A 'JOLLY' ART CRITIC
There is a healthy bank holiday atmosphere about this book which is extremely pleasant.
mr Quilter is entirely free from affectation of any kind.
He rollicks through art with the recklessness of the tourist and describes its beauties with the enthusiasm of the auctioneer.
To many, no doubt, he will seem to be somewhat blatant and bumptious, but we prefer to regard him as being simply British.
After listening so long to the Don Quixote of art, to listen once to Sancho Panza is both salutary and refreshing.
About artists and their work mr Quilter has, of course, a great deal to say.
Sculpture he regards as 'Painting's poor relation'; so, with the exception of a jaunty allusion to the 'rough modelling' of Tanagra figurines he hardly refers at all to the plastic arts; but on painters he writes with much vigour and joviality.
That there is a difference between colour and colours, that an artist, be he portrait painter or dramatist, always reveals himself in his manner, are ideas that can hardly be said to occur to him; but mr Quilter really does his best and bravely faces every difficulty in modern art, with the exception of mr Whistler.
Painting, he tells us, is 'of a different quality to mathematics,' and finish in art is 'adding more fact'!
Portrait painting is a bad pursuit for an emotional artist as it destroys his personality and his sympathy; however, even for the emotional artist there is hope, as a portrait can be converted into a picture 'by adding to the likeness of the sitter some dramatic interest or some picturesque adjunct'!
As for etchings, they are of two kinds-British and foreign.
And then the picture he draws of the ideal home, where everything, though ugly, is hallowed by domestic memories, and where beauty appeals not to the heartless eye but the family affections; 'baby's chair there, and the mother's work basket . . . near the fire, and the ornaments Fred brought home from India on the mantel board'!
It is really impossible not to be touched by so charming a description.
Far from it.
On the whole, the book will not do.
We fully admit that it is extremely amusing and, no doubt, mr Quilter is quite earnest in his endeavours to elevate art to the dignity of manual labour, but the extraordinary vulgarity of the style alone will always be sufficient to prevent these Sententiae Artis from being anything more than curiosities of literature. mr Quilter has missed his chance; for he has failed even to make himself the Tupper of Painting.
Sententiae: Artis: First Principles of Art for Painters and Picture Lovers.
By Harry Quilter, m a (Isbister.)
King Kaliko
"Don't worry," replied Quox.
Next instant Shaggy was himself again and Quox said to him grumblingly:
"Please get off my left toe, Shaggy Man, and be more particular where you step."
Quox did not have much to say until the conversation was ended, but then he turned to Kaliko and asked:
"Me?" stammered the Chamberlain, greatly surprised by the question. "Well, I couldn't be a worse King, I'm sure."
"Of course," said Kaliko.
"Hooray!" cried Betsy; "I'm glad of that.
"The Ugly One?
Very willingly," replied Kaliko.
But is my dear brother well?" he added anxiously.
"I hope he doesn't work too hard," said Shaggy.
"He doesn't work at all.
"Not exactly," returned Kaliko.
"In the Metal Forest."
"Where is that?"
All the trees are gold and silver and the ground is strewn with precious stones, so it is a sort of treasury."
Kaliko hesitated.
"Do you suppose Ruggedo destroyed them?"
"Oh, no; I'm quite sure he didn't.
They fell into the big pit in the passage, and we put the cover on to keep them there; but when the executioners went to look for them they had all disappeared from the pit and we could find no trace of them."
"That's funny," remarked Betsy thoughtfully.
But to disappear like that seems like magic; now, doesn't it?"
They agreed that it did, but no one could explain the mystery.
"However," said Shaggy, "they are gone, that is certain, so we cannot help them or be helped by them.
Betsy laughed and Shaggy seemed rather hurt; but Polychrome relieved his embarrassment by saying softly: "One can be ugly in looks, but lovely in disposition."
"True," agreed Kaliko.
"So I think I will assemble the chief nomes of my kingdom in this throne room and tell them that I am their new King. Then I can ask them to assist us in searching for the secret passages.
"Of course not," said he, jumping up from the throne, where he had seated himself.
For my Mother and Father-
STEPHEN CRANE
And when he attacked, it was always there to beat him aside.
He reacted-but his blade just met air.
"One minute," a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.
Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself.
The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation.
Only his heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate.
His eyes closed and he was only distantly aware of his handlers catching him as he fell, carrying him to his bench. While they massaged his limp body and cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned inward.
The nagging memory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over and over in his mind, examining it from all sides.
The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore nights in the dormitories were as quiet as death.
But as soon as the scores began to mount and eliminations cut into their ranks, there was complete silence after dark.
Particularly so on this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were occupied, the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.
The words were whispered but clear-two voices, just outside the thin metal of his door.
Someone spoke his name.
Of course not.
Whoever said you could was making a big mistake and there is going to be trouble-"
"Don't talk like an idiot!"
The other voice snapped with a harsh urgency, clearly used to command.
Now stand aside!"
He must have drawn his gun, because the intruder said quickly, "Put that away.
You're being a fool!"
"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response.
There was silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.
"Ten seconds."
He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion.
The month of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll.
It would be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and skill to fight and win a touch.
"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching muscles.
"Four four.
All you need is a touch to win!"
"That's all he needs too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat.
A red haired mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible store of energy.
That was really all that counted now.
Just thrust and parry, and victory to the stronger.
Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks. Brion had a few individual ones that had helped him so far.
He had a standing order with off planet agents for archaic chess books, the older the better.
This was allowed.
Self hypnosis was an accepted tool.
Common as the phenomenon seemed to be in the textbooks, it proved impossible to duplicate.
Berserkers and juramentados continue to fight and kill though carved by scores of mortal wounds.
Death seemed an inescapable part of this kind of strength. But there was another type that could easily be brought about in any deep trance-hypnotic rigidity.
This is physically impossible when conscious.
Working with this as a clue, Brion had developed a self hypnotic technique that allowed him to tap this reservoir of unknown strength-the source of "second wind," the survival strength that made the difference between life and death.
Others had died before during the Twenties, and death during the last round was in some ways easier than defeat.
He could feel with acute sensitivity, hear, and see clearly when he opened his eyes.
With each passing second the power drew at the basic reserves of life, draining it from his body.
When the buzzer sounded he pulled his foil from his second's startled grasp, and ran forward.
The force of his rush was so great that the guards on their weapons locked, and their bodies crashed together.
He didn't attempt to attack, just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shield of his defense.
Brion saw something close to panic on his opponent's face when the man finally recognized his error.
Brion wasn't tiring.
If anything, he was pressing the attack.
Thrust-thrust-and each time the parrying sword a little slower to return.
Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside.
In and under the guard.
The slap of the button on flesh and the arc of steel that reached out and ended on Irolg's chest over his heart.
Except that something was wrong and it was like walking through warm glue.
Walking on his knees.
No, not walking, falling.
At last.
The nephew of one of the standard Victorian novelists, Mainhall bobbed about among the various literary cliques of London and its outlying suburbs, careful to lose touch with none of them.
He spoke with an extreme Oxford accent, and when he was talking well, his face sometimes wore the rapt expression of a very emotional man listening to music.
Mainhall liked Alexander because he was an engineer.
He had preconceived ideas about everything, and his idea about Americans was that they should be engineers or mechanics.
He hated them when they presumed to be anything else.
"It's tremendously well put on, too.
There's everything in seeing Hilda while she's fresh in a part.
She's apt to grow a bit stale after a time.
The ones who have any imagination do."
"Hilda Burgoyne!" Alexander exclaimed mildly.
"Why, I haven't heard of her for-years."
Mainhall laughed.
"Then you can't have heard much at all, my dear Alexander.
It's only lately, since MacConnell and his set have got hold of her, that she's come up.
Myself, I always knew she had it in her.
If we had one real critic in London-but what can one expect?
Do you know, Alexander,"--Mainhall looked with perplexity up into the top of the hansom and rubbed his pink cheek with his gloved finger,--"do you know, I sometimes think of taking to criticism seriously myself.
Just then they drove up to the Duke of York's, so Alexander did not commit himself, but followed Mainhall into the theatre.
When they entered the stage box on the left the first act was well under way, the scene being the interior of a cabin in the south of Ireland.
As they sat down, a burst of applause drew Alexander's attention to the stage.
