736

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mentioned the matter,” said Orchard-
son. “And I learned afterward that
others who had inspected the place
had had precisely the same experience
—people as level-headed as my girls.
Somehow they all sensed something—
just sensed it. Was that, too, hy-
steria?”

"It is very strange," the Professor assented. "That is all we allow ourselves to say of such things at present."

By that time there was no one of us
but had some parallel experience he
was eager to relate, but happily I fore-
stalled them all.

"Dr. Claverson," I called, "you must tell us, by all means, that adventure of yours in Germantown." I had heard the doctor tell it once before, and I knew what an evening we should owe to him if I could persuade him to speak.

After a little attention to his cigar,
and a reluctant farewell to it, Dr.
Claverson began. The frenzy of the
fire, the eerie and excited shadows it
threw about, all made a fitting mis-
en-scene to the oracle and his curious
tale.

"Well, then," sighed the Doctor.
"Some years ago I was summoned to
undertake a hazardous operation on
Senator—" He named a Pennsylv-
anian long prominent in national af-
fairs. "The case was rather desperate
in itself, beside important for other
reasons, and I left my other cases—
happily it was possible—and went to
Germantown to devote myself wholly
to the Senator. It was my first case
with a man of such prominence, and
doubtless I felt uncommonly anxious
about it. Besides, the ailment was in-
teresting and unusual. I operated,
with the assistance of two Philadel-
phia surgeons, who gave no great
help. I fancy each was piqued not to
have exclusive charge of the case him-
self. At any rate it proved a long and
taxing ordeal. I saw that incessant
watching was necessary, and the fam-
ily wished me to remain near at hand
until recovery was assured.

"To that end they had engaged a
room for me in a house across the
street, in order to have me within easy
reach. The Senator's house was not
large and was completely filled by the
necessary nurses and attendants. My
own quarters were in an old Colonial
house, somewhat fallen into decay, but
once, apparently, of some pretensions
to elegance. My room was on the sec-
ond floor—a corner room, in front. It
was large and bare, with a rug or two
in an old rag weave. Its main charm,
its only charm, if charm it had at all,
came of its four large windows, two on
each side. The walls were bare, save
for an engraving or two—of old Revo-
lutionary scenes. The fireplace had
been bricked up, and in front of it
stood one of those abominations
known, unfairly, as a Franklin stove,
which always contained a smoking
cannel-coal fire. I remember being
choked by it as I went to bed on the
first night. An old creaking four-post-
er, a chair or two, and a dilapidated
Colonial bureau, completed the fur-
nishings.

"Well,"—the doctor drew several
long puffs from his expiring cigar.—
"The operation was a success. But it
left me much worn with exertion and
anxiety—surgeons suffer far more
from that tension than is generally al-
lowed to the cold, fiendish mortals
they are supposed to be—and I was a
tired man when I turned in that night
—in that degree of fatigue when one
sleeps lightly and is disturbed by
dreams. I could see through the win-
dow nearest my bed the dim light in
the Senator's room across the street,
which told me that all was well over
there. There was no reason, at least,
why I should not enjoy some sleep.
Certainly I needed it, if I were to see
the case through in a proper manner.
Still, I must have slept lightly and
fitfully.

"At any rate, in the middle of the
night I was awakened. Ready for any
summons from the Senator, I was not
ready for the summons that came in-
stead. A flash of light seemed to strike

FROM BEYOND

my eyes, and I sat bolt upright to learn
what was wanted. The light, by the
way, came from the door of my room,
not from the Senator's house. I
opened my eyes with a start, and saw
that the light came from a candle—in
an ancient silver stick—carried by a
young girl.

"At the first glance I failed to make her out distinctly. She stepped into the room without speaking, and appeared not to be hurried—evidently no messenger from the Senator. 'A sleep walker,' I thought to myself, and waited to see what she would do.

"As she moved into the room, and as the candle lighted it better, I found myself witness to a remarkable transformation. I could mark then that the girl, not less than the candle, was from another period, a hundred years or more before—richly dressed in a wine-colored silk, of the pattern you see in old portraits, with a lace fichu about her neck, caught with a rare sapphire-and-pearl broach. The girl herself—I was stunned with her beauty. About twenty, I should say, with dark brown hair draped loosely over her ears and ending in a long curl that fell forward over her shoulder. Certainly I have never seen a more enchanting picture than she made. Even in the dim candle-light I could make out the clearness of her skin, the freshness of her coloring, and the somewhat dreamy mischief that laughed out of her eyes. She was smiling faintly, as if with the recollection of a very recent piece of girlish fun.

"All this came to me in one swift,
vivid glance. 'Aha!' I thought; 'a
masquerader, home from a party, and
in the wrong chamber. I must warn
her.' But it was hard to dispel so
charming a vision.

"Eventually I coughed; but she
seemed not to hear," Dr. Claverson
went on. For a moment he had been
treating himself anew to this vision, in
memory. "She seemed not to hear,"
he recalled himself. "And I soon un-
derstood what it was. By then her
candle had faintly illumined the whole

room, and I saw that it was totally
transformed. Instead of the bare walls
I saw portraits of family worthies,
haughty dames and grandees, in wigs
and brocades and satin breeches. The
bare windows had rich and heavy
hangings. On the floor, in place of the
strips of rag carpet, were rugs of finest
Oriental handiwork. Ladderback chairs
were there. The highboy, the bureau,
the dressing table had surely come
straight from the shops of Chippen-
dale or Sheraton. The fireplace was
restored, and a pair of logs crackled on
the andirons. To my amazement my
own bed was made over. A silken can-
opy overhung it, and about it silk cur-
tains were draped. I even reached out
my hand to satisfy myself that they
were there—and held them aside, to
gain a better view of the most charm-
ing Colonial interior I could have im-
agined, a little richer than we are ac-
customed to associate with the austere
taste of that time.

"But the girl was the center of the
picture. I watched her with a breath-
less fascination, afraid now to wink for
fear I should break the spell and ban-
ish the vision.

"Well, the young woman stepped
boldly into my room—or rather into
her own bedchamber, in which I was
an unwilling but a ravished eavesdrop-
per. Under her arm she carried sev-
eral books, one of which she came and
deposited at the foot of my bed—prob-
ably to read herself to sleep. I actu-
ally felt the light jar of it as she laid
it down. Then she went over to the
fire and sat down in one of the old
rockers and opened another volume to
read. But the fire attracted her gaze
instead, and for a long time she dream-
ed into it, smiling divinely, kicking her
silk slpper against the hem of her skirt
and slowly uncoiling her hair. Pres-
ently the neglected book slid from her
lap, and the smile was transferred from
the fire to the eyes of a miniature that
my young lady drew very lovingly
from her bosom. For some time she
gazed at it, crooning to it softly, and
then came and thrust it—will you be-

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738

lieve me?—under my pillow; yes, precisely that, under my pillow. I felt the pressure of her hand upon the tick. Then she returned to the fire, removed the simple little necklace, rings, her handsome broach, and other small jewels, and stowed them away in a drawer, and—

"And I sneezed!" Dr. Claverson snapped out in impatient disgust of himself. "I sneezed, and awoke, and found myself sitting upright in bed, chilled through, the wind from the nearest open window sweeping over my back as I sat staring out into vacancy!"

"Very remarkable," said the Professor, in his innocence. "Very remarkable, indeed. I remember a similar—"

"But pardon me, there is more," I burst in.

"Yes," said Dr. Claverson, "the vision had vanished—girl, fire-light, everything. I could scarcely believe it. I refused to believe it. I refused my pretty surroundings the right to return to the gloomy present. I reached out to feel of the silken curtains about my bed—but they were truly no longer there. I even got out of bed, to make sure that I had not been defrauded of that charming scene—and my feet froze on the hard, bare floor, and I stubbed one of them painfully against the material fact of the Franklin stove. There was no mistaking that. The Senator? He had passed from my mind till then. I glanced out the window toward his house, but the light in the sickroom window burned dimly on—a token that all was well. My watch told me I had been asleep for one hour. And so I went back to bed again, hoping for further entertainment, a continued dream.

"But—unfortunately," the doctor grudged, "the dream was ended. And in the morning I went about my duties as usual.

"The Senator alarmed me rather more than he should on that following day, and again left me a weary man when, very late, I retired that night. Still, I was not so weary or so

anxious but that a recollection of my charming caller of the night before stole on me, and I wished that the same little drama might be enacted again to lighten my slumbers. And, to cut things short, that was precisely the case, to my great delight. Again I was 'awakened,' as it were, by the light of a candle at my door. I remember hardly daring to hope, as I looked toward it, that its bearer could be my pretty young visitor once more. But it was she.

"This time she came dressed in blue, en grande costume. It was very discretely decolletté, it was delightfully simple, and of course immensely becoming. The hour seemed later. It was evident that she was returning from a ball. The excitement of it was still lingering in the heightened color of her cheeks and in the sparkle of her eye. The compliments seemed still ringing in her ears, the minuet seemed still in her feet and their movements. She was an enchanting spectacle. I drank her all in, like a fragrant wine, from the rose in her hair to the little silver buckles on her dainty blue slippers. So vividly had the whole scene returned that I heard the faint creaking of a loose board in the floor as she moved across it. And the sense of this reality brought me a feeling of exultation. I was again to live for a brief moment back across the centuries, for sure enough there were the portraits on the wall, the rugs on the floor, the hangings at the windows and about my bed, and lighting them all the dim candle and the flickering fire on the hearth. This time, too, I made sure I should not sneeze and frighten it all away. I barely breathed.

"Well, the young lady, in pardonable satisfaction with herself, swept a curtesy to the radiant reflection of herself in the long swiveled mirror. (I could not help smiling at being so innocently and willingly a witness to these mysteries of the boudoir.) And then she repeated the performance of the night before, with the miniature drawn from her bosom—except that

FROM BEYOND

she cut the pantomime shorter, in deference to the lateness of the hour. But with many kisses of it she stowed it again under my pillow, and returned to the fire to begin her preparations for the night.

"But to my intense annoyance an interruption appeared in a second candel which flashed in at the doorway, and we both, the young lady and myself, turned toward the intruder.

"The intruder," Dr. Claverson now proceeded more briskly—his enthusiasm evaporated—"the intruder was an elderly woman, tall, lean, spare, very plainly dressed, and I was immediately struck with her visage. It was the most sinister face I ever beheld—in prison or out. It was heavy-jawed, sharp-nosed; the lips thin and compressed; the eyes gray—X-ray eyes, they were. And there was incalculable craft in their expression.

"She entered with a halting step and a smirking manner—with the deference involuntarily paid by mean people to their betters. She lightly chided my young lady for the lateness of her return, and, coming up to the girl, outraged the young cheek with a kiss—which set me to inward raging, for already I had grown to feel like a father to the pretty child.

"And my feelings lingered but a short while at the point of indignation—they quickly passed beyond. For behind this old woman was a short, stocky man, heavily and powerfully built, and with a face that differed from that of his wife in being stupidly sinister where hers was shrewd besides. It was clear that they were husband and wife, and related in some way to the girl, over whom they exercised a sort of halting authority—though surely such as they could not be her parents. I remember I was still reluctantly puzzling out the relationship of this humble Macbeth and his wife, when again I was startled by another brief gleam of light.

"This evil-looking man, I had noticed, sidled into the room with his hands behind his back—for what reason

the little gleam of light quickly discovered to me. His wife and the girl were by then in bantering conversation, the woman rallying her ward about the much-kissed miniature, and the girl replying with much wit and many blushes. This last flicker of light took my attention from them.

"It was a flash from the fire-light, reflected, as a mischievous boy will dart a ray of sunlight from a pocket mirror—reflected into my eyes from a brightly sharpened ax which the man carried behind him. It explained why the gentleman carried his hands as he did.

"Well, my friends," said the doctor. "I rubbed my eyes to make sure of what I saw. A few moments before I had hoped that the scene might be real; I hoped more fervently now that it was not. This new business was so hideously, so grotesquely, so melodramatically out of key with the rest of my idyl. It was impossible, that was all. I tried to laugh aloud—to laugh it away, to close the dream. 'The fellow has been at work very late; that ax cannot mean anything else.' I thought. But the man soon gave tolen that his labors lay not behind him but before him. I narrowly watched his movements. It was clear that he intended evil.

"Under cover of his wife's chatter—very nervous, as I now remember—he edged round, trying to appear attentive to what was said, until he had reached a position directly behind the girl. From there he suddenly raised the ax with both his hands over her head."

Dr. Claverson paused. "Shall I go on?" he asked.

The question fell upon our highstrung attention like a trip-hammer.

"Go on!" cried the Professor.

"Very well, then," said Dr. Claverson. "I tried to cry out, to shout a warning to the girl," he said. "But like all persons striving to act in their dreams, I was helpless. I choked. I sputtered—and voiced nothing. But as he raised the ax, the fellow's arms

THE TREND

740

and the instrument itself described a gigantic shadow on the wall, which the girl saw."

"Good!" said Orchardson.

"She had just time to wheel about and raise an arm in defense," Dr. Claverson went on, "when"—

He paused.

"Well?" we all shouted, in unison.

"When I awoke," the doctor finished.

There we broke out in pandemonium.

"Why, man, you musn't hoax us like that!" the Professor protested.

The doctor and I smiled at him.

"It doesn't end there," said Claverson. "I awoke, to find myself again upright in bed, choking in my effort to cry out, and with one idea in mind—to prevent that dreadful act, to save my pretty young daughter. But all was darkness. The vision was gone. I tried to summon it back, to end it properly. But the stars twinkled through the bare windows. My four-poster creaked dismally. I was alone, in an ague of excitement, in my chilly and cheerless old room. I simply forced myself to get out and prove that I was there, in the twentieth century and not in the eighteenth. And I stayed up for some time afraid to go back to bed for fear the dream might continue, in the wrong way.

"Finally, I did go back, after having satisfied myself that everything was well at the Senator's house. And I slept sweetly and soundly till morning, without further disturbance.

"The next day, though I was studiously attentive to my case, which was now progressing nicely and did not wholly monopolize me, I could not take my mind altogether from the threatened young woman of that dream. Her probable fate at the hands of her vicious visitors haunted me all day long. And that night I was positively afraid to retire and face what seemed certain to follow. But, again I was weary. This case of Senator—had come at the end of a try-

ing season for me, and I was physically exhausted.

"It took three cigars to prepare me for the ordeal of slumber that night, and—to cut it all short—the dream, precisely as I feared, continued, on this third consecutive night.

"I can still see—I shall never forget—the face of that poor girl as she turned and for a brief second saw what awaited her. Happily, it was but a second. Before she could make another move the ax descended. I can still hear the thud of it—like a blow on a block of soft wood. Her body wavered for a moment, and then fell, with a jar that rattled the windows. I remember that rattle.

"I remember the patter of the little pearls in the girl's necklace on the polished floor. In raising her arm to defend herself, her thumb had caught in the cord upon which they were strung, and broken it; and the pretty pellets dropped like a handful of shot. A few of them bounced. Then all was still.

"For one short section of a minute the two who remained stood as if stunned at their deed. Slowly the man relinquished his grasp of the ax, which, too, dropped to the floor beside its victim, while he covered his face with his hands in involuntary horror. He even shook, until aroused by a hard laugh from his wife. The amiable lady had apparently her plans all laid, and she was at once all bustle. I sat there and watched it all in a trance.

"She flew to the girl's writing desk and drew out notes and papers, half a dozen or more, and a strong-box besides. Then she caught up the jewel case from the bureau, snapped it shut, tucked it under her arm. She even stooped and gathered up a few of the scattered pearls. When she had appropriated all she desired, she made a sign to her husband, picked up her candle and motioned to him to follow.

"He grasped the girl's ankles and dragged her toward the door where they all had entered. I could hear the swish of the poor child's silk dress across the floor. Her solitary curl

FROM BEYOND

741

trailed on behind her head, like a delicate paint brush, leaving a thin streak of red. I could hear the bump of her head as it passed over the threshold. I heard it bump, bump, down some back stair.

"And I got up out of bed and followed them, determined to know all that they did.

"They went down a back stair which ended in the kitchen. I know this because I tip-toed down this stair in my bare feet. They had left the door to the kitchen open a crack, and through this I watched the remainder of the proceedings.

"While the woman held her candle aloft to light the scene, the fellow quickly stepped outside the door, reached round for a crowbar evidently placed there in waiting. With this he returned to the fireplace—a great wide and deep one, for this too was of the Colonial time. There was the crane, the heavy andirons, the hams hanging from the beams overhead. In front of the fireplace I observed an unusually long hearthstone, probably seven feet long and three wide. It seemed to cover some sort of curing or storage pit, or a secret receptacle. For with the crowbar the man laboriously pried this stone loose, disclosing a bin built of brick.

"He leaned this heavy stone, when he had lifted it, against the adjacent wall, and then decently laid the body of the girl in this pit, his evil wife all the while holding her candle, and ill concealing her amusement at his agitation.

"Finally, when all was neatly disposed of, the man grasped the stone cover again, to lower it to its place. All his immense strength was needed to handle it, I remember.

"Just as it was well balanced and he had braced himself to steady its descent into position, the wife gave him a push. Poised as he was directly over the pit, he fell into it despite his frantic efforts to save himself. Even as he toppled in he made one crazed attempt to leap out in time.

"But the necessary time was lacking. I caught the look he gave his wife as he saw the stone totter and start down upon him. It fell with a boom that rocked the house. The shock of it awakened me, and the last thing I remember of the scene was the neat amputation by the stone of the four fingers the poor man had thrust out in his effort to save himself."

Dr. Claverson permitted himself a moment in which to relight his cigar.

"I awoke," he mercifully went on, "to find myself at the bottom of an unfamiliar stairway, lost, chilled to the bone, and sick to death with what I had witnessed. On my hands and knees I crawled back up the stairs and crept into my room and into bed—to sleep no more that night, as you may suppose."

There the doctor paused with an air of finality. And we all drew the first normal breath since he began his narrative.

"But surely, doctor, you—" the others cried out.

"Go on, doctor, to the end of it," I urged.

"It doesn't take long to finish it." said the doctor. "My friend the Senator recovered handsomely, and lived many years longer—and finally died of quite another ailment. But of course I never forgot that remarkable dream in its three consecutive chapters on three consecutive nights. What was its meaning? Could it have been the eerie repetition of an actual occurrence? Was the house crying out its terrible secret to me, and that girl begging for vengeance? It was an interesting thing to learn. And, to shorten the tale, I did learn much.

"As quietly as possible I pieced together the history of that house. It dated far back into Colonial times. The people who owned it when I was there were distant collateral inheritors of the property. Originally it had been built by a rich Tory who had fled to Canada before the Revolution. A loyal brother obtained possession of

742

THE TREND

the place, though by no secure legal
means. The last direct inheritor of it
was, I found, a young orphan girl who
occupied it with a step-aunt and
uncle, her guardians. As you may im-
agine, this much interested me deeply.

"At length I obtained permission
of the present owner—quite innocent
old folk—to look over the house pret-
ty thoroughly, with a view to buying
it, I told them. The kitchen had been
modernized like the room I had used.
Its wide fireplace had been bricked up
and a modern range placed in front of
it. A new floor had been laid, covering
all signs of any hearth-stone. But I
managed to satisfy myself that there
was a stone beneath it in front of the
fireplace, and the cellar later afforded
absolute proof of it—in a curious brick
ashpit that rose from the base or foun-
dation of the chimney. And—in a word,
I contrived to have the flooring re-

moved. The hearth-stone lay bared to
view, and I had it lifted."

"Well?" the doctor's guests chor-
used at him excitedly.

"Oh, and I forgot to tell you, gen-
tlemen," said he; "along with the his-
tory of the family, I happened to learn
of a scandal. The young orphan girl
and her step-uncle by marriage had
'eloped' one winter's night, and were
never again heard of. It was taken
that they had fled to England, and left
the aunt behind, more or less crazed
by grief, or certainly very peculiar, for
the rest of her life. So at least the
legend went."

"But what about the pit?" the Pro-
fessor persisted.

"Oh, about the pit?" said the doctor.
"Well, gentlemen, in the pit were
found two human skeletons. Also a
few small pearls. And on one of the
skeletons the tips of the fingers on the
right hand were missing."

748

THE TREND

talking with, and I shaking the snow off of my shawl without?

ANDY—I was talking to myself. Sure isn't it the way you get when you're all times walking the roads of the world lonesome.

KATHERINE (*Mercilessly*)—And what was the pounding noise you were making?

ANDY (*Shouting*)—I was kicking the snow off of my old broken boots.

KATHERINE (*Laughing with scorn*)— That's a lie, Andy Coyle. It's seeking the old woman's money you were. Sure wasn't I at teh window beyond, watching you searching the house like a dog nosing a rat in the bog!

ANDY (*On the defensive*)—Well, if I was itself, wasn't it yourself put it into my head?

KATHERINE (*Menacingly*)—Is it me?

ANDY—Ay! Weren't you all times urging me to get my hands on the money?

KATHERINE (*Laughing scornfully*)— That's a good one! Urging you, is it? Faith, the divil's own father couldn't urge you where you had no heart to go!

ANDY (*In an injured tone*)—It's harsh you are, and I a lost man wondering down to a dreary bog-side for a bite to eat and a couple of days' shelter from the driving snow.

KATHERINE—It's here a week you are today, trapessoing back and forth from my house to this one, eating your fill and letting on it's seeking to wed me you are—and you that lost in your mind with one eye on myself and the other eye on old Mary Anne McGuinness's fortune.

ANDY—The Saints forbid I'd be playing you off against an old woman has one leg in the grave, and you giving me the warmth of your hearth this many a day. Sure the bit of money she has laid by might as lief come to me as to nobody at all, for she hasn't a one to leave it to at the latter end.

KATHERINE (*Startled*)—Whisht! I think I hear the squeaking of her old wheel-barrow and she coming from the bog with the turf.

(Excitedly)

I'll slip out in the snow falling afore she comes round the turn, and she's that blind she'll not see me at all. Let you stop if you want, but I'd cut off my hand afore I'd let her catch me here with yourself and she out of her house. I'll maybe come over before half an hour is by, to see how you're behaving, Andy Coyle.

ANDY—It's not in it that long I'll be, I'm thinking, for I was on my way down to the town for an ounce of tobacco.

KATHERINE (*In desperation, as the old woman's wheel-barrow creaks louder, and she is seen to pass the window in the falling snow*)—Glory be to God, here she is now! What'll I do, at all?

ANDY—Slip behind the door when she opens it, and then out with you when she comes in with the wheel-barrow, and she'll not see you at all.

(A few clumsy knocks come on the lower half of the door, as the old woman pushes the wheel of the barrow against it.)

MARY ANNE (*Outside, in an agitated voice*)—Open the door, Andy Coyle! I'm near perished with the cold, and I an old woman nearing my end. Open the door, I'm saying!

(She assaults the door violently with the wheel-barrow as a battering-ram. After some hesitation, Andy opens the door and Katherine slips behind it.)

ANDY (*Pretending to be newly aroused from sleep*)—It's yourself, is it? I'm after rousing up out of a drowsy sleep I dropped off into beside the fire, and I sheltering from the harshness of the snow.

(He speaks as Mary Anne comes in with the wheel-barrow, and Katherine slips out. Andy hastily closes the door. He shivers.)

It's a good thing you went for a bit of turf, for there's an edge on the snowy wind would chill the bones of the frozen dead in their graves beyond.

(Mary Anne props the one-legged barrow up against the wall. Glancing sharply at Andy, she eagerly approaches the black pot on the table. She removes

THE EDGE OF THE BOG

749

handfuls of potato skins. The look of anxiety deserts her face as she takes from the bottom of the pot a rag tied with black shoe-string. With a crafty look at Andy, she unties the rag and pours out coins onto the table and proceeds busily to count them, placing them in stacks, according to denomination.

(Andy is overcome with astonishment. He laughs boisterously, to cover his chagrin.)

Well, I declare to my soul, that beats all ever I seen!

(Hovering nearer, as Mary Anne sorts the coins.)

If that ain't the strangest sort of a bank—!

(Picks up the pot and examines it with simulated wonder and amusement.)

MARY ANNE (Preoccupied)—Ay! It's true for you, Andy Coyle. Them that has little has to hide it in queer places.

(Counting aloud while Andy looks on, seating himself on the stool with his elbows on the table.)

Fifteen — seventeen — nineteen — nineteen shillings and one — two — three — six — eight pence. Two pound, nineteen and eight pence! And the fourpence I'm short is what I gave yourself for tobacco yesterday.

ANDY—Ay, and little good it did me, for I dropped the ounce of tobacco out of a hole in my pocket and I toiling up Lavery's Hill in the snow at the fall of night. And sorra bit of it could I find at all, and I hungering for a smoke the length of this blessed day.

(Insinuatingly.)

MARY ANNE (Curtly)—It's poor luck, only, the like of you ever has, I'm thinking!

(She looks around the cabin with a half suspicious glance. Fixes her gaze on Andy for the silent space of a few seconds. Then she makes her ancient way to the hearth and, stooping laboriously, looks up the chimney. Turns to Andy with narrowing eyes in which fear and suspicion and cunning are strangely mingled.)

MARY ANNE—Where's the Widow Keegan?

ANDY (Taken aback)—I reckon it's beyond in her houseen she is. Where else would anybody that has a roof of their own be on a terrible day the like of this?

MARY ANNE (Sitting down and getting Close to the fire and speaking as if more to herself than to Andy)—It's the truth, maybe, they're saying she has the Black Art and is able to turn herself into a maggot and creep out through the keyhole, the way you couldn't see her at all.

(Looks around with a shudder. Builds up the fire. Andy joins her. She continues with affright.)

Sure wasn't she here along with yourself when I came in, and the divil a sign of her now!

ANDY (Reassuringly)—Och, it's doting you are, woman dear. It was maybe myself talking in my sleep you heard.

MARY ANNE—My hearing is good, Andy Coyle; but I heard nothing at all. It was something I seen with my two eyes, if I'm near blind itself.

(Andy glances nervously around the darkening cabin and instinctively edges closer to the hearth.)

ANDY—What was it you seen, for the love of God?

MARY ANNE—I seen a magpie below in the bog, flying this way and that in the snow falling, and it making a great chattering and not using its wings at all.

ANDY (Gravely)—Ay, I heard tell of the like of that many a time.

MARY ANNE (Continuing)—Then it lit on an old rotten stump and grew as big as a turkey forninst my two eyes; and after letting a screech out of it would stiffen your whole body, it flew straight up into the snow. And I with the dread of eternity in my heart and only the fairy lamps that do be twinkling away off over the bog and the crying of the curlews for company.

ANDY (Gloomily)—It's a bad sign, surely.

MARY ANNE—'May the Sacred Heart of the Blessed Virgin protect me,'

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750

says I. And with that a hare leps
out from under my feet, and didn't I
let a roar at him to give myself cour-
age and strength to get home, the way
I wouldn't die in the bog with sorra
one to light a candle over me. Ay,
it's a bad sign, Andy Coyle, and I fail-
ing fast like the mist on the bog at
the dawn of day.

ANDY (*Kindly*)—It's only narvish-like
you are, maybe. Sure a body is apt
to see what you seen any time. If
you were the like of me, all times
trapesing the endless roads of the
world, with no home but the ditches
or maybe a cowhouse heavy with the
breath of chewing cattle, and you
fearing an angry farmer with a dung
fork in his hands. O, it's a poor
thing, to have nothing at all belong-
ing to you—but an old clay pipe and
it empty!

*(Takes pipe out of his pocket and puts it in his mouth.)*

MARY ANNE (*Irritably*)—The divil a
penny more you'll get out of me, Andy
Coyle. Away with you over to the
Widow Keegan and she'll help you,
maybe.

ANDY (*Rising indignantly to go*)—She'll
help me surely, and I'll not stop where
my welcome is dwindling like melting
snow.

MARY ANNE (*Clutching Andy with sudden alarm*)—Andy, stay where you are along with myself, for your company is kind, and don't go nigh that woman.

*(Shuddering.)*

She'd put a spell on you would make
you rob me for spite—

ANDY (*Interposing roughly*)—Och, give
over blathering out of you, woman
dear!

MARY ANNE (*Continuing*)—She fol-
lowed you here this day, for I seen
her tracks and yours in the snow lead-
ing over the threshold, and it's maybe
watching us she is this minute and we
not able to see herself.

ANDY (*Impatiently*)—She's not here at
all. I'm telling you! Sure it was my-
self trampled the snow, walking from

the door to the window and back to
see if yourself was within.

MARY ANNE (*Doggedly*)—There was
two pairs of feet in it. She came in
with you unknownst.

ANDY—Well, if she did itself, it's little
she could do to hurt us.

MARY ANNE—Sure you're only a man,
Andy, and it's little you know of the
ways of a woman the like of that one.
It's looking to wed you she is, the way
she'll have a man to bring the turf
from the bog and sow her patch of
potatoes and keep her company in the
darkness of a black winter's night.

ANDY (*Flattered*)—Ay, that's so, maybe.

MARY ANNE (*Pressing on*)—She'd be
stealing you away from me, Andy
Coyle. When a woman is that way
she'd steal the cross off an ass. Sure
don't I know it. It's that way I am
myself.

*(Quietly.)*

ANDY (*Sharply*)—Is it seeking to wed
me yourself you are?

MARY ANNE—Ay!

ANDY—Is it me! A man no more nor
half your age? And you with one leg
in the grave—if you're a woman of
means, itself.

MARY ANNE (*Chuckling*)—Sure, the
money would be your own all the
quicker for that matter, man dear.

ANDY (*Musingly*)—Ay, that's true.

MARY ANNE—It's a companion in my
last days I'd be getting, and I'd be
saving yourself from a life of sin and
shame with the Widow Keegan.

ANDY (*With amazed indignation*)—Is
it me?

MARY ANNE—Ay, for ain't the pair of
you the talk of the whole barony the
way you're dwelling together in the
sight of all.

ANDY (*Solemnly*)—It's a dirty lie, Mary
Anne McGuinness. God forbid I'd
have the weight of sin the like of that
on my soul, and I on my way to my
mother's funeral in the town of Kil-
dare tomorrow.

MARY ANNE (*Surprised*)—Is that a
fact? When was it she died?

ANDY—The post boy told me this morn-
ing and he passing. "Your old mother

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751

died at dawn today, Andy,” says he. “and she’s lying beyond with not one to heed her or give her a wake, let alone a coffin and a grave to lay in. You’d better get on over to Kildare as quick as you can,” says he. “Jimmy Brimmigen is going this evening in his creel with the white calf and two pigs for the fair tomorrow and maybe he’d give you a lift,” says he. But, God help me, what aid can I be, and I without a farthing of money?

(A long silence.)

God forgive me for being a poor son to my mother, and she lying stretched out with none to say a prayer for her soul.

(Silence, while Andy laments in a droning monotone. He continues)

Jimmy Brimmigen'll be leaving at the fall of night, and I'd best be getting on now the way I'll not miss him.

(Rises to go.)

MARY ANNE (Hopelessly)—Is it long you'll be gone, Andy?

ANDY—I'm thinking maybe it's not coming back at all I'll be.

(Andy moves irresolutely towards the door. The old woman sits aimlessly raking the dying fire. Andy continues)

I'm very apt to pick up a few shillings at the fair, helping a strong farmer to hold a lepping stallion maybe, or scelping a creel of pigs into the train and they going off sold to the South or West. It's south I'll be moving then myself, I'm thinking, for the ache is eating into my bones up here in this starving bogland. And now I'll run over to the Widow Keegan's for a cup of tea afore I go to Jimmy's.

MARY ANNE—Andy, my man, don't go leave me and I an old woman nearing my end. If you must go bury your mother, come back here for a short space itself, for it's not long I'll be in it, God help me.

ANDY (Looking under the sack in the wheel-barrow and finding no turf for the fire, which by now has almost died)—Didn't you bring home a bit of turf with you, at all?

MARY ANNE—I did not, I was that bothered below.

ANDY (Walking about discontentedly)—What would I be doing here, when the snow will be melting into deep slush in two days or three, and a harsh wind whistling over the bog? Sure a man the like of me does be needing new hills and valleys all times for the peace of his heart. My poor feet are chained to the roads of the world, like a spanselled ass you'd see grazing in a ditch, and it's little love is in me for stopping a long space in the one spot, I'm telling you.

MARY ANNE—What would you be doing here, is it? Wouldn't you be sitting at the fire smoking your pipe and eating your fill and telling out your stories to myself at the fall of night? Wouldn't you be coming down to the bog with myself of a fine shining morning and I cutting turf? Wouldn't you be sleeping in a bit of sweet hay the length of a roasting June day? Wouldn't—wouldn't you be throwing a strong arm around myself and rocking this way and that on the lip of the grave? Andy, wouldn't you be—

ANDY (Impatiently)—It's late I am now, and I'll be after missing Jimfy, listening to your streeleen, and you an old woman lost in your wits.

(Turns to go.)

MARY ANNE (Rising, in desperation)—Andy, for the love of God, come back here to me when you have your mother buried.

(Impulsively.)

Look-at, here's money for you!

(Unties bag and pours coins into Andy's ready hand which he continues to hold out.)

Here! I'll give you the whole of it! Bury your mother well and don't go high the fair, but come on back here to me.

ANDY—Thank you kindly.

MARY ANNE (Excitedly, going to plate rack)—It's hungry you'll be afore night, my poor man. Here's the latter half of a cake I baked yesterday.

(Pushes it into his pocket and hustles him busily towards the door.)

Go on now, straight down with you to

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THE TREND

Jimmy's, or you'll miss him surely; and may God speed you and bring you back safe and well to myself, for I'll be waiting for you here.

(Ushers the bewildered Andy out into the falling snow and watches him depart. She re-enters and closes out the storm. She glances hopelessly about the empty cabin and hobbles feebly to the table. Picks up the money rag from the floor and crushes it in her palsied hands. Seeks her chair before the dead fire and drops brokenly into it.)

MARY ANNE (After rocking back and forth with a low drone of lamentation)—He's gone now and it's the last I'll see of him, surely . . . From this out it's trailing the gray roads he'll be, in the warm sun, to the edge of the world . . . and the good God watching over him.

(Rocks back and forth, lamenting.)

. . An old woman . . . nearing her end . . . leaving the world the way she come into it . . . without bit, bite nor sup, and sorr a penny to bury her . . . They're coming for you this night, the dark folk, Mary Anne McGuinness . . . They're coming silent across the deep snow from where their lamps do be burning away off in the bog.

