HARPERS
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Vou. |
AXITL.
JU
THEIR PI
BY CHARLES DI
CHAPTER V.
have heard it
said that one of
the charms of
Narragansett
Pier is that you
Can see Newport
from it. The
summer dwell
ers at the Pier
talk a good deal
liking it
better than New
port; it is less artificial and more restful.
lhe Newporters never say anything about
the Pier.
about
The Pier people say that it is
not fair to judge it when you come direct
from Newport, but the longer you stay
and if any
too frank person admits that he would
there the better you like it;
not stay in Narragansett a day if he could
afford to live in Newport, he is suspected
of aristocratic proclivities
In morning,
our party of pilgrims chose for an excur
a calm summer such as
sion to the Pier, there is no prettier sail
in the world than that out of the harbor,
by Canonicut Island tail
Light. It is a holiday harbor, all these
seas are holiday seas—the
steamers, Moving
swiftly from one headland to another, or
and Beaver
yachts, the
sail vessels, the puffing
loafing about the blue smiling sea, are all
on pleasure bent. The vagrant
that are idly watched from the rocks
at the Pier may be coasters and freight
schooners engaged seriously in trade, but
vessels
they do not seem so. They are a part of
the picture, always to be seen slowly dip
ping along in the horizon, and the im
LY,
T
i
pression is that they are manceuvred for
show, arranged for picturesque effect, and
that they are all taken in at night.
_Entered according to Act « ongress, it
Librarian of Congress, at Washington
VoL. LXXIII 12
f (
No. 434
ne year
LSS6. No. CCCCXXXIV.
IGRIMAGE
DLEY WARNER
The visitors confessed when they land
ed that the Pier as a contrast to New
port The shore below the landing ts a
line of broken, ragged, slimy rocks, as if
they had been dumped there for a riprap
wall. Fronting this unkempt shore is a
line of
with a few cot
At the end of
Dbarrack-ilke hotels,
tages of the cheap sort.
this row of hotels is a fine granite Casino
spacious, solid, with wide verandas, and a
tennis-court—such a building as even
Newport might envy. Then come more
hotels, a cluster of chi ip shops, and a
| of
line bath-houses facing
beach
long a lovely
curving Bathing is the fashion,
at the Pier, and everybody goes to the
beach at The
chairs on the platform in front of
bath Sit
on the smooth sand.
wh noon. spectators occupy
the
under tents erected
At high noon the
scene is very lively, andeven picturesque,
for t
houses, or
1
he ladies here dress for bathing with
intention of pleasing. It is generally
supposed that the angels in heaven are
not edified by this promiscuous bathing,
and by the spectacle of a crowd of women
tossing about in the surf, but an impartial
angel would admit that many of the cos
tumes here are becoming, and that the ef
fect of the red and yellow caps, making a
color line in the flashing rollers, is charm
ing. It is true that there are odd figures
one solid old
to get
bathing suit on hind-side before,
ed the
Ulysses; and that fat woman and fat man
in the shifting mélée
gen
tleman, who had contrived his
wander
along ocean margin like a lost
were never intended for this sort of exh
but all
colors, and the silver flash of the break
ing the
pretty. Not the
was the of
the beach, following the retreating waves,
bition: taken together, with its
was exceedingly
it
tumbling on
Waves, scene
least pretty part of
fringe children
1886, by Harper and Brothers, in the Office of the
164 HARPER'S NEW M(
flying from the incoming rolle vith
1 1 delle ( are l leed iy
= tracteristic O Narraganse Pie
( aren and mother It might be said
» be a fan ace it is a good deal so
oO Sunda nd oceasionall vhen the
yu iesS mel come dow} trom thie
cities to see ho el es and children
Ona the hote
After the bathing it is the fashion to
meet again at the Casino and take lunch
sometimes through a stra and after
dinner every bod woes for a stroll on the
cliffs. This is a noble sea-promenade;
h its handsome villas and magnificent
rocks, a fair rival to Ne Wport, The walk,
as usua taken, is two or three miles
along the bold rocky shore, but an ambi
tious pedestrian may continue it to the
eht on Point Judith Nowhere on this
coast are the rocks more imposing, and
nowhere do they offer so many studies in
The
massive
eco.ior visitor's Cc is excited
IPLOSIty
by a granite tower which rises
out of a mass of tangled woods planted
on the erest of the hill,and his curiosity
is not satisfied on nearer inspection, when
he makes his way into this thick and
rloomy forest, and finds a granite cottage
ar Ul
and W
ne tower, and the signs of neglect
ie
ildness that might mark the home
What is the object of this
If
the landscape, why was it ruined by pier
OI a
recluse
noble tower ? it was intended to adorn
cing it irregularly with square windows
like those of a factory
One has to hold himself back from be
ing drawn into the history and romance
of this Narragansett shore. Down below
the bathing beach is the pretentious wood-
en pile called Canonicut, that already
And here, at
this end, is the mysterious tower, and an
1
wears the air of tragedy.
ugly unfinished dwelling-house of gran
ite, the legend Dream”
earved over the entrance door; and fur
with ‘Druid’s
ther inland, in a sandy and shrubby land
scape, is Kendall Green, a private ceme
tery, with its granite monument, sur-
rounded by heavy granite posts, every oth
er one of which is hollowed in the top as
And one
** Whatev
er their mode of faith, or creed, who feed
a receptacle for food for birds
reads there these inscriptions:
the wandering birds, will themselves be
fed.”’
will help.”
‘* Who helps the helpless, Heaven
This inland region, now ap-
parently deserted and neglected, was once
the seat of colonial aristocracy, who exer
INTHLY MAGAZINE
cised a princely hospitality on their great
plantations exchanged VisitS and ran
horses with the planters of Virginia and
the Carolinas, and were known as far as
Kentucky, and perhaps best known for
their
let
breed of Narragansett pacers
us get
In
the afternoon, lrene and
back to the shore.
the cliff path in
Mr
others,
wandering along
King were
and
separated from the uncon
sciously extended their stroll, looking for
The day
had only a
a comfortable seat in the rocks
The
fleecy, high sailing clouds, and the orreat
was perfect. sky few
expanse of sea sparkled under the hector
ing of a light breeze The atmosphere
was not too clear on the horizon for
dreamy effects; all the headlands were
softened and tinged with opalescent col
As the light struck them, the sails
enlivened the
dark spots or shining silver sheets on the
Ors
which seene were either
delicate blue. At one spot on this shore
rises a vast mass of detached rock, sepa
rated at low tide from the shore by irreg
ular bowlders and a tiny thread of water.
In search of a seat the two strollers made
their this rivulet the
broken rocks, passed over the summit of
the giant established
selves in a cavernous place close to the
Here a natural seat, and the
bulk of the seamed and colored ledge, ris
Way across over
mass, and them
sea. was
ing above their heads and curving around
them, shut them out of sight of the Jand,
and left them alone with the dashing sea,
and the gulls that circled and dipped their
silver wings in their eager pursuit of prey.
Irene was look
ing seaward, and Mr. King, who had a
lower seat, attentively watched the waves
lapping the rocks at their feet, and the
fine profile and trim figure of the girl
He thought he had ney
er seen her looking more lovely, and yet
he had a sense that she never was so re
mote from him. Here was an opportu
nity, to be sure, if he had anything to
say, but some fine feeling of propriety re
strained him from taking advantage of it.
It might not be quite fair, in a place so se-
cluded and remote, and with such senti
mental influences, shut in as they were to
and the sky.
seems like a world by itself,’ she
as in continuation of her thought.
‘*They say you can see Gay Head Light
from here.”
‘Yes. And Newport to the left there,
For a time neither spoke.
against the sky.
the sea
+e It
began,
THEIR
PILGRIMAGE
Gel Wea mA
167
A CATAMARAN < ~
with its towers and trees rising out of the
sea. It is quite like the Venice Lagoon
in this light.”
‘*T think I like Newport better at this
It is very poetical. I don't
think I like what is ealled the world much,
when I am close to it.”
distance.
The remark seemed to ask for sympa
thy, and Mr. King ventured: ‘‘ Are you
willing to tell me, Miss Benson, why
have not seemed as happy at Newport as
you
elsewhere ? Pardon me; it is not an idle
question.”’ Irene, who seemed to be look
ing away beyond Gay Head, did not re
ply. ‘‘I should like to know if I have
been in any way the cause of it. We
agreed to be friends, and I think I havea
friend's right to know.”
you must know,” he went
on, hurriedly, *‘ that it cannot be a matter
of indifference to me.”’
‘* It had better be,” she said, as if speak
Still no response.
‘You must see
ing deliberately to herself, and still look
she turned to
her
But suddenly
the
ing away.
ward him, and lears sprang to
eyes, and the words rushed out fiercely
‘IT wish I had never left Cyrusville. I
wish I had never been abroad. I wish I
had never been educated. It is all a
wretched mistake.”
King was unprepared for such a pas
sionate outburst. It was like a rift in a
cloud, through which he had a glimpse
of her real life Words of eager protest
sprang to his lips, but, before they could
be uttered, either her mood had changed
or pride had come to the rescue, for
she
said: ‘* How silly I am Everybody has
discontented days Mr. King, please don’t
ask me such questions If you want to
be a friend, you will let me be unhappy
now and then, and not say anything
about it.”
‘** But, Miss Benson— Irene
168 HARPER'S NEW
Chie Miss Benson’ wi ado ery
W M | e, then, the vas
oly ito say to you the oth
er d n P Lise
wk. Mr. Kine Did vou see that
[ ! Ss nearer our feet
1 sal ao 1 Tiere
() R in extra ii i) the
| int to te ou [ must tell
you ‘ is all changed since | met
Irene, |
There! There’s no mistake about
if The last wave came a foot higher
{ in the other
King sprang up. ‘‘ Perhaps it is the
tide [’| Oo and see He ran up the
ro lf iped across the fissures, and look
the side they
the tide
Which they
ed over on had ascended,
sure enough Was coming in
he stones on had stepped
vere covered, and a deep stream of water,
rising vith every pulsation of the sea,
how vhere there Was only a rivulet be
He hastened back ‘There is not
We are caught by the
not off in five minutes,
Tore
amoment to lose
tide, and if we are
ve shall be prisoners here till the turn
He helped her up slope and over
the chasm. The way was very plain when
nd it
a prec
came on, but now he could not
At the end of every attempt was
And the
rl on the
ipice water
Was Prisinge.
o shore shouted to them
to follow along
a ledge she pointed out,
then cle Sct nd between two bow Iders to the
ford Precious minutes were lost in ac
complishing this cireuitous descent, and
then they found the stepping-stones un
der vater and the sea weed swishing
about the slippery rocks with the incom
ine tide It was a ridiculous position for
te ie ; : .
lovers. or even friends ridiculous be
cause it had no element of danger except
the ignominy of getting wet. If there
is any heroism in seizing Irene before
she could protest, stumbling with his bur
den among the siimy rocks, and depos
iting her, with only wet shoes, on the
and gained the
The adventure
King shared it,
shore
title of °
Life-preserver
ended with a |
The day after the diseove ry and ex-
ploration of Narragansett, Mr. King spent
the morning with his cousin at the
Casino [t was so pleasant that he won
had not gone there oftener, and
Was it
Lhe cottagers were too strong for the
dered he
that so few peopl frequented it
thal
MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Casino also, which was built for the re
creation of the cottagers, and that they
found when it came to the test that they
could not with comfort come into any
sort of contact with popular life? It is
not iarge, but no summer resort 1
1 Kurop
has a prettier piace for lounging and re
union None have such an air of refine
ment and exclusiveness Indeed, one of
the chief attractions and entertainments
in the foreign casinos and conversation
halls is the mingling there of all sorts of
peoples, and the animation arising from
diversity of conditions. This popular
Sale
commingling in pleasure resorts is
enough in aristocratic countries, but it
will not answer in a republic.
The Newport Casino is in the nature of
The building
a club of the best society
and grounds express the most refined
taste. Exteriorly the house is a long
low, Queen Anne cottage, with brilliant
shops on the ground-floor, and above, be
hind the wooded baleonies, is the elub
room. The tint of the shingled front is
brown, and all the colors are low and
Within, the court is a medieval
surprise. It
blended.
miniature castle, such
An
extension of the galleries, an ombre, com
is a
as might serve for an opera scene.
pletes the circle around a plot of close
clipped green turf The
all baleonies, galleries, odd windows half
house itself is
overgrown and hidden by ivy, and a large
vilt clock face adds a touch of piquancy
Be
yond the first court is a more spacious
to the antique charm of the facade.
and less artificial lawn, set with fine trees,
and at the bottom of it is the brown build
ing containing ball-room and_ theatre,
bowling-alley and closed tennis - court,
and at an angle with the second lawn is
a pretty field for lawn-tennis. Here the
tournaments are held, and on these ocea
sions, and on ball nights, the Casino is
thronged
If the Casino is then so exclusive, why
not more used as a rendezvous and
Alas! it must
not exclusive.
in the
tion any person can gain admittance by
paying the sum of fifty cents. This tax
is sufficient exclude the deserving
but it inducement to
vulgar and it is broken
Is it
lounging place ? be ad-
mitted that it is By an
astonishing’ concession organiza
to
is only an
rich,
down by the prodigal excursionist, who
commonly sets out from home with the
poor,
the even
intention of being reckless for one day.
THEIR
PILGRIMAGE
169
It is « asy to see, therefore, why the charm
of this delightful place is tarnished
The band was playing this morning
Mrs
King entered and took chairs on the om
not rink musie—when Glow and
bre. Itwasavery pretty scene: more peo
: ;
pie were present than usual Of a morning
Groups of half a dozen had drawn chairs
together here and there, and were chatting
and laughing; two or three exceedingly
well preserved old bachelors, in the smart
rough morning suits of tl
entertaining their lady
and talk;
vere reading newspapers ;
period, were
with e]
y friends lub
horse several
old gentlemen
and there were
some dowager-looking mammas, and seat
ed by them their cold, beautiful, hieh-bred
daughters, who wore their visible exelu
siveness like a garment, and contrasted
vith some other young ladies who were
promenading with English-looking young
flannel who might be de
men in suits,
scribed as lawn-tennis young ladies con
I being in the mode
SCLOUS O
but wantin
the indescribable atmosphere ot thigh
breeding Doubtless the most interesting
persons to the studs nt of hum in life were
the young fellows in lawn-tennis suits
They had the lang uid alr. whieh IS SO at
tractive at their age, of havi ¢ found out
life, and decided that it is a bore Not g
is worth making an exertion about, not
even pleasure. They had come, one could
see, to a just appreciation of their valu
In life, and understood qu te well the SO
cial manners of the mammas and OIPris
1 1 i.
whose company they condesce naded to da
dale and make, langwuildilvy. evnieal observa
tions. They had In truth the manner of
playing at Tashion and elegance as l
stage comedy King could not help think
ing there was someth ne theatrical abo
altowe ther, and he fancied that when
Ave
or through the motions
them
he saw them in their ** traps” on the
nue they were goin
for show and not for enjoyment Proba
King
|
ip
i
i <
\ )
I (
pai i
ri >
i
|
| > y
{ i
Dee l
I ) )
san l )
he no
Dal
l ended
i ul
could oO
‘ LLISIIL¢
tieth Lite
COTLE cle
vd JO.
‘ ! ma L
Cue G K
1 Lhd pop ne
ho tr, ¢
Hahas
Lhe 1d
rave i
7 \
‘\ Ait y
and the
you rut
Lo i
cit t
explanatl
1 S v di
Sl { «At
Ss, an
I \
}
Bra { t
tho el
a a 2
King
é
; }
t Lot >
Ladies W
He stoor
stv 1
oO
d. o
1 t (
one tft
le
s Gio
emal
t
«tl ‘
r )
_
sta l
HARPER'S
Gre Sla \ reWi La
ep it led down to the
ng them were the Po
Ost eautv and audac
satiol nh W as ineton
( re bantering Mr
Na racvansett ¢ cCursion
Y MALCIOUSIV Given thie
sencouncer I the tide
St at this m hap
across the | Saw
ne toward t Mrs
over the grass and beam
sup, Mr. Benson carry
i looking as if he had
la und Irene listless] y
Glow saw them at the
it May no other sign of
han bv striking into the
‘ean Mr. King
and
he
the
Pos
himself
But
fey)
Prom
Bensons
WK a iy
f the vounger
sa iS
ym Mrs. Glo a cool
th Postle I arte
8 ier than by in
irned to speak to
we Pa State of he
Sas a terrible
im. ition
rn to the hotel till
S¢ t Ip is ¢
Cane macK tl t
ind must be excused
e desk and wrote a
illempting an ¢ xpla
I
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
na mol what mignt seem to her a rude
Nes na isked that Iie ig 1 SOC he. i
noment And then he paced the corridot
uting for a reply In his impatience
Live lfteen minutes that he waited seemed
an oul Then a be boy handed him
this note
DEAR Mr. KING No explanation
vhatever was needed We never shall
1
DY
BENSON
(FO00d
[RENT
forget vour kindness
He note carefu and put
lh 1S breast por ket took it out ind 14
read it, jingering over the fine and daint
signature, put it back again, and walked
outupon the piazza It wasadi ne night
soft and sweet-scented, and all »rustling
trees Were tuminous in t @Lectric hieht
ne
From a window opening upon a balcony
overhead came the clear notes of a bary
9 old-fashioned
tone voice enunciating the
vords of an English ballad, the refrain of
which expressed hopeless separation
Che
.
line of bays, headlands, 1
eastern coast, with its racged out
ndentations, is]
ands, capes, and sand-spits, from Watch
Hill, a to Mount
{
Desert, presents an almost continued chain
In fact,
favorite breezy resort,
hotels and summer cotti
Ol aves.
thesame may be said of the whole Atlantie
front from Mount Desert down to Cape
May [It is to the traveller an amazing
spectacl The American people can no
onger be reproached for not taking any
summer recreation. The amount of money
invested to meet the requirements of this
vacation idleness is enormous When
one is on the coast in July or August it
seems as if the whole fifty millions of peo
ple had come down to lie on the rocks.
vade in the sand, and dip into the sea
But th Tl
only a fringe of the pleasure-seeking popu
is is not the case. iese crowds are
ons from
lation In all the mountain reg
North to tl Adirondacks
the White Hills, alone the St
Carolina 1e and
Lawre
ie Northwest,
nce
and the lakes away up to tl
in every elevated village, onevery mount
ain-side,about every pond, lake and clear
n the wilderness and the seclud
house, one encounters t]
stream, 1
ed
farm
summer boarder, the vacation
one is seareely out of sight of the
ee
nericah
flag flying over a summer re
sort [In no other nation, probably, is
there such a general summer hegira, no
other offers on such a vast scale such va
THEIR PILGRIMAGE 171
M
billie
MIN AN S A I SEA
riety of entertainment, and it is needless But there are resorts suited to all tastes,
to say that history presents no parallel and to the economical as well as to the ex
to this general movement of a people for travagant Perhaps the strongest im
a Summer OULINe. Yet it is no doubt pression one has In visiting the various
ie that statistics, which al Vays upset a vatering- places in the summer-time
road, generous statement such as | have that the multitudes of every-day folk are
nade, would show that the majority of ibroad in search of enjoyment Qn tl
people stay at home in the summer, and New Bedford boat for Martha’s Vineyard
it is undeniable that the vexing question our little party of tourists sailed quite
for everybody is where to go in July and away from Newport life—Stanhope with
August mingled depression and relief, the artist
172 HARPE
o ¢ Mat stood
p , , , no
' ‘ . fleet
r¢ a he
MW TI pas
i we oe lt
( \ \ England, until
>) i ] i Na Shon Is
d is Vr nded somehow of
| il ] ( perhaps ) Lhe Vi d,
il Oo Ss nad as dD Lhe
‘ »y went ashore
t ered rt rut r dis
i} y ! ver of horses and
\ 0 no andaco There
Sa s rive at the nai and
iy ind amid the trees the pi
turess of the villa of the sole pro
I ‘ ( t ind appeared, and gave a
i is »> the domain The sweet
Oras itfords vod pl ng@ tor sheep and
v1 eS ‘ eep thie owner ralses deer,
Hil ure ce ned to be chased and shot
Lie wbuNn
rie il St nie a lat there were several
inet re of men on board, besides
com mm straign vaisted, flat-chested
Lurie (one rl, who was alone, with
1 cit vit l il rm figure, ina travel
suit of elegant simplicity, was fond of
ta vr attitudes about the rails, and watch
ing e elf produced on the spectators.
here is a blue-eyed sharp-faced, rathe r
OOS jointed young irl vho had the
manner of being familiar with the boat,
nd talked readily and freely with any
body ing an eve occasionally on her
5 of eight years, a child with a serious
t face in a poke-bonnet, who used the
D pore I a Voul lady of sixteen, and
eemeda yabundantly able totake care of
erst W hat this mite of a child wants
of all things, she confesses, is a pug-faced
C Pres I ne sees one come on
ard the arms of a young lady at
H mes’ Holl No she savs, ** lL won't
isk he yr it e lady wouldn't give it to
ne, and lL wouldn't iste my breath; but
, draws near to the doe. and regards
1 rapt attention The owner of
ao Sa Vv y prettv black-eved cir]
aanged hair, who prattles about her
. und | dog lh perfect freedom.
= S ving at Cottage City, lives at
Worcester, has been up t
wa
Ss
}
ips
Oo Boston to meet
is (
ring down her dog, without which
ouldn’t live another minute ** Per
“ she says, you know Dr. Ridger
R’'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
ton,in Worcester; he’s my brother. Don't
KhHO hii He's a chiropodist
These girls are all types of the skating
rin in institution whieh is beginning
to express itself in American manners
The band was plaving o1
1 the ple rwhnenh
the ;
at Cottage (
amer landed
ff, a
Ste
ity
Ball’s Blu Ss it was formerly called
he pier and the gallery leading to it
and t
were crowded with spectators, Mostly wo
men—a pleasing mingling of the skating
rink and sewing-cirele varieties—and gay
ety Was apparently about setting in with
the dusk. The rink and the go-round
opposite the hotel were in full tilt Aft
er supper King and Forbes took a cursory
iew of this strange encampment, walk
\
ing through the streets of fantastic tiny
cottages among the scrub oaks, and saw
something of family life in the painted
little boxes. whose wide-open front doors
gave to view the whole domestic econo
my, including the bed, centre table, and
melodeon., They strolled also on the ele
vated plank promenade by the beach, en
countering now and then a couple enjoy
ing the lovely night. Musie abounded.
The cireus-pumping strains burst out of
the rink, calling to a gay and perhaps
life
empty hotel parlor, i
dissolute The band in the nearly
n a mournful mood,
was wooing the guests who did not come
to asoothing tune, something like China
‘Why do we mourn departed friends ?”
\ the
board the shad
the
in
procession of lasses coming up
advancing out of
afar off
Walk,
ows of night, was heard as
stalwart singers strode on, chanting
high nasal voices that lovely hymn, which
seems to suit the rink as well as the‘night
promenade and the camp-meeting:
‘We shall me im um—we shall me-eet, me-eet
um um—we shall meet
In the sweet by-am-by, by-am-by—um_ un
im-bDy,
On t 1 t bu-u ( the b
sho
ment, with its flimsy and eccentric archi
1 the morning this fairy-like settle
tecture, took on more the appearance of
reality. The season was late, as usual,
and the hotels were still waiting for the
crowds that seem to prefer to wait and
make a rushing carnival of August, but
the tiny cottages were nearly all oeceu
At 10 A.M. the band was playing in
the three-story pagoda sort of tower at
pied.
the bathing-place, and the three stories
were crowded with female spectators.
THEIR PILGRIMAGI 173
under the ban] Sa lon arrav of thine thoucht f it. a 1 Pe
houses, and the sha OW Vater
1 floundering ind sereaml ttine «
‘ - Anan — ; f
G ers L\nehored a ] e out was a raft nation
1 hich men and bovs and a few a poet d
u venturesome girls were diving, display- the comédie humaine. The band
in ing the human form in graceful curves. played out its hour, trudged
at The crowd was an immensely good-hu- hotel pier to toot while the noon steam
es mored one, and enjoyed itself. The sex- boat landed its passengers, in order to im
S. es mingled together in the water, and no- press the new arrivals with the mad joy
174 HARPER'S
i ¢ oO ! place The erowd gath
ered on t alle end of
ie pier 1 to s effect of reckless
lay « ment. Miss Lamont was
nfeeted CAV « ind too ‘
rrea adea oO teres ! peripatetic
band ( iS plavil rain oO Ihe
} " efore dinner vith a sort of
mechanica riousness The rink band
Opposl kep ip a ely competition
erind ou s go-round music, impart
ng, i one ma Sav SO, a elamour to ex
istence The band is on hand at the pier
il Tour oclock to toot avain, and present
off, t mping to some other hotel to
i { ( US pleasure of this people
W Mr. King could not help won
derin ow all this curious life would
sul I) 1h¢ t put His lonesomeness and
long iin this i\ and what she would
sav abou e endeavored to divert his
mind b ustudy of the conditions and by
some philosophizing on the change that
had come over American summer life
thin a few years In his investiga
tions | is assisted by Mr. De Long, to
hom this social life was absolutely new,
ima ho i disposed to reward it as pe
culiarly Yankee—the staid dissipation of
King, looking
a serious-minded people
at it more broadly, found this pasteboard
eCity DV the se 1 one of the
most interesting
developments of American life. The ori
ginal nucleus was the Methodist camp
meeting vhich, in the season, brought
he twenty thousand to thirty thousand
peop it a time, who camped and pie
nicked In a somewhat primitive style
Gradually the people who came here os
LENSLDL' or religious exercises made a
longer and more permanent occupation,
rout losing its ephemeral charac
and den ande d
ter, tive place grew more
substantial accommodations The spot
is ve attractive Although the shore
{ does not get the pre
Va i¢ southern breeze, and the beach has
little sur oth water and air are mild,
bine WaChIN S sale and agreea le and the
view oO ie illimitable sea dotted with
sais and fishing-bdoats 1S alWays pleasing
\ crowd begets a crowd, and soon the
yorld’s peop rade a city larger than the
origin i ind s ! re Tantasti »\
the uid ¢ pain ind the jig-saw The
tent, however, 1s the type of ail the dwell
iIng-houses he hotels. restaurants, and
shops follow the usual order of flamboy
ant sea-side architecture. After a time
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
the Baptists established a camp ground on
the blutfs on the opposite side of the inlet
The
mercial
world’s people brought in the com
element in the wav of faney
shops for the sale of all manner of cheap
introd iced
And SO, al
though the camp-meetings do not begin
ind bizarre notions, and
the common amusements
till late in August, this city of play-houses
is occupied the summer lone
The shops
and shows r¢ present the taste of the mill
ion, and although there is a similarity in
all these popular coast watering - places,
opportunity
each has a characteristic of its own
foreigner has a considerable
otst
idying family life, whether he lounges
through the narrow, sometimes circular,
streets by night, when it appears like a
fairy encampment, or by daylight, when
there is no illusion. It seems to be a
point of etiquette to show as much of the
interiors as possible, and one can learn
bed-making
something of cooking and
and mending, and the art of doing up the
back hair.
in pictorial opportunities.
The photographer revels here
The pictures
of these bizarre cottages, with the family
and friends seated in front, show very s¢
One of the
vast iron hood or dome erected over rows
that
thousand people—represents the building
rious groups. Tabernacle—a
of benches will seat two or three
when it is packed with an audience in
tent the Most of
faces are of a grave, severe type, plain
upon preacher. the
and good, of the sort of people ready to
die for a notion. The impression of these
photographs is that these people abandon
themselves soberly to the pleasures of the
sea and of this packed, gregarious life,
and get solid enjoyment out of their re
creation.
coast, the
the
greater part of the population consists of
Here, as elsewhere on
women and children, and the young la
dies complain of the absence of men
and, indeed, something is desirable in so
ciety besides the superannuated and the
boys in roundabouts.
The artist and Miss Lamont, in search
of the picturesque, had the courage, al
hough the thermometer was in the hu
mor to climb up to ninety degrees, to ex
‘
plore the Baptist encampment. They were
not rewarded by anvthing new except at
the the bath
houses, the bathing suits were hung out
landing, where, behind
to dry, and presented a comical spectacle,
to be
}
the humor of which seemed lost
THEIR PILGRIMAGE 175
on all except themselves It was such and fantastie sa work, explained
vricature of humanity! The suits hang measure, the design of Providence in per
¢ upon the line and distended by the mitting this part of the world to be d
id presented the appearance of head- covered; but the sandy interior had to
s, bloated forms, fat men and fat wo reconciied to the deeper divine i
n, kicking in the breeze, and vainly DV a trial Of patience and the cuitivatio
yr to elimb over the tine It vas Of the erole Ss evo ib sti
ODADILY ere \ fancy, but they de mared lor existence Ol ting men and ( n
Dida
a
;
\
A CARICATURE OF HUMANITY
that these images seemed larger, more fora better country The travellers were
loated, and much livelier than those dis- confirmed, however, in their theory of the
played on the Cottage City side. When effect of a sandy country upon the hu
travellers can be entertained DV trifles of man figure This is not a juiey land, if
this kind it shows that there is an ab- the expression can be tolerated, any more
sence of more serious amusement. And, than the sandy parts of New Jersey, and
ndeed, although people were not want- its unsympathetic dryness is favorable to
ng, and music was in the air, and the the production—one can hardly say de
iecyele and the tricycle stable was well velopment of the lean, enduring, flat
patronized by men and women, and the chested, and angular style of woman
noon bathing was well attended, it was In order to reach Plymouth a wait of a
evident that the life of Cottage City was couple of hours was necessary one ¢
not in full swing by the middle of July the sleepy but historic villages Chere
The morning on which our tourists took was here no tavern, no restaurant, and
the steamer for Holmes’ Holl the sea lay nobody appeared to have any license to
shimmering in the heat, only stirred a_ sell anything for the refreshment of the
iLble by the land breeze, and it needed all travellers But at some distance from thi
the invigoration of the short ocean voy station, in a two-roomed dwelling-houss
age to brace them up for the intolera LN a good woman was found who was
hot and dusty ride in the ears through the ing to cook a meal OF victuals ssne ¢
sandy part of Massachusetts So long as plained und a sign on her front door at
the train kept by the indented shore the tested, she had a right to do W hat is
route was fairly picturesque; all along atthe bottom of the local prejudice against
Buzzard Bay and Onset Bay and Monu letting the wavfaring man have anything
ment Beach little cottages, gay with paint to eat and drink, the party could not as
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
erlall t the ae int rot the woman In an aggressive manner. Dinner was
vas such a ordered, and the party strolled about the
She Vas a noble, robust, @1 village pending its preparation ; Dutit Was
nen of her sex, well formed, not ready when they returned I ain't
i S 1 ‘ id goin’ to cook no victuals,” the woman e:
ed, through tightly closed teeth, plained not ungraciously, ‘till I know
folks is goin’ to eat
us.” Knowledge ol
lng the world had made
at
°)
her justly cautious
She intended to set
out a 2ood meal
and she had thi
true housewife’s de
sire that it should
be eaten, that there
should be enough
of it, and that the
guests should like
it. When she wait
ed on the table she
displayed a pair of
arms that would
LAST GLIMPSE OF MARTHAS VINEYARD
THEIR PILGRIMAGE 177
THE MODEI
discourage any approach to familiarity,
ind disincline a timid person to ask twice
for pie; but in point of fact, as soon as the
party became her bona fide guests, she was
royally hospitable, and only displayed
unxiety lest they should not eat enough.
‘I like folks to be up and down and
square,” she began saying as she vigilant
ly watched the effect of her culinary skill
upon the awed little party. ‘* Yes, Ive
got aregular hotel license; you bet I have
There's been folks lawed in this town for
sellin’ a meal of victuals and not having
one. I ain’t goin’ to be taken in by any
body. I warn’t raised in New Hamp
shire to be seared by these Massachusetts
| +f i ! |
my We |
my
Pettey gi NF) \| |
WY, yt UL
ty
ZAR Wh |
Hh N i
) -
BAN
folks No | hain’t rot agirl how id
one a spell, but Ud rather do my own
work You never knew what a girl was
doin’ or would do. Aftershe'd left I found
a broken plate tucked into the ash-barre
Sho! you cant depend on a girl Yes
lve got a husband It's easier to manage
him. Well, I tell you a husband is bet
rl When you tell | mtodo
t
ter than a g
anvthing. vou know it’s goin’ to be done
He’s always about. never loafin’ round: he
can take right hold and wash dishes, and
fetch water, and anything ,
King went into the kitchen after din
ner and saw this model husband, who had
the faculty of making himself generally
178
iseful, holding a baby on one arm, and
stirring something In a pot on the stove
i the other He looked hot but re-
ned There has been so much said
about the position of men in Massachn-
sett that the travellers were olad of this
evidence that husbands are beginning to
be appreciated. Under proper training
the are ackKnow ledged to be ** better than
girls.”
It was late afternoon when they reach
ed the quiet haven of Plymouth—a place
where it is apparently always afternoon,
memory and reminiscences,
here the whole effort of the population
is to hear and to tell some old thing. As
the railway ends there, there is no danger
of being carried beyond, and the train
slowly ceases motion, and stands still in
the midst of a great and welcome silence.
Peace fell upon the travellers like a gar
had as
ment, much
or
difficulty in landing their baggage as the
and although they
early Pilgrims had in getting theirs
ashore, the circumstance was not able to
natural
astray
disquiet them much. It seemed
should on
some of the inextricably interlocked and
ranching railways, and they had no
doubt that when they had made the tour
of the State they would be discharged, as
they finally were, into this cul-de-sac.
that their trunks go
The Pilgrims have made so much noise
in the world, and so powerfully affected
the continent, that our tourists were sur
prised to find they had landed in such a
quiet place, and that the spirit they have
left behind them is one of such tranquilli
ty. The village has a charm all its own.
The houses are old-fashioned and square,
with colonial doors and porches, irregu-
larly aligned on the main street, which is
arched by ancient and stately elms. In
the spacious door-yards the lindens have
had room and time to expand, and in the
beds of bloom the flowers, if not the very
ones that our grandmothers planted, are
Showing that
town has grown in sympathy with
human
the sorts that they loved.
the
needs and eccentricities, and is
not the work of asurveyor, the streets are
irregular, forming picturesque angles and
open spaces. Nothing could be imagined
in greater contrast to a Western town,and
a good part of the satisfaction our tourists
experienced was in the absence of any
thing Western or *‘Queen Anne” in the
architecture.
In the Pilgrim Hall
a stone structure
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
with an incongruous wooden - pillared
front—they came into the very presence:
of the early worthies, saw their portrait
on the walls, sat in their chairs, admired
the solidity of their shoes, and imbued
themselves with the spirit of the relics of
In the
nothing to disturb the
serenity of mind acquired by this com
munion. The Puritan interdict of
seemly excitement still prevailed, and the
streets were silent; the artist, who could
compare it with the placidity of Holland
towns, declared that he never walked in a
village so silent: there was no loud talk
their heroic, uncomfortable lives.
town there was
un
ing; and even the children played without
noise, like little Pilgrims. God bless such
children, and increase their numbers! It
might have been the approach of Sunday
if Sunday is still regarded in eastern
Massachusetts—that caused this hush, for
it was now toward sunset on Saturday,
and the inhabitants were washing the
windows and the
with the hose, showing how cleanliness is
next to silence.
fronts of the houses
Possessed with the spirit of peace, our
tourists, whose souls had been vexed with
the passions of many watering-places,
walked down Leyden Street (the first that
was laid out), saw the site of the first
house, and turned round Carver Street,
walking lingeringly, so as not to break
the spell, out upon the hill—Cole’s Hill
where the dead during the first fearful
winter were buried. This has been con
verted into a beautiful esplanade, grassed
and gravelled and furnished with seats,
and overlooks the old wharves, some coal
schooners, and shabby buildings, on one
of which is a sign informing the reckless
that they can obtain there clam chowder
and ice-cream, and the ugly, heavy gran-
ite canopy erected over the ‘* Rock.” No
reverent person can see this rock for the
first time without a thrill of excitement.
it has the date of 1620 cut in it, and it is
a good deal cracked and patched up, as if
it had been much landed on, but there it
is, and there it will remain a witness to
a great historic event, unless somebody
takes a notion to cart it off uptown again.
It is said to rest on another rock, of which
it formed a part before its unfortunate
journey, and that lower rock, as every-
body knows, rests upon the immutable
principle of self-government. The stone
lies too far from the water to enable any-
body to land on it now, and it is protect-
n-
he
1S
far
it
to
dy
in.
ch
ite
ry
ble
nme
ly
ct-
THEIR PILGRIMAGE 179
ed from vandalism by an iron grating
The sentiment of the hour was disturbed
vy the advent of the members of a base
ill nine, who wondered why the Pil
ms did not land on the wharf, and
hile thrusting their feet through the
rating in a commendable desire to touch
ie sacred rock, expressed a doubt wheth
er the feet of the Pilgrims were small
enough to slip through the grating and
ind on the stone. It seems that there is
nothing safe from the irreverence of
\merican youth
Has any other coast town besides Ply
mouth had the good sense and taste to util
such an elevation by the water-side as
in esplanade ? It isa most charming fea
ture of the village, and gives it what we
‘all a foreign air. It was very lovely in
the after-glow and at moonrise. Staid
citizens with their families occupied the
benches, groups were chatting under the
spreading elm-tree at the north entrance,
ind young maidens in white muslin
promenaded, looking seaward, as was the
vont of Puritan maidens, watching a
receding orcoming Mayflower. But there
vere no loud talking,no laughter,no out
bursts of merriment from the children.
Such nice, quiet little children, all ready to
be transplanted to the Puritan heaven!
It was high tide, and all the bay was sil
very with a tinge of color from the glow
ing sky. The long curved sand-spit
which was heavily wooded when the Pil
grims landed—was silvery also, and upon
its northern tip glowed the white sparkle
in the light-house like the evening-star.
To the north, over the smooth pink water
speckled with white sails, rose Captain
Hill, in Duxbury, bearing the monument
to Miles Standish. The three islands in
sight, Clarke’s (where the Pilgrims had a
sermon on the first Sunday), Seguish, and
1¢
Garnett (showing now twin white lights),
appear like one island intersected by thin
lines of blue water. The effect of these
ribbons of alternate sand and water, of
the lights and the ocean (or Great Bay)
beyond, was exquisite.
Even the unobtrusive tavern at the rear
of the esplanade, ancient, feebly lighted,
and inviting, added something to the pic
turesqueness of the scene. The old tree
by the gate—an English elm—illuminated
by the street lamps and the moon, had a
mysterious appearance, and the tourists
were not surprised to learn that it has a
romantic history. The story is that the
twig or sapling from which it grew was
brought over from England by a lover
as a present to his mistress, that the loy
ers quarre lled almost immediately, thatthe
Virl ina pet thre w it out of the w ndaow
when she sent her lover out of the door
and that another man picked it up and
planted it where it now frows., The le
gend provokes a good many questions
One would like to know whether this was
the first case of female rebellion in Mas
sachusetts against the common-law right
of aman to correct a woman with a stick
not thicker than his little finger—a rebel
lion which has resulted in the position of
man as the tourists saw him where the
New Hampshire Amazon gave them a
meal of victuals—and whether the girl
married the man who planted the twig,
and, if so, whether he did not regret that
he had not kept it by him.
This is a world of illusions By day
light, when the tide was out, the pretty
silver bay of the night before was a mud
flat, and the tourists looking over it from
Monument Hill lost some of their respect
for the Pilgrim sagacity in selecting a
li
landing-place. They had ascended the
hill for a nearer view of the monument,
King with a reverent wish to read the
name of his Mayflower ancestor on the
tablet, the others in a spirit of cold, New
York criticism, for they thought the
structure, which is still unfinished, would
look uglier near at hand than at a dis
tance. Anditdoes. Itisa pile of granite
masonry surmounted by symbolic figures
** Tt is such an unsympathetic, tasteless
looking thing!” said Miss Lamont. ‘* Do
you think it is the worst in the country
‘I wouldn't like to say that,” replied
the artist, ‘‘ when the competition in this
direction is so lively. But just look at
the drawing” (holding up his pencil with
which he had intended to sketch it). ‘‘If
it were quaint, now, or rude, or archaic
it might be in keeping, but bad drawing
is just vulgar. I should think it had
been designed by a carpenter, and exe
cuted by a stone-mason.”’
‘* Yes,” said the little Lamont, who al
ways fell in with the most abominable
opinions the artist expressed; *‘it ought
to have been made of wood, and painted
and sanded.”
‘*You will please remember,” mildly
suggested King, who had found the name
he was in search of, ‘‘ that you are tram
pling on my ancestral sensibilities, as
was her figure that he remembered, and j
180 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
might be expected of those who have no
ancestors who ever landed or ever were
uried anywhere in particular I look at
1
th commemorative spirit rather than the
execution of the monument
‘So do I,” retorted the girl: ‘‘and if
the Pilgrims landed in such a vulgar,
ostentatious spirit as this, fm glad my
name is not on the tablet
The party were in a better mood when
they had climbed up Burial Hill, back of
the meeting-house, and sat down on one of
the convenient benches amid the ancient
gravestones, and looked upon the wide
and magnificent prospect. <A soft sum
mer wind waved a little the long gray
grass of the ancient resting-place, and
seemed to w hisper peace to the weary gen-
that What struggles,
heroisms, the names on
eration lay there.
the stones
Here had stood the first fort of
1620, and here the 1642,
from the top of which the warder espied
what
recalled!
watch-tower of
the lurking savage, or hailed the expected
ship from England. How much of histo
ry this view recalled, and what pathos of
Read
the names of those buried a couple of cen-
human life these graves made real !
turies ago captains, elders, ministers, gov
ernors, Wives well beloved, children a span
long, maidens in the blush of womanhood
half the tender inscriptions are illegible;
the are broken, sunk, slanting to
fall. What a pitiful attempt to keep the
world mindful of the departed!
stones
CHAPTER
STANHOPE
VII.
Mr
rood SDITLLS
KING
Even Boston did not make
was not in very
theerful
him He was half annoyed to
see the artist and Miss Lamont drifting
along in such laughing good-humor with
the world, as if a summer holiday was just
a holiday without any consequences or
responsibilities. It was to him a serious
affair ever since that unsatisfactory note
from Miss Benson; somehow the summer
And yet was it not
girl, just a single girl,
had lost its sparkle.
preposterous that a
should have the power to change for a
man the aspect of a whole coast—by her
presence to make if iridescent with beauty,
and by her absence to take all the life out
of it? Andasimple girl from Ohio! She
was not by any means the prettiest girl in
the Newport Casino that morning, but it
was the look of hurt sensibility in her eye
that staid with him. He resented the atti
tude of the Casino toward her, and he hate
himself for his share in it. He would writ
to her He composed letter after letter j
his mind, which he did not put on paper
How
posed in this way!
many millions of letters are com
It is a favorite oceu
pation of imaginative people; and as they
say that no thoughts or mental impres
sions are ever lost, but are all registered-
made, as it were, on a ‘‘dry plate,” to bi
developed hereafter—what a
Vast corre
spondence must be lying in the next
world, in the Dead-letter Office there,
waiting for the persons to whom it is ad
dressed, who will all receive it and read it
some day! How unpleasant and absurd
it will be to read, much of it! I intend to
be careful, for my part, about composing
letters of this sort hereafter. Irene, I dare
say, will find a great many of them from
Mr. King, thought out in those days. But
he mailed none of them to her. What
Should he tell her that
he didn’t mind if her parents were what
Mrs. Bartlett Glow called ‘‘ impossible” ?
If he attempted any explanation, would it
not involve the offensive supposition that
his social rank was different from hers?
Even if he convinced her that he recog
nized no caste in American society, what
could remove from her mind the some
what morbid impression that her educa
tion had put her in a false position? His
love probably could not shield her from
mortification in a society which, though
indefinable in its limits and code, is an
entity more vividly felt than the govern
ment of the United States.
‘**Don’t you think the whole social at
mosphere has changed,” Miss Lamont sud
denly asked, as they were running along
in the train toward Manchester-by-the-Sea,
‘*since we got north of Boston? I seem
to find it so. Don’t you think it’s more
refined, and, don’t you know, sort of cul
tivated,and subdued,and Boston? You no
tice the gentlemen who get out at all these
stations, to go to their country houses, how
highly civilized they look, and inetfably
respectable and intellectual, all of them
presidents of colleges, and substantial
bank directors, and possible ambassadors,
and of a social cult (isn’t that the word ?)
uniting brains and gentle manners.”
‘**You must have been reading the Bos-
ton newspapers; you have hit the idea
should he say?
THEIR PILGRIMAGE
yvrevalent in these parts, at any rate [ tician type, smarter apparel and nervous
vas, however, reminded myself of an aft- manners, but, dear me, not this high mon
ernoon train out of London, sav 1nto sur al and intellectual r¢ spectability
rey, on which you are apt to encounter * Well,” said the artist, ‘* lm changing
ibout as high a type of civilized men as my mind about this country I didn’t
inywhere.”’ expect so much variety I thoug
‘*And you think this is different froma _ all the watering-places would be pretty
train out of New York ?” asked the artist. much alike, and that we should see the
‘Yes. New York is more mixed. No same people eve rvwhere But the people
one train has this kind of tone. You see are quite as varied as the scenery.”
there more of the broker type and poli ** There you touch a deep question the
VoL, LXXIII.—No. 434.—13
182?
re ning or the uUcarizing inf ience of
ipo! iture,a le Opposite Now
\ \ ner bostonians make this
} d. o Ss coast re ‘ he
1 »s ‘ (
W s Ss } il i urtist
) | ‘ tl e ( t: there is
a i i Ss, and res
ive ) lig ad rr But
| ut t , m could Nave done
thie vy coast
In the niadst Of this high and useless
ersation ( ( eto tiie Masconomo
PLOUSE i ) ession, In this region
I Lit) it is | PLN ile parks, to the
wa cle f » »> the sea It is a
ng lo i broad passages
) ch give ie@hthness
L Chig ess to e interior, and each
oO ¢ ) co S e entrance hall
isa replac e pillars of the front
wma y . pla isa yhe stems stained,
i i ranches cul in unegq ial
oO i 1 loo ce the st imMps tor the
ears to climb in the pit at Berne. Set
ip originally with the bark on, the worms
orked underneath it in secret, at a novel
sort of decoration, until the bark came off
and exposed the stems most beautifully
vermiculated, givine the effect of fine
earving Back of the house a meadow
slopes down to a little beach in a curved
bay that has rocky headlands, and is de
fended in part by islands of rock. The
yhoie or the
The
ly, and if occasionally transient g
aspect place is peaceful.
hotel does not assert itself very loud
uests ap
pear with flash manners, they do not affect
» general tone of t
(one
Line ne region.
finds, indeed, nature and social life
exclusiveness being
The
happily biended, the
rather protective than
otfensive.
special charm ol this piece of coast is that
is bold uch broken and indented,
preeipices Tronting the waves, promonto
ries jutting out, high rocky points com
manding extensive views, wild and pic
turesque, and yet softened by color and
eraceful shore lines, and that the forest
comes down to the edge of the sea. And
the occupants have heightened rather than
lessened this picturesqueness by adapting
their villas to a certain extent to the rocks
and inequalities in color and form, and by
means of roads allées. and vistas trans
forming the
Here, as at New port, 1s cottage life, but
region into a lovely park.
the contrast of the two places is immense.
There is here no attempt at any assembly
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
One
or congregated gayety or display.
ld hesitate to say that the drives her
but they
wou
have more bea ly, have more
Variety They seem endless, throug
odorous pine woods and shady lanes, b
private roads among beautiful villas anc
vith evidences every
but
erounds,
of wealth to be seen of indi
|
vidual taste and refinement How sweet
and cool are these winding Ways in the
wonderful woods, overrun with vegeta
tion, the bayberry, the sweet-fern, the
wild roses, wood lilies and ferns! and it
is ever a fresh surprise at a turn to find
ones sell
so near the sea, and to open out
an entrancing coast view, to emerge upon
a& promontory and a sight of summer isles,
villages—Mar
What a lovely
Lit
of light-houses, cottages,
blehead, Salem, Beverly.
coast! and how wealth and eulture hays
set their seal on it!
It possesses essentially the same char
to the
occasionally higher and bolder, as at the
acter north, although the shore is
picturesque promontory of Macnolia. and
Ann more of the
and popular But to live in
choose his ealling and
Cape exhibits hotel
life. one’s
to
dining acquaintances, to make the long
to cultiva
to live, in
short, rather more for one’s self than for
own cottage,
season contribute something
tion in literature, art, music
society seems the increasing tendency ol
the men of fortune who can afford to pay
as much for an acre of rock and sand at
Manchester as would build a decent house
elsewhere. The tourist does not complain
of this, and is grateful that individuality
has expressed itself in the great variety of
lovely homes, in cottages very different
from those on the Jersey coast, showing
more invention, and good in form and
color.
There are New-Yorkers at Manchester
and Bostonians at Newport; but who was
it that said New York expresses itself at
Newport, and Boston at Manchester and
kindred coast settlements ? This may be
W here intellectual life ke eps
pace with the accumulation of wealth, so
only faney.
ciety is likely to be more natural, sim
pler, less tied to artificial rules, than where
It happens that the
Manchester,
although it
No
chance
}
wealth runs ahead.
quiet social life of Beverly,
and that region is delightful,
is a home rather than a public life.
dinner and at the
musical the foreigner
likely to meet sensible men who are good
where else at
evening is more
THEIR PILGRIMAGE
illiant and witty women who
have the oft of being entertaining, and
to have the events of the day and the so
cial and political problems more clever
What is the good of wealth
back to free dom,
ly discussed
it does not bring one
nd the ability to live naturally and to
indulge the
After
on their way
finer tastes in vacation-time
+
all, King reflected, as the
party
were to the Isles of Shoals
vhat was it that had most impressed nim
Was it
at Manchester ? not an
spent in a cottage amid the rocks, close by
the water, in the company of
evenin®’
charming
+} ve
here
reflect Moon!
the point from ce
DAY
rocky shore, the um and
a, and all mystery of
wWianads his Was OD1\
++
free
ousness,
rest
it 1s, this Summer
What a kaleidoscope
travel,
and what an entertainment, if the
Iris i ) ) impression
i t take the ne cenes, and
, » t ite of chron rum
0 S am ninor discomforts
\ ( i et ofhiee, a hirl o
oun era ul o! Portsmouth,
ye ( O e ¢ oO ijtimes by a tew
old houses, and resisting ith its respect
rOVINK su e encroachments of
ddern smartness, an e sleepy wharf in
Slee irbo ere the little steam
( Ss ObDIi¢ c Ye for the last pas
never, tor the ve lash Woman, running
1a Da Lin ! One hand and arag
i jerked, fretting child by the other
1 et f ie hour's voyage to the
[sli Or sS i
The shre d reader objects to the band
DOX as an anachronism it is ho longer
ust If ] were riting’ a novel instead
oO i eracious enronicie | should not
have introduced it, for it Is an anachro
nism But | was powerless, as a mere
l rrato. to pre ent the woman coming
i yard phner DAaNaddDOX No one but a
trained novelist can makea lone-striding,
resolute, do Kast woman conform to his
tions of eo) ict and fashion
& YO or 9 eman were in love
and the object of his adoration were be
Side him, he eould not have chosen a
Ove ier day nor a prettier scene than this
In Whieh to induige his happiness ; and if
1i¢ ere in love, and the object absent he
could seareely find a situation fitter to
nurse his tender sentiment Doubtless
re is a Stage In love when scenery of
the very best quality becomes inoperative
There as a couple on board, seated in
front of the pilot-house, who let the
steamer float along e pretty, long, land
wked harbor, past the Kittery Navy
ird, and o ipon the blue sea, without
taking the least notice of anything but
are other They were ona vovage of
their own, Heaven help them! probably
without anv chart, a voyage of discovery,
just as fresh and surprising as if they were
Like rst who ever took it It made no dif
ference to them that there was a personal
‘ursion party on board,
oiling, they said, to the Oceanic House on
Star Island, who had out their maps and
iide-books and opera-alasses, and wrung
the ist drop of the cost of their tickets
out of every toot of the scenery Per
haps it was to King a more sentimental
journey than to anybody else, because he
invoked his memory and his imagination,
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
as the lovely shores opened or fell
ana
away behind the steamer in ever-shifting
forms of beauty the scene was in har
Is long
mony with both his hope and h
Ing As to Marion and the artist, they
freely appropriated and enjoyed it So
that mediwval structure, all tower, grow
ing out of the rock, is Stedman's Castle
him, to let his art spring out ol
And that is the fa
mous Kittery Navy-yard!
What do they do there
ed the girl,
nature in that way
uncle 2?” ask
after scanning the place in
search of dry-docks and vessels and the
usual accompaniments of a navy-yard
Oh, they
just before an election It
‘repairs,’ principally
make
is very busy
then
What sort of repairs ?”
° Why, political repairs; they call them
naval in the departme nt They are al
Ways getting appropriations for them, I
suppose that this country is better off for
naval repairs than any othe r country in
the world.”
‘* And they are done here
No
Here is where the voters are
they are done in the de partment
You see,
we have a political navy It costs about
as much as those navies that have ships
with
Did you
and guns, but it is more in accord
the peaceful spirit of the age.
never hear of the leading case of *re
pairs’ of a government vessel here at Kit
tery The ‘repairs’ vere all done here
at Portsmouth, New Hampshire; the ves
sel lay all the time at Portsmouth, Vir
ginia. How should the department know
there were two places of the same name ?
It usually intends to have ‘repairs’ and
the vessel in the same navy yard.”
The
smooth
steamer Was eliding along over
water toward the seven blessed
isles, which lay there in the sun, masses
of rock set in a sea sparkling with dia
mond points. There were two pretty girls
in the pilot-house, and the artist thought
their there for the
serene voyage, for the masts of a wrecked
presence accounted
schooner rising out of the shallows to the
north him that
gerous coast. But he said the passengers
reminded this is a dan
would have a greater sense of security if
the usual placard (for the benefit of the
captain) was put up: ‘No flirting with
the girl at the wheel.”
At a distance nothing could be
more
barren than these islands, which Captain
John Smith and their native poet have
e
e
THEIR PILGRIMAGE 185
\ ‘ \ HA
eloped ina tale of romance, and it is counters asm Tie V he the 10
ot until the steamer was close to it that ma is opened and e letters called
ivy landing place iS VISIDie on Apple out so ma pre g S t et dogs
lore, the largest of the group of all degrees of ugliness (dear little ob
The boat turned into a pretty littie hat ects of atfeetion overftlo ne and other
or among the rocks, and the settlement ise running to ast one of the most
vas discovered a long low old fashioned pathe tic siglits in this sad world). sunty
iotel with plazzas, and a few cottages suits with a nautical cut, for boating ind
pe rched on the ledges the door yards of rock-elim Ing family Froups so much
which were perfectly ablaze with patches animation and excitement over the receipt
of flowers, masses of red ve llow, p irple of letters, so much we bred chafling and
poppies, marigolds, nasturtiums, bache- friendliness, such an air of refinement and
lor’s- buttons, lovely splashes of color ‘*stvle.” but withal so home-like These
against the gray lichen-ecovered rock. At people were guests’ of the proprietors
the landing is an interior miniature har- who nevertheless felt a sort of proprietor
bor, walled in, and safe for children to ship themselves in the little island, and
paddle about and sail on in tiny boats. were very much like a company together
The islands offer scarcely any other op- at sea For living on this island is ver)
portunity for bathing, unless onedaretake much like being on shipboard at sea, ex
a plunge off the rocks cept that this rock does not heave about
Talk of the kale idoscope! Ataturn of in a nauseous way
the wrist, as it were, the elements of so Mr. King discovered by the register that
ciety had taken a perfectly novel shape the Bensons had been here (of all places
here Was it only a matter of grouping in the world, he thought this would be
and setting, or were these people different the ideal one for a few days with her), and
from all others the tourists had seen ? Miss Lamont had a letter from Irene,
There was a lively scene in the hotel cor- which she did not offer to read
ridor, the spacious office with its long They didn’t stay long she said, as
Mr. King seemed to expect some informa
tion out the iettel and they have gone
‘ » Bar Har ! shnouid like to stop
i i t ( ntyou
Ye s ¢ to recall the mood he
eTore ooked at the register
l ! ing of the words vrone
oO » Bar H irbor tis i place after all,
1 t OU ¢ SOF l i short time vo il]
( ©) n i ta
But ou Os Out on the roeks
i OO | Sf a aream
l car ( ) il siand not ona
41 IS na lt s.too cooped ip vou get
ne of being a prisoner
suppose vou wish ‘that little isle
hac oS, an and I within its
bheres ¢ t ng | ill not stand
Miss Lan s Moor Come
it » »> tO Sla > wid
The pa ¢ the-tug Pinafore.
, leads a restles issv life. puffing
wou nol these Islands, making the cir
cuit of Appledore at xed hours, and act
’
commonly as a ferry Star Island is
smaller than Appledore and more barren,
but it has the big hotel (and a different
CLASS of fwuests Trom those on Appledore
and several monuments of romantic inter
es! There is the ancient stone church,
rebuilt some time in this century; there
are some
gravestones; there 1s a monu
ment to Captain John Smith, the only one
exist anywhere to that interesting ad
Ing
vent ungular shaft, with a long
lrer—a tri
inscription that could not have been more
if
eulogistie if he had composed it himself.
Chere is something
pathetic in this lonely
monument when we recall Smith’s own
touching allusion to this naked rock, on
\ ech he probab landed \\ hen he once
coasted alot this part of New England,
possession in the world
lventurous career
4
No lot for me but Smith's Isles, which
ire an arra Oot barren rocks, the most
OvVe rownh th Surupds and sharpe whins
vou ean hardly pass them: without either
erasse or wood ut three or foure short
shrubby old cedars
Every tourist goes to the south end of
Star Island, and climbs down on the face
of the precipice to the ‘* Chair,” a niche
where a school-teacher used to sit as long
1848 She was sitting there one
avo as
when a wave came up and washed
her away into the ocean. She disappear
But she who loses her life shall save
a point of pilgrimage
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
hers did
it. That one thoughtless act of
more for her reputation than years of
f | than
faithful all her be
attractions.
Her ‘'Chair” is
The
teaching,
sit
“AUN
rrace, and
tourist looks
at it, guesses at its height above the wa
ter, regards the hungry sea with aver
sion, reénacts the drama in his imagina
tion, sits in the chair, has his wife sit in
it, has his boy and girl sit in it together
wonders what the teacher’s name was
stops at the hotel and asks the photo
graph cirl, who does not know, and the
proprietor, Who says it’s in a book some
vhere, and finally learns that it was Un
derhill, and straightway forgets it when
he leaves the isiand
What a delicious place it is, this Appl
dore, when the elements favor! The par
lodged in a little cottage, whence
the hotel the little
all the life of the
ie bank of flowers
tv were
they and
. .
Overloo}! ed
harbor, and could see
place, looking over t
that draped the rocks of the door vard
How charming was the
with the
miniature pond,
round and
pretty
ES >
salllng
children
round, and the girls in costumes
bathing, and sunlight lying so warm upon
But the night,
the red
sky, all the level sea, and the little harbor
oh! the
night, when the moon came! Oh, Irene!
Great fall
into such a sentimental the
the greenish eray rocks!
following the glorious after-clow.
burnished gold, the rocks purple
will this world
fit, when all
sweetness and the light of it are away at
Bar Harbor!
heavens! W hy
Love, and moonlight, and the soft lapse
of Yes, there
are girls down by the landing with a ban
he waves, and singing ?
jo, and young men singing the songs of
love, the modern sones of love dashed
with college slang. The banjo suggests
a little fastness ; and this new generation
carries off its sentiment with some brava
do and a mocking tone. Presently the
tug Pinafore glides up to the landing,the
the
and the glowing fire illumines the inte
engineer flings open furnace door.
rior, brings out forms and faces, and
deepens the heavy shadows outside. It
is like a cavern scene in the opera. <A
party of ladies in white come down to
eross to Star. Some of these insist upon
climbing up to the narrow deck, to sit on
the roof and enjoy the moonlight and the
Girls like to do these things,
which are more unconventional than haz-
ardous, at watering-places.
cinders.
HARPER'S
4 NOOK TO
NEW
mass
O ite) nig ull de
oO ! f es and s On
i ( io"e Sa group o i
i ] st Trident ‘ esas
( l i bADDL IO Oni
ad oO on the oth
( CO mm the curtamed Nn
( ere il ere i V bite
S ( ( 0 ora ely ead: the
es 1 c »O n and half en
closing i ike an exquisite tra
cer i S ind cast delicate
1do patter! ‘ floor: all the time
\ piano, the violin, and
{ i Womans voice sing
ng s of Nel re} oatin out
on t Ls ind blows out
Oo
rt of Appledore Island
Ss 9 ntere we to madel There
are no trees, but the plateau is Tar trom
wary | ce} crop out among
ba ! i ( er bushes, and
the i large and briillant 1n
DREAM
MONTHLY MAGAZINE
landscape
I
the
Amid the eh
rocks further so
color, fairly illuminates
P t
Wiassing its
great bushes
otie desert of broken
e vallevs of deep green grass, g
th roses On the savage preeipices
the end one may sit in view of an exter
SiVE sweep of coast with a few hills, ai
of other rocky islands, sails, and oceai
roiling steamers, Here are many nool
and hidden corners to dreani in and make
r favorable to
love in, the soft sea air ben
that soft-hearted occupation
One cet to thie
place if duty and Irene did not call
could easily attached
else
where Those who dwell he re the year
when the
they
‘** Yes,” said
one of the cot
round find most satisfaction
summer guests have gone and are
with freaky nature
alone
the woman in charge of
lived here the year round fo
| After we g
fixed up comfortable for winter, kill a erit
}
ve pigs, and
taves ‘I’ve
sixteen vears, and [ like it
ter, has make my OWnh Sassel
ers, then there ain't any neighbors comin
]
and that’s what I like
Ih
IN AND MAKE LOVE IN
je New York Produce Exchange is
one ol the t
MOS’ CONSPICUOUS DULLGINGS
Manhattan Island, the seat of the most
, ‘ ¢
lnuential mereantiie corporation within
limits, and the market in whose ex
unees the entire national commonwealth
most deeply interested. ** Like a beet
cliff
bound
commanding the eve of the
home mariner,’ it challenges
notice of travellers approaching through
e Narrows, or crossing the Hudson from
, P . ay ]
the f Its massive campanile
Bridge
irther shore
"7 . "
ureS With the lace-like Brooklyn
ie spire of Trinity Church, the tall tower
of the Tribune, and the ambitious altitude
of the Equitable and Western Union
ictures the admiration of the stranger
] {
Comparatively few of the busy multi
ides that swarm about its base have any
now ledge of the exceeding beauty visible
The White
he Conqueror, the Colonne Napoleon. or
rom its summit. Tower of
he Monument on Bunker Hill offers no
ing equal to the urban, rural, and ma
rine scenery presented to the vision East,
J |
the view 1s com
About its
on
west, north, and south
paratively unobstructed.
i Building
Washington’s head
cluster the Field the
quarters, Castle Gar
den, the United States Sub-Treasury, As
say Office, and Custom-house, the Stock,
Cotton, Metal,
enanges, and the stately edifices 1!