Miss Burgoyne and her donkey were thrusting their heads in at the half door. "After all," he reflected, "there's small probability of her recognizing me.
She doubtless hasn't thought of me for years." He felt the enthusiasm of the house at once, and in a few moments he was caught up by the current of MacConnell's irresistible comedy.
"You see," he murmured in Alexander's ear, as the curtain fell on the first act, "one almost never sees a part like that done without smartness or mawkishness.
Of course, Hilda is Irish,--the Burgoynes have been stage people for generations,--and she has the Irish voice.
That laugh, now, when she doubles over at the hips-who ever heard it out of Galway?
She saves her hand, too.
She's at her best in the second act.
She's really MacConnell's poetic motif, you see; makes the whole thing a fairy tale."
When she began to dance, by way of showing the gossoons what she had seen in the fairy rings at night, the house broke into a prolonged uproar.
After her dance she withdrew from the dialogue and retreated to the ditch wall back of Philly's burrow, where she sat singing "The Rising of the Moon" and making a wreath of primroses for her donkey.
They met a good many acquaintances; Mainhall, indeed, knew almost every one, and he babbled on incontinently, screwing his small head about over his high collar.
"MacConnell, let me introduce mr Bartley Alexander.
I say!
It's going famously to night, Mac.
And what an audience!
You'll never do anything like this again, mark me.
A man writes to the top of his bent only once."
The playwright gave Mainhall a curious look out of his deep set faded eyes and made a wry face.
"And have I done anything so fool as that, now?" he asked.
"That's what I was saying," Mainhall lounged a little nearer and dropped into a tone even more conspicuously confidential.
"And you'll never bring Hilda out like this again.
Dear me, Mac, the girl couldn't possibly be better, you know."
MacConnell grunted.
He nodded curtly and made for the door, dodging acquaintances as he went.
"Poor old Hugh," Mainhall murmured.
"He's hit terribly hard.
She doesn't take up with anybody, you know.
One of your countrymen, Alexander, by the way; an American student whom she met in Paris, I believe.
I dare say it's quite true that there's never been any one else." Mainhall vouched for her constancy with a loftiness that made Alexander smile, even while a kind of rapid excitement was tingling through him.
Blinking up at the lights, Mainhall added in his luxurious, worldly way: "She's an elegant little person, and quite capable of an extravagant bit of sentiment like that.
Here comes Sir Harry Towne.
He's another who's awfully keen about her.
Let me introduce you.
Sir Harry Towne, mr Bartley Alexander, the American engineer."
Sir Harry Towne bowed and said that he had met mr Alexander and his wife in Tokyo.
Mainhall cut in impatiently.
"I say, Sir Harry, the little girl's going famously to night, isn't she?"
Sir Harry wrinkled his brows judiciously.
The fact is, she's feeling rather seedy, poor child.
A little attack of nerves, possibly."
He bowed as the warning bell rang, and Mainhall whispered: "You know Lord Westmere, of course,--the stooped man with the long gray mustache, talking to Lady Dowle.
Lady Westmere is very fond of Hilda."
When they reached their box the house was darkened and the orchestra was playing "The Cloak of Old Gaul." In a moment Peggy was on the stage again, and Alexander applauded vigorously with the rest.
For some reason he felt pleased and flattered by the enthusiasm of the audience.
In the half light he looked about at the stalls and boxes and smiled a little consciously, recalling with amusement Sir Harry's judicial frown.
He had not thought of Hilda Burgoyne for years; indeed, he had almost forgotten her.
Hilda had never replied to his letter.
He felt guilty and unhappy about her for a time, but after Winifred promised to marry him he really forgot Hilda altogether.
After he met Winifred Pemberton he seemed to himself like a different man.
You see, one can't be jealous about things in general; but about particular, definite, personal things,"--here she had thrown her hands up to his shoulders with a quick, impulsive gesture-"oh, about those I should be very jealous.
I should torture myself-I couldn't help it." After that it was easy to forget, actually to forget.
He had been in London more or less, but he had never happened to hear of her.
"All the same," he lifted his glass, "here's to you, little Hilda.
You've made things come your way, and I never thought you'd do it.
But I never thought she'd do anything.
She hadn't much ambition then, and she was too fond of trifles.
She must care about the theatre a great deal more than she used to.
Perhaps she has me to thank for something, after all.
Sometimes a little jolt like that does one good.
After all, we were awfully young.
It was youth and poverty and proximity, and everything was young and kindly.
I shouldn't wonder if she could laugh about it with me now.
I shouldn't wonder- But they've probably spoiled her, so that she'd be tiresome if one met her again."
Bartley smiled and yawned and went to bed.
The last two days of the voyage Bartley found almost intolerable.
The stop at Queenstown, the tedious passage up the Mersey, were things that he noted dimly through his growing impatience.
He had planned to stop in Liverpool; but, instead, he took the boat train for London.
Emerging at Euston at half past three o'clock in the afternoon, Alexander had his luggage sent to the Savoy and drove at once to Bedford Square.
When Marie met him at the door, even her strong sense of the proprieties could not restrain her surprise and delight.
The room was empty when he entered.
A coal fire was crackling in the grate and the lamps were lit, for it was already beginning to grow dark outside.
Alexander did not sit down.
"Oh, what a grand thing to happen on a raw day!
I felt it in my bones when I woke this morning that something splendid was going to turn up.
I thought it might be Sister Kate or Cousin Mike would be happening along.
I never dreamed it would be you, Bartley.
But why do you let me chatter on like this?
Come over to the fire; you're chilled through."
"When did you come, Bartley, and how did it happen?
You haven't spoken a word."
I landed at Liverpool this morning and came down on the boat train."
Alexander leaned forward and warmed his hands before the blaze.
Hilda watched him with perplexity.
"There's something troubling you, Bartley.
What is it?"
Bartley bent lower over the fire.
"It's the whole thing that troubles me, Hilda.
Hilda took a quick, soft breath.
She looked at his heavy shoulders and big, determined head, thrust forward like a catapult in leash.
"What about us, Bartley?" she asked in a thin voice.
He locked and unlocked his hands over the grate and spread his fingers close to the bluish flame, while the coals crackled and the clock ticked and a street vendor began to call under the window.
At last Alexander brought out one word:--
"Everything!"
Hilda was pale by this time, and her eyes were wide with fright.
She looked about desperately from Bartley to the door, then to the windows, and back again to Bartley.
"I can't live with myself any longer," he answered roughly.
He rose and pushed the chair behind him and began to walk miserably about the room, seeming to find it too small for him.
He pulled up a window as if the air were heavy.
Hilda watched him from her corner, trembling and scarcely breathing, dark shadows growing about her eyes.
"Always.
But it's worse now.
It tortures me every minute."
He ignored her question.
"I am not a man who can live two lives," he went on feverishly.
"Each life spoils the other.
I get nothing but misery out of either.
There is this deception between me and everything."
At that word "deception," spoken with such self contempt, the color flashed back into Hilda's face as suddenly as if she had been struck by a whiplash.
She bit her lip and looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly in front of her.
"Could you-could you sit down and talk about it quietly, Bartley, as if I were a friend, and not some one who had to be defied?"
He dropped back heavily into his chair by the fire.
"It was myself I was defying, Hilda.
I have thought about it until I am worn out."
He looked at her and his haggard face softened.
He put out his hand toward her as he looked away again into the fire.
She crept across to him, drawing her stool after her.
"When did you first begin to feel like this, Bartley?"
"After the very first.
The first was-sort of in play, wasn't it?"
Hilda's face quivered, but she whispered: "Yes, I think it must have been.
Alexander groaned.
"I meant to, but somehow I couldn't.
"Yes, I was happy, wasn't I?" She pressed his hand gently in gratitude. "Weren't you happy then, at all?"
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if to draw in again the fragrance of those days.
Something of their troubling sweetness came back to Alexander, too.
He moved uneasily and his chair creaked.
But afterward. . ."
"Yes, yes," she hurried, pulling her hand gently away from him. Presently it stole back to his coat sleeve.
"Please tell me one thing, Bartley.
At least, tell me that you believe I thought I was making you happy."
She leaned her head against his arm and spoke softly:--
"You see, my mistake was in wanting you to have everything.
I somehow believed that I could take all the bad consequences for you.
I wanted you always to be happy and handsome and successful-to have all the things that a great man ought to have, and, once in a way, the careless holidays that great men are not permitted."