(She is seen to become strangely more alert and active as she foretells her doom.)

Their feet are flying over the snow, the dark folk . . . They're coming nearer. . . . They're coming nearer, I'm saying. . . . It's the rush of their feet in the wind. . . . They're coming now. . . . they're crowding to the door—

(She becomes, as it were, exalted and electrified. She rises erectly and turns majestically towards the door. A rapidly rising wind is heard and the snow is observed whirling madly past the small window.)

O, Mary, Mother of God, pray for my soul!

(This with high exultation as the wind, reaching its climax, violently bursts open the door and the snow bellies in and the

old woman pitches forward on the floor.)

(After a pause of a few moments, Katherine Keegan comes hurrying to the door and stands aghast at what she sees. She frames her face in the shawl which she has had over head.)

KATHERINE (Horrified)—God have mercy on us! Is it after murdering her he is?

(She makes a hasty examination of the old woman, turning her over on her back.)

There's no marks on her. It's her heart is after bursting, for her mouth is blue like Liza Neal's a while back.

(She runs out to examine Andy's footprints in the snow.)

Maybe it's only a short while he's gone.

(After glancing at the dead woman, she muffles her head in her shawl and runs off in the direction indicated by Andy's footprints.)

Presently voices are heard in the distance. Katherine's growing louder and urging Andy, to hurry. She comes to the door first, but waits, looking back, for the hurrying Andy to join her. He recoils at the threshold.)

ANDY (Removing his hat slowly)—Glory be to God, is it dead she is?

(Comes in slowly.)

KATHERINE—Ay, God rest her soul. It was her heart. It was always weak in her, and in the end it quit beating and bursted, like Liza Neal's a while back. Let you take her by her shoulders and I'll lift her feet and we'll lay her on the settle beyond.

(They proceed to do so.)

ANDY—Is it with her you were when she dropped?

KATHERINE—I was not. The door was open and I walked straight in on top of her, and I had like to die with the fright. Your tracks were fresh in the snow and it's a good thing you hadn't gone far, and I alone with herself with not one to aid me.

ANDY—I was sheltering from the sudden wind in Brennan's bire below and I heard you calling out.

KATHERINE—Did you leave herself in

THE EDGE OF THE BOG

753

a hurry, the way you hadn't time to
shut the door after you?

ANDY—She came out with me herself,
and that I may die on my feet I'll
take my oath I heard her slamming
the door after I left her. Maybe it's
bursted open in the big wind it was.
(Goes to examine the door.)

It was, right enough, for the old rusty
hasp is broke off at the butt.
(Picks up piece of metal from the
floor.)

KATHERINE (Looking around the cabin)
—Musha, didn't she have a bit of a
candle at all we could light over her,
and she a woman of means—

(Suddenly seized with suspicion,
Katherine fixes her eyes on the guilty
Andy.)

You got her money, (Andy Coyle!
You took it off of her!
(Advances upon him with fiercely ac-
cusing mien.)

ANDY (Backing away and fumbling in
his pocket nervously)—It's a lie. . .
. . It's a lie, I tell you! She gave
it to me herself. . . . she gave it
to me to go bury my mother in the
town of Kildare tomorrow!

KATHERINE (Seizing the 3-legged stool
as a weapon)—Give it up, you lying,
thieving blackguard! Give it up or
I'll set the peelers on you! And your
mother dead this ten years!

ANDY (Depositing the money in hand-
fuls on the table and making for the
door)—There it is. There's a curse
on it. I'm well shut of it!

KATHERINE (Blocking his exit)—Get
back there—where are you going?

There's a curse on it, it's true for you,
and you leaving herself destitute, the
way it broke her heart and killed her
entirely. May God Almighty and the
Blessed Virgin forgive you for your
black deed this day, Andy Coyle.

ANDY (Overcome with panic and re-
morse, clutching Katherine almost on
his knees)—O, for the love of all the
Saints in Heaven be easy with me.
Here's the rest of the money!

(Takes a few coins out of his pocket
and places them in Katherine's hand.)

KATHERINE—God forgive you for your
crimes, my poor man. Lay that with
the rest on the table—

(Giving him the money.)

—and it's go towards her funeral, for
we'll bury her well with her own
money; and I have a small bit laid for
candles and porter for her wake to-
night. And now while me and Katie
Hogan is laying herself out, let you
go around and tell the neighbors.

(Katherine finds a half burnt candle
in a tin candlestick near the hearth.
With the aid of a match from Andy, she
lights the candle and places it on the
head-piece of the settle, back of the dead
woman's head. Turns to Andy and
pushes him towards the door. He
pauses to address the corpse.)

ANDY—You're gone now, Mary Anne
McGuinness, and may God rest your
soul. But it's little you thought this
day you'd be buried with my money!

KATHERINE (Pushing Andy to the door
and out before her)—Go on now, you
thieving blackguard, go on now!

Curtain.

# The Folk Lore of Plants

BY ROYAL DIXON and RAYMOND COMSTOCK.

## PART I.

*Religious and Sacred Plants and Their Superstitions.*

"I have gathered me a posie of other men's flowers, and nothing but the thread that binds them is mine own."—Montaigne.

FROM the earliest recorded times in the world's history, mankind has been groping for a great God; in every land, in every tribe or national people, certain elements or things or beings have been defied, each and all apparently satisfactory as God's only so long as they have contained an element of mystery. When once the people or tribe has become acquainted with the causes of these mysterious effects, the supernatural collapses into the natural, and the people seek out another mysterious effect to call it God. It would almost seem that in the supernatural lay divinity; that in the unexplicable is the divine; that, after all, the great God of the humans is perhaps but a creation to cover the mysteries of life.

But on the other hand, there is in this same universal inclination to seek out and attain a God, an almost convincing argument in favor of the existence of some great and infinite Being. Where, in all ages, in all lands, and among all people of all types there has been a general concession of a Godhead, there surely must be some superhuman, spiritual suggestion, which should so incline the minds of all types of men toward the belief in an active, living God.

And as the mind of man is, at its best, but a poor materializer of things unseen, he has been forced to find in symbols the material expression of his

God. Thus we find fire, water, stars, sun, moon, birds, animals, flowers, trees, and graven images, all, in various places and times, idealized as the material substance of an ethereal or spiritual Being.

In the earliest records we have of this so-called idol worship, the selection of certain trees and plants as sacred, repeatedly occurs, and through all ages, in every land, the instances of such plant deification are numerous; even in the present day, superstition attributes unnumbered mysterious powers to many of the flowers and trees.

One of the early instances of this deification of members of the plant world by humans is familiar to all, in the stories of the old Druids, who worshiped beneath the branches of the oak, which they considered sacred. Horrible accounts have been written of the bloody ceremonies that were performed by the Druids in the name and beneath the branches of their sacred oaks. The priests lived and met to worship among the groves of oaks, perhaps memories of the atrocities committed in the name of their ancestors are the thoughts which cause the mighty oaks of our day to sigh and moan, as if in pain or sorrow.

But, once discussing the position of trees in this interesting spiritualization of materially visible things, we at once enter upon a history so interesting and so very full, that the selection of a few examples to cite among so many, presents a large problem, and one is tempted to indulge in the creation of an entire volume on the subject. The trees have stood forth prominently in the annals of every great religion, from Confucian-

ism to Chaucer's volume, from Old and New. Through all the experience with the five senses, the greatest of all senses, the ear, is the earful of the Rarvasit, the wisdom tree, and the history of the dea-
dy, which is the dream of the poet. He becomes a story-starter, achieves prophecy, the same branch is branched by, and the same person is dreamed of by, the divine be-
amuradh, the most ven-
ant of all.

Another was "the about what? The Yellow Sea, founded on a rock, until after the hair was cut, it sprang an exquisitely fine symbol in the water."

But in real life, this tree of knowledge, this tree of

754

THE FOLK LORE OF PLANTS

755

ism to Christianity, in every sacred volume, from the Zend Avesta to the Old and New Testaments of the Bible.

Through the literature of Buddhism, experiences of the Buddhist deities with the trees are of frequent occurrence. Vishnu, the Preserver, the greatest of the Hindu Gods, was, according to tradition, born beneath Ranvasit, the tree of Knowledge and Wisdom. This was the peepul or fig tree, and around it many of the Buddhist and Hindu traditions circle. It is said that Gautama, the great Burmese deity, while sleeping beneath this tree, dreamed that he should at some time become a Buddha or wise one; the story states that when he at last achieved the realization of this prophecy, he was again seated beneath the same tree. Long after his death, a branch of the "dream tree," accompanied by relics of the departed deity, such as his holy collar bone and his divine begging dish, were sent to Amuradhapoora, Ceylon's sacred city.

From this branch sprang up the new tree, whose name is Holy Bo, and even to this day the fig tree, "the great, famous and triumphant fig tree, shrine of ceaseless pilgrims, watcher of ruins, is perhaps the oldest and most venerated idol in the world."

Another great and venerated tree was "the tree of ten thousand images" about which there is a pretty story. The Yellow Cap Lamas of Thibet was founded by one Tsong Kaba, who was born an Albino and was not shaved until after he was three years old. The hair fell to the ground, and from it sprang a tree whose wood exhaled an exquisite perfume and whose leaves were each decorated with a sacred symbol in the Thibetan language.

But there is something uncannily real in the seeming verification of this tale. The Abbe Hoc, who visited this tree in its situation close to the Buddhist convent of Ten Thousand Images, describes his experience in the following surprising account:

> "We had heard of this tree too often during our journey not to feel some-

what eager to visit it. At the foot of the mountain on which the Lama-serey (the residence of the Grand-Lama, the head of the religion of Thibet) stands, and not far from the principal Buddhist Temple, is a great square enclosure, formed by brick walls. Upon entering this we were able to examine at leisure the marvellous tree, some of the branches of which had already manifested themselves against the wall. Our eyes were first directed with earnest curiosity to the leaves, and we were filled with an absolute consternation at finding, that in point of fact, there were upon each of the leaves well-formed Thibetian characters, all of a green color, some darker, some lighter, than the leaf itself. Our first impression was a suspicion of fraud upon the part of the Lamas, but after a minute examination of very detail, we could not discover the least deception. The characters all appeared to us portions of the leaf itself, equally with its veins and nerves; the position was not the same in all; in one leaf they would be at the top of the leaf, in another, in the middle; the younger leaves representing the characters only in a partial state of formation. The bark of the tree and its branches, which resemble that of the Plane Tree, are also covered with these characters. When you remove a piece of old bark, the young bark under it exhibits the indistinct outlines of characters in agerminating state; and what is very singular, these new characters are not infrequently different from those they replace. We examined everything with the closest attention, in order to detect some trace of trickery, but we could discover nothing of the sort. More profound intellects than ours may, perhaps, be able to supply a satisfactory explanation of the mysteries of this singular tree; but, as to us, we absolutely give it up."

A further interesting fact about this tree is the apparent impossibility of removing it from its location. Frequent attempts to transplant cuttings have failed. So the tree lives on in its home near the convent of the Ten Thousand Images, and each summer it bears its fruit of red blossoms, and always and ever it is the shrine of pilgrims, who come to gaze on its many-symboled boughs.

Because of a sacred Ficus or Fig many pilgrims annually visit Padjajanrian, a ruined city of Java. This tree,

756

THE TREND

has been called "the Vegetable Giant." In its branches spirits of the departed are said to hover, and priests of the Mohammedans claim that a gigantic island hero walking near the tree left his foot-print in the stone there. They have the great impress to prove it.

This Ficus is really not a single tree, but is formed of trees of two species of the single genus; the distinguished of the trees is possible through a difference in the shades of green in the leaves. C. L. Blume, the botanist, "was permitted to climb the venerated growth after incense had been burned at its foot. The capacious limbs were found to be a marvellous garden in the air, the home of at least thirty-four species of plants."

But we do not need to go to the Oriental religions for evidence of the deification or near-deification of trees. Throughout the Old Testament and frequently in the New Testament of the Bible are references, which show the prominent place that the trees and flowers assumed in the religion of the ancient Hebrews, and of their more modern descendants of the time of Christ.

In the first of the Bible tales a tree takes a most prominent place. In the Garden of Eden is placed a Tree of Life, the fruits of which man must not eat:

"There grew a goodly tree him faire beside,

Loaden with fruit and apples rosy redd.

As they in pure vermilion had been dide,

Whereof great vertues overall were redd;

For happy life to all which thereon fedd,

And life eke everlasting did befall;

Great God it planted in that blessed stedd

With His Almighty hand, and did it call

The Tree of Life, the crime of our first Father's fall.

—Spenser, "The Faerie Queen."

(Bk. I, Canto XI.)

Again and again through the early history of the Hebrews do we find mention of the Cedars of Lebanon. Solomon sang: "From the cedar that is in Lebanon even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall." And how frequently in both Old and New Testaments is mention given to the Olive Tree, until the very term suggests things sacred and divine. It is the tree most frequently associated with the life and death of Jesus Christ.

But the wonderfully prolix tales of ancient Greece have given us probably the greatest number of instances of this association of Gods and Trees. Nearly every one of the old Mythological legends of Greece refers in some way to the trees. Hercules, Apollo, Jove, Ceres, Minerva, Venus, Myrsine, Phaedra, Theseus, Hippolytus, Daphne, Alcides, Gods and men, Goddesses and maidens, all are associated by an apparently naturally-assumed relationship with the spirits of the trees. It is this evident understanding and communion with the trees and flowers, which has largely caused the ancient Greeks to be called "children of nature."

Through the annals of the folk lore of every people, the oak has held a prominent place, but there is one tree which excels even the oak in the frequency of its appearance in mythological literature. This tree is the apple.

By many the "Tree of Life," which the Creator is said to have placed in the Garden of Eden, and which was instrumental in the downfall of man, is believed to have been an apple tree. Through Greek mythology the apples repeatedly play important parts in the adventure of Gods and men. "The apple of Discord," the golden apples which tempted Atalanta, the tantalization of Tantalus, and a hundred other familiar references are recalled with the mere mention of ancient Greece.

And through Norse, German, and, in various forms, through all European folk lore, the apple is the fruit of dis-

THE FOLK LORE OF PLANTS

757

cord, of love, of unhappiness, and of
happiness. The story of Loki, the
mischief-maker, who stole the apples
from Iduna, is an oft-told tale from the
mythology of Thor and Wodin. And
this veritable mass of legend which
hangs about the apple tree, is still
growing, still living and thriving.
Even in our modern countries to-day
superstition enwraps this fruit above
all others.

The old and well-known custom,
which is also prevalent in this country,
of ducking for apples on Hallowe'en,
is a descendant of mythical supersti-
tion about the apple. In some lands
girls sleep on New Year's Eve with
an apple under their pillows, believing
that this will cause them to dream of
a husband; while in certain countries,
quite in accordance with the beliefs
of the ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and
many Oriental races, as well as in sym-
pathy with the views of many wild
peoples of the present time, even at
this day, apples are placed in the hands
of the dead, in order that they may
have them to play with in the other
world.

"The English may-pole with its
gaudy decorations of bright-colored
ribbons and sparkling tinsel, the mer-
ry morrice dancers, and the myste-
rious Jack in the green, are all but
worn-out remains of the adoration of
Gods in trees, once prevalent in Eng-
land."

The sacred ash of Scandinavia has
been lauded in poesy and prose
through many generations of men. In
the Scandinavian mythology it is de-
scribed as the greatest and best of
trees, whose "triple root reaches to
the mythic regions of the frost-giants
and the Aesir, and penetrates to the
Nebulous Niflheim. Its majestic stem
overtops the heavens, and its
branches fill the world. It is sprinkled
with the purest water, whence is the
dew that falls in the dales, and its
life-giving energy is diffused through-
out all nature." The legend goes on
to tell of the Undar fountain at the
foot of this tree of universal life, and

how the three noons or fates, repre-
senting the past, present, and future,
sit by the fountain, giving laws and
runic characters and prophesying the
destinies of man. Thus the tree sym-
bolizes the source of wisdom, of ma-
terial things, of life.

The Christmas tree is well-known
for its sacred association with the birth
of Christ, but it is interesting to note
that ages before the time of Christ, a
cerain palm (which is also of the
evergreen group) was used in Egypt
to celebrate the completion of the year.
The belief was that this tree produced
one shoot each month, and so sprays
of the palm, each bearing twelve
shoots, were held as symbols in cele-
bration of the twelve-month. Our
Christmas tree comes from the Ger-
man Christ-baum, but in seeming veri-
fication of the Egyptian origin of the
custom, is the fact that in Germany,
among the classes where poverty
will not permit the purchase of trees,
pyramids are used to celebrate the
Christmas-tide.

And here we revert once more to
the pages of the Bible, to find numer-
ous evidences of the prominent posi-
tion that trees held in the religion and
thoughts of the people. Dr. H. L. Bar-
low, in discussing the sacred trees,
writes:

"Trees have always been favorite
images with prophets and poets—in
the sacred writings they are put for
nations and persons—thus the Prophet
Ezekiel (xxxi. 3, 8, 9), speaking of
the Assyrians and their king, says,
'The Assyrian was a cedar in Lebanon
with fair branches, the cedars in the
Garden of God could not hide him, the
fir-trees were not like his boughs, and
the chestnut trees were not like his
branches; nor any tree in the Garden
of God was like unto him in his beauty.
I have made him fair by the multitude
of his branches; so that all the trees
of Eden that were in the Garden of
God envied him.'

"We have here the authority of a
prophet of Israel, that by the Garden
of God, or Eden, is meant the populous
and fertile country of the dominant
oriental nations, who were the trees in
that Garden, and their families and
populations, the branches and leaves.

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“Isaiah (Ixi. 3) speaks of Trees of Righteousness, the planting of the Lord that he might be glorified. Under the form of a tree, Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, is figured to himself in his dream (Dan. iv., 10-12), and it was also the favorite figure used by our Lord when addressing himself to men in reference to their works. Christ also represents himself as a tree, ‘I am the vine, ye are the branches’—and it is to a tree—the cross of Christ—that the Christian looks up for his salvation—the cross being identified with him who suffered on it.”

There is one very unusual tree, an object of most fervent veneration, without a description of which we cannot leave the subject of Sacred Trees. This curious tree was discovered in Mexico, and is known by the Mexicans as the Macpalxochiquaukitl, or-hand-flower tree. Its botanical name is Cheirostemon platanoides.

“There existed only one specimen of this sacred tree in all Mexico, at least to the knowledge of the Mexicans; and this circumstance, added to the really remarkable aspect of the flowers, appears to have won for it the veneration of the Indian population. From the centre of the flower there springs a columnar tube, which may be supposed to represent an arm and wrist; and this then breaks into five stamens, colored blood-red, and disposed after a manner not very dissimilar to the arrangement of the fingers and thumb of the human hand. The very points of these vegetable fingers are curved, and somewhat resemble the formidable ungulated talons with which painters delight to ornament the hands of witches and demons. These parts of the flower are of a considerable size, and project in a menacing manner some distance above the petals. It may easily, therefore, be conceived that a high and noble-looking tree—for such it is—laden with flowers of such marvellous configuration, brandishing aloft, in fact, a thousand gory hands, was an object to excite in no ordinary degree the superstitions, and even the terrors of the ignorant.

“The tree was worshipped by thousands; it was believed to be the only specimen in the world of its kind; and the opinion was common that any attempt to propagate it would prove abortive. . . . . . So great, say they, was the veneration paid to it by the Indians, and so eagerly were the

precious flowers thereof sought after, that they were frequently plucked long before their expansion; and the tree was consequently never suffered to ripen its fruit.”

## PART II.

But if the trees have formed a large part of the myth and fable as well as the religions of the peoples of all lands, the flowers occupy probably an even greater place. From the beginning of literature, the bards of every land have sung to and of the flowers; the prophets have used them as instruments for their sooth-saying; the believer in resurrection has used them to prove a final resurrection for the souls of men; the reincarnationist has claimed in them a great evidence of the reincarnation of the soul; the atheist has tried to show through them the validity of his belief; hero and conqueror have found in them their crowns of glory and the poet has made them the theme of his pen. But the flowers bloom on to-day much as they bloomed on the hillsides of ancient Greece, and in the gardens of Babylon, and man in all the centuries seems but to have seen the outer edge of things, so far as exists his real knowledge and appreciation of the lives of the flowers.

The superstitious veneration of particular flowers is an ancient and peculiarly charming expression of man's infinite appreciation of the beautiful. And by this worship of the spirits of flowers and plants, he has unwittingly testified to an unconscious association of the spirits of his gods with the good and beautiful in life. We who condemn as idolaters the flower-worshippers of ancient ages may well look upon ourselves with critical eyes. There is at least a tribute to the Creator in the worship of His beautiful flowers; but in the lustre of a man-made, golden eagle is but the praise of its flying power.

It is interesting to notice in reviewing the annals of flower-worship that the most fervent and frequent exam-

THE FOLK LORE OF PLANTS

759

ples are found in the tropical coun-
tries. This is, in all probability, due
to the magnificence of floral bloom in
these hot countries; and indeed, even
one trained in the rigid teachings of
an assumedly truer faith, is tempted
to a strange reverence for the marvel-
lous riot of gorgeous colors, which
greets the eyes and feasts them to sat-
iation in the forests of parts of the
tropics.

"Where the Indian, penetrating the hot, damp jungles of his forests, suddenly comes upon a great, glowing, wonderfully-formed and tinged Orchid, squatting like some animated being upon a shaggy trunk, or where the Hindoo paddles across a blue lake, literally paved with Lotus-flowers, it is not a violent supposition that the spectacle will impress him with feelings akin to awe."

But the Orchid and the Lotus-flower
have each in many parts of the world,
and through all ages, been known and
reverenced as sacred flowers. There
is small wonder that sentiment sim-
ilar to veneration should exist to-
ward the Orchids. With their appar-
ent mimicry of a diversity of objects,
their always singular appearance, and
their beauty and fragrance, they com-
pel the wonder and admiration of all
peoples, and, among the Mexicans at
least, a high degree of reverential awe.

And the famous Lotus-flower, re-
nowned through all ages, portrayed on
papyrus, paper, and silk; in stone,
marble and wood, has a world-wide
reputation for sanctity. The specific
tribe of the Lotus-flower is a matter
of some ambiguity, it being granted
a relationship by some to the Water-
lilies, by others to the Nelumbiaceas,
and by still others to both groups or
tribes, the distinction being attributed
them to the difference of different
geographical locations. This Nelum-
bium is a beautiful water-flower which
is found in the small waters and pools
of Asia, and on the waters of the
Nile. A small nut which it bears
has by many been declared the sa-
cred bean of the ancients.

Both tribes produce gorgeous flow-
ers in the daintiest shades of yellow,
blue, white, rose-color, and pink,
which seem almost divine, as they rest
on the soft grey of the waters. The
Lotus-flower was worshipped alike
in Egypt, taking a place in the mys-
teries of Isis and Osiris, as in India
in those of Brahma. The sculptural
remains of ancient Egypt abound with
the sacred plant in every stage of its
development, the flowers and fruit be-
ing represented with the utmost ac-
curacy. Among the Hindoos it was
considered an emblem of the world,
and the flower was looked upon as the
cradle of Brahma. It was used to dec-
orate the temples of their idols, and
laid as a most acceptable votive offer-
ing upon their altars. Sir George
Staunton writes: "The Chinese al-
ways held this plant in such high value
that at length they regarded it as sa-
cred. That character, however, has
not limited it to useless or ornamental
purposes. Their ponds, to the extent
of many acres, are covered with it, and
exhibit a very beautiful appearance
when in flower." When Sir William
Jones was on one occasion at dinner
on the borders of the Ganges, desir-
ing to examine the sacred flower, he
despatched some of his people to pro-
cure him a specimen; it was brought
to him, and immediately all his Indian
attendants fell on their faces and paid
adoration to it.

The Yellow Narcissus stands forth
in the legends as one of the familiar
fabled flowers, whose home was in
Palestine, the land of Jesus Christ.
It was the favorite of Mohammet also,
and was spoken of by him thus:
"Whoever possesses two loaves of
bread, let him trade one for a blossom
of Narcissus, for bread is nourishment
for the body, but the Narcissus for the
soul."

There is an interesting story told of
the birth of the Narcissus. It seems
that in Sussexhire, in England, the
good Saint Leonhard met in desperate
combat with a dragon; that for three
successive days the battle raged; and

760

THE TREND

that Saint Leonhard was wounded
several times, with consequent loss of
blood; but God could not allow the
blood of this holy man to waste, and
so each drop, as it fell, was transformed
into a Narcissus. (See reference to the
Narcissus in next chapter.) This
struggle is reputed to have occurred
in the vicinity of St. Leonard, in Sus-
sex.

"Consider the lilies of the field, how
they grow; they toil not, neither do
they spin; and yet I say unto you,
That even Solomon in all his glory was
not arrayed like one of these."

The lily has through all literature
been referred to as the "symbol of
purity," "the soul of beauty," "the
symbol of peace." About this soft
white and golden flower hang myriads
of legends, sacred and otherwise; per-
haps no plant has been used more fre-
quently for illustration in parables.
And yet outside the Biblical refer-
ences, we find in the lore of the an-
cient Greeks, of the people of the
Orient, of all peoples in all lands, trib-
utes to this flower, with one other,
as the "Queen of Heaven." The other
flower was the rose.

Dr. Junker von Langegg, writing of
the regal lily, says:

"The lily probably had been brought
to Europe at the time of the Romans.
It can hardly have been a flower other
than the white lily which the Venera-
ble Bede calls the most worthy symbol
of the Virgin, whose pure white petals
represent to us her undefiled body;
whose golden stamens, her pure soul
shining with god-like light. The lily
stalk in the hand of the Arch-angel
Gabriel, in the pictures of the Annun-
ciation, first appears in a later time of
the Italian masters. The earliest
painters represent the angel with a
sceptre of Olive Branch instead. But
in almost every picture at the side of
the Virgin is a vase of lilies with three
blossoms on every stem."

The article goes on to tell of the
origin of this mystic number, three,
as arising from a Monkish legend, the
story of which is as follows:

"Once there lived a celebrated Dom-
inican monk, whose soul for many

years had been troubled with doubt
concerning the conception of Mary. In
order to solve the mystery he deter-
mined to lay it before Egydius, a friar
who stood in high repute for piety and
divine enlightenment. Brother Egyd-
ius, to whom by inspiration the motive
of his coming was made known, went
to meet him, and striking the ground
with his staff cried out to him:

"'O renowned monk! Virgo ante
partum!' and instantly a single white
lily grew from the place touched with
the staff. And again Egydius struck
the ground and cried, 'Virgo in partu!'
and another lily sprung forth. A third
time he struck the ground, with the
words, 'Virgo post partum!' where-
upon a third lily came up, and the be-
lief of the monk was strengthened."

It is interesting to note, in relation
to this association of lilies and the Vir-
gin, how frequently they are associ-
ated with her in paintings and other
artistic decorations. There is another
legend pertaining to this association
which is held by the monks. This
story tells of one of the brothers who
was unable to remember anything ex-
cepting the two words of salutation
to the Virgin Mary, Ava Maria. But
knowing these, he sang them repeat-
edly in his humble praise of the Vir-
gin, and after his death there grew
from his grave a lily of pure gold,
on each leaf of which were the simple
words of his heart, Ava Maria. There
is a charm about this legend which ap-
peals to all who read it.

The rose is the other flower which
was dedicated to the Virgin. It seems
always to have been chosen as a sym-
bol of royalty, for we read also in
Greek mythology that it sprang from
the blood of Adonis and was the
flower of Aphrodite. Through all
Norse and German mythology, too, we
find repeated reference to the rose; its
"regal beauty," its "queenly mein";
and most frequently it is represented
as a symbol of deity. The dwarf,
Laurin, was king of rose gardens, and
so we are told that the roses were un-
der the especial protection of the fai-
ries, dwarves and elves.

There have been, as a result of this
near-deification of the roses, many

THE FOLK LORE OF PLANTS

761

famous rose-bushes, which, either by their association with some sacred happening or perhaps with the life or death of some saint or sage, have come down to us in legendary fame, as the specific great among the hordes of common great. Probably the most famous of these is the celebrated rose-bush which was planted on the same spot where had stood that of Ludwig, the Pious, and which, "for a thousand years sent forth new shoots, but still possesses the same root-stalk."

Among the better known plants is the oft described "Balm of Gilead" or "Balm of Jericho." (Balsamum Judaicum.) This shrub, which was written of by Pliny, Strabo, and Justin, grows in many parts of the East, especially in Jericho, the Plains of Arabia, and near Jerusalem. It was first brought from Arabia, by the Queen of Sheba, as a gift to Solomon, who planted it in Jericho; but in Genesis xxxvii., the Balm of Gilead is mentioned, and this was long before the time of the Queen of Sheba. One of these plants was brought to Egypt by Cleopatra, and its offspring are still flourishing in Matara, an ancient garden, much spoken of by travellers.

St. John's Wort (Hypericum perforatum) is another religious plant that has an interesting history.

It was dedicated to St. John the Baptist because of its wonderful bright color, and also on account of its phosphorescent light which it sometimes emits; because in the Bible he is called "a bright and shining light." Many people believe if it be gathered on St. John's Eve and worn as wreaths on their bodies, it has the power of bringing good luck to them, and causing increased prosperity and success for the coming year.

The Greeks and Romans used the Verbena extensively in their religious ceremonies; this was possibly due to its wonderful perfume. The Romans called it "The Sacred Herb," and used it for divinations and omens. On New Year's Day it was sent as a greeting

especially emblematical of good wishes. Roman generals went to war with a sprig of Verbena in their pockets; this would insure their protection by the peace gods. If an enemy's territory had to be invaded for any purpose, special sprigs of Verbena, taken from the grounds of the capital, were used.

But we need not refer to those instances of ancient ceremonies to find examples of real flower worship. The quotation below from Dr. George Birdwood's communication on "Persian Flower Worship," interestingly describes a very real and very unique instance of modern worship:

"Very beautiful is the Persian love for the flowers. In Bombay I found the Parsees use the Victoria' Gardens chiefly to walk in, 'to eat the air,' 'to take a constitutional,' as we say. Their enjoyment of it was heartily animal. The Hindu would stroll unsteadfastly through it, attracted from flower to flower, not by its form or color, but its scent. He would pass from plant to plant, snatching at the flowers and crushing them between his fingers as if he were taking snuff. His pleasure in the flowers was utterly sensual. Presently, a true Persian, in flowing robes of blue, and on his head his sheepskin hat, 'black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kar-Kal,' would saunter in, and stand and meditate over every flower he saw, and always, as if half in vision. And when the vision was fulfilled, and the flower he was seeking was found, he would spread his mat and sit before it until the setting of the sun,—then fold up his mat again and go home. And the next night, and night after night, until that particular flower faded away, he would return to it, and bring his friends in ever-increasing troupes to it, and sit and play the guitar or lute before it, and they would altogether pray there, and after praying still sit before it, sipping sherbert, and talking the most hilarious and shocking scandal late into the moonlight; and so again and again every evening until the flower died. Sometimes, by way of grand finale, the whole company would suddenly rise before the flower and serenade it together, with an ode from Hafiz, and then depart."

No account of religious flowers would be complete without at least

# The Story of a Singing Soubrette

BY HUTCHINS HAPGOOD.

## CHAPTER V.

I must stop my narrative again, to go back to the present and to—Harry.

Things have changed again and I am convinced he loves me.

Last night after my show I was with Louise and Van in their room at the hotel, when Harry came in with half a jag. He sat down by me and while talking, unconsciously put his arm around me and said: "Well, here I am with my old pal." Of course, the natural result was that we kissed each other many times and both rerealized that we cared each for the other. It was made up, and I was happy.

I have passed through the fire of life, and have come out stronger and better for my experience. I love him deeply, Oh, far more deeply than I ever loved Brownell, or any of the rest of them. But my love this time is not a jealous one. I was not even jealous when I saw him with the blonde girl that night. That strange calmness has not left me, and I do not think it will, even if he ceases to love me.

I wish I could express this new sensation of being sure of myself. I never was so before, and I do not believe that even if this love comes to naught that I shall ever suffer such terrible agony again; for that wild passion has burned itself out. It almost seems to me that this is an eternal love, and I am a worldly-wise woman. I do not believe every petty thing I hear. I know wee bits of lies are sometimes told by my dear boy, but I can forgive them, though a lie is what I hate more than anything else on earth. But I am wise enough not to expect too much of any human being. I feel that he

really cares for me, and that is all that is important.

My friend the newspaper man wrote me the other day that unless my affair with Harry was permanent I had better discontinue it. I suppose he meant I ought to marry Harry or quit him. But in addition to it not being generally known that I am not married to Brownell, I am not so sure that I want to marry Harry. It might not be so well from a business point of view. I have my mother, and three in a household might not be as pleasant as two.

I think our work makes us suitable sweethearts. There is no danger of professional jealousy, as is always the case when both husband and wife are catering to an audience from behind the footlights. Harry writes songs and plays, and I can sing the songs. What he writes is necessary to my success, and my success in making them popular brings profit to him. So there is no clash, only union. Perhaps Brownell and I might have been happier together if we had not both wanted a large share of the flattering attentions of the public. Actors and actresses who marry and work together usually fight like cats and dogs for the greater share of the applause. There is no doubt about that.

Well, I am happy tonight, and so grateful. The old relations with Harry have been renewed. I feel that he is the only one for me, in every way, and he will not interfere with my work. Thank God for my happiness, for I believe we owe everything to our Heavenly Father. He did not intend me to suffer long. My sorrow only made my ideals seem more real. Now, it seems to me that I have everything

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764

desirable in this world. I have a dear mother to provide for, and that is one of the pleasures of life. I have love, and I am growing more successful in my work. I have a voice that is God-given. I thank God that I am able to interpret to my fellow men, through the medium of my voice, what I feel in all music. Now, that I have given up drinking I feel well in body. I feel as if I have no nerves. My voice is strong, and I sleep well, and I can think with a clear brain. So no more booze for me. I find I can talk just as well and work better without drink. O, indeed, altogether I am happy.

It was only two days ago I wrote the above lines, and I can hardly believe I am the same person today.

I am indeed in a peck of trouble. Oh, dear, will things ever come right? I am so discouraged again. My God, what a world it is. But I must not write in enigmas.

