Care flies away; Phyllis to mee is trewe; June roses, wett wyth dewe. Are of hr Chekes ye hewe. And hr dear Lippes are, too, Sweter than they. June skies are wett wyth rayne; Ah, well-a-way! My harte is sore wyth payne; Phyllis hath turned agayne; Holdeth mee inne disdayne. Till I to wepe am fayne; A-lack-a-day! H. H. Bennett. Zg HELEN MADDER BROWNE 65 "AN' A' FOR WARDLY GAUDS AN' GEAR!" THERESA sat down on the bed, by the open win- dow, and thought. She was very tired; life looked grey and long, stretching before and be- hind her, that night. Yes, she was getting old; she could not stave it off any more by hesitating to look the fact in the face. She was getting old. And Cis was young still, and so pretty. She jumped up with a jerk, and went and looked long, steadfastly, sadly, at her face in the little mirror. It was a plain, grey face, with pale, lifeless brown hair brushed away from it. It never had been even an at- tractive face. And Cis was so pretty! Theresa went back to the window again. The lights of the town shone up at her in the hot, June dusk. She could hear the shouts and songs from Main Street and Martin Street; work had been good the past month, and the miners were not men to count their dollars and cents on the Saturday evening after '*pay.** All the town seemed out for a wild carousal, and the near brown hills looked on. Dust and coal dirt from the breaker by the creek still settled gently on the bare, treeless, grassless slope before the house, although work had stopped three hours ago. She could hear the throb- bing of the engines from the pump-house; a little puff of steam shone every now and then against the black mass of the breaker. The engineer came and stood outside or the pump-house door. Theresa saw the little red spark of his pipe and the sharp lines of his blue-shirted shoul- ders as he stood in the lighted doorway. He held a newspaper in his hand. Theresa thought of another engineer who used to stand in the pump-house door on 66 "an' a' summer nights half a dozen years ago, when Cicely was a little girl. Jim had been very good to her. Some- times when she had had night work in the mill, Jim had come over and taken Cicely down to his engine-room, and kept her there till the tired sister came home. Sometimes, too, in the early summer mornings, Jim had carried her pail of water for her from the creek. Jim was very strong and kind. But Jim had left the pump-house and left the valley years ago. Somebody said that he had married and gone west. Theresa sighed and looked out on the lights of the roistering town, while the sound of her eight looms danced in her head to the throb of the pumps. She was very tired. The bells in the tower of St. John's rang eight. Theresa turned away from the window and sat down again in her old place on the bed. Her feet ached. She drew one foot up onto the bed, and looked at her worn shoe with anxiety. It was almost ready to fall to pieces. Cicely said that Theresa's shoes always were almost ready to fall apart anyway, because she was ** so hard on shoes." It certainly did look so. The tired woman put down her head upon the pillow, and carefully unbut- toned the shoe and held it up. It seemed a hopeless case. She must have some new ones to wear to mass in the morning. She took out her purse and counted over her month's wages; she had been paid that night. Over and over again she did the weary sum. Two dollars to the Mutual Benefit Lodge; twelve dollars to Biddy Macgraw for board and room-rent; six dollars for the doctor who had come to see Cicely when she had the fever; that made twenty. She had twenty-three dollars and eighty- one cents. Three dollars and eighty-one cents left for HELEN MADDER BROWNE 67 shoes — that was a great plenty, Theresa thought. She could get a very good pair of shoes for two and a half; with the rest of the money she might arrange some little surprise for Cis. It seemed almost bevond belief that she should have so much money for which she had no use. Now that she had really assured herself of it, she did not feel so tired after all. She sat up and put on the ragged shoe. As she stood before the glass putting on her hat — a poor, touching, little conceit it was that made Theresa stand before the glass, even in the dark — she heard a girl's laugh ring down the street. She smiled. It was Cis — dear, bright, blithe, pretty Cis. The laugh called up the girl to her vividly. Tall, slender, a thing of rounded arms and cheeks and work-stained hands, a dear, happy, loving, laughing, motherless child, to whom she, the older, was sister and mother at once. Couldn't she get something for Cis now, at once, in- stead of waiting to plan a treat? Cis was fond of dress; some new blue ribbons would please her. One could get very good-looking shoes for two dollars and a quarter, if one wanted to save every cent. From the street below came the sound of the girl's voice, nearer now and clear. A man's voice answered her. ** Matthew Morris," said Theresa, half aloud, and smiled again. She liked Matthew because he was a good, steady lad, and because he was fond of Cis. She herself knew him but little, yet he was fond of Cis, and must therefore be in the Hght. Matthew, too, was fond of dress — when it was Cis who wore the ribbons. Surely she must get Cis the new ribbons. Cis and her escort sauntered slowly down past the house and towards the breaker. Theresa's eyes hung upon every flutter of the girl's light calico, until the hill- 68 "an' a' for wardly gauds an' gear" slope shut her ofFfrom view. Then she went down the stairs and out into the street. She stopped at the ram- shackle gate and looked over at the town lights in the hollow by the river. They beckoned her strangely. She felt a childish eagerness to see the long lighted streets, the shop windows with their stores of treasures, the crowds, the coming and going. She wanted to hear the songs and laughter from the saloons and in the alley- ways; the clinking of beer-glasses; the hawker's cries, as he sold knives, razors and liniment; the thousand and one sounds and sights which all her life she had asso- ciated with the moneyed leisure of Saturday night. Weary though she was, she was eager to go, and then, too, her new shoes must be bought. All the long way over the hill to the Ham Creek foot-path, and all the long, dark mile that she followed it, her thoughts were busy, now with Cicely, now with the lights and the crowded streets she was going to see, now with her day's work in the mill. The eight looms still rattled and clattered in her head, though more faindy now. A trolley car bumped past down the long street, and two festive passengers almost drowned the sound of the looms with **Annie Rooney." The globes in a druggist's window, too, sent long shafts of light, purple, crimson and gold, across the muddy pavement. The colors were like wine to Theresa. She hurried on eagerly. The stores on Martin Street were all open, their most tempting goods displayed in the windows. There was one entire window filled with sky-blue stockings and ban- dana handkerchiefs. Theresa, wandering by in a dream of weary content, clasped her hands together with a great childish *'Oh!" of delight in their brilliancy. Two forlorn little gutter-children crept out of a near hallway, and stared with stupid, sorrowful eyes at the HELEN MADDER BROWNE 69 woman, whom so slight a thing as a windowful of clothes that belonged to other people could make happy. ** Got a jag," commented the little boy, laconically. *' No," said the girl. ** Got a jag," repeated the child in his cruel knowl- edge of the street and its ways. The two watched her with stolid uninterest as she wandered down the long street, looking at the lighted windows, stopping every moment or two to feast upon some new brightness. Finally she turned in at the door of one of the larger dry-goods shops. " I wanter to see yer ribbins — blue ribbins," she said to the nearest salesman. **Yes*m; this way," mumbled the young man, sliding lazily down from his seat on the counter. ** 'Bout how much do you wanter give? " he inquired, as he opened a box of narrow, blue satin rolls before her. **I dunno; I'll see the ribbins first." Theresa spoke with some hauteur; the grasp of her fat little purse was wonderfully reassuring. ** Fifteen cents," said the clerk, throwing out one bolt on the counter. ** Nineteen cents, thirty-one, twenty-seven, twenty, forty-nine." " Them 's all silk? " queried Theresa. "Yes'm — all silk. They're very nice ribbons. You won't find such good ones no other place in town. We keep *em on hand. We " «* Gimme two yards," broke in Theresa. She felt like a prodigal in this first intoxicating rapture of spend- ing. The husks might come afterwards, but she was in no mood to think of their dry, bitter mockery just then. "That, that's forty-nine," she added recklessly. "Two yards. Yes'm," echoed the salesman. And then, with her little package in her hand, Theresa went out of the shop and turned down the street to go to the 70 shoe-store. She walked more lightly than usual in spite of her long day's work. Her fingers tingled as they grasped that little hard-bought luxury. The lights and the noise gave her a keen strength. She hurried on. She passed a milliner's. The window was full of hats, large hats and small hats, beribboned and beflow- cred, a mixture of many colors. Theresa stopped to look at them. They were very beiutiful, she thought. There was one in particular, a great yellow leghorn with green ribbons and a tall red rose standing up on the crown, and corn-flowers trailing down over the brim in the back, which Theresa admired. She thought of Cis — poor little Cis, who couldn't have so many pretty things as the other girls. She wished Cis might have that hat. The corn-flowers would droop down over her curls in such a jaunty fashion. Theresa hesitated long, then entered the shop. A sharp-faced woman with black eyes sat behind the coun- ter, darning woolen socks. She looked up. "Good evenin'. How much do ye ask fur that there hat — the one in the winder, with the flowers an' the rose an' the green ribbins?" "It's four dollars," snapped the little, dumpy, black-eyed woman, staring sharply at Theresa. Theresa drew a long breath. She thought of her old shoes; she could n't wear them to mass, and to stay away from mass was a sin. But then there was Cis. The vision of the blue flowers falling down against Cis's hair had taken fast hold upon her thoughts. ** Can 't ye give it to me fur less? " she demanded. "How much less ?" The little woman pricked up her ears. "Fourteen cents less," said Theresa, quivering with hope. HELEN MADDER BROWNE 7 1 ** I dunno. Well, seein' it's gettin' along towards summer, p'raps I might 's well. Yes, ye kin have it." The mirror, the hats, the bonnets on their pegs, the great colored fashion plate, the counter and the dumpy- little woman, all danced and swung and mixed them- selves up in a mist before Theresa's eyes. Cis should have the hat. She was doing a deadly sin. She was perilling her soul. She had no shoes. She couldn't go to mass. Her soul would suffer in purgatory, suffer horribly! Cis should have the hat. Pretty Cis! ** Gimme it," she said, and turned her purse inside out upon the counter. The shop-woman counted over the money, then took the gorgeous hat from its peg, wrapped it carefully in soft paper, and laid it on the counter. Theresa took it up tenderly in both bands, as some men lift young children; it was so very beautiful! The red rose against the darker ribbon loops was half visible through the paper, as she stood under the full glow of the lamp that hung by the door. Theresa hurried home with her purchase. The long, lighted street with its shop-windows and crowds of loafers was to her now no more than a way of getting home to Cis with her purchase. Cis would be so glad! Cis could go to the ten o'clock mass in the morning, now that she had her new hat; she had been going at eight every Sunday since Easter now, because her old black sailor was not fine enough to wear among the fash- ionable crowd at the later service. She, Theresa, could not go to mass at all, because she had no shoes, and it was a dreadful sin; but Cis should go with the best and prettiest of the town. Theresa almost ran up the long hill, as far as the engine-house. When she reached Biddy Macgraw's, and turned in at the little gate, she had scarcely breath enough to speak. 72 "an' a' for wardly gauds an* gear'* Cis and Matthew were sitting on the doorstep. Theresa came up to them panting. She wished that the tomato vines that grew along the fence might not send out such a rank odor in the hot night, the smell sick- ened her. Matthew was smoking his pipe, too. She choked. <'Cis, dear — I've brought ye — a new hat," she said, a little indistinctly. She laid the bundle on Cicely's lap. "Why, Theresa! " cried Cis in her full, eager, giriish voice. ** It 's awful good of you! It 's just awful good of you! But how could ye ? " "Oh, I had some money left o' me pay," Theresa answered, trying desperately to speak as if it were a matter of course that she should have extra money to spend for yellow leghorn hats. * ^ste. '^te. -Nte. -s^f^ -Nte- 4^te. ^ste* ADVERTISEMENTS XI LINEN TYPE WRITING] PAPERS Made of selected linen rags, Plate finished, insuring perfect copies. For manifolding unequalled. To Railway and Insurance Companies, Manufacturers, Merchants, and Bankers, we recommend this brand. Jl^'Ask for our Papers FAIRFIELD PAPER COMPANY Mills at Fair- field, Mass. Makers of Bonds, Ledgers, and Linen Papers. ROMEIKE'S Established, London, 1881 New York, 1884 139 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK and LONDON. PARIS, BERLIN Is the first established and most complete Newspaper Cutting Burean in existence, and can send you clippings from all the leading Newspapers and Periodicals in the world about yourself. 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JOSEPH KANSAS CITY CHICAGO OFFICE, 116 Adams Street. :f5f Tf Ef A ?Rf NtS-^1 *Xl)e yellow fellow" h the title hcstowcd on the Stearns By the admirers of its orange rims* In constructing the ^6 Stearns we have striven to make the best bicy- cle producible, and if best materials^ superior workmanship, unsurpassed facilities, and honest effort count for anything we have surely succeeded. Our handsome new catalogue, -vrhicli ■vr© will mail on request, is not mora artistic than the wheel itself. B. C. 5t«arns & Co., flakers, 5yraeuf«, N. Y« San Prandsco, Cal. Toronto* Ont. The Henry Sears Company Chicago Agents, 110-112 Wabash Ave. cBBtmBSsmatKaa THE Chap-Book SEMI-MONTHLY Contents for June 15, 1896. PRECOCITY DOROTHEA MOORE SAVORY MEATS CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS A BUCCANEER CHORUS EUGENE R. WHITE DRAWING RAYMOND CROSBY A POSY BEATRICE ROSENTHAL A WINTER'S WALK IN CARRICK AND GALLOWAY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON PORTRAIT OF ROSAMUND MARRIOTl' WATSON THE DEAD OAK ANNA VERNON DORSEY SCHLOMA, THE DAUGHTER OF SCHMUHL J. L. STEFFENS DRAWING B. C. DAY NOTES PORTRAIT OF ARTHUR MORRISON ' ANNOUNCEMENTS PRICE 10 CENTS ;^2.00 A YEAR Published by- Herbert S. Stone & Co. Chicago THE CHAP-BOOK NOW' READY —A New Novel by STEPHEN CRANE, Author of "The Red Badge of Courage." GEORGE'S MOTHER. By STEPHEN CRANE. Large i6mo, 177 pp. Cloth, 75c. The sudden and complete success of Mr. Stephen Crane's last novel justifies us in tht belief that a second novel from his pen will not be without some interest. To say of a young and comparatively unknown novelist that " he achieves a truer and completer picture of war than either Tolstoy or Zola" is to place him, at a bound, in the front ranks of the novelists of the past decade. And yet it is thought by those who best know Mr. Crane and his work that the permanence of his success will depend not so much upon his studies of martial strife as upon the analysis of the underlying motives which give such novels their reason for being. The greatest courage is sometimes passive, and heroism is unaccompanied by the blare of trumpets or the roll of drums. The conflict of good and evil, of virtue and vice ; the mingling comedy and tragedy of life — these vital and eternal themes Mr. Crane handles with no uncertain touch. " George's Mother " is a novel of the East Side, full of local color, replete with humor and pathos, faithful in its graphic portraiture. To those fond of good literature the novel will appeal by reason of its inexorable fidelity to the facts of life. It is realism in the best sense of the word. Uniform with the above. A New Book by MISS MONTRESOR. WORTH W^HILE, By F. F. MONTRESOR, author of "Into the Highways and Hedges," "The One Who Looked On," etc. Large i5mo, 160 pp. Cloth, 75c_ " There are two stories In this book. The first, which gives it its title, is something of a masterpiece in the way of short stories." — Denver Times. " Under this suggestive title we have two quaint little stories of romance by F. F. Montresor. The vn-iting of them has been 'worth while,' because of their purity of tone and the message of love and faith they would convey from those scenes and thoss people, the 'common folks,' that we are too little conversant with, and from whom we are not apt to look tor much depth of sentiment." — Boston Courier. EDWARD ARNOLD, Publisher, 70 Fifth Avenue, New York. AMERICAN POSTERS "■^•^^°''='"b°H'lj;igS Chap-Book Posters The Twins, by Will H. Bradley - (out of print) The Blue Lady, " " - - - x.oo The Poet and His Lady, by Will H. 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To be had at all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receiptor price by the Publishers HERBERT S. STONE & CO. CHICAGO Vlll THE CHAP-BOOK Ball-Bearing'* Bicycle Shoes. are made to fit and wear. They touch and support the foot at every point. Many styles — high or low cut. Cor- rugated soles. Pratt Fasteners secure laces without tying. PRICE— Black, $3.00; Tan, $3.50; Ladies' Cov- ert Cloth Knee Boot, $4.50 to $8.00. SOLD BY DEALERS EVERYWHERE. If yours does not keep them, shoes will be sent postpaid on receipt of price. Look for Trade-Mark stamped on heel. C. H. FARGO & CO. (Makers,) CHICAGO. VOL.V THE CHAP-BOOK no. Copyright, 1896, by H. S. STONE & COMPANY M PRECOCITY Y mother bade me not to pass Too near her shining looking-glass. I thought it strange such things to say To just a little girl at play ; — And so one hour of mortal sin I crept quite close and long looked in. And, oh I saw within, I guess. Something men call — a sorceress. Dorothea Moore. SAVORY MEATS IN THE bushy thicket the doe stood, trembling, over the young one to which she had given birth in the early part of the night. A light wind be- gan to breathe just before dawn, and in its languid throbbing the slim twigs and half unfolded leaves from time to time rustled stiffly. Over the tree-tops, and from the open spaces in the wood, could be seen the first cold pallor of approaching day ; and one pink thread, a finger long, outlined a lonely fragment of the horizon. But in the bushy thicket it was dark. The mother could not see her little one, but kept feeling it anxiously and lightly with her silken nose. She was waiting till it should be strong enough to rise and nurse. As the pink thread became scarlet and crept along a wider arc, and the cold light spread, there came from a far-off hillside the trailing echo of a howl. It was the cry of a wolf hunting alone. It hardly penetrated the depths of the bushy thicket ; but the doe heard it, and faced about to the point whence it came, and stamped angrily with slim, sharp hoof. Her muzzle was held 98 SAVORY MEATS high, and her nostrils expanded tensely, weighing and analyzing every scent that came on the chill air. But the dread cry was not repeated. No smell of danger breathed in to her retreat. The light stole at last through the many-tangled branches. Then the little one struggled to its feet, its spotted sides still heaving under the stress of their new expansion ; and the doe, with lowered head and neck bent far around, watched it with great eyes as it pressed its groping mouth against her udder and learned to feed. Presently the sides of branch and stem and leaf, facing the dawn, took on a hue of pink. A male song- sparrow, not yet feeling quite at home after his journey from the south, sang hesitatingly from the top of a bush. A pair of crows squawked gutturally and confidentially in a tree-top, where they contemplated nesting. Every- thing was wet, but it was a tonic and stimulating wet- ness, like that of a vigorous young swimmer climbing joyously out of a cool stream. The air had a sharp savor, a smell of gummy, aromatic buds, and sappy twigs, and pungent young leaves. But the body of the scent, which seemed like the very person of Spring, was the effluence of the fresh earth, broken and turned up to the air by millions of tiny little thrusting blades. Presently, when the light fell into the thicket with a steeper slant, the doe stepped away and left her little one lying, hardly to be discerned, on a spotted heap of dead leaves and moss. She stole noiselessly out of the thicket. She was going to pasture on the sprouting grasses of a neighboring wild meadow, and to drink at the amber stream that bordered it. She knew that, in her absence, the little one's instinct would teach him to keep so still that no marauder's eye would be likely to detect him. CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS 99 Two or three miles away from the thicket, in the heart of the same deep-wooded wilderness, stood a long, low-roofed log cabin on the edge of a narrow clearing. The yard was strewn with chips, some bright and new, the rest in varying stages of decay. A lean pig rooted among them, turning up the black soil that lay beneath. An axe and a black iron pot stood on the battered step before the door. In the window appeared the face of an old man,gazing blankly out upon the harsh-featured scene. The room where the old man sat was roughly ceiled and walled with brown boards. The sunlight streamed in the window, showing the red stains of rust on the cracked kitchen stove, and casting an oblong figure of brightness on the faded patchwork quilt which covered the low bed in the corner. Two years earlier John Hackett had been an erect and powerful woodsman, strong in the task of carving himself a home out of the unyielding wilderness. Then, his wife had died of a swift congestion. A few weeks later he had been struck down with paralysis, from which he partly recov- ered to find himself grown suddenly senile and a help- less invalid. On his one son, Silas, fell the double task of caring for him and working the scant, half-sub- jugated farm. Streaks and twines of yellowish white were scattered thickly amid the ragged blackness of the old man's hair and beard. The strong, gaunt lines of his features con- sorted strangely with the piteous weakness that now trembled in his eyes and on his lower lip. He sat in a big home-made easy chair which Silas had constructed for him by sawing a quarter-section out of a hogshead. This rude frame the lad had lined laboriously with straw and coarse sacking, and his father had taken great delight in it. 100 SAVORY MEATS A soiled quilt of blue, magenta and white squares wrapped the old man's legs as he sat by the window watching for Silas to come in. His withered hands picked ceaselessly at the quilt. **I wish Si 'd come! I want my breakfast!'* he kept repeating, now wistfully, now fretfully. His gaze wandered from the window to the stove, from the stove to the window, with slow regularity. When the pig came rooting into his line of vision, it vexed him, and he muttered peevishly to himself: "That there hog Ml hev the whole place rooted up! I wish Si 'd come an' drive him out of that! *' At last Si came. The old man's face smoothed itself, and a loving light came into his eyes as the lad adjusted the pillow at his head. The doings of the hog were forgotten. Si bustled about to get breakfast, the old man's eyes following every movement. The tea was placed on the back of the stove to draw. A plate of cold buckwheat cakes was brought out of the cupboard and set on the clumsy table. A cup, with its handle broken off, was half filled with molasses for *'sweetenin'," and placed beside the buckwheat cakes. Then Si cut some thick slices of salt pork and began to fry them. They ''sizzled" cheerfully in the pan, and to Si, with his vigorous morning appetite, the odour was rare and fine. But the old man was troubled by it. His hands picked faster at the quilt. ** Si," said he, in a quavering voice that rose and fell without regard to the force of the words, " I know ye can 't help it, but my stomach 's turned agin the salt pork! It 's been a-comin' on me this long while, that I couldn't eat it no more. An' now it 's come! Pork, pork, pork — I can 't eat it no more. Si! But there, I CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS lOI know ye can *t help it. Ye *re a good boy, a kind son. Si, an' ye can't help it! " Si went on turning the slices with an old fork, till the quavering voice stopped. Then he cried cheerfully: ** Try an' eat a leetle mite of it, father. This 'ere Xt2i''% fine, an' '11 sort of wash it down. An' while I 'm a-workin' in the back field this mornin' I *11 try an' think of somethin' to kinder tickle your appetite! " The old man shook his head gloomily. **I can't eat no more fried pork. Si," said he. ** Not if I die for it! I know ye can 't help it. An' it don't matter, fur I won't be here much longer, any- ways. It '11 be a sight better fur you. Si, when I 'm gone — but I kinder do n't like to leave ye here all alone. Seems like I kinder keep the house warm fur ye till ye come home! I don't like to think of ye comin' in an* findin' the house all empty. Si! But it 's been powerful empty, with jist you an' me, sence mother died. It useter be powerful good. Si, did n't it, comin' home an* findin' her a-awaitin' fur us, an' the hot supper ready on the table, an' the lamp a-shinin' cheerful? An' what suppers she could cook ! D' ye mind the pies, an' the stews, an' the fried deer's meat? I could eat some of that fried deer's meat now, Si. An* I feel like it would make me better. It ain't no fault of yourn. Si, but I can 't eat no more salt pork! " Si lifted the half-browned slices of yellow and crimson onto a plate, poured the gravy over them, and set the plate on the table. Then he dragged his father's chair over to the table, helped him to tea, and buckwheat cakes, and molasses, and sat down to his own meal. The fried pork disappeared swiftly in his strong young jaws, while his father nibbled reluctantly at the cold and soggy cakes. Si cleared the table, fed the fire, dragged 102 SAVORY MEATS. his father back to the sunny window, and then took down the long gun, with the powder-horn and shot- pouch, which hung on pegs behind the door. The old man noticed what he was doing. "Ain't ye goin* to work in the back field. Si?** he asked plaintively. ** No, father! ** said the lad. "I *m going a-gunnin*. Ef I don*t have some o* that fried deer's meat fur your supper to-night, like mother useter fix fur ye, my name ain*t Silas Hackett!** He set a tin of fi-esh water on the window-ledge, within reach of his father's hand, gave one tender touch to the pillow, and went out quickly. The old man's eyes strained after him till he disappeared in the woods. Silas walked with the noiseless speed of the trained, woodsman. His heart was big with pity for his father, and heavy with a sense of approaching loss. But in- stinctively his eyes took note of the new life beginning to surge about him in myriad and tumultuous activity. It surged, too, in the answering current of his strong young blood; and from time to time he would forget his heavi- ness utterly for a moment, thrilled through and through by a snatch of bird-song, or a glimpse of rose-red maple- buds, or a gleam of ineffable blueness through the tree- tops, or a strange, clean-smelling wind that made him stop and stretch his lungs to take it in. Suddenly he came upon a fresh deer-track. The sorcery of spring was forgotten. His heaviness was forgotten. He was now just the hunter, keen upon the trail of the quarry. Bending low, silent as a shadow, peering like a paniher, he slipped between the great trunks, and paused in the fringe of downy-catkined willows that marked the meadow's edge. On the other side of the meadow he saw the form of a doe, drinking. CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS IO3 He heard, on the wet air, the sharp, chiming brawl of the brook, fretted by some obstruction. He took a care- ful aim. The doe lifted her head, satisfied, and ready to return to her young one in the thicket. A shot rang out across the meadow, and she sprang into the air, to fall back with her slender muzzle in the stream, her fore- legs bent beneath her, her hindlegs twitching convul- sively for a momemt before they stiffened out upon the grass. As Silas staggered homeward he was no longer the keen hunter. He no longer heard the summons of the spring morning. All he thought of was the pleasure which would light up the wan and piteous face of the old man in the chair by the window, when the savory smell of the frying deer's meat should fill the dusky air of the cabin. As he crossed the chip-strewn yard he saw his father's face watching for him. He dropped his burden at the door, and entered, panting and triumphant. ** I 've got it fur ye, father ! " he cried, softly touch- ing the tremulous hands with his big brown fingers. **I 'm right glad. Si," quavered the old man, **but I *m a site gladder to see ye back ! The hours is long when ye 're not by me ! Oh, but ye do mind me of your mother. Si ! " Si took the carcass to the shed, dressed it carefully, and then, after cutting several thick slices from the haunch, stowed it in the black little hole of a cellar beneath the cabin floor. He put some fair potatoes to boil, and proceeded to fry the juicy steaks which the old man loved. The fragrance of them presently filled the cabin. The old man's eyes grew brighter, and his hands less tremulous. When the smoking and sputtering dish was set on the table, Silas again drew up the big chair, and the two made a joyous meal. The old man ate as 104 SAVORY MEATS he had not eaten for months, and the generous warmth of the fresh meat put new life into his withered veins. His under lip grew firmer, his voice steadier, his brain more clear. With a gladness that brought tears into his eyes, Silas marked the change. " Father,** he cried, **ye look more like yerself than I 've seen ye these two year past ! '* And the old man replied, with a ring of returning hope in his voice: *' This *ere deer*s meat *s more 'n any medicine. Ef I git well, ever, seems to me it '11 be accordin* to what I eat or don't eat, more 'n anything else ! " '* Whatever ye think '11 help ye, that ye shall hev, father," declared Silas, **ef I hev to crawl on hands an' knees all day an' all night fur it ! " Meanwhile, in the heart of the bushy thicket, on the spotted heap of leaves and moss, lay the little fawn, waiting for its mother. It was trembling now with hunger and chill. But its instinct kept it silent all day long. The afternoon light died out. Twilight brought a bitter chill to the depths of the thicket. When night came, hunger, cold, and fear at last overcame the little one's muteness. From time to time it gave a plaintive cry, then waited, and listened for its mother's coming. The cry was feeble, but there were keen ears in the for- est to catch it. There came a stealthy crackling in the bushes, and the fawn struggled to its feet with a little cry of glad expectation. Two green eyes, close to the ground, floated near. There was a pounce, a scuffle — and then the soft, fierce, whispering sound of a wildcat satisfying itself with blood. Charles G. D. Roberts. A BUCCANEER CHORUS >HEY say the Devil has fled from Hell To sail on the Spanish Main ; — By the yoke of the Spell — the Folk say well When they say that the Devil has fled from hell. From out the Sea-Born Sunset is cast a crimson tinge. With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- score Men, — The Gates of Hell yawn redly upon the World's grey hinge, And we sail to the Postern to see the Devils cringe. With a Yo, and a Ho, from a band of Four- score Men. The Sea moans Dead Men's Dirges, Shapes muster Soul on Soul, With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- score Men, — There creeps a Cloud before us, an ashen aureole — The Beast of Hell has littered, and Morgan is her foal! With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- score Men. I06 A BUCCANEER CHORUS And Life is but a Tavern, so let us stay and Sup, With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- score Men, — And Death is in the Taproom and Hell is in the Cup, And Death's a Merry Gentleman, so drink the potion up ; With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- score Men. For though Life is worth the Living, when Life is on the Sea, With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- score Men, — And it's worth the Devil's forfeit to let the arm swing free. And show the Spanish Dastards what Men the Rovers be ; With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- score Men. Come, Death, you royal Gamester, and have a final bout. With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- score Men, — For we are growing weary of the Revel and the Rout, And while the Dice arc rattling, go SnufF the Candle out. With a Yo, and a Ho, from a Band of Four- score Men. They say the Devil has fled from Hell To sail on the Spanish Main ; — By the Thrice-sworn Spell — the Folk say well When they say that the Devil has fled from Hell. — Eugene R. White. DRAWING BY RAYMOND CROSBY io8 I A POSY LOVED my Love. The spring was fair. The hedgerows gleamed with violets blue; You doubt I loved — but I can swear The violets knew! I loved my Love. We met and kissed Among the wheat where poppies grew; They feigned to dream — but I insist The poppies knew. I loved my Love, but love grew cold. The sunflower's face was wet with dew; His gold crest drooped — you could have told The sunflower knew. I lost my Love. Amid the snow We laid my Love whose heart was true. And there, as flowers may weep and know. The snowdrops knew. Beatrice Rosenthal. A WINTER'S WALK IN CARRICK AND GALLOWAY AT the famous bridge of Doon, Kyle, the central district of the shire of Ayr, marches with Car- rick, the most southerly. On the Carrick side of the river rises a hill of somewhat gentle conforma- tion, cleft with shallow dells, and sown here and there with farms and tufts of wood. Inland, it loses itself, joining, I suppose, the great herd of similar hills that occupies the center of the Lowlands. Towards the sea, it swells out the coast-line into a protuberance, like ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON IO9 a bay-window in a plan, and is fortified against the surf behind bold crags. This hill is known as the Brown Hill of Carrick, or, more shortly. Brown Carrick. It had snowed overnight. The fields were all sheeted up ; they were tucked in among the snow, and their shape was modelled through the pliant counter- pane, like children tucked in by a fond mother. The wind had made ripples and folds upon the surface, like what the sea, in quiet weather, leaves upon the sand. There was a frosty stifle in the air. An effusion of coppery light on the summit of Brown Carrick showed where the sun was trying to look through; but along the horizon clouds of cold fog had settled down, so that there was no distinction of sky and sea. Over the white shoulders of the headlands, or in the opening of bays, there was nothing but a great vacancy and black- ness ; and the road as it drew near the edge of the cliiF seemed to skirt the shores of creation and void space. The snow crunched underfoot, and at farms all the dogs broke out barking as they smelt a passer-by upon the road. I met a fine old fellow, who might have sat as the father in "The Cotter's Saturday Night,'* and who swore most heathenishly at a cow he was driving. And a little after I scraped acquaintance with a poor body tramping out to gather cockles. His face was wrinkled by exposure ; it was broken up into flakes and channels, like mud beginning to dry, and weathered in two colours, an incongruous pink and grey. He had a faint air of being surprised — which, God knows, he might well be — that life had gone so ill with him. The shape of his trousers was in itself a jest, so strangely were they bagged and ravelled about his knees ; and his coat was all bedaubed with clay as though he had lain in a rain-dub during the New Year's festivity. I will no A winter's walk in carrick. own I was not sorry to think he had had a merry new year, and been young again for an evening ; but I was sorry to see the mark still there. One could not expect such an old gentleman to be much of a dandy, or a great student of respectability in dress ; but there might have been a wife at home, who had brushed out similar stains after fifty new years, now become old, or a round-armed daughter, who would wish to have him neat, were it only out of self-respect and for the ploughman sweetheart when he looks round at night. Plainly, there was nothing of this in his life, and years and loneliness hung heavily on his old arms. He was seventy-six, he told me; and nobody would give a day's work to a man that age : they would think he could n't do it. *' And, 'deed," he went on with a sad little chuckle, *' 'deed, I doubt if I could." He said good-bye to me at a foot-path, and crippled wearily off to his work. It will make your heart ache if you think of his old fingers groping in the snow. He told me I was to turn down beside the school- house for Dunure. And so, when J found a lone house among the snow and heard a babble of childish voices from within, I struck off into a steep road leading downwards to the sea. Dunure lies close under the steep hill — a haven among the rocks, a breakwater in consummate disrepair, much apparatus for drying nets, and a score or so of fishers' houses. Hard by, a few shards of ruined castle overhang the sea, a few vaults, and one tall gable honeycombed with windows. The snow lay on the beach to the tide-mark. It was daubed onto the sills of the ruin ; it roosted in the crannies of the rock like white sea-birds ; even on outlying reefs there would be a little cock of snow, like a toy light- house. Everything was grey and white in a cold and ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON I I I dolorous sort of shepherd's plaid. In the profound silence, broken only by the noise of oars at sea, a horn was sounded twice ; and I saw the postman, girt with two bags, pause a moment at the end of the clachan for letters. It is, perhaps, characteristic of Dunure that none were brought him. The people at the public-house did not seem well pleased to sec me, and though I would fain have stayed by the kitchen fire, sent me **ben the hoosc " into the guest-room. This guest-room at Dunure was painted in quite aesthetic fashion. There are rooms in the same taste, not a hundred miles from London, where persons of an extreme sensibility meet together without embar- rassment. It was all in a fine dull bottle-green and black ; a grave, harmonious piece of colouring, with nothing, so far as coarser folk can judge, to hurt the better feelings of the most exquisite purist. A cherry-red half window blind kept up an imaginary warmth in the cold room, and threw quite a glow on the floor. Twelve cockle-shells and a halfpenny china figure were ranged solemnly along the mantelshelf. Even the spit- toon was an original note, and, instead of saw-dust, con- tained sea-shells. And as for the hearth-rug, it would merit an article to itself, and a coloured diagram to help the text. It was patchwork, but the patchwork of the poor ; no glowing shreds of old brocade and Chinese silk, shaken together in the kaleidoscope of some tasteful housewife's fancy ; but a work of art in its own way, and plainly a labour of love. The patches came exclu- sively from people's raiment. There was no colour more brilliant than a heather mixture ; " My Johnnie's grey breeks," well polished over the oar on the boat's thwart, entered largely into its composition. And the spoils of an old black cloth coat, that had been many a Sunday to 112 church, added something (save the mark !) of precious- ness to the material. While I was at luncheon four carters came in — long- limbed, muscular Ayrshire Scots, with lean, intelligent faces. Four quarts of stout were ordered ; they kept fill- ing the tumbler with the other hand as they drank ; and in less time than it takes me to write these words the four quarts were finished — another round was proposed, discussed and negatived — and they were creaking out of the village with their carts. The ruins drew you towards them. You never saw any place more desolate from a distance, nor one that less belied its promise near at hand. Some crows and gulls flew away croaking as I scrambled in. The snow had drifted into the vaults. The clachan dabbled with snow, the white hills, the black sky, the sea marked in the coves with faint circular wrinkles, the whole world, as it looked from a loophole in Dunure, was cold, wretched and out-at-elbows. If you had been a wicked baron and compelled to stay there all the afternoon, you would have had a rare fit of remorse. How you would have heaped up the fire and gnawed your fingers ! I think it would have come to homicide before the evening — if it were only for the pleasure of seeing something red ! And the masters of Dunure, it is to be noticed, were remarkable of old for inhumanity. One of these vaults where the snow had drifted was that ** black voute" where "Mr. Alane Stewart, Commendator of Crossraguel,** endured his fiery trials. On the first and seventh of September, 1570 (ill dates for Mr. Alan !), Gilbert, Earl of Cassilis, his chaplain, his baker, his cook, his pantryman, and another servant bound the poor Commendator **betwix an iron chimlay and a fire,*' and there cruelly roasted him until he signed away his ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON II3 abbacy. It is one of the ugliest stories of an ugly period, but not, somehow, without such a flavour of the ridicu- lous as makes it hard to sympathize quite seriously with the victim. And it is consoling to remember that he got away at last, and kept his abbacy, and, over and above, had a pension from the Earl until he died. Some way beyond Dunure a wide bay, of somewhat less unkindly aspect, opened out. Colzean plantations lay all along the steep shore, and there was a wooded hill towards the centre, where the trees made a sort of shadowy etching over the snow. The road went dovm and up, and past a blacksmith's cottage that made fine music in the valley. Three compatriots of Burns drove up to me in a cart. They were all drunk, and asked me jeeringly if this was the way to Dunure. I told them it was ; and my answer was received with unfeigned mer- riment. One gentleman was so much tickled, he nearly fell out of the cart ; indeed, he was only saved by a companion, who either had not so fine a sense of humour or had drunken less. "The toune of MayboU," says the inimitable Aber- crummie,* "stands upon an ascending ground from east to west, tad lyes open to the south. It hath one prin- cipal! street, with houses upon both sides, built of free- stone ; and it is beautifyed with the situation of two castles, one at each end of this street. That on the east belongs to the Erie of Cassilis. On the west end is a castle, which belonged sometime to the laird of Blair- quan, which is now the tolbuith, and is adorned with a pyremide [conical roof], and a row of ballesters round it raised from the top of the staircase, into which they have mounted a fyne clock. There be four lanes which ♦William Abercrombie. See " Fasti Ecclesise Scoticana," under •• Maybole." (Part III.) 114 A winter's walk in carrick pass from the principall street ; one is called the Back Vennel, which is steep, declining to the southwest, and leads to a lower street, which is far larger than the high chief street, and it runs from the Kirkland to the Well Trees, in which there have been many pretty buildings, belonging to the severall gentry of the countrey, who were wont to resort thither in winter, and divert them- selves in converse together at their owne houses. It was once the principall street of the town ; but, many of these houses of the gentry having been decayed and ruined, it has lost much of its ancient beautie. Just opposite to this vennel, there is another that leads north-west, from the chiefe street to the green, which is a pleasant plott of ground, enclosed round with an earthen wall, wherein they were wont to play football, but now at the GowiF and byasse-bowls. The houses of this towne, on both sides of the street, have their several gardens belonging to them ; and in the lower street there be some pretty orchards, that yield store of good fruit." As Patterson says, this description is near enough even to-day, and is mighty nicely written to boot. I am bound to add, of my own experience, that Maybole is tumble-down and dreary. Prosperous enough in reality, it has an air of decay ; and though the population has increased, a roof- less house, every here and there, seems to protest the con- trary. The women are more than well favoured, and the men fine tall fellows ; but they look slipshod and dis- sipated. As they slouched at street corners, or stood about gossiping in the snow, it seemed they would have been more at home in the slums of a large city than here in a country place betwixt a village and a town. I heard a great deal about drinking, and a great deal about religious revivals : two things in which the Scottish character is emphatic and most unlovely. In particular. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON II5 I heard of clergymen who were employing their time in explaining to a delighted audience the physics of the Second Coming. It is not very likely any of us will be asked to help. If we were, it is likely we should receive instructions for the occasion, and that on more reliable authority. And so I can only figure to myself a congregation truly curious in such flights of theological fancy, as one of veteran and accomplished saints, who have fought the good fight to an end and outlived all worldly passion, and are to be regarded rather as a part of the Church Triumphant than the poor, imperfect company on earth. And yet I saw some young fellows about the smoking-room who seemed, in the eyes of one who cannot count himself strait-laced, in need of some more practical sort of teaching. They seemed only eager to get drunk, and to do so speedily. It was not much more than a week after the New Year ; and to hear them return on their past bouts with a gusto unspeakable was not altogether pleasing. Here is one snatch of talk, for the accuracy of which I can vouch. '* Ye had a spree here last Thursday ? " <' We had that !" ** I wasnae able to be oot o' my bed. Man, I was awful bad on Wednesday " ** Aye, ye were gey bad." And you should have seen the bright eyes, and heard the sensual accents ! They recalled their doings with devout gusto and a sort of rational pride. Schoolboys, after their first drunkenness, are not more boastful ; a cock does not plume himself with a more unmingled satisfaction as he paces forth among his harem ; and yet these were grown men, and by no means short of wit. It was hard to suppose they were very eager about the Second Coming : it seemed as if some ii6 elementary notions of temperance for the men and seemliness for the women would have gone nearer the mark. And yet, as it seemed to me typical of much that is evil in Scotland, Maybole is also typical of much that is best. Some of the factories, which have taken the place of weaving in the town's economy, were originally founded and are still possessed by self-made men of the sterling, stout old breed — fellows who made some little bit of an invention, borrowed some httle pocketful of capital, and then, step by step, in courage, thrift, and industry, fought their way upward to an assured position. Abercrummie has told you enough of the Tolbooth ; but, as a bit of spelling, this inscription on the Tolbooth bell seems too delicious to withhold : ** This bell is founded at Maiboll Bi Danel Geli, a Frenchman, the 6th November 1696, Bi appointment of the heritors of the parish of Maiyboll." The Castle deserves more notice. It is a large and shapely tower, plain from the ground upward, but with a zone of ornamentation running about the top. In a general way this adorn- ment is perched on the very summit of the chimney- stacks ; but there is one corner more elaborate than the rest. A very heavy string-course runs round the upper storey, and just above this, facing up the street, the tower carries a small oriel window, fluted and corbelled and carved about with stone heads. It is so ornate it has somewhat the air of a shrine. And it was, indeed, the casket of a very precious jewel, for in the room to which it gives light lay, for long years, the heroine of the sweet old ballad of "Johnnie Faa " — she who, at the call of the gipsies' songs, **came tripping down the stair, and all her maids before her." Some people say the ballad has no basis in fact, and have written, I ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON II7 believe, unanswerable papers to the proof. But in the face of all that, the very look of that high oriel window- convinces the imagination, and we enter into all the sor- rows of the imprisoned dame. We conceive the burthen of the long, lack-lustre days, when she leaned her sick head against the mullions, and saw the burghers loafing in Maybole High Street, and the children at play, and ruffling gallants riding by from hunt or foray. We con- ceive the passion of odd moments, when the wind threw up to her some snatch of song, and her heart grew hot within her, and her eyes overflowed at the memory of the past. And even if the tale be not true of this or that lady, or this or that old tower, it is true in the essence of all men and women. For all of us, some time or other, hear the gipsies singing ; over all of us is the glamour cast. Some resist and sit resolutely by the fire. Most go and are brought back again, like Lady Cassilis. A few of the tribe of Waring go and are seen no more ; only now and again, at spring-time, when the gipsies* song is afloat in the amethyst evening, we can catch their voices in the glen. By night it was clearer, and Maybole more visible than during the day. Clouds coursed over the sky in great masses ; the full moon batded the other way, and lit up the snow with gleams of flying silver ; the town came down the hill in a cascade of brown gables, bestridden by smooth white roofs, and spangled here and there with lighted windows. At either end the snow stood high up in the darkness, on the peak of the Tolbooth and among the chimneys of the Casde. As the moon flashed a bull's-eye glitter across the town between the racing clouds, the white roofs leaped into relief over the gables and the chimney-stacks, and their shadows over the white roofs. In the town itself the lit 1^8 face of the clock peered down the street ; an hour was hammered out on Mr. Geli's bell, and from behind the red curtains of a public-house someone trolled out — a compatriot of Burns, again! — "The saut tear blin's my e'e/' Next morning there was sun and a flapping wind. From the street corners of Maybole I could catch breezy glimpses of green fields. The road underfoot was wet and heavy — part ice, part snow, part water ; and anyone I met greeted me, by way of salutation, with, **A fine thowe " (thaw). My way lay among rather bleak hills, and past bleak ponds and dilapidated castles and monasteries to the Highland-looking village of Kirkoswald. It has little claim to notice, save that Burns came there to study surveying in the summer of 1777, and there also, in the kirkyard, the original of Tam o' Shanter sleeps his last sleep. It is worth noticing, however, that this was the first place I thought '* Highland-looking." Over the hill from Kirkoswald a farm road leads to the coast. As I came down above Turnberry, the sea view was indeed strangely different from the day before. The cold fogs were all blown away ; and there was Ailsa Craig, like a refraction, magnified and deformed, of the Bass Rock ; and there were the chiselled mountain tops of Arran, veined and tipped with snow ; and behind and fainter the low, blue land of Cantyre. Cottony clouds stood, in a great castle, over the top of Arran, and blew out in long streamers to the south. The sea was bitten all over with white ; little ships, tacking up and down the Firth, lay over at different angles in the wind. On Shanter, they were ploughing lea ; a cart foal, all in a field by himself, capered and whinnied as if the spring were in him. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON IIQ The road from Turnberry to Girvan lies along the shore, among sand-hills and by wildernesses of tumbled bent. Every here and there a few cottages stood together beside a bridge. They had one odd feature, not easy to describe in words : a triangular porch projected from above the door, supported at the apex by a single upright post ; a secondary door was hinged to the post and could be hasped on either cheek of the real entrance ; so, whether the wind was north or south, the cotter could make himself a triangular bight of shelter where to set his chair and finish a pipe with comfort. There is one objection to this device : for, as the post stands in the middle of the fairway, anyone precipitately issuing from the cottage must run his chance of a broken head. So far as I am aware, it is peculiar to the little corner of country about Girvan. And that corner is noticeable for more reasons : it is certainly one of the most characteristic districts in Scotland. It has this movable porch by way of architecture ; it has, as we shall see, a sort of remnant of provincial costume, and it has the handsomest population in the Lowlands. Robert Louis Stevenson. \^The above is one of its author'* s early *' Essays of the Road.^* Why left unfinished I cannot remember or guess y for it seems to me one of the most pleasing and characteristic of its class. It records the first part of a walking tour of some seventy miles y undertaken by Stevenson for health"* s sake (^and with very good effects'), between the 8th and the lyth of January, iSyd. Sidney Colvin.] ^''^I ^I ^Z ^'"aJ^^ <4.v> <^'f> <^'? <^J> <*J>^ <^b <^(p ^P 4^ «^ ? 4l> ^^ 48J> <^ a&dl -=)♦ , ^ 4«>^ , nVli fa#i Afli oU ANNA VERNON DORSE Y 121 THE DEAD OAK THE November day was drawing to a close. The shadows were deepening in the pine forest that lay on one side of the sandy road. On the other side, the corn stalks stood in level rows against the yellow of the sunset. My horse limped painfully, for he had cast a shoe several hours since, and my hurried ride through a thinly inhabited part of lower Maryland, with which I was unfamiliar, had so far brought me near no blacksmith's shop. Great, then, was my relief, on passing the wood, to find a three-cross roads, a small house with a shed from which rang the measured stroke of the anvil, while the square of the door was ruddy with the forge fire. After calling loudly and waiting ih vain for a reply, I dismounted. Just then the blacksmith came to the door, a big, low-browed, long-haired fellow, of few words. After examining my horse's feet, he announced that it would be necessary to replace not only the missing shoe, but also three others. As he proceeded slowly to work, I saw that there was before me the prospect of a long wait which did not promise to be agreeable, for the man was either surly or stupid, and gave out monosyllabic replies in answer to my questions about the country. A dreary country it was, that through which I was passing ; flat, sandy, im- poverished, the virtue having been tilled out of the soil for two hundred years. Now that the old landed pro- prietors had departed to the cities, the majority of the inhabitants were miserable poor whites and negroes, principally fishermen and oystermen. Here and there one came across a relic of the past, an old manor house, ruined or deserted, the property generally of one man, a 122 THE DEAD OAK former overseer, who seemed to own most of the country. And yet there was a charm of the past over this low- lying land — a blaze of glory in the west, reflected in the broad river that almost lapped the roots of the huge pine forests that grew along its banks. As I stood at the door of the smithy, looking eastward, I could see only one exception to this sombre monotony of pines. On the roadside, in the middle of a dense sweep of meadows, entirely isolated, stood a huge oak tree, the only one of its kind to be seen for miles around. ''That must be a pretty old tree," I remarked. *' The Dead Oak ? Many a hundred years old, I reckon.'* "It does n't look dead to me," I answered ; "it has a dense foliage." ** That 's what they call it — the Dead Oak. A man hung himself to it three years ago," said the smith, with some show of animation. " One of the neighborhood ? " " No ; a stranger round here. Nobody ever could find out where he come from, Washington likely. The niggers say it's ha'nted." " How is that ? " I asked, much interested. " Don't know ; just ha'nted," said the man, gruffly, relapsing into silence amid a lire of sparks. Leaving my taciturn companion, I sauntered down to the road, my steps turning intuitively in the direction of the old tree. A chill wind came from the river, and a flight of crows with harsh cries arose from its branches, as it stood, the central landmark in the stretch of meadows. On one side of the road was a zigzag rail fence, and on the top- ANNA VERNON DORSEY 1 23 most rail of this, under the tree, I seated myself. The lowest branches almost touched my head, and the dry and dense foliage rustled with every breeze. Just beyond were two wooden posts, the entrance of a carriage-way leadmg through a corn-field to what I had not noticed before, a large house far back from the road. As I sat there, facing the afterglow of the sunset, I became aware of the figure of an old negro coming slowly through the corn-rows, through the gate, — a bent negro with bushy white hair. Taking off his rabbit-skin cap, with a courtly bow he seated himself on the roots of the tree. For some moments we sat there in silence, the old man with his hands folded, gazing into the west. ** Good evening, uncle," I ventured to remark. ** Do you live near here? " ** Not far away — up data-way," waving his hand indefinitely in the direction of the shadowy mansion. ** Have you lived here long?" I asked. ** Many an' many a year," he responded wearily. " Ebber sence I cum inter de world. I belonged to Mars' Brooke up yonder." *' Then you must know about the man who hung himself here three years ago ? ' ' ** He war n't no man," said the old darky sternly. ** He wuz first quality, my young gen'leman. I ought ter know, kase I buried him bofe times." At these words, suddenly a thrill ran over me, a sense of mystery, something accursed brooding over this deso- late spot. "What do you mean?" I demanded. *« Who was he." ** Befo' de Lord, boss, I don' know, an' nobody else does. It came about dis 'er' way: De first time wnz 124 THE DEAD OAK years an' years ago. Dar wuz good times in de country den. De quality had n' t all gone away an' sol' de ole places to oberseers an* po' white trash. Mars' Harry Brooke wuz keepin' bachelor's hall up dar, an' many 's de high ol' times and junketings dey had. Well, one night dey had a gran' time, a-drinkin' an' a-carryin' on, he an' de udder young gemlemens. 'Bout day de party bruk up, kase de wuz sober enufF den ter ride home. I wuz a young chap den, an' I wuz runnin' on in front ter open de' gate, bar' footed, from de door, kase it war hot weather den, like Injum summer. When I open' de gate I scrich' out « O Gord ! ' an' I like ter fall ter de groun', kase dar, wid his face all white an' orful 'gainst de red leabes, a-lookin' me right in de eyes, wuz a man tied to der branch, wid a white han'chif aroun' his neck. It did n't take me long ter jump fo'ward an' take him down, an' when de gemlemen rid up dar he wuz a-lyin' on de groun' an' me a-settin' right hyar on dis same stump wid his curly head on my knees. He war n't quite dead an' his han' kotch mine, an' his beautiful brown eyes closed a minute, an' he gasped like an' died. All de gemlemen dat came up an' stan' 'roun', dey say dey nebber see any one so handsom' ez my young man wuz, jes like one er de marble statues in de parlor, wid a eagle nose, an' a mouth many a young lady must 'a', kissed. But dose days wuz ober fur him fur ebber, — yes, mon. " De quarest thing wuz, he did n't hab nuthin' on but a shirt, an' dat wuz de fines' quality, real linin, em- broidered, but no mark or sign on it ter tell whar he cum from. Nobod'y aint nebber seed him befo' in dis part ob de kentry. Mars' Harry sont all ober the kentry, clar up ter Washin'ton an' Baltimor', but nobody cum fo'ward ter claim him, so he wuz buried. De parson say he can't be buried in de cons' crated groun', kus he mus' ANNA VERNON DORSEY 1 25 a kill' hisself, so me an' anudder man buried him in de medder, under dis tree, right nigh whar you is a-settin'." The old man's narrative ran on monotonously. It seemed as natural, as much a part of the scene, as the croaking of the frogs in the deepening twilight, in which it seemed that I could almost see that white face with its aquiline nose and large brown eyes. '* Dat wuz long ago, long ago," the old man resumed, "long ago. De War come an' went, an' Marse Harry wuz killed, an' de firs' people leP de kentry and de kentry wuz like new-made sod, dirt up'ards; but I neb- ber fo'got my young gemleman, real quality, hangin* hyar in dis tree, away from all his people. Well, boss, many years parse, an' Mars Harry's oberseer done bought de ole place up dar. One night 'bout three years ago dey gib one er dese hyar big abricultural suppers, an' dey set dare all night eatin' an' drinkin', like dere betters used ter do. It wuz de same time er year, but misty an' damp, an' in de early mornin' I wuz comin' long de road an' I see a crowd gaddered aroun' de tree, jus' like it wuz dat udder mornin' long time ago. When I come up, boss, for Gord! dar wuz my young, beautiful gemle- man a-lyin' on de groun', stiiFan' stark, in his shirt, wid dat hankerchief 'roun his neck. I wuz glad ter see him ag'in, but he warn't nearly alive, like he wuz befo'. De doctor wuz dere, an' he felt him an' he say, *Dis man bin dead fo' days. Who has hang dis corpse to dis tree? Who is de man?' Jes like dey say befo', * Who is de man?' Nobody remember' him 'cept'n' me. De ole crowd dat wuz dere befo', de quality, dey all parsed 'way, what wid de War an' one thing ur nudder, all gone but me. But I nebber said nuthin' ter be called ole crazy nigger, — no, mon. Dare he wuz, shore 'nufF, de same eagle nose an' brown eyes an' curls, de same leetle 126 THE DEAD OAK scratch, like de razor done scratch him on de chin. I knowed him, an' I cyarried him; none er dem common folks ain't tetched him. Dey abertised eberywhar, but nobody ain't answer. 