Bartley gave a bitter little laugh, and Hilda looked up and read in the deepening lines of his face that youth and Bartley would not much longer struggle together.
"I understand, Bartley.
I was wrong.
You've only to tell me now.
What must I do that I've not done, or what must I not do?" She listened intently, but she heard nothing but the creaking of his chair.
"You want to tell me that you can only see me like this, as old friends do, or out in the world among people?
I can do that."
"I can't," he said heavily.
Bartley leaned his head in his hands and spoke through his teeth.
"It's got to be a clean break, Hilda.
I can't see you at all, anywhere.
What I mean is that I want you to promise never to see me again, no matter how often I come, no matter how hard I beg."
Hilda sprang up like a flame.
She stood over him with her hands clenched at her side, her body rigid.
"It's too late to ask that.
Do you hear me, Bartley? It's too late.
I won't promise.
It's abominable of you to ask me.
Keep away if you wish; when have I ever followed you?
But, if you come to me, I'll do as I see fit.
The shamefulness of your asking me to do that!
If you come to me, I'll do as I see fit.
Do you understand?
"Yes, I know I'm cowardly. I'm afraid of myself.
I don't trust myself any more.
I carried it all lightly enough at first, but now I don't dare trifle with it.
It's getting the better of me.
It's different now.
I'm growing older, and you've got my young self here with you.
Hilda held her face back from him and began to cry bitterly.
You ask me to stay away from you because you want me!
And I've got nobody but you.
I will do anything you say-but that!
I will ask the least imaginable, but I must have SOMETHING!"
"Just something Bartley.
I must have you to think of through the months and months of loneliness.
I must know about you.
The sight of you, Bartley, to see you living and happy and successful-can I never make you understand what that means to me?" She pressed his shoulders gently.
If I'd met you later, if I hadn't loved you so well-but that's all over, long ago.
Then came all those years without you, lonely and hurt and discouraged; those decent young fellows and poor Mac, and me never heeding-hard as a steel spring.
And then you came back, not caring very much, but it made no difference."
She slid to the floor beside him, as if she were too tired to sit up any longer.
Bartley bent over and took her in his arms, kissing her mouth and her wet, tired eyes.
"Don't cry, don't cry," he whispered.
"We've tortured each other enough for tonight.
Forget everything except that I am here."
CHAPTER nine
On the last Saturday in April, the New York "Times" published an account of the strike complications which were delaying Alexander's New Jersey bridge, and stated that the engineer himself was in town and at his office on West Tenth Street.
His business often called him to New York, and he had kept an apartment there for years, subletting it when he went abroad for any length of time.
Besides his sleeping room and bath, there was a large room, formerly a painter's studio, which he used as a study and office.
It was furnished with the cast off possessions of his bachelor days and with odd things which he sheltered for friends of his who followed itinerant and more or less artistic callings.
Over the fireplace there was a large old-fashioned gilt mirror.
Alexander's big work table stood in front of one of the three windows, and above the couch hung the one picture in the room, a big canvas of charming color and spirit, a study of the Luxembourg Gardens in early spring, painted in his youth by a man who had since become a portrait painter of international renown.
When Alexander came back from dinner he put more wood on his fire, made himself comfortable, and settled down at his desk, where he began checking over estimate sheets.
It was after nine o'clock and he was lighting a second pipe, when he thought he heard a sound at his door. He started and listened, holding the burning match in his hand; again he heard the same sound, like a firm, light tap.
He rose and crossed the room quickly.
He stood for a moment in awkward constraint, his pipe in his hand.
"Come in," he said to Hilda at last, and closed the door behind her.
He pointed to a chair by the fire and went back to his worktable.
"Won't you sit down?"
He was standing behind the table, turning over a pile of blueprints nervously.
The yellow light from the student's lamp fell on his hands and the purple sleeves of his velvet smoking jacket, but his flushed face and big, hard head were in the shadow.
There was something about him that made Hilda wish herself at her hotel again, in the street below, anywhere but where she was.
"Of course I know, Bartley," she said at last, "that after this you won't owe me the least consideration.
But we sail on Tuesday.
I saw that interview in the paper yesterday, telling where you were, and I thought I had to see you.
That's all.
Good night; I'm going now." She turned and her hand closed on the door knob.
Alexander hurried toward her and took her gently by the arm.
"Sit down, Hilda; you're wet through.
Let me take off your coat-and your boots; they're oozing water." He knelt down and began to unlace her shoes, while Hilda shrank into the chair.
"Here, put your feet on this stool. You don't mean to say you walked down-and without overshoes!"
Hilda hid her face in her hands.
"I was afraid to take a cab.
Can't you see, Bartley, that I'm terribly frightened?
I've been through this a hundred times to day.
Don't be any more angry than you can help.
I was all right until I knew you were in town.
If you'd sent me a note, or telephoned me, or anything!
But you won't let me write to you, and I had to see you after that letter, that terrible letter you wrote me when you got home."
"Is this the way you mean to answer it, Hilda?" he asked unsteadily.
She was afraid to look up at him.
"I came to tell you that I'm willing to do as you asked me.
But it's no use talking about that now.
Give me my things, please." She put her hand out toward the fender.
Alexander sat down on the arm of her chair.
"Did you think I had forgotten you were in town, Hilda?
There is a letter for you there, in my desk drawer.
It was to have reached you on the steamer.
I told myself that if I were really thinking of you, and not of myself, a letter would be better than nothing.
Marks on paper mean something to you." He paused.
"They never did to me."
Hilda smiled up at him beautifully and put her hand on his sleeve.
Did you write to me?
Then I wouldn't have come."
"I didn't know it before, Hilda, on my honor I didn't, but I believe it was because, deep down in me somewhere, I was hoping I might drive you to do just this.
I've watched that door all day.
I've jumped up if the fire crackled.
I think I have felt that you were coming." He bent his face over her hair.
"And I," she whispered,--"I felt that you were feeling that.
But when I came, I thought I had been mistaken."
Alexander started up and began to walk up and down the room.
I've been up in Canada with my bridge, and I arranged not to come to New York until after you had gone.
Then, when your manager added two more weeks, I was already committed." He dropped upon the stool in front of her and sat with his hands hanging between his knees.
"What am I to do, Hilda?"
"That's what I wanted to see you about, Bartley.
Only I'll do it more completely.
I'm going to marry."
"Who?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter much!
One of them.
Only not Mac.
I'm too fond of him."
Alexander moved restlessly.
"Are you joking, Hilda?"
"Indeed I'm not."
It's because they can't be at the mercy of the man they love any longer."
Alexander flushed angrily.
"So it's better to be at the mercy of a man you don't love?"
"Under such circumstances, infinitely!"
He got up and went over to the window, threw it open, and leaned out.
He heard Hilda moving about behind him.
When he looked over his shoulder she was lacing her boots.
"Hilda you'd better think a while longer before you do that.
I don't know what I ought to say, but I don't believe you'd be happy; truly I don't.
Aren't you trying to frighten me?"
She tied the knot of the last lacing and put her boot heel down firmly. "No; I'm telling you what I've made up my mind to do.
I suppose I would better do it without telling you.
But afterward I shan't have an opportunity to explain, for I shan't be seeing you again."
Alexander started to speak, but caught himself.
When Hilda rose he sat down on the arm of her chair and drew her back into it.
Don't do anything like that rashly." His face grew troubled. "You wouldn't be happy.
You are not that kind of woman.
"You see, you are different, Hilda.
She closed her eyes; her lips and eyelids trembled.
Only one.
And he threw it back at me a second time."
She felt the strength leap in the arms that held her so lightly.
"Try him again, Hilda.
Try him once again."
She looked up into his eyes, and hid her face in her hands.
It was alleged, that when Jesus was nailed to the cross, he was endowed with a miraculous apathy of mind and body, which rendered him insensible of his apparent sufferings. It was affirmed, that these momentary, though real, pangs would be abundantly repaid by the temporal reign of a thousand years reserved for the Messiah in his kingdom of the new Jerusalem.
A similar union is not inconsistent with a much higher, or even with the highest, degree of mental faculties; and the incarnation of an aeon or archangel, the most perfect of created spirits, does not involve any positive contradiction or absurdity.
In the age of religious freedom, which was determined by the council of Nice, the dignity of Christ was measured by private judgment according to the indefinite rule of Scripture, or reason, or tradition.