I had just made it up with Harry, and had convinced him against other people that I was speaking the truth. Last evening we spent two of the happiest hours together. I know what the world will think took place between us, and they are right in thinking so, but that was not the cause of my great happiness. I felt that he really loved me and he told me he believed me rather than the others.

But to-night Flay—a man I shall have something to tell about in my narrative—came to the theatre, and told me he called on Harry to settle an argument. Flay is an awful liar, and one of his lies was this: While in McCoy's saloon last winter he said he was Harry ____, the writer of a popular song, and in a few minutes Harry came into the place, and was told about it. So when I saw Flay last week I reminded him of the lie, and to-day he drank some of the trouble-making stuff and went up to tell Harry it was an untruth. He also told Harry that I was one of his best friends, and he wanted things straightened out in my eyes.

Now, goodness only knows what Harry will infer from the remark of Flay's. A year ago when I was still travelling with Brownell, Flay used to follow me about, and stand in the entrance and when I was on the stage he would watch my every movement. Naturally a person will grow to like another, when she is shown such dog-like affection; and as I was thoroughly separated from my husband—as everybody supposed Brownell to be— and had no one of the opposite sex I really cared for, I used to allow Flay to kiss me. The principal reason I liked him was because of his red hair, and I never forgot little Reddy who wrote me the pompous love-letters, and ever since I have had a fondness for red hair.

Now, Flay wants to explain something to me, Heaven only knows what, so I told him to call at the house, for I will not be seen with him on the street. So he is to come up to-morrow morning. I think that is the best plan. Mamma says if he insists on running after me, she will go to the theatre with me each night; and I shall take her along, for I cannot afford to get mixed up in any more affairs. My name has been badly used already.

I now know what it was that Harry heard in Chicago. Some so-called friends told him, for his own good, as "friends" always do, that I had been intimate with Jules Von T—, and Joe H—, and that I am only a chippie, anyway; and if he knew what was good for him he would break it off with me. But then, to finish it all up, he thought I had given myself freely to his pal Billy K— two weeks ago this very morning. They have all tried to ruin me, but I know that might is right. I did not do the things of which I am accused. I have told him all the bad things in my life. I have not sailed under false colors, for he knows it all.

To be sure, he does not know any good of me. I can hardly blame him for seeing me in a bad light. The

THE STORY OF A SINGING SOUBRETTE

765

first time I met him I was drunk, and
I was with his pal, Mose Grumble,
who was one of my two weeks' flames.
I guess there is not much good in me,
but I have always been on the level
in my dealings with men. I have been
true to the finish, and I am bound to
win in the finish.

And yet things pile up against me. To-night another mistake was registered. Chlorine's brother came to the theatre after me, and as Van and Louise were also there, we all went over to the hotel where, whom should we meet, but Harry! So, I suppose that is another blow, for everybody tells him how I run after him. But I am so much on the level that when I was told by Billy K—that Harry was sitting in front of the hotel, I went right out that way, instead of going around by the back door. What I do, I don't try to cover up. I am above board in all my dealings with the men I love. Did I not tell Brownell when I fell in love with another man? I may have hurt his pride, but I at least was honest.

I was feeling bad enough when I wrote the above lines last night. This morning I feel even more miserable, in body and mind. I feel as if my life were one big mistake that can never be rectified. I have money difficulties as well as more serious troubles. I have bills to pay I cannot meet. In fact, everything I have is in pawn, and I do not wish to borrow from my friends in town, and the pals I feel I could touch are all on the road. I might have avoided financial embarrassment if I had accepted some of the offers recently made me to get with a company, but I have preferred to do occasional vaudeville in order to stay in New York and be near Harry, and so I am strapped! Mother, too, is ill and worried, but not nearly so much so as she would be if she knew all. I try to keep from her everything I can that is annoying.

I suppose I shall feel better soon,
for my moods change rapidly. Even
today the mail brought me a ray of

sunshine. My friend, the newspaper
man, to whom I am getting to tell
most of my affairs, writes me that his
wife knows all about me, through him,
and that she wants to meet me and
know me. Perhaps it will seem queer
to some people when I say what a
great pleasure that was to me; for
this lady is what I call a good woman,
and it is very seldom one of her class
ever cares to know a person who has
had a career like mine. Of course, I
have many friends among my own
sex but few, if any, know anything
about my past life; and they who
know about my present life are in the
same class. My relatives, of course,
think me everything that is good, and
they love me, I am sure, for I have
always tried to do my best for them in
many ways. But my friend, the news-
paper man's wife, who is a good wo-
man, and a mother, and is a link that
helps to bind me to the good in this
world. And it is such links which
help a distressed mind over the rough
places.

I have sometimes felt that there is
scarcely any use to be on the level,
for the best that one gets is the worst
of it in this world; but I generally
come around to the faith that I am
mistaken in thinking so, and that in
the end murder will out, and that, if
we are honest with ourselves and our
friends, we shall gain by it in the
end. At some future time there must
come a day of reckoning when things
will be made plain to our eyes.

There! I have written myself into
a philosophic mood, and I now feel
able to continue the story of my life.

My affair with Brownell came rap-
idly to a head. For a time he seemed
to recover some of his love for Lottie,
but then she apparently preferred
Mountain; and yet she used to ask me
whether she ought to marry Moun-
tain or Brownell. I knew which one
I wanted and I also knew that she
still liked Brownell, but was afraid he
would kill her if he knew about her
unfaithfulness with Mountain.

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One day Mountain walked to the hotel with me after the show, and said: "You are a sly one. You tell Lottie to marry Brownell, knowing she will take me and then you can get Brownell."

Soon after that Lottie and Mountain were married. They occupied a room next to mine at the hotel. I had given up rooming with Mrs. Stewart, and had no one with me but a dog, a Mexican, named Jumbo, because she was so small. Lottie and I had formerly roomed together, but separated because she did not like to have Jumbo sleep in the bed with us, but I have always stood by my dogs. So Lottie had to go.

One day Lottie accused Brownell of having spent the night with me in my room. Brownell, knowing that he had not done so, suspected me with the hotel boy. At the same time he fell violently in love with me. It was that man's nature to feel jealousy and love at the same time. I don't think these two passions were separable with him.

On the night in question I was, as a matter of fact, in "Doc" Stewart's room, smoking opium with him and his wife. It was one of the two oc-casions when "Doc" tried to teach me what there was in that drug. But I could never see it; and never made but two experiments.

When Lottie and Mountain had drifted away from the show, which was soon after their marriage, Brownell and I became very thick, and saw much of each other every night after the show. He had become joint man-ager with Stewart, new people had joined the company and the show was greatly improved.

One night we put on a play in three acts, and the town thought it was great. We had fully $125 in the house. "Doc" thought this was the greatest yet, and he immediately went out and got drunk. After the second act he appeared before the curtain and made a speech, which was the funniest yet.

"The show," he said, "that we are giving you is like a nice cooked dinner.

You go home tired and your nice, little wife puts before you soup, corned beef and cabbage, and at last the pudding. Now, that's the way we are going to do. The last act will be the pudding."

This speech might have been well enough if he had let it alone, but he was so drunk that he repeated it over and over again, until the audience hissed, and after that night did not come at all. The business was queered for the whole week; and, indeed, "Doc" hit the pipe so constantly and was so continually intoxicated that Brownell soon saw he would have to get rid of his partner, if he wanted to make the thing go.

We went back to Ennis, where formerly we had had such good luck, but could not get any money. One night I remember Brownell and I only had five cents between us and ate a dish of chille concarne together. The man took pity on us and gave us an extra dish of crackers.

It was that very night when we nearly starved, that we decided we would hitch up together. By that time both of us were very much in love, and we put back to the hotel and occupied Room No. 13. I have subsequently had plenty of opportunity to reflect on the meaning of that number.

Before we decided to throw in our lots together, we had a talk about marriage, and continued the subject after we reached Room No. 13. Brownell was my lover's stage name. In reality he was a Jew and had a queer name, not necessary to record here.

"I promised my mother never to marry a Gentile," he said to me, "and I am still a good enough Jew to keep my word."

And yet I knew he would have married me if I had insisted, for he was certainly deeply in love with me at that time.

But, with the shadow of old man Evanston behind me, I did not feel I ought to marry him, without telling him everything, and that I could not

767

do. My feelings about that horrible experience were too strong.

So my old man of the sea was the real cause why no marriage ceremony ever took place between me and Brownell. If we had married, I am sure my life would have been different. The irregularity of the union caused all the trouble between us, for he never believed in me, as he would have done, probably, if there had been a ceremony. He even doubted if he was the father of my child.

And now that I am separated from him and in love with another, the curse of an illegal relationship still pursues me. For everybody thought we were married in reality, my mother along with the rest. I cannot marry again without letting people know that I was not married to Brownell, and that would about kill my mother, I think; especially as she would probably then know about the old man, too. So, I suppose I am always doomed to be a bohemian and to live irregularly, although I am convinced that marriage is the better and the safer way.

But, of course, I could not foresee the future, so I thought I did right, when in No. 13 I replied to Brownell:

"That suits me, for I cannot marry, either. Something in my past life forbids me to marry anybody, but I shall be as true to you as if we were married."

Now, the difference between Brownell and me was that I always regarded our union as permanent and a true marriage, but he did not, and acted accordingly. He showed it by suspecting me with everybody, and by taking all kinds of freedom for himself.

I want to be thoroughly honest in these memoirs and while it is true that I have felt the drawbacks of an irregular union, yet I believe there is a good deal of the bohemian in me by nature. I don't go as far as the newspaper man:

"I hate a woman who wants to be a little wife, have a little home and get

a little baby. I like a girl who is up to snuff."

In some moods I feel a certain sympathy with this grafter's way of thinking. I like good women, but I don't like them if they are limited entirely to husband, baby and home. Underneath the quiet, domestic life there is something that every woman wants; and I don't think men are tolerant enough with their wives. As my mother puts it, the world ought to be as free for the goose as for the gander.

At the present time, when Harry is raging in my heart, I don't see how I could have loved this Jew, Brownell. But I always did like the Jews, until recently. One of my early sweethearts was a Jew; and one of my recent ones, more recent, even, than Brownell. They have one very strong point with the female sex. They will always fall for a woman. A woman can bull-con them out of anything. But now I am disgusted with the race. They marry Gentiles so they can do them. Their own girls are too wise. One reason I love Harry so deeply is that he has none of the earmarks of any of those I have loved. He is simply original. He is himself, and he is not a Jew.

But Brownell and I began our life together very happily. He was a clever man, and one day when "Doc" was drunk, he got a license from the Mayor to give the show, and went on without the Stewarts. Soon he was in full charge himself and I felt not only love for him, but also admiration for his ability.

He was much cleverer than the average performer, but had lived a life that, in some ways, was like the lives of so many of his class. His family of German Jews lived in a small town in Indiana, where he was born. As a boy he was sent to Texas to a brother who had a store. His brother's wife was a mean Jewess, who was very unkind to little Edward; perhaps with some reason, for the little fellow was an "awful scrapper," as he put it to

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me, and "licked" all the boys in the town, where, however, he was very popular, as I discovered when we played the place together several years later. They wined and dined us. and treated us lovely. I remember the people complimented him on the money he was beginning to make but not on his talent or the reputation he had acquired as the country "Kid."

His sister-in-law was so mean to him that he finally ran away and wandered around the country stealing rides on trains. Once he slept all night between two box-cars on a moving train. For a time he chummed with a crowd of boy grafters who lived by stealing shoes; but he never admitted to me that he took part in their doings. They, at least, were caught and sent to prison.

While still a young fellow Brownell went to Mexico and became timekeeper on a railroad which was building at that time. Many Mexicans were working on the track, and one day one of them came late to work, and Brownell docked his wages. The Mexican made for him with a knife. Ed pushed the Mexican into a deep ravine, and then the "Kid" ran for two days until he reached the border, where he was safe, for the Texans hated the "greasers."

In a little town mainly composed of Texan tents, Ed went to work as a bartender. He was afterwards newsbutcher on a train, and seller of songs in the streets. He was a good salesman and would make a bunch of money and then stop, as it was a long time before he grew ambitious. He would do anything when he wanted a job. He did not know how to cook, but one time he accepted a job in a restaurant, and a Texan who had ordered an oyster-stew ran him out of the place with a knife.

His methods of turning an honest penny may not seem very nice to some people. He used to work pinwheels at the Fair Grounds and get up all kinds of fakes and gags. He even concocted fake beer and traveled for

a season with a medicine show, as the black-faced comedian. But he finally objected to daubing his face, and originated the character of the country boy, which finally gave him success. He is still the only one in the business who really impersonates bumpkins of about sixteen.

He got tired of the South, and with ten dollars in his pocket shipped as assistant steward in a boat from Galveston to New York. When he reached the city, he went to Coney Island and became a waiter, and worked all sorts of schemes to make money. One way was to divide a plate of chowder into two by filling up with water, account for only one plate, and pocket the money for the other. In the same way he would divide steaks, beef and even ears of corn. As a bartender, too he worked his graft. There was a rule that the bartenders must empty their pockets of everything, so that there would be no excuse to go into them. But Ed used to scratch his neck and drop a coin down his back, or stoop to tie his shoestring and slip the money under his stocking. The money he made this way he considered fair perquisites. Once he fell in with some burglars while he was with a circus, but he thought that game dangerous and quit the show, and invested in a fortune machine which he knew how to stop at any time he desired.

He was then nineteen years old and at this point, met Lottie, and took her from a sporting house, and almost raised her, as she was only fifteen. He was not in love with her, he said, but he thought it was "fly" to take a man around the country. He took her to Freeport, Louisiana, where his brother lived, and flaunted the affair openly. So much so that he left the town in disgrace. In the five years he lived with Lottie they worked the show business together. For a time she ran the wheel of fortune, and he another gag. If he had stuck to her, he probably would have remained a grafting fakir; for she had no ability or looks for the stage. They tried the

769

stage but never could make it go; for
she had a very weak voice and could
not make up.

Brownell never knew what success
was until he met me; and not even
then for several years.

CHAPTER VI.

When I met Brownell I was twenty-
three years old and he was twenty-
eight. I remained with him until less
than a year ago, or about seven years.
During that time I experienced the
greater part of my stage career up to
the present, and met the greater num-
ber of my stage acquaintances and
friends. While with him, too, I grew
more ambitious, and gradually began
to see the possibilities of a higher kind
of theatrical work.

Our professional life together was
one gradually improving in position
and salary. For the first few years we
had a hard time. After we had drop-
ped the Stewarts we went on with the
remainder of that company only a
short time. Then Brownell and I
left and played a few towns together
alone; and went to Waco to see
mother, to whom I introduced Brow-
nell as my husband. At Waco we
gathered a few amateurs together and
played a few more towns, but were un-
successful and hard up.

It was in Temple, Texas, that I had
my first opportunity to see how re-
sourceful Brownell was. We were
stopping at a boarding house where
the food was so bad that we nearly
starved. One day Ed said to me:

"Let's go out and get a good dinner."

It was about the most agreeable
proposal ever made to me. We went
to the best restaurant in the town and
had a dinner that I'll never forget. It
consisted of soup, beefsteak, potatoes
and pie, but it was just as good as if it
had been the finest spread at Sherry's.
We sat there with great enjoyment for
a long time, and Ed was smiling and
gay, and talked to me about his past
adventures.

As we went out, he stepped up to
the desk and asked:

"How much?"

"One dollar for the two meals," re-
plied the clerk.

"I suppose you are going to the
show tonight?" Ed asked.

"Yes," said the clerk, unwarily, "I
hope to."

"Well," said Ed, "here are two fifty
cent tickets which just pay for the din-
ner."

That clerk looked astonished, but
made no protest, as we hastily left the
place.

While at Temple, where we were
working our amateurs, Ed got a letter
from his sister asking him to go to
Orange and help her with her dry-
goods store. It so happened that at
the same time Tissot's Living Pictures
came to town. This was not the real
Tissot, but a fakir named Schwarz,
who had stolen Tissot's name.

The show was short a piano player,
and I helped them out in that capac-
ity. Afer the first performance Brow-
nell, who wanted to visit his sister,
got a position for me with Tissot at
$12 a week, and promising to join me
soon, left town.

During my brief tour alone with the
Tissot show I was struck with the
sense of propriety prevalent in Texas
towns. They won't stand for high
kicking down there. One day I was
sitting in the dressing room with a
girl named Maud Caswell, when we
noticed that we were just before one
mirror with another over our shoul-
ders. That means sure bad luck, and
indeed, when Maud went on the
stage, the audience rang down the cur-
tain because she kicked too high. That
town was on the border, and they are
particularly squeamish there.

Then we toured through Mexico,
where I saw a bull fight, but was
struck with the virtue of the Mexicans
in one respect. They won't stand for
a show that advertises more than it has
got. Our show did nothing but living
pictures, and fine vaudeville acts. The
Mexicans don't like living pictures,

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but on the first night in a certain little town, they packed the theatre. Just before the curtain was to go up, a man fell down from the dome of the theatre onto the stage. We did not dare to touch him for fear we would be arrested for murder. The bloodthirsty audience was mad because we did not start the show on time, and afterwards they were mad because we did not give as much as we had advertised. They almost lynched us, and the authorities closed the show.

We were in that town a week without work, and we went around and saw the sights. Virtuous as Mexicans are in some ways, they can make the most fearful goo-goo eyes at a woman! Great Heavens! what wasn't in their eyes when they looked at me! They are about the only men I ever met I was afraid to flirt with.

I began to think we could never leave that town, for Tissot had no money. He had paid no salaries at all up to that point in the trip. He was great at weeping. One girl in the show had formerly lived on men, and even then she was not above it. Tissot was stuck on her, and she used to get money for him from the men in the towns we played. If it had not been for her, we would never have got out of this particular place. One day I went to Tissot and asked him for a small part of the salary due me. He began to weep, and said, pointing to the girl I have mentioned:

"Why, there's this little lady, never asks for money, and even loans me money when luck goes against the show."

In this case the "little lady" raised a little money, but not enough to get us out of town without the help of our trunks. It paid our board-bills, but we could not buy our railroad tickets. However, we managed to induce the railroad superintendent to take our trunks as security and arrange to hold them at our destination, until the fares were paid.

It was El Paso, Texas, where we escaped on our trunks, and then I re-

joined Brownell, who for a time became a member of the Tissot show. He greeted me lovingly on the platform at El Paso, but his affection cooled perceptibly when I told him I expected to become a mother. Then his jealousy began, for he thought I must have been with somebody else. Even after the child came and showed a marked resemblance to him, he was never quite content.

While at El Paso, a young man in the company was very nice to me, and used to help me with my grip, and buy medicine for me when I was ill. After I had taken the medicine at El Paso the young fellow and I started for the station to join the others, who were about to leave for another town. And when Brownell saw us together he began to question me right before the others. I really did not realize what he was driving at, for who could think that he would be jealous of me in my condition? And what young fellow would make love to me then?

I wept bitterly, for this was my first real quarrel with Ed, and I was in love with him, as I was, off and on, for several years. I was true to him at that time, not only in act, but also in intention. In the way the world means it, I was faithful to him, indeed, for as long as we were together, though at heart I was unfaithful to him a while, for he lost his affectionate ways, and I am one of those women who must have affection. This is so much the case with me that one day when I got a letter from old man Evanston asking me for money and expressing an affection for me which seemed then real, my hands trembled, and I felt really sorry for him. If, after we had begun to quarrel so much, Brownell had come to me and said, "I love you," all might have been well between us, but after the first he really never came out and said what every woman longs to hear—or not until a few years ago, when it was too late.

One reason, indeed, that I love Harry better than my other loves is be-

771

cause he is at times more affectionate to me than they ever were. I cannot love a man long who is not passionately attentive to me. I think most all actresses feel that way, more so than other women, for much of the time they are separated from their husbands or lovers because of their work, and so the short time they are with them they demand entire devotion. A man certainly has to "hump himself" to deliver the goods if he is the lover of one of us women of the road.

In Tissot's company there was one of those women whose virtue you cannot doubt; and I think Brownell had the best of reasons to know that, for I am sure he was fresh with her. It made him very angry, therefore, when her husband told him, during this jealous fit of his at El Paso, that his wife was the only respectable woman in the show. I am sure what he meant was the only clever one, which was not true, but the remark was sufficient to make Ed furiously jealous of me for days.

Just before my baby was born—the poor child insisted on coming!—we were playing, at that time alone, in Spokane, Washington; and a young fellow who had been in the dramatic business came to see me behind the scenes.

Now, I rather like the "legitimate" people, or, at least some of them, but Brownell hated them. He said they were a lot of "stiffs," and was horribly jealous of this young fellow, with whom I had an interesting conversation. Anybody in his senses would know that a man would not be fresh with a woman in my condition, but Brownell was horribly sore about it; and after the show we had one of our domestic scenes.

I lay on the bed pretending to read "The Clipper," but I was horribly miserable. He raved on, and I began to cry, but hid my tears with the paper. In a paroxysm of rage he threw a check for our week's salary at me on the bed. I threw it on the floor, and the scene was turned into comedy by

my little dog, who seized the check in his mouth and began to chew it. But Brownell did not forget himself so completely as to ignore business, and rescued the useful piece of paper.

We began to laugh and a sweet reconciliation followed; and I was happy, for while I was in love with him, I hated to quarrel. I got so, however, that I'd just as leave quarrel as eat. It grew to be second nature with me. I don't think he and I ever really understood each other. He never treated me as well as dozens of fellows I have known. It was only today I met Joe Howe again, and he is as much in love with me as ever.

It was in Harry's private room. Harry was writing parodies in another room and Joe and I had such an interesting talk that I will interrupt the flow of my narrative to tell it.

The man I call Joe Howe is one of the cleverest comedians on the stage, and seems to be passionately in love with me; but today he accused me of being bad. He began with—

"I always knew that Harry was a rival, but you never admitted it until today."

"Oh," I said, "Harry and I are only pals, and that's what you and I are."

"You know, May," he said, earnestly, "that I don't want to be a pal."

"I'll never have you, Joe, for a sweetheart," I said, promptly, and you know it."

"Is there, then," he said, "no chance for me after you get your divorce from Brownell, whom I shall punch on sight? I want to marry you myself, for you are just the kind of a wife I want; for I know you would be true. If you were not at home, when I looked for you, I would know that all was right. When you would come in and say you had been out with another man, I would not be sore, for in my mind I would be sure you had done nothing wrong, for have I not tried all ways to get you to give in to me, and, have you not always said: 'Nothin' doin'? I know so well how

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you can throw the 'bull-con' into a fellow, and still be straight."

"But I can never be your wife," I said, "so don't say anything more about it. But you once asked me to find a girl just like myself for you, and I will try to do so. For we are only pals."

Somehow, he did not seem to like that, and said:

"Well, what does a fellow want to take a girl out for and spend his money on her, just to be pals?"

"Because he enjoys her society," I said, much piqued.

"No," said he, "I can't see that. I don't like to pay for dinners and things just for nothing."

Now, was not that a nasty speech, and was not I right in getting mad? A man generally wants something for his filthy gold. I felt like paying for the dinners Joe had given me, but I reasoned that he cared for me, in his peculiar way, and I felt chagrined at my lack of love for him. But was not Harry in the next room?

It was Joe's last remark, however, that moved me most of all. He said:

"It is women like you that make men bad."

I have been thinking about that remark ever since, and wondering if I have done wrong to be so friendly with members of the opposite sex, when I know it is only a passing fancy. But I know I love only one, and yet there are many men I like to embrace and kiss. Of course, I don't want to kiss every man I know, oh, no! I like Mose Grumble, but I don't care to kiss him. I like to put my arms around him and have him do the same to me. I like the society of Billie T—, but I could never care for him in the way I once did. One of the Boss boys I like to kiss, but I don't want him to kiss me. I like to put my arms around Van once in a while, even if Louise is by, and I like to kiss and embrace Billy K because he looks so much like Harry and because I feel so grateful to him for not taking advantage of me that night when I was drunk in the

hotel. I certainly should have screamed if he had persisted for I was too weak to resist otherwise. I was angry with him the next day, but how was he to know that I would no do the same with every man as I had done with Harry?

Perhaps Joe is right, and that my conduct is wrong. But I think it harms me more than any one else. I did not use to see it that way, but since the Flay episode and Harry's coolness on account of it. I began to see how that kind of thing harms me.

But I must get back to Tissot's show and my dear husband, as everybody still supposes him to be.

Ed and I became known as "the Brownells," and were soon the principal feature of Tissot's show. In spite of the fact that Tissot—or Swartz, as his real name was—needed us, we could never get along with him. He was like a good many managers. He would not pay unless he had to. But Tissot was particularly bad, in other ways. He robbed his own mother, who kept a professional hotel in Philadelphia. He was one of these handsome villains who have a way of talking, and he could weep in the proper place. He talked very slowly. If we asked him for money, he would take so long to answer, that we would sometimes give it up, in despair. He always took us to the best hotel but seldom paid the hotel bill, whether he had money or not. I remember once he went weeping to the proprietor of the hotel, and showed him a watch (he had dozens of them manufactured cheap for the purpose) said:

"You may take this fine gold watch as security. But it was given to me by my dear mother, and I beseech you to take the best of care of it."

He always managed to get more money than was due him and to give other people less than he owed them. He used to send his advance agent to borrow money from theatre managers in towns where the show was booked.

The agent frequently wired Tissot

773

"House sold out," and Tissot would raise money on this lying telegram. The result of this method was that he had to change his name, his company and route every season; and seldom dared to go back to a tour he had once played.

In Brownell, however, this false Tissot found a man very hard to get the best of. When we had once sized the fakir up, we made a rule never to go on the stage without being paid in advance. Some times the introduc- tory music would be played before we received our money, and then Tissot would come running back with our $25—the amount we got each week, with our expenses; a very small salary for two, and yet to us at that time it seemed big. I did a single turn, play- ed a sketch with Brownell, posed in the living pictures and played the piano, and he, in addition to the sketch with me, did several single turns. It seems to me now that we worked very hard for our money.

"The Brownells grew to be more and more important in this company, and once we succeeded in getting $10 extra out of Tissot. He was in love with that living picture woman who used to loan him money, and one night in a town in New Mexico, he told the stage manager to give her a dressing- room on the stage and to put us in a room three flights up. At that time I was near confinement, and it was dangerous for me to walk up the lad- der. So Brownell told Tissot we would not go on. Tissot wept and held out for a long time, but yielded just before the music stopped. Brownell then said we would not go on anyway unless we got $10 extra. Tissot wept some more, but finally paid the money, and after that we had a dressing room on the stage.

We made awful jumps at that time. It seemed to me we used to cross a state line almost every day. There were so many towns that Tissot could not play on account of his past that we were kept continually on the move. We jumped rapidly Utah, Wyoming,

Mexico and Colorado. It was at Pull- man, Washington, that we finally sep- arated from Tissot and went in for ourselves. We had made up ready to go on the stage when Tissot came behind, wept and said he could not pay us. And it was true that time.

So we quit, and staid in the town after the show had gone out on their trunks. We afterwards heard that Tis- sot's crowd went to a town in Monta- na, but had to get out on a hand-car. That was the last account of this fam- ous dramatic company. But I heard only a few weeks ago that Tissot mar- ried a wealthy widow and became domesticated. So I suppose he may be considered successful at the end.

Brownell and I began our long in- dependent career together in a most primitive way. We played very small towns, and there being only two of us, we had to be extremely resourceful. I used to play the piano while he sang comic songs. After that, I would play songs for myself; or I would give a recitation while he fixed up for a cha- racter—Irish, Dutch or black faced. At the end we usually gave living pic- tures together, he doing the burlesque variety and I holding down the beauty end. For a while an old man used to play the piano for us. We gave him sixty cents for every show, and he used to walk from one town to the next. If there was $15 in the house, we thought it very big.

Our first success was scored at Spo- kane, Washington. We reached that place with exactly $2 to our name; and did not know whether to go on to Madison Lake and give a show alone, or stay at Spokane and do variety. We decided to stay, and went to see the manager of the variety theatre. This place was a "box-house," and it seems one of the girls had quit because she did not like to drink with the men in the audience. And the manager wanted me to take her place. Brown- ell diplomatically said it was impos- sible in my present condition, but the manager engaged us anyway. So we went on and did our double sketch of

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the Society Kids on which we have
ever since been successful. The open-
ing night at Spokane we did our
sketch three times, although it lasted
fifty-five minues, and the last time we
went on at 2 o'clock in the morning.
It was such a hit that we played there
ten weeks at $30 a week.

After the Spokane experience with
the double sketch, things went very
much better with us. Our price for
the double sketch soon reached $60 a
week, and then we felt so rich that
mother traveled with us a part of the
time. We went all through the North-
west, and laid off three weeks at Seat-
tle, where my baby was born. I work-
ed until a week before my confine-
ment, and after I began to work again,
I used to go home at eleven o'clock,
nurse the little girl and then go back
to the theatre for the last turn.

It was a sweet little child, and I
loved it dearly, though I had not want-
ed it. It is a cruel world. Most per-
formers have one or two children, but
they are seldom well off, for they can-
not get the care and attention they
need. Few mothers on the road take
their children with them, but I insisted
on taking my little girl everywhere. It
was the joy of my life, and it made me
feel that I was not all bohemian. Sure-
ly, the greatest pleasure in quiet,
domestic life must be the opportunity
it gives a woman to devote herself to
her children.

My little girl was ailing from her
birth, and lived only six months. When
she died, my sorrow was a double
one. For I felt not only deep grief,
but I also saw that God had punished
me for my sins. I believe the little
one died because I had not insisted
on marriage with Brownell. That may
seem silly to some people, but it is
clear to me that such was the case.

During the six months of my child's
life we traveled a good deal, but made
long stops at San Francisco, Helena,
Butte and Spokane. Part of that time
we did not work, and mother kept
house for us whenever we made long
stops. Ed was away a good deal to

look after his parents and their busi-
ness. He was good to his people, as all
Jews are, but he did not like them, and
I never understood that. He was al-
ways bored at home, and it was then
he used to write me what few love
letters I ever received from him. But
when he was not at home his nerves
were in good order; his letters to me
were mainly business, or if they touch-
ed on love, it was the jealous side of
it.

His earliest letters were, of course,
the warmest. One or two of the few
I happen to have kept I will quote:
"Orange, Texas.

My Darling Sweet Child:

Your more than welcome letter to
hand, and I am hoping to know that
you forgive my rude letter, and I will
try to do better next time. I did not
mean to say that you were doing
wrong, darling. I meant that it was
wrong in my estimation for you to
join a wine party while I was away.
Knowing each other as we do neither
of us could have any object in remain-
ing together if it were not for mutual
admiration. I will prove to you that I
am not talking to my bonnet, but
mean well, and can see further ahead
than my nose. And as far as my
being a good, true boy is consarned,
from the Decatur until we met again
no woman on earth can look at you
and say to herself, "It's a case of so
and so." I am positive that if I did
do anything rong, some sweet day it
would come to the surface. I think by
the time I get ready to shove out of
this Bloomin Bleeding Berg, I'll have
things fixed so that the Home talent
will get us some doe. I am going to
order some paper soon, and have sent
to Washington and had the name "A
Phoolish Kid" copyrighted. Ain't that
a good idea? I think I'll knock the
public a twister with it, see? I've
written up the first act and part of
the second, and will use old man and
refined old lady in both. Old lady
doubles Cecil in third act, ooh, ooh.
Those people that do the acrobatic
biz if they can act would be all right.

What do you think of them? I can just see you patting Toots on the head and saying, Ring off, so I'll quit for the preasant with the remark that I'll get ahold of you some sweet day and we will think and rehearse, and think, as I am doing now until my dear parents call me to breakfast, and then sneak back and rehearse, and write and think. Ooh, ooh, ooh. When shall we be on the road again? With best love and kisses and regards to Toots and your Mother. Yours always,

Ed.

The above letter is entirely lacking in punctuation, which I have supplied. Ed was a self-made man in every respect. He was always hammering away at his plays, and he finally did write his own acts and shows in which we traveled at a later time.

A few days later came one of his jealous ones:

Orange, Texas.

Sweet Hart:

While your letter brought pleasure some way it has hurt me deeply. Perhaps I am suffering from the blues, but it strikes me, Darling, that I would feel very bad to meet those drummers here while in business, and meet them again in the future as your husband and have them or any one else give me the laugh. You know its only the mountains that do not meet. Knowing as I do that you are known to that company as my wife, if you were to do anything rong I would never forgive you as long as I live. If you do not care for me and will do as you please, place the matter before the Co. in its proper light, and I would think much more of you for it. If you drop yourself there is no use dragging me down with you. However, Darling, I don't think you would do rong. I am sorry now I did not try to keep you from going with that 'Men only show.'"

He wrote the above in reply to a letter from me in which I had told him about my meeting a couple of drummers who were jolly good fel-

lows; and the jealous fellow immediately imagined all sorts of things.

It was thought of those drummers which made him tear himself away from his home duties and join me earlier than he had intended.

On our meeting we had another awful quarrel. He said I was too familiar with other men and was not dignified enough, for my position as his wife. Afterwards, when he had become the manager of a company, and I was the Co-star, he then thought I was too friendly even with the women of the company for one in my exalted position. But, when I had left him for good, I found I had many useful friends. I guess I was right when I always tried to be nice to others. It is not my nature to be anything but friendly, and if my instinct tells me to be that way, it must be right, for instinct was given us first, and must therefore be God-given, so why should we not follow it instead of our judgment, for that is of our own making. I am glad I never acted conceited or allowed myself (to be slangy) to acquire a swelled head, for it would only have been assumed. It would have pleased Brownell, but now that I am away from him for good, where would my friends be?

After the baby's death and Brownell had rejoined me, we started out again on the road and constantly improved in salary and position. We played all through the West, and finally reached New York, where as yet we were unknown. We had been rather extravagant, and had no money at that particular time, and no engagement. We wandered up and down the Bowery trying to book, but could get nothing for some weeks. Finally, when we were reduced to fifty cents, we succeeded in booking at Proctor's for what already seemed poor money—$50. We were second or third in the bill and were a frost. Our double act did not go a little bit and we were laid off.

It made us feel that the metropolis was difficult, but we tried Harlem

A Walloon Idyl

BY A. H. MICHELSON.

THE Sambre is muddy before it reaches its Walloon shores. It is muddy as it trails slowly out of France. It is muddy beneath the grizzled fortress at Namur. But on a certain evening in early autumn, as the pale, slanting sunlight spread warm over its bosom, the river took on a bright beauty. It caught the color of salt marshes in early twilight, the thin, all-pervading pink, the yellow that changes to blue when you look again, the gossamer purple veiling the green. And so the river slid out of France, and on past the first little towns in Hainault.