Produce, and other ex
‘|
W hic
1
the marvellous operations of commerce,
nance, insurance, banking, railroading,
If Wash
York is the
cerebellum of the American body-politie.
and telegraphing are carried on.
ington be the cerebrum, New
Liber
ty enlightening the World,” the civie mu
Governor's Island, the pedestal of *°
nicipalities of Brooklyn, Hoboken, Jersey
and Long Island Cities, the distant heights
in the receding country, and the shimmer
ing waters of bay and river, mottled by
eraft of every civilization, invite delight
ed inspection,
The New York Produce Exchange stands
near the spot where the boats of the ad
Hollanders first touched
shores of Manhattan, and where the first
|
made
tne
venturous
rough ventures of commerce were
with the children of the unexplored wil
derness. The courage, perseverance, and
faith of the earliest European traders have
lost nothing in transmission to their de
scendants S Massive ind are |
structure convincingly testifies tha ,
SONS are Ol ( ( SLrPeS and aeed
superior to them so much as the th
retical and applied science of the press
transcends that of the past
7 ' Se 4 "
iment Of that vise sell-appreeia
Tuardlans of New Yor
Pie’ moh
on prope. Lo the
commercial Supremac\ [It fully provides
for present mercantile needs and for those
of the near future yvieiads revenue trom
outlay sufficient to continuously advance
the commercial interests of citv and State
and by its architectural effeets re nes and
educates the thinking toilers who manip
ulate so many of our materia exchanges
The builders have « dent learned to
look be yond themselves into the POSSID
ities of the future But little more than
half a century ago the value of American
exports aggregated Out Sé ent mn on
dollars: in 1885 it reached the sum o
$742,189,755, and in ich largea
ISS1 the m
amount of 8902,377,346. Then thirty miles
of 1m pe rfect railroad hinted at the more
than 128,500 that now compose the sin
{ and gave oce
ews of the body politic
promise of the hundreds of thousands of
Le legraph and te ephone nerves that con
nect the sensorium
cle signed to serve, it
vith every member
view of the purposes this edifice is
is architecturally unri
valled by any int
Of the modern
issorany other country
1
ana
> ]
Renaissance in styl
marked by symmetrically beauti
its general effect is imposing, and imparts
the idea of strength and permanence
The Building Committee knew what they
wanted, and were fortunate enough to find
in George B. Post, the architect, a trained
artist abundantly able to unite their ori
vinal designs With the wraces ot elecance
and uniformity. Begun on May 1, 1881,
it was finished on May 1, 1884 Fifteen
thousand and thirty-seven Ne England
pine and spruce piles, driven through the
yielding pri bed, and
cul off DeLOW the level ol ticle watt r, inl
sure the safety of the superstructure, and
by their iprigntness are supposed to har
monize with the mercantile men and mor
als they uphold The building is fire
proof throughout Granite, brick, terra
cotta, and iron are piled above the corner
word
lasting bronze the
=
stone—bearing in
19 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
kh
“Eguity,” that was laid
, with imposing ceremony
on the 6th of June, 1882
ind compose an. edifice
1) by 150 feet in super
ficial area, and, with tow
er and terrace, of 53,779
square feet One hun
dred and sixteen feet mea
sure the distance from
sidewalk to roof, 225 feet
to the coping of the tow
e) ind 306° fee to the
; top of the flag -staft Of
course we are not Sut
prised when told that the
flag, 50 1) feet, is the thy Mn, i
UAT
largest ever made The
tower clock has a face VIEW OF THE TOWER LOOKING SEAWARD.
THE NEW YORK PRODUCE EXCHANGE
lame
easuring a Toot in length, and weighs to the flour merc ~ } P . la
[500 pounds vearly rent of $10 per drawer. A pre
Entering the Exch unge from Beave1 mium of S200 was paid for the first choi
street Broadwa Live terrace or Sto one no ¢ e H One sin .
eet, the isitor finds himself in corri- table supplies the needs of dealers in lard
rs from which open the doors of private grease. tallow. and oi Booths F
tices, of the Prod ice Exchange Baa Kk. 2a Ing’ to the Western Uy ! Postal Ba
dl States post Office, the West more and Ohio, and Metropo in
legraph Company the Penn graph and telephone con Mies 3}
trhla Railroad Company, and the bus hecessary means of commu ( ( oO
Maritime Exchane Four eleva brokers and vires, rented of different
rs near the Stone Street and five near corporations. connect the telephones ¢
e Beaver Street entrance facilitate pas- private Owners with their respective of
ige to all the upper parts One of the tices Fiftv dollars per ve 7 Se the price
itter leaves lly I Aa Hall Opposite the of this privilege ‘| e melancholy ova
oOak-room, whence a sharp 1 to the ! around ( ere il dealers in
ft leads through hu
: ing brokers, and men
inching at counters, on
nvesting in fruits and
onfeetions dispensed by
i typical jarl’s daughter
into a series of offices de
voted to the uses of pre
sident, cashier, superin
tendents, and the Gratui
ty Fund
Retracing the path just
trodden, the hum of mul
! titudinous voices, broken
by explosive jets and
measureless yells of noise,
allures into the Exchange ,
Hall. Admission is con
tingent on member's tick
et orescort. Once inside,
the amplitude of space
220 «x 144 feet, with height ,
of $7 feet 6 inches to the
ceiling, and 60 feet to the
skvlght compels notice
Light and ventilation are
perfeet. Seven thousand
men would not overerowd
the 31,680 square feet of
surface. Should the fu
ture bring a larger num M
ber, provision is made for
idding SO00 square feet to
the area, and also for the erection of other petroleum used to gather has been re
accommodations on contiguous ground moved since Our Lilustratlo Ol e Main
owned by the corporation. On the right, Hall (page 197) was prepare
attached to pillars, are black boards report lables scattered over the room for the
ing the prices of refined petroleum at Lon use of commercial reporters accelerate
don, Antwerp, and Bremen; and of naval the speed with which they make known
stores, turpentine, and resin in London what prices obtain at the tables whereon
and Liverpool. Eight long tables, pro- samples of barley, wheat, oats, corn, and
vided with drawers and distinct compart- feed are placed for examination Not
92 HARPER'S
NEW
ere weve ure prices of all cereals
determined In that corner oval, consist
} ne of wooden steps, rising from inside and
/ outside one above another, and technical
; ly known as the ** Pit,” the prices of future
de eries, at t option of buyer or seller,
are decided Back of the Pit’ isthe
Call Roo hich provisions and grain
ur’ d through the medium of the pre
SIGLNo « ies William | Kichell and Ed
vard Patterson Five hundred seats, ar
ranged in amphithe itrical form, ascend in
com tric rows from the floo Each
PALS en so desired, the name of the
OW i e dollars pr rannum, plus the
pren bidden at the annual auction
sale in January, is the price of each seat
Those not sold are free to members of the
Exe noe
Emerging from the Call Room, the lit
tle crowd of daily reporters gathered in
! front of the bulletin-boards calls attention
:
MONTHLY MAGAZINE
to their
They
official cable report
contents
present thie
of the day's price
of provisions, na
val stores, grain
flour, corn, andoils
t
Al
Liverpool, and
of hops in London
the bid and asking
prices in the ad
joining Call Room
the Beerbohm ca
ble report of prices
at London and Livy
erpool of 1,900,000
quarters of wheat
and flour and 220,
000 quarters of corn
in passage to the
United Kingdom,
and of 280,000 quar
ters of wheat and
210,000 quarters of
corn in passage to
the European con
tinent; the bids at
| the
principal marts of
the United States
the movement of
wheat to the chief
ports of the coun
try,
ceipts on the cor
eall sales in
and the re
responding day of
last the re
ceipts and shipments of grain and the
year ;
stocks in store at the same points in the
the
and river ports,
and also at Atlantic ports, during the last
previous business twenty four hours;
]
receipts of grain at lake
week, previous week, and corresponding
week in
in the United
last week, and in the corresponding weeks
of 1885 and 1884; and also the grain in
sight on sea and land.
ary 16-17, 1886, the
ISS5: the visible supply of orain
States and Canada in the
Thus, on Janu
Bushels
wh t }
wheal in
the United
States and Canada was carn j 57,108,286
On passage to the United Kingdom 14,424, 000
On passage to the Continent 1,584,000
73. 116.286
The week before 73,046,176
Two weeks ago Doha: . 74,237,325
The figures representing corn are also
given, the quantities of wheat and maize
HERMAN O. ARMOUR,
" he Atlantic
}
ana
ports, and the quantities
destinations of weekly exports of
corn, wheat, and flour from the chief sea
board ports
W hile
from E
grain, flour, or provisions, may purchase
f
on the Hoor a buyer may receive
rope a ca le order fora cargo of
what is ordered, charter a vessel for ship
load
grain, or a lighter to move provisions or
flour, effect
ment, engage an elevator to the
insurance, sell exchange, ca-
ble back the fact of his purchases, and
and mail his letters.
write
Returns of exports are obtained from
he shipping offices sending out vessels,
and the da 1\ and weekly receipts of flour,
opal f ¢ |
l reea, High Wwihes, hops, Ol cake,
provisions, ete., ete., from railroad com-
panies, steam-boat and steam-ship lines,
express companies, canal lines, river boats,
The collecting employés be
A.M.,
and barges
n daly work about ¢
and report
» collector of produce receipts, who
collates their returns, and posts them on
the bulletin boards at 11.40 A.M
Ascending to the third floor, and eall-
ov at the otlice of the statisticians, so fa
mous for accurate and exhaustive reports,
the visitor passes from thence into the ele-
rantly furnished Reception Room, where
two upright
+ ;
pianos stand re ady to beguile
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
the tedium of waiting hours
and for which the ladies of the
trade lords are dutifully boun
to be truly grateful. One doo
of this spacious apartment
leads into the office of the
Complaint Committee, and
another inte the Board-Room
of the managers. Interior ar
rangements correspond With
the funetions exercised in
them. Similar provisions for
the Arbitration Committee
whose duties are of a judicial
character, furnish out thei
chamber. If wishful to sus
tain wsthetic reputation with
the scores of stalwart, vigor
efficient
whose portraits adorn the pic
Lay
by Carl]
ous, and merchants
torial representation a
ing the Corner-Stone,”
J. Becker, it is well to study it
inthe clear gas-light that floods
the
one end O1
Reception
Room. Preéminent among
many whose names are lus
the commercial an
nals of the United States are David Dows
‘the present patriarch of the grain trade
trous in
in this city,” whose ** transcendent mer
cantile genius” has made his whole life ‘*a
prolonged story of the progressive devel
Ed
ward Hincken, who “has introduced the
foreign commerce of this port into every
opment of this wonderful country”
country and almost every harbor in the
world”; Herman O, Armour, whose patro
nymie is allied to daring commercial en-
terprise; Franklin Edson, thrice president,
and ex Mayor of the city, whose high-
est honor is held to be the fixed desire *‘to
do the right as he had the ability and op
portunity to see the right”; and others,
whose energies have been reénforced by
the conviction ‘‘ that the sense of having
lived up to the standard of the Golden
Rule is better than being the objective
point of a fickle fame or of popular lauda
tion.”
The Library, looking down upon the
historic Bowling Green, and amply pro
vided with leather-covered cherry furni
ture, offers a long list of foreign and do
mestic periodicals—the Bangor Rustler of
Dakota included—to the choice of the read
er. Seven portraits of former presidents
invite criticism. The written and framed
agreement, dated July 14, 1863, of many
THE NEW YORK PRODUCE EXCHANGE.
onatory mem
ers of the Prod
ce Exchange to
h, maer Com
nd of othicers of
ih Regi
nent, forthe main
hance of law and
ropertyv, awakens
painful memories
the dark and
LOOAYV Gralt riots
ently DOSSeSS
nore interest to 7
habitués oO this iE
Om a
hnstitution + than pen
the scanty ecollee “Fi
: .
: vA
tion ol votumes w alt
ie = : bee
nidaden behind the z —
opaque glass of the ——— ‘
cases
\ large colony
of offices, in four
stories of rooms
cle voted to mer
sia J
cantile uses, rises
wove the Ex-
change Hall, surrounds
+ ;
e entire edifice, and lends
nassiveness and grace to the ex
terior Lavatories minister to th 4
comfort of the occupants Letter
openings in a conduit or ** run,” cost
Ing S1500, placed on each floor by the
managers of the Cutler Mailing Sys Coa
tem, save weary Steps to the postal
Gdepository
In the basement are the othiee S Ul
the New York Produce Exchange ESTERN UXION | ETIN-BOAI
Safe Deposit and Storage Company,
th entrance from the interior, and
also from Whitehall Street The neat and mathematical pe rfection
ind commodious Reading and Reception They have time locks set to anv number
Room, the Ladies’ Room, with parlor, of hours up to seventy, and are said to be
toilet, and coupon-cutting conveniences the largest of the kind ever made. and
ittached, Trustees’ Room, and thirty seven also the safest Each of the two outside
ipartments for sec ided handling of doe doors we ighs 7000 pounds and each of
iments, are all that could well be asked. the two inner 6000 pounds. Each outer
The doors of the money vault, which door, hung on crane hinges. is forced
contains 1300 safes, and has capacity for bodily into position by an eccentric lever
7000 or S000, are models of mechanicai and 1s thus |
made air-tight and powder
196 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
pr rT Should the combinations of the
lock be Torgotten, 1f 1S Said that the manu
facturer s mel ising all available means,
muld require mm three to four days in
lich to foree ingress Seven alternate
lavers ot stee and iron encompass the
vult, and 3500-pound barred window
evuards intercept the sunlight The elee
itch-clock, recording faithful guar
aians! », isan additional surety In other
i}
strongly constructed vaults are stored sil
ver plate, DULIKYV packages, painting's, pre
e10us merehanaise, DOOKS and records of
firms and corporations. All are under
seal, and reveal no secrets to the curious
Zer
In the Engine Room, whose presiding
eenius is an intelligent graduate of the
Cooper Institute, are an Edison dynamo
machine of 250 light capacity, hree Worth
ington engines for Operating the eleva
tors, two pumping engines for forcing
iter into tanks on roof and tower, three
pneumatic engines for despatching mes
sages from the Exchange tloor to the main
offices of telegraph companies by means
of aerial currents generated here and
driven through tubes, and a battery of
three sectional boilers of 750 horse-power,
vhich supplies motor force to the pump
ing engines, and so heats the building.
Two thousand tons of coal annually, and
66,000 pounds of water diurnally in sum
mer, but not in winter, owing to the pe
culiar method of heating, are here con
Pe timed
The Produce Exchange, costing with
land and furniture a grand total of
$3,178,645 14, is a valuable index of pro
cressive wealth and civilization. It in
cludes 12,000,000 bricks. 15 miles of iron
rders, 1} miles of columns, 2061 tons of
terra-cotta, 74 acres of flooring, more than
2000 windows, nearly 1000 doors, 74
miles
of sash cords and chains over $7 tons of
sash weights, + of an acre of skvlight
over the Exchange Room, 29 miles of
steam -pipes, nearly a mile of panelled
vainseoting, and weighs over 50,000 tons.
}
Four thousand separate drawings were
required for its construction. The nine
hydraulic elevators carry an average of
21,500 people daily, or 6,500,000 every
year The pumping capacity 1s suflicient
to supply water to a city of 175,000 inhab
itants, and 1,194,133 horse power is util
ized annually for heat and force All
these items are of less practical interest to
the members than the fact that the 190
offices rent, together with privileges, for
about S180,000 per annum, not includ
ing premiums of over $24,000 paid for
choice, and return about six per cent. on
the entire investment. With the rents
and annual dues there will be in 1886 a
net surplus above interest and expenses
of $40,000. This income will, of course,
increase as the bonded debt decreases.
When the latter is liquidated, the Ex
change will enjoy a net income of about
$200,000 a year, which may be applied
to the reduction either of dues or of gra
tuity assessments.
The history of the New York Produce
Exchange is far more interesting to many
readers than the dry details of its structure
As an organized corporation it is of yes
terday; but its beginning was in the rug
gedly picturesque traders who met for the
transaction of business at the *‘ Compa
ny’s store-houses” in the weekly Monday
markets established by the redoubtable
Governor Peter Stuyvesant in the autumn
of 1648
Rude and primitive, with sides open to
the weather, and roof covered with thatch
and Dutch tiles, was the edifiee that housed
the embryonic trade of New Amsterdam.
The insignificant Marekt-velt Stegie, on
which the splendid temple of trade now
stands, was the cradle in which the giant
American commerce was rocked.
Increasing population swept away the
old market, and the dislodged merchants
next met ‘‘ou a bridge over a small stream
at Exchange Place the Rialto of the
New World.” The Broadway Shambles,
situated on the present Bowling Green,
were used as a market from 1658 to 1707,
and again from 1720. In or about 1675
was built the Custom-house Bridge Mar
ket, almost, if not quite, on the site of
the old Produce Exchange, at the corner
of Pearl and Moore streets. Thence, in
May, 1684, the traflickers removed to the
Bowling Green. The industry and home
ly wealth. of the period were both fitly
symbolized by the figures of a beaver and
a flour-barrel engraved on the seal of the
colony, and representing the most impor
tant interests of the colonists. In 1690-91
the first Exchange in New York was erect
ed. Located on the edge of the water at
the foot of Broad Street, tt served for a
market-house as well as a business meet-
ing-place for merchants. In January,
1727, the first authorized corn exchange,
or market, was exclusively established by
(th
lt
(|| tl
-14
coaht
ae eS :
tae Brsered
No. 434
Vou. LXXIII
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HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
THE LIBRARY
corporation ordinance at the water front
foot of Wall Street, ‘‘for the sale of all
sorts of grain, corn, and meal.” In 1739
a market-house, 42 by 25 feet, arose in the
middle of Broadway, on the site of the
old wagon stand opposite Liberty Street,
and was also declared to be a grain and
meal market in November, 1741. This
hideous deformity was followed in 1754
by the New or Royal Exchange, a build-
ing raised upon arches in the middle of
the street and over the canal near the
foot of Broad Street. In this the mer
chants congregated for some years, and
thence migrated to the Merchants’ Ex-
change, now the United States Custom
house, in Wall Street.
In the fourth deeade of the present cen
tury the flour trade was chiefly conducted
at the foot of Cortlandt Street and at the
corner of Broad and South streets, where
the merchants ordinarily remained until
11 a.M. The sky was their ‘‘azure roof,”
and the street pavement in front of Weeks
and Douglas's store, No. 19 South Street,
their ‘‘ tessellated floor.” Colonel Edward
Hineken, late of the Fourth New York
Artillery, and one of the oldest veterans
of the Produce Exchange, was one of the
number. One day, in or about 1846, he
was accosted by Alfred Barrett with the
curt demand, ‘‘ Hincken, give mea dollar.’
‘What for?’ was the prompt inquiry
‘Buy an awning for the front of Weeks
and Douglas's store,” responded Barrett
The awning was bought, and under it,
shielded from sun and rain, the grain
and flour magnates met. There they
became a ‘nuisance’ to the occupants,
whose office, pens, and paper they freely
appropriated. To the credit of Willian
H. Newman be it said, this unwarrantable
intrusiveness was ended by his hiring the
store No. 19 South Street from Weeks
and Douglas. Like-minded associates sup
ported him, and subscribed fifteen dollars
each to defray the necessary expenditure.
Organization under the title of the Corn
Exchange, with Joseph Ketcham as chair
man, followed. Incorporation was re
ceived from the New York Legislature in
the spring of 1853, Nathaniel H. Wolfe
being the presiding officer. Gatherings
were informal, but grew in numbers as
provision dealers, shipping merchants,
and ship-owners joined them, until it be-
came necessary to provide larger room.
No. 19 South Street was purchased, and
the refusal of the corner and of other
property obtained. The owner of No. 17
South Street, by extravagant demands
for his property, caused the Board of
THE NEW YORK
Managers to select the corner of White
iall and Pearl streets for the location of
1 new building. On this. in 1860. the
Produce Exchange was erected. Thither
ibout seven hundred merchants removed
1 1861, leaving malcontents in the old
juarters, and assumed the title of the New
York Commercial Association, with John
Bb. Wright as the
first president.
|
ihe new organi
ation was ineor
porated by the Le
gislature in 1862.
Under the pru
dent management
ff Vice-President
James P.Wallace,
the entire cost of
the charter, in
Cl iding counsel
ees and several
journeys to Alba
ny, was only $96.
In this new strue
ture the two par
ties were reunited.
Some of the oppo
nents to removal
held ou until
only two mem
bers —of whom
Edward Hincken
was one—met in
the old Corn Ex
change when it
Was last opened.
As neither could
make money out
of the other,” the
gallant colonel
and his army
gave in their ad
hesion to the new
order, and were
gladly welcom
ed” with ‘loud
ipplause” at head
quarters,
Two bodies
vere now organized. The Produce Ex
change Building Company owned the edi
fice, charged $20 per annum to each sub
scriber of the Commercial Association, and
ald) per annum for other expenses ; but al
lowed a committee to control and pay for
news, police, ete., out of the proceeds
pocketing all remainders. In 1868 the
title of the New York Commercial Asso
PRODUCE EXCHANGE
VAULTS OF THE PRODUCE
199
ciation was altered to that of the New
York Produce Exchange by action of the
Legislature.
pe j , :
rhe arrangement between the two com
panies SO decided] y objectionable to the
tenants—under which business was ear
ried on came to an end in 1872. bv the
purchase of the building for the sum of
2
|" al aed |
4 >
EXCHANGE SAFE DEPOSIT AND STORAGE COMPANY
$265,000, which was raised by an assess
ment of $200 on each member of the Ex
change
Rapid growth required larger accom
modations, and in 1880 the. present site
was bought. The three years interven-
ing between conception of the new edi
fice and laying its foundation-stone on
the 6th of June, 1882, were crowded with
200 HARPER'S
FORREST H. PARKER
anxieties and untiring labors. The name
of Forrest H
officiated on
Parker, the president, who
the
latter occasion, together
with those of Franklin Edson, chairman,
and Alexander E. Orr, secretary of the
Building Committee, and of their col
leagues, will always be significant of the
and millioned
teeth of
ouragements
prescience, Taith, energy,
liberality Vhich, in the mul
. 1
tudinous dise and
trials,
magnihecent an
wrought ou SO
enter
the 6th of May,
the new quarters was
ISS4, possession of
taken Before
quitting the old. Mr. James MeGee deliv-
address to the
ere | a valedictory
men
Assembled in the main hall of the new
Exchange, the members listened to speech
Ras &
The latter insisted that the ele
by Mayor Edson and
Herrick
ments of all
President
progress are physical, intel
lectual, moral—and preéminently moral
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
‘Three
men with one pur
thousand
pose, built into a liy
Ing temple, w hose
corner-stone 1s in
tegrity and equity
are here gathered
to-day toinaugurate
this
our visible temple of
and dedicate
commerce.” Brave
words, cood words
these be, and should
guide judgment on
vhat
after.
here
They accord
comes
with those in which
the charter express
es the
the
ViZ.,
purpose of
corporation,
“To inculeate
just and equitable
principles in trade;
to establish and
maintain uniform
ity in commercial
usages; to acquire
and
valuable
informa
preserve, dis
seminate
business
tion; to adjust con
troversies and mis
understandings be
tween persons en
vaged in business;
and to make pro
vision for the widows and children of
deceased members.”
The membership of the New York Pro
duce Exchange is limited to three thou
sand. To these large proportions it has
grown within the memory of living and
still active merchants The lively crowd
whieh congregated under the awning of
Weeks and Douglas’s store had increased
to about 1000 in 1860, when they frequent
ed the dark, dingy,
Exchange.
Commercial
and badly ventilated
In 1863 the New York
1238
Corn
Association boasted
members, each of whom annually paid
$20 as dues. In 1870 the members of the
Produce Exchange had risen to 2023, and
the dues to $25. In 1872 the initiation
fee rose to $300, in 1873 to $500, in 1880 to
$1000, and in 1882 to $2500. Since then
certificates of membership have been sold
at $4800, and are now in active demand
at $2750.
2469; in
In 1873 the members numbered
1880, 2700; and in 1882, 3000.
sand
pul
aliy
}
1OS¢
Oras
ould
it on
her
cord
hich
ress
e ol
tion,
,
icate
table
‘ade
and
Orit
reial
Lbire
dis
able
Pa
Col
Mis
; de
THE NEW YORK
PRODUCE EXCHANGE 201
What they will number in future is difli- portation, finance are more frequet
ult of conjecture A are, of necess keen po ns
Most of the Produce Exchange traders and could Supply a respectable Congress
ire of American birth The vouth of the on the shortest notice Good- humor, ¢o.
ind, and especially of New Eneland lake diality, and even courtilness are wel
very kindly to commercial pursuits. But ic characteristics. He { there may
DAVID
there are many names on the roll which
denote Celtic, Seandinavian,
French, Spanish, and Slavie parentage
German,
In personnel the corporation Is cosmopoli
tan as its commerce. All grades of in-
tellectual culture are represented in it
Men infre
juent.
character, whose mental powers have been
of college breeding are not
Men of bold, pushing, aggressive
mainly employed on the facts and theories
of statistics, demand and supply, trans-
DOWS
be one of whom the French savant’s re
port on the eustoms and manners of the
South sea Islands rs (‘ustoms bad:
manners none is true: but of the over
whelming majority it may justly be said
that they
ments in our national life In the noisy
‘all Room and Grain Pit the
are exponents of the best ele
activities of ¢
effervescent energies of younger members
Older partici-
conflict in the
are amusingly apparent.
hard
pants, sobered by
EDWARD HINCKEN
changeful years, look on with complacent,
Boister
ous play is never carried to the extreme of
insult and outrage. At the Christmas fes
livities tooting performers on tin horns,
half-contemptuous indifference.
mock traders in options, mock glove-fights
with wondrously
tical
against
attentive seconds, prac
animosities
terpsi
enoreans whose physical force explodes
with violent
jokers
straw hats, and sundry
through flying feet, manifest their share
in the general joy
Nicknames, mock hats,
}
Calls,
waving
shouts, and eatealls are coneomitants of
of seats in the
the
W heat Pit is occasionally inspired by wild
the annual sale of choice
Call Room The surging crowd in
desire to emulate the sports of Crow In
dians, when fair feminine faces beam upon
them from the gallery. The added pre
sence of a cockney, ** just come hover, ye
know,” lighted pipe in mouth, and quiz
]
zing-glass screwed into one eye, evokes
stentorian shout in chorus: ‘* Put—out
that—pipe!’ A second shout shoots the
pipe, with strutting stranger behind it,
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
out through the door
His back vanishes to
tremendous
non-symphony: ** Put
out that pipe !
followed by applau
another
sive lauchter from the
gallery.
As now constituted,
the property affairs
to an amount not ex
million
business,and
ceeding five
dollars
concerns of the corpo
ration are controlled
by a president, vice
president, treasurer,
and twelve managers,
who together consti
tute the Board of Man
All
tlemen of high com
mercial character and
standing. Vacancies
are filled by the board,
of whom the majori
avers. are gen
ty constitutes a quo
rum. Charles M.Vail,
president, 1885-6, is a
member of the firm of
John S. Martin and
Co., butter and cheese
merchants. Kix offi
cio, and with the approval of the board,
he appoints a standing committee for
each of the trades, to which all disputes
arising in it may be referred for arbitra
tion, at a cost of from $15 to $25 to the
Parties at variance
their differences by pri
The president is a
member of all committees excepting that
on arbitration, presides at meetings of
the Exchange and of the Board of Man
agers, and annually, or
deems
losing party.
however, settle
vate
may,
arbitration.
oftener, as he
proper, either
such matters and suggestions as will, in
communicates to
his opinion, conduce to its usefulness and
prosperity. James McGee, vice-president,
is at the head of the Devoe Oil Company ;
Richard O. Veit, identified with the Stand
ard Oil Company, is secretary; and John
P. Townsend, of the W. J. Wilcox Com-
pany, oil refiners, treasurer. Neglect of
duty vacates office.
The expenses of the Exchange are de-
frayed by means of an assessment of not
less than $10, nor more than $30, on each
certificate of membership. Non-payment
wo
i of
nid
ese
lat
of
1ot
ch
nt
as s
attendants.
THE NEW YORK PRODUCE EXCHANGE 203
s punished by suspension from all privi
res which are only restored when the
iInquent foots the bill
Under the direction of the Board of
anagers eighty four emploves diligent
il fil specific tasks, graduated in im
ortanee from those of Superintendent
the building and bulletins, nominates his
assistants, organizes their service, and is
an administrative Briareus
Anv respectable applicant for member
Ship, duly proposed and seconded. may be
admitted if approved by the Committee
on Admissions, and elected by the Board
William E.
Fletcher. down to those of
assistant porters, coal-passers, and closet
During the fiscal year end
ing May 16, 1885, $58,322 65 was paid for
salaries, and $1330 87 for uniforms. The
superintendent, aided by an assistant, L.
b. Howe, records the proceedings of all
meetings of the Exchange, managers, and
committees; collects all moneys due to the
corporation ; receives, deposits either in
the Corn Exchange, Central Trust Com
pany, Fourth National, Hanover National,
Mereantile National, New York Produce
Exchange, or Seaboard Bank—and pays
over margins on contracts; has charge of
of Managers Prior to this he must pre
sent a prope rly assigned certificate of mem
bership, and a written application Stating
the nature of his business and such other
facts as may be required, and must also
sign an agreement to abide by the organie
and statutory laws of the Exchange. Cer
tificates of livine membe rship are trans
ferable only to elected persons, on pay
ment of a fee of $5, and of any unpaid as
sessments The certificate of a deceased
member is transferable by his legal rep
resentatives. Nine applicants were re
jected for satisfactory reasons in the year
ending June 1, 1885
HARPER’S NEW
WILLIAM E, FLETCHER, SUPERINTENDENT
An
of five members, not managers, elected by
ballot of the
ness ih duty
Arbitration Committee, consisting
board, and sworn to faithful-
, hear and decide disputes be
tween parties who have voluntarily bound
themselves to the decision.
Any controversy which might be the sub-
ject of an
acqg ulesce in
action at law or in equity, ex-
cepting claims to real estate, is within the
jurisdiction of this committee. Judgments
of Supreme Court of the City
New
a yards made.
the and
upon
Attendance of witnesses
County of
the
York are rendered
is compulsory. Appeal is not permissible
unless fraud, collusion, or corruption be
alleged against some portion of the arbi-
trators. The costs of these pre ceedings
$5 per member for each sittinge—are cer
tainly moderate. Alexander E. Orr is
Hundreds of
very important cases have been adjudi-
eated
chairman of the committee.
Within the past few years it is
said that not a single business difference
has
courts for settlement.
between soucht law
members our
The Complaint Committee is a mercan-
tile grand-jury, which hears accusations
against members, endeavors to conciliate
disputants, or to induce them to arbitrate
Failing in both, the controversy is referred
MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
to the Board of Managers, whos«
action is final. They may censure
suspend, or expel the accused. — If
the accused be the seape-goat of
impenitent, guilty principals out
side the Exchange, they are boycot
ted, but he is excused.
Duly notified failures are posted
in the Exchange, and all contracts
of the failers, so far as may be, are
closed by purchase or sale at pub
lic call, or by the Finance Commit
tee. ‘survival of the
fittest” applies w ith merciless rigor
The law of
The Finance Committee audits all
bills and claims against the Ex
change, also the treasurer’s ae
counts, and directs all authorized
disbursements. The Floor Com
mittee supervises the rooms used
in ‘Change hours, and preserves
with the
president, treasurer, and trustees of
the Gratuity Fund, they compose
the Committee on Admissions. A
House Committee has general su
pervision of the employes. That
on Information and Statistics sup
plies all news affecting the value
of articles dealt in by the members of the
Exchange, and records all the useful facts
of movements, prices, and transportation
of products.
seemly order. Together
To the Law Committee is
confided all required legislation, the nom
ination of legal counsel, and proposed
amendments to the charter or the by-laws
The duties of the Committee on Rooms
and Fixtures are explained by its title.
The Committee on Trade is charged with
the formulation of useful regulations.
Such an organization is entitled to pro
found respect as the best creation of com
mercial genius, instrueted and fructified
by the experience of centuries.
Under the charter and statutes of the
New York Produce Exchange, a vast and
various commerce, in whose materials and
methods all modern civilization is inter
is conducted. The rooms of the
building are opened for business at 9 A.M.
and closed at 4 P.M.—on Saturdays at 3.30
P.M. The tops of grain and provision ta-
bles freely welcome the first comers, each
of whom may occupy the space over a
single sample drawer for his own use.
Loud and boisterous conversation, throw
ing of dough, corn, or other articles, is for-
bidden, and subjects the offender to dis-
cipline, and on very rare occasions to an
ested,
THE NEW YORK
nminent charge of bayonets. Smoking
fore 2.15 P.M. costs fifty cents for each
itfence, and swells the treasury of the Com
nittee on Charities. Substitutes for sick
r absent members, who are responsible
wr their doings, may be admitted to the
oor on thirty days renewable passes
Failure to fulfil contracts excludes both
the ‘* posted” principal and his substitute
Daily sessions, announced and ended by
he deafening clangor of a soulless bell,
PRODUCE EXCHANGE
Svat
ZU9
Exchange charges itself.
point on the A
Seated at the
tlantic coast where all lines
of travel and tratlic converge, whither ce
reals from the boundless prairies and pas
toral products from the Pacifie coast
are
forwarded by Western merchants and
packers to New York dealers and com
mission firms for distribution among the
manufacturing millions of Europe and the
several commonwealths of the American
continent and archipe lagwoes, it presents as
THI
of the grain, lard, and provision trades
are held from 10.30 A.M. to 2.15 P.M.
from 3 to 3.30 P.M.
, and
All contracts are le
They must express the
facts of transactions, and if they do not,
Washed
or fictitious sales, or false reports of sales,
cally enforceable.
expose the parties to penalty.
ire also penal offences.
What shall what shall we
drink, and wherewithal shall we be light
ed? are the three questions with whose
pleasant solution the New York Produce
we eat,
various aspects as its busy traffic. This
last changes characteristics with the eur
rent years. Inbound freight trains, bear
ing lowing cattle, bleating sheep, and dis
gruntled hogs, do not disquiet Bergh phi
Abat
toirs in Chicago, Kansas City, Cedar Rap
lanthropists as in former years
ids, and other cities silence the voeal com
plaints of the unwilling transports;
ing-|
pack
iouses transfer their edible remains to
boxes, barrels, and refrigerating cars for
safe transit to the regions whence they
206
pass into human consumption. Trans
portation of live stock, intended for export
or domestic use, has not ceased, but IS of
smaller dimensions Changes in the
provision trade are not less noteworthy.
Twenty five years ago the multitude of
drays engaged in drawing barrels and
tierces from railroad termini to civie ware
houses, where they were inspected and re
coopered, and thence to the docks of steam
ers and sailing vessels, excited passing won
Now they
railroad
are shipped at once from
the
aer
Live
sidings to holds of sea
going vessels, and sent on to foreign buy-
ers or consignees. But enough of demand
for domestic supply and export remains to
vorous trade at the Produce
Southern are
fied directly from the West: those of the
West Indies by New York jobbers
Merchants either purchase in the West,
sustain a Vi
Exchange Inarkets satis
or send from their own packing-houses in
that region, or receive consignments, on
which they make advances often equal to
three-fourths the market value of the pro
In the first
and third cases, bills of lading accompa
pur-
visions here offered for sal
nied by sight drafts are mailed to
r hasers or consignees W hile the voods are
Before the of the
latter, parties in interest not unfrequently
on the way. arrival
attempt to guard against loss from fluctu-
ation of prices by selling short in the Chi
a process perfectly intelligi-
on the turf. In New
York, consignments or purchases of pro
cago market
ble to the ** hedger”
visions pass into the custody of licensed
ind responsible paid inspectors and ware
housemen, of whom there are seven; and
by whom the condition, quality, stand
ditferent
declared to
and weight of the lots are
ird
insuf
the
receipt must
duly certified, or be
ficient to fulfil the requirements of
contract Ke Warehouse
ich
be for 250 barrels, containing an average
of 200 pounds per barrel, unless otherwise
stipulated
All sales contemplate mer
chantable meats If 10 per cent of a lot
of dry salted meat,
or 20 per cent of other
meats, be defective, they are excluded from
this category Packer's name and loea
‘
tion, number of pieces, and weight, to
eether with the inspector's brand, must
be marked on each package Sales, in
agreed lots of any size, if for export or do
the
Exchange floor, and deliveries from ware-
mestic consumption, are made upon
house or from the dock, as the goods ar
rive
Speculative sales are in lots of 250
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
barrels, or their multiples. Less business
than formerly is now done in options, but
the jobbing trade retains its old propor
tions. Official but not private sales are
recorded Receipts of provisions at Ne
York in 1880 and 1885 were as follows
1880.
Baas cass stk 24,478 tierces
Beef 25,067 barrels
Bee 715.939 eases
Bee Hams 18,663 tierces and barrels
Pork . 186,419 barrels.
Cut Meats : 12.5388 tierces.
Boxed Mea 1000851 boxes,
Hams 54,954 tierces and barrels
Tongues 11,138 tierces and barrels
Beef tierces
Beef barrels
Beet im j cases,
Beef Hames >) tierces and barrels
Pork. barrels,
Hams mA ear boxes.
ZODMUCR... .ds% 7 tierces and barrels,
Lard, ‘* made from hog round, say head,
gut, leaf, and trimmings,” is mainly in
demand by lard-refiners and oil-pressers,
and passes through the hands of five in
spectors and weighers of lard and pro
visions for delivery on sale or contract
The better grades are ordinarily sold from
the packer’s brands upon the tierces, and
but seldom from samples. The receipts
at New York during the years 1880 and
1885 were as follows:
Tierces and Barrels Kegs Cases
In 1880... .7338,119 171,348 25,449
In 1885... .3938,040 163,288 55.906
New York and Chicago are the prin
cipal markets for farm and pastoral pro
ducts in the United States. It is difficult
to determine which of the two exerts the
greater influence upon the values of these
Formerly, under the press
ure of pecuniary necessity, Chicago bent
her head
York’s commercial dogmatism.
commodities.
n respectful obedience to New
Now that
she is financially independent she insists
on leading where she was wont to follow
New York
ship, listens with a spirit of maternal pride
to her daughter's assumptions, and braces
With a
population that has grown from seventy
in 1830 to seven hundred thousand in 1886 ;
gracefully declines the leader
herself to maintain supremacy.
with nearly twenty-three million bushels
of inspected grain in her mighty elevators
atone time; with an average of over 22,000
head of live stock arriving within her pre-
THE NEW YORK PROI
nets on every day of the vear; slaugh- of
ring 1,188,154 eattle in 1884, and packing th
222,780 hogs in 1883; studying in minu-_ bi:
st detail the wants and tastes of foreign ca
vers, and receiving direct orders from as
em—Chicago is a friendly rival that it th
mpossible to despise She neglects no Y
ientifie means for facilitating business, al
a
O07
IUCE EXCHANGE
‘hicago are represented on the floor of
New York N
k-board in the elewant hall of the Chi
e Produce Exchange Oo
ic e
xe) Board of Trade is so eager] watched
that live ites
p New York
OVrk reports only on the material o
Whatever of grain or provisions
rect
New
et
which, every min rr
e rices current 1th
f actu
trade
ALEXANDER
saving labor, multiplying transactions,
bringing the markets of the world
Of
and
t
{
o her doors. his intense vitality,
ilertness, and sagacity, the splendid edi
of the Board of Trade (the interior of
which is represented in our illustration on
942)
design, material,
lice
impressive embodiment
to
page is an
In and adaptation
mereantile requirements, it meets every
vant, and is the pride of Chicago, and in
deed of the whole Northwest.
The commercial interests of these two
great marts are so identified that the one
All
the prominent grain and provision firms
is absolutely necessary to the other.
I
ORR
Chie to various des
tinations is reckoned ame
Allis fish that comes
r¢
passes through a
nie her rece ipts
and shipments to
her net,” even though many pass through
Th
does not convey an
The f
exhibits the amount of receipts
at
flour, wheat,
is usage swells the totals
ite
ollowing table of
the meshes
of both
but aceure
idea of her trade.
statistics
and shipments Chicago, in 1880 and
1885, of corn, oats, rye, bar
ley, beef, pork, other cured meats, lard
butter, seeds. live hogs, eattle. and sheep
Depart:
ibvt
vy the se
HARPER'S NEW
f domestic cereal produce
t
the years 1880 and 1885
1
i
n these
immense quantities of
cereals dDeGLINsS
th purchase from the pro-
duce rs, and continues in sale or consien
ment by pureh users Lo New York dealers
On arrival at the city they are sampled
by means of a hollow iron sampling-rod,
whose valve opens to admit the grain as
MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
the rod is thrust into the hatches of a ves
sel, or the interior of a car, and closes so
as to retain the sample when it is drawn
out. This process, repeated several times
different
parts of a car or boat load, secures reliable
by responsible inspectors, in
samples, which are placed in boxes on the
Cards aflixed state the
name of the seller and the quality of th
facilitate
Exchange tables.
cereal, and business with the
miller or exporter who wishes to buy.
The the
tratiic at New York and its corresponding
relative declension of cereal
growth at other ports between the years
1866 and 1875 necessitated changes in the
methods of business at this point. Vessels
with incoming cargoes naturally sought
ports where outgoing cargoes could best
be obtained, and found
New York had l
no elevators; manual la
bor handled the grain; and each consign
them elsewhere.
ment was kept separate on canal-boats and
barges, which were-towed trom one place
the harbor until all were
Waste, delay, disputes be
to another in
discharged.
tween merchants and railroad companies
and between buyers and sellers, followed
by loss of trade, were the inevitable result.
New York was the last important mart
under the lead of Franklin Edson and
others—to adopt, and that in the face of
it
iil
FRANKLIN EDSON
ierce opposition, the Western system of
grading grain. This enables the Western
buyer who has accumulated as much wheat
in his warehouses as he wishes to carry,
and who knows daily and almost hourly
New York, to tele
graph to any broker, and through him to
sell for future delivery the amount and
grade of wheat he hand.
He then ships it so that it may arrive in
time to fulfil his contract
the market prices in
may have on
Certainty and
precision are thus given to his business
movements He is relieved from the com
pulsory speculation attendant upon con-
signments of whose sale, price, and deliv
ery he is perforce ignorant. The present
terminal facilities for handling grain are
that they have restored to
New York, probably for all time, the con
trol of the the Atlantic
True, option dealing and some
so complete
grain trade on
seaboard. ;
objectionable practices have come in with
the new system, but that is only in har
mony with the universal fact that every
solid good is abused by unwise and greedy
men
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
The grain trade
pro
ceeds under the supervis
ion of a committee of five
—an inspector-in-chief, a
registrar, and a commit
tee of three on the deliy
ery of warehoused grain
The Committee on Grain,
of which at
this writing
the time of
Mr. C. R
Hickox is chairman, an-
nually establishes the sey
eral grades, supervises the
inspector-in-chief and his
assistants, and fixes the
fees which (below $20,000)
constitute the Grain In
spection Fund, out of
which salaries, audited
expenses, and claims for
Of
the grades of grain estab
lished in 1884, ten were
of white, amber, and red
winter wheat, eight of
spring, and one of State
wheat.
brightness,
damages are paid.
More or less of
soundness,
dryness, plumpness, and
cleanness determines the
grade. The word ‘‘ Steam
er” pretixed to ‘‘ grade”
denotes slight softness or
dampness. Corn has eleven grades, oats
eight, rye three, barley sixteen, pease three.
Heated or unmerchantable grain is not
graded at all. Standard samples of all
grades of grain are kept at the Produce
Exchange. The duties of the chief in
spector and his deputies are to inspect,
grade, and ascertain the weights of all
parcels going into store as graded grain
(at the owner's risk), and for which trans
ferable warehouse receipts are given; also
to inspect and ascertain the weights of all
deliveries from warehouse or from rail
A daily copy of his record is
furnished to the registrar, and returns in
duplicate to warehousemen and railroad
companies of all receipts and deliveries of
eraded grain.
road depot.
Of these warehouses, conveniently ap
proachable by ocean vessels, having cus
tomary shipping facilities, including sev
and proper cleaning ap
paratus, the collective capacity is 14,110,000
bushels.
enteen elevators
The rates of storage, including
+ cent per bushel for 10
weighing, are 4
| cent per bushel for each suc-
days, and 4
THE NEW YORK PRODUCE EXCHANGE
eeding 10 days. Elevation from canal
oats costs 4 cent, screening and blowing
cent, mixing on delivery ¢ per cent., per
ishel. Consignors may have their grain
pt separate if so desired, but the prac
ce is to mix parcels of grain of the same
rrade together, without regard to owner
\ip Warehcused grain heated, but not
rough fault of warehouseman, is posted
on the bulletin-board of the Exchange,
ind made deliverable to depositors of long
‘st date, the logical presumption being
In the year end
less than 586,699
iat it belongs to them.
ie June 30, 1885, no
yuuishels were posted
is being out of con
aqaition.,
The registrar keeps
In exact account
vith each warehouse
firm, and every Mon
day morning reports
to the superintend
ent how many bush
s of each grade of
remained in
the previ
ous Saturday even
orain
store on
ne. Inease of dam
age by fire, provision
is made for the can
cellation of ware
af
fected, and the issue
ol
Ing
house receipts
new ones cover
amount of
grain injured. The
of railroad
vuaranteed certifi
the
tender
cates, railroad ele-
vator receipts, or reg
ular warehouse
ceipts of the grade
re-
sold constitutes a de-
livery of the grain,
buyers C.R
the
of
Each delivery from store must
he of 5000 bushels or more of oats or bar
8000 of wheat
corn, of 5000 bushels on boat or barge,
as between
and sellers, in
regular course
business.
ley, bushels or more or
and from cars of 500 bushels per car of
all grain except oats, which must be of
900 bushels. Inspected and certified grain
afloat in the port may also be delivered
under the the in-
spector. Demurrage at specified rates is
charged to parties who fail to take pos
superintendence of
HICKOX, CHAIRMAN OF
211
session
of property within
Graded
defined peri
ods. grain sold on time con
tracts is transferred by order drawn
himself by
Ol
the seller, who must issue a
specific order for the delivery of the
quantity named to the last receiver at the
maturity of the contract. Grain bought
at buyer’s option is deliverable on the
called for, and cer
Minor
notice, guard
day or day after it is
tainly at of
rules, too voluminous
maturity contract.
for
the rights of all participants in the grain
trade
Grain and feed delivered from railroad
GRAIN COMMITTEE
tracks are under the supervision of the
Produce Exchange
and measurers of
weighers
feed
These furnish consignees with samples,
weigh and
returns in duplicate to owners (whose en
board of
track grain and
measure the materials, issue
dorsement is needful to pass title to buy
ers), and also a triplicate return to the
railroad company delivering the property,
for the adjustment of freight and charges.
An original margin of ten cents per
THE NEW YORK PRODUCE EXCHANGE.
bushel on wheat, rye, and barley, and of
five cents on corn and oats, may be called
on all sales or purchases of grain on the
spot, to arrive, or for future delivery, upon
deposit of an equal amount by the ealler
On all contracts for future delivery a fur
ther margin may be ealled to the extent
of anv variation of the market value from
the contract price. Calls may also be
m ide of one cent per bushel above or be
low current quotation, when no original
margin is deposited
The Call
pressive spectacle of the traffic in grain.
The first made at 11.45 A.M.,
second at 1 In January, 1886, the
Room daily presents an 1m-
eall is the
30 P.M
successive calls are for oats deliverable 1
quantities of
thereof, in March, April, or May
No. 2 red
deliverable in lots of SOOO bushels.
multiples
No. 2
5000 bushels, or
of
corn, steamer corn, or winter
vVheat,
or multiples, for cash, or in February,
March, April, May, or June, at the option
De
Ist
of the month, but may be on any subse-
day About
William L. Eichell, caller of grain,
In
out at
of the seller. unless otherwise stated
liveries are ordinarily made on the
quent 350 brokers are pre
sent.
presides rapid, monotonous voice,
the close of each
he ‘*No. 2 oats,
What are they offered at ?”’
loud, explosive tones, replies,
At Z "ACs
‘What is bid ?
take ‘em,” shrieks an
‘Sold
drawn sentence,
announces : January.
A seller, in
‘ 2
\t 343
jerkily
per bushel), or,
echoes the caller.
t. +, ‘Tl
excited individual.
Smith at Another
3.4.3,” bid.
‘Sold by Thomson to Johnson at
‘What is of
i’? an-
[f so,
°° At
s bid,
bid
by Jones to
lot is offered ** at
33 y. ‘*Sold.”’ growls the
seller.
3. No breath is wasted.
fered ?” (oats). si
‘* At?” queries the caller.
*S Aut.”
any part of 5, 10, 50, 100 loads,” 1s an-
other offer. This holds till all are taken.
Any part sold at a different rate vacates
The first
offer to buy or sell at a price is accepted
‘35, says one;
otmer.
replies, if not so. ‘*‘ Give.”
all previous bids and offers.
before subsequent offers at the same fig-
If doubt arise as to
whether the caller has awarded the pur-
chase to the proper bidder, appeal is made
ures may be placed.
from his decision. ‘* Sustained or not!”
is, in substance, his pithy submission to
the members present. ‘‘ Aye” sustains,
Which is in the major
ity he decides, and in case of doubt, like
& wise man, gives himself the benefit of
Vou. LXXIII 15
‘*Nay” does not.
No. 434
it. The eall lasts ten or fifteen minutes,
and occasionally has the accompaniment
of eallithumpian diseord, blended with the
fiendish sereeches of a dozen frenzied lo
All
not improperly such, to be sett
comotives speculative transactions
are led by
the payment of differences. Kor exam
ple,a buyer may have an order from Liv
erpool for the delivery of a certain quan
or six months
the C
tity of grain in th
He buys what he w
ree time.
ants in all Room
Then, chartering ship or steamer, he pre
sents his claim at maturity to the seller,
and demands the warehouse or other re-
ceipt, specifying the place where the prop
be The
grain was on May 14, 1879
were cal
}
erty will delivered first call in
steamer and
ed: wheat and
In this fever
No. 2 corn only
oats were added afterwar
ish spot the ‘‘ young Napoleon of finance,”
Ferdinand Ward
reer.
began his meteoric ca-
Speculative sales of lard In lots of 250
multiples
tie rees of 320 pounds each. or
thereof, are also made in the Call Room
at 11 A.M. and 2 P.M
sions and margin clerk presiding.
the caller of provi
Pro
visions are not now ealled The original
margin of $2 per tierce of lard is seldom
called where parties are of known finan
cial solvency, but margins corresponding
with the fluctuations of the market may
held
contracts
be required. Deliveries are not to
be necessary, and speculative
are usually settled by the payment of dif
ferences. The sales on call for the vear
ending June 30, 1885. were of 60.384.000
of of
of tierces of
lard; in the previous year 53,480,000 bush
of wheat, 31,304,000 eorn,
oats, and 295,750 tierces of lard. No pork
ISS4 or Margins to
the amount of $24,398,215 were deposited
in the fiscal year 1885.
597.000
wheat, 32 eorn,
130, 250
bushels
5.360.000 oats, and
els 13. 875.000
was called in 1885
‘*Wheat Pit”
quite as magnetic and quite as electric as
the Call The “Pa we
Option sales in the are
Room
the sealper’s delight He
that the market is going up, buys a
those in
has
boat
load, or any quantity of grain that may
be offered, sells it at & cent
per bushel, thus sealps the market, and is
an advance of
prouder of the exploit than a Comanche
after successful pursuit of hair
*Pit” at 10.30
Buyers and sellers are indiserimi-
Jusiness begins the
A.M.
nately blended in the compact, throbbing,
surging mass. All offers and bids are on
in
214
W inter wheat
]
“TH give 43
for May vheat,”’ is
a unit basis of 8000 bushels
is the only grain in mind
v4
the
pbUuUSHel
eents pe l
bid Of a nervous
active broker, em
phasized hand and moving
5, 1s the quick re-
vhbor. “Tll give es
’ lis the only obsta
ie to a bargain Long and furiously,
or short and sharply, the conflict rages
round that 4 The tue of war on the
]
the seller is to pull the buyer up 4,
part of
und on the part of the buyer to pull the
1. The
exciting as aught in
seller down contest is quite as
the intercollegiate
sut seldom is the battle drawn.
games
Victory, hesitant in the vocal hurricane,
decides for one of two parties. Bids and
offers are usually regulated by telegrams
‘hicago The difference in prices
from (
peLw two marts should be the cost
the latter to New
Manipulation or, in other words,
een the
f
ot transmission
York.
gambling, at either point, defies all criteria
of value. A
raise wheat there above the normal price
it New York: or a broken corner in New
York may depress wheat below the health-
from
‘corner’ in Chicago may
ful standard at Chicago.
Corners in commercial staples may be
evil, according to circum-
Those of accidental
either rood or
stances, character
may come from the unforeseen failure of
to New
delivery. Such an
York in time for
event temporarily
throws the command of prices into the
foods
arrive at
. } } ) 1
hands of dealers who have an ample stock
on hand. Corners, protective in design,
may be made by persons or cliques who
acce pt the offers made by gambling spec-
uiators on the market. These sell for fu-
ture delivery what they do not own, in
order to depress prices below what they
sell at, and to make profit by the transac-
tion. The protective corner arrests these
mulets them
Caught in their own
traps, the bears how] horribly against the
‘commercial pirates,” and
heavily for release.
** Serve
An
accidental or protective corner may de-
but this last
is usually a conspiracy from the outset,
wickedness of corners in general.
‘em right,” is the only just remark.
velop into an aggressive one;
born of cunning and overreaching, repul-
sive to honesty, denounced by all honor-
able merchants, and very injurious to
commerce,
The facility with which sales and pur-
chases for future delivery are made has
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
the
merchants
volume of
avail them
selves of it to provide for the prospectiv
needs of different markets. It
the farmer a ready home market for his
enormously augmented
trade. Foreign
Fives to
products at their full value, and affords
to traders the opportunity of selling at a
reasonable profit and at a moment's no
tice, and to deliver at option within speci
The exports
of grain and grain products from the Unit
ed States in the fiscal year 1885 were val
fied times, as may be agreed.
ued at $160,370,821. Seventy-five per cent.,
or more, of the whole was probably sold
ten or twenty times over before it was
finally shipped.
charter of ships, bills of exchange for pay
ment, sale of latter—all contemplated ** fu-
ture” delivery. Similar remarks are true
Sales and purchases,
of oil, tobacco, cotton, and other commer-
cial staples. The system is a device of
necessity, the judicious adaptation of pro-
spective supply to probable demand, the
work of foreseeing prudence. It may be,
and is, abused by gambling speculators,
or prostituted to assist aggressive corner
conspirators, and in all such instances is
shamefully demoralizing.
Settlements without actual delivery are
not always obnoxious to strict probity.
When honestly effected, as in the Bank
Clearing-House, they are wholly concord
ant with it. Besides, they save much
needless trouble and expense.
The Committee on Flour appoints a
chief inspector and his assistants, keeps
for reference a standard sample of each of
the various grades of flour and meal, fur-
nishes duplicate samples to the inspector,
and causes flour and meal to be classified
Extra No. 1,
Extra No. 2, Superfine, and Fine are the
established grades of wheat; Superfine and
Fine, of rye flour. The committee
guards the sacredness of flour or inspection
brands, provides for the inspection of bar-
rels and bags, and designates the manner
in which charges for service shall be col-
lected. These charges, to an amount not
exceeding $20,000, constitute ‘‘the flour-
inspection fund,” in custody of the trea-
surer, out of which salaries and expenses
are paid.
Agents of metropolitan merchants buy
of Western millers, or solicit consign-
The
West India, province, and general export
demand is met through samples drawn
by the inspector. Elasticity, color, dry-
according to these standards.
also
ments, on which advances are made.
THE NEW YORK PRODUCE EXCHANGE.
ness, and body in the dough are tests of
Much depends on the skill of
in dressing and cleaning the
quality
the miller
vheat
tion of the flour expert will soon detect
The neat, cleanly . deft manipula
the quality of the work. Putting some
of the flour on the palm of his hand, he
the
smoother, that he may examine the color,
If the first and
second be satisfactory, and the third sharp,
upplies magnifying - glass, or the
purity, and granulation.
there will be life in the sponge and dough.
This is proven by pouring water from a
handy little teapot upon the flour, mix-
it, pulling it, breaking it. If
and
adapted for crackers and pastry.
are mixed for ordinary bread, and for spe-
the
best
Ing
dough be short inelastic, it is
Flours
cial purposes of the bakers.
Receipts in New Y
Flour... .-. + 6,422,252 barrels
Corn Meal 261,52:
Oatmeal
barrels and sa¢ ks
packages,
Buc cwhea
Sachs
Exports f
Flow .
Corn Meal
Oatmeal aes
Rve Flour...
Exports from New Yorl
Corn Meal
Oatmeal ..
Rve Flour barrels.
The Committee on Distilled Spirits li-
censes SIX inspectors and gaugers, who
must their of
‘just proof,” ‘‘above proof,” or ** below
make returns ‘* proof,”
proof,” in accordance with the straight
fraugce rod, wantage rod, the hydrometer
used by the government in the ascertain-
ment of the tax on distilled spirits, or the
Gendar hydrometer conforming in all re-
Of
whiskey 57,325, of high wines 58,247, and
spects to the government standard.
of aleohol 220,977 barrels were received at
New York in 1880. In 1885, of whiskey
134,318, of high wines 74,304, and of aleo-
hol 68,257 barrels arrived.
The Committee on Naval Stores licenses
inspectors in New York
decides prices as a basis
and other cities,
for business set-
tlements, and holds a standard sample of
spirits of turpentine with which all sold in
shipping order must agree. Settlements
215
of contracts are on the basis of 310 pounds
for a barrel of rosin, and 438 gallons for a
barrel of spirits of turpentine
the
quantities not
Speculation
USI channels, and
25 barrels of
follows ial Is In
less than the
latter, or 100 barrels of rosin or tar.
23,849 bart
S80).
4.263 barre
36.644 barrel
80.419 b
i irre.
6.885 |
1885
om New York,
rpent
ry} t
nent
r
7
Rosi
Ta
Connected with the natural oil indus
try is the Committee on Petroleum, which
appoints the Petroleum Quotation Com
mittee to quote prices for business settle
ments, and administer the rules of this
traffic. The on National
Transit Certificates of erude oil is com
Committee
posed of members dealing in these docu
ments. Transactions are in 1000 barrel
lots,or multiples thereof; and are for Cash,
Regular, or Future Delivery. The bulk
of the business, whether real or fictitious,
in this comparatively new but enormous
ly valuable product, is done at the New
York Consolidated Stock and Petroleum
Exchange.
Its marvellous growth may be estimated
by comparing the production of 82,000
1859 with that of 21,500,000 in
The computed product between and
barrels in
L885.
inclusive of the two years is 287,000,000
barrels. Speculation therein is rampant.
There is, of course, a solid, or rather fluid,
basis for the National Transit Certificates,
but much of the pretended dealing in them
has as little real relation to them as to the
Of the
cent.,
Brazil.
outflow of caoutchoue in
production of 1885 about per
mostly refined, was exported, partly in
Of the lat-
ter, about 10,000,000, containing two cans
five to
China, Japan, India, Java, and Singapore.
barrels and partly in cases.
of gallons each, were shipped
Many large cargoes are sold on the floor
216
of the Exchange, owing to the facilities it
atfords for bringing buyers, sellers, and
shipping agents together
The trade in animal, vegetable, and
mineral oils is supervised by the Commit
tee on Oils, under rules which define qual-
ities, quantities, and weights of materials;
basis and price of contract settlements;
size and place of deliveries; condition of
packages; tares, etc.; manner of call of
oils, margins, contracts, transfers, ete.
Six inspectors and testers of oils are em
this department of
New York
9075, of lubricating oil
44.054
of lard oil 734,569, and
1,340,709 gallons. In
lard oil 9234,
of
barre ls. The « x ports were:
ploved in conducting
trad The
were: of
34,714, of
The exports were
receipts in 1880 at
lard oil
cotton-seed oil barrels
t
of eotton seed oil
1885 the receipts were: of
of cotton-seed oil 67,4388, and lubrica
ting oll 27,757
of lard oil 579 DRO, of eotton seed oil
1,351,015, and of lubricating oil 12,217,873
gallons
The
4 acts un-
der rules defining the duty of lightermen,
Committee on Lis hterage
]
rates of demurrage, pecuniary liability for
ete
ers and two exporters, W ho
Board of Managers for
extra towing that on Butter consists
of three rece
recommend to the
license as inspectors of butter three mem
the Exchange, whose duty it is to
bers of
lots of real or imitation
pass judgment on
butter referred to them, and to brand such
An official weigher of
their
Committee on
lots accordingly
licensed recom-
The
assisted by an inspector and weigher, who
butter is also on
mendation Cheese,
is also inspector of rejections, is charged
in this manufac
three
with supervision of trade
Two
compose the Committee on Hops
dealers
These
ture brewers and
vegetable products are subject to inspec-
tion, weighing, and sundry regulations
interesting to those who are engaged in
dealing in them. Receipts and exports
of the last three articles at New York for
the years 1880 and 1885 were as follows:
Receipts, 1880
Butter 1,479,014 packages
Ul st Z 759 packag s.
Hops 66.759 bales
Receiy 1885
Butter ] 733,643 packages.
Cheese . er . 2,191,531 packages,
Hops.... ; ; . 146,209 bales
Exports, 1880
29,030,908 pounds.
129,524,1
28.798 bales
80 pounds.
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Exports, 1885
-11,807,005 pounds.
ese ee -..2-. 91,770,106 pounds
60,642 bales
To the Committee on Maritime Affairs is
contided the enforcement of the rules rela-
tive to the chartering, loading, unloading,
and demurrage (or charges for delay and
extra service) of sea-going vessels.
Complaint is frequently made of mis
‘*from the ro
hewspaper reporters,
representations emanating
mancing brains of
who sometimes look upon the New York
Produce Exchange and the New York
Stock Exchange as only a little more
little more
than
whereas ‘‘ there is more of personal hono
legalized
uptow n”
magnificent and a
gambling houses some
in the keeping of contracts and engage
ments involving losses and profits of
thousands, without regard to legal liabil
ity or compulsion, than ean be found in
any other equal territory on the face of
the earth.”
is largely that of the general public there
To what extent is it
in harmony with the facts ?
All business transactions are the out
growth of intention to fulfil contracts ac
cording to terms, or not so to fulfil them
That the opinion of r porters
can be no question.
The first series is legitimate; the second
illegitimate, because speculative in the
The first
accepts the risks incident to undoubted
gambling sense. necessarily
and continuous demand for consumption
the second, from motives of cupidity or
love of excitement, unnecessarily accepts
risks contingent upon the operation of
known and unknown forces that do not
essentially differ from those of the
bling table.
transaction each of the parties to it parts
gam
In every legitimate business
with something that he esteems of less
value to himself than that which he re
ceives. Mutual interest and obligation
are essential to it. Business is not the
vetting of a maximum for a minimum:
neither is it ‘‘ the art of getting whatever
without
equivalents.”
of ‘‘Sam’]
philosophy.
prices, not
you can any consideration of
This may be the definition
but true
Values ought to determine
values. The funda-
mental consideration is what a thing is
of Posen,” never of
prices
worth, and not what it can be bought or
for.
are opposed to each other as light and
sold True business and gambling
darkness; different from each other as a
nursing mother froma cannibal. ‘* Two
THE NEW YORK PRODUCE EXCHANGE. 217
years ago,” said Chauncey M. Depew to
the members of the New York Produce
Exchange in 1884, ‘‘the speculators of
Chicago, acting upon a theory which
might have been well enough if food pro
ducts could have been purchased by Eu-
rope only from America, by gigantic cor-
ners and other artificial processes drove
the price of wheat up to fabulous figures.”