But when his pure and proper divinity had been established on the ruins of Arianism, the faith of the Catholics trembled on the edge of a precipice where it was impossible to recede, dangerous to stand, dreadful to fall and the manifold inconveniences of their creed were aggravated by the sublime character of their theology.
The son of a learned grammarian, he was skilled in all the sciences of Greece; eloquence, erudition, and philosophy, conspicuous in the volumes of Apollinaris, were humbly devoted to the service of religion.
The worthy friend of Athanasius, the worthy antagonist of Julian, he bravely wrestled with the Arians and Polytheists, and though he affected the rigor of geometrical demonstration, his commentaries revealed the literal and allegorical sense of the Scriptures.
A mystery, which had long floated in the looseness of popular belief, was defined by his perverse diligence in a technical form; and he first proclaimed the memorable words, "One incarnate nature of Christ," which are still reechoed with hostile clamors in the churches of Asia, Egypt, and Aethiopia.
He taught that the Godhead was united or mingled with the body of a man; and that the Logos, the eternal wisdom, supplied in the flesh the place and office of a human soul.
He acquiesced in the old distinction of the Greek philosophers between the rational and sensitive soul of man; that he might reserve the Logos for intellectual functions, and employ the subordinate human principle in the meaner actions of animal life.
With the moderate Docetes, he revered Mary as the spiritual, rather than as the carnal, mother of Christ, whose body either came from heaven, impassible and incorruptible, or was absorbed, and as it were transformed, into the essence of the Deity.
The system of Apollinaris was strenuously encountered by the Asiatic and Syrian divines whose schools are honored by the names of Basil, Gregory and Chrysostom, and tainted by those of Diodorus, Theodore, and Nestorius.
Her judgment at length inclined in their favor; the heresy of Apollinaris was condemned, and the separate congregations of his disciples were proscribed by the Imperial laws.
In the beginning of the fifth century, the unity of the two natures was the prevailing doctrine of the church.
On all sides, it was confessed, that the mode of their coexistence could neither be represented by our ideas, nor expressed by our language.
Yet a secret and incurable discord was cherished, between those who were most apprehensive of confounding, and those who were most fearful of separating, the divinity, and the humanity, of Christ. Impelled by religious frenzy, they fled with adverse haste from the error which they mutually deemed most destructive of truth and salvation.
As soon as they beheld the twilight of sense and heresy, they started, measured back their steps, and were again involved in the gloom of impenetrable orthodoxy.
To purge themselves from the guilt or reproach of damnable error, they disavowed their consequences, explained their principles, excused their indiscretions, and unanimously pronounced the sounds of concord and faith.
In the house of his uncle, the archbishop Theophilus, he imbibed the orthodox lessons of zeal and dominion, and five years of his youth were profitably spent in the adjacent monasteries of Nitria.
Under the tuition of the abbot Serapion, he applied himself to ecclesiastical studies, with such indefatigable ardor, that in the course of one sleepless night, he has perused the four Gospels, the Catholic Epistles, and the Epistle to the romans.
With the approbation of his uncle, he assumed the office, and acquired the fame, of a popular preacher.
The death of Theophilus expanded and realized the hopes of his nephew.
The prize was not unworthy of his ambition.
At a distance from the court, and at the head of an immense capital, the patriarch, as he was now styled, of Alexandria had gradually usurped the state and authority of a civil magistrate.
The interdiction of their religious worship appeared in his eyes a just and meritorious act; and he confiscated their holy vessels, without apprehending the guilt of sacrilege.
The toleration, and even the privileges of the Jews, who had multiplied to the number of forty thousand, were secured by the laws of the Caesars and Ptolemies, and a long prescription of seven hundred years since the foundation of Alexandria.
Unarmed and unprepared, the Jews were incapable of resistance; their houses of prayer were levelled with the ground, and the episcopal warrior, after rewarding his troops with the plunder of their goods, expelled from the city the remnant of the unbelieving nation.
Perhaps he might plead the insolence of their prosperity, and their deadly hatred of the Christians, whose blood they had recently shed in a malicious or accidental tumult.
Such crimes would have deserved the animadversion of the magistrate; but in this promiscuous outrage, the innocent were confounded with the guilty, and Alexandria was impoverished by the loss of a wealthy and industrious colony.
Such honors might incite the faithful to combat and die under the banners of the saint; and he soon prompted, or accepted, the sacrifice of a virgin, who professed the religion of the Greeks, and cultivated the friendship of Orestes.
When the memory of Chrysostom was restored and consecrated, the nephew of Theophilus, at the head of a dying faction, still maintained the justice of his sentence; nor was it till after a tedious delay and an obstinate resistance, that he yielded to the consent of the Catholic world.
After the short and troubled reign of Sisinnius, bishop of Constantinople, the factions of the clergy and people were appeased by the choice of the emperor, who, on this occasion, consulted the voice of fame, and invited the merit of a stranger.
"Give me, O Caesar!" he exclaimed, "give me the earth purged of heretics, and I will give you in exchange the kingdom of heaven.
On either side of the Hellespont his episcopal vigor imposed a rigid formulary of faith and discipline; a chronological error concerning the festival of Easter was punished as an offence against the church and state.
At these blasphemous sounds, the pillars of the sanctuary were shaken.
The unsuccessful competitors of Nestorius indulged their pious or personal resentment, the Byzantine clergy was secretly displeased with the intrusion of a stranger: whatever is superstitious or absurd, might claim the protection of the monks; and the people were interested in the glory of their virgin patroness.
From the East, more especially from Antioch, he obtained the ambiguous counsels of toleration and silence, which were addressed to both parties while they favored the cause of Nestorius.
But the Vatican received with open arms the messengers of Egypt.
Nestorius, who depended on the near approach of his Eastern friends, persisted, like his predecessor Chrysostom, to disclaim the jurisdiction, and to disobey the summons, of his enemies: they hastened his trial, and his accuser presided in the seat of judgment.
Sixty eight bishops, twenty two of metropolitan rank, defended his cause by a modest and temperate protest: they were excluded from the councils of their brethren.
Candidian, in the emperor's name, requested a delay of four days; the profane magistrate was driven with outrage and insult from the assembly of the saints.
The whole of this momentous transaction was crowded into the compass of a summer's day: the bishops delivered their separate opinions; but the uniformity of style reveals the influence or the hand of a master, who has been accused of corrupting the public evidence of their acts and subscriptions.
On the fifth day, the triumph was clouded by the arrival and indignation of the Eastern bishops.
In a chamber of the inn, before he had wiped the dust from his shoes, john of Antioch gave audience to Candidian, the Imperial minister; who related his ineffectual efforts to prevent or to annul the hasty violence of the Egyptian.
The troops, under the command of Candidian, advanced to the assault; the outguards were routed and put to the sword, but the place was impregnable: the besiegers retired; their retreat was pursued by a vigorous sally; they lost their horses, and many of their soldiers were dangerously wounded with clubs and stones.
Ephesus, the city of the Virgin, was defiled with rage and clamor, with sedition and blood; the rival synods darted anathemas and excommunications from their spiritual engines; and the court of Theodosius was perplexed by the adverse and contradictory narratives of the Syrian and Egyptian factions.
During a busy period of three months, the emperor tried every method, except the most effectual means of indifference and contempt, to reconcile this theological quarrel.
He attempted to remove or intimidate the leaders by a common sentence, of acquittal or condemnation; he invested his representatives at Ephesus with ample power and military force; he summoned from either party eight chosen deputies to a free and candid conference in the neighborhood of the capital, far from the contagion of popular frenzy.
But the Orientals refused to yield, and the Catholics, proud of their numbers and of their Latin allies, rejected all terms of union or toleration.
The patience of the meek Theodosius was provoked; and he dissolved in anger this episcopal tumult, which at the distance of thirteen centuries assumes the venerable aspect of the third oecumenical council.
His providence will discern and punish the guilty.
Return to your provinces, and may your private virtues repair the mischief and scandal of your meeting." They returned to their provinces; but the same passions which had distracted the synod of Ephesus were diffused over the Eastern world.
CHAPTER three-TWO MISFORTUNES MAKE ONE PIECE OF GOOD FORTUNE
Some new thing had come into his soul.
Jean Valjean had never loved anything; for twenty five years he had been alone in the world.
When he saw Cosette, when he had taken possession of her, carried her off, and delivered her, he felt his heart moved within him.