Beyond the largest of these, where a silvery clock-tower rises above the white houses massed on a hill-side against the sun, a great shadow cast by an object upon the shore, blocked away the delicate colors from the surface of the water. This shadow fell nearly a square, but at one end the even outline was broken by the shadows of a man and a woman.

Old Juemine Ponchan was standing upon the deck of the canal boat he had built, and near him stood his daughter, plump, thirty, with hands on her hips and in wooden shoes, looking about her with slow eyes. A pine bough lay at the old man's feet.

"It is a good boat," the woman said.

"Aye, little one, it is a good boat, a good boat," replied the other, and he repeated the words over and over to himself as he sat down and stripped the bough of its lower branches.

"Will they come?" the daughter asked when her father rose again.

"Aye, little one, they will come soon," and looking at the shining clock-tower on the hill, he went on,

"It is far for me to see. They will come soon."

The woman stepped out of her wooden shoes and walked along the deck. Her father drew a bit of rope from a pocket of his blue blouse and slowly unravelled it.

"They are coming," the woman said at length; "they have crossed the bridge. Jules Basile is with them."

The old man's face clouded. "Jules Basile," he said, "Jules Basile is not of our kind. He does not work on the canals."

"He wished to marry Zirée," said the other.

"Aye, but Zirée will now have a better man than he."

It was some time before either of the two spoke again.

Old Juemine busied himself binding the pine bough to the end of the yellow mast which lay along the centre of the boat, its heavy counter-weights of new lead shining in the sun.

"Wilt thou raise it before they come?" the woman asked with something of protest in her voice.

"Aye, I will raise it now. They shall know that the boat is finished. They shall see that it is quite finished before they come," and old Juemine unfastened the new strap that held the mast to the deck and let the halyard, used for bringing the mast down again, run through his palm. The bright counter-weights disappeared; there was a sharp click and a long shadow fell across the river, and the shadow of the pine bough lay upon the yellow tow-path beyond.

Old Juemine had finished his last boat. He had built many, but none so large as this; for only the year be-

781

782

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fore had the paper with the blue seal
come to him, so that he knew there
were no more small locks in Wallonia.
And the paper told him that boats
could be built forty meters long, and
forty meters was the length of the
Zirée.

Old Juemine was rich, everybody in
Thuin knew that; but when his neigh-
bors passed the boat that was building
and saw how large it was, and saw the
brass cleats and the lead counter-
weights and the plate glass windows
in the cabin, they said to each other
that Chonchon Lenchet, who was Zi-
rée's father, could never give such a
boat to his daughter for a dot, and
that old Juemine was a fool to throw
away his money on another man's
child. But old Juemine did not care
what his neighbors said. He would
only lay his hand on Zirée's bright hair
more tenderly and stay longer with her
father at the café.

When those who had crossed the
bridge drew near, the old man and his
daughter descended the steep steps to
the boat's side. But they soon re-
turned, and with them came Paul and
Zirée, who were to be married on the
morrow, and Zirée's father. Jules Ba-
sile came with them because he had
laid a wager. Paul was not glad to see
Jules that day, and yet Paul was very
happy. He loved Zirée and he knew
that she loved him; but he also loved a
fine boat, and he was very proud that
Zirée the boat was to be his, and
very glad to get a boat for a dot, and
very much surprised that old Juemine
made the money go so far, until the
mother told him what a fool old Jue-
mine was and how he had spent more
money on the boat than ever Chon-
chon Lenchet would have to pay;
which made Paul gladder than ever, al-
though he did think that old Juemine
must be crazy to do such a thing.

Zirée was proud of the boat and
prouder of Paul, but she was sorry for
Jules, who was never to marry, and
who worked so hard at glass-blowing
in Charleroi. So she sat with Jules

near a hatchway and old Juemine
scowled, and her father laughed, and
Paul left them to go into the cabin
and down along the keel where the
darkness was thick with the smell of
new pine and hemlock.

When Paul returned Jules was gone,
so Paul sat by the girl, and putting
his arm about her, whistled a gay Wal-
loon air. But Zirée looked away to-
ward the hills and Paul, knowing that
she was thinking of Jules, called out
loudly to old Juemine to show them
how the boat was to be slid into the
water in the morning, and forthwith
they all left the deck to look at the
great rollers and the capstan and also
at the rudder that lay like a huge
hatchet on the ground.

When all was seen, Chonchon Len-
chet and old Juemine set off along the
road toward the café, but Paul and
Zirée following, passed over the bridge
and climbed the steep road to the tow-
er to look for the last time at their
names bracketed in a black frame
against the wall.

The next morning Paul dressed him-
self for marriage. He fastened at his
throat a drooping bow of white china
silk; he drew on a light grey coat
which, falling wide of his chest, dis-
played a heavily pleated shirt, and he
thrust into his pocket two black silk
gloves. Then he marched away to put
his head under the shears and perfume
of the barber, and when the clipping
and spraying was finished, with his
black hair curling over his head in
short, even ridges, and his moustache
stiff with wax to the tapering ends of
it, Paul looked like another man. As
for Zirée, she was very pretty in her
white dress and long veil, though Paul,
walking beside her to the church,
thought that her eyes might be bright-
er and her cheeks not so red. Yet,
when they stood up and were married,
what did it matter to Paul if Zirée's
eyes were dull or bright, or if her
cheeks were pale or crimson? And
what did it matter to Zirée if her
leather shoes hurt her? And what did

A WALLOON IDYL

it matter to either of them if woeful
images looked down?

Again the river lay quiet under a
film of color; but no shadow darkened
its waters below the hill-side town;
for, when the sun stood highest on that
day, the great boat slid over its rollers
into the stream, and before even the
brightest colors came, Paul and Zirée,
and old Juemine, and Chonchon Len-
chet, and many others who had gath-
ered on the deck, were drawn by two
stout plodding horses beyond the turn
in the river. And before the boat
sank through the locks at Landerlies
there was much singing and dancing
and loud laughter, and afterwards,
when Paul and Zirée were alone, they
sat by the great helve-like tiller with
their arms about each other and
watched the lights brighten along the
shore.

Two years passed and Paul and Zirée were again at Thuin. But all was not as well with them as when their love was young; no child had come to Zirée, and Paul became harsh, reproaching her, and stayed each night later at the cafés, until all Zirée's thought, as she sat alone, grew into a great prayer. Now that they were again in Thuin she hoped that Paul would change, but Jules Basile made friends with him and led him further from her, led him to the café by the tower where boatmen never went, and taught him to wager on little spinning horses.

One night after he had been with
Jules he struck her and she cried out
to him, "Choque, wait, my Choque;
there is a way, there is a way that I
know. We will go to the old priest,
thou and I and he shall bless the bread
for us. I have heard of it."

Paul laughed at her, calling priests
evil fellows, and he told her that per-
haps if she went alone it might be bet-
ter. And hearing him, Zirée sat very
still and looked at him so long that he
struck her again, but he remembered
what she had said.

He tried not to remember it, and,
thinking to deceive Zirée and hoping

to deceive himself, he fell often, after
that day, to scoffing the priests, call-
ing them water-lily-heads because of
the curling hats they wore.

But Zirée's new hope grew strong
and when they were far from Thuin,
where the canals flow high above the
meadows, she drew a promise from
him. Zirée fell ill, and whenever she
was ill, which was seldom, she was
sure death was near. Paul, seeing her
pale cheeks and bright eyes, caught up
her fear, and so he promised her that
if she would live he would go with her
to the priest.

After she was well again, Paul
scoffed more than ever, yet Zirée's
hope grew in his heart, and when they
went to the priest, although he laughed
and called her a foolish girl and told
her that Jules must never know what
he had done, his fingers trembled when
he ate the bread. Not long afterwards
Zirée told him a strange thing. Stand-
ing with her on the deck Paul shouted
it out to his bargemen friends, clap-
ping his wife heavily between the
shoulders as he did so. He grew con-
fidential over his beer. When the boat
was empty and he trudged along with
the tow-rope over his shoulder, he
greeted men he knew cheerily and nod-
ded backward toward Zirée, standing
braced against the tiller.

Once while the boat was moored
with many others at the side of a
crowded canal, some children pointed
their fingers at Zirée, whereat Paul
leaped ashore and, catching one or two
of them, kissed them, which strange
proceeding so astonished the wife of
another boatman that she said Paul
was crazy.

Paul thought of many names for his
child, but Zirée, like the true Walloon
woman that she was, called the girl
Lalie in the first hour, so his trouble
went for nought.

The great fellow's joy in the little
one was good to see. On bright days
when the canals along which they
passed fell clear of towns and into the
wide country where locks were few.

784

THE TREND

he would loiter for hours with Lalie in
his arms and at brief intervals press
his smooth cheek, shot with red as if
sparks had run through it and left a
trail, against the white and smother
the cheek of the girl, and Zirée, watch-
ing them, was happier than when the
child ferreted at her breast.

But soon Lalie's cheeks began to
glow and rivet heads and the focusing
strips of wood under the tiller became
stumbling blocks. Thereafter, until
her eyes widened with wonder at her
mother's stories of the folk who guard
the canals from the overlooking tree-
tops, and her little feet clapped along
in their wooden shoes beside her
father, as the tow-rope grew taut un-
der his strength, the years passed
quickly. They were good years for
Paul and Zirée. If the brown bock she
drank filled out the woman's figure to
an early ampleness, the husband saw
no blemish; if Paul's neck thickened
from much towing, the change was so
gradual that the wife knew nothing of
it. It was enough for them that in the
wall of the cabin a chest grew steadily
heavier with the gold that was to be
Lalie's dowry; enough for them to
hear their child's shrill triumphs.

But suddenly the little life passed to
death.

The rivers and canals that summer
were very low and on that day, in a
town where tall chimneys rose like
palings into the sky and where plumes
of flame waved at dusk and plumes
of steam at dawn, the great boat,
pressed to its deck in the water by a
heavy cargo, left its moorings and
moved along the imperceptible current
of the Sambre. And as it moved barge-
men shook their heads and said a boat
so deep in the water could never pass
the locks. Paul knew better; knew
that the width of a wooden shoe would
separate keel from concrete; so, near-
ing the first lock, he laughed at the
loiterers gathered there. But the loi-
terers, men, and boys, and women with
hands on their hips and in wooden
shoes, each looking more like the

daughter of old Juimen than her neigh-
bor, saw what they had not thought to
see.

The boat entered the lock. The gates
opened and the water swirled beneath
the rudder and the blunt prow. A
splash startled the loiterers and a short
cry from Zirée strangled itself into a
scream. Men rushed to the gates and
women hastened to the edge of the
black, wet walls. A long silence fol-
lowed, broken only by the purr of a
moving rack and pinion. Slowly and
more slowly the boat settled. Another
rack and pinion moved and the, boat
began to rise again. Then the crowd
broke into excited talk. A boatman's
child had fallen into the water. Was
ever such a thing heard of before?
But Zirée, crouching upon the deck,
with her fingers clutching her lips,
heard nothing; her eyes remained
fixed as from the first upon the water,
and as the boat rose she made no
move. Once, indeed, she had uttered
a second cry, as she saw a bit of wood
circle into an eddy and disappear.

That night Paul and Zirée sat alone
with their dead. For long Paul was si-
lent, but at last, when Zirée broke
forth, moaning, "Oh, Lalie, Lalie, lit-
tle one," Paul drew her close to him
and whispered, "Zirée, Zirée, the old
priest still lives. We will go to the old
priest once again," but she answered,
"No, my Choque, no, no," and after
that they sat silent through the night.

Twice again let us look ere we take
leave of them. In the twilight they
stand, their arms about each other,
looking back through many days.
Quaint figures they, in the silent
churchyard. And as they turn slowly
toward the path leading to the river,
Zirée drops her head against Paul's
shoulder and the words in her heart
find their way to her lips and she
breathes them tenderly. "Oh, Lalie,
Lalie, little one."

Again she breathes them. They float
in sunset light on an ebbing tide amid
the grime and wealth of a great river.
Masts and cross-trees lattice the sky.

A WALLOON IDYL

785

Paul is pressing the great tiller across
the deck with stiff, straight arms.
Near the cabin sits Zirée, and, as she

smooths a little white square of cloth
out over her knees, the words come—
"Oh, Lalie, Lalie, little one"

CONVERSE

BY HELEN HOYT.

We were together, wandering, I know not where,
A way of clouds that soft beneath our feet
Slid back in slow retreat

As we did onward fare,—
Lightly, silently, slowly through the golden air.

And each to each was rapturously dear,
Each walking hand-in-hand; and save us two
Was naught in all that blue

Of liquid atmosphere;

Yet we thrilled as if worlds unventured waited near.

In perfect comradeship, complete assent
Of hearts and minds and senses did we move,
Wholly in our own love

And eager talk intent;

Nor needed any word to utter what we meant.

# Woman Suffrage--Man's Political Problem

(New Era)

BY EDITH M. WHITMORE.

THE year 1884 marks a new era in the growth and importance of woman suffrage. An era which woman made for herself.

The year 1872 marked a period most significant when men recognized woman as a political factor and declared for her in the platform of the Prohibition Party.

This recognition of woman brought her little politically, but it showed those clear visioned enough to see it, that she had political possibilities; that she might become a political power.

Belva Lockwood and her supporters also saw that woman must attain certain powers within herself to accomplish anything, or even to make it possible for others to accomplish anything for her.

Contrasting the woman of to-day who can instruct a most promiscuous audience from a soap box on the street corner with the woman who fifty years ago wanted the vote but refrained from any expression that brought publicity to herself is significant of the changed attitude of the politician toward woman and her demands.

When women can assemble in parade on the public thoroughfares of a big city and command the respect of the same promiscuous multitude; when she can fill the largest auditoriums from the same promiscuous sources with those who listen to her message; when she does all this she shows a world of change within herself.

When woman can stand where crowds most pass and give to each

passerby a gorgeously colored slip of paper setting forth her wrongs and their remedy, and receive no insult while doing it, she proves a world of change within the men as well.

All these methods and many more equally public are practiced by the women daily and the world is beginning to applaud, to admire, her earnest conviction for her cause; nor do they censure her for thus publicly attracting attention.

These public methods are grown so frequent that we no longer look upon them as an innovation, yet they have been practiced only within the past few years, hardly half a decade.

These new methods of to-day mark an advance in the cause of women no less radical and no less promising of good results than did the methods used at the beginning of this new era for women.

In the old era women were working as individuals, here and there, for their own enfranchisement, timid of the public gaze, unschooled in the ways of federation. At that time the extent of publicity permitted women was the newspaper announcement of her birth, which showed her relationship to her father; her marriage, which showed her protection by her husband, and her death. That was the extent a good woman was supposed to permit the public to know her.

Little could she accomplish then compared to what she can to-day when she is at liberty to let the public know of her plans and ask them to help her carry them out. It was man's public attention she shunned in the past. But the change brought

WOMAN SUFFRAGE—MAN'S POLITICAL PROBLEM

about in man makes him the helper in
her plans, and he sees that in order to
make effective her help for humanity
he must secure for her political atten-
tion as well as public attention.

The publicity that one woman in
1884 must court, must even demand,
to represent the cause of women be-
fore the world, gave all women a
power to carry her cause to the pub-
lic, to educate the public to respectful
attention.

This was the beginning of woman's
new era in work for suffrage, and the
beginning of man's new power to as-
sist her.

The candidacy of Mrs. Lockwood
for president of the United States in
1884 drew many votes in nearly every
state from those parties that had reso-
lutely neglected the pleas and peti-
tions of the women for years.

This was shown in many ways.
Scratching a party ticket was almost
unknown in the presidential elections
of previous years. In 1884 many
tickets of the other parties were voted
straight, except the name of the presi-
dent, which was scratched and Mrs.
Lockwood's name substituted. Up to
1882 scratching a ticket was consid-
ered party treachery, but after that
year a scratched ticket was not ques-
tioned. This personal liberty at the
ballot box made the independent voter
a respectable power, and one to be
reckoned with.

The political condition of the United
States in the year 1884 is a matter of
recorded history. We can look back
and see woman's opportunity to make
an impress was greater than at any
previous time in the history of the
country. The presidential campaign,
with eight national parties and eight
tickets in the field, was not a quiet
one. The warfare between the two
large parties ran high, and was seldom
conducted with dignity, not always
with truth.

With the adherents of Blaine and
Cleveland degenerating into personal
abuses, with malignity the keynote of
each side, with the consequent growth

of the Mugwump, with the tangled
condition of the monetary system
which gave birth to the Greenback
Party, with labor breaking into the
old order of things, refusing to go to
the polls with ballots marked in ad-
vance, with increased corruption and
intimidation at the polls, with a hand-
ful of men and women in the Prohibi-
tion Party setting forth the broader
principles of government, with the
newspapers indulging in disgusting
details of vituperation pronounced by
the two great parties and some of the
smaller ones, Belva Lockwood went
fully armed and prepared for ridicule
into a campaign for woman which
started the complete transformation in
the management of woman's cause.
One of our historians has said:

"The election of 1884 marks an epoch in our national history, the importance of which can only now be fully understood. . . . It meant, although none then surmised it, that, as a result of new conditions, there was ultimately to be effected a momentous change in the whole social and political structure of the American Republic."

The year of this great national
epoch fittingly ushered in a new era
in the political status of woman.

The suffragists had been gaining in
numbers for years, now they gained in
self-confidence. It was a great stride
for a woman to undergo the trials of
a national campaign, to submit to the
indignities her position would natural-
ly call forth.

But the suffragists, men and wom-
en, chose wisely and builded well for
the future in the person of Mrs. Lock-
wood for the first candidate for the
presidency, the first victim to endure
the publicity necessary to bring wom-
an's cause before an unawakened
world.

It was the most monstrous demon-
stration for suffrage the world has
ever seen; though it came ahead of
public sentiment it started the people,
the masses, to think. Petitions of
years had brought suffrage to the

788

THE TREND

few who could easily pigeonhole them and forget the petitioners. Mrs. Lockwood's petition was not to legislators, it was to the people.

Here was a monster public demonstration for women by a refined, educated, clear thinking, personally attractive woman, carried on by thousands of women and hundreds of men from the summer of 1884 until election. The upheaval it gave to the old order of things was stupendous. The character of its chief instigator made a higher place for all women in public opinion as expressed by the newspapers.

The present generation is apt to forget that women and men in the past have laid the foundation for the work of to-day. Let us glance at the life of Mrs. Lockwood. Her character is best illustrated by a speech she made in 1913, a short time before her death, to a Congressional committee. At that time she was 83 years old and she proved how public sentiment toward women had changed in her own lifetime by a personal reminiscence. She said:

> "When I first came before the public men mostly taught in the schools, and at about three times the wages the women received, and I said, 'it is unjust,' and I was talking about it to a lady who replied, 'You can't help it, you can't do anything about it,' and I said 'I will keep on trying until I do.'" The principle of equal pay for teachers had been settled by the men of the New York legislature the year before.

Born in 1830 Mrs. Lockwood was well among the pioneers who shaped the sex equality thought at its inception. She was a leader of wonderful ability in the social world as well as in the suffrage cause, a builder of the broader thought of the times. She was highly educated, not only for her time, but according to standards of to-day.

In 1857 she took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at Genessee College. Until the close of the Civil War she

held professorships in schools and colleges for women and was an advanced educator. Mathematics, logic, rhetoric, botany were subjects in which she was a most successful teacher.

At the close of the war she went to Washington and while teaching took up the study of law. For her second husband she married Rev. Ezekiel Lockwood, D. D., a Baptist minister. He died in 1877. She took her degree of Master of Arts at Syracuse University in 1873, graduated from the National University Law School, Washington, D. C., and took her degree of D. C. L.

Then Mrs. Lockwood wanted to obtain admission to practice before the Supreme Court of the United States, a thing no woman had ever done. When she applied they said to her that there was no precedent. To use her own words: "They said there was no precedent—no precedent, if you please." I said, "Gentlemen, there was once no precedent for establishing this court; there was once no precedent for the admission of a single man to this court. THIS COURT MAKES PRECEDENTS."

All her noble long life she was asking those who had the power and the right to make precedents for that which was just. When the women needed some one to make a precedent, Mrs. Lockwood naturally could not decline, and she threw herself into this nation-wide fray with zest and brought woman suffrage to the attention of the entire world.

It speaks volumes for the wide benefit in her cause that she polled votes in practically every state then in the Union. And it must be remembered that it was the votes of men that she got, for the women voted at that time in only one State, Wyoming.

She always maintained that Congress had the power to enfranchise women in the same way as it had passed an amendment protecting the negro in his exercise of the franchise which Congress had bestowed upon him. She often argued the case with

lawyers, and they, knowing that she had as much law as they had at her command, never refuted her claim.

The full and unrestricted suffrage of the black man was still giving the politicians of each of the large parties considerable concern, and was the source of much political buncomb. Why the entire country of Democrats and Republicans should have been so wrought up over the fact that some of the southern districts were keeping the illiterate negro from the polls, and some states were passing election laws virtually disfranchising him, seems strange. And the women who had been petitioning them for votes in Congress, in State Legislatures, in party conventions were unthought of, their petitions unheeded.

This is accounted for partly as it had become a force of habit to see that the black man got his rights. But the reformers of the early abolition days, and those who in the prime of life had directed the reforms of thirty years before, had been superseded by another class of politicians who were actuated by no such high aims and ambitions, and who had sunk into personal motives rather than motives for justice.

The Republican Party needed new reforms for a working basis. But the leaders of the established order would not consent to reorganization at the first assault by those who wanted to reform the money conditions and many other evils that were a menace to the welfare of the people. All appeals from the reform forces met with a deaf ear when they approached the committee who wrote the platform for the Republicans in 1884. William McKinley was chairman of that unreforming and intolerant committee.

The result was the rise and power of the Mugwump, with such men at its head as Henry Ward Beecher, George William Curtis, and hosts of others. The formation of the Greenback Party with Gen. Benjamin F. Butler as presidential candidate was a rebuke to the party. St. John, who

had urged reforms and who had been a power in the southern middle west, became a candidate for president on the Prohibition ticket. The Anti-Monopoly Party demanded reforms in business. All these took from the strength and ranks of the Republican Party, which had been in power for several years.

Grover Cleveland was elected president. New issues had to be legislated on and woman suffrage may seem to have gained but little.

However, there is no telling where changes in administration may lead and the candidacy of the Equal Rights Party advanced the cause.

That year the party platforms were as follows: The Republican and Democratic Parties knew no women. The Greenback Party, beside providing against the fluctuation of our currency, by which paper money and gold and silver all had different values, provided for suffrage for women in this way: They proposed "For purpose of testing some of the people upon the subject we are in favor of submitting to the people an amendment to the Constitution in favor of suffrage, regardless of sex."

This statement contains no manly promise to work for the amendment, no faith in it, and gives one the feeling that the framers of the clause had no regard for women anyway. However, since the party was formed as a protest against the evils of the monetary system the members had only a passing whim to see what the people thought about suffrage. It was a good thing to advertise it, perhaps.

Compare with the above this clause from the Prohibition Party. "We hold to and will work for woman suffrage."

That year the Prohibition Party had two wings. The other wing gave a strong argument for the women, one that the Republican Party had used some years before as one of the reasons for giving the black man the vote. They said "We believe in civil and political equality of the sexes and

THE TREND

the ballot in the hands of woman is a
right for her protection."

The Anti-Monopoly Party scored all kinds of monopolies except the sex monopoly of the ballot box; that was not mentioned.

During this campaign politics were so bad that Law Order Leagues were formed to improve conditions. Reforms were demanded. Labor became a political question. Women who had petitioned legislatures and Congress petitioned the people, and received more than passing attention.

The rights of woman had in the past half of the nineteenth century gained national attention.

President Cleveland was not a suffragist, nor does he appear to have been an anti, so women politically entered little into his administration. But the Democratic Party in the campaign of 1888 patted itself on the back with these words, showing the "vast accomplishment in the field of universal suffrage." They had brought it about that . . . "equality of all citizens before the law without regard to race or color had been steadfastly maintained." We find sex omitted.

The Republican Party, which had been out of office for four years, had a big free suffrage plank proclaiming "Unswerving devotion to sovereign right of every lawful citizen, rich or poor, native or foreign born, black or white, to cast one free ballot in public election and to have that ballot duly counted," and a great deal more about equal representation and an honest popular ballot.

Why the women could not vote under this platform is a matter of conjecture. The wording seems to include them, but the few ballots cast by women were not counted.

In this presidential election of 1888, the Equal Rights Party again nominated Mrs. Lockwood and a full ticket. Another new element came into prominence. The laboring man had risen to such power that he formed two national political parties and nominated his own candidate. One party

known as the Union Labor Party declared for woman suffrage in the following words: "The right to vote inherent in citizenship irrespective of sex and is properly within the province of state legislation." This and most of the other planks were articles of faith rather than pledges for the practical working-out of problems.

The United Labor Party, which was not united with the other labor faction, declared for the old story, "All men free and equal." We do not know if they used the word in a generic or restricted sense. This party declared for the Australian or secret ballot.

The American Party came out mainly for immigration and labor laws, for the rights of the native born American, but it had no word for women.

The Equal Rights and Prohibition Parties only had suffrage planks. Although all the others had many clauses regarding equal rights to all, yet in their verbose declaration of principles they did not mention women.

In 1888 the Prohibition Party after careful study found that the Constitution of the United States gave women the right to vote and wrote their suffrage plank for the year as follows: " . . . that the right of suffrage rests on no mere accident of race, color, sex or nationality, and shall be restored . . . " This recognized that women had formerly had the right to vote.

In 1888 Harrison was elected president on the Republican ticket over all other candidates. Seven parties polled a large vote in every state in the Union, as a protest to wrongs permitted by the dominant parties of past years. Mrs. Lockwood and her co-workers made a great canvas and received a considerably larger vote than in the previous campaign. The nomination took place at Des Moines, Ia., and not only in that state, but throughout the Union, she drew from the Republican Party. During the ad-

ministration the Woman Suffrage Bill received scant courtesy in Congress, but the women were steadily gaining in the state legislatures.

The administration of 1888-1892 was not so successful that the Republicans could hold it the next term. Labor troubles were more marked, and rose to such proportions as to alarm those who had been in the habit of dictating the labor vote. Labor had been in the same plight as women, unrecognized as to individual rights.

In the campaign of 1892 the first labor party was formed, known as the Socialist Labor Party, with one plank fitted to interest the women. This new Socialist Labor Party believed in "equalization of women's wages with men's, where equal service is performed; Universal and Equal right of suffrage without regard to color, creed or sex." But in the following presidential election this same party still believed in "equal pay for equal labor and in equal suffrage," but no mention was made of sex.

The campaign of 1892 is known as the cheap money campaign. The Greenback Party had gone out of existence as its demands had been settled by legislation. The Equal Rights Party, though the women had not gained their demands, did not deem it best to incur the expense and labor of another campaign.

The Prohibition Party again led thought along lines of equality of the sexes and in 1892 treated the woman question in the following words: "No one shall be denied the right to vote on account of sex, and equal labor shall receive equal wage without regard to sex." The equal pay for which Mrs. Lockwood had stood in the forties had now spread to be a national question espoused by two political parties, and wherever it has been settled the men have voted for it.

In this same presidential campaign the Farmers Alliance came into existence as a national party with the demand for "equal rights to all and spe-

cial privileges to none." Woman was not specifically mentioned, but as the remainder of the demands of the Farmers Alliance pertained mostly to matters of finance and the unlimited coinage of silver, it appears that the special privilege applied to class rather than to sex.

During this same campaign (1892) the National Peoples' Party held their first convention and put the first ticket in the field. They pledged themselves "Never to cease to move forward until wrongs are righted and equal privileges securely established for all men and women in the country." This is the first appearance of the "Populist" Party, which in the next four years forgot the women completely in making up platforms, unless one chooses to read "women" in such ambiguous wording as "government of the people, for the people, by the people." In 1896 this People's Party declared their belief in the "elective franchise and untrammelled ballot essential for government of . . . for . . . by the people."

A new political star arose on the horizon in the Silver Party with William Jennings Bryan as its head. The platform on which Mr. Bryant made his debut was made entirely of silver with no alloy of woman suffrage. The National Democratic Party also stood purely for money and Mr. Bryan was their choice. The rights of everybody seem to have been in the minds of every politician. The Democratic Party, which had been in power for the four years previous, came out strongly with what they had accomplished and declared again that they had been "always the exponent of political liberty and religious freedom." The Republicans nominated William McKinley and the woman's plank in 1896 was this: "Free ballot to every citizen. Republicans ever mindful of the rights and interests of women" endorse "equal opportunity, equal pay for equal work, protection of the home. Favor admission of women to wider sphere of usefulness and wel-

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come their co-operation in rescuing
the country from the Democratic and
Populist mismanagement and rule."

The "equal pay for equal work" phrase had become classic at this time. It had been used in two campaigns previous to 1896 by some of the smaller protesting parties, and was now adopted by the party that was destined to win.

The Prohibition and the National Parties declared strongly for the ballot for women. Although the country was "rescued from Democratic and Populist mismanagement and rule," the same mismanagement prevailed in Congress when the perennial Woman Suffrage bills were brought before that body. The only gain made by the women was more consideration in State Legislatures after the enfranchisement of women by the men of Colorado in 1893. But the women had gained in themselves and an ever increasing number of men respected the cause.

In the campaign of 1900 McKinley was up for a second term and was elected. The platform was one of unstinted self-approval for the party. It extolled the "unsurpassed achievement" of the past four years, and in regard to the women the party was most appreciative. They went so far as to state in the platform that they "congratulated the women on the splendid service rendered by the Volunteer Aid Association," a sentence which gave political recognition to the fact that the women did go to the front in the war with Spain. This refutes that stock argument of callow minds that as women never went to war they had no right to vote. Were the women satisfied with this compliment? Some may have been, but others certainly were not.

The Democratic Party hoped to regain the prestige which they had lost four years before, and came out with a platform which included all the wide world geographically, and applied to it excerpts from the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. "All

governments," so says the Democratic platform of 1900, "instituted among men derive their just powers from the consent of the governed, that any government not based on the consent of the governed is tyranny, and that to impose upon any people a government of force is to substitute the methods of imperialism for those of a republic." This so exactly states the position of women to-day in all but ten of the states of the country that one might almost believe this was written for woman. At that time millions of women were petitioning state legislatures and the Federal Congress for the right to vote, but this clause was not written for woman. Like the famous Mrs. Jellyby by whom Dickens has immortalized the great Democratic Party had their one eye far from home among the Cubans, and all the other foreign peoples whom the war with Spain might effect, and the other eye firmly fixed on the party in power. They apparently never thought that the women might say "Me, too." Did the women say "Me, too?" Indeed, they not only said it, they reiterated it just as they have been doing every year.

The Democratic Party did not get in that year so we do not know if that splendid platform could have included the women within our shores or not. The election of 1912 is the first opportunity they have had to show what Democracy means to them, and it is not fair to judge them before they have finished their term of office. Many things may happen, even for the rights of women, before 1916.

In 1900 there were eight national parties, all told, as a remonstrance against those in power and it is encouraging that women have some recognition beside the little mention made of them by the ruling party. There was the People's Party, still known as the Populist, though that was never their official name, which filled pages and pages of platform principles and included the entire world. There was a great deal about

money per se; expressed sympathy for the Boers who had recently been at war with England; about immigration from the East; about municipal ownership; about labor troubles; condemned intimidation and coercion the result of disfranchisement (they do not mean disfranchisement of women); they desired a "full, free and fair ballot and an honest count." The three "f's," full, free, fair might be a veiled reference to women. Mr. Bryan assisted in making this platform, and when one reads it there is no longer any wonder that he was not elected on it—it is too weak to stand on, say nothing about running on it. In fact, comparing all the platforms on which he ran for the presidency one wonders that a mind so broad in its sympathy, so keen in its comprehension, should have permitted his name to be associated with them.

Then, too, in 1900 there was another People's Party, calling itself THE People's Party, called by many the Middle-of-the-Road Party, which held a convention, nominated a full ticket, and endorsed as well as condemned many things that had been done by the parties in power. The nearest this party came to endorsing women was in their advocacy of "a direct vote of the people for President." They do not define the sex or gender of the "people," and as they did not elect their ticket we have no official record by which to settle the question. They did declare boldly that the "contention between the old parties on the monopoly question is a sham battle."

The Silver Republicans with Bryan as their candidate endorsed in a special plank the truism of "Free and equal, and just powers are derived from the consent of the governed." and upheld the merit system, beside their advocacy of free silver. This platform ambled all over the globe and mentioned many nations and our relations to them, but never a word about the women within their own country. The Socialist Labor Party

also had no word for the women. The Social Democratic Party of the United States "called on every wage-worker regardless of sex to help them." The Party of America, another socialistic division of the Democratic Party, declared for a "Revision of the Federal Constitution to remove obstacles to the control of the government by the people irrespective of sex." The Prohibition Party of that year declared that "the ballot should not be denied to any citizen on account of sex."

Thus at the beginning of the present century two political parties recognized us fully, another asked for our help, the one for whom the women had gone to war commended us, and all the others roamed far afield and did not see us. Why did not the women make themselves felt? Because they had no vote. They went to the conventions with petitions, they asked if petitions meant anything and were answered that the names of 1,000,000 women to a petition would mean nothing, as the parties were bound by what the voters wanted.

When the presidential conventions of 1904 were all counted, there were seven political parties each with a platform and a national ticket. Five of them had no recognition of the existence of women. These were the Democratic Party, the Republican Party, which did not even congratulate the women on an achievement, as they had done in the past; two Socialist parties, which called on the wage-workers to help them carry the day, and the People's Party, which had a child labor platform, but nothing about the women.

The Union Reform Party, however, "declared that the practical operation of government proves it does not provide a government of the people, for the people, by the people," and the party "considered all people disfranchised, as they are allowed to vote for men and not for measures." This party advocated the initiative and referendum. The Prohibition Party still stood squarely for woman suffrage.

THE TREND

In 1908 the color question was still a burning one with the politicians and the two dominant parties made great promises about "equal justice to all men without regard to race or color." Woman comes into the "equal justice" plan only as she can be cast in bronze, or cut in marble and perched aloft at some dizzy height, out of the way, to be gazed at, a thing too rare for mortal's daily use.