This feat awoke the slumbering energies
of other nations, who became anxious to
share in the wealth accruing from unusu-
al harvests. The world went to wheat
crowing. The result,in the United States,
was the exportation of gold instead of
erain, and the accumulation of debts in
stead of dollars. The orator added: ** In
the Wheat Pit at Chicago in a single year
was buried more of the future prosperity
of this republic than the sum of all the
trafie which flows through that great
city in a deeade.” This bold statement,
uttered with characteristic courage, gave
no small offence to the Chicagonese, and
has been challenged with a boldness and
force of reasoning—that of Alexander E.
Orr — not inferior to his own. All par-
ties agree that the ‘** Wheat Pits” of Chi-
cago, New York, and other cities have,
at times and under certain circumstances,
been injurious to commercial interests;
but their defenders claim that these inju-
ries are but as ‘‘a drop in the bucket”
compared with the universal benefit to
all interests secured by the ability to
make ‘‘ future” sales of merchandise. The
injury done by the Chicago operations
denounced by Mr. Depew lies in the loss
of control—for some time at least —of the
European markets. Whether the magni-
tude of that injury be so large as he as-
serted is matter of grave doubt. The daily
bank deposits and withdrawals may be
accepted as representative of the traffic
flowing through that city. A low esti-
mate of their amount would be four mill-
ion dollars. This sum, multiplied by 300
(business days in a year), equals $1,200,-
000,000; and by 3000 (ten years), $12,000,-
000,000. Gambling greed kills the geese
that lay golden eggs. The damage done
at the epoch in question may not amount
to twelve billion dollars, but still it was
enormous.
The rules of any exchange may ordain
that the seller must deliver and the buyer
must receive, unless the contract can be
legitimately cleared in some other way.
There never was a law, human or divine,
but some men would try tobreak it. Just as
there may be thieves in a church, so—and
with more likelihood—there may be gam
blers im a wheat pit. A million bushels
of wheat at a certain price, deliverable at
option in the future, may be offered in
the ** Pit.” Some one may ery out, ‘UM
take it.” The contract is closed. Both
parties are bound by it. Both join in the
declaration, ** We are not gamblers—no,
never.” <Are they not gamblers when
there is no intention on the part of the
seller to deliver or of the buyer to receive
the wheat when the contract expires, but
only to settle the difference between the
price current when it is sold and that
when it is deliverable by payment of the
loser to the winner of the bet?) The mar
gin, judiciously designed to guard the in
terests of honest parties to equitable con
tracts, is converted into an instrument of
gambling by those who do not intend the
exchange of values or of their representa
tives. Speculative options are detrimental
to beneficent business, inasmuch as they
enable insufficient capital to operate large
ly on small margins, and thus to cause
fictitious markets and deranged prices.
‘The American option is the curse of the
world,” is a dictum of the Mark Lane
Express that may find some justification
in this fact. All laws against washed
sales and fictitious sales are inoperative
where option gambling is common. Ex-
travagance and dishonesty attend it;
financial if not moral ruin is a very fre-
quent sequence. Unwilling to accept
consequences, the pallid victims—unean
ny as Banquo’s ghost—often reappear
amidst activities where their presence is
not joyously welcomed. The fact is that
while legitimate business is attended by
inseparable risks, much of the so-called
trading in stocks and products is unmiti-
gated gambling. It is a consuming para
sitic growth on otherwise healthy com-
merce,
‘** Puts” and ‘‘ealls” are subjects of so-
called trading in and around the Wheat Pit
from the close of business at 3.30 to 4 P.M.
Brokers of all ages excitedly engage in it.
Some of them may be acting in behalf of
firms or persons who wish to remain un-
known. He who sells a ‘‘ put” collects
$10 from the man to whom he sells the
privilege of ‘‘ putting” or selling to him
8000 bushels of wheat at a specified price
on the next day, or at any period within
a designated time,if he (the purchaser)
218
wishes to do so
the put han the market price at
the time the put is sold;
The price specified in
is lower
sells to Jackson a put—always of 8000
bushels, or m iltiples thereof—for one or
two days at 93 when the ruling rate 1s 93,
and pockets =10 whether Jackson does put
the quantity to him in that time or not,
Or Cornheimer may have sold **short”
80,000 bushels at 94 He must fulfil his
contract, or pay the difference between that
and higher rates at maturity. He sells ten
at 934
puts of 8000 bushels each y,and pock
ets S100
the
thereby he Will
He is perfectly willing to have
80,000 bushels put to him at 934, for
make + cent per bushel
on the quantity he has contracted to sup
ply Whether it is put or not, he has re
ceived $100, and to that extent certainly
has hedged
A “call
the privile
]
LOSS
himself against
s the reverse of a put, and is
ve of calling for 8000 bushels at
a given price within a definite time, the
price being higher than that of the last
market-day. The cost of acall is also $10.
The whole put and call business is simply
betting on prices going up or down. It
has grown to very large proportions. One
dealer has been known to buy or sell to
the extent of 400,000 bushels in the half
hour of active operations. The rules of
the Exchange take no cognizance of the
practice. It is said that it cannot be elim-
inated because of the difficulty of drawing
a hard and fast line between the right and
the wrong. A repudiating bettor may be
boycotted, but cannot be disciplined.
Nothing human is physically or mor-
is to be de-
be. But in
speaking of men and of corporations just
Evitable evil
wherever it
ally perfect
nounced may
criticism requires that the good as well as
the evil that is in them shall receive due
The New York Produce Ex-
change has done immeasurable good to the
recognition.
commerce of the United States by simpli
fying and establishing its laws, gathering
and disseminating all knowledge related
the
hands of a few men of enormous wealth,
and equalizing the chances of individual
success.
to it, preventing its concentration in
The average daily value of its
The
greater part of the farm products exported
are handled by it
business exceeds ten million dollars.
To the transportation
of agricultural and mineral staples from
the interior to the seaboard at minimum
cost and maximum speed it has been no
less serviceable. Whatever favors this, it
e. g., Cornheimey
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
has advocated; whatever would hinder, it
More than any other or
ganization it contributed to the absolute
freedom of the State canals from the ex
action of tolls.
has oppe sed.
In the development of in
eo 43
is one ot the
digenous resources It
Its have
helped to cover the land with a net-work
of railways and canals
most
potent factors. accumulations
The debasement
of the curreney by means of the 79-cent
silver dollar receives its hot condemnation
In defence of the purity of exported food
products, of reciprocally beneficial com
mercial treaties, and of maritime rights
its stirring heard
‘*The men who continually hold their fin
voice has often been
gers upon the commercial pulse of the na
tion are best able to detect injurious influ
ences, and to suggest the necessary legis
lative remedies,” is the just assertion of its
members.
The Sickles Brigade vol
unteer hospital corps, patriotic members
4000 strong
enlisting or forming relieving committees
were the practical response of the Produce
Exchange to the appeals of the heroic
Hancock and others during the agony of
the civil war. Organized to deal in the
products of the country, it is patriotie by
doing so—piratical only as some of its
members gamble in them. It is one of
the strongest cohesive forces of the body
politic, one of its most effective ethical
teachers, and—by its system of arbitrative
jurisprudence one of the most hard-head
ed illustrations of corporate good sense
‘* We search our records in vain,” said ex
President Herrick, *‘for one appeal of the
sorrowful and suffering unheard, one cry
for help unanswered.”
Each of the 2900 subseribing members
to the Gratuity Fund—which bears the
stamp of ex-President Parker's genius
pays $3 on the death of any one of the
number. Out of the proceeds a regularly
increasing sum is paid to the widow, or
divided among other heirs by just regula
tions. It
all a just provision
for helpless wives and dependent chil
dren. After the Exchange is freed from
debt, part of the surplus revenue will
swell the Gratuity Fund, which now
amounts to between $800,000 and $900,000.
is a gift, and therefore free
from legal claims
In or about 1891 the appropriation payable
to heirs of each deceased member will be
about 89000. This sum, with $1000 added
from the Surplus Fund, will then consti-
tute the maximum payment of $10,000.
be
ied
sti-
DIRT
PIES
BY THE AUTHOR OF “GEMINI.”
I
GROUP of playmates, two boys, two
A girls, and a pair of Newfoundland
puppies, were frisking about under the
trees that shaded a road not far from the
house at Blackheath Farm. Overhead, the
young leaves at play in the sweet May
alr cast pretty trembling shadows on the
children’s happy faces, and the New-
foundland puppies—two splendid tawny
creatures, so big and strong now that one
wondered what they would be when they
had passed the age of puppy hood—seemed
to enjoy the frolic quite as m ich as the
boys and girls. A small stream crossed
the road at this place, whose current was
so swift and bright that some one, in a
moment of inspiration, had ealled it Hap
py Creek, and its rippling water seemed
to dance to the music of its happy hame,
This was the children’s favorite playing
place, affording fine opportunities for
soaking shoes and stockings, muddying
jackets and trousers, and other like
ichievements dear to the childish heart
Blackheath, sO ealled from the coal
mines on the place, was the country home
of a family by the name of Heath, and
these were the Heath children, a mother-
less brood, too young yet vo understand
the sad significance of the fact. Jack, the
eldest boy, was about twelve, a well-grown
lad for his age, and the king of his com
pany; Otway, a year and a half younger,
who thought the king could do no wrong;
Marian, a rosy-cheeked, blond-haired gir]
of eight; and finally Polly, who was four,
a round dot of a child, so full of spirits
and so chubby as to look like an animated
dumpling. She was the first to perceive
a young lady coming down the road from
the direction of the house, and breaking
from her companions, she ran as fast as
her fat little legs could carry her toward
the new-comer, crying, *‘ Kafrin! Kafrin!”
The young lady, Katharine Heath, the
children’s eldest sister, who filled as far
as she could the place of mother to them,
was a girl of about twenty, with a tall
slight figure and a sweet fresh face. She
held a book in her hand, which she tossed
on the grassy bank that bordered the road,
and catching Polly in her arms, covered
the child’s dimpled cheek with kisses,
while the puppies, Drab and Queen, leap
ed up about them to testify their interest
In the matter
It was a charming Sig
ing faces pressed close together, while
Katharine’s slim figure swayed lightly
with the child’s weight, like a slender
stalix bending beneath the burden of two
roses
** Katharine,” cried Marian, running to
meet her sister, and looking up in her face
with coaxing eyes, “‘it is such a nice day
for making dirt pies!”
‘* Kafrin,” echoed Polly, putting up her
red lips to be kissed again dirt pies.”
** Dirt ples, With those clean dresses and
aprons!” exclaimed Katharine
‘We won't get a speck on them,” prom
ised Marian
‘Not a *peck,” said Polly
‘Not a peck? No; only half a peck,
you little pat of butter,” eried Jacek, whose
chief mission in life was to tease Polly
‘lL ain't no pat o’ butter,” said Polly,
doubling up her little fat fists, and Stamp
ing with one little fat foot
The children were so bent on making
mud pies in this delightful spot by the
water, where the ingredients were so con
venientand plentiful, that Katharine could
not find it in her heart to refuse, notwith
standing the clean dresses and aprons.
An elm-tree growing in one of the
Blackheath meadows cast its pleasant
shade over the stream at this point mak
ing a cool, sheltered spot, where the eattle
loved to drink and the wayfarer to rest
and water his horses. In the eroteh of
the tree whose trunk inclined over the
meadow fence and dipped toward the
stream, a secure and comfortable seat had
been constructed years ago for Kath-
arine, who played there with her doll
Now she found it a charming nook
for reading, as secluded as a boudoir
Thus perched aloft among the leaves, she
was keeping watch over the littl ones,
and reading her novel. They were all
too much absorbed in their occupations
to hear, or at least to heed, the ap
proach of a gentleman on horseback
until he had ridden into the middle of
the stream, halting just under the tree,
where a pool made the water deeper and
stiller, and loosening his rein to let his
horse drink. A cloud of white butterflies
:
a
}
220 HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
flew up from the surface of the pool the
ehiidren and dogs stopped their play to
aze at the stranger; Katharine peered
down through the leaves only to catch a
glimpse of a broad-brimmed straw hat
the rider's face as ef
fectually as though it had been an iron
The stranger, meanwhile, was enjoy
ing the shade, the fine air, the cool ripple
of the water His attention was attract
ed toward Drab and ) een: he knew a
fine dog when he saw one, and he had
never seen a finer brace of puppies.
While he was still admiring the dogs,
a leaf from -overhead fluttered down and
fell softly on the pommel of his saddle.
He started and looked at it with astonish
ment, for it was not the leaf of a tree, but
of a book He took it up, examined it
attentively, and then leliberately folded
it and put it in his vest pocket. This in
cident seemed to draw his attention to the
children, who were at a little distance,
where the stream was shallower, for he
turned and looked at them.
‘* Hallo, my man!” he said.
The children stopped work and stared,
that is, all except Polly, who was busy
with what she called a tray of pies—a row
of little round dabs of mud on a shingle.
‘What is your name?’ asked the
stranger, looking at Jack.
Jack rose from his hands and knees,
pushed back his hat, and surveyed the
speaker coolly before he answered. Final
ly he decided that the man, especially his
horse, would do ‘* Jack Heath, sir.”
And what is the name of this place ?”
indicating the meadow in which the elm
tree grew.
‘* Blackheath, sir.”
‘‘Humph! So you are Jack Heath of
Blackheath, are you
** Jack Heath junior, sir.”
The stranger smiled ‘* Those are fine
dogs of yours. Good-morning.”
He was riding away, when he was ar
rested by a scream from one of the chil-
dren. He checked his horse and turned
back in serious alarm.
‘* What is the matter ?” he cried.
There stood Polly, with crimson cheeks
and tearful eyes, scolding and calling him
very uncomplimentary names
When he came to understand what it
was all about, he found that his horse, in
stepping out of the water, had trodden on
her shingle and demolished her pies. It
was more than the little girl could stand
for Drab and Queen had already upset
her work more than once
Jack was adding to her discomfiture by
teasing: ‘* Come, Fatima, don’tery. Ther
is plenty of dirt to make more pies. The
whole round world is a big dirt pie.”
‘That's so,” said Otway, laughing
‘*Kafrin says you sha’n’t call me Fat
ty,” sobbed Polly.
The gentleman on horseback began to
look uncomfortable. ‘* Come, come, lit
tle girl,” he said, searching his pockets,
and bringing out a small paper parcel,
which he gave her.
The puckers in Polly’s face smoothed
out, and the big tears hung on her eye
lashes, while she looked with curiosity
and interest, first at the giver and then at
the gift, which at length she began to ex
amine. She screamed with delight when
she found that it contained ginger-cakes,
She had buried her little white teeth in
one when Marian arrested her.
‘Oh, Polly, don’t take the gentleman’s
cakes, maybe they are for his own little
girl
The gentleman changed color. ‘I
haven't any little girl,” he said, with a
peculiar smile; then, after a pause, he add
ed: *‘ A kind old lady gave them to me for
my own use, but as I never eat cakes, I
am glad for Polly to have them. Good
by.”
He rode away again, this time without
being recalled.
As soon as horse and rider were quite
out of sight, Katharine came down from
her perch. Her face was aglow with ex
citement caused by the little incident of
the leaf falling from her book, which the
children had not perceived, and by her
unavailing efforts to get a glimpse of the
man’s face.
** Jack,” she said, abruptly, ‘‘ who was
that ?”
‘‘How should I know? I never saw
him before,” said Jack, absorbed in ginger-
cakes.
‘‘He was like General Washington,”
said Otway.
‘He was stiff and ugly,” said Jack.
‘* He was booful,” said Polly.
‘Come, children, don’t be so stupid.
Can't you tell me even the color of the
man’s eyes ?”
‘‘No,” said Marian, ‘‘for he had on
blue glasses.”
** Blue glasses!”
DIRT
I]
father, Heath = of
tne
Jack
Katharine’s
Blackheath, was well known
rider,
masomes
the greatest spendthrift, and the
man of his dav, and though
e was now well advanced into middle
being at least forty-five, his right to
ese distinetions had not one whit abated
It might also be added that he was the
st-loved man Everybody loved him,
d he received atfeetion with the same
careless enjoyment, without too much
epatitude, that he did the air, the sun
ont, or anv other blessing that came
naturally and without effort on his part.
He was smoking his after-dinner cigar
1 the vine-covered portico in front of his
house, stretched at ease in a deep
luxuri
ous wieker ehair Drab was lying con-
tentedlv across his feet, wl
ad to the
ile Queen bet
lazy caress of his hand
Katharine sat on a cushion on the door
step ne
She
‘ar by, with her novel open on her
was not reading, but turning
over the leaves in search of the place from
had
she
hich one been lost that
morning
‘Papa, was saving, ‘'Il saw such
i. fine horse on the road to-day
said Mr
DACK
‘Finer than Firefly, Kitty
Heath, d
itehed from
as with hea thrown he
the smoke his cigar float
ip vard
No, but quite different.
roan
This was a
‘Not your uncle Barnard’s
No, indeed A
creature, with
i canter!”
Her father smiled peal
this morning, likewise a
eautiful
a fine, free walk, and such
Stranger, a t
met a gentle
man sl
ranger:
it mav be that he and the horse had some
thing to do with each other.’
‘*T should not be at all surprised,” said
‘What was he li
Was he like the horse 2”
Katharine, eagerly. ke ?
‘I did not see the horse.”
‘*T mean was he nice-looking,” explain
ed Katharine.
‘Very
‘* Where was he, papa?”
‘* At your uncle Barnard’s. By-the-bye,
I met several strangers to-day at Gresh-
am’s. You know Reverie is to be sold to
morrow, and a good many persons have
been looking over the house and farm.”
‘* Dear old Reverie!” sighed Katharine
‘I do hope some nice person will buy it,
though nobody could ever take the place
of the Greshams.”
PIES.
t
lu IS a
the
‘Yes,
out of
Heath
thousand ies
pit
orhood ’
they are
roing
Mr
hneiwh
ied to
contin SmMoOKe ns
lence When he spoke acain Katharine
knew from the inflection of his voice that
he had something of importance to com
municate
Kittv, I have invited two of the ren
tlemen I met at Reverie to dine here
to-morrow, and I want an early dinner
we are going altterw ird to loo ib Lhe
What do t
asked Kathari
hey want to see the mines
ne, with sudden fore
Thev have an idea of purchasing
Papa, you are not going to sell the
mines
If I ean et my price *~ said M
Heath, quietly knocking the ashes from
his cigar
The following day the two gentlemen
interested in mines came to dinner ae
cording to appointment Katharine had
looked forward to their coming with more
than ordinary curiosity She had dis
covered that the leaf missing Trom her
book contained the most interesting part
of the story, and she was more than ever
anxious to discover who had captured it
} werness for
Lo
She watehed with TITLIsh €
the guests’ arrival, hoping catch a
elimpse of the roan horse as the first clew
| nad
she
toward unravelling the mystery she
created out of a trmfline incident
was disgusted to see them
Is on
Wh it
Walk a
coming arm in
arm the fiel« foot
‘The
sessed
across
idiots! could have
to
rninge
pos
them warm day
this?” 1
had
climbing rose
IKE
from the window where
she been peeping from behind a
The children had dined early, and tl
1c
party at table consisted of four—the host
and hostess and the two fuests One of
Mr
young fellow
these, a Brown, was a good-looking
The other, with the more
romantic name of Woodville, was a plain,
ved man with a sturdy, well-built
middle-a
figure and sensible face, but with eves so
near-sighted that he seemed scarcely to
take in anything not directly under his
It
business
nose was clear he thought of nothing
but it
he and Mr. Heath were deep in mines,
Brown fell
to Katharine to entertain. She led the
and without diffi-
Most country-bred men
and was not lone before
mining stock, and the like.
conversation, adroitly
culty, to horses.
222 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
know about horses, and most men like to
out Vnat they Know
Ka rine found Brown only too will
to discuss the subject He vave her
! it d i more Intormation than she
ca oO ive, seell that her Curiosity
1 to one fact. t color of his
‘> he yr’sé
\ftet rye rmishing she ventured
to ut subject to his individual
taste Do ou rid much or perhaps
pul sp? l’ ¢ ney
No: L ride constantly
‘You ilked here to-day
Yes | round It ib mn horse had lost
t 14oe* and W ood iLic’ had lamed His SU
W ere obliged to foot it
Is your horse a fine one
| SO Not much for beauty
but a ne gait, and a first-rate travel
ley
Not much for beauty \re vou
1r’¢
Oh ves, quite sure said Brown, a
little puzzled by th
Is he a bay
No: a sorrel
\ pause ollowed Brown not quick
i suggesting new topies, presentiyv re
sumed the onethat had already peen worn
tureadbpare
Talking of horses, there is Woodville,
now, who rides the finest horse Ll know.”
Katharine was all interest again
Woodville, hearing his name mention
] eves toward
the table “What are
me, Brown ?”
Miss Heath about that
riding this morning
irned his near-sighted
‘’s end of
you Saving
I was te
ect I
the lady
about
LLinhYg
horse vou were
‘Is he such a beauty asked Katha
So everybody seems to think,” said
W oodville ‘There is a secret about my
W oody ille,
littie
horse,”’ added apparently not
unwilling to take a conversational
refreshment after his business talk, like
"meat
Katharine, her
red Now
was 10
exclaimed
face uncomfortably
that she had found the clew she
1 of, she was disappointed. It seem-
seare!
ed incredible that a plain, practical man
W oodville
pilfer a leaf out of a love story.
like should take a faney to
She did
not know half the queer notions that lurk
behind the grave, sensible faces of middle
aged men. Her little mystery had sud-
denly become commonplace.
‘* What is the secret ?” asked Brown
‘*T will tell you some day,” returned
letting
the other his eves rest for a mo
ment on Katharine’s sweet, fresh face
with its varying color, with a sudden con
viction that Blackheath contained some
thing more attractive than coal mines
‘Papa,’ said Katharine, eager to turn
the conversation, *“‘you did not tell me
who bought Reverie, or, indeed, if it was
sold.’
‘Yes, it
price, |
was sold, and brought a good
am glad to say.
The purchaser
by an odd chanee, is an old school-mate
of mine, whom I have not seen for twen
tv years i
‘I hope he is nice.”
Yes:
tired army officer
a gentleman, at all events: are
Major Fielding
‘IT wish he had remained in the army
What made him leave it 7”
‘*He has lately come into a great in
heritance. and he Says he is going to set
tle down into a country gentleman.”
“al hope he has quantities of children,’
said Katharine.
‘Unfortunately for you, no. He is a
bachelor.”
“Ah, that is too bad!
to live at Reverie all by himself ¢
And is he going
Hasn't
he anv sisters or nieces or anything 2”
** He has plenty of money . said Brown
* Which
said
do me a bit of vood,
*T had hoped that the
Reverie would
wont
Katharine.
have some
new owner of
grown-up daughters, on my account, and
}
ever so many little children to play with
Jack and the others.”
‘You were thinking of your own com
fort rather than his, Kitty. Besides, the
man is only thirty-five
be endowed with such a family,” said Mr
Heath.
That evening Katharine and her father
met in the drawing-room before tea.
‘Well, Kitty,” he said, pulling the tip
rather young to
of her ear by way of a caress, *‘so you
foung out about the roan horse ?”’
‘Yes, and I wish I hadn't
‘Kot what you expected, eh ?”
‘No, indeed: I was looking for some
thing much better.”
i ITr,
Messrs. Woodville and Brown did not
decide at once in regard to the mines, and
Katharine, hearing nothing more of the
matter, was happy in the belief that her
father had abandoned the idea of selling
DIRT
nem.
Meanwhile, in spite of Mr. Heath’s
to effect
enerally known outside that the prop
sire a sale quietly, it became
tv was in the market, and other parties
ecame interested in its purchase, but of
s Katharine was ignorant
One afternoon a young man of distin
‘arance and manners
Mr. Heath on
is ushered into the drawing
lished appe Who
1d ealled to see pbDusi
ness
room, \ he re
had to wait so lone before his host
ide his appearance that he began to
ilk the floor impatiently.
The
e back
vindows carden at
of
the
mosa-tree, with its feathe ry bloom, the
Heath
vasket of cherries
overlooking a
the house were wide open
Beneath shade of spreading
were round a
had
iten so many that they had unbuttoned
children vathered
Jack and Otway
ieir jackets, and were lying resting from
eir labors on the grass. Polly, who had
ino Katharine’s, Marian’s, and her own
irs with twin eherries, was trying to dee
rate Queen’s in the same way
Katharine was sitting on a rustic bench
we by, with an open book on her lap
Oh, my!” sighed Jack, partly from
ethora, partly from sentiment ‘* Juat
think, Dick and Ned Gresham won't
er eat any more of our cherries!”
‘Who has come to live at Reverie, any
v2?” sighed Otway, similarly oppressed
‘Katharine says an old curmudgeon
“No, Jack,” said Katharine, looking
up
from her book; ‘' I said a bachelor.”
‘Il know he is a horrid snob, with no
thing but money,” grumbled Jack
‘* No; papa says he is a gentleman,” ex
plained Katharine again.
‘* Well, he is a cranky old fellow with
out any boys,” said Otway.
‘And no girls,” Marian chimed in
The thing him,”
Katharine, ‘‘is that
name of the place.”
‘**What!” cried Jack and Otway simul
taneously, rising at once to a sitting pos
worst about said
he has changed the
ire
‘* Yes:
itfected.”
‘*The old blunderbuss!
‘all it, then ?”
‘**The Growlery, I dare say,” said Kath
arine,
he says that Reverie is silly and
What will he
asked Otway.
The young man at the window, finding
that the conversation had taken a person
al turn, moved away, but he could not get
beyond the sound of the voices.
He was
out of the house looking for Katharine it
a great flurry
La! Miss Kath Nn she said aal Ss
a gentleman in de drawin’- roo been
waitin’ for ever so long, an’ I ean’t tind
yo pa nownhar Won't you Oo ah see
him
The stranger in the drawing-room, who
had not witnessed this little scene, and
was momentarily and impatiently expect
ing Mr. Heath, was surprised at the en
trance of the young lady, who said, in the
sweetest and Tre shest of voices | alli SO?
ry you have been Kept walling but
Will I do
gentleman, who
papa
po}
s out.
rhe
ed, smiled at the question
rose as sne
He thought
}
vith a com
she would do Lhis tall oir)
plexion like a sweet-brier rose, clear gray
eves, and softly waving
brown hair
Miss
appoint
‘Lam sorry to have troubled you,
Heath,” he
ment
said, ‘* but Lealled by
to see vour father on a matter of
‘
business Another time will do quite as
well,” he hastened to add, see ing that she
1 4 1 y
LOOK eC Lroupieda
‘By appointment! Then I am afraid
my father has forgotten He does forget
sometimes Cant you leave your mes
sage with me?” she said, earnestly, trying
to make up for her father’s delinqueney
Maior
thank vou,” he said, moving to go
‘*Major Fielding! Not
who lives at at
‘Only that Fielding called
the gentleman
Wii!
ished crimson
Corr he (zrowlery
Katharine bhi
‘I could not help hearing, you know
but I did not object In the least I like
the name immensely,” he said, with the
fine rare smile of a g
rave man, that gave
as much pleasure as it indicated
It brought an answering smile from
boys and IJ talk a great
little
Katharine. ‘‘The
deal of nonsense,” she said, with a
apologetic shake of the head
‘*The boys are very fortunate,” said the
gentleman cordially.
Fielding wentaway wondering if Heath
business matters
who was so lax about
deserved to have such a nice daughter
When he had gone, Katharine remained
had left her, the smile
still on her lips, her eyes cast on the floor
‘What a fine face!
standing where he
in deep meditation.
224 HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
W hat a distinguished bearing! Not hand
some, but with something about him bet
ter than beauty,” was the sum of her cogi
tation
I\
Katharine, coming down to breakfast
two days later, found beside her plate two
letters—a rare ple asure, for she had few
correspondents One of them proved to
be onlv a note from her cousin Alice Bar
nard hich she read at once; the other,
directed in an unfamiliar masculine hand,
is more exciting Like most of her sex,
inder similar circumstances, she did not
it immediately, but prolonged the
pleasure of uncertainty by wondering from
Whom it Came
Papa she said, after a long silence,
‘Cousin Alice has written to ask me to
come and spend a week with her.”
[am glad to hear it You must go,
by all means,” said her father, promptly,
demolishing his empty egg shell with sat
istaction He had his own reasons for
t ++
thinking it better for his daughter to be
absent from home just now.
‘Can you and the children get on with
out me?” she asked, nothing doubting.
‘Not for long, dear,” he answered, in
iS most caressing voice; ** but nurse and I
can manace to do without you for a wee k,
and I want you to have a little change.
You get moped here
‘*T look like it. don’t I?” she asked, her
morning face shining with health and
cood-humor.
Breakfast eame to an end at last, and
then Katharine opened her letter. Her
face turned furiously red, and she uttered
an indignant ‘‘ Pshaw!’ when she found
it contained only the leaf lost from her
book. without note or comment. What
she had expected she did not know herself.
Judging from her disappointment, it would
have been nothing less than an offer of
marriage from a foreign prince, whereas
the leaf could only have come from the
rider of the roan horse, Woodville, and
there was nothing of the prince about
him,
The following day, Katharine, in com
pliance with the invitation from her cousin
Alice, went to stay a week at Cheston, her
uncle Barnard’s place.
Her cousins—there were three of them
who were all much older than herself, en-
joyed having a young thing about the
house. Her fresh, breezy ways created a
pleasant stir among them, and her cheer-
ful face and temper were an especial de
light to her old unele.
Katharine was surprised to‘find Major
Fielding an inmate of Cheston. He was
a friend of the family, and had been in
vited to stay with them while his newly
acquired house at Reverie was undergoing
repairs. Remembering the impression h¢
had made during their brief interview in
the drawing-room at Blackheath, she re
sumed his acquaintance with more interest
than she was in the habit of bestowing on
her father’s school-mates.
She did not see much of him except at
meals, for he spent most of his time on his
place, which was quite near, superintend
ing workmen; but at table his seat was
ypposite hers, and it was not long befor
they became very good friends. Fielding
was a grave, shy man, unaccustomed t
ladies’ society, most of his manhood hay
ing been spent on the frontier; but Katha
rine was so frank and unconscious that he
forgot his diflidence in talking to her, no1
was she afraid of him. His old reticence,
that held most persons at arm’s-length, did
not trouble her. She asked questions, ex
pressed her own views, and argued with
him as confidently as with her father.
She was so unaffected that one felt a
wholesome pleasure in admiring her youth
and beauty, like that of inhaling the breath
of clover fields, listening to the dash of
the sea, or any simple, natural enjoyment
As he walked back from Reverie every
day to dinner, Major Fielding found him
self anticipating her blooming face and
cheery smile, and wondering how a man
who had sat opposite to them at table every
day for a week could look forward to a
future without them. He did not look
forward,
Katharine, on her part, was not insen
sible to the approbation expressed in his
dark eyes as they rested kindly on her
from time to time during the meal. Those
approving glances were the cause of a gen
tle exhilaration of spirits that made her
more charming at dinner than at any other
time. Unconsciously to themselves the
sails were all set in the same direction,
and it only needed a breeze to send them
into port.
One day, the last but one of her visit,
Fielding said: *‘ When I have finished
iny alterations at ‘The Growlery,’ Miss
Heath, I should like you to ride over some
day, with your father, and give me youn
opinion of them.”
DIRT PIES
‘*T should think my opinion would ben
efit vou more if I gave it before you
shed them,”
nn
: : : ;
spirit which he found asagreeable as sauce
piquante.
\t
inlueky speech.
Uncle
* Fielding,”
this moment Barnard
} }
he salad,
[am glad you have bought the Black
heath Mines It isa shame they are vO
g¢ out of the family; but it is better that
ou should have them than a stranger.”
said Alice,
sut it was too late:
‘Papa!’ ina Warning voice:
the mischief had been
one.
‘The mines!” exclaimed Katharine in
i changed voice, the color rong out of
her cheeks. ** Have they been sold 4 Poor
Jack!
Fielding lowered hiseyes. He could not
ear to see the change that had come over
Her
him
e bri@ht face of a moment ago,
reproachful glance seemed to accuse
if stealing Jack’s heritage. Her eves fill
It
vo on with her
an utter
she presently left the table.
Alice
ed with tears and her lips trembled
vas impossible for her to
dinner. To avoid break down
‘* Papa began when she w
as
‘*Now, Alice,”
eman, testily,
interrupted the old gen
“there 1S no use saving
wnvthinge.
I see that I have put my foot
it; but
into how was |
to know that the
poor child was ignorant of the matter? It
is just like Heath not to teli her.”
‘Why, didn’t you know that he asked
me to invite her to stay until everything
was settled 2?”
‘* Never heard a word of it,” said Unele
Barnard, refilling his glass. ‘* But if this
kind of thine woes on, those children will
soon be beggars be
Fielding did not go back to Reverie
that afternoon, as was his custom, but lin
gered about the
house, hoping to see
Katharine. The expression of her tear
ful eyes haunted him, and he wanted to
comfort her. After a fruitless search in
drawing-room, library, and veranda, he
was on the point of abandoning the pur
suit, with the idea that she had purposely
shut herself in her room, when luckily
met
he
Alice Barnard coming into the
house with a bunch of freshly gathered
roses in her hand.
‘Poor Kitty! she takes it pretty hard,”
said Alice in passing, and Fielding right-
ly surmised that she had just left Katha
rine in the garden. He found her there,
she said, with the touch of
made
99
sitting on a little grassy knoll that com
manded a view of Blackheath Farm, her
eyes turned wistlully toward a_ point
where an ugly black line, just
discernible
in the distance, indicated the outer edge of
the coal-fields.
Her deject d attitude
as she
sat motion
less, her hands clasped around her knees
smote his heart anew
She did not hear his approach over the
ft or
sol ass, and he, now that he had found
her, did: not know how to be cin the sub
ject uppermost in his mind. She started
when she saw him, and turned her head
away He could see that she was feeling
bitter] y toward him as the owner of tho
coal-fields which she had been contempla
until Now she
se
ting
to
He
not willing that he should see her mourn
ins
yr
ne came
q ute
understood the
pretend d
be another direction
looking in
movement: she was
over what was her loss and his rain
The feeling was unreasonable, but then it
was natural, and |
Miss Heath,’ I am
anxious to speak to you about something,
|
he aia Wot diame her
he said, hun \
and I don’t know how
to begin
His manner was so kind, and he seemed
so afraid of wo inding her fee nas, that
with an effort she forced herself to say
Is it about the mines
* Yes,” he answered quickly, relieved
that she could mention the s ibject. I
wanted to tell vou that I shall never sell
the mines except to your father, who
hope s to be able to rel them back some
day ole
Her face
Lo hope
brightened youth IS so quick
but it was only for a moment.
her that Heath of
abroad, and
Experience had taught
Blackheath scattered never
carnered in,
‘You must not think I cannot bear
the trouble; but you see it took me by
surprise; | was unprepared,” she said, in
broken sentences, unable to command her
voice to speak at length.
‘IT know, I know It was a cruel sun
prise. But you have borne it well—far
better than I can bear it myself,” said
Fielding, vehemently.
‘* You know,” continued Katharine, ‘* it
is not somuch for myself as for Jack.
W ¢
have always been taught to believe that
he Heath of
Blackheath, and it is a disappointment to
know that the property W ill never be his.”
‘*But it shall be cried Fielding,
joyfully, delighted at what seemed to him,
would be the fifth Jack
his,”
;
-
:
}
*
‘
%
2
.
226 HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
in this supreme moment, an easy solution
of the matter. ‘*He can inherit from me
as well as from his father, and I shall
leave the mines to Jack,”
To his surprise his words seemed to in
crease Katharine’s trouble
No, no!” she cried; ‘'I did not mean
‘IT know you did not, but I mean it
Papa would never forgive me if he
knew I had so little pride as to show you
how distressed I am. He never com
plains; he bears his losses with a smile.”
‘*Humph! and other people's,” grow]
ed Fielding, under his breath.
Jut vou are very good, and I[ thank
vou very much,” s
1e continued, trying to
smile. The attempt was so much sadder
than her tears that Fielding became des-
pe rate
‘* Katharine,” he said, rently, so as not
to frighten her, trying to steady his voice,
that shook with an emotion so sweet and
sudden that it was akin to pain, *‘ there is
another way.”
She turned quickly to look athim. Her
eves fell beneath his glance ** Another
way ?’ she faltered. ‘‘I do not under
stand.”
‘I love you, Katharine. Iand all that
I possess are yours to do with what you
vill. Be my wife, darling, and Jack will
be my brother.”
He stood looking at her with intense
clow-
sel f-1r¢ pression, his face pale, his ¢ yes g
ing, waiting for an answer
A soft blush overspread her cheek, and
a bashful smile began to brighten her
drooping lips and sad eyes.
He drew a step nearer. The movement
startled her tender mood She sprang to
her feet with the old flash
‘Be vour wife for the sake of the prop-
erty and poor Jack? Oh,no,no. Don’t
ask me that.”
‘Not for the sake of the property and
Jack,” he returned, huskily.
‘* For what, then ?”
‘For love and my sake. Can't you
love me just a little, darling?” he said, re-
moving her hands gently from her blush-
Ine tace
There was silence for a moment, which
seemed an eternity to Fielding, and hold-
ing her hands in his, he could not tell
whose they were that trembled.
‘*No,” she said presently, in a scarcely
audible voice—‘‘no,” turning her head
shyly from him, while his cold hands re-
leased their grasp. ‘‘I cannot love you
just a little, because—because that is not
my way. Now if you had said much
His hands tightened their hold, he drew
her to him, and before she could remon
strate, kissed her fresh, beautiful lips
There!” he cried; ‘* you deserve that for
searing me to death. What made you
begin with ‘No'?” he gasped, like a man
suddenly saved from drowning.
‘*T shall never do it again; the punish
ment is too great,” said Katharine, laugh
ing and blushing as she drew her hands
away.
; v.
The following day Katharine returned
to Blackheath, and in the evening Field
ing made his appearance unannounced in
the drawing-room, where the family were
assembled for tea. Mr. Heath was delight
ed to see him; and Katharine, at a table
pouring out tea, nodded to him from be
hind the steaming urn.
Marian and the boys, who only knew
of Major Fielding as the man who had
come to live at Gresham’s old place, and
whose name was a bugbear, hung back
regarding the usurper of Reverie with
distrust.
Polly’s instincts were surer. She ran
and clasped the impressive-looking stran
ger around the knees, and looking up in
his face with beaming eyes, said: *‘ More
dinder-takes, please.”’
The major blushed like a girl. Never
before had a little child taken such a lib
erty with the shy, cold-mannered man.
Jack and Otway laughed boisterously,
and Polly drew back,covered with shame.
This decided Fielding,who stooped and
took the child in his arms, saying, ‘‘I
haven't any ginger-cakes to-day, dear.”
Polly was consoled. She threw her
arms around his neck and kissed his
blushing cheek.
Light struggled into Jack’s counte-
nance. ‘‘Good gracious, Otway,” he
whispered, ‘‘I do believe that is old Dirt
Pies. That greedy little beggar Fatima
spotted him as she gave him the tea.”
‘Did you ever happen to read a novel
called The Initials?” asked Katharine.
‘A little of it,” he replied, with equal
gravity, as he stirred the sugar in his cup.
‘* About two pages ?”
‘* Exactly.”
‘*Do you know that I have reason to
believe that those two pages belonged to
me ?
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 227
* P. ssibly
They came into my pos
ssion in a curious way-—fluttered down
to my hands from a tree. I was star
ed for a moment; imagined I had stum
d ipon the original tree of know ledge.
all my wanderings I had never come
‘ross a tree that bore printed leaves be
Katharine laughed. ‘*‘ When I saw you
de off
felt like erying
When throug
ined Fielding,
lving in ambush,
with the prettiest part of mv bOOK,
‘Stop thief.’ ”’
h arent in my hat,” re
elimpses of a
“*T caught
une lady vatehu
movements, [| wondered if she had
Indian blood in her veins. L should have
then, but |
wished to
returned the leaf imagined
iat’ «she undiscov
remain
ered.”
‘I noticed that
rent!” said Katharine,
ishing, ‘‘and I trusted to that to iden
you; and to think, after all, that
! uch it vou found me out! But you
ive right about the Indian blood. They
tell me
ut first of from Mo
ther Eve, and I confess Lam dying of ecu
all lam deseended
riosity to Know
‘**'W hat ?”
“What did become of the roan horse?”
SHE
THE
STOOPS
>
OR,
MISTAKES
BY OLIVER
ACT
Scene
Lam descended from Pocahontas:
OF
‘Why, the very next day I lent him to
a beastly fellow ho was so near-sighted
that he ran the horse into a ditch, and
lamed him so that he has not been ,
service Since ,
“So this secret Ul
Vas W ood ville s
not his,” thought
How is it,”
told me all this before ?”
norse was
she said, ‘that you never
‘Il have been waiting for vou to ask
me You like your little mysteries; why
should | not enjoy mine
**You see [ got on the wro r
said Katharine SshHrugging her shoulde rs
at the remembrance of Woodville, ‘or I
should have asked you Is it true that
you wore blue glasses that day ?” she ask
ed, wondering at Fieldine’s keen clear
eyes
sensitive to
‘Yes: my
: are,
and I had a long, sunny ride before me
eves are -
that morning
‘So this is the end of my mystery,”
said Katharine, with a happy sigh
Fielding smiled. ‘* lam sorry for
that it had not
tic ending than an old soldier.’
your
Sake, dear, a more roman
I never dreamed that it would have
half so nice an ending I like old sol
diers,”’ said Katharine.
TO CONQUER;
A NIGHT.—A COMEDY.
GOLDSMITH
FIFTH.- ( Continued.)
el
(andes,
Enter Str Cuaries and Miss Harpcastie.
Str CHas.
find a guilty son.
others, I most wished for a daughter.
Miss Harp.
you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration.
he comes.
Sir CHaAs.
What a situation am [ in!
If what he Says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all
If what you say appears, I shall then
I am proud of your approbation; and to show I merit it, if
But
I'll to your father, and keep him to the appointment.
Kkxit Str CHarues.
Enter Mariow.
Mart.
Though prepared for setting out, 1 come once more to take leave;
nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation.
Miss Harp. |
not be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove.
1° _ " 6
In her ON natural manner.) | believe these sufferings can-
A day or two longer,
perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value of what you
now think proper to regret.
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Maru. (Aside.) This girl every moment improves upon me. (Zo ae It
must not be, madam. I have ali ady trifled too long with my heart. My
pri ide begins to submit to my mandi The disparity of f education pines tae
inger of a parent, an id the contempt of my equals begin to lose their weight ;
nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort of resolution.
Miss Harp. Then go, sir; [ll urge nothing more to detain you. Thoug!
hers you came down to visit, and my education, |
» these advantages without equal athuence / | Must
ented with the slight approbation of imputed merit: I must have
mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on
abl
ont
Enter Warpveastite and Str Cuarres from behind.
He re, behind this sereen.
‘wake ho noise. I) engage my Kate eovers him with con
leavens, madam! fortune was ever my smallest consideration
t my eye; for who could see that without emotion /
in some new grace, height
stronger expression. What at first seemed rusti
simplicity. What seemed forward assurance,
u
| converse with you, steals
f courageous innocence and conscious virtue.
Ile amazes me!
told you how it would be. Hush
[ am now determined to stay, madam, and I have too good an opin
ion of my f ather's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation.
Miss Har Boys Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot, detain you. Do you think
I could sutter a c ‘tion in which there is the smallest room for repentance /
Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion to load
you with confusion? Do you think [ could ever relish that happiness whic!
was acquired by lessening yours /
Mart. ul that’s good, | can have no happiness but what’s in your pow
Nor shall I ever feel repentance but in not having seen yout
il y, even contrary to your wishes; and though you
should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the
le vity Ot my past conduct.
Miss Harp. Sir, | must entreat you'll desist. As our acquaintance began,
end, in indifference. I might have given an hour or two to levity;
but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connection
here I must appear mercenary and you imprudent? Do you think I could
‘Yr eateh at the toa wee addresses ot a secure admirer ?
Maru. (Aneeling.) Does this look like security? Does this look like con-
fidence? No, wiadam, every moment that shows me your merit, only serves to
increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continne—
Sm Cras. IL ean hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou de-
ceived me! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting conversation ¢
Harp. Your cold contempt, your formal interview? What have you to
av now ¢
M ARL. That I’m all amazement! W hat ean it mean 2
Harp. It means that you ean say and unsay things at pleasure; that you
ean address a lady in private, and deny it in publie; that you have one story
for us, and another for my daughter.
Mart. Daughter!—this lady your daughter ¢
Harp. Yes, sir; my only daughter ; my Kate: whose else should she be ?
Mari. Oh, the devil!
Miss Harp. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you were
SO ile 1f
230 HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
pleased to take me for (courtesying); she that you addressed as the mild, mod
est, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of the
Ladies’ Club. Ha! ha! ha! |
Mari. Zounds! there’s no bearing this; it’s worse than death!
Miss Harp. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to ad
aress yout As the faltering centleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks
just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud, confident creature, that keeps
ith Mrs. Mantrap and old Miss Biddy Buckskin till three in the mort
Ha! ha! ha!
\RI Oh, curse on my noisy head! I never attempted to be impudent yet
was not taken down! I must be gone,
Harp. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mis
take, and | al re joie d to tind it. You shall hot, sir, | tell you. | know she’|
forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate? We'll all forgive you. Tak
Courage, Wan. , They retire. she to7 menting him. to the hack SCO
Inter Mrs. Harpcastier, Tony.
Mrs. Harp. So, so; theyre gone off. Let them go; I care not.
Harp. Who gone /
Mrs. Harp. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings, from town.
Ile who Came down with our modest visitor here.
Sir Cras. Who, my honest George Hastings? As worthy a fellow as lives;
and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice.
ILarp. Then, by the hand of my body, I’m proud ot the connection.
Mrs. Harp. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her for
tune; that remains in this family to console us for her loss.
Harp. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary /
Mrs. Harp. Ay, that’s my affair, not yours.
Harp. But you know if your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin,
her whole fortune is then at her own disposal.
Mrs. Harp. Ay, but he’s not of age, and she has not thought proper to
wait for his refusal.
Enter Wastincs and Miss Nevitur.
Mrs. Harp. (As/de.) What, returned so soon! I begin not to like it.
Hasr. (Zo Hardcastle.) For my late attempt to fly off with your niece, let
my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal
from your justice to your humanity. By her father’s consent I first paid her
my addresses, and our passions were first founded in duty.
Miss Nev. Since his death, I have been obliged to stuop to dissimulation to
avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, | was ready to give up my fortune to
secure my choice; but I am now recovered from the delusion, and hope from
your tenderness what is denied me from a nearer connection.
Mrs. Harp. Pshaw, pshaw! this is all but the whining end of a modern
novel.
Harp. Be it what it will, I’m glad they’re come back to reclaim their due.
Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady’s hand whom | now offer
you!
Tony. What signifies my refusing? You know I can’t refuse her till P’m
of age, father.
Harp. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to
your improvement, I concurred with your mother’s desire to keep it secret.
But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, | must now declare you have been
of age these three months.
Tony. Of age! Am I of age, father ?
“TONY LUMPKIN IS HIS OWN MAN AGAIN.”
A NIGHT-MONKEY
Ilarp. Above three months.
Tony.
in, Esquire, of BLANK place, refuse
lace at all, for my true and
hom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin
Sir Cras. Oh brave ‘Squire !
Hast. My worthy friend!
Mrs. Harp.
Mart.
Then you'll see the first use Pll make of my
NEVILLE'S Aand.) Witness all men by these presents,
you, (
lawtul wife.
My undutiful offspring
Joy, my dear George, | give you joy sincer ly.
IN THE HOUSE
liberty. (Zuking Miss
That I, Anthony Lump
onstantia Neville, spinster, of no
So Constance Neville may marry
his own man agai
all.
And eould | prevail
ipon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, | should be the happiest man
live, if you would return me the favor.
(To Miss Harpcastrie.) Come, Madam,
ery last scene of all your contrivances. |
Hasr.
now driven to the
like
you are
know you him, I’m sure he
ves you, and you must and shall have him.
ILARp.
(+ OIming their hands.) And I say so Too.
And, Mr. Marlow, if she
nakes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don’t believe you'll ever repent
your bargain. So now to supper.
To-morrow we shall gather all the poor ot
the parish about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with
merry morning.
So, boy, take her: and as you have been mistaken in the
1 °
His
tress, my wish is that you may never be mistaken in the wife.
A NIGHT-MONKEY
BY OLIVE
WO? forbidding were his names that the
h rabid
hesitate to
most lover of beasts
vould
peaceful
strange
him into a
night-monkey rais
introduce
household
ng visions of sleepless hours and noctur-
ial discomfort generally, and half-monk
ey suggestive of a nondescript possessing
neither the drollery of the monkey nor
he inoffensiveness of the mere animal.
But the
small solemn face gravely raised to sur
vey the intruder.
objections vanished before
One steady look from
the large beautiful eyes dispelled the last
doubt: he came home.
A sheltered cage in which an African
animal might comfortably pass the cold
days and nights of a New York winter
was prepared in the warmest corner of
the sitting-room. Through the day he is
closely covered with a double blanket, but
at evening he is free to come out and wan-
der where he will.
Naturally there are inconveniences in
having for a room-mate a creature of his
chilly temperament. Though clad in a
thick woolly coat, which, standing out
around him, would seem to be extremely
warm and comfortable, he insists upon a
temperature of at least 78° before he will
rouse himself at all, and to be really live
THORNE
IN THE
MILLER
HOUSE,
ly the thermometer on the wall must in
dicate 80° at least.
Soon after the gas is lighted, therefore,
the family is quieted and the cage opened
fur ball in the small
round box which serves for a nest begins
Before long the
to uncoil; two tiny hands appear on the
edge, followed by a quaint little grayish
with ‘‘uneanny” that one
cannot wonder at the superstitious dread
face, a look so
it inspires in the natives who see it in the
dark peering at them with large gleaming
eyes. It inspires no dread here, however
only interest, as it looks across the room to
Not
that he wishes to eat: he is not yet thoi
the mistress, the source of supplies
oughly aroused. He leans far out of the
box, taking hold of the water cup across
the cage, drawing his little body outina
long, stretch, bending the back
downward like a bow, at the same time
opening wide his mouth, and project
ing a delicate, thin tongue nearly three
inches beyond his lips. Drawing back to
his place, he next stretches each limb sep
arately, expanding the fingers to their
extent, and time
fully awake, he proceeds to his toilet,
Over
each long limb he passes his claws, thor
greatest being by this
which is an amusing operation
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
hair the wrong way, fur while covered up with his blanket
perforce stand up; then later in the evening, but the combing
it position, the recular business, performed be fore le
dresses the is ready for society.
omach, using both Now he is ready for his supper—o
hand n rapid alternation on the same should it be called breakfast. since he ha
poe aia cH die
eat)
i
4s
4
‘
;
:
£
’
e
Pei:
THE NIGHT-MONKEY.
spot, and moving them so quickly, and in eaten nothing later than the night before ?
so business-like a manner, that it is very A banana is peeled, a thin slice cut off,
inny to se His back and head are and offered to him on the point of a silver
reached by one foot or hand, in doing knife. He sniffs at it gently, above, be
vhich he turns and twists his arms and low, on every side, and if exactly to his
legs over his body till it seems as if he very critical taste, he gravely opens his
would dislocate the joints, His face he mouth and receives it, every movement
\\ +
ishes as a cat does hers, and he also being with the utmost deliberation and
washes other parts of his volden brown dignity.
A NIGHT-MONKEY IN THE HOUSE. 235
His sitting down is most curious Po The coast be ing clear—as he ascertains
jexible is his body that he can sit down by caullously peeping out he slowly and
any point of his spine, He often vith great deliberation prepares to come
ends at about the middle of the back, out for his evening promenade Kirst he
ad and shoulders standing Straight up reaches over to the wate recup and refresh
thout support, while he slowly de- es himself with a drink, lapping it like a
vatches his food, and the rest of the body dow: then he quietiy comes to the floor of
ne flat. with the two legs spread far the cage with all fours, holding tightly to
art to keep the balance. Not unfre- his nest by the long tail. Should any one
ientiy he leans over the edge ot the move toward him now, he would scramble
ox. back down, eating with his head back into the nest, and curl down into the
weginesg® wrong side up, in which posl smallest POSSI D1¢ Space But no one does:
m any other animal would break his and cautiously he moves around the cage,
ick snutling or smelling so loud that he may
Slice after slice of banana disappears, be heard across the room, and at last with
\l almost the whole of one is consumed, perfect ease, although without haste, lets
hen he coolly turns his back upon the himself down to the floor (about two feet
empter, and curls down apparently for a and starts around the edge of the room
nap. But this is merely a hint for people At every chair he rises to an erect position,
o withdraw, resume their ordinary occu smells at the cover, walking around it, and
pations of book. or work, or play, and often taking two or three steps without
ive him in freedom, which they accord holding on, showing that he has no diffi
ely do. culty in walking on two feet Occasion
THE KINKAJOU.—[ FROM NATURE
enc
236
2: HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
} l }
ally he pulls himself up on to a chair, but
it is the sofa he prefers That has a high
back, which mounts, running
along the thir | f carved wood, and
stand ne upon the ohest pomt to smell]
the wall
Lhe
at a picture frame or Some
times he will curl down on sofa fora
nap but usually he proceeds with his tour
of the room: elimbing the tall ease l to the
top, and there standing up to reach still
aowh again by
higher: sliding
twining
his tail around, and clasping the back
support with his four funny little paws;
mounting the mantel, if a chair has been
left near enough; inspecting the bell-pull,
and trying to understand the mystery of
the speaking tube All this takes place
in perfect silence with cat-like movement,
never throwing a thing down, and ready
on the instant to start on a clumsy
run or
gallop for his box if any one approaches
him
The night-monkevy’s tail is
an interest-
ing member, preéminently for use more
As he
the floor it drags over everything with a
than for ornament. walks over
sort of clinging feeling, and if it encoun-
ters anything like the leg of a char, it
curls around it. It is of great assistance,
not only in standing up, but in steadying
the body in climbing, being at least par
tially, if not fully, prehensile.
To find a name and place for the quee}
little fellow in the records of science, man
books had been examined, all search being
upon the fact that he
from Africa, was called a night-monkey
and in looks, habits
bled the Le murida
ties
based came direct
m and manners reseni
Scientifie author
were consulted, naturalist
interviewed, and
travellers
all agreed he must be
lemuroid, though no could
one exact!
place him. But one day, in looking for
the stumbled
upon a deseription that suited him bette
than any other, though not exactly, and
was consoled to find that if this be his
place, we were not the first he had mysti
fied.
by his close resemblance to the Lemurida
of Africa, but living in America, and his
teeth indicating a partially carnivorous
family, he has been classed with the bea
family, and called Cercoleptes caudivol
vulus, or, by the natives, kinkajou.
something else, searcher
He has been a puzzle to naturalists
African or American, lemuroid or bear,
night monkey or what
ters ¢ the less continue to
be a most attractive and interesting little
beast, although if he is decided to belong
to the Western continent, we shall b
forced to conclude that the sailor who im
ported him had not the love of truth in
his soul.
kinkajou
He does not
mat
THE GUNPOWDER FOR BUNKER HILL.
BY
|" is a curious fact that the most impor-
tant as well as the most dramatic inci-
dent immediately preceding the American
Revolution—an which
but
slighting mention in any of the histories.
incident, indeed,
directly precipitated hostilities—has
It may be well doubted whether even one
in every hundred thousand Americans
could recall any of the circumstances of
this noteworthy event.
This was the attack upon Fort William
Mary in Harbor by a
band of young patriots led by John Sulli-
and Portsmouth
van, afterward major-general in the Con-
tinental army
1774,
Lexington, and six months be-
Hill. It was unquestion-
ably the first act of overt treason.
The assault was made in
December, four months before the
battle of
fore Bunker
Singu-
larly enough, however, Bancroft makes
BALLARD SMITH
but a casual reference to it, and in non¢
of the histories is it given more than a
paragraph. Yet
quences not less momentous
those of Lexington. It
its immediate conse
than
fact, the
occasion of the conflict at Lexington, and
it is more than probable that it saved
Bunker Hill from proving a disastrous de
feat, if not, indeed, a calamity fatal to
further effort for freedom.
Amory’s only reference to it in his Mili
tary Services of General Sullivan is this
‘Soon after his return home [Sullivan
had been a delegate to the Continental
Congress} he planned with Thomas Pick
ering and John Langdon an attack, on
the night of the 12th of December, upon
Fort William and Mary, at Newcastle, in
Portsmouth Harbor—one of the earliest
acts of hostility against the mother coun
were
was, 1n
PAUL REVERE BRINGING NEWS TO SULI
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
and, by the aid of a portion of a force
> had
{
been for some months engaged in
drilling in their military exercises In pre
paration for the anticipated conflict, ear
hninety-seven kegs of
ried powder and a
quantity of small-arms in gondolas to
Durham, where they were concealed, in
part,under the pulpit of its meeting-house,
Soon after the battles of Lexington and
Concord had aroused the people toa real
izing sense that they were actually en
needed
them,
brought by him to the lines at Cambridge,
gaged in hostilities, these much
supplies, or a portion § of were
vhere he marched with his company, and
were used at the battle of Bunker Hill.”
This account is in some respects clearly
inaccurate, and it is altogether incommen-
surate
The
put
with the importance of the act.
made, not on the 12th,
night of the 13th or 14th of
for there is some conflict of au-
assault
the
was
on
December
thority on this point, and there is nothing
to show that any act of treasonable hos-
Sparks, in his Life of
Sullivan, vives practically the same de-
Botta, Bryant
an allusion to the event. In
tility preceded it.
tails, and Bancroft, and
MaKe only
the course of several papers read before the
Massachusetts Historical Society, defend-
ing Sullivan from aspersions of subse-
quent disloyalty to the American cause,
Mr. Thomas C
a grandnephew of the general, furnishes
Amory, of Boston, who is
many additional and interesting particu
lars besides those already quoted; but none
has correlated the facts
and the exceedingly mo
of these writers
of the attack,
mentous consequences that directly pro
ceeded from it.
The Durham, New
Hampshire, clusters about the falls of the
that
and
little village of
Ovster tide-water stream
the
Piseataqua into Portsmouth
River, a
ebbs and tlows through broad
picturesque
Harbor A
century ago Durham was a
flourishing ship- building town, on the
highway to Portsmouth, and a “ baiting
}
place” for the stage
land.
from Boston to Port
Then a long bridge spanned the
reach where the waters of the Oyster River
and of the ‘‘Great Bay” debouch into the
Piscataqua. The bridge was carried away
by the ice in the first quarter of the cen-
built Dover
the highway
Another
the
tury. from
Point,
was
course of was
changed, the neighboring forests were ex-
hausted, and the shipwrights moved up to
the Maine coast The village fell into a
g
sleep from which it will probably neve
that
a hundred years ago, still crowns one o
the hills, and rratefu
America should erect a monument, for i)
awaken; but one house, built more
village before it
that house was planned the initial move
ment of the Revolution. On the prope:
site for such a monument was buried
store of powder, which, carted down t
Charlestown, saved the wearied battalions
of Prescott and Stark from capture or an
nihilation.
Sullivan was born at Somerworth, New
Hampshire, in 1740. His father was in th«
Pretender’s service, and fled from Ireland
to America. His mother also emigrated
Dur
ing the voyage a passenger laughing])
asked of her, ‘‘ And what do you expect
to do over in America ?”
‘Do ?” was the reply; ‘‘ why, raise Gov
ernors for them, sure.”
from Ireland when a young girl.
(One of her sons
was Governor of Massachusetts; a grand
son was Governor of Maine, another was
only lately a United States Senator from
New Hampshire, and still another was
Lieutenant-Governor of Illinois. )
The most famous of her sons, John Sul
livan, was married at twenty, and opened
a law office in Durham. There were thei
but two lawyers in the entire colony. Thi
profession was apparently not regarded
with favor, for, on the coming of Sulli
van, it is a tradition that the good citizens
about Durham Falls resisted his settle
ment them with prompt vigor
They gathered about his house one bright
evening and threatened to tear it down if
he did not promise to leave. Haranguing
them from upper window, Sullivan
offered to submit the question to the test
among
an
of single combat. It will be remembered
that New Hampshire alone of the New
England colonies was settled, net by the
Puritans, but by needy sons of the Cavaliers
sent out with Captain John Smith on
There
was doubtless a survival of the chivalric
spirit of the tournament among the young
fellows of the village, and the challeng
But Sullivan
renowned for his strength, and it
his first voyage to these shores.
was accepted. John was
was
found that no fitting opponent could be se
cured. Then James Sullivan—afterward
successively Judge, Attorney-General, and
Governor of Massachusetts—volunteered
in his brother's stead,the battle was fought,
and James was victor. John remained to
do great honor to his adopted home; but,
THE GUNPOWDER FOR BUNKER HILL.
s John Adams afterward wrote of him
iat his profession had yielded him a for
ine of £10,000, perhaps the fears of his
illage neighbors were not so groundless
fter all.
From the beginning of the controver-
ies between the colonies and the mother
GENERAI
country, Sullivan took a most active share
the time
came, Was even more prominent in action.
in the discussions, and, when
For at least a year before Lexington it is
clear that he considered an armed conflict
inevitable. He had held a royal
commission Governor Wentworth’s
staff, and had gathered about and
drilled thoroughly a company of young
and about the village. In the
spring of 1774 he was sent as a delegate
from New Hampshire to the Congress.
Returning in September, it seems that he
to be
on
him
men in
believed the appeal to arms could not
much longer be delayed.
On the afternoon of December 13, Paul
Revere (the same who escaped the vigil
ance of Howe's guards four months later,
and spread the news along the road from
Boston to Lexington of Piteairn’s intended
march) rode up to Sullivan’s house in Dur-
ham. One of the survivors of Sullivan's
239
company died only some thirty years ago,
and from his lips, shortly before his death,
was obtained the story
that day.
of what happened
Revere’s horse, he said, was
‘nearly done” when pulled up at Sulli
van’sdoor. The rider had been despatch
ed with all speed from Boston the day be
SULLIVAN'S HOME
fore with from the Massachu
setts Committee of Safety that *‘the King
in council had prohibited the importation
of arms or military stores into the colo
messages
and that two regiments were forth
with to march from to
Portsmouth and the its
After ‘‘ baiting” his
rode on to Portsmouth.
nies,”
Boston
fort
wearied beast, Revere
occupy
in harbor
In Sullivan’s mind the hour had evident
ly come for decisive action. The story of
what followed is briefly told by Eleazer
Bennett, the survivor before mentioned
‘I was working for Major Sullivan,” he
said, ‘“‘ when Micah Davis came up and
told me Major Sullivan wanted me to go
to Portsmouth. and to get all the men I
could The
went, as far as I can remember, were Ma
jor John Sullivan, Captain Winborn Ad
ams, Ebenezer Thompson, John Demeritt,
Alpheus and
to go with him. men who
Jonathan Chesley, John
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
SURRENDER OF FORT
Spencer, Micah Davis, Isaac and Benjamin
Small, of Durham; Ebenezer Sullivan,
Captain Langdon, and Thomas Pickering,
of Portsmouth James Un
Alexander Scammell We
belonging to Benjamin
John Griffin
dey vood, and
LOOK a gondola
Mathes,
down the river
clear,
who was too old to go, and went
to Portsmouth. It was a
We sailed
at the mouth of Piseata-
cold, moonlight night
down to the fort
Harbor
that we could not bring the boat to within
We waded through the
a ,
qua The water was so shallow
a rod of shore.