He approached the bed, where she lay sleeping, and trembled with joy.
Poor old man, with a perfectly new heart!
Only, as he was five and fifty, and Cosette eight years of age, all that might have been love in the whole course of his life flowed together into a sort of ineffable light.
The Bishop had caused the dawn of virtue to rise on his horizon; Cosette caused the dawn of love to rise.
The early days passed in this dazzled state.
Cosette, on her side, had also, unknown to herself, become another being, poor little thing!
She was so little when her mother left her, that she no longer remembered her.
Like all children, who resemble young shoots of the vine, which cling to everything, she had tried to love; she had not succeeded.
She had loved the dog, and he had died, after which nothing and nobody would have anything to do with her.
It is a sad thing to say, and we have already intimated it, that, at eight years of age, her heart was cold.
Thus, from the very first day, all her sentient and thinking powers loved this kind man.
The man no longer produced on her the effect of being old or poor; she thought Jean Valjean handsome, just as she thought the hovel pretty.
The novelty of the earth and of life counts for something here.
Nothing is so charming as the coloring reflection of happiness on a garret.
We all have in our past a delightful garret.
Nature, a difference of fifty years, had set a profound gulf between Jean Valjean and Cosette; destiny filled in this gulf.
Destiny suddenly united and wedded with its irresistible power these two uprooted existences, differing in age, alike in sorrow.
One, in fact, completed the other.
To meet was to find each other.
At the mysterious moment when their hands touched, they were welded together. When these two souls perceived each other, they recognized each other as necessary to each other, and embraced each other closely.
And in truth, the mysterious impression produced on Cosette in the depths of the forest of Chelles by the hand of Jean Valjean grasping hers in the dark was not an illusion, but a reality.
The entrance of that man into the destiny of that child had been the advent of God.
Moreover, Jean Valjean had chosen his refuge well.
There he seemed perfectly secure.
The chamber with a dressing room, which he occupied with Cosette, was the one whose window opened on the boulevard.
This being the only window in the house, no neighbors' glances were to be feared from across the way or at the side.
The first story contained, as we have said, numerous chambers and several attics, only one of which was occupied by the old woman who took charge of Jean Valjean's housekeeping; all the rest was uninhabited.
It was this old woman, ornamented with the name of the principal lodger, and in reality intrusted with the functions of portress, who had let him the lodging on Christmas eve.
He had represented himself to her as a gentleman of means who had been ruined by Spanish bonds, who was coming there to live with his little daughter.
It was this good woman who had lighted the fire in the stove, and prepared everything on the evening of their arrival.
Cosette laughed, chattered, and sang from daybreak.
Children have their morning song as well as birds.
It sometimes happened that Jean Valjean clasped her tiny red hand, all cracked with chilblains, and kissed it.
The poor child, who was used to being beaten, did not know the meaning of this, and ran away in confusion.
At times she became serious and stared at her little black gown.
Cosette was no longer in rags; she was in mourning.
She had emerged from misery, and she was entering into life.
Jean Valjean had undertaken to teach her to read.
Sometimes, as he made the child spell, he remembered that it was with the idea of doing evil that he had learned to read in prison.
This idea had ended in teaching a child to read.
Good thoughts have their abysses as well as evil ones.
To teach Cosette to read, and to let her play, this constituted nearly the whole of Jean Valjean's existence.
And then he talked of her mother, and he made her pray.
She called him father, and knew no other name for him.
Life, henceforth, appeared to him to be full of interest; men seemed to him good and just; he no longer reproached any one in thought; he saw no reason why he should not live to be a very old man, now that this child loved him.
He saw a whole future stretching out before him, illuminated by Cosette as by a charming light.
The best of us are not exempt from egotistical thoughts.
At times, he reflected with a sort of joy that she would be ugly.
He had just viewed the malice of men and the misery of society under a new aspect-incomplete aspects, which unfortunately only exhibited one side of the truth, the fate of woman as summed up in Fantine, and public authority as personified in Javert.
He protected her, and she strengthened him.
Thanks to him, she could walk through life; thanks to her, he could continue in virtue.
He was that child's stay, and she was his prop.
INTRODUCTION
Of these things, and such as these, they ask no questions.
Forgotten, too, the name of Gillian, the lovely captive.
But this is a fallacy.
On this adventure he was about the business of young Robin Rue.
Around her, with their backs to her, stand six maids in a ring, with joined hands.
THE LADIES
THE WANDERING SINGER
THE WANDERING SINGER
THE LADIES
(They give him the flower from the hair of the Emperor's Daughter, and sing-)
THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER
O dry your eyes, you shall have this other When yours is a thousand leagues over the water, Daughter, daughter, My sweet daughter! Love is not far, my daughter!
The Singer then drops a second flower into the lap of the child in the middle, and goes away, and this ends the first part of the game.
The Emperor's Daughter is not yet released, for the key of her tower is understood to be still in the keeping of the dancing children.
But if time is still to spare, the second part of the game is played like this.
The dancers once more encircle their weeping comrade, and now they are gowned in white and pink.
They will indicate these changes perhaps by colored ribbons, or by any flower in its season, or by imagining themselves first in green and then in rose, which is really the best way of all.
(The Ladies, in gowns of white and rose color, stand around The Emperor's Daughter, weeping in her Tower.
To them once more comes The Wandering Singer with his lute.)
THE LADIES
You may not come into our orchard, singer, Lest you bear a word to the Emperor's Daughter From one who was sent to banishment Away a thousand leagues over the water, Singer, singer, Wandering singer, O my honey sweet singer!
THE WANDERING SINGER
THE LADIES
THE WANDERING SINGER
THE LADIES
As before, The Singer plays and The Ladies dance; and through the broken circle The Singer comes behind The Emperor's Daughter, who uncovers her face to sing-)
Mother, mother, my fair dead mother, They've stolen the ring from your heart sick daughter.
THE WANDERING SINGER
The third part of the game is seldom played.
But I did once have the luck to hear and see The Lady played in entirety-the children had been granted leave to play "just one more game" before bed time, and of course they chose the longest and played it without missing a syllable.
(The Ladies, in yellow dresses, stand again in a ring about The Emperor's Daughter, and are for the last time accosted by The Singer with his lute.)
THE WANDERING SINGER
Lady, lady, my apple gold lady, May I come into your orchard, lady? For the fruit is now on the apple bough, And the moon is up and the lawn is shady, Lady, lady, My fair lady, O my apple gold lady!
THE LADIES
You may not come into our orchard, singer, In case you set free the Emperor's Daughter Who pines apart to follow her heart That's flown a thousand leagues over the water, Singer, singer, Wandering singer, O my honey sweet singer!
THE WANDERING SINGER
THE WANDERING SINGER
(Once more The Singer plays and The Ladies dance; but one by one they fall asleep to the drowsy music, and then The Singer steps into the ring and unlocks the Tower and kisses The Emperor's Daughter.
They have the end of the game to themselves.)
I don't know what becomes of The Ladies.)
"Bed time, children!"
In they go.
You see the treatment is a trifle fanciful.
And the story of Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard is so old now-some say a year old, some say even two.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH
THE ARRAIGNMENT OF JEALOUSY
I look out upon the neat French garden that I have watched the summer round, and before me is the pile of manuscript that has grown here, the story of my friendship and love for Mary and of its tragic end, and of all the changes of my beliefs and purposes that have arisen out of that.
I had meant it to be the story of my life, but how little of my life is in it!
It gives, at most, certain acute points, certain salient aspects.
How we must simplify!
Even Mary, of whom I have labored to tell you, seems not so much expressed as hidden beneath these corrected sheets.
She who was so abundantly living, who could love like a burst of sunshine and give herself as God gives the world, is she here at all in this pile of industrious inexpert writing?
Life is so much fuller than any book can be.
Nevertheless she was not all my life, nor the form of all my life.
But it is manifest I still live, I live and work and feel and share beauty....
It seems to me more and more as I live longer, that most poetry and most literature and particularly the literature of the past is discordant with the vastness and variety, the reserves and resources and recuperations of life as we live it to day.
We range wider, last longer, and escape more and more from intensity towards understanding.
And already this astounding blow begins to take its place among other events, as a thing strange and terrible indeed, but related to all the strangeness and mystery of life, part of the universal mysteries of despair and futility and death that have troubled my consciousness since childhood.