'Case dey can't. Dey warn't no- body leP ter answer 'cept me," and the old man gave an eerie chuckle. ** De doctors an' de lawyers talk it all ober, but dey cayn't agree, an' de parson, one er dese hyar new kind, he say he kin be buried in de churchyard, but de people make a fuss, kase he mought er bin a su'cide. So I helped bury him ag'in. Seems like 1 wuz specially 'pinted ter be his body-sarvant; dis time it's right outside de churchyard, an' nobody don't know it's him but me, kase dey all passed away." A pale, watery moon had emerged, the wind soughed among the pine trees, and away off an owl hooted. " De nex' time I 's gwine to bury him right in de churchyard. He gwine ter come once mo', an' I aint gwine ter die till den, an' dat time he 's gwine ter be buried in the churchyard, an' he won't come no mo', an* den I '11 pass away." A shout came through the dusk from the smithy: '* Say, mister, come; here 's your horse." The other words were indistingufshable. I arose and started up the road reluctantly, longing to know more of the mystery. The old man again removed his cap, and so I lejft him, motionless, seated in the shadows, facing the faint glow in the west. My horse was ready when I reached the forge, the blacksmith standing dark and massive in the doorway. ** An old negro has just been telling me a remarkable story," I said, after mounting; **that there have been two suicides found hanging to the old oak, one long ago." "Can't say," answered the blacksmith, impassively and ANNA VERNON DORSEY 127 Stolidly. ** Ain't lived here very long myself. Always been called the * Dead Oak' ever since I knowed it." ** Well, do you know an old negro with a bushy white head and beard, who Hves near the Brooke House? Who is he?" '* Might be old Sam, or Lige, or Cash. Lots of 'em round here," answered the man, and that was all he would say. I mounted and rode off rapidly, for there were still six hours of travel before reaching my destination. The moonlight was faint and chill, silvering the dry foliage of the old tree. I drew rein under it, and peered vainly into the shadows for the darker outlines of the old negro; he had disappeared, but it seemed to me he was still present, sitting on the gnarled root, with the pallid face of that young old corpse against his knee, waiting. The owl hooted. A faint light shone from the dim mansion in the fields, and I pressed on through a belt of low pines. When some distance on my way I turned and looked back. The glow of the smithy was hidden. All the low stretch of land was folded in twilight, and against the pale sky the Dead Oak stood spectral and alone. Anna Vernon Dorsey. 128 SCHLOMA, DAUGHTER OF SCHMUHL SCHLOMA,THE DAUGHTER OF SCHMUHL 44 A ^^^' Schloma!" X]^ Schmuhl spoke in an impatient tone to his daughter. It was less than an hour since he had chided her for stopping work to gaze out of the window, and already she had forgotten. She was a good girl, and the old Jew loved his child dearly, but her frivolity was a sore trouble to him. It boded ill for her future. The other tenants warned him time and again. They blamed him for having sent Schloma to the schools so long that with the English she had acquired the Christian love of pleasure. Sometimes they complained of her as a bad example to the other women and children. That very morning, when Schmuhl returned from prayers, one of the men downstairs met him at the pump in the hall and remonstrated with him about his daughter's conduct. She had been singing all the while he was gone, and so loudly that her voice rang throughout the tenement. They were Schickse (Christian) songs too. "Pass auf, Schmuhl," the man had said, shaking his head. " Look out, my friend, or your daughter will be bad. Let her labor long and be silent, that her son's sons may sing songs." Schloma had wept bitterly when her father repeated to her what had been said. But she was soon smiling again and humming street songs over her sewing. Her light spirit was irrepressible. The old man sighed, and at intervals he scolded her all day long. For everything that passed outside their rear window distracted her atten- tion from the work. Once, when tears were still glitter- ing in her eyes, she had laughed outright ; and at what ? J. L. STEFFENS 1 29 Just because the pigeon-thief who had his traps on the Ludlow Street roofs fell off one house on to another. Schmuhl was relieved when it grew so dark that they had to light the lamp. He set it on the table, as far as possible from the window, and after supper the work went better. Both father and daughter wished to finish a dozen ** pants*' that night, he to get the pay, she for the pleasure of carrying them through the lively streets to the ** sweater." For two silent hours their hands moved eagerly. Then the task was done, and they rose together and stretched the stiiFness out of their joints. Schmuhl knelt to bind the bundle on the floor, while Schloma hur- ried into her dress. When she was ready, she bent her back, and her father lifted and adjusted the load. He opened the door for her, bade her a **baldigst' Wieder- kehr,*' and, as she disappeared, he stood there reckoning under his beard : ** Zwelve in der bundle, done in a' Tag ; achtzig cent. In sex Tag' four dollar' achtzig. Der week, also, a' dollar forty, sechzig — wenn Schloma' s good, dann a dollar eighty to capital. Ach ! " Schlomr was singing again. Her cheerful voice came back from the dark stairs like a blow to his heart. He threw up his hands in despair. ** Ach, wei d' Schuh, wei d' Schuh ! " he cried. *< Will mein' Dochter be bat ? Weh, Schloma, Schloma, mein Kind, mein Kind !*' The old man sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands, weeping. Schloma sang joyously and thoughtlessly. If she had thought, she would not have sung at all, for she knew and dreaded the scorn she and her cheerfulness aroused in her neighbors. For years they had looked at her **over the shoulder." The children regarded her with wonder and 130 SCHLOMA, DAUGHTER OF SCHMUHL vague suspicion. The women stared with fierce female malice at her. And the men, with an eye to their women, muttered curses on her head. But Schloma could not re- member. The universal disapproval depressed her dread- fully, but she could not confine her gaiety long, and some- times her spirit rebelled secretly against her surroundings. She had three floors of sweat-shops to pass before she could reach the street. The doors of all stood open, gaping for air. Her song, dancing on ahead of her, struck into the groups of sullen labor, and mocked the dismal dis- content like a laugh. When the girl stepped into the hall on the third story, she saw the buttonhole-makers were watching for her. Her heart quailed from the sight she could not help but look in upon. There they all sat, men, women, and children, silent, motionless, upright, and glaring their withering hatred at her. The song was choked in her throat; its spirit died in a sob. But the killing light was quickly passed, and in the dark she lifted her voice again. It cost an effort for pride to keep up even the pretense of a song, for she thought now of the others below. Somehow the dread was greater to-night than ever. Still she sang on, determined not to see. She had to hear, however. As she approached the pressers' door, the sound of suppressed giggling and scoff- ing comments reached her. She sped through the bar of light, shrinking together as if every ray were a human sneer. Then, as she fled, she caught, hissed through a woman* s teeth after her, the word *' Schickse.'* ** A Christian ! She a' Schickse ? Nay, oh nay." Schloma could have cried, so deeply was she wounded. Hot indignation helped her now, however, and she marched boldly down the stairs to where the finishers J. L. STEFFENS I3I They stood crowded up to the doorway to humiliate her. "There she is/* said a woman with a child in her arms. The others laughed and pointed their bony fingers at the trembling girl. "Shame, shame! Du unverschamtes Weib, shame ! " It was awful. They had never gone so far as that in their wrath before. Schloma was silenced. She was about to scream and run when some young girl, raising her voice above the rest, shouted : " Schickse, Schickse — Nafke ! Pfui ! " Then Schloma sang defiance back, and strode down into the street. It was Essex Street, near Grand. The crowd and the darkness were comforting to the harassed girl, who stood there still now and dizzy in the human stream. Around her flowed the tired shop-workers, a sluggish, serious tide, which sparkled here and there with the merry troops of youthful idlers out for fun. She saw nothing, "Hello, Schloma, komm doch mit.'* They were street-girls she used to know, who hailed her. " Ya, Schloma, komm. Es is' besser as packen pants." But Schloma did not hear. "Schickse! Nafke! Nafke! Ach ! " she cried, re- peating the horrid words she had heard. Her street friends thought she meant them. " Es is' bessei wie packen pants," they replied in scorn, and passed with a laugh and a song. The poor girl saw what she had done, and bitter tears rose to her eyes. " Cha, es ist better — better as alles oben," she thought ; " besser wie alles is' ever gewese." 132 SCHLOMA, DAUGHTER OF SCHMUHL The bundle was heavy. Slowly she turned, and like an animal instinctively went her way toward the ** sweat- er's." Again and again girls and young men she knew called to her greetings and invitations. But Schloma did not heed them. She plodded on through Essex Street to Hester, where her ** sweater" lived. He took the roll, inspected it piece by piece, counting to himself. Then he grumbled a while and paid the girl. He saw her tears, but he said nothing, and she went away. With the load off her back, Schloma' s heart grew lighter. Her face was set toward home, but her eyes were on the lookout for the next group of friends. They came with a scamper, tittering out of a dark side street, and burst into laughter and shouts as they landed in the light. «« Ei, was ! du, Schloma ? So a' Glueck. Ge's' d' mit ? Na, come." And Schloma went. At midnight her father, old Schmuhl on the fifth, and the weary workers below, were looking out of the win- dows back across the courts. Through the clothes-lines they could see, in a room on the next street rear, a merry troop of men and girls, drinking and singing and laughing and dancing. "Schmab'ni," muttered the neighbors. "Schloma, the daughter of Schmuhl, is bad. Let the women work and be silent that our sons' sons may be glad." And Schmuhl, the aged, wept and rent the hem of his shirt, crying ** Ei wei, wei d' Schuh ! Mein child is' a' Schickse, a' Nafke ! Pfui ! " J. L. Steffens. MM 134 NOTES NOTES ^Next autumn is to sec the publication of a new drama by Ibsen, and we are also promised the farce of keeping its title a profound secret until the very day of publica- tion. This clever advertising scheme was tried with "Little Eyolf,'* and the newspapers reported the admira- ble sight of the master weeping crocodile tears over the fact that a printer had disclosed the secret, and thereby ensured the book an extra column or two in nearly every journal in Christendom. ^In Sweden, Augustus Strindberg, whose reputation in his own country is almost as great as Ibsen's in Norway, has given up writing, and is engaged in extensive re- searches in chemistry. His day has come and gone, and we as yet know nothing of him here. I had expected that he might engage our attention for a few months at least — we are sadly in need of new fads. But, so far as I know, he has never been translated except in one volume of youthful stories, published avowedly as erotica by a Chicago house. It is curious that the lists of such publications are often catholic in range and supply a knowledge of foreign literature not otherwise obtainable. An incident happened about a year ago which illustrates this. Mr. William Heinemann, the well-known English publisher, was pre- paring to issue in his Pioneer Series a book called Woman^ s Follyy a translation from the Italian of Gemma Ferrugia. The story as to morality is neither better nor worse than a hundred novels of the last two years which we have all read. As to force and dramatic power it is measurably the superior of most of them. Furthermore, the volume was enriched and sanctified by an introductory essay from NOTES 135 the pen of Edmund Gossc, than whom there is no one more respectable. Now, by a chance combination of circumstances, this book failed to find an American publisher, and was issued in English unprotected by a copyright in America. It was immediately seized upon by an adventurous house and put forth in lurid paper covers, which, together with the publisher's name, suggested its unfitness for publication. It remains unlcnown and scorned, while, with copyright and cloth covers, it might have hoped for the distinguished consideration of ladies' book-clubs. ^By way of prelude to the extraordinary tale of graphomania which follows, I must recall to the minds of habitual readers of the Chap-Book some verses in the May 1 5th issue. They began thus : *' The joy in me rises, rises ; And will not be suppressed. The joy in me rises, rises Into my throat and breast.'* I have now on my desk a letter written in a ladylike hand on Marcus Ward & Co.'s Irish linen stamped with a genteel crest. It is as follows: Editor of The Chap-Book : Dear Sir: — I have just read the "Spring Song" in the first number of the fifth volume of The Chap-Book. I do not wish to be intrusive or inquisitive, but being a young housekeeper and so much interested in baking powders, I would be so pleased to know the kind of powder used by Eleanor B. Caldwell, as it must possess such wonderful rising qualities. An answer would much oblige a seeker after the best in all forms. May 31, 1896. As I said, the appearance of the letter suggests that 136 NOTES the writer is a female of distinction, which goes to make this exhibition of depravity all the more harrowing. It is well nigh incredible that any sane person could waste five minutes, paper, and two stamps (one enclosed for reply) on such a deliberate and well considered inanity. She could scarcely have hoped that her letter would be printed, so that desire for notoriety cannot be alleged to excuse her. She cannot have thought that she would gain my esteem or the reputation of having a pretty wit. It is a shameless case of love of writing for the love of writing. ^An actress, reading late at night the announcement of a new tale by Anthony Hope called "Phroso,'* rises with the dawn and flies to the office of the author's agent, casting gold at his feet, and demanding the dramatic rights of the contemplated story. She finds, however, that six months ago they were sold, before the story was more than a will-o'- the-wisp in its author's mind. This is a decorative example of the present state of literary affairs. Not a single novel or a play by a well-known author is brought fairly to the market and judged on its merits. Every editor or theatrical manager is forced into a frantic struggle for a pig in a poke, and he would better sit on the Delphic tripod than at his reading desk, for a spirit of prophecy is needed for his work rather than hterary judgment. His problem will be something like this: Dr. A. Conan Doyle has agreed to have a long story of one hundred thousand words ready for the autumn of '98. NOTES 137 Before that time he has contracted for a volume of short stories, autumn of ^97; a serial story of seventy-five thousand w^ords for the spring of '98; a novelette for the autumn of '96; tv^^o plays for the winter of '96-'97, and something, possibly historical, w^hich must be done mean- while. The story for '98 "may be," says Dr. Doyle's agent, *' the novel based on Chinese Gordon's life, which Doyle has for so 'ong wanted to write," or **it may not be." On thi^ very definite information the editor must decide what the probable quahty of the story is, and what will be the vogue of its author after that length of time and these various other productions. Meanwhile, he is informed that rival magazines are eagerly outbidding each other to secure the prize. He buys the story. This is what is called editing; it appears to me to be vastly more like a gambling game, where in all cases the public ** stands to lose." For I cannot believe that an author can say to himself: "At exacdy 11:15 to-day I will feel inspired to write a sonnet, and by the 1 2th of September, two years from now, I shall have written the best story of my life, on a subject as yet unknown and to a length of ninety-five thousand five hundred and sixty words." There is a scene in an old play which, as often happens in old plays, is very modern in spirit. It is a snatch of conversation from " Every Man in His Humour," by Ben Jonson, and is between Master Stephen, a country gull, and Master Matthew, a town gull. I can fancy it between two authors who habit- ually sell their work long before it is written. S. : My name is Master Stephen, sir; I am this gen- tleman's own cousin, sir; his father is mine uncle, sir; I am somewhat melancholy, but you shall command me, " sir, in whatsoever is incident to a gentleman. M. : But arc you, indeed, sir, so given to it? 138 NOTES S.: Ay, truly, sir, I am mightily given to melan- choly. M.: Oh, it *s your only fine humour, sir! Your true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself, divers times, sir, and then do I no more but take pen and paper presently, and overflow you half a score, or a dozen of sonnets at a sitting. S. : Truly, sir, and I love such things, out of measure. M. : Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my study; it *s at your service. S. : I thank you, sir; I shall be bold, I warrant you. Have you a stool there to be melancholy upon ? M.: That I have, sir, and some papers there of mine own doing at idle hours, that you '11 say there 's some sparks of wit in them, when you see them. S.: Is it well? Am I melancholy enough? And you, good Master Anthony Hope, have you perchance a stool to be witty and romantic upon? %The Bookman y in its "Chronicle and Comment,'* is becoming frivolous, and, what is more, cock-sure. All this is inconsistent with its size and the dignity of Mr. Lowell's name on the cover. The pontifical tone in criticism is only allowed to the small magazines of Us jeunes and to Mr. G. Bernard Shaw. It should be denied a journal measuring j x 10. I earnestly recom- mend to The Bookman that it become more ponderous. ^There are several magazines whose desire it has been to bring to public notice some of the younger writers whose names were not to be found in the pages of the older journals. In small measure they have accomplished this. Not to seem lacking in immodesty. The Chap-Book itself has tried to make its own * 'finds'* of genius. Success PORTRAIT OF ARTHUR MORRISON 139 140 NOTES has not, however, waited on its efforts in such measure that it has been enabled to dispense entirely with well known names. So it is befitting that I should compliment the Black Cat on never having a name on its title page which any one has heard before or ever will hear again. Each new issue drags before us a new group of authors and consigns to eternal oblivion the unfortunates who were slaughtered to set before the pubHc last month's banquet. I do not follow the frolics of the Black Cat too assiduously, yet I cannot remember twice to have seen the same name in a contents table. Some one has told me that the Black Cat is, in fact, written by a few clever hack-writers, who are engaged at a regular salary, and who write stories and invent imaginary authors for them. The system is not necessarily a bad one. If Mr. Marion Crawford, or Miss Adeline Seargent, could be secured, the Black Cat would need only one employe. Either of these persons would, however, have the good sense to invent plausible names. Take the issue of June for an example : McPherson Frazer has a flavor of reality about it, but can one possibly believe in Leo Gale, Mabell Shippie Clarke, Clarice Irene Clingham, or Geik Turner ? ^ Audiences at the Alhambra in London are being de- lighted by the dancing of two young girls who were born at Irkutsk in Siberia, and who moreover learned their steps and prancings there. It is a picturesque fact ; no one had suspected the existence of a taste for the variety stage in Irkutsk. Yet a slight feeling of injury accom- panies the discovery. The advantages and comforts of civilization are always more widely distributed than we think or even desire. Even when physically comforting, it is a downfall to metropolitan pride to find good hotels NOTES 141 in waste places, express trains on branch railroads, and variety shows in Irkutsk. We fed that there ought to be special compensations for those forced to live in the ordinary and commonplace regions. ^It seems likely that M. Zola's Romf will assume at once the position of auxiliary guide-book to the Celestial City. Like Tbe Marble Fautiy it will be produced in " luxurious editions richly embellished with half-tone pictures of all the leading sights of the city.** As supplementary reading, it will have the position that Howells* Venetian Life has in Venice, or Romola in Florence. That the stay of a few weeks in Rome should have given even M. Zola's encyclopaedic mind such a grasp of the aspect and special atmosphere of mod- ern Rome is remarkable ; and that a man so busy has found time to acquire accurate and full knowledge of so many details of Rome's past is as much to be wondered at. Even a Baedeker guide-book is more than a mere compilation — it is rather the construction of a master mind. This power of ranging details and marshalling facts is admirable, no less in Zola than in Baedeker. Of the story, however, little is to be said; it is scarcely more than an incidental relief to the monotony of description. ^ The author of Rome cannot be happy to see his novel relegated from the class of fiction to that of special and technical works. Yet if something of this sort were not occasionally done, the task of reading either con- temporaneous or classical literature would be more nearly hopeless than it is now. It was Mr. Gosse, I think, who made the ingenious suggestion that classics of the language were being constantly put into school book form. From that moment, he said, no one felt it in any way 142 NOTES his duty to read them, and place was made for some new book as a sine qua non of cultured reading. This process has already engulfed most of the Greek and Latin writers, and in these days it threatens especially Shake- speare, who is "taught*' in every primary class-room. ^The publication of Mr. Henry Fuller's book. The Puppet Boothy affords most of its readers an opportunity to make the entirely superfluous criticism that, for a real theatre these little dramas are impossible. The fact was self- evident. The plays are for the closet if anything ever was. If you prefer a more modern ex- pression and know the works of Maurice Maeterlinck you may call them plays for mari- onettes. I suppose when we began to read Maeterlinck we were most of us told that his was a theatre not for real people but for puppet actors. The idea was so startling that we half believed, but in the end it came to seem pitifully ludicrous and impossible. We shall welcome, therefore, M. Mae- terlinck's own statement, in a book to be issued by Stone & Kimball, that he had in mind no creatures of wire and wood. The apparent inconsistency of this position he explains in a manner as ingenious as it is over-subtle. As author he felt that human beings buried in the depths of primeval forests or in the cavernous vaults of Middle- Age casdes would chant their monotonous Maeter- Bnckian speech only to be ridiculous. The ordinary NOTES 143 puppet would do as badly. In short, the new drama wanted a wholly new protagonist, and, instead of frankly calling this creature a figment of the reader's imagination, he dubbed it "marionette," The possibilities of the puppet show are so little known in this country that we were more startled and less easily deceived by this choice of name than the compatriots of M. Maeterlinck and Europeans in general. We have but one drama. Punch and Judy, and this has palled on the adult spectator, as, in the end, all farce comedy must. In Latin countries the repertory of these midgets is more varied. In Geneva I remember being spell-bound while les guignoh enacted a soul-stirring melodrama called La Dame Blanche, in which there was a haunted castle, an apparition, and a ghostly warning. In Italy the marionetti are of almost life size, hung from above and worked with wires. The powers they display are at least equal to those of the average travel- ling company. Indeed, in our own Boston, not long ago, in a squalid room in North Street, there was a troupe of marionettes, giving in Italian **The Most Tragical History and Adventures of the King, Charles the Great, and his Paladins." Before the staring eyes of a few Italian newsboys and an occasional thrice happy Har- vard student this tale of woe and courage was bravely played. The third act was a battle, and not until the stage was piled three feet deep with the corpses of the entire company did the curtain fall. In Italy one occasionally sees really beautiful perform- ances. I remember a scene in one at Florence, repre- senting the carnival at Venice. There was a ballet, and I can swear that the pirouettes of the premiere danseust recalled the days of Fanny EUslcr. 144 NOTES %Th^ Critic reprints in an advertisement, and. thus stamps with its approval, the following from The Illus- trated London News : "The Neza Tork Critic makes a point of the fact that it has never allowed into its columns any reviews of books by- members of its staff, and that no reviews have ever appeared of books by Mr. Richard Watson Gilder, solely because he is the brother of the editors. This is a claim which those who are in the habit of sneering at the free- doms of American journalism will do well to bear in mind. In our own country there is no such diffidence among editors.'* The Critic appears well satisfied, but it seems to me that a clear case of cowardice and mean, small thinking has been proven against it. The inference is that in case The Critic were personally interested it would be incapa- ble of judging jusdy, or at least of printing anything but praise. In other words, it cannot conceive of praise as other than truckling and log-rolling for the benefit of friends. Now, the publication of a book by Mr. Richard Wat- son Gilder may not be a great event. It is, however, an event which must of necessity be recorded in a journal as seriously devoted to literature as The Critic purports to be. It is an insult to the author not to praise his book, insin- uating that the public will not believe sincere praise pos- sible. Why does Miss Gilder's system stop with her brother and the Critic staff? How does she dare to mention a book if she has dined with its author? Or, if Mr. George Meredith were to marry Miss Gilder, would The Critic henceforward never mention the name of our greatest novelist? ANNOUNCEMENTS IX The Chap -Book SEMI-MONTHLY HERBERT STUART STONE, EDITOR HARRISON G. 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THE ART OF SAYING NOTHING WELL " La simplicite divine de la pensee et du style." — Paul Verlaine, IN OUR day, as it now flies, there are fine films of distinction to be considered, notably in literary art. The merest gossamer of verbal indication must be respected in the behalf of style, lest a shade of meaning, no matter how vague, be lost from paragraph or phrase. The thing to be said is of no importance, we are told ; but how it is said, that is the great matter. If the title of the present paper be seriously studied it will prove puzzling to the average critic. It is a charm- ing sentence, rich in possibilities of meaning. The last two words, like the tail of a bee, bear honey and poison on the same spike, or in sacs close by. Which shall you receive, a sweet drop or an enraging prick ? What, in- deed, does ** saying nothing" mean? And nothing 146 THE ART OF SAYING NOTHING WELL well said, does that mean a well-said nothing? or shall we understand that anything has been poorly said ? Behold how easily a pen slips into hopeless obscurities of mere ink ! I see that I am gone wool-gathering, and that my verbal distinctions just attempted do not distin- guish. Was it Horace who said this ? ** Non in caro nidore voluptas summa, sed in te ipso est/' The "precious smack,'* however, goes a long ways when there is n )thing else to be had. The art of saying nothing well 's the art of the bore or the art of the decadent, as you may interpret it. But a voice at my elbow quietly suggests that the distinction is still without a difference. The decadent, being always a bore, whether he has a precious smack or a smack of precious- ness, has the art of saying nothing well and everything ill. The good old days, when men who wrote were im- pressed with the value of original thought, were hard on brains, but easy on dictionaries. A tremendous idea was set for all time in a few words grabbed at random from a scant vocabulary. Even after "art for art's sake " had come to stay, the great early poets were stingy in their verbal dealings with art. It is surprising to note how meager is the vocabulary of Sappho, or of Theocritus, or of Pindar. And yet what incomparable riches of expres- sion ! The masters were in a flux of imagination, and to them a word had no value beyond its fitness to stand as a perfect sign of what the brain originated. But not so with us; we chase the word for the word's sake. We imagine that there is something precious in verbal style quite independent of what it may be used upon. A cheese, although rotten, is made sweet enough, we think, by being wrapped in an artistic poster. We are quite familiar with the phrase "good litera- MAURICE THOMPSON I47 ture," which has come to mean nothing and that wordy, or a good thing and that well written, according to the individual taste of the critic deciding the matter. But most generally we now take for granted that there is really nothing worth saying on account of its intrinsic value. As a new woman said of her kind the other day, '* Oh, the female form is but a clothes-horse nowadays. A woman is suggested, not seen, by what she wears,*' we may well say of thought; it is a mere word-rack, a peg upon which to hang attractive diction. Not unfre- quently the thought is quite dispensed with and the phrasing hangs upon nothing. If you have nothing to write, of course write it well. Good literature, like Homer's and Chaucer's and Shake- speare's, was well enough before Theophile Gautier in- vented style, but since then there has come a change, and now we demand, not new matter, but always a new man- ner. As for durability;, we are satisfied with a season's run; permanency is not desirable. Fame, which once was a thing to di^ for, has taken on the form of a spring jacket or summer cravat; you wear it till the next change in the weather. The art of saying nothing well is as fickle as the moon; for nothing and woman pride them- selves upon varying their fashions; and what is good lit- erature now but woman and nothing? Aminta and her George Meredith strut before us as if they owned the earth; but to-morrow there will be another woman and a new nothing. The happiest literary folk in all the world must be those in Paris, who actually took Paul Verlaine seriously and are now making obeisance to Stephane Mallarme. They seem to be, if we leave out certain proven9al dialect writers and our own American critics, the only litterateurs upon earth who would heroically die rather 148 THE ART OF SAYING NOTHING WELL ■ ■ than be right. M. Mallarme expresses perfectly in a single phrase the whole ambition of his literary flock: *'d'abord et toujours et irresistiblement Verlaine.'* But how charming a thing literature is in the hands of these poetes maudttSy as Verlaine styled them! To be sure, it is naught but nothing well said. Verlaine may have been right when he wrote his eulogy: **Absolus par I'imagination, absolus par Texpression, absolus comme les Reys Netos des meilleurs siecles; "there is much to be said about nothing, and more about such writers as Cor- biere, Rimbaud, Mallarme, and Villiers de L' Isle- Adam, who have served to amuse a blase crowd of the best fellows that ever lived, the Alexandrian Greek poets doubtfully excepted. What Sir Walter Scott called "the big bow-wow" is not suited to the perfect expression of nothing. Browning*s diction gets on better at a pinch, when the poet has to resort to a dazzling display of blank verbal cartridges; for sometimes it is almost impossible to dis- tinguish a meaningless whifFof word-wind from a whiz- zing bullet of thought. We dodge with delight when either clips too near us. The other day I was auditing the book-bills of Narcissus, and found myself delicately and deliciously charmed by what under different circum- stances would have been a mere lack of assets to back the paper. Style never went further nor came back with a more fragrant and savory load of nothing. From para- graph to paragraph one glides over a meandering smooth- ness. It is like bicycling on imaginary asphalt between immaterial clover fields. One hears bumblebees and sheep and kine; but never is there any visible or tangible matter of delectation: only a lulling composite noise; vox et prteterea nihil. This voice of the hollow sphere and this dripping of melodious word-showers, to change MAURICE THOMPSON I49 the figures, combine to high perfection in the latest good literature. Think of what a fascination a style can have, when a young girl fresh from Vassar flings down a vol- ume by William Sharp, or one by I. Zangwill, and rapturously exclaims: ** Shakespeare and Scott are not in it for a minute longer!" How delightful to do good that evil may come! It would be hardly fair to wring into this paper a con- sideration of the art of writing nothing ill. Walt Whit- man and Stephen Crane have given practical demonstra- tions of what may be done at a venture in that field. Here again my own style persists in obscurity. Nothing to write, and the poorest imaginable style, is not exactly the same with plenty to write and not a sentence ill written. The art of writing nothing and writing it ill might, however, be admirable in the hands of a master. For example, there is Andrew Lang's eulogy of H. Rider Haggard's stories, which I might cite in any part of this essay with perfect propriety and unqualified approval, as being strictly in point. When Mr. Lang has absolutely nothing for subject he is alluringly object- ive and revels in good literature. He is singularly ex- pert in writing nothing ill. But the art of writing nothing well, of writing so that nothing is well said, or whatever I mean, offers difficul- ties not readily foreseen by the ambitious candidate for authorhood. Nothing must ever be dressed up to look like a great something with an honorable ancestry and a congenital lease upon posterity, unless we accept the other interpretation of my caption. What could, on the other hand, be reasonably described as the bloomer cos- tume style of writing, by which effeminate imaginings are made to masquerade as virile and of the major origin, demands serious and exhaustive study. To achieve it 150 THE ART OF SAYING NOTHING WELL William Watson has, we hope, a long life of self-reform before him; but some are bom to it. Austin Dobson would not, apparently, give a penny to have it, albeit some of his best work neatly grazes the goal. Happy accident has done much on this score for Henry James, reading whose latest work one might exclaim with Mr. Sherburne Hardy: ** But yet a woman!'* And Mr. Howells should never go near a Shaker village if he has any regard for what old friends think of his style. It makes him say nothing with unusual delight. When I get back to my Greek, as I usually do at the earliest moment, an essay like Aristotle's on poetry makes me wonder how it has lived so long and kept so well, seeing that it says something without regard, at any point, to '/lightness of touch" or to preciousness of phrasing. It is not good literature, measured by the standard of Robert Louis Stevenson's style; but in its gaarls of diction are thoughts hard bound with fibers that are indestructible. Aristotle was too busy inside of his brain to have much respect for exterior frills; but where shall we find solider phrases than he snatched out of his stinted vocabulary? It is tough reading, almost as bad as Browning's best, and the words grate together like teeth with sand between them; still, something is said. You remember his turns of diction by associating them with his thoughts; but you never dream of regarding him as a writer with a style-charm. His fascination comes from deep down, as if sent up by roots squeezed between boulders. And it is true that a permanent fascination of style is always due to something more than nothing well said. The attempt has been made in American criticism to stow a poem like Poe's ** Raven" away in the lumber garret as a mere word -trick; but there is something MAURICE THOMPSON I 5 I tremendously human in the spiritual adumbration by which that great poem sustains itself. Style is there, superb styles and the clutch of grim sorrow, the pang of despair, and the helplessness of a soul in the presence of fate, are there as well. Poe could not command Steven- son's nimble diction, nor could he even understand what humor like Lowell's was. The power in his work came from behind his lines out of a wellspring hidden in a strange and original mind. He *' played with diction- aries *' and feigned abstruse learning; but he said new and impressive things in a new and impressive style. The deepest truth connected with the permanency of art is that there must be style, which does not stand for the same thing as diction, nor for the same thing as characteristic stroke, manner or tone. Mere deftness with the brush, mere cleverness with the fiddle-bow, mere facility in the doing of word-jugglery, cannot pass into permanent art, and this is the lesson we need to-day. We take verbal style too seriously when we reckon with it as of more importance than fresh thought and enlarged ideals. It is not the art of saying nothing well that wins in the long run; it is the art of saying a great thing with a simple charm of style which does most to enrich literature. Indeed, great things are themselves simple, the greatest the simplest. Nothing is well said when nothing is said. Maurice Thompson. 152 THE RED ROSE ■ ' . ■ THE RED ROSE. HAT is that on your breast, my lady ? Burning — with lips apart ? ** Oh, that is a rose. The fairest that grows. And the thorn is in my heart." W Why are its lips so red, my lady ? ** I for its sake have bled; My life-blood glows In the life of the rose; Therefore its lips are red." Why is its breath so sweet, my lady. Hastening my pulse's beat ? *' My deep love flows Through the lips of the rose; Therefore its breath is sweet." Why docs it wither and die, my lady ? ** There is the stinging smart: The red rose dies. But forever lies That cruel thorn in my heart. ' ' Ethelwyn Wetherald. DRAWING BY TOM HARRIS 153 154 A QUESTION OF ART A QUESTION OF ART ^, T 1ST ! good Mr. Johnson, to the proposition of JL/ Mr. Garrick. He says that I should be held accountable for the tameness in the acting of the part of a jealous woman by Miss Hoppner, who is to appear in the tragedy on Tuesday week." It was Mrs. Margaret Woffington who spoke as she poured out a cup of tea for Mr. Samuel Johnson, whom she and Garrick, on returning to their house in Bow Street, after rehearsing the new tragedy at Drury Lane, had found waiting for them. ** I do not doubt, madam, that you should be held accountable for the jealousy of many good women in the town," said Mr. Johnson ; **but it passes my knowl- edge by what sophistry your responsibility extends to any matter of art." ** Mrs. Woffington has not told you all, sir," said Gar- rick. ** She is, as you may well suppose, the creature in the tragedy who is supposed to excite the bitter jeal- ousy of another woman. Now, I submit that the play- goers, when they perceive that the woman who is meant to be stung to a point of madness through her jealousy of a rival, is scarce moved at all, will insensibly lay the blame upon her rival, saying that the powers of the act- ress were not equal to the task assigned to them by the part." "And I maintain, sir, that a more ridiculous conten- tion than yours could not be entertained by the most ignorant of men — nay, the most ignorant of actors, and to say so much, sir, is to say a great deal," cried John- son. ** I pray you, friend Davy, let no man know that I was once your teacher, if you formulate such fool- ishness as this ; otherwise it would go hard with me in the world." F. FRANKFORT MOORE 1 55 *'Ah-! sir, that last sentence shows that you are in perfect accord with the views which I have tried to ex- press to you,'* said Garrick. "You are ready to main- tain that the world will hold you accountable for what- ever foolishness I may exhibit. The playgoers will, on the same principle, pronounce on the force of Mrs. Woffington*s fascinations by the effect they have, not upon the playgoers themselves, but upon Miss Hoppner." *'Then the playgoers will show themselves to be the fools which I have always suspected them of being,'* said Johnson, recovering (somewhat ungracefully) from the effects of hastily swallowing his cup of tea. ** Ay, but how are we to fool them ? that's the ques- tion, Mr. Johnson," said Peggy. **I have no mind to get the blame which should fall on the shoulders of Miss Hoppner. I would fain have the luxury of qualifying for blame by my own act." **What! you mean, madam, that before receiving the punishment for sinning you would fain enjoy the pleasures of sin ? That is, I fear, but indifferent morality," said Johnson, shaking his head and his body as well with even more than his accustomed vehemence. **Look you here, Mrs. WofHngton," said Garrick. ** You are far too kindly to Miss Hoppner. That would not be bad of itself; but when it induces her to be kindly disposed to you, it cannot be tolerated. She is a poor fool, and so is unable to stab with proper vio- lence one who has shown herself her friend." ** She cannot have lived in the world of fashion," remarked Johnson. ** Lord ! Would you have me arouse the real passion in the good woman for the sake of the play?" cried Peggy. ** He would e'en degrade Nature by making her the 156 A QUESTION OF ART handmaid of Art. Sir, let me tell you this will not do, and there *s an end on 't,^* said Johnson. "Then the play will be damned, sir,'* said Garrick. " Let the play be damned, sir, rather than a woman's soul," shouted Johnson. *• Meantime you will have another cup of tea, Mr. Johnson," said Peggy, smiling with a witchery of that type which, exercised in later years, caused her visitor to make a resolution never to frequent the green-room of Drury Lane — a resolution which was possibly strength- ened by the failure of his tragedy. '* Mrs. Woffington," said he, passing on his empty cup, "let me tell you that I account it a pity so excel- lent a brewer of tea should waste her time upon the stage. Any wench may learn to act, but the successful brewing of tea demands the exercise of such judgment as cannot be easily acquired. Briefly, the woman is effaced by the act of going on the stage, but the brew- ing of tea is a revelation of femininity." He took three more cupfuls. The tragedy of ** Oriana " was by an unknown poet, but Garrick had come to the conclusion, after reading it, that it possessed sufficient merit to justify his pro- ducing it at Drury Lane. It abounded in that form of sentiment which found favour with playgoers in an age of artificiality, and its blank verse was strictly correct and impressive. It contained an apostrophe to the Star of Love, and eulogies of Liberty, Virtue, Hope, and other abstrac- tions, without which no eighteenth century tragedy was considered to be complete. Oriana was a Venetian lady of the early republican period. She was in love with one Orsino, a prince, and they exchanged senti- ments in the first act, bearing generally upon the advan- F. FRANKFORT MOORE 1 57 tages of first love, without touching upon its economic aspects. Unhappily, however, Orsino allowed himself to be attracted in the direction of a lady named Francesca, who made up in worldly possessions for the absence of those cheerless sentiments which Oriana had at her fingers* ends, and the result was that Oriana ran her dagger into the heart of her rival, into the chest of her faithless lover, and into her own stays. The business was carried on by the sorrowing relations of the three, with the valuable assistance of the ghosts of the slain, who explained their relative positions with fluency and lucidity, and urged upon the survivors with considerable argumentative skill the advisability of foregoing the elaborate scheme of revenge which each side was hoping to carry on against the others from the date of the obse- quies of the deceased. The character of Oriana was being rehearsed by Miss Hoppner, an extremely handsome young woman, whom Garrick had met and engaged in the country, Mrs. Woffington being the fatally fascinating Francesca, and Garrick himself the Prince Orsino. The tragedy had been in rehearsal for a fortnight, and it promised well, if the representative of the jealous woman could only be brought to ** put a little life into the death scene'* — the exhortation which the Irish actress of the part of Francesca put to her daily, but ineffectually. Miss Hoppner neither looked the part of a tragically jealous woman, nor did the stabbing of her rival in any- thing like that whirlwind of passion with which Gar- rick, in spite of the limping of the blank verse of the poet, almost swept the rest of the company off the stage when endeavoring to explain to the actress what 158 A QUESTION OF ART her representation lacked, on the day after his chat with Mrs. Woffington on the same subject. Poor Miss Hoppner took a long breath, and passed her hand across her eyes, as if to get rid of the effects of that horrible expression of deadly hate which Gar- rick's face had worn, as he had craned his head forward close to hers to show her how she should stab her rival — the slow movement of his body suggested the stealth of the leopard approaching its victim, and his delivery of the lines through his teeth more than suggested the hissing of a deadly snake in act to spring. ** Ay, do it that way, my dear madam," said Mrs. Woffington, "and the day after the tragedy is played you will be as famous as Mr. Garrick. 'Tis the sim- plest thing in the world." ** You have so unnerved me, sir, that I vow I have no head for my lines," said Miss Hoppner. But when by the aid of the prompter the lines were recovered, and she had repeated the scene, the result showed very little improvement. Garrick grumbled, and Miss Hoppner was tearful, as they went to the wardrobe room to see the dresses which had just been made for the principal ladies. Miss Hoppner's tears quickly dried when she was brought face to face with the gorgeous fabric which she was to wear. It was a pink satin, brocaded with white hawthorne, the stomacher trimmed with pearls. She saw that it was infinitely superior to the crimson stuft which had been assigned to Mrs. Woffington. She spoke rapturously of the brocade, and hurried with it in front of a mirror to see how it suited her style of beauty. Mrs. Woffington watched her with a smile. A sud- den thought seemed to strike her, and she gave a little F. FRANKFORT MOORE 1 59 I— » laugh. After a moment's hesitation she went behind the other actress and said : ** I am glad to see that you admire my dress. Miss Hoppner.'* **Your dress?'' said Miss Hoppner. '* Oh, yes! That crimson stuff. 'Tis very becoming to you, I 'm sure, Mrs. Woffington, though, for that matter, yoi* look well in everything." **'Tis you who are to wear the crimson one, my dear," said Peggy. ** I have made up my mind that the one you hold in your hand is the most suitable one for me in the tragedy." ** Nay, madam ; Mr. Garrick assigned this one to me, and I think 't will suit me very well." ** That is where Mr. Garrick made a mistake, child," said Peggy. **And I mean to repair his error. The choice of dresses lies with me. Miss Hoppner." **I have yet to be made aware of that, madam," said Miss Hoppner. Her voice had a note of shrillness in it, and Garrick, who was standing apart, noticed that her colour had risen with her voice. He became greatly interested in these manifestations of a spirit beyond that which she had displayed when rehearsing the tragedy. ** The sooner you are made aware of it the better it will be for all concerned," said Mrs. Woffington, with a deadly smile. ** I shall make bold to assure you, madam, that I shall be instructed on this point by Mr. Garrick, and Mr. Garrick only," said the other, raising her chin an inch or two higher than she was wont, except under great provocation. ** I care not whom you make your instructor, provided that you receive the instruction," sneered Peggy. ** Mr. Garrick," cried Miss Hoppner, ** I beg that l60 A QUESTION OF ART you will exercise your authority. You assigned me the brocade, did you not, sir?" ** And I affirm that the brocade will be more suitably worn by me, sir," said Peggy. **And I further affirm that I mean to wear it, Mr. Garrick." ** I would fain hope that the caprice of a vain woman will not be permitted to have force against every reasonable consideration," said Miss Hoppner, elevating her chin by another inch as she glanced out of the corners of her eyes in the direction of the other actress. **That is all I ask for, madam, and as we are so agreed, I presume that you will hand me over the gown without demur." <« Yours is the caprice, madam, let me tell you. I have right on my side." ** And I shall have the brocade on mine by way of compensation, my dear lady." ** Ladies," cried Garrick, interposing, ** I must beg of you not to embarrass me. ' Tis a small matter, this of dress, and one that should not make a disagreement between ladies of talent. If one is a good actress, one can move an audience without so paltry an auxiliary as a yard or two of silk." ** I will not pay Miss Hoppner so poor a compliment as would be implied by the suggestion that she needs the help of a silk brocade to eke out her resources as an actress," said Peggy. **Iask not for compliments from Mrs. Woffington. The brocade was assigned to me, and " **It would be ungenerous to take advantage of Mr. Garrick* s error, madam." "It was no error, Mrs. Woffington." ** What ! You would let all the world know that F. FRANKFORT MOORE l6l Mr. Garrick's opinion was that you stood in need of a showy gown to conceal the defects of your art ? '* ** You are insolent, Mrs. Woffington.'* ** Nay, nay, my dear ladies ; let *s have no more of this recrimination over a question of rags. It is un- worthy of you," said Garrick. " I feel that, sir; and so I mean to wear the bro- cade," said Mrs. Woffington. '* Good Lord! Mr. Garrick, what were you thinking of when you assigned to the poor victim of the murderess in the tragedy the crimson robe which was plainly meant to be in keeping with the going intentions of her rival .? " "Surely I did not commit that mistake ?" said Gar- rick. ** Heavens ! Where can my thoughts have been ? Miss Hoppner, madam, I am greatly vexed " **Let her take her brocade," cried Miss Hoppner, looking with indignant eyes, first at the smiling Peggy and then at Garrick, who was acting the part of a dis- tracted man to perfection. ** Let her wear it and see if it will hide the shortcomings of her complexion from the eyes of the playgoers." She walked away with a snifF before Peggy could de- liver a reply, which she felt sure Peggy had ready. ** Pray what trick have you on your mind now?" asked Garrick, when he was alone with Peggy. ** What was that caprice of yours ? ' ' ** Caprice ? You are a fool, Davy. You even for- get your own precepts, which your friend, Mr. John- son, in his wisdom, condemned so heartily yesterday." ** Good Lord ! You mean to " ** I mean to make Miss Hoppner act the part of a jealous woman to perfection." And she did so. The next day, at the rehearsal, Gar- rick, as well as every member of the company, was 1 62 A QUESTION OF ART amazed at the energy which Miss Hoppner contrived to impart to the scene in the play where, in the character of Oriana, she stabbed her successful rival. She acted with a force that had scarcely been surpassed by Garrick's reading of the scene for her instruction, the previous day. ** Faith, Peggy, you have given her a weapon for your own undoing,** said Garrick, as he walked home with Mrs. WofEngton. *' She will eclipse you if you do not mind.'* "1*11 e*en run the risk,** said Peggy. Alas ! the next day. Miss Hoppner was as feeble as ever — nay, the stabbing scene had never been so feebly gone through by her, and Garrick grumbled loudly. Miss Hoppner did not seem to mind. At the end of the rehearsal, she sought Peggy, and offered her her hand. "Mrs. Woffington,** she said, *lumbias* POPE MANUFACTURING CO, Hartford^ Conn* 4»te> -Jitfr -^t^ -^^ ^^ -JiV r4^^^^|f^^4W|f^ ADVERTISEMENTS XI A development— not an experiment. Lots of experiments are on the market for public to test ...The... NUMBER SIX MODEL Remington Standard Typewriter Offers Results. Already Tested. WYCKOFF, SEAMANS & BENEDICT, 327 Broadway, New York. A.C.McClurgSziCo Stationers and Engravers — Wed d ing Invitations and Announce ments, Visiting Cards, Monograms and Crests — Plain and Tinted Note Paper, from the lowest priced t o the highest — Our facilities are unsurpassed for the prompt execu t ion of Engraving Orders — A. C McClurg & Co., Wabash Avenue and Madison Street, Chicago Xll THE CHAP-BOOK D UNLAP & CO. 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STONE & COMPANY THE MILLER'S SONG o NCE she was dainty Dorothy y Dorothy of the Mill, Sweet as a thorny wild-rose. That dews of evening fill; Now she folds tattered petals Around a wounded heart. And oh, her sister Roses They shrink from her apart! Do you remember, Dorothy, Days that have flown away With rose, and lilac, and hawthorn Fled with a parted May ? Do you remember kisses Snatched by the eldertree ? Vows that were made, and broken - Dorothy, Dorothy ? Since you were sweet-and-twenty Many a rose has died ; Many a rosebud broken Her jealous sheaths aside. And who was Queen of Roses Is changed, and pale of blee : No man now seeks Maid Marian, All men seek Dorothy. 194 THE USES OF PERVERSITY Allan-a-Dale is singing To-night in Avalon : And there 's no horn could waken Scarlett or Little John ; Only the Miller wanders The silent ways of Shere, And would that he were lying Dead of your thorns, my dear. Nora Hopper. THE USES OF PERVERSITY HERE French must lend its subtler and more penetrating aroma. A stronger spice must brace the good old English toned-down fla- vour. The word must be supposed invigorated, for the thing it is to mean is forcible. Waywardness is not the humour of this perversity, and it has more of the perverted than of the perverse. Surface hits at cuss- edness, facile thrusts at contrariness, leave it unscathed; for it goes deeper than whimsicality and underlies the quaintness sharp wit picks out of little things gone wrong. Perversity, thus for a space restored to its unemasculated meaning, is a twisted distortion of root and branch, not a gentle deflection of airy twigs. To paint a French thing the word must assume a Gallic hue, and as the thing is deep-dyed, so the word must borrow for the nonce a fuller tone. Words, indeed, are but things. The names on which French thought has thrived have been true tokens of its moods, and word-changes have meant revolutions of fact, for the facts here are the words. Realism worsting Romanticism, the newest Decadence undoing Realism, LAURENCE JERROLD I95 M^— ^^^^^^^^^^^i^— ^^^^^^^"^^^^^^^»^— — — — — — — — ^— —— 1— —^ are evolutions in speech which cover a progression in life. The sentimentality of Art meant gush in practice and the attitudes of literature were struck in reality. Dissection in fiction argued an actual habit of analysis, and materiality was most lived for when it was most written about. The reaction in words has ushered in a revolution of fact, or, which comes to the same, the new literature has sprung from the new life. From paroxysm to anti-climax has been the way of this parallel progression, as it is of every change The pendulum has swayed from Realism and struck the opposite beam. But the earth turned while we swung, and we have landed, not on Romance again, whence we had leaped to Realism, but on Perversity, whence a lucky spring may eventually set us down on something wiser and better. Yet there are books in the running brooks, and there may be sermons in even the troubled streams that water this new land of our discovery. The inner reaction in men and things which the outer anti-climax of names and words betokens is no barren waste, and yields experience a plentiful harvest. The fruits are not seldom ill-flavoured, but the flavour is strong, and the uses of this new perversity are not in- sipid, though they be but bitter-sweet. Idealism is our perversion, and the Soul depraves us. We are drinking the dregs of the immaterial and have touched the dingiest bottoms of purity. The relativity of the object has turned our heads, and we are soul-mad. Apotheosis of soul and annihilation of body, the only seemly pegs on which well-thinking " jeunes'* can now hang their periods, which once the bait-hook of ** analyti- cal observation ' ' alone could catch, are the principles of our disintegration. Their work is swift, for the fear of lagging in the race for modernity speeds it, and it is wholesale. Nature and common sense crumble, and 196 THE USES OF PERVERSITY sincerity has long since withered away. Cabaret con- versations are of the stupidity of sex, and small-talk in drawing-rooms runs on the idiocy of love. Mating is a platitude, begetting an absurdity, and motherhood has the quaintness of things obsolete. The abolition of sex is the new crusade, and the last religion is of the future, when the aristocracy of the intellect shall, Jupiter-like, eschew animality, and engender its children in a thought. Literature foretells the time, and art paints the soul with daring straightforwardness on canvas, using microscopic brushes dipped in gold and devoting years to the task, for psychic delineation is minute and precious. Soul gives form, and the ethereal must take outward shape. Hence the new attitude. A virginal appearance and the candour of an ** enfant de chceur" are its necessary conditions. The hair, dark for women, pref- erably golden for men, is long, forlorn and parted. Com- plexions are of wax when feminine; when masculine, of pale peach-blossom ! A cherub's smile plays on the lips, and eyes must within the bounds of feasibility show the vacuity of an infant's. In voice and gesture, being more easily practised, is the new puerility most felicitously ex- pressed. The secret lies in the suppression of both. The voice must be "white,** and every accent, every shade of tone that gives but the faint image of a colour, is a flaw. A still grosser imperfection would be aught of hasty or unmeasured in gesture or movement. In small-talk anent the Soul, as in the impressive elocution of nursery rhymes, carnal oblivion must be ensured by immovableness of limb, and further than the uplifting of a finger the soul- ful do not venture. The golden-haired youth lisping with the **voix blanche'* of white-robed ** premieres communiantes " pictures the perversion of purity. As at once a sign of health and a stigma of decay LAURENCE JERROLD I97 there comes amid this struggling for a Soul the fitful yet eventual triumph of the flesh. The trampled body turns and fells its oppressors, and this is Nature's victory, claiming, after all, her own. But it is also Nature's re- venge, for she bestows not of her best on those who have spurned the boon, and her gifts are cruel to her prodigal sons. Passion is vouchsafed generously anew to some few who abjured it, but it has to pay its penalty. The actress who (not for respectability's sake — this care is unknown in her Bohemia — but as a tribute to the new perversion) had renounced the flesh, and the poet who had made dying all the rage and relegated mere living to the lumber-room, have to screen the simplest of idylls, not from the stare of the puritan, but from the prying of the last decadence. More often a yet heavier penalty is paid. The flesh will out, and, stifled by the perversion of purity, breaks impurely forth. The fat litde Mar- seillais poet who may be heard of an evening in his pop- ular part of the prophet of the new renunciation anathematising the scurrility of sex and execrating the ugliness of love, the golden-haired painter whose boast is his choir-boy appearance, are rivals in innuendo and salaciousness when the work of life is over and play-hours begin. In the daytime even the test of a bottle of cham- pagne or of but a half pint of beer is one the new purity will hardly stand. The slender youth whom you have heard preaching the gospel of asceticism amid a cir- cle of amused and half-deceived ladies goes with you to sip a **quart " at the Cafe de la Place Blanche, upstairs, and shows surprising intimacy with the feminine element of that particular world, and no litde experience of fleshly doctrines. The uses of perversity wander wide in seriousness and in theory, and return to Nature in practice and at 198 ON THE FIELD OF HONOR play. But the return is by a yet muddier way than the digression, and a cleaner and wholesomer path must be opened up before the straight line can be struck again. Laurence Jerrold. ON THE FIELD OF HONOR >HE sunlight dies with a sickening glare, — What went ye out for to see ? — And the vultures are darkening the upper air, — What went ye out for to see ? Oh ! the soldiers were strong and brave and bold. And the red blood of life ran hot, ran cold. With the fruitage of death for the grave's dark mold, — What went ye out for to see ? They have gathered them up with moan and groan, — What went ye out for to see ? — He lies with his brow to the quiet skies. With heaven's blue in his open eyes. And a shadow falls as a vulture flies, — What went ye out for to see ? He lies in the light of the rising moon, — What went ye out for to see ? — For the life of the charge, death came too soon, — What went ye out for to see ? Ah ! the solemn shadows come and go. And the vagrant winds through the brown locks blow : But he died with his brave young face to the foe, — What went ye out for to see ? VIRGINIA FRAZER BOYLE I99 But pitiless death, in the ghostly gleam, — What went ye out for to see ? — Hide, pitiful moon, from the ghastly dream, — What went ye out for to see ? For the locks are bright as a baby*s hair. And under the blood-stained jacket there Is the breast of a woman, soft and fair, — What went ye out for to see ? Ah! fearful the breach that she strove to fill, — What went ye out for to see ? — And fearful the force, the strength of will, — What went ye out for to see ? A lily cast in the leaden hail ? A dove in the teeth of the whistling gale ? God pity the cause, that such faith should fail ! — What went ye out for to see ? — What matters it whether she wore the gray, — What went ye out for to see ? — Or died in victorious blue, that day, — What went ye out for to see ? For valor will heed when 'tis valor that calls. And the gap was filled — 'tis the story that palls, — For over the past God's sunlight falls, — What went ye out for to see ? Virginia Frazer Boyle. THE ENVIOUS BLACK-HAIR'D QUEEN FRANK HAZENPLUG THE ORACLE 201 THE ORACLE ,./^H! MR. FENSHAW!!" • • \^ < * Milli — Miss Drew. " *« You would have " ** There 's such a crowd ** **But »' ** And my glasses — dropped them on the stairs. You know the Duchess of Heavytowers ? ** "Slightly." "No, quite the reverse, fifteen stone — as blind as myself. Ground to powder — the glasses, you know.'