In 1908, the women had a right to expect something from the new Independence Party, but were doomed to disappointment, unless some optimist could see a ray of recognition in these words: "Government conducted for the whole citizenship." It is strange that none of the parties which have used the words "citizenship," "people" and similar generic terms has ever actually included women, but each has always shown in some other part of their platform that it was their intention to exclude women.

In this same year, only six years ago, the Socialist Party made a demand for "unrestricted and equal suffrage for men and women, and pledged to engage in an active campaign in that direction." The Prohibition Party had its customary strong pledge for the enfranchisement of women.

Although women had made no apparent impression upon the two large parties, the year 1908 marked the event of the first woman delegate to the Republican convention. She was sent from one of the suffrage states, and created something of a quiet sensation and doubt as to her eligibility to vote in convention. However, her state delegation demanded the right for her to vote and it was granted. One woman in a convention of several thousand men could make but little immediate impression, but she established a precedent from which the party can hardly retreat.

During this presidential era, the women plied Congress with the mon-

ster petition of names of both men and women. Was Congress impressed? The gravity of their responsible positions evidently did not permit their showing any noticeable effect made by this petition. The petition did, however, do good. It was a means of uniting hundreds of thousands of men and women on the one thought of justice and what the constitution of the country really means. It prepared a way of proving to the world that millions of women earnestly desire the justice and right given to them by the constitution. It advanced suffrage in the individual states and proved again what has been proven from time to time in the past, that it is a fallacy to urge that any reform in our political status must come from the women. Many people had believed that women could get whatever legislation they demanded if they were sufficiently in earnest. But in the presidential term of 1908-1912 they learned and the men learned that women could get only that legislation which a sufficient number of men demanded; that the meager recognition which women get through indirect influence is negligible.

In 1912 began the present era of the problem which more men are solving in state legislatures and in political conventions, and which more men will solve every year until the problem is solved away and the women vote.

The men in 1912 splendidly recognized their responsibility to establish woman in a position to protect herself and help in the world's work.

The solution of the woman suffrage problem is in sight, but no effort of men or women should be abated if the men are to complete the solution of the problem before the next presidential election. Incessant, constructive, properly directed, wisely conceived, endeavor on the part of both men and women are needed by the men who must vote upon the cause.

# My Brother's Keeper

Adapted from the French.

BY FRANK ALVAH DEARBORN.

## VII.

By reason of his newly acquired rank as Admiral, George was forced to remain in India and he suffered greatly on that account. Since the adventure at the well he had detested India, as he formerly destested the Antilles. At the same time he was horrified with himself. He had wished to kill his son and the thought that the child had been able to read in his face that abominable desire, never left his mind. He remained for entire hours seated apart mechanically repeating, "He divined it! He divined it!" Avid for positive knowledge, which, however, would have dismayed him, he constantly watched the child with a curiosity full of anguish. He watched his gestures, translated his words and grew livid under his clear and limpid looks, like a criminal under the scrutiny of his judge. By dint of observing his son, of analyzing his character and physiognomy, he arrived at the point of finding in him not only a physical but a complete moral resemblance to Raoul. Thus like Raoul the child was, so far as he could be at his age, in turn tender and expansive, melancholy and pensive. In proportion as he grew George imagined that he saw in him the living image of his former friend. Shaken by remorse, tormented by baleful memories, he had for his son outbursts of impassioned affection, while at other times he avoided him with a feeling of hatred. He was no longer preoccupied by his own resemblance to Raoul. That was for him an accomplished fact and he submitted to it as one submits

to a chronic malady. Nevertheless he was reminded of his affliction by new and menacing symptoms. George felt it impressed upon his face like an inflexible and rigid mask. His muscles set in motion by whatever excitement acted with difficulty under this mask and scarcely moved it. One day when he flew into a violent rage against one of his officers he had by chance observed this phenomenon in a mirror hanging in front of him. The veins of his forehead were swollen, his complexion became livid, but his irritation, which he made no effort to restrain, only manifested itself upon his face by feeble tremors. On another occasion a sudden feeling of compassion seized him as he was embracing his son; his eyes became moist but only an imperceptible trembling moved his lips. At certain times he experienced great difficulty in speaking and twice his tongue refused to articulate a sound. George had noticed these various symptoms, but had remained indifferent to them. In proportion as his physiognomy had become immovable, so to speak, he became, little by little, insensitive to all strong emotions. Thus, he used to leave the harbor with the "Bellone," meet and capture an English frigate after a beautiful battle, "his heart scarcely beating." He aspired to nothing but repose and dreamed of nothing except returning to France and enjoying his rest in the high position he had purchased at the price of so much fatigue and suffering. He fancied that the pleasures, fortune and honors would, if they failed to make his life happy, at least draw him out of that moral torpor which

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was invading him more and more each
day. The moment of his recall finally
arrived after the fall of the Empire.
He sailed from Tranquebar in the
month of December, 1814, and had the
good fortune to be delayed on his voya-
age by contrary winds and not to dis-
embark in France until the middle of
1815, after the Second Restoration. In
this way he escaped mingling with
the events of those hundred days. He
had the renown of a loyal sailor who
had for a long time fought for his
country in a far-off land and who was
stainless of all treason. The govern-
ment welcomed him with favor; at the
same time the relatives of his wife
were marking out for him a place in
the new court. One morning in the
Tuileries, as he came from mass, he
was presented to the King. Louis
XVIII stopped in front of him, looked
at him for a moment, then turning to
his entourage:

"Gentlemen," said he, "the Bailli of Suffren* will no longer have in India the monopoly of glory; henceforth he will share it with Admiral George."

George had at this impromptu re-
ception a success similar to that he
obtained in society upon his marriage
to Mademoiselle d'Epagy. The benev-
olent words of the King attracted to
him the attention of every one. In
full uniform, wearing all of his decor-
ations, his bearing was elegant and
lofty. Although he was nearly forty,
in appearance he had not grown old;
only his features were more accentu-
ated than formerly. His hair, always
worn long, had not become whitened;
his sombre look and his bitter smile
gave him that fateful appearance
which the poetry of Byron had at that
time made fashionable. They com-
pared him to a corsair, to Lara, to all

*Pierre-Andre Suffren, a French mari-
aer, born in 1726 at Saint-Cannat; he
fought gloriously in India against the Eng-
lish; he was Bailli (an officer of the robe or
sword, who in France in former days dis-
pensed justice in the name of the King or
of a Lord), in the Order of Malta. He was
generally called the "Bailli of Suffren;" he
died in France, probably in a duel, in 1788.

the unfortunates of a superhuman na-
ture tormented by remorse, or to some
one tortured by an incurable sorrow,
without suspecting that such compar-
ison was horribly real. For a brief
hour this intelligent society, avid for
emotions, talked only of him, of his
battles, of his adventures and of cer-
tain mysterious events in his past life
which had never been cleared up.
George experienced the enjoyments of
pride in seeing himself the object at
which all looks were aimed, the sub-
ject of all conversations. When he
returned to his home, full of joy and
confidence, he hoped he was through
with the fatality which had pressed so
long upon his life.

He was in the same study of his
hotel where, ten years before, a few
days after his marriage, he was al-
ready absorbed in a happy and pro-
found reverie. Now slowly walking
back and forth as formerly he smiled at
the future which appeared to be open-
ing before him. Suddenly he per-
ceived upon the mantelpiece a letter
he had not before noticed. He imme-
diately recognized the writing and the
seal. It was from Raoul's father and
contained but a few lines.

"Sir," said the letter, "I have just
arrived in Paris and am at the inn call-
ed the Lion d'Or in the Rue Saint-
Martin. I expect you here at nine
o'clock this evening. If you do not
come I shall go in person to your
hotel."

The reading of this letter caused
George less emotion than he would
have supposed. By dint of suffering,
he had finished by experiencing, from
his long misery, a feeling of ennui.

"It had to come," said he resigned-
ly. "I had commenced to be happy;
but now," added he with a menacing
gesture, "I am going to end it; I shall
go to see him."

He continued to walk up and down
his room reflecting upon the attitude
he would assume in the approaching
interview. He reasoned to himself that
Raoul's father must be an old man in

MY BROTHER'S KEEPER

797

his dotage who was tormented by the fixed idea of knowing how his son died; consequently, he decided to intimidate him by taking a high hand; he would satisfy him by making the briefest possible recital of the facts demanded.

However, the day seemed long and George awaited the evening with mingled feelings of anxiety and impatience. At eight o'clock he left his hotel. In spite of his morning resolution he was gloomy and agitated; at the same time he experienced shooting pains in his face, which was extremely feverish. When he arrived at the address indicated he was surprised that Monsieur Barnard, who in view of what the Minister of the Navy had written to him, must be wealthy, had chosen a hotel of such shabby appearance. A red lantern was swinging above the latticed door, which was only closed by a bar and supplied with a bell.

After hesitating a moment George entered and asked for Monsieur Barnard. They gave him the number of his room on the second floor. George went up the stairs, but on reaching the painted wooden door which separated him from Raoul's father, he again paused. Soon becoming ashamed of his weakness he abruptly opened the door. Scarcely had he entered the room than he found himself in a glare of light. A lamp placed upon the table, the reflector of which seemed designedly turned sidewise, lighted him up from head to foot. On the contrary, Monsieur Barnard, seated in an armchair on the other side of the table, was in the shadow. When he perceived George he rose and walked toward him, with his arms outstretched, mumbling some inarticulate words; arriving near him, the old man first looked at him with staring eyes, then with a profound astonishment; he suddenly resumed his composure.

"Monsieur," said he to George, "my son assured me that you resembled him, but I would not have believed

that such a striking resemblance could exist. Will you please be seated?"

He pointed to an armchair facing his own. George seated himself, and, without apparent intention, turned the lamp half way round. He was thus able to see the features of Raoul's father, from whom he was separated by the table.

In looking at him he was momentarily stupefied. Monsieur Barnard was a man of eighty years. His tall form was bent by age. His hands, which he leaned upon the table, were so greatly emaciated that under the thin and wrinkled skin one could see the action of the joints of the bones. His long white hair fell in disorder on both sides of his face which was of a paleness almost cadaverous. His eyes alone shone with an unprecedented splendor. It seemed that the little life which remained in that worn-out body was concentrated in the eyes in order to cast their last and terrible gleams; at that moment they were fixed upon George.

"Pardon me, sir," said the old man with a nuance of irony, "for receiving you in such a room; but it was at this inn that I put up when I first came to Paris with Raoul and since that time I have never changed."

George bowed.

"Now," continued Monsieur Barnard slowly, "why have you never replied to the letters I have sent you?"

Following the line of conduct marked out in the morning, George wished to intimidate and at the same time menace the old man. Thus, he began to speak with a certain haughtiness.

"Sir, there were circumstances independent of my desire which prevented me from replying to the first two. I received each of them at the moment of a departure. As to the third it was couched in such terms that the best I was able to do was to forget it. I received your last letter this morning, and I am here."

"So be it," said Raoul's father; "now will you consent to tell me in what circumstances my son died?"

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THE TREND

"Yes," replied George.

He reflected for a moment while
Monsieur Barnard prepared to listen.

"You know that Raoul and I em-
barked upon the Thetis. During our
last cruise the commandant was kill-
ed and the second officer so griev-
ously wounded that upon our arrival
at Guadeloupe he was forced to leave
the vessel. Raoul then became the
provisional commandant of the frig-
ate and was ordered to recapture from
the English the fort upon Trinity Is-
land."

"I know all that; these details are
set forth in the last letter which my
son wrote me at the moment of start-
ing upon the expedition."

"The frigate," continued George,
"dropped anchor before Trinity Island
the next day, the same day on which
Raoul succumbed. It was in the
month of May, 1804."

"It was the 31st of May," said the father. "They informed me of the date, and," he added with his eyes half closed as if he were talking to himself, "it must have been near midnight when he died."

"How do you know that?" said
George, giving a start.

"It was really then at that hour!"
cried Monsieur Barnard, trembling
with emotion and raising himself in
his armchair.

"I know nothing about the time,"
replied George, coldly, and in his turn
he looked at the old man with an im-
passible and at the same time threat-
ening air.

At this denial on the part of George,
the face of Raoul's father expressed an
inconceivable distrust. A question
sprang to his lips. He had a desire to
ask George why he had given a start
if he was ignorant of the hour at which
Raoul died; but he restrained himself.

"Continue, sir," said he.

This conversation resembled a duel
between two implacable adversaries.

George continued slowly. His tem-
ples were throbbing violently and he
articulated his words with difficulty.
This stammering, which Raoul's fa-

ther might attribute to fear, greatly
irritated him and he made every ef-
fore to overcome it.

It was in this manner that he re-
lated the plan of attack which Raoul
had projected and that he arrived in
his narrative to the reconnaissance at-
tempted in the rear of the fort.

"Each of us took a different path;
after a half hour's walk I found my-
self the first at the rendezvous. I
waited there for several hours and it
was not until daybreak that I decided
to return to the frigate. The next
day after the capture of the fort I sent
fifty men to beat he mountain in every
direction and they brought back upon
a litter Raoul's body which they had
found at the bottom of a precipice."

There was a moment of silence be-
tween the two men. George had tried
to appear calm and to silence forever
that lugubrious past, the smallest de-
tails of which were for him, at the end
of fourteen years, still vivid. Monsieur
Barnard, pressing his trembling hands
upon the table more heavily, leaned
forward and fixed upon George that
keen look of suspicion and hatred in
which the frail envelope of the body
was no longer able to conceal the
secrets of the soul.

"Then you were not present at his
last moments?"

"No," stammered George.

"And you pretend that no person
was a witness to his death?"

"No one that I know of."

"That is impossible," said the fa-
ther sharply, in a broken voice, "for
my son did not fall at once to the bot-
tom of the precipice."

George made no reply, as he expected
some frightful revelation, and in order
to bear it he was calling to his aid that
which remained of his strength.

"In my turn," said Monsieur Bar-
nard in a solemn voice, "I am going to
relate to you the death of Raoul. It
was indeed the 31st day of May and it
might have been eleven o'clock in the
evening. I had just gone to bed and
upon my table there was a single can-
dle which diffused a feeble light. Sud-

MY BROTHER'S KEEPER

799

denly I felt myself seized with an indefinable emotion and heard myself called by a silent voice, for it was perceptible not to my senses, but to my imagination; at the same time my eyes turned of themselves toward the end of my room. There, a few feet from the floor, I saw the likeness of my son clearly designed against the wall. The position was extraordinary; the body was half bent over, the legs and arms clinging to something invisible. I recalled that Raoul had often said to me that by a supreme effort of his will he would appear to me at the moment of his death, and I shuddered to the depths of my soul in thinking he had kept his promise. However, I became reassured in perceiving his face, which was almost joyful; he appeared to be looking at someone above him. His mouth moved gently and he seemed to be speaking in a subdued voice; but soon a lively inquietude was painted upon his features; he spoke faster and moved his members about. One might have said that the frail support which held him, a shrub, perhaps, had yielded under his weight. At that moment the vision partly effaced itself. Doubtless, my son's thoughts left me for an instant. He did not delay his reappearance. This time a profound despair contracted his features: words surced to his lips, half imprecations, half entreaties: his mouth shriveled into a bitter and disconsolate smile; the movements of his arms and legs were convulsive and ierky. Evidently he felt himself falling; he fell! Oh! the frightful expression he had then!"

George remained speechless. A wild terror of which he had no idea until then took possession of his entire being. He, too, saw Raoul in the darkness of the precinct; he saw him again as he appeared the next day, his visage livid and threatening, stretched out upon the litter.

The old man raised his head which he had lowered for a moment, but immediately he threw it backward, pressing

it with both hands, which disappeared under his white hair.

"Ah!" cried he, "your face is distorted as was Raoul's! Your forehead, like his, is divided by a straight and deep wrinkle! Your nostrils are divided by terror, and what a frightful smile you have upon your lips!"

In proportion as Monsieur Barnard spoke, George felt his forehead wrinkle, his nostrils swell out and his mouth become twisted. All of the muscles of his face were displacing themselves in obedience to some mysterious law. Finally, he had a last tremor, abrupt and painful, which was succeeded by their complete immobility.

"Ah! you are now as Raoul appeared to me! Oh! Just God! Revenging God! My presentiments have not deceived me; for you have the visage which my son had at the moment of his death and you must have seen him die. The man to whom he spoke, toward whom he raised his eyes, must have been you. You doubtless had but to extend your hand in order to save him and you allowed him to perish. Yet, however, you were everything to him. He loved you more than he loved me, his father. He was your friend—he was your brother!"

Suddenly the emotion of the aged man fell. He pointed his finger at George and in a terrible voice cried: "Cain! Cain! What hast thou done with thy brother?"

At the same time he tried to dart forward, but his forces betrayed him. He fell back into the chair, the arms of which half supported him. Then, in a voice exhausted and breathless, filled with sobs and wrath, he continued to speak.

"But I will revenge thee, Raoul; I will say it was he who killed thee! I will say that it was a cowardly and envious man who hath sacrificed thee to his ambition; I have, indeed, collected the signs. I have tracked him through his whole career, in his remorses and in his terrors. There have been in his life mysterious habits

800

THE TREND

which I shall explain to everyone.”

The father stopped, appeared to reflect a moment, and then started to laugh with an insulting scorn.

"Bah! Proofs! What need of proofs! I have but to denounce him and show him to his judges with that horrible visage. They will read his crime in every feature!"

George could endure this torture no longer. He opened the door, precipitated himself down the stairway, reeling about like an intoxicated man. Once in the street he lost his head and for two hours he ran about trying to find his hotel. He resembled one of those illustrious miserables whom the antique fable shows us with his wanderings and terrors, and whose heart is prey to the Furies, and who is pursued by Fatality.

VIII.

Upon returning home George passed the remainder of the night and a part of the next day seated in his armchair with his head in his hands. The room was totally dark. Toward eight o'clock in the morning his valet de chambre came to open the curtains and blinds, but George anorily sent him away. Like a man condemned to death, he was in a state of complete prostration; he shivered at intervals; his mental energy and clearness of reason had left him. He expected every moment they would come to arrest him and he was frightened at the least sound. He instinctively, felt that if he were taken before a magistrate he would betray himself. Despairingly he thought that his fourteen years of toil and dangers, his honors so dearly purchased, the esteem, of which he was so jealous, would lead to nothing except an infamous sentence. There would only remain to him the shocking reputation of a murderer through ambition, almost a fratricide. He listened to the regular and monotonous sound of the ticking of the clock and the hours in turn too slow or too rapid to suit his will were filled with agony and distress.

However as the time passed and the afternoon arrived, George's hopes revived. He argued that Raoul's father had had sufficient time to determine his course of action; if he had obtained an order for his arrest he would already have been taken into custody. Little by little his courage returned and his mind became clear. After all, Monsieur Barnard had no proofs against him; true, he resembled Raoul, but the judges had never known his former friend. Furthermore he was a Count, an Admiral and a favorite of the King. In order to bring to nothing the accusation of an old man of eighty years he would only have to treat it with haughty contempt. It was necessary for him to keep up the struggle; he might triumph in the end. Thus the man whom misfortunes were pursuing, one after the other, decided upon new struggles at the end of which he saw only success, never remorse or expiration. At six o'clock some one rapped timidly upon his door. These feeble raps showed to George the frailness of his hopes. For a moment he was afraid to open the door, but finally called, "Come in." It was George's servant, who brought him a letter. He took it, saying to himself that the King's attorney had probably desired to notify him of the accusation of Monsieur Barnard before arresting him. However, the letter, which he was turning over in his fingers, was not in the form of an official document. It had no envelope and was imperfectly sealed. He lighted a candle and saw that the address was in an unskilled and badly formed writing. Greatly surprised, he opened and read:

"Monsieur, the Count —:

"My wife and I ask your pardon for the liberty we take in writing to you, but we are in great embarrassment, and we address you because Monsieur Barnard had us take a letter to you yesterday and we do not know that he was acquainted with any other person in Paris. The poor man died this

MY BROTHER'S KEEPER

801

morning. The doctor said it was from old age. If Monsieur the Count will be pleased to tell us what we ought to do we shall be very grateful."

When George finished reading the letter he took several long breaths. It seemed to him that an enormous weight was lifted from him. He was saved!

He rang for his valet de chambre.

"Go immediately," he said he, "to the Lion d'Orr Inn, Rue Saint-Martin. Tell them you come from me. Take some money with you and confer with the proprietor as to the fortalities to be complied with and the necessary expenses which you will pay for the burial of Monsieur Barnard, an old man, who died there this morning."

George was so joyful that he did not notice the scared look his servant gave him as he withdrew.

He opened the curtains and blinds; he needed the air; he experienced a singular pleasure in seeing the sky and hearing the movements in the street.

"Oh!" said he finally, "this last shock was terrible, but it has delivered me from those cursed memories forever! Already I have ceased to think of Raoul and his father has just died! I feel happier and stronger than ever before."

He made an abrupt gesture.

"I will dress myself; one never knows what may happen."

It was beginning to grow dark. He lighted a three-branched candelabra standing upon the work-table and carried it into his study, placing it near the mirror. Scarcely had he looked at himself in the glass than he uttered a cry and recoiled to the further end of the room.

However, the image he had caught a glimpse of was so horrible that he believed it was a mistake of his senses. He returned to the mirror with steps slow and uncertain, his trembling limbs hardly supporting him. He looked at himself again, or rather contemplated the frightful visage before him. The entire right side of his face

was greatly distended, puffed up and immovable. The eye was blood-shot and could not close itself. Upon the forehead in the prolongation of the nose there was a line straight and accentuated. The transverse wrinkles upon the left side of the forehead stopped abruptly at this line. The left side of the face seemed to have diminished in size and the grinning mouth was drawn up, shriveled and twisted. George had upon his face the hideous mask of Raoul's corpse.

Once convinced that it was his own face that he saw, he had no superstitious terrors. He realized that he was paralyzed, and although this discovery caused him profound sorow, he remained calm in appearance. He said to himself that he could not live with such a mask upon his face. One chance remained and he resolved to attempt it. However, before leaving his hotel to consult Doctor Martens, then at the height of his fame, he decided to take some food, as he was extremely weak; at the same time he sent word to the Countess that he was working and would dine alone in his study. At this first attempt to eat, he perceived that the jawbone on the right side of his face was inert and dead. He hurriedly left the hotel.

It was nearly nine o'clock in the evening when he presented himself at Doctor Marten's; the latter, when the Count opened the door, was seated at a table covered with papers and was working by the rays of a lamp covered with a shade. George was in the shadow, but in proportion as he entered into the circle of light projected by the lamp, he saw the stupefaction and horror painted upon the doctor's face.

"Sir," said he to George as he rose, "you have just killed someone!"

"Don't you recognize me? I am the Admiral, Count George."

The doctor took him by the hand and seated him in the light.

"Ah!" said he, "you have facial paralysis; but the paralysis is strange;

# The Trend of Events

## A HOLY WAR.

The great nations of Europe are engaged in the supreme war of modern times. It is the war to throw off the yoke of military oppression. It is the war of civilization against barbarism. It is the twentieth century combatting the twelfth. It is the war for peace.

Only one prejudiced to the point of blindness can maintain that the German government has not been the insistent aggressor, the implacable enemy of every proposition looking toward an amicable agreement of international difficulties. To look at the facts is all that is needful. When at last the German ambassador at St. Petersburg himself drew up a note in conjunction with the Russian foreign minister establishing a new basis for a peace conference and that note had been accepted not only by the governments at London, Paris, and Rome, but by the government of the great power then actually engaged in war on a diminutive neighbor, Austria-Hungary, it was the imperial German government at Berlin that rejected the result of its own ambassador's benevolent activity. The ruling powers of Germany beyond a doubt were bent on war.

As to the German people, that is a different matter. It is impossible for a fair-minded student of the situation to believe that the idealism and the culture of the German people really support the bloody aggression of Prussian junkerdom. There is far too much advanced thought, too real a weariness of the military burden among the people at large to permit of the belief that the nation stands undivided in adherence to the ruthless doctrines of its feudal rulers. The arrogant military classes of Prussia may linger obstinately

in the twelfth century, but the majority of their compatriots are of the twentieth.

Indeed, many a rumor has been current as to the real motive underlying this war—the fear on the part of Prussian junkerdom that its hour had come, that only a successful foreign war, by proving to the people that the war taxes under which they had groaned had not been paid in vain, could stave off the social upheaval which seemed otherwise only a few years off and which would put an end forever to junkerdom and the military yoke, and on their ruin rear the fair structure of a great liberal, enlightened German republic. It has even been maintained that the Emperor William, who had seemed to deserve the sobriquet of Lord of Peace, faced on his return from the Baltic the dilemma of going to war or abdicating in favor of his eldest and notoriously belligerent son, the Crown Prince of Prussia.

There is not the slightest ground for belief that either France or England desired a war. The moral elevation, the noble humanitarianism of both countries in the face of the awful crisis are patent. Russia, mysterious Russia, is more problematic to us OccIDENTALS, but the righteousness of Russia's course in protecting Servia is hardly more open to question than that of England in springing to the defence of the Belgian neutrality which Germany, through Prussia, a co-guarantor, had wantonly and intentionally violated. Nicholas II. has long been a self-declared friend of peace, and in spite of the fact that Russia has gone to war more than once during his reign, his record, and the record of his government as a whole, can hardly be held by an open-minded observer as

804

THE TREND OF EVENTS

stained with the crime of an offensive war. On the face of the facts there is no reason yet to doubt the sincerity of the Czar in his advocacy of peace and partial disarmament.

Of course, Russia and the "Slavic Peril" are given as the defence of the German government by those who wish to discover a high moral justification for its waging war against two tranquil neighbors. Less ambitious defenders whine the excuse that Germany has no good colonies and needs some—being last on the scene she has a right to seize France and Belgium by the throat and close a strangle hold until they should give up valued colonial possessions to the laggard that came too late! Such is the morality of the bully, as any five-year-old child knows. The aggression of the German government, regarded fairly from whatever point of view, cannot, except through the most preposterously fantastic interpretation of the facts, enter the category of disinterestedness.

The resistance of the allied nations to the loosened tide of Prussian junkerdom is, therefore, a war holier than a crusade. It is not bloodshed in the name of the Prince of Peace. It is bloodshed to establish the eternal peace that Christ taught men has the whole earth as its heritage.

## PIUS X.

Religious beliefs and Christian creeds aside, Pope Pius X, as the world knows his deeds, seems to have been the nearest approach in our day to the ideal as a Christian and as a Pope. Born a poor peasant he died the head of the Roman Catholic Church, leaving a will in which he begged forgiveness for his sins and requested that his sisters be provided for in keeping with their humble lives.

Of this man it may be believed that the contemplation of the horrid carnage of a world at war hastened his end. Of this man the intelligent skeptical must feel that in his suspicion of human motives the exception has proved the rule.

The life of Gieuseppe Sarto, from the cradle to the throne of St. Peter, was even less magnificent in its simplicity than during his eleven years as Pope.

## MUNYANA IN MEXICO.

Carranza said a while back that one of his first acts as President of Mexico would be the firing of the salutes demanded of Huerta by President Wilson. This done, he argued, there would be nothing left for the United States to do but to leave the country. Our troops were sent to Vera Cruz to satisfy American honor, and this honor satisfied, there would be no further excuse for their existence on a foreign shore. All of which is reasoning enough, but not of the sort that is likely to carry much weight with the United States. Until Mexico has shown more than good intentions—and to date her intentions have not been of the best—Vera Cruz is the proper place for our men.

Those who would treat the affair below the Rio Grande as ended are in every way unduly optimistic. Carranza has entered the Capital with a flare of trumpets, but it was not Villa's troops that escorted the First Chief into the City of Mexico. Zappatta is not yet conquered and Orozco may start a second revolution at any time.

What the Mexican's Munyana will bring only the Mexican can decide— and he does not know.

## PEACE'S PARADOX.

After many hundred years the Scripitional saying, "No man knoweth what a day may bring forth," is again exemplified. But again and again in war, at least, has this truth been attested. Lord Granville was assured upon entering the English foreign office in July, 1870, that the outlook for peace was never brighter. Yet within two months Sedan had been fought and the French Emperor was a prisoner. The Czar's peace conference of 1899 was followed by war with Japan, and England's Jubilee was turned into a Boer uprising. A month or two pre-

War Cant

"When Germany adds her reserve
army, nearly equal in size and efficiency
to her standing army, she wonders how
England and France can seriously con-
sider opposing her wishes."

—Prof. Roland G. Usher.

"The Duchess of Marlborough and
other titled and wealthy persons have
been obliged to travel second-class to
reach England, as one of the hardships
of war."
—New York Telegram.

"China proclaims her neutrality."

—Cable Dispatch.

"This war will set back European
civilization half a century. Cannot the
world's womanhood, on whom the bur-
den will chiefly fall, petition for ten
day's cessation of hostilities while states-
men meet in a neutral zone to discuss
permanent peace with honor."

—Lady Aberdeen, President of the In-
ternational Council of Women.

"It is with a heavy heart that we see
England ranged among our opponents."

—Kaiser Wilhelm.

"We took Liege in a week when we
thought it would take three months."

—Kaiser Wilhelm.

"There is a latent hostility to the East
and to the West and beyond the sea."

—The Kaiser.

"The dye is cast."

—Detroit Free Press.

"In justice to Germany it is but fair
to point out that there is no confirma-
tion whatever of the report that she has
violated Swiss and Dutch territory."

—New York Evening Post.

"I shall sweep through Belgium."

—The Kaiser.

"Big battle on."

—New York Evening Telegram.

"'War is Hell!'"

—The Man in the Street.

"Be courteous to women, but cour-
teous only."
—Lord Kitchener.

"The statement in the ultimatum that
Japan proposes to return Kiao-chau to
China is regarded hopefully by Chinese
officials."

—New York World.

"The newspapers are doing the best
they can to allay public anxiety by print-
ing all the war news coming from the
great reliable news gathering agencies.
They can go no further."

—New York Herald.

"I cannot describe the scene on Unter
den Linden on the night that war was
declared. New York on election night
would not be in it."

—Henry G. Opdycke.

"We can afford to lose a million men
as the price of victory, but the allies can-
not afford to lose thousands."

—Reuter.

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## CONTRIBUTORS TO THE OCTOBER TREND

ALLAN DAWSON ("The War: Its Causes and Meanings") is the chief editorial writer of the New York Globe, and an authority on the history of modern diplomacy and international relations.

A. H. MICHELSON ("The Letter"), the American Consul at Hanover, Germany, was formerly the American Consular Agent at Charleroi, Belgium, a center of important military operations in the present war.

WITTER BYNNER ("—And Battles Long Ago") is a well-known American poet.

CARL VAN VECHTEN ("Once Aboard the Lugger San Guglielmo;" "Some Glimpses at the European Stage") was in Italy at the outbreak of the war. His adventures in returning to America he recounts in the former paper.

EDNA KENTON ("Some Essays at Criticism") is providing THE TREND with a series of studies of the school of fiction that boasts as shining lights Laura Jean Libby and Bertha M. Clay.

DJUNA CHAPPELL BARNES ("Just Lately Drummer Boy") is known to TREND readers both as writer and as illustrator.

FRANKLIN ESCHER ("The War and the Market") is recognized as an authoritative writer on finance.

PITTS SANBORN ("War-Time Paris and Leaving Paris") happened to be in the French capital at the outbreak of the war.

ROBERT J. KENNEDY ("Police Surveillance in Paris") was lately Complaint Clerk of the New York Police Department.

JOHN MACY ("Safety") is a well-known poet and essayist.

MARY FARLEY SANBORN ("The Valor Ranch") is now offering the public serially in the columns of THE TREND her latest novel.

WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG ("The Night of Ariadne") is a poet who needs no introduction to readers of THE TREND.

ALLEN NORTON ("The Blue Bowl") is a young American writer of both verse and prose.

IIUJI G. KASAI ("Japan's Maintenance of China's Integrity"), author of The Mastery of the Pacific, is a native of Japan, a graduate of the University of Chicago, and at present a student of International Law and Diplomacy in Harvard University.

R. M. McCURDY ("The Academy of Courtship") is a frequent contributor of stories to THE TREND.

MINA LOY ("Parturition") is a painter of international fame. Recently she has interested herself in the Italian Futurists, led by F. T. Marinetti, and for them has renounced the brush and taken up the pen. Her poems are an outgrowth of the Italian Futurist movement.

LOUIS SHERWIN ("The German Side of It") is a British subject of German and English parentage. For several years he has been dramatic critic of the New York Globe.

DONALD EVANS ("For the Haunting of Mauna") is a poet of original talent, whose poems THE TREND is frequently privileged to publish.

HENRY FITZGERALD ("Phases of Modern Warfare") is a former officer in the British Army, who fought through the Boer War.

LILLIAN E. YOUNG ("Walking the Clothes Line") is a new TREND contributor.

HUTCHINS HAPGOOD ("The Story of a Singing Soubrette") has made one of his most important contributions to current social study in the short serial which comes to a conclusion in this number of THE TREND.

ROYAL DIXON and RAYMOND COMSTOCK ("The Folk Lore of Plants") have written in collaboration for many periodicals.

CYRUS F. STODDARD ("Our Tribute to Washington") is the Secretary to Congressman Prouty of Iowa.

FRANK M. WALTS ("Sketches from Life") has for several months contributed to THE TREND.

*In answering an advertisement it is desirable that you mention THE TREND.*

THE TREND—ADVERTISING SECTION

iii

## THE NOVEMBER TREND

ARTZYBACHEV AND SANINE. The greatest living novelist is today virtually unknown to American readers. Americans rarely can read Russian. Here and there one finds an incorrigible bookworm, who, burrowing his way into dark corners, has come across something or other in French or German translation by the Russian, Michael Artzybachev, and before burrowing farther has stopped to feed his full. Then he always proclaims the Russian, Artzybachev, the supreme novelist of our century. Let us re-read the words that distinguished critic of European literature, Mr. James Huneker, penned in Puck last spring: "The one great talent, nay, genius, is not . . . . . . Andreyev; not . . . . . . Gorky; but . . . . . . Artzybachev, author of that extraordinary book, 'Sanine.' . . . . . . Here was a novel in the direct line of the great traditions of Tolstoy, Dostoievsky, and Turgenev, with Nietzsche super-added. . . . . . He (Artzybachev) describes life, in the terms of his supreme art, as it is, not as it should be. A cynic is only a man who tells the truth. Artzybachev is a truth-teller."