For a time the death of Mary obscured her life for me, but now her living presence is more in my mind again.
I begin to see that it is the reality of her existence and not the accidents of her end that matter most.
It signifies less that she should have flung out of life when it seemed that her living could only have meant disaster to herself and to all she loved, than that all her life should have been hampered and restricted.
Through all her life this brave and fine and beautiful being was for the most part of her possibilities, wasted in a splendid setting, magnificently wasted if you will, but wasted.
For it became necessary for me to see Justin in order that we should stamp out the whispers against her that followed her death.
There had been talk on the part of clerks and possible witnesses.
We had come to our parting, we had done our business with an affectation of emotional aloofness, and then suddenly he gripped me by the arm.
"Stratton," he said, "we two---- We killed her.
We tore her to pieces between us...."
"We tore her to pieces," he repeated.
"It's so damned silly.
One gets angry-like an animal."
I became grotesquely anxious to assure him that, indeed, she and I had been, as they say, innocent throughout our last day together.
"You were wrong in all that," I said.
"She kept her faith with you.
We never planned to meet and when we met----.
If we had been brother and sister----.
Indeed there was nothing."
"I suppose," he said, "I ought to be glad of that.
But now it doesn't seem to matter very much.
We killed her....
In Mary, it seems to me, I found both womanhood and fellowship, I found what many have dreamt of, love and friendship freely given, and I could do nothing but clutch at her to make her my possession.
And she was owned, she was mastered, she was forced into concealment.
What alternative was there for her?
What alternative is there for any woman?
She might perhaps have kept her freedom by some ill paid work and at the price of every other impulse in her swift and eager nature.
She might have become one of those poor neuters, an independent woman....
Life was made impossible for her and she was forced to die, according to the fate of all untimely things.
She was destroyed, not merely by the unconsidered, undisciplined passions of her husband and her lover, but by the vast tradition that sustains and enforces the subjugation of her sex.
What I had from her, and what she was, is but a mere intimation of all that she and I might have made of each other and the world.
And perhaps in this story I have said enough for you to understand why Mary has identified herself with something world-wide, has added to herself a symbolical value, and why it is I find in the whole crowded spectacle of mankind, a quality that is also hers, a sense of fine things entangled and stifled and unable to free themselves from the ancient limiting jealousies which law and custom embody.
For I know that a growing multitude of men and women outwear the ancient ways.
The blood stained organized jealousies of religious intolerance, the delusions of nationality and cult and race, that black hatred which simple people and young people and common people cherish against all that is not in the likeness of themselves, cease to be the undisputed ruling forces of our collective life.
I will not be content with that compromise of jealousies which is the established life of humanity to day.
I give myself, and if I can I will give you, to the destruction of jealousy and of the forms and shelters and instruments of jealousy, both in my own self and in the thought and laws and usage of the world.
PICKLED CUCUMBERS.
The next day, drain them well for six hours, put them into a jar, pour boiling vinegar over them, and keep them in a warm place.
In a short time, boil up the vinegar again, add pepper and ginger in the above proportion, and instantly cover them up.
Tie them down with bladder, and in a few days they will be fit for use.
[Illustration: LONG PEPPER.]
Originally, the most valuable of these were found in the Spice Islands, or Moluccas, of the Indian Ocean, and were highly prized by the nations of antiquity.
The romans indulged in them to a most extravagant degree.
The long pepper is less aromatic than the black, but its oil is more pungent.
CUCUMBER SAUCE, WHITE.
four hundred.
Let it stand four or five days, boil it all up, and when cold, strain the liquor through a piece of muslin, and store it away in small bottles well sealed.
INGREDIENTS.--Cucumbers, salt.
Now wash them well in fresh water, and dress as usual with pepper, vinegar, and oil.
[Illustration: THE CUCUMBER.]
If they are not a fine green, change the water again, cover them as before, and make them hot.
When they are a good colour, take them off the fire and let them cool; cut them in quarters, take out the seeds and pulp, and put them into cold water.
Let them remain for two days, changing the water twice each day, to draw out the salt.
Boil the syrup once in two or three days for three weeks; strengthen it if required, and let it be quite cold before the cucumbers are put in.
Great attention must be paid to the directions in the commencement of this recipe, as, if these are not properly carried out, the result will be far from satisfactory.
COMMON SALT.--By this we mean salt used for cooking purposes, which is found in great abundance both on land and in the waters of the ocean.
We here give an engraving of a salt mine at Northwich, Cheshire, where both salt mines and brine springs are exceedingly productive, and are believed to have been wrought so far back as during the occupation of Britain by the romans.
Beat the eggs, stir to them the milk and pounded sugar, and put the mixture into a jug.
Place the jug in a saucepan of boiling water; keep stirring well until it thickens, but do not allow it to boil, or it will curdle. Serve the sauce in a tureen, stir in the brandy, and grate a little nutmeg over the top.
DUTCH SAUCE FOR FISH.
When it is sufficiently thick, take it off, as it should not boil.
Tarragon vinegar may be used instead of plain, and, by many, is considered far preferable.
Note.--This sauce may be poured hot over salad, and left to get quite cold, when it should be thick, smooth, and somewhat stiff.
Excellent salads may be made of hard eggs, or the remains of salt fish flaked nicely from the bone, by pouring over a little of the above mixture when hot, and allowing it to cool.
It is hardier than the orange, and, as one of the citron tribe, was brought into Europe by the Arabians.
The lemon was first cultivated in England in the beginning of the seventeenth century, and is now often to be found in our green houses.
The kind commonly sold, however, is imported from Portugal, Spain, and the Azores.
Some also come from saint Helena; but those from Spain are esteemed the best.
GREEN DUTCH SAUCE, or HOLLANDAISE VERTE.
Make a green colouring by pounding some parsley in a mortar, and squeezing all the juice from it.
It grows somewhat like the lily of the valley, but its height is about three feet.
In Jamaica it flowers about August or September, fading about the end of the year.
The fleshy creeping roots, which form the ginger of commerce, are in a proper state to be dug when the stalks are entirely withered.
EGG BALLS FOR SOUPS AND MADE DISHES.
Beat the yolks of the other two eggs; add them, with a little flour and salt, to those pounded; mix all well together, and roll into balls.
Boil them before they are put into the soup or other dish they may be intended for.
EGG SAUCE FOR SALT FISH.
Strip off the shells, chop the eggs into small pieces, not, however, too fine.
Lemon juice may be added at pleasure.
EPICUREAN SAUCE FOR STEAKS, CHOPS, GRAVIES, o r FISH.
Strain, and bottle off for use.
[Illustration: SHALOT.]
It is a bulbous root, and when full grown, its leaves wither in July.
It is called by old authors the "barren onion," and is used in sauces and pickles, soups and made dishes, and as an accompaniment to chops and steaks.
ESPAGNOLE, o r BROWN SPANISH SAUCE.
Strain and skim off every particle of fat, and when required for use, thicken with butter and flour, or with a little roux.
Add the wine, and, if necessary, a seasoning of cayenne; when it will be ready to serve.
This sauce or gravy is used for many dishes, and with most people is a general favourite.
FENNEL SAUCE FOR MACKEREL.
Simmer for a minute or two, and serve in a tureen.
It is very generally cultivated in gardens, and has much improved on its original form.
Various dishes are frequently ornamented and garnished with its graceful leaves, and these are sometimes boiled in soups, although it is more usually confined, in English cookery, to the mackerel sauce as here given.
FISH SAUCE.
FORCEMEAT BALLS FOR FISH SOUPS.
Continue pounding till the whole is nicely amalgamated.
Warm the butter till it is in a liquid state; well whisk the eggs, and work these up with the pounded lobster meat.
Pound well, and bind with one or two eggs which have been previously beaten and strained.
Work the whole well together, and the forcemeat will be ready for use.
If the pie is not to be eaten immediately, omit the herbs and parsley, as these would prevent it from keeping.
Mushrooms or truffles may be added.
MARJORAM.--Although there are several species of marjoram, that which is known as the sweet or knotted marjoram, is the one usually preferred in cookery.
It is a native of Portugal, and when its leaves are used as a seasoning herb, they have an agreeable aromatic flavour.
The winter sweet marjoram used for the same purposes, is a native of Greece, and the pot marjoram is another variety brought from Sicily.