* "How sad ! " "Yes — my aunt. Lady Greenbury, has been signal- ling me for the last twenty minutes to take her down to supper, and I cannot see her. Shall we sit down ?*' "What a charming " "Isn't it? The ferns, the lights and — and you really go to-morrow ? " "Yes, papa " " Oh, the selfishness of these parents. Their pleas- ures are always placed first in " Their duties, Mr. Fenshaw. Parliament " "The club " " Do you think so ? And another fortnight would have been so nice, would n't it ? " " Heavenly." " I get your message this afternoon, Mr. Fenshaw." *« Oh — yes !" "I have been wondering ever since what you wanted to say." "I — I — want to tell you — that — is — to — say, I wish " "Yes — yes !" 202 THE ORACLE "Bother! There are some people watching us — when they have gone ' ' ** Where are they ?'* *' Lean this way and you Ml see.** "Why, that ** ♦* By Jove ! He almost took her in his arms. I wish I could see who it is. They have spotted us now and are talking most sedately. I tell you what. Miss Drew, I should n't be a bit surprised if that fellow was n't wishing me at Jericho." "But why?" " Perhaps he wants to say something to the girl — she may be going away to-morrow, you know." *' Yes ; she may." " Of course it is a mere hazard on my part, but I — really it would not surprise me if the poor beggar does n't want to propose, and is only waiting for a chance " " Had n't we better go, then ? " «' Oh! — Well, she does n't appear to be giving him much encouragement, so perhaps if we stay he will be prevented from speaking, which will save him from a disappointment." " She may like him — awfully." ** Well, she ought to be less standoffish." "What can she do?" "Hello! She turned towards him just then most pleadingly. And— do look — she has put her hand in his. * * "Oh!" "He appears to be squeezing it." " He is, indeed." "Now he is telling her that he is frightfully smitten with her, and she — and she only listens as though he were saying that it was a fine wet night. Can this be a portent ?' * THE ORACLE 2O3 **Of what?'' ** Oh, nothing. I mean I am dreadfully superstitious, and what with to-day being Friday, and so on, I have grave doubts about entering on any undertaking, especially if " **I am sure she loves him. I ** Ah ! that was better ; she really showed some signs of interest in him. If Friday was not such an unlucky day, I swear . Ah, she has returned to her old apathetic attitude : it 's all up with him, poor chap. I hope I shall see you when I come up to town. Miss Drew." ** Oh, I hope we shall meet somewhere, Mr. Fen- shaw.'* " May I venture to call on you ?" ** Mother will be delighted if you will ; we are at home every day — every day except Fridays, Mr. Fenshaw.'* *« And this is really * good-bye * ? '* **I suppose so.** ** If it had n*t been a Fridav ** «*If it hadn't *' **I would have chanced it if she Bless my soul ! if the brute has n't made the girl cry : she's got her handkerchief up to her eyes." "Has he?" ** And he sits staring straight in front of him, paying her no attention. I say! I really believe she cares for him a bit. She nestles towards him — lifts her head — I believe she is going to kiss Millicent ! ' ' **you goose ! It is a minor all the time." ** Say a portent. The gods are for us, Millicent. The oracle " ** Has spoken." H. M. TOO LATE Words by Harriet P. Sawyer, Music by William Marc Chauvenet. fri- i ; u^j^^ ^^ tif^^f^ffm Too late, my lore, too late! Too late for lore and thee! ^^^^m ^^^ Day will no Ion - ger wait -b f r r -g. ^ ^ Dawn's pearls are on the sea. . . . P FTjUnj. jj-T t t^J |J. h-U ^te k - cross the eyes of night, The hands ofday ara ^jrj-^A= f4^- | f^ r-f^ ^ f-T-} \Ln^U.^ : i=p : ^ pressed, Thine eyes are pale with light; Rest, my be-Ior - ed, rest ^ ^^ ^ 1^-fe ^ ^^ 205 THE MAKING OF MONSIEUR LESCARBOT'S BALLAD IT WAS a stormy evening of March, i6i i. All day- snow had fallen in a white whirlwind on Port Royal, winning one by one its points of vantage, and submerging each in turn relentlessly, till now the tiny colony had almost vanished in the drifts. Signs of outline there were none. The great stone gateway at the southeast, carven above with the fleur-de- lis, was dim and shapeless even to the sentry in the guard-room beside it ; the bastion to the southwest, its four cannon quite buried, melted vaguely into the dark- ness. Snow lay everywhere. The gabled houses were turned into white misshapen monsters, and strange fan- tastic mounds stretched across the Square. Even the flag of France in the centre, beneath which the Seigneur of Port Royal stood each year to greet his vassals, had suffered with the rest, the wind having wrapped it tightly about its staff, and the interminable flakes blotted out its liHes. It was ten by the clock, and the colonists long since abed, so that, save for the blink of the sentry's candle, a stranger passing by the guard-room would have seen no sign of life. But that was only because a giant drift hid the great hall of the seigneurie from sight, for there a few of them were still awake and drinking deep, in honour of the coming to Acadie of the due de Montpelier, cousin of the king. Within the long wainscoted room, Poutrincourt, Seigneur of Port Royal, sat musing before a huge log fire, with his thin white hands spread out to the mellow heat. His face, delicately contoured and crossed by many lines, gleamed with a ruddy hue while the flames 206 MONSIEUR LESCARBOT^S BALLAD roared up the high-arched chimney ; when they sank low again, it had the likeness of an ashen mask against the blackness of his silken doublet. He was clad entirely in black, even to his ruffles. His head was sunken on his breast. And thus he sat gazing at the fire, his shadow on the wall behind keeping time grotesquely to the leaping flames. To his left Marc Lescarbot, the poet of the colony, listened across a bowl of muscat to one of Imbert's end- less stories. He was tall and thin, with dreamy grey eyes ; there were girlish dimples on his cheeks. Just now, however, his face was flushed and his fingers played nervously about his girdle, for Imbert, after a fashion of his own, was emphasising the narrative with reckless flourishings of his naked sword. But even then, with the point almost upon his breast. Monsieur Lescar- bot by no means lost his urbanity, for his smile, albeit a trifle anxious, was still most wondrous sweet. As for Imbert, the story he was telling had excited him beyond control. It was as if his wild sea-roving days had re- turned. His black eyes flashed fiercely from out his red, scarred face; his rubicund lips were protruded ; his mass- ive left hand was twined in the coarse black hair that overhung his forehead. As the firelight danced athwart him he seemed to Lescarbot, always fanciful, much like the gods on the bowls of the Indian lobster-claw pipes, so broad was his short, squat body and so flaming red his face. On the right at a small table the Seigneur's son, Bien- court, and the due de Montpelier played at dice ; the one eagerly, as if mindful of his growing pile of pistoles, the other in listless unconcern. And this difference the appearance of the two enhanced, for while Biencourt was tall, blue-eyed, and smooth and fresh of face, the due 207 was short and dark, with glittering black eyes and a pale, wearied countenance. And whereas Bien court was bravely dressed in doublet and hose of soft blue satin, the due wore a black velvet that harmonized sombrely with his paleness and his listlessness. He had but that day reached Acadie from France, yet the sight of the forest life about him, the fur-clad lackeys and strange In- dian relics, seemed scarcely to stir his pulses. Instead he sat in silence by the table, carelessly toying with his white, ringed hands. The round ended and Biencourt swept in his gains. *' Doubles?" he cried. The due nodded and pushed forward his stake. " It was then the English came aboard us. Monsieur Lescarbot," roared Imbert, waving his sword, "and I leave you to judge how fierce the fighting was with half our men already dead. The deck was a red shambles, and in the midst stood Pierre Euston, blood from head to heel." "It is worthy of a ballad," murmured his hearer. The due shivered and drew nearer the fire. *' Do ballads flourish in this frozen land?" he asked, with a languid lift of his black eyebrows. Poutrincourt started from his reverie. " Lescarbot is a famous poet, monsieur le due. For a ballad or love- song I know few to equal him." A blush reddened the poet's dimpled cheeks. "The wilderness is full of subjects," said he, modestly. The wind was rising higher and the stout oaken door rattled clamourously to the white gusts. His highness the due de Montpelier shivered again and looked about him somewhat curiously at the quaintly carven doors and the bearskins and heads of deer that hung upon the dark wainscoted walls. 208 MONSIEUR LESCARBOT's BALLAD ** It was then I came up from the lower deck," went on Imbert, "and side by side Pierre Euston and I charged together. Ah ! Pierre was a brave fighter in those days, I warrant you, and together we swept the decks before us. And droll enough work it was, with the wounded dogs of English laying their swords about our heels as we passed." **It was scoundrelly work," broke in Biencourt, balancing his dice-box on his fingers. ** Nothing would please me better than a meeting with this droll gentle- man, this Pierre Euston." Half seriously, half amusedly, the quondam pirate shrugged his great shoulders. ** Tush ! I was but a lad," he said in a tone of apology, ** and I took no share beyond the fighting." The dicing went on. The due threw and lost again and impassively as ever filled his silver flagon from the pitcher on the long oaken table behind him. ** To your next ballad. Monsieur Lcscarbot," he said, politely. But the wine was scarce half way to his lips ere there came a strange interruption. The door opened slowly from without, and a woman entered, an infant in her arms. In after years, when alone with Imbert in the ruined fort, that scene came back to Biencourt with startling vividness. Once again he beheld the long room dyed red in the glow of the fire ; once more he saw them as they started to their feet and stood staring blankly at the stranger. And much cause was there to stare, for women in Port Royal this winter there were none — least of all grand, ladies such as each movement showed this to be — while beyond the fort lay naught but a savage, unbroken wilderness. And Biencourt remembered standing thus while one might slowly count ten. WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, JR. 2O9 The due was the first to speak. *'You are cold, madame," he said softly. ''You must drink some wine." And, flagon in hand, he approached her. But the newcomer, who was blue-eyed and most marvellously fair of face, waved him curtly back. ** I have come to ask shelter for myself and babe, from the lord of the seigneurie, monsieur, not to drink wine." Then, pausing as if for breath, she stood erect beside the door, slender and lissome, a multitude of snow-flakes slowly melting in the red-gold of her hair. For a moment Poutrincourt was silent. Idly his thoughts travelled the endless forest wastes of Acadie, snow-clad and inhospitable, where, this winter of 161 1, was no white settlement beside his own. He had even passed up the great river to Quebec, where his friend Captain Samuel Champlain had three years before planted the banner of the fleur-de-lis, when with a start he became aware the woman's eyes were fixed haughtily upon him. Then, mindful of his duty, he stepped for- ward, bowing low, and bade her welcome to his seigneurie of Port Royal, brushing the snow from her long fur mantle with his own white hands. And in an instant more the stranger was ensconced in a chair before the fire. Biencourt and the due resumed their gaming. Monsieur Lescarbot took out his tablets preparatory to verse-mak- ing, and Imbert busied himself mulling wine for the conclusion of the evening's potations, which in Port Royal were wont to be of the deepest. But no one ventured to mar the hospitality of Port Royal with a question, and the newcomer proved more taciturn than would have been expected from the laughing curves of her lips, sitting moment after moment silent in the glow of the fire. 2IO MONSIEUR LESCARBOT's BALLAD The wind still battered at the door and muttered angrily in the chimney, but to Biencourt the room was filled with a new light — a strange radiance that seemed to emanate from the stranger's golden head or the crimson kirtle which she wore. He forgot his game. He watched only her drooping lashes, with a vague hope that soon she might raise them. And as he watched, the pile of money before him lessened rapidly. ** I fear you bring me ill-luck, madame,'* he cried at last, ruefully smiling toward her. *' These pistoles have a sorry trick of vanishing since you came.** The stranger raised her lashes, as he had hoped. She smiled back responsively, and her eyes caught an amber light from the leaping flames. *' Would you turn me into the night again ?*' she asked, jestingly, yet with a strange inflexion in her voice as though speaking to some one far away. Biencourt shook his head. ♦' This may bring me for- tune,'* he said, in eager tones. And rising and striding to her side, he stooped down and made the sign of the cross above the baby*s forehead — a simple superstition, but evidently not to the newcomer's liking, for she said with some hauteur, "I, monsieur, am of the reformed faith," and leaned back coldly in her chair. '* Methinks, madame, you cannot have journeyed far," broke in Poutrincourt, who had been staring into the fire. "Your cloak had little snow for much travel, and, besides, there was the babe.** Madame' s face lost its haughtiness, and she smiled once more. Poutrincourt rubbed his slender hands softly together. ** All about us is the endless forest, and lo ! as if by magic you appear ! Are you sure there be no witchcraft WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, JR. 211 The stranger's laugh rang through the hall, dying faintly amid the armour in the far corner. " Mayhap I sailed hither in some sea-rover from the Spanish lands, or perhaps *' — and here she smiled demurely — ** I hid myself in yonder vessel that this day came from France. Perchance I dared the drifts alone, or I may have bribed some of the red savages to carry me. But where'er I came from, the sentry at the gate is not to blame. The night is dark, and the snow has heaped an easy road from outside over the bastion." **Iam waiting. Monsieur Biencourt," broke in the due, with an impatient glance at his opponent, who was still standing by the stranger lady's side. There was such anger in his tone that the other men, remembering his former listlessness, glanced curiously at him. His pale face was even paler than before ; tiny drops of moisture glittered on his forehead ; one hand was clenched above his winnings ; in the other his dice-box trembled. "Does he love his pistoles after all?" thought the poet, pausing in his poem. The wine was mulled at last and the goblets filled. The Seigneur of Port Royal drank slowly and reflectively, in small sips, glancing alternately from the fair-haired mother to her dark-eyed, cooing child. I have thought about your lodging, madame," he said at last, tilting his goblet to and fro. ** Here you would have no rest, else would I give you my own apartments. This evening we are something quieter than usual, but oftener the noise of revelling dis- turbs the forest far into the night. The hall is full of men in leathern hunting suits, the red savages sit smoking by the fire, there is gaming and wine-drinking, and in the intervals we sing the songs of France. But without the fort, a half-mile beyond the gate, are two disused 212 MONSIEUR LESCARBOT S BALLAD huts. One of these I give you to inhabit. And that you suffer insult from none, a protector shall go with you, who shall answer for your honour with his own. There be two huts, and each shall have one. But this night you will lodge here.'* The stranger leaned forward. Her slender fingers touched his arm. ** You have forgotten to name the one who is to guard me," she said hastily, a curious thrill vibrating through her voice. The Seigneur pointed at Biencoun, and her face, which had seemed strained and eager, relaxed again. **We shall be brave allies, shall we not?" she cried, turning her blue eyes toward him. Biencourt laughed. **None better," he responded in great good-humour. The storm was growing fiercer as the night went on. The door rattled more noisily, and the flames in the great chimney waved to and fro in the sudden gusts. The space on the other side of the table, ^eebly lit by two candles in brazen candlesticks, became a battle- ground of shadows from the group before the fire. The stranger lady, seeming not to mind the storm, looked dreamily about her at the strange antlers on the walls, and at the motto of the lords of Port Royal, carved above the oaken mantel, shielding her baby's face the while from the glare of the flames. Presently her eyes met Biencourt' s. ** You are brave. Is it not so?" she asked with a laugh and a toss of her head that spread her golden hair in sunshine over her shoulders. Imbert answered in his place. *' Very brave, and a fine swordsman ! ' ' cried the old pirate, while his black eyes flashed. **A11 Port Royal knows the young admiral and his famous wrist-play." ** Admiral ! " Again the blue eyes looked into his. WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, JR. 2I3 and again Biencourt had the same strange feeling, as if the speaker's thoughts were far away, and she were merely toying with the words. "Aye,'* went on Imbert, coming nearer and laying his monstrous hands upon the mantel, ** the late King Henry made him an adiniral for these waters months ere his martyrdom. And since then he has swept the free- booters from the coast. ' ' His highness the due de Montpelier leaned lazily backward in his chair, raising his black eyebrows. ** So my good cousin Henry of Navarre chose for his admirals beardless boys," he said very softly and very languidly. There was an instant hitsh throughout the room, in which the clatter of the door rose almost to a scream. Imbert drew in his breath with a sharp, hissing sound ; the poet looked up from his tablets and Poutrincourt from the fire. These latter were just in time to see Biencourt leap to his feet and drav/ his sword, and almost before they understood t'..e cai.se the fight had begun. The first of the encounter was much in the due's favour. He fenced so ctrongly behind a certain affecta- tion of disdain, and his thrusts came so subtly home that ere five minutes had passed, Biencourt was bleeding from a wound in his left shoulder. The due lowered his sword and surveyed his opponent. Are you satisfied, monsieur ? " he asked placidly. ** Not yet," cried Biencourt angrily. Imbert drew near and examined the wound. **A scratch!" he called contemptuously. Then with a warning look he lounged back to his position by the mantel. The room was very still as the two faced each other again — the due dark and pale ; Biencourt, with a crimson flush upon his cheeks. 214 MONSIEUR LESCARBOT S BALLAD There was the same writhing of swords, the same chilly music of steel, and once again the duellists swayed to and fro. Then for the second time the due's sword found its mark ; this time not far below the heart. Biencourt leaned back, ashen white, upon Lescarbot*s shoulder. His blood flowed fast and his eyes were closed as if in pain. The due himself approached and surveyed him, leaning the while a trifle wearily upon his sword, for the last bout had been a fierce one. "It was a brave fight,*' he said slowly. At the sound of his voice Biencourt' s blue eyes opened. "Can you stay the bleeding?" he asked huskily of Imbert, who with the deftness of an old cam- paigner was binding a mass of soft cloths about the wound. Imbert nodded. ** Then a moment more and I am ready." "But, monsieur," the due courteously interposed, " your wound is deep and you have already done enough for honour. Believe me you have this night shown a swordsmanship I never saw before — I who have met and conquered every maitre d'armes in France. It was but by using all my skill I touched you." But with the due's insult still rankling at his heart Biencourt was in no mood for fine speeches. " I can try once more," he answered rather grimly, "and I warn you to be on your guard. Let no gleam of the stranger's golden hair tempt you from your watchfulness or ill may well betide you." At this the due's pale face flushed and he shook his head in fiercest anger. But he spoke no word. Then the two faced each other again. Poutrincourt's oval face was grey and haggard ; Lescarbot looked on half eagerly, half sullenly ; Imbert, WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, JR. 21 S his hands twined in his shaggy black hair, alone was im- perturbable. And at one side, with head averted, the stranger leaned idly in her chair, smoothing her baby's forehead with her hand. This time there was no respite. The two pressed each other fiercely, their swords flashing in the candlelight like twin twining snakes. To and fro they swayed ; a dozen times each saved his life as by a miracle ; their breath came in quick and quicker gasps, and still they fought on. The due's face was now fiery red with passion, and it was evident no thought of mercy lingered in his mind. And for the first time he became uncertain of the result, for Biencourt was fighting with a dogged persistence that boded ill. Try as he would, his thrusts were parried so that presently he began half doubtfully to wonder if at last he had met his equal. And while these thoughts lingered in his mind, giving to his wounded adversary's face a look of pale foreboding, the infant in the stranger's arms began crying shrilly. For an instant the due glanced hastily toward the chair in which she sat, his guard failed, and Biencourt, fainting from loss of blood, ran him through the chest. ^ 5fC ^ ^ <^ It was months ere Biencourt and the due de Mont- pelier met again. Then one June afternoon, when Acadie lay in a yellow swoon, the due appeared before the two solitary huts, leaning heavily on a stick. "We shall not quarrel again, I hope," he said gaily, bowing to Biencourt, who was lounging in the shadow of the forest. " Of a truth I have no mind to stay longer in bed. And I have come, monsieur, both to make amends for my discourtesy on the evening of our meeting, and to beg the honour of your friendship." And having thus spoken, he bowed low again and 2l6 MONSIEUR LESCARBOT's BALLAD waited, a short yet stately figure set against a background of deep green spruce. But his face, as Biencourt sprang forward to grasp his hand, showed haggard and drawn as if through pain. This was the beginning of a strange friendship. Les- carbot had turned the duel into a ballad of Homeric proportions, variegated here and there with choice allusions to the "listless lady by the fire.'* This the two read together, seated side by side on a rustic seat Imbert had arranged in the shadow — all except the end- ing, which the poet, despite his skill, had not yet been able to fashion to his mind. Beneath them the bay sparkled in the sunshine ; to the right lay the fort, with its gleaming cannon ; in the distance a purple mountain ridge reared itself softly against the sky. Of this scene the due seemed never to weary. Morning after morning he lounged for hours on the rustic seat, idly drinking in its beauty. It was at the second of these meetings he asked Biencourt about his charge. '* You have no trouble with these Port Royal gal- lants ? " he queried. Biencourt shook his head. **And how does madame — Manette, the Seigneur told me was her name — how does madame relish her forest life?*' ** She is thinner and her cheeks are pale. Since her child died I fear she grieves.*' For a time the due sat silent, carelessly digging with his scabbard in the moist, black earfh. ** One may not see her?'* he said at last, doubtfully. *' Why not ? Without doubt you will respect her honour, and she seems lonely." On the due's lips a faint smile trembled. For a 217 moment he seemed about to laugh. But he only repeated, '* So she seems lonely." Biencourt rose and knocked at the door of the adjoin- ing hut. ** Does madame please to walk ? '* he called. There was a reply from within, inaudible to the due's cars, and in another moment the stranger lady, whose plain name of Madame Manette ill consorted with her stately air, appeared equipped for walking. The due sauntered near. "Madame Manette,*' said Biencourt, "I have the honour to present to your notice his highness monsieur le due de Montpelier." The due's plumed hat swept the earth in greeting. ** Methinks the climate suits us strangers ill," he said, gaily. "From your face it steals the roses; me it hinders too long of recovery." Madame Manette shrugged her fine shoulders. *' Are you in danger ?" she asked, politely. The subject was evidently uninteresting. The due shook his head and smiled. His black eyes were full of a strange light, and his lips quivered so that Biencourt, watching him, feared he might be in danger of overtaxing his new-found strength. Then the three set out through the forest, loitering along quaint foot- paths brown with fallen pine needles, or stooping to gather wild flowers in the shelter of anciently bearded trees, where was naught but primeval stillness. The walk that day, however, was a short one, for Madame Manette was weary, so that presently they found themselves again before the log hut, with its thatched roof and mossy walls. Vines of Imbert's planting were beginning to twine about the doorway, and in the air floated the dreamy scent of bursting pine buds. 2l8 MONSIEUR LESCARBOT's BALLAD A half-mile in the distance the four cannon on the bastion of Port Royal flashed brightly in the sunshine, and the flag of France flaunted civilization and progress in the face of the hoary forest ; in a neighbouring glade the conical wigwams of an Indian camp stood brown and lonely in the shadow. At the doorway Madame Manettc paused a moment before saying adieu, and as she leaned listlessly against the door, with her eyes fixed on the distant fort, the due asked a question. "Your baby!'* he cried abruptly. "Where may its grave be ?'* Madame Manctte's blue eyes were scanning the great stone gateway, and for a moment it seemed she had not heard. Then, without turning her head, she said, slowly: "It is buried where you stand. Your feet, monsieur, are above its heart.'' Her questioner moved hastily aside, a deep pallor on his cheeks, and Madame Manette went on calmly: "It was my own choice it should lie there, and my feet, passing over it each day, do but make it rest the sweeter." Then, bowing slightly, she retired within. Next day the due joined in the walk, again and on many succeeding days; which was very natural, since he and Biencourt were constantly together. Indeed, now that he had shaken off^ his listlessness, he had become a most fascinating companion. To Biencourt he talked for hours of the court and its affairs ; Imbert he held under a respectful spell with stories of his campaigns in the frozen north, where men perished by squadrons in the snow-storms. But his fascinations could hardly be said to extend to Madame Manette, who treated him throughout with a certain chilling disdain. His remarks she answered in monosyllables ; the flowers he gave her JR. 219 she languidly let fall ere five minutes had passed. But without a sign of discomfiture he next day gathered more and talked on, unconcerned. Very frequently, too, he made excuses to speak to her alone, when the morning stroll was ended and before she had entered the hut. On these occasions — which generally ended in her abrupt withdrawal — he betrayed a curious dread of stepping upon the unmarked grave, standing always much to one side. The summer waxed and waned upon the hillside, dying day by day in blood-red spots among the hard- wood trees, and still Madame Manette lingered in Acadie. Her seclusion was more rigid than before ; it might be that she was thinner, but that was all. At intervals, as vessels left for France, the Seigneur called to offer her passage home, which each time she smilingly refused, accompanying her refusal, however, with such liberal gifts to the colony's poor as sent Poutrincourt away in a maze of wonder. She took pleasure in her seclusion, she told Biencourt one day, when they were for an instant alone, and in their daily ramblings through the forest. It had been a strange experience — this summer on the very skirt of savagery — and her baby's grave had bound her to the place. But with the first snow she would return to France. And so time went on. But after many mornings there at length chanced one when Madame Manette was indisposed, and there was no walking. Next day the same thing happened, to the evident annoyance of the due, who paced for hours up and down before her door. On the succeeding morning, however, she appeared again, looking very white and frail. She declined to walk, on account of weariness, and spent an hour idly in the rustic chair. **you are weak madame," cried Biencourt eagerly. 220 MONSIEUR LESCARBOT S BALLAD as they walked back to her hut. "You need aid. In- deed, you seem to grow ever frailer and more weary.'* Madame Manette turned on the threshold of her domains and surveyed her two escorts with deliberation. There was a faint, shadowy smile upon her lips, and her marvellous hair lay in a golden blaze against the white hollows of her cheeks. ** He dreams — does he not ? '* she asked, addressing the due. *'I fear his dreams are true." And Biencourt, glanc^ ing at him, thought he had never looked so ghastly since his wound. His lips were aquiver and his words came from them with a strange tremour. But Madame Manette shook her head. "You are both over anxious,'* she said lightly, though even as she spoke her voice faltered wearily. Then, with a bow and a glance at some wild-fowl flying near, she closed the door behind her, leaving the two gazing at each other with a mute, fearful questioning. That night Biencourt chanced to be favoured by a visit from Lescarbot. The poet had been wandering about the forest, vainly striving to fashion an ending to his famous ballad, and was consequently in a state of great depression. His figure drooped ; "his grey eyes stared moodily before him. And thus for hours he sat, while the moon rose above the trees and paled the solitary can- dle with her rays. "There will never be an end," he cried at last, rising pettishly and flinging the door open wide. ** For months have I thought upon it — the wild storm, the dicing, the newcomer and the duel — and each time I reel back, baffled like a child at the entrance of a gloomy forest. For who can paint the motive that daily forms itself beneath his gaze ? And here is that which came perhaps from far." WILLIAM HOLLOW AY, JR. 221 Monsieur Lescarbot's troubled face relaxed. His anal- ysis evidently pleased him well, for he stepped briskly into the moonlight flung across the doorway. Biencourt made no answer. He was busy with a long epistle, which a vessel on the morrow would carry to a certain black-eyed maid of honour at the court of France, and scarcely heeded what the poet said. ** From far ! Who knows how far ? '* Lescarbot went vn dreamily. ** Perchance from the royal '* — here he paused and crossed hims^if hastily, as heavy footsteps sounded near by. They came nearer still, and the poet drew in from the doorway, falling upon his knees in prayer. Biencourt sprang in wonder to his feet, and there, in the brilliant moonlight, a few feet from the hut, saw what had so transfigured his companion, a man bending labouriously beneath a heavy load — a load with lifeless limbs, and loose hair waving in the night wind. Then he knew, as the poet had known, it was the due de Montpelier with the dead form of Madame Manette upon his shoulders. A moment only the due paused before he staggered across the threshold, and, shivering violently, laid the body on the floor. Yet in that moment the thought of his broken trust stung Biencourt like a lash, and half un- consciously his sword flashed in the moonlight. But ere he could frame the question surging to his lips, it was answered. The due sank down beside the body, his left hand resting on the ashen face. ** You will seek to know the meaning of the riddle," he said mechanically, without lifting his eyes from off her rigid form. ** It is very simple. She was my wife. Nay, do not start, monsieur * * — as Biencourt made a gesture of amazement. ** It is as I say, and this is the body of Madame la duchesse de 222 MONSIEUR LESCARBOT S BALLAD Montpelier, wife of a prince of the blood, and — a Huguenot. And know you not'* — and here the due spoke lower and his words came slowly, while he made the sign of the cross — **know you not the Holy Father can disannul such marriages if it be the interest of the Truth ? And among all the Huguenots of France — fierce and bitter as they have been and are — is there none more relentless than the comte, her father.** For an hour the due spoke no word more. With his arms tightly clasped about his wife's stiffening form, he crouched beside her on the floor. And at the table near by the two unwilling spectators sat watching. Finally the due spoke again, still with the same mechanical tone and with his eyes still fastened on her face. *' She came to Acadie without my knowledge, by the connivance of some of her own faith at Rochelle, as she herself told me ; hiring a swift trading bark that dogged our course all the way, and landed her in the dark- ness below the fort. And ever since our meeting here has she been most bitter to me. She gave me no re- proaches. She was too proud, if you understand, but each morning her eyes rested scornfully on me, as we left her at the door. Often, too, in the evenings, would I wander about her hut, watching her shadow pass to and fro across the window. Once I tapped lightly at the door, giving a secret signal we had often idly used in France, and she bade me depart so sternly I never ven- tured signal more. To-night it chanced I was standing not far from the window, when suddenly I heard her fall. In an instant I was within, but Manette was already dead. And now she is dead, monsieur,*' went on the due, his eyes glittering feverishly as he tossed the golden hair caressingly to and fro, ** now she is dead, she is mine again. And I will bury her this night in a WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, JR. 223 secret place I last week learned of, so that alien faces shall look on her no more, and where she shall slumber by the dust of dead Indian chiefs, and near the noise of a rushing stream. For it was by a brawling brook on her father's estate that we first met, and ever she loved its noises well.*' The rest of the night to Biencourt was always like a half- forgotten dream. Together he remembered they had borne the icy body the distance of a hundred yards, when, wearied from their recent wounds, he and the due had come perforce to a sudden stop. It was then he had left the due and Lescarbot with their burden, and, run- ning to the fort, brought Imbert, yawning, to their aid. After that the journey was easy, for Imbert poised Madame Manette's body on his giant shoulders, easily as a mother might raise her child, and mile after mile bore it on through the waving forest. Port Royal, its bastion and palisades swimming in yellow moonlight, was left behind ; the forest closed over them, dark and sullen, and still they pressed on. The due went first, leading the way without hesitation, for the path was well marked, though in shadow, and even to a stranger impossible to miss. And by this the others knew they were going to the ancient sepulchre of the Indian chiefs — a place of mysteries, where strange influences had their hiding-places. The grey light of dawn was filtering coldly into the rocky well of sepulchre when they arrived. On all sides were niches in the walls, each niche a grave ; and, drowning all voices in a hoarse clamour, a tiny stream fell thirty feet adown the rock into a murky pool below, whence a chasm in the cliiF led it downward to the sea. It was here they buried Madame Manette, erstwhile duchesse de Montpelier, the due praying long and fer- 224 ADRIFT vently. And that none might look upon her face again, Imbert, going higher up the stream, changed its course by means of massive rocks, so that now and forever that braw^hng stream flows down across her grave. And here, with the vagrant spray falling thickly upon their faces, did the due bind them by a fearful oath to guard his secret well from all save Poutrincourt. Then, while the sun rose, they went slowly back to Port Royal through the lightening forest. The due stag- gered weakly ; his eyes were sunken ; there was a grey- ness upon his face much like the greyness of the dead face he had looked at so long. Nor did he speak until the great gate of the fort loomed in sight, when, rousing himself as if from slumber, he said musingly, **It is the ending of — a ballad. Monsieur Lescarbot.*' William Holloway, Jr. ADRIFT .HE calm horizon circles only me. The center of its measureless embrace, — A bubble on the bosom of the sea. Itself a bubble in the bound of space. John B. Tabb. THE CHAP-BOOK 225 A RIDDLE QUESTION Once hairy scenter did transgress. Whose dame, both powerful and fierce, Tho' hairy scenter took delight To do the thing both fair and right. Upon a Sabbath day. ANSWER An old woman whipping her Cat for Catching Mice on a Sunday. From the "The True Trial of Understanding." 226 Stevenson's weir of hermiston STEVENSON'S WEIR OF HER- MISTON. MR. HENRY JAMES, speaking of the quarrel be- tween Alan Breckand David Balfour in Kidnappedy declares that he knows of " few better examples of the way genius has ever a surprise in its pocket — keeps an ace, as it were, up its sleeve." And in Weir of Hermiston we have a surprise of an even higher order from Stevenson's pocket; that pocket which during his lifetime seemed like the proverbial small boy's — almost inexhaustible, stuffed full of a delightfully heterogeneous mass, sometimes of jingling trinkets, and sometimes of the oddest and rarest treasures. It may seem rash to declare a half-finished and half-revised book the greatest achievement of an author who had so high a passion for finality as Stevenson, but many will unhesitatingly de- clare JVeir of Hermiston Stevenson's best book. In the first place, the plot of the book is the most convincing that he ever conceived. As the book ends abruptly, before we have more than half of the talc, Mr. Colvin, although he considers it a concession to Philistia, gives, at the request of the publishers, '* the intended argument, so far as it was known at the time of the writer's death to his step-daughter and devoted aman- uensis, Mrs. Strong." The reason why Mr. Colvin considers this explicitness a concession to Philistia is plain when one reads the book, and yet a few may think that Philistia was justified in clamouring for the concession. Stevenson's plots, it must be admitted, are, as is often the case in romantic fiction, sometimes highly adven- titious. You will find a delightfully fantastic example of what I mean in the factitious careers of that specialist in the adventitious, the charming Mrs. Desborough, n^e PIERRE LA ROSE llj Luxmorc, alias Ascrath Fonblanquc, alias — well, I forget the rest ; even in the career of the Master of Ballantrae, where Stevenson was not joking — or rather, where, if he was joking, as I sometimes suspect, it was the most amazingly grim foolery — there is a racy element of the unexpected; and finally, David Balfour's fortunes and misfortunes, in two volumes, however absorbing, are not particularly inevitable. This, of course, to the de- voted romanticists and to the lovers of Stevenson, mat- ters little, for the author's surprises are always delightful, and no one possessed to a finer degree what Mr. James calls Stevenson's talent ** for seeing the familiar in the heroic, and reducing the extravagant to plausible de- tail." In Weir of Hermistofty however, there is little, if anything, adventitious. There is something inevitable, an almost Greek quality, in the tragedy of the plot ; granted the characters of the Lord Justice-Clerk and of his son Archie, the conflict before them is foreseen from the beginning ; and when one leaves oiF abruptly at the Weaver's Stone, it is with the feeling one might have if dragged away from a rapidly sputtering fuse attached to a keg of powder. The reviewer's perhaps over-lyrical appreciation is, however, somewhat modified by the story of the Four Black Brothers ; although this is in- serted clearly to show the temper of Kirstie's family and to make the rescue of Archie possible, it is, nevertheless, too episodic, and as it stands, too much out of propor- tion. Furthermore, the heroic tale bears every mark of haste and some evidence of a lack of revision. One cannot help thinking that Stevenson, working over the book, would have cut it down. And right here we are between the horns of a critical dilemma: for if we criticise the book frankly as we have 228 Stevenson's weir of hermist©n it, at least half of Clan Stevenson, still mourning the death of the beloved chieftain — and each one declaring, like Mrs. Gummidge, that he feels it more than most — will rise and cry out that it is unfair to pick flaws in an unfinished, unrevised book ; and the other half, the knowing ones, will resent the particular allowances we make and call us confoundedly oracular. Now, while it is possible, after Mr. Colvin's kind explicitness, intelli- gently to criticise the plot or fundamental conception of the book, it is not so easy to discuss the individual char- acters, for one or two of them had not grown to their full stature when the pathetic final words of the volume were written. And yet Hermiston, the Lord Justice- Clerk, and Kirstie, in spite of the fact that their por- traits are unfinished, will seem to many — the reviewer among them — the finest characters, if we except Alan Breck, that Stevenson ever created. ** The character of the hero. Weir of Hermiston,'* says Mr. Colvin, **is avowedly suggested by the historical personality of Robert Macqueen, Lord Braxfield. This famous judge has been for generations the subject of a hundred Edin- burgh tales and anecdotes. Readers of Stevenson's essay on the Raeburn exhibition, in Virginibus PuerisquCy will remember how he is fascinated by Raeburn' s portrait of Braxfield .... nor did his interest in the character diminish in later life." Indeed, a sentence in this same essay I should apply to the author's own portrait of Her- miston. ** If I know gusto in painting when I see it," Stevenson writes, ** this canvas was painted with rare enjoyment." Stevenson had, as we know from his letters, an endearing habit of congratulating himself when he had done a good thing, and I can see him mentally shaking hands with his brain when he came to the end of the chapter entitled "The Hanging of Duncan Jopp." PIERRE LA ROSE 229 The final scene between Archie and his father is the strongest, the most powerfully sympathetic thing of its kind I have ever read. Let me quote but two scraps of it : ** Archie was now dominated. Lord Hermiston was coarse and cruel ; and yet the son was aware of a bloom- less nobility, an ungracious abnegation of the man*s self in the man's office. At every word, this sense of the greatness of Lord Hermiston* s spirit struck more home ; and along with it that of his own impotence, who had struck — and perhaps basely struck — at his own father, and not reached so far as to have even nettled him.'* " * I will do my best,' said Archie. * Well, then, I '11 send Kirstie word the morn, and ye can go yourself the day after,* said Hermiston. * And just try to be less of an eediot ! ' he continued, with a freezing smile, and turned immediately to the papers on his desk." Surely, as Archie says later to Lord Glenalmond: ** He struck me — I cannot deny that he struck me as something very big." Mr. Colvin, in his editorial note, gives what reads suspiciously like an apology for the speech and manners of the Lord Justice- Clerk to those readers "who are not all acquainted with the social history of Scotland." Now our cisatlantic ears are not so keen as this would imply, and our knowledge of the "social history of Scotland," because of the recent literary invasion of the Scots, is, I am afraid, scandalously confused, and so it seems to me rather finical to object to Hermiston as an anachronism, when he has so many of the ear-marks of immortality. What he would have been had Stevenson been able to keep up the initial pace and given us the scene of Archie's trial, is too severe a test of the reader's imagination. But if Lord Hermiston strikes you as "something 230 STEVENSON S WEIR OF HERMISTON very big/' Kirstie, the elder, will strike you as something even bigger, for in what is given us of this golden-haired sister of the Black Elliotts we have, I think, Stevenson at his highest level. Not the least masterful part of his handling of her is the way she gradually emerges trom the inconspicuous moorland housekeeper of the Ruther- fords of Hermiston to the heroic incarnation of the tragedy of love and age. It would be difficult now- adays to find anything finer than the subtle, sympathetic analysis of Kirstie' s feelings, so surely and swiftly given in the chapter called ** Winter on the Moors," or any- thing more heroically moving than the scene between Kirstie and Archie at night. Read how this woman. Hearing middle age, went to young Archie Weir : ** She tore off her nightcap, and her hair fell about her shoulders in profusion. Undying coquetry awoke. By the faint light of her nocturnal rush, she stood before the looking- glass, carried her shapely arms above her head, and gathered up the treasures of her tresses. She was never backward to admire herself; that kind of modesty was a stranger to her nature ; and she paused, struck with a pleased wonder at the sight. * Ye daft auld wife ! ' she said, answering a thought that was not ; and she blushed with the innocent consciousness of a child." One can- not quote a whole chapter, but even after this bit com- ment on Kirstie seems almost an impertinence. Archie Weir, so far as we have him, is hardly less fine than his father and Kirstie, and probably, if Steven- son had been permitted to finish him, would have equaled the others — although t\iQ jeune premier is always, at best, a difficult creature to manage. But the most finely con- ceived part of Archie — and it is the greater part — is that which he inherits from his mother, herself a wholly admirable sketch. Indeed, the character of Archie, the PIERRE LA ROSE 23 I way in which the strands of heredity from Mrs. Weir and the Lord Justice-Clerk are drawn and closely knit together in the son foredoomed to revolt, is shown with a convincing, a fatal, precision of touch. Of the others. Lord Glenalmond, as perhaps befits a minor personage, belongs to the clan of walking-gentlemen, although an attractive specimen. Innes, however, is little more than satisfactory, and the reason is, I suppose, that in real life the type which he represents is not altogether con- vincing. But Kirstie the younger — "Miss Christina, if you please, Mr. Weir*' — I refuse as yet to believe in, charming little piece of millinery that she is, for Stevenson had not, so far, succeeded in outlining her dis- tinctly, — she apparently bewildered him as much as she did Archie that clear morning in church. But, after all, the style of the book is what justifies one in calling it Stevenson's best ; ' jre, at last, he has triumphed, and we feel (as we began to feel in Kid- napped and David Balfour^ that here the style nascitur, nonjit. What I have dared to imply will seem to many people the rankest heresy ; and yet Stevenson's kindest critics have said, time and again, that his work smells of the lamp — to use the stock phrase. Even Mr. Kipling wrote, some years ago : ** There is a writer called Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson who makes the most delicate inlay-work in black and white, and files out to the frac- tion of a hair." Here I think we have indicated what has so often been one of Stevenson's limitations ; for a style so rarely attenuated as is his at times cannot be ranked among the greatest. But in Weir of Hermiston there is none of this attenuation ; there are no marks of the file ; the style has a great rhythmic breadth, a spon- taniety, a clear, masculine vigor, that the author never before so completely attained. How Stevenson, an 232 Stevenson's weir of hermiston invalid on the eve of his death, could finally express himself in a style so amazingly vigorous, so full of a thrilling vitality, is a question nothing less than con- founding. Since Stevenson went to Samoa a mob of literary gentlemen from over the border have taken up their High- land pipes and so deafened us with their skirling that we have clapped hands to ears, swearing, with Bob Acres, '* Odds ! jigs and reels! *' But high and clear above this din comes the swan-song of the greatest son of Scotland since the great Sir Walter. Let the incredulous read that marvelous chapter, "A Nocturnal Visit," and the critic will put down his pen with the conviction that there is nothing more to be said. Pierre la Rose. NOTES ^T have often wondered if future generations would find as much that is curious and amusing in our news- papers and magazines of to-day as we now find in the periodicals of a hundred and more years ago. The out- landish phrasing and quaint conceits of the reporters and advertisers of old time are so wonderfully ingenious that it would be immodest in us to claim equality ; yet if the things which are now so humorous to our eyes and ears were but natural to them, it is no more than reason to suppose our tritest manners will fill our descendants with surprising merriment. In a volume of the Gentleman's Magazine for 1731, I came across the following news : ** Moscow, Jan. 8. Advices from Derbent say, that the Princes of Georgia passed that place in their way home, much pleased with the honours they have received from this Court, and that one of them, who lives near Mount Ararat, had promised to send the Empress a relique of NoaP s Ark.'' ^A passionate love for thieving is almost sure to be satisfied, and in no walk of life is this more true than in the trade of publisher. There are, moreover, so 233 234 NOTES many whimsical forms of theft that the act is one per- petually delightful. This moral reflection is engendered by The Penny Magazine ^ which prints a poem by a Henry B. Fuller. It having become known that it is not the Chevalier of Pensieri-Vani, it is now fitting to enquire which or what Henry B. Fuller it is. That there may be a hundred Fullers whose name is Henry B. I could not deny, but the temerity of the unknown writer who filches the honor of a well known name, and the scrupulous honesty of his editor, is at least prob- lematical. To paraphrase, both are thieves and not merely wags, as they perhaps want to be considered. Another jest almost as merry was perpetrated a few years ago when The Chap er one , of St. Louis printed some verses by Zitella Cooke, and from all enquirers carefully concealed her identity. Miss Zitella Cooke's verses you may read in a charming little volume put forth by Copeland & Day. There is no proven case against the St. Louis paper, but Zitella is a name more rare even than it is beautiful. I for one do not believe in the Cooke lady. ^ One of Mr. F. Tennyson Neely's drolleries was to change the tide of an old book to something fresh and start- ling, and then to bring the book out without any express statement regarding this change. This bit of gaiety proved displeasing to the author of the book in question, who seemed to feel that it was a scheme for cheating the public. I forget how the quarrel turned out. Mr. Neely is, however, full of resource and always amusing. ^ The current issue of The Lark contains some few pages of verse by Yone Naguchi, and I find that the pleasant opportunity I thought to have of first printing his writings is denied me. Perhaps I am a little envious. NOTES 235 but I cannot help feeling that The Lark was premature. Mr. Burgess has found rephrasing necessary before he printed the songs. That ** rephrasing '* was my own stumbling block. I thought a few months would obviate its necessity. But if Yone Naguchi were to be forced into print perhaps no fitter pages and no more appreciative public could have been found than 7he Lark'' s. Nor indeed any more delicate and sympathetic critic than Gelett Burgess has proved himself in the following : ** An exile from his native land, a stranger in a new civilization — a mystic by temperament, race and religion — these lines which I have rephrased, setting his own words in more intelligible order, are his attempts to voice the indefinable thoughts that came to him on many lonely nights ; the journal of his soul — nocturnes set to words of a half-learned foreign tongue j in form vague as his vague dreams.'* Yone Naguchi lives on the Height of Oakland and has learned his English from the Poet of the Sierras. Com- radeship with Joaquin Miller should indeed be a school of poetry for a sensitive Japanese boy of twenty, and so it has proved. If the word be that Yone Naguchi shall be discovered to the public I prefer to give him not rephrased, but as he is, incoherent and almost inarticulate, but still boldly imaginative and poetic. THE MIDNIGHT WINDS AT the midnight, — my own darkness alone ; none but God and myself ! A conscious slumber muffled the Universe, Palpitating on the lonely bed like a chilly sea in the misty dawn. 236 NOTES Be hunting (Oh) by the black boneless winds. With the sewed eyes and the wild, weird, full-opened soul, I 'm reviewing the sheeted memories of past under an inky light ; Until — alas, the strange giant of winds enclosed about my breathless cabin : — God made a night, a midnight for me alone ! Oh, our matchless God ! If the wizard rout Flit in through the broken window for a lady moon welcomed ! Ever a gentle violet upturns her eye : Ever a radiant rose polish her thorns against : I have such of none, but a withered, colorless soul ! YONE NOGUCHI. ^ If I had not always been extravagant in appreciation of The Lark I should never dare say what I now feel in regard to it. I have, besides, the courage which comes to the young from having a paradoxical statement to make. The Lark is so good that it ought to die, in order to make its life perfect. It has been the most significant, and far and away the cleverest, of all the new magazines. It has never been malicious, and its charm has been a careless, witty, deliciously intangible "larkishness ** which it itself in- vented. But in its very name is my argument against its con- tinued life. It was a '*lark.** So was our enjoyment of it. I do not mean that our enjoyment was a dreadful fad. Nothing was more sane and pure. Rather, I mean that in its very essence The Lark was short-lived just as in essence a love lyric is short and an epic long. The Lark does not deteriorate ; that is the very reason why it be- comes impossible. Looking back on a year of The Lark is delightful; looking forward to half-a-dozen years of it NOTES 237 is intolerable, unless, indeed, it deteriorates and we cease to read it. And that would be pathetic, which again is impossible, pathos not being in The Larh* s line of flight. ^ A paper called The Writer has a parallel column de- partment which is named Newspaper English Edited. It takes a fall out of the Chap-Book in the following extraordinary manner : A hundred years from now, A hundred years from now, dear heait, dear heat, We will not care at all. We shall not care at all. —John Bennett, in the Chap- Book. There is much to be said in favor of The Writer* s rendering, but I leave it to others to make the gloss on "heat" as opposed to the original "heart.** ^ In Boston last month I saw a pitiable sight. Inspired by motives of gain and prompted by inordinate conceit, a company of second-rate actors gave a performance of The kivals. It was advertised as an all-star cast, and one cannot deny that the players were men and women with known names. In any strict sense of the word, however, there was not a star in the company. It was shortly after the production of The Rivals by Mr. Jefferson and his associates, and the success of their revival doubtless led a money-seeking manager to engage a company of incompetent players to lend their names. The production was little short of sacrilege. Of the company, just three persons were less impossible than the rest. Mr. Willie Collier, as "Bob Acres'* was really good. His performance was conscientious and amusing, and for it he deserves no little praise. It was much less farcical than Mr. Jefferson's acting, and fortunately it was much more as Sheridan intended it. I cannot help feeling that Mr. Collier could do well in 238 NOTES legitimate plays, and that it might be an excellent move for him — if he has any ambition — to secure a place in the Empire, Lyceum or Daly companies. As "Sir Lucius O'Trigger," Mr. Andrew Mack played with some charm and skill, and although he was undoubtedly chosen for the part chiefly because of his *' silver-toned tenor,'* yet when compared with his fellows he was notably good. Miss Mollie Fuller was the third member of the com- pany who deserves praise. Her **Lucy" was prettily done, and she was so much better bred than either ** Mrs. Malaprop" or '* Lydia'' that one regrets she could not have been cast for one of the better parts. As ** Mrs Malaprop," Miss Marie Dressier was quite tiresome until the last act, when, by a succession of cheap tricks and an exhibition of considerable vulgarity, she de- lighted the audience. The impression I got from Miss Ada Lewis's " Lydia** was merely one of the actress's lack of ability. I have often found her amusing and not without cleverness as the *' tough girl," but aside from the laughable idea of casting her for the part of ** Lydia," she served no purpose in the piece. The audience could not be amused by her, and it was only a scattering snigger that greeted occasional and undoubtedly artistic lapses in the language of the Bowery. The other players it is needless to mention, except perhaps to say that Mr. Otis Harlan was the David, and that he seemed to be interested in his part. The rest were of no possible use or amusement. Taking the manager at his word and for the moment accepting his statement that it was an all-star cast, I can only express my extreme sorrow that the American public is so appalling in discriminative. Every member of the com- pany was thoroughly second-rate — the majority of them NOTES 239 hopelessly so, one or two with possibilities. And the second-rate actor dealing with something beyond farce- comedy is intolerable. In other countries the more promi- nent of the minor actors manage to carry off legitimate parts with a comparatively satisfactory air. One could name a dozen men in England who, while merely second- rate, have in reality the makings of excellent players ; they have had training and experience and they study some- what. In this country our actors are content if they make hits along the narrowest lines conceivable, and when called upon to go beyond these they show no visi- ble signs of intelligence. It is a deplorable state of affairs, and so long as it lasts, notwithstanding Mr. Mansfield's tactless ragings against the importation of actors, I can only wish that more foreign players would come to this country. In time our public might learn the difference between good and bad actors and possibly too, our actors might grow tired of insignificance and be induced to study a little. ^ One's acerbities of temper are not pleasant things to emphasize, and geniality and indulgence are tempting. But the ever-recurring outrages to decency and good taste which I see in books and on the stage force me con- stantly into the role of Jack the Giant-killer ; in com- mon phrase: **I have my hammer out most of the time." Now I want to smash The Vitascope. The name of the thing is in itself a horror, but that may pass. Its manifestations are worse. The Vitascope^ be it known, is a sort of magic lantern which reproduces movement. Whole scenes are enacted on its screen. La Loie dances, elevated trains come and go, and the thing is mechanically ingenious, and a pretty toy for that great child, the public. 