With the November issue THE TREND proposes to begin the important work of introducing to American readers "Sanine" and other writings of Michael Artzybachev done into English.

### War and Business

Of crucial interest to the American public is the ultimate effect of the European war on American business. Samuel Untermyer, the celebrated lawyer, will write of "Reasons and Remedies for our Business Troubles." Amos Stote will discuss "Our Foreign Commerce and its Needs."

### Fiction of Timely Import

A. H. Michelson will continue his series of intimate studies in fiction of life and character in the Walloon district of Belgium as he observed them while American Consular Agent at Charleroi.

Short stories by Walter Prichard Eaton and Burton Kline; serials by Mary Farley Sanborn and Hutchins Hapgood; articles on various vital subjects by Judge Edward Swann, John Macy, Monroe Woolley, and others; verse of special significance, and an abundance of illustrations will also be among the features of the

November Issue of THE TREND

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THE TREND—ADVERTISING SECTION

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## INSTITUT TISNÉ

### School for Girls

533 West End Avenue, New York

MADAME HENRIETTE TISNÉ, Principal

Classes from Kindergarten to College Preparatory

The school is a day school, now in its 21st year. The Kindergarten is conducted entirely in French and NOT by the Montesori system.

The program of studies is arranged with the object of developing the pupil's ability to think.

IN ALSACE
(From a drawing by Georges Scott)

# THE TREND

Vol. VIII

OCTOBER, 1914.

No. 1

## The War: Its Causes and Meanings

BY ALLAN DAWSON

CONCERNING the war in Europe, it is necessary to discriminate between general, or fundamental, and special, or immediate, causes.

First, as to the fundamental causes from the German viewpoint, with an attempt to explain the mystery of why the Kaiser drew his sword.

### The Fear of Russia

The military aristocracy that controls Germany is possessed by an honest and genuine racial fear of Russia, a fear shared by the German masses. The Slavs, hitherto a backward and inert people, number 150,000,000, while the Germans number but 75,000,000. Of the Slavs, 30,000,000 in Germany and Austria are under Teuton domination. To Berlin and Vienna it has been a nightmare thought that sooner or later the main body of the Slavs in Russia would make a westward thrust for the liberation of their western cousins. The results of the Balkan war, intensifying Slav consciousness and stimulating Slav pride, greatly increased German apprehension. The stirred Slav world proclaimed the arrival of a new era, that no longer was the Slav to be an underling. The turning back of Russia in the Far East, where for a generation her expansive force had spent itself, added to the German sense of danger. The Teutonic world believed it faced the necessity of an early struggle

if it was to hold the frontier it had gained. German public opinion was thus ready to credit reports concerning Russian aggressive designs and was indisposed to accept Russia's pacific explanation of her mobilization. The German people, so far as Russia is concerned, are persuaded they are fighting in this war for the preservation of their culture and the protection of their future.

### Hostility Toward Great Britain

Toward Great Britain suspicion and hostility developed as a consequence of commercial rivalry and a national desire for a colonial expansion that Great Britain has thwarted. Germans assume that Great Britain, jealous of Germany's commercial and industrial progress, has displayed a mean spirit. That the charge is essentially false is sufficiently shown by the fact that whereas German goods and ships have access on equal terms to British markets and ports, Germany has not granted similar privileges to British commerce. But refusing to recognize that Great Britain's policy was more liberal and tolerant than their own, Germans of the present generation have seen in Great Britain a cunning and implacable commercial enemy.

As to colonies, the German case is stronger. Indubitably the British government has steadily labored to stop Germany's territorial expansion. Fear-

THE TREND

24

— almost continuously — but no news came to us. For seven days we did not pass a ship, and I remembered what Isadore Braggiotti had said in Florence a night or two before we left, that the sea was again open to pirates. We were entirely out of communication with anyone for days, and any rakish Chinese craft might have borne down on us. Some youngsters with a limited sense of humor typed a wireless notice to the effect that America had gone to war with Japan, and that caused some discussion for a day or so before the hoax was discovered. Fire and pirates and a thirty years' war were my themes, but there were, of course, more intimate conversations on board. The life-boats offered an exceptional opportunity to lovers during the brilliant moonlight nights that persisted during the middle of the voyage.

We took on a pilot at four o'clock in the morning of September 3. I still remember my start of surprise as he climbed on board over the port side and

began speaking English. He was rowed to our ship by two sailors, and after the boat had been roundly cheered they were asked the first question, "What's the score?"

Altogether a rousing voyage, calculated to make one realize the meaning of war and war times, and to stimulate a feeling that if rich and poor live alike in times of war, all the more they should do so in times of peace. As for the steamship lines that have taken advantage of the crisis to charge absurd prices for inadequate accommodations, their fate will be dealt out later when the wars have ended—if that time ever comes. Neith Hapgood, inspired by Mrs. Seymour's casual reference to the "Doxology," began a poem, the first line of which read, "Praise Peirce from whom all blessings flow—." Perhaps she has finished it by now. It is sure to contain a thrill or two. May I end by recommending Mrs. Hapgood as the most delightful boat companion of my, to be sure, limited experience.

# Some Essays at Criticism

I

THE EARLY—AND THE LATER!—CLAY

BY EDNA KENTON

DABBLERS in belles-lettres are constantly asserting these days, even to the small but earnest group of critical authorities on "The Author of *Dora Thorne, A Broken Wedding Ring, Thorns and Orange Blossoms, Between Two Sins, and The Earl's Atonement*," that Clayiana is not a thing of the past, but of the immediate present. They speak with pat casuality of the fact that no complete, authoritative edition of this mistress of English style is on the market. They point in triumph to the brass memorial plate in an English church, inscribed "To the memory of Charlotte M. Braeme, Author of 'Dora Thorne' and Many Other Novels," and to her tombstone-"Died, Nov. 25, 1884," as proof that Braeme and Clay are two, and that Braeme is the impostor. For they gloatingly declare—and prove— that every few weeks a new volume signed by Bertha M. Clay is born of some ever-pregnant press: "Bertha M. Clay, Author of *Dora Thorne, A Broken Wedding Ring*, etc."

Now, all this, to the scholarly critic of Clay and Clayiana, is merely the tittle-tattle of amateur skimmers of literary milkpanks, who bring up more blue milk than cream. It is the chit-chat of dilletantes who have been always the bane of sober research. That in England Braeme lived and wrote imperishably and in 1884 died, is simple, undressed fact; that in America a pirating firm, reversing initials, brought out the Braeme masterpieces under the pseudonym of B. M. Clay, is also fact; that the Braeme output ceased in 1884, is fact; that the Bertha M. Clay novels continued unabated in America, is fact—plus fiction!

For no less promptly than the Jamesian knows his James, early and late, does the Braemeian know the early and the later Clay. Literary method, the knitting of texture firm as well as dense, in-

dividuality of attack, strengthful handling of passionate situation, pertinent mannerism may not be hid; and, unlike Henry James—who has changed early and late, Braeme-Clay, from the beginning to the end of her period, never changed. It may be stated here without further attempt at concealment that the purport of this critical study in Clayiana is to establish so firmly the earmarks of the early Clay as to make the "later" Clay known for what it is: merely a young man—many of him!—sitting in some publisher's lair, at a brief weekly wage, continually pasting page after page from two uncopyrighted English tales, combining in his own wild, untutored way, two plots, two sets of names, and three literary styles—if one calls style the young man's verbal straps and bandages that tie together the broken bones of the two skeleton plots! This and this only is the "later" Clay: a hash of two mangled, hunted-down, shot-to-pieces, English novels, manhandled in the death-throes by a strong-wristed brute, and cooked up in an attempted witches' broth that doesn't make the two one flesh. Enough, this, of superficially conflicting evidence to confuse the fledgling critic, but the cure is sure; research at the source! Let him confine himself for a space to the undisputed first period of Braeme—later born Clay!—and, in *Dora Thorne, A Broken Wedding Ring, Thorns and Orange Blossoms, The Heirress of Hilldrop, Lord Lisle's Daughter, Sunshine and Roses*, and other chef d'œuvres of this indubitable first period, become so saturated with the Braeme-Clay richnesses of adjectivity, tensions and delicacies, sartorial bravura, passions and jealousies, flowers, sunsets, and moonshine as to be rendered immune to imitations either subtle or crude.

As, for instance, the simple matter of names. In choice of these real Clay

25

Just Lately Drummer Boy

BY DJUNA CHAPPELL BARNES

His face is set with parapet
Of tears that come too soon.

He has no drum, and so he plays
Upon a pallid moon.

There is no music in his heart
Yet he makes a little tune.

The soldiers walk, the soldiers stalk
Like terrible gray wheat.

And as they walk they make no sound,
They move on phantom feet.

Incomplete their vestments are
Their mission incomplete.

And so they pass, dim in the grass
Outcome of shot and shell.

He has no music in his heart
And yet he plays quite well.

Perhaps his music-master is
Just lately—Israel.

32

The War and the Market

BY FRANKLIN ESCHER.

IN the United States to-day mobilization is in full swing. It is not a mobilization of men and arms, of cavalry and death-dealing artillery. It is a mobilization of the country's financial resources to meet the coming invasion of American securities. And disastrous, indeed, will be the consequences if, on the part of the great army of American investors, there is any hesitation, any failure to man the defences and keep them manned until the last of the invaders shall have been taken care of.

For a clear understanding of what the struggle abroad means to the American securities markets, it is necessary to bear in mind that, to a great extent, even in these days of vaunted American financial supremacy, American industry is financed largely with foreign capital. The street railway in the Middle Western town that wants to extend its lines to a nearby city, the railway in the Northwest that is trying to push its way to an outlet on the Coast—in no case would the bankers handling the bonds sold to raise the money think of touching them without first having carefully figured out the possibilities of their being marketed abroad. And what is true of the Middle Western street railway and the Northwestern transcontinental is just as true of the great industrial combination or the municipality that needs money. Europe for the past half century has been, and to a great extent still is, the United States' banker. Infinitely greater than is generally appreciated is the total of American stocks and bonds held in Europe. Six billions of dollars is a conservative estimate of the amount.

What will be the effect of the war on these great holdings of our stocks and bonds?—that, of course, is the point of vital interest. If, following the close of hostilities, Europe is to sell in this market any considerable percentage of the American securities she holds, there can

only be one result—lower prices. Assuming that the liquidation runs to only ten per cent. it would mean that we would be called upon to take back $600,000,000 of our securities. Making the fullest allowance for the absorptive power of the country, that, it is evident, would tax to the utmost our financial strength.

But before jumping to the conclusion that as a result of the war now ravaging Europe a great part of the American securities owned abroad must necessarily be pressed for sale on this market at the first opportunity, it is well to do a little analyzing of the foreign investment in our shares and bonds. In the first place, of the six billion dollars' worth of securities so held, by far the greater part are owned in Great Britain. Furthermore, of the American stocks and bonds held on the Continent, a very large proportion are owned in Holland and Switzerland, two neutral countries. France, it is true, is interested in "Yankees" to some extent but only as the great French investment institutions have taken blocks of bonds of prominent American railroads and placed them with their clientèle. Germany, with the exception of some little interest in the shares of the Canadian Pacific, the Baltimore and Ohio and one or two other cis-Atlantic railroads, has very little stake in the American market. Effort enough to popularize the American share and bond in Germany has been made, but extremely meagre have been the results obtained. Germany, like the United States, is an industrial nation, with plenty of opportunity for using capital within her own borders and without sending it afield. Then, also, to every effort made to interest the German investor in our shares there has been interposed strong governmental influence, if not downright objection. But a very small proportion of the American securities held on the Con-

33

THE TREND

36

a wholesale displacement of capital, with consequent liquidation of foreign-held American securities, it is plain that it is upon the market for stocks and not the market for bonds that the brunt of the selling will fall. Nor is there the slightest use in deceiving ourselves as to the nature or extent of this coming liquidation. The great bulk of American stocks held abroad, it is true, as in the case of bonds, are owned in England, and, of the shares held on the Continent a very substantial proportion are located in Switzerland and Holland. Nevertheless, the total of American stocks owned in Germany, and France, while inconsiderable compared to the amount owned elsewhere in Europe, is an item of no mean proportions. That was proved very clearly during the closing days of July, before England became involved in the war and while the New York Stock Exchange still remained open. Of the selling orders in American stocks cabled from the other side at that time and the volume of which had no little influence toward deciding the governors of the Exchange to shut up shop, by far the greater part came not from England but from the Continent. Germany and France together do not own, probably, one-fifth as many American stocks as England owns, yet so great are the totals involved that if only a part of what Germany and France own together had to be sold here on short notice, the effect on prices would be disastrous.

Realization of that fact was primarily what was responsible for the prompt action on the part of the governors of the New York Stock Exchange in closing down. On the night of the 30th of July comparisons were made between some of the big houses, and a volume of selling orders, originating from the Continent, was disclosed, which would most certainly have caused a panic the next morning had the attempt been made to execute them. It was not because of fear of selling originating on this side of the water that the Stock Exchange was closed. That took place for one reason and for one reason only—namely, that there developed such pressure from Germany and France to sell holdings of

American stocks that any attempt to execute the orders would only have resulted in such conditions as would have rendered their execution, at anything like reasonable prices, out of the question.

The Exchange closed down, and for the time being the flood of foreign selling has been checked. But what of the future? To close the market and refuse to buy back this mass of foreign-held American stocks is all very well, but a temporary expedient at best. What of the time when the Stock Exchange is reopened? Must we count then, on buying back all these stocks that the foreigners wanted to sell at the beginning, and perhaps more besides?

It is no time for evasion, for glossing over a truth only too painfully apparent. Of Europe's great holdings of American stocks a large proportion must be sold—not sold at the "first favorable opportunity" but at the first opportunity of any sort and at whatever price possible. Entirely aside from the "fixed" investment of foreign capital in our shares, several hundreds of millions of dollars' worth of American stocks are speculatively held in various parts of the European continent. With most of these stocks it is not a case of what the holder wants to do. It is simply a case of what the bank which has advanced the money on which the shares are being "carried," wants to see done. That means, in the great majority of instances, peremptory closing out of the account.

And this is only the first line of attack. Along with the throwing on this market of great blocks of stock representing the closing out of speculative accounts, there is bound to come heavy and continuous liquidation of American shares which foreign investors find it necessary to sell. Germany and France, it is perfectly apparent, whatever the outcome of the war, are going to need every dollar of available capital for reconstruction, beside which there will be great war loans to be floated and indemnities to be paid. Such need for cash can only result in the liquidation of practically everything that can be liquidated. Let the New York Stock Exchange be opened to trading and at once this liquidation will be begun.

THE WAR AND THE MARKET

37

Will it be an orderly liquidation, conducted with a view to getting the best prices possible and to avoid sacrificing securities? Possibly, after a while, but hardly at the beginning. Foreign holders of our stocks, it is true, will have had an opportunity for sober reflection since they rushed into the market during the closing days of July and tried to sell their securities all at once, but what has happened since then, unfortunately, has hardly been of a character to reassure them or to convince them that they were wrong in wanting to sell. Were the New York Stock Exchange to be opened tomorrow morning the chances are that the selling orders from abroad which would have to be taken care of would be several times as great as were the selling orders which resulted in the closing down of the Exchange.

What is the answer? Simply that in order to avoid disaster the great army of American investors must be mobilized to meet the inevitable inrush of American securities. Mobilized? Yes, educated up to the fact, en masse, the

European investors' dire necessity is the American investor's golden opportunity. There is nothing the matter with these securities that Europe is trying to sell. It is not because of any loss of faith in them that the foreign holders want to let them go. It is simply a case of their having to let them go—and at the buyers' price.

Is the investment strength of the country great enough to withstand the coming rush, to absorb the flood of securities certain to be thrown into the market? There exists every reason to believe that it is. For several years past the output of new securities has been far below normal and capital has been given a chance to accumulate. Recession in prices at the first onslaught—that is inevitable. But after that, a straightening out of defences all along the line, an appreciation of the fact that if the defenders stand up and do their part gain and not loss must inevitably result, rally and finally recovery—that is only what may be reasonably expected.

54

THE TREND

PARIS POLICE CAPTAIN

commanded by the Prefect of Police. M. Hennion, appointed by the Minister of the Interior. Every member of the force is armed with a bayonet, a whistle with which they sound "Advance" and "Retreat," an automatic pistol, and a

leather box filled with bullets. The Paris policeman is literally a walking arsenal.

During war-time the Paris policeman is always on duty. On finishing his tour he returns to his station and catches whatever rest he can; but he must be ready to answer a hurry call in case of riot on the public highway. In time of peace he is permitted to go to his home on finishing his tour, and as the Parisians are the most industrious people in the world, he generally works at some trade in order to make extra money. As soon as he doffs his uniform at home in the evening, if he has been on day duty, he works until bedtime at one of the thousand little trades of Paris. Shoemaking and mending is a favorite. There are also watch repairers; makers of steel chains; "chimney doctors," who repair brick chimneys; chair caners; cabinet makers; opera-glass makers, etc. Several hundred of the force make picture frames. There is the story of one who, when his wife, a dressmaker, became an invalid, learned how to run the sewing machine, and after his police work was done would sit down at the machine and sew together the garments his wife had cut out during the day. One policeman who makes tooth brushes is said to earn $6 a week at that trade. The policemen of Paris are, judged by New York standards, very poorly paid, which is one of the reasons why in their spare time they work at various trades.

The Paris police are organized on an entirely different basis from the New York police. The Paris police are divided into two large, separate departments, the uniformed division and the division of detectives. Each is entirely apart from the other.

The detective force of Paris is regarded as one of the best of its kind in the world. The detective force, as we understand the word, is the *Service de la Sureté*, which consists entirely of plain-clothes men whose duties are confined to the repression of crime and the detection and arrest of criminals. It is made up exclusively of ex-soldiers of proved character.

The uniformed branch of the service, or plain "cops," of Paris, patrol the

55

POLICE SURVEILLANCE IN PARIS

near the Cité de la Fédération, CYCLE SQUAD OF THE REPUBLICAN GUARD

they were. Then the maire sounded quicker as her mistress rode away.

Leverfield was not sufficiently familiar with the habits of his employer to conjecture what this proceeding meant, but when the hour for the morning meal was somewhat past, and there was no sign of her return, he ventured to assume that she had made provision for him in her absence, and that he would find something awaiting him in the way of breakfast.

He was not wrong in the surmise. The kitchen door was ajar, and entering he discovered that the table had been laid with the necessary dishes, his knife, fork, spoon, tumbler and napkin, besides a plate of biscuit covered with a doley.

A coal fire was burning evenly, and the frying pan with some partly melted bacon fat needed only to be drawn forward over the heat for a few moments to be ready for the cooking of his eggs. A portion of coffee had been measured into the pot, and the kettle simmered gently at the back of the stove.

on "mussiers," and four regiments of drawn兵, Cultivating wicked men. The question in the absence of Primrosel but he had noticed the day before that the patch of corn needed hoeing, and that there were tall weeds in among the tomatoes. He found plenty to occupy his time during the morning hours.

After working most of the forenoon, he began to be aware of a nervous fatigue, one of the symptoms of which was a lively sense of hunger. He had not yet become toughened to the exigencies of manual labor, and the measure of his work was usually the measure of his desire for food. His system, possessing no reserve forces laid up in muscle and sinew, demanded frequent replenishing for its waste.

He looked at his watch, and as it lacked but a few minutes of twelve, he threw aside his hoe and walked down between the thick rows of tomato plants, shaking out the pungent odor of the leaves as he brushed against them. The question at present uppermost in his mind was, would there be any dinner?

57

THE TREND

56

lice force of Paris are picturesque and
in good taste.

Heads of the police force of Paris al-
ways lead in person assaults on crim-
inals. Often they are killed, there being
still fresh in the public mind the murder
of Assistant Commissioner of Detectives
Jouin and Chief Inspector Colmard by
the motor bandits. A brigade chief,
Fleury, was decorated with the Legion
of Honor for being wounded by the ban-
dits, while only recently Commissioner
Blot was killed while searching a house.
There are no more desperate criminals
in the world than in Paris, and to cope
with them, high standards of honor and
courage are required in the police.

As soon as an important criminal is

arrested, which arrest takes place at the
instance and by the warrant of an exam-
ining magistrate, or Juge d'Instruction,
placed since the detection of crime in
charge of "the affair," he is thrust into
a cab or motor-cab between two detec-
tives and taken to the dépôt, or central
police station. He is not handcuffed,
handcuffs being unknown in France, but
each of the detectives passes around one
wrist a knotted cord. At each end of
this cord is a little wooden bar, which
the detective holds in his hand, and by
means of which, through a sudden twist,
he can instantly tighten the cord. The
pain thus inflicted on the prisoner is so
intense that it invariably quells any at-
tempt at revolt.

PARIS POLICE CAPTAIN

The police after his police work was
done would sit down at the machine and
sew together the garments his wife had
cut out during the day. One policeman
who makes tooth brushes is said to earn
$6 a week at that trade. The policemen
of Paris are, judged by New York
standards, very poorly paid, which is one
of the reasons why in their spare time
they work at various trades.

The Paris police are organized on an
entirely different basis from the New
York police. The Paris police are di-
vided into two large, separate depart-
ments, the uniformed division and the
division of detectives. Each is entirely
apart from the other.

The detective force of Paris is re-
garded as one of the best of its kind in
the world. The detective force, as we
understand the word, is the Service de
la Sureté, which consists entirely of
plain-clothes men whose duties are con-
fined to the repression of crime and the
detection and arrest of criminals. It is
made up exclusively of ex-soldiers of
proved character.

The Valor Ranch

BY MARY FARLEY SANBORN

CHAPTER IV.

N
EXT morning he was awakened
rather early by sounds outside
his tent which were unusual at
that hour. They were the foot-
falls of a horse, and the tones of a low
but authoritative voice addressing itself
to the dogs and bidding them be quiet.

Raising himself on his elbow, he ob-
served that Joy's place on the sacking
was vacant, and then he caught a glimpse
below the tent flap of Lisle Valor's
brown riding-skirt—the one she wore
about her work on the ranch—and her
high canvas boots. She was leading the
buckskin, whom he judged she had sad-
dled, and when she had mounted he
heard her speak again sharply to the
dogs, commanding them to stay where
they were. Then the mare's footfalls
sounded quicker as her mistress rode
away.

Leverfield was not sufficiently familiar
with the habits of his employer to con-
jecture what this proceeding meant, but
when the hour for the morning meal was
somewhat past, and there was no sign
of her return, he ventured to assume
that she had made provision for him in
her absence, and that he would find some-
thing awaiting him in the way of break-
fast.

He was not wrong in the surmise.
The kitchen door was ajar, and entering
he discovered that the table had been
laid with the necessary dishes, his knife,
fork, spoon, tumbler and napkin, be-
sides a plate of biscuit covered with a
doyley.

A coal fire was burning evenly, and the
frying pan with some partly melted ba-
con fat needed only to be drawn for-
ward over the heat for a few moments
to be ready for the cooking of his eggs.
A portion of coffee had been measured
into the pot, and the kettle simmered
gently at the back of the stove.

Leverfield had no difficulty in prepar-
ing an eatable breakfast, which he ate,
however, with a lack of relish partly due
to the fact that his hand had caused him
a rather wakeful night.

Moreover, an oppressive silence hung
over the place. The dogs shared his con-
sciousness of this, as they are apt to
share all the simpler human emotions.
They sat and watched him wistfully,
their eyes expressing commiseration
while assuring him also that he could
claim no monopoly of bereavement.

They broke into manifestations of joy-
ful relief when he had finished eating,
and all three emerged into the sunshine.

The pain in Leverfield's hand had
grown quieter towards morning, but he
had deemed it wise not to disturb the
dressing. He poured some fresh arnica
on the outside of the bandage, and set
about his work. Cultivating was out of
the question in the absence of Primrose,
but he had noticed the day before that
the patch of corn needed hoeing, and
that there were tall weeds in among the
tomatoes. He found plenty to occupy
his time during the morning hours.

After working most of the forenoon,
he began to be aware of a nervous fa-
tigue, one of the symptoms of which was
a lively sense of hunger. He had not
yet become toughened to the exigencies
of manual labor, and the measure of his
work was usually the measure of his de-
sire for food. His system, possessing
no reserve forces laid up in muscle and
sinew, demanded frequent replenishing
for its waste.

57

THE TREND

62

ish! He felt that if there was any smell on earth that he hated more than another, it was that of straw matting. Respectability had no more insipid medium through which to utter itself.

He flung out of the room, causing the door to shut behind him with a conclusion that seemed to shake the silent house from end to end. Halfway across the living-room he went back and set it ajar again. The effect of this pacific act was to erect a buffer before his fury; he saw himself an ineffectual being, devoid of force. His quest had profited him nothing; the inference was that he had been essentially too weak to prevail. If he had ever appeared strong in his own eyes, it had been because the obstacles which offered resistance had been even weaker than himself.

The little clock in the kitchen ticked airily as he passed through: "How-wise-we-are! how-wise-we-are!" Its hands, pointing at ten minutes of two, might have been fancied as raising themselves in derisive admiration. "Oh-dreary-me-how-much-we-know, how-much-we-know, how-much-we-know!"

Leverfield stepped out into the sunlight, and the dogs leaped upon him.

## CHAPTER V.

It was dusk when she returned. He had been wandering about the place in a fever of unrest, Trump and Joy at his heels. They were the first to detect her approach, and following their flying shapes down the lane with his eyes, he saw the white-barred gate rise in the air. It was one of those mechanical contrivances which work by pulleys, and can be operated by the rider without descending from his place, merely by drawing at a rope which dangles from a bar overhead.

The gate poised itself aloft for a moment, then descended and she came riding slowly up the lane.

He went toward her, and as she drew so near that he could see her face, he was conscious of a great longing to put up his arms and take her bodily down. But

she was off on the other side before he could reach her. She did not speak, but passed him and entered the house without turning her head.

Leverfield led the buckskin away. She sighed heavily when he took off her sadle and let her into the stall. Her skin was wet, and she was coated with dust.

"Poor little lady!" he said, stroking her with a commiserating touch that was as much for her mistress as for herself. He rubbed her down, watered her judiciously, and supplied her with a moderate amount of hay and oats. That done, he closed the barn, and without thinking or caring where he went, only feeling a desperate desire to get away from the house and its neighborhood, he strode off, down across an adjoining orchard, and crawling under a barbed-wire fence, somewhat to the detriment of his clothes. He jumped one or two ditches, and presently gained the road.

He was fleeing from something, he hardly knew what—himself, very likely—and he felt that it was useless to question the turmoil within. The superabundant energy which had accumulated under the excessive restraints of the past few weeks, was probably one explanation of his restlessness. This new life afforded no outlet except that of manual labor, and the work today had not wearied him sufficiently. He felt as if he would like to spend his strength upon the uprooting of trees, rather than upon their cultivation.

He had been stricken with pity for this girl who was strong enough to do without it, and a man of Leverfield's type knows hardly more the uses of pity than of an embroidery frame. Hang it all. What was he to do with this pain and longing? What the devil did he want?

The girl had ridden all day, perhaps if the buckskin was tired and choked with dust, so also was her mistress, and the purpose of the ride had not been accomplished—of that he felt convinced. Lisle Valor's manner of taking her suffering, whatever it might be, was of the sort to stir in him the very depths of certain emotions, which if they had ever

before been moved at all, had lain dormant now for many years. She met the thing with her head up. She must have engaged in many hand-to-hand encounters before she had acquired that splendid power of endurance. He thrilled with admiration for it.

But it was like seeing a strong animal suffer in dumb distress. It was all in her eyes; not a line showed in her face.

"Is it that damned Cecil?" Leverfield inquired of the night.

There was no reply from the heavens or the breathing earth. Nature wore an air of singular indifference, one altogether out of sympathy with his futile passion, which was forced to expend itself in an extensive though unavailing wish to find the missing Cecil and punch his head.

Nor did this hostile intention strike any responsive note in the outer world. The peaceful orchards of the Salvia Valley stretched on either side of him in long, shadowy arches that diminished in perspective until they were lost in gloom. Over beyond them, at his right, the low, wave-like lines of the foothills, fluid in their swell and dip, were velvety dark against the evening sky. The stars hardly winked; they watched him with sleepy eyes, by no means curious as to what he would make of his unclassified emotions.

A wagon approached, and Leverfield stepped back out of the thickest of the dust until it had gone by. As he waited; his ear caught the faint twang of a banjo somewhere not very far off, a little way beyond the nearest orchard, he judged, in the direction of the foothills. There were voices attempting to sing the music, the result being a horrible dissonance which came to an end in a peal of foolish laughter. The sounds were inexpressibly silly and empty. He had heard such sounds before, and the memory made him wince with a sensitive disgust.

He continued his walk with his head bent and his hands in the pockets of his coat.

But even so slight an interruption may be sufficient to change the current of

one's thoughts, and that intrusion of riotous mirth, blended of men's and women's voices, had driven his finer meditations far afield. He tried to recall his mood, but without success.

A few paces farther on he came to a cross road, hardly more than a lane, into which he turned at random. But he had not followed it more than a few paces before the babel of voices growing more audible with every step, told him that his present direction was leading straight toward the abode of evil cheer from whence the sounds of revelry had proceeded. The notes of the banjo were twanging more and more distinctly, and a man's voice was singing to it with no regard for the proper pitch. Vile! Why should have he stumbled upon such a place tonight, of all times?

The song and laughter died into silence as he walked away. Elsewhere the night was quiet. He could smell the bruised sage-brush as he trod it under foot, a good clean, pungent, decent smell. He inhaled deep breaths of it and felt its cleansing virtues.

The only voice that broke the stillness as he retraced his steps down the lane was the barking of a dog somewhere in the distance; he was a little startled, therefore, when at the junction of the lane and the road he suddenly encountered two figures linked together, those of a man and a woman. They passed him silently, like creatures of the night moving under cover of the darkness, the woman—she was no more than a girl apparently—shrinking away from him against the side of her companion.

But she was unable to deny herself a covert side glance, inquiring, familiar, and with a hint of invitation in it. He recognised its quality and sneered as openly as it was possible to do in the dusk.

The pair went on, and behind his back he heard the girl give a suppressed giggle. He noted, also the trail of an over-sweet odor in the air, that of a cheap perfume which one has learned to associate with physical and moral uncleanliness.

THE VALOR RANCH

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chairs, the clattering of dishes and of
tongues. Whatever her spirits might be
when she was alone, Lisle Valor did not
suffer her gayety to be tempered on these
occasions. She was always a whole-
hearted participant in the fun. Hearing
the music of her laughter from the tent,
Leverfield was moved to wish with ut-
most longing that he might have a
glimpse of her face when it was alight
with hospitality and the joys of com-
panionship.

He became familiar with many of the Christian names of the young people from hearing them called back and forth while everybody, guests as well as hostess, was engaged in preparing the meal. Supper would be late, and his own was, accordingly, served a little earlier than usual. The parties also broke up at a comparatively early hour, many of the visitors having several miles to ride before reaching home.

*(To be continued)*

But though she appeared to engage
heartily in these festivities, Lisle never
seemed to her present acute observer
so much what he conceived to be her real
self as when she sat with her chin in her
hand looking off into the gently sloping
valley with her eyes brooding on the blue
distances. She might at those times be
thinking of Cecil, either as husband or
as brother, but she looked like a girl, vir-
ginal, cool of blood, and altogether un-
conscious of any of the problems that
arise from consideration of sex.

She received detached callers, also,
men as well as girls. One of these was
the man she had spoken to in the street
on the day when Leverfield had engaged
himself to work for her. She addressed
this person as Mr. Jansen, and Leverfield
learned from bits of conversation let fall
in his hearing, that Mr. Jansen was a
prosperous banker and a widower of not
inconsolable degree.

The Night of Ariadne

BY WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG

She waited in a grotto by the sea
The vital visit of the Minotaur
Untouched. The night had grown oracular
With tongues of licking heat that were not he--
She knew not how she knew, reluctantly.
The entrance of the grotto was a scar
Of heaven, and in it lengthened, star by star,
Stalactites to her credulous chastity.

Heavy the darkness that she lay beneath;
The tide was swelling; and a rosy wreath
She vowed to an old pagan monolith,
Her god, if it would raise against the myth
A man. And in a dream she seemed to sheath
The dripping blade that he would enter with

67

MLLE. POLAIRE.

68

# Some Glimpses at the European Stage

BY CARL VAN VECHTEN.

AS I sit under the oleanders and the gardenias in an old Italian garden it is very difficult to evoke memories of stuffy theatres, to discuss their ins and outs, their entrances and their exits. Across the mountains comes the solemn tolling of the monastery bells, the peasants are at work in the valley below, the lo-custs are singing. Over all shines the bright Italian sun which cuts all ob-jects, even at a great distance, with such precision that they are seen with great clearness.

What news is brought up to the villa by the good Margherita's husband concerns itself with the war and the conversation in the villa has half the jesting quality that must have made those last days in the Tuilleries less insufferable. But there is danger lurking, even in Italy. Jaurès has been assassinated. Paris — from afar — seems to be in the wildest state of confusion. To protect its coasts from the Germans, England has extinguished its light-house fires. Mobilization of troops is taking place in even the minor European countries.

Under these circumstances it is difficult to concentrate upon the theatre. But by the time these lines reach THE TREND readers there may no longer be war or rumors of war. At any rate, America will not feel its sting and theatrical enterprises will probably continue to go on there in the future as they have in the past.

With some little difficulty,—the lo-custs interrupt so often—I fancy myself again in London and Paris attending the theatre. Playbills and photographs laid out before me do much in the way of repainting the picture.

GLADYS COOPER—APPEARING IN LONDON IN "MY LADY'S DRESS."

With scarcely any effort, for instance, I can bring up the remembrance of Mlle. Polaire as she appeared in "La Sauvageonne." In this play the author, whose name I have forgotten, treats a threadbare theme in a ratlier new way. How many times have we been regaled—in the theatre—with the story of a young lady—or a mere miss—falling in love with her more or less elderly guardian. It is the theme of "Twelfth Night"; it is the theme of "Mice and

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GERTIE MILLAR IN "THE MARRIAGE MARKET," AT DALY'S, IN LONDON.