FORCEMEAT FOR PIKE, CARP, HADDOCK, AND VARIOUS KINDS OF FISH.
Oysters or anchovies may be added to this forcemeat, and will be found a great improvement.
of bread crumbs, two eggs.
Now beat and strain the eggs, work these up with the other ingredients, and the forcemeat will be ready for use.
As we have stated before, no one flavour should predominate greatly, and the forcemeat should be of sufficient body to cut with a knife, and yet not dry and heavy.
Boil for five minutes, mince it very small, and mix it with the other ingredients.
If it should be in an unsound state, it must be on no account made use of.
[Illustration: BASIL.]
FORCEMEAT FOR BAKED PIKE.
It will be well to state, in the beginning of this recipe, that French forcemeat, or quenelles, consist of the blending of three separate processes; namely, panada, udder, and whatever meat you intend using.
PANADA.
When done, moisten with two teacupfuls of white stock, boil for twenty minutes, and strain the whole through a sieve over the panada in the other stewpan. Place it over the fire, keep constantly stirring, to prevent its burning, and when quite dry, put in a small piece of butter.
Let this again dry up by stirring over the fire; then add the yolks of two eggs, mix well, put the panada to cool on a clean plate, and use it when required.
Boiled Calf's Udder for French Forcemeats.
Put the udder into a stewpan with sufficient water to cover it; let it stew gently till quite done, when take it out to cool.
That portion which passes through the strainer is one of the three ingredients of which French forcemeats are generally composed; but many cooks substitute butter for this, being a less troublesome and more expeditious mode of preparation.
[Illustration: PESTLE AND MORTAR.]
PESTLE AND MORTAR.--No cookery can be perfectly performed without the aid of the useful instruments shown in the engraving.
They are made of iron, and, in that material, can be bought cheap; but as these are not available, for all purposes, we should recommend, as more economical in the end, those made of Wedgwood, although these are considerably more expensive than the former.
Veal Quenelles.
When the three ingredients are properly prepared, pound them altogether in a mortar for some time; for the more quenelles are pounded, the more delicate they are.
When the whole is well blended together, mould it into balls, or whatever shape is intended, roll them in flour, and poach in boiling water, to which a little salt should have been added.
If the quenelles are not firm enough, add the yolk of another egg, but omit the white, which only makes them hollow and puffy inside.
In the preparation of this recipe, it would be well to bear in mind that the ingredients are to be well pounded and seasoned, and must be made hard or soft according to the dishes they are intended for.
For brown or white ragouts they should be firm, and when the quenelles are used very small, extreme delicacy will be necessary in their preparation.
Any one with the slightest pretensions to refined cookery, must, in this particular, implicitly follow the example of our friends across the Channel.
FORCEMEAT, or QUENELLES, FOR TURTLE SOUP.
FRIED BREAD CRUMBS.
Cut the bread into thin slices, place them in a cool oven overnight, and when thoroughly dry and crisp, roll them down into fine crumbs.
Put some lard, or clarified dripping, into a frying pan; bring it to the boiling point, throw in the crumbs, and fry them very quickly. Directly they are done, lift them out with a slice, and drain them before the fire from all greasy moisture.
When quite crisp, they are ready for use.
Fry them in the same manner as the bread crumbs, in clear boiling lard, or clarified dripping, and drain them until thoroughly crisp before the fire.
When variety is desired, fry some of a pale colour, and others of a darker hue.
FRIED BREAD FOR BORDERS.
Proceed as above, by frying some slices of bread cut in any fanciful shape.
When quite crisp, dip one side of the sippet into the beaten white of an egg mixed with a little flour, and place it on the edge of the dish.
Continue in this manner till the border is completed, arranging the sippets a pale and a dark one alternately.
ON Sunday morning Otto Fuchs was to drive us over to make the acquaintance of our new Bohemian neighbors.
We were taking them some provisions, as they had come to live on a wild place where there was no garden or chicken house, and very little broken land.
We clambered up to the front seat and jolted off past the little pond and along the road that climbed to the big cornfield.
I could hardly wait to see what lay beyond that cornfield; but there was only red grass like ours, and nothing else, though from the high wagon seat one could look off a long way.
The road ran about like a wild thing, avoiding the deep draws, crossing them where they were wide and shallow.
They made a gold ribbon across the prairie.
Occasionally one of the horses would tear off with his teeth a plant full of blossoms, and walk along munching it, the flowers nodding in time to his bites as he ate down toward them.
Their agreement with him was made before they left the old country, through a cousin of his, who was also a relative of mrs Shimerda.
They could not speak enough English to ask for advice, or even to make their most pressing wants known.
One son, Fuchs said, was well grown, and strong enough to work the land; but the father was old and frail and knew nothing about farming.
"If they're nice people, I hate to think of them spending the winter in that cave of Krajiek's," said grandmother.
"It's no better than a badger hole; no proper dugout at all.
I'd have interfered about the horses-the old man can understand some German-if I'd 'a' thought it would do any good.
Grandmother looked interested.
"Now, why is that, Otto?"
"Well, ma'm, it's politics.
It would take me a long while to explain."
The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas' place and made the land of little value for farming.
Presently, against one of those banks, I saw a sort of shed, thatched with the same wine colored grass that grew everywhere.
We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a door and window sunk deep in the draw bank.
The door stood open, and a woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully.
She was not old, but she was certainly not young.
Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin and shrewd little eyes.
She shook grandmother's hand energetically.
"Very glad, very glad!" she ejaculated.
Immediately she pointed to the bank out of which she had emerged and said, "House no good, house no good!"
Grandmother nodded consolingly.
My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to foreigners, as if they were deaf.
She made mrs Shimerda understand the friendly intention of our visit, and the Bohemian woman handled the loaves of bread and even smelled them, and examined the pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, "Much good, much thank!"--and again she wrung grandmother's hand.
The oldest son, Ambroz,--they called it Ambrosch,--came out of the cave and stood beside his mother.
He was nineteen years old, short and broad backed, with a close cropped, flat head, and a wide, flat face.
His hazel eyes were little and shrewd, like his mother's, but more sly and suspicious; they fairly snapped at the food.
Even from a distance one could see that there was something strange about this boy.
As he approached us, he began to make uncouth noises, and held up his hands to show us his fingers, which were webbed to the first knuckle, like a duck's foot.
He was born like that.
The others are smart.
Ambrosch, he make good farmer." He struck Ambrosch on the back, and the boy smiled knowingly.
At that moment the father came out of the hole in the bank.
He wore no hat, and his thick, iron gray hair was brushed straight back from his forehead.
They looked calm, somehow, and skilled. His eyes were melancholy, and were set back deep under his brow.
His face was ruggedly formed, but it looked like ashes-like something from which all the warmth and light had died out.
He was neatly dressed.
In a moment we were running up the steep drawside together, Yulka trotting after us.
We raced off toward Squaw Creek and did not stop until the ground itself stopped-fell away before us so abruptly that the next step would have been out into the tree tops.
She looked at me, her eyes fairly blazing with things she could not say.
"Name?
She pointed into the gold cottonwood tree behind whose top we stood and said again, "What name?"
We sat down and made a nest in the long red grass.
Yulka curled up like a baby rabbit and played with a grasshopper.
Antonia pointed up to the sky and questioned me with her glance.
I told her, and she repeated the word, making it sound like "ice." She pointed up to the sky, then to my eyes, then back to the sky, with movements so quick and impulsive that she distracted me, and I had no idea what she wanted.
She was quick, and very eager.
When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite sternly.
I did n't want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless and extravagant about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never seen before.
"Tatinek, Tatinek!" she shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us.
Antonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it.
Chapter fifteen: Of The Gravity Of The Americans, And Why It Does Not Prevent Them From Often Committing Inconsiderate Actions
Men who live in democratic countries do not value the simple, turbulent, or coarse diversions in which the people indulge in aristocratic communities: such diversions are thought by them to be puerile or insipid.
Nor have they a greater inclination for the intellectual and refined amusements of the aristocratic classes.
They want something productive and substantial in their pleasures; they want to mix actual fruition with their joy.
They prefer to these frivolous delights those more serious and silent amusements which are like business, and which do not drive business wholly from their minds.
An American, instead of going in a leisure hour to dance merrily at some place of public resort, as the fellows of his calling continue to do throughout the greater part of Europe, shuts himself up at home to drink.