240 NOTES Its managers were not satisfied with this, however, and they bravely set out to eclipse in vulgarity all previous theatrical attempts. In a recent play called The Widow Jones you may remember a famous kiss which Miss May Irwin bestowed on a certain John C. Rice, and vice versa. Neither par- ticipant is physically attractive, and the spectacle of their prolonged pasturing on each other's lips was hard to bear. When only life-size it was pronouncedly beastly. But that was nothing to the present sight. Magnified to Gargantuan proportions and repeated three times over it is absolutely disgusting. All delicacy or remnant of charm seems gone from Miss Irwin, and the perform- ance comes very near being indecent in its emphasized vulgarity. Such things call for police interference. Our cities from time to time have spasms of morality, when they arrest people for displaying lithographs of ballet-girls ; yet they permit night after night a performance which is infinitely more degrading. The immorality of living pictures and bronze statues is nothing to this. The Irwin kiss is no more than a lyric of the Stock Yards. While we tolerate such things, what avails all the talk of American Puritanism and of the filthiness of imported English and French stage shows? ANNOUNCEMENTS IX The Chap -Book S£MI-MONTHLY HERBERT STUART STONE, EDITOR HARRISON G. RHODES, ASSISTANT SUBSCRIPTION : TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. THE TRADE SUPPLIED BY THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY AND ITS BRANCHES. ADVERTISING RATES TO BE HAD ON APPLICATION. THE CHAP-BOOK, CHICAGO. Entered at the Chicago Post Office as Second Class Matter. "The half-yearly, bound volume of 'The Chap-Book,' published by H. S. Stone & Co., is an entertaining and frankly modern assemblage of the fads and fashions in ideas of to-day. It is an entertaining volume to pick up in the year 1896, but it will be profoundly interesting 100 years hencej for it has about it a sort of clever colloquial quality, as though the writers, in preparing their ideas for such a little paper, wrote freely of what they really thought, without the dignified caution that drains the life out of lengthier and more careful productions. Among the articles, which are almost smothered in the wealth of advertisements, are to be found little papers on the latest literary movements} enthusiasts who talk of the Belgian Renascence as of a great reality, and other enthusiasts who give American imitations of the methods of that school. The literary notes, which form the most interesting feature of the little paper, are crisp and fearless, with a touch of radicalism. Let us hope that the Chap-Book will be spared that degree of prosperity that confers a colorless conservatism, for just as it is it stands for the empty-pocket gayety of youth." — Portland Oregonian. The next issue of the CHAP-BOOK will contain a new story by Arthur Morrison y author of ** Tales of Mean Streets,'' entitled '*A Vision of Toyokuni'' THE CHAP-BOOK ^5? ^j? ^^ ^^ ^F ^^ ^J^ ^5^ There are two classes of bicycles Columbias and others Columbias sell for $100 everyone alike, and are the finest bicycles the world produces. 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AN IMPRESSIONIST PICTURE ETHEL BALTON A VISION OF TOYOKUNI ARTHUR MORRISON THE PRIEST'S BROTHER DORA SIGERSON DRAWING RAYMOND M. CROSBY NOTES FROM UNDERLEDGE WILLIAM POTTS L' ENFANCE B, CORSON DAY A DEAD POET LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON MR. F. FRANKFORT MOORE PICAROON PORTRAIT OF FRANKFORT MOORE FRED RICHARDSON HERE BELOW ROLAND EDWARD PHILLIPS THE OLD PARTISAN OCTAVE THANET NOTES FROM AN OLD CHAP-BOOK ANNOUNCEMENTS PRICE 10 CENTS ;^2.00 A YEAR ^Copies of the Fourth Volume of the CHAP- BOOK will be exchanged y if in good condition y for the volume bound in stamped buckram, for 50 cents. Bound volumes may be had from the publishers at one dollar and a half Subscribers pay postage, ffteen centSy both ways. ADVERTISEMENTS 25 Cents The Forum AUGUST, i8g6 THE WEST AND THE EAST : Mr. Godkin on the West: A Protest — CHARLES S. GLEED, of Topeka, Kansas. The Financial Bronco — T. S. VAN DYKE, of Los Angeles, California. A French College Sixty Years Ago — JULES SIMON. 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Gabriele d'Annunzio is the best known and most gifted of modern Italian novelists. His work is making a great sensation at present in all literary circles. The translation now offered gives the first opportunity English-speaking readers have had to know him in their own language. To be had of all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers. HERBERT S. STONE & CO., CHICAGO. VI THE CHAP-BOOK -iM^ Just Ready. Prose Fancies SECOND SERIES BY Richard Le Gallienne i6mo, $1.25 in ** Richard Le Gallienne is fantastic, even when most earnest — at being fantastic. He writes, with welling-over feel ing, of women, and through the flow courses a little mad prank of a stream of evasive wittiness and dodging satire. There are witty bits of sayings by the score, and sometimes whole paragraphs of nothing but wit. 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Many styles — high or low cut. Cor- rugated soles. Pratt Fasteners secure laces without tying. PRICE— Black, $300; Tan, $3.50; Ladies' Cov- ert Cloth Knee Boot, $4.50 to $8.00. SOLD BY DEALERS EVERYWHERE. If yours does not keep them, shoes will be sent postpaid on receipt of price. Look for Trade -Mark stamped on heel. C. H. FARGO & CO. (Makers,) CHICAGO. voLv. THE CHAP-BOOK no.6 Copyright, 1896. by H. S. STONE & COMPANY AN IMPRESSIONIST PICTURE I "Golden Hair in Shadow.** GROUP of cotton clouds, a brilliant pinkish sea, A mass of golden hair beneath a purple tree. And far across the emerald land There lies a wealth of orange sand. She of the yellow hair throws down her book at last. She views the gorgeous scene and is amazed, aghast. " This cannot be the world," she said ; ** I am afraid that I am dead.'* ** Oh, stay,*' the artist said; ** sweet maiden, do not move.** She cried : '* I will not stay for money or for love. ** It is too strange, and you would find ** That soon I would be color-blind." The maiden rose to go. In vain the artist plead ; She left the purple tree, and maiden-like she fled. The artist wept ; then thought awhile ; Then changed the title with a smile. II ** After the Husking." A group of cotton clouds, a brilliant pinkish sea, A mass of yellow corn-shucks beneath a purple tree. And far across the emerald land There lies a wealth of orange sand. Ethel Balton. 242 A VISION OF TOYOKUNI A VISION OF TOYOKUNI. FOR some years now old Balmer*s has been the fig- ure most familiar to my sight. Servants at my chambers come and go, from my club members disappear and new arrive, but every day old Balmer comes to my door, shabby, patient, obsequious, anxious for work. Before he came to my rooms I knew him by sight. At the first bend of a crooked turning behind Chancery Lane stands an old public-house, with an interior snug- gery sacred by daylight to a small group of barristers* clerks. But in the evening the clerks vanish, and it has long been my practice to sit there at night to such small supper as the landlady may devise for me. For she is a cook of infinite resource, and, given the comparative leisure that comes with the dark, can turn a savoury with the firm touch of genius. Moreover, from a low open window in the snuggery one may see into the bottle and jug department, the public bar and the private bar, filled at night with people interesting to see and to hear, though at times undesirably noisy. It was among these that I used to see old Balmer before I knew his name. Shabby, wizen and dusty, the old man had a com- plaisant, untaught civility that served him ill in the public bar, where his gentle pliancy gained him no more than contempt for weak-wittednesss and made him the butt of coarser creatures. He drank very little indeed, and rarely; perhaps no more than once in an evening ; and his drink was always a small glass of the cheapest sherry. This alone made him notable among the rest, and his taste provoked many gibes, though probably the stuff was wretched enough. That he was of a sensitive intelligence was plain-^ Copyright, 1896, by Arthur Morrison, ARTHUR MORRISON 243 plain it was also that his life must be a lonely one, since he sought company amid the discrepant boorishness of the public bar ; and it was partly because these things were so plain that I invited him one evening into my snuggery. Two of the habitual loafers in the bar, by a clumsy affectation of friendly respect, and to the accom- paniment of winks, had induced the old man to treat them — with the last of his money, as I afterwards found. Then in their turn, with signs of growing mirth, they asked what he would take. ** Thankee, gentlemen," the old fellow piped, with a slight cough behind his hand, " I *11 take a two o' sherry wine, if it's all the same." The sole answer was an oiFensive guffaw, and the old man shrank, hurt and abashed, under a volley of gross laughter from all the bar. The joke did not please me, and I contrived a message by the barman to bring the victim quietly to my snuggery. He came, obsequious but mystified. I rose and gave him a chair. "This evening," I said, ** I am alone here, and lonely. I shall feel it a favour if you will take a glass of wine with me." He sat on the edge of his chair, with his hat on his knee. ** Thankee, sir," he answered, with a smile, conciliatory though doubtful, and a bob of the head. ** I take it very kind of you, I 'm sure." "Not at all," I said. "Suppose we pull a little nearer the fire. I am drinking whisky, but perhaps you 'd prefer wine." "Yes, sir, thankee. A little sherry wine, if it's all the same." Presently I found, notwithstanding his protestations, that his sherry did not please him. They had brought a better sort, but what best satisfied his taste was the 244 A VISION OF TOYOKUNI sherry of the public bar, and it was to a glass of this that he settled down in the end. His conversation was dull. Chiefly it was the ex- pression of civil agreement with what I might say. There was no trace of a thought, an opinion, or a fancy of his own. If any such he had ever possessed, he had long lost the courage to put it forth. Yet he was a man of incomparably finer grain than those he had left in the public bar. But the man's individuality had broken and withered from its long stay in an atmosphere of vulgar ridicule. His mind was a mere cloudy mirror, apt to flatter ; and he was pitiably uninteresting. When we parted, he handed me, with timid excuses, a card bearing the written words, '* R. Balmer, copyist." The writing was so fine and regular that the card seemed, at first view, to be printed from an engraved plate. He would be glad of any opportunity to copy documents or manuscripts, he said, and he would do it neatly and quickly, at less than the cost of type- writing. He trusted I would pardon the liberty he took in introducing a matter of business on such an occasion, but work was often difficult to get, and he hoped, therefore, that I should not consider it an ofl^ence; and so forth. Thus I first met old Balmer, and now, as I have said, his has grown the most familiar figure in my daily out- look. I gave him some small matter of copying to do, and was surprised at the quickness, the accuracy and the particular beauty of his work. His was the calli- graphy of the old writing-masters, ruled with a firm ele- gance, clear as type. Such copying by pen or type- writer as I had hitherto had done had been chiefly a matter of interpretation of my own ill scrawl, but now I was moved as much by consideration of a comely man- uscript. I cannot remember of his making a single ARTHUR MORRISON 245 mistake of transcript, though he has copied my writing for five years. I suspect, indeed, that I am near being his sole employer, for a shabby man of his age, with nothing in his appearance to recommend him, and no knowledge of any language but his own, can find, I imagine, very little casual copying work. And so every evening old Balmer stands in the lobby of my chambers, shabby, wrinkled and apologetic, to know if I have any orders for the morning, or for immediate execution. The visit is a superfluity, since, as a rule, he has already called twice during the day, and certainly once in the morning, when it is commonly my practice to put him to work in the litde office I keep on the floor below. But it is always best to make quite sure, he says, in case of anything unforeseen, if it be all the same to me, and provided I will excuse the intrusion. So far as I remember, on only a single occasion have I had anything of the least importance to communicate to the old man at his evening visit. It was then, indeed, nothing but a desire that he should attend unusually early the next morning, which desire he never understood, because of a coincident singularity. The day had been hot, and I had had an uncommonly tiring afternoon out of doors. I dined rather early, and returned to my rooms for an evening's rest. I sat in my easiest chair — resolved, however, not to fall asleep (as the circumstances made possible) lest I should not hear old Balmer rapping at the other door — and I turned pleasantly through my albums of Japanese colour-prints. My colour-prints are to me something of a physical luxury : Utamaro's delicacy of line, Toyokuni's wealth of mellow colour, the bridled richness of Harunobu, soothe my sight and reach my brain like some strange sedative incense. Nerves, jangled and strained by the 246 A VISION OF TOYOKUNl day*s petty discords, fall in tune by the note of clear harmony struck in these colour-fantasies of old Japan. I may be afflicted with a morbid excess of sensibility to colour, or some such deplorable thing, but that is not a matter of concern. I live on a high floor, and as I sat the room was barred across with the rays of the low evening sun. They threw an added glory about certain of my best prints that hung in frames on the wall facing me. One in particular caught the full light — an aged triple-sheet Toyokuni — that had often provoked in me an odd fancy ; for it might have been an earlier avatar, in lines and hues, of the incomparable Ballade of a Toyokuni Colour-print. It was a fancy that it pleased me to return to, this metempsychosis of a work in art, conceived anew and presented in the bodily technic of each art in turn. The two flanking figures in the print stood, strong and nerv- ous, two-sworded Samaurai both, each with hand clapped to hilt, and between them swept a female figure of flowing lines and gentle luxuriance of tint, truly in its place as middle verse in this painted poem of Utagawa Toyokuni: ** As here you lottery fiowing-gowned And hugely sashed^ with pins a-roWy Your quaint head as with fiame lets crowned. Demure y inviting — even so. When merry maids in Miyako To feel the sweet o* the year began y And green gardens to overflow y I loved you once in old Japan. ^* The halo of sunlight took a redder tinge about the figures. Truly Toyokuni was gracious to-night. I was roused by a familiar tap at the outer door, a tap perhaps even a little more timid and indistinct than usual. ARTHUR MORRISON 247 I remembered my message for old Balmer, and went to admit him. He bobbed rather more extravagantly than was his custom, and stepped into the lobby with some- thing of a lurch. There was an oddity in his voice, and he mumbled. I brought him from the twilight of the lobby — till then he had never penetrated further — into my sitting-room, when the case grew plain. Old Balmer was drunk. It was a new thing for him, but there was no doubt of it — on the testimony even of smell. He stared dully at my necktie, and said: ** Goorev'nin* sir, goo-goorev'nin* sir.** Then a mumble. ** Scusem- takin'-lib'ty comin' sevnin*, sir. Goorev'nin'.*' And he swayed gently backward and forward. I led him to the sofa, which stood end on to the wall whereon hung my triple Toyokuni. He sat on it with a flop, and calmly curled one leg under him, once or twice lifting the other as though to bring that up too, and dropping it feebly. Sober, he would rather have jumped out of window. ** Come, Balmer,'* I said, with what severity I might assume, ** this won*t do at all.'* "Cer'nly, sir. Ik— ik — ik won* do* tall.'* He leaned slowly and unsteadily back, as though for support from the rail of the sofa. As he did it, his eyes lifted till they ranged as high as the colour-print on the wall. Instantly, with a strange shudder, he sat erect and firm, staring at the print. After a few seconds, his gaze still fixed, his arm rose and stretched before him, and with shut fist and extended thumb he followed, with a lively, dashing motion, the curves in the picture, as some painters will do, discussing work on an easel. His eyes fixed steadily on the middle of the print, his thumb flourishing mechanically below, and his head inclining in unison now this way, now that, old Balmer 248 A VISION OF TOYOKUNI presented from behind a shape of queer incongruity. With a thought of the japonaiserie wherein he was so odd a blot, I said, laughing : ** Balmer, Balmer, I fear you have taken too much sahi ! ** The thumb stopped, and the head turned slowly. ** lya ! — sake'y saU ? " said old Balmer, in a soft, foreign voice. The patient old face was in apotheosis — keen, confident, masterly — the vision far away. But as he faced me the eyes returned to earth, and, with a sharper shudder, he was again but old Balmer — drunk. ** Sherry wine, sir ; li'T sherry wine. Fraid I no verywell.'* What was this ? What could Balmer know of saki? And then his face as he studied the colour-print ! I took a portfolio of loose prints and placed it open before him. He bent unsteadily to look, and as he looked his gaze grew in intensity, as I have seen that of a subject set by a hypnotist to look on a metal disc. Presently he lifted the print, and passed his right finger and thumb along its edges as an expert does. The print was a bright ex- ample of Kunisada, Toyokuni's pupil — not faultless. He placed his finger on a small region of overwrought colour, and rubbed it to and fro, gently shaking his head and clicking his tongue as he did so. Then, with a slight sigh, he turned the next print. Who was this old man, who, sober, was an ignorant copyist, but, drunk, could place his finger unerringly on the one fault on that fine piece of outlandish decoration, and express his opinion by the sounds and gestures that are the painters* freemasonry the world over ? There he sat, erect, absorbed, with eyes that saw more than Bal- mer could imagine, and with an expressive finger passed judgment on one print after another. At a well-flown piece of drapery the finger swung in loops and curves ; at a truly-laid scheme of colour the finger tapped the foot ARTHUR MORRISON 249 of the print and the head nodded gravely. The face seemed younger than old Balmer's, but of a deeper ex- perience ; with a strength and a kindly shrewdness that I saw for the first time ; and I noticed a singular twitch- ing of the muscles that drew the toothless mouth down to the right, as with a freakish smile. I remembered some of Mrs. Crowe's anecdotes of entranced living bodies temporarily possessed by wandering spirits of the dead. What errant Nipponese shadow had fallen about the helpless carcase of Balmer ? I ventured to speak. Quietly, but distinctly, from behind his shoulder, I spoke of the print he was examin- ing. He turned to other prints, and I spoke of them, but I got no word in answer. He came to a Toyokuni, lifted it in his left hand with scarcely a glance and searched among the sheets on each side. Now the print he held was my sole part of a double sheet, though there was nothing in the single figure it carried to indicate the fact that it was incomplete, whereof I was aware myself only because of having seen a copy of the double sheet in another man's collection. Yet this old man would seem to know it all, and to search for the missing half. Dis- tinctly, slowly, and with a level emphasis, I said in his ear: ** What is it ? What do you seek ? " For many seconds — perhaps even minutes : I cannot tell — he was silent. Then came the voice of old Balmer, but in a barely distinct mutter, as of one talking in a dream : ** The other. There is another.'*'* Presently he gave over his search, placing the single sheet aside, as though in hope of shortly coming upon its twin piece. He uncovered an Utamaro — an aberrant example that I keep as supporting a conjecture of mine. His forefinger tapped, on the broad purple of the robe on the sitting figure, and in his face there was something 250 A VISION OF TOYOKUNI of triumph and something of amused contempt. Now purple was Toyokuni's own colour, first made foundation for a scheme ©f colour by himself: and my print went to suggest that at some time Utamaro must have been influenced by his rival Toyokuni : for in the use of the purple, and, indeed, in the whole colour scheme, this print was a clear imitation of Toyokuni. And there sat old Balmer, if in truth this shape could be his, and pointed triumphantly to that patch of purple. I spoke again. ** Kitagawa Utamaro," I said, *' was he not good?" Again silence, while the forefinger tapped the purple patch. Then the sleepy mutter of old Balmer: **Good? Yesy yes. Good. But I can teach better.'^ I was strangely excited, nervous. What was I doing? What thing was being told me ? I possessed myselt barely enough to keep my voice steady, and I asked: "Whom — whom have you taught?" Prompt and clear came the answer, as through from the sleeper roused : ** Kunisada, KunimarUy Kuniyoshi!^* ** Utagazva Toyokuni !^^ I shouted, springing erect and facing this man, my wrists trembling. The prints fell to the floor and the face that turned up to mine was a face of grey horror, drawn and staring. Backward on the sofa he dropped, taken head to foot in a shuddering spasm, as of an epileptic. Then the face turned on the cushion and a hand and forearm fell over it. I went and lifted the arm, and there lay old Balmer, merely drunk and asleep. 1 shook him, but he lay like a mere bundle, and began to snore. In the end I had to call the porter, and the old man was taken to his lodgings in a cab. Sick and penitent, old Balmer stood before me next morning. At first he apologised for having omitted his regu- ARTHUR MORRISON 25 I lar evening call. I assured him that indeed the call had not been omitted, whereupon he was overwhelmed with apprehension that he had said or done something unpar- donable, and had alienated me forever. He remembered nothing ; nothing but that some blackguards of the public bar had partly cajoled and partly bullied him to drink too much unaccustomed rum and water. I took him into my sitting-room and stood him before the colour-prints on the walls. I tapped them with my fingers and asked what he thought of them. He grinned an uneasy, conciliatory grin. To mc he had slowly learned to express himself with something less than his common timidity, and now he said: "Well, sir, hem — hem — they're very beautiful, no doubt, of course, but I must say — if you'll excuse the liberty — they — they 're uncommonly ugly ! " It was all one could expect from Balmer. I confess that more than once since that time I have tried to make old Balmer drunk. Why not ? How much better be drunk and Toyokuni than sober and — Balmer ! But no : Balmer has had his lesson. He will never be drunk again. No wandering spirit will seize the impotent old body as it lolls and sways; no reminiscence of old lives flicker up among the poor old ashes damped down with liquor. Old Balmer has grown firm in this one thing. Once, as he wrote in my little office, I asked him his age. **I was born, sir," he said, without looking up, "in 1828." It was a coincidence, for that was the year of Toyokuni's death, according to Anderson. But then Gonse puts it at 1825. Often now I let old Balmer write in my sitting-room. More than once I have caught him regarding my Japanese prints curiously, with a doubtful, puzzled eye. But I have seen other people doing the same thing. Arthur Morrison. 2$1 THE priest's BROTHER THE PRIEST'S BROTHER ,HRICE in the night the priest arose From broken sleep to kneel and pray. Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows. And I a Mass for your soul may say." Thrice he went to the chamber cold. Where, stiff and still uncoffined. His brother lay, his beads he told. And ** Rest, poor spirit, rest,*' he said. Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep Before the morning bell should toll ; But still he heard — and woke to weep — The crying of his brother's soul. All through the dark, till dawn was pale. The priest tossed in his misery. With muffled ears to hide the wail. The voice of that ghost's agony. At last the red cock flaps his wings To trumpet of a day new-born. The lark, awaking, soaring sings Into the bosom of the morn. The priest before the altar stands, He hears the spirit call for peace ; He beats his breast with shaking hands. ** O Father, grant this soul's release. '* Most Just and Merciful, set free From Purgatory's awful night This sinner's soul, to fly to Thee, And rest forever in Thy sight." DO&A SlG£kSON 253 The Mass is over — still the clerk Kneels pallid in the morning glow. He said, ** From evils of the dark Oh, bless me, father, ere you go. ** Benediction, that I may rest. For all night did the Banshee weep.** The priest raised up his hands and blest — ** Go now, my child, and you will sleep.'* The priest went down the vestry stair. He laid his vestments in their place. And turned — a pale ghost met him there. With beads of pain upon his face. ** Brother," he said, ** you have gained me peace. But why so long did you know my tears. And say no Mass for my soul*s release. To save the torture of all those years ? ** ** God rest you, brother," the good priest said, ** No years have passed — but a single night.** He showed the body uncoffined. And the six wax candles still The living flowers on the dead man*s breast Blew out a perfume sweet and strong. The spirit paused ere he passed to rest — God save your soul from a night so long." Dora Sigerson. 9 DRAWN BY RAYMOND M. CROSBY. WILLIAM POTTS 255 NOTES FROM UNDERLEDGE I. The Town Farm. ** There's a light in the window for thee, love; There's a light in the window for thee." DOWN yonder in the valley, just before you reach the gravelly slope upon which grow the pines, a light shines through the long evenings to which my eye often turns. It represents the kinship of the race, the feeling of a common humanity, the thoughtful- ness of those that have for those that have not the bounty of the successful — the industrious, the capable or the fortunate, extended toward the ne'er-do-weels, the misfits, those of whom Dame Fortune has seen proper to make sport, and upon whom she has wreaked her spite. For a poor devil of an author it is a sort of beacon light, showing a gate at the end of the long road upon which there are so many turnings, which is sometimes so dusty, and so overcrowded with rocks of offence and ugly morasses. With the ordinary disposition to look a gift horse in the mouth, one regrets that this refuge could not have been placed upon a hill so as to afford a glimpse of the world here and there, of the world that is so beautiful to those whose outward eyes are not yet dim, and whose inward eyes are not so overloaded with memories of the past and apprehensions for the future as to be blind to the heavenly and the earthly vision. But perhaps the pain might be too acute, this looking out upon the busy and the happy world. It requires a pretty firm nervous grip for the unhappy to enjoy thoroughly the happiness and success of others. The contrast of the rusting and 2?6 KOTES rfeoM UN£)£RL£DGfi the mouldering hulk, half buried in the sand, and the graceful craft under snowy canvas, bounding freely over the summer sea, is almost too great. Perhaps the bare walls and the flat plain are best. I wonder whether, in that last shelter, one is permit- ted the occupancy of a room all by himself, and allowed to keep it snug and clean and sweet-smelling ? Me- thinks the smell of hopeless and helpless and nerveless poverty is the worst ill that is to be endured, the deepest depth to which one can physically fall. Short of that there is hope. With a sweet breath in the nostrils, one might live forever. Yes, with but a pleasant odor left, one might live again. And really one's needs are few : even in the valley one can see the stars, and the vast heavenly spaces, and with the sweet spirit of the past in the soul, and with the awful and majestic infinities over one, the dream of a greater glory and a greater peace might come to enwrap the spirit long buffeted and overworn. II CoMiN* Thro' the Rye You should have seen them — don't you wish that you had ? There was Phyllis, of course — das versteht sich, (ela va sans dire — but where was Phyllis ? And there was lolanthe — it was her party; and there, too, were Arabella and Araminta, and Nicolette, Guinevere, Elaine, Bonnie Lesly, St. Cecilia, Airy fairy Lilian, Lady Psyche, Cinderella, Andromeda, Galatea, Atalanta, and Brunhilde, and a dozen others, all trigged out as if Kate Greenaway, or Walter Crane, or somebody else "equally as good," had been their tiring-servant. And it was n't rye at all, only good honest grass in which they waded up to their waists. For the sun was just WILLIAM POTTS 257 hiding in the clouds before it should sink behind the western mountains, and the path had lost itself among the tall stems which conspired to hide it. And so with dulcimer and sackbut and psaltery and harp, in broken lines, they made their way amid the thick greenery, over the gentle slopes which lie between the highway and the cottage, and I thought that I had never in my life seen a fairer sight. Even though one may have fallen into the sere and yellow leaf, or perchance may have gone still farther, so that all the branches are gray and bare, and naught appears to the eye but chill and hoary winter, yet is it sometimes warm under the snow, and thus may even there be a throb responsive to the pulses which still beat in the upper air, where the sun shines and the birds sing. " Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad; '* — the rainbow hues of sunset did not tint the curtains of night for the little fete ; but shadows crept softly over the hills, and settled down upon the verdant slopes. It was the month of roses, and the sun had poured itself into the blossoms and into the berries, until they fairly filled the air with their sweetness. My guests swarmed through the rooms and out upon the loggia ; and some strayed to the place where the little chickens said peep! peep! and some went down by the pools where the frogs sang ditto. And then, as the dark- ness gathered, they all settled upon the veranda rail and upon the steps and upon the floor in groups which brought sunlight into the shadows of night, and merry laughter alternated with vibrating strings and choral song. And I am sure that the scribe was not the only one who regretted it when the curfew sounded, and in a rambling line these bright-hued birds of passage disappeared in the darkness. William Potts. B-CORSON-DAY- IMANGI LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 259 A DEAD POET HE was the brightest thing beneath the sun — I Joy had of her his will ; And now her singing life is spent and done. The world seems strange and chill. Louise Chandler Moulton. MR. F. FRANKFORT MOORE MR. F. FRANKFORT MOORE is an Irish- man, and on occasion not averse to talking about himself. He was in a capitally confi- dential mood one day as we walked together up North- umberland Avenue, and from a chaos of jest and anec- dote I disentangled a few of the facts of his life. I can set them down as he told them to me ; but the manner of the man — the perpetual twinkle in his eye, the mag- nificent laugh that sprang from his midriff, ran over his face and finally shook hands at the back of his neck — you must imagine for yourselves. ** Do n't you think you are producing too quickly ? " I chanced to ask him. '* Popularity brings temptation, I know. But you seem to be writing two or three novels a year, besides innumerable short stories." ** I am not writing more than I have done every year for the last twelve years," was the reply. " But you did n*t know it, and few people, comparatively, did know it at the time." ** What did you write ? " I asked, ignorant of any- thing from his pen of earlier date than / Forbid the Banns, His answer was to draw me aside to the window of a big book-store ; it was a depot of the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge. 260 MR. F. FRANKFORT MOORE "There 's one of them,'* he said, pointing to a book with The Two Clippers, bfF. F. Moore, on the back, "and there's another — and another." "You astonish me!" I said. "I thought your stories were rather more — if I may say so — well — eh?"— "Quite so!" said Mr. Moore, taking my arm. ** Come and have lunch and I '11 tell you all about it." And so in a quiet corner of a restaurant just off the Strand, between the hours of two and four on May-day, 1895, Mr. Moore told me how by devious paths, though in pursuit of a set purpose, he had travelled from Limer- ick to London, from the cradle to the book-stalls. He was born in Limerick in 1855, and as his family shortly afterwards migrated to Belfast, he was educated at the Royal Academical Institution of that city. Then he thought of Trinity College, Dublin, but went to South Africa instead, where he learned a great deal more, doing a little exploration and studying the ways of man in the raw. Thence he crossed to Bombay, looked at India, and came back to Belfast, having seen as much of the world as most young men of eighteen. He had picked up, among other things, a knowledge of seafaring matters ; a knowledge which was subsequently useful. In The Sale of a Soul, for instance, a man upon a sink- ing ship has to get away for the purposes of the story; 80 he builds a raft ; which he could not do unless Mr. Moore knew exactly how a raft should be built in twelve minutes and of chance materials. The immediate out- come of his travels was a volume of poems, of which several copies were sold, and one or two works of fiction, among them Where the Rail Runs Now. "And then you went in for newspaper work ? " I said. "Yes; I became a journalist — a journalist in Bel- MR. F. FRANKFORT MOORE, DRAWN BY FRED RICHARDSON. 262 MR. F. FRANKFORT MOORE fast !'* said Mr. Moore, with a something in his tone which hinted that Belfast was not the sort of place you would choose to journalize in. *' I did the dramatic criticism for a Belfast paper for a time. Then I became assistant editor and wrote a leader every night, besides doing the theatrical and picture notices. On Sundays, when I was lazy, I read a dozen books or so and re- viewed them.'* " Not much time left for writing novels,'* I sug- gested. *♦ Oh, plenty — plenty," replied Mr. Moore. " During the twelve years I spent in a newspaper office, I published between twenty and thirty books of one kind and another, most of them boys* books of adventure, for Blackie & Son and the S. P. C. K. Were they religious ? Well — hardly. The accomplished edito- rial secretary asked mc particularly to avoid obtruding a moral, though the books were expected to have a moral trend. And they had it, too. They sold well and obtained splendid notices. No one ever dreams of slat- ing the ** manly book for boys." I never get such notices now. The Times, for example, said that my book. From the Bush to the Breakers, showed a much more accurate knowledge of Australian life than is dis- played by Rolf Boldrewood, who, by the way, knows the bush as I know my own bedroom." ** Then you *vc been in Australia ?" Mr. Moore's fork paused midway on its journey, and he looked at me a moment over the top of a potato. Then, I'm sorry to say, he winked. ** Being a journalist," he said. ** I could cram a con- tinent any day before lunch." ** Do you ever regret the time you spent in writing for boys ? ' * PICAROON 263 "Certainly not. It's the best possible training- ground for a novelist. Boys, you see, will stand no nonsense ; you can 't deceive them as you can grown-up people. They won't stand any beating about the bush — not even the Australian bush. You have to go straight to your point ; give some strong incident in every chapter, and stronger incidents as the chapters proceed, ending up with a general display of fireworks. It 's splendid practice." ** Ahd when did you decide to burn your boats and depend entirely on novel-writing ? ' ' ** Well, I made a big effort with I Forbid the Banns, I knew it was going to be a success. And I refused two publishers, because, though they were willing to take the book, they were not willing to give my terms. 1 held out, and finally Hutchinson's published it. When a second and a third and a fourth edition were demanded, I thought I was justified in regarding it as a success. So I determined to throw up the newspaper, of which I was heartily sick.'* ** How long ago was that ? " **Two years ago, to-day." ** Did you come to London at once ? " ** No. I stayed in Belfast for another year. And then, quite against the advice of all my Belfast friends, who said that no one ever made a living by writing novels, and that I was n't likely to be able to write them, I came to London and settled down at Kew Gardens, which I heard was fairly central. That was one year ago to-day." ** And how do you like London ?" **I've enjoyed myself immensely. It's pleasant to walk about and look at things. It 's pleasanter still, and quite a novel experience, to meet men whose names 264 MR. F. FRANKFORT MOORE I have heard as people of note, and to find they have heard of me and read my books. No one in Belfast had read my books, or even believed I wrote real books. Of course, I have done a certain amount of writing in the past year. But I never let writing interfere with my enjoyment. Possibly because I get as much fun out of writing as out of anything. And when I have nothing else to do I go and call on house-agents. I find Kew is not so central as I anticipated." *• You 're a very rapid worker, are n't you ? ** ** Yes — partly from my journalistic training and partly because my plots are always ready on my note- books. I cannot remember the time when I had n't the plot of / Forbid the Banns, The stories of adven- ture I wrote in my wild youth were always finished in a month, and sometimes they had in them as many as 95,000 words. Last year I wrote 482,000 words. The Sale of a Soul was written at a push in eight days, minus an hour or two, and consists of 35,000 words, besides other merits ; for I think it is my best work. No, I don't believe I shall write myself out just yet, for I have been accumulating plots for twenty years." ** I gather, then, that you do not consciously study style?" "That's a mild way of putting it," said Mr. Moore, laughing. '* I simply go straight ahead. When you consider how novels are read, do you think it pays to be over-nice and hypercritical in the matter of one's style. Not one person in a thousand knows a good style from a bad." ** You have written plays, have n't you ?" ** Yes. Play- writing is the literary equivalent of the Stock Exchange. It should keep every author out of Capel Court. I have n't invested my time and ink in a PICAROON 265 gold mine at present ; but I have made some attempts. And I have just sold to Mr. Arthur Bourchier a play- called Kitty Clive — a dramatized version of a story of mine which appeared in the Pall Mall Magazine^ under the title of *At the King's Head.* "Finally, Mr. Moore, are you a pioneer — have you a message — a purpose ?" *' I have a purpose, an overmastering purpose,'* re- plied Mr. Moore, as he winked at his chartreuse, **and that is — to enjoy myself. When I cease to enjoy my- self — writing novels — why, I shan't write novels any more! " But all this conversation took place over a year ago, and since then many things have happened. Kitty Clive has been acted and applauded ; The Sale of a Soul has been published and read ; and Mr. Moore, having con- vinced himself of the impossibility of Kew, has moved into London, to the delight of that literary Bohemian set in which he and his wife move. Books have poured from his pen at an astonishing rate. I wish I could say something about them. But it is Mr. Moore's good fortune to appeal mainly to women — good fortune, for, as every one knows, the success of a book depends on the first twenty women into whose hands it falls. I know that his writings are always worth reading, that he gives you a good run for your money, and that it would be hard to find two more charming companions for a summer day than Phyllis of Philistia and / Forbid the Banns. But I confess I know the man better than I do his works. He is first-rate at a dinner party — a capital talker — with Irish humour, Irish pathos, and an Irish brogue. You are quite content to sit still and listen when Frankfort Moore starts on his experiences in Belfast journaUsm. He is very much in evidence in literary 266 MR. F. FRANKFORT MCX)RE London just now — no dinner is complete without him; and he is making somewhat of a reputation as an after- dinner speaker. And, for the rest, I admire any man who has made enough out of hterature to wear a fur coat. PUCAROON. HERE BELOW (after sully-prudhomme.) HERE the lilacs die again. The songs of birds pass quick away ; I dream of summers which remain alway. Here below sweet lips retain Naught of the bliss of yesterday ; 1 dream of kisses which remain alway. Here below men grieve in vain. Their loves and friendships passed away ; I dream of friendships which remain alway. Roland Edward Phillips. THE OLD PARTI SAN I SAT so far back in the gallery that my opinion of my delegate friend dwindled with every session. Nevertheless my unimportant scat had its advan- tages. I could see the vast assembly and watch the throbbing of the Republican pulse if I could not hear its heartbeats. Therefore, perhaps, I studied my neighbors more than I might study them under different circum- stances. The great wooden hall had its transient and unsubstantial character stamped on every bare wooden joist and unclinched nail. It was gaudy with flags and bunting and cheap portraits. There were tin banner- OCTAVE THANET 267 ettes crookedly marshalled on the floor, to indicate the homes of the different states. A few delegates,- doubt- less new to the business and over-zealous, were already on the floor, but none of the principals were visible. They were perspiring and arguing in those committee rooms, those hotel lobbies and crowded hotel rooms where the real business of the convention was already done and neatly prepared for presentation to the nation. I had nothing to keep me from studying my neighbors. In front of me sat two people who had occupied the same seats at every session that I was present, a young girl and an old man. The girl wore the omnipresent shirt waist (of pretty blue and white tints, with snowy cuffs and collar), and her green straw hat was decked with blue corn-flowers, from which I inferred that she had an eye on the fashions. Her black hair was thick and glossy under the green straw. I thought that she had a graceful neck. It was very white. Whiter than her face, which had a touch of sunburn, as if she were often out in the open air. Somehow I concluded that she was a shop-girl and rode a wheel. If I were wrong it is not likely that I shall ever know. The old man I fancied was not so old as he looked ; his delicate, haggard profile may have owed its sunken lines and the dim eye to sickness rather than to years. He wore the heavy black broadcloth of the rural politi- cian, and his coat sagged over his narrow chest as if he had left his waistcoat at home. On his coat lapel were four old-fashioned Blaine badges. Incessantly he fanned himself. ** It can't be they ain't going to nominate him to- day ? " he asked rather than asserted, his voice breaking on the higher notes, the mere wreck of a voice. ** Oh, maybe later," the girl reassured him. 268 THE OLD PARTISAN ** Well, I wanted to attend a Republican convention once more before I died. Your ma would have it I was n't strong enough ; but I knew better ; you and I knew better; didn't we, Jenny?" She made no answer except to pat his thin, ribbed brown hand with her soft, white, slim one ; but there was a world of sympathy in the gesture and her silent smile. " I wonder what your ma said when she came down stairs and found the letter, and us gone," he cackled with the garrulous glee of a child recounting successful mischief; **made me think of the times when you was little and I stole you away for the circus. Once, your pa thought you was lost — 'member? And once, you had on your school dress and you 'd tore it — she did scold you that time. But we had fun when they used to let me have money, did n't we, Jenny ? " ** Well, now I earn money, we have good times, too, grandpa," said Jenny, smiling the same tender, com- prehending smile. ** We do that ; I do n't know what I would do 'ceptfor you, lambie, and this is — this is a grand time, Jenny, you look and listen ; it 's a great thing to see a nation making its principles and its president — and such a president ! " He half turned his head as he spoke, with a mounting enthusiasm, thus bringing his flushing face and eager eyes — no longer dim — into the focus of his next neighbor's bright grey eyes. The neighbor was a young man, not very young but hardly to be called elderly, of an alert bearing and kindly smile. ** I think him a pretty fair man myself," said the other with a jocose understatement ; ** I come from his town." OCTAVE THANET 269 What was there in such a simple statement to bring a distinctly anxious look into the young girl 's soft eyes ? There it was ; one could not mistake it. "Well !" said the old man : there was a flattering deference in his voice. '* Well, well. And — and maybe you've seen him lately?" The quavering tones sharpened with a keener feeling ; it was almost as if the man were inquiring for some one on whom he had a great stake of aiFection. ** How did he look ? Was he better, stronger ? '* *' Oh, he looked elegant," said the Ohio man, easily, but with a disconcerted side glance at the girl whose eyes were imploring him. **I 've been a Blaine man ever since he was run the time Bob Ingersoll nominated him," said the old man, who sighed as if relieved. ** I was at that convention and heard the speech — " "Ah, that was a speech to hear," said a man be- hind, and two or three men edged their heads nearer. The old Republican straightened his bent shoulders, his winter-stung features softened and warmed at the manifestation of interest, his voice sank to the confiden- tial undertone of the narrator. ** You 're right, sir, right ; it was a magnificent speech. I can see him jest as he stood there, a stoutish, good- looking man, smooth-faced, his eye straight ahead, and an alternate that sat next me — I was an alternate ; I 've been an alternate four times ; I could have been a dele- gate, but I says, * No, abler men than me are wanting it ; I *m willing to fight in the ranks.' But I wished I had a vote, a free vote that day, I tell you. The alter- nate near me, he says, * You '11 hear something fine now ; I 've heard him speak.' " ** You did, too, I guess." 270 THE OLD PARTISAN ** Wc could hear from the first minute. That kinder fixed our attention. He had a mellow, rich kind of voice that melted into our ears. We found ourselves listening and liking him from the first sentence. At first he was as quiet as a summer breeze, but presently he began to warm up, and the words flowed out like a stream of jewels. It was electrifying : it was thrilling, sir ; it took us off our feet before we knew it, and when he came to the climax, those of us that were n't yelling in the aisles were jumping up and down on our chairs ! I know I found myself prancing up and down in my own hat on a chair, swinging somebody else's hat and screaming at the top of my voice, with the tears running down my cheeks. God ! sir, there were men there on their feet cheering their throats out that had to vote against him afterwards — had to because they were there instructed — no more free will than a checked trunk ! ' ' The light died out of his face. " Yes, sir, a great speech ; never a greater ever made at a convention anywhere, never so great a speech, whoever made it ; but it did no good, he wasn't nominated, and when we did nominate him we were cheated out of our victory. Well, we '11 do better this day." " We will that," said the other man, heartily ; " Mc- Kinley — " ** You '11 excuse me " — the old man struck in with a deprecating air, yet under the apology something fiercely eager and anxious that glued the hearer 's eyes to his quivering old face — ** You '11 excuse me. I — I am a considerable of an invalid and I do n't keep the run of things as I used to. You see I live with my daughter, and you know how women folks are, fretting lest things should make you sick, and my girl she worries so, me reading the papers. Fact is I got a shock once, an OCTAVE THANET 27 1 awful shock ' * — he shivered involuntarily and his dim eyes clouded — **and it w^orried her seeing me read. Hadn't ought to; it don't worry Jenny here, who often gets me a paper, quiet like ; but you know how it is with women — it's easier giving them their head a little — and so I don't see many papers, and I kinder dropped oiF. It seems queer, but I don't exactly sense it about this McKinley. Is he running against Blaine or jest for vice ? ' ' The girl, under some feminine pretext of dropping and reaching for her handkerchief, threw upward a glance of appeal at the interlocutor. Hurriedly she stepped into the conversation. ** My grandfather read a false report about — about Mr. Blaine's sickness, and he was not well at the time and it brought on a bad attack." '* I understand," said the listener, with a grave nod of his head and movement of his eyes in the girl's direction. ** But about McKinley ? " the old man persisted. **He's for vice-president," the girl announced, her eyes fixed on the hesitating man from Canton. I have often admired the intrepid fashion in which a woman will put her conscience at a moral hedge, while a man of no finer spiritual fiber will be straining his eyes to find a hole through which he can crawl. ** McKinley is not opposed to Blaine, is he?" she asked the man. **The Republican party has no name that is more loved than that of James G. Blaine," said the man, gravely. ** That's so, that's so ! " the old partisan assented eagerly ; ** to my mind he 's the logical candidate." The Canton man nodded, and asked if he had ever seen Blaine. 2/2 THE OLD PARTISAN *♦ Once, only once. I was on a delegation sent to wait on him and ask him to our town to speak — he was in Cincinnati. I held out my hand when my turn came, and the chairman nearly knocked the breath out of me by saying, 'Here's the man gave more to our campaign fund and worked harder than any man in the county, and we all worked hard for you, too.' Well, Mr. Blaine looked at me. You know the intent way he looks. He has the most wonderful eyes ; look right at you and seem to bore into you like a gimlet. I felt as if he was looking right down into my soul, and I tell you I was glad, for I choked up so I couldn't find a word, not a word, and I was ready and fluent enough in those days, too, I can tell you; but I stood there filling up, and squeezed his hand and gulped and got red, like a fool. But he understood. * I have heard of your loyalty to Republican principles, Mr. Painter,' says he, in that beautiful voice of his that was like a violin ; and I burst in — I couldn't help it — * It ain't loyalty to Repub- lican principles, it's to you.' I said that right out. And he smiled, and said he, * Well, that's wrong, but it is n't for me to quarrel with you there, Mr. Painter,' and then they pushed me along ; but twice while the talk was going on I saw him look my way and caught his eye, and he smiled, and when we were all shaking hands for good-bye he shook hands with a good firm grip, and said he, * Good-bye, Mr. Painter; I hope we shall meet again.' " The old man drew a long sigh. ** Those few mo- ments paid for everything," he said. **I've never seen him since. I 've been sick and lost money. I ain't the man I was. I never shall be put on any del- egation again, or be sent to any convention ; but I thought if I could only go once more to a Republican OCtAV£ THAlSfET 273 convention and hear them holler for Blaine, and holler once more myself, I'd be willinger to die. And I told Tom Hale that, and he and Jenny raised the money. Yes, Jenny, I'm going to tell — he and Jenny put off being married a bit so 's I could go, and go on plenty of money. Jenny, she worked a month longer to have plenty, and Tom, he slipped ten dollars into my hand unbeknown to her, jest as we were going, so I'd always have a dime to give the waiter or the porter. I was never one of these hayseed farmers too stingy to give a colored boy a dime when he 'd done his best. I didn't need no money for badges ; I got my old badges — see!" He pushed out the lapel of his coat, covered with those old-fashioned frayed bits of tinsel and ribbon, smiling confidendy. The girl had flushed crimson to the rim of her white collar ; but there was not a trace of petulance in her air ; and, all at once looking at him, her eyes filled with tears. '* Tom's an awful good fellow," he said, ** an awful good fellow." **I'm sure of that," said the Canton man, with the frank American friendliness, making a little bow in Miss Jenny's direction ; **but see here, Mr. Painter, do you come from Izard ? Are you the man that saved the county for the Republicans, by mortgaging his farm and then going on a house to house canvass ?" ** That 's me," the old man acquiesced, blushing with pleasure ; ** I did n't think, though, that it was known outside " ** Things go further than you guess. I'm a news- paper man, and I can tell you that I shall speak of it again in my paper. Well, I guess they've got through with their mail, and the platform 's coming in." 274 '^^^ O^^ PARTISAN Thus he brushed aside the old man's agitated thanks. ** One moment," said the old man, *'who — who's going to nominate him ?" For the space of an eyeblink the kindly Canton man looked embarrassed, then he said, briskly : ** Foraker, Foraker, of Ohio — he's the principal one. That's he now, chairman of the committee on resolutions. He's there, the tall man with the mustache" ** Is n't that elderly man, with the stoop shoulders and the chin beard and caved in face. Teller?" It was a man near me, on the seat behind, who spoke, tapping the Canton man with his fan, to attract attention ; al- ready the pitiful concerns of the old man who was **a little off" (as I had heard some one on the seat whisper) were sucked out of notice in the whirlpool of the ap- proaching political storm. ** Yes, that 's Teller," answered the Canton man, his mouth straightening and growing thin. «* Is it to be a bolt ? " The Canton man nodded, at which the other whisded and communicated the information to his neighbors, one of whom remarked, **Let 'em bolt and be d !" A general, subtle excitement seemed to communicate its vibrations to all the gallery. Perhaps I should except the old partisan ; he questioned the girl in a whisper, and then, seeming to be satisfied, watched the strange scene that ensued with an expression of patient weariness. The girl explained parts of the platform to him and he assented ; it was good Republican doctrine, he said, but what did they mean with all this talk against the money; were they having trouble with the mining States again ? The Canton man stopped to explain — he certainly was good-humored. During the next twenty minutes, filled as they were OCTAVE THANfet Ij ^ with savage emotion, while the galleries, like the floor, were on their chairs yelling, cheering, brandishing flags and fists and fans and pampas plumes of red, white and blue at the little band of silver men who marched through the ranks of their former comrades, he stood, he waved his fan in his feeble old hand, but he did not shout. ** You must excuse me," said he, ** I 'm all right on the money question, but I 'm saving my voice to shout for ** That *s right," said the Canton man ; but he took occasion to cast a backward glance which I met, and it said as plainly as a glance can speak, ** I wish I were out of this ! ' * Meanwhile, with an absent but happy smile, the old Blaine man was beating time to the vast waves of sound that rose and swelled above the band, above the cheer- ing, above the cries of anger and scorn, the tremendous chorus that had stifl^ened men's hearts as they marched to death and rung through streets filled with armies and thrilled the waiting hearts at home : * * Three cheers for the red, white and blue ! Three cheers for the red, white and blue! The army and navy forever, three cheers for the red, white and blue!" But when the chairman had stilled the tumult and made his grim comment, ** There appear to be enough delegates left to transact business," the old partisan cast his eyes down to the floor with a chuckle. ** I can 't see the hole they made, it *s so small. Say, ain't he a magnificent chairman ; you can hear every word he says ! " ♦* Bully chairman," said a cheerful "rooter" in the rear, who had enjoyed the episode more than words can say, and had cheered the passing of Silver with such 276 tH£ OLD PARTISAN choice quotations from popular songs as ** Good-bye, my lover, good-bye,*' and **Just mention that you saw me,*' and plainly felt that he, too, had adorned the moment. ** I nearly missed coming this morning, and I wouldn't have missed it for a tenner ; they're going to nominate now." The old man caught his breath ; then he smiled. **I'll help you shout pretty soon," said he, while he sat down very carefully. The ** rooter," a good-looking young fellow with a Reed button and three or four gaudy badges decking his crash coat, nodded and tapped his temple furtively, still retaining his expression of radiant good-nature. The Canton man nodded and frowned. I felt that the Canton man need not be afraid. Some- how we were all tacidy taking care that this poor, be- wildered soul should not have its little dream of loyal, unselfish satisfaction dispelled. ** Ah, my countrymen," I thought, "you do a hundred crazy things, you crush les convenances under foot, you can be fooled by frantic visionaries, but how I love you ! " It was Baldwin of Iowa that made the first speech. He was one of the very few men — I had almost said of the two men — that we in the galleries had the pleasure of hearing ; and we could hear every word. He began with a glowing tribute to Blaine. At the first sentence, our old man flung his grey head in the air with the gesture of the war horse when he catches the first, far-off scream of the trumpet. He leaned forward, his features twitching, his eyes burning ; the fan dropped out of his limp hand; his fingers, rapping his palm, clenched and loosened themselves unconsciously in an overpowering agitation. His face was white as marble. OCTAVE THANET 277 with ominous blue shadows ; but every muscle was astrain ; his chest expanded ; his shoulders drew back ; his mouth was as strong and firm as a young man. For a second we could see what he had been at his prime. Then the orator's climax came, and the name — the magic name that was its own campaign cry in itself. The old partisan leaped to his feet ; he waved his hands above his head ; wild, strange, in his white flame of excitement. He shouted ; and we all shouted with him, the McKinley man and the Reed man vieing with each other (I here offer my testimony as to the scope and quality of that young Reed man's voice), and the air rang about us : ** Blaine ! Blaine ! James G. Blaine ! " He shrieked the name again and again, goading into life the waning applause. Then in an instant his will snapped under the strain ; his grey beard tilted in the air ; his grey head went back on his neck. The Canton man and I caught him in time to ease the fall. We were helped to pull him into the aisle. There were four of us by this time, his granddaughter and the Reed ** rooter," besides the Canton man and myself. We carried him into the wide passageway that led to the seats. The Reed young man ran for water, and, finding none, quickly returned with a glass of lemonade (he was a young fellow ready in shifts), and with it we bathed the old man's face. Presently he came back, by degrees, to the world ; he was not conscious, but we could see that he was not going to die. ** He '11 be all right in no time," declared the Reed man. ** You had better go back and get your seats, and keep mine ! " I assured both men that I could not return for more than a short time, having an engagement for luncheon. 