Men", of "Eliza Comes to Stay"; of "Mademoiselle Josette, Ma Femme", and perhaps half a hundred other French comedies. John Drew appears in a piece of this sort almost every year. Bernard Shaw's "Pygmalion" is an offshoot of the idea.

In "La Sauvageonne" there is this difference, the ward thinks that her guardian is her own father. Neverthe- less, she proceeds to fall in love with him and tells him so in an extraordi- nary scene which ends in his packing her out of the room in horror. The next act, however, discloses the truth of the matter and, of course, the guar- dian marries his ward in regular John Drew fashion.

The piece is not of any importance, but it gave Polaire a beau rôle. She had a quality which the French de- scribe as beaucoup de fantasie. The

phrase is illuminating enough. The wild young girl of sixteen she de- picted with sincerity, imagination and a certain sweetness. She read the long speech, in which the girl declares her love for her supposed father, with va- riety and passion. Laying aside the question of its content a speech of this length would not be tolerated in the American theatre. In the first place, our actors would not know what to do with it. But French actors rattle these speeches off with great facility— and Polaire was astonishing in her swift flight towards the end of it.

In speaking of this play I cannot re- sist a word in regard to the staging. In an effort to escape from the mo- notony which has resulted in the fur- nishing of houses in French theatres for several decades in either the style of one of the Louis' or else in Em- pire, the French have invented a new style of furnishing—something com- bining the worst traits of German art nouveau with the most hideous fea- tures of a certain type of modern Eng- lish furniture. The new style will un- doubtedly be known as the style Poin- caré in times to come. The staging of "La Sauvageonne" was entirely based on this misconception of what house furnishing should be like.

I missed a merry farce at the Palais Royal because the jubilant Armande Cassive had retired from the cast. At the Grand Guignol the summer bill in- cluded a list of plays which have made successes there in past summers. The very loosely constructed horror on the Titanic disaster furnished the chief and not very sincere thrill of the evening.

"Macbeth" at the Comédie Française in Richepin's new version deserves an article by itself, which I hope my col- league, Pitts Sanborn, will offer THE TREND readers in due course of time. Suffice it to say that the celebrated Mounet-Sully appeared in the wholly inconsequential part of Duncan. The full strength of the company was drawn upon. Madame Bartet, of course, was the Lady Macbeth. An impression

of definite horror permeated the salle during the performance.

At the Gymnase "Mon Bébé", a French arrangement of Margaret Mayo's "Baby Mine", with the well- beloved Max Dearly as principal pro- tagonist, had run well into its second hundred performance in July, an un- usual fate for an American play in Paris.

In London nowadays one cannot escape the photographs of Gladys Cooper. There is always a favorite beauty in London, and she is photo- graphed and postcarded until one would imagine that the English would be tired of her forever. Edna May went through such a period. So did Lily Elsie. Now it is the turn of Gladys Cooper, who looks a little like our own Muriel Starr. One sees pho- tographs of her in all the shops where such things are displayed, and there are ten of Gladys Cooper for each one of a lesser favorite. She is seen photographed with her husband, with her child, in countless poses, with wa- ter lilies, with roses, in costume, in street dress, in evening dress—one cannot conceive of a single incident of Miss Cooper's sartorial life that has not been caught on the negative. I de- cided not to go to see her. It would have been a pity to have an illusion spoiled. A wise prince lets the beauty sleep on. He satisfies himself with gazing upon her. Miss Cooper was appearing in "My Lady's Dress", written by Edward Knoblauch. The piece has been one of the successes of the London season and will be seen in New York. Miss Cooper's photo- graph will appear with this article— and as she is not likely to come to America herself one should gaze at length.

Bernard Shaw's "Pygmalion", which we saw last winter in New York in German, was produced in London by Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, who ap- peared as Professor Higgins. Why he should have done so I do not know. It is not an especially good part at

best and he did not do it particularly well. Professor Higgins is continu- ously on the stage, to be sure, but his only service to the play is to give Eliza Doolittle, the flower girl, a chance to get laughs. Actors would call the part a "feeder." Sir Herbert, to my mind, would have been infinitely more at home as the father of Eliza, who deli- ciously protests against middle-class morality.

A few months ago I outlined the story of the play in these columns. It does not seem necessary to do that again. But there are a few points which remain open for discussion.

The greatest laugh in the piece in London comes when Mrs. Campbell as Eliza emits the line:—

"Walk? Not bloody likely!"

Bloody is a word not used in polite

SOME GLIMPSES AT THE EUROPEAN STAGE

71

PHYLLIS NEILSON-TERRY, WHO APPEARED IN THE LONDON REVIVAL OF "AN IDEAL HUSBAND."

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72

MARIE LÖHR AND HOLMAN CLARK IN
"THE CLEVER ONES."

society in London, and this line always convulsed the audience for several minutes. But what can be substituted in New York? Bloody conveys nothing particularly offensive to an American mind. What word does?

Opinions differ about Mrs. Campbell's interpretation of Eliza. To me she gave a very good impression of the part. In the first act, as the Co-vent Garden flower girl, she was very effective; and in the third act, when Eliza has acquired a little English, and is forced as a consequence to speak very distinctly, she was screamingly funny. This whole act, to my mind, is the best in the piece. But Americans will soon have a chance to see this play in English, probably with Mrs. Campbell.

"Mr. Wu" is another very successful piece which has probably been produced in America before these lines can be printed. Comment upon its melodramatic

glamor may, therefore, be reserved for the American production. Gerald du Maurier and Marie Löhr have been appearing in a not very interesting piece called "The Clever Ones". "Grumpy" has been as great a success in London as it was in New York. "Potash and Perlmutter" has caused Londoners to writhe with laughter. Everywhere, in fact, in London, there were signs of New York to be seen. Sam Bernard appeared in "The Belle of Bond Street"; there was a revival of "The Belle of New York" at the Lyceum, due, no doubt, to the Salvation Army Congress around the corner on the Strand; Maugham's "The Land of Promise", written for and produced by Billie Burke in New York, was being played at the Duke of York's Theatre.

As for the Music Halls, Elsie Janis, Ethel Levey, Frank Tinney, Jack Norworth, Shirley Kellogg, Theodora Gerard, Norah Bayes, Maurice and Walton, simply made one believe that the English have no music hall stars of their own. Ethel Levey has been appearing twice daily at the London Hippodrome for so long that comment seems superfluous. But Elsie Janis was new to London this summer. She completely conquered the Palace public in the new revue, in which she danced, sang and gave some imitations.

The cleverest feature of the Palace Revue, however, was furnished by a man named Nelson Keys, hitherto quite unknown to me. Beginning with an impression of Robert Michaelis in "The Marriage Market", in which a nasal tenor voice was a principal feature, he passed on to Granville Barker and others, and finally in a burlesque of "Pygmalion", in which he received very able assistance from Arthur Playfair, he gave an extraordinary caricature of Mrs. Campbell. I do not know who Nelson Keys is, but I would say that he is the cleverest music hall artist I have ever seen in London.

It would seem as if the Oscar Wilde scandal had only just begun. Lord Alfred Douglas's very unpleasant book, "Oscar Wilde and Myself," has fanned

more flames into blazes than had burned for some time. Sir George Alexander made a superb revival of "An Ideal Husband" before the storm broke. The play was considered old-fashioned enough to need some revision and the faithful Robert Ross added telephones and automobiles; the actresses added modern dresses.

"An Ideal Husband" is not an ideal play. It is probably the worst play Wilde wrote. Its last act is almost impossibly mawkish. How it would fare less well presented I do not know. Never, however, I thought at the time, had I seen a play so carefully presented. The acting may be conscientiously described as superb.

Phyllis Neilson-Terry, the very young daughter of a very bad actress—Americans will remember Julia Neilson—appeared in the part originally played by her mother, Lady Chiltern. Miss Neilson-Terry is very young, but she is the amazon type, a great Greek figure of a

woman. The touches in her acting were very true. I have never seen intimate husband-and-wife conversations carried through with more skillful verisimilitude. It was here that she revealed herself une vraie artiste. But she was quite equal to the storm and stress scenes.

Then Henrietta Watson gave an excellent impression of the chatty Lady Markby. It is a question in my mind whether or not she has the best scene in the piece. Hilda Moore, a young actress of marked beauty and temperament, made a brilliant creature of Mrs. Cheveley, and Mrs. Cheveley must be made brilliant to exist at all—even as a stage figure.

It is impossible to particularize all the characters. The men were as excellent as the women. George Alexander appeared as the Viscount Goring, and Alfred Bishop, the only one of the original cast to appear in this revival, was simply épatant as the Earl of Caversham.

73

# The Blue Bowl

BY ALLEN NORTON

"WHEN I die—" he drawled for the thousandth time that afternoon, "I want to be buried in my Blue Bowl," by that meaning his ashes, of course. For the blue bowl was a small earthenware vessel, no more than a man's hand high, and only wide enough to accommodate a fraction of the delicate frame of Alonsius Richard Levarienne. It looked like a soup tureen, and stood right next to a gaudy green vase toward which the ceramist's wife cast many a wistful glance, and which might have served her capably as a coffee-pot. So thought the portly Anna, but she was discreet enough to keep her thoughts to herself.

Yes, Alonsius was a ceramist—also a poet, a philosopher and a crank. His poetry was not of a high sort, and his philosophy consisted mostly in a belief in cremation, and an absurd fear lest the bodies of the dead be allowed to usurp from the living the choicest plots of this earth. "Indeed," said he, "the rights of burial are superior to the rights of birth."

Moreover, he thought interment unhealthy, and had always ascribed the prevalence of smallpox among the French to the burial of Louis Fifteenth's contaminated body. "Cremation," he used to say, "will do more to prevent malady than all the vaccinations in the world." So much for his philosophy.

As a crank and a ceramist, however, Alonsius ranked supreme.

Whether he was a crank because he was a ceramist, or a ceramist because he was a crank, is hard to decide. But the fact remains that Alonsius had assembled the weirdest collection of antiquities on which any villager in any village of the globe had ever laid eyes. He had not excavated any of them, we must admit, and there were no Assyrian or costly Egyptian wares of an archaeological value in his list. For it is only the rich who can afford to dig.

Nor were there any extravagant Sevres effects, fashioned at the command of an Emperor Napoleon, or designed by such an artist as Isabey. The Renaissance he had completely overlooked, and the naked cherubs and nude women of Faenza were missing. So, too, were the Poesquegresques and arabesques, which had their origin in the workshops of Sienna. Likewise the saintly women of Gubbio, and the sad, sinning faces of Urbino's decadence. For all these things cost money.

Neither Böttger nor Ary de Milde would ever have chosen to spend a lifetime searching for the ingredients of his crude, red china, and old Francesco de Medici would surely have poisoned the one who sought to trace a resemblance between his and Alonsius' prized porcelain.

It is sincerely to be doubted if his oldest and most cherished ware had ever experienced the sensations of the potter's wheel, and the scrolls so indelibly marked on the back of his poor plates were for the most part counterfeit. The H on one of his adored cups, which he confidently ascribed to the Han dynasty, stood probably for Hoboken. The M. I. G. of another, surely signified Made in Germany, and the M. I. K. at the bottom of his beloved blue bowl, could only have been taken by the impartial observer to mean "More in the Kitchen."

Anna rather felt this way herself regarding the merits of that particular piece of crockery, but for the green vase she had a genuine feeling. However, it would hardly be fair to have blamed her for her point of view, as it must be admitted that to Anna, domestic, cowlike creature that she was, were revealed more of the virtues of a cauliflower than of ceramics. It was reported on the very best of authority that Alonsius had only married her in that she reassembled the figure on one of his clay urns, and as her figure had long since left her, Alonsius was left free to focus his un-

divided attention upon his treasures, and Anna to forget the past among her pots and pans. From her husband to religion, from religion to her husband, her poor thoughts ran, and in justice to both, it must be admitted that she understood next to nothing of either.

For his part, Alonsius never went to church. It was against his religion, he thought. He did not even say his prayers, and completely neglected to beat his wife, failure to do so being regarded as a supreme weakness in the community, and one which Anna, good woman that she was, could never entirely forgive.

"If he would just strike me once," she often said, "I would know that he had some of a husband's feeling, and would rest in peace." But the blow never came.

Instead, one fine morning arrived Alonsius' mother-in-law. She was just the ordinary mother-in-law, and though Alonsius maintained that when very, very young she had been allowed to go to church too often with the result that her reasoning was defective, he doubtless was prejudiced. As she was only coming to see her daughter, she had not seen fit to give any notice in advance, but she carried with her a bundle of pills and petticoats sufficient to keep her in health and happiness for a year to come.

It was a dark day for Alonsius. There was nothing in his horoscope forecasting such an event, nothing in his palm, he was sure. A passing peasant had read his fortune only the day previous and given him no clue. She had spoken of a fair, majestic person he was soon to meet, it is true, but Alonsius had rather associated this with a coveted bronze he was bargaining for in town, on which some such figure was crudely drawn. And the worst of it all was that he had even forgotten that Anna had a mother. He had forgotten it as completely as one forgets anything, or as Alonsius had forgotten the rules of Sunday or the Psalms. Nevertheless, a mother Anna assuredly had, and she tramped about the house all of one day as ubiquitously as if she were at home.

For her part, Anna was only smiles.

## THE BLUE BOWL

"To think," she said to Alonsius, "to think that my mother should be so sure of a home that she did not even tell us about it in advance. It is one of the greatest compliments in my life, and I think, Alonsius, it must even be one of the greatest compliments in yours!"

Alonsius said nothing but only gazed more fixedly into the depths of his blue bowl.

Still he tried to be brave. He tried even to be happy and gay, and drawled out desperately his old familiar tune. But it did small good. He sat down, and rubbing the cool, deliciously inanimate body of the blue bowl against his cheek, proceeded to tell over again the marvelous story of its past. "It is perfect in color and design," he said. "It belonged undoubtedly to the XIII dynasty, and cost me a pretty penny, too. Ah! these lotus leaves! they are like hearts of pearl. These palms—they are perfumed thoughts! And even these flying fishes have their seeming soul. And all as hard as stone—it is so old! I bought it from a bearded lady—an Assyrian; she would not tell her name—and when I die I want to be buried in my Blue Bowl—" and Alonsius sank off into a drowsy state from which even the voice of Anna's mother could not rouse him. Once only he stirred and that just long enough to repeat the now prophetic words, "When I die I want to be buried in my Blue Bowl."

"Alonsius!" said his good woman, "Alonsius!" But the collector of ceramics only gently shook his head.

Anna thought it was the weather, her mother feared it was some intemperate wine, and the doctor came and said there was no hope. The doctor's nephew was an undertaker, and he came and bar gained for the corpse. Anna informed him politely, yet firmly, that it had always been Alonsius' wish to be cremated, and the nephew's cousin gallantly gave up an invitation to a ball to explain that he had been a cremater all his life. The coroner, too, put in appearance, and took up his abode directly over Alonsius' head.

Alonsius' death was now the one necessary link in the proceedings, and that

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that the gentleman sitting at the back of the hall has kindly consented.

There was again a subdued murmur as of applause, which the Professor instantly checked.

"Ladies, no excitements, no emotions, I beg of you. The academy of courtship is an affair serious."

The sole apparatus of the academy of courtship, as far as I could discover, was a large sofa with pillows and a low stool. The Professor approached this sofa. Suddenly he began ranting in a loud voice and a highly professional manner.

"Ladies, the courtship of the middle-aged is more subdued, less passionate. The gentleman should not shout, tear the hair, flourish the pistol."

Suddenly, to my absolute astonishment, the Professor was down on the low stool, leaning forward, gesticulating, presenting his credentials to the imaginary occupant of the sofa.

All over the house I heard "ohs" and "ahs" and sighs and giggles. Evidently the Professor's methods were commendng themselves to his audience.

"The middle-aged lover should advance this way, draw his chair up so, draw his chair up a little further, so, the left elbow should be resting lightly on the knee, and with the right hand..."

With that I burst into a laugh, a loud jarring guffaw. The academy of courtship was too comical. The Professor cast me one look of reproach. The audience leaned forward but the more intently.

Then after a moment, I thought I should fall over. The Professor was saying:

"The gentleman sitting at the back of the stage has kindly consented. I am sure he will be the man the most acceptable. Seldom is the academy honored with a pupil in appearance so distinctive the lesson with my trained assistant and then, as usual, but I will not anticipate..."

I had fairly to be lifted out of my chair. "Courage, my dear fellow," whis-
mensely."

On that I roused myself, straightened

up, looked the miserable charlatan squarely in the eye.

"Unlock that door. Let me out of here, or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."

Acorn stood there purring and rubbing his hands. He was beyond insult.

"I'm so glad," he murmured! "It's as I have always said. You fit into my case exactly."

"Confound your impudence! What is your case? Let me out of here."

"Afterwards, afterwards, my dear fellow, have courage."

I pass over in haste certain minor incidents in this strange episode in my quiet, uneventful career. My eyes look up at the row of volumes, not a work of genius, certainly, but painstaking, elaborate, moderately successful. My friends will not judge me for one rash moment.

Under the guidance and encouragement of this miserable swindler I passed through the accepted formulae of proposing marriage to his trained assistant, a stout business woman with spectacles and a shirt waist.

I sat on the low stool. I leaned forward, so, with my left elbow resting on my knee, so. I mentioned my life insurance, my good health, my beautiful home in Philadelphia.

I have done my turn at amateur theatrics in my day. I acquitted myself most honorably. The ladies clapped their hands. The Professor smiled encouragement.

"You might just as well have been married fifteen years ago," he insinuated amidst the bravos.

I wiped my brow. I supposed I was now to be excused.

The Professor skipped forward to the front of the stage again.

The gentleman will now demonstrate his skill with an untrained person. According to the custom of the academy and always to preserve the proprieties, the lucky lady will be blindfolded. The gentleman shall stand with his face to the wall and the ladies shall assemble in the little room to the right. For a gentleman in appearance so distinguished there should be many volunteers."

Whether there were or no, it seemed

THE ACADEMY OF COURTSHIP

87

but a fraction of time before I was right-
about-faced and perceived a pleasant-
faced woman, some foolish widow, no
doubt, in a green waist, with her eyes
bandaged, reposing on the sofa.

I proceeded with extremely ill grace to go through this tomfoolery a second time. It did not go as well. I was on the low stool, leaning forward, gesticulating in the correct official attitude. Suddenly I had the strangest sensation. My lips were moving rapidly but no sound issued forth. I was horror struck. I redoubled my efforts. My jaws were moving up and down like pump handles. Acorn was hovering over me. I could hear him prompting, "Life insurance, beautiful home in Philadelphia." The green waist began to surge up and down before my eyes. Suddenly the whole room seemed filled with the green waist.

I have every reason to believe I fainted for, when I woke up, I was lying in the Professor's cool study. Acorn was leaning over me.

"I'm so glad," he whispered softly. "You help my case immensely."

Instantly I was on my feet.

"You miserable charlatan," I said, "What is your case? What is all this tomfoolery? Where do all these women come from? What is this academy of courtship?"

"My dear fellow, control yourself," said Acorn, dropping on the low stool before me.

"Ha! Ha!" I shrieked. "You act as if you were going to propose to me." I burst out into a horrid laugh. My nerves were still badly unstrung.

Acorn smiled sympathetically.

"I see, I see, it all fits in—"

He stopped, coughed, then continued in light conversational tone, "Here are cigarettes and whiskey. Make yourself as comfortable as you can."

"To you, a superior man, I explain everything. I arrive in New York. I go to a hotel. I go to a boarding house. I walk the streets. I am penniless. I know not where to go. All at once, one rainy afternoon in 14th street, I find my idea. I start the Academy of Courtship on a side street. Voila! You see me now! I am arrived. I am on Broad-

way. I am a man to be reckoned with. Is it not so?"

"Without doubt," I answered. "But your famous idea that came to you on 14th street, what is it?"

"You will not give me away? You will not start a rival academy? In English, perhaps it seems gross, but to you, a superior man—"

"Enough of the superior man business," I said. "What is it?"

Acorn arose from the low stool, contradicting all his theories. He paced up and down the room. Suddenly he burst out:

"Why so many young people in America, they do not marry? It is la peur, timidité, what you call it? I see the women come pouring out of the theatre. What for they go? says I. They go see the actors and the actresses make the love. I walk with Francois in the park. I see the women of thirty years, of forty years, handsome, solid. They walk two by two. Their faces are sad. I nudge Francois. They are all married, Francois? I say. They are old maids, says Francois. So? Why is that? Francois, he no answer me. I think and I think and one day the Academy of Courtship. It is most respectable. I have there in that cabinet five thousand addresses all marriageable. Not for a thousand dollars would I let you copy a single address."

"My dear fellow," I interrupted some-
what peevishly. "Don't get excited. I
don't want your address list. I have
no desire to correspond with women.
My one desire is to keep away from
women."

"So! So!" said Acorn, softly. "Why is that?"

"For every reason in the world," I retorted good-humoredly, helping myself to some more of his excellent whiskey.

"Apparently then," I continued. "You believe a man should acquire the habit of proposing marriage to every woman he meets. Otherwise he will never get married. Then, why don't you have evenings for men? Why do you devote yourself exclusively to the ladies?"

Acorn appeared a little uneasy.

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90

further in a small town but she liked the
excitement of the great city.

Suddenly Mrs. Watkins struck a jar-
ring note.

"Isn't Professor Acorn a dear man?
All the girls think he is just too cute."

"Don't mention his accursed name," I
remarked, interrupting her eulogy.

"There he is now," remarked Mrs.
Watkins, putting both hands before her
face in mock shame.

I peered the way my companion indi-
cated in ill-concealed alarm. An inter-
view with Acorn now would be a very
cold awakening. The man had seen us,
he was directing his steps our way.
There was no possibility of escape.
There was nothing to escape to but
shrubbery.

Acorn came waltzing up. In the day-
time, in his queerly cut clothes and his
purple spats, he looked quite foreign,
quite distinguished, I must say.

He stood in front of us, striking an
attitude, twirling his cane. His eyes
snapped brutally.

"Ha! Ha! What is it that I see! The
little private lesson in the park?"

Mrs. Watkins broke out in a nervous
laugh. I clasped the bench tight with
both hands. It was all I could do to
keep from rising and grappling with him.

Acorn stood before us offering ran-
dom insults to which he received no
reply.

"Until this evening," he announced
sarcastically, addressing us together and
bowing his profoundest. He started
away. He retraced his steps, he ad-
dressed me more specifically, "In spite of
our little conversation of last evening, I
anticipate the honor." He clicked his
heels and departed.

I sat gazing at the fountain. I had
had all I wanted. I wished to banish the
Academy of Courtship from my mind
forever. I turned to my companion with
vague words of parting on my lips.
"My dear Mrs. Watkins," I began.

But Mrs. Watkins was gone, she was
no longer sitting beside. She was run-
ning across the grass towards some cabs.
Acorn had just entered a cab over there.
He was holding the door open. Mrs.
Watkins plumped in beside him.

This was most extraordinary! After
what Mrs. Watkins had told me, why
should she be driving off with Acorn in
a cab?

My brain was in a whirl. Suddenly I
perceived a purse, her purse, lying on
the bench. There was time yet, the
chauffeur was slow in cranking up. I
gave a shout. I started to run.

Suddenly a heavy restraining hand was
laid upon me. I perceived Judge Har-
mon, a charter member of the club, a
famous whist player, a keen, active mind
of sixty-five, well versed in the wiles of
the female sex.

"I am not running after a woman. I
am returning a purse," I answered to the
strange look in his eyes.

"Hold on!" said the Judge. "I saw
this little comedy. I saw this woman
drop a purse intentionally. I know it was
intentional. She looked back to see if the
purse was in plain sight."

"But I must return it to her," I said
stupidly.

"Let the club porter deliver it. My
boy, you're playing a dangerous game.
She's only luring you on. How much
money have you about your person?"

On that I clapped my hands to my
pockets. I was cleaned out utterly; my
portfolio, my cheque, even my cigar case
and pocket handkerchief were gone.

I stared in blank amazement. I could
not believe my eyes.

"When did you meet this woman
firstly?" demanded the Judge.
"Last night," I blurted out.
"You were introduced by some respect-
able persons, at least?" said the Judge,
in his perplexity, relapsing into the ju-
dicial manner.

"He might, I suppose, pass as re-
spectable," I answered weakly.

The Judge frowned.

"On the major premises, petty larceny,
injuditably," said the Judge, talking to
himself. "But why take even a pocket
handkerchief, why leave a purse in ex-
change unless... There is nothing in
that purse you are holding"

"A card with an address in 125th
street."

"A not too reputable locality," said
the Judge tartly.

THE ACADEMY OF COURTSHIP

91

The Judge stood, meditating my little
problem. The clock struck one. The last
noontime lovers were scurrying away.
The park was assuming its normal
aspect.

"Jenksy," said the Judge, dropping the
judicial manner, "I'm due at the club at
once and chambers at 2:30. Have pay-
ment stopped on the cheque and come
round at four. We'll look into the mat-
ter."

The Judge hurried off, leaving me
alone with Mrs. Watkin's rather shabby
purse and my thoughts.

That night I had no heart for the club
dinner. The boys I knew were planning
a little spread, a farewell party and
fortieth birthday rolled into one, a cake
with forty candles and speeches and all
that sort of nonsense.

I slipped out the servant's entrance.
I tried one restaurant after another.
They were all crowded this mild May
evening. At last, throwing economy to
the winds, I entered the Café Royale
where I had dined in state last night with
an extra bottle. They ushered me to the
same seat in the corner, and the same
waiter came hurrying forward. The
dinner was bad, the music bad, the wine
filthy. In half an hour I was patterning
out to the street again. On the street
was the same vulgar pushing crowd, the
rattle and roar, the nasty white lights
that blind your eyes and the cabs that
run you down.

I crossed and worked my way down
the quiet side of the street. There was
no transparency in front of Acorn's
swindle-shop tonight, but the lights were
burning and petticoats progressing up
the steep stairs.

I knew what I had come for. I knew
the humiliation that was before me. I
threw my cigar to the winds, bolted up
the stairs.

The same negro porter opened the
door. He seemed to recognize me.

"You wish a private consultation," he
said, grinning. "The Professor is very
busy."

"I am in no hurry," I replied, weakly.

My spirits seemed to have deserted
me. I dropped back into a dark corner,

blotted against the petticoats, my hat
over my eyes, a discouraged man.

The room was fitted up in cheap imi-
tation of a doctor's office. There were
books behind glass doors and stamped
paper like medical certificates on the
walls. In a corner, out of deference to
the special character of the office, I pre-
sume, was a plaster cast of Cupid and
Psyche.

I sat there in my corner, blotted
amongst the petticoats. Women were
being continually ushered into the inner
office. They came out weeping or laugh-
ing, always with one hand on their
pocket-books. Once, through the half-
open door, I caught a glimpse of the
miserable swindler, pink-cheeked, smil-
ing, prosperous.

I became drowsy with the bad air and
the day's excitement. I fell asleep.

I woke with a start. The room was
empty.

The lights had been lowered, but in
the inner room they seemed to be burn-
ing with extraordinary brilliancy. They
illuminated the very corners. Acorn sat
at a low table, counting the evening's
haul. Leaning over his shoulder in a
familiar green waist was Mrs. Watkins.

When I caught sight of the green
waist, I shook myself, burst into the
inner room without ceremony.

"Now I have you, you pair of rogues,"
I said. "Academy of courtship, for
sooth! A den of thieves and pick-
pockets!"

"Pickpockets?" said Acorn, trying to
spread his hands out over the money,
"What are you talking about? Where
did you come from? How did you get
in here?"

I turned my back squarely on Acorn.
I was done with Acorn.

"Mrs. Watkins," I said, with such
calmness as I could muster, "Where is
my money? What have you done with
my money?"

Mrs. Watkins burst out into a coarse,
brutal laugh. I had entirely misread
Mrs. Watkins.

"I returned your stuff to the Algon-
quin on the way home," she said brazen-
ly. "Didn't you get it?"

THE TREND

92

I exploded. I called Mrs. Watkins some very bad names. Finally I was persuaded to call up the Algonquin. It was as Mrs. Watkins said.

Mrs. Watkins was jubilant. She laughed loudly, brutally.

"I was listening behind the door last night. I thought I'd show you. As for any woman wanting to marry you..." She broke off into peals of laughter.

"What are you doing alone with the Professor at eleven o'clock at night?" I shouted, reducing myself to Mrs. Watkins' vulgar level.

"We're engaged to be mar— to be mar—"

My late proposée burst out into an uncontrollable gale of laughter.

I fled.

Parturition

BY MINA LOY

I am the centre

Of a circle of pain

Exceeding its boundaries in every direction

The business of the bland sun

Has no affair with me

In my congested cosmos of agony

From which there is no escape

On infinitely prolonged nerve-vibrations

Or in contraction

To the pin-point nucleus of being

Locate an irritation without

It is within

It is without. Within

The sensitized area

Is identical with the extensity

Of intension

I am the false quantity

In the harmony of physiological potentiality

To which

Gaining self-control

I should be consonant

In time

Pain is no stronger than the resisting force

Pain calls up in me

The struggle is equal

The open window is full of a voice

A fashionable portrait-painter

Running up-stairs to a woman's apartment

Sings

"All the girls are tid'ly did'ly

All the girls are nice

Whether they wear their hair in curls

Or—"

At the back of the thoughts to which I permit crystallization

The conception Brute

Why?

The irresponsibility of the male
Leaves woman her superior Inferiority.
He is running up-stairs

I am climbing a distorted mountain of
agony

Incidentally with the exhaustion of control

I reach the summit

And gradually subside into anticipation of

Repose

Which never comes.

For another mountain is growing up

Which goaded by the unavoidable

I must traverse

Traversing myself

Something in the delirium of night-hours

Confuses while intensifying sensibility

Blurring spatial contours

So aiding elusion of the circumscribed

That the gurgling of a crucified wild beast

Comes from so far away

And the foam on the stretched muscles
of a mouth

Is no part of myself

There is a climax in sensibility

When pain surpassing itself

Becomes exotic

And the ego succeeds in unifying the
positive and negative poles of sensa-
tion

Uniting the opposing and resisting forces

In lascivious revelation

Relaxation

Negation of myself as a unit

Vacuum interlude

I should have been emptied of life

Giving life

For consciousness in crises races

Through the subliminal deposits of evo-

lutionary processes

Have I not

93

94

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Somewhere
Scrutinized
A dead white feathered moth
Laying eggs?
A moment
Being realization
Can
Vitalized by cosmic initiation
Furnish an adequate apology
For the objective
Agglomeration of activities
Of a life
LIFE
A leap with nature
Into the essence
Of unpredicted maternity
Against my thigh
Touch of infinitesimal motion
Scarcely perceptible
Undulation
Warmth moisture
Stir of incipient life
Precipitating into me
The contents of the universe
Mother I am
Identical
With infinite Maternity
Indivisible
Acutely
I am absorbed
Into
The was—is—ever—shall—be

Of cosmic reproductivity

Rises from the subconscious
Impression of a cat
With blind kittens
Among her legs
Same undulating life—stir
I am that cat

Rises from the sub-conscious
Impression of small animal carcass
Covered with blue-bottles
—Epicurean—
And through the insects
Waves that same undulation of living
Death
Life
I am knowing
All about
Unfolding
The next morning
Each woman-of-the-people
Tip-toeing the red pile of the carpet
Doing hushed service
Each woman-of-the-people
Wearing a halo
A ludicrous little halo
Of which she is sublimely unaware

I once heard in a church
—Man and woman God made them—
Thank God.

The German Side of It

BY LOUIS SHERWIN

[Editorial Note.—THE TREND in its quality of open forum for the untrammeled discussion of all sides of current questions offers its readers the following definition of the course pursued by Germany in the present European war as set forth by an ardent German sympathizer. The German cause, though it has not lacked vigorous and fluent champions, seems less generally popular in this country than the cause of the Allies, for that very reason it deserves a careful hearing. The editors of THE TREND do not, however, imply their agreement with the opinions expressed in any article simply because, in the spirit of fair play, they publish that article. The editorial opinion of THE TREND is always put before its readers in the department entitled "The Trend of Events."]

“I DON'T mind lying,” wrote Samuel Butler, “but I hate inaccuracy.”
The one is the result of malice,
the other of stupidity. It is easy
to understand, if not to sympathize with
malice; but stupidity outrages all endurance.
“Gegen die Dummheit können die
Götter selbst vergehen,” said Goethe.
Against stupidity even the gods themselves
cannot prevail.

And that is why nothing will ever pre-
vail against the soggy mass of anti-Ger-
man prejudice that has been aroused in
the United States. It is the result of
stupidity, or at best—to be a little more
polite—misinformation. Such part of it
as is the outcome of malice is entirely
negligible. The malice of an avowed
enemy is the least dangerous thing in the
world. For instance, the anti-German
vaporings of that eminent bridegroom,
Mr. James Gordon Bennett, as expressed
in the New York *Herald* and *Telegram*,
are so ridiculous, so absolutely disingenuous
that one hardly even troubles to
laugh at them.

But the great bulk of this prejudice is
the outcome of a perfectly honest and
perfectly stupid misunderstanding. And
it is just this that is so maddening to
people who know Germany and who under-
stand the German temperament. It
is not necessary to be of German extrac-
tion in order to sympathize with Ger-
many in her plight, and to be indignant
at the astounding misstatements that
have fairly deluged the public ear in the
last seven weeks. To attribute them to

malice is just as stupid as the most ab-
surd inaccuracy of which the American
press has been guilty. When clergymen
like Mr. Parkhurst, taking refuge behind
the misplaced respect and immunity from
rebuke that the cloth enjoys, declare that
the German Emperor ought to be shot
like a mad dog, they are merely demon-
strating the silly, scurrilous intemperance
that marks the American clergy above all
other bonzes. Considering Mr. Park-
hurst as a representative, sensation-seek-
ing American ecclesiastic, and consider-
ing the extent to which the American
public looks to these half-educated medi-
cine-men for "information," you cannot
wonder if there is a wave of prejudice.

Again, take our eminent educators.
One of these, a Mr. Albert Bushnell
Hart, professor at Harvard, has been
writing pieces for the papers backed up
with all the factitious authority his pro-
fessorship lends him. An article he
wrote for "The World's Work" con-
tained upwards of twenty historical mis-
takes.