WILLIAM AND MARY
water in perfect silence, mounted the fort
surprised the garrison, and bound the cap
tain. In the fort we found one hundred
casks of powder and one hundred small
arms, which we brought down to the boat
In wading through the water it froze upon
us.
What a simple story of heroism!
men took off their boots that they might
The
not make a noise in mounting the ram
parts, and after getting back to the boat
it is of record that they again took them
off, ‘“‘lest a spark from the iron-nailed
vllable
THE GUNPOWDER F
might the And
iis was in December, in the severe win
les ignite powder.”
rof northern New England.
The“
yes cundolo, with aecent
pronounced by the na
the first
unwieldy sloop - rigged
gondola”
on
IS an
use in the shallow waters
It is appar
still in
the New
itly named on the lucus a non lucendo
essel
England coast.
rinciple, being of almost the exact shape
fan old-fashioned wooden kneading-dish
broad and flat-bottomed—with bow and
tern but little rounded, and carrying a
wee lateen-sail. Not possibly could a
joat be constructed more unlike the gon
The ‘* gun-
la of the Venetian canals.
lolo” sailed quietly down with the tide to
were
in Portsmouth town, nine miles
elow. There perhaps half a dozen men
taken on board, including Captain
de ek
anedon, afterward first President of the
nited States Senate and Governor of
TRANSPORTING POW
New Hampshire. From Governor Went-
vorth’s correspondence with the Earl of
Dartmouth it would appear that he warn-
ed Captain Cochran, in command at the
fort, of the intended attack; but it 1
tradition in Durham that the garrison
IS ¢
mounted
shed
OR BUNKER HILL 241
the
blood
letter to
as
No
his
was awakened from sleep
the
on either
Lord Dartmouth,
Wentworth
a News
‘* that
town to collect
party
ramparts was
side. In
Sir John (Governor)
further details
he
about
fives some
was brought to me,’
say Ss,
the
populace together in
drum was beating
the
order to take away the gunpowder and
I sent the Chief-Jus
a
dismantle the fort.
tice to them to warn them from engaging
in such an attempt. He went t
told them it not rebellion,
and entreated them to desist from it and
They
They foreed an en
» them,
was short of
disperse But all to no purpose.
to the island.
trance in spite of Captain Cochran, who
it They
secured the captain, triumphantly gave
went
defended as long as he could.
three huzzas, and hauled down the King’s
colors.” Captain Cochran made his re
‘*T told them,” he ‘on their
port. wrote, *
DER FROM THE FOR!
peril not to enter. They replied they
would. J] immediately ordered three four
pounders to be fired on them, and then
the small-arms, and before we could be
ready to fire again we were stormed on
all quarters, and immediately they se
;
}
metas
~—n
as WN Rea tak oe
RIN Shetiagen een.
Fe Se ape any
t
242 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
cured me and my men, and kept us pris
oners about an hour and a half, during
vhich time they broke open the powder
house, and took all the powder away ex
cept one barre! ;
The powder being loaded aboard the
cundolo,” the vessel was sailed back to
Durham on the flood tide, arriving in the
early morning. The larger part of the
powder was buried under the pulpit of the
old ‘‘meeting-house” in front of Major
Sullivan’s residence— under the pulpit
from which venerable Parson Adams had
for years back been ineculcating lessons
of patriotism. Two or there mounds still
exist to show where the foundations of
this church were laid Over against the
noW vacant space, and in a little plot
adjoining Sullivan’s former residence, a
plain marble slab gives token that the
remains of the soldier-statesman were
buried there
The captured powder, as before inti
mated, played an important part at the
battle of Bunker Hill. In the Continent-
al army gathered about Boston there was
a terrible lack of ammunition. ‘‘Itisa
fact,” says Bancroft, referring to the day
before Prescott occupied Breed’s Hill,
‘‘that the Americans, after collecting all
the ammunition north of the Delaware,
had in their magazine, for an army en-
gaged in a siege and preparing for fight,
no more than 274 barrels [kegs ?| of pow-
der, with a gift from Connecticut of 363
barrels more.” W hen, as the British were
forming for a decisive charge on his hot
ly defended works, Prescott discovered
that he had barely one round of ammu-
nition among his men, and rave the or-
der to retreat, both his and Stark’s men
would undoubtedly have been cut to
pleces or captured except for the galling
fire with which Stark, from behind the
grass-stutfed fence on Bunker Hill, met
the Welsh Fusileers who were marching
to cut off the retreat to Cambridge. It is
of tradition and some part of record that,
until within even a few moments of the
Fusileers’ charge, Stark was no. better
equipped with ammunition than was Pres-
sut an ample supply of powder
arrived in the nick of time. It had been
brought over from Durham, sixty miles
colt |
away, in old John Demeritt’s ox-cart, and
it was a part of the store that had been
buried under Parson Adams's _ pulpit.
Failing it, Prescott might on that day
have shared the martyrdom of Warren,
and Molly Stark might indeed have be.
a widow that night.
It is interesting to note in Sulliv:
correspondence that this lack of ammu
tion was a erevous care to W ashinet
after he took command. Later on in t
campaign Sullivan wrote to the N
Hampshire Committee of Safety: ‘*G
eral Washington has, I presume, alrea
written you on the subject of this lett:
We all rely upon your keeping both
contents of his letter and mine a profou
secret. We had a general council «
before yesterday, and, to our great s
prise, discovered that we had not powd
enough to furnish half a pound a 1
exclusive of what the people have in thei
powder-horns and cartridge - boxes. .
The general was so struck that he did n«
say a word for half an hour. Shoul
this matter take air before a supply a
rives, our army is ruined.” There is ap
parently no record to show whether o
not the New Hampshire committee 1
sponded to the call, but as old Mr. Dx
meritt took to Cambridge only a part o
the store captured at William and Mary
itis possible that Sullivan’s daring assault
of the December before again served tli
American troops in good stead.
That act was by no means passed unno
ticed by the royal authorities either at hom«
or in the colonies. Governor Wentworth:
promptly issued a proclamation, ‘* decla
ing the offenders guilty of treason, and
offering a reward for their apprehension
But the defiantcitizens of Durham ‘‘ moved
in procession to the common near th
meeting-house, where they kindled a bon
fire, and burned the commissions, uni
forms, and all other insignia connecting
them in any way with the royal govern
ment.” And, for his part, Sullivan was
no less contumacious. On December 24
he published a stirring address to the peo
ple of the province. Referring to the or
der which had led to his attack on the fort,
hesaid: ‘‘ lam far from wishing hostilities
to commence on the part of America, but
still hope that no person will at this im
portant crisis be unprepared to act in his
own defence should he be by necessity
driven thereto. And I must here beg
leave to recommend to the consideration
of the people on this continent whether,
when we are by an arbitrary decree pro
hibited the having of arms and ammuni
tion by importation, we have not, by the
law of self-preservation, a right to seiz
THE GUNPOWDER FOR BUNKER HILL
BRINGING
THE
ipon those within our power, in order to
the liberties which God and
ture have given us.”
defend na-
The news of the assault caused the ¢reat-
England,
ilmost at once adopted the address to the
est excitement in Parliament
King which was practically a declaration
of war, and which was presented on Feb
9.1775.
says Bancroft, *‘ pledged himself speedily
ruary ‘**The Kine in his reply,”
and effectually to enforce obedience to the
laws and the authority of the supreme
| His heart
Having just heard of the seizure of ammu-
nition at the fort in New Hampshire, he
egislature. was hardened,
intended that his ‘language should open
of the deluded
Thus, while war was doubtless ultimately
the eyes Americans.’ ”
inevitable, Sullivan’s bold action was the
led to it.
were forthwith despatched from London
to seize all arms to be found in the colo
immediate cause that Orders
nies, and Piteairn’s march to Lexington
was the result.
Sullivan was the first man in active re-
bellion against the British government,
and he drew with him the province he
lived in. Ina recent address on the his
tory of that part of New Hampshire, the
POWDER
TO BUNKER HILL,
Rey. Dr. Quint, of Dover, referred briefly
to the attack on the fort. “The daring
character of this assault,” he said, ‘‘ cannot
be over-estimated It was an organized
investment of a royal fortress where the
King’s flag was flying, and where the
with
It was four months before
King’s garrison met them muskets
and artillery.
Lexington, and Lexington was resistance
to attack, while this was deliberate assault.’
On the 13th of
Revere rode through Durham, there was
a young student in Sullivan’s law office
named Alexander Scammell. He accom
panied his chief on the expedition to Will
iam and Mary, and it was he who pulled
December, when Paul
down the King’s colors from over the fort
He became the Adjutant-General of the
army, was beloved by Washington as was
no other man in the command, and, it is
said, no other person’s quips and jokes ever
brought a smile to that grave countenance
during the progress of the war.
fell at Yorktown
was laying down his arms.
Scammell
Cornwallis
Thus, a par
ticipant in the first act of the rebellion, he
died as that rebellion
almost as
was crowned with
perfect and fateful victory. It was a no
ble span of patriotic service
SALMON FISHING—THE LANDING,
Bis i)
i
eS le A a
SALMON
BY HENRY
AUTHOR OF “THE AMERIC‘ N SALMON FISHER
fFVHAT where one fly fisherman could be
| found in the United States ten years
vo there are ten now is a general and
perhaps unexaggerated belief. That ev
ry one of them aspires to be a salmon
sherman, if not already so, may also be
ussumed.
But formidable obstacles oppose the re
ilization of this aspiration by the uninitia
ted American angler. He neither knows
where to obtain the opportunity—for salm
on are not to be found in every river—nor
what todo with it when itishad. The lt
erature of the subject is either confined to
the art as practised in another hemisphere,
and therefore of uncertain applicability
in this, or it is addressed to those already
proficient in the art. The trout or black
bass fisherman who would become a salm
m1 fisherman finds therein little to di
rect him at the very time and at the very
stage When a guide is indispensable.
Discouraced by these considerations,
many view salmon fishing in about the
same light as antelope shooting on the
head waters of the Congo—as something
desirable indeed, but so distant and unat
tainable as to lie beyond reasonable hope.
‘To remove that impression is the purpose
of this paper.
When Lord Ashburton worsted us in
the settlement of our northern boundary,
and pushed the line so far south of the
St. Lawrence River, he left us few salmon
rivers on our Atlantic seaboard. What
is done is done, and it is too late to rem
edy that now; but whenever we look at
the map it is difficult to repress a sigh of
regret that our commissioners were not
salmon fishermen.
In the last century salmon swarmed in
every river on our coast at least as far
south as the Connecticut. They have
disappeared. It would be well were it
thoroughly and widely understood that a
salmon river once thus depleted remains
forever barren, unless man intervenes and
restocks it by patient, protracted, and per
severing effort. Nature has implanted
within the salmon an impulse to breed in
the river where it was itself bred, and in
no other. When an artificial barrier
closes the ascent of a stream, they still re-
turn till they die. But their spawn, ne
Vou. LXXTII.—No. 434.—17
FISHING
P. WELLS
MAN,’ “* Fiy-Rops anp FLy-TacKu! ET\
cessarily cast in localities unsuited to its
No othe
in existence When the
deve lopme nt, perishes.
‘ovenera
tion succeeds that
obstacle was created, and the river once
swarming with fish speedily becomes ster
ile And so it will remain, even though
the original conditions are restored, until
a new race is introduced by man
The Penobscot, St. Croix, and Dennys
rivers, all in Maine, each afforded some
salmon to the fly fisherman last year. The
Penobseot is a whole sermon in itself on
the value of restocking exhausted rivers.
Fly fishing for salmon is there in its in
fancy. Plenty of fish are now believed
to frequent that river, and when it is thor
oughly exploited, and the localities fre-
quented by the salmon become known,
there is little doubt it will rank well as a
salmon stream. Information may be had
of Mr. E. M. Stillwell, one of the Maine
Fish and Game Commissioners, at Bangor
Should any reader be tempted to try this
stream and have sport, it will not be amiss
for him to remember that the fishing right
costs him nothing, and that he reaps Trom
a harvest he has not sown. He may also
remember that though the importance of
restocking our depleted waters is daily
growing in public appreciation, still the
time has not yet come when the needs of
the work do not tax its available resources
to the elastic limit. It will therefore be
graceful, to say the least, to make some
pecuniary contribution to further the work
on that river in the future.
But the waters of Canada are now the
real home of the salmon. The fishing
there is, however, usually private proper-
ty. But every property holder does not
necessarily personally occupy his posses
sions at all times. Some there always are
who will gladly temporarily assign their
rights to a stranger for a consideration
It is a good plan to ask for what one
wants but has not,and the more widely
the inquiry is spread, the more certain is
ultimate success. Having ascertained
from some advertising agent what news
papers of Montreal, Quebec, and St. John,
New Brunswick, circulate most widely
among the class likely to own salmon fish
ings, the following advertisement may be
inserted in one or more of them: ‘‘ Want
HARPER'S NEW
ing Address
ed sa on par
i DP ; » DOX Ne York
{
‘
Lil ) 1h buOu iiic © Nh
The wing reply to most
inc en ) rthey ifon
u iformatio1
references 1. Ist shing
rom can ( om bat ae ding
i ri f 3. Is the wv 1
Nn a ) Cie or ¢ red
| \ i t i ic ath of the
ct} m 5 Do vou o@ive
t! " ) ( e str n, Oo} ut to
oO ( Ho ma ut fishing
Y yn Montreal for St. John
Ne Db ( Lhe ¢ emay requir
7. Are b lies ts, and mosquitoes
i ! nee ¢ hg ‘ i me ol pro
poser ae + iechenyt
What ar thie na accommodations
( np irm-house, hotel, or tent [fata
farm-house or hotel. t is tl usual
ada c ( ) Ho man attendants
vill each rod 2 quire 10. Where ean
‘ e O ed 11. What wages will
they require? 12. Can you place me in
communica 1 th good men familiar
1 your water 13. Must we take our
own supplies, or any portion of them ex
cept arink and SmOKe, with US ¢ 14. [f
we must take any portion of our supplies
W 1us, Whe) vould you advise us to pro
curethem? 15. What tlies and of what sizes
ould you recommend us to provide for the
» propose to fish 16. Give weight
of the largest fish usually taken with the
fly on your water 17. Under favorable
conditions what is a fair average ecateh a
week for an industrious and fairly skilled
rod 18. How many rods will your fish-
ing accommodate without one inconven
lencing the others 19. Can and will you
name any one in this vicinity who has
fished vour water
H Wha
.and one of its
nature 1s weak
Weaknesses 1S to Say as little as possible
ol ie ¢ ects, and to dilate freely on the
! rits, ol VY property in negotiation,
It is so eas o overlook what one does
not S ) hat it will be well to fore
stall such inadvertence, as far as possible,
DV hum rine ¢ ich que stion, and making
ita paragraph Dy itsel
One particular will certainly appear at
4 1
> outset—thne
This
price of the fishing
MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
| vary from a dollar a day up to twen
ty five di 1] | for each rod. The
1iars a WeeK
tter should command a position on
first-class river, where the fish
both abundant and large. <A higher dé
mand than this is generally considered «
tortionate, unless coupled with very wm
usual advantages outside the mere fis
oO } or { These, too, are the prices
easual rods—those who come, remain
u few days, and depart. The angler wl
ishes the water for two or three we
nonth ean obtain bette:
usually
since he is a more desirable «
tomer, especially if he is one of a party
sufficient in number to occupy the ent
hing in neeotiation. Then, after tl
number of rods the fishing will aecomni
date has been first ascertained, the offe:
of a lump sum for the exelusive use o
the water for the proposed period will be
judicious.
Having obtained the fishing, the next
outfit. The
fishing will know the kinds
thine is the owner of. thi
and sizes of
salmon flies best adapted to his water
size
Is quite as important as variety,
larger flies being required in the first pa
of the season, and smaller flies toward its
end. Therefore, when seeking informa
tion on this important point, the time of
the proposed fishing should always bi
made part of the inquiry.
\s to rods, one from fifteen to sixtee
feet will be of sufficient length. It should
have plenty of ‘‘ backbone,” that it may
be able to handle a heavy line with ease
However the wind may be above the hills,
on a salmon river, it usually draws either
up or down stream, and a heavy line is
necessary to cast against it with any de
gree of facility. That known by the let
ter B is the best size. A rod of domestic
manufacture is altogether to be preferred
to a foreign rod, except on the score of
price. But I have recently seen Ameri
ean ash and lancewood salmon. rods re
tailing for fifteen dollars which seem fair
They
good enough
ly to compete even in this respect.
were really excellent rods
for any body. It looks as though the pre
sent season would open with a decided
drop in the cost of salmon-fishing tackle.
for 120
vards of B line without crowding, and a
The reel should have capacity
click sufficiently severe to render the over
running of the spool impossible, if any
thing but disappointment is to attend its
use
SALMON FISHING
eS ACLroOss
sured 1oside
Those
ad handle
ght of the
vuirdened only With
Mention salmon
ole-handed rod
omed lo a Sill
once he doubts )
two-handed
Not the sligh
lL be experienced if
that the lower hand must yrasp the ex
treme butt and be thre centre of motion.
hand conforms to the
il hethe r re \ i
oO cast with a l \ | Waves abo
nates the ** pool
no practice,
angier
pper
ie I
]
Ly display Lis
the u
movement of the rod
That the radical difference in the m:
u 4 4 LANS|
and 1
water boils
4, 66
when
rin which the salmon
re the fly be reeogenized and a
solutely essential ss Thetimes ‘‘Silver Doctor
trout manifests its presence and seems
re prac
l to suecs
nha
len it has the fly in its mouth a
tically synchronous. Not so
Limon. [It rolls first and takes
rier Strike
If the ang
presence ot
ifterward
irst indication of the
is does the trout
time.
lisherman, he
is fish every Though, of
never did it ourselves, we
, }
r DOVS place a te }
yo ith seen othe
package on the sidewalk, upon
i lien Was maintained by means ofastring dian’s ide
leading to a convenient piace ol conceal we rest him |
fly, p'r’aps we
Out comes the watch, and five min
The wayfarer eyes the lucky find
:
lish
ment
and stoops to make it his, when it va
eC O MOrina nevi ire
LllOo t i en the angler be
C ( ) Y” cast over Darren
I i ‘ i if isadll Ou ind the
i ! 0 ( t Is agalh 1n und
110 ) L { wout twel feet to
f 1 0 ed pot WG i
na ) ) careel In th
LOSI ) 10 inner across the pool
) \ oO! over the place iere
{ ( red
| 1a S1 t. though h u
I ) Oa Y is 7 Cs ( i Lilt ( St rbed
( er shows In 1 the
} minutes more; and tr
ii i Joc Sco He V1 ho
Lake Rest him again, and try a ** Du
yum Rar [t is in un We tish
over him he did not exist, and finish
5) po It is been covered to its
) foo ul ( ult ina t ee-qual
I rs Oo i ] ’ Ol LOre ha t ap ea
| i , cireuit e anchor
( ae) ( if ( id the rise, and
cas i” but on yeach side with a given
| 1 Ol rrad tally Ork GAO 1
our old a worst 1s thin reac!
The fly ps over him, he rolls, le
eizes it, and bears it downward with him.
A { ‘ of draw slowly from the
reel, to the free action of which no im
ped it is offered. The rod is raised to
meet the demonstration thal ve Know,
wh i eems so indifferent now, will
not be long postponed. The anchor is at
onee lifted, and the canoe is brought in
close uUnst the bank
All is suspens what he is about to do
for so far he has acted as though the fl
id been quite forgotten The inexperi
enced may wonder at his apparent apa
Lily but he who has been there before
els as though the heavens were about to
fall, and waits for them to come It
comes: slowly the reel speaks ; faster
faster: the handle becomes but a blur of
light, and the voice of the click rises to a
scream. The line melts away from the
the coil that
ies in diameter is now
] ly x . ‘
reel like salt in water, and
sneariy tour ine!
vill he never stop ¢
co for him, or the beg
and the canoe starts
the speed two power
impart
—r
scarcely ten vards of line
the
river a ira
120 remain in reserve, AaWay across the
nent of silver apparently
about a foot long soars into the air, and
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
opera, SO to speak,
falls back into the with a splas
withdrawn, and
ater
to be
immediate
line
taking
CPaASCS
advantage of the poss
Dil it is recovered as rapidly as Ul
handle of the reel can be manipulate
that «
is distributed evenly and solidly on
yet with ever
precaution ach tf
spool
For this is but the overture ot t
and agvalh and aga
vill the line be snatched from us until
most the bare axle of the ree] appears
Thus two-thirds of the line are
the
porting his rod. doubled
recovet
and angler breathes again, sup
up under a
dares impart, with the butt
agvalnsl his body.
Again
‘eam
the
Ss icceeded by doubt. and Lnen by
the fish starts—this time up
the reel shrieking as it parts w
line Wild is the angler’s joy, to be
anxiety
as line in
fish
Again the canoe is
the quantity of reserve
frOWSs
less and less, and the seems to have
no idea of stopping
forced to follow, and again the fish con
cludes his run by bounding into air one
thrice.
Again the line is r
twice
covered, all but about
thirt, when he starts across
vards,
aWaAay
the river again, if possible more rabid thar
ever
finishing with another jump or two
The line is then recovered almost alto
cether, never omitting. no matter how
hurriedly the act may be performed, so to
distribute it upon the spool that it will be
ys,
ir¢
}
e to render again without the
hiteh
Then
slight st
“We will
take him through the rapids
Tom have
Savs, to
ho land
lis place here hy
That the fish will take us up on some of
the neighboring hills seems fully as prob
able. but the effort must be made The
is run into an eddy, then shoved
into the
Caloe
quick water, and down we go,
bounding like a eork over the waves at
the merey of the fieree current.
The fish follows quietly, as though he
liked it; but no, he has changed his mind
he dashes and
with the speed of a race-horse
down stream obliquely
across lit
at least it seems so, for the Whizzing line
trends in that direction. But what is that
Away up above us and half across the
‘** Did
We'll go for that fel
How
and it is not without pro
tracted effort that he finally forces us to
that that the fish
t
Sl
river a salmon bolts into the air.
you see that, Tom ?
low when we finish with this one.”
Tom laughs
believe was we
are
SALMON F
o!
fr,
indicat
to. It far and
fferentadirection from
and tl
it it seems impossible
it
So the canoe drops do vn with the sw
iS SO very
in
d
running line,
)
that }
Lilat DY
e bending rod
ough SO IS.
ift
irrent, halting at times as the fish be
mes very obstreperous, and then resum
if
r its course.
And the salmon follov
sometimes
a}
al
metimes freely, reiuctantly,
d sometimes in absolute rebellion, com
him have his own Way
ra
We
Gino piace
t
1c} bank and
precaution that
the
an instant, and that the foot makes no
shore, W the
'y
essure is not slackened upon line
“On
p on the smooth stones.
The fish now exhibits symptoms of dis
‘ouragement, and gradually yields, until
But
draws the line, and not another
Were
of the rocks embedded i
could not
is not forty feet from the bank.
he
ere
oot will he yield. he ch inged to
me 1 the bottom
f the stream, he seem
more
mmovable. It is a case of the *‘ sulks.
The rod, which heretofore has been kept
plan
e
1©,
n an approximately perpendicular
that the
strain may as far as possible coincide wit
held almost horizontally,
S how
h
direction in which we wish to move
fish. The bend of the rod, however,
and the tension i
main unchanged.
the
1e
t
t
imparts to the line, re
We walk down below
him fifteen or twenty feet. This disturbs
hisequilibrium. Heturns his head toward
the strain for a moment’s respite, and in
stantly the
down and inshore
implacable current sets him
As we feel him yield
we walk back from the water, thus keeping
t}
he He struggles and regains
control of himself, when we first walk to
ip strain,
ward the bank, taking in the line we have
gained, and then move down stream, as
Again we work below him, with
He
before.
the same result, and again and again.
is now not twenty feet from the bank.
But clearly he is now of the mind that
this thing has gone quite far enough, for
he is as immovable as the everlasting hills.
Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes pass, and it
s still ** pull Dick, pull devil.”
now ache as though they would drop off
‘*Stone
Our arms
at the elbow joint. him, Tom.
Do something. I can’t stand this much
So Tom after
of them large, and none of
longer.” tosses in stone
stone, none
}
I
them thrown with violence, lest they strike
ISHING
and t
¢ tfect
At
speaks SLOW
par
"OCK, VOU Cal
vneel
We I
are ott pparently
it the very <
{
For another half-hour we
from the canoe, working him down stre
um
he running, jumping, and sulking
we land again the other side of
th
where we first took to the bank.
We j ; to wi j
same tacties, but our first effort comes
1 at
Stand ‘
ies of short, hea Vy; and sudden jel is
ve on ie
stream ree-quarters of a mile |
again try i him in by t
+
LO
a once, He begins to- jig i
Ss with apprehension, and it is plain
t | ae 3
and we be ns, a
At last |
he
step by step swings 1
]
ust sure stl
be
his ple
He
Ss
al
stops, oin
and
toward the
-
vil
Stop. yield
DAILK
n
Slowly Tom approaches, In hand, no
part of him in motion except
The sal
again
mon , and
and roll side,
agaln
r
S
upon hi
though recovering himself almost imme
diately.
He sees Tom
is off again
he recovers, and
At once
But the pristine vigt
gor
He can take
¢
i
Ol
his rush is no longer there.
no more than half the line before his fail
ing strength compels a halt. So we fol
)
low him down the bank, vorking him
when we ean, letting him go when
cannot, playing the great game of
and take.
we work him inshore
d
is wonderful
Once more
showing increased signs of distress ;
t
and again he is off
again he sees Tom—i h
they hate him But
we are at the end of the landing-place,
and so heavy a fish could not be drawn
up against the current though he should
We must take
at the
remain perfectly passive.
try
] ee la bf ] P
landing place, some hali-mile tur
to the canoe, and him iin
next
ther down.
ag
He is quite discouraged now, and does
as they meet in public
rto one another,
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
We
we
remonstrance
SOmLe
vithout ifficulty
still nearer the shore and within reach
Like a flash the cruel gaff is around his
the
hammers him on the head with the stone
the
backbone, he lies on bank, the lad
scales show thirty-two pounds, and
we drop the rod and sprawl out on the
bank, utterly exhausted, after a contest of
one hour and fifty minutes.
RICHARD T
THE
a specially
ve attracted
rhe
serious dis
gs people
oceasion
il and industrial or
and this is the reason why men,
and private, are
heir heads and whis
W hat does all
the end of it The
lv shakin {
this
what W 1] De
indeed! Thank God, there never
an end of human development; no,
a new epoch
SHPLCKS and
uil! Ss ich
Let us
urmed by the din of the
even now assisting
ivilization There
on our palin
yrmation ineconom
iversal
said, attracts ur
anv of its fe not
ires are
inderstood None of these is of
eaching than that which
lmnipor
t
consider in our endeavor to
RAILWAY PROBLEM
understand the nature of the problem of
ulway. \ The feature to which I re
the increase in the
man upon his fellows.\ Let
the r
fer is economic de
pt ndence of
us examine this more carefully.
One distinguishing characteristic of
earlier production was its isolation. Goods
in the household
The
of each family was its own economic self
were produced for use
Kew wares were exchanged. ideal
sufficiency. Man’s labor terminated, for
the most part, in the creation of values-in
use—to employ the terminology of polit
icaleconomy. This was the period of eco
Free
pendent upon their thrift, diligence, and
nomic independence. men were de
skill fortheirown well-being. Famine and
flood, disease and pestilence, might destroy
man and beast, but industrial erises, and
the evils of stagnation and of a glut in the
market, were unknown. Such a thing as
modern over-production was inconceiva
ble. The more there was produced, the
And
was not man’s consumption the end and
purpose of all production ?
more there was for man to consume.
As time goes on, men begin to produce
more and more for ethers. Closer con
nections are formed. Trades spring up,
and men are divided into ranks and class
The farmer
crows Wheat for himself and also for the
shoemaker, who in turn furnishes cover
es according to occupation.
ing for the feet of the farmer as well as
A large production of val
ues-in-use accompanies a growing produc
for his own
tion of values-in-exchange, and economic
dependence becomes more marked, It
does not rest with the farmer alone to say
what kind of shoes he shall have, nor can
the exertions of the shoemaker alone fur
nish him with
bread. This is a begin-
SOCIAL STUDIES
ig The division of labor continues to
erease, and large establishments finally
into being, in each of which some
1e commodity, or perhaps only a part of
e commodity is produced It wil tten
ppen that the producer of the commod
will not consume one single artic] j
large Miatlit
the
ver wears a pair made in his own fae
Another directs the
ousand
own prod ction A
rer Dringe’s shoes on market
rv. labor of
men to the production of loco
otives, but never keeps one for his own
This evolution continues until pro
iction for otners is the rule, Such 1s
e case in our own time in all highly
es. B
it production for
'_what does this mean? It means
pendence upon others for the sat
of our wants Progress and in
economic dependence go hand In hh
Another pol g i | |
nderstand the full
nt
ations of man in business li
| n number and com
ienomenha
dimensions of our postal
enormous use of national
‘rnational telegraph lines are
wd
visible signs of an uninterr
of
onship
business relations
implies two or more, and in
olves a tie; in other words, dependence
1
Men form more truly than ever before
social and industrial organism, whose
imberless parts are in infinite variety
manner interdependent. Infinite in
*palat
rreiations.
infinite interdependences
We may make at least a fourfold classi
ficgtion of this economic dependence
/Man is, as ever, dep ndent upon his own
exertions in the production of ecommodi
ties, those commodities are now val
ues-in-exchange
Man is dependent upon the exertions of
‘thers to produce what he desires for his
own
Man is dependent upon the exertions of
thers who produce voods of the same
use
<ind which he produces. These become
ival sellers
the
Finally, man is dependent upon
‘xertions of others who desire the articles
which he desires, and thus become rival
buvers,
Ruin may overtake one along any one
of these four lines J
be supposed that this inereas
unmixed evi
intolerable
Is not
necessa
‘ase
hat man
SHOULC
and be
ASSOCIA
}
joined with rosperity and evil
The truths science thus har
vion, and
Now
Interrelations
monize with i rutl f reli
emphasize the brotherhood of man
this never-ending variety ol
and interdependences DECOTHES dang
only When an attempt 1s made to
ous
deny in practice, if not in theory, this
and to deny the con
from. At that
ficent principle be
The of
wion Of that old
the leat
} ,
‘al and universal
brotherhood of man
sequences which flow ther
moment this most bene
. lav
comes LrevolLullonar kingdom
Ged on earth i@ reall
prayer, lom come,” 1s
lerliood
its hor
|
cle
to have be bro
uUnItINe man
nterchaneed
spring
» perform
Hhormat
utiles
conaition Of national economic
such a state man fee that raining
a livelihood he usr ierin®’ vices
f« yr
services. He wins for himself and for his
familly recompenst he conters bene
fits on his kind. The intuitive pereep
tions of poets hav us with pie
tures of men working in this feel
Blacksmith”
,
Longfellow’s
nye
serve as
may
The
an exampie
ordinar\ interdependences
scarcely felt ; a burden, because they
are mutual the farmer is dependent
on the blacks
and the
when
the
trol over nat
roca
Then this
With progress of
ire ineres
Who }
lated
Gon mereases
pendence of well-si
mughty capital te
Savage Crouching }
unseen forces of nature, to
the
eruel caprices ¢
vicissitudes of her unrecul: and
3ut when these interrelationships be-
252
as they doin
ot
t {
vhich the lot of |
come abnormal, many w:
aVS,
a terrible condition society may ensue,
in 1% numbers may
wild
arge
hecome less enviable than that of the
, ae
indian roving in our primeval forests
L propose to show articles that
em of raily
in these
ir abominable no-syst vavs has
broucht the
a
porations, which
American people to a
con
] j
on of one-sided dependence upon cor
too otten renders our
nominal freedom illusory) [ propose to
call the attention of my readers to the dis
tinction between the form and the sub
stance of |ibert ind to enforce upon them
the truth that the shell without the kernel
isa gift to be scorned Finally, with such
means as are atl My command, [ desire to
urge them to make a mighty effort to over
throw the power of our industrial masters,
and to make them our servants, as they
should ever have been, to the end that a
noble democra
life
American people
W hat f the
wide-spread, far-reaching division of |
y in social and political
may once more flourish among the
\
is a primary condition o
abor
which is the first feature of modern pro
Is it not the
communication
the
discoveries of our century have placed at
duction to attract attention ?
improved means of and
transportation which inventions and
our sery ice 4
Undoubtedly the endless ex
changes which are part and parcel of our
vast system of production require a large
market. Production, as has already been
stated, is not carried on for one’s self.
But this is not all [t is largely not car-
rie d on for one’s own neighborhood.
New York, manufactures
gloves for all parts of the United States,
Gloversville,
but it is doubtful if one-thousandth part
of the product of this industry is consumed
in the town and its immediate environs.
Westfield, manufactures
whips in like manner for the United States,
and a few towns like Waltham and Elgin
supply us with nearly all our watches.
When Adam Smith wrote his Wealth of
Nations, one hundred years ago, he assured
Massachusetts,
the English farmers that they had no rea
son to be alarmed at his advocacy of free
trade, because Irish beef was too remote
ever to become a serious competitor in the
English with
had evidently
English beef, as
Now beef
slaughtered and dressed in Chicago is eat
en fresh in Baltimore and New York, and
markets
some feared.
the English cattle-grower views with in-
dignation the incursions of American beef
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
on the English market./ The railroad thus
becomes a factor in every step of produ
tion, and this so generally that it would
be difficult to go into a New York mark:
or a New York shop and pick out one sin
gle article in the price of which charges
for the use of the railway did not form an
1
element
We discover thus a universal depend
ence on the railway. Does the reader r¢
mind me of other means of communica
tion and transportation? The reply
evident on a moment’s reflection.
[t
of political economy that the mor
a law
pe rfect highway at once steps into the po
sition of a monopolist with reference t
But it
of political economy to teach the farmer
or the merchant that for most purposes li
inferior highways. needs no law
must use the railway, or entirely abandon
his attempt to gain a livelihood; and when,
as happened formerly more frequently
than now, he was told, if not satisfied wit]
the treatment he received, to build himse]l
a railway, or betake himself to the’ ordi
hary wagon road, his only satisfaction lay
in calling his tormentor—and that
truthfully—a fool ora knave.
We can imagine a purely hypothetical
very
case, Where this dependence would be of
that kind already deseribed
There may be some Utopia in some distant
in
beneficent
where railroads ar
split up as farms are with us, not merely
star the heavens
among some four million owners, but somé
four million managers, and where farmers
and railroad presidents stand on an equal
footing, ready to make equitable contracts!
{ With us there are a dozen managers of
railways placed over against millions of
producers.) ( One producer in agriculture
or manufactures is of small concern to a
railway, but the railway may be, and often
is, a matter of life and death to the pro
ducer}
Competition? Yes, competition is some
times a blessing and sometimes a curse
It is a curse in railways, as we shall se¢
when we come to the following article on
the evils of railway management in the
United States. Apart from that, what
portion of the producers of the United
States can ever hope to have even nominal
competition? How many have effective
competition ?—competition, that is to say,
among so many who offer their services
that any combination to cease competition
is altogether impracticable. Few, if any,
as Mr. Hudson has abundantly shown in
SOCIAL STUDIES.
Lis recent remarkable work on railways
work so admirable in needed criticism
iat one feels inclined to pass lightly over
ts weakness in constructive effort Fur
Hud-
even super
as we can again see in Mr
work, as well as in any
il survey of the history of our railways,
most marked feature of their develop
ent is their tendency toward amalgama-
Who needs to be
told this when railway advocates fill the
tion and combination
r with their noisy declamations for the le
il recognition of the pool, a combination
nong rival lines to prevent competition,
s the next step in popular reform of our
means of communication and transporta
tion, when, furthermore, the absorption
lines
n the country, the West Shore and the
yf the two most prominent parallel]
\
vickel Plate, stands out as two of the chief
vents of the railway history of recent
years ¢
It thus becomes already plain, and will
n the seeond article of this series appear
vet more conclusive, that railways have
perverted that normal and healthful de
pendence of man upon man which leads
to the formation of the fraternal common
ealth—a commonwealth of equal rights
und privileges such as our fathers aspired
LO found, Equal and free contract be
tween the owner of twenty acres and a
Vanderbilt or Gould who controls the sole
avenue to the market for the produce of
the humble farmer! } What a simulacrum!
And I eare not if substitute for thte
farmer the owner of a thousand
acres, or a merchant with a hundred thou
we
small
sand in capital, or the manufacturer with
There is still no
guarantee of fair treatment.
five hundred employés.
If it comes,
let no one presume on it to approach on
a plane of equality the mighty magnate
rightly called king by the masses in their
natural feeling for the eternal fitness of
No; beware!
things. your position is one
of grace. Presumption may ruin you.
A miller
he West was able to gain fifty cents,
oO more,on a certain quantity of flour
to the East—the quantity escapes
mory,but no —. Keeling that
freights were too high, and prevented a
satisfactory return on his exertions, he
ited his case to the president of one
‘eat trunk line railways. ‘‘Send
tement showing the details of
wess, that I may see that your
not more than you represent,”
Let me give one illustration.
prese
was the reply The statement was
warded, and t raised SO as to ab
sorb the re offi f the business,
Bankruptey teme
ity
The fi
in mind in any attempt to
rst consideration
ind
tia
» ot the railway prob
em
must ecome Stlil more
rv they must be re
d iced to complete ibjection to r
ind Wi
are dealing with the problem of economic
masters; there is no middle gro
The history of trades and manuf
}
last four hundred ears
Ly divided into two pe riods.
first, called the per od of restriction, is the
era of Produe
guilds and corporations
tion was regulated and controlled by se
Into which
There
c and examinations to
lect DOdIES, admission was not
free to eve ry was needed a
one,
preparatory trainin
vive one the right to become a craftsman
A general supervision of government was
also frequently exercised over producers,
ged were con
and the rights of the privile
firmed by laws of the state The design
was good, and the results often beneficial
in which these
But up
in production, which was often limited to
a time to peculiar institu
tions were adapted. abuses crew
benefit those who enjoyed a monopoly
One primary object of the ancient produe-
lds was to secure excellence of
tion in gwul
Nuremberg (yer
to
standard attained: but when the
the few
work, and cities like in
}
ne
witness high
many to-day bear
cood ol
was placed above the general
good, and men were for purely selfish
reasons refused entrance to the bodies of
craftsmen who alone could carry on trades
and manufactures, the time for the disso
lution of the old order had arrived. In
ventions and discoveries leading to pro
hastened the fall
In France it required a ter
duction on a vast seale
of privilege.
rible revolution to usher in the new era
of industrial equality, and in other coun
tries the contest has been long and obsti
nate. This new era we call the period of
Its
attainment has been regarded by econo
freedom in trades and manufactures.
mists and historians as one of the greatest
achievements of modern times; but while
the jubilation over this advance is still be-
ing echoed and reéchoed, a new period of
restriction has been growing up, and that
vithout the justification that it meets any
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
recely
and ho ¢@ rican City
mut them il been able to
conquer in struggle for
existence tl foes.
unequaliy mat hed
las proceeded to such lengt
ng@ that it is impossible
now without special
favors. rhe ivenue Lo success 1h DUSINeSS
"a manager
solence of
eS us 1S pe ‘h ups found
acquired and ille
The Old g uld master
ssion: ‘* No:
¢
*aacmi
+} {
Plebl
means oO
endangered by fresh
+t ourselves.”
the Middle
ho ilrac
protec
eOoUus
great railway magnates
is cou ved
upon a pri
Im
mous prede
|
corporati } al sv. he pouth
vement
Ol
the Central
d Pennsylvania rail
iwONnsS pledge ad t
nemsel
to cooperate as Tar as it | hame
art levally
} :
the
Improvement Company
of the second
may with ie party hereto of first
part
to maint business of the party here
to of the first rt
by compet on, to the end that the
against loss or injury
party
part may keep up a re-
,
heret
oO ot t I
and regular
shall
munerative an a full
and to that end lower or
|
OUSINESS,
raise th OSS rates of transportation over
its railroads and connections as far as it
legally may, for such times and to such
extent as may necessary to overcome
mpetition The rebates and draw
such coi
bucks to the party of the first part to be
varied pari passu with the gross rates.’
The Standard Oil Company has enter-
with
been
ed into like agreements railway
and il
tatl 1\ tated that it
authori
ten
corporatl has
onee received
millions of dollars in rebates In eighteen
months!
Is it, then, any wonder that it
has crushed out competition and smoth
t industry ? ) It
ered honest is impossible in
this paper to dwell longer on this, and in
deed it is searcely necessary, for Mr. Hud-
son, in the work already mentioned, has
described the infamy in terms which must
make the blood boil in the veins of every
honest and patriotic citizen. This may
serve as the chief example of a multitude
of smaller outrages.
The student of the nature of the railway
problem must next notice that we have to
do in this with the problem of political lib
erty Keonomic power carries with it po
litical power. Sooner or later those who
control the avenues to material well-being
control the State, as matters are with us.
We are not dealing with the question what
ought to be, but what is and will be. Our
great Hamilton well said, ‘‘ A power over
a man’s subsistence amounts to a power
over his will.” (It is also implied in such
common assertions of every-day life as
that the member of a family who carries
the Now the
railways represent the largest aggregations
purse will rule the house.
of wealth, and exercise a controlling influ
ence in economic life. The consequences
just deseribed as inevitable have followed
surely and swiftly. The King of Belgium
long ago remarked that, as far as real pow
er was concerned, he should prefer the po
sition of president of the united Belgian
railways to that he then occupied ; and he
spoke with a clear perception of the nature
of the preponderating influences of the
railway.
(The political power of the railway cor-
porations in the United States is a matter
as well known as is the corruption by
The State
of Pennsylvania has long beén regarded
as the special property of the Pennsyl
vania Railway corporation to such an ex-
tent that, in ordinary conversation in that
commonwealth, any endeavor to obtain
justice in opposition to the will of that
potential body is discouraged as useless;
while the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania,
which it has been acquired.
once renowned for intelligence and integ
rity, is now a by-word and a reproach,
and an author of a legal work finds it
necessary to warn hi’ students not to at
tach weight to its decisions, as it is a tool
The Supreme Court of
the United States includes two judges who
are regarded as railway judges. The Sen
ate of the United States has become the
stronghold of the great corporations, esti
of corporations.
mates having been made that even one
fourth of its members are railway rep
resentatives.\ Frequent allusions to our
SOCIAL STUDIES
are heard, and in the
the
the ab
House of Lords”
or press One sees references to ex
ediency and ultimate necessity of
lition of this stronghold of our largest
nancial interests Look to California,
nd you will find a Legislature which is
said to be the tool of the Central Pacitie,
nd you discover a Railway (C‘ommission
nable to enforee the laws of the land.
Ohio you learn that the Standard Oil
of the
mitrols the Legislature in opposition to
Nor do evel
ir municipalities escape this malign in
W hen fall
of 1885 was held in Baltimore, word was
sent to the
ho hoped to obtain a municipal office
Company, a creature railways,
e interests of the people
lence. the election of the
one of leading politicians
n his campaign utterances to be sure
ot to touch on the subject of ral
is is the condition to which our
iy kings have brought us
ings in very truth, and we are their s
the
ects. to whom right of free speech
. . q }
ind of an independent press is denied
We read of an earlier period when Amer
thie
mM nly intrepidity, and the vigorous inde
a Was proud of the sturdy honesty,
pendence of her citizens. Is this passing
away? In the testimony given before th:
>
Senate Committee of 1883 on Labor and
Capital, one witness spoke of the subsery
ieney of American-born laborers as a well
known fact, and no contradiction has ap
a foreible ex
Hunde
: :
an it be
peared. The Germans have
pression to indicate this, namely,
demuth, the humility of adog. ¢
that this is a characteristic of the descend
Wash
ington, Hamilton, Jetferson, and Patrick
Henry, and that long line of Revolution
Indeed, it is imposyble. Our
subjection will not endure forever. Our
labor organizations are a pledge that it
will not; and for
other, we may rejoice in their might
It is a trite remark that there is at least
truth
finds its advocates.
ants of a generation which knew
al J heroes ¢
this cause, if for no
a kernel of in everv cause which
This holds even with
regard to the teachings of anarchists and
revolutionists. It is the kernel of truth
which our own American Revolution em
phasized, and which is to-day preserved in
tact in the Constitution of Maryland It
is the sacred right of revolution against op
pressors who can be dislodged in no other
If representatives of
should ever intrench
Way. corporations
themselves in our
Legislatures and in our judicial service,
the
Its ‘ t
and pervert will of the people and
the
become the duty of revo
prevent xpression right of
revolution will
lution Happily affairs are in this
We can by the
cure reform, and put an
ol
English
not
condition ballot vet se
end to the chief
It took
hundred ye
causes corporate abuses the
government one ars
to wrest political power from the Kast In
dia Company, but the riotous days of the
political glory of our railway corpora
tions are, there is reason to hope, already
numbered.
The railway problem is the problem of
No
or artificial, employs so many men as the
labor other single person natural
great railway corporation The number
of railway employes in t nited States,
according to the last ecensu Was nearly
$20,000
This
other channels both direct! vand indirectly
emplovment influe labor
ith
It has more power than resides elsew
end
to depress waves, to ¢
labor, and t ject it i
other
lence
abuse Its inflt
the laboring
CLASSES
the United States
ple in re card atment, satis
factory tenure of e, fair wages, and
Vhnoiesome envi for health of
}
mind and bod: would speedily
But it is
iple that the rail
lead to an elevation of labor
not merely as an exam
way problem is Lhe probiem ol labor It
isin many branches interested in produc-
tion, and its reduet f wages will often
force a reduction evel upon competitors
who desire to do the be st for labor
It is
petitive economic system that
very
an unfortunate feature of our com
meanness
and
to
the worst elements in industrial society.
es are forced upon the well-meaning
: .
thus an ascendency IS Trequently given
tak
An illustration of this may again be
en from that rich storehouse «
nished us by Hudson. 17
combination of ania, one ol
Lhe
Unit
Pe nnsyly
most remarkable
ed
monopoiies im the
States, comprises six railways hich
land
Not satisfie d
cousumer, it
195.000 acres o
al 270,00
with its oppression of
own * Coa
out of a tot
With remorseless weight on the
It ap
pre SSeS
agents of production, the miners
pears that private vners, alter a
de
wretch
mine Oo
strike of some weeks’ duration, had
cided to advance the ag Lhis
es Ol
]
ed class: but the railwavs. fearing the effeet
256
+} . w ]
on ner o ni
trebled the freight
Thus
aporers
‘cates of t]
iese men! was the matter
decided against the unhappy toiler
vVhno do not receive special
rates and rebates from the railways work
the
in wages or failure in
at such disad intage that at times
alternative ut
msideration which
business This is ae
is too often overlooked in the labor move
Many a
the one
ment UusSINeSsSs who 18
man
ssed on railway
pre
power
side the
DY
and on the other by the labor pow
er, must feel that I Ss
the
must be ready to we
eround between
upper % and
SOC] ilism
nether millstone,
come even
reconstruction which
chance of escape from
Occasionally
that
put
business
7 ]
i Wil
life l l { ‘tl living
CO ¢ lude
and Wil an
end to his own existence.
The railway problem is the problem
of cobperation and other reforms in eco
nomie life Until those engaged in these
s know that they can depend upon
and equitable treatment in transpor
tation, their at best be but
success will
imperfect and incompl te.
The railway problem is the problem of
John Stu-
art Mill, in his Political Economy, states
that
absolutely fatal
legitimate business enterprise.
there
to
that is the persistent, omnipresent
like that of
A certain amount of inequality
forcibly is only one power
economic progress,
oppression of a government
Turkey.
of taxation, certain irregularities in jus
tice, occasional failures to repress violence
all these have been witnessed in coun-
Had
America, he
would have added the railway power as
one which might crush enterprise. It is
More than that: it is near
the starting-point of production, and it
may cut off activity at its fountain-head.
tries rapidly progressing in wealth.
he written in our day in
omnipresent,
You may draw off large quantities from
a stream, when you approach its mouth,
without affecting its mighty onward flow,
whereas itcan easily be diverted or dammed
near its source. Transportation is an eco-
nomic basis of modern production.
The railway problem is the problem of
in the means of
transportation and communication. Who
legitimate investment
now knows what he is doing in buying
railway stocks or bonds? The general
Rail-
way stocks rise and railway stocks decline,
public does not, but managers do.
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
generous railway dividends are poured
into the lap of the smiling share-holder.
dividends are passed altogether, prosperity
and adversity in the railway world play
at hide-and-seek, and amid it all the ac l
mulations of the managers go on, unti
the world stares in wonder at the most
monstrous fortunes of the century, and
fifty men own an appreciable share of
» wealth of the country.
Once more: the railway problem is th«
problem of the management of a larov
ot
such as
share our national resources.
little bette
but if we put the
rst
mates
thi
we have are
in shrewd
GUESSES ;
wealth of the country at forty thousand
the valuation of railways
at five thousand
t
millions, and
millions, and say that
they represent an eighth part of our re
sources, we shall have a moderate esti
mate. <A part of the remaining
wealth of the country has a direct con
large
nection with railways. Reference is mad
to property like rolling-mills, coal-mines
car-shops, and Now
this wealth is a mat
Ask
the most conservative political economist
why the institution of private property
ought to exist, and he will tell you that it
is not an end in itself, but only a means
to an end, which end is the welfare of thi
people. Private property is allowed to
exist because it is thought that thus will
the good of mankind be most effectively
promoted. We have then to inquire how
this trust is administered.
justify its creation ?
locomotive-works.
the management of
ter of vital concern to the country.
Does it really
Does it in the most
effectual manner perform its proper func
tion? It is thus seen that the manage
ment of this vast property is a matter of
vital concern to the public; it is the prop
er concern of the public; and we reach
this conelusion: the railway problem is
the problem of the management of a
very large portion of our national re
sources.
But why should I continue? The na
ture of the problem with which we have
to deal must now be clear to the reader
It is the problem: of problems. It is the
starting-point of all social reforms. The
tariff, codperation, strikes, arbitration,
profit-sharing—all these are weighty top
ics, but they wellnigh lose their signifi
cance when placed by the side of the prop
er regulation, control, and ownership of
our chief means of communication and
transportation. Other reforms must wait
ROS SOLIS
aldermen
if honest
‘ ra}
Pali
Yrovernm
ho ge
je IU lowly h
The lesson tl
}
road IS
W here t
One cool
While
Low upon my knees
To watch thee nou
In one
With her cool
In that one
Behold a sacred birth!
What voice could tell
As whispers this cool drop,
The body's mystery,
The Spirits prop
Ye who have gladness known, Wi
Broken with years and cast away
Or does it live, a coolness in the
A resting-place for other weary
Is it a song for those who ec:
Turning as this flower has done
Even in the burning sun,
The sadness of remembered joy
Into a grace no living joy can bring ?
SPRINGHAVEN.
SLACKMORE
sion of this was ascribed by all persons of
glitful turn to his ownership of th:
Li-bulit schooner the London Trade)
uiling as she did, when the weather
fine, nearly every other week, for Loi
_
ad returning ith equal Trequenc
omen who had never been te
Om home she was a mystery at
vord, Not one of them wou
lad of hers to join this romant
i tempt the Diack cloud of
ier did Mr. Cheeseman yea
his own about eityv prices
fOOd SHIP WI! lalLVes
\I
1
yOoreovel is
> :
absurad, aS he said,
keen sen this own cheapness, to su
could find the funds to |
haship as that!
‘ven wher
be visible ° V tO @XI1S
Mr. Cheeseman’s statemet
j
existed, but was long since flow
ich was his worth that he could no
atford to buy the London Trader thre
times over, and pay ready money every
time But when he first invested hard
Vas any cash in her—against the solid tears of ]
ne and prudent wife
landed, which
true enough it was that he
could only scrape toge ther one quarter ol
the sum required. Mrs. Cheeseman, who
for none of them could
ie only thing he took was then in
tl a condition of absorbing in
yood thrashing, and a terest with Polly, made it her last request
r nis Lariie, This in this world for she never expected to
e part of the seafar- get over it—that Jemmy should not ru
been enhanced by Nelson, in debt on a goose-chase, and fetch he
vith stoutest vigour in the en- poor spirit from its grave again. James
Cheeseman was compelled—as the noblest
thought otherwise, man may be
the Vie of
breasts of Springhaven
to dissemble and even deny
his intentions until the blessed period of
in bacon and eco's caudle cup, when, the weather being plea
crockery, arn en hardware. Mr. sant and the wind along the shore, he
found himself encouraged to put up the
urn a penny by, window gently.
asy in his mind, and
crops and ricks,
|
seman, for instance, who left nothing
The tide was coming it
with a long seesaw, and upon it, like the
baby in the cradle full of sleep, lay rock
part to s Wil on account of her ten- it
aency tf 1) { l {
dreame is as he could not im
ig another little stranger, or rather
very big one, to the lady’s conception.
aA
ut told with much
power 1 lis daughter Polly, now the re Let bygones be by cones, There were
some reproaches; but the weaker vessel,
Mrs. Cheeseman, at last struck flag, with
sinking, as she threatened todo. And
when little Polly went for her first airing,
the London Trader had accomplished her
first voyage, and was sailing in triumph
antly with a box of ‘‘tops and bottoms
iwhaven This v1
itterman, tea, coffee,
itfman, hosier also, and out
provider for the outer as well as
man, had much of that enter
; | 1
re Which the country be-
to come from London His posses
m the ancient firm in Threadneedle
eet, Which has saved so many infants
Li
n the power that cuts the thread. Af
+
that, every thine
went as it should go
ne this addition to the
+} f
led
to cite
Britain, which the
soon to talk of as ‘‘our sl 1).
when any question rose of the
p 1
t London fashion. But even no
score of Vears, Save one had made
r seore and gone, Mrs. Cheese wn
1essed and doubted as to the pur
James
purest wl
immen
on his counter he had a desk, with a
ed oak rail in front of it and return
either end. The joy of his life was
Lo stand, with coodly Shirt sleeves
ing, his bright cheeks also shining in
sun, unless it were hot enough to hurt
ods. He vas not a great man, but
rood one-—-in the opinion of all who
ed him nothing, and even in
His own
though he owed so much to him
mate,
I It was
}
) Posse SSCQ a
enough to make any one
Shilling hungry to
n so clean, so ready, and ruddy amor
Many xood bLobings his looks
Wihiich
| manner, as well as his words, com
ided. And as
a, ] | }
smack his rosy lips, whic
soon as he began to
nature had fit-
ted up on purpose, over a rasher, or a cut
wnmMon, or a keg OL vest
Ay le sb iry,
or a fine red herring, no customer hay
ig a penny in his pocket might strugele
hard enough to keep it there. For the
half-hearted policy of fingering one’s
mney, and asking a price theoretically,
ruld recoil upon the constitution of the
mgest man, unless he could detach
n all codperation the congenial re
When the
ther was cool and the air full of appe
ches of his eves and nose.
e and a fine smack of salt from the sea
is Sparkling on the margin of the plate
I
expectation, there was Mr. Cheeseman,
tha knife and fork, amid a presence of
ngrifying voods that beat the weak ef
imagination. Hams of the fir
highest
< sweeter than the purest spring of po
rts of
education,
< and
springs ol
, pats of butter fragrant as the most
‘ious flattery, chicks with breast too
uple to require to be broken, and some
SPRINGHAVEN
.
times prawns from round the headland
fresh enough to sa one another's he ids
off, but fe bo1lied alre \
Memory fails to record one-tenth of all
the ood tl S ered ! And
\ Bee st Om Owe
roused iad ho Se 1 Cal wmory
endor Kiven mn tne s of M
Cheeseman s res” there e | ie
ho said, after maki short r hy
em, that short we ht had « ubied iem
o do so And everv one ! nh the
{ {
wm-house butte) id sO d, and
! ,
lie a eve id yuan e OL ¢ ( Neene
behind | lh) tha proad D e! Lhe of
white und, a long goose-pen
tue ed ovel IIs elt ¢ ! na the rreat
« yp pe Ys l S hanging’ handy mo sti {
is | e, though he is not above a
JOKE it ONLY sown nas might serve
iorth an ounce OL bes yutter to e pub
lie, And whenever this iS eighed
ind the beam adjusted wdsonie » thie
Satisfaction of the pure iSé aownh hil
the butter to be packed upon a shelf unin
a >
vaded bv the public eye Persons too
scantily endowed with the greatest of all
had
say that Mr. Cheeseman here indulged in
j art
Christian virtues the hardihood to
a& process of teh diseove red DV tim
self. Discoursine of the we ither, or the
crops, or perhaps the war, and mourning
the dishonesty of statesmen nowadays, by
1
dexterous undersweep of ke« n steel bl ide,
from the bottom of
the round, or pat. or
roll, he would have away a thin slice. and
lI
that motion jerk it into the barrel
t lhe , 1 ] |
Kept beneatit his desk
[s this, then, the establishment of the
illustrious Mr. Cheeseman The time
was yet early und the gentleman who put
this question was in riding dress The
worthy tradesman looked at n, and the
rosy hue upon his cheeks was narble
with a paler tint
This is the shop of the ‘umbl
Cheeseman,” he answered, but not with
+. ¢ } . 4 }
ne Aalacrity ol Dusiness Ali tha
food that are in season
and nothing
unseasonable. With what can I have the
honor of serving you, sir ?”
‘*With a little talk
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
contempt
the English
ment
spoke,
Eng
elo
ine, Mr.
food enough
James Chees«
‘but not, as
pris That
here business 1s
ltogether ate
ected, w
universal requirements,
your moter ci
un spare
ce my place at the desk
| have DUSINESS inside
\ may ]
If any
tlil I
sell al
one
come
and adorned
me SoOyiy
counter, ré
he stranger's
ith a eurt
ourish of his LoOope d up
"hat a handsome gentle
o herself; ** but there
‘y sad and very wild
Her fi
the same, and his heart misgave
in
arance ; ither S cone) l-
as he led in this une xpected cuest.
for apologies This
the
ie down his heavy
‘There
Is no cause
ry good one,” stranger
whip on
a stone-floored room, to which
‘You
business, and I am come upon dry busi
had been shown. are a man of
You can conjecture—is it not so?
who | lL am
told that I do not pear any strong resem
father.”
hess.
am by this time, althoug]
Diance to my
He
——
bacK DIS
took off his hat as he spoke, shook
fixed his
That
r had not recovered his usual
seif-possession vet,
hair, and
iong’ Diack
black eves upon Cheeseman.
t deals
but managed to look
1
by a head than
his visitor—with a doubtful and enquiring
for he was shorter
up
smile
‘I am Caryl Carne, of Carne Castle,
as you are pleased to eall it I have not
been in England these many years; fron
the d of father I have
and for causes of my
death my been afar
| alll re
how, own,
turned, with hope of collecting the fra
ments of the property of my ancestor
It appears to have been their custom
‘atter,
Intention 1s
\
but not gather up again. \]
to make a sheaf of the relic
spread by squancerers, and snapped upb
scoundrels.
‘To be sure, to be sure,” cried the ge
eral dealer; ‘this is vastly to your cred
sir, and I wish you all success, sir, and s
will all
who have so long respected you
Tal
ancient and honourable family, sir.
a chair, sir—please to take a chair.”
I find very little to my credit,” Mi
Carne said, dryly, as he took the offered
chair, but kept his eyes still upon Chees«
‘but among that little is a bond
you,
man’s:
from given nearly twenty years
agone, and of which you will retain, no
doubt, a vivid recollection
exclaimed the
‘A bond, sir—a bond!”
other, with his bright eyes twinkling, as
in some business enterprise. ‘‘I neve
Why
a bond requires sureties, and nobody ever
signed a bond in all my life, sir.
went surety for me.”
‘Bond
term.
the English law.
under
the
I know nothing of
not be
may proper leg
It IS possible.
But
hand and seal,
a document it is
and your signature
is witnessed, Mr. Cheeseman.”
“Ah well!
to remember something.
L begin
But my memo
Let me consider.
ry is not as it used to be, and twenty years
Will you kind
ly allow me to see this paper, if you have
it with you, sir ?”
makes a great hole in it.
‘Tt is not a paper; it is written upon
parchment, and I have not brought it with
But I have written down the inten
tion of it, and it is as follows:
me.
‘** This indenture made between James
Cheeseman (with a long description), of
the one part, and Montagu Carne (treated
likewise), of the other part, after a long
account of some arrangement made b
tween them, witnesseth that in considera
tion of the sum of £300 well and trul)
paid by the said Montagu Carne to Chees«
man, he, the said Cheeseman, doth assign
transfer, set the sai
Carne, ete., one equal undivided moiet
over, and so on, to
and one half part of the other moiety of
and in a certain vessel, ship, trading-craft
and so forth, known or thenceforth to |
known as the London Trader, of Spring
SPRINGHAVEN
MR. CHEESEMAN
haven, in the county of Sussex, by way of
ecurity for the interest at the rate of five
per cent. per annum, payable half-yearly,
is well as for the principal sum of £300,
so advanced as aforesaid.’”
‘If it should prove, sir, that money is
owing,” Mr. Cheeseman said, with that ex
ilted candour which made a weak cus
omer condemn his own eyes and nose,
no effort on my part shall be wanting,
procure lit and
In every commercial trans
have found, and
considerable, that
tween man and man, is the only true
ro upon.
ad as the times are, to
lischarge it.
iction |
Ss how
my experrence
confidence, as
footing to
oO
And how ean true
onfidence exist, unless—”
‘Unless a man shows some honesty.