278 THE OLD PARTISAN "That's all right," said the Reed man, turning to the Canton man, "I ain't shouting when Foraker comes; you are. You go back and keep my seat; I '11 come in later on Hobart." So the kindly Canton man returned to the convention for which he was longing, and we remained in our litde corner by the window, the young girl fanning the old man, and the young man on the watch for a boy with water. He darted after one ; and then the girl turned to me. No one disturbed us. Below the traffic of a great city roared up to us and a brass band clanged merrily. The crowd hurried past, drawn by the tidings that **the fight was on," and choked the outlets and suffocated the galleries. **He's been that way ever since he read, suddenly, that Blaine was dead" — she said, lowering her voice to keep it safe from his failing ears — ** he had a kind of a stroke, and ever since he 's had the notion that Blaine was alive and was going to be nominated, and his heart was set on going here. Mother was afraid ; but when — when he cried to go, I could not help taking him — I did n't know but maybe it might help him ; he was such a smart man and such a good man ; and he has had trouble about mortgaging the farm ; and he worked so hard to get the money back, so mother would feel right. All through the hot weather he worked, and I guess that's how it happened. You don't think it 's hurt him ? The doctor said he might go. He told T , a gentleman friend of mine who asked him." ** Oh, dear, no," said I, ** it has been good for him." I asked for her address, which fortunately was near, and I offered her the cab that was waiting for me. I had some ado to persuade her to accept it ; but when I OCTAVE THANET 279 pointed to her grandfather's pale face she did accept it, thanking me in a simple but touching way, and, of course, begging me to visit her at Izard, Ohio. All this while we had been sedulously fanning the old man, who would occasionally open his eyes for a second, but gave no other sign of returning consciousness. The young Reed man came back with the water. He was bathing the old* man's forehead in a very skillful and careful way, using my handkerchief, when an uproar of cheering shook the very floor under us and the rafters overhead. ** Who is it ?" the old man inquired, feebly. ** Foraker ! Foraker ! " bellowed the crowd. "He's nominated him!" muttered ihe old man; but this time he did not attempt to rise. With a smile of great content he leaned against his granddaughter's strong young frame and listened, while the cheers swelled into a deafening din, an immeasurable tumult of sound, out of which a few strong voices shaped the chorus ot the Battle Cry of Freedom, to be caught up by fifteen thousand throats and pealed through the walls far down the city streets to the vast crowd without. The young Reed "boomer," carried away by the moment, flung his free hand above his head and yelled defiantly : "Three cheers for the man from Maine ! " Instantly he caught at his wits, his colour turned, and he lifted an abashed face to the young girl. " But, really, you know, that ain't giving nothing away," he apologised, plucking up heart. "May I do it again ? ' ' The old partisan's eye lighted. ** Now they're shouting ! That's like old times ! Yes, do it again, boy! Blaine! Blaine! James G. Blaine ! " He let us lead him to the carriage, the rapturous smile 280 THE OLD PARTISAN Still on his lips. The "rooter" and I wormed our way- through the crowd back to the seats which the kind Can- ton man had kept for us. We were quite like old acquaintances now ; and he turned to me at once. <* Was there ever a politician or a statesman, since Henry Clay, loved so well as James G. Blaine?" Octave Thanet. NOTES THE reunion in the next world of the late Lady Burton and her husband. Sir Richard, would make an interesting subject for some painter of sentiment- ally pathetic scenes. An artist with a tendency towards the tragic might even undertake the task, for one fancies the meeting will not be characterized by extreme joy - — if the spirits arc permitted any remembrance of earthly things. It is just conceivable that the estimable lady thought she was carrying out her husband's wishes when she destroyed the works on which he spent the best part of the last years of his life ; indeed, I believe she once asserted that had Sir Richard lived longer he would doubtless have changed his views on the advisability of publishing ** The Scented Garden," and so forth. This statement I am strongly inclined to doubt. Public opinion has changed little or nothing in the past score of years; if at all, the tendency is surely in the direction of greater freedom. Moreover, Sir Richard Burton knew well that no other person in our day had anything like the oppor- tunities he had enjoyed for the collection and translation of the literary pieces of the Arabic countries. It was manifestly his intention at the time of his death to pub- lish the volumes he had labored so long to prepare, and NOTES 281 there is something both stupid and pathetic in the idea of Lady Burton's destruction of all his work. Her intention was doubdess of the best, but, to say the least, she was very ill-advised. It is known that she acted under the influ- ence of Mr. Coote, of the National Vigilance Associa- tion, whom Sir Richard looked upon as perhaps his worst enemy. This in itself seems an inconsiderate perform- ance on the part of a supposedly-affectionate widow. Nevertheless, Lady Burton took Mr. Coote as her con- stant counselor in editing her husband's posthumous volumes, and now that she is dead, it is announced that Mr. Coote is to be her literary executor. The very idea is enough to make Sir Richard turn in his grave. It is stated that when he published his edition of ** The Thousand Nights and One Night," he declared that he would fight the Vigilance Association, if necessary, in the law courts, with a Bible under one arm and Shakespeare under the other. And now it is this very Association which is to be the final judge of what portions of his writings shall appear and what shall be consigned to oblivion ! ^ Someone in Australia is a firmer believer in realistic stage effects than any American manager. They were lately about to produce a play of convict life out there, and the advertisement for supernumeraries called for ** a hundred men, those used to jail life preferred." ^ There is nothing more pathetic than the man whose fortunes have increased out of all proportion to his tastes. Riches, or even moderate wealth, come very near being absolute curses to a large number of people. There is something almost tragic in the sight of a man who can afford luxuries but whose habits and training prevent him from enjoying them. He would be infinitely happier and his life would have much more of peace were 282 NOTES he always to stay poor. There is much pleasure in look- ing forward to a decent income, but its acquisition is a torment. I am not speaking now of people in general. I am speaking of our poorer relations — the men and women of mediocre education and simple lives — people who have slaved for years for a mere existence, who have struggled since their earliest days. Wealth and ease are not for them ; they don't know what to do with such things. And that is the awful sorrow of it all : to work for a lifetime with the hope of final rest and self-indulgence always before them, and then when it comes — no ability to enjoy it. The poor man doesn't know what to do with his money. Economy — if not absolute poverty — has become habits with him, and he finds no pleasure in squandering the money he has slaved so hard to earn. And if he does overcome his careful- ness he is at once the victim of every shopkeeper, hawker and polite confidence man in Christendom. There are traps at every turn ; every acquaintance is a trickster and every passing soul seeks to juggle him out of a part of his income. His whole mission becomes one of charity ; he contributes day by day to the support of the thousand- and-one sharper men who wheedle away his fortune. Is it any wonder he gets miserly ? Is it any wonder his life becomes a horror and his pleasure is gone ? He wants to do what other men of his means do, and he does n't know how. A haberdasher tells him so-and- so is the fashion ; he forthwith buys it. It may be a six-year-old style ; it is all the same to him ; he does n't understand such things. A clothier beats him on this, a broker swindles him on that. His best friends seduce him into schemes, and while they come out well he is sure to lose. Everyone is after him ; a whole company of tradespeople get a living from him and his likes. Only NOTES 283 the other day I was reading a paper built entirely for him. It is a new exchange which has but recently come to grace the editorial desk and I hasten to greet it. It is entitled "American Homes," and is issued from Knoxville, Tenn. It is **a journal devoted to planning, building and beau- tifying the home,** and is one of those agreeable things which flourish no other where on earth with so great success as in America. The ancient adage about the fool and his money would seem to be its most appro- priate motto, and that other time-honored remark about the supremacy of the ** old fool " would suggest its audi- ence. It is a very friendly paper, and the suggested cooperation of the readers is prettily expressed by the editor in the following words: ** There is no house- holder nor housekeeper but has some idea which is dif- ferent from others, and no matter how simple it may seem, it may be the very thing some one else wants to know.** As a specimen of style this is beyond comparison. One can only say, in its own words, it is •* different from others.'* This quotation, however, is by no means unique; in truth, the magazine is made up largely of such gems. Even the advertisements are diverting. There is one in particular — a full-page announcement of a com- pany of architects in Knoxville, Tenn. — of which the worthy editor is the head. It is a remarkable composition with its blatant boastings over bad architecture. In one corner there is a beautiful half-tone picture of what is doubtless the most atrocious type of American architecture one ever saw. It is a ** model home** — **just what you want, "and so forth. ** If you are going to build a home, to meet all requirements, it should be planned with a care for every detail, so that there will be no after disappoint- 284 NOTES ment, but Perfect Satisfaction. THIS YOU CAN HAVE only by securing the advice and assistance of a FIRST-CLASS ARCHITECT. We have spent years in preparing plans and designs for others, and w^e see no reason why we should not be success- ful in pleasing you as well as we have thousands of other people in all parts of this country." This reads much like a dentist's or patent medicine advertisement. Underneath it is the ground floor plan, and each room is labelled in a pretty little verse. The melody is so delightful and the poetic feeling so evident throughout the whole poem that I cannot help quoting: 1. The Heart of the Home The KITCHEN really is; In planning the home Please remember this. 2. The PANTRY 'S an item. Do not forget it. Have it a tight one Where dust 's not collected. 3. Next the DINING-ROOM Most naturally comes ; Make it a cheery one — Have light in your homes. 4. The SITTING-ROOM where The family most stays Must be roomy and fair, A delight for all days. THE CHAP-BOOK. 285 A RIDDLE. QUESTION. Promotion lately was bestow'd Upon a person mean and small; Then many persons to him flow'd. Yet he returned no thanks at all; But yet their hands were ready still To help him with their kind good will. ANSWER. It is a Man pelted in the Pillory. — From the "True Trial of Understanding," 286 NOTES 5. "Step into my PARLOR'* Was the Spider's remark. But the Fly will " parle " Before he '11 embark. 6. "Your HALL is quite cosy; I think I '11 rest here " — That 's because though rosy The Parlors inspire fear. 7. Light and Heat make Health, They all important are. E'en if not in wealth They must have your care. 8. Let each separate part. From cellar to dome Be filled full with "heart;" That makes the ideal home. Provided — in addition to this, your ideas are put into form To bring to you Home-bliss. An Architect saves from harm. Brings order from chaos, and leaves nought amiss. After reading this entertaining lyric, I am filled with wonder that so gifted an author could have gone so long without attracting the attention of the public. He is undoubtedly a man of rare abilities, and it is pleasant to know that as editor of ** American Homes " and head of the firm of George F. Barber & Co., he is now in a position to give an impatient public the benefit of his genius in poetry and his taste in architecture. I hope he will lose no time in bringing out an edition of his collected works, and if he will kindly send me a copy the NOTES 287 Chap-Booh will enjoy giving extended notice to this New- Southern Poet. ^ I had supposed myself almost past-master in the inter- pretation of Modernity. That is I had evolved a satis- factory formula of my own which I thought rather better than any other. I took it that the decadent movement as a whole is significant and sincere, although nearly every individual expression of it is characterized by overtopping whim or pose. It is very seldom that any one degenerate is of real import. I could explain to myself most of the poses. Within the last few weeks, however, I have come across an extreme manifestation which I might call the latter-day blasphemy. This seems to me to be import- ant and truly decadent, and it utterly passes my compre- hension. In this country fortunately the Christian maniacs have never aiFected us much. In truth the real religious mania — together with the morbid, erotic and hysterical — has found vent with us in Faith Cures and Temples of Healing rather than in sad travesties of the Catholic faith. On the other hand, European countries have constantly witnessed spectacular returns to the mysticism of ancient days and apparent revivals of the simplicity of early faiths — as the last resorts of the intel- lectual voluptuary. Those who found in Huysmans's A Rebours the complete guide to mental depravity may read in En Route the story of the final return of the ex- hausted decadent to perfect faith. A similar example of the degenerate evolution is to be found in a recent publi- cation, entitled V Tmagier. It is a magazine devoted to the reproduction of old religious prints and to the exploit- ation of certain moderns who produce scrawls on reli- gious subjects. The past performances of one at least 0^ these moderns were so revolting and so hopelessly 288 NOTES obscene that it is impossible to believe his present air or devotion sincere. The aim of these arsists is apparently the rude technique of a savage scratching on a rock. Their models are the crudest of the early Byzantine works, and they seem to believe that the more atrocious the w^orkmanship the deeper the evidence of holy feel- ing. They draw Virgins and Children with sticks and lampblack. Crucifixions they awkwardly cut in wood, and Ascensions they scrawl with broad brushes and coloured inks. Their works are lamentable failures to realize even such poor technique as was shown by Cimabue's prede- cessors. I confess myself unable to comprehend this manifesta- tion of insanity. By my formula I should call it all pose, of course, and I suppose the affectation is a glorifi- cation of the idea above any necessity for skill in expres- sion. But my difficulty is that most pose nowadays has in it an attempt to be clever, and these artists ot V Tmagier have renounced all this. Indeed they don't even try to do things well — and to do small things well rather than try for the big things is the accusation levelled against the modern workers in art. 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"Will come very close to the * great New England novel' for which we have been waiting so many years." — The Boston Tran- script, ** It is American in subject j it is by an American, and it presses very close to the place reserved in the mind of the American public for * the great American novel,' if indeed it does not actually fill it." — Hartford Post, Lamson, Wolffe & Company BOSTON : % Beacon Street NEW YORK : 156 Fifth Ave. LONDON voLv. THE CHAP-BOOK no,. Copyright, 1896, by H. S. STONE & COMPANY o THE AWAKENING. UT of the sleep of earth, with visions rife I woke in death's clear morning, full of lite ; And said to God, whose smile made all things bright, '* That was an azvful dream I had last night.' ^ Ella Wheeler Wilcox. CURIOUS PUNISHMENTS OF BYGON E DAYS. Preface. IN ransacking old records, newspapers, diaries and letters for the historic foundation of the books I have written on colonial history, I have found and noted much of interest that has not been used or referred to in any of those books. An accumulation of notes on old-time laws and punishments has evoked this present series. The subject is not a pleasant one, though it often has a humorous element ; still a punishment that is obsolete gains an interest from antiquity and its history becomes endurable because it has a past only and no future. That men have been pilloried and women ducked rouses a thrill of hot indignation which dies down into a dull ember of curiosity when we reflect that they will never be pilloried nor ducked again. An old-time writer dedicates his book to ** All curious and ingenious gentle- men and gentlewomen who can gain from acts of the past a delight in the present days of virtue, wisdom and the humanities." It does not detract from the good intent of these old words that he lived in the days w^hen the pillory, stocks and whipping-post stood rampant in every English village. 290 PUNISHMENTS OF BYGONE DAYS ^ So, now, as Pope says : '* Taught by time our hearts have learned to glow For others' good, and melt for others' woe," I dedicate this book to *' all curious and ingenious gentle- men and gentlewomen" of our own days of virtue, wisdom and the humanities, and I trust any chance reader a century hence — if such readers there be — may in turn not be too harsh in judgment on an age that had to form powerful societies and associations to prevent cruelty — not to hardened and vicious criminals — but to faithful animals and innocent children. I The Bilboes. THEREis no doubt that our far-away grandfathers, whether of English, French, Dutch, Scotch or Irish blood, were much more afraid of ridicule than they were even of vice, and far more than we are of ex- treme derision or mockery to-day. This fear and sensitiveness they showed in many ways. They were vastly touchy and resentful about being called opprobrious or bantering names ; often running petulantly to the court about it and seeking redress by prosecution of the offender. And they were forever bringing suits in petty slander and libel cases. Colonial court-rooms '* bubbled over with scandal and gossip and spite." A creature as obsolete as his name, a **makebayt," was ever-present in the com- munity, ever whispering slander, ever exciting conten- tion, and often also fiercely haled to court for punishment ; while his opposite, a make-peace, was everywhere sadly needed. Far-seeing magistrates declared against the make-bait, as even guilty of stirring up barratry, or as ALICE MORSE EARLE 29 I Judge Sewall, the old Boston Puritan termed it, at least "gravaminous." Equally with personal libel did all good cit- izens and all good Christians resent with fierce- ness a word, not only of derision or satire, but even of dispassionate disapproval of either gov- ernment or church. A tithe of the plain-speaking criticism cheerfully endured in politics to-day would have provoked a civil war two centuries ago ; while freedom of judgment or expression in religious matters was ever sharply resented and punished in New England. That ultra-sensativeness which made a lampoon, a jeer, a scoff, a taunt, an unbearable and inflaming offence, was of equal force when used against the men of the day in punishment for real crimes and offenses. In many — indeed in nearly all — of the penalties and punishments of past centuries, derision, scoffing, con- temptuous publicity and personal obloquy were applied to the offender or criminal by means of demeaning, degrad- ing and helpless exposure in grotesque, insulting and pain- ful ** engines of punishment," such as the stocks, bil- boes, pillory, brank, ducking-stool or jougs. Thus confined and exposed to the free gibes and constant mocking of the whole community, the peculiar power of the punishment wao accented. Genetic in their force were the punishments of setting on the gallows and of branding ; the latter whether in permanent form by sear- ing the flesh, or by mutilation ; or temporarily by label- ing with written placards or affixed initials. One of the earliest of these degrading engines of con- finement for public exposure, to be used in punishment in this country, was the bilboes. Though this instru- ment to **punyssche transgressours ageynste ye Kinges Maiesties lawes" came from old England, it was by 292 PUNISHMENTS OF BYGONE DAYS tradition derived from Bilboa. It is alleged that bilboes were manufactured there and shipped on board the Spanish Armada in large numbers to shackle the English prisoners so confidently expected to be captured. This occasion may have given them their vv^ide popularity and employment ; but this happened in 1588, and in the first volume of Hakluyt^s Voyages ^ page 295, dating some years earlier, reference is made to bilbous. They were a simple but effective restraint ; a long heavy bolt or bar of iron having two sliding shackles and a lock. In these shackles were thrust the legs of offend- ers or criminals, and they were locked in with a padlock. Sometimes a chain at one end of the bilboes attached both bilboes and prisoner to the floor or wall ; but this was superfluous, as the iron bar prevented locomotion. Whether the Spanish Armada story is true or not, bilboes were certainly much used on board ship. Shakespeare says in Hamlet: ** Methought I lay worse than the routines in the bilboes." In Cook* s Voyages and other sea-tales we read of ** bilboo-bolts " on sailors. The Massachusetts magistrates brought bilboes from England as a means of punishing refractory or sinning colonists, and they were soon in constant use. In the very earliest court records of the settlement at Boston — the Bay colony — which are still preserved, appear the frequent sentences of offenders to be placed in the bil- boes. The earliest entry is in the authorized record of the Court held at Boston on the 7th of August, 1632. It reads thus : "Jams Woodward shall be sett in the bilbo wes tor being drunk at the Newe-towne." " Newe- towne " was the old name of Cambridge. Soon another colonist felt the bilboes for "selling peeces and powder and shott to the Indians," ever a bitterly-abhorred and fiercely -punished crime. And another, the same year, ALICE MORSE EARLE 293 for threatening — were he punished — he would carry the case to England, was summarily and fearlessly thrust into the bilboes. Then troublesome Thomas Dexter, with his ever- ready tongue, was hauled up and tried on March 4, 1633. Here is his sentence : ** Thomas Dexter shal be sett in the bilbowes, dis- franchized, and fyned ;^I5 for speking rpchfull and seditious words agt the government here established.** The sting of Thomas Dexter' s words was that he called the beloved Governor Winthrop demeaning and slanderous names. The next year another Newe-towne man, Henry Bright, was set in the bilboes for ** swearynge.*' In 1635, on April 7, Griffin Montagne ** shal be sett in ye bilbowes for stealing boards and clapboards and enjoyned to move his habitacon.'* Within a year we find offend- ers being punished in two places for the same offence, thus degrading them far and wide; and when in Salem they were ** sett in the stockes,** we find always in Boston that the bilboes claimed its own. Women suffered this punishment as well as men. Francis Wes- ton's wife and others were set in the bilboes. Other victims of the bilboes had ** prophanely cursed; " an- other had ** sleited the magistrates in speaches." It is high noon in Boston in the year 1638. The hot June sun beats down on the little town, the narrow paths, the wharfs; and the sweet-fern and cedars on the common give forth a pungent dry hot scent that is wafted down to the square where stands the Governor's house, the market, the church, the homes of the gentlefolk. A crowd is gathered there around some interesting object in the middle of the square, visitors from Newe-towne and Salem, Puritan women and children, tawny Indian 294 PUNISHMENTS OF BYGONE DAYS braves in wampum and war-paint, gaily dressed sailors from two great ships lying at anchor in the bay — all staring and whispering, or jeering and biting the thumb. They are gathered around a Puritan soldier, garbed in trappings of military bravery, yet in but sorry plight. For it is training day in the Bay colony, and in spite of the long prayer with which the day's review began, or perhaps before that pious opening prayer, Serjeant John Evins has drunken too freely of old Sack or Alicant, and the hot sun and the sweet wine have sent him reeling from the ranks in disgrace. There he sits, sweltering in his great coat ** basted with cotton- wool and thus made defensive ag't Indian arrowes; " weighed down with his tin armor, a heavy corselet covering his body, a stiff gorget guarding his throat, clumsy tasses protecting his thighs, all these ** neatly varnished black," and costing twenty-four shillings apiece of the town's money. Over his shoulder hangs another weight, his bandeHer, a strong ** neat's leather" belt, carrying twelve boxes of solid cartridges and a well-filled bullet-bag; and over all and heavier than all hangs from his neck — as of lead — the great letter D. Still from his wrist dangles his wooden gun-rest, but his ** bastard musket with a snaphance " lies with his pike degraded in the dust. The Serjeant does not move at the jeers of the sailors, nor turn away from the wondering stare of the savages — he cannot move, he cannot turn away, for his legs are firmly set in the strong iron bilboes which John Win- throp sternly brought from England to the new land. Poor John Evins! Your head aches from the fumes of the cloying sack, your legs ache from the bonds of the clogging bilboes, your body aches from the clamps of your trumpery armor, but you will have to sit there in distress and in obloquy till good John Norton, the pious ALICE MORSE EARLE 295 Puritan preacher, will come **to chide*' you, as is his wont, to point out to your fellow-citizens and to visitors your sinful fall, the disgracing bilboes, and the great letter that brands you as a drunkard. The decade of life of the Boston bilboes was soon to end, it was to be **laid flat'* as Sir Matthew Hale would say; a rival entered the field. In 1639 Edward Palmer made for Boston with ** planks and wood work,** a pair of stocks. ** Planks and woodwork** were plentiful everywhere in the new world, and iron and iron-workers at first equally scarce, so stocks soon were seen in every town, and the bilboes were disused, sold perhaps for old iron, wherein they again did good service. In Virginia the bilboes had a short term of use in the earliest years of the settlement; the Provost-marshal had a fee of 10 shillings for ** laying by the heels;'* and he was frequently employed ; but there also stocks and pillory proved easier of construction and attainment. I would not be over-severe upon the bilboes in their special use in those early colonial settlements. There had to be some means of restraint of vicious and lawless folk, of public nuisances, and a prison could not be built in a day; the bilboes seemed an easy settlement of the difficulty, doing effectually with one iron bar what a prison cell does with many. It was not their use, but their glare of publicity that was offensive. They were ever placed on offenders in the market-place, in front of the meeting house on lecture day, on market day; not to keep prisoners in lonely captivity but in public obloquy; and as has here been cited, for what seems to us to-day slight offenses. Alice Morse Earle, 296 BESIDE THE BRIDGE I BESIDE THE BRIDGE LOVE to lounge about the bridge That in one leap surmounts the brook; I like to lie on clovered ridge. Once tenanted by gold-crowned stook. A far, faint call it is to sea; And near as far to meadows dank; — The blue skies woo the maple tree Upon this breezy upland bank. When mists uproll, outstand the spires And tow'rs of populated towns; I hardly hear the wavy choirs That tune melodious 'neath the downs. But sing, my gentle hillside rill ! No mocking pedant is around ; And dainty Madge, from brookside mill. Comes not till tinkling kine-bells sound. ' The world is wrong ; it will not hear My messages of Peace, of Life ; Untended, Sorrow drops her tear. And sweet-faced Patience flees the strife. • The rich, the mobs, contemn the arts ; On selfishness they found the State ; — The storied deeds of ardent hearts. With myths, find desuetude their fate.** Hold ! clearest, sweetest, singing stream ! The skies, and you, and God are left; And let me follow in some dream, — The butt of scorn, but not bereft JOHN STUART THOMPSON 297 Of love of beauty, and the faith That it alone is ample meed For all frustrations ; so, I graith My garden row for poppy seed. And therefore do I steep my soul In passion for the summertime ; I laugh to see the drunk drones roll. All nectar-drugged, from burdened cyme. And soon the droning humble-ht^y — No such gallant e'er wore his spurs ! Wings loud to a catalpa-tree. Where *mong the streaked racemes now stirs A sated, truant zephyr-wight. Decoyed, by all the froth-like bloom. From riding on the billow's height. And sporting where the white-caps spoom. The cherries, red and round and lush. The boys and noisy cedar-birds Scarce leave t'augment the new day's blush. That warms the east and wakes the herds. Wide riot of this fruiting day ! From thickets where the berry ripes. To drying heaps of marsh-grown hay; And where a Black-eyed-Susan wipes Its houri-eyes, that love the dusk. The honeysuckles to the eaves Climb with the prairie-rose ; and, musk And rare, the night looks through the leaves. John Stuart Thompson, THE CHANTEUSE PRAWN BY A. E. BORIE. PICAROON 299 THE HUSBAND INTERVENES. • ^ '\7'0\J are always so sympathetic," she said; and j[ added reflectively, ** and one can talk of one's troubles to you without any nonsense." I wondered dimly if she meant that as a challenge. I helped myself to a biscuit thing that looked neither poisonous nor sandy. ** You are one of the most puzzling human beings I ever met," I said — a perfectly safe remark to any woman under any circumstances. ** Do you find me hard to understand : " she said. **You are dreadfully complex." I bit at the biscuit thing and found it full of a kind of creamy bird-lime. (I wonder why women zvi// arrange these unpleasant surprises for me. I sickened of candy twenty years ago). **How so?" she was saying, and smihng her most brilliant smile. I have no doubt she thought we were talking rather nicely. ** Oh ! " said I, and waved the cream biscuit thing, ** You challenge me to dissect you." -Well?" ** And that is precisely what I cannot do." ** I 'm afraid you are very satirical," she said, with a touch of disappointment. She is always saying that when our conversation has become absolutely idiotic — as it invariably does. I felt an inevitable desire to quote bogus Latin to her. It seemed the very language for her. ** Malorum fiducia pars quosque libet," I said, in a low voice, looking meaningly into her eyes. ** Ah ! " she said, coloring a little, and turned to pour hot water into the teapot, looking very prettily at me over her arm as she did so. **That is one of the truest things that has ever been said of sympathy," I remarked. ** Do n't you think so ? " 300 THE HUSBAND INTERVENES ** Sympathy," she said, '*isa wonderful thing and a very precious thing." ** You speak," said I (with a cough behind my hand), ** as though you knew what it was to be lonely." ** There is solitude even in a crowd," she said, and looked round at the six other people — three discreet pairs — who were in the room. ** I, too," I was beginning, but Hopdangle came with a teacup and seemed inclined to linger. He belongs to the **Nice Boy" class, and gives himself ridiculous airs of familiarity with grown-up people. Then the GifFens went. ** Do you know, I always take such an interest in your work," she was saying to me, when her husband (confound him ! ) came into the room. He was a violent discord. He wore a short brown jacket and carpet slippers, and three of his vest buttons were (as usual) undone. ** Got any tea left, Millie } " he said, and sat down in the arm-chair beside the table. **How do, Leighton ? " he said to the man in the corner. " Infernally hot, Pickard," he remarked to me subsiding creakily. She poured some more hot water into the teapot. (Why must charming married women always have these husbands ? ) *' It is very hot," I said. There was a perceptible pause. He is one of those rather adipose people who are not disconcerted by con- versational gaps. ** Are you, too, working at Argon ? " I asked. He is some kind of chemical investigator I know. He began at once to explain the most mercilessly complex things about elements to me. She gave him. his tea and rose and went and talked to the other people about the latest book. **Yes," I said, not hearing what he was talking about. t'ICAROON 301 ** * No' would be more appropriate," he remarked. ** You are absent-minded, Pickard. Not in love, I hope — at your age ? ' ' Really, I am not thirty, but a certain perceptible thinness in my hair may account for his invariably re- garding me as a contemporary. But he should understand that nowadays the beginnings of baldness merely mark the virile epoch. **I say, Millie," he said, out loud and across the room, *'you haven't been collecting Pickard here — have you ? " She looked round starded, and I saw a pained look come into her eyes. ** For the bazaar?" she said; ** Not yet, dear." It seemed to me that she shot a glance of entreaty at him. Then she turned to the others again. ** My wife," he said, '*has two distinctive traits. She is a born poetess and a born collector. I ought to warn you." *' I did not know," said I, *' that she rhymed." ** I was speaking more of the imaginative quality, the temperament that finds a splendor in the grass, a glory in the flower, that clothes the whole world in a vestiture of interpretation." ** Indeed !" I said. I felt she was watching us anxiously. He could not, of course, suspect. But I was relieved to fancy he was simply talking nonsense. ** The magnificent figures of heroic, worshipful and mysterious womanhood naturally appeal to her — Cleo- patra, Messalina, Beatrice, the Madonna and so forth." ** And she is writing } " ** No, she is acting. That is the real poetry of women and children. A Platonic Cleopatra of infinite variety, spotless reputation and a large following. Her make-believe is wonderful. She would use FalstafF for 302 THE HUSBAND INTERVENES Romeo without a twinge, if no one else were at hand. She could exert herself to break the heart of a soldier. I assure you, Pickard " I heard her dress rustle behind me. ** I want some more tea," he said to her. ** You misunderstood me about the collecting, Millie.'* **What were you saying about Cleopatra ?" she said, trying, I thought, to look sternly at him. **Scandal!" he said, "But about this collecting, Pickard " ** You must come to the bazaar," she interrupted. **I shall be deHghted," I said, boldly. ** Where is it, and when .?" ** About this collecting," he began. **It is in aid of that delightful orphanage at Wel- stead," she explained, and gave me an animated account of the charity. He emptied his second cup, ** May I have a third .? " he said. The two girls signalled their departure, and her atten- tion was distracted. ** She collects — and I will confess she does it with extraordinary skill — the surreptitious addresses " **John," she said, over her shoulder, ** I wish you would come and tell Miss Smithers all those things about Argon." He rose and went with the easy obedience of the trained husband. Presently she returned to the tea- things. ** Cannot I fill your cup?" she asked. ** I really hope John was not telling you his queer notions about me. He says the most remarkable things. Quite lately he has got it into his head that he has a formula of my character." "I wish /had," I said, with a sigh. **And he goes about explaining me to people, as though I was a mechanism. 'Scalp collector,' I think, is the PICAROON 303 favorite phrase. Did he tell you ? Don't you think it perfectly horrid of him ? " ** But he does n't understand you," I said, not grasp- ing his meaning quite at the minute. She sighed. "You have," I said, with infinite meaning, *'my sincere sympathy," — I hesitated — "my whole sym- pathy." "Thank you so much,^^ she said, quite as meaningly. I rose forthwith, and we clasped hands like souls who strike a compact. Yet, thinking over what he said afterwards, I was troubled by a fancy that there was the faintest suggestion of a smile of triumph about her lips and eyes. Possibly it was only an honorable pride. J suppose he has poi- soned my mind a little. Of course, I should not like to think of myself as one of a fortuitously selected multitude hooked neatly together (if one may use the vulgarism) on a piece of string — nice old gentlemen, nice boys, sympathetic and humorous men of thirty kind, fellows, gifted dreamers and dashing blades — all trailing after her. It was confoundedly bad form of him, anyhow, to guy her visitors. She certainly took it like a saint. Of course I shall see her again soon and we shall talk to one another about one another as usual. Something or other cropped up and prevented my going there on her last Tuesday. Picaroon. PORTRAITS OF CONTEMPORARIES i JOHN FOX, Jr. AUTHOR OF **A CUMBERLAND VENDETTA,** ETC. DRAWN BY FRED RICHARDSON ELIZABETH BISLAND 305 THE PIOUS SPANIARD IFE is not long enough for me To hate mine enemy perfectly; But God is of infinite mercy, and He To time hath added Eternity. Elizabeth Bisland. ORESTE'S PATRON. THE Signore Americano, musing over his morning coffee on the villa terrace, gazed intently into the distance where Florence lay invisible behind the hills. ** Buon' giorno, Signore!" called Oreste, reining in Elisabetta and lifting his cap with a smile. ** Buon' giorno!" returned the Signore, starting. " Ah, you are going to the city, and 1 wanted to go /nyself." Oreste looked troubled. ** Signore, how much I am sorry ! It displeases me, hut I am already promised to my patron. When one is poor one must think of the francs for the family," he added apologetically. The Signore, who knew no such necessity, frowned. **This is the fifth time this Carnivale — and you just married. If I had a sposina — " ** The Signore' s sposina would lack for nothing," smiled Oreste. ** We others — we must do as we can. As for Gioja, she goes to pass the day with her nonna at Vincigliata. I will bring the Signore' s mail as usual." The Signore waved his hand impatiently and knocked the ashes from his cigarette, then as the shabby cab, with Elisabetta pulling heroically back against the steepness 3o6 oreste's patron wound from sight, his glance softened. It was a piece of fortune surely for a Vignola cabman to have a city patron. Fortunes were not to be made up here where nobody but iht forestieri, who came from time to time to make a villegiatura in one or another of the villas, would think of wasting francs for the sole purpose of getting somewhere. The inhabitants stayed where they found themselves placed by Providence. To all intents, Vig- nola might be a hundred miles from Florence instead of a bare six. Besides, a stranger Signore passes with the season, but a city patron remains. Nuisance as it was to have his own plans conflicted with, the Signore forgave Oreste. Fifteen minutes later this melting mood congealed again, as a slender figure stole quietly down the Way. It was Gioja walking with her usual listless grace. Her small head, its crisply waved Tuscan hair bound with a kerchief of dull blue, was carried far back as no kerchiefed head has a right to be, and her eyes, blue as. the kerchief but not dull, looked straight ahead, dilated and musing. She did not see the Signore — a thing that could have befallen no other girl in the village, unless it were blind Chiara, and the Signore watched her go with a frown. For this was not the direction of Vinci- gliata. And why was she starting so early, unless to defeat the glances with which all these closed doors would soon be alive ? Yet he continued to watch her. There were other girls in the village just as pretty. Many a strain of noble blood had gone to the making of these Vignolese peasants. This was not the first girl the Signore had seen who looked as if — change her gown and tie a bonnet over her hair — she might loll in her carriage of an afternoon at the Cascine with the best of the fine GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 3O7 ladies in the city below. But there was no other whom the Signore ever leaned over the wall to look after. And as he leaned his frown deepened ; he was sorry for Oreste, but — marry a girl like that and leave her alone in Italy ! Anybody might foresee the end. And he frowned again, not at Gioja this time, who had dis- appeared from view, but at a mental image wearing, it is true, an air dangerously like that of Oreste's sposa. Yes, indeed, anybody might foretell the end. That was what the whole community, already buzzing with the scandal, said. And it was exactly what the Padre said when, five minutes later, he came up the path and sank upon the marble seat, mopping his brow beneath the beaver hat. ** 1 have been to Oreste's," he said, apologetically, **and thought I would look in upon the Signore in pass- ing. There was nobody there." The Signore, engaged in pouring red wine for his guest, made no response, and the priest stole a troubled glance at him as he took the glass from his hand. ** Perhaps, Signore, you may have seen them pass and can tell me if that child went with her husband ?" **No," said the Signore, after a minute's delibera- tion, '* I could not." His guest sighed as he sipped the wine. He had grown grey in the service of the village. He had known Gioja from her babyhood. His was the hand which had held and oiled and dipped her at the font, and had led her from then until her present estate ; and he, if anyone, had a right to borrow trouble, seeing that all troubles were brought to him in the end. His fine, thin lips shut above the wine-glass in the sensitive line which marks the better of Rome's two types. His soul was straight and simple. The one vanity it owned was to 308 oreste's patron be on terms of companionship with the occupant of the big villa. The half hour on its terrace or in its salotto formed his social dissipation, and dearly did he prize the importance it gave him in the eyes of his flock. Nay, it gave importance to the whole community. ** Not every village has a priest like ours,'* said the gossips complacently, **that a so educated stranger Sig- nore would make so much of." Moreover, if his people were poor, God alone knows how poor their priest was, and the Signore possessed a line taste in wines — (true Chianti, a very diiFerent thing from vifto rosso at eighty centesimi the flask) — while his lavishness was that of his country. As for the Signore, he would pour the oil from a fresh flask anytime to unseal the lips pressed together as now over the case of Oreste's sposa. "The truth is," sighed the priest, *' the end is too easy to foresee. The child is not like others, and there is nothing worse than that. That's what Luigi's sposa said yesterday when I rebuked her for thinking evil, and recalled to her how Gioja helped nurse her three through the tifo only last spring. ' Oh, I 'm not saying she has n't a heart,' said Luigi's sposa, * but you can't deny that all is not right when a girl is different from all the rest ; it is better to have less heart and be more like one's neigh- bors.' And Luigi's wife had reason. Nothing is worse than'to be different from all the folk about you. When I had her safely married I thought indeed there would be an end of trouble. Heaven grant it do not prove a beginning." *' Does she not love her husband ? " **Who can tell?" sighed the priest, impatiently. ** Oreste is not one to set the Arno afire, but he is a good lad. But about her he is a mule — a very mule. I GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 3O9 Would you believe, Signore, when 1 ventured a word — I, whose duty it is — he flared up like a befana torch — he whose manner to me ordinarily is a lesson to the com- munity." The Signore smiled and reflected upon the strength of man. ** One would say I had spoken ill of the saints/* continued the exasperated priest. ** And the thing is becoming insufferable — such a tale of scandal as some- one whispers to me every day. One would think she has neither eyes nor ears, and cares not whether she has friends or foes for neighbors." There is in truth no such broad and flowery path to unpopularity as this which Gioja undeviatingly pursued. Nobody who elects to be unlike his neighbors gets social good of it. Had not the Signore himself seen ? Bad enough it was to have her sitting wide-eyed and absolutely indifferent at her machine (and so pretty that one could see the gtovine looking at her when they pre- tended not to), or mooning over her straw work with never a word of gossip or a little story about a friend, more than if they were all stones; but what did these absences all by herself mean, which looked the worse now that she was a decent man's wife t It was an absolute scandal — which is only another name for a godsend sometimes — to a sober community. Oreste might pretend to shut his eyes — he had always been a fool about her — but it could not be asked that all the village should do the same, especially those girls who would have made decent wives if anyone had given them the chance, and those lads who would have known how to keep a wife in order if they had taken one. The priest, thinking of these things, sighed. He, too, might aff^ect blindness, but he would need to be stone 3^0 deaf as well to escape hearing what every tongue in the village felt it a duty and a privilege to confide to him daily. ** It must be admitted that the Signorina Americana has something to answer for,'* the priest wound up, as he invariably did, and always with an indulgent accent which forgave while it accused. The Signorina Americana ! How many times was she not leveled at the ears of the Signore Americano, who had inherited her tradition with the Villa of which he was the next lessee. W the contadini were to be believed there was litde for which she might not be held accountable. They spoke of her smilingly, Oreste tenderly, the priest indulgendy (the Signorina also had possessed a generous taste in wines), and Gioja not at all. Yet apparendy it was precisely Gioja who might have had most to say. **Ah, yes ; if I could have foreseen when I brought that child to her ! But what harm could come to her from earning a few francs as the Signorina' s maid ! I chose her for the very reason that she had more gende- ness and was more educated than the others. The Signorina, your countrywoman, was herself very educated and full of gentilezza. But she was too good to Gioja, and then she could never be made to see. She had a way with her. When I began to remonstrate with her she would fill up my glass and ask about my poor, and before I knew it — a/tro ! she was very generous, your countrywoman. But if there are many like her in your country it must be a terrible place ; a man would not possess his own soul." The Signore laughed. ** She would sit here — precisely where I sit now — and smile a little smile she had, and twist this rose-vine GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 3II about her fingers, and just so she twisted us all. Ah/* he concluded, lifting his glass, *' she was truly terrible, that Signorina ; but simpaticdy altro ! never have I seen 80 simpatica a signorina." Simpatica ! When you are that, there is nothing else you can be ; and when you are not that, nothing that you can be is of any use. When everybody, down to the newsboys and cab-openers, loves you and does n't |{now why, you are simpatica ; when people would rather do things for you than not, and don't care about the payment, then you may be sure you are simpatica ; when the expression of their eyes and the tones of their voices change insensibly when they look at and speak to you, there is no room to doubt that you are simpatica. You may not be rich, nor beautiful, nor ** educated" (such a very different thing from book-fed), but you do not need to be. Simpatica is the comprehending sky of praise in which separate stars of admiration are swallowed up. While the Signore figured rapidly the mischief possible of accomplishment by a dangerous Signorina possessing this attribute, the priest drank another glass of wine and returned to the trouble of his soul. ** I thought, indeed, with a wife's work to do, she would settle down like others, but Oreste encourages her wilfulness." ** Why do you not speak to Gioja herself? " '•Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the priest, crossing himself. **I have tried that once. She has a terrible nature, that child ! I have never told anyone, but see if I have not reason to say so, Signore." He sipped his wine agitatedly and then began with feeling : ** It was the Signorina to begin with ; she saw that the child was pretty and she put ideas in her head. And in fact, though Heaven forbid I should compare Gioja, 312 ORESTE S PATRON who is only a little contadina, with a real Signorina, yet she has always seemed to me to have a little something about her which recalls the Signorina herself — a way of walking and carrying her head. And the Signorina had not an idea of keeping her in her place. She was always giving her gowns and ribbons and trinkets and vanities of all kinds — that was her way, always giving. The end of it was that one day I surprised that child with a hat of the Signorina' s on her unhappy head ; yes, actually, Signore, if you will credit me, a hat — a cappello di Signer a on her head ! " He spread his hands in depre- cating despair. The Signore looked blankly. ** Oh, Signore, you are like your countrywoman ; it is impossible to make you understand ! But it must be a , country — yours! For a girl like Gioja to put a hat on is to declare herself without shame at once. Honest girls of her class let such roba di Signore alone; yes, and rightly, for God has put people in their places. A girl who showed herself in a signora's hat would find it im- possible to live in Vignola ; she would be hooted out of the village. And as for the wife of a lad like Oreste pretending to that, half a dozen lovers would not be a worse scandal. Those at least the others could under- stand, but a cappello di signora '* He stopped to take several agitated sips, shaking his head all the time. ** I do not say she would have been so mad as to cross the threshold in it (the Signorina had given it to her to sell for the feathers upon it), but who could tell what such a girl might do ? I scolded her well for her wicked vanity and such ideas above her place. Santa Maria! lovers and such are enough without a scandal like that among my people. Well, what was the end ? Signore, she rushed ofi and hung that hat with at least twenty GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 3I3 francs worth of good feathers on it in the Madonna's chapel, beside 'Maso's crutch and the little hearts and legs and other offerings to Our Lady ! There it hung, where all the world would see it and every tongue, in the place beset wagging, if I had not providentially gone in and found it before Mass next day. And even then what could I do ? It was the Madonna's and I dared not remove it. But Heaven sends accidents, and as it chanced providentially ^ Signore, my candle brushed the feathers in passing and prestOy I dropped it quickly into a bucket of water. It was not fit for Our Lady after that, so I took it away, and I myself made it up to her in candles, that no one mighi^eel hurt. And after all nobody was the richer for all those francs worth of feathers; they were singed more than I hoped and did not bring me in Florence the price of the candles. Oh, she has a terrible nature — that Gioja! No, no, grazie, — if I must speak to Oreste, I must ; but to her — ! candles cost, Signore Americano, and I am a poor man." Still shaking his head, he rose to depart. The Signore, left alone, paced the terrace a few times smiling to himself ; then he sat down again — this time in the priest's place — and fell to musing, and as he mused his fingers stole almost furtively to the long rose- tendrils and twisted them gently, while the smile died abruptly on his lips. Presently he rang and Giuseppina came out. **You may take away these things," said the Signore, **and bring me pen and paper. Oh, and by the way, Giuseppina, in future put my seat here — the valley sees itself better." Coming from the post that evening the Signore was aware of a slender shape slipping along through the 3H ORESTE S PATRON deepening shadows ahead. Quickening his steps, he overtook it easily. ** Buona sera. So it is you, Gioja .^ " ** Si, Signore ! " The voice was both startled and appealing. But the Signore strode along, looking keenly at the downcast face. *• Oreste is not with you ? '' *' No, Signore ; he went to the city.'* ** And you have doubtless been visiting your nonna .^ " ** Yes, Signore." The voice was almost inaudible. The Signore turned on his heel with a curt ** Buona sera!'''' and was still muttering things under his breath when fifteen minutes later he beheld from the terrace Oreste and Elisabetta toiling wearily up the hill. **How well she times it," he thought contemptu- ously, as the bell of the big gate sounded, and he heard Giuseppina's challenge, ** Who is it ? " **Amici; friends," answered Oreste's voice, and Oreste swiftly followed with his frank smile and a square envelope of dull blue, which the Signore's hand involun- tarily stretched to grasp. ** Ecco, Signore, the only one!" said Oreste with that polite gesture of regret with which he daily accom- panied this small comedy. The Signore having possessed himself of the letter avidly, put it into his pocket with ostentatious carelessness and coolly lighted a cigarette. Oreste smiled comprehendingly but respectfully. " You have had a long day of it ? " **Yes, Signore." Oreste smiled with the satisfied air of one who has done a good day's work. **I suppose you have made a handful of money," continued the Signore severely. i GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 315 Oreste shrugged his shoulders. ** Not great things, but altro! I am content." The Signore shrugged in his turn. ** Each to his own mind. Your spostna has also made a long day; I saw her just now." ** Ah, yes ; it is a long way to Vincigliata when one must walk. The Signore's commands ?" ''None." Truly, the Signorina Americana, if this was her work, had small reason to be proud of it. The Signore's frown enveloped even the blue envelope at which he stood staring long after Oreste had left the room. And so it ran through the spring months — the mourn- fully beautiful Tuscan spring. The nightingales in the villa gardens sang and sang, at dusk, in the moonlight and at dawn, and the iire-flies glittered all through the darkness up and down the olive slopes. An intenser life quickened in the litde community as the summer stirred in the veins of her children. The youths went singing up and down the hills, and the girls and women lingered over their water-jars at the fountain in the square. For what is it to be poor in the summer time } Sometimes the Signore, lying awake at night, heard Oreste' s mellow voice as he passed by to the little house. But through all this gaiety of being Gioja stole silently and dreamily, and the whisper of turned heads and eyes askance followed her. For there were the ever-recurring festas when Oreste went to the city, and where then did Oreste' s j-/>(?j^ go ? That is what the community would like to know, for the tale about her grandmother was quite too large for the village throat. She kept her secret well — yes ; but there is only one kind of a secret possible to the Italian mind. **Birbone!" said the women, with contempt, of 3i6 oreste's patron Oreste, while the men laughed and shrugged their shoul- ders. Oreste had caught a pretty sposa who had thought herself much too good for them, but ma che^ he was pay- :ng for it. It was impossible that the public curiosity should con- tent itself with being curious. Maria, one of those pub- lic-minded souls which never lack in any community, toiled all the way over to Vincigliata and brought back personal assurance from the nonna herself that that pioui; granddaughter had not been seen in Vincigliata all these months. ** Eight good miles I trudged in all that sun, and a day's work lost," declared Maria, mopping her brow in the midst of an excited and sympathetic group. ^* If my legs ache ! but for the good of the community I did it, and what I know to-night the priest shall know before morning. I made haste to go to-day, for to-morrow being the festa of our Saint John, Oreste goes to the city, and that civetta ' ' And nobody could say but that Maria had done well and the girl deserved whatever might come of it. But when the priest, sad-eyed and stern, knocked at the door of the little house in the early morning after Mass, no one was there. Having dehvered a vain fusil- lade, to the accompaniment of many suggestions offered from the neighbors' windows, the priest turned away and betook himself with a clouded brow to the Signore who had invited him by Oreste to breakfast with him that morning. He was waiting for him now on the terrace with a morning countenance, and the breakfast table, heaped with roses, wore a festal air which did not escape the priest, preoccupied though he was. **You also are keeping a feast^ Signore, to appear- ances ? " GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 317 "Yes." ** Ah, indeed ! a festa Americana ? " ** No, my own. And now what is it about these two ? Oreste, I know went to the city. I tried to en- gage him, but he was pre-engaged to that patron of his. And Gioja — well, I saw her pass a little later." ** While we were in the church, the guilty child !" said the priest, sternly. ** But where can she have gone.?" he added sighing. ** I have been much to blame ; I have been too negligent ; I should have dealt v/ith her from the first. Culpa mia !^^ He crossed himself and looked so discouraged that the Signore was touched. '* Listen, amico mioy'* he said. ** As you say, it is a bad business, and, arrange it how you will, it will never be well that those two shall live here. The last of it will never be heard, if I know your people. I am going away to Livorno next week, and I have asked Oreste to go with me. I like the fellow, and away from here she may come to her senses. She is young, and guilty though she may be, she does not seem case-hardened." ** Going away !" exclaimed the startled priest in dis- may. **And going to take those two away from their own country — to a foreign place ! What an idea — but what an idea ! " ** Scarcely foreign — it is only the other side ot Florence." '* Ah, ah ! to you, but to us villagers ! It is not a little thing to leave one's home, where one has been born and bred and knows his neighbors after all, whether they be good or bad. It is a great thing to know one's neighbors. And to go so far — but they will think twice before they say 'yes.' " ** On the contrary, Oreste goes willingly. I do not 3i8 oreste's patron think he is so blind ; he knows well they are not friendly to his sposa here." *' And Gioja/* said the startled priest; "will she go ? - "He says so." The priest drew a long breath, half relief, half regret, and wholly wonder. *' Well, well ; it is perhaps the best that could happen ; but to lose two of my flock — and to leave one's country like that ! You are a strange people, you Americans. And what becomes of us without either you or the Signo- rina Americana here in the villa ? ' ' "There are more Americans," replied the Signore smiling, **and who knows but that your Signorina will return to make you more trouble yet ?" The priest shook his head. "The next time she may bring her own maid ; not another girl from our village shall she turn the head of — that Signorina," and the very tone of his voice as he said it was witness that he affirmed what he knew to be false. The Signore understood and laughed. "Put it all away, nmico mioy for to-day and go with me to Florence. Gioja has gone, and you can do nothing but hsten to your people, who will deafen you before night. Come and see your bella Firenxe in her festa dress. We will take a tram below and find a cab at the gates." The priest's face brightened like a child's. " Ah, Signore, now it is I you are proposing to carry away ; but why not ? It is long since I was in Flor- ence, and I have already said service here. But it is not necessary to say anything to my people ; discretion, Sig- nore Americano, discretion is a great thing." And thus it happened that when the village folk saw GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 319 the good father depart in company with the Signore forestiere, they sagely concluded — with that sense of the importance of our own affairs common to the race — that the two had gone to Fiesole, or who knew but even Florence, to consult the authorities in the matter of that disgraziata Gioja. And in point of fact, though the priest was fairly running away from the subject, he was destined to run straight into its arms instead. Florence was all in festa, and if there is anything lovelier than Florence in festa, who has seen it ? The streets ran over with bright sunshine, and the Florentines, reinforced by contadini from all the neighboring towns, in holiday garb, made a bright shifting mass for the sun- beams to play over. Arno rolled its now shallow stream like muddy gold, and pale golden palaces stood loftily up and looked down at her. Over her streaming Ways, Florence shook the bells in all her towers every fifteen minutes, and at intervals the deep golden-throated voice in Giotto's Tower answered with a rich hum, hum-m, hum-m-m, like a melodious summer bee. The strident notes of the grilli in their little wicker cages, brought from the Cascine at dawn, completed the joyous pande- monium. The Signore' s spirits ran at higher tide than even the bright tide of humanity about him. He laughed at all; he bought flowers or the boys and girls who ran after the carriage holding up glowing armfulls, until the carriage seat was heaped and the priest held up his hands at the extravagance. He climaxed his folly by buying all the remaining grilli in their cages and letting them loose upon the grass of the Cascine. **Do not scold, amico mioy'^ he said to the priest gaily. ** I told you it is a festa, I have come into a fortune, and it is written that nobody must be shut up 320 ORESTE*S PATRON to-day or hungry." He tossed a handful of soldi to a group of children. ** I am afraid your fortune will not last long," replied the priest, shaking his head. But he forgot his own prudence when a little later they went to a restaurant — not Doney's, where the foolish tourists go, fancying themselves in Italy, and where the priest would have been miserable, but Gilli's, on the Piazza Signoria. There, it being a feast day and his host newly come into a fortune, the good father ate for the honor of religion and his own temporal good such a meal as had never before found its way to his stomach, and washed it down with glasses of Chianti not merely old (vecchio) but extravagantly old (stravecchio). Golden moments were these, and he put down his glass at last with a sigh of regret that it was impossible to prolong them further. His limit of possibility was reached. ** Now," said the Signore, casting an extravagant fee upon the table, ** where next ? " **To the Baptistery and the Duomo, my son," an- swered the priest, with sudden gravity, crossing him- self," to say our grazie and put up a little prayer to our good Saint John." It was precisely upon emerging from the door of Gillies in this comfortable and untroubled frame of mind, arising from the perfect balance of the carnal and the spiritual, that he came face to face with the worst trouble of all. For, straightening his shabby hat and smoothing his shabby cassock, what should his eyes fall upon but Oreste — Oreste, who having that moment emerged from a cafe below, was assisting a very elegant signora into his cab. Just as he got her safely tucked in, his eye caught the two pairs staring at him. His sturdy face blanched ; then before either could make a step forward he had shut the GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 321 door, sprung quickly to the seat and touching up Elisa- betta, with a glance of defiance, whirled away. The two left staring, drew a long breath. ** ^-^<^^/?