But it is not my purpose to add to the
monotonous list of categorical protests
against the "unfairness of the Anglo-
American press"—a stupid catch-phrase
with which the Germans in America have
ruined their own cause and made them-
selves unutterably tedious. The preju-
dice exists. It is unmerited. No ele-
ment in the population of the United
States deserves better of public opinion
than that which came to us from Ger-
many. Its high ideals of liberty, its ad-
vanced standard of culture, its industry
have been an invaluable inspiration and
aid to our political, artistic and economic
life. (Our artistic life would hardly
exist if it were not for the people of
German extraction amongst us.) Sure-
ly, we might have suspended judgment
until all the facts were known. Nobody
is to blame for the scanty and inaccurate
quality of the newspaper reports. In this

95

The Editors' Work Bench

There are those who make it a point of personal approach to ask the personal tastes, standards, and convictions of each new person they meet. "What manner of man are you?" This form of curiosity is foreign to my own nature, but I can understand its workings. To me discovery is nine-tenths of the interest in life, but the great group of human kind prefers to take no chances, although its ideals are various. The majority, undoubtedly, wants nothing new to disturb its possession of the customary and traditional. The minority wants only the new. It seems to me that both the old and the new have their places in any comprehensive scheme of things and that one should take not only the philosopher, the anarchist, to one's breast, but the philistine as well—at least, occasionally. I have a friend, a writer, who visits a certain family in Long Island twice a year, with rigid regularity, to keep in touch, she explains, with the average point of view. What a heavenly thing it is to understand the average point of view! We should all be the better for the knowledge. It is the acquisition of it that makes the modern superman so dangerous, for he knows how to get on with the average man, and all unawares slips world-breaking theories under the skin.

And now any number of people have happened along—in letter and in person—to ask what manner of magazine THE TREND is, what are its standards, tastes, and convictions. I confess I was perplexed in the beginning and the other editors shared my feeling. It was as if someone, totally unknown to you, had caught your arm on the street and asked, "Do you believe in God? Are you a Republican? Are you in favor of prohibition?" In a case of that sort you might have replied haughtily that the affair did not concern your inquirer. In the case of a magazine, one is forced to admit it does, and yet how much more real interest a magazine without convictions possesses! You know the editorial policy of most of your magazines. You know that they will print no articles which are out of tune with the editorial policy. You know the type of stories which is printed; you know—and haven't read for years—the kind of verse the other magazines print. What a relief it must be to some of you to look forward—yes, look forward!—to the monthly issue of a magazine whose contents are not a foregone conclusion.

In thinking the matter over, it has struck me that the ENGLISH REVIEW, in a manner, has the same ideals as THE TREND. THE TREND is a magazine which will please the readers of the ENGLISH REVIEW. That periodical has printed stories by George Moore, H. G. Wells and Frank Harris which could not, for the reason that other magazines have catalogued principles, have appeared anywhere else.

100

THE TREND will publish articles, stories and verse by ANYBODY on ANY subject. Its editors do not proceed on the assumption that its authors shall already be well-known writers; on the other hand, there is no embargo on "famous" authors. (Any title page of THE TREND will show you half a dozen names as well-known as any which appear on any other magazine covers.) The new names which you are seeing in THE TREND will become just as important to you in a short time. In any case, whether the writer is old or new, no editorial policy, no restrictions as to subject or form, are placed in front of his doorway for him to stumble upon. There are no limitations for material, except—

A certain standard is observed in its choice. There is no desire on the part of the editors to appeal only to the young girl in the hammock, although this miss may find herself delighted with certain phases of THE TREND. There is, on the other hand, a determination on the part of the editors to exclude stupidity, banality, sentimentality, cant, clap-trap morality, Robert W. Chambersism, sensationalism for its own sake, and ineffectuality of any kind.

It shall be our ambition to make the magazine an organ for the exploitation of original and vital literary material. Our creeds are legion. We agree finally on one subject only, a desire to make THE TREND the most interesting and important magazine in America. Any form of thought—so long as it is thought—is welcome. There is a tendency on our part to favor feminism, but Mr. Sherwin's article, "The Land of the Hen-Pecked," was one of the features of the July number. Other articles by anti-feminists will be published from time to time. In the war we are, as editors with the allies, and yet again Mr. Sherwin is allowed to dissent in favor of Germany. Our only desire is that each combatant express himself individually and vitally, with conviction and originality.

In poetry we are giving the younger men free rein to experiment with new forms. We have already published important poems by Walter Conrad Arensberg, Donald Evans, and Wallace Stevens, among others. In this number we introduce to American readers Mina Loy, who is in sympathy with the Italian school of futurists. The example of her work which we offer should place her at once in the eyes and minds of those who are interested in vivid writing.

THE TREND is an arena in which fiction writers, politicians and poets may find themselves face to face with the wild beasts. But no one will be offered the opportunity of befriending a beast before he is thrown into the arena. There will be no modern Androcles in the galleries under THE TREND coliseum. Our contributors meet their lions and kill them if they can. The result is no concern of the editors. We turn our contributors to the lions and the lions may applaud or swallow.

ATLAS.

101

# For the Haunting of Mauna

BY DONALD EVANS

Suave body of the Queen, she gave me you,
Misting in still warm rains of tenderness—
But kept herself, and we are each betrayed.
You are her mistress, and she makes of me
Another mistress! Playthings are we both,
When we thought she meant us for full sovereignty;
It was not regal, and her throne is stained.
She bade you seek me, and your singing feet
Ran quickly surely; you held out your hands.
You had no fears because you felt my heart
Leap as you laid your white breast under it.
We had no prides to conquer as we kissed,
For we knew kinship in our overthrow.
Yet now she stands apart and questions us.
How can she question—leave me out of it—
But you, her body, her sweet source of joy,—
How can she then divide herself from you,
And calmly reckon what the gain may be?
The hour will come when she will tire of us,
And all your softness will be broken up,
Your rioting lips chilled with an ashen wind.
There is a hint of vileness in the air,
And on the strings a dance of ironies,
With love's scarecrow jigging wearily. . .
Still I have you—so I am not afraid!

102

# Phases of Modern Warfare

BY HENRY FITZGERALD

In the course of the past two decades the fighting nations of the world have furnished us with five examples of what may justly be termed *Modern Warfare*. We have the Spanish-American War, the Anglo-Boer War, the Russo-Japanese War, the Balkan War, and, lastly, the ensuing general conflagration in Europe, which, starting between Austria-Hungary and little Serbia, has now assumed proportions of so stupendous and all-embracing a character that the commentator is at a loss to attach to the operations a positive designation. We must perforce be content to term this great upheaval simply *The Present War*.

For the purposes of comparison and leveling at strategic and tactical values, the first of our five examples affords but trifling interest, since the land operations, however important they may have appeared at the time, were to the serious student of the art of war almost entirely barren of illumination and unproductive of new tactical problems, methods or solutions. San Juan Hill, though for some time after popularly regarded as a decisive engagement in the significant sense of the term, was in reality nothing more than a glorified skirmish. Parallels surge amply to the pen point: Majuba Hill, Rorke's Drift, Elandslaagte, thepulse of the Belgian army from the region of Liege, to cite a few haphazard—all of which are called "battles." And here it may be well to define what is a battle. Bluntly, a battle is an engagement between two or more opposing forces, consisting of all arms—cavalry, infantry and artillery,—which collide after the scouts and skirmishers of one side have been driven back upon the main body. When "decisive range" is established—that is, when the opposing troops are separated by the distance at which modern rifle fire will speedily annihilate one body or the other, usually about 600

yards—the tactical, numerical or physical superiority of either force soon becomes apparent, and the beaten side capitulates or effects a retreat, which latter hazardous operation, if not skillfully handled, may readily be precipitated into a rout. Numerous variations can be quoted for which more or less sound claims to the dignity of "battle" may be advanced. But, broadly, a skirmish is to be distinguished from a battle by the limitations quoted. Gettysburg was a battle, Tugela Heights, Modder River, Yalu River, Tien Tsin, Tchalja and the positive repulse of the British at Mons in Belgium were also genuine battles: The operations after Mons during the ten or twelve days' pugnacious retirement of the Allies upon the Paris defences, while they might logically be termed a continuous chain of battles, can with every justification be styled a strategic retreat under fire. But of this later.

To return to the subject of comparative object lessons of a general nature as afforded by the campaigns mentioned, we find in the Spanish-American war the infantry advancing to the attack in open formation, or "extended order" as this method is often called. In modern times the earliest instance of this expedient being put to the test in other than peace manoeuvres appears to have been under the leadership of General Sir Ian Hamilton in the Tirah Campaign of 1897. It was inconclusive, all the military experts of the world said—interesting but of questionable value as a means of pushing home an attack, owing, of course, to the palpable difficulty of insuring sufficient preponderance of numbers to carry an assault at the weakest point in the defensive line.

The saving of slaughter during the early stages of the advance was most assuredly a compelling factor in favor of the new formation. But would this offset the butchery at close range when

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108

of worth from a comparison of the present war with the two just mentioned, as to the relative coefficients of the personnel, would be labor lost. Conditions of climate, sanitation, water, roads, conformation and nature of the territory contested, mobility, commissariat, and the dozen other influences are too diverse. Certainly, so far as one can judge offhand, the theatre of war upon which all eyes are now turned seems to be ideal—if such a term can seriously be applied—in every respect. Spartan indeed would be the troops, on either side, who could in adverse conditions sustain the rigors of the two weeks' retreat of the Allies from the Belgian frontier to the Paris defences. The British and French during these operations often made ten miles a day with all their *impendimenta*, ceaselessly harassed by the headlong pursuit of the German Uhlans and light artillery. Irrespective of conditions, the exploit speaks eloquently for the moral and

physical stamina of both sides. Nothing unworthy could have accomplished this superb and gigantic piece of warfare.

Side by side forever in the lordly animals of the world's wars will this masterly retreat of the Allies upon Paris take rank with Massena's retreat from Portugal during the Peninsula War and Napoleon's retreat from Moscow—with in both instances the redoubtable Marshal Ney conducting the rear guard actions with sublime skill. The mantle of Ney fell upon Sir John French, and right nobly has he worn it.

But war is a shame-faced thing, and to study its phases as they unfold into devices and schemes increasingly more subtle and deadly is to realize the more poignantly the colossal tragedy of it all and deplore the satanic, relentless force that impels great nations to wrest to the business of slaughter the genius and manhood of their uttermost resources.

## Walking the Clothes

BY LILLIAN E.

This is going to be all about styles and fashions—from head to foot—if there's room to get it all in, and so long as we're beginning at the top, where are our billowing coiffures of yesteryear, or, to be more exact, of the year before yesteryear?

Geographically speaking, the greater part of the billows have been bundled into a box and stowed in the bottom drawer of that idle bureau in the spare room. Don't you remember how, in the process of bundling and stowing, you wondered whether one preserved puffs and coronet-braids in moth-balls or just wrapped them up in tar paper? Anyway, they won't be needed for some time to come, for, whereas our struggles heretofore had been directed to the achievement of coiffures calculated in their enormity to cause the whole seven of the Sisters Sutherland pangs of jealousy, we're battling now to attain the modish, slicked-back lines that suggest ebb-tide on a sloping beach, marveling, the while, at the abundance of our hair, for, until it came to tucking it up so snugly, we hadn't realized how unnecessarily long and thick it was.

And then—when the deed is done, we gaze into the mirror, wondering vaguely what it is we remind ourselves of, and having once received a Noah's ark on our sixth birthday full of wooden ladies and gentlemen—we remember! Their

The cause of all this brushing back and tucking under? This brings us to

dour that droops a bit over the forehead. Then, as if it wanted to know why, a little lock is brushed in the form of a question-mark out against either cheek just in front of a very bare ear, for—yes, ears are in style again! Having ventured from under their marcel wave, they have become recognized facts.

## Line

YOUNG

hair was varnished on, you know.

In a scenic sense there is absolutely nothing the matter with the new coif, providing it suits the wearer. That is all there is to successful hairdressing anyway. Study the lines of your head and the contour of your face—you will find it “instructive as well as interesting,” as the lecturers have it, and will readily see why, if your face is long and narrow, you should avoid the close lines of the present day just as conscientiously as your stout neighbor ought to avoid sweets and starchy foods—only she doesn't.

The French roll (not a starchy food in this case!) is most affected at present, the hair being rolled under from the nape of the neck, over the top of the head, to the middle of the forehead, like a breaking wave that hasn't been allowed to break. One strand is reserved just in front with which to build a soft pompadour that droops a bit over the forehead.

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to them. It seems strange to find ourselves able to walk naturally once more, and rather pleasant, too for there is a great deal of satisfaction in feeling capable of negotiating a long step once in a while, where one finds it necessary; say, for instance, when fording puddles in a muddy street. That little pastime was made rather difficult recently when wraps and skirts were drawn in so closely about the knees and ankles.

And having reached the ankles, we can now, figuratively speaking, put on our shoes and stockings. There are stockings of lace, stockings of silk encrusted with lace, silk net stockings, and stockings embroidered or delicately bejewelled, while shoes have seldom been so fanciful. They combine leather and kid

with brocade and satin, or are often made up in two different leathers. Evening slippers quite outshine the fabled beauty of Cinderella's and can be made to order in the material of one's gown. Buckles of brilliants, paste and silver come in delightful little designs and then there is a new fad for jewelled or beaded heels, to say nothing of fascinating scarlet heels, come down to us from the days of powdered wigs and sedan chairs.

Robert Louis Stevenson probably wasn't thinking of clothes in particular when he said, "The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings." But it is applicable, and maybe he wouldn't mind if we borrowed it on this occasion—just to finish up with.

BY HUTCHINS HAPGOOD.

## CHAPTER VIII.

THE natural life of Love's young dream is very brief in this climate; and I didn't believe the passion Brownell and I had for one another would have lasted more than a month if we had not worked together.

In some ways I still admire that man. He is a natural leader, even from his childhood. He always wanted to be independent, and his great ambition was to write his own piece and manage his own show. The trouble with him as a writer is that he is a bad case of the petty star. He writes good stuff for himself, but not for other people. Nobody else has a chance. Any woman who worked in his company always had to play to him. He did not want any one else to get in on the laughs—and he did not want the girls to care for anyone in the show but himself.

I was a foil for Brownell's comedy work, though, of course, I had my own songs. He used to insist on my listening to every word he said, even off the stage. Sometimes when he was telling me about his plans, I would play with the dog, and that would make him mad. He wanted my undivided attention, but I wanted some affection, even if I had to seek it from a dog.

We must have been well matched in a business way; for together we pleased the public. He never had been successful until he met me, and until I met him I had never fully realized ambition or dreamed of the possibility of success. I knew just what he wanted to do on the stage; and he taught me to see that I have the magnetism that reaches beyond the footlights.

I am modest by nature and do not think too much of myself, and if I had not known Brownell I don't believe I

would ever have acquired that quality of "pose" or "front" which is so necessary on the stage. But now, although I know my limitations, I am good at self-advertising. When I herald myself as the most beautiful woman in America, it is not I who am deceived. As a matter of fact, I believe I am something in that line, particularly when I make up, but yet I know I am drawing it rather strong when I say I am at the very top of beauty of color and form. But that is business, legitimate business!

When I quit Brownell and came to New York the first thing I did was to write to the newspapers and tell them I had quarreled with my husband because of professional jealousy, and that I had a good story to tell if they would send up a reporter to see me. Certainly, while with Brownell I learned to love notoriety; and I used to read all the press notices about me with the greatest eagerness. I love to pose for my pictures and have thousands of them which I give to anybody who wants them. It seems to me strange that with my modest nature I have such a mad passion for publicity. But I really think it is not vanity but the feeling of how important it is to advertise myself, and to put on "front." That feeling causes me always to dress my best when I go down to the agents for a job or when I walk along Broadway. I want to look successful, for that is one way to become so.

Many show people come from the slums, but yet ignorant as they are, they put on "front" immediately. Money is what they want, but after a while they imagine they are artists and want to get on Broadway, and if they ever get so high that they can swagger at Browne's they are happy. Some of the more successful of the comedians act just as their parents are in reality. Jew comedians

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from the East Side are generally not
actors at all, but give a realistic picture
of their home life. I know many a per-
former who is only a button-hole maker
by nature.

If I am working and before the public,
I am always happy—at least until lately
—even if there is no man making love to
me. But I can always find a man with-
out looking for him; so I generally have
that, too.

And yet, though I have a sense of ad-
vertisement and have acquired a "front,"
I am anything but a business woman by
nature. And I don't like business men
who have no ideals. I liked Brownell
mainly because he stirred my ambition.
My loves, as a rule, were not so deep as
to break my heart. They made me just
melancholy enough so that I could work
to the best advantage. I like young fel-
lows partly, I suppose, because of my
experience with that dreadful old man,
but also partly because they have not lost
their ambition, and are up to date. An
easy-going, middle-aged man who wants
to settle down would never do for me.
A manager said to me the other day:
"Get a middle-aged man who can push
you." But I would rather take a dose
of chloroform. I have my ambitions, but
I don't want anybody else mixed up with
them. I don't care for anybody who
wants to help me along.

Brownell had no faith in me, and no
faith in any woman; and yet whatever
my vices are, I am certainly not a graft-
er. Because I'd rather die than settle
down and have a little home, he thought
I was bad. And yet, at least, I always
paid my way with him and did not run
after his money or the money of any
man. I never could learn to graft. Some
women go out with men to the shops and
never come back without a dress. But I
don't, because I know I can get it for
myself. In other ways, too, I am slack in
a business way. I don't go round to see
the managers enough. I only go once in
a while. I am lazy about such things.

After our early success in New York,
Brownell and I continued for a year or
two, mainly in vaudeville with our "Kid"

act, and we were generally comfortable
in a financial way. We usually played
good towns and did not make many one-
night stands. We always played to fair
money, and our work was not too hard.
As a rule, our act went on three times a
day—once in the afternoon, once be-
tween five and seven, and once in the
evening. At Boston we gave a morning
show, a crazy idea called "The Milk-
man's Matinee."

But Brownell, as I have said, always
wanted to give a show himself, and it
was not long before he had saved enough
money to do so. It was a proud day for
him when he was able to engage a com-
pany and star in "The Katzenjammer
Kids," a play written by himself, inter-
spersed with vaudeville and musical
numbers, but still labeled "play."

But jolly and happy as I appeared on
the stage, my moments of misery with
Brownell constantly grew in number and
intensity. His jealousy was almost in-
tolerable at times, and he carried on
something awful with the girls of the
company. We had a chorus, and a chorus
is very often a source of great distress
to the wife of the manager, for in a
chorus there are always some girls who
like to make trouble.

A nice girl named Certina was with us,
doing a contortionist specialty. She af-
terwards became one of my very best
friends, and even at that time we were
pals. She did not tell me at that time
my husband, as she supposed him to
be, was very fresh with her. But after
I had left him, she told me everything.

Certina is one of those stage girls of
whom there are many, although the cyn-
ical part of the public does not believe
it, who are strictly virtuous in a domestic
way. She is now twenty-four, has been
married since she was fifteen and has a
little girl eight years old, whom her aunt
takes care of. Her husband is a well-
known performer whom I will call Gus.
They have both been on the stage since
they were children, and since their mar-
riage have been separated always more
than half the year, for they can seldom
get an engagement together. Yet, they

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are very happy, and she is true blue.
And he is, too, I suppose, as much as
men ever are. They have a nice little
flat in New York, and whenever they
play in the vicinity of the city or are out
of an engagement, they fly to each other's
arms in this little nest.

Brownell used to tell me when Certina
was with us in "The Katzenjammer
Kids," that she was not what she ought
to be, but he, as I have said, believed
in no woman's virtue. Certina is cer-
tainly what I call a good woman, and yet
she was in love at one time with Hen-
nessey, joint manager with Brownell in
the show. But she was on the level with
him and told him she must first get a
divorce from Gus. It proved only a
temporary flirtation, and her heart soon
turned again to her life love. But it
lasted long enough for Brownell to try
one of his little games.

He sent word to Gus that Certina was
living with Hennessey. That was a lie,
but Brownell did not mind that, as long
as it served his purpose. He wanted Gus
to have a row with Hennessey, so that
he (Brownell) might induce Hennessey
to turn over the entire show to him. Be-
sides, he was piqued because Certina had
slighted his ardent love. But before mat-
ters had gone very far, Certina saw Gus,
and they found they loved each other as
much as ever. Brownell is surely the
Heavy Man (stage villain) in life;
though on the stage he is only a force of
bumpkin.

It was only today that I received some
news about Lottie, the girl who lived so
long with Brownell, and who afterwards
married Mountain. I had not thought of
her for years, but the thought of her re-
called one of my worst quarrels with
Brownell. My informant, a woman, has
recently seen Lottie, who told her how
she had loved Brownell for years, but
thinking that I also loved him, she de-
cided to marry Mountain and let me have
Brownell. She spoke well of me to this
woman, but she admitted she was jeal-
ous of our success, for she always was
very ambitious. She often cried—so the
woman told me—when she spoke of us,

and said she would always love Brownell, although he never answered her telegrams for money. But she never came to me in vain for assistance. I was only too glad to help her in a money way, for I always suspected she loved Brownell. I hope to Heaven I may not experience the things she has. Feeling that she loved him, I told her, as the reader will recall, to marry the man her heart told her to.

So I cannot blame myself. Although
I was fond of him at that time, I had
many sweethearts, and would soon have
recovered if Brownell and Lottie had
married. Moreover, I have always
helped her, for I liked her, and was so
sorry for her, because of her early life
of shame and hardship. It was not her
fault, because she had a bad mother. It
made her lungs weak, and that is one
reason she needed help, for she could not
work as hard as many girls.

The evening of the day I had received
one of Lottie's letters, Brownell and I
were squabbling in my dressing-room. It
was at Scranton, Pennsylvania, and busi-
ness had been bad, and that made Brow-
nell especially ill-tempered. He began the
pleasant conversation with:

"Why were you talking with the property man at the depot? Were you arranging to get a berth on the same sleeper with him to-night?"

I don't think he was particularly jealous that night. It was more force of habit with him than anything else.

"So you are pipes again, are you?" I remarked carelessly, continuing to put on my rouge.

I hate to be disturbed while I am making up for the stage. I am particularly good at make-up. I look upon it as a great art, and I hate small interruptions. So I answered as above, ill-naturedly.

Certina was in the dressing room next
to mine. Her door was open, and she
could hear everything that was said. I
knew at the time that Brownell was sweet
on her, but I did not know how far he
had carried it. But I had not shown that
I was jealous. A jealous husband is bad
enough, but a jealous wife is worse. My

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122

tures, burlesque, and all that kind of stuff, they'll stand for things on our Rial-stuff, one would not dare to present in the far West where I struggled and starved for so long.

Certainly I became what a friend called "a lazy, fat, pampered jade," during the first few months after my release from Brownell. Only a few out-of-town offers I accepted, and did not work very hard even in town. I did vaudeville when I could get my price and the rest of the time I studied a little music, rubbered about the agents and the managers and the music crowd, saw shows, drank heavily and had a series of love affairs.

When I did not go down to Ziemers with the gang after the show, I lay on the sofa at home, drank and talked friv-olously with Sally and mother or some other good pals who happened to drop in.

One afternoon I was stretched out luxuriously on the sofa in a dressing-gown, and Sally began talking sadly about a gin phiz she had lost the other day.

I changed the conversation to love, and said:

"Sally, do you like a man best who makes love in a headlong and sincere manner, or a man who beats about the bush and leads you on to declare yourself first?"

Sally laughed and said: "May, love with me is like hunger or thirst. It is a constant, necessary thing, but not very violent as long as you are satisfied. Your love is like the love of birds for the sunshine. You like to bask in it, but you don't take it romantically."

"It is true," I said, "I can't work or slave for a man. I prefer hotel life."

"Once," said Sally, "I could have lived in a cottage with a man, but not now, I must admit."

"The blood never rushes to my head," I remarked. "It never gets past my heart and there it creates a kind of flame."

"You are not like Belle, then, the wild girl I was with on the road," said Sally. "She is always fainting, but only at the proper time. She does it for show. She really is bad, though. She used to look at me with hatred because I was virtuous."

"I cannot describe Belle," continued

Sally, becoming eloquent. "She seemed to me a typical neglected girl. She is eighteen and very pretty. She has a baby face, big blue eyes, small mouth, and is tough in the extreme sense of the word. She is a great little actress, for she always has style and appearance. She is an awfully nice and a jolly fellow, but she would not cry if anything had happened to me. She is the wittiest girl I ever saw. But she is very, very vain. That's why she faints. She lives with a man in Newport, but she does not love him as much as some others. She is a true friend, but lacking in virtue. She is cold, a typical bad woman. But she is very original, though not well educated. She says she hates to swear before her family, but she is the most profane girl in the whole company. I thought I must have read about her in a book. Sometimes there is a funny look in her eyes. She has at times a cold glance, her little mouth pouting. She never has a real warm look. Her upward pout made me think I had better be careful. She is full of the devil, and very interesting."

"You talk like a hurdy-gurdy," I said.

But Sally didn't mind my little remark, and as she had had two or three drinks, she continued:

"Why is it, May," she proceeded, "that you like all men I know you are satisfied with an innocent love, for you were faithful to Brownell for many years. I marvel that you were so true and good to that awful man. But you don't always act just in your feelings or your heart. You have a sense of honor higher than any I know."

Sally was getting sentimental. It was a sort of habit with her. So I said:

"Pshaw, Sally, take a reef. I'm not good. I just believe in keeping my word, that's all."

"Being so good as you are," continued Sally, "I don't see why you care so much for publicity. I cannot imagine it. Isn't it because you were kept under the hatch by your husband? You want him to see how great you are, and you think that's fame."

"You are good to everybody," continued Sally, gratefully, "you love all

123

humanity. But I am revengeful. When I was with the English Daisy Company I did little, mean things. My father was like that. But my mother is good, and younger than I am. She never had gin phizzes early in the morning."

At that point mother came in from the kitchen and overheard Sally's praise of me. She does not like Sally very much, because Sally is not neat and does not wash her own clothes, and mother hates shiftlessness. Her passion is to keep the flat clean and not waste the coal. But she liked to hear Sally praise me. She kissed me, as I lay sprawling on the sofa, and said:

"I slaved for you, my child, for many years, but you have repaid me. You were born on Thanksgiving morning with a veil over your face. 'Good luck,' said the doctor, and you sure have been a blessing to me. Everyone loved you from the start except my mother-in-law. But her husband told her he would never pray with a woman who had driven away mother and child."

"Do pick up the paper, May," she added.

"Poor mamma," I said to Sally, "she sees there are drawbacks to my being the provider. I hate housework. I hate to wash the dishes. I am not a wise, economical, domestic girl, and when cleaning day comes round I am miserable. Saturday is that horrible day. I begin thinking about it on Sunday, and it haunts me all week. It is the pest of my life. That's the only reason I like to be on the road. Why was I not intended for a housekeeper?"

"You just made yourself so," said mother. "You must not blame Providence for it."

"As long as I have the price of a new dress I never patch up an old one," I said. "But here I am working hard at my old silk dress. For why? Because I have not got the price."

Mother sighed again, but said: "Well, my child, you certainly wash the dishes well when you once begin, but you always think there is plenty of time."

Sally laughed.

"That's the way I look at it," she said.

THE END

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eternally. Children who sleep on beds made of the Elder wood, complain of having their feet tickled, and their legs pulled! Walking-canes made of the wood are supposed to invite the attack of slanderous mouths, and to cause the owner to see evil spirits. Women who have Elder wood in their houses will never be married!

In some parts of the world Bertha night (January 6) is observed, and at this time the Devil is supposed to be abroad. One should then burn incense made from the powdered seed of the Elder berries, in order to keep out the evil spirits; and by eating one of the seeds, a single man may gain the strength of forty, thus becoming a veritable Goliath.

The old legend of the Erl King possibly inspired Goethe to write his famous ballad. This legend is known under dozens of names in different parts of Germany, but Goethe's reference to it as the Alder was a mistake. Like many classical plant-legends retold and referred to by Milton and others, the wrong plant has in some way become associated with the story.

Many, many years ago, if the writings of Montanus be true, when human bodies were burned, Elder-berries and also bits of bark and leaves were thrown into the flames to kill the Devil's spirit that might have been in the man. It was not uncommon to find hearses made of the wood, and crosses were also made of it and placed on the newly-dug graves. In Bohemia the juice from the Elder-berries is poured over invalids, with a benefit in its healing qualities.

The Fir tree was used by Solomon in building the ceiling of his temple. Pliny refers to it as a funeral tree, and he perhaps got this idea from the old legend, "that when Atys was metamorphosed into a Fir, Cybella sat under the tree mourning, until Zeus promised that the tree should remain evergreen."

In Germany it is considered ill-luck to have an odd number of lights on this tree when it is used as a Christmas tree. The pagan god, Wodin, by an inexplicable transition, has become in the Christian belief the good St. Nicholas or Santa

Claus,—the former name (Old Nick) being a permanent tribute to the diabolic origin of the character.

For Wodin was the outlawed deity, and the old legends tell us that long ago in Christmas festivals among the villages of the Harz, he was pursued as a demon until forced to take refuge in the top of a Fir tree. Peasant girls, who had driven him hither, danced and sang their songs about the foot of the tree, and would not cease until he showered them with the gifts with which the tree was hung. This is, in all probability, the interesting origin of the Christmas-tree-gift custom,—wherefore we are sometimes tempted to hold an eternal grudge against Wodin, the original demon Santa Claus.

Thus we see that many customs which originated in heathen lands have come down to us for continued observance. Ferguson, in speaking of the trees being worshipped for their beauty and usefulness, says: "With all their poetry and all their usefulness, we can hardly feel astonished that the primitive races of mankind should have considered trees as the choicest gifts of the gods to men, and should have believed that their spirits still delighted to dwell among their branches, or spake oracles through the rustling of their leaves." It is not improbable that our so-called irreligious or non-sacred trees and plants, are in reality the poisonous ones, and have become objects of propitiation through fear, just as the winds, rocks, rivers, oceans, volcanoes, and the various dangerous forces of nature have been held in awe.

To narrate one-tenth of the strange and ill-famed stories and legends regarding trees and plants, one would have to trace all religions through all the primitive races, from the earliest known times down to our own American Indian tribes, with their animal and vegetable totems and gods. Some of our Indians actually trace their origin back to certain grasses; at least one tribe claims to have originated from our common Tobacco plant!

It might be safe to suggest that every well-known plant has at some time in its history had attributed to it both good and evil qualities. The deity of one nation

may become the demon of the other. And so to treat fully of this tremendous subject would require an investigation covering the larger part of a man's life. People through all ages have worshipped and deified or demonized everything from bulls to beetles and Catnip to cats! Even in cold Iceland, where so few

plants and trees grow, strange and bloodcurdling tales are told of them. The Blood Oak (Blodeik) will, according to their belief, bring sure destruction to a ship built of its wood; while Caltha palustris, if worn around one's neck with certain ceremonies, will prevent the addressing of ill words to its wearer!

THE FOLK-LORE OF PLANTS

127

Current Cant

"These soft felt hats, unlike those of a generation ago, have no character whatever. All the distinction they possess must be imparted by the wearer. In form, color, and trimming they are symbols of a decadent age. The derby, on the other hand, seems to be the true headgear of democracy."

—The New York Times.

"Nothing can compare to the glorious intoxication of war in the mind of the healthy adult. Apart from the irresistible excitement of war, there are the healthful open-air life, the coarse but wholesome food, the absence of any necessity for painful original thinking, all of which cause a superb euphoria."

—The New York Medical Journal.

"Possibly in deference to President Wilson's general request, Lou Anger has changed his billing to 'The Neutral Soldier,' although he retains his version of Germanized English. His comic soldier costume does not prevent him from being a peace advocate, and we venture to say that, had the warring nations heard Mr. Anger's monologue, full of truisms as it is, they would have seen the ridiculousness of war, as did the Harlem audience."

—Nellie Revell
in the Morning Telegraph.

"England is betraying her kinsman, the Teuton, in his death struggle with the Slav."

—Albert Bernhardt Faust
in the New York Times.

"The war took the Germans completely by surprise. The Emperor's attitude is grossly misunderstood in the United States."

—Dr. Morris Jastrow, Jr.,
in the New York Evening Sun.

"Each star moves in its set orbit. Through the long centuries they swing and stumble not upon their path. There is no confusion. Orion and the Scor-

pion pass by in crystal harmony. The fiery Bull is as tranquil as the Seven Sisters. The figures of the star dances are of inconceivable intricacy, yet so perfectly do they keep step that men can predict their places a thousand years hence."

—Dr. Frank Crane.

"People are people."

—Will Irwin in Collier's.

"Our greatest blessing to-day, next to religion, is prohibition."

—The Hon. Bob Glen, former Governor of North Carolina.

"Nothing is final between friends."

—William Jennings Bryan.

"Man can manage everything best entirely alone; we 'antis' proudly point to Europe and its little health-giving squabbles; or perhaps the war was due to votes for women accorded in Finland, in which case it is a disaster and you see what happens."

—Stephen Haweis
in the New York Tribune.

"The President of the United States does not have a harder day's work than that of one of these devoted astronomers, and his work is far less intellectual."

—Garrett P. Serviss.

"God may not always side with big guns, but big guns will certainly help him make a right decision."

—Hanover clergyman.

"Handed him a golf club and said, beat me.' Read this story of Locke's to-day. You will find it a sure antidote for the present surfeit of erotic fiction."

—Advertisement in Harper's Bazar.

"Bags first originated because wealthy people needed receptacles in which to carry alms for the poor."

—Norwich (N. Y.) Sun.

STEINWAY IDEALS

FROM the inception of the business of STEINWAY & SONS there were certain fixed ideals ever kept in mind which were expressed in the one thought—to make the best possible piano irrespective of cost, effort and time spent in the attainment of this end.

Steadfastly and unerringly those ideals have been adhered to by succeeding generations of the STEINWAY FAMILY as a sacredly guarded legacy, and in consequence the STEINWAY PIANO has gained a pre-eminent position in the world's centres of music and art.

In recognition of their great achievements in the realm of tone, honors and distinctions have been showered upon the STEINWAYS by the crowned heads of Europe, and the sway of the STEINWAY PIANO has been gratefully acknowledged by leading musical and scientific societies everywhere. It is generally conceded that today the STEINWAY occupies a supreme place in art circles in all lands—a position that is not only unique among pianos but among every phase of American art.

STEINWAY & SONS

STEINWAY HALL

107-109 East 14th Street

NEW YORK

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