\nd a man who keeps books such as
iese,” pursued the visitor, suggesting a
small kick to a pile of ledgers, ‘*‘ can hard
vy help knowing whether he owes a large
um or whether he has paid it. But that
s not the only question now. In contin-
uation of that document I find a condi-
tion, a clause provisional, that it shall be
Vou, LXXIIL.—No. 434.—18
AND CARYL
at the
Carne,
Montagu
and his representatives, either to
the interest at the rate before
option of the aforesaid
receive men
tioned and thereby secured, or, if he or
they should so prefer, to take for their own
benefit absolutely three-fourths of the net
profits, proceeds, or other increment real
ised by the trading ventures, or other em
ployment from time to time, of the said
Trader. Also there is a
nant for the insurance of the said vessel,
London cove
and a power of sale, and some other pro
visions about access to trading books, ete
with which you have, no doubt, a good
acquaintance, Mr. Cheeseman
That enterprising merchant, importer
of commodities, and wholesale and retail
dealer was fond of assuring his numerous
friends that
But them now would
doubted this if they had
watched his face as carefully as Cary]
‘nothing ever came amiss to
of
about
him : some
have
Carne was watching it. Mr. Cheeseman
could look a hundred people in the face
and with great vigour too, when a small
account But the sad,
Was running, con
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
temptuous and piercing gaze
vere hard vorth penetrating the
» black tuft the
»t
above
the
vas confronting a
ilp and
broad W hite
rogue
it
and worth
shallow to be
» and the facts that
all these
them, Came amiss to the true
James Cheeseman
how to take
this,” he
ver enough to suppose that
‘T searcely see
said, being cle
. dash of candour might sweeten the em
Iment ‘T will not deny that I was
pro
inder obligation to your highly respected
father, who was creatly beloved for his
eood- will to his neighbours. ‘Cheese
man,’ he used to ‘T will stand by
You are
prise in these here parts.
Say,
vou the only man of enter
Whatever you
do is for the good of Springhaven, which
belonged to my family for centuries be
fore those new-fangled Darlings came.
And, trust to the
honour of the Carnes not to grind down
Cheeseman, you may
a poor man who has his way to make.’
his how
were words, SIL ; well I
| he.
recollect
Too
coldaly,
them!”
well almost,” replied the young
man ‘considering how seanty
Was your memory Just But it may
time
memory
now
save and painful efforts of
if I tell
not coneerned In any
your
vou at once that [ am
way with the senti
f my [ owe him very lit
well the
matter betwixt you and me is strictly one
ments o father
tle.as you must be aware; and
of business
The position in which [am
left is such that I must press every legal
And having the
under this good document, [I have
claim to the extremest
option
determined to insist upon three-quarters
of the clear proceeds of this trading-ship,
from the date of the purchase until the
present day, as well as the capital sum in-
vested on this security
‘Very well, sir, if you do, there is only
left
rf Bankruptey, see all mv little stock in
one course me to go into the Court
again at
trade sold up,and start in life
f
the age of fifty-seven, with a curse upon
all old families.”
“Your curse, my good friend, will not
And the heat
vou exhibit is not well adapted for caleu
idd sixpence to your credit
lations commercial There is one other
course which Iam able to propose, though
I will not give a promise yet to do so—a
course which would relieve me from tak
ing possession of this noble ship which
has made your fortune, and perhaps fron
enforcing the strict examination of you
which ] entitled
But before [ propose any such concession
trading - books, to am
which will be a grand abdication of rights
Fo)
[ must have some acquaintance
one or two things become necessary.
example,
with your character, some certitude that
you can keep your own counsel, and not
divulge everything that arrives within
your knowledge; also that you have some
courage, some freedom of mind from smal]
insular sentiments, some desire to promote
the true interests of mankind, and the de
struction of national prejudices.”
‘Certainly, sir; all of those I can ap
prove of. They are very glorious things,”
eried Cheeseman—a of fine liberal
vein, whenever two half-crowns were as
man
good asacrown. ‘* We are cramped and
trampled and down-trodden by the airs
big people give themselves, and the long
ing of such of us as thinks is to speak our
Upon that point of free
dom, sir, I can heartily go with you, and
minds about it.
every stick upon my premises is well in
sured,”
‘** Including, [ hope, the London Trader,
And that re
minds me of another question
according to your covenant.
is it well
found, well-manned, and a good rapid ship
No falsehood, if you
please, about this matter.”
to make the voyage ?
‘*She is the fastest sailer on the English
coast, built at Dunkirk, and as sound as a
bell. She could show her taffrail, in light
to any British cruiser in the
She could run a fine cargo of
weather,
Channel.
French cognac and foreign laces any day
Caryl Carne re
plied, ** to cheat the British Revenue. For
that purpose exist already plenty of Brit
ish tradesmen. For the present [ impress
upon you one thing only, that you shall
‘It is not my desire,”’
observe silence, a sacred silence, regard
this conversation. For your own
sake you will be inclined to do so, and
Inge
that is the only sake a man pays much
attention to. But how much for your
own sake you are obliged to keep your
counsel, you will very soon find out if
you betray it.”
paar were
CHAPTER XVI.
FOX-HILL.
WHEN it was known in this fine old
village that young Squire Carne from
foreign parts was come back to live in thi
HARPER'S NEW M¢
there was much larger out
vords and thoughts) about
ut any French
land if
WVasion
they can said the
lmen,in di latter
: to
they seem to put into
B
i@ fishing
hodie scussion of the
tion they wont find it so easy
it the plag ie of it
ail
the squadron of Captain Tue
Vas shorn as vet of its number.
all the young men were under
] } } “a
*to hold themselves ready as mea
njury to their trade lay
iculty of getting to their
yrounds, and the disturbance
LISers th little respect for
Again, as the tid
preparation
iLnes
waxed more
and more outrageous, Zebedee had as much
could do ree al I
oval All
told
the
as 11e
iis young hands
‘solid interest lay (as he
them eve in sticking to
of
mackerel]
morning)
Springhaven flag —a pair soles
couchant, herring salient, and
re a bright sea-creen
than in after roll of
and l What could
come of these but hardship, want of vict-
Y irdant, all upon
rather hankering
drum nion - Jack.
]
uals, wounds, and death; or else to stump
about on one leg, and hold out a hat fora
They felt that it
had seen enough of that;
penny with one arm ?
vas true; they
it had happened in all their own families.
Yet such is the love of the native land
and the yearning to stand in front of it,
and such is the hate of being triumphed
over by fellows who kiss one another and
is the tingling of the
knuckles for a blow when the body has
weep, and such
been kicked in sore places, that the heart
| at last get the better of the head—or
at le if to in England.
Wherefore Charley Bowles was in arms
Vili
used be SO
already against his country’s enemies ;
and Harry Shanks waited for little except
a clear proclamation of prize-money; and
Daniel
kedge like a lively craft riding in a brisk
He had seen Lord Nelson, and
had spoken to Lord Nelson, and that great
even young was tearing at his
sea-way
man would have patted him on the head
so patriotic were his sentiments—if the
great man had been a little taller.
But the one thing that kept Dan Tug
well firm to his moorings at Springhaven
he deep hold of his steadfast heart in
To
die for his country might become a stern
was ft
a love which it knew to be hopeless.
INTHLY MAGAZINE.
duty, about which he would rather not b
hurried: but to die for Miss Dolly woul
be a wild delight; and how could he do it
And now ther
were somany young officers again, landing
unless he were at hand ?
in boats, coming in post-chaises, or charg
ing down the road on horseback, that Dan
iel, while touching up the finish of h
boat with paint and varnish and Venetian
Red, was not so happy as an artist shoul
be who knows how to place the whol
Sometimes, with the paint stirred up and
the of the
trimmed warily, through the rushes and
creaming, and ooze brus|
ragwort and sea-willow his keen, uncon
querable eyes would spy the only figur
that quelled them, faraway, shown agains!
the shining water, or shadowed upon the
flat mirror of the sand.
But, alas!
ther
was always another figure near it, bi
bigger
bulkier, framed with ugly angles, jerking
about with the elbow sticking out, instea
of gliding gracefully. Likely enough the
lovely form, brought nearer to the eyes and
heart by love, would flit about beautifull)
for two sweet moments, filling with rapt
ure all the flashes of the sea and calm ot
the evening sky beyond; and then the
third moment would be hideous. — For the
figure of the ungainly foe would stride
across the delicious vision, huge against
the waves like Cyclops, and like him ges
ticulant, but unhappily not so single-eyed
that the slippery fair might despise him
Then away would fly all sense of art and
joy in the touch of perfection, and a very
nasty feeling would ensue, as if nothing
were worth living for, and nobody could
be believed in.
That plaguesome Polypheme was Cap
tain Stubbard, begirt with a wife, and en
dowed with a family almost in excess of
benediction, and dancing attendance upon
Miss Dolly, too stoutly for his own com
fort, in the hope of procuring for his own
Penates something to eat and to sit upon
Some evil genius had whispered, or rather
trumpeted, into his ear—for he had but
one left, and that worked very seldom,
through alarm about the bullet which had
carried off its fedow—that if he desired
as he did with heart and stomach, to get a
clear widening by £200 of his strait ways
and restricted means, through Admiral
Darling it might be done, and Miss Doll:
was the proper one to make him do it
For the Inspectorship of Sea-Fencibles
from Selsea-Bill to Dungeness was worth
all that money in hard cash yearly; and
7
iM
WA}
Pas
OgH tke
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
the late Inspector having quitted this life
through pork boiled in a copper kettle
t
hye Sit it
naturally
the
lion Was vacant; and
ie Admiral being man for whose
eck the [nspectorship was appointed, it
DAN
is needless to say that (in the spirit of fair
play) the appointment was vested in the
Admiral.
The opinion of all who knew him was
that Captain Stubbard was fairly entitled
And he
shared that opinion, taking loftier aim
to look for something higher.
than figures could be made to square with,
till the latter prevailed, as they generally
do, because they can work without vict-
wals
had or at any rate more
than he could spare of them (not being a
pig)
quired as much as ever to put inside them ;
and his children, not having inherited that
loss as scientifically as they should have
done, were hard to bring up upon the £15
yearly allowed by Great Britain for each
For although the brave Captain
three ribs
lost
in the service of his country, he re-
of the gone bones. From the ear tl]
Was gone he derived no Income, havin C
rashly compounded for £25
In the nature of things, which the name
have followed, the father is the feeder
TUGWELL
and the world is full of remarks unless he
becomes a good clothier also. But every
thing went against this father, with nine
little Stubbards running after him, and no
ninepence in any of his pockets, because
he was shelfed upon half-pay, on account
of the depression of the times and of his
ribs. But Miss Dolly Darling was re
solved to see him righted, for she hated
all national meanness.
‘* What is the use of having any influ
ence,” she asked her good father, ** unless
you employ it for your own friends? |
should be quite ashamed to have it said of
me, or thought, that I could get a good
thing for any one I was fond of, and was
mean enough not to do it, for fear of pal
try jealousy. Mean is much too weak a
word; it is downright dishonest, and what
SPRINGHAVEN.
W hat
for, unless it
much worse, cowardly is the
vernment meant is to do
od to people ?”
‘Certainly, my dear child, certainly
the people at large, that is to say, and
e higher interests of the country
Can there be any people more at
Stubbard and his
Their
ming out of their clothes, and they have
My in
me is not enough to stop to count, even
But ev
that 1s to
ge than Captain
ife and children ? elbows are
ircely got a bed to sleep upon.
hen I get it paid punctually
farthing I receive shall go
ever does come
ae into the lap of
Stubbard, anonymously and respect
‘Pay your bills, first,” said the Admi
lakinge the weather gage of the diseus
on: ‘‘a little bird tells me that you owe
good trifle, even in Springhaven.”
“Then the little bird
ll,” replied Dolly, who was not very easy
to fluster.
pence with in a little hole of this
rot a false
has
‘* Who is there to spend SIX
kind ?
lam not a customer for tea, cotfee, tobac
o, snuff, or pepper, nor even for whiting,
oreconger. Old Cheeseman imports
ill the fashions, as he says; but I go by
And trumpery as my
little of it
But I should like to know who told
my own judgment.
ncome 1s, very goes into his
you such a wicked story, father?”
“Things are mentioned in confidence,
ind I put them together,” said the Admi
ral ** Don’t say another word, or look as
if yeu would be happier if you had some
to Your dear mother
ised to do it; and it beats me always. I
thing ery about.
have long had my eye upon Captain Stub
bard, and I remember that
when three flew away.
We called him Adam, because of his wife
well gallant
action his ribs
coming just when his middle rib went,
and his name was Adam Stubbard, sure
enough. Such men, in the prime of their
should be promoted, instead of being
Why,
he walks every bit as well as I do, and his
And nine chil
Lord bless my heart!
know which way to turn, with only four!”
Within a short fortnight Captain Stub-
bard was appointed, with an office estab
lished at the house of Widow Shanks
though his real office naturally was at the
public-house—and Royal Proclamations
aroused the valour of nearly everybody
who could read them. Nine little Stub-
ife
iLLe,
disabled, for a scratch like that.
watch-ribbon covers it.
dren! I searcel y
CAPTAIN STUBBARD
bards soon were rigged too smart to know
themselves, as the stvle is of all dandies:
Mrs. Stubbard belt
made to go round her, when the weather
and even had a new
. :
Was elastic.
‘These are the things that
eye
the
us,
prove
of an All wise Providence over
said the Captain to the Admiral, pointing
out six pairs of short legs, galligaskined
rol] are
thie
things that make one feel the foree of the
from one of cloth; ‘‘ these
words of David.”
“Certainly, yes, to be sure!”
all at
**Good legs they have
got, and no mistake; like the polished cor
ners of the temple
replied the
gallant senior officer. sea as to the
passage suggest d
Let them vo and dip
them in the sea, while you give the ben
efit of Not here, |
mean, but upon Fox-hill yonder; if Mrs
Stubbard will Spare you for a couple of
hours, most kindly.”
Of the heights that look down with a
breezy air upon the snug nest of Spring
your opinion here.
a distance,
is Fox-hill
haven, the fairest to see from
and to tread with brisk foot,
For the which are
with the springs that form the
keep this for their own last spring into
the air, before bathing in the
downs, channelled
bre 0k.
vigorous
268
composure of the sea
fall
first
All the other hills
back a little, to let Fox-hill have the
choice of aspeet—or bear the first
brunt, as itself would state the matter
And to any body coming up, and ten times
to a stranger, this resolute foreland otfers
“PAY YOUR BILLS,
more invitation to go home again, than
to come visiting ]
Kor the bulge of the
breast is steep, and ribbed with hoops
coming up in denial, concrete with chalk,
muricated with flint, and thornily crested
with good stout furze. And the forefront
of the head, when gained, is stiff with
brambles, and stubbed with sloes, and mi-
tred with a choice band of stanch sting-
nettles.
‘Tt would take a better Frenchman,”
said the Admiral, with that brevity which
is the happy result of stoutness up steep
FIRST,’ SAID
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
hill, ‘‘than any of ‘they flat-bottoms,’ as
Swipes, my gardener, calls them, to get
through these prickles, Stubbard, without
Sark-blewine. Sucha wonderfully thin
skinned lot they are!
Did I ever tell yo
the
But
story of our boatswain’s mate ?
THE ADMIRAL.”
that takes a better sailing breeze than I’ve
got now. You see where we are, don't
you ”
“Certainly, Admiral,” replied Captain
Stubbard, disdaining to lay hand to his
injured side, painfully as it yearned for
pressure; *‘ we have had a long pull, and
we get a fine outlook over the country for
leagues, and the Channel. How close at
hand everything looks! I suppose we
shall have rain, and we wantit. I could
thump that old castle among the trees
into smash, and your church looks as if I
SPRINGHAVEN.
could put a shot with a rifle-gun into the
bell chamber.”
‘*And so you could. What I want to
show you is that very point, and the im
With a battery of long
twenty-fours up here, the landing, the
av, and all the roads are at our merey.
My dear old friend Nelson drew my at-
tention to it.”
“It is plain as a pikestaff to Tom,
Dick, or Harry:”’ Captain Stubbard was
a frank, straightforward man, and much
as he owed to the Admiral’s aid, not a
farthing would he pay in flattery. ‘But
why should we want to command this
There is nothing to protect but a
few common houses, and some half-score
portance of it
spot ¢
of fishing-craft, and a schooner that trades
to London, and yonder old church, and
oh yes, to be sure, your own house and
property, Admiral.”
‘Those must take their chance, like
[ hope I know better than to
think of them in comparison with the
good of the country. But if we fail to
occupy this important post, the enemy
might take us by surprise, and do so.”
‘Possible, but most improbable. This
little place lies, by the trend of the coast,
quite out of their course from Boulogne
to London; and what is there here to
tempt them? No rich town to sack, no
great commerce to rob, no valuable ship-
ping to lay hands on.”
—
ovners.
but there’s my house and my
two girls; and I don’t want my old roof
burned, and my daughters put to wait on
Boney. But to think of self-interest is
below contempt, with our country going
through such trials. Neither should we
add any needless expense to a treasury
already overburdened.”
‘Certainly not.
ly wicked.
It would be absolute-
We have a long and costly
war before us, and not a shilling should
be spent except in case of clear neces-
sity.”
‘I am very glad indeed to find your
opinion so decided, so untainted with pet
ty self-interest.” As Admiral Darling
spoke he closed a little silver telescope,
with which he had been gazing through
the wooded coronet of the hill. *‘ I thought
it my duty to consult you, Stubbard, be-
fore despatching this letter, which, being
backed by Nelson’s opinion, would proba-
bly have received attention. If a strong
battery were thrown up here, as it would
be in a fortnight from the receipt of this
Vou. LXXIII.—No. 434.~19
269
bit of foolseap, the appointment of com
mandant would rest with me, and I could
appoint nobody but your good self, be
cause of your well-known experience in
earthworks. The appointment would
have doubled your present pay, which,
though better than nothing, is far below
your merits. But your opinion settles
the question otherwise, and I must burn
my letter. Let no more time.
Mrs. Stubbard will call me a savage, for
keeping you away so long.”
us lose
‘* Important business,” replied the Cap
tain, ‘‘ will not even for ladies, or,
rather, they must try to wait for it, and
give way to more reasonable urgency
Some time is required for considering this
matter, and deciding what is most for the
interest of the nation.
your spy-glass, Admiral.
side on which
Wait
Oblige me with
There is one
I have neglected to look
out, and that may of all be the most im
portant. A conclusion arrived at by your
self and Nelson is not to be hastily set
aside. Your knowledge of the country
is so far beyond mine, though I may have
had more to do with land-works. We
ought to think twice, sir, if the govern
ment will pay for it, about a valuable job
of this kind.”
With these words Captain Stubbard be-
gan to use the telescope carefully, form
ing his opinion through it, and wisely
shaking his head, now and then, with a
longer and longer focus. Then he closed
the glass, and his own lips firmly—where
by a man announces that no other should
open his against them—and sternly strid
ing the yard exact, took measurement for
the battery. The hill was crowned with
a ring of Scotch firs, casting a quiet shade
upon the warlike haste of the Captain
If Admiral Darling smiled, it was to the
landscape and the offing, for he knew that
Stubbard was of rather touchy fibre, and
relished no jokes unless of home produc-
tion. His slow, solid face was enough to
show this, and the squareness of his out-
line, and the forward thrust of his knees
as he walked, and the larkspur impress of
his lingering heels. And he seldom said
much, without something to say.
‘* Well,” cried the Admiral, growing
tired of sitting so long upon a fallen
trunk, ‘‘ what conclusion do you feel in
clined to to? ‘Tis a fine breezy
place to clear the brain, and a briny air
to sharpen the judgment.”
‘*Only one tree need come down—this
come
270
crooked one at the southeast corner.”
Captain Stubbard began to swing his
about, like a windmill
‘All
cut
arms
of the
have a
delight
uncertain
hate to
blaekguards
Admiral, we will
They will add to
masking it.
wind, rentlemen
tree down, all
in the
hurt
process
i
not your trees
our strength, by Six long
twenty-fours of the new make, here in
front, and two
flank I should like to see the whole
of the Boulogne flotilla try to take yon-
der shore by day light.
of COUPrSE
eighteens upon either
and
That is to say,
if IT commanded, with good old
salts to second me. With your common
artillery officers, landlubbers, smell -the-
wicks, cross-the-braces sons of guns, there
had better not be anything at all put up.
They fortification ; and
when they have made it, they can’t work
it. Admiral Darling, you know that,
though you have not had the bad luck
to deal them as I have. I may
thank one of them for being up here on
the shelf.”
‘‘Of one thing you may be quite cer-
can't make a
with
tain,” replied the commander of the sea
defence; ‘‘if we have any battery on this
Fox-hill. it shall be
manned by blue-jackets.
and
I have a large
draft of them now at discretion. Every
man in Springhaven will lend a hand, if
paid for it. It would take at least a
twelvemonth it done from Wool-
wich. A seaman does a thing before a
landsman thinks about it.”
constructed
to get
CHAPTER XVII.
SEA-SIDE LODGINGS.
To set a dog barking is easier than to
the reasoning.
Even if the roof above his honest head,
stop him by soundest
rrowing loose on its nails, is being mend-
ed, he comes out to ask about the matter,
and in strong terms proclaims his opinion
to the distance.
After kind behaved the people
about to be protected by this battery.
They had no danger till
they saw their houses beginning to be
protected, and for this—though it added
to their importance—they were not truly
thankful. They took it in various ways,
according to their rich variety of reflec-
tion; but the way in which nobody took
it was that of gratitude and humility.
this
dreamed of
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
‘*Everything upside down,” they said,
‘everything gone clean topsy-turvy!
And the deep meaning of it is to rob our
fishing, under pretence of the Nationals
It may bring a good bit of money to the
place, forthe lining of one ortwo pockets
such as John Prater’s and Cheeseman’s:
but I never did hold so much with money,
when shattery ways comes along of it.
No daughter of mine stirs out-of-doors
after sundown, I can tell them.”
Thus were the minds of the men dis
turbed, or at any rate those of the elder
the
were pleased, although they pretended to
“Tl tell you what I
think, ma’am,” Mrs. Cheeseman said to
Widow Shanks quite early, ‘if you take
while the women, on
ones: whole.
be contemptuous,
a farthing less than half a guinea a week
for your dimity-parlour, with the window
up the hill, and the little door under the
big sweet-briar, I shall think that you are
not as you used to be.”
‘And right you would be, ma’am, and
right there;’ Mrs. Shanks sighed
deeply as she thought of it. ‘*There is
nobody but you can understand it, and |
don’t mind saying it on that account to
you. Whenever I have wanted for a lit
tle bit of money, as the nature of lone
widows generally does, it has always
been out of your power, Mrs. Cheeseman,
to oblige me, and quite right of you. But
I have a good son, thank the Lord, by the
name of Harry, to provide for me; and a
guinea a week is the agreement now for
the dimity-parlour, and the three leg’d bed,
and cold dinner to be paid for extra, such
too
as I might send for to your good shop,
with the money ready in the hand of my
little girl, and jug below her apron for
refreshment from the Darling.”
‘Well, I never! My dear soul, you
have taken all my breath away. Why,
it must be the captain of all the gunners.
How gunpowder do pay, to be sure!”
‘*Lor, ma’am, why, don’t you know,”
replied Mrs. Shanks, with some contempt,
‘that the man with three ribs is the cap
tain of the gunners—the man in my back
sitting-room? No'dimity-parlour for him
with his family, not for a guinea and a
half a week. But if I was to tell you who
the gentleman is, and one of the high
est all round these parts, truthful as you
know me, Mrs. Cheeseman, you would say
to yourself, what a liar she is!”
‘*Mrs. Shanks, I never use coarse ex-
pressions, even to myself in private. And
SPRINGHAVEN.
perhaps I could tell you a thing or two
vould astonish you more than me, ma’am.
Suppose I should tell you, to begin with,
who vour guinea lodger is ?”
‘That you could never do, Mrs. Cheese
all your time a
He is not of the for a
twopenny rasher, or a wedge of cheese
man, with counting
hanges. rank
packed in old petticoat.”
These two ladies now looked at one an
They had not had a quarrel for
other.
almost three months, and a large arrear
of little pricks on either side was pend
Sooner or later it would have to be
fought out (like a feud between two na-
ions), with a houseful of loss and woe to
either side, but a thimbleful of pride and
glory. Yet much
women than the most
sO wiser were these
sagacious nations
that they put off to a cheaper time their
grudge against each other.
‘His rank may be royal,” said the wife
of Mr. Cheeseman, ‘‘ though a going-down
hill kind of royalty, perhaps, and yet he
might be glad, Mrs. Shanks, to come where
the butter has the milk spots, and none is
in the cheese, ma’am.”
‘*Tf such should be his wish, ma’am, for
supper or for breakfast, or even for dinner
on a Sunday when the rain comes through
Castle, you trust me to know
where to send him, but not to guarantee
him at all of his money.”
he
ull
may
‘They high ones is very apt to slip in
that,” Mrs. Cheeseman answered, thought
fully; ‘‘they seem to be less particular in
aaying for a thing than they was to have
good. But a burnt child dreads the
as they say; and a young man with
a castleful of owls and rats, by reason of
going for these hundred years on credit,
will have it brought home to him to pay
ready money. But the Lord be over us!
if I don’t see him a-going your way al-
ready!
and
|
1
I
ire,
Good-by, my dear soul
and if at any time
short of table or bed linen, a loan from
an old friend, and coming back well wash-
good-by,
preserve vou;
ed, and it sha’n’t be, as the children sing,
A friend with a loan has the pick of
your bone, and he let
long alone.’”
‘* Many thanks to you for friendly mean-
ing, ma’am,” said the widow, as she took
‘‘and glad I
may be to profit by it, with the time com-
manding. But as yet I have had neither
sleepers or feeders in my little house, but
the children. Though both of them re-
won't you very
up her basket to go home,
271
serves the right to do it, if nature should
so compel them—the three-ribbed gent
man With one ear, at five shillings a week,
Man
up over him. Their meaning is for busi
in the sitting-room, and the young
ness, and studying, and keeping of ae
counts, and having of a quiet place in bad
weather, though feed they must, sooner 01
later, I depe nd; and then who is there but
Mr. Cheeseman ?
‘* How grand he do look upon that black
horse, quite as solid as if he was glued to
it!” the lady of the shop replied, as she put
“and to do that with
victuals is beyond a young man’s
away the money;
out
power. He looks like what they used to
eall a knight upon an errand, in the pie
ture-books, when I was romantic, only for
Al!
his errand will be to break the hearts of
the hair that comes under his nose.
the young ladies that goes down upon the
sands in their blue gowns, I'm afraid, if
they can only manage with the hair below
luis nose.”
‘“And do them good, some of them,
and be a judgment from the Lord, for the
French style in their skirts is a shocking
W hat should we have said
when you and I were young, my dear?
But quick step is the word for me, for I
expect my Jenny home on her day out
thing to see.
from the Admiral, and no Harry in the
house to look after her. Ah! dimity-par
lours is a thing as may happen to cut both
ways, Mrs. Cheeseman.”
Widow Shanks had good cause to be
proud of her cottage, which was the pret
tiest in Springhaven, and one of the most
had fought a hard
her widowhood began, and
the children were too young to help her,
rather than give up the home of her love
time, and the cradle of her little ones.
commodious. She
fight, when
Some of her neighbours (who wanted the
house) were sadly pained at her stubborn
ness, and even dishonesty, as they put it,
when she knew that she
her rent. But ‘‘never is a long time,”
according to the proverb; and with the
forbearance of the Admiral, the kindness
of his daughters, and the growth of her
own children, she stood clear of all debt
now, except the sweet one of gratitude.
never could pay
And now she could listen to the moan
ing of the sea (which used to make her
weep all night) with a milder sense of
the cruel it had drowned her
husband, and a lull of sorrow that was al-
most hope; until the of
woe that
dark visions
f
3
:
272 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
wrecks and corpses melted into sweet
dreams of her son upon the waters, finish
ing his supper, and getting ready for his
pipe. For Harry was making his own
track well in the wake of his dear father.
Now if she had gone inland to dwell,
from the stroke of her great calamity
as most people told her to make haste and
do—not only the sympathy of the sea, but
many of the little cares, which are the
ants that bury heavy grief, would have
been wholly lost to her. And amongst
these cares the foremost always, and the
most distracting, was that of keeping her
husband’s cottage—as she still would call
it—tidy, comfortable, bright, and snug, as
if he were coming on Saturday.
Where the brook runs into the first
hearing of the sea, to defer its own ex-
tinction it takes a lively turn inland,
leaving a pleasant breadth of green be-
tween itself and its destiny. Atthe breath
of salt the larger trees hang back, and
turn their boughs up; but plenty of pret-
ty shrubs come forth, and shade the cot
tage garden. Neither have the cottage
walls any lack of leafy mantle, where the
summer sun works his own defeat by fos
tering cool obstruction. For here are the
tamarisk, and jasmin, and the old-fash-
ioned corchorus flowering all the summer
through, as well as the myrtle that loves
the shore, with a thicket of stiff young
sprigs arising, slow of growth, but hiding
yearly the havoe made in its head and
body by the frost of 1795, when the mark
of every wave upon the sands was ice.
And a vine, that seems to have been
evolved from a miller, or to have preject
ed him, clambers with grey silver point-
rels through the more glossy and darker
green. And over these you behold the
thatch, thick and long and parti-coloured,
eaved with little windows, where a bird
may nest for ever.
But it was not for this outward beauty
that Widow Shanks stuck to her house,
and paid the rent at intervals. To her
steadfast and well-managed mind, tle
number of rooms, and the separate stair-
case which a solvent lodger might enjoy,
were the choicest grant of the household
gods. The times were bad—as they al-
ways are when conscientious people think
of them—and poor Mrs. Shanks was de-
sirous of paying her rent, by the pay-
ment of somebody. Every now and then
some well-fed family, hungering (after
long carnage) for fish, would come from
village pastures or town shambles, to gaze
at the sea, and to taste its contents. For
in those days fish were still in their duty,
to fry well, to boil well, and to go into
the mouth well, instead of being dissolute
as nowadays the best is—with dirty ice,
and flabby with arrested fermentation
In the pleasant dimity-parlour then, com
manding a fair view of the lively sea and
the stream that sparkled into it, were no
ble dinners of sole, and mackerel, and
smelt that smelled of cucumber, and
dainty dory, and pearl-buttoned turbot,
and sometimes even the crisp sand-lance,
happily for himself, unhappily for white
bait, still unknown in London. Then,
after long rovings ashore or afloat, these
diners came back with a new light shed
upon them—that of the moon outside the
house, of the supper candles inside. There
was sure to be a crab or lobster ready,
and a dish of prawns sprigged with pars
ley; if the sea were beginning to get cool
again, a keg of philanthropic oysters; or
if these were not hospitably on their
hinges yet, certainly there would be
choice- bodied creatures, dried with a
dash of salt upon the sunny shingle, and
lacking of perfection nothing more than
to be wormed through upon a toasting-
fork.
By none, however, of these delights
was the newly won lodger tempted. Al]
that he wanted was peace and quiet, time
to go through a great trunk full of pa-
pers and parchments, which he brought
with him, and a breath of fresh air from
the downs on the north, and the sea to
the south, to enliven him. And in good
truth he wanted to be enlivened, as Wid-
ow Shanks said to her daughter Jenny;
for his eyes were gloomy, and his face
was stern, and he seldom said anything
good-natured. He seemed to avoid all
company, and to be wrapped up wholly
in his own concerns, and to take little
pleasure in anything. As yet he had
not used the bed at his lodgings, nor bro-
ken his fast there to her knowledge,
though he rode down early every morn-
ing and put up his horse at Cheeseman’s,
and never rode away again until the
dark had fallen. Neither had he cared
to make the acquaintance of Captain
Stubbarb, who occupied the room beneath
his for a Royal Office—as the landlady
proudly entitled it; nor had he received,
to the best of her knowledge, so much as
a single visitor, though such might come
SPRINGHAVEN.
by his private entrance among the shrubs
innoticed. All these things stirred with
deep interest and wonder the enquiring
mind of the widow.
‘*And what do they say of him up at
the Hall?” she asked her daughter Jen
ny, who was come to spend holiday at
home. ‘‘What do they say of my new
centleman, young Squire Carne from the
Castle? The Carnes and the
never friends, as
knows in Springhaven. Still
Darlings
was great every one
, it do seem
hard and unchristianlike to keep up them
old enmities;
most of all, when the one
is down in the world, with the owls
and the bats and the coneys.”’
‘*No, mother, no.
side
They are not a bit
replied Jenny—a maid of good
‘it is only that he has not eall
ed upon them. All have
their rules of You
can't be expected to understand them,
mother.”
like that,”
loyalty ;
gentlefolks
proper behaviour.
‘*But why should he goto them more
than they should come to him, particular
with young ladies there? And him with
only one horse to their seven or eight. I
am right, you may depend upon it, Jen
ny; and my mother, your grandmother,
was a lady’s-maid in a higher family
than Darling—it depends upon them to
come and look him up first, and he have
no eall to knock at their door without it.
Why, it stands to reason, poor young
man! And nota bit hath he eaten from
Monday.”
‘“Well, IT believe I am right, but T'll
ask Miss Dolly. She is that sharp, she
knows everything, and I don’t mind what
I say to her, when she thinks that
looks handsome.
she
And it takes a very
bad dress, I can tell you, to put her out of
that opinion.”
‘She is right enough there:”’ Mrs.
Shanks shook her head at her daughter
for speaking in this way. ‘‘ The ugliest
frock as ever came from France couldn't
make her any but a booty. And the
Lord knows the quality have come to
queer shapes now. Undecent would be
the name for it in our ranks of women.
Why, the last of her frocks she gave you,
Jenny, how much did I put on, at top and
bottom, and you three inches shorter than
she is! And the slips they ties round
oh dear! oh dear! as if that was
to hold them up and buckle them togeth-
er! Won't they have the groanings by
the time they come to my age ?”
them
CHAPTER XVIII.
FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
ADMIRAL
and so continually called from home by
DARLING was now so busy,
the duties of his commandership, that he
could not fairly be expected to call upon
Mr. Caryl Carne. Yet that
being rather sensitive—which sometimes
gentleman,
means very spiteful resented as a per
_1f the
overture had been made, he would have
sonal slight this failure: although
ascribed it to intrusive curiosity, and a
low him in his ruins.
But truly in the old man’s kindly heart
there was no sour corner for ill blood to
lurk in, and no dull fibre for ill-will to
feed on. He kept on meaning to go and
call on Caryl Carne, and he had quite
made up his mind to do it, but something
always happened to prevent him
Neither did he care a groat for his old
friend Twemlow’s advice upon that sub
ject. ‘* Don’t go near him,” said the Ree
tor, taking care that his wife was quite
safe out of hearing;
desire to behold
‘it would ill become
me to say a word against my dear wife's
own nephew, and the representative of
her family. And, to the utmost of my
knowledge, there is nothing to be said
against him. But I can’t get on with
him at all. Idon’t know why. He has
only honored us with a visit twice, and
Nice
manners they learn on the Continent!
But none of us wept when he declined;
not even his good aunt, my wife. Though
he must have got a good deal to tell us,
and an extraordinary knowledge of for
eign ways. But instead of doing that, he
sneer at us. I
he would not even come to dinner.
can look at a
question from every point of view, and I
defy anybody to call me narrow-minded.
Sut still, one must draw the line some
where, or throw overboard all principles;
and I draw it, my dear Admiral, against
infidels and against Frenchmen.”
seems to
‘* No rational person can do otherwise”
—the Admiral’s opinion was decisive—
‘*but this young man is of good English
birth, and one can’t help feeling sorry for
his circumstances. And I you,
Twemlow, that I feel respect as well for
the courage that he shows, and the per
severance, in
assure
coming home and facing
those vile usurers. And your own wife's
nephew! Why, you ought to take his
part through thick and thin, whatever
you may think of him. From all I hear
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
he must be
1
neh principle
a young man of exceedingly
and I shall make a point
illing upon him the first half-hour I
To morrow
after,
to spare oat possible; or
at the
But the needful half-hour had not yet
if not, the day latest.’
very
een found; and Carne, who was wont to
the worst of everybody, concluded
still cherished the
e, Which h ud alway s been on his
little, and
For the
family (the
Loink
the Darling race
For this he eared
perhaps was rather glad of it.
old of
Carne Castle besieged by the Roundheads
own. side.
dwelling piace his
a hundred and Sixty years agone)
the ears of
at the gate too hard.
remnants of its walls did
now
threatened to tumble about
one knocking
the
so; the greater part, having already fall
any
Or rather
en, lay harmless, and produced fine black-
berries.
As a castle, it had been well respected
in its day, though not of mighty bulwarks
Standing ona
knoll, between the ramp of high land and
or impregnable position.
the slope of shore, it would still have been
conspicuous to traveller and to voyager
for the tall around it.
hid the moat, and the relics of the draw-
bridge, the groined archway, and cloven
which had twice been
struck by lightning
but trees These
tower of the keep
as well as the win-
dows of the armoury, and the chapel
hushed with ivy. The banqueting hall
was in better repair, for the Carnes had
been hospitable to the last; but the win-
dows kept no wind off, neither did the
In short, all the
was in a pretty state of ruin, very
nice to look at, very nasty to live in, ex-
cept for toads, and bats, and owls, and
rats, and efts, and brindled slugs with yel-
roof repulse the rain.
front
low stripes; or on a summer eve the cock-
roach and the carrion-beetle.
At the back, however, and above the
road which Cheeseman travelled in
pony-chaise, was a range of rooms still fit
to dwell in, though poorly furnished, and
floored with stone. In better times these
had been the domain of the house-keeper
and the butler, the cook and the other
upper had minded their
duty and heeded their comfort more truly
than the master and mistress did. For
the downfall of this family, as of very
many others, had been chiefly caused by
his
servants, who
unwise Instead of choosing
active wives to look after
their home affairs and regulate the house-
marriage.
sensible and
hold, the Carnes for several generations
now had wedded flighty ladies of good
birth and pretty manners, none of whom
brought them a pipkinful of money, while
all helped to spend a potful. Therefor
their descendant was now living in the
kitchens, and had no idea how to make
use of them, in spite of his French educa
tion; of comfort also he had not much
the better for him
and he searcely knew what it was to earn
and enjoy soft quietude.
idea, which was all
One night,when the summer was in full
prime, and the weather almost blameless,
this young Squire Carne rode slowly back
from Springhaven to his worn-out castle.
The beauty of the night had kept him
back, for he hated to meet people on the
road. The lingering gossips, the tired fag
ot-bearers, the youths going home from
the hay-rick, the man with a gun who
knows where the hares play, and beyond
them all the truant sweethearts, who ean
not have enough of one another, and wish
‘good-night” at every corner of the lane,
till they tumble over one another's cot
tage steps—all these to Caryl Carne were
a smell to be avoided, an eyesore to shut
the eyes at. He let them get home and
pull their boots off, and set the frying-pan
a-bubbling—for they ended the day with
a bit of bacon, whenever they could cash
or credit it—and then he set forth upon
his lonely ride, striking fear into the heart
of any bad child that lay awake.
‘** Almost as good as France is this,” he
muttered in French, though for once en
joying the pleasure of good English air;
‘‘and better than France would it be, if
only it were not cut short so suddenly
There will come a cold wind by-and-by, or
a chilly black cloud from the east, and
But if it
only remained like this, I could forgive
it for producing me. After all, it is my
native land; and I saw the loveliest gir]
to-day that ever I set eyes on. None
of their made-up and highly finished
demoiselles is fit to look at her—such sim
ple beauty, such charms of nature, such
enchanting innocence! Ah, that is where
those French girls fail—they are always
studying how they look, instead of leav
ing us to think of it. Jah! What odds
tome? I have higher stakes to play for
But according to old Twemlow’s descrip
tion, she must be the daughter of that old
bear Darling, with whom I shall have to
pick a bone some day. Ha! Howamus
then all is shivers and rawness.
SPRING
little
French
ing is that battery to me! How
John Bull knows the nature of
To-morrow we are to have a
troops!
grand practice-day ; and I hope they won't
Nothing
S impossible to such an idiot as Stubbard.
1oot me in my new lodgings
What a set of imbeciles I have found to
do with! They have searcely wit enough
to amuse oneself with.
Is that
broken my orders.”
Pest of my soul!
you, Charron? Again you have
‘‘Names should be avoided in the open
air,” answered the man, who was swing
ing on a gate with the simple delight of a
Picard. ‘The France
much to-night that I found it my duty to
encourage it. Forwhat reason shall not I
It is not so often that Lhave oe-
climate is of so
do that
casion., My dear friend, scold not, but ae-
cept
to your native land.
the compliment very seldom truthful
There are none of
your clod-pates about to-night.”
‘Come in at once. The mere sound of
your breath is enough to set the neighbour-
Could [Lever have been
more French French-
man, though you speak as good English
as I do?
‘It was all of that miserable Cheray,”
hood wondering.
burdened with a
the French gentleman said, when they
sat in the kitchen, and Jerry Bowles was
‘Fruit isa
thing that my mouth prepares for, directly
lere
feeding the fine black horse.
is any warmth in the sun. It puts
not have
Wine of
» softest and fruit of the finest is what
it must then unmouth itself,
That miserable Cheray, his maledictioned
name put me forth to be on fire for the
gcood thing he designs.
elf up, it is elevated, it will
sat, or any substance coarse.
have, or
Cherays you call
them, and for cherays I despatched him,
suspended between the leaves in the good
sun Bah! there is nothing ever fit to
eat in England. The cherays look very
fine, very fine indeed; and so many did
[ consume that to travel on a gate was the
only palliation. Would you
stay all day in this long cellar ?
have me
No di-
version, no solace, no change, no conver-
sation! Old Cheray may sit with his
upon
Charron that is not sufficient.
longer before |
to Renaud
How much
forth to do the
things, to fight, to conquer the nations ?
Where is even my little ship of despatch ?”
‘Captain,’ answered Caryl Carne, pre-
paring calmly for his frugal supper, ‘‘ you
are placed under my command, and an-
hands his knees, but
sally
HAVEN.
275
other such speech will despatch you to
Dunkirk, bound hand and foot.in the hold
of the Little Corporal, with which I am
now in communication. Unless by
the
time I have severed this bone you hand
me your Sword 1h SUDMISSION my supper
will have to be postponed, while I
you to the yew-t ee,
]
Lay
march
boat, and
you strapped beneath the oarsmen
signal for a
Captain Charron, who had held the com
mand of a French corvette, stared furious
ly at this man, vounger than himself, so
strongly established
not
over him, Carne
him; ali
joint of
where
was concerned to look at
he eared about was to divide the
a wing-rib of cold
some good pickings lurked in the hollow.
roast beef,
Then the Frenchman, whose chance would
have been very small in a pt rsonal en
counter with his chief, arose and took a
naval sword, short but rather heavy, from
a hook which in better days had held a
bie dish-cover, and making a salute rath
er graceful than gracious, presented the
fringed handle to the carver.
‘This behaviour is sensible, my friend,
and worthy of your distinguished abili
ties.”’ Carne’s resolute face seldom yield
ed to a smile, but the smile when it came
was a sweet one. ‘* Pardon me for speak
ing strongly, but my instructions must
be the law to you.
mander (as, but
If you were my com
and
questions of position here, you wo ild be),
do you think then that you would allow
me to rebel, to grumble, to
" E ’ 1.7
tor ioeal know ede,
wander, to de
mand my own pleasure, when you knew
that it would ruin things ?”
‘Bravo! It is well spoken. My cap
tain, I you. In you lives the
spirit of the Grand Army, which we of
the sea and of the ships admire always,
Ah, if
Englishmen
embrace
and always desire to emulate.
England many
like you, she would be hard to conauer.”
The owner of this old English castle
shot a glance at the Frenchman for any
pe ssessed
sign of irony in his words. Seeing none,
he continued, in the friendly vein:
‘*Our business here demands the great-
est caution, skill, reserve, and self-denial.
We are fortunate in having no man of
any keen penetration in the neighbour
hood, at least of those in authority and
concerned with public matters. As one
of an ancient family, possessing the land
for centuries, I have every right to be
here, and to pursue my private business
in privacy. But if it once gets talked
276 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
about that a French officer is with me,
these stupid people will awake their sus-
picions more strongly by their own stu
pidity. In this queer island you may do
What you like till the neighbourhood turns
against you; andthen, if you revolve upon
a pin, you cannot suit them. You under
stand? You have heard me before. It is
this that I never can knock into you.”
Renaud Charron, who considered him
self—as all Frenchmen did then, and per-
haps do now—far swifter of intellect than
any Englishman, found himself not well
pleased at this, and desired to know more
about it.
‘Nothing can be simpler,” the Eng-
lishman replied; ‘‘and therefore nothing
surer. You know the old proverb—‘ Ev
erything in turn, except scandal, whose
turn is always.’ And again another
saying of our own land—‘ The second
side of the bread takes less time to toast.’
We must not let the first side of ours
be toasted; we will shun all the fire of
suspicion, And to do this, you must
not be seen, my dear friend. I may go
abroad freely; you must hide your gallant
head until matters are ripe for action.
THE
BY
E.
V.—THE R
MHE wide and favorable consideration
| given to small fruits clearly marks
one of the changes in the world’s history.
This change may seem trifling indeed to
the dignified chroniclers of kings and
queens and others of high descent—great
descent, it may be added, remembering the
moral depths attained—but to those who
care for the welfare of the people it is a
mutation of no slight interest. I am
glad to think, as has been shown in a re-
cent novel, that Lucrezia Borgia was not
so black as she has been painted, yet in
the early days of June and July, when
strawberries and raspberries are ripening,
I fancy that most of us can dismiss her
and her kin from mind as we observe
nature’s alchemy in our gardens. When
we think of the luscious, health -impart-
ing fruits which will grace millions of
tables, and remember that until recent
years they were conspicuous only by their
HOME
ig
You know that you may trust me not to
keep you in the dark a day longer than
is needful. Ihave got the old shopkeep
er under my thumb, and can do what J
please with his trading-ship. But before
I place you in command I must change
some more of the crew, and do it warily.
There is an obstinate Cornishman to cet
rid of, who sticks to the planks like a lim
pet. If we throw him overboard, we shall
alarm the others; if we discharge him
without showing cause, he will go to the
old Admiral and tell all his suspicions
He must be got rid of in London with
skill, and then we ship three or four
Americans, first-rate seamen, afraid of
nothing, who will pass here as fellows
from Lancashire. After that we may
run among the cruisers as we like, with
the boldness and skill of a certain Cap
tain Charron, who must be ill in his eab-
in when his ship is boarded.”
‘‘It is famous, it is very good, my
friend. The patience I will have, and
the obedience, and the courage; and so
much the more readily because my pay is
good, and keeps itself going on dry land
as well as sea.”
ACRE.
ROE.
ASPBERRY.
absence, we may not slightingly estimate
a great change for the better. Once these
fruits were wildings which the vast ma-
jority of our forefathers shared sparingly
with the birds. Often still, unless we are
careful, our share will be small indeed,
for the unperverted taste of the birds dis-
covered from the first, what men have
been so slow to learn, that the ruby-like
berries are the gems best worth seeking.
The world is certainly progressing toward
physical redemption when even the Irish
laborer abridges his cabbage patch for the
sake of small fruits—food which a dainty
Ariel could not despise.
We have said that raspberries thrive
in partial shade, and therefore some ad-
vice in regard to them naturally follows
our consideration of trees. Because the
raspberry is not so exacting as many oth-
er products of the garden, it does not fol-
low that it should be marked out for neg-
THE HOME ACRE.
lect.
the only wonder is that even the bushes
As it is treated on many places,
survive. Like many who try to do their
+
pest
in adversity, it makes the most of
vhat people term ‘‘a to
head
Moreover, the raspberry is perhaps as
chance
get
often injured by mistaken kindness as by
If we can imagine it speaking
1¢
for itself, it would say: ‘“*It is not much
that I want, but in the name of common
and
sense nature, give me just what I do
Then you may pick at me to your
heart's content
want
The first need of the raspberry is a well
drained, but not a very dry, light soil.
Yet such is its adaptability that certain
varieties can be grown on any land which
will produce a burdock or a mullein stalk.
In fact,this question of variety chiefly de
termines our chanees of success, and the
nature of our treatment of the fruit. The
reader, at the start, should be enabled to
distinguish the three classes of raspberries
grown in this country.
As was true of grapes, our fathers first
endeavored to supply their gardens from
foreign nurseries, neglecting the wild spe-
cies with which our woods and road-sides
abounded. The raspberry of Europe (Ru-
bus ideus) has been developed, and in
many instances enfeebled, by ages of cul
tivation. Nevertheless, few other fruits
have shown equal power to adapt them-
selves to our soil and climate, and we have
obtained from foreign sources many val-
uable kinds, as, for instance, the Antwerp,
which for weeks together annually taxed
the carrying power of Hudson River steam
ers. In quality these foreign kinds have
never been surpassed, but almost invaria
bly they have proved tender and fastidi
ous, thriving well in some localities, and
failing utterly (except under the most skil-
ful care) in The frosts of the
North killed them in winter, and South-
others.
ern suns shrivelled their foliage in sum-
mer. Therefore they were not raspber-
ries for the million, but for those who
resided in favored regions, and were will
ing to bestow upon them much care and
high culture.
Eventually another process began, tak
ing place either by chance or under the
skilful manipulation of the gardener
that of hybridizing, or crossing these for-
eign varieties with
species.
our hardier native
The best results have been at-
tained more frequently, I think, by chance;
that is, the
from the
bees, which get more honey
raspberry than from most other
plants, carried the
pollen from a native
flower to the blossom of the garden ex
otte The seeds of the fruit eventually
produce d were endowed with characteris
tics of
both the foreign and native strains.
Oceasionally these seeds fell where they
had a chance
o grow, and so produced a
tT
t
fortuitous seedling plant which soon ma
tured into a bearing bush, differing from
both of its parents, and not infrequently
surpassing both in good qualities. Some
one, horticulturally inclined, having ob
served the unusually fine fruit on the
chance plant, and believing that it is a
good plan to help the fittest to
marked the and in the
transferred it to his garden
survive,
bush, autumn
It speedily
propagated itself by suckers, or young
sprouts from the roots, and he had plants
to sell or give away. Such, I believe. was
the history of the Cuthbert, named after
the found it, and now
probably the favorite raspberry of Amer
ica,
gentleman who
Thus, fortuitously, or by the skill of the
gardener, the foreign and our native spe
cies were crossed, and a new and hardier
class of varieties obtained. The large size
and richness in flavor of the European
berry has been bred into and combined
with our smaller and more insipid indi
genous fruit. By this process the area of
successful raspberry culture has been ex
tended almost indefinitely.
Within recent years a third step for-
ward has been taken. Some localities
and soils were so unsuited to the raspber
ry that no variety containing even a small
percentage of the foreign element could
thrive. This fact led fruit-growers to give
still closer attention to our native species.
Wild bushes were found here and there
which gave fruit of such good quality and
in such large quantities that they were
deemed well worthy of cultivation. Many
of these wild specimens accepted cultiva
tion gratefully,
improvement
over the
and showed such marked
that they heralded
land as of wonderful and sur
passing value.
were
Some of these pure, un
mixed varieties of our native species (Ru
bus strigosus) have obtained a wide ce
lebrity, as, for instance, the Brandywine,
Highland Hardy, and, best of all,
Turner. It should be distinctly under
stood, however, that, with the exception
of the last-named kind, these native vari-
the
278
eties are decidedly inferior to most of the
foreign berries and their hybrids,or cross-
Thou-
sands haye been misled by their praise,
es, like the Cuthbert and Marlboro.
and have planted them when they might
just as easily have grown far better kinds.
that |
many wealthy
New York
gardeners (
told by
wish any of
Orange
| suppose people 1
the latitudes of and Boston
have told their rr, more prob
‘We
wild kinds.
ably, were them do not
those Brinckle’s
Franconia, and the Antwerp are
good enough for us.” So they should be,
for they are the best, but they are all for
will live at
all, much less be productive, in wide areas
of
eign varieties, and scarcely
F the
[ trust that this preliminary discussion
in regard to red raspberries will prepare
the way ]
country,
for the advice to follow, and ena-
ble the proprietor of the home acre to act
inte like
to be told, ** You cannot do this, and must
nol
ligently Sensible men do not
hat’—in other words, to be met
do
gardens
A. B, or C.
nature in pro
Understanding
the moment they step into their
by ie
Ther
ducing certain
ai bitrary dictum of
wish to unite with
results.
her simple laws, they work hopefully,
confidently; and they cannot be imposed
upon by those who either wittingly or
bad Having
explained the natural principles on which
I base expect the
reader to follow each step, with the pros-
unwittingly give advice,
mv directions, | can
pect of success and enjoyment much en-
hanced
The question first arising is, What shall
we plant? As before, I shall give the se
lection of eminent authorities, then sug-
to the reader the restrictions under
gest
which he should make a choice for his
own peculiar soil and climate.
Dr. Fk. M
itor of a leading horticultural journal, is
recognized throughout the land as hav-
Hexamer, the well-known ed-
ing few, if any, superiors in recent and
practical acquaintance with small fruits.
The following is his selection: ‘* Cuthbert,
Turner, and Marlboro.” Hon. Marshall
P. Wilder's choice: ** Brinckle’s Orange,
Franconia, Cuthbert, Herstine, Shatfer.”
Hon. Norman J.Colman, Commissioner of
Marlboro, Cuth-
bert.”’ P. J. Berekmans, of Georgia:
‘Cuthbert, Hansel, Lost Rubies, Impe-
rial Red.” A.S. Fuller: ‘‘ Turner, Cuth-
bert, Hansel.”’
In analyzing this list we find three dis-
Agriculture: ‘' Turner,
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
tinctly foreign kinds named, the Orange,
Franconia, and Herstine. If the
not wholly of foreign origin, the element
last is
of our native species enters into it so
slightly that it will not endure winters
in our latitude, or the summer sun of the
South. For excellence, however, they are
unsurpassed.
In the Cuthbert, Marlboro, and Lost
Rubies we have hybrids of the foreign
and our native species, forming the sec
ond class referred to; in the Turner and
Hansel, examples of our native species
unmixed. To each of these classes might
be added a seore of other varieties which
have been more or less popular, but they
would serve only to distract the reader's
attention. I have tested forty or fifty
kinds side by side at one time, only to be
that
answer all practical purposes.
shown four or five varieties would
I can as
will be
searcely possible to find a soil or climate
sure the reader, however, that it
where some of these approved sorts will
not thrive abundantly and at slight out
lay.
Throughout southern New England,
along the bank of the Hudson, and west
ward,almost any raspberry ean be Frown
with proper treatment.
tions which are somewhat curious.
There are excep
Kor
instance, the famous Hudson River Ant
werp, Which, until within avery few years,
has been one of the great crops of the
State, has never been grown successfully
to any extent except on the west bank of
the river, and within the limited area of
Kingston on the north and Cornwall on
the south. The Franconia, another for
eign sort, has proved itself adapted to
more extended conditions of soil and eli-
mate.
I have grown successfully nearly every
well-known raspberry, and perhaps I can
best give the instruction I desire to con
vey by describing the methods finally
adopted after many years of observation,
reading, and experience. I will speak of
the first named, belonging to the
foreign species, of which I have tested
many varieties. I expect to set out this
vear rows of Brinckle’s Orange, Franco
nia, Hudson River Antwerp, and others.
For this class I should make the ground
very rich, deep, and mellow. I should
prefer to set out the plants in the autumn,
from the middle of October to the 10th
of November; if not then, in early spring
—the earlier the better—while the buds are
class
THE HOME ACRE.
dormant: I should have the rows four
feet apart, and if the plants were to be
crown the smaller fruit trees, J
na distance from them of
feet.
among
should maintai
t least seven I should use only
young plants, those of the prey ious sum
: 1
mers growth,
and set them in the ground
ibout as deeply as they stood when taken
ip, say three or four inches of earth above
1e point from which the roots branched.
I should put two well-rooted plants in
each hill, and this would make the hills
By hills | do
ground. This
should be kept level throughout all future
cultivation.
our feet apart each way.
not mean elevations of
I should eut back the canes
or stems of the plants to six inches. Thou
sands of plants are lost or put back in
their growth by leaving two or three feet
Nev
The little fruit gained thus
prematurely always entails a hundred
f Having set out the plants, I
would next seatter over and about them
of the canes to grow the first vear.
} 1!
er do this.
239 .
old of loss.
one or two shovelfuls of old compost or
kind. If the
plants had been set out in the fall, I should
mound the earth over them before freez
decayed manure of some
ing weather, so that
there should be at
3
least four inches of soil over the tops o
the This little mound of earth
over the plants or hill would protect
against all injury from frost. In the
ing I should remove these mounds of
stems.
earth so as to leave the ground perfectly
level on all sides, and the shortened canes
projecting, as at first, six inches above the
surface. During the remainder of the
spring and summer the soil between the
plants chiefly requires to be kept open,
mellow, and free from weeds. In using
the hoe, be careful not to cut off the young
raspberry sprouts on which the future
crop depends. Do not be disappointed if
the growth seems feeble the first year, for
these foreign kinds are often slow in start-
ing. In November, before there was any
danger of the ground freezing, I would
cut back the young canesgat least one-
third of their length, bend them gently
down, and cover them with earth to the
depth of four or five inches. It must be
distinctly remembered that very few of
the foreign kinds would endure our win-
terunprotected. Every autumn they must
be covered as I have directed. Is any one
aghast at this labor? Nonsense! Ant
werps are covered by the acre along the
Hudson. A man and boy would cover
279
in an hour all that are needed for a gar-
den.
After the first year the foreign varie
ties, like all others, will send up too many
sprouts, or suckers. Unless new plants
are wanted, these should be treated as
weeds, and only from three to five voung
canes be left to grow in each hill 7
is a very important point, for too often
the raspberry patch is neglected until it is
bushes.
a swamp ol tangled Keep this
simple principle in mind: there is a given
}
amount of root-power; if this cannot be
expended in making young sprouts all
over the ground, it goes to produce a few
strong fruit-bearing canes in the hill. In
other words, you restrict the whole force
of the plant to the precise work required
As the original
plants grow older, they will show a
the civing of berries
con
stantly decreasing tendeney to throw up
new shoots, but as long as they continue
to grow, let only those survive which are
de signed to bear the follow Ing season,
The canes of cultivated raspberries are
biennial. A young and in most varieties a
fruitless cane is produced in one season; it
bears in July the second year, and then its
It will continue to live
in a half-dying way until fall, but it is a
usefulness is over.
life. I know that it
is contended by some that the foliage
useless and unsightly
on
the old canes aids in nourishing the plants,
but I think that, under all ordinary circum
stances, the leaves on the young growth
are abundantly sufficient. By removing
the old canes after they have borne their
fruit, an aspect of neatness is imparted,
which would
were they left.
be conspicuously absent
Every autumn, before
laying the canes down, I should shorten
them in one-third. The
thirds will give more f
remaining two
ruit by actual mea
surement, and the berries will be finer and
ict.
for
eign varieties should be maintained in a
larger, than if the canes were left int
From first to last the soil about the
high degree of fertility and mellowness.
Of manures from the barn-yard, that from
the cow stable is the best; wood-ashes,
bone dust, and decayed leaves are also ex-
cellent fertilizers. During all this period
the partial shade of small trees will be
rather than
will be remembered that sheltered locali
ties are the natural habitat of the rasp
berry.
By a little inquiry the reader can learn
whether varieties of the foreign class are
benelicial otherwise, for it
seat
Dit tases ae) aR tree
i
280 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
grown successfully in his vicinity. If
they are, he can raise them also by fol
lowing the directions which have been
given. Brineckle’s Orange—a buff-colored
berry—is certainly one of the most beauti
ful, delicate, and delicious fruits in exist
ence, and is well worth all the care it re
quires in the regions where it will grow;
while the Franconia and others should
never be permitted to die out by fruit con
noisseurs. If the soil of your garden is
light and sandy, or if you live much south
of New York, I should not advise their
trial. They may be grown far to the
north, however. I am told that tender
varieties of fruits that can be covered
thrive even better in Canada than with us.
There deep snow protects the land, and
in spring and autumn they do not have
long periods when the bare earth is alter-
nately freezing and thawing.
In the second class of raspberries, the
crosses between the foreign and native
species, we now have such fine varieties
that no one has much cause for regret if
he can raise them; and I scarcely see
how he ean help raising them if he has
sufficient energy to set out a few plants
and keep them free from weeds and su-
perabundant suckers. Take the Cuthbert,
for instance; you may set it out almost
anywhere, and in almost any latitude ex-
cept that of the extreme Southern States.
But you must reverse the conditions re-
quired for the foreign kinds. Ifthe ground
is very rich, the canes will threaten to grow
out of sight. I advise that this strong-
growing sort be planted in rows five feet
apart. Any ordinary soil is good enough
for the Cuthbert to start in,and the plants
will need only a moderate degree of fer-
tilizing as they begin to lose a little of their
first vigor. Of course, if the ground is un-
usually light and poor, it should be en-
riched and maintained in a fair degree of
fertility. The point I wish to make is
that this variety will thrive where most
others would starve, but there is plenty of
land on which anything will starve. The
Cuthbert is a large, late berry, which
continues long in bearing, and is deserv-
ing of a place in every garden. I have
grown it for many years, and have never
given it any protection whatever. Occa-
sionally there comes a winter which kills
the canes to the ground. I should per-
haps explain to the reader here that even
in the case of the tender foreign kinds it
is only the canes that are killed by the
frost; the roots below the surface are un
injured, and throw up vigorous sprouts
the following spring. The Cuthbert is
so nearly hardy that we let it take its
chances, and probably in eight winters
out of ten it would stand unharmed. _ Its
hardiness is greatly enhanced when grown
on well-drained soils.
It now has a companion berry in the
Marlboro, a variety but recently intro
duced, and therefore not thoroughly test
ed as yet. Its promise, however, is very
fine, and it has secured the strong yet
qualified approval of the best fruit erities.
It requires richer soil and better treat
ment than the Cuthbert, and it remains
to be seen whether it is equally hardy.
It is well worth winter protection if it is
not. It is not a suitable berry for the
home garden if no other is grown, for the
reason that it matures its entire crop
within a brief time, and thus would give
a family but a short season of raspberries
Cultivated in connection with the Cuth
bert it would be admirable, for it is very
early, and would produce its fruit before
the Cuthberts were ripe. Unitedly the
two varieties would give a family six
weeks of raspberries. There are scores of
other kinds in this class, and some are
very good indeed, well worth a place in
an amateur’s collection, but the two al
ready named are sufficient to supply a
family with excellent fruit.
Of the third class of red raspberries,
representing our pure native species, I
should recommend only one variety, the
Turner, and that is so good that it de
serves a place in every collection. It is
certainly a remarkable raspberry, and has
an unusual history, which I have given
in my work Success with Small Fruits
I doubt whether there is a hardier rasp
berry in America—one that can be grown
so far to the north, and, what is still more
in its favor, so far to the south. In the
latter region it is known as the Southern
Thornless. The fact that it is almost
wholly with@ut spines is a good quality,
but it is only one among many others.
The Turner requires no winter protection
whatever, will grow on almost any soil
in existence, and in almost any climate
It yields abundantly medium-sized berries
of good flavor. The fruit begins to ripen
early, and lasts throughout a somewhat
extended season. It will probably give
more berries, with more certainty and less
trouble,than any other variety. Even its
THE HOME ACRE.
fault leans to virtue’s side. Set out a sin-
cle plant, leave it to nature, and in time
will cover the place with Turner rasp-
erries, and yet it will do this in a quiet,
inobtrusive way, for it is not a rampant,
ly grower. While it will
persist in
living under almost any circumstances, I
have found no variety that responded more
rratefully to good treatment.
sists simply in three things:
This con-
(1) rigorous
restriction of the suckers to four or five
eanes in the hill; (2) keeping the soil clean
and mellow about the bearing plants; (3)
making this soil rich. Its dwarf habit
f growth, unlike that of the Cuthbert,
enables one to stimulate it with any kind
of manure. By this course the size of the
bushes is greatly increased, and enormous
crops can be obtained.