^," remarked the Signore at last. <*So the patron was a padro?ia ; perhaps Gioja has not been so much to blame after all." ** I will know," answered the priest, sharply. The Signore said a word to the nearest cabman, slip- ping something into his hand, and in a moment they were bowling up the Via Calzaioli. It cost a city cab- man nothing to keep Elisabetta in sight, and they drew up in the Piazza del Duomo just in time to see Oreste deferentially assisting his signora to alight at the Cathedral steps. He saw them and his eye shot such a glance of stern warning that both men sat stupidly, and the next moment nearly fell over each other as the Signora in her silks and nodding plumes swept by — for lo, it was Gioja ! In another instant she had swept up the steps and the great doors had swallowed her. Then Oreste' s manner changed. He leaned against the cab door and turned upon the two men a regard which said : '* And now, what have you to say about it ? " There was a decidedly awkward silence while they drew near ; then the Signore burst out laughing. ** You have found a bel patron^ amico mio .' " he said. *' What folly ! " ejaculated the priest, holding up his hands and recovering breath at last. ** Gran' Dio ! what folly !" ** Reverendo," replied Oreste, quietly. "Perhaps not so much folly as some of you have thought. Perhaps I know what the tongues up there wag like, and if I choose not to mind, whose affair is that ? If it pleases us to please ourselves, who is the worse for that ? ' * 322 ORESTE S PATRON ** And the scandal ! '* exclaimed the priest, *' and the waste, and the ideas you are putting in Gioja's head — the wicked vanity and pride. Oh, I told the Sig- norina how it would end ! *' **As for that, Reverendo, you will pardon me, but tongues must wag when they are hung in the middle, and if they wag about Gioja, why it does n*t hurt her and someone else goes safe. And as for the waste — the price of a fare now and then — why if it suits us to live on polenta six days and take our pleasure on the seventh whose misery is that ? I have never yet lacked my soldo for the church or for a neighbor poorer than I.'* ** And the ideas you are encouraging in her unhappy head ! But I will have something to say to that child." ** Reverendo," interposed Oreste sternly, ** by your leave ; you are a good man, half a saint, and I am only an ignorant peasant, but there are some things priests and nuns do not understand, and what one does not under- stand that one should not meddle with. The Signorina understood ; she knew well it was neither pride nor vanity in Gioja, but just a kind o^ poesia which made her like to play the signora. The Signorina understood be- cause she herself was full q>{ poesiay ** Oh, the Signorina, the Signorina !" interjected the priest in despair. ** She kneWy^^ Oreste went on, ** You remember the time of the hat, Reverendo ?" *^If\ remember !" groaned the prest. ** EbhenCy^ said Oreste emphatically, ** when I found it out I went straight to the Signorina and told her. She was on the terrace, and she sat down and laughed a little — you remember our Signorina' s way of laugh- ing?" It was to the priest that he addressed this, but it was ( GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 323 the Signore looking straight before him and smiling who looked as if he remembered. ** Nothing would do," continued Oreste, "but that she must jump into my cab then and there, with only a lace on her head, and she a Signorina ! (here the Signore laughed aloud) and drive straight to Florence, not to one of the small shops, but to the great milliner's on Torna- buoni, where she bought a hat — who knows what it cost ? — and she bade me take it to Gioja and tell her to wear it when she liked, for there was nothing wicked about it." The priest groaned again. **Only," added Oreste, with the suspicion of a twinkle, ** she bade us say nothing about it, lest you, Reverendo, might think it your duty to lecture the child again, and it was a pity, she said, to make so good a man uncomfortable. So, as she could not wear it openly, we had to find a way under the plate, and as the whole village would have been talking if we went away to- gether, I had to make that little story of a patron. Once outside of Vignola I wait for Gioja, and there in the olive grove she makes herself into a signora ; and on the way home we stop again and — the Signora's hat and gown stowed away under my seat — my little sposa climbs up beside me and we talk it all over. And then the next day I count my francs and the folk call me * Birbone,' and the lads think evil of my Gioja because she would never look at them, and we laugh in our sleeves. What does all that matter when one is happy ? " ** And so," said the priest, sternly, ** you let all Vig- nola think your wife has a lover and say nothing ? " **They have to think something, and isn't it better they should think she has a lover, Reverendo, than a cappello di signora ? ' ' 324 ORESTE S PATRON "Surely," assented the priest, quickly. ** A lover, at least, they can all understand, and only too many of them — Madonna pardon them! — have had; but a signora's hat nobody in the village has ever had, and they would never pardon Gioja for having. And they have right ; Gioja has no business with a signora's hat — nor you to waste your time and money, as if you would be bambini all your lives. And for you — a man — to make yourself the servant of your wife — oh, it is shameful, vergognoso ! ' ' ** Pardon again, Reverendo — but that too, you can 't understand. If it is Gioja' s poesia to play the signora — why, Gioja is my poesia. As for its lasting — altro ! the future is long, and if we had others to feed all that might be different. She is only a child herself now, but when the good God- sends a child to a child, that makes a woman of her. He himself sees to that. When that comes she will care nothing to play the signora with her stupid Oreste. All this our Signorina knew; for that night when the child came to me weeping and saying how wicked she had been and begging me to forgive her and marry her at once, at once — I, Signori — who would have married her at any moment for years! — it put me in trouble. I had fear to take her like that and per- haps have her sorry for it later. But I went to our Sig- norina with her and told her all and she looked at us both and said : * Marry her, Oreste, you safely may ; ' — for the Signorina understood. And so — I married her." The eyes of the two young men met suddenly and exchanged across the gulf of position and race one rapid thrill of comprehension. The priest looked half-timidly at both ; but perhaps he too comprehended something, for he said meekly : " After all I did no harm." GRACE ELLERY CHANNING 325 ** Perhaps not," replied Oreste, with his frank smile, **but that was not your fault, Reverendo. And now if the Signore and you will excuse me — that was the bell of the Elevation. If Gioja saw you she would have no more pleasure, and that would be all the more a pity because it is our last festa here. We are going to live with the Signore — and his Signora ; is n't it so, Sig- nore?" **Ah, ah!" exclaimed the priest, with vivacity, ** so that was your festa and your fortune, Signore ? And that is why you have so much sympathy for even the ^r//// and these foolish children! Well, well — it is perhaps the best that could happen, for it would be im- possible to go on giving scandal like this, and if I said a word you would all be for taking my hfe. It may do for Gioja — who is not like the others, but Heaven forbid the other ragazze should get such ideas in their heads ; I have enough to do to keep track of them and their ajffairs as it is." **Signori !" said Oreste, warningly. The two slunk behind the next cab, and from there beheld the stream of life suddenly burst from the big doors of the Duomo ; — men and women and children ; prince and citizen and peasant ; and among them a slender, graceful shape, her cappello di sig?wra sitting well upon the ruffled gold of her hair, and her long skirt raised in one gloved hand with a gesture at which the Signore' s heart beat suddenly faster against the blue envelope above it. So very excellent an imitation of the signora that even an expert need not blush to be deceived by it. Oreste stepped forward and flung open the cab door with ostentation. The Signora mounted languidly and sank back against the cushions, making a great rustling of silk. The loungers on the Duomo steps stole covert 326 oreste's patron glances at the pretty woman. Then Oreste slammed the door, took off his hat and approached deferentially. ** Commands y Signora ? " he said, loud enough for every one to hear. ** Alia casay — home," responded the Signora, with superb languor. And mounting upon the seat, with a parting glance of mingled triumph and humor in the direction of the two watchers, Oreste, Elisabetta and the Signora whirled triumphantly away. The two left upon the sidewalk remained speechless for a few minutes; then the priest's eye caught his compan- ion's, deprecatingly, but with an echo of Oreste's twinkle. **That Signorina," he said, with an indulgent sigh, **she has much to answer for ! " But the Signore, looking into the distance and laughing softly to himself, said not a word. Grace Ellery Channing. Next week at the old Academy of Music in New York there is to be a benefit performance for the widow of J. W. Kelly, known to the world as the Rolling Mill Man. All of the best variety performers have offered i NOTES 327 their aid, and the soubrettes of all nations are to sell nosegays in the lobby. This will be the only public recognition of a man whose name, in his own profession, was one to con- jure with ; who was an idol of thousands of the humble patrons of variety theatres, but who never rose high enough to be considered seriously by the cultured minor- There is one notable exception. Mr. James A. Hearne stoutly maintains that Kelly was one of our greatest artists. Actor, in the ordinary sense of playing a role created by another, he was not. I like better to think of him and his kind as the modern representative of the mediaeval wandering minstrel, or the story-teller in a Persian khan, reciting the Arabian Nights. J. W. Kelly was a story-teller, and his stories he found him- self. They were of the people, and in the best sense ot the word (for now-a-days, in questions of story-telling, it has many senses) true. A keen sense of humor gave his sentiment the right ring. Genuine humor and tawdry sen- timent are really so incompatible. Simplicity and direct- ness of method, added to a natural whimsicality of face and manner, made Kelly an instant favorite with every audience. He needed no preparation, but stepping out and greeting the house with, **Say, awjence," he pro- ceeded to flatter and bulldoze them by turns, telling them new stories, or, quite as often, old ones, heard a hundred times before. The result was always the same — roars and applause. Kelly's '* turns" were truly what re- fined modern journalism calls ** heart to heart talks." That he did not rise into the field of vision of our higher classes is their loss. But the gain was to the people whose entertainment is too often vulgar, coarse, insincere. They can well pardon any lapses on the 328 NOTES part of J. W. Kelly, and any lack of personal ambition which kept him for their pleasure. ^ If Mr. Andrew Lang's devotion to the game were not enough to show that golf is a literary sport, other proof would be found in the fact that Edmund Curtis, the newly-discovered boy-poet of Silvertown, was working in a factory where they make golf-balls. It now be- comes the duty of the journals **for young writers" to call the attention of their readers to this information and to give the proper rules for the expression of sonnets, novels, and so forth, in terms of india-rubber and sand. ^ The hot weather induced me to hold The Atheneum idly in my hand in preference to opening and reading. In spite of myself I demonstrated the inherent virtue of the paper, for on that wonderful front page of advertise- ments I saw again the last word of literary progress. My text is found in the second inch, second column, issue of July i ith. It is as follows : **For Sale, (on condition of coming winter season) a Story, specially suitable for boys, by Mary C. Rowsell. Tone, unsectarian; length, 63,000 words; adaptable for serial use. Note from Westminster Gazette: *A list ot books taken out of a house-library at one of the great public schools gives an insight into the hterary tastes of boys. Mary C. Rowsell is one of the only two women writers figuring in this list.' Address the author, 14 Lorn Road, Brixton, London, S.W." It is well known that now-a-days every story of a well-known author is, to all intents and purposes, put up at auction in the literary world. Provided he has writ- ten the best story he can, and does not sell work only planned, not done, there is nothing to be said against this. It is only curious that authors have never KOTES 329 thought before of offering their wares by advertisement. A small card in a literary paper (rates for the Chap- BooK will be sent on application) will at a moderate expense reach as many publishers as dozens of letters. Withal, the attitude is a most dignified one, for the author calmly awaits advances from the publisher instead of be- sieging him with visits and letters, as is usual. And publishers must have stories. The hordes of the re- jected sometimes lose sight of this fact. The reader of manuscripts is as anxious to Hke a story as its author could wish. I repeat, publishers must have stories, and this advertising scheme is another step in the process of mak- ing the publisher instead of the author ** do the hustling.'* •^y Since a promising and well-known American writer calling himself Sidney Luska gave up that name, and as Henry Harland attained life in London and a fair degree of obscurity, the Jew has rarely figured as a character in fiction. This is a waste of good material, for there are several points of view from which anyone with what Mr. Hamlin Garland terms **a fictive eye " might regard the Jew. Three things are possible. First, he may be op- pressed by the Gentile, hence an opportunity for the successors of Isaac of York. Second, he may live un- molested, but retain certain picturesque habits and turns of thought. This is the field which Mr. Zangwill has entered with such obvious success. Third, he may oppress the Gentile. The last supposition, least considered in America, is yet rich in possibility for the novelist and playwright. And in the popular mind of continental Europe it is a living issue. Moreover, the frantic fanati- cism of the anti-Semitic party in Russia, Germany, and Austria, even when most bigoted and inhuman, cannot be entirely smoke without fire. The Jew is prosperous materially as he never was be- 330 NOTES fore. The vast commercial and financial enterprises of all countries are in his power. That he has possibly won in fair and open competition makes it no easier for the Christian to find himself displaced. He nurses his inbred racial antipathy for the Jew and writes in- vectives. France has been least tenacious, and there more than anywhere else Jew has mixed with Christian. He has invaded journalism and literature, and the final citadel, the world of fashion. With or without becoming Chris- tian he marries the daughters of the Gentiles, and mates his daughters with the flower of the old aristocracy. The satirist is finding his opportunity in this yielding by the Christians to the Hebrew plutocracy. Gyp, with her lightest touch, ridiculed the condition of things last year in Les Gens Chics, the book which Bob illustrated with caricatures of such remarkable crudeness and awk- wardness. This spring a play was produced which is an interest- ing comment on the fashionable problem in Paris. It is by Maxime Gray, and is called The Last Crusade. Sarah, Baronne de Gugenfeld, has for her lover the Mar- quis de Maltaux, an aristocrat of the Faubourg St. Germain. The Marquis finds his position somewhat difficult, as the Baroness, who is pronouncedly Jewish, docs not as yet **go out." In fact, he has never been able to dine pub- licly at the Gugenfeld' s. This irks him, and for the moment the Baroness Sarah is threatened with the loss of her lover. But the play goes on to show what power the money of the Baron Gugenfeld has over the de Maltaux family. Even the mother and sister of the Marquis feel that the relation between the two families, although illicit, must be preserved. The Marquis him- self has but a languid interest ; so the only hope lies in NOTES 331 the conversion of the Baroness. In this spirit of piety begins the last crusade. The play goes on to display the conversion of Sarah to Catholicism and the fashionable world. At the fall of the curtain, clasped in de Maltaux's arms, she exclaims : **Ah ! how good it is to be a Christian ! '* ^The Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Company, and their Atlantic Monthlyy have not been noted of late as innovators, unless, indeed, the fact that the Atla7itic is always distinctively literary in tone is in itself perpet- ual innovation. It is grievous to find the Atlantic indulg- ing in latter-day subtleties and a hunt for novelty. This, it seems to me, is what is to be read into an advertise- ment of the August issue which I find liberally distributed through the periodical press. In it we are told that there are contributions by Mr. Aldrich, Lafcadio Hearne, Mrs. Catherwood, President Gilman, Paul Shorey and Kate Chopin. Note the variety in nomenclature. It is com- monly supposed that where you habitually write Mr. before a writer's name it implies that he is living, and that after his death you will drop the title. Metaphorically speaking, I suppose Lafcadio Hearne and Kate Chopin are no more dead than Thomas Bailey Aldrich and Mary Hartwell Catherwood. They are less distinguished, and that is what the Atlantic means to imply. The method is imperfect; a more finely graded scale is possible, some- thing like this: Mr. Aldrich, Mr. T. B. Aldrich, Mr. Thomas Bailey Aldrich, T. B. Aldrich, Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Here are five grades of distinction. The feminine problem is more difficult, as there is a necessity for deciding if Mrs. or Miss be the more elevated rank. In the present case this question did not come. Kate Chopin is Mrs. Kate Chopin. Those of the Atlantic readers who are especially pleased with this new story 331 KOTES may even wish to call her, simply and nobly, Mrs. Chopin. ^ In the very sane and dignified article which Mr. Glad- stone has printed in the New Review there is one point on which one might wish he had been more insistent, the tremendous responsibility which an author ought to feel not merely about his having made his book in such and such a fashion, but as well about having made a book at all. ** I suppose it to be true," he says, ** that no one ought to add to the mass of printed books already born into the world unless he honestly believes that he is about to contribute some addition to the stores of useful literature. It may be an addition humble and small, so small as to be infinitesimal and hardly perceptible. But something he ought to contemplate, and some- thing which to his own mind is definite, and goes be- yond the forms of words and letters. For that which before all things he ought to impress upon himself is, that no book is a mere cipher. On the contrary, some in a great and some in a small way, every book is to mankind either a benefit or a burden. Many and many a book may be born with only a negative sign in the heavens ; but minus gives as much trouble as plus in an algebraical operation.*' ^ This is saying in another form that the curse of the reading public is books, and that the vast number of publications is the real cause of national illiteracy. The American public, for example, sees itself confronted by an array of dull books forced before it by the vanity of authors and manifesdy impossible to read. The public is fairly shrewd, and except in questions of national finance litde disposed to attempt the impossible. It NOTES 333 retires dismayed from the book shops. It has bought each time some few books, for it has a pathetic belief in the good of reading and the mystery of authorship. Jt pays its tribute to what it believes to be a higher light in adorning its library tables with pretty volumes, and even in pretending to have read them. But it cannot read a tenth of the books it buys. The fault is not the public's, nor the bicycle's, nor the golf ball's. The supply is way beyond the demand, and it is the author who is to be blamed. A friend of mine proposes the governmental suppression of fiction by a system of government licensing of novels at the rate of, say, one hundred and fifty a year. I have urged arguments doubting the critical acumen of the National Committee, but he says that the system would at least give the public what it wants. The publishers of a book which they felt was likely to be popular could always afford to bribe the national committeemen and so secure their license. The plan has its own allurements, although it is manifestly open to objection. I was, therefore, almost glad the other day when a news item suggested that male intelligence was once more proved futile, and that the ewig neu-weibliche had again come to the front with a remedy for human ills. In the Washington Post I saw that ** twenty-six ladies of Kansas have banded together for the purpose of writing a novel." Now, if Kansas be a state of average literary ability, and if this band system can be extended over the whole country, we may hope for the reduction of the output of fiction by a divisor of twenty-six. Instead of twenty-six mediocre books we should get one superb achievement, for each lady-writer's work would be sub- jected to the keen inspection of twenty-five lady-critics. 334 NOTES If the process were a slow one, it would only be another advantage. I would myself advise larger lady-bands. Why should not one hundred and seven ladies **band together for the purpose of writing a novel," and in this fashion still further reduce the number of our novels? Of course literary activity would be stimulated, and while now perhaps not more than a quarter of our women are authoresses, at least a third would probably be engaged in producing novels. But even then the result would be such a pleas- ing contrast to present conditions that it ought to be brought about. These noble Kansas women have made the beginning, and our women's clubs should carry on the work. ^Some of our publishing houses have so many books to bring out that they are forced to issue a certain number every week. But the majority still cling to the tradi- tional two seasons, autumn and spring, md the belief is still current that reading is an occupation of what we might call winter and its fringes. Summer is supposed to be an intellectual desert. ** Light reading for sum- mer'* is as much of a convention as the diet of herbs for hot weather. As to the latter, some may have noticed how the exhausted golfer or tennis player takes to roast beef and Scotch whisky. As for reading, I am inclined to suspect that a rising mercury takes away our appetite for it very little. Summer schools at our universities, and Chautauqua institutes at a hundred fresh water ponds, might serve as proofs, if our own experience far from the seats of organized teaching were not sufficient. The holiday maker, whether he be at the quietest of country villages, or the gayest of fashionable colonies, finds much time on his hands. There are hot mid-day NOTES 335 hours which, except for reading, would be unused until the siesta shall become a national institution. There are long days of rain and perfect leisure, and moments of ennui when human companionship is unwelcome. In all these cases books are the logical resource. Even for the stay-at-homes the great strain of business is relaxed. The hours are shorter. Not every night, even in a city, is hot, and with the distraction of winter theaters and society gayety gone, there is a great chance for books to have their innings. In short, we do read in summer as much, if not more, than in winter, nor is the consumption entirely trashy novels and vers de societe. It is not too much to assert that as many young ladies begin The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire y and The Rise of the Dutch Republic in the summer as in the winter. The college student who finds little time for it in winter, ploughs through the English classics. Knowledge of foreign languages, mainly the French, is freshened by a course of yellow-covered novels. The weary business man reads some o^ the books on which his wife wrote papers last winter for the woman^s club, and so on. I want a summer publishing season. There is but one difficulty. The bookshop in the city is too far from the would-be purchasers. I want the itinerant huckster in a neat book-cart, whose sides shall be covered with the gay maidens of poster land. Having filled his van with all the newest, most attractive books, he will clothe him- self in cool white duck, and his good steed will carry him along green mountain lanes and down long stretches of sea beach. Everywhere the summer girl and her pals will help buy his stock. The great work of culture for the multitude will go on, and the publisher's books will show an increased balance to his credit. 33^ NOTES ^ Several times lately I have been on the point of com- menting on the proposal to erect a monument to Paul Verlaine, but all the papers discussed the question and, generally speaking, what is for them is not for me. It is just as well that I said noth- ing; it would have been on a false basis. The news- papers announced that the necessary money was to be raised by the sale of a volume of tributes from the dead poet's admirers. Now it transpires that this is not so at all. The scheme is to erect a bust of Verlaine in the Luxembourg Gardens, near the statue to Henri Murger, and it is to be done by an international subscription. By the last French mail came a letter from Paris asking the Chap-Book to act as American representative of the committee, and to solicit and receive subscriptions. There are prominent men engaged in the matter. The president is M. Stephane Mallarme, poete da poetes. The vice-president is M. Auguste Rodin, the famous sculptor. The bust is already finished and is the work of M. A. de Niederhaiisern. I am in hopes the readers of the Chap-Bock will respond at once to this note. The number of persons in this country who knew and appreciated Verlaine's work is not great; yet the opportunity to assist in raising a monument to the greatest poet of modern France, and one of the most perfect poets of all time, is remarkable. All checks will be acknowledged in the CHAP-Book and the money will be forwarded at once to Paris. 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The Threatened Annihilation of the Judge-and-Jury System — HON. W. K. TOWNSEND, Judge of the U. S. District Court of Connecticut. Early and Recent Currency Legislation : A Contrast — J. J. LALOR. THE FORUM PUBLISHING COMPANY NEW YORK. 25c a copy $3>oo a year IV THE CHAP-BOOK GET SOME OF OUR Up to Date Posters § ll 38 ay 80 ^ftao O oo ao ^^a C3Q0 O on OQ Sis * %» 9 (IV) 3(3 « (?en (3 q| fiO 8^ « 9 Copyright, 1896. by H. S. STONE & COMPANY HAFIZ I HEN Hafiz sang in Samarcand, Through tender twilights, sweet with balm. Trooped star-eyed youths and maids to hear. And woo *neath citron-tree and palm The nightingales were awed and mute; Peace brooded over all the skies; And sweeter than a magic lute His glad notes rang, or broke in sighs. The spell of love was on the land When Hafiz sang in Samarcand. II Where Hafiz sleeps by bastioned walls The poppies set the fields in flame; White asphodels above his breast Speak silently his sacred name. In rose-wreathed bowers rough songs are heard. And ribald laughter over wine; A ruffian slays, for one mad word. His rival at a wanton's shrine. Then in the dusk sad silence falls Where Hafiz sleeps by bastioned walls. Arthur Grissom. A NATION TO BLAME. IF you will take your time when you walk up Smoky Row, in the town of Bokoto, Choctaw Nation, you will see to your right, three doors west of the Arkansas Store, a sign which reads, '* The Green Hole." 338 A NATION TO BLAME You can enter the first room, were you the devil himself, and after the "lookout" has regarded you through the peep-hole, you can enter the Green Hole proper, unless you are Tom Polk. I am Jack Moist, gambler. I run the squarest poker house in Bokoto. But Bokoto is a tough town, and the Green Hole is a tough place, and we fellows who finger the pasteboards day and night the year round are tough men, the way the world goes. The Green Hole is a 16x20 room, painted the color ofmesquite grass, and in it are two tables at which the boys play poker. Silver Bar Dick deals the cards at yonder table, and I deal them at this table upon which I now write these words. Each of us has a Winchester lying at his side, because one of these days Deputy Marshal Tom Polk will break my door in, and then these things will come in handy. There's only one man on earth who would break my door in — Tom Polk — and after one or both, or all three, have kicked the bucket, there wont be any blame attached. It's his business to break in doors, and it 's Silver Dick's occupation and mine to kill the man who does it — and that *s all there is to it. This story is about Roy Winter — may the Lord have mercy on his soul. He came out to Bokoto sixteen months ago from Boston. Born at the Hub was he and buried in the dirt that clings to the tire. He came out here to help sustain the family reputation. It is good for a family's reputation for some members to stay at home, and good for it for some to go away, and Roy was one of the kind that could help most by going where reputa- tions do n't count for much. I do n't think he wanted to come out here, but the rest of the family outvoted him. Winter was a gentleman by blood and birth. I know, because I was one once — a long time ago ! — but this W. DOUGLAS COLYAR 339 Story is n't about me. He was that kind of a man whose walk, when he entered, said, "I am somebody." I was glad when he came to the Green Hole, because such men are playing against time, and not for the bread and meat in it. I '11 not forget his looks soon. His looks were looks. His eyes were clear for all the red in the whites; his mouth was strong, though drooping a little at the corners, and he was good seventy-three inches, tall and straight as a new bank clerk's accounts. He soon became the best customer the Green Hole had. He almost lived with us, and I came to expect him to help me settle Tom Polk when that thing had to be done. He was a nervy boy if he was from Boston, and I liked him as much as one gambler ever likes another. He never kicked when the game went against him. I don't think he cared, because, back in a very fine house in a tony part of Boston was a swell old duck of a father, who was willing to put up so long as the son stayed here and made no noise. I saw the old man's photograph, and also photographs of some sisters, and I tell you when I looked at them and remembered what there was for a man to live for back in the States, I felt almost like nailing up the door of the Green Hole and going back to the town where I used to know better things. But that was a weakness. Ah! the games we used to have! We do n't have such games now. A man has no chance the way Con- gress does these times. The smoke-blackened ceiling was the limit, and it has been bumped more than once. There was another regular customer of the Green Hole who belongs in this story. He was — and is yet, unless the devil has got him since he fled to the Comanche country — Yanda Luck. Yanda's mother was a full- blood Choctaw and his father was a white man — as 340 A NATION TO BLAME bad as they make them — and Yanda got a full share of his sire's bad blood. Yanda had thirty-seven thousand acres of the best black land on earth, under fence, and he lived on the rent white men paid him for it. Some of the rent v/ent for fine clothes ; some of it went for Texas whisky ; some of it went to the kitty at the Green Hole, and some went to Yanda's Choctaw mother, for with all his faults he loved the dark-skinned woman who lived in the Push-ma-ta-ha woods. Yanda and Winter were friends. The devil that was in the one was a good deal like the devil that was in the other. They played together ; they practiced shooting together, and they got drunk together. They used to brag of their shooting, and I did n't like that, because I knew when they should choose each other for targets the Green Hole would lose one or two good customers. Ten miles west of Bokoto lives a woman who is a half-blood, and her daughter, who is one-quarter Choc- taw-Chickasaw and three-quarters white. The daughter's name is Luck. She bears that name because she is the wife of Yanda. In all of the five tribes there is no other woman with half the beauty that is hers ; and not in New York city is there a woman with brighter wit or better education. The Nation paid for her schooling. She was educated in Baltimore, and she had the brains to absorb all that came her way. So, it 's the Nation that is to blame for it all. A Nation ought not to give a woman culture and accomplishments and then bring her back to crab-grass prairie to marry a savage. The devil is sure to pay. I was at the wedding. It was a grand affair in its peculiar way. In the dance which followed the cere- mony there were full-bloods from the brush along the river, soldiers from the fort, gamblers and traders from W. DOUGLAS COLYAR 34 1 Bokoto, stockmen from the Big Plain — and the queen, who danced with her drunken husband. I watched her as she danced, and tried to read in her wonderful black eyes what thoughts were concealed behind them. There was only one man there who knew what a round dance was, — Roy Winter^ — and they waltzed together. It was the first time they had seen each other. I do n't blame the woman, neither do I blame Win- ter. I blame the Choctaw Nation. It's wrong to educate a woman up to ambrosia and then condemn her to pork and beans. It is only human nature in her to desire the ambrosia when she sees it. That woman was n't fitted for a savage husband who was drunk ten tenths of his time, and who does n't know a comic opera from a five o'clock tea. She was made for a man like Winter. One day Winter tossed a card into the air and Yanda put two holes through it with bullets from his six-shooter, before the card hit the saw-dust on the floor of the Green Hole. The card was the queen of hearts from a new pack, and I swore at the two for spoiling it. After Yanda left Winter said laughingly that he would make a new queen of hearts, and taking a pencil, he drew, on the blank card which came with the deck, the picture of a woman. When he had finished he put the pack con- taining the card into a drawer. Then I think he forgot all about it, for he had had too much of Denison whisky. Bokoto is Choctaw for "dark gray." The town is on the bank of the blue river, and the tall trees shut out the sunlight, and the shade which sits on the city sug- gested the name. The dark gray settles on our hearts at times, and we long for the sunlight. It was on my heart that day. That day was the day on which Winter ceased forever to be a customer of the Green Hole. 342 A NATION TO BLAME We were playing poker — Winter, Yanda, Corporal Hurt, a Jew buyer of skins, and myself. The drink was dying in Yanda and he was in a bad humor. I looked for trouble ; it came. There was a big pot, and the Jew called for a fresh deck. I took one from the drawer and dealt the hands. Then the betting began. It was after the draw that I saw Winter hesitate for the first time. It puzzled me, and I watched his face closely. At last he took a long breath, shrugged his shoulders, and raised the bet. All dropped out except Yanda and Winter. They held hands. There was a little mountain of gold and silver and notes on the table. "I call!" said Winter. *' Four tens ! *' said Yanda. Winter put his cards down on the table. ** Four queens,'* he said, and one of the queens, the queen of hearts, was the one Winter had drawn with his pencil — and 'twas the fairest picture of Yanda' s wife that ever was made of her. There was a second's silence, and then Yanda sprang to his feet with the whitest face a half-breed ever had. He understood it all at last. •* God damn you," he cried : **get your pistol." I blame not the woman : I blame not Winter: and who can blame Yanda ? The Choctaw Nation is re- sponsible for the grave with the big tombstone on Dead Man's Hill. The Nation educated her, and then the Nation brought her back to the queer country where she had to choose between a life of bitter right and a life of sweet wrong. The reputation of the Boston family is safe. Men are killed often in Bokoto, and no one takes the trouble to go LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 343 to Boston to tell the news. I wrote to the old man, and he shipped the headstone from Chicago. Yanda is somewhere in the Comanche country with a price on his head. The woman lives in a little hell of her own ten miles west. I run the Green Hole — and it *s the squarest joint in the Indian country — and it's the Nation that's to blame for it all. W. Douglas Colyar. MONOCHROME SHUT fast again in beauty's sheath. Where ancient forms renew. The round world seems, above, beneath. One wash of faintest blue. And air and tide so stilly sweet In nameless union lie; The little far-off fishing fleet Goes drifting up the sky. Secure of neither misted coast. Nor ocean undefined. Our brooding sail is like the ghost Of one that served mankind. Who, sad in space, as we upon This visionary sea. Finds Labor and Allegiance done. And Self begin to be. Louise Imogen Guiney. 344 AT THE ROOF GARDEN AT THE ROOF GARDEN DRAWN BY RAYMOND M. CROSBY E. E. HALE, JR. 345 THE WARP AND THE WOOF '* For who would lose. Though full of pain, this intellectual being. Those thoughts that wander through eternity. To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated Night, Devoid of sense and motion ?** IN the early days of Golf in this country I spent a week with Tristram, who was at that time in the way of becoming a champion. That is to say, he was winning the club tournaments week after week, each victory making more and more sure his ultimate possession of a large and beautiful cup, of which the only draw- back, as it turned out, was that you could n't drink out of it. That is, when you tried you were apt to be half drowned ; in after years we called it the Cataract Cup. While we were waiting for Tristram to win the cup, however, we used to content ourselves with less distin- guished though more useful vessels. We would come home from a day's play at the club and after a late din- ner would sit round in front of the fire, for it was along in the autumn, talking golf and drinking a drink called, I think, Tger's-tail, a striped and comforting drink. We talked of other things too — sometimes even got far afield; but we always got back to golf — and when Mrs. Tris- tram had gone to bed and we were sitting over last and one more pipes and cigarettes, we seldom wandered far from it. I cursed my mediocrity with some vindictiveness ; for though not a very impartial critic of others, I am often quite keen in seeing how things stand with myself, which is a painful, though fortunately a rare gift. And although 346 THE WARP AND THE WOOF I was only a beginner at the game, I already looked far, far into the future and could see myself still a duffer — otlicr men beginning after me, gradually pulling up and passing me while I stayed persistently among the sixth- rates, or whatever you call those who are always in the state of being just no longer beginners. This prophetic view, to tell the truth, required in the case in point no extraordinary acuteness, for such has been my lot in every manly sport I have ever undertaken, and indeed in every- thing else. I could out-run or out-swim my boyish companions only so long as they were much younger than myself — when they got to my own age, I have had to come in second or third or next to the last. At football, baseball, rowing, I always pass from among the first can- didates to the second teams. I was among the first to play tennis and saw man after man come up and pass me, while on the bicycle I never attained even respecta- bility. All this had become very tiresome, and was in- deed very bad for my nerve in any new form of athletics I took hold of. ** It is a bore, old man," said Tristram, consolingly, **but then, why you know, you 're awfully good, con- sidering — and of course, athletics are n't just your best hold. A man can't do everything nowadays. You can't expect to be worth much in more than one or two things. You 've got to content yourself with being first- rate in your own line ; — you 're a scholar, you are, and a good one, too, you tell me." All this from Tristram was very commonplace and pointless, but I knew that it took him some time to limber out. In time he would say something better. He had really quite a rare disposition, Tristram, and until the moment that he picked up a golf-stick, he had done much in habituating himself to the regarding life in the spirit of E. E. HALE, JR. 347 art. I don't mean that he had become cultivated in the ordinary sense, or that he lived in an atmosphere of fine books, fine pictures, fine music, or that he indulged in any special cult for Beauty. He had his own way of being devoted to art. His surroundings were no more artistic than his wife chose to have them, and he bore with equanimity the many charming follies with which her more effervescent likings encrusted their house. He read very little beside the best contemporary novels of our own tongue, not bothering himself at all about for- eign celebrities, except by accident, and as to pictures, he was interested in modern developments, but seemed to think his chief duty to the graphic arts lay in collecting prints of seafights of the early part of the century, of which he had a considerable number. In fact he was not at all what you would call artistic ; but although he knew little enough of art, he had a sure taste, and rarely took real pleasure in anything that was not good, and never took pleasure in what did not please him. He un- derstood Meredith well enough but preferred Stevenson, approved of RafFaelli but liked Whistler better, and got much satisfaction out of Grieg, although he had been at Bayreuth twice. These things, however, were not es- sential to an artistic life as he regarded the matter. I believe he sometimes even scorned them a little, not in themselves, but in so far as they had become imposed on a conventional world as artistic necessities. The element of art in his life was so strong that it needed no acces- sories. In short he had been in the way of becoming a true artist of the finest sort, when the passion for golf swept him away from the peaceful path on which he stood, as so many other passions have swept men from so many other paths which seemed so good and so sure. 34^ THE WARP AND THE WOOF But now he played golf and was going to be one of the cracks. And now in the evening he drank Tiger's- tail, and looked at me with his beautiful brown eyes, saying plainly, though silently, ** I have pawned my birthright for a mess of pottage," handling his pet mashie with which he made his best approach shots, and consoled my gloom at being a duiFer at everything with a perfectly empty commonplace. So I smiled at him. To tell the truth, we had n't seen much of each other for a couple of years. It would take him some time to limber out. "Well," said he, after a pause, getting up and turn- ing his back to the fire: * I strove with none, for none were worth my strife. Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art. I warmed both hands before the fire of life. It sinks and I am ready to depart.' "Are you ready to depart?" he asked. "It's after twelve." But I was not ready to depart, so he filled his pipe again. " It's a good game," said he, "and you like to play it too. You would n't stay at home to-morrow, even though you knew to a moral certainty (as it is) that you '11 be anything from five to ten points worse than you were to-day." So we chatted on for a while and then went to bed, and as I am not great at moralizing, I went to sleep very quickly — even before I had thought out an inter- esting illustration of Sigwart's Theory of Impersonals, which happened to occur to me as I was undressing. The next day it turned out as Tristram had predicted. It was tournament day and he came out ahead in his two rounds, with a score very near his best. I, on the other E. E. HALE, JR. 349 hand, foozled and topped even more than usual, turned my ball into a carnival of sardonic grins, and increased my score by five the first round and eleven the second. I did, however, make a few good strokes and especially one: with an old mashie of Tristram's that I was getting used to, I lifted the ball out of an awful bunch of long grass and dropped it dead on the green. That I overshot the hole afterwards and so took three more to get in, has not ruined the recollection of that stroke. Nor do I care that no one saw it but a condescending caddie. It gives me a keen thrill to think of it even now. And other things of the sort sometimes happen. In the midst of a life which at times seems merely a debris of wreck- age — easy and trivial successes, rotting carcasses of half-living failures, dead walls of impossibility, imper- turbable circlings of the inevitable thread-mill, ridiculous, even grotesque shortcomings, there do appear somehow calmly expansive moments in which one gets a taste of immortality. And those moments I like. I have little patience with those who say that the common-place is heroic, or that mediocrity is good. And I abhor those who whisper eulogies of the conquered because they have been conquered, and praise contented souls because they cannot know the heat and cold of desire. The greatest thing in the world is victory, and the only note worth sounding is the pjean and the shout of triumph. But as a kindly God has given it to us but rarely to know the real victory (though how often the real defeat), we have as a rule to content ourselves with the more assured reality of Strife. Nor need we think it hard to find in it a half content. For Strife, although so often barren, seldom loses the quickening sting of hope, and 350 THE WARP AND THE WOOF has an equal joy in the cold intensity of the recluse and in the fierce hectic of the berserkir. Besides which, too, must of course be taken into account the necessities of food, drink and sleep, as well as the lovely things of nature and art which, though too often misapprehended by the cow-like, are really most excellent, in that they give us refreshment and rest. So that after all it's a fairly good game. E. E. Hale, Jr. DON'T YOU MIND (a ballad of theba immaba.) WE'RE marchin' 'cause we 'ave to, we are marchin' to our death. The road is 'ot and dusty an' we 're gettin* short o' breath; The svs^eat a-runnin' in our eyes 'as made us nearly blind. But these are only trifles, do n't you mind. Chorus : No! Teddy Watkiss doesn't mind. It wouldn't make no difference if 'e did! 'E 's got to take 'is gun ('E thinks it's lots o' fun) An' go an' do some shootin' 'cause 'e 's bid! We *re goin' to give the 'eathen what nobody likes to get, A round o' shriekin' bullets an' the ticklish bayonet. O' course we must acknowledge that our greetin' isn't kind; No matter, they deserve it, do n't you mind. Chorus. It's one thing to be livin' an' another to be dead, But there ain't much use in livin' if you 've only *arf a 'cad. RALPH JOHNSON 35 I Therefore, take care the Matabeles do n' t treat "^our knob unkind; 'Owever, if you lose it, do n't you mind. Chorus. Ah! straight in front they 're waitin' an' the drums 'avc ceased to roll. There's goin' to be a carcass 'ere an' there without a soul! An' if your brother Teddy, cold an' glassy-eyed, you find. Just say: **'E did 'is duty!" don't you mind. Chorus. Wot 's that was said? " Go at 'em ! " We ' ve 'ad orders, so we must. Hi! Hi! you bloomin' beggars, take a turn at eatin' dust! But, Gawd! my left-'and comrade 'as a wound no man can bind. But Death will make 'is bandage, don't you mind. Chorus. Another charge! a shock! a rush! The smoke 'as cleared away. Let's give a cheer to ease ourselves, go tell the band to play! A hundred naked pagans and some Christians 'avc resigned. We're marchin' back to barracks, an' don't mind. Chorus : No! Teddy Watkiss doesn't mind. Although 'e might 'ave been one 0' the slain. 'Owever, 'e 's a-givin' This comfort to the livin' : **Be thankful you've a chance to fight again!'* Ralph Johnson. 352 PORTRAITS OF CONTEMPORARIES MR. BLISS CARMAN DRAWN FROM LIFE BY DAWSON WATSON ALICE MORSE EARLE 353 CURIOUS PUNISHMENTS OF B YGON E DAYS. II The Ducking-Stool THE ducking-stool seems to have been placed on the lowest and most contempt-bearing stage among English instruments of punishment. The pillory and stocks, the gibbet, and even the whipping-post, have seen many a noble victim, many a martyr. But I can- not think any save the most ignoble criminals ever sat in a ducking-stool. In all the degrading and cruel indigni- ties offered the many political and religious offenders in England under the varying rules of both church and state, through the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the ducking-stool played no part and secured no vic- tims. It was an engine of punishment specially assigned to scolding women; though sometimes kindred offenders, such as slanderers, ** makebayts," **chyderers,'* brawl- ers, railers, and women of light carriage also suffered through it. Though gruff old Sam Johnson said to a gentle Quaker lady, ** Madam, we have different modes of restraining evil — stocks for men, a ducking-stool for women, and a pound for beasts;" yet men as well as women-scolds were punished by being set in the ducking- stool, and quarrelsome married couples were ducked tied back-to-back. The last person set in the Rugby ducking- stool was a brutal husband who had beaten his wife. Brewers of bad beer and bakers of bad bread were deemed of sufficiently degraded ethical standing to be ducked. Unruly paupers also were thus subdued. That intelligent French traveller, Misson, who visited England about the year 1 700, and who left in his dcscrip- 354 PUNISHMENTS OF BYGONE DAYS tions of his travels so much valuable and interesting infor- mation of the England of that day, gives this lucid description of a ducking-stool: ** The way of punishing scolding women is pleasant enough. They fasten an arm-chair to the end of two beams twelve or fifteen feet long, and parallel to each other, so that these two pieces of wood with their two ends embrace the chair, which hangs between them by a sort of axle, by which means it plays freely, and always remains in the natural horizontal position in which a chair should be, that a person may sit conveniently in it, whether you raise it or let it down. They set up a post on the bank of a pond or river, and over this post they lay, almost in equilibrio, the two pieces of wood, at one end of which the chair hangs just over the water. They place the woman in this chair and so plunge her into the water, as often as the sentence directs, in order to cool her immoderate heat.'* The adjectives pleasant and convenient as applied to a ducking-stool would scarcely have entered the mind of any one but a Frenchman. Still the chair itself was some- times rudely ornamented. The Cambridge stool was carved with devils laying hold of scolds. Others were painted with devices such as a man and woman scolding. Two Plymouth ducking-stools still preserved are of wrought iron of good design. The Sandwich ducking- stool bore the motto: " Of numbers ye tonge is worst or beste: An yll tonge oft doth breede unreste.'* We read in Blackstone*s Commentaries: ** A common scold may be indicted, and if convicted shall be sentenced to be placed in a certain engine of cor- rection called the trebucket, castigatory, or ducking- stool.'' ALICE MORSE EARLE 355 The trebuchet, or trebuckct, was a stationary and sim- ple form of a ducking-machine consisting of a short post set at the water's edge with a long beam resting on it like a see-saw; by a simple contrivance it could be swung round parallel to the bank, and the culprit tied in the chair affixed to one end. Then she could be swung out over the water and see-sawed up and down into the water. When this machine was not in use, it was secured to a stump or bolt in the ground by a padlock, because when left free it proved too tempting and con- venient an opportunity for tormenting village children to duck each other. A tumbrel, or scold' s-cart, was a chair set on wheels and having very long wagon-shafts, with a rope attached to them about two feet from the end; it was also used for executing a ducking. It was wheeled into a pond back- ward, the long shafts were suddenly tilted up, and the scold sent down in a backward plunge into the water. When the ducking was accomplished, the tumbrel was drawn out of the water by the ropes. Collinson says in his History of Somersetshire, written in 1791: **In Shipton Mallet was anciently set up a tumbrel for the correction of unquiet women." Still other names for a like engine were gum-stool and coqueen-stool. Many and manifold are the allusions to the ducking- stool in English literature. In a volume called Miscel- laneous Poems y written by Benjamin West and published in 1780, is a descriptive poem entitled **The Ducking- stool," which runs thus: ** There stands, my friend, in yonder pool An engine called the ducking-stool; By legal power commanded down The joy and terror of the town. If jarring females kindle strife. 356 PUNISHMENTS OF BYGONE DAYS Give language foul, or lug the coif. If noisy dames should once begin To drive the house with horrid din. Away, you cry, you'll grace the stool; We *11 teach you how your tongue to rule. The fair offender fills the seat In sullen pomp, profoundly great; Down in the deep the stool descends. But here, at first, we miss our ends; She mounts again, and rages more Than ever vixen did before. So, throwing water on the fire Will make it bat burn up the higher. If so, my friend, pray let her take A second turn into the lake. And, rather than your patience lose. Thrice and again repeat the dose. No brawling wives, no furious wenches. No fire so hot but water quenches.** In Scotland "flyting queans*' sat in ignominy in cucking-stools. Besse Spens was admonished: "Gifshe be found flyteing with any neighbour, man or wife, and specially gains Jonet Arthe, she shall be put on the cuck- stulc and sit there twenty-four hours." A worthless fel- low, Sande Hay, **for troublance made upon Andro Watson, is discemit for his demerits to be put in the cuck-stulc, there to remain till four hours after noon.** The length of time of punishment — usually twenty-four hours — would plainly show there was no attendant duck- ing; and this cuck-stool, or cucking-stool, must not be confounded with the ducking-stool, which dated to the days of Edward the Confessor. The cuck-stool was simply a strong chair in which an offender was fastened. ALICE MORSE EARLE 357 thus to be hooted at or pelted by the mob. Sometimes, when placed on a tumbrel, it was used for ducking. At the time of the colonization of America the duck- ing-stool was at the height of its English reign; and apparently the amiability of the lower classes was equally at ebb. The colonists brought their tempers to the new land, and they brought their ducking-stools. Many minor and some great historians of this country have called the ducking-stool a Puritan punishment. I have never found in the hundreds of pages of court records that I have examined a single entry of an execution of a ducking in any Puritan community; while in the ** cava- lier colonies," so called, in Virginia and the Carolinas, and in Pennsylvania, many duckings took place, and in law survived as long as the similar punishments in Eng- land. In the Statute Books of Virginia from Dale's time onward many laws may be found designed to silence idle tongues by ducking. One reads : «* Whereas oftentimes many brabling women often slander and scandalize their neighbours, for which their poore husbands are often brought into chargeable and vexatious suits and cast in great damages, be it enacted that all women found guilty be sentenced to ducking.** Others, dated 1662, are most explicit: ** The court in every county shall cause to be set up near a Court House a Pillory, a pair of Stocks, a Whip- ping Post and a Ducking Stool in such place as they think convenient, which not being set up within six month after the date of this act the said Court shall be fined 5,000 lbs. of tobacco. ** In actions of slander caused by a man*s wife, after judgment past for damages, the woman shall be punished by Ducking, and if the slander be such as the damages 35^ PUNISHMENTS OF BYGONE DAYS shall be adjudged as above 500 lbs. of Tobacco, then the woman shall have ducking for every 500 lbs. of Tobacco adjudged against the husband if he refuse to pay the Tobacco.'* The fee of a sheriff or constable for ducking was twenty pounds of tobacco. The American Historical Record, Vol. I, gives a letter said to have been written to Governor Endicott, of Massachusetts, in 1634, by one Thomas Hartley, from Hungars Parish, Virginia. It gives a graphic description of a ducking-stool, and an account of a ducking in Vir- ginia. I quote from it : ** The day afore yesterday at two of ye clock in ye afternoon I saw this punishment given to one Betsey, wife of John Tucker, who by ye violence of her tongue has made his house and ye neighborhood uncomfortable. She was taken to ye pond near where I am sojourning by ye officer who was joined by ye Magistrate and ye Minister Mr. Cotton who had frequently admonished her and a large number of People. They had a machine for ye purpose yt belongs to ye Parish, and which I was told had been so used three times this Summer. It is a platform with 4 small rollers or wheels and two up- right posts between which works a Lever by a Rope fastened to its shorter or heavier end. At ye end of ye longer arm is fixed a stool upon which sd Betsey was fastened by cords, her gown tied fast around her feete. The Machine was then moved up to ye edge of ye pond, ye Rope was slackened by ye officer and ye woman was allowed to go down under ye water for ye space of half a minute. Betsey had a stout stomach, and would not yield until she had allowed herself to be ducked 5 several times. At length she cried piteously. Let me go. Let me go, by Gods help I *11 sin no more. Then they ALICE MORSE EARLE 359 drew back ye Machine, untied ye Ropes and let her walk home in her wetted clothes a hopefully penitent woman.** Bishop Meade, in his Old Churchesy Ministers and Families of Virginia ^ tells of a ** scolding quean " who was ordered to be ducked three times from the yard arms of a vessel lying in James River. A woman in Northampton County, Virginia, suffered a peculiarly degrading punishment for slander. In the lack of a ducking-stool she was **drawen ouer the Kings Creeke at the starne of a boate or Canoux, also the next Saboth day in the time of diuine seruise'* was obliged to pre- sent herself before the minister and congregation, and acknowledge her fault and beg forgiveness. From the Decisions of Virginia General Court, now being printed by the Virginia Historical Society, we learn of one Margaret Jones that at a court held at ** James-Citty *' on the I 2th of October, 1626, **for ye severall offences afore- named, of ye said Margaret Jones, yt Shee bee toughed or dragged at a boats Starne in ye River from ye shoare unto the Margaret ^ John and thence unto the shoare againe.' * Toughed would seem a truly appropriate word for this ordeal. The provost marshal's fees decreed by this court at this time were ten shillings **for punishing any man by ducking.'* In 1634 two women were sentenced to be either drawn from King's Creek ** from one Cowpen to another at the starn of a boat or kanew," or to present them- selves before the congregation and ask public forgiveness of each other and God. In 1633 it was ordered that a ducking-stool be built in every county in Maryland, but I have no proof that they were ever used, though it is probable they were. At a court-baron at St. Clements, the county was prosecuted for not having one of these ** public conveniences." 360 PUNISHMENTS OF BYGONE DAYS Half a century elapsed after the settlement of Massa- chusetts ere that commonwealth ordered a ducking-stool. On the 15th of May, 1672, while Richard Bellingham was Governor, the court at Massachusetts Bay passed this law: ** Whereas there is no expresse punishment by any law hitherto established affixed to the evill practise of sundry persons by exorbitancy of the tonge in rayling and scolding, it is therefore ordered, that all such persons convicted, before any Court or magistrate that hath propper cognizance of the cause for rayling or scolding, shal be gagged or sett in a ducking stoole & dipt ouer head & cares three times in some convenient place of fresh or salt water as the Court or magistrate shall judge meete." Governor Bellingham* s sister was a scold who suffered death as a witch. John Dunton, writing from Boston in 1686, does not note the presence of a ducking-stool, but says: ** Scolds they gag and set them at their own Doors for certain hours together, for all comers and goers to gaze at; were this a Law in England and well executed it wou'd in a little Time prove an Effectual Remedy to cure the Noise that is in many Women's heads.** This was a law well-executed at the time in Scotland, though Dunton was ignorant of it. There are no entries to show that this law authorizing ducking ever was executed in Massachusetts nor in Maine, where a dozen towns — Kittery, York and others — were fined for ** having no coucking-stool.** It was ordered on Long Island that every Court of Sessions should have a ducking-stool; but nothing exists in their records to prove that the order was ever exe- cuted, or any Long Island woman ducked; nor is there ALICE MORSE EARLE 36 1 proof that there was in New York city a ducking-stool, though orders were issued for one. A Lutheran minister of that city excused himself for striking a woman who angered him by her •* scholding" because she was not punished by law therefor. Pennsylvania, mild with the thees and thous of non- belligerent Quakers, did not escape scolding women. In 1708 the Common Council of Philadelphia ordered a ducking-stool to be built. In 1 718 it was still lacking, and still desired, and still necessary. ** Whereas it has been frequently and often presented by several former Grand Jurys for this City the Neces- sity of a Ducking-stool and house of Correction for the just punishment of scolding Drunken Women, as well as divers other profligate and Unruly persons in this Town who are become a Publick Nuisance and disturbance to the Town in Generall, Therefore we the present Grand Jury Do Earnestly again present the same to the Court of Quarter Sessions for the City Desireing their Immedi- ate Care That these Publick Conveniances may not be any Longer Delay'd but with all possible Speed provided for the Detention and Quieting such Disorderly Per- sons." For several years later the magistrates clamored for a ducking-stool, and the following indictment was brought against an unruly woman: '* City of Philadelphia. We the grand Inquest for our Lord the King upon respective oaths and affirmations Do present that Mary wife of John Austin late of Philadel- phia, Cordwainer, the twenty-ninth day of September and divers other days and times as well before as after in the High City Ward in the City afForsd within the Jurisdiction of this Court was and yet is a Common Scold And the Peace of our Lord the King a common 362 PUNISHMENTS OF BYGONE DAYS and publick Disturber, And Strife and Debate among her neighbours a Comon Sower and Mover To the Great Disturbance of the Leige Subjects of our sd Lord the King Inhabiting the City afForsd And to the Evill Ex- ample of other Such Cases Delinquents And also agt the Peace of our Lord the King his Crown and Dignity." As late as 1824 a Philadelphia scold was sentenced by this same Court of Sessions to be ducked; but the pun- ishment was not inflicted, as it was deemed obsolete, and contrary to the spirit of the time. In 1777 a ducking-stool was ordered at the confluence of the Ohio and Monongahela rivers — and doubtless it was erected and used. In the year 1811, at the Supreme Court at Milledge- ville, Georgia, one "Miss Palmer," who, the account says, ** seems to have been rather glib on the tongue," was indicted, tried, convicted and punished for scolding, by being publicly ducked in the Oconee River. The editor adds: *' Numerous spectators attended the execu- tion of the sentence." Eight years later the Grand Jury of Burke County, of the same state, presented Mary Cammell as ** a common scold and disturber of the peace- able inhabitants of the County . ' ' The Augusta Chronicle says of this indictment: ** We do not know the penalty y or if there be any, attached to the offense of scolding ; but for the informa- tion of our Burke neighbours we would inform them that the late lamented and distinguished Judge Early decided, some years since, when a modern Xantippe was brought before him, that she should undergo the punishment of lustrationy by immersion three several times in the Oconee. Accordingly she was confined to the tail of a cart, and, accompanied by the hooting of a mob, conducted to the river, where she was publicly ducked, in conformity with ALICE MORSE EARLE 363 the sentence of the court. Should this punishment be accorded Mary Cammell, we hope, however, it may be attended with a more salutary effect than in the case we have just alluded to — the unruly subject of which, each time as she rose from the watery element, impiously exclaimed, with a ludicrous gravity of countenance, 'Glory to God.''^ It is doubtful whether these Georgia duckings were done with a regularly constructed ducking-stool; the cart was probably run down into the water. One of the latest and certainly the most notorious sen- tences to ducking was that of Mrs. Anne Royall, of Washington, D. C, almost in our own day. This extraordinary woman had lived through an eventful career in love and adventure; she had been stolen by the Indians when a child, and kept by them fifteen years; then she was married to Captain Royall, and taught to read and write. She travelled much, and wrote several vitupera- tively amusing books. She settled down upon Washing- ton society as editor of a newspaper called the Washing- ton Paul Pry-y and of another, the Huntress; and she soon terrorized the place. No one in public office was spared, either in personal or printed abuse, if any offense or neglect was given to her. A persistent lobbyist, she was shunned like the plague by all congressmen. John Quincy Adams called her an itinerant virago. She was arraigned as a common scold before Judge William Cranch, and he sentenced her to be ducked in the Poto- mac River. She was, however, released with a fine, and appears to us to-day to have been insane — possibly through over-humored temper. Alice Morse Earle. 364 CHARADES CHARADES I ONCE I passed through my whole. ' Twas beau- tiful ; * Twas like a fairy-land, so gay, so glad. So free from care and sorrow. For a time I staid. Yet eagerly desired the day When I might leave its simple joys. Ah me. If but I might return to them again ! My first is always in my whole. Sometimes My first is in my last. When, long ago. Red Riding-hood on kindly errand bent. Walked to her gran dam* s cot across the wood. My last was on my first. II My first, before the fray had ceased. Offered my whole for my last beast. Or Shakspeare tells us so at least. Ill My first is given and received, a blessing and a bane ; You may buy it at the station, get it gratis on the train ; You may find it in a puppet-booth or in a banquet-hall. And I think, perhaps, the Roman is the noblest of them all. * Twas in ray second, long ago, brave men put out to sea; And at a garden-fete I saw my second flowing free ; And I leaned against my second, of strong and solid oak. But as I grasped my second, alas, it dropped and broke. CAROLYN WELLS 365 My whole at Christmas seasons with holly we entwine ; Upon the old Whig taverns 'twas painted as a sign ; But in its depths lurk dangers, from its cakes of floating ice To its balmy breath of sugar-cane, its tropic fruits and spice. IV In gorgeous splendor, once upon a time, My second reigned in Afric's sunny clime ; A slave provoked his monarch's royal ire. And stood before him under sentence dire. ** My first, my last," he stammered, "pity me! Must I obey thy horrible decree ? Oh, thou who over millions hast control — '* One word the magnate uttered, 'twas my whole. Upon a prancing steed the knight approached. Plumed and bedecked. His ribbons gaily waved. And in the breeze streamed out my last behind ; Entering my whole, he called, ** What, ho, within!** The lattice slowly opened, and with smiles A maid appeared, to whom he paid my first. Carolyn Wells. *** The answers will bejound at the end of the " Notes.*' 366 MR. H. G. WELLS MR. H. G. WELLS WHEN I say that Mr. Wells is the most notable of the younger English writers, and more nota- ble than a good many of the older ones, I am ready to make good my words. There is no man in whom I have greater literary faith ; no man from whom better work may be expected. To him more than to anyone else do I look for the cleansing of the English novel, for the effective damming of that stream of crude philosophy and cheap sentiment which has deluged En- glish literature and drama for the last five years. It seems to me that Mr. Wells has it in him to write a really great novel ; and I would not willingly risk my critical reputation by saying as much for any other writer. Mr. Anthony Hope has written several charming sketches and one capital story. He has thrown an atmosphere ot brightness and sunlight round a London drawing-room. His humor dances in the sunlight. His characters bubble and glitter and flash gleams at you with iridescent volu- bility. The sparkle bewilders ; the admirable setting — Mr. Hope is almost an artist in the way of mise en scene — deceives the eye ; his St. Julien — it is really nothing more — tastes like the choicest Chateau Lafitte on the first and even the second draught. But examine more closely and the fascination disappears ; the trick of the thing becomes evident and the lightness of touch is seen, at its true value, to be the result of a mere mental quickness. There is plenty in Mr. Hope to satisfy an idle hour — pleasing situations enough and an air of in- fectious gaiety, — but not enough strength in his abilities — so far as I can find — or flavor in his wit to promise any enduring success. Mr. Wells' wit is certainly on an indisputably higher plane than Mr. Hope's, less frolic- PICAROON 367 some, less ** clubable," if I may use the word, but more genuine in its source — for it comes from the heart and is directed by the head — and more universal in its appli- cation ; in a word, truer. Mr. Hope tickles you with his feather; Mr. Wells pricks you keenly with his foil. As for the other popular writers of our day, it is an im- pertinence to compare Mr. Wells with them. He docs not seek his public among the inmates of third-rate boarding-houses. In the flat pineland around Woking where he lives and writes, no kailyard is to be seen, not even the suggestion of a hill-top. Under these circum- stances, you cannot expect a man who writes English grammatically to be a popular favorite. If Mr. Wells would only lead his readers through pools of sloppy English to a satisfactory attack on the Seventh Com- mandment ; or write a dirty novel and put the Prince ot Wales in it ; or even sketch the Arcadian simplicity of a Parisian model — -there would be some hope for him. Then you might have him rivaling Jumbo and Trilby. As it is, with no new religion to propound, no fresh scheme of philosophy to unfold, no Purpose, no Message, and nothing but wit, and fancy, and imagination, and a sense of style, and an instinct for story-telling, Mr. Wells is in a bad way. His duty lies clearly before him ; the feeding hour has come; the boarding-house grows restive : some clamor for Scotch broth and get it ; others for Irish stew — it comes ; society hash, theological soup, pious pudding — a hundred hands are quick to serve them. Only Mr. Wells puts on his hat and walks out of the house. Mr. Wells is only twenty-eight years old, short, well- built, a finely developed head with a striking forehead, bluish eyes that show traces of hard work, and a strag- gling moustache. He has had a remarkable career. His 368 MR. H. G. WELLS father was a tradesman in a small and unprofitable way of business. Mr. Wells, I believe, was apprenticed to the business himself in his early years. He told me once that he had received no education up to the time he was eighteen. Then he educated himself; he studied in his off hours and took a science scholarship at South Ken- sington. He became a coach and interested himself generally in education. He was for a time the editor of the Educational Timesy and still keeps a stern and watch- ful eye on the authorities at the London University. The incessant strain of these two professions broke down his health, never too robust ; and after a severe illness he took to literature. There may not be much in all this to astonish an American. You have to know England well, you have to have felt its class restrictions and the iron hand of custom yourself to quite appreciate the pluck and endurance of a man — especially a man of the lower middle class — who educates himself out of the groove he was born in. I admire any man who performs the feat ; and if he takes to writing books, I buy them at once and with confidence. Mr. Wells began his literary life by writing articles on chance subjects — fanciful, de- scriptive, humorous, according to the mood of the moment. The Pall Mall Gazette, under the brilliant editorship of Mr. Cust, was by far the most striking paper in London. Mr. Cust accepted the first article Mr. Wells sent m and refused no others. They soon became — at any rate to me — the most welcome feature in the paper. Mr. Wells started a character known as ** My Uncle.'* The uncle was a philosophical man of the world and held forth with delightful ease and wit on the fads and fashions of the day — on drawing-room furniture, on musical at-homes, scorching bicyclists, the art of being photographed, and so on. They were PICAROON 369 afterwards republished by Mr. John Lane under the title Select Conversations with an Uncle. The uncle became "extinct by marriage." ** I stood by him," says his nephew, **to the end, and at last came the hour of part- ing. I grasped his hand in silence ; silently he mastered a becoming emotion. And in silence he went from me unto the new life." He was a rare companion while he lived, with the keen, instinctive touch of another George Meredith. He was in fact another George Meredith, a Meredith in dressing-gown and slippers, giving idle escape to his whimsical fancies. One of the best things in the book is a vagary entitled ** La Belle Dame Sans Merci.** La Belle Dame is a musical young lady next door who practices all day long on the other side of the wall. ** The business always begins with the slamming of a door and a healthy footfall across the room. The piano is opened . . . Then the music-stool creaks . . ." There is a moment of suspense while La Belle Dame chooses the music for the day. ** I have a vision," he charmingly elaborates, **of the spirits of composers, small and great, standing up like suspects awaiting identifica- tion, while her eye ranges over them. Chopin tries to edge behind Wagner, a difficult and forbidding person, and Gounod seeks eclipse of Mendelssohn, who suddenly drops and crawls on all-fours between Gounod's legs; Sullivan cowers, and even Piccolomini's iron-framed nerves desert him. She extends her hand. There is a frantic rush to escape. . . A melancholy shriek. *Do you hear, George ? Tito Mattel is captured. A song.' " Thus does Mr. Wells dance round his subject, pelting it with diverting fancies, covering it with garlands of art and imagery. While these articles were running through the Pall Mall Gazette, Mr. Wells was contributing a series of 370 MR. H. G. WELLS short tales to the Pall Mall Budget^ afterwards repub- lished by Methuen & Co. under the title ot The Stolen Bacillus. They have, most of them, a semi- scientific foundation. Two of them, jEpyornis Island and The Lord of the Dynamo , are among the very best short stories written in recent years. I know of nothing that Mr. Kipling has published which, in point of inter- est and humour, is above the level of jEpyornis Island; while Mr. Kipling's rugged, jerky style cannot compare for a moment with the ease and admirable pre- cision of the younger writer. We should have to go to the land of Guy de Maupassant to find an adequate com- parison. Mr. Wells' first great bid for fame was made a little over a year ago when Messrs. Heinemann published The Time Machine, which attracted a good deal of notice, as it appeared serially in the Nezv Review. The book was a decided success, something like 12,000 copies being rapidly sold. People began to wake up to the fact that Mr. Wells was a new force in English literature. The book surprised even those of us who had closely followed Mr. Wells* work. That it would show extraordinary cleverness and be admirably written we all knew. But we did not expect to find in it an imagination of the very first order, evenly sustained, never out of control, and shot through with gleams of a poetic fancy. The story is briefly this : A mathematician, conceiving time as a fourth dimension of space, invented a machine that will travel into the future. He arrived at the year 802,701 A.D. In the sunset of mankind he finds two distinct races — the Eloi, beautiful little beings, childlike, innocent, happy, idle, living still on the surface of the earth; and the Morlocks, the underground toilers, savage, brutal, hideous, working that the Eloi may do nothing. Their PICAROON 371 wages are the flesh of their masters. Once every month, before the birth of the new moon, they come up to earth and attack the Eloi. Such as they capture they drag down to their subterranean caves and eat. The adven- tures of the Time Traveller among these people — the theft of his machine by the Morlocks, his visit to their haunts in search of it, and his fight with them in the burning forest — are full of breathless interest and incomparably told. And further on, when he has left the era of the Eloi and their slayers millions of years behind, there is a wonderful picture of the slow decay of the world in the twilight and night of time. It is free from any blemish of rhetoric ; but it has all the eloquence and force which are born of the union of deep thought and imagination with simple expression and lumi- nous diction. The book is not a polemic, nor is Mr. Wells a propagandist. He is simply a writer who hap- pens also to be a student of science. But running through the man and his books is a vein of scientific socialism. It gives to The Time Machine an added worth and dignity. The book is brilliant merely as a story ; but Mr. Wells has sown his pages — as does every really great writer, no matter v^hat his subject may be — with those significant images and far-reaching suggestions which suddenly light up a whole range of distant thoughts and sympathies within us ; which, in an instant, affect the sensibilities of men with a something new and unforeseen ; which take them out of themselves and awaken the faculty and response of intellect and speculation. Mr. Wells* next book. The Wonderful Visit {}A^c- millan & Co.), was in astonishing contrast to The Time Machine. It is a gay and charming phantasy, inter- woven with wit that never degenerates and pathos that is natural and instinctive. And behind it all, showing its 372 MR. H. G. WELLS face occasionally at the back of the stage, is a serious purpose, a resolute definable conviction, a sincerity which is a far more potent charm than either wit or pathos. The central figure in The Wonderful Visit is an angel who slips from his natural sphere and alights on a small Surrey village. The Vicar, an ornithologist in a small way, hearing of the arrival of this strange bird, goes out to ** collect" it. He brings the angel down with a gunshot in the wing. The apologies of the Vicar and the mutual explanations are delicious. The angel is taken to the Vicar's house, dressed in the Vicar's new suit — his wings giving him the appearance of a hunch- back — and installed at the vicarage. His presence causes some gossip ; the curate's wife does not believe he is a man at all. His adventures in the village are told with an exquisite drollery which is irresistible. The village characters that cross the angelic path — from Lady Hammergallow and Crump, ihe doctor, down to the wayside tramp — are sketched with a humor, and a truth, that make English country life live before us. And the delightful portrait of the Vicar himself, not quite fossil- ised in his beliefs, suddenly awakened out of his own dull world by this angel's visit to dream of better and more beautiful things, is one that would have rejoiced Russell Lowell's heart. I like to think how much that genial writer would have loved this book. The stand- point of the two men is the same — you remember what Lowell says in his interesting introduction to the second series of the Bigelow Papers: ** I had learned that the first requisite of good writing is to have an earnest and definite purpose, whether aesthetic or moral. . . If I put on the cap and bells and made myself one of the court-fools of King Demos, it was less to make his majesty laugh than to win a passage to his roval ears for PICAROON 373 certain serious things which I had deeply at heart.'* Mr. Wells could say the same of The Wonderful Visit. You should read it. The last book Mr. Wells has written is The bland of Dr. Moreau (Stone & Kimball). It is rather a grue- some book, founded in idea on a possibility of science. Dr. Moreau is a vivisector who evolves semi-human beings out of animals and peoples his island with them. The story deals with the adventures of a man stranded on the island among these beasts. The narrative is horribly fascinating, a brilliant book of the Edgar Allan Poe-ish order. You walk, umbrellaless, in a pelting shower of horrors. No one can deny the cleverness and imaginative power of the work. On the whole, I do not think it so good a book as The Time Machine. It is less convincing for one thing — possibly because it approaches nearer to what might be — and for another, a surgical romance smacks too much of the dissecting room to be pleasant. Mr. Wells, of course, is too much of an artist to overburden his tale with a mere idea. His scientific speculations are never allowed to run away with him. It is simply that one resents seeing so much in- genuity and literary talent wasted on what is, after all, a mere tour de force. The Time Machine was one oi the best examples of its kind of work that I know of. Mr. Wells ought to have rested content with it. I put The Island of Dr. Moreau aside as a mere incident in Mr. Wells' career, and look forward eagerly to his new book. The Wheels of Chance^ a humorous bicycling tale of the middle classes, which Macmillan & Co. are to publish in the fall. In himself, Mr. Wells is very much like his books — flashing in and out of many moods, and all of them delightful. In casual conversation you note the oddly 374 ^^^- ^* G* WELLS humorous twist of his ideas, the faculty of standing apart from the ordinary line of observation and looking at everything, at himself even, from a new point of view. That, I take it, is what he aims at in literature — to establish a new proportion, to show the world under a new aspect. The peculiar union in him of the scientific and literary temperaments gives him a rare advantage. He has what very few writers have, a stock of knowledge — hard, dry knowledge — to draw from. His ambition is to become the novelist of the lower middle class in England, to be a George Gissing with humour. He has every qualification for the task. He knows the ropes, he is intensely democratic in sentiment, and he has an eye for externals as quick as Dickens. He is a man to keep your eye on. Picaroon. w "OF THE EARTH" HEN celestial tasks grow dull, perfection dreary. Do the angels ever feel heaven- weary? When a cherub or a seraph, less or more. Seems as futile as a sand-grain on the shore ? Alice Katharine Fallows. ^[ Some years ago, when I first heard of a dictionary of slang, it occurred to me that the compiler must be a man of unparalleled patience. The task seemed then a boundless one, and appeared to demand a street-corner experience which went ill with taste and literary judgment. Since that time there have been great changes ; not only has the amount of slang increased to enormous proportions, so that the compiler of a new dic- tionary will have to face an almost appalling labour, but more significant still, it has now become literary. It is of course to be remembered, as the curious are con- stantly recalling to us, that much of our commonest slang to-day is of truly classic origin. With this fact in view, it is perhaps not so surprising that slang should become literary. Yet for many years it has undoubtedly been in a state of decadence. It has hardly been ap- proved of, and was not commonly to be heard in careful society. This lack of appreciation of what was most individual and characteristic in our language has caused sorrow in many parts, and the recent artistic acceptation of the lingo of the streets is looked upon merely as a return to its proper function. 375 376 NOTES Curiously enough there has been much confusion about slang ; it has had a limited life. Whatever has come to us from abroad has been called dialect : the talk of Mul- vaney is dialect ; Mr. Morrison *s mean street charac- ters speak continually in dialect ; and such pleasing quotations as we have had of Coster London are always dialect, except, perhaps, when they are dig- nified into folk-lore. Yet the moment it is a question of New York or Chicago, rather than London, it becomes slang : with an English trade-mark, it could pass as literary ; when the origin was American, it became at once vulgar and illiterate. Fashionable schools long since set their faces against it, and careful mothers taught their children to speak in approved mould, to carry on the antique copy-book forms, and bury deep what might have been distinct and uncommonplace. With the popularity of the expressiveness of Mr. Chimmie Fadden, of entertaining memory, came a change, however, and since Mr. Townsend's hero first broke down the bars of convention, slang has been ** on the rise.** In truth it has gone so far — and it is goin^ still farther — that it is high time for another article from Mr. Brander Matthews on Americanisms and Briticisms. To a certain extent, things are assuredly going his way, and differing conditions are beginning to count. We are becoming more American day by day. This in itself is nei- ther a boast nor necessarily a matter for pride. American- ism is no better than Briticism, so far as is evident. Yet, being Americans, the fact that we are beginning to be individual, that the elemental things are showing, and that we are borrowing less and developing more, is undeniably excellent. If it were only for its share in this in- dividualizing process, slang would be deserving of much recognition ; but that is the least of its virtues ; it is much more — it is amusing into the bargain. THE CHAP-BOOK 77 A RIDDLE QUESTION: Three men near the flowing Thames, Much pains and labour did they make. They did both scratch and claw their wems. Until their very hearts did ache. It is as true as e'er was told. Therefore this riddle now unfold. ANSWER: Three fiddlers in Thames Street, who played up a bridegroom in the Morning, who gave them nothing to drink. From the ** True Trial of Understanding." 378 NOTES ^It is time for some one to write the great silver novel. It may not be knov^^n to Mr. Bryan and his managers that novels can be commissioned. Or it may not have come into their minds that they might hitch their wagon to the star of literature. They will do well to consider the facts. A stirring story would be the most effective campaign document possible. The fight is as much one of emotion as of reason. If, as we are told, Mr. Bryan is a young Lincoln come out of the West, and if there is any truth in the metaphors of the new impiety, there is opportunity for a novel which shall be popular as nothing since Uncle Tom' s Cabin has been. If the farmers of the west are indeed white (though begrimed) slaves, the best way to win sympathy for them is by a story. If a novel could be written, manly and sympathetic, and with no great senti- mental surroundings, it would be difficult to predict how tremendous an effect it might have on the election. These suggestions are not intended primarily for the political managers. I wished rather to call the attention of all young and aspiring writers to this, the opportunity of a lifetime. There is a chance for clever work to ride on the crest of a popular wave. Fame and fortune seem nearer than ever before. The name already acquired will not count; in short, it is the longed-for opportunity for a contest of merit alone. If something is not written it will be a sad waste of heavenly opportunity. ^ Mr. Charles Dudley Warner has said a very sane word for criticism, and it has been copied far and wide. In effect, he said that real patriotism is measured as much by intelligent fault-finding as by extravagant acclaim of the first fruits of any native author. That is, the real lover of America should desire quality as much as quan- tity in its literature. Mr. Warner points his remarks NOTES 379 by referring to France, where criticism is an honored institution. I think, on the whole, it is well that he did not refer to England, especially if criticism of fiction be a subject under consideration. It is possible that in a few isolated instances criticism in the English press is more keen and brilliant than in America. The Saturday Reviezo for example, printed almost the only sane review ever written of Jude the Obscure. But any one who reads weekly newspaper reviews in the two countries knows that it is in England that praise is readiest for any medi- ocre novel. Read the Athenaum and see the praise (lukewarm and wishy-washy, perhaps, but still praise) which it ladles out to every novelist who happens along. This attitude of the English papers is difficult to under- stand. Either it is one gigantic and universal case of log-rolling, or else the novel is still regarded as something undignified and a plaything for women. It is as if the novel were not quite worth while condemning, and as if there were a certain hedge of gentility round its author which precluded fault-finding. Our own newspapers are not always intelligent, but they do not hesitate to condemn. The condition is better than that in England, and also better than Mr. Warner would seem to imply. We are not French newspaper critics, alas ; but then, happily, we are not English critics either. ^ At a music-hall the other evening I saw what the pro- gramme called a ** trans- Adan tic second-sight man.** His contrivances were old and his illusions were trite. I was disgusted with him and his whole performance until he came to the time-worn cabinet trick. Just before he was bound and placed in the box he stepped to the foot- lights and said: 380 NOTES "I call dis act de metamorphosis act because dat word means just what I do, bein' Greek. Meto means man and morphosis means disappear; hence watch de act close, gents, and see dat de ropes is tied tight." ^ It occurs to me that some of the persons who spend their time complaining about the nude in art, and invent- ing indecency in statues and paintings when none is to be found, might do well to turn their attention to the adver- tisements of some of our shops. For several days the papers have been announcing an immodest exhibition, and it is time for these suppressors of vice to take action. The advertisement reads: Men's Pants 1-2 OFF ! Come to the Big Store and HAVE A look at THEM. ^ There is a popular proverb which explains the origin of greatness in various classes of people. Mr. Richard Hard- ing Davis may, perhaps, have had greatness thrust upon him, while in the line of achievement Mr. Hamlin Gar- land figures as a shining example. With Mrs. Aldin Chamberlain, however, there is no room to doubt that greatness came with birth. What is more, she knew it from early childhood, and by now she has come to appreciate fully the responsibility placed upon her. In the preface to her "Life Thoughts" she says: ** The first motive of the author in writing these poems has been the desire to make some use of the one talent graciously bestowed upon her by the Giver of all Good and Perfect Gifts." To start off with, the modest sug- gestion that her gift is both good and perfect is, in itself, refreshing: it is notable, too, that her incentive is not NOTES 381 open to a mercenary charge. She has a mission to fulfill on earth: she has a call which she seems to feel is divine, although a careful reading of her book would hardly justify one in agreeing with her. In truth, there is a touch of sacrilege in her implication of the Creator. But that is neither here nor there. She is a generous woman, actuated by the most charitable motives. She writes solely for the benefit of others. In these days of rapacious publishers most authors could reasonably make such a claim; but Mrs. Chamberlain, doubtless from a considerateness unusual in writers, has published her book herself. Its full title is as follows : Life Thoughts. A Book of Poems on Religion, Love, Temperance, Kindness toward the Lower Animals; Then, Now (or Past and Present); Eternal Youth, The Brighter Side ot Death, Hidden Worth, and various other subjects. It also contains Eulogistic Poems on Lovely Charlevoix and Beautiful Petoskey. There is something almost pathetic in the mental con- dition which could produce such a volume, and yet the variety in the subjects treated inspires only admiration and wonder. But to go ** from bad to verse,'* as some one has said, at least one of Mrs. Chamberlain's compositions is worth quoting, punctuation and all: THE FLY. 'Tis strange how stupid some folks are ! Why can 't they have more sense ? Why will they hold the screen ajar. To talk, when they go hence. 382 NOTES Do they not know they can be heard. Right through a wire screen. And that we need not miss a word Of anything they mean ? Oh, see ! My goodness ! there *s a fly ! I thought he ' d got in here ! He *s on the window, way up high ! There, now he comes quite near ! Oh ! get a cloth, and kill him quick. For he is bound to fly; The sight of him most makes me sick ; I long to see him die. Oh, dear ! he *s got upon that cake. And if I strike him there, I will the pretty frosting break. And spoil it for the fair. Again he *s flying round the room. To tantalize us so. Perhaps I 'd kill him with the broom. If I could out there go. But if I open the screen door. And try the broom to get. Why, then, I might let in one more. To make more bother yet. Oh, there ! I 've knocked him on the floor ; I wonder if he 's dead. Oh, no ! he spreads his wings to soar. But 1 will on him tread. Well, now you 've killed him, and I think That you are very brave ; NOTES 383 You never let your courage shrink. Till he was in the grave. I think you 're brave enough to fight A terror-stricken mouse. If ever one should come in sight. Of this fly-haunted house. But you are tired almost to death, A-tearing round the room ; So now sit down and take your breath, While I your courage boom. But here *s a mouse ! Oh, hear her shriek ! She climbs into a chair. Holds her skirts tight around her feet. And thinks she's safe up there. The cat then came to her relief. And did her life defend. The struggle was so very brief. My fun came to an end. ^ Every Bureau of Advice to Writers has long told aspir- ing youth to avoid the literary essay as unsalable. Every aspiring youth has apparently taken the advice. Editors have so long wanted fiction rather than criticism, that now an editor who wants something besides stories cannot get it. This is exactly contrary to the popular opinion which is voiced by the Bureau of Advice. Everyone, it would say, can write essays, from graduating school- girls up and down. Essays are, consequently, a drug on the market. That this is not so can be proved both in theory and fact. To the fact. In the gathering of material for the Chap-Book, nothing is more difficult to secure than the essay. Nothing is offered in smaller quantity nor of so 384 NOTES low an average quality. This in spite of the fact that editorial exigencies would induce one to be extraordinarily appreciative. As to theory. I do not feel that I am forced to prove that a great critic is as great as a great story-teller or poet. It will always be the creative imagination that will most fill us with wonder. That a minor critic is quite as wonderful as a minor story-teller I do claim, however, and also that he is rarer. The literary essay demands above all charm of style. One must be even more deft than in story-telling. And style is exactly what Young America has not. There are many people who are fond of reproaching the moderns with verbal dexterity in saying nothing. I should like to have some one of these people — Maurice Thompson would do well — furnish me a list of Ameri- can writers who might properly be called stylists. If a half dozen can be found five of them will belong to the generation that is passing away. Whatever they do in England and France, here we do not glorify manner over matter. In fact we do not glorify manner at all. This should fill Mr. Maurice Thompson with great delight and perennial hope in American literature. It does not so affect me. It is true that even if we tell our tales but indifferently, we may average up very fairly because we have good stories to tell, because we have much healthiness of spirit and a deal of natural vigor. But we should be on a much higher plane if we knew how to write as well as what to write. ^The answers to the C h a r a d es given on pages 364 and 365 are as follows: I. Childhood. II. King- dom. III. PuNCH-BOWL. IV. Obey. V. Court- yard. BEERBOHM'S CARICATURES. NDRF.W LANG. ANNOUNCEMENTS IX The Chap -Book SEMI-MONTHLY HERBERT STUART STONE, EDITOR HARRISON G. RHODES, ASSISTANT SUBSCRIPTION : TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. THE TRADE SUPPLIED BY THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY AND ITS BRANCHES. ADVERTISING RATES TO BE HAD ON APPLICATION. THE CHAP-BOOK, CHICAGO. Entered at the Chicago Post Office as Second Class Matter, Verlaine Monument Fund It is proposed to erect in Paris a bust of the dead poet, the money to be raised by an inter- national subscription. The Chap-Book is the American representative of the committee, and solicits the aid of the friends of Verlaine and his work. Cheques should be addressed to THE CHAP-BOOK, CHICAGO. Their receipt will be acknowledged on this page. 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They are much in the style of Miss Pool's ♦*A Dyke Shanty," which has been so successful. To be had of all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers. HERBERT S. STONE ft CO., CHICAGO. voLv. THE CHAP-BOOK no. Copyright, 1896. by H. S. STONB & COMPANY DELILAH WHAT have 1 done ? What care I for their gold ? He who was king of all men now is dead — By what mad dream of kinship was I led. When, to my people, my sweet Lord I sold ? Nerveless his arms, no more shall they enfold This supple body on its perfumed bed; Across my sleepless eyes the mist floats red — The mist that rises where the dead lie cold. Cursed be those that took thee, O my lover! And doubly cursed be her that gave thee o'er. Stoop, Horned Queen, from where thine orb doth hover — I, who have served thee, this last boon im- plore; That thou some strange, fierce anguish will discover. To be with these and me for evermore. DuFFiELD Osborne. THE POET GOES A-SHOPPING • • T AM beginning life," he said, with a sigh. J^ ** Great heavens, Pickard! I have spent a day in a store. Three bedroom suites and a sideboard are among the unanticipated pledges of our affection. Have you any rye ? For a man of twelve limited editions this has been a terrible day." 1 saw to his creature comforts. His tie was hanging outside his vest and his complexion was like white paste- 386 THE POET GOES A-SHOPPING board that has got wet. "Courage/* I said. "It will not occur again — '* *'It will," he interrupted. ** We have to go there again to-morrow. We have — what is it? — carpets, curtains — " He produced his note-book. I was amazed. That receptacle for choice thoughts put to such a use! ** The amber sunlight splashing through the leaky interlacing green,'* he read. **No! — that's not it. Ah, here! Curtains! Parlor! — not to cost more than ten dollars! And there *s all the kitchen hardware! (Thanks.) Dining-room chairs — -query — rush bot- toms? What's this? G. L. I. S. — ah. 'Glister- ing through deeps of glaucophane* — that *s nothing. Mem. — to see can we afford Indian needlework chairs — fifteen dollars ? It *s dreadful, Pickard.** He helped himself to a cigarette. "Find the salesman pleasant ?*' said I. '* Dehghtfiil. Assumed I was a millionaire spend- thrift at first. Produced in an off-hand way a $400 bedfoom suite — we 're trying to do the entire business, you know, on about ^1,000. Well — that's ten edi- tions, you know. Came down, with evidently dwind- ling respect, to things that were still ruinously expensive. I wonder what kind of houses these men live in them- selves, anyway. I told him we wanted an idyl, love-in- a-cottage, and all that sort of thing. He brushed that one side, said idols were upstairs in the Japanese depart- ment and that perhaps we might do with a servant's set of bedroom furniture. Do with a set! He was a gloomy man, with (I should judge) some internal pain. I tried to tell him that there were quite a lot of people like myself in the country, people of limited or precarious means, whose existence he seemed to ignore; assured him PICAROON 387 some of them led quite beautiful lives. But he had no ideas beyond wardrobes. I quite forgot the business of shop- ping in an attempt to kindle a little human enthusiasm in his heart. We were in a great, vast place full of ward- robes, with a remote glittering vista of brass bedsteads — skeleton beds, you know — and I tried to inspire him with some of the poetry of his emporium; tried to make him imagine these beds and things going east and west, north and south, to take sorrow, servitude, joy, worry, failing strength, restless ambition in their impartial em- braces. He only turned round to Annie and asked her if she thought she could do with * enamelled.* But 1 was quite taken with my idea — Where is it ? I left Annie to settle with this misanthrope, amidst his raw frameworks of the Homes of .the Future." He fumbled with his note-book. ** Mats for hall — not to exceed ^i. . . Kerbs. — inquire tiled hearth. . . Ah! Here we are: * Ballade of the Bedroom Suite ' : ** * Noble the oak you are now displaying, Subdy the hazel's grainings go. Walnut's charms there is no gainsaying. Red as red wine is your rosewood's glow. Brave and brilliant the ash you show. Rich your mahogany's hepatite shine. Cool and sweet your enamel. But oh! Where are the wardrobes of Painted Pine ? ' **They have 'em in the catalogue at ;^25, with a picture — quite as good, too, as the more expensive ones. To judge by the picture." "But that's scarcely the idea you started with," I began. ** No. It went wrong. Ballades often do. The 388 THE POET GOES A-SHOPPING pre-occupation of the * Painted Pine ' was too much for me. What's this? * N. B. — Anderson sells music stools at ? No. Here we are (first half unwrit- ten) : — '* * White enamelled, like driven snow. Picked with just one delicate line. Price you were saying is ? Sixty ! — No ! ' Where are the wardrohes of Fainted Pine ! ** Come round again, you see! Then L ^ Envoy: — *♦ 'Salesman, sad is the truth, I trow: Winsome walnut can never be mine. Poets are cheap. And their poetry. So, Where are the wardrobes of Painted Pine? ' ** Prosaic ! as all true poetry is, nowadays. And perhaps not much better than mere prose — your own, for instance. But how I tired as the afternoon wore on! At first I was interested in the salesman's amazing lack of imagination, and the glory of that fond dream of mine — love in a cottage, you know — still hung about me. I had ideas come — like that Ballade — and every now and then Annie told me to write notes. I think my last gleam ot pleasure was in choosing the parlor chairs. There is scope for fantasy in chairs. Then " He took some more whisky. " Then a kind of grey horror came over me. I don't know if I can describe it. We went through vast vistas of chairs, of hall tables, of machine-made pictures, of cur- tains, huge wildernesses of carpets, and ever this cold, unsympathetic shopman led us on, and ever and again made us buy this or that. He had a perfecdy grey eye, the color of an overcast sky in January, and he seemed neither to hate us nor to detest us, but simply to despise us, to feel such an overwhelming contempt for our PICAROON 389 petty means and our petty lives as an archangel might feel for an apple-maggot. It made me think — " He lit a fresh cigarette. ** I had a vision, Pickard. I do not knov/ if you will understand. The Warehouse of Life, v^ith our In- dividual Fate hurrying each of us through. Show^ing us with a covert sneer all the good things that we cannot afford. A magnificent Rosewood love aifair, for in- stance, deep and rich, fitted complete, some hours of perfect life, some acts of perfect self-sacrifice, perfect self-devotion. . . You ask the price." He shrugged his shoulders. ** Where are the wardrobes of Painted Pine?" I quoted. ** That's it. All the things one might do, if the purse of one's courage were not so shallow. If it was n't for the lack of that coinage, Pickard, every man might be a hero. There's heroism, there's nobility such as no one has ever attained to, ready to hand. Anyone, if it were not for this lack of means, might be a human god in twenty-four hours. . . You see the article. You cannot buy it. No one buys it. It stands in the store, I suppose, for show — on the chance of a millionaire. And the shopman waves his hand to it on your way to the Painted Pine." I was sorry for the little man and held my peace. He went on: ** Then you meet other couples and solitary people going about, each with a gloomy salesman leading. The run of them look uncomfortable; some are hot about the ears and in the spiteful phase of ill-temper, argumenta- tive, disappointed, vaguely vicious; all look sick of the business except the raw new-comers. It 's the only time they will ever select any furniture, their first chance 390 THE POET GOES A-SHOPPING and their last. Most of their selections are hurried a little — I fancy all furniture is bought in despair. The salesman must not be kept all day. . . Yet it goes hard with you if you buy your Object in Life and find it just a 'special line,' made to sell. . . We 're all amateurs at living, just as we are all amateurs at furnishing — or dying. Some of the poor devils one meets carry tattered litde scraps of paper, and fumble conscientiously with stumpy parcels. It 's a comfort to see how you go, even if you do have to buy rubbish. * If we have this so good, dear, I don't know how we shall manage in the kitchen,' says the careful housewife. . . So it is with our shop- ping in the Great Emporium." ** You '11 have to re-write your Ballade," said I, *'and put all that in." *'I wish I could," said the Poet. ** And while you were having these moods ?" ** Oh, Annie and the salesman settled most of the furniture between them. Perhaps it 's just as well. I was never any good at the practical details of life. . . Cigarette's out! Have you any matches ?" "Horribly depressed you are! " I said. "There 's to-morrow, too. Well, well. . ." Then he went off at a tangent to tell me what he ex- pected to make by his next volume of poems, and so got to the congenial business of running down his contem- poraries, and became again the cheerful litde Poet that I know. Picaroon. DRAWN BY A. E. BORIE 391 DRAWN BY A. E. BORIE 392 POPPIES POPPI ES I WHO walk among the poppies In the burning hour of noon. Brother to their scarlet beauty. Feel their fervour and their swoon. In this little wayside garden, Under the sheer tent of blue. The dark kindred in forgetting. We are of one dust and dew. They, the summer-loving gypsies. Who frequent the Northern year ; From an older land than Egypt, I, too, but a nomad here. All day long the purple mountains. Those mysterious conjurors. Send, in silent premonition. Their still shadows by our doors. And we listen, through the silence. For a far-off sound, which seems Like the long reverberant echo Of a sea-shell blown in dreams. Is it the foreboded summons From the fabled Towers of Sleep, Bidding home the wandered children From the shore of the great deep ? All day through the sun-filled valley. Teeming with its ghostly thought. Glad in the mere lapse of being. Muses and is not distraught. BLISS CARMAN 393 Then suffused with earth's contentment. The slow patience of the sun. As our heads are bowed to slumber In the shadows, one by one. Sweet and passionless, the starlight Talks to us of things to be ; And we stir a little, shaken In the tool breath of the sea. Bliss Carman. CURIOUS PUNISHMENTS OF BY-GONE DAYS III The Stocks. ONE of the earliest institutions in every New Eng- land community was a pair ot stocks. The first public building was a meeting-house, but often, long before any house of God was builded, the devil got his restraining engine. It was a true English punish- ment, and, to a degree, a Scotch, and was of most ancient date. In the Cambridge Trinity College Psalter, an illuminated manuscript illustrating the manners of the twelfth century, may be seen the quaint pictures of two men sitting in stocks, while two others flout them. So essential to due order and government were the stocks that every village had them. Sometimes they were movable, and often were kept in the church porch, a sober Sunday monitor. Shakespeare says in ** King Lear" : ** Fetch forth the stocks, You stubborn ancient knave ! " 394 PUNISHMENTS OF BY-GONE DAYS In England, petty thieves, unruly servants, v^ife- beaters, hedge-tearers, vagrants. Sabbath-breakers, re- vilers, gamblers, drunkards, and a variety of other offenders, were all punished by the stocks. Doubtless the most notable person ever set in the stocks for drink- ing too freely was that great man Cardinal Wolsey. About the year 1500 he was the incumbent at Lyming- ton, and, getting drunk at a village feast, he was seen by Sir Amyas Poulett, a strict moralist, and local justice of the peace, who humiliated the embryo cardinal by thrust- ing him in the stocks. The Boston magistrates had a **pair of bilbo w^es,'* doubtless brought from England ; but these were only temporary, and soon stocks were ordered. It is a fair example of the humorous side of Puritan law, so frequently displayed, that the first malefactor set in these strong new stocks was the carpenter who made them. ** Edward Palmer for his extortion in taking ^i 13s. yd. for the plank and woodwork of Boston stocks is fined ^5 & censured to bee sett an houre in the stocks." Thus did our ancestors make the ** punishment fit the crime." The carpenter of Shrewsbury, Mass., likewise, as Pepys said of a new pair of stocks in his neighborhood, took handsel of the stocks of his own making. In Virginia, a somewhat kindred case was that of one Mr. Henry Charlton, of Hungar's Parish, in 1633. For slandering the minister, Mr. Cotton, Charlton was ordered ** to make a pair of stocks and set in them several Sabbath days after divine service, and then ask Mr. Cotton's forgiveness for using offensive words con- cerning him." In Maryland, in 1655, another case may be cited. One William Bramhall, having been convicted of signing a rebellious petition, was for a second offense of like ALICE MORSE EARLE 395 nature ordered to be **at the Charge of Building a Pair of Stocks and see it finished within one Month." There is no reference to his punishment through the stocks of his own manufacture. With a regard for the comfort of the criminal, strangely at variance with what Cotton Mather termed **The Gust of the Age," and a profound submission to New England climate, a Massachusetts law enacted June 18, 1645, declares that ** he yt offends in excessive and longe drinkeing, he shalbe sett in the stocks for three howers when the weather is seaso?iable.^^ Just as soon as the Boston stocks had been weil warmed by Carpenter Palmer they promptly started on a well-filled career of usefulness. They gathered in James Luxford who had been *t«- -Nt«. -nVx ^f^ ADVERTISEMENTS XI LINEN TYPE WRITING PAPERS Made of selected linen rags, Plate finished, insuring perfect copies. For manifolding unequalled. To Railway and Insurance Companies, Manufacturers, Merchants, and Bankers, we recommend this brand. jg^Ask for our Papers FAIRFIELD PAPER COMPANY Mills at Fair- field, Mass. Makers of Bonds, Ledgers, and Linen Papers. 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Horns ring through the forest cover; While Scarlett's singing and Marian's stringing A chain of haws for her lover. It 's good to dwell, as we know right well. Deep down in a forest hollow. With the singing brook for our missal-book And never an eave for the swallow. And a Friar we have, whom long God save. To throw and fight me, and love me. To shrive and sain me when Death has ta'en me. And turn the green sods above me. No more I ask than in sun to bask. And a nook of fern to curl in; When winds are high, or snow is nigh. And my arms have locked my girl in. God give our May till her brown head's gray. And faint grows Robin's Hood's hollo. Good store of deer in the wood of Shere, And Little John strength to follow ! Nora Hopper. *r 434 DRAWING JOSEPH EDGAR CHAMBERLIN 435 THE LION'S DREAM. NINE o'clock in the evening in the dime museum. The gas-lights burned yellow with the fetid at- mosphere of the place. The last stage-show was in progress in the ** auditorium." Two men on the stage, one in the height of the fashion and the other in rags, and both with pallid smooth faces, bawled out, in a kind o{ incessant sing-song recitative, a little drama- story of a rich young man who refused alms to a beggar ; who then gambled and drank away all his money, while the beggar obtained a situation and rose to comfort ; the ruined rich man in his turn asked an alms of the one he had once spurned, and was nobly befriended. The squalid audience, made up for the most part of crop- haired, youngish men with bristly moustaches and a week's beard on their faces, with ears sticking out side- wise, bat-like, in the deformity of the slums, applauded wildly this high-pitched, roaring piece of morality and sentiment. Just a moment before a stout girl who turned a startling somersault in long skirts had been allowed to go off without a hand -clap. Out in the ** curio-hall," on a long platform running the length of the room, a fat snake-charmer, wrapped in a bath-robe, half thrown aside on account of the heat, revealing red, dingy knitted tights, crocheted nimbly. Stupid serpents were coiled up in a glass case at her side. Near her sat a great negro whose business was to eat glass : he dozed while he waited for the stage show to be over and the curio hall's turn to come. Empty chairs, surrounded by the machinery and trap- pings of charlatanry, stood on the platform. The freaks to whom they belonged were somewhere outside, and, when the bell should ring, would come filing down a 436 THE lion's dream long stairway to do their parts. At one side of the hall a stout young man, in a droning, nasal voice, in- vited the few people in the hall to try their strength on a lifting machine. In the centre of the room was another raised platform on which stood a cage of lions, with just space enough at the side of it for the wooden chair in which sat the Professor — the lecturer and master of ceremonies of the place. He was a short man in shiny broadcloth; he rested his chin wearily on the silver head of a cane, and gazed vacantly across the room. In the cage three great lions lay sprawled out asleep. Two of them, males, were flattened out against the floor in the utter abandonment of stupid relaxation. The third, a female, lay with her head between her forepaws, her hind legs thrust out sidewise into the stomach of the larger male. This animal lay with his back against the bars of the cage, his tawny hide protruding between them all along. He was so big that, from the tip of his nose and his open mouth to the end of his extended tail, he reached almost the length of the cage. The hind foot that came uppermost as he lay was thrust up into the air, as if he had had an impulse to push away the thorny feet of the sleeping lioness, sticking deep into his abdomen, and then had fallen into a deeper sleep and forgotten it. He was a giant among lions — a formidable beast in every muscle and line. But he looked here, stretched out in stupid sleep, just what he was — a lion born in captivity, whose father and mother were born in captiv- ity, a tamed and docile hourly victim of a woman's whip. Presently the beautiful Zoraida would appear, clad in silken tights and a spangled bodice, and, entering the cage, would shriek at the lions, and crack her whip, and JOSEPH EDGAR CHAMBERLIN 437 lash them into a semblance of fury, and seize this big lion by the jaws and thrust her painted face between his glittering rows of teeth, while the professor, standing alongside the cage, would bawl out a wonderful lecture, telling how the lion had been captured in an Indian jungle after he had been a famous man-eater for years; how, in the five years since he had been in captivity, he had killed four men, and how the beautiful Zoraida hourly took her life into her hands in defying him. Meantime the lion seemed to fall into a deeper sleep ; but his skin began to twitch, and his breath to come quick and hard. His open jaws snapped together. The in-drawings of his breath were rough and guttural. His eyes blinked, but their opening showed no waking; they were glassy with deep sleep. But his relaxed muscles became rigid. Long claws emerged from his paws, as it by a will of their own. A look of ferocity took the place of one of stupidity on his great face, narrowing down from his little wicked ears to the tip of his nose — a beautiful, savage, most singular face, triangular but for the graceful curves made by his yellow cheeks. Now the lion seemed to be choking in his sleep. The lioness woke, and drew herself away a little, and blinked, and seemed to look a long way off, and sank down again on her back by the side of the lion, and slept once more. The lion's breath came more heavily. His teeth closed together so that the muscles of his neck could be seen by the Professor, looking curiously at him, to draw like ropes strained by tugging oxen. The Professor wondered at this, and fancied that something must be the matter with the lion. And yet he reflected that the animal only seemed to be enacting a fight in his dream. **If I didn't know," the Professor thought, «* that the fellow was born in captivity, and his father and mother 438 THE LION*S DREAM before him, I should think he was dreaming of the jungle. But he couldn't dream of the jungle. He never was in one." Then the Professor put his silver-headed cane slowly- through the bars of the cage, and by a light movement laid it down on the lion's neck. The tamed beast, used to the touch of man, did not wake. His dream of the jungle went on. The Professor himself dozed then. He had a dream of his own in which he saw a wonderful sight. It was something like the lying story which he had told five times a day, for two weeks now, of the capture of this false man-eater in his invented jungle; only it was more terrible, and he seemed to be within the lion's skin, and to be looking out into the woods through the beast's eyes. Lurking in a nest among tangled branches and trailing vines, a lioness just like the one in the cage seemed to have aroused him and to have called his attention to a stealthy sound in the jungle. He had risen, half crouch- ing, from the ground, and concentrated himself into the keenest intentness of seeing, and listening, and smelling, to make out what might be approaching through the bashes. Then a great panic, the next instant mingled with and overborne by a greater ferocity, filled him, as he recognized in the sound the footfall of a man; he knew it to be a man's because it had a kind of hardness and little crushing quality in it, not like an animal's soft caress of the earth. He had never before thought of observing such qualities, or the want of them, in the walk of man or beast. Then a scent struck his nostrils — a kind of far-away attenuation of that of the dime-museum when the crowd urged about the platform. Used as he was to that smell, he had always abhorred it. Now the thin, distant JOSEPH EDGAR CHAMBERUN 439 suggestion of it seemed to fill him with destructive fiiry — and also a kind of awful hunger. The sound came nearer — and was multiplied with others like it. The lioness leaped up, and snarled, and turned quickly about, and then he was aware that men were behind them too. The foot-falls came closer; they w^ere all around. Then, in a few moments, the fight was on. The men who swarmed up were all dark men, and they had no fire-arms; but there was a ring of steel in the jungle, and there were shouts and screams of the men and the roar of the beasts. The dreamer escaped at last through the ring of steel, with fierce pain piercing his flank — but he had Prey in his mouth, and a glorious, wild, in- effable thrill of satisfaction seemed to fill his whole being. A gong sounded, and the dozing Professor woke with a start. He heard a roaring of feet on the bare floor, and knew that the people were trooping in from the auditorium, and that the stage-show was over and the time come for him to get up and begin his lecture. Down the narrow stairway came the motley array of freaks. Among them was the Beautiful Zoraida, in her spangles and silk and paint. The Professor looked quickly over at the lion; un- consciously he had drawn away his cane from the ani- mal's neck. The lion slept on — his muscles more tense than ever, his panting quicker and heavier. ;: The Professor introduced the snake-charmer with only •a word, and forbore to describe with scientific particu- larity the process of digesting solid substances as practiced by the negro glass-eater. He had a feverish haste, he hardly knew why, to get to the lions, which were next on the programme. The crowd — dirty, half-shaven, slum-deformed. 440 THE lion's dream foul-smelling — wheeled about from the curio -platform to the central rostrum. The Beautiful Zoraida stood up on this rostrum, with folded arms and complacent visage, while the Professor praised her intrepidity and her matchless beauty; she stood still thus while the Professor launched into his story of the capture of the man-eater in the Indian jungle; and she was thrilled herself by this lie, for never before had she heard the Professor tell it with such spirit and circumstantiality. For the first time since the days, long before, when she had learned the easy task of intimidating these cowed and half-asphyxiated creatures, she felt a sinking of fear as she caught the whip that the Professor tossed to her and entered the cage through the door in the bars, which was quickly closed after and fastened with a great chain, to make the per- formance the more impressive. The big lion slept on. But the Beautiful Zoraida cracked her whip in his face, and he sprang upon his feet. She had seen him do that before; but then his ears had been thrown back in a mere snarling, cowardly resentment of the lash. Now his attitude was quite dif- ferent. The tamer's look was fixed upon a light in his eyes that she had never before seen there; it was cruel, and deep and strange. A sudden fear seized the tamer; now it was she who was tamed. Yet in the terror which shook her she reflected upon the maxims of her craft, and knew that she must daunt the lion. There- fore, she clubbed her whip, laden with lead at the butt, and with it dealt the beast a hard blow between his eyes. Then with a roar the lion leaped upon her and seized her by the shoulder. His jaws seemed to enfold her arm and side. She did not scream, but fainted; and the lion, crouching, his stomach on the floor of the cage, dragged her toward a corner. JOSEPH EDGAR CHAMBERLIN 44 I The Professor was pale as death. "Unchain the door! In God's name ; unchain the door !