I prefer to set out all raspberries in the
fall, although as a matter of convenience
I often perform the task in the early
spring. I do not believe in late spring
planting, except as one takes up a young
sprout, two or three inches high, and sets
By
When it
is our wish to increase the quality and
quantity of the fruit, I should advise that
the canes of all varieties be cut back one-
third of their length. <A little observation
will teach us the reason for this. Permit
a long cane to bear throughout its natu-
ral length, and you will note that many
buds near the
ble
it out as one would a tomato plant.
this course time is often saved.
ground remain dormant or
make a feeble growth. The sap, follow-
ing a general law of nature, pushes to the
extremities,and is,moreover,too much dif-
fused. Cut away one-third, and all the
buds start with redoubled vigor, while
more and larger fruit is the result. If,
however, earliness in ripening is the chief
consideration, as it often is, especially
with the market-gardener, leave the canes
unpruned, and the fruit ripens a few days
sooner.
In purveying for the home table, white
raspberries offer the attractions of variety
and beauty. In the case of Brinckle’s
Orange, its exquisite flavor is the chief
consideration; but this fastidious foreign
berry is practically beyond the reach of
the majority. There is, however, an ex-
cellent variety, the Caroline, which is al-
most as hardy as the Turner, and more
easily grown. It would seem that na-
ture designed every one to have it (if we
may say it of Caroline), for not only does
it sucker freely like the red raspberries,
281
but the tips of the canes also bend over
take root, and form new plants. The one
thing that Caroline needs is repression,
the curb; she is too intense.
I am inclined to think, however, that
she has had her day, even as an attend-
ant on royalty, for a new variety, claim
ing the high-sounding title of
Queen, has mysteriously appeared.
Golden
I say
mysteriously, for it is difficult to account
for her origin. Mr. Ezra Stokes, a fruit
New Jersey, had a field of
welve acres planted with Cuthbert rasp
berries. In this field he
producing white
grower of
bush
brief, he
Of the
causes of her existence he knows nothing
found a
berries. In
found an albino of the Cuthbert.
All we can say, I suppose, is that the va
riation was produced by some unknown
impulse of nature. Deriving her claims
from such a source, she
better title
has a
to royalty than most of her
sister queens, who, according to history,
certainly
have been commonplace women, suggest
ing anything but nature. With the ex
ception of the Philadelphians, perhaps,
we as a people will not stand on the
question of ancestry, and will be more in
clined to see how
Of the
and disseminators of this variety claim that
the Cuthbert, but
Let us try it and see;
may
she “*queens .”
course enthusiastic discoverer
it is not only like
better.
far
if it is as
good, we well be content, and can
grace our tables with beautiful fruit
There is another American species of
raspberry (Rubus occidentalis) that is al
most as dear to memory as the wild straw
berry the thimble-berry, or black cap. I
confess that the wild flavor of this fruit
is more to my taste than that of any oth
er raspberry. Apparently its seeds have
been sown broadcast over the continent,
for it is found almost everywhere, and
there have been few children in America
whose lips have not been stained by the
dark purple juice of its fruit. Seeds
dropped in neglected pastures, by fence
and road sides and along the edges of the
forest, produce new varieties which do
not propa
gate themselves by suckers like
red raspberries, but in a manner quite
distinct. The young purple canes bend
over and take root in the soil during Au
gust, September, and October. At the ex
treme end of the tip from which the roots
descend a bud is formed, which remains
dormant until the following spring.
Therefore the young plant we set out is
282
a more or less thick mass of roots, a green
bud, and usually a bit of the old parent
ch is of no further service except
la mark indicating the lo
After the ground
would for corn
plant.
pared as one
should be levelled, a line
he row, and the plants set
inthe row. Sink the roots
rht down as possible, and let the
ard, covering it lightly with
Ly l | pomt upw
merely one or two inches of soil. Press
the ground firmly against the roots, but
1 the The soil just over this
and that the
t can push through easily,
not o1 ud,
should be fine mellow, so
young sho
which it will soon do if the plants were
good condition. Except in the ex
the
South, s by far best
}
Spring
j
for planting and it should be done
After
row, keep the ground mel
the buds are dormant.
se begin to o
wand free from weeds. The first effort
young plant will be to propagate
It wil
ild impulses, and will not make
On this
the young
and as it grows keep it tied up
When the
side branches are eight or ten inches long,
| sprawl over the ground if
to 1tS W
n upright bearing bush. ac
. mnt t be
Count pu L Stane
i
down by
sprout,
and away from the ground.
pinch them back, thus throwing the chief
strength into the central cane. By keep-
ing all the branches pinched back you
form the plant into an erect, sturdy bush
that will load itself with berries the fol-
No fruit will be borne the
The young canes of the see-
low ing year
first season
ond ve wsoW ll incline to be more sturdy
and erect in their growth, but this ten-
1
deney can be greatly enhanced by clip
nder branches which are
every As
through bearing they
ping the long sl
thrown out on side, soon as
he old eanes are
should be eut out and burned or compost-
ed garden.
Black caps may
that
fers
little
fect I prefer to put the black-eaps in a
the few
wet soil.
with other refuse from the
be planted on any soil
is not too dry. When the plant suf
drought, the fruit
than seeds. To escape this de-
from consists of
else
moist nd it is one of
fruits that
One ean set out plants here and there in
iocalion, ¢
will thrive in a eold
out-of-the way corners, and they often do
better than those in the garden. Indeed,
unless a place is kept up very neatly, many
such bushes will be found growing wild,
and producing excellent fruit.
HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
The question may arise in some minds,
Why buy plants? Why not get them from
the woods and fields, or let nature provide
When na
ture produces a bush on my place wher
it is not in the way, I let it grow, and piek
the fruit in my rambles; but the supply
would be precarious indeed for a family
bushes for us where she will ?
By all means get plants from the woods
if you have marked a bush that produced
unusually fine fruit. It
course that the finest varieties have been
is by just this
obtained. IPf you go a-berrying, you may
light on something finer than has yet been
discovered; but it is not very probable
Meanwhile, fora dollar you can get all the
plants you wantof the two or three best va
rieties that have vel been discovered from
Maine to California After testing a creat
many kinds, I should recommend the Sou
hegan for early, and the Mammoth Cluster
and Gregg for late. A clean mellow soil
in good condition, frequent pinchings back
of the canes in summer, or a rigorous use
of the pruning-shears in spring, are all
that is required to secure an abundant
crop from year to year. ‘This species may
also be grown among trees. I advise that
every kind and description of raspberries
be kept tied to stakes or a wire trellis.
The wood ripens better, the fruit is cleaner
and richer from exposure to air and sun-
shine, and the garden is far neater than
if the canes are sprawling at will. I know
that all horticulturists that the
plants be pinched back so thoroughly as
to form self supporting bushes, but I have
yet to see the careful fruit-grower who did
advise
this, or the bushes that some thunder gusts
would not prostrate into the mud with all
their precious burden, were they not well
supported. Why take the risk to save a
twopenny stake ?
If, just before the fruit begins to ripen, a
mulch of leaves, cut grass—any litter that
will cover the crround slightly is placed
under and around the bushes, it may save
a great deal of fruit from being spoiled
The raspberry season is also the hour and
opportunity for thunder-showers, wliose
great slanting drops often splash the soil
Sugar-and-cream
coated, not mud-coated, berries, if you
to surprising distances,
please.
In my remarks on raspberries I have
not named many varieties, and have rath
er laid stress on the principles which may
guide the reader in his present and future
selections of kinds. Sufficient in number
SINGING WINGS.
ind variety to meet the needs of every
family have been mentioned. The ama
ir may eri tify his taste by testing many
other sorts described in nursery-men’s cat
It re ered th if the
spberry is a Northern fruit.
iould also be rememl
Lam often
ced in effect, What raspberries do you
ecommend for the Gulf States? I sup
my best reply would be, What or
lo you think best adapted to New
Most of the foreign kinds falter
in New
the
erown much farther south, while
and
Cuthbert and its class
Jersey southern
\
hla;
inner and the black-caps thrive al
most to Florida.
Raspberries, especially those of our na
tive species, are comparatively free from
sease. Foreign varieties and their hy
yrids are sometimes afflicted with the curl
leaf The foliage crimps up, the canes
283
are dwarfed, and the whole plant has a
sickly and often ve | The
root
iow appearance
only remedy is to dig up the plant,
and branch, and burn it
A disease termed the rust infre
quently attacks old and poorly nourished
not
, 1 .
biack-cap DUSHes The leaves take on an
ochreous coior is Seen to be
failing. | O,
If many bushes are : :
the whole patel be rooted up and healthy
plants set out elsewhere
It isa
plants of nearly
rete zl ,
well-known law of hat
nature
all kinds appear lo ex
haust from the soil in time the ingredients
peculiarly acceptable to them. Skill can
do much toward maintaining the needful
supply, but the best and easiest plan is not
to grow any of the small fruits too long
in any one locality. By setting out new
plants on different ground far better re
sults are attained with much less trouble.
SINGING WINGS.
BY WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON
ers above our meadows and pastures
the drowsy air of August!
\W HAT a vibrant teeming chorus hov-
=
Itisa whirl
ig maze of sound, a dizzy, busy, gauzy
buzz, whieh is like a bewildering tangle
ear, Without end or beginning—a
with the
‘y of its source among the weeds
too, So closely involved
and grasses that the listener seldom thinks
‘cares to seek for a loose end.
These singing fields of ours are a sug
the
knows
estive heritage of new
World
American
continent,
not. The
who for the
The Old them
observant tourist
first time saunters through the summer
of
k with their silence.
meadows England is immediately
strue Thus Tenny-
son's line,
For now the noonday quiet holds the
while truthful from the European stand
point
could never have been written on
\merican soil. Isolated singers there are
i these foreign fields, ‘tis true
! erickets,
locusts, and grasshoppers — counterparts
ff American types, and these in abun-
dance, but they do not seem exuberant;
there is no such unanimous, multitudi-
nous expression as finds escape in our
pastures new. Against the background
of that ‘‘noonday quiet” each individual
minstrel, though unseen, betrays his por
trait to the ear, and is readily recognized,
forth in the beautiful lines of
a pretty tribute to an isolated so
as shown
Keats
loist:
The
has never
when tired out w
IIe rests at ease beneatl
n 1 some plea int wet
There was evidently no difficulty in
following the course of that song. but it
the poet
to have performed a similar poetic sery
would have taxed the patience of
ice for the American insect, for it takes a
sharp ear to separate the complete score
of the individual grasshopper or cricket
in our meadow orchestra. The ear must
be focussed, as it were, and,
moreover,
equipped
with the thread of its song
it can be disentangled from the
This
with the anticipation of previ-
ous familiarity
ere maze,
minstrelsy is to midsummer what
The feather
ed minstrels are now silent, eclipsed, and
have given place to the ‘‘joyous mea
dow tribes.” From
the bird choral is to spring.
horizon to horizon
284
the sunny pastures and the ripening fields
the
pastoral symphony of harvest-time.
resound with singing wings great
Thorea l loved to explore ‘the sources
sounds which crowd the
hoon They
‘ain and stulf of
of the
myriad
Summer seemed to him
the very o1 which eter-
is made.”’
r
nity
os Bryant—a sentiment which now re
Siti
its fullest confirmation, albeit, I
celves
imagine, one not considered by he poet.
The buoyancy, the joyous flight, was In,
his thought; the music of those wings,
while doubtless quickening his own, yet
prompted no expression of tribute.
Who shall draw a comparison or par
allel to the bird voice of the spring, the
the Not I.
There is a deep emotional and spiritual
choral of vernal morning ?
sentiment awakened by the jubilee of the
returning birds which any words at my
Each
unison, its dear
command are but paltry to express.
voice of nature has its
companion chord of sympathy or associa
tion in every heart; and yet there is to
mie 1h these
“Sounds that rise from the murmuri
that
strange symbolic creature, equipped for
in the sunny wing song of an insect
song only in its final metamorphosis, the
perfect being only singing—a significance
not
; , 1
which even the sweeter vocal charms
of the birds possess.
I am never weary of renewing my ac-
quaintance with these quaint little meadow
“high
elbowed grigs that leap in summer grass.”
The weedy pasture or neglected fallow is
Amid all their
vibratory I ean generally catch a certain
musicians, as I stroll afieid, these
their paradise. intense
familiar strain, and follow it to the end—
tsip, tsip, tsip, tsip, tsee-e-e-e-e. It ema-
nates apparently a rod or so in advance
of me. I approach stealthily, starting up
the inevitable swarms of flying locusts
that pitch with headlong momentum into
the quivering herbage on right and left.
They certainly would break their precious
necks were they not so reénforeed by that
an armor in which
those close-fitting, ram-shaped heads re-
stilt protecting collar
volve as in a socket joint. The song now
the din
which might be its echo, still apparently
some distance in advance of me, thus with
a certain alluring quality decoying me on
rises again amid of thousands
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
and on, until at last the one particular
strain on which my attention has been fo
cussed is positively approached, and seenis
now to rise directly from my feet. Seat
ing myself cautiously, I await develop
ments.
The commotion among the lively an
sharp-eyed spasmodic jumpers aroused by
my approach at length subsides, and the
grassy jungle through which my eye now
penetrates assumes its wonted equilibrium
How intricate and infinite these shadow y
With what exquisite grace of
motion the slender grass culms bend and
sway with the tossing of their capillary
How the
sifting sunbeams which filter through the
tangles glint and glide and play among
the waving stems, with here a flash from
a gauzy wing, and there a glittering span
gle from some lingering dew-drop, dally
ing in silken gossamer, or cradled within
the hollow of an envious leaf!
For a moment the identity known as
‘*me” is annihilated.
definable longing, a half-forgotten asso
recesses!
plumes in the billowy breeze!
An old, strange, in
ciation, seems to possess me. I become a
vague memory; I am a cricket again, an
ant, a beetle, and faney that the human
estate knows no parallel to this luminous
singing realm beneath the grasses.
Now comes a fresher billowing breeze
above that works new transformations
opening up vistas hitherto unknown, and
showing forth a thousandfold the limit
less resources of this lowly meadow world
Just beyond, a luxuriant cluster of swamp
cabbage leaves, heretofore lost in sombre
mystery, is now revealed in a burst of
mellow light. It is only for an instant,
while the shadow of its overhanging bush
a brief
glow of golden green, revealed just long
enough to disclose the expectant toad upon
the stone within its shadow, and the soli
tary dandelion ball floating like a puff of
smoke beneath the luminous canopy.
A plumy thistle seed now floats with
my realm. <A huge carnivorous black fl)
a bumble-bee some would eall him
alights with buzzy’ wing upon a clover
head near by. But we will not look upon
him now. A history of discord is lis
His hum is pitched in the minor key, and
to the poor human sentiment seems ever
out of unison with the harmony of nature
What have we here? What fairy crea
ture is this, hovering in the halo of its tiny
wings like an atom of down floating above
is playing elsewhere in the breeze
SINGING WINGS.
» yellow toad-flax flowers ? And now it settles on
he golden horn of plenty, and proceeds to probe
th its slender bill into the very heart of the sweets
\ gnat—a snow-white o@nat, in very truth—with
eathery antenna and all, transfigured and spiritual
ed, its old appetites renounced, and nov
»ping the nectar of the flowers, and sing
i the while with its phantom Wings
(one may well Marve | at such an exquisite
reation as this, and feeling|, ‘all the
ippreciative sentiment of Pliny of old
In these little bodies how can one com
rehend the reason and the power
nd the inexplicable perfection that
Nature hath therein showed? How
‘ bestowed the five senses in
gonat ¢ Where hath
she made the seat of hea
eves? where hath she
set and disposed Lhe
W here
t
IStLe
t
ith she
} laced and
inserted the instrument of smelling?
and, above all, where hath she disposed
that dreadful and terrible noise that it
maketh?” <A branch of bramble bends
in the breeze and sways against my face,
ind as I look up beneath the foliage
ny eye is arrested by a small but sharp
ly defined shadow plainly transmitted
through the sunlit leaf close by—a shad
ow rendered all the more suggestive by
the projecting tips of the two slender antennwe
exploring so gingerly out beyond. ‘* Zip, zip,
zip, zip, ze-e-e-e-e-e.” The gauzy minstrel has
endured the limit of his silence, and now again
takes up his strain, and is almost immediately
answered from numerous mysterious sources
on every side. But he has evidently caught
a glimpse of my unguarded movement, for
Vou. LXXIII.—No. 434.-20
MEADOW
MINSTRELS
Bpaaerene
= >
286 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
the ‘‘high-elbowed grig¢” kicks off sud
denly from his perch and pitches hap
hazard into space, alighting upon a sway
ing stem of timothy-grass, and at length
straddling with an air of comical solem-
nity upon a spray O© capselia, Where he
seems to ga
1 confidence, and permits a
full view of himself. This is the com
mon diurnal meadow grasshopper (Orche
limum vulgare), represented aloft in our
vignette in his favorite attitude, seeming-
ly looking down upon his fellows of the
timbre! He is a pellucid green creature,
with the outline of his body readily seen
through the filmy wings. He is about an
inch in length, and the long legs suggest
the fragile consistency of glass, and one
involuntarily wonders how these slender
members could have survived intact such
reckless gymnasties as they are continu-
ally called upon to sustain as well as insti
gate. Turning upon his perch, he brings
to view his *‘ glassichord,” or shrilling or-
gan, upon his back—a glass-like spot upon
his wings just behind the thorax, or what
might appear to the facetiously inclined
as an exceedingly uncomfortable-looking
collar. Even as we take our first glimpse
of this diminutive, filmy taboret, a strange
tremor seems to have taken possession of
the insect, the edges of the wings seem
blurred and indistinet in the rapid vibra-
tory movement, and then follow a few
quick, convulsive efforts, resulting in the
stridulous strain already described, and
whose multitudinous repetition on every
hand so saturates the quivering ether.
For this is perhaps the most omnipresent
meadow sound of the New England sum
mer noon; certainly the most prominent
And yet, singularly enough, few of our
entomologists seem to have discovered
the fact, even associating the song with
‘evening gloom” and ‘‘shady places”
conditions under which my minstrel is
comparatively silent. On a cloudy day,
indeed, our fields emulate the downs of
Britain, and are almost still, our present
musician among the rest. He is a ‘‘ lov-
er of the sun,” and revels in midsummer
tropic he:
ts.
But if the harp of the meadow grass
hopper thus touches my willing fancy,
and
Sweeter sound these humming wings
Than the proud minstrel’s echoing strings,
how much more aptly significant is the
instanee of another of its companions in
music, the daintiest animated timbre}
which this meadow orchestra can show!
Fortunate are you if permitted to steal
within its charmed cirele and discover
the pretty exhibition suggested in ow
vignette, an attitude assumed by the littl
harpist only in the act of minstrelsy, as
he holds his tiny twin lyre aloft, and with
deft manipulation, so rapid as almost to
elude the eye, awakes ‘‘the echoes from
the trembling strings’—a continuous high
keyed trill, prolonged sometimes for ten
or fifteen minutes, or longer for aught |
know, without intermission. But you
must observe in breathless and immovable
silence, for your very winking is reflected
in those receptive glassy mirrors, and at
the slightest surprise the music ceases and
the musician is instantly transformed. The
transparent taborets seem to vanish into
air, and now a slender pale green creature,
with flat and glistening body, dodges be
neath the leaf, and is off in a twinkling,
his filmy duplex theorbo neatly overlapped
upon his back, with the outer half on either
side closely folded against his body. This
is a prominent voice of our August fields,
whose commingled trills, united with the
myriad murmuring fiddles of the locusts
of every degree, the shrilling of the tiny
brown crickets, the humming of bees, and
droning of beetles, conspire to sustain and
prolong the winged roundelay, and against
whose continuous undertone the ringing
tabors and rasping reeds of the grasshop
pers recur in more or less universal ac
cord, either rarely as a distinct feature
or as an occasional full crescendo in thi
great orchestral movement.
This insect is known as the broad-wing
ed climbing cricket (G2canthus sapiten
nis), an agile, generally pale green crea
ture, inhabiting the higher musical plane
of the meadow among the leaves and flow
ers of the loftier weeds and bushes. Deli
cate and fragile as he certainly is, he has
still a striking counterpart—in every sense
his superior—a yet more refined edition
of himself, as it were, so nearly does the
one insect suggest the other when contem
plated by the eye alone.
Who has not heard that mellow rhyth
mical ‘‘te-reat, te-reat, te-reat, te-reat,”’ the
lulling, throbbing voice ever so closely as
sociated with the late summer and autumn
evenings, whose pulsating vesper chorus
ushers in the sundown, and continues,
without cessation, as a lullaby between
the evening and the morning twilights
SINGING
It is not the voice of the black cricket,
so commonly and undeserved|y associated
vith the sound. Approach its source. It
vill be found invariably to proceed from
bush tree,
No, there is
In
comparison to the song of its sombre rival,
some elevated position in or
ind never from the ground.
no savor of the earth about that song.
it is as much more ethereal and spirituelle
as its animated source is more subtle and
WINGS
eor
287
A
MOONLIGHT MEDLEY
diaphanous; for the body of this vesper
minstrel isalmostas immaterial as its voice.
It is the spectral cricket of my vocabulary,
though in the more prosaic page of scien
tific entomology this pallid, filmy, white
insect is known asthe ‘‘snow y tree cricket”
(Beanthus niveus)
It was doubtless to the dreamy, spirit
like song of this insect that Hawthorne
alluded in that happy conceit which he so
generously committed to the musings of
his Canterbury poet, ‘‘ He listened to that
most ethereal of all sounds, the song of
full upon the
wind, and fancied that if moonlight could
be heard, it would sound just like that
erickets coming in choir
Elsewhere he alludes to their song as an
taking
‘‘audible stillness,” his mind not
note of it as an actual sound, but rather as
an unobtrusive SV mpathetic expression of
an interior sentiment—a sad foreboding of
the farewell of the year.
the **
tenser dream” of crickets.
Thoreau noted
slumbrous breathing” and the ‘* in-
‘*Purring crick
aor Sp
hE alee
-Obtalns 1
288 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
ets Burroughs calls them, and notes that
the ‘‘sound is in waves, and has a kind
of rhythmie beat.” How well he knows
them! This **rhythmiec beat” is peculiar
ly associated with the song of this cricket,
ry
ind | have often observed, moreover, what
is doubtless also signified in the above al
{ t
lusion, that the quality of perfect rhythm
ot only to the individual song,
but in a still more striking compound
sense to their usually associated minstrel
sy; for the positively isolated song of this
erieket Is Pare Ih my experience.
heard about the second week in Aucust,
‘st touch of this exquisite ly re 1s
and from this time its music increases as
the season advances, all through the late
summer anda itumn, mingling in discord
ant contrast with the ‘‘chromatie reeds”
of the katydids Indeed, long after the
rasping wrangle of these latter has sub
sided, and the last surviving ‘‘ testy little
dogmatist” has had it all his own way for
days, and at length succumbed, with his
t
oF ‘riss-crossed like a pair of seissors,
even yet you may catch an occasional
faint trill from the snowy cricket's spec
tral harp
But it was not my intention thus long
to take leave of my sunny meadow, for
there yet remains another mysterious
dweller therein, who claims our recogni
tion in positive and rasping accents, ‘‘ts7p,
tsip, tsip, tsip,” a continuous, rapid, ex
asperating stridulation, a reiterated noisy
parody, simulating the prelude of the mea
dow grasshopper already deseribed, always
foreshadowing some musical feat that
shall distance his little rival, but never vet
ting any further than a brag. This is the
loudest and most peremptory challenge
we shall meet in the entire meadow, in its
very grain and fibre suggestive of inordi-
nate egotism
After having once discussed him, and
separated his green individuality from
the surrounding herbage, and fully satis
fied yourself that his long wings are act
ual insect membranes and not a brace of
abbreviated blades of timothy-grass, it will
interest vou to observe him closely. This
insect is known as the ‘‘cone- headed
grasshopper” (Conocephalus ensiger), and
may be fittingly ealled the clown of all
this hevday
W ith what an air of solemn mock-gravi
tv he straddles around among the herbage,
keeping you ever in the field of his view,
with the jet-black pupil of the one white
eye turned in your direction! It mat
ters not what his position, that pupil is in
cessantly riveted upon you, travelling to
the upper or the lower edge of the eye, as
the case may be. And if perchance he
now rears up and faces you, as imperfect
ly indicated in our illustration, what was
true of one eye is now true of both, and
you are confronted with a cross-eyed
grin that brings your long suppressed
laugh to a final outburst, which for the
time being disconcerts the merry-andrew
Now he confronts you, ‘‘bows on,”
lifts one hind-lee like a mast high in the
air, wriggling his long series of terminal
toes as if to simulate a pennant, his slender
antennz thrown back from the apex of his
long bowsprit like jib-stays. And have
[I not seen similar glassy bull’s-eyes or
light-holes in the prows of ocean craft ?
Yes; and look! now the machinery be
gins to work, you can almost hear the
propeller as the hulk begins to sway and
tremble, and the spinning engine lets off
its noisy calliope, as already described
For it is a fact that in no other grasshop
per is the sound of the shrilling mech
anism so plainly perceptible beneath its
song, a suggestion of axles, cogs, and
cams, all the worse for wear. All through
this mimetic exhibition our clown has
been accomplishing the feat of looking
cross-eyed over the back of his head. He
would seem to afford a perfect though an
exaggerated embodiment of the simile of
Cicero that ‘the eyes are like sentinels,
and occupy the highest place in the body.”
Nothing escapes the sentry of this wateh
tower, it is certain, with its two goggles
suggesting prospecting windows in the
summit of a minaret. But our harlequin
s not yet done with us; we need not be
surprised at anything. He will now per
form the contortionist act. Lowering his
elbowed thigh almost to a correspond
ing position below his wing, he will pre
sently work the shank of the leg around
beneath his body, thus bringing his joint
ed toes between his fore-feet. After repeat
ing the exercise with the other leg, he next
lifts his fore-foot and pulls down his long
tapering antenne into his crimson mouth,
drawing them through his palpi or teeth,
with the two loops gradually enlarging in
front of his face. This is his magic act,
for how else could those exquisitely fra
gile members escape unharmed the cutting
edges of those hard mandibles ?
And so on until the programme is fin-
SINGING
ed and our cone-capped pantaloon
ses a sudden notion to skip.
[Lam aware that this individual which
have been disclosing in my noonday
sunt is more properly a nocturnal char
ter, only by especial favor displaying
He
an imp of darkness, and begins to file
ap
heard
s noisy resources in the daytime.
s saw outside your window at the
of be
more or less incessant company with
oach twilight, and may
e garrulous katydids all through the
rtit
Recurring again to “ Katy’ for how
ild one help recurring again and again
the noisy minstrel, when permitted to
sten through the poetic fancy of ** our
lial autocrat,” in his well-known lines
scribed to this insect, to that humorous
) strophe W hich begins:
I 1 testy | matis
* m * . *
[Thou mindest me of gentle-folks
Old gentlefolks are they
T ul Say st Ha
an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way.
‘Thou art a female katvdid;
I know it by the trill
That quivers through thy pier notes,
So petulant al 1 shrill.”
wt es
‘ 3h Ys —<— |
ier fi
Ss SL
AN
WINGS
2929
freedom with
How
vhen we reflect that
What
the
leliberate
a happy,
artistic license have here!
we
gladly welcome, too,
a strict regard for scientifie truth would
have deprived the world of this precious
bit of mother-wit Kor in fact among all
our insect tribes it is not the female but
the male that sings, the mate, if answer
ing audibly at all, merely with a slight
rustling flirt of the voiceless wings
There are vet many other songsters ol
lesser note in our New England meadows
but they must, for the present, be lost in
the din
In imputing the gift of song to these
musical performers | have taken a liberty
with fact, for singers in the true
o sense these
insects are not they are more properly
minstrels—for, accurately speaking, it may
be accepted, as Aristotle expressed long ago,
“that no living creature hath any voice
but such only as are furnished with lungs
and windpipes.” His context is :
The
come from insects is no voice at
teresting which we he:
hoe
but a
all
very sound oceasioned by the aire which
gets within them, and so being enclosed
certain and resoundeth
makes a noise
againe, and thus it is that some keep a
humming or buzzing, as bees: others make
certaine long traine. as
the grasshoppers; for
that the
those pipes under their
a cricking with a
evident it is and
well known aire, entering into
breast and meet
ing with a certaine pellicle of thin skin,
beats upon it within, by which attrition
the shrill sound commeth.”’
When we reflect that the term
hopper IS
* orass
here, doubtless, an in
stance of acommon error in transla
INTERRUPTED SONG
i 290 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
tion, and should more proper tous deductions, the modern micro
ly read *‘ cicada,” the allusions ’ scope having disclosed an intricate
to the ‘long traine” and pel 23 Vibratory muscular mechanisn
: licle of thin skin” have more age which, acting on the drum - like
i apt significance, but in such shy membrane, produces the sound that
1 case the “ pipes is magnified by the contiguous air
and impetus of the chambers within the insect’s body
} “sire” are gratui sf The drum of
- vom 17 Se the cicada is a
' & : Na oe; wrt veritable liv
ho * es ing micro
Si ST Sar? moe ’ phone,magni
Sy ao an Ut fil ee Fre fying a com
Bt) é ai % paratively tri
| Mie?" vial vibration
j x Into a loud
: crescendo.
It is this
3 4 latter insect
4 which is so mistakenly
iy ealled locust with us, and
£ . whose shrill, prolong a
4 whizzing vibrates in. the
Bi eS late summer days, seeming
' t i) to give actual voice to the
: 3! sultry heat, and which has also won for the
r ms insect the better title of harvest-fly: ‘‘ the
a locust’s zing,” says one observant poet, though
A victimized by the popular misnomer. ‘‘ The most
¢ ; skilful musician could not surpass his crescendo
SA and diminuendo,” writes Wilson Flage: ‘* the
\ rn song beginning low, usually high up in the trees
i : and increasing in loudness until it is al
? Aly most deafening, and then gradually dying
4 LI \i i “Be away in silence.”
se oe y , a3 rd, I have indicated the insect in the vign
sii ette on page 289, represented as in the toils
sii of his archenemy the sand-hornet, which is
A wont, hawk-like, to pounce upon his prey
in mid-air, and literally lug him off wing
fashion to his burrow.
Homer held up the cicade as models of good
orators, ** which in the woods, sitting on a tree,
send forth a delicate voice.” Virgil, on the
other hand, decries their disagreeable grating
tone, and lays to them the charge of ‘* bursting
the very bushes with their noise.”
The locusts proper, so identified with the
plagues of Holy-Writ, and with which our
summer fields swarm, while thus less famed
for their musical powers, are yet not without
their resources as instrumentalists. It is_ to
these minor musicians, the fiddles of the mea
uy dow orchestra, that we are in a measure in
r debted for the continuous chord which underlies
the chorus of singing wings. What these mu
sicians lack in individual importance is fully
compensated for in their multitudinousness
THREE FIDDLERS Thus the flight of an individual locust is a trifling
When a locust begins his **
af
SINGING
ind in itself, while the noise of the tra
the
tem-
: 1 1 }
tional swarm has been likened to
of
In less heroic comparison the con
‘oar a wild ocean” or ** fierce
eration applies from the stand-point of
rmusic. Barely perceptible to the ear
itself, this single diminutive ** first vio
reénforeed a hundred-thousandfold,
serts itself distinctly, and lends a sus
ned, important feature to the summer
In the locust the taborets of th
aiey e
isshoppe rare wanting, the term
“sing
wings’ being but partially applica
the wings doing only half-duty in
e musical performance as the respon
viol, to which the
sect’s leg performs the office of bow.
e instrument, the
recital” he is
the ** first
e”’ among my pictured trio, the shank
pt to assume the attitude of
ld]
his lee being drawn close within a
roove beneath the thigh, evidently made
» receive it.
With an air of comical solemnity the
is now raised and lowered with more
rv less regular and continued motion, be
piace
ends”
pressed close against the firm edge of
e wing-covers, by which contact the fid-
Thus
tique philosopher had i
ng is accomplished. a certain
t pretty nearly
eht when he affirmed, ‘* As for locusts,
s generally believed and received that
ey make that sound with clapping of
This
musical resource is known to other
eir feathers and thighs together.”
me
pecies of insects as well, notably many
one of which, the pretty painted
lytus, a beautiful yellow and black band
sal
in our orchestra as he sips and
eetles,
ure, may rightly claim a minor
ddles so contentedly among the golden
od blossoms.
But
ied with our summer fields.
there are still other voices identi
A few ‘* odd
in this tangle of sound which we
have as yet ignored, for in our compli-
ment to the insects we have occasionally
le
een the dupe of various little strategic
shams in the way of mimetic bird-songs.
Foremost among these meadow mimics is
tiny yellow-winged sparrow, and a
little he in his feathery
dentity doubtless as little known as any
ird in New England, and
less still, for though heard t
lay,
leer fineh is,
in his voice
}
he livelong
the meadow grasshopper would be
sure to get the credit. Of all our birds,
with in mind, this little
sparrow is still the meadow’s own.
even bobolink
sob
WINGS.
291
th
irom
ean teach him nothing of
He
hopper or cricket, for his world and
He
part of both insects; a
Ss ground
has no pomts to learn
grass
theirs
are identical. is the feathery counter
the
Way among those
very cricket of
shadows, threading his
intricate passages down deep against the
mould beneath the débris of. last leap
year’s GPYraSSes, a comple x labyrinth known
else only to the tield-mice and the ir KIN
dred.
above a
Here he is perfectly at home; whil
W
in, the flitting wings of the grass
of
hopper bound the loftier lin his lit
tle world. The plane of his life rarely
rises above the meadow-lilies a lowly
plane, but even thus it would seem the
more vocal of thanksgiving (nee seen
and identified with i this diminu
tive
ts song,
Sparrow 1s not likely to be forgot
ten
The song at a little distance almost ex
actly resembles the final prolonged strain
of the diurnal grasshopper already ae
scribed, save that it is more extended, and
when in close proximity a little louder.
It has, moreover, a peculiar ventriloquist
the
at
closer range, this peculiarity, again, con
ic quality, which, when heard in dis
tance, seems to locate its origin much
tributing to the difficulty of identity of
the bird with
former be in continual sight.
The
speckled, terrestrial species, is a
its song, even though the
streaked,
bird
much the same habits as the foregoing,
Savannah sparrow, a
ol
and is possessed of a chirping ditty which
might even deceive a cricket itself. to say
nothing of the entomologist.
The third member of my mimetic trio
is the diminutive field sparrow (Spizella
pusilla), which, in addition toa sweet and
varied song, has recourse to artful mim
Master
Simon, we occasionally find him in ‘as
icry, and, like Irving’s convivial
chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled
with dew.”
How my ears sing! exclaims a little
child to me while loitering in a sunny
pasture, vibrant with the intense winged
chorus In a similar vein of thought. I
if the
hears the joyous din
doubt average toiling farmer ever
assuming that one
cannot be truly said to hear who does not
listen. And vet this meadow music hath
charms unknown to him. It isa gener
ous beneficence; it sings in his ears as the
undercurrent upon which he floats his
he
plods afield; to which his
hopes, his fears, his joys, his sorrows, have
fancy
as
oe
ne ees
999
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
been attuned in unison through thi
years. How much this pastoral hym:
has ministered to his life he littl
comprehends. We are told that th:
soldier may sleep soundly throug]
the booming of artillery oO)
the din of musketry, but starts
from rest at the shock of sud
in den silence. Likewise the
ABI slumberer in his berth in mid
ocean awakens in apprehen
yy *, g ‘ e
J ' sion at the stopping of the
i} ta engine, the beat
. » 4]
ing of his pon
a derous, palpitating
we, : palpitating
rT Y RY heart being in
strange sympathy with his
rs own. How many a callous,
stolid toiler of the farm, ap
be parently as innocent of senti
i) " ment as the bowlders of his
‘¢ iN A boundary walls, but who
iff through a lifetime has been
soothed unaware by the music of his
meadow, could he be doomed to silent
harvest fields, would awaken to a con
sciousness that something of its beauty
and sweetness had gone out of his life
Farmer, did I say? It matters not
whether farmer, merchant, artist, or
poet, there are none too many singing
MEADOW MIMICS wings in his lot.
3ONNE MAMAN,
BY GRACE KING
] [ was in apart of the city once truthful
now conventionally, called ** back
wh - and it had peeh used aS an ob
ire corner in which to thrust domestic
s not creditableto the respectability
din the front part of town; where
| lamps could be safely substituted for
is, and police indifference for police pro
fhe long rows of tallow-trees, with here
ere an oak, shaded an unpaved
and a seemingly unbroken conti
of low cott wes with heavy green
doors and windows and little wooden steps
ig out on to the banquette. Their
vy architeet iral phys ornomies were
<d to an isolated, dimly lighted lo
ty, and were frankly devoid of any
ity or picturesqueness of expression
But as the banquette, wrinkled and corru
ited from the roots beneath, retarded the
steps of the passer-by, fintly asserted in
dividualities might be discerned: deelen
sions of one-storied degrees of prosperity,
comparisons of industry and cleanliness,
pretensions to social precedence inherited
om the architect of a century ago, or
iequired by the thrift of a present tenant
The steps were all scrubbed red with brick,
vellow with wild camomile, which, be
s gilding, lent them the aromatic fra
ince of antiq ie caskets
The quiet that reigned told that the
l
was still back of town in all that a
f
corporation suggests of movement, bustle,
nd noise. The air of desertion which
ing about the little closed cottages would
uve been oppressive had it not been for
children—a motley crowd, accusing
an ‘‘olla podrida” parentage, chattering
ues as varied as their complexions,
] }
t
d restless as if with the competing ener
vies of hidden nationalities. They were
dressed with tropical disregard of conven
tionality, frank, impudent, irrepressible, at
times noisy and unanimous, swooping
down the street in eager response to some
tant alarm, or taking swarming posses
sion of whole rows of steps.
The delusive similarity of the blocks
vould generate in time the suspicion of a
tread-mill under foot, did not the sharp
point of a triangular enclosure furnish a
landmark by cutting into the very middle
f the street, parting the hitherto compan-
Voi. LXXIIL—No. 434—21
ion banquettes, and sending them on at
divergent angles in ever-increasing sep
irvation, unt hey vel ha irrested
at unrecognizable distances apart by the
banks of the bayou The fence of this
obtrudinge property may have been Walnt-
ed in front on the other street, but it
degenerated to lS apex through every
stage of shabbiness and negleet As a
screen |
indebted to a hedge of orange-trees, whi
raised their heads proudly in the sun, illu
minating the ugly spot with their gvolder
fruit in the winter, and sanetifying it in
the spring with their blossoms. The shad
ed banquettes along the sides of the trian
gie were a constant temptation to the ¢ hil
dren, alluring them, against experience
into the range of the ¢ pith ts and missiles
of the children-hating people within
** Allez-vous-en!”
‘*Pestes de la terre!”
‘Negrillons!”
**Gamins!”
Tits démons!”
Enfants du diable!”
rhe loss of a knot from one of the boards
of the fenee furnished a providential] peep
hole into the mysteries of a ‘* ménage’
from which abnormal discoveries seemed
constantly expected by the children, and
if persistence of attention could have been
}
relied upon, Warnings m ohit always have
been given for timely refuge on the steps
of the nearest little corn rcottage These
offered an ideal juvenile place of refuge
where there were no brick or camomile
serubbine's to rebuke their litte r, no sud
den front door open gs to swee p them
away in confusion, no front-window ad
monitions or imprecations to disturb them
and absolutely no banquette ordinances to
taunt them into wilfulness, but instead
an upward glance through the small open
ing of the bowed shutters showed them
the face of ‘‘la blanche mamzelle JA-vé’
at her sewing
They were too young to appreciat the
fact that the batten windows were bowed
only when they were there, or to wonder
W hy they, the children. were thre OnLVY ones
that
her face was whiter, her hair straighter
who ever saw her, but the Vv did know
and finer, than human comparison for
them, and so they could net keep their eyes
oe
Fem as ae
oe tae
acme oe
eng
s
294 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
their lips from smiling invitingly at hers,
from looking for responses from hers, nor
nor their tongues from sallies of wit in
tended for her ear alone. To-day she paid
little attention to them. They could hear
her ‘* Miséres!” of impatience, and the vex
atious tapping of her foot, though they
could not see that she was manipulating
some gaudy woollen material which gave
her infinite worry with its ungracious, not
to say stubborn, opposition to a necessity
which ordered its stripes to go flouncing
in diagonal procession round and round a
skirt
‘Claire!’ called a feeble voice from the
pac c room
She raised her head incredulously.
‘Claire! Claire Blanche!”
A shade of disappointment passed over
her face
Bonne maman!”
Mais, Claire, fillette, where are you ?”
‘Tam coming, bonne maman.”
She caught her work together and fold-
ed it ina cloth before going into the oth
er room
; Wh it are you doing, bébé ‘be
‘But my work, bonne maman.”
Ah! I could not think where you
wer
‘[T thought it was cooler in the other
room.”
‘Tt is very warm in here.”
‘You are not going to get up, bonne
maman? You have not finished your
sleep yet.”
‘*Have I not slept as long as usual ?”
‘“No, indeed; only afew minutes. That
was the reason I could not think it was
,it is better for me to get up.”
jut why, bonne maman? There is
no necessity for you to get up earlier to-
day than usual.”
‘* As you say, it is warm here.”
The old lady lay on her bed under-
neath the mosquito bar, the straight folds
of her white ‘‘ blouse volante” settled
around her thin figure. Claire picked up
a fan, and putting back the bar, com-
menced to fan her.
Chére, bonne maman, try. Maybe you
can sleep some more.”
The coaxing, caressing voice and the
soft motions of the fan had a soothing
effect, and although the grandmother re-
peated, ‘‘ Yes, decidedly I had better get
up,” she made no effort to move.
‘The weather is so warm and tire-
some,” continued the girl, suggesting ay
excuse for lethargy.
‘Yes, as you say, it is warm and de
bilitating.”’
‘* Mais, just shut your eyes, bonn
maman, and try to sleep. You have not
rested at all.”
‘* Rest,” she said, catching the word
‘*Tdo not need rest; I have worked very
little to-day --in fact, not at all.”
“Oh, but I mean rest from thinking
Mon Dieu! if I thought as much as you,
I could not keep my eyes open at all.”
She turned her head on the pillow, and
did close her eves.
Claire smiled with satisfaction. Her
bright face showed the reflection of cheer
ful interpretations alone, and her quick
eyes, glancing over the surface of things,
gathered only pleasant sights. She was
going on tiptoe out of the room.
‘Why do you not bring your work in
here, Claire, where I am ?”
“What, not asleep? Vilaine!”
‘*Mais, mon enfant, how you talk!
Sleep? when I have so much to finish!”
‘*Oh, there is plenty of time for that,
bonne maman. At least stay in bed a
little longer.”
‘One would suppose that I was the
grandchild and you the bonne maman.”
Claire brought her work; not the gaudy
stripes, but a piece of embroidery, and seat
ed herself at some distance from the bed,
in the path of a ray of light.
The old lady sighed heavily; her eyes
were fixed on Claire.
‘But what is the matter, bonne ma
man ?”
‘Oh! nothing, nothing, chérie, only,
what makes you stoop so, Claire ?”
‘Ah, thatugly habit! Imbécile!”—slap
ping her forehead—‘‘ can’t you cure your
self enfin? I ought to be well tapped for
it, as I was at the convent.”
She straightened herself up to an un
comfortable degree of rectitude, which
lasted as long as the remembrance of the
sigh, and she talked as if her needle could
only move in unison with her tongue.
‘‘It was funny at the convent how
many bad habits I had. They seemed to
grow on purpose to be corrected. And 1]
was so young, too. Bad mark for this,
en pénitence for that, fool’s cap for some
thing else, twenty-five lines by heart for
something else. And all the time, ‘ Your
grandmother never did this,’ ‘Your mo
ther never did that,’ ‘Ah, if you had
BONNE MAMAN.
en your tante Stephanie,’ ‘ Look at your
isin Adelaide.’ Ma foi! the first les
[ learned was that I was like no mem
r of my family seen before How I
1 to wish there had been just one lazy
Was it that wav when
| one like me!
there, bonne maman ?”
1 were
[The old lady did not answer, but Claire
owed
hts from
no hesitation in summoning her
joug any pleasanter dallying
eround.
Hein, bonne maman 2”
‘What, Claire ?”
‘“At the convent, was it that way with
ou? Always scolding you because you
vere not some one else, always punishing
ou because what you
And then to tell me I
is lazy and could not learn!
you were were ¢
That was justice!
It enrages
[am sure ]
]
the
Génie du Christianisme in punishment,
me every time I think of it
learned very nearly the whole of
It was killing. Study! When I was
thinking all the time about something
straining my ears to listen, just to
f I eould hear the cannon shooting
‘wav out there in the distance.”
heard another sigh,
oulders with a start
Pardon,
else
She and raised her
forget.
Oh! I
|
be pious,
bonne maman! ]
You
can do anything I want except
will see I can cure myself
as they wanted me to be at the convent.
Ha!
‘Study history!
it was very easy for the sisters to say
and
'
Saints!
‘Study geography
stick La Vie des Saints before me.
It was ‘ees diables de
lenfer’ out there
shooting their cannons that I was think-
' >
ing of! Books! I hated books, and pen
and ink and paper make me ill to this day;
but I ecould embroider; that didn’t prevent
listening and thinking. I was only pious
When I remem
ber those days, mon Dieu Seigneur! but we
were frightened then!
God and the saints then! and how we used
to pray to them, fast, fast, fast as we could,
when the mail came in.
Oh, how we loved
before the letters were brought around!
Getting a letter meant just the same thing
as killing some one in our family. Those
were times—eh, bonne maman ?
‘Bonne maman!”
** Killette!”
‘*But, bonne maman, you don’t listen
to me, you don’t answer me.”
‘But, ma petite, [ thought you wanted
me to go to sleep ?”
‘‘Ah, were you going to sleep? And I
woke you? What a fool I am!”
295
‘What
bebe ?
** Ah.
to me,
were you talking about, mon
L will
sten now
bonne maman, don’t listen
indeed I
listening to [ry to go to
To think that ]
no
l am so silly:
worth
again woke you, when |
wanted you so much to sleep! I believ«
the sisters at the convent were right |
shall never have any sense—never; only
strength. Ah, ves! they told me that
often enough, and tried to shame me by
pointing to the good girls—the good, weak
girls Anyhow shrugging her shoul
‘oroodne ss doesn't st t
and a conve)
Ma cher
said
id been fougeht in the dor
ders,
as well as badness
when I left there
that a battle h
mitory
and var
, 1
you would nave
and the guns loaded with fevers
and all aimed at the good girls. Only the
fool’s cap wearers escaped The little
cemetery was full, full, full, and the
rraves so even and regular, all of one size
like a patchwork quilt spread out inside
the four fences.’
‘Now, Claire, I shall get up.”
“You see, if it had
1 1 ] 4
you would have been sleeping:
not been for me
and it is
so hot and tiresome to-day.”
Her grandmother sat up in bed
‘‘Just to give me pleasure, bonne ma
man, stay quiet a moment longer.”
‘““To give you pleasure—ah, well, if it
gives you pleasure!’ and she reclined
again.
‘Claire!’
“Oh
up with innocent egoism
bonne maman, Ll forget”
‘Claire, I was thinking I would like
to see my little green work-table again.’
‘* Ah, that was what you were thinking
eh? I thought it was my shoulders.”
‘My little green work-table,” she re
peated to herself.
“Which stood in the window of
room, that looked on to the gallery, over
the
your
the orange-trees, over the levee, into
river
‘To think I should forget it until to
day!
tle green work-table.”
To think I could forget it!—mvy lit
‘** But, bonne maman, you have so muc}
to forget!”
‘* But that was my ‘corbeille de noces,’
ordered Paris A
beille de how much that
I can see the very day, the very hour, it
from Gessler, in cor
noces! means
came. First, my vexation and disappoint
ment; there were tears in my eyes; it was
so ‘bourgeoise,’ a work-table. with no
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
‘issors and threads and nee¢
vers and lac
mon Sel
Aza wa
pertinent, push
the
They
me
more
I never
vithout touch
ble
‘DI
eClus
ott hopes tl t used
fly behind me now
i, Of eourse
We
LWO crabs, you and ] we Walk back
We
efore us, par exempl
But. C
up and finish that
that is natural
urd couldn't see anything going
laire, 1 keep forgetting. Imust
embroidery.”
Oh, just moment, bonne maman
one
t one moment more.”
be finished and returned this
evening
soothing
needle sped faster and faster, and
vords fell more and more
h it to me, Claire
DOT ME maman.,”
d I feel quite re freshed.”’
mere!”
Dieu
cklessly added
muttered the girl, and
eS Vogue f
very
la galére!
erandmother got slowly out
bed and walked to her rocking
the
basket there on man
: a muna 4 :
vent for the basket, and slipped
f embroidery she held in it
tl sig
Is, bonne Maman
mais, this is not my embroid
‘Si, it is your embroidery, bonne ma-
ited ‘
ehia, you have made a mis
and put yours in my basket. Look
and give me mine, chere.”
that her
voluble
ead away,
—
e turned her I
vlt not diseredit her
tell you that is your embroid-
yonne Maman.”
SAV SO?
See!
‘*My embroidery! Claire, how can you
? Come and convince yoursel!
' this is alldone; and mine—there w;
a vcood piece to do still ”
Mais!
**A—h! I see!
have finished it for me.’
‘Eh
mine, and I had nothing to do
Was I to sit still and hold n
Oh, you need not exami
Claire, it is you wl
why not [ had already finish:
abso] ite
nothing
hands—hein ?
the st I know they are not so fine
iteh '
ILCHeS
1
nor so smooth you)
nor so regular as
|
put they are cood enough for that ol
‘chouette’ Varon all the same, and
The grandmother jumped violently at
sudden knock at the door.
‘* Mais, mon Dieu! what is that?”
‘‘A la bonne heure!’ whispered Clair
to herself. ‘It is Betsie, bonne maman
I will see what she wants.”
‘* Ah, that Betsie! she is so badly raised
the
Now, Aza
Claire had already left
She knocks at door as if she wert
SS lisse
the room, and
,
closed the door behind her.
‘* Mamzelle,”
the step, ‘‘there’s that nigger out ther
said Betsy, standing 01
come for her gownd.”
‘Hush,
awake.”
Betsie ! Bonne maman
‘*There’s some frolic going on to-night
and she has set her heart on wearing he:
new gownd.”
** But it is not finished.”
‘*That’s bad.”
‘*T was still sewing on it when bonne
maman awoke.”
‘**T suspicioned you hadn't done it
I tried my best to send her away;
and
but
Lord! such a contrairy, »bstreperous nig
ver like that!”
“Tf bonne maman had only slept a lit
tle while longer
‘You couldn’t baste it up any sort of
fashion, right off, and let her go?”
‘*But how ean I, Betsie ?
man—”
‘*Couldn’t
kitchen with it?
Bonne ma
just slip out in the
You could say I want
ed you to look after the soup w
you
hile I go
in the street a minute.”
‘Ha! you think bonne maman would
not go herself to see to it 2?”
‘**That’s the madam. would
right out there herself. But that gal is
so owdacious and high-minded; she has
been a-jawin’ out there for an hour econ
stant, and I’ve been a-answering her just
SO; come
BONNE MAMAN.
fair as I could, *eause I didn’t want no
s. [never seen anything like her bra
ness all the days of mv lift
A-driving
white folks like they was niggers
ildn’t you say 1 wanted you to cut a
sie for me?
to her
to
‘She would tell me to bring it
“ut Bonne maman Is not
Betsie.”
The
riness and dejection in thi
hich the
SO easy
bright sunlight showed lines of
oir Ss Tace
bedchamber
darkness of the
d concealed, She leaned back against
ie closed doors and clasped her hands
over her head to shelter her eyes
‘* Well, I don’t
ch a loud-mouthed, lazy,
know If she was not
vood-for-no
ing, trolloping thing. = |
of her
what ]
we could
to
do with
wish
Wistl
an end turning
me see can her
‘Ask her to wait just a little while
’
longer; perhaps
“Wait!
nv idea of going.
Lord bless you! she ‘ain't got
Gabriel hisself couldn't
drag her away for the judgment-day with
[ ain't afeard of her
rong: I'm afeard she'll holler so loud the
outen that gownd.
madam will hear her.”
through
entering. It was
laire peeped anxiously
before
he walked in on tiptoe.
the
door still.
all
S Her grandmo
ther sat with her eves closed, the embroid
ery in her hand.
‘Ah, bonne chance !’—her face was san
guine and gay again—‘* bonne maman has
gone to sleep at last.”
The little kitehen basked in the double
heat of sun
crowded
was over
of three.
The only chair in the room was occupied
by the votary of fashion, whose monoto
and
assemblage
and furnace,
with its
nous argument rolled on to an unrespon
Sive audience.
‘I was a-telling this lady here,”
nodded to Claire with her bundle, and
pointed to Betsy—‘‘I was a-telling her ]
vanted for to-night, for that
moonlight pienic is a-coming off to-night
You ‘ain't heerd tell of it? Me
ind my society gives it, and all the mem
she
my frock
ul last.
EPS is going to go, and they is bound to go.
[ laid off yesterday to come and tell you,
uit I didn’t have time; and it appears to
mea week's long enough to make a frock,
anyhow; andif it wasn't, you should have
told me so fair and square before you ever
put a needle into it. The moonlight pic-
}
nie’s done been put off lone enough,
Lord knows! It
never \ ul pe abie t Oo l Dp Nel
meas how
ye
thing vas always
Evers
wed
a-happening against it
blessed time we got all the money
loo in the boy | Pe to}
| KX th Y, and, sure enough
there and then it
wouldn't be enough vet
put off till
And if it hadn't been for Sister Johr
would be another colleetion
son's
funeral last night it wouldn't
now But it
come off
s coming off this time, sure
off w
Johnson
cause 1f it had a-come hen we first
started it, Si
tO 10;
ster
herself could
have
gone yes, indeed, as sure
you are there; and if it hadn't
night I
gt
been for ] her funeral last
don't belie we ever
up. It
they come
would have
a-long past midnight when
to me for my money, cause I
r would have given it to ’em before
ilter they had done got all the money,
hey said as how they had better wait for
the moon;
‘No, sir: vou give that
pirenie to night,
but the sisters, they just said
there moonlight
moon or ‘cause
pic
without a the
As I was a-telling this lady
here, and if you had a-told me last week
no moon,
it's a heap easier to give a
moonlight
nic moon than without
money.’
vou wasn't a-going to give
the
to some
me that there
moonlight pienie, I
Lord
enough to do
frock there for
could ha’ given it body else
knows there’s white people
sewing, and glad to get it; and you knows
yourself, after I done paid my money last
night at sister
funeral for a
moonlight picnic, I’m bound to go, and
Johnson's
I'm bound to wear a new frock if I’ve got
one.”
‘Lord, child! don't you jaw so much
Don’t you see the mamzelle’s ‘most dons
it ? it it
done in time ?”
Who says you ain’t gwine to
‘ ‘1! ® | ° ~
She’s bound to git it if ]
+ if
Oil il
done in time
stavs here a week—she’s bound to
done in time.”
It 1:
clowin
‘ 21. 45 , 1
1y on the tabie like a heap of Tresh
x vegetables. She picked up the
Waist.
‘* And Lhope to gracious you ‘ain't mad
the josie too tight!
ful The
You
neck fixin’ you could sell me, hav
I busts my josies aw
color
‘ain't got a collar or some
for if
maging in the privacy of her bosom;
} .
I could pay you cash down
can see for yourself,” untying the knot
in a handkerchief. ‘* Lord knows I had
trouble enough getting this money after I
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
| done worked for it
what
L had to jaw that
hite woman owed it two
incessant be ore she he
But I w:
riyt
grace
is bo l to get it for
Lr
moon picnic, and [| wasn’t going
on one aay longa r,
I told her so
obliged to work for her no
id she fl
Vash and it neither,
, ,
ranvbody, and (,oodness
vs, I ain't
ing it to me, and told me
xv God's sake to hush talking, and clear
out and 2 let her lav eves
» and I :
you ve got
evel on me no
n't going to, neither; and if
more
any sort of collar or neck fixin’
you could sell me cheap, ('d pay you cash
vn for it
‘Hein
.
Bets
alo
Betsie ?” asked Claire
y answered in a quick whisper, ‘‘ Ef
» got some sort of little old thing
got any use for, you know the
money ‘ll come in mighty handy,”
Clai
vent int
re hurried aeross the little yard and
© the room with the same
pre eau
as before Her fingers trembled as
she opened the door of the armoire so near
1e sleeping grandmother, and she pulled
from an old pasteboard box the first piece
‘lace that met her eye—a large antique
Valenciennes
Will this do, Betsie
collar of
sne asked, en-
P the Kitel
en,
The damage done its marketable value
by the deep yellow color was painfully
evident to both.
‘How much you want to give for it?”
asked Betsy.
“Well, I I've
ot. Im willing to give you all I have
Here's
bits for the making of the frock,
cant give you more’n
cot, and that is the best I can do.
SIX
fair and square as she agreed on, out of
this dollar, and here's two bits besides, and
th ot in this world,
: and I wouldn't
id that two bits there if I hadn't
off last from giving it to
know I
wouldn't ‘a come to me,
at’s the last cent Ive g
the Lord hears me speak
hi
been let
the
had it;
AS
have
night
‘cause they didn’t
and they
if they hadn't found out I'd been
vashing by the week
Six bits outen the dollar and two bits
How much does that make alto
collection,
hnhonow,
vesides
vether ?” asked Betsy of Claire.
“And that dollar there was what the
white Woman gave me.”
Betsie, I will take it,”
‘T assure you it 1s
‘I will take it,
said Claire, eagerly.
quite sufficient.”
‘Well, so long!
now, that that
I'm just a-willing to
bet, moonlight picnic is
put off again. I mistrusted them brothers
when they come a-knocking me up |
night in the middle of the night.
in moonlight
ast
I don't
believe pienies, nohow,
and—”
‘Eh, Betsie? That is plenty of mone y;
hein? Butif bonne maman finds out!”
The old lady did not open her eyes fo
some time after Claire returned, and then
if in of het
thoughts: **It is curious I never thought
of my little work-table until to-day. My
And it was Aza thi
Aza.”
her head meditatively as she repeated thi
resumed, as continuation
‘corbeille de noces,’
first who found it out She shook
name. ‘‘She was always pushing herself
where I They told me I
spoiled her; perhaps so. She was mor
like a doll to me than a human being
Hersmother gave her to me, when
It felt
so grand to have a live doll, just as I was
beginning to tire of the others. What
plans I made for her! Enfin! it was the
will of God. While I was standing, with
forward was.
sii
was only a day old, in my arms.
tears in my eyes, looking at the needles
and thread, Aza was feeling the green bag
underneath. Do you remember the green
bag, Claire ?”
‘*Do I remember
Mais stir.”
‘*She gave the drawer one pull, and,
voila! it was all before me.”
Her thin, bluish hands, with their dark
knotted, angry veins, rubbed nervously
up and down the arms of her chair, and
she made frequent pauses by leaning back
it, bonne maman
and closing her eyes.
‘*Ma foi, if Aza had waited, she would
not have had to thank me for her free
‘Ma fille,’ I used to tell her, ‘it is
not only the difference in our skin, but
the difference in our nature.’
have died for me—-ah, yes!—but she could
not be good for me. Claire, I wish I
could see my little work-takJe again.”
Her voice, usually so trained, was sur
dom.
She would
prisingly plaintive. ‘* You see, so much
would come back to me if I could see my
little table. I think sometimes, mon en
fant, that the loss-of our souvenirs is th
of all for us women. With
them we never forget. When one is old,
things get so far away. When we
young, we are like dogs: we hide away
out of our provision, for the future, scraps
of ribbon, lace, or a glove matter
what—and it is very hard when, old and
hungry, we come to the place and find
worst loss
are
ho
BONNE MAMAN.
em all gone. Of course it is all senti
nt: but, ‘nous autres,’ we women, go
through so much, we like to remem
er when everything happened for the
one’s first
and when
first child.
get reconciled to
rst time one’s first copy-DOOK
communion, one's first. ball,
me gets married, and one’s
An,
anges
mon Dieu! one can
in life, but one cannot get recon
ed to changes in one’s self. Even when
ey are crumbling to dust they are fresh
Mon
L advise you, give up everything
women are at the end.
er than we
fe except your souvenirs; keep them
for your sentiments to gnaw on, as one
might say.”’
‘Eh,
the war? ofl
crand’ mere, souvenirs of what ?
Merci! |
am in no danger of forgetting them.
Of the convent ?
Ky
ery piece of bread I eat reminds me how
hungry I used to be there, and
The grandmother had
taken another
leave of absence of mind, and Claire, hav-
ing no ulterior motive for loquacity, was
silent also
The closed eyes, however, were not, had
not been, sleeping; on the contrary, under
their pallid lids they were looking with
vague of
terminate something slowly evolving out
tense vision, in fear inde
an
of misty uncertainty into a fatal convic
tion
That it had not come to her before was
owing to the coercive strength of an in
lexible will; that it came to her to-day
the irrefutable
dence hitherto suppressed or ignored, did
Women
live close to nature, and are guided from
with accumulated evi
not astonish, only awed, her.
initiation to initiation in life by signals
and warnings which they, and only they,
can see. There can be no rebellion against
their own intuitions, no questioning of the
credentials of the angels of the twilight
who still knock at their doors, the bearers
of divine commands, messengers of life or
messengers of death.
She failing
failing in mental, strength.
was failing in physical,
The child
Claire was managing her, doing her work
for her surreptitiously. She would pre
pare for the future; but why would the
past obtrude upon her, turning its corpse
lights into every nook and cranny of her
memory? Regrets were useless; but why
would they come, sowing discord, cor-
roding with tardy indecision the supreme
decisions of her life, arraigning, from the
vantage-ground of the present, cherished
299
feats of spent heroism, testing the metal
of her approaching martyr’s crown
This was to be the end of a life con
ducted on principles drawn from heroic
inspirations of other times. The princi
ples were the same, but human nature had
changed since women’s hearts were strong
enough not to break over bullet wounds
sabre horse-hoof mutilations,
cuts, and
when women’s hands were large enough
to grasp and hold the man-abandoned till
ry. It had all
spread
The old lady
over
fone wrong
her handkerchief ner eves
The closed lids could not shut in all the
tears Yes, it had all gone wrong some
how The battle turned out a defeat, not
: the son came back on his shield,
ith it. And she
haps have done better
a victory
not w She might per
Death would now
if the times and
Had it
for overflows and disasters and disappoint
have been easier for her
she had been different. not been
ments, for failure of crops and epidemics
of disease, for the feeding of so many use
less and infirm dependents, she too might
have been a successful plantation mana
ger. Asit was, when her commission mer
chant came to her with a statement, she
frankly and firmly acknowledged that she
could not rightfully claim an acre of her
possessions. They came in a royal grant;
they went in a royal cause. There were
but
She
lose a creed to grovel
micht to
France, as it was supposed she had done:
law quibbles ;
for coppers ? have
gone
and desert the country for which her only
son had died? She was less than ever a
French woman, more than ever an Amer
ican. At bay, every nerve tingling with
haughty defiance at the taunts and jeers
of despising conquerors, every heart-throb
beating accusations of womanly weakness
and grief, what more effective answer to
the challengers of her blood and country,
what nobler one to herself, than bravely
As
the men had fought, let the women suffer
left
the beautiful country, her plantation, her_
home, her souvenirs of youth and happi
to assume the penalty she had dared /
against overpowering odds. So she
ness, and came to the detested city, sought
out this little cabin left vacant by
death of an old slave, and with Claire
commenced that life to which had
convinced herself she was committed by
principle.
tion to meet an extreme of disaster.
the
she
It was an extreme of resolu-
Amel
iorations of her lot were intolerable even
in thought. She would make her destitu-
800
tion complete by renouncing even friends,
with her hum
relations, social amenities,
ble rie
She had
fate
thoroughly,
>
>
orhbors,
against
there was no doubt about that
lived her retaliation
now
etfectively, death
and was
her. J
d not hide the convulsive movement
pon ut Claire The handkerchief
cou
of her bosom as she recognized the short
range of heroic vision
The figure of her
g pale, cheerful, brave,
toiling granddaughter before her
the
came
vividness of those
of
dressed in
with unearthly
dead,
:
their
The agony she had felt in
visions stormy nights her
helpless
children
rrave-ciothes
ibandoning her babies to the isolation and
the
t
antly at the abandonment of her last child
ugliness of tomb resuscitated poign-
to lile
Wh
this little cabin would be to Claire
at tomb could be lonelier or uglier
than
when she, the grandmother, was dead ?