*' he shouted. But the helper in the museum who had fastened the door was enveloped now in the crowd, in which two currents were striving with each other — one to get nearer the cage and the other to get farther away from it. Even in the slums, among men ground to earth and starved in spirit, the instinct to help, to risk life and do prodigies for others, survives and grows up side by side with the sickening cowardice bred in moral darkness. In this place there were a hundred men who were de- termined to save this woman somehow, and as many who were trampling each other to escape farther from the jaws of a creature from which they were already pro- tected by an impassable barrier. One strong, uncouth fellow leaped to the rostrum be- side the litde door and tried to undo the chain that held it. It was only a heavy iron latch, in fact, with the chain looped once over the end of it; but the man's ex- citement unsteadied him, and he fumbled with the chain and bolt. Then there was a scream in the crowd, " Lift the latch ! Lift the latch!" Another man's hand seized the iron and pulled in the contrary way from this one's. The rushing and trampHng went on. The old Pro- fessor was wailing in a high-pitched voice, " Oh, my God ! my God !" The woman was almost within reach of his hand, but he was separated from the door by a surging mass of people. He saw the lion set his teeth deeper and deeper into the woman's flesh; and when, in a few moments more, a man was found who opened the door by throwing aside the chain and lifting the latch, and another came with a rifle prepared to send a bullet through the lion's body, he knew it was too late. 442 THE LION S DREAM The lion's eyes were blazing with a terrible fire, un- seen there before in all the beast's long craven life under the tamer's whip. He had dreamed of the jungle, and, waking, had wreaked a vengeance long overdue. Joseph Edgar Chamberlin. ALICE MORSE EARLE 443 CURIOUS PUNISHMENTS OF BY-GON E DA YS IV The Pillory. HAWTHORNE says in his immortal Scarlet Letter : '*This scafFold constituted a portion of a penal machine which now, for two or three generations past, has been merely historical or traditionary among us, but was held in the old time to be as effectual in the promo- tion of good citizenship as ever was the guillotine among the terrorists of France. It was, in short, the platform of the pillory ; and above it rose the framework of that instrument of discipline, so fashioned as to confine the human head in its tight grasp, and thus hold it up to the public gaze. The very ideal of ignominy was embodied and made manifest in this contrivance of wood and iron. There can be no outrage, methinks, against our common nature — whatever be the delinquencies of the individual — no outrage more flagrant than to forbid the culprit to hide his face for shame." This "essence of punishment" — the pillory or stretch-neck - — can be traced back to a remote period in England and on the Continent — certainly to the twelfth century. In its history tragedy and comedy are equally blended, and martyrdom and obloquy are alike com- bined. Seen in a prominent position in every village and town, its familiarity of presence was its only retriev- ing characteristic ; near church-yard and in public square was it ever found ; local authorities forfeited the right to hold a market unless they had a pillory ready for use. A description of a pillory is not necessary to one who 444 PUNISHMENTS OF BY-GONE DAYS has read any illustrated history of the English Church, of the Quakers, Dissenters, or of the English people ; for the rude prints of political and religious sufferers in the pillory have been often reproduced. Douce, in his Illustrations of Shakespeare^ gives six different forms of the pillory. It was an upright board, hinged or divisible in twain, with a hole in which the head was set fast, and usually with two openings also for the hands. Often the ears were nailed to the wood on either side of the head-hole. Examples exist of a small finger- pillory, or thumb-stocks, but they are rare. It would be impossible to enumerate the offences for which Englishmen were pilloried. Among them were treason, sedition, arson, blasphemy, witchcraft, perjury, wife-beating, cheating, forestalling, forging, coin-clip- ping, tree-polling, gaming, dice-cogging, quarrelling, lying, libelling, slandering, threatening, conjuring, for- tune-telling, "prigging,'* drunkenness, impudence. One man was set in the pillory for delivering false dinner invitations; another for a rough practical joke; another for selling an injurious quack medicine. All sharpers, beggars, impostors, vagabonds, were liable to be pilloried. So fierce sometimes was the attack of the populace with various annoying and heavy missiles on pilloried prison- ers that several deaths are known to have ensued. On the other side, it is told in Chambers' Book of Days that a prisoner, by the sudden collapse of a rotten foot-board, was left hanging by his neck in danger of his life. On being liberated he brought action against the town and received damages. The pillory in England has seen many a noble victim. The history of Puritanism, of Reformation, is filled with hundreds of pages of accounts of sufferings on the pillory. When such names as those of Leighton, Prynne, Lil- ALICE MORSE EARLE 445 burne. Burton and Bastwick appear as thus being pun- ished we do not think of the pillory as a scaffold for felons, but as a platform for heroes. Who can read un- moved that painful, that pathetic account of the punish- ment of Dr. Bastwick. His weeping wife stood on a stool and kissed his poor pilloried face, and when his ears were cut off she placed them in a clean handkerchief and took them away, with emotions unspeakable and undying love. De Foe said, in his famous Hymn to the Pillory: **Tell us, great engine, how to understand Or reconcile the justice of this land; How Bastwick, Prynne, Hunt, Hollingsby and Pye — Men of unspotted honesty — Men that had learning, wit and sense. And more than most men have had since — Could equal title to thee claim With Oates and Fuller, men of fouler fame." Lecture-day, as affording in New England, in the pious community, the largest gathering of reproving spectators, was the day chosen in preference for the per- formance of public punishment by the pillory. Haw- thorne says of the Thursday Lecture: ** The tokens of its observance are of a questionable cast. It is in one sense a day of public shame; the day on which trans- gressors who have made themselves liable to the minor severities of the Puritan law receive their reward of ignominy.*' Thus Nicholas Olmstead, in Connecticut, is to ** stand on the pillory at Hartford the next lecture- day." He was to be **sett on a lytle before the begin- ning and to stay thereon a lytle after the end." The disgrace of the pillory clung, though the offence punished was not disgraceful. Thus in the year 1697 a 44^ PUNISHMENTS OF BY-GONE DAYS citizen of Braintree, William Veasey, was set in the pillory for ploughing on a thanksgiving day which had been appointed in gratitude for the escape of King Will- iam from assassination. The stiff old Braintree rebel declared that James II. was his rightful king. Five years later Veasey was elected a member of the General Court, but was not permitted to serve, as he had been in the pillory. Throughout the Massachusetts jurisdiction the pillory was in use. In 167 1 one Mr. Thomas Withers, for ** surriptisiously endeavoring to prevent the Providence of God by putting in several votes for himself as an officer at a town meeting," was ordered to stand two hours in the pillory at York, Maine. Shordy after (for he was an ingenious rogue) he was similarly punished for **an irregular way of contribution," for putting large sums of money into the contribution box in meeting to induce others to give largely, and then again ** surriptisiously " taking his gift back again. There was no offense in the southern colonies more deplored, more reprobated, more legislated against than what was known as ** ingrossing, forestalling, or regrat- mg. This was what would to-day be termed a brokerage or speculadve sale, such as buying a cargo about to arrive, and selling at retail, buying a large quantity of any goods in a market to re-sell, or any form of huckstering. Its prevalence was held to cause dearth, famine and despair. English ** regratours " and forestallers were frequendy pilloried. Even in Piers^ Plowman we read: •* For these aren men on this molde that moste harm worcheth. To the pore peple that parcel-mele buyggen Thei rychen thorow regraterye." ALICE MORSE EARLE 447 The state archives of Maryland are full of acts and resolves about forestallers, etc., and severe punishments were decreed. It was, in truth, the curse of that colony. All our merchandise brokers to-day would in those days have been liable to be thrust in prison or pillory. In the year 1648, I learn from the Maryland archives, one John Goneere, for perjury, was ** nay led by both eares to the pillory, 3 nailes in each eare and the nailes to be slitt out, and whipped 20 good lashes." The same year Blanche Howell wilfully, unsolicited and unasked, committed perjury. The ** sd Blanche shall stand nayled in the Pillory and loose both her eares." Both these sentences were " exequuted." In New York the pillory was used. Under Dutch rule, Mesaack Maartens, accused of stealing cabbages from Jansen, the ship-carpenter hving on '/ maagde paatjey was sentenced to stand in the pillory with cab- bages on his head. Truly this was a striking sight. Dishonest bakers were set in the pillory with dough on their heads. At the trial of this Mesaack Maartens, he was tortured to make him confess. Other criminals ni New York bore torture: a sailor, wrongfully, as was proven; a woman, for stealing stockings. At the time of the Slave Riots cruel tortures were inflicted. Yet to Massachusetts, under the excitement and superstition caused by that tragedy in New England history, the witchcraft trials, is forever accorded the disgrace that one of her citizens was pressed to death, one Giles Corey. The story of his death is too painful for recital. Mr. Channing wrote an interesting account of the Newport of the early years of this century. He says of crimes and criminals in that town at that time: ** The public modes of punishment estabhshed by law 448 PUNISHMENTS OF BY-GONE DAYS were four, viz.: executions by hanging, whipping ot men at the cart-tail, whipping of women in the jail-yard, and the elevation of counterfeiters and the like to a movable pillory, which turned on its base so as to front north, I >uth, east and west in succession, remaining at each point a quarter of an hour. During this execution of the majesty of the law the neck of the culprit was bent to a most uncomfortable curve, presenting a facial mark for those salutations of stale eggs which seemed to have been preserved for the occasion. The place selected for the infliction of this punishment was in front of the State House.'* A conviction and sentence in Newport in 1771 was thus reported in the daily newspapers, among others the Essex Gazette of April 23: **William Carlisle was convicted of passing Counterfeit Dollars, and sentenced to stand One Hour in the Pillory on Little-Rest Hill, next Friday, to have both Ears cropped, to be branded on both Cheeks with the letter R, to pay a fine of One Hundred Dollars and Cost ot Prosecution, and to stand committed till Sentence per- formed." Severe everywhere were the punishments awarded to counterfeiters. The Continental bills bore this line: ** To counterfeit this bill is Death." In 1762 Jeremiah Dexter of Walpole, for passing on two counterfeit dol- lars, ** knowing them to be such," stood in the pillory for an hour; another rogue, for the same offense, had his ears cropped. Mr. Samuel Breck, speaking of methods of punishment in his boyhood in Boston, in 1771, said: •* A little further up State Street was to be seen the pillory, with three or four fellows fastened by the head and hands, and standing for an hour in that helpless ALICE MORSE EARLE 449 posture, exposed to gross and cruel jeers from the multi- tude, who pelted them constantly with rotten eggs and every repulsive kind of garbage that could be collected." Instances of punishment in Boston by the pillory of both men and women are many. In the Boston Post-Boy of February, 1763, I read: ** Boston, January 31. — At the Superior Court held at Charlestown last week, Samuel Bacon of Medford, and Meriam Fitch, wife of Benjamin Fitch of said Medford, were convicted of being notorious Cheats, and of having by Fraud, Craft and Deceit, possess' d themselves of Fif- teen Hundred Johannes the property of a third Person; were sentenced to be each of them set in the Pillory one Hour, with a Paper on each of their Breasts and the words A CHEAT wrote in Capitals thereon, to suffer three months' imprisonment, and to be bound to their good Behaviour for one Year and to pay Costs." From the Bostoji Chronicle ^ November 20, 1769: «* We learn from Worcester that on the eighth instant one Lindsay stood in the Pillory there one hour, after which he received 30 stripes at the public whipping-post, and was then branded in the hand; his crime was For- The use of the pillory in New England extended into this century. On the i 5th of January, 1801, one Haw- kins, for the crime of forgery, stood for an hour in a pil- lory in Salem, and had his ears cropped. The pillory was in use in Boston, certainly as late as 1803. In March of that year the brigantine ** Hannah " was criminally sunk at sea by its owner, Robert Pierpont, and its master, H. R. Story, to defraud the underwriters. The two criminals were sentenced after trial to stand one hour in the pillory in State Street on two days, be confined in prison for two years and pay the costs of the prosecution. As 450 AUTUMN SONG this case was termed *' a transaction exceeding in infamy all that has hitherto appeared in the commerce of our country,'* this sentence does not seem severe. The pillory lingered long in England. Lord Thurlow was eloquent in its defense, calling it ** the restraint against hcentiousness provided by the wisdom of past ages.'* In 1812 Lord Ellenborough, equally warm in his approval and endorsement, sentenced a blasphemer to the pillory for two hours, once each month, for eighteen months; and in 18 14 he ordered Lord Cochrane, the famous sea-fighter of Brasque Roads fame, to be set in the pillory for spreading false news. But Sir Francis Burdett declared he would stand on the pillory by Lord Cochrane' s side, and public opinion was more powerful than the Judge. By this time the pillory was rarely used save in cases of perjury. As late as 1830 a man was pilloried for that crime. In 1837 the pillory was ordered to be abandoned, by Act of Parliament; and in 1832 it was abolished in France. Alice Morse Earle. O AUTUMN SONG. NCE more the woods grow crimson. Once more the year burns down. Once more my feet come home To the little seaboard town. Once more I learn desire Prevails but to endure. And the heart springs to meet Your hand-touch — and be sure. Bliss Carman. DRAWING DRAWN BY RAYMOND M. CROSBY 452 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY. ,, T^ JTADAM," said Mr. Daly, the manager, in I Y J[_ his politest style, ** no one could regret the occurrence more than myself" — he pro- nounced the word *' meself " — *' especially as you say it has hurt your feelings. Do n't I know what feelings are.?" He pronounced the word ** failings," which tended in some measure to alter the effect of the phrase, though his friends would have been inclined to assert that its accuracy was not thereby diminished. "I have been grossly insulted, sir," said Mrs. Sid- dons. *' Grossly insulted," echoed Mr. Siddons. He played the part of echo to his stately wife very well indeed. "And it took place under your roof, sir," said the lady. ** Your roof," echoed the husband. '* And there 's no one in the world sorrier than myself for it," said Mr. Daly. ** But I do n't think that you should take a joke of the college gentlemen so seriously." **Joke?" cried Mrs. Siddons, with a passion that caused the manager, in the instinct of self-preservation, to jump backward. **Joke, sir! — a joke passed upon Sarah Siddons! My husband, sir, whose honour I have ever upheld as dearer to me than life itself, will tell you that I am not accustomed to be made the subject of ribald jests." ** I do n't know the tragedy that that quotation is made from," remarked Mr. Daly, taking out his snuff- box and tapping it, affecting a coolness which he cer- tainly was far from possessing; '*but if it 's all written in that strain I 'II bring it out at Smock Alley and give you F. FRANKFORT MOORE 453 an extra benefit. You never spoke anything better than that phrase. Pray let us have it again, madam — * my husband, sir,' and so forth." Mrs. Siddons rose slowly and majestically. Her eyes flashed as she pointed a shapely forefinger to the door of the green-room, saying in her deepest tones: ** Sir! degrade the room no longer by your presence. You have yet to know Sarah Siddons.'* ** Sarah Siddons," murmured the husband very weakly. He would have liked to maintain the stand taken up by his wife, but he had his fears that to do so would jeopardize the success of his appearance at the manager's treasury, and Mr. Siddons now and again gave people to understand that he could not love his wife so well loved he not the treasury more. Mr. Daly laughed. ** Faith, Mrs. Siddons," said he, ** 'tis a new thing for a man to be ordered out of his own house by a guest. I happen to be the owner of this tenement in Smock Alley in the city of Dublin, and you are my guest — my honoured guest, madam. How could I fail to honour a lady who, in spite of the fact of being the greatest actress in the world, is still a pattern wife and mother?" Mrs. Siddons was visibly softening under the balmy brogue of the Irishman. ** It is because I am sensible of my duties to my hus- band and my children that I feel the insult the more, sir," she said, in a tone that was still tragic. ** Sure I know that that 's what makes the sting of it so bitter," said Mr. Daly, shaking his head sadly. ♦*It*s only the truly virtuous, madam, that have feel- ings" — again he pronounced the word **failings." ** Enough, madam," he continued, after he had flour- ished his handkerchief and had vsriped away an imaginary 454 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY tear. ** Enough ! In the name of the citizens of Dublin I offer you the humblest apology in my power for the gross misconduct of that scoundrel in the pit who called out * Well done, Sally, my jewel ! ' after your finest soliloquy, and I promise you that if we can find the miscreant we shall have him brought to justice." ** If you believe that the citizens of Dublin are really conscious of the stigma which they shall bear for ages to come, for having insulted one whose virtue has, I rejoice to say, been ever beyond reproach, I will accept your apology, sir," said Mrs. Siddons with dignity. ** I '11 undertake to swear that the citizens feel the matter quite as deeply as I do, Mrs. Siddons," cried Mr. Daly, with both his hands clasped over his waist- coat. ** I dare swear that they do not even now know the enormity of your virtue, madam. It will be my pleasing duty to make them acquainted wiih it; and so, madam, I am your grateful humble servant." With a low bow he made his escape from the green room, leaving Mrs. Siddons seated on a high chair in precisely the attitude which she assumed when she sat for the Tragic Muse of Reynolds. "Thank heavens that 's over ! " muttered the man- ager as he hurried down Smock Alley to the tavern at the corner kept by an old actor named Barney Rafferty, and much frequented by the Trinity College students, who in the year 1783 were quite as enthusiastic theatre-goers as their successors are in the present year. " For the love of heaven, Barney, give us a jorum," cried Daly as he entered the bar parlour. ** A jorum of punch, Barney, for I 'm as dry as a lime kiln, making speeches in King Cambyses* vein to that Queen of Tragedy." F. FRANKFORT MOORE 455 " It '11 be at your hand in a minute, Mr. Daly, sir,'* said Barney, hurrying off. In the parlour were assembled a number of the "col- lege boys," as the students were always called in Dublin. They greeted the arrival of their friend Daly with accla- mation, only they wanted to know what had occurred to detain him so long at the theatre. «« Delay and Daly have never been associated before now when there 's a jorum of punch in view," remarked young Mr. Blenerhassett of Limerick, who was reported to have a very pretty wit. ♦*It's lucky you see me among you at all, boys," said the manager, wiping his brow. *' By the powers, I might have remained in the green room all night listen- ing to homilies on the virtues of wives and the honour of husbands." <* And 't is yourself that would be nothing the worse for listening to a homily or two on such topics," re- marked young Blake of Connaught. "And who was the preacher of the evening, Daly?" "None else than the great Sarah herself, my boy," replied the manager. " Saint Malachi! what did you mean by shouting out what you did, after that scene?" he added. " What did I shout? " asked Jimmy Blake. " I only ventured humbly to cry, * Well done, Sally, my jewel ' — what offence is there in that ! " "Ay, by Saint Patrick, but there's much offence in 't," cried Daly. " Mrs. Siddons sent for me to my dressing-room after the play, and there I found her pacing the green room like a lioness in her cage, her husband, poor man, standing by as tame as the keeper of the royal beast." 450 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY A series of interested exclamations passed round the room, and the circle of heads about the table became nar- rower. *« Mother o' Moses! She objected to my civil words of encouragement?'* said Mr. Blake. ** She declared that not only had she been insulted, but her husband's honour had been dragged in the mire and her innocent children's names had been sullied." ** Faith, that was a Sally for you, Mr. Daly," said young Home, the Dublin painter to whom Mrs. Siddons had refused to sit, assuring him that she could only pay such a compliment to Sir Joshua Reynolds. ** Boys, may this be my poison, if I ever put in a worse half hour," cried Daly, as he raised a tumbler of punch and swallowed half the contents. **I'd give fifty pounds to have been there," said Home. ** Think what a picture it would make! — the indignant Sarah, the ever courteous manager Daly, and the humble husband in the corner. What would not posterity pay for such a picture ? ' ' ** A guinea in hand is worth a purse in the future," said one of the college boys. ** I wish I could draw a bill on posterity for the payment of the silversmith who made my buckles." ** Daly," said Blake, '* you 're after playing a joke on us. Sally never took you to task for what I shouted from the pit." Mr. Daly became dignified — he had finished the tumbler of punch. He drew himself up, and, with one hand thrust into his waistcoat, he said, ** Sir, I conceive that I understand as well as any gentleman present what constitutes the elements of a jest. I have just conveyed to you a statement of facts, sir. If you had seen Sarah Siddons as I left her — egad, she is a very fine woman — you would n*t hint that there was much jest in the mat- F. FRANKFORT MOORE 457 ter. Oh, lord, boys" — another jug of punch had just been brought in, and the manager was becoming genial once more — ** Oh, lord, you should have heard the way she talked about the honour of her husband, as if there never had been a virtuous woman on the boards until Sarah Siddons arose." ** And was there one, Daly ? " asked young Murphy, a gentleman from whom great things were expected by his college and his creditors. "There was surely, my boy," said Daly, **but I've forgot her name. The name 's not to the point. I tell you, then, the Siddons stormed in the stateliest blank verse and periods, about how she had elevated the stage; how she had checked Brereton for clasping her as she thought too ardently — how she had family prayers every day, and looked forward to the day when she could afford a private chaplain." **Stop there," shouted Blake. **You '11 begin to exaggerate if you go beyond the chaplain, Daly." ** It 's the truth I 've told so far, at any rate, barring the chaplain," said Daly. ** And all because I saw she was a bit nervous and did my best to encourage her and give her confidence by shouting 'Well done, Sally!'" said Blake. ** Boys, it 's not Sarah Siddons that has been insulted, it' s Trinity College — it's the city of Dublin! by my soul, it's the Irish nation that she has insulted by supposing them capable of insulting a woman." ** Faith, there's something in that, Jimmy," said half a dozen voices. ** Who is this Sarah Siddons, will ye tell me, for I'd like to know.'*" resumed Blake, casting a look of almost painful enquiry round the room. ** Ay, that's the question," said Daly, in a tone th^' 458 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY he invariably reserved for the soliloquy which flourished on the stage a century ago. *' We 're all gentlemen here," resumed Mr. Blake. **And that's more than she is," said young Blener- hassett of Limerick. ** Gentlemen," said the manager, ** I beg that you '11 not forget that Mrs. Siddons and myself belong to the same profession. I cannot suffer anything derogatory " — the word gave him some trouble, but he mastered it after a few false starts — ** to the stage to be uttered in this apartment." **You adorn the profession, sir," said Blake. **But can the same be said of Mrs. Siddons? What could Garrick make of her, gentlemen ? " ** Ahem! we know what he failed to make of her," said Digges, the actor, who sat in the corner, and was supposed to have more Drury Lane scandal on his fingers' ends than Daly himself ** Pooh ! " sneered Daly. ** Davy Garrick never made love to her, Digges. It was her vanity that tried to make out that he did." **He did not make her a London success — that's certain," said Blake. **And though Dublin, with the assistance of the College, can pronounce a better judg- ment on an actor or actress than London, still we must admit that London is improving, and if there had been any merit in Sarah Siddons she would not have been forced to keep to the provinces as she does now. Gen- tlemen, she has insulted us audit 's our duty to teach her a lesson." *' And we're the boys to do it," said one Moriarty. ** Gentlemen, I'll take my leave of you," said the manager, rising with a little assistance, and bowing to the F. FRANKFORT MOORE 459 company. **It *s not for me to dictate any course for you to pursue. I don't presume to ask to be let into any of your secrets; I only beg that you will remember that Mrs. Siddons has three more nights to appear in my theatre, and she grasps so large a share of the receipts that, unless the house continues to be crowded, it's a loser I '11 be at the end of the engagement. ** You '11 not do anything that will jeopardize the pit or the gallery — the boxes are sure — for the rest of the week." ** Trust to us, sir, trust to us," said Jimmy Blake, as the manager withdrew. ** Now, boys," he continued in a low voice, bending over the table, '* I 've hit upon a way of convincing this fine lady that has taken the drama under her wing, so to speak, that she can 't play any of her high tragedy tricks here, whatever she may do at Bath. She does n't understand us, boys. Well, we '11 teach her to." ** Bravo, Jimmy! " **The Blakes' country and the sky over it ! " **Give us your notions," came several voices from around the table. ** She bragged of her respectability; of her armour of virtue, Daly told us. Well, suppose we put a decent coat on Dionysius Hogan and send him to propose an elopement to her to-morrow — how would that do for a joke when it gets around the town ? " **By the powers, boys, whether, or not, Dionysius gets kicked down the stairs, she '11 be the laughing-stock of the town. It's a genius" — he pronounced it **janyus" — **that you are, Jimmy, and no mistake," cried young Moriarty. ** We '11 talk it over anyway," said Jimmy. And they did talk it over. 460 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY II Dionysius Hogan was a celebrated character in Dublin during the last quarter of the eighteenth century. The Irish capital has always cherished curious characters, for pretty much the same reason that caused badgers to be preserved; any man, or, for that matter, any woman, who was only eccentric enough, could depend on the patronage of the people of Dublin. Dionysius Hogan afforded his fellow-citizens many a laugh on account of his numerous eccentricities. He was a man of about fifty years of age, but his great anxiety was to appcr thirty years younger; and he fancied he accomplished this aim by wearing in 1783 the costume of 1750, only in an exaggerated form. His chief hallucination was that several of the best known ladies in society were in love with him, and that it was necessary for him to be very careful lest he should compromise himself by a corre- spondence with some of those who had husbands. It need scarcely be said that this idea of his was not greatly discouraged by the undergraduates of Trinity College. It was not their fault if he did not receive every week a letter from some distinguished lady begging the favour of an interview with him. Upon many occa- sions the communications, which purported to come from mature ladies, took the form of verses. These he ex- hibited with great pride, and only after extorting prom- ises of profound secrecy, to his student friends. It was immaterial that Dionysius found almost every week that he had been the victim of practical jokes; his belief in his own powers of captivating womankind was superior to every rebuff that he encountered. He ex- hibited his dapper little figure, crowned with the wig of a macaroni, to the promcnaders in all the chief thorough- F. FRANKFORT MOORE 46 I fares daily, and every evening he had some fresh story to tell of how he had been exerting himself to avoid an assignation that was being urged on him by a lady of quality sojourning not a hundred miles from the Castle. The scheme which Mr. Blake had suggested to his fellow-students in the Smock Alley tavern found a willing agent for its realization in Dionysius Hogan. Mrs. Siddons, her beauty, and her powers, were, of course, the talk of the town during her first visit to Dublin. It only needed Jimmy Blake to drop a few dark hints in the hearing of Dionysius one evening on the subject of a rumour that was current, to the effect that a certain well-known gentleman in Dublin had attracted the atten- tion of the great actress, to make Dionysius believe that he had made a conquest of the Siddons. For the remainder of the evening he took to dropping dark hints to this effect, and before he had slept that night there was no doubt on his mind that Sarah Siddons was another lady who had succumbed to his attractive exterior. To be sure, he had heard it said that she was as hard as marble, but then she had not seen him until she had come to Dublin. All women, he believed, had their weak moments, and there was no article of his creed more strongly impressed upon him than that the weak moment of many women was when they saw him for the first time. When, on descending from his bed-room to his little sitting-room in his humble lodgings — for Mr. Hogan' s income did not exceed eighty pounds a year — a letter was put into his hand bearing the signature **S. S.,*' and when he found that above these initials there was a passionate avowal of affection and a strong appeal to him to be merciful as he was strong, and to pay h^r a visit at her lodgings before the hour of one, ** when Mr. 462 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY S. returns from the theatre, where he goes every fore- noon," poor Dionysius felt that the time had at last come for him to cast discretion to the winds. The beauty of Mrs. Siddons had had a powerful effect upon his susceptible heart when she had first come upon his eyes on the stage of the Smock Alley theatre. On that night he had believed that she kept her eyes fixed upon him while repeating some of the beautiful soliloquies in ** Isabella." The artful suggestions of Jimmy Blake had had their effect upon him, and now he held in his hand a letter that left him no room to doubt — even if he had been inclined that way — the accuracy of the tale that his poor heart had originally told him. He dressed himself with his accustomed care, and, having deluged his cambric with civet — it had been the favourite scent of thirty years before — he indulged in the unusual luxury of a chair to convey him to the lodg- ings of the great actress; for he felt that it might seriously jeopardize his prospects to appear in the presence of the lady with soiled shoes. The house where Mrs. Siddons lodged was not an imposing one. She had arrived in Dublin from Holy- head at two o'clock in the morning, and she was com- pelled to walk about the streets in a downpour of rain for several hours before she could prevail upon any one to take her in. It is scarcely surprising that she con- ceived a strong and enduring prejudice against Dublin and its inhabitants. On enquiring in a whisper and with a confidential smirk for Mrs. Siddons, he learned from the maid ser- vant that the lady was in her room, and that Mr. Sid- dons had not returned from his morning visit to the theatre. Tht fcrvant stated, however, that Mrs. Sid- F. FRANKFORT MOORE 463 dons had given the strictest orders to admit no one into her presence. ** Ah, discreet as one might have expected,*' mur- mured Dionysius. **She does not mean to run the chance of disappointing me. Which is her parlour, child?*' "It's the first front, ycr honour," said the girl; **but Lord save yer honour, she 'd murther me if I let ye go up. Oh, it 's joking ye are." *' Hush," whispered Dionysius, his finger on his lips. ** Not so loud, I pray. She is waiting for me." "Holy Biddy! waiting for yer?" cried the maid. "Now don't be afther getting a poor colleen into throuble, sir. I 'm telling yc that it 's killed entirely I 'd be if I let ye go up." "Don't be a fool, girl," says Dionysius, still speak- ing in a whisper. " I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that Mrs. Siddons is awaiting me. Zounds! why do I waste time talking to a menial? Out of my way, girl." He pushed past the servant, leaving her somewhat awe-stricken at his grand manner and his finery, and when she recovered and made a grab for his coat tails, he was too quick for her. He plucked them out of her reach, and she perceived that he had got such a start of her that pursuit would be useless. In a few moments he was standing before the door of the room on the first floor that faced the street. His heart was fluttering so that he had scarcely cour- age to tap upon the panel. He had tapped a second time before that grand contralto, that few persons could hear without emotion, bade him enter. He turned the handle and stood facing Mrs. Siddons. 464 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY She was sitting in a gracefully majestic attitude by the side of a small table on which a desk was placed. Mrs. Siddons never unbent for a moment in private life. She assumed majestic attitudes in the presence of the lodging- house servant, and spoke in a tragic contralto to the linen-draper's apprentice. She turned her lovely eyes upon Dionysius Hogan as he stood smirking and bowing at the door. There was a vista of tragedy in the deliv- ery of the two words — ''Well, sir?'' It took him some moments to recover from the effect the words produced upon him. He cleared his throat — it was somewhat husky — and with an artificial smirk he piped out: "Madam — ah, my charmer, I have rushed to clasp my goddess to my bosom! Ah, fair creature, who could resist your appeal ? " He advanced in the mincing gait of the macaronis. She sprang to her feet. She pointed an eloquent fore- finger at a spot on the floor directly in front of him. ** Wretch," she cried, "advance a step at your peril! " Her eyes were flashing and her lips were apart. His mincing ceased abruptly; and only the ghost of a smirk remained upon his patched and painted face. It was in a very fluty falsetto that he said: ** Ah, I see my charmer wants to be wooed. But why should Amanda reproach her Strephon for but obeying her behests ? Wherefore so coy, dear nymph ? Let these loving arms — ' ' ** Madman — wretch — " '* Nay, chide me not, dear one. 'T is but the ardour of my passion that bids me clasp thee, the fairest of Hebe's train. We shall fly together to some retreat — far from the distractions — ' ' F. FRANKFORT MOORE 465 ** Oh, the man is mad — mad ! " cried the lady, re- treating a step or two as he advanced. *' Only mad with the ardour of my passion," whis- pered Dionysius. ** Oh, heavens! that I should live to hear such words spoken in my presence!" cried Mrs. Siddons, with her hands clasped in passionate appeal to a smiling portrait of the landlady's husband that hung over the fireplace. Then she turned upon Dionysius and looked at him. Her eyes blazed. Their fire consumed the unfortunate man on whom they rested. He felt himself shrivelled up and become crisp as an autumn leaf. He trem- bled like one, as a terrible voice, but no louder than a whisper, sounded in his ears: **Are you a human being or the monster of a dream, that you dare to speak such words in my hearing } What wretch are you that fancies that Sarah Siddons may be addressed by such as you and in language that is an insult to a pure wife and mother. I am Sarah Siddons, sir ; I am a wife who holds her husband's honour dearer than life itself — I am a mother who will never cause a blush of shame to mantle the brow of one of her children. Wretch! insulter! why are mine eyes not basilisks, with death in their glance, to such as you ?*' Down went Dionysius on his knees before that terrible figure that stretched out wild quivering hands above his head. Such gestures as hers would have filled the stage of Drury Lane. In the lodging-house parlour they were overwhelming. **For God's sake spare me, spare me," he faltered, with his hands clasped and his head bent before that fury. ** Why should I spare such a wretch — why should I not trample such a worm into the dust ? " She took a frantic step toward him. With a short 466 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY cry of abject terror he fell along the floor, and gasped. It seemed to him that she had trampled the life out of his body. She stood above him with a heaving bosom beneath her folded arms. There was a long pause before he heard the door open. A weight seemed lifted off him. He found that he could breathe. In a few moments he ventured to raise his head. He saw a beautiful figure sitting at the desk writing. Even in the scratching of her pen along the paper there was a tone of tragedy. He crawled backward upon his hands and knees, with his eyes furtively fixed upon that figure at the desk. If when he had looked up he had found her standing with an arm outstretched in the direction of the door, he felt that he would have been able to rise to his feet and leave her presence ; but Mrs. Siddons* dramatic instinct caused her to produce a deeper impression upon him by simply treating him as if he were dead at her feet — as if she had indeed trampled the life out of his body. He crept away slowly and painfully backward until he was actually on the lobby. Then by a great effort he sprang to his feet, rushed headlong down the stairs, picked himself up in the hall, and fled wildly through the door, that chanced to be open, into the street. He over- threw a chairman in his wild flight, and as he turned the corner he went with a rush into the arms of a young man who, with a few others by his side, was sauntering along. ** Zounds ! sir, what do you mean by this mode of progression ? " cried the young man, holding him fast. Dionysius grasped him limply, looking at him with wild staring eyes. **For God's sake, Mr. Blake, save me from her — do n't let her get hold of me, for the love of all the saints. ' ' F. FRANKFORT MOORE 467 " What do you mean, you fool ? " said Jimmy Blake. ** Who is anxious to get hold of you ? " But no answer was returned by poor Dionysius. He lay with his head over Blake's shoulder, his arms sway- ing limply down like two pendulums. ** By the powers, he has gone oiF in a swoon," said young Blenerhassett. ** Let us carry him to the nearest tavern." In less than half an hour Dionysius had recovered con- sciousness; but it required a longer space of time and the administration of a considerable quantity of whisky to enable him to tell all his story. He produced the letter signed ** S. S." which he had received in the morning, and explained that he had paid the visit to Mrs. Siddons only with a view of reasoning her out of her infatuation, which, he said with a shadowy simper, he could not encourage. ** I had hardly obtained access to her when she turned upon me in a fury," said he. ** Ah, boys, those eyes of hers! — I feel them still upon me. They made me feel Hke a poor wretch that's marched out in front of a platoon to be shot before breakfast. And her voice — well, it sounded like the voice of the officer giving the word of command to the platoon to fire. When I lay ready to expire at her feet, every word that she spoke had the effect of a bayonet's prod upon my poor body. Oh, Lord! oh. Lord! I'll leave it to yourself, Mr. Blake, was it generous of her to stab me with cold steel after I was riddled with red hot bullets?" "I'm sorry to say, Mr. Hogan," replied Blake, ** that I can't take a lenient view of your conduct. Wc all know what you are, sir. You seek to inculcate the gallantries of the reign of his late Majesty upon the present highly moral age. Mrs. Siddons, sir, is a true 468 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY wife and mother, besides being a most estimable actress, and you deserved the rebuff from the effects of which you are now suffering. Sir, we leave you to the gnavv- ings of that remorse which, I trust, you feel acutely.'* Mr. Blake, with his friends, left the tavern room as Dionysius was beginning to whimper. In the street a roar of laughter burst from the students. «* Mother o' Moses!" cried Moriarty. *»'Tis a golden guinea I 'd give to have been present when the Siddons turned upon the poor devil." ** Then I '11 give you a chance of being present at a better scene than that," said Blake. ** What do you mean, Jimmy ?" asked Moriarty. ** I mean to bring you with me to pay a visit to Mrs. Siddons this very minute." ** 'T is joking you are, Jimmy ? " ** Oh, the devil a joke, ma bouchal! Man alive, can't you see that the fun is only beginning ? We'll go to her in a body and make it out that she has insulted a friend of ours by attributing false motives to him, and that her husband must come out to the Park in the morning." *«That 's carrying a joke a bit too far," said Blener- hassett. ** I '11 not join in with you there." ** Nobody axed yc, sir," said Blake. ** There arc three of us here without you, and that 's enough for our purpose." ** If Mr. Siddons kicks you into the street, or if Sally treats you as she did that poor devil in the tavern, 'tis served right that you '11 be," said Blenerhassett, walking off. **We'll have a scene with Sarah Siddons for our trouble at any rate," laughed Blake. The three young men who remained when the more F. FRANKFORT MOORE 469 scrupulous youth had departed, went together to Mrs. Siddons' lodgings. They understood more than Diony- sius did about the art of obtaining admittance when only a portress stood in the way — a squeeze, a kiss and a crown combined to make the maid take a lenient view of the consequences of permitting them to go up the stairs. When, after politely rapping at the door of the par- lour, the three entered the room, they found the great actress in precisely the same attitude she had assumed for her last visitor. The dignity of her posture was not without its effect upon the young men. They were not quite so self-confident as they had been outside the door. Each of them looked at the other, so to speak; but some- how none of the three appeared to be fluent. They stood bowing politely, keeping close to the door. ** Who are these persons? " said Mrs. Siddons, as if uttering her thoughts. ''Am I in a civilized country or not ? ' * *' Madam," said Blake, finding his voice at last, when a slur was cast upon his country. "Madam, Ireland was the home of civilization when the inhabitants of England were prowling the woods naked except for a coat of paint.** Mrs. Siddons sprang to her feet. ** Sir,'* she cried, ** you are indelicate as well as im- pertinent. You have no right to intrude upon me with- out warning." ** The urgency of our mission is our excuse, madam," said Blake. ** The fact is, madam, to come to the point, the gentleman who visited you just now is our friend." **Your friend, sir, is a scoundrel. He grossly in- sulted me," said Mrs. Siddons. ** Ah, 't is sorry I am to find you do n*t yet understand the impulses of a warm-hearted nation, madam," said Blake, shaking his head. ** The gentleman came to com- 470 THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY pliment you on your acting, and yet you drove him from your door like a hound. That, according lo our warm- hearted Irish ways, constitutes an ofFence that must be washed out in blood — ay, blood, madam.'* «' What can be your meaning, sir ? *' ** It only means, madam, that your husband, whom we all hor' ; on account of the genius — we don't deny it — the genius and virtue of his wife, will have to meet the most expert swordsman in Ireland in Phoenix Park in the morning, and that Sarah Siddons will be a widow before breakfast time." There was a pause before there came a cry of anguish more pitiful than any expression of emotion that the three youths had ever heard. ** My husband! my husband! " were the words that sounded like a sob in their ears. Mrs. Siddons had averted her head. Her face was buried in her hands. The wink in which Jimmy Blake indulged as he gave Moriarty a nudge was anything but natural. *' Why was I ever tempted to come to this country?" cried the lady wildly. *« Madam, we humbly sympathize with you — and with the country," said Blake. He would not allow any reflection to be cast upon his country. She took a few steps toward the three young men, and faced them with clasped hands. She looked into the three faces in turn, with passionate entreaty in her eyes. **Have you no pity .''" she faltered. **Yes," said Blake. "That we have; we do pity you heartily, madam." " Are you willing to take part in this act of murder — murder?" cried Mrs. Siddons, in a low voice that caused the flesh of at least two of her audience to creep. F. FRANKFORT MOORE 47 1 ** Are you blind ? Can 't you see the world pointing at you as I point at you, and call you murderers ?" She stood before them with her eyes half closed, her right hand pointing to each of them in turn as she prolonged the word, suggesting a thousand voices whispering "murderers ! " There was a long pause, during which the spell-bound youths, their jaws fallen, stared at that terrible figure — the awful form of the Muse of Tragedy. Drops of perspiration stood on the forehead of young Moriarty. Blake himself gave a gasp. *' Have you no compassion ?" Mrs. Siddons continued, but in another tone — a tone of such pathos so no human being could hear unmoved. Clasping her hands, she cried, ** My poor husband ! What harm has he done } Is he to be dragged from these arms — these arms that have cherished him with all the devotion that a too-loving wife can offer — is he to be dragged away from this true heart to be butchered ^ Sirs, we have children — tender little blos- soms — oh, cannot you hear their cries } Listen, listen — the wailing of the babes over the mangled body of their father." Surely the sound of children's sobbing went around the room. One of the young men dropped into a chair and burst into tears. Blake's lips were quivering, as the streaming eyes of the woman were turned upon him. ** For heaven's sake, madam," he faltered — ** for heaven's sake — oh, my God ! what have we done? — what have we done ^ Worse than Herod ! the innocent children! — I hear them — I hear them! Oh, God, forgive us ! God forgive us for this cruel joke." He broke down utterly. The room now was cer- tainly filled with wild sobbing and the sound of convul- sive weeping. 472 LABOR LIMAE For several minutes the three emotional Irishmen sat weeping. They were in the power of the woman, who, at the confession of Blake, had become perfectly self- possessed in a moment. She stood watching them, a scornful smile upon her lips. She knew that the magic which she had at her command could enchain them so long as she wished. She was merciful, however. ** If you consider your jest sufficiently successfiil, gentlemen," said she, "perhaps you will oblige me by withdrawing. I have letters to write." The spell that she had cast around them was with- drawn. Blake sprang to his feet and drew his handkerchief across his eyes. ** Mrs. Siddons — Madam," said he, "we have behaved like scoundrels — nay, worse, like fools. We are not bold enough to ask your pardon, madam ; but believe me, we feel deeply humiliated. You may for- give us, but we shall never forgive ourselves. Madam, you are the greatest actress in the world, and you may ex- pect the finest benefit ever given to an actress in this city." But in spite of the fact that Mrs. Siddons* benefit the following night was all that Mr. Blake predicted it would be, she wrote some very hard words about Dublin to her friend Mr. Whatcly of Bath. F, Frankfort Moore. LABOR LIMAE. >HE slow, unheated file 'tis fit Should gnaw a finish on your wit: But more beset the hammer, while You forge a blade is worth the file. Charles F. Lummis. UNE IMPRESSION 473 fc^-^^ 'S UNE IMPRESSION DRAWN BY ROB WAGNER 474 AMERICAN CRITICISM TO-DAY AMERICAN CRITICISM TO-DAY MR. CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER has recently made a trenchant analysis of the pres- ent conditions of literary criticism in the United States; and he had no difficulty in showing that feeble flattery was far too frequent in our book reviews and that there was altogether too much puiFery needing to be punctured by sharp thrusts. He has made clear his opin- ion that American literature would to-day be in a healthier condition if we had more competent and more impartial critics. That this opinion is sound will be disputed, I think, by no one who has any intimate knowledge of book reviewing as it is practiced nowadays in the United States and in Great Britain. But some of the writers who have taken Mr. Wamer^s essay as a theme for remarks of their own, have gone so far as to imply that cridcism in America is to-day in a state of decadence and that we are now worse off than we were once upon a time. For this suggestion, I be- lieve, there is no warrant whatever. In America, in England, in France, the critic having both insight and equipment is a rare bird, no doubt; but then he has al- ways been a rarity. In no time and in no country have competent critics ever been plentiful. Really great critics have always been very scarce; far scarcer than great novelists or great dramatists. The list of the poets, for example, who have adorned the literature of our language in this century is long indeed, while the list of the critics of corresponding rank, who have written in English, is startlingly brief. There were four great Greek dramatists, but Aristode was the only critic of that golden age worthy to be classed with Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripedes and Aristophanes. There -were three great French dramadsts. BRANDER MATTHEWS 475 Comeille, Moliere and Racine; but no critic of their time can be placed on their level unless it be Boileau, by- courtesy. Here in America to-day, the need of competent crit- icism is felt more sharply than ever before, and here, as in other countries and in other centuries, the supply is quite inadequate to the demand. But there has been no decadence, no decline, no falling off. On the contrary, every student of the history of American literature can- not but acknowledge that there are more honest and capable critics in the United States to-day than there were in any period of the past. The level of con- temporary criticism in America is far higher than it was when Dennie edited the Portfolio^ for instance, or than it was when Poe edited the Broadway JournaL Any one who wants to see how far we have gone forward has only to turn over the pages of Griswold's *« Poets ot America," or to remember that time was when the Albion (a weekly written by expatriated cockneys for colonial cockneys) was the review to which most Ameri- can readers looked for guidance. Whatever deficiencies we may choose to discover in the Dialy of Chicago, or in the Bookmariy of New York, to compare either of them with the Albion^ or the Broadway Journal^ or the Port- folio y would be as insulting as it would be absurd. And we may go farther, it seems to me, and declare not only that our criticism has improved steadily with the growth of our literature, but also that it is less in- adequate in dealing with scientific subjects than with artistic. If we apply De Quincey's distinction between the ** literature of knowledge " and the ** literature of power," we should class under the former head history, for example, and all the allies of historical investigation, and under the latter we should group fiction and poetry 476 AMERICAN CRITICISM TO-DAY and the drama. It is in the reviewing of the books which belong to the literature of power that our present condition is least satisfactory — in the analysis of works of literary art, in the application of the eternal principles to the ephemeral story or lyric. Much better provision has been made for the due consideration of the books which belong to the ^'literature of knowledge," and which are in a measure scientific. Here we have been helped by the development of the genuine university and by the increase in the num- ber of institutions capable of giving post-graduate instruc- tion. The author of a history, of the biography of a statesman, of a political essay', of an economical treatise, of a philosophical or psychological or pedagogic enquiry, can now feel assured that his book will be judged by experts not ashamed to back their opinions by their signatures. Of its kind there is no better book-reviewing anywhere than that which we find regularly in the Political Science (Quarterly, in the Educational Preview, in the American Historical Review y in the Psychological Re- view, and in any one of half a dozen other journals of a like learning and impartiality. It is true that in some of these articles written by scholars to be read by students, there may be detected now and again a tendency to lay perhaps undue stress on technicalities; but the letter of the law, even if it be not as important as the spirit thereof, has an importance of its own, only too often overlooked in the happy-go-lucky, catch-as-catch-can criticism of the writers who lack the special knowledge of the expert. It is greatly to be regretted that there is in the United States no artistic review worthy to be compared with these scientific reviews, and able to give as much space and as conscientious treatmeat to works of pure BRANDER MATTHEWS 477 literature as these give to the books which fall within their several fields. Here we miss the North American Review as it was when Lowell edited it, and before it become a rival of the syndicate page of the Sunday news- paper. Only at rare intervals does the Forum find room for an exhaustive study of an author, — such, for example, as Prof. W. P. Trent's recent and most interesting paper on **Theoodore Rooesvelt as a Historian." Articles of this sort sometimes appear in the Atlantic Monthly ^ but they are generally anonymous and are therefore wanting in weight. One of the chief reasons why criticism is finer and more influential in France than it is in cither Great Britain or the United States, is that the critic in France warrants his opinions with his signature. What the French critic has to say about another man's work, he says boldly, with no mask of skulking disguise; and that this openness in no wise cramps his freedom of speech will be admitted by all who have read the articles on M. Georges Ohnet's novels, which M. Jules Lemaitre and M. Anatole France wrote, one after the other. The habit of signing criticisms tends to courtesy of phrase and to carefulness of statement; it forces the critic to make sure of his facts and to weigh his words well; it spares the author from the contemptible meanness and the cow- ardly malignity which sometimes lurk in anonymous criticism. Although only authors of experience know the im- mense superiority of the signed to the unsigned book review, the general public seems to have the same pre- ference. The New York correspondent of the London Author, noting that the American Bookmany in less than a year after it was started, had attained to a circulation larger thanthose of the Nation and of the Critic com- 478 AMERICAN CRITICISM TO-DAY bined, suggested that perhaps this success was due to the fact that most of the book reviews of the Bookman bore the names of their writers. In not a few of the daily news- papers of late the more important criticisms are authenti- cated by the name or by the initials of the writers. The practice seems to be spreading, and in time it may become general. It will have the disadvantage, of course, of put- ting an increased premium on the work of the writers who have well-known names; but, after all, the writers with the well-known names are probably those who best deserve to be known. And, on the other hand, it will have the advantage, I think, of increasing the class of writers who are not multifarious as the ordinary news- paper reviewer is now forced to pretend to be, but who have educated themselves in one or more specialties. It will aid in developing critics who may fairly be called experts in poetry and in fiction. As a novelist myself I am inclined to hope, that with the abandonment of the habit of anonymity, there will come a demand for the expert opinion of our fellow- craftsmen. To my mind no writing about literature is more interesting or more instructive than that of an author who practises in the same department of literary art. Mr. Stedman's discussion of the ** Victorian Poets" and of the "Poets of America,'* owes a part of its charm to our knowledge that Mr. Stedman is a poet himself. The epigram of one of Disraeli's characters to the effect that '* critics are those who have failed in literature and art," is true only of those who fail as critics also. The really successful critics are those who have succeeded in litera- ture and art — Arnold, Lowell, Fromentin. I find myself reading the dramatic criticisms of M. Jules Lemaitre with a greater zest now that he has himself come forward as a writer of plays. And when Mr. Howells discusses an TO P. V. 479 American novel and dwells cordially on its merits, the author whom he praises has the pleasure of feeling that this is the approbation of one who has proved himself a master of the craft. Brander Matthews. TO P. V. SO they would raise your monument. Old vagabond of lovely earth ? Another answer without words To Humdrum's, ** What are poets worth ? '* Not much we gave you when alive. Whom now we lavishly deplore, — A little bread, a little wine, A little caporal — no more. Here in our lodging of a day You roistered till we were appalled ; Departing, in your room we found A string of golden verses scrawled. The princely manor-house of art A vagrant artist entertains ; And when he gets him to the road. Behold, a princely gift remains. Abashed, we set your name above The purse-full patrons of our board ; Remind newcomers with a nudge, ** Verlaine took once what we afford!" 480 B. C. The gardens of the Luxembourg, Spreading beneath the brilliant sun. Shall be your haunt of leisure now When all your wander years are done. There you shall stand ; the very mien You wore in Paris streets of old. And ponder what a thing is life. Or watch the chestnut blooms unfold. There you will find, I dare surmise, Another tolerance than ours, — The loving kindness of the grass. The tender patience of the flowers. And every year, when May returns To bring the golden age again. And hope comes back with poetry In your loved land across the Seine, Some youth will come with foreign speech. Bearing his dream from over sea, A lover of your flawless craft. Apprenticed to your poverty. He will be mute before you there. And mark those lineaments which tell What stormy, unrelenting fate Had one who served his art so well. And there be yours, the livelong day, Beyond the mordant reach of pain. The little gospel of the leaves. The "Nunc dimittis of the rain ! B. C. MA' BEERBOHM'S CARICATURES. Mk. WILLIAM ARCHER. \ THE CHAP-BOOK, October /. iSqb. ANNOUNCEMENTS IX The Chap -Book SEMI-MONTHLY HERBERT STUART STONE, EDITOR HARRISON G. RHODES, ASSISTANT SUBSCRIPTION : TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. THE TRADE SUPPLIED BY THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY AND ITS BRANCHES. ADVERTISING RATES TO BE HAD ON APPLICATION. THE CHAP-BOOK, CHICAGO. Entered at the Chicago Post Office as Second Class Matter. 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These sketches, reprinted from the Chicago Record, attracted great attention on their original appearance. They have been revised and rewritten and in their present form promise to make one of the most popular books of the fall. voLv. THE CHAP-BOOK no.. Copyright. 1S96, by H. S. STONE & COMFANY AUTUMNAL BEAUTY WOMEN there are, who, year by year. Bestow fresh beauty on our eyes. Despite of Timers declining cheer. Of Spring departed, chillier skies : But though she tame the magic gaze. Disquiet heart, rebellious curl. Benignant comeliness displays The matron lovelier than the girl. Spring is the maiden, tall and cool. Approaching joy with tender zest. Her forehead frankly beautiful, A bed of lilies in her breast : Yet though she stir our eager blood. Perfection does not dwell in this ; Her sleeping force of motherhood Awakes our brightest dreams of bliss. Autumn 's the mother. How she smiles Upon her tawny kindred there. Who, in the yellow cornland miles. With joy bind up the golden fare. Her talent used, her bosom lent To nurse us with immortal aid. We worship her, divinely sent, A matron lovelier than a maid. Norman Gale.