W ould the patriotic death of her father,
would the martyrdom of her mother, would
a proud disdain of law quibbles, would the
renunciation of friends and the defiance
of enemies, alleviate her affliction then, or
her youthful, unaided life
for which
her in
solace
truggle, ancestral glories, re-
finements, and luxuries were a poor equip-
ment Could enemies prepare an extrem
ity of suffering beyond that to which Claire
was predestined by her own grandmother ?
The sun went down on the little back
street earlier than elsewhere on account
of the huge old square house blocking up
The un
closed as its rays withdrew, and the hidden
the west windows and doovs
community finished the day’s task in the
until twilight
released them to indulge in the relaxation
publicity of the front steps,
of neighborly gossip allexcept the corner
cottage, which maintained its distrustful
reserve even through the gentle, winning
shades of evening
W hen others went in front to greet each
other with the commonplaces of human
her grand-
mother went back into the contracted area
Claire and
interdependence,
;
etween the house and kitchen, and ex
pended their tendernesses on the mendi
potted plants that formed
The old lady walked this
evening from shrub to shrub, laying her
‘ant groups of
their garden
gentle, withered hands with maternal ex-
pertness amid the green leaves, straight-
ening a distorted branch or searching out
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
diseased spots. Her own heart felt bruised
and sore from suppressed emotion, and
craved their fragrance, which, it seemed
to her, they had never yielded so willing
ly orsoabundantly. Did they understand
all, and sympathize with her? The tears
came into her eyes again, but Claire had
gone to take the embroidery home, so there
was no need to hide them.
The brilliant sunset sky burned over
head in deep engulfing masses, reaching
down to the pointed roof of the cottage
the despised roof whose shelter she had
sought as the deepest insult she
flict upon the world,
could in
The old, worn, me
nial house! it also looked kindly, protect
ingly, at her, as if it also had penetrated
her secret An
old, old sentiment thrilled in her heart as
she looked through her tears at it for the
** Ah, mon Dieu,”
she thought, ‘‘everything seems to know
and feel for me, just as it used to know
and feel when
my
the last secret of her life.
first time as at a home.
I carried other secrets in
The youthful, timid falter
ing came over her once more, the virgin
breast!”
shudder before unknown mysteries, the
same old girlish need of help and encour-
agement. But she overcame the expres-
sion of her face as she heard the key turn
in the lock of the little back gate behind
the cistern,
followed by
Claire entered boisterously,
3etsy with a bundle.
tossed off her hat with its ugly veil of blue
barége.
She
Such a delicious
If Ll only had embroidery to take
home every evening! And the old ‘chou
ette’ could not have been more amiable.
‘**Oh, bonne maman!
walk!
Ah, it’s so good to go out on the street!”
She stretched her arms over her head,
tightening the faded waist her
swelling breast as she looked up in the
around
brilliant sunset sky above.
‘*Mon Dieu! but it’s all beautiful. I
wish I could walk up there in all that
pink and blue and gold; walk deeper and
deeper in it, until it came up all around
and over me!”
She drew a long quivering breath.
‘*Do yousmell the night jasmine, bonne
maman? I do not know how it is with
you, but it is as if it came thousands and
thousands of miles just to me and no one
else, and it makes me feel faint with its
sweetness.”
She threw her arms around her grand-
mother and embraced her impulsively.
‘*You see, it is so good to go on the
BONNE MAMAN.
It makes one feel
Ah,
ight to go sometimes with me, just to
ll the people How
sere must be in the world!
t, bonne maman.
tree
you
» gay, so fresh, so strong.
]
many people
And I know
three—you, Betsie, and old Varon
Jut Lam olad they are there all the same,
ven if [ do not know them.”
4 loud, coarse, passionate waltz seemed
olass
rhythmie links over the
wall.
»y la in
brick She released her
protected
Oo randmotherand danced round and round,
is if eaught in its melodious wheels, un
eft her panting and glowing.
When ]
aman, 1t IS as if my blood would come
hear music like that, bonne
ut of my veins and dance right there be
me. Sometimes in the night I hear
[ think at first ’m dreaming, but then
to it until
ws and hold myself still, for, oh, bonne
vake and listen [ stop my
» get up and
until J
to the place where it begins fresh
unan! IT want so much t
yw it, out, out, wherever it is,
veet and clear from the piano, and
dance, dance, dance, until I can
lance one step more!”
fell in unguarded
her eyes began to burn wit
‘he words fervor.
h feverish
Betsy plucked at her dress.
vytness
‘Mamzelle!
‘Sometimes I wonder whether it is in
the music or in me
Mamzelle! Mamzelle!
‘‘ Whether it is in me alone or in every-
body P
‘Mamzelle Claire, just one word!”
= Decidedly that
remarked
Betsie is very badly
bonne maman, in an
ndertone.
When I smell the night jasmine I
it a little, and when I look up
but
gv as when I hear music.
in the
<y like awhile ago; it's never s¢
rol Oh, bonne
maman, can’t you give me something to
make me stop feeling this way—to make
that musie let me alone ?”
‘* Mamzelle !” the negro
placed her hand on Claire’s arm to enforce
ittention.,
‘Tf Aza could see that!”
irned away in disgust.
‘Mamzelle! I can’t stand by
vou daneing and singing to that
excitedly
The old lady
and see
music
you hear over there, and hear you talk
out getting up in the night and follow-
ig it.” Her voice trembled, and her fin-
vers tightened convulsively over the slim
vhite arm. ‘‘I don’t tell the madam,
301
s no use bothering her; but, mam
cause it’
zelle,as sure as God hears me now, them
niggers over there don't play no music
excepting for devils to dance by, and that
piano don't talk nothing
white lady to listen to
‘Eh? What do you mean
‘* Mamzelle—”
Does that hurt the
Do you think I want to dance to it
music Who piavs
it?
to listen to it She pushed Betsy's hand
off, with her fingers grown clammy; her
cheeks were crimson, and her lips blushed
at the strange maturity of expression so
new to them
‘Did |
night and follow it?
say I w roing to get at
Did I say I
every evening
as up
Did 1
to fe e]
ing on the street
say I would rush up to the people
them clasp my hands only once? Lonly”
and her voice came in a sob-—‘'I only
said Ll wanted to.”
The
She stopned her ears
music came now low rand sweeter
“There! tha
Why loesn’t it stop
is
what I must do—eh ?
talking to me?”
‘* But, mamzelle, they i
inter
‘Tt doesn’t cost anything,”
rupted, furiously—‘* it doesn’t cost any
thing to listen to music, to know people.
work for it, like bread and
Dieu,
L don’t have to
meat; and, grand how much better
it is!”
Two tears rolled from her hot eves:
she
paused in startled awe e carried her
hands up to them
‘Claire! Claire Blanche! you had bet-
child
‘Yes, bonne maman
ter come in,
Outside, the steps filled up with
The tilted
chairs back against the trees and the \
sacqued women. men
of their houses and smoked their cigar
ettes. The children—and this street could
have supplied a city with children—raced
from corner to corner to dance out the
sample tunes of passing organ-grinders.
The conversation flowed in an easy
muring tide from group to group, soared
mur
over every now and then by a dominant
ery in pursuit of some refractory fugitive.
*You Var—iste!”
*A—na--to—le!”
‘*Ga cette Marie la bas!”
‘S to
‘* Josephine, to maman ’peler toi!”
seph—ine!”
‘*Polite! tu veux pas finir?”
The lamplighter threaded his way
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
‘s, scoring off a dim record
1
ipamonge tne
As the
green leaves
darkness settled over
1
blot
¢
»f the screened house,
orange neage,
s of merriment seemed
n scornf ess down
il careless
dance music With its impetu
and
hter and
overtures Of song
ff in loud laug
vy over there this e1
like that
for fe
but the men, their cigar
united their heads
x the gloom, listened in si
secret wistful
the
sleep much over there to
elances in
occult merry-making.
one, pointing to the corner
+h as any Saturday night,”
was
‘ore day, when Betsy, with
closed the little gate
7
id started out with he
larity
r stick
| und her sack over her shoul
belonged to that division of hu
food in the
was a
ho seek
their daily
e
Ol others She
rag
eleaner in the nocturnal fields
ity Her
nor savory ;
harvests were not
but compensations
upe of freedom from competition,
influences, and a
o be despised, particularly by one
stable market
in the darkness has no terrors, the
She had con
a stoop in her shoulders from so
}
loneliness 1
}
tracted
1O tr pidations.
much buckets
and peering through dim lieht
into the slimy bottoms of muddy gutters,
so ner Tace
over barrels and
penaing
and tubs
seldom met the glance of the
passing world, in whose litter it
dained s}
Was or
e should seek her food; but when
she did look up, there was seen no reflec
tion of corruption filth in her small
no grovelling
black eves: purposes
Al
essed in a motley livery, thrown
in grovelling pursuits
oht from the shoulders of viee,
rime, the audible thought which
fell mechanically from her lips carried the
conviction that it was a harlequinade of
costume only. Her twilight meanderings
had taught her much of life, and while it
had never been given her to look upon or
appreciate the gifts of civilization, she had
not many of its banes to find out. She ha
more experience to hate vice than to loy;
virtue, which with purity and goodnes
dwelt a long way back in her memory,
a long way forward in Biblical promise
The répertoire of her monologues was ni
large or varied ; wherever they ended, thi
generally began with an early morning
like this, “‘nigh on to three year
when, going forth to pick rags, she found a
mistress, and in lieu of daily bread gaine
daily bondage. She was turning over thi
contents of a very destitute box indeed
that morning when a gate behind ly
denly opened, and a
peared.
‘*A young white girl in this here quad
roon faubourg! My Lord! what does this
rsud
young white girl ap
mean ?” her cultivated suspicions prompt
ed her to exclaim.
But the young girl, frankly, in the con
fidence of innocent childhood, said, wit
a polite propitiating smile, in stiff, unprac
tised English:
‘‘Thear you every morning; I attended
I want that <
direct me the way of the market.”
‘You git up this time o’ day to ask m
the way to the market ?”
for you this morning;
‘Yes, for my grandmother yet sleeps
I wish to go there before she
self.”
‘* Honey, ain't you got nobody to go
for you 2”
wakes her
‘* No, nobody now, for
“And what could a nigger do 2?”
tered Betsy, in self-extenuation—** mors
inspecially a Baptist, a fresh-water Ba]
tist and a cold-water Baptist, and a hang
er-on of the Cross ?”
It was the chance that links togethe:
husband and wife, that determines the fall
of a dynasty, or directs the feet of the out
cast to a loving home.
mut
Circumstances never permitted the
childish appeal for assistance to cease,
and an unselfish tender heart never per
mitted it to meet with disappointment
For three years now the sun had mea
sured their horizon hour by hour, and it
had never shone dn a moment of distrust
in either to their simple confidence, or of
disloyalty to the pious obligation of ser
ing, by fair means or foul, the proud old
lady glorying in her lofty ideas of self
support.
‘‘T can see the end,” Betsy told herself,
fishing around in a pestiferous heap, “* but
I can’t see after the end. The old mad
BONNE MAMAN.
um’s a-failing; I seen she was a-failing the
irst day I laid eyes on her; and the young
iamzelle is a-growing and a- ripening
d beginning to notice things
ke The old
nothing, nor
The
come
woman
madam, she don't
the
end’s a-COming
The laughing
nging and the working all day and half
ht ain't off, nei
and it’s a ecrucifying world,
suspl
mamzelle
Its
the
e1on
young
either
) ind to
and
and
thre it
nig a-going to put
ler any
Th
0 look bevond 1
old lady that morning, trying also
he end, was seeing Claire
crowing up instead of remaining forever
a child—growing up in spite of tragedy,
starvation, imprisonment, into beauty,
rayetyv, joyousness ; craving sympathy,
companionship, mental food; throwing out
ut off
by short-sighted precautions from friends,
woman tendrils in all directions; ¢
from relations, even Trom certification of
Alone, literally alone,
but for the homely friend picked up out
of the had to
chureh, for the time by
identity
ner own
She Claire
first her life, b:
herself that morning in order to carry
street. sent
in
out the one project that had come to her
She called Betsy to the
side of her rocking-chair
in her agony.
‘* Betsie, you approach me.”
Her English, like most of her youthful
possessions, was hers yet only by an ef
She
fort of memory. spoke very slowly,
reconnoitring for equivalents for her agi
tated French thoughts
‘SBetsie, it must we all die.”
‘Lord! old miss.”
‘Betsie, it you it
die, but more maybe me than you.”
‘*Yes, ma’am.”’
‘Betsie, when it comes we die, we look
for friends
must die, must me
hein ?”
‘T reckon so, old miss.”
‘*Betsie, when it comes I die, me, I
for 1? Mademoiselle
Claire and you. You and Claire, nobody
eh, Betsie ?”
** Yes, ma’am.”
‘* Betsie, all this time I have been fool;
but I be fool no more. I for
myself; no, Claire, she work for me; you,
] 1.
LOOK
friends, what see
more
not work
you work for me; but me, I not work for
myself. Oh! I think so, I work for my-
self, but no. Now, I know, me. My eyes,
they have been shut, but now they see
everything.”
There were tears of mortification in the
proud old eyes, whose first coquettish scin-
Y
tillations lay so deep buried under the
“ef-drifts of a lifetime
me |
my
Since a long t work not
} 1 1 ‘1 ]
bianche, she broderle
Please,
mad with the mamzell
make
old miss, don't you g
for th:
Me, I do nothing more;
sinee two
it be fore
al
for
die
KDOW
Vears I aie
but J
vou come Close, CLOS«*
know it now,
1] »
well Betsie
1]
couUula
high
‘Betsie, I very sick;
not iss standing, her face
She knelt down
I dic
up by the
to-dcday
morro
‘Not so bad as that, olk
“To-day
1 miss.”
, to-morrow, or soon
not when, but soon
‘Can't you take something, ol
‘No, Betsic I not need
; deat L need.
sie, that is something terrible:
do
ments; it 1 h what
no, not for
the agonizing, but for the others
long sometimes—hein, Betsie ?”
‘*God knows, ma’am.”
‘ Betsie,
]
hose
when it comes I die, you stand
and the re
ce Ye 1
here. so. e Claire. she
pointing to the next room i here,
she there; then she not see.”
Her voice, obedient to the strong will.
at
was clear. but times a we ake hing tone
its firmness, and
turned the command into a petition.
‘T understand, old miss.”
‘Betsie, in my life I have
It did me nothing.
from the heart marred
much
For why? I
IL have hold the hand; I have
But Lhad much family
Betsie, if it comes I die, like you
seen
die.
was happy.
made the pray: r
still.
and
na bonne femme Betsie, you will not let
ma petite Claire see.
that. My good God!
she ever laugh
me we have seen some die—Betsie,
Betsie, swear me
Betsie, you think
like last night when she
>
tsje
Betsie,
see me, her bonne maman, die?
swear me that.”
+o
miss es
‘* Betsie,
nothing.
wear you that on the Bible, old
you will say noth
God, He will te
vill tell her in time.
you say I well
her
11 her—oh
You say I strong;
hein, Betsie ?”
He
‘* Yes, ma’am.”’
‘That
ment.”
‘* There’s old
you've done forgot,” began the negro
man, still on her knees, her short thick
eyelashes crystallized with tears, a sur
passing pleading in her voice. ‘‘Old
5
is all—that is all for the
mM10-
7 .
eise, miss,
something
WoO
;
304 HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
miss, ain't you gwine to send for none of
your folks—none of your friends? Old
miss, you heerd that child out there last
night just a-yearning for some folks and
friends Old miss, let me go out and
find “em for you. I will search this town
through from end to end, but V1] find ‘em
for you, old miss For God's sake, old
miss, don't leave that child here with only
one poor old nigger for her friend! Old
miss putting her eager lips close to the
bleached, withered ear—‘‘ old miss, they is
all out there; the earth is full of friends,
old miss Just let me go for ’em.”
The bonne maman reached out her hand
and laid it on Betsie's head handkerchief
‘You have reason, Betsie—you have more
reason than me You are one good wo-
man, and I ask the rood God to bless you,
For me and for my grandchild. Ido not
know to talk it, Betsie, but’—she drew the
black face to her and pressed her lips on
the forehead—*‘ that is what I would say,
Betsie.”
Old miss, you will send for your
folks ?”
‘“ Yes, Betsie, to-morrow. Betsie,”’ she
called again, as the woman was leaving
the room, ‘‘vou will tell Mademoiselle
Claire nothing—nothing; it will come to
her soon enough eh ”
‘Fore God in heaven I promise you
that, old miss.”
But she was never strong enough to
send the summons; the angel had delayed
too long on the road with his warning.
The first kisses of the spring sun bring
out the orange blossoms, and the first
movements of the spring breeze loosen
them with gentle frolickings from their
stems, and then earry the sweet betrayal
of their wantonness and weakness round
to all the open w indows of the city. The
children, with their quick divinations,
have the news betimes, and muster in full
force on the banquettes under the trees, in-
trepidly braving the insulting volleys of
their ambushed foes. Before the dust of
the street could pollute them in their
abasement, before the sun could wither
their unsheltered freshness, the deft little
black, brown, and yellow fingers had pick-
ed them up into high-drawn skirts, old
hats, scraps of pottery, rag, or paper, and
garnered them, not on their favorite steps,
but in a cache selected for temporary
use. For on the green doors they loved
Death had affixed his standard, and the
long black crape floating with majestic
solemnity in the sweet air frightened them
away. The little cabin, alwavs so dark,
so quiet, so unobtrusive, thrilled the early
openers of the windows with the unex
pected sign of its stigmata. Sleep had
lulled them all into unconscious unhelp
fulness, and daylight wakened them to ae
cusing repentance.
‘**La pauvre vieille madame ]a-yé, morte
pendant la nuit.”
‘Ah, miséricorde !”
**Si je l’avais su.”
‘Et moi.”
The Sunday church bells called them
all to mass—all except one. It is an old
fashioned creole city, with a pompous fu
nereal etiquette, where no dispensation is
soucht or given for the visit commanded
by that crape searf. Death himself had
unlatched the green doors, and was host
to-day. The ‘‘ blanchisseuse en fin,” the
** coiffeuse,” the *‘ garde malade,” the lit-
tle hunchback who kept the ‘‘ rabais,” the
passers-by to and from mass, the market-
woman with her basket, the paper-boy
with his papers—all came, if but for a mo
ment, to say a little prayer, or bow in re
spect to the conqueror and the conquere d
She lay in her coffin in the bare, unfur
nished room, where she had lived with
her poverty, her pride, and her griefs
Through the mutilations of age and in
firmity, through wrinkles, discolorations
and the stony glaze of death, she looked
with the patient resignation of a marble
statue reposing on the bed of a sluggish
stream,
Ignorant eyes looking at her humbled
aristocratic head might see a little clearer
into immortality; ignorant hearts, a little
deeper into the depths of divine love.
The alien could feel the sympathy of a
common end if not a common origin, and
the prejudiced comprehend her sufferings
as he could not her principles.
A large, heavy-limbed woman dressed
with showy elegance moved slowly down
the street, and stopped for a moment be
fore the door, while her eyes with lan
guid curiosity measured the length and
texture of the black scarf. She was past
middle age, but not past the luxuriant
maturity: of her prime. She held he
head insolently back, challenging and de
fying observation, proclaiming and glo
rying in a pampered self-consciousness.
From under the black lace of her veil
jewels glistened on the soft barbaric
BONNE MAMAN.
had
into dangerous allur
own skin. Pleasure sensualized
itures and form
¢ harmony, and panoplied her against
Her sleepy large eves rested on
oug
hesitating be
of
reminiscences
aoor while she paust d,
en the instinetive craving morbid
riosity and half-dormant
She felt
nt gratifications 1
to move in her, the subtle current
intamed savagery, the precursor
esires swelling on irresistibly to satie
waited until her hot blood
}
and she
flush for the cannibalistic gloating
civilization could refine from
ho
then, without glancing at the
from the door, she entered the
She bent over the
ier; paper
iteringe
its
om eotlin with
naciated, pitiful human contents, and
er eyes dilated with the fascination
‘** White,”
vith a contemptuous smile on her volup
she whispered in surprise,
lips. What exquisite flattery to her
exuberant, sumptuous flesh!
riumph for the fierce, bold blood
‘illing and leaping in her veins! She
ised herself with complacent comeli
ness, and looked again before leavine.
‘*Mais! before. It
s very strange. Mais grand Dieu!”
I never noticed it
she
reamed, in reckless self
It is she! ]
membered the paper at the door, and tore
off read it. ‘I tell
} . ;
screamed again to the Impassive watcher,
abandonment
know it is she! She re
and you,”
she
Betsy—‘‘I tell you it is she
Mamzelle Nénaine ?”
an agonized Wilisper, throwing
Mamzelle
She inter
Nénaine ?
rogwated, in
herself on her knees by the coffin. ‘Is it
Oh! She looked around
** But what
n W hat can it all mean ?
wer
vou? is it you?”
‘cely and wildly. does it
Can't
she demanded in Eng-
“Are you a fool ? How
¢ Who did it?
to know who dared do it 2”
me
lish of Betsy.
his lady come here
vant
Betsy had risen respectfully. She was
trying, with God’s help and the old lady’s
cold, silent presence, to see now beyond
the end. In conformity with her ideas
of responsibility to the dead and to the
living she had put off her rags and dirt,
and—the last
had put on anew black dress, white
sacrifice of her unselfish
heart
neckerchief,and ‘‘tignon’—herown grave
clothes, bought with cold and starvation,
and guarded religiously through years of
vagabondage.
‘Who are vou? What are you doing
here ?” demanded the imperious visitor.
‘*Me, ma’am I
vant
“You li You lie!
madam never owned a servant like
am the madam’s ser
]
KHOW
you
Vou
[ never said the madam owned me
I said I was her serv int; she hired me
] ] ° 1) . }
[It looked as if the woman could find
no adequate expression tor the passion
that ra n her oehe SHOOK
the
ved 1 her fist at
pare COld Wallis
j
oor, {
she stamped
rough, uneovered f she caug
of the jewels on arms, and hurled
ner
massive brace from her, she tore
» t AY \
1COLs AWAY
open her dress to ease her swelling throat,
and her bosom panted violently under
crushed garnitures of soft white lace.
She fell d | the coflin again, and,
bursting t ears, Lid her face 1n
darned, blouse volan
Wailing cries,
Mamzelle Nénaine!”
r friends
shroud, moaning, with long
**Mamzelle Nénaine!
** Where
‘Please,
are Iie
maam, he ain't got no
friends, exe pling the ; } car ventie
man at the corner; he was mighty gooc
and kind: he come when I went for him,
t
t
all hig
and he stat hh
‘But, my God! where are her rela
tions ?
* Earn
besides the
never heerd of any relat
Mamzelle Claire
‘** Mademoiselle Claire!
Monsieur Ed
She
1OnS
mamzelle
Claire Blanche
vars baby
t
was silent again, as if unable to
compre hend it
* And
have they been
God al
How
here in
lowed this! long
living here this
cabin
‘*T don’t know, to
1
them,
I la’am;: it's nigh on
With
toe
three years sence ]
and they've been here ; time.’”’
The stran
a muttered
ger looked up to heaven with
blasphemous adjuration
Betsy had been gazing with her keen
eyes as if into a murky depth; a cloud
seemed to have passed away from the sun,
for the ‘I see
you before, the
room was a little lighter
now! I didn’t see
you
room was so dark.” Throwing
at
room!
p 1c or
all effort self-restraint: Clear
from this How dare you sh
your face here! Clear out, I tell you,
fore 7
** Ha!’
a dangerous intonation, a menace
exclaimed the woman.
fearless and unserupulous
Don't
e of my madam!
Don't you dare touch her again!”
**Go out of that door, I tell you!
you dare look at the fae
Your madam! Your madam!”
ie cursed her with a French impreca
tion Don't you dare call her your
rie ! she was my madam! I was
( ) I belonged to hei I was given
wwe I was a day old. I slept by
the side of her bed; she carried me around
her little arms like a doll; she raised
like her child; she was my godmother;
she set me free [loved her, | worshipped
Oh God! how I worshipped her!
Mamzelle Néenaine, you know it is true!
Mamze N Line "you could speak to
\zaonce more! Just one word !—just one
\ rrent of tears choked her voice.
Bet recoiled in horror
Your madam! Your My God in
heave i And she lay a dying here, and
the mamzelle a-starving, and you her
servant, what belonged to her, in that
house over there! You! a-seandalizing,
a-rioting, a-frolicking, a-flaunting your
self in carriages, you and your gals right
past this hou e! a-ecarrying on your devil
ment right out there, and your mistress
a-Slaving and tarving! You! You
nigger! The old woman's crooked back
uightened until she could look the
quadroon straight in the eye.
Yes,lam! Yes. lam that same dirty,
stinking old rag-picker what did serub
bing for you. Not for me, mind you! but
Lo buy mit licine for the poor old madam
} ig ¢ ]
here; a-iowermng myself for her, a dying
and starving and freezing, while you was
In the streets the money
the pockets of them white
Hush! Oh, for God's sake, don’t talk
And last night, when the end come,
when the end come, I tell vou, with the
Mademoiselle Claire Blanche 2?” re-
peated 1 quadroon, vaguely.
Betsy misunderstood her meaning’
The last thin ls
¢ before the madam
here died, when your music and your
devilment as going on the loudest, I
old her, I told her I would look after the
mamzelle the same as if I were her
boughten slave: andI’m going todoit:; and
{1 tell vou, nigger, standing there before
me in all your brazenness and finery and
sinfulness, before you so much as speak
306 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
to that child, before you so much as touch
the tip end of her gown, you will have
to trample the life out of me under your
feet
The inspired figure of the black woman
came nearer and nearer, advancing be
tween Aza and the coffin, pointing to th
door. The quadroon tried to glare back
her speechless rage; but the arraignment
was too crushing, the action too full of
meaning. She dropped her eves, and for
the first time in her life felt ashamed
Ashamed before whom ?—a common rag
picker from the streets? How dared she
steal the language and sentiments of the
dead one in the coffin, and talk to her
like a mistress? Her, the insubordinate,
irreprovable one! With a characteristic
gvesture she threw her head back again:
but in Betsy’s fine, determined face, in the
holy passion of her voice, in her firm,
commanding eve, she recognized, not the
stolen or borrowed principles of a white
lady, but the innate virtue of all good
women. She measured herself not with
her dead mistress, but with Betsy, and for
the first time in her wild, daring, passion
ate life felt the humiliation of repentance
Following the direction of the finger, she
left the room.
The day wore on to the hour before
the funeral. Visits had ceased, and the
silence of prayer was in the room about
the old lady. Black-bordered printed no
tices, detailing the names and dates ean
celled last night by death, had been tack
ed on the corners of the streets and on the
door of the cottage, and friends of rela
tions, whose names were a patent of no
bility in the old city, were respectfully
requested to assist at the funeral obse
quies.
Betsy, sitting at the head of the coffin,
fanning unweariedly, heard in the other
room, where Claire was, the sound of foot
steps, the murmuring of voices, and her
name ealled with a moaning ery; or she
fancied she heard it, for the silence and
oppression of death had benumbed her
faculties, and she felt uncertain of every
thing. At last, to end the dream-like con
fusion, she went to see, and left the old
lady, for the first time that day, as much
alone as if she were already in her grave.
The children, a hushed, awed band
crouching on the steps outside around a
white tissue-paper bundle, had been peep
ing, and waiting long. for their opportu-
nity. Itcame now, to paralyze them with
BONNE MAMAN.
faintness and fear. At first they could
ike no impression on the green door
th their trembling fingers, all holding
yreath, and then it slowly opened to
Thes
as they promised,
‘the darkened chamber within
0d up to follow,
n the door swung to again they
All but
n appalled, scrawny, ragged, wild
in their places outside
creature with black unkempt head
yellow skin, with outstretched naked
rms clasping her bundle tightly, with
feet clinging to
bare lees and
with
white teeth clinched, and
ear-distended eyes looking anyw here but
that
e room
undefined object in the centre of
It took an eternity to cross the
space—an eternity measured by every ter
still, it ended
A barrier stopped her. Invol
The locked
eth prevented the seream, but in
ror of childish imagination;
too soon.
} }
intarily she looked down
the
grip of her fingers the paper gave
tense
iy, and for the second time that day the
orange blossoms fell, breaking with elo
juent fragrance the damp stillness of
death, enshrouding the rigid form in their
and crowning
yveliness, with a virgin
gnadem the earth-worn face looking hea
venward through its last human expe rl
of love, not hate. The door slammed
the her
fragments of paper, and the children sped
away again to their distant corner of ob
servation.
ence
behind fleeing messenger. with
Betsy was not mistaken; the bedcham
ber was filled with people—ladies and gen
tlemen whispering and moving around,
calling Claire by name, laying caressing
hands on her head and shoulders The
girl only crouched lower by the side of
the bed, and pressed her closed eves ticht
er against the pillow taken from under
bonne maman’s head, and moaned, ‘‘ Ah,
Betsie! Betsie!”
Betsy looked around in amazement.
‘If you please to walk into the next
room—” she began; seeing that they per
sisted in trying to arouse Claire, she push-
ed through them, and placing herself in
front of the girl, said, querulously, ‘‘ Let
the mamzelle alone; she’s not harming
any one; what do you want to bother her
for ?”
She could not understand them at first,
being dull and dazed with fatigue and ex-
citement.
But then the joy in her heart weakened
307
her She bent over and steadied her trem
bling hand on Claire’s head ‘Child, they
Hon
they
uney
is all your kin; done found you out
ey, they wants to know you. Honey,
wants to love you.”
But the
pillow.
head only went deeper into the
‘You must excuse her. Y
ally exeuse her; she don’t kni
she’s doing She ‘ain
]
‘ad Trom that pillow sence
la
After a pause of deecorous silence. the
ladies and gentlemen, as they will do at
funerals, recommenced their w
ispering.
It was excusable this time, the first eather
ing of a family which had been separated
by the whirlwind of revolution a decade
ago. There was much to talk over anda
long roll of the dead to eall: but chiefly
there was to recount
one to another,
each version character tinged, their utter
dismay at the intelligence
by Aza that day
she
brought them
How like
had carried the tale around from one
had rallied
them once again around the old standard
of family pride and family love With
told
them of the death of bonne maman—of
a hery cross
household to the other, and
: ‘ ’ . ;
What passionate eloquence had she
bonne maman whom they had supposed
Dead!
wretched, forsaken exile in their o
Dead!
the sound of their voice
living at ease in France! here! a
Vi city
in the very reach of their hand, in
Dead! without
a friend! she, whom living, not so very
long ago after all, they had surrounded,
a crowd of eager, obsequious courtiers.
They spoke of the old plantation days, with
its magnificent,
luxurious, thoughtless
hospitality; of the ancient, aristocratic dis-
tinction of aname which had been a knight
ly pledge in two countries: and they look-
ed at the
revelations
little room with its inexorable
In the exaltation of quick-
ening emotion they forgot to whisper.
Vying in efforts to for the
present, they brought from their memory
such glorious tributes that the old lady in
their atone
her pine coffin appeared clad in garments
bright enough for a bodily ascension to
heaven. Pride and sacri-
ficed, painful secrets hinted at in this holy
revival that all might be said, now that it
was too late for anything to be don:
reserve were
un-
as the
their
own persons or the persons of dead par-
ents they were bonded by unpaid dues of
fealty and obligation to their deceased
til it became evident, as evident
misery surrounding them, that in
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
voman, or, Tlalling SHrINK
her, to the
¢ fair-haired girl kneeling by
,
dress
yvoman in the corner,
listened in
,
sound of
ossed the
Master this
{to Betsy, and
‘lated the simple
to Lhose
Who
of their depend
ier only with their
she
nitent way was
to one
tsy, listening
rs running unheeded
o her white handker-
voice also, and, after sev
eeded in saying, ** And
ntleman at th
}
ity good and
o -corner, he
kind: he eome when
+
and he staid all night.”
” him,
‘he sincere tones, in which ever and
came a chord like bonne maman’s,
trated in spite of the pillow, to Claire's
and won herto listen. The glorious,
r homage
to her whom she bitterly
Chitar’s
was no more
YOME years ago there
Ss tive announcement
goer
The
the artificial come dy of
irles Lamb called the
and Wycherley, but the
old eomedies.
of a later d AP which
She Stoons to Cor quer,
y lal and The
d the Plough. They
1, because the world which
onventional world. But
ous traditions of the stage had given
i n taste, and
impression of that older
7 * NeW
Spee
{was
o quaintness for moder
, the
histori al
general view of that society is
It is derived mainly from the
vels and comedies of the time, and especial-
from the plays. The and the
ind the manners which make up the
leave a vivid and unfading picture
ind. The old comedy is a passage
y, like Macaulay’s description of the
court of Charles II. on the eve
ae ith,
costumes
of the king’s
put into actual form and color and ac
Mr. Morison, indeed, in his Life of Ma
caulay, in the series of ** English Men of Let-
ters,” says that the secret of Macaulay's fas-
cination is that he writes with the rich and
tion
supposed unknown, uneared for, abandon
ed even by God, raised her head as if b
enchantment. She arose in an excitement
of love and gratitude, showing them a
her sad emaciated beauty, her out-worn
out-grown, wretched clothing, and whe
they all rushed forward impulsively
embrace her, she clung to them
to the
as ides
successors of bonne maman.
A pauper’s funeral had been ordered, b
the friends invited by Aza’s notices formed
a cortege that filled the little street, and the
service in the mortuary chapel where Aza
directed the hearse to stop was such as
only the wealthiest could command. At
the end of the procession walked a retinu
of old slaves, the last, highest logal affirma
tion of family worth; among them, one of
, Was \z
bearing the conventional black and whit
them, in costume, race, condition
bead memorial ** Priez pour moi.”
It was late in the night, when the de
serted streets promised security from rec
ognition, that she hastened through them
and entered the little back gateway of th«
triangular fence in the slavish dress, worn
for the last time.
Easy Chair.
for the theatre
ries of the
careful detail of the novelist rather than of
the historian, so that his work is essentially
pictorial. Whatever the real
Hortensia Mancini may have been, or th
charms of Barbara Palmer and the Duch«
of Portsmouth, it is by the glowing descrip
tion of Macaulay that they will be always
known, as Charles I. is inseparable from the
portrait of Vandyck. So the English country
squire, whatever his actual character, is fixed
in tradition and universal acceptance as Ad-
dison sketched him in Sir Roger de Coverley,
and Goldsmith in Hardeastle. Yet Hardeas
tle was but a lay figure until some admirabl
actor gave him the form which the stage has
faithfully preserved, and which is as perfect
in John Gilbert as it could have been in any
predecessor,
loveliness of
]
1}
No actor of our time recalls more certainly
than Gilbert the warmth of affectionate appr
ciation with which, Lamb expatiates upon
some actors of the close of the last century
whom he had seen. The swift evanescenc«
of an actor's fame, which seems often very pa
thetic, as it were an unkindness of Nature that
a talent whose sudden extinction eclipses the
gayety of nations should leave no intelligible
trace, and often but a fading name, has its
compensation in the tribute of a kindred art.
As the author gives the actor the opportunity
>
EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR.
to disc] ites
ose his genius, so he perpetu
! triumphs, and reveals |
ind exquisite methods. Beasley
nd Dodd and Dicky Suett are
WunNes, Sis
vy of his
reader. B y live upon t
ce “ Madam Carwe Al,”
pon the page of Maeat
the
immortality in circle of the
d and intel
itions. The general publ
len, but every reader of E
the reader of to-day’s n
quenter of Wal ,
bert,
This a
igent minds of successive get
Ul k's 1 Ney
ty that Gol
It is doubtful
and detinite ae
nn of his own creation. The
tleman in Gilbert's Hardeastle «
effectively with the pinchbeck gentleman of
Wallack’s Charles Marlow. The latter,
is admirably done. It is a remarkable work
for a man who in point of age lins the advan-
tage of Marlow. It
comedy,
rdeast
|
have se
ld mcep
+} ] P
essential gen
mitrasts most
ilso,
is the rattling rake, the
who, although he
is drawn as morbidly shy in the presence of a
than
! jen of the old
woman, has no other opinion of women
Walpole had of patriots. In with
what refinement and re
bert olive sto
contrast
this venteel swagger,
straint and dignified courtesy Gi
from a certain
Hardeastle! It is all the finer
counts which is rather n
Wery simplicity, cative
sence of the town air than positive as
ticity. Should the King himself
rus
Har
f-respecting civility.
enter,
icastle would be equal to the moment in
The i ic
inter!
manne
he submits to the insolent
r |
stock
stories by Marlow and his comrade is as
inimitable as the simple pleasure with which
he accepts the tribute to them of Diggo
the ser
y and
wits,
haraeter
reeret
L not be
lineated by the same sympathetic genius,
which Addison
Roger, and even when the
turns against him, his hold upon the affect
of the
me spell
The whole representati “the ¢
and makes the spectator
Sir Roger de de-
( over] yVcou
| the scenes in phen
pleas int
reader is secure. G
ilbert tl
upon the spectator of
castle, and much more
Indeed, the
effect of a play
evident than in the ease of She Stoops ta Con
surely than G
necessity of acting to the proper
was never more conspicuously
quer, Only when well played does the humor
come out, as when invisible writing 1s held to
the fire. Even the extravagances, like the
between Charles Marlow and = Miss
H irdeastle, were so well done that the scene
Was not extravaganza, but genuinely comical.
Such overwhelming shyness in such a man is
impossible, But there was a suggestion of
possibility in the acting of Wallack which
was incomparable. This was facilitated, as in
all plays, by the fact that the world of the
Vou. LXXIIL.—No. 434.—22
scene
]
resemblances
What a very hig
theatre has reached
vau leville e muld b | tte played
than She Stoops to ( ] "WAS p! ied
York. There i to
Hardeastle
than G
will be
that
suppose
CSCNTALIVE
if they sce haractel
msistently tre The
criminated
izle or
mMsulmate
deli 1 4 way
in which it
actor’s Sir Peter Te
lute
sir 2
reveal his (
that lv
nt}
wsecutl
strange
ve
the gay nonsenst ot the Sullivan
the sincere and earnest painter, cl
high view of his and
power, the chrome ‘ he carieatul
il the place of picture
unty if suc
conscious
pd
ple isant sigtits.
formance as that at
Cong not
be Luse of the pert
er does
rmance,
“olde lies’ ha
upon pubpie favo
more admirabl
The
with upon such a poin
p wie, howe
1 + t
Lif to prefer on en
But if the voune pei
HAWTHORNE was as
} | ied to Wo
ent
li
massiveness,
man ;
In appeara
recollects accura
dark. lis head and
sive, an his de p eye
ning’s line,
are ss WwW
were
mos
Ell
face
!
dl
‘he well of thy dark cold eye.’
the ven
features
It was a singularly handsome face
eral outline full and rounded, the
pe
310 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
mmetrical and strong, the brow broad and
sive, and the dome of the brain more sug
ve of Webster's than anv contemporary
head Indes +] aspect of the whole head
rn t wit t Ss t { mncing
ts that i te ¢ Il smile was
ver i] weh was alwavs ready,
not extravagant With all his shyne 8S,
t wid it ft i a sense of remoteness, as
¥ f not easily accessible Ina
p f perso} | \ Tene illy silent, and
1 tét )_te hig t ec + : vit yt et
fusiveness or ardor of any kind. There was
ho seemed to live more habitu
himself, as if, as his son Julian recently
! irks, he found no better society
i at rec In whic 1 his im on | world was
his real here is shown in the best way in
such a paper as the preface to The Scarlet Let
4 4 at ‘ it) ! A his com? 1d | at the ( ust mn
use in Salem, or in the Monsieur De Tl Aube
é He treated the figures of fact as others
treat those of the faney, and he was no more
ht upon
conscious of turning too strong a lig
vhat others might not have revealed than of
escribing too definitely little Pearl or the
Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale. This is not to
vy that he was in any sense *“ absent-minded”
ni ot ifthe actual world. On the con-
rt literary man has ever shown a more
( nsi ( penetrati eve for every
ictua ct and detail
Hawthorne's Note-Books reveal how thor-
l a literary artist he was. Everything
t met his eCPYV¢ instinctively suggested to
him its own possible artistic value and_ use,
‘Into paint will I grind thee. my bride.’ In
stl ng about the fields and in the woods, he
caught from the forms and hues of flowers
and trees and of all natural objects endless
| ts for thy plastic irts as well as for his own
ild. His art was as consummate as it was
unconscious It is hard to conceive a more
exquisite s rt tale thar Rapp icini’s Dauahter.
It is as perfect as Keats's ** Ode upon a Grecian
Urn,” or as the urn which inspired the poet
But, like the Parthenon, the parts which are
1 finished as the most ap
parent parts, All the suggestions and hints
ul 1 spiritual analogies of the tale are as evi-
dent as its external movement. Indeed, this
s the character of every one of the wonderful
inor tales as of the larger works. They are
not like so many pretty stories, cut flowers, or
ths or butterflies which flash and glance
nd vanish They are blossoms of a weird
beauty and strange perfume, with long stems
| far-burrowing roots that hold by the cen-
l thus draw their nourishment from un-
known sources
The Easy Chair has strayed away from the
Hawthorne portraits, of which many have
been published. That which is the frontis-
piece of this number of the Magazine Mr.
Lowell thinks to be the best that he knows.
The Bennoeh picture is also admirable. — It
represents him seated at a table with his lk
wrist and hand resting upon a book, and |
right hand upon the side of the knee. Thi
fuce is turned toward the spectator, and it
is a remarkable likeness. If only there wi
such portraits of Shake speare and the ¢ lade
as we now have of our own famous men, the
world would be richer,
To one who remembers Hawthorne in the old
manse, when he was publishing an oceasional
story In the Democratic Review, edited by John
L. O'Sullivan, while he was still a very ob
scure author: one who has seen Hawthorne
and Ellery Channing departing for one of
those days upon the placid river which are
described in the introduction to the Mosses
trom an Old Manse; who recalls the village
tragedy which gave Hawthorne the sugees
tion for one of his most powerful chapters,
the end of The Blithedale Romance ; and who
can still see in vivid memory the lovely face
of his first child lying in her baby-wagon in
the old avenue, and looking up serenely at
the trees that arched over her—it is very
pleasant to look upon the picture of a face
once so familiarly kKnown—the face of a man
of genius in his prime—and to think that the
quiet, modest author, *the artist of the beau-
tiful,’ who wrought patiently and unrecog
nized at his marvellous work, because he did
not falter or despond, nor aim lower, nor try
for the easy vogue of ad iV, but was centent
to serve beauty and truth for the sake of
beauty and truth,is now beheld of all men
with gratitude and reverence as one of the
benetactors of the world.
The circumstances attending the Mayall
photograph of Hawthorne, which is the fron
tispiece of this number of the Magazine, are de-
tailed in the following statement from Mr.
George H. Holden, a fellow-townsman of
Hawthorne, to whom we are indebted for the
original from which our engraving was made:
In the work Nathaniel Hawthorne and his
Wire, Vol. IL, p. 256-8, you will find an ac
count, by Henry A. Bright, of a sitting given
by Hawthorne, May 19, 1860, at Mayall’s stu-
dio, 224 Regent Street, London. Hawthorne
never gave but this one sitting at Mayall’s,
and Mayall developed only one negative. The
photo which I have sent you is a print from
this negative. Some inaccuracies in Bright's
story have been pointed out by the younger
Mayall, but they are not essential, and the
narrative may be regarded as practically cor-
rect. He says further: “I have a distinet
recollection of Mr. Hawthorne—just as he sat
forthe photo, IT remember remarking that he
looked very like a Frenchman. My view of
him was a momentary glance from the doo
of the dark room, where at that time I had
charge of the chemical processes.”
In another communication Mayall speaks
of this photograph as “remarkably good,”
and adds: “Such a negative, at that date,
EDITOR’S EASY CHAIR. 311
uld not be ordinarily produced with a less
xposure t thirty or forty seconds in the
mera, with the subdued light
my father’s i
ist have remainyad quite still
onds, for
s,and individual hairs
yvebrows and mustache.”
Mr. Mavall senior retired from the business
1865. ind was suc d by the son. Many
ratives were removed at that time
usually em
Hawthorn
during those
rty or forty sec the print shows
iris of his « ‘
his ¢
ndred neg
is country residence. The son says: “A
st of all the negatives removed was left in
hands, and hence I was able to trace this
rative to my father’s pris ite hou
to my father, he found his list,
ynsiderable delay,
% ?
the negative was in its place,
and supposed, of Course
Inasmuch
there was no record of its having been re
When, however, I pressed him to let
have the mm rative, the box was search ad.
it if was not there.” In explanation of this
provoking discovery he goes on to say: “ It
would appear that somehow this negative had
een taken out, and possibly the printer, know
more of N. Hawthorne than of the
nan in the moon, treated it carelessly and
To preve nt his be ing blamed, he
oO
}
i
in’ no
broke it.
ould simply wash off the collodion, and hold
his tongue about the transaction.”
Let me here remark that Mr. Dright’s state
ment to Julian Hawthorne
vyhat misleading. He
er’s
I sent othe
fellow, and
eems to be some
savs: “ After your fa
ith the photog: iph w is engraved, and
copies to your mother, Mr. Long
more. The original
taken at the time) hangs
Is it not
one or two
there Was only one
in My own room.” a natural and un
forced interpretation of this evidently careless
ind hasty epistolary statement that there was
but one photograph made, and that the other
copies were engravings? Tfowever this may
be, it is true that no photograph of Hawthorne
Dy May il .
graph, was received by Longfellow at the Crai
sie house, or by Mrs. Hawthorne at the Way-
And it is true, furthermore, that May
l’s books show the distinet entry of a print
from this same negative sent to * Mr. Motley,
31 Hertford Strect, Mayfair.” And this photo,
IT have learned, is now in the possession of
Motley’s daughter, Mrs. Mary Sheridan, at her
house in Dorsetshire; it is, mueh
faded. A third copy was made for Mayall’s
own colleetion.
When all hope of finding the negative was
abandoned, diligent search was made for the
senior Mayall’s own copy, and it was finally
discovered in an old portfolio whieh probably
“had not been touched for more than twenty
years.” And it is this authentie copy, quite
fresh and unfaded by reason of its prolonged
seclusion, which I have had the pleasure of
placing in your hands. Mayall further says:
“The photo I have sent you is of extreme rar-
itv. I have not an impression in my own col-
lection. And before it was found I would
and no engraving of that photo-
side,
however,
have wagered five p Is to a shilli
ve should ve found one It w |
St i Tact it as Irom the copy now in
your ha s,and th \ \ 1 were made tor
Motley i i Bright ther impressions
have en printed from thi st May nega
tive
In th grap) f Hawthort uhove 1
el at { sto be Lremarka 4 ‘ |
which ma ( ted het It vives
Bennoch unhesitatingly pronot
trait f Hawthe
hook por
is wholly unl Mavall photo And by
those who ire fam r with the vari S pol
traits of Hawth it will be recognized im
mediately as a copy of t so-called * Lothrop
Motley” photog! ipl st Haw rene
A NOTED and successful painter ree lv said
that he did not believe that current criticism
either It
said, whieh
ing clever thines and
skill of
ls opportunity,
and
indeed, an opportuni
of art
offers,
is duly improved, of say
up
ilso affor
of saying sharp and
and of ridic efforts of
sincere and well-meaning workers. But what
criticism of pictures, for Rus
kin’s Land seape Pai ifers
vice to artists? And that
}
of showing the ac ishment and
writers; andi vhich
is no less improved, sil
castie things, uling the
instance, sine
ias been of real sei
not
was serviceable.
! bee
ise of
of its large
knowledge
pee
cisms, use
art itself. and of
ind insight of the writer,
ts personal e1
|
symp ithy with
orent
ho alluded to certain works only to ill
ustrate
reat principles
When he was asked why the eriti
not to-day, also, speak of certain pictures as
try the
painter
lustrations of great principles, and
actual work by the highest e:
replied that pet he mieht, but that he
didn’t; and that the general drift of criticism
was to point out defects, according to some
arbitrary conceit or pret onceived notion of the
critic, and not to attempt to ascertain what
the artist intended to do, and how far he had
succeeded, and how he might be aided to cor
rect the apparent faults. Criticism, contended
the painter, should be undertaken as seriously
as the work criticised. But who is the critic ?
Disraeli says, stingingly, “The man who has
failed.’ and who tries to avenge himself upon
those who But in the daily papers
how many of the men who go to the Acade my
and then write about the pictures have any
other fitness for the task a wish to fill
“ certain space and earn a certain sum? Do
you think, he asked, that we are aided by that
kind of performance? And that is the type
of current criticism.
The Easy Chair, which has sometimes ven-
tured to take the tone of the critic, demurred
to this view. It remembered its own remarks
of various kinds, which, if not ad rem, were at
ions, the
haps
|
SLICE. ed
than
—
4
i‘
i
i
Pid
fi
H
t
¥
Kinane
NES
least wel: meant and free from all vengeful or
sanguinary purpose; and what was true of
one critic might very well be true of others.
So it made bold to say that whatever mry
have been the fact in the day of limited re-
sources, When the proprietor of a ne Wwspaper
was compelled to serve atso as Compositor and
(l
nd office-boy, it was somewhat different now,
aditor anc reporter ar
nmuic and pressman
Phere was a time, indeed, when the tradition
of the editorial room was that of Maginn and
the Mohawks of Fraser, who did execution
upon every culprit they could cateh, and to
Whom every author or artist was 4 criminal of
the darkest dye Phese terrible Je ffrey ses held
a perpetual bloody assize, and hanging, draw-
ing, and quartering proceeded without pause
upon all sides. Slash and dash was the cry,
and the critic seemed to think himself a kind
of bravo, who was to whip out his rapier and
transtix every passenger who had the inso-
lence to appear in the street,
This was at least the tradition. But it was
never very well founded. Fellows like Wain
wright may have done a brisk business in
Bot yet when Wainwright
wrote, Charles Lamb was writing, and Cole
ridge and Southey were writing; and they
were not malefic eritics. Father Prout was
of the Maginn set, but his heart was kindly,
To be * brill-
jant,”’ to make a sensation, not to be dull and
commonplace, this, indeed, was the aim of
many a young roisterer of the pen; but this
kind did not monopolize the field. It is, how-
ever, to be remembered that three of the ehief
modern English poets, Byron, Keats, and Ten
nyson, were deeply stung by the critics, and
Byron and Tennyson retorted vigorously,
It is true, also, that while much eritieal
writing to-day 1s intelligent and diserimina-
ting, few artists or authors probably would
own that they derived much benetit from the
comments upon their works. Many authors,
indeed, never read the eriticisms or notices of
wanton stabbing
and he had some conscience.
their books, and artists of all kinds are apt to
recognize a personal feeling in the strictures,
Yet at th person whois most interested is not
benefited by the eritic, the general public is
hardly able to eriticise him and measure the
justice of his view. Indeed, the mischief
done by the brilliant Mohawks, old or new,
comes from the disposition to ac ept plausible
ogmatism upon a subject little known as the
conclusive opinion of a competent judge.
Few readers of a newspaper know much of
the “canons of art,” and if a clever fencer
with the pen deftly pricks a victim, or covers
his work with a dazzling flash of ridicule, it is
not easy for the reader to see the work except
In that de pre iating light
Three or four men who write notices of the
Academy exhibition, for instance, In as many
leading journals, might unite in making fun
of a particular picture, and it would go very
hard with it in the mind of the spectator who
had read the article and would not care to
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
place his taste or knowledge against that of
the critic. One of the old Tribune jokes w
that the genuine rural reader of the paper |
lieved that Horace Gree ley wrote everything
in it. And his authority was equally good
with that reader, whether upon Whiggism,
Henry ( lay, Protection, the Jatest poem, o1
new picture,
There are many excellent per
sons still in the bondage of print who acee)
Horace Greeley as equally unquestionabl
authority upon a picture or Upon the duty ¢
Wool,
On the other hand, the artists would hardly
pre fer the absolute silence of the press to t
chance of criticism; for at least the talk ot
the critic both shows and produces interest in
the exhibition. Mr, Barnum, if asked the si
cret of success, would probably re ply, advei
tising.
The ingenious devices merely to si
cure a notice ina newspaper, almost regardiess
of its character, show how widely spread
the conviction that Mr. Barnum would pro!
ably express, Better, perhaps the~artists
would say—better misunderstanding, igno
rance, praise of the bad work, and ridicule of
the best work, than nothing.
exclude the world. Criticism, however aw:
would bring the world, and those who know
could judge for themselves. Even the punter
who raised the question, and who has probably
suffered from the darts and quips of eriticism
and who honestly doubts its usefulness in di
rectly moulding artists happily and promoting
a nobler tone in art, would admit that, ind
rectly by sustaining the general interest,
gives opportunity for every kind of advances
The true critic, indeed, is rare as a bird-ot
paradise. But when he appears he combi
the faculty of pe rfeet sympathy With the aim
of the artist, with the power to express and
interpret it to the spectator, and with t]
knowledge which apprehends the points
which the expression of the purpose fails, «1
the reasons for the failure, and those at whic
it is adequately conveyed. He is the inter
preter of the house Beautiful, which every tru
work of art esséntially is.
Silence would
Criticism is not
censure, but perception and appreciation. — hh
the ease of a great artist,as When Ruskin treats
of Turner, it is eulogy, but it is eulogy of the
worth of the whole which com ports with ce!
tain unequal details. While there are authors
and artists, there wil certainly be erities, and
critics of every degree. We must therefor
criticise the critics, not denounce them as a
class, sure that in the multitude of smatterers
and pretenders of every kind there will com
also the eye that sees, the soul that apprehends,
and the hand that records truly. This is thi
critic. His voice will be friendly, unflattering
but full of sympathy, and the words that it
speaks will be heard in the heart of the earnest
artist, “ Friend, come up higher.”
In his pungent and bitter preface to the
“ Dissertation on Parties,’ Bolingbroke says
to Sir Robert Walpole, “ If I have pressed you
EDITOR'S E
little warmly, yet I have done it with the
ecency that every gentleman owes to
ther, at least ha
Even in that day of hot politics in Eng
nd, when the nation was establishing the
w Hanoverian order against the open and
hinations of the Jacobites, and
consequently, Whig party spirit was
ier name for patriotism, there was yet a
trin decorum of debate. The famous at-
k of Sir William Wyndham upon Sir Robert
Walpole in Parliament was an invective doubt
Ss pre pared by Bolingbroke, but it was deliv
d under the form of a supposition. “I
y suppose a case, which, though it has not
p Il the
Pory leader proce eded to deseribe Sir Robert
| his polic y in the most stinging terms, and
he went on to involve the King, Wyndham
rain declare d,**I am still not propli syving, |
to himsel
eret mac
happened, may possibly happen,” an
n ONLY supposing, aud the ease IT am gong to
suppose [hope never will happen.” Sir Robert
torted terribly. He not only knew the voice,
he recognized the hand, and he “supposed”
in“ anti-minister,” and laid Bolingbroke bare,
But the decency Bolingbroke held
it every gentleman owes to himself in pub-
which
debate is still more comprehensive. It is
self-respect which is apt to be forgotten in
republic or in any popular government. If
i. courtier should profess the total surrender
f his own convictions to an expression of his
val master’s sovereign will, the abject tone
id the unmanly servility would move the con
npt of every self-respecting man who heard
im. It would be a tone becoming to Siam,
vere courtiers and ministers lic upon their
bellies before the King, to signify that in his
presence they are but worms and refuse. Yet
what is the indecency, to reverse Bolingbroke’s
It is that it re-
ounces the duty which every man owes to
himself, It is a surrender of that proper self:
respect which belongs to him asa man, God
s given every man an inner light for his own
cuidanee. To be sure of his own re spect, he
must walk by his own light
The King of Siam doubtless has power to
enforce his will, and if a Siamese courtier re-
spects his own view more than his Majesty’s,
the King may imprison him or beliead him.
Phat force and power, however, do not make
plirase, of such prostration ?
is Majesty's view sound or wise or beneficent,
nd it is plain that in every country the pos
sibility of progress lies in that decency which
every man owes to himself, that self-respect
which is willing to assert and maintain itself
as against the will of the sovereign. It fol
lows, therefore, that abject flattery of the sov-
ereign is fatal to progress, because it tends
to weaken manly independence, which is the
only really and essentially progressive power,
The sovereign may be one or many, but he
is no wiser merely because he is sovereign.
In Siam the sovereign is a man; in the United
States he is a majority. But it is quite as
mean and servile and unmanly to craw! before
ASY CHAIR.
a majority as before a king. When a Senator
of the United States speaks of the people as
the rose will he
in humble submission, he takes the ton
supreme sovereign to W DOWS
of the
It the
enacted
mit to it But
Is right vecause
Now, if it is
Siamese minister lying upon his bells
will of the peopl
into law, he will,
his tone
it is the
not right in his j
cent”
change the law
Politicians talk of a
cisions were
has en properly
of course, s
the
sovereign,
Imes that law
will of the
\dgment, every man of ** ce
self-respect will do what he can to
majority as if its de
just t be
1d the skeptt
rebuked by the remark that the
many are
iat the voice of thi peo
God Yes, in proper
But he voice of the
pl the voice of Go« het ralile la
the earth moves
ner began to
necessarily
they are those ofa
tha re tluis¢
mayo! ty, il
Is serenely |
wisdom of ages has agreed that
Wiser than one, t]
ple is the
sense it is true
What
VoOlce ot
peo
that
iroun
vaccinate, or when Lutli naire
ed his theses upon the ¢
Adams de
em incip it
iurch door, or
when
mance Garrison
when the mob of Jerusalem
him! crucify him!’?) The
whose ordained will
in humble
sion may be as tyrannical and unjust as‘a sin-
}
ole aie spot.
i independence, o1
on, or
cried, “ Crucify
sovereign people fore
a Senator prot
sses to bow submis
Government by a majority is
found by experience to be the most reasona
ble and convenient device for securing peace
and order. But it is not because of any virtue
inherent in a multitude, nor apy
particular multitude one man may not be
wiser, juster, and better than all the rest It
is a convenient two 1
cause a majority in the long
to intelligent because a ma-
jority can enforce its will against opposi
tion
But no divinity doth hedge a majority.
pressure of which Bolingbroke spoke in the
was his exposition of the corruption
introduced by Sir Robert Walpole into Par
liament. Walpole ruled by a majority. But
the will of his majority—and it is to a ma
jority, not to its wisdom, that hon
orable gentlemen prot ss to bow in humble
submission “He
man thought
more of selling his vote than he now does of
selling his game or his fruit,’ says his latest
friendly biographer. That is the way that
majorities are often made. Is it, then, their
roar, Mr. Senator, or the still, small voice of
the unbought individual conscience, which is
the voice of God ?
It is not respect for the majority, but for the
individual, which seems to need emphasizing
in the realm of the sovereign people. You
shall hear many an orator upon the stump at
every election protesting that he is anxious
only to know what the majority wishes, in or-
der that he may follow and obey. He has no
opinion until the caucus has spoken. What
be cause in
device fol reasons aT
run is amenable
persuasion, and
The
essay
Virtue or
was determined by money.
lived in a time when a gentlk
no
C ditur’s
I
\ R. SIDNEY LUSKA’S rs. Peirada is a
4 novel so good in some things that it isa
to ree } fresh ground, its un-
its vivid
strong young go of the whole
not Mr. Luska,
much nearer us poor
is clearly
of better and
has the reasonable
worn personne
mMewent, and
affair; for Mr
we believe, but some one
Genti
. us passion,
thr
Luska—who is
lesin name if not in sympatl
young man, and has the e
better work before him. He
ype of it too;
xv him because in this second
he has left the reg
where lye
ype
mon day,
sured the guests
any manner of mo
or even th late
Wi Art
kept to
us Jews ag
ane
ind we take all the more heart
hi venture of his
on of music and romance,
dwelt first story, and has
ste d quite out to the light com-
ot o ir
}
i
which,as we have several times as
iis Study. is pret rable to
ynshine or alabaster lamps,
ment in electrics.
that Mr. Luska
1 people, and that he
iin in his novel. The heroine is a
md nearly all the characters in
New York Jews, f inguished
one from another, and 1 ry neatly accented,
In fact, Mr. Luska’s mastery is in the treat-
ment ot ious Israelites, in their presenta-
tion individually, and in their collective lo-
calization here in New York. They nei-
ther flattered nor caricatured; they sim-
| h by a hand that is
gives promise of great-
After them comes the
thrilling enough to en-
ie inexperienced, and not such as to
give the old novel reader a moment's anxiety
for the outcom By-and-by Mr, Luska wil
probably evolve his plot from his personages,
rather than involve it; and then he
will touch i merely shaking
nerves. His present situations could all have
grown out of the same number of Gentiles
quite as well; but the plot is valuable because
it exacts from him the study of many local
nNprove
glad, however, has
iis chose gives
Je Wess, the
HOOK are
.
Inely dist
his vat
are
fur
tren)
rut
a id
plot,
rapture t
hearts it ad of
Sut if reform
ins in the minority. I
demonstrated that
and nece ssary, it is
the majority is wrong.
Which is the more American as well as th
more manly attitude, that of waiting to hi
vhat the majority decides, or that of strivii
to make the majority decide rightly ¢
But surely, Mr. Easy Chair, after all our ef
forts, when the majority pronounces, we mi
acquiesce ¢
Certainly, but always upon one conditi
that it does not require you to blow out t
light which God has kindled in you to walk
by That is the * de cency” which every ¢g
tleman owes to himself.
Study.
conditions and characters, and he makes this
study very faithfully and graphically. His
art lapses most in the narrative dramatized
in the reported evidence of the murder
and in the autobiography of Mrs. Peixada
in these the literary man keeps coming to tl
front; and at other times he has a conscious
ness that is not altogether pleasant. His best
work is in the subordinate figures; these ar
the characters ; the principal people are only
types of this or that passion: they do not r
main in the mind like the others; they ha
the conventional singleness of motive notic«
able in the people of a modern stage play.
tria
Il.
In fact, Mrs. Peizada would make into
very good play,and if as a drama it coul
keep the novel’s variety of uncaricatured per
sonages, and its glow of genuine, decent pas
sion, untouched by sentimentalism, it would
be a drama which would send the poor, pa
tient metropolitan play-goer home with a rea
emotion under his waistcoat. He would te
that he had seen a bit of life, if the stage could
show him those Beekman Place interiors, wit]
the eating and smoking that goes on in them
and those Beekman Place figures of natural
ized German Jews. If he could have also th«
scenes in the lonely suburban house when th
tortured woman kills her hideous husband
and his accomplice in self-defence, and then
the scenes in court when she pleads guilty, li
would have tragic “ action” enough, and what
such action does not always give —pathos and
genuine tragedy.
Perhaps Mr. Luska’s next essay may be dra
matic in form as well as in spirit. Then wi
should have at least one phase of that Ameri
can play which we are all beginning to long
for, or to think we long for. In fact, with a
great and unquestionable love of the theatr
we doubt if there is much love of the drama
among us, and we are sure there is less know
ledge. So the managers have continued to
give us the theatre and not the drama; very
EDITOR'S
cood acting, but little or nothing worth acting
bly if Mr. Luska wrote a very
ive, true, he could not get it played,
th been so little that is fresh, na
ve, and true on the stage for so lone that t
has
rs might not know what to make of
; and it is to the manager, not the
c. j vricht appeals. In ¢
art the artist’s censor is th
v statue or paints a picture, and
omehow, it meets the
world
eve of ¢
, 1 . .
he book, and if
have it, th
writes no |
means of cli
: an still
t without ruining the author.
will
v1
ication
are
by which it ¢ reach
But noo
eli to write history, can
a theatre and produce his play. Its fat
in the judgment, the the theory, of
ITe is eager, on his part, only too
is rich enou
ess he
taste,
manager,
t blie, and not knowing
) ple ise the pu
vhat new thine will offend, he kee ps offering
ins
motives, outgrown
1
tover
ing over ane ye form o1
Che literary und
{ff in every other department of literary
ve 101 prosperity ot the
, the ai stage, that 101
nnot
ld lik better.
ly well that it is abject tr:
hatever the manager is he is very commonly
tatool. He is often a man of taste and of
ient reading; he knows quite well what
rature. He merely believes that itis
to the stage: it might
» stage once, he admits,
He will tell you that the wishes
ly to be amused, and for the
lite rary qt ality of a p! ly. ‘What pleases the
lic, it thinks is good, and it thinks all
i The manager is rig
who wishes to
-O1d th
med so |
t of the
manager Cc
mg the
sno won
iY | eve
He
ish he gives; for
Is pubil
|
anytl knows pel
Ine
ine
rut now,
lie
mel cloes not care
sive his piece
. to be faithful to life and to art, as he
be iovel, is ri | ]
the manager to let the public decide
it likes this quality or not.
is r difficulty. The man-
r cannot afford to experiment with liter-
ity; for it hs
in these days of a material
drama, that he can only risk giving
rubbish in some novel disguise. If
put upon the stage cheaply,
he might let a really new play make its appeal
to the he might try half a dozen new
plays during the season. But with the pre
sent expensiveness of setting, a failure is ruin
ous, and nothing really new can be risked.
So much money has to be put into the frame
of t nicture that only the well-known chro
mo-effects in sentiment, character, and situa-
tion can be afforded in the picture. It as
if all new books were published in éditions de
luxe, and consequently all new books were
compilations and rehashes of old books. That
is what he believes plays must be, compila-
tions and rehashes of old plays, in order to
stand any chance of success with the public.
]
+
in writing a
anothe
ul
stage”
costs so much
theatre
could be
public;
is
STUDY.
sulh-
have
ind
an abundance
t extravag%
t amusing sket an
ess of our grotesque lif
o the respect of
Hoyt’s Rag Baby, and
most hopeful of all
embodying more o1
Amongst t
t
hese
he promises, we the plays ot Mr. I
ward Harri
in. orginal Con
}
a
he drama.
mol
mn the instinets of the author «
itre’s tracditi s. and the actor
3 thre
rigan writes, stay
"3 experience
ity. Mr. Han
censure try Vani
lavs his pieces ;
witli
i he
is own playwright, manager, and comedian
He h
is |
s his « tre, and can risk his own
it, simply | cheaply, in contempt
Not that
wes with « on-
of th
he does treat
tempt, |
tre
( rp
In his thea
uate
But the setting is at
pertect and i
accurately re:
izes in his persons;
this city. He cannot g
give phases of it; and he
its Irish
sufficient.
is scenes
has preferred to
American p
in their rich
me of its African
is what we call low
rive
mses
and amusing variety, and si
It
though whether it
and Teutonic phases.
lowe
But
for others,
sides of our mani
Mr. Harrigan
he vast field open. In
his own province we think he cannot be sur
passed, The art that sets before
and conditions of New York Irishmen, from
street to the most powerful
of the ward politicians and the genteelest of
the ladies of that interesting race, is the art of
Goldoni—the joyous yet conscientious art of
is essen
lite,
than fashionable life is another i.
what it is, it is; and it
if they can, to present other
fold life with « yuial
leaves a vast part of t
remains
.
perfection:
us all sorts
the laborers in the
316 HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
the true dramatist in a times who loves the
observes. The old Venetian filled his
cene with the gondoliers, the serving-folk,
the fish-women, the trades-people, the quacks,
the idlers, the gamesters, of his citv: nad
Mr. Harrigan shows us t street-cleaners and
( tractors, the crocery-men, the shvysters, the
} ins, the washe women, the servant-
policemen, the risen
Irishman and Irish woman, of ¢ yntemporary
A.
a
ried through scores of
comedies the same « iracters, the masks of
he older drama which he drove from the
stage, and Mr. Harrigan instinctively repeats
the sat personages in his Mulligan series.
Within his range the New-Yorker is not less
idmirable than the Venetian. In fact, nothing
could be better than the neatness, the fineness,
with which the shades of character are given
In Mr. Mulligan’s Irish people; and this liter-
ary conscientiousness is supplemented by act
ing which is worthy of it. Mr. Harrigan is
himself a piayel of the utmost naturalness,
delicate, restrained, infallibly sympathetic ;
and we have seen no one on his stage who
did not seem to have been trained to his part
through entire sympathy an lintelligence, In
certain moments of Dan's Tribulations the il-
lusion is so perfect that you lose the sense of
ing in the theatre; vou are out of that
world of conventions and traditions, and in
iM
t { presence of the facts.
All the Irish aspects of life are treated
iffectionately by this artist, as we might ex-
pect from one of his name; but the colored
ispects do not fare so well under his touch.
Not all the Irish are good Trish, but all the
are bad colored people They
re of the gloomy, razor-bearing variety ;
full of short-sighted lies and- prompt dis
honesties, amusing always, but truculent and
colored people
tricky; and the sunny sweetness which we all
know in negro character is not there. We do
sided picture ; it
is its historical value; and so has the con-
— .
t wholly ol ect to the one
temptuous pre ju lice of both Trish and ne-
eroes for the Italians, which comes out in the
Leather Patch ; that marks an ¢ poch and ecliar-
acterizes a condition
The Leather Patch is not nearly so good as
the Mulligan series, though it has very good
thines in it rhe author seems to have labor-
ed for incident and effect in a plot, whereas all
that the heart asked of him was to keep his de-
licious Trish folks on the scene and keep them
talking. As it is, some passages of the piece
we extremely good; and it is as a whole in
the good direction, The material is rude, very
t: it is the office or it is
the will of this artist to work in that material;
but it is the artist and not the material which
makes the work of art. The error of the
dramatist has been that he has at times not
known how to hold his hand; he has given
us the whole truth where part of it would
have been enough; he might have spared us
some shocking suggestions of the undertaking
rude; we repeat tha
busi
ness, At other times he quite forgets his
realism: the whole episode of the colored
wake, with its plantation spirituals, is real
and excellent; but when the old-clothes men
and women of Chatham Street join in a chorus,
one peres ives that the theatre has come to the
top, and the poet has lapsed.
In spite of such lapses, however, we recog
nize in Mr. Harrigan’s work the spring of a
true American comedy, the beginning of things
Which may be great things. We have mor
than intimated its limitations; let us Say that
whatever its offences, it is never, so far as we
have seen it, indecent. The comedies ot
Edward Harrigan are,in fact, much decentes
than the comedies of William Shakespeare.
They are like Shakespeare's plays, like Mo
ligre’s plays, in being the work of a dramatist
who is at the same time a manager and an
actor. Possibly this is the only way we can
have a drama of our own; it is not a bad way ;
and it is at least a very natural way. At any
rate, loving reality as we do, we cannot do le Ss
than cordially welcome reality as we find it in
Mr. Harrigan’s comedies, Consciously or un
consciously, he is part of the great tendency
toward the faithful representation of life which
is now animating fiction.
Yet because it is so very cood, one must
not forget anything else that is good; and it
is a pleasure to recognize the success of an-
other playwright, who, without having the
threefold qualification of those we have
named, has at least worked with as intimate
a relation to the theatre as Goldoni, or as the
dramatists of the days when literature still
found expression in the drama. Mr. Bronson
Howard's One of our Girls touches the chord
which has already vibrated in the pages of
our international novelists, and contrasts the
opposite civilizations of France and America
in their ideal of love and marriage. It is a
subject that will always interest, and Mr.
Howard has handled it with distinct force.
His play is extremely well knit; it is tho
oughly right-minded, and it has literary qual
itv. No one can be the worse for seeing it,
and many might be very much better. It is
of the good order of English plays which gave
Robinson his just fame, and it is better litera-
ture, with a spirit and a nature of its own.
We need not say that it proves the supe rior
ity of “the American plan” in the important
matters it treats; and if its satire is rather
more mordant, its irony more. obvious, than
the author would have found it necessary to
make them in a book, we must not forget
the intelligence of the ordinary play - goer.
The excess will enlighten this, and it is not
so great as to offend the quicker perception
of others, who can enjoy the very nice work
of the piece in other respects. The charac
terization in some of the people, while al-
ways a little too satirical, is charming; and
in the performance, as we saw it at the Ly-
ceum Theatre, the author’s intention was in-
terpreted by most of the players with the
EDITOR'S
nost sympathetic accuracy; there was an ad-
ible evenness In the work, becoming truly
uisite under the touch of Mr. Sothern in
n irt of the slow, brave, loyal, very single
led English captain of hussars. In fact,
as elsewhere, our theatres, one must
with the cnorn:ous improvement
acting within a years
It is quite up to the level of Mr. Harri
s or Mr. Howard's work for it; and it is
eher than that of most work given it to
il even to the pert ct entourage.
in
truck
e aver aozen
IV
B we feel that we ought to ask the read-
s patience with our digression about New
\ theatres. The real drama is in ow
mostly. It is they chiefly which ap
proach our actual life, and interpret it so far
it has yet been represented to the vast
jority of our intelligent public; it is in
n alone that a number, only a little less
that majorit will ever see it repre-
sented. The theatre is the amusement of the
ty, of people whose lives are crowded with
but the novel is
of the fine spirits
in the dulness of small towns, or the
‘tony of the country, where other intel-
il resources are few, and the excitements
It is therefore of little consequence to
reat mass of those who truly love litera-
isures and distractions;
consolation, the refuge,
t pine
vhether the theatre is good or bad; they
never see it; they will never suffer from
ir profit by it. We in the great cities long
renewal of the glories that surrounded it
the days when it was a living interest; but
an affair of sentiment y, and it
ild not greatly matter if the theatre re-
ined always what it has long been—a mere
version, neither affecting our life, nor aflect-
by it. Perhaps the theatrical drama will
ever revive. We have noted some signs of re
newed respiration, but we should not think it
ite cataclysmal if, after a few gasps, it ceased
to breathe again. We should certainly regret
to see any art perish, but it is for the arts, like
interests, to assert their own vitality and
iuintain it; and if the drama, with all our
ish love of the theatre, cannot hold its own
e, and prosper and advance, as the novel
s prospered and advanced, in spite of the
friendly literary conditions, it simply proves
it the drama is an outworn literary form
cannot be willed back to life by criticism,
nsured back, or coaxed back. It must take
chances; it must make them.
We do not know that we should wish Mr.
ska, for his own sake, to give his next essay
matic form; he will meet a wider audience
the novel, and more intelligent; there can
no doubt ofthat. The novelist’s audience
is now so great and so good that it is quite
wth his while to do his best for it; and we
ve the hope that Mr. Luska’s clever work
will be more than clever. We wish him a lit-
tle more repose, a little more perfect drama-
merely,
t is
STUDY. 317
tization, a little stronger belief that the ordi
nary complexion of h iffairs is the thing
that is now newest in fiction,
It is not easy to ¢
For Mr. Wolcott Balestier, another
writer whom we h
nan
and will remain
SO
ive been re
of Mr. Li
urity of direction from the start
poetical atmosphere is not
ung, we could
desire something iska’s vigorous
touch a
A true
lis pure and sympathetically sug
ot A Victorious Defeat ; and he |}
among his Moravians of the early
century. ]
nad Se¢
Wahting 1
gested tory
Wis new ground
years of our
But fora long time the figures have
a teasing vagueness, and perhaps they neve
quite lose it He lingers upon them with a
hand that is tender and decorative, but not so
sure as we hope it will be; and he has a very
good, self-respectful, impersonal way of treat-
ing them. His work is suffused with a sense
i | in literature and
of what is fine
in life; he has a just feeling
the common materials that
and for the simple means.
situation in the attitude
ister whom the
by lot has given the girl he
finds it in his heart to give her up be
she does not love him. That is natural and
probable. It but neither natural
nor probable, that he should wish afterward to
marry her to the man she Mr.
Balestier, with his good feeling for the minor
realities, should never propose to himself any
thing less than nature and probability in great
To have the minister die soon after is
a concession to the weakness of novel readers;
he
life is made of,
He has a strong
ofthe Moravian min
Moravian usage of marriage
loves, and who
use
is possible,
does love: and
,
things,
should have lived on,
, }
as men generauy ao,
even after signal sacrifices.
\
We deal attentively with the work of tliose
young writers, because if criticism is to affect
literature at all, it must be through the writers
who have newly left the starting-point, and
are re isonably uncertain of the race, not with
those who have won it again and again in
their own way.
Mr. Luska and Mr. Balestier
may possibly think there is something in what
we say; but older writers probably would not.
In fact, criticism can, after do very little
toward forming or reforming any writer; if it
could, we are painfully aware that we should
ourselves be very different from what we are.
More and more it must content itself with as
certaining currents and tendencies, and not
proposing to direct or stop them; more and
more it must realize that it is not
ship. It will not find its work lighter for this
shrinkage in its apparent importance. It is
so much easier to say tliat
»}}
cli,
a censor-
you like this
dislike that, than to tell why one thing is, er
where another thing comes from, t! many
flourishing critics will have to go out of busi
ness altogether if the scientific method comes
in, for then the critie will have to know some
thing beside his own mind, which is often
but a narrow field. He will have to know
or
iat
3
f
4
‘
,
Se een wae
318 HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
of the Zaws of that mind, and of its
g tory. Nothing less is required of
Hin, am thie example lately set him by Mr.
Hut son Macaulay Posnett, whose work on
( tive Literature is calculated, we fear,
tol iny complacent authorities’ heads
ts fail them. Before speaking
ot 00k it is only fair to recognize what a
thie lguly equipped critic of our own has
done « the same lines, and to remind the
reader of Mr. T. 8. Perry’s work in his essays
, z y , ad ’
on £ 71s Lite fure in the Kighteenth Cen-
t y, and in his smaller volume of studies of
German iture From Opitz to Lessing.
There could not be a more interesting illus-
trat Oo ] neipl s held by both of these
writ than t fact that Mr. Posnett should
hay n advancing contemporaneously, un-
der t : eeneral influences, toward the
very positions taken by Mr. Perry three years
ag I] lis vastly wider, for he attempts
to exp | account for the whole course
of literat it we cannot see that his method
is different, or that his application of scientific
theories to literature is different. One in Amer-
ind the other in England has been the first
torespond to ideas now everywhere appealing
to the human reason. “A genius,” said Mr.
Perry, three years ago, “in the future as in the
past, is bound by the necessity of building on
the foundations that society is laying every
day. Every apparently insignificant action
of ours contributes its mite to the sum of cir
cumstances which inspire the writer, whose
vision may be dim or inaccurate, but who can
see only what exists or may exist, and is limited
by experience, whether this be treated literal-
ly or be moe ied by imagination.” “* By neg-
ect Y” th f] neces of SOC ial lift on lite ria-
ture,” sa Mr. Posnett, * Greek criticism fos-
tered t deadly theories that literature is
essentially an imitation of masterpieces s, that
its ideals are not progressive, but permanent,
that they have no dependence on particular
conditions of human character,on the nature
of that s | instrument language, on circum-
scribed spheres of time and space.” In other
words. both of these writers, whose books will
form epochs for any one who comes fresh to
their p iples, hold alike that literature is
from li | that it is under the law as every
part of life is, and 1s not a series of preposter-
Mr. Posnett, for his part, is not hope ful of
a ready assent to his method. But he is not
dismayed for that reason: “To our friends,
the men of Literature, we would say that no-
thing has contn uited more largely to lower
the value of their studies in the eyes of think-
ing men than the old-fashioned worship of
imagination, not merely as containing an ele-
ment of mystery, but as altogether superior
to conditions of space and time; that, under
the auspices of this irrational worship, the
study of Literature tends to become a blind
idolatry of the Unknown, with a priesthood
of textual pedants who would sacrifice to ver-
balism the very deity they affect to worship ;
but that the comparative study of Literatur:
not only opens an immense field of fruitful
bor, but tends to foster creative imagination.
The treatise which is the fruit of this wel
grounded belief is divided into five books
The first is introductory, and deals with t
nature of literature, its relativity, the princi
of its growth, and the comparative meth
Applying this method, Mr. Posnett studies
the four succeeding books Clan Literatur
the literature of the City Commonwealt
World Literature, and National Literatu
with chapters subdividing each of these t
ics. We cannot give a just idea of the lean
ing, the sympathy, the logic, brought to t
inguiry, and we will not try. But we are si
that the book will make a fame for its
which will not suffer any lover of literatu
to neglect it, and we leave our readers t
make its acquaintance at first hand. We «
promise them that they will be much tl
wiser for doing so: we could even imagi
an average romantic critic coming away fr
it with some hopeful misgivings, some vag
pre fi rence of principles to impressic ns In c
sidering literature. It will, of course, s
somewhat his prepossessions as to the nat
and essence of literature; but he will be 1
the worse for that
“The theory that literature,” says Mr. P
nett, “is the detached life-work of in
uals who are to be worshipped like il
falle n down from heaven, not known
workers in the language and ideas of t]
age and place, and the kindred theory t
imagination transcends the associations
space and time, have done much to con
the relation of science to literature, and t
injure the works of both. But the ‘gr
man theory’ is really suicidal; for, whil
breaking up history and literature into |
ographies, and thus preventing the recog
tion of any lines of orderly development
would logically reduce not only what
known as ‘exceptional genius, but all m
and women, so fur as they possess personal ty
at all, to the unknown, the causeless—in fact
would issue in a sheer denial of human know
ledge, limited or unlimited.”
This is in substance what Mr. Perry has als
repeatedly maintained ; and these two auth
stand together in a conscious pereepti mn
principles which others have been feeling
more or less blindly, and which are really ai
mating and shaping the whole future of cri
cism.
With their clear perception of the origin «
literature comes a just and high sense of
office, which Mr. Posnett expresses in wot
that have the thrill and glow of a religious
conviction, “It will be clear to any read
of this book that its author is far from regar
ing literature as the mere toy of stylists, {
from advocating the ‘moral indifference’ of
art. In his eyes literature is a very serious
thing, which can become morally indifferent
MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.
ral indifference. ‘Let the
and the
s of me
evo its way,
kings and the peo
S ind the priests and philosophers
le it least to make a perfect verse is to
it of time, master of all change, and free
ery creed.’ * Such was Gautier’s view
s stamped false by the whole hist
levelopment., Whether men like
t, their literary efforts at ideal beauty
prose or verse must involve ideals of hu-
in conduct. Action, speech, and thought
too subtly interwoven to allow their ar
tic severance aught but fancied t: 1: if it
otherwise, literature might indeed have
the product of a Cloud-cuckoo-town in
i torical science and morality would
( \ out ol place. But, it may be said,
r science cuts at the roots of moral con
t by ti iting th dividual S ma by
tl * which he has no « ntrol.
science traces a growth oft
Far from it. Our
1 and individual freedom so far as tl
litions of human life have hitherto allow
them to grow together. Nothing is r
| for morality or religi | SSI ng
t the ite ith which they deal is imi
inconditioned; nay, such limitless ten
D len, Studi in Lil S Ss i
Manthly Heard 1
POLITICAL,
R Record is closed on the 18th of May.
Cleveland, April 22, sent a mes
to Congress recommending the
Q
sage
President
creation
of a Commission of Labor, consisting of three
members, who shall be regular officers of the
government, charged among other duties with
consideration and settlement, whe
of
capital.
Phe United States House of Representatives,
May 6, passed the River and Harbor bill, ap-
propriating over $15,000,000,
[The United States Senate, May
the Inter-State Commerce Bill by
to 4.
tional Commission, with
the
pe s-
]
all controversies between labor and
1]
SLOTLE
12, passed
a vote of 47
Its chief feature is a provision for a na-
a principal office at
Washington.
Hon. W. C. Whitthorne has been appointed
by the Governor of Tennessee to succeed Hon.
Howell E. Jackson as United States Sei
Anarchist riots took place in Chicago May
4, and in Milwaukee May 5. In (¢
dynamite bomb was thrown among the police
ator.
hicago
with murderous effect, six of the officers being
silled and sixty-one wounded.
The public debt of the United States was
reduced in April $10,965,327 95,
Two American schooners have been seized
by the authorities of Nova Scotia for alleged
infraction of the Canadian fishing laws. One
of the vessels, the David J. ddams, was taken
319
sions have hitherto proved very { to n
I 1t\ ‘ I t ring su tal xtremes tf st) ]
ind indivic thinking. How are these s
cidal extremes to be best kept in ( 3
insisti n the socia lL physiolog ts
Within which man moves and has nx
answering the admit 1 sl Vs
in Which morality itself be hadow
the w ls of the H CW ] p \
heard such a thin W il 1
things? Shall a | yr f i
or a peop ) m
At the
us that he
erary prof
It is one
ae
can ) (
York or
the whole
K Te read tan I i
t ) ! e AS |
ae | in nt a l
Pete tl |
1]
l be ve lad to heat
+1
In t m in ti = ill
} % "
hot ado t than study lis presel KK.
f Current Events,
at Dighy May 7, and the other, the Ella M.
Doughty, at Englisitown May 17.
The Irish Land Purchase Bill, the
House of Commons, Mr.
Gladstone permission to introduce, was issued
April 22. Phere
are fifty-three clauses and four schedu The
who desires to
the
which
April 16, gave
on
It is divided into tive parts,
les,
bill provides that a landlord
sell his property shall apply to state au
thority, who shall refer the application to a
making
Land Commission, which, after
fix
ahi ili-
quiry, shall a price at which the property
shall be sold, unless the landlord and the state
ituthority have
previously come to an agree-
ment. If the landlord objects to the price
fixed by the Commission, he may thdraw
his application on paying the costs. When a
sale of property has been effected,
mission shall pay the
the Com-
creditors before making
any other distribution of the purchase-money.
Certain rent charges may be bought outright
by the state authority, or payment may be con-
tinued from the tenants’ repayments. In cases
of property whereon there is reasonable cause
to suppose that valuable minerals exist, the
Commission shall add to the purchase-money
a fair sum therefor, and the minerals realized
from said property shall be vested in the state
authority, or such local body as the Irish le-
gislature may provide. The Irish Receiver-
General and deputies, who are to execute the
financial part of the act, shall be appointed to
320
hold office as permanent civil servants, subject
The mea-
three
innuities, bearing inter-
to the authority of the Treasury
the
classes of permanent
sure empowers Treasury to create
)
est respectively at 3,22, and 2 per cent., which
harged to the Imperial Consolidated
Strict rules are provided by the bill
ng or subletting of
shall be «
Fund,
ch forbid the subdividi
| t is subject to any state
e; but tl sti uthority is empowered
ix thes | where he may think it ad-
sable.
On April 21 the powers despatched an ulti-
matum to Greece ordering her to disarm within
eight s Greece replied, April y= I
ly notified that
thus giv-
them she
L accepted t] sel of France,
nal assurance that, vielding to the de-
tl would not disturb the
would maintain her
she
e powers,
Conuseq
juently she
but would gradually reduce them.
armaments,
Phe pow
May 6 the fore 1h ministers prepared to leave
Athens, the fleets
blockaded the Greek coast, and the Greek min-
istry A new formed
May 12, under the leadership of M. Valvis.
Phe Spanish Senatorial elections resulted in
return of 128 Ministerialists,
we
ers considered thi
8 inadequate, and on
Three days later foreign
resigned. cabinet was
28 Conserva
tives, 6 Independents, 4 and 2
Republicans,
members of the Dynastic Left.
Citar’ s
a flippaney with which a portion of the
press has treated the earnest discussion
of décolleté dress is painful to every reflecting
No one who
mind. It is a serious subject.
remembers the palace petticoat flurry in the
he reign of her Majesty Queen
for a time threatened to im-
the Integrity of the British Empire, would
dismiss this as a question of the lowest impor-
Tance, It is what
tional question. By a
federal action it
beginning of the
Victoria, which
pail
may be called a constitu-
sort of semi- official
has become a national affair.
his is greatly to be regretted; for while it
that
left to the individual conscience,
protect the
opinion of the Drawer, a State, and not a fed-
If the neck is controlled at all,
controlled by State and not by
‘To dress the neck high or low,
ine between that which is agree-
may be coneeded this is a case which
cannot be
since society must itself, it is, in
eral, question.
Bi should he
federal action.
to draw the ]
ible and that which is too agreeable, is one of
the It is true that the women
who make it a national matter take refuge be-
hind the amendments to the Constitution, and
point to the provision that the right of the
people
this is a quibble.
reserved rights.
to bare arms shall not be impaired; but
The spirit of the Constitu-
tion leaves this an open matter, for the States
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
DISASTERS.
April 17.—Town of Stry, Galicia, almost de
stroyed by tire. One hundred and twenty
eight lives lost. ;
April 20.— Breaking of a reservoir dam neat
East Lee, Massachusetts, drowned seven pel
sons and devastated the town.
May 6.—Terrifie storm of wind, rain, and 1
at Kansas City, killing twenty
destroying many buildings.
May 12.—Hurricane in Spain causing great
destruction of life and property. In Madrid
32 persons were killed and 620 injured.—Te1
rific storm in Ohio and
persons ana
Indiana, and flood at
Xenia, Ohio, killing twenty persons.
OBITUARY.
April 16.—In London, England, Sampson
Low, publisher, aged eighty-nine years.
April 20.
Caleutta for London, Lionel Tennyson, son of
On board a steamer bound from
the Poet Lanreate, aged thirty-two years.
April 27.—In Brookline, Massachusetts, Hen
ry H. Richardson, architect, aged forty-seve:
years.
May 1.—In South Carolina,
Charles Franklin Robertson, Bishop of the
Charleston,
Diocese of Missouri, aged fifty-one years.
May 2.—In London, England, Right Hon
John Thomas Freeman-Mitford, Earl of Redes-
dale, aged eighty-one years.
Mrawuer.
to deal with. To take the Opposite view Is to
encourage centralization in its most dangerous
form. It would necessitate a Low-neck Bureau
at Washington, with branches all over the coun
try, and commissioners (like those of the civil
service) for the consideration of the merits ot
candidates. Now the rules which might be, o1
which may have been, laid down in Washing
ton for the dress décolleté may be inappliea
to other parts of the country, and drawing the
line for people of different temperaments and
in Various climates is a atter of extreme del
icacy. It would interfere also with the high
er law, for everybody knows that beauty is a
law unto itself, and the same rule cannot be
made for it as for plainness. The federal go
ernment has no power to touch this. We im-
that the most that a State could do
would be to enact a law forbidding ugly wo
men to fall below a certain pretty high line in
apparel,
agine
There are some who advocate what
the lawyers call, for railways, the “short-haul
Jaw”—that is, that an ugly woman should in
no case cut her dress lower than a pretty wo-
man. But this is impracticable, for Providence
has so benignly ordered the world that there
is scarcely a woman living who is not pretty
in the eyes of somebody. And if this matter
of the height of the bodice cannot be left to
EDITOR’S DRAWER.
» of the women individual] is cer
) that they would find or make reason
evading any enactment.
In the to
ill be
desire have an authorit
exact tine,
be
be of a chara
able to draw an
r assemblies shall still irradiat
I
houghts altogether from the
ess, And not cte
life, it has been snegested
a national woman’s conven
1 should consult and lay dow
sis an excellent sugvestion, bi
]
lh some l
tit
rs a practical difficulty that would |
Ould
tt
It
encoun-
raised
?
«
ic outset. How should the dele:
ites
Ame
ve very largely made up
st beautiful women in the world. And
one suppose that beauty would hide
tis to be a representative body o
omen, it will
f }
ean
s charms, and consequently surrende
of
necks
,in a body this sort? I}
low vould wage
e from the beginning, and the resul
]
rit
an alarming h neck pronuncia
went in high nec
mld be nothing to talk about, and the
ital
The fai
esides, if eve body
1
be covered without any ]
W
ay would be to have an
hs ana the
who should compromise by electing
rand ot t
| look at
mber of delegates of the hig
d Vd
a secretary he other persua
t] ’
the
and
ot
be
Drawer |
3 of the
li
then calinly Sl
virit concession, with all
ula thrown on i
Phe
las not much eonfid
convention scheme
that
have,
luterference of
In one of the lar
and it does not expect
tions from the mal
sex Will
we, any weight.
Vavs resisted.
Ii¢
li
(
ted States, several years a
had
itholiec communion a love
Made
rishioner whose dress did not meet his
il. He l
of
the décolleté dre
a sermon, and pointed
reference to the ]
a
ss thre
]
Ss in
]
a ( ady before who
in May
» eyes of the whole congregation wer
ed on her, and she fainted deadaway. The
were so indignant at this attack upon
| Ly and that
n and mobbed the
forced him to leave the ei
er | at
any violation
that will
and leave beauty re
calls the of the
to man that
which he had
ll,
as blooming as bank of roses F
so defenceless they
ished off a body p's
bisho
The Dra
be ¢
mstitutl
( ty.
1oOpes that tl
without
ie ore |
ll settl
( on lines make vi
triumphant
]
enant
+ t ]
e story zealous
there
better
bishop i
raer remind are
be 1
some
about ind
than oft
IOUS,
DoEs the presiding genius of the
Drawer
know
monotonous hours of a sail-
or’s life are relieved and cheered by the good
things found therein ?
how many
Let me add one:
Some years since. My first voyage to Bom-
excitement
terrifie and
augmented
turned into a very cyclone.
- bay t] rt
]
rt
When off
hers for as many
e pe
Parsee
ea
merchants came o1
board, and with a z
lowers ot Zoroaster be
of doing the ship's DUSII
that his hou
Nessel
was the
of the true fol
the favor
18 Ih port, eac h
Hagee, Adergee,
}
dec harin
(
owasavee, anevee, and a i nore
rees, ]
i
When
Ith
best, safest, and most influen-
there
the «
rules, I asked one of the mos
¢ them if the f |
For a moment
to comprehend my meaning, an
l
pi!
tial house in Bomba
was
hit Jull
Siig Is Sallors Say latte
ton t re
amo! Irth he represented
reliable one. he did not
seen
kept repeat-
to
, and
ng the word “reliable.” was about
]
t
ex
when his features ln
me
iin, rhtenes
to step one side With dim
Vand tru
Bombay
, said that he
would tell me frankly ‘no ma
fj ,
business it
l
gorously,
it is well to kee noble
ot
is taken from
men
respondence ofa West
to th
1lewspaper,
at Washi
the
of Virgin
itina th
prised his friends
with both feet
avalanche of fac
tramped thie
up the bacl
K,
ites a debate in
e
ise
_
ise
]
a
] t
ist
Mi
winter:
. Hei t, George D.
Bout and
fur fly, and sur-
jumped on Boutelle
» t
>\ courte C1
a Lie, he
( Ww
} % }
t t\ e a
Wise
ith an
and
fo him
tore out his entrails
] ,rel
him limb from limb, flung the pieces a
the House. A more co
more vigorous |
l
Wise gave
1]
1 Ove!
mit
l )
I
thorou
uplete lambas
rh
ind
ti r
ting
ine I
roasting than
The
man as he poured forth the
terrible tongue-lashin
itself until he
Boute |
of the
le w nevel
known.
g grew and
to have
With mighty
seemed
, & aozen or more run-
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
and in tones of wrath frightful
vhaleditat his oppone nt through-
to him, while
Lee minutes allotted
and smarting
blow
s of the
sat pale and iting
ubael
Southerner skinning him
rom his head to his heels.
“Tn the course of his remarks Wise paid his
nts to Wi un Mahone, illed
nade a neat tting sid¢ at
1
as he ¢
]
stroke
itive Bra la,
i disposing
vith ones Arp, que k, decisive SWipe.
ise vigorously and di unatically recited some
| knocked
that
the
he
which absolutely
ree and allegation
in his speech, and in
so high dry that
gasp for breath.”
and
his eyes gr
lame of o%
‘obolus” would pay the toll
Richmon
ns and Pigg will
iired
N PARSON
lar parson of the old se
As the local
u would know by his English that
lan type, Wiom
Gaelic.” He was preaching in a
’s pulpit to a congregation who
to him. the
leness. meckness, ete., he
Descanting on
The lamb is
ver
‘The
not like the ther be
the
is quaite and kind
ists, the lion and the tis
1]
and Ye will not be runnin’ away
from the The lamb is kaind; the
lamb will no >» whatever,
And there i vod in the Oh
|
you will be killin’ the lamb and the sheep
lamb, too.
ves,
when the cold weather will come in the win-
Ter You
food in the wv
ki n’ the
And there clothing in the lamb—he is
A od for the clothing. . You will tek the wool
im, and you will mek clothes for your-
And how would you and I look with-
will be wantin’ some good strong
nter, and it is then you will be
, 1
harnb
off h
st ves
clothing ?” ete.
At the close of the exercises he gave out
the following very peculiar notice, to explain
which I that had
made among the Presbyterian tlock by the in-
out
must state ravages been
fluence of a divine of a different persuasion :
“And there will most likely be a family from
X. that will be baptized here after meeting
Friday night, but”
On
here he le aned
-\ liispe 1
forward,
and added, in a loud stage
be sa
think they want it known.”
yell ny
inga word about it, dear brethren, as [do not
the
wellnigh impassable, a son of Erin cam
ONE stormy night, when roads were
into
a doctor's oftice and desired the dispenser of
physic to go to friend “Jist
a-dyin’.” He would not take an al
, putting the saddle-bags
horse, the physician started out upon his jour-
ney.
see a who was
no for
swers so upon his
As soon as he saw the sick man he knew
it was nearly over with him, and remarked to
the courier:
‘Peter, you told the truth: your friend is
just at the ] oint of death.”
‘Can’t ye do ainytheeng for heem ?
Peter.
NO:
‘But, docthor, ain’t ye goin’ to gi
‘ replic d
it is too late.”
e heem
ything at all at all?”
“Tt will
all
do no good.”
* But, docthor, ye have come so far, it would
be too bad to go back without doin’ ainything.”
For the peace of Peter's mind, the doctor now
took a small quantity of sugar from a phial,
and placed it upon the dying man’s tongu
just as he was drawing his last breath.
Peter, seeing his friend’s head drop back,
looked up to the doctor with big eyes, and said,
half in a whisper, “Oh, docthor, an didn’ ye do
it quick!”
IS LAGER-BEER AN INTOXICANT?
A STONE-CUTTER, Whose office adjoined his
stone-yard, was seated in when a
friend called upon him, and they discussed
his oftice
several topics together, among them the ques
tion as to what extent lager-beer was an in-
The that
not intoxicating, while his friend
maintained the opposite. The stone-cutter
said, there is a man at work in the yard (point-
ing to a brawny-chested German) who could
drink a bucket (three gallons) of beer at one
sitting and feel none the worse for it. The
friend doubted, and a wager was made and the
workman called, who when asked if he could
drink that bucket (pointing to a large water
bucket) full of beer at sitting, replied,
“Vell, IL don’t know; I lets yon know after a
vile.” The German went away, and after re
maining about fifteen minutes, returned, and
said, “ Yes, I can trink dot peer.” The bucket
of beer was procured and placed before the
German, who very soon absorbed the last drop,
and arose from his seat, wiping his mouth with
his sleeve, and was walking away with a firm
step, When his employer recalled him and said
to him, “See here, my friend and I have some
curiosity to know why you did not drink the
beer when you were first asked.” The Ger-
toxicant. stone-cutter maintained
beer was
one
}
}
EDITOR’S DRAWER.
in replied, “ Vell, I don’d know dot I could
k it, so I vent out und trink a bucked, den
ow I could do it.” W.
yberts
\ GENTLEMAN formerly a professor in Re
‘ ve, Constantinople, relates the following
esty of justice illustrative of the law in
key, Where an accused man must prove his
or else he
to
ocened is declared guilty 2
Dr.
was
Christianity to
ere, and asked if if
1e, This was a sta
convert came
iy tl
to tell a]
doctor, and he
ih MISSION
I rhit
ggerer
said he would have to
the ease before he could decide ,although,
eneral principles, he did net think it wa
The case is this,”
h, “A Turk,.a
stchuk, accused me of buying and receivin
I of
buy receive
S.
repli d the seeker after
stranger to me, living In
it him 1000 sheep. knew of
I did not
must
Way
these
go against
and atter the
I had
Wa
ho
ing that and
ep, and the « certainly
ase
It came up for trial to-day,
IL admitted that
re had been made,
vht and received the sheep hich S a
ind had at the same time paid for them in
He couldn't prove that I had not,
sO the
was dismissed.”
that if lie
this was certainly the time.
The doetor thought ever a
stifiable,
During a revival in Texas some years ago a
is reputed to have had visions about
en and hell. His boss called him up and
he both
to what the white men and
“Lord!
a-tilting back in their
the
liggers was down
terrogated him as to what saw in
s, and first as
1
rkies were doing in heaven. boss,
all
heels
hite men was
vith their banisters,
and
on
the 1
» their golden s] p-
the
“Ef you believe me, boss, every
smoking cigars,
their knees a-shining uy
Then as to what was going on in
Vhite had a nig his hands
ding him up between him and the flames!”
man ger in
r. N. Viexary, the well-known taxider
of Lynn, tells a story of the old colored
M
in John Johnson, a celebrated Lyin echarac-
John happened into the shop one day
just after Mr. Vickary had been skinning a
ve bald eagle. Thinking to have a little
sport, Mr. V. asked John if he would like a nice
goose for his dinner the next day.
‘I tank you a hunderd million times ef you
rib me de goose, ‘deed I will,” John exclaimed;
(Lin due time the skinless body of the eagle
ais wrapped in a newspaper, and Jolinson
started off with if under his arm, still volubly
expressing his gratitude.
About a week after, Mr. V.
nion Street, and asked how he liked the goose
met Johnson on
e had given him.
“Dat
ories
Jolinson, showing his
I's de-
uw’ dat mus’ have bin fader to all the ganders.
I biled dat goose, an’ I parbiled him, den I
said
”
o "
oose,
“dat war de toughest goose.
l
che Ww
sole
jiled him again, bu
inest bird me y
telli
Atter him that
]
mistake in hi
s method of cooking
parted, till one day, as a |
uth
by, Mi
an
if he dic
potnting to the owl
In preparation tor
pened to be going
conn Jolinson ¢
Mr. V.
him
asked
With its skin drawn ove1
Jolnson looked SUSPICLOUS!
the bird, and seratchi
marked: “See here, boss,
l’s like to see de feet on dat
ries him to de ole woman.”
From an Orleans County, }
DIED.
thirty
in the St
SoME twenty-five o1
County, ate
young man the
that time engaged in teaching a country school,
B
in order to qualify himself for admission to the
Near the school-house lived two farmers,
A own-
lived in
by name of S
and during leisure hours reading ickstone
bar.
whom we shall designate as A and B.
ed a large number of hogs, which he allowed
at to feed on the m B owned
cornfield ith dilapidated
owned a dog,
large ist.
a fenced
brush He
When the corn began to ripen, B's hogs made
to run
W a badly
also savage
fence.
frequent raids into the field, and helped them-
selves to the corn. B, being greatly annoyed
by the hogs, finally set his dog on the hogs,
When A dis
full of
an
and worried them considerably.
his lacerated
The next morning
hogs, he w
A started, \
axe on his shoulder, to go to his timber to e]
as
covered
wrath.
r
né
ng
wood, which led him by B’s house; and see
B’s wife inside of B’s lot, about thirty or forty
feet from the fence, milking a cow, he stopped
at the gate and inquired for B.
ed that B not at thre
mash B into the earth if he ever dogged
ng ttorm-
was home, he itened to
his
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
, and to demonstrate how he wonld
s axe down on the fence
He left. When B
rmed him of A’s threats,
then
Vrath, and off he goes
| . >
SCHOOL-LOUSE onsult Ss R
could su th tly law.” S
‘ro consu Blackstone and
itutes, informed il hat the acts con-
assault with intent to
anal advised B
against A.
an information, and B
id had a
Inthal prosecution
arest ji 1 , al
A’s arrest.
War-
ssued for A being duly ar-
a ada set for trial, S - kh -
the prosecution,
the
fo. and - Jones
Vy for defendant. The witnesses
is above Sta ed
R then
Vy argument,
were
proceeded
vince the
but to convince
not to con
ilt,
that he h read
wd concluded his argument with
> May it
suommum bonum ot t
efendants gu
nd by-standers ad
peror itiol please your
he Whole business
» defendant is guilty.”
, for the defence, addressed
: * Your Honor, it may be
Pee
summum bonum
A LAST
“Hello, Jones!
“It isn’t. I have to pay for myself.”
you're looking down in the mouth.
which was that if a man was charged with a
crime, he was guilty, whether he had ever don
anything not—that my client is
but that law was an unjust law enact
wrong or
guilty;
ed by despots and tyrants to oppress the wea
That was the law of this com
try down to the time of the Revolutionary war
when our forefathers rebelled against
and the poor,
It, and
after seven long years of bloody war, fina
repealed it with their swords, and enacted
the law of EL Pluribus
which is that a man is never guilty of a
No
ithin a mile of
the fence when the blow was struck, he
its stead great Unun
crime until he does something wrong.
since the prosecutor was not w
couls
not have been injured; and as the blow dik
the fence no harm, my client did no wrong
Therefore, under the great law of E Pluribus
Unum, which is now the law of this country
he is not guilty, and should be discharged.”
The justice then smmmed up the case as fol
lows: “ Well, it appears by the argument that
nuder the old law the ade
fendant is guilty; but my father was a Rev:
lutionary soldier, and ve hearn him tell a
about the Revolutionary war, and so I knoy
that the of has bee
abolished, and the great law of BE Pluribus Un
So I lets
of summum bonum
old law summum bonum
now waves all over this country.
the defendant go.”
3
ig
wh
wh
Wh Poyree
nt
stew
—
7 f
” al
=~ /
RESORT.
How's the world treating you?”
ieee the most jaded novel reader will find
4 the stimulus of a new flavor in Mr. Wol
cott Balestier’s A Victorious Defeat It is in its
form an idyl of American country life, and in
The
scene is laid in a Moravian village in Pennsyl-
The simple life of the Moravians, and
the means by which this life is made to con-
form to the demands of their creed, are painted
substance a story of noble self-sacrifice.
Vania.
Mr. Balestier makes
us thoroughly acquainted with the village of
with artistic sympathy.
Judea, and that strange community life which
young philosophers and poets, weary of the
world, consider ideal until they have tried it.
The custom of the Moravians of making mar-
riages by lot is made the occasion by which
Mr. Keator, the minister of Judea, achieves the
“victorious defeat.” Although the story treats
of the staid Moravians, the interest of it cen-
tres in two of the “ world’s people,”
March and Constance Van Cleef, who
thrown the Moravians. They
them reminiscences of New York
stateliest days, it was still tinged with
the rays of the departing sun of aristocracy.
Owen
Owen
are
bring
among
with in its
when
March, the son of a baronet, comes to
America, to see
ceived admiration
the country, with a precon-
for American
He is dissatisfied with a form of government
institutions.
“under which the poor are without a vote,
and in the best circumstances can hardly own
the soil which they improve for others from
year to year.”
new nation, then, as Mr. Balestier says, “ tum-
He does not come over to the
bling from its swaddling-clothes,” to study so-
ciety, but a new system of politics. One of
his letters of introduction takes him to New
York to his relatives, the Lincolns, who “lived
in one of the most perfect products of the co-
lonial idea in architecture which Mareh found
in New York. The generously
made, and full of a dignity and simplicity of
itsown. Through its long windows it looked
upon the Battery and the beautiful prospect
beyond, and in the autumn days March often
sat upon the baleony with his aunt and her
daughters
house was
for Lincoln had several sisters
and watched the concourse of courtly men be-
neath them, who, having accomplished the
deliberate business of the day in Wall and
South, in Pine and Cedar streets, and Maiden
Lane, joined their wives and daughters in
1A Victorious
BALESTIER,
York:
Defeat.
A Romance. By Wotcorr
Illustrated
pp. 350, 16mo, Cloth, $1. New
Harper and Brothers.
LITERARY NOTES.
The movement
uptown had begun, and had earried fashion
walking in the green park.
as far as Park Place; but Mrs. Schuyler Lin
coln was one of the inheritors of the sagacious
tradition that a house facing the Battery, the
still uncheapened bay,
the great privilege.’
letter leads him to Judea,
political theories, and even the sin
and the noble outlook
Another
where he forgets his
beyond, was
eularity of
the life around him in the presence of Con
stance, father,
back to the Moravians, after having once de
serted them to marry “a daughter of Heth.”
Constance, a heroine worthy of the
idyllic setting of the idyl—a fresh and noble
creature without affectations, and exquisitely
direct fine
whose a physician, has gone
who is
Moravian
nor wholly of the world to which her mother
She is a probationer in the Mora
and neither wholly
is
belonge da.
vian Church, amenable to its rules, yet not
expec ted to conform to them rigi« ly. Owen
March and Constance are seen much to-
gether, contrary to the Moravian rule, which
entire of the
insists
on separation SeXes
But Mareh is the genest of Dr. Van Cleef;
and the Moravians, while they have no idea
of relaxing their rules, are lenient to a
stranger, and mindful of the duties of hospi-
tality. Dr. Van Cleef, deep in his practice, his
gardening, and his old-fashioned political the-
is blind. Mr. Balestier’s description
Moravian “kettle-drum,” given to intro
duce March to the brethren and sisters, is de-
lightful. The “faint, tinny rattle” in the in-
terior of the old harpsichord used in accom
orizing,
of a
panying the old hymns, the nneasiness of the
company in the presence of the elegant for
eigner, the embarrassment of the guests when
“Coronation” is begun, and the gradual loss
of their self-consciousness in the quaint qua-
verings of * Brattle Street,” are described with
out any touches of humor which might seem
like satire, and would jar on the peaceful
Gentleness and forbear-
though of
shown to exist by the side
of practices which seem, superficially con-
sidered, to kill all the joy of earth. Mr.
salestier’s view is anything but superficial,
quiet of the scene.
ance, courtesy and
hospitality, are
not courts
and in the episode of the reprimand in
lic of for ler
tion with Owen March he shows depth of feel-
ing, entire understanding of the characters
he depicts, and an artistic reticence which
saves the powerful scene in the chapel from
pub
Constance constant associa-
ard
AMO Fehon LO PT,
LITERARY NOTES.
becoming sensational. From this scene the
complications of the story begin. Owen March
finds his life interwoven with that of Con-
ho has been held up to reprobation,
itv, but on his account. It is followed
of intense pathos when Constance finds
ill, and fears that the knowledge of
imand may kill him. The sudden fall
tor, the pure-m nded minister, to the
e of crime is another incident told
similar dramatie force and restraint.
Mr. Balestier’s moralizing and analysis of
motives are always terse and original. A
Victorious Defeat is a novel in perfectly good
taste, permeated by strong human interest,
and having the charm of introducing us to
new scenes and new people. The illustrations
accentuate some of the most striking passages
in the book. Constance’s character, loyal and
honorable even to the point of over-serupu-
lousness, has none of the usual foils which
rhten the traits of those
novelists ¢ ploy to li
whom they want us to admire. Her pride
o virtue’s side, and Mr. Keator’s sensi-
leans
tive and exquisite mind is incapable of any
low motive. It loses its balance for a mo-
ment, but only for a moment, when evil
seems in that brief time the highest good.
It is a novel without a villain and almost
without a plot, since the origin of the wretch-
edness that threatens to ruin the lives of Con-
stance, Owen March, and Mr. Keator comes
from their personalities, and not from a con-
spiracy of men or circumstances. The author
of A Victorious Defeat has made a book at once
of great promise and great fulfilment.
Ir is very easy to account for the great pop-
wlarity of the Rey. Dr. William M. Taylor's
Biblical studies in biography. They are char-
acterized by the clearness and vigor of a style
which touches a point directly, and whieh
leaves no obscurity in the mind of the reader.
Dr. Taylor makes no sacrifice on the altar of
rhetoric for the sake of elegance. He talks
|
the nicest regard
for the property of words, and he has all the
wagnetism of an earnest talker. Joseph the
in plain language, yet wit
Prime Minister? has all the qualities that gave
his previous works so general an acceptance,
together with the added one of a more tender
sympathy with the subject, very meet and ap-
propriate to this first favorite of the stories
that childhood loves. Without “ sermoniz-
ing,” Dr. Taylor manages to apply the lesson
of each episode, or rather of each chapter, to
modern lite. It requires both skill and know-
lve of human life to do this without becom
ing wearisome; but the lucid narrative is
made to flow so naturally into the “* applica-
tion” that one can hardly at the first glance
2 Joseph the Prime Minister. By the Rev. WiLLiaAM
M. Tayiorn, D.D., LL.D, Minister of the Broadway
fabernacle, New York; author of * Moses the Law
give ‘David King of Israel,”’ ** Paul the Missionary,”
ete. pp. 250, 122mo, Cloth 50. New York: Harper
b
and Brothers.
>
$1
appreciate the tact of the writer. Dr. Taylor
leaves nothing undone that can help the read
er to a clearer understanding of the subjects
of his biographical studies. Even the most
careful readers of the Seriptures cannot fail to
profit by his careful groupings of the result of
his reading. And in almost every chapter he
contrives to introduce from modern writers
some evidences corroborative of the truth of
the Bible narratives. Interesting examples
are the allusions to the customs of the Egyp
tians at the time when Joseph sojourned among
them. Dr. Taylor has not omitted anything
that could throw light on the every-day
events of the life of this great Prime Minis-
ter while in Egypt, and a hundred little de
tails are given very comforting to many read-
ers Who cannot combat attacks on the histor
ical value of the Old Testament. Dr. Taylor's
analysis of the character of Jacob is masterly,
and as the narrative progresses, the figures ot
the brethren of Joseph seem to stand out,
glowing with the colors of life. Having care
fully drawn the character of Issachar, for in
stance, he impresses it more deeply on the mind
of the reader by one of his unique “ applica-
tions” of its lesson. The inheritance that fell
to Issachar was rich and easily managed. He
and his descendants had few difticulties te
overcome. They became indolent, and fell
into the position of mere tribute - payers.
“Now,” Dr. Taylor writes, “all this reminds
us that conflict is absolutely necessary to
strength of character. He who has no diffi-
culties to contend with has therein the great
inisfortune of his life, for he has little or no
motive for exertion, and without exertion he
will be nothing in particular. Do not plume
yourself, therefore, ou your easy circumstances,
for they may make you only selfish, indolent,
and lacking in public spirit. The millwheel
stands still when there is too much water as
well as when there is too little, and Agur’s
prayer is always safe, though not many New-
Yorkers offer it: ‘Give me neither poverty nor
riches; feed me with food convenient for me:
lest I be full, and deny Thee, and say, Who is
the Lord? or lest I be poor, and steal, and take
the name of my God in vain’” The book
is divided into fifteen chapters. One of the
best is the first, which seizes the attention
of the reader at once. “The Father's Favor-
ite and the Brother’s Censor” takes us at once
into the heart of Jacob’s household. We are
made to understand the warring elements that
found vent in that household after the death
of Leah. Jacob’s thoughtless and senile favor-
itism is followed to its natural consequence,
and the vacillation of Reuben is dissected, to
point an admirable moral. The preachers of
the Middle Ages made their Seriptural allu-
sions comprehensible and interesting to the
people by bringing the events down to date,
and in their sermons it was not unusual for Ja-
cob to wear armor and Joseph to swing a lance,
that their costumes might not seem too exotic.
LITERARY NOTES.
Dr. Taylor has achieved without anachronisins
effect the Middle Age pulpit orators aimed
He lessens the distance between Joseph
d the Pharaohs by
vn, the most important quality of which is
We get into the minds of the per-
wonderful Biblic Che
Poti
frankness, and
a process entirely his
ity.
ot
nye
this al story.
wife of
uptation of Joseph by the
iris handled with sufficient
h none of the false delicacy which betrays
uriency rather than modesty. The charac-
erof the Egyptian women of the time is elu-
the h
Altoget he r, Joseph the
lated
by elp of lately discovered fres-
Prime Minister is
i book of vivid portraiture, straightforward
el moral To the
g, who too often learn to read the Bible
¢ their beauty, it will
sincerity, and hi purpose,
rratives without feeli
of immense usefulness.
be
WHEN Mr
M.’s frigate
ind of the
valermo,
John Es midshipman of H.B.
furora, proposed formally for the
daughter of the Don at
and was required
sy,
Sicilian
some years ag
0,
the lady’s family to obtain the consent of
s own parents, he made the unconventional
that his father and
had married without consulting him,
not unnatural reply
d therefore why should he consult his fa-
her and mother? From the days of Jeph-
i’s daughter children have been dragged
willins
ously ont of it, with no thought of respon-
ly into the world and pushed ungra-
bility on the part of the parents, and with
o chance of expostulation on the part of the
child And sinee Moses read to the ye ople of
Israel the
mor his parents, very little has been said of
statute commanding the child to
the honor the parent owes to the child, until
Mrs. Craik, in her new King Arthur, prea hes
her lay sermon on the duty of fathers and mo-
thers to the helpless and hapless little crea-
look to them for life and immortality.
While King Arthur? is not a love story, as its
tures who
withor confesses, it isa story of simple, honest,
old-fashioned affection, turning upon the won-
derful motherly love of a childless mother for
the son of an unmotherly woman who sold the
boy she bore to total strangers, and for a Bank
The contrast between the
rood woman and the bad is very marked. The
good woman is a possible woman, but the bad
of England note.
s unnaturally wieked; nor does Mrs. Craik, in
her own affeetion for the rector’s wife, give any
reason for the evil doings of the baronet’s lady.
As Goneril and Regan in their treatment oftheir
father would hardly be held up as every-day ex-
amples ofa failure to perform what is required
in the fifth commandment, so Lady Damerel is
so utterly and so phenomenally heartless that
her conduet would horrify even the most per-
sistent breakers of the unwritten law that par-
Kina Arthur: Not a Love
‘John Halifax, Gentleman.”
ents; 16mo, Paper, 25 cents
Brothers.
Story. By the Author of
pp. 236, 12m, Cloth, 90
New York: Harper and
ents and danelhters,
And
ther
does that he
the tale
her honest abhorrence
het ]
must honor their sons
the reector’s
thoroughly
fa
he adorns
even rood-tor pro-
nothing
is 80 bad
i moral
Mrs. Craik, in
paint
good nien
te
Is to point
In
Ss
villains a little too black, her
}
are rood mel Mier WO
men are loving, human.
lovable nd \
t«
subject them iften
The lessons slie whes Vavs good les
Sons, tut out
songs i rm comb 1. {fgatha’s H
band and The Head Family
as well as poenis to the ré
of the were
aders of
tion ago; and men and women, wl
ogy and the benediction
better for thie
frain text of Aing Arth
which the gentle, bray
What
heart and her life
itt
to her
An
wes ot 1 baby
for taking
husband
the wretched waif at derm who was to
had
borne and lost, and for ever mourn-
l Listen to it. W n she was a very ]
tle git had fom
trodden underfoot and near
she
stand in the little s
ead. ‘¢-
he da bit of sweet-william
ly dead. Her play-
fellows had laughed at her, and said it would
not grow; but inted it and watered it
and tended it, and it did grow
she pl
grew to be
It was
more than once
always
the finest root in her garden.
to her.
after that, and her sweet-williams
What becomes of the poor pl
home with her from Switzerland,
an omen
She did the same thing
grew.
ant she brought
and how she
reaps her reward for her eare of it, is not to be
repeated here, but some of the heads of her dis-
course will bear the telling more than once.
That sheep a and
that some may with care and prudence be kept
but
-white, and
few black re wholly black,
a decent gray, she is willing to concede;
to make believe that they are snow
to allow them to run among the harmless flock,
they
ist
near, she de-
The kind of
perstitions halo which has been thrown round
smirching every one come
clares is a terrible ike, su-
the heads of prodigal sons she ruthlessly tears
away, showing how rarely the profligate leaves
behind him his riotons living when he returns
He
has sinned, but be is alway
to his father’s house cries alond that he
sready to sim again 5
world children with a
hot
ire
and bringing into the
heritage of woe, who did ask to be born, he
to the ce:
the garinents of all about him, to the third and
fourth generation, with the
and the odor of the swine.
The beautiful relationship between
childless mother and
shown
leaves them of others, infesting
dust of the husks
this
this motherless child is
page of the book. He
spoiled by her and by everybody—if love
But Mrs. Craik shows that if
ternation of harshness
in every was
ever
al-
weak indulgence
spoils. is the
and
which ruins so many poor helpless children,
are all their little
world, not through their own fault, but through
the fault of theirelders. The mother honored
3
who made detestable to
|
{
4
Se Ee eae
9 Paden
eA
LITERARY NOTES.
the boy as he honored his mother; she received
from him a liberal education in her efforts to
educate him, and the days of both of them, ac-
cording to the promise, were long and happy
Her treatment of him is a sermon
f; and from King Arthur parents and
children can both learn much. He will give
even the thoughtful something to think about,
and li ill make the thoughtless think, with-
out realizing, in the entertainment his story
gives them, that they think at all.
BARBARA, the het e of Barbara’s Vaqaries,*
is a very unee personage from the night
shi i sin] arous costume in the pavil-
ion Of a fas ible watering-place until she
disappear oud-land like a maid of the mist.
pearance is final or not is
one of the problems which perplex the other
characters of this crisp and pleasant short
novel. The problem is solved happily; but
even then Barbara’s manner of causing her
friends and admirers to ask, “ What will she
do next ?” keeps up the interest in this erratic
personage even after the wedding march has
died away and Barbara is married to the right
man. ‘The author of Barbara’s Vagaries has
managed to give novelty to an old theme and
a slender plot by working out one character on
the lines of nature. The flavor of the story is
new, becaust t s American. There is no for-
eign backgromud or personages to serve as con-
trast to the wild, untamed young girl who sud-
denly enters the precincts of a very fashion-
Je summer and winter resort, the scenes of
which will at once be recognized. One of the
charms of Barbara’s Vagaries is the sense which
ov \ ¢ been painted from life. Mrs,
Gregory, the manager of fairs, charity balls,
and pienies, WhO proy ides guests for other peo-
ple’s dinners, makes and unmakes social repu-
tations, and matronizes bachelors’ germans,
has all the impudence and impertinence, the
WSK rupulousness and fund of flattery, of the
class of which she is a perfeet type. Kathe-
rine MeFarland is a lovable girl. It is good
story that will be greatly
read by you rirls. She wins our hearts
to find her in
in the very beginning—or rather the author
an exquisite bit of
word-painting—and she completes the work
by an act of kindness done at the right time.
Barbara’s Vagaries is a clear-cut story ; there is
no padding in it; and there is a simplicity in
its diction that leads one through it,and creates
the wish that the author might go on writing or
talking—for the direct, unaffected method of
the story has the effect of a cordial chat about
people we have known—throngh several more
volumes. The men in Barbara’s Vagaries do not
seem tainted with cynicism, and the reader has
the consciousness of having been in company
with gentlemen who, if not always on the alert
* Barbara's V jes. A Novelette. By Many Lane-
BALL. pp. 176, Post 8vo, Cloth, $1. New York:
Harper and Brothers.
Dor
I N
4
to say bitter things sometimes witty, but al-
ways to be accepted for wit, are quite capabl
of doing honorable things when occasion arises,
They are like hundreds of men met oftener in
real life than the witty cynics, and they help
to make up a decidedly interesting novel.
Mr. BOWKER’S valuable little hand-book® js
the work of a practical man of affairs, larg ly
drawn from his own experiences, and is the
snecessful endeavor to set forth the principles
of economics in a way that will make them
intelligible and interesting to readers of both
sexes and of allages. Itis as plain and attrac
tive to business men and women as to those
boys and girls who are willing and anxious to
learn the serious, practical lessons of life. It
is largely illustrated from facts relating to
America and the Americans, so that the stu-
dents may in the end have a fair knowledge
of the economical condition and history of
their own country. Economies, as Mr. Bowke1
puts it, is simply common-sense applied to busi
ness; and common-sense Mr. Bowker applies
in all instances in his explanations of political
and domestic economy. Man is a bartering
animal. Everything, if not every person, has
its price, whether it be a market price or a
normal price or a fictitious price; a heritage
lias been sold for a mess of pottage, and a piece
of pinky-yellow pottery has brought what in
Jacob’s day would have been a king’s ransom.
The farmer who digs in the earth barters his
work and his time for the products of his soil.
He is practising economies then, although he
doesn’t know it by that name. The boy who
sells a paper whirligig for two pins, and swops
the pins fora stick of licorice, is beginning his
lessons in economies, althongh he has no idea
of it at the time; and he will end by cornet
ing wheat or bulling preferred stocks. But
both the boy and the laborer will know why
he barters and the philosophy of bartering
and how to barter to better effeet—which is
the chief end of man in a social way, after all
if he have put into his hands just such a lit
tle work as Mr. Bowker has prepared. He will
learn how value is produced, what price means,
and what are the laws of price. He will be
told about the nature and the use of money,
about paper as money, about gold and silvet
as standard money, about capital and interest,
about labor and the division of labor, about
the relation of the employer and the employed,
and so on through thirty short, clear, lucid,
practical chapters, full of sense and applied
science—the extracted, condensed wisdom ot
Adam Smith, John Stuart Mill, and other
writers upon the subject, down to Henry
George, expounded by aman who has applied
his own knowledge of economies to the rare
art of succinctly putting things.
5 Economics for the People 3eing Plain Talks o1
Economics, especially for use in Business, in Schools,
and in Women’s Reading Classes. By R. R. Bowker
pp. 286, 16mo, Cloth, 75 cents. New York: Harper aud
Brothers.
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