I thought that the English constituted the most serious nation on the face of the earth, but I have since seen the Americans and have changed my opinion.
I believe the seriousness of the Americans arises partly from their pride.
In democratic countries even poor men entertain a lofty notion of their personal importance: they look upon themselves with complacency, and are apt to suppose that others are looking at them, too.
This is more especially the case amongst those free nations which form democratic communities.
Then there are in all classes a very large number of men constantly occupied with the serious affairs of the government; and those whose thoughts are not engaged in the direction of the commonwealth are wholly engrossed by the acquisition of a private fortune.
Amongst such a people a serious demeanor ceases to be peculiar to certain men, and becomes a habit of the nation.
But it must not be supposed that, in the midst of all their toils, the people who live in democracies think themselves to be pitied; the contrary is remarked to be the case.
No men are fonder of their own condition.
Life would have no relish for them if they were delivered from the anxieties which harass them, and they show more attachment to their cares than aristocratic nations to their pleasures.
There is one sort of ignorance which originates in extreme publicity.
In despotic States men know not how to act, because they are told nothing; in democratic nations they often act at random, because nothing is to be left untold.
The former do not know-the latter forget; and the chief features of each picture are lost to them in a bewilderment of details.
It is astonishing what imprudent language a public man may sometimes use in free countries, and especially in democratic States, without being compromised; whereas in absolute monarchies a few words dropped by accident are enough to unmask him forever, and ruin him without hope of redemption.
This is explained by what goes before.
In democracies men are never stationary; a thousand chances waft them to and fro, and their life is always the sport of unforeseen or (so to speak) extemporaneous circumstances.
The habit of inattention must be considered as the greatest bane of the democratic character.
All free nations are vainglorious, but national pride is not displayed by all in the same manner.
The most slender eulogium is acceptable to them; the most exalted seldom contents them; they unceasingly harass you to extort praise, and if you resist their entreaties they fall to praising themselves.
It would seem as if, doubting their own merit, they wished to have it constantly exhibited before their eyes.
Such is not the case with the English.
An Englishman calmly enjoys the real or imaginary advantages which in his opinion his country possesses. If he grants nothing to other nations, neither does he solicit anything for his own.
It is remarkable that two nations, so recently sprung from the same stock, should be so opposite to one another in their manner of feeling and conversing.
As these privileges came to them by inheritance, they regard them in some sort as a portion of themselves, or at least as a natural right inherent in their own persons.
They stand unmoved in their solitary greatness, well assured that they are seen of all the world without any effort to show themselves off, and that no one will attempt to drive them from that position.
When an aristocracy carries on the public affairs, its national pride naturally assumes this reserved, indifferent, and haughty form, which is imitated by all the other classes of the nation.
When, on the contrary, social conditions differ but little, the slightest privileges are of some importance; as every man sees around himself a million of people enjoying precisely similar or analogous advantages, his pride becomes craving and jealous, he clings to mere trifles, and doggedly defends them.
As at any instant these same advantages may be lost, their possessors are constantly on the alert, and make a point of showing that they still retain them.
Men living in democracies love their country just as they love themselves, and they transfer the habits of their private vanity to their vanity as a nation.
An aristocratic class always differs greatly from the other classes of the nation, by the extent and perpetuity of its privileges; but it often happens that the only differences between the members who belong to it consist in small transient advantages, which may any day be lost or acquired.
These persons then displayed towards each other precisely the same puerile jealousies which animate the men of democracies, the same eagerness to snatch the smallest advantages which their equals contested, and the same desire to parade ostentatiously those of which they were in possession.
"HERE'S TO CAT!"
The two stray kittens gradually make themselves at home.
Somehow or other Cat has taught them that he's in charge here, and he just chases them for fun now and again, when he's not busy sleeping.
As for keeping cats in my room, that's pretty well forgotten.
For one thing, Mom really likes them.
She sneaks the kittens saucers of cream and bits of real hamburger when no one's looking, and she likes talking to them in the kitchen.
She doesn't pick them up, but just having them in the room sure doesn't give her asthma.
The only time we have any trouble from the cats is one evening when Pop comes home and the two kittens skid down the hall between his legs, with Cat after them.
He scales his hat at the lot of them and roars down the hall to me, "Hey, Davey!
When are you getting rid of these cats?
I'm not fixing to start an annex to Kate's cat home!"
In fact, one thing this cat business seems to have established is that me and Pop fighting is the main cause of Mom's asthma.
So we both try to do a little better, and a lot of things we used to argue and fight about, like my jazz records, we just kid each other about now.
It's a real lemon-just a lot of preaching about government and citizenship.
The second semester I switch to a music course.
This is o k with the school-but not with pop
Right away when I bring home my new program, he says, "How come you're taking one less course this half?"
"Music!" he snorts.
"That's recreation, not a course.
Do it on your own time!"
"Pop, it's a course.
You think the school signs me up for an hour of home record playing?"
"They might," he grunts.
"You're not going to loaf your way through school if I have anything to say about it."
"Loaf!" I yelp.
He does, and for once I win a round-I keep music for this semester.
I'll be lucky if I have time to breathe.
I go down to the flower shop to grouse to Tom.
It's after Valentine's Day, and business is slack and the boss is out.
"Why does Pop have to come butting into my business at school?
Sometimes schools do let kids take a lot of soft courses, and then they're out on a limb later."
"Huh.
He just likes to boss everything I do."
"So-he cares."
It makes me think.
"Besides," says Tom, "half the reason you and your father are always bickering is that you're so much alike."
"Me?
"Sure.
You're both impatient and curious, got to poke into everything.
As long as there's a bone on the floor, the two of you worry it."
mr Palumbo comes back to the shop then, and Tom gets busy with the plants.
I go home, wondering if I really am at all like pop
It's funny about fights.
Pop and I can go along real smooth and easy for a while, and I think: Well, he really isn't a bad guy, and I'm growing up, we can see eye to eye-all that stuff.
I hardly know what starts it, but a fight boils up, and we're both breathing fire like dragons on the loose.
We get a holiday Washington's Birthday, which is good because there's a t v program on Tuesday, the night before the holiday, that I hardly ever get to watch.
The program goes on till eleven o'clock, and Mom won't let me watch it on school nights.
I get the pillows comfortably arranged on the floor, with a big bottle of soda and a bag of popcorn within easy reach.
The story starts off with some nature shots of a farm and mountains in the background and this little kid playing with his grandfather.
He's taking the kid for a walk when a thunderstorm blows up.
"Here, Davey old boy, we can do better than that tonight.
The Governor and the Mayor are on a t v debate about New York City school reorganization."
He switches the channel.
I jump up, tipping over the bottle of soda on the way.
"Pop, that's not fair!
"Do you good to listen to a real program for a change.
There'll be another western on tomorrow night."
That's the last straw.
I shout, "See?
It's not a western."
Pop looks at me prissily.
"You're getting altogether too upset about these programs.
Stop it and behave yourself.
Go get a sponge to mop up the soda."
"It's your fault!
Mop it up yourself!" I'm too mad now to care what I say. I charge down the hall to my room and slam the door.
I hear the t v going for a few minutes, then Pop turns it off and goes in the kitchen to talk to Mom.
Knocks-that's something.
Usually he just barges in.
So o k, go ahead, you can finish it."
"Yeah, it's about over by now." I'm still sore, and besides Pop's still standing in my door, so I figure there's a hitch in this somewhere.
"But anyway, you shouldn't get so sore about an old television program that you shout 'Mop it up yourself' at me."
"Hmm."
"Well, I don't think you should turn a guy's t v program off in the middle without even finding out about it."
Pop says "Hmm" this time, and we both stand and simmer down.
It's a quarter to eleven.
I say, "Well, o k
Sorry I got sore."
Pop moves out of the doorway.
He says, "Hereafter I will only turn off your t v programs before they start, not in the middle."
Just as I get the t v on and settle down, the doorbell rings.
"Goodness, who could that be so late?" says Mom.
Pop goes to the door.
It's Tom, and Hilda is with him.
I turn off the television set-I've lost track of what's happening, and it doesn't seem to be the grandfather who's the spook after all.
It's the first time Hilda has been to our house, and Tom introduces her around.
Then there's one of those moments of complete silence, with everyone looking embarrassed, before we all start to speak at once.
"Hilda came to the beach with us," I say.
"I told Tom we shouldn't come so late," says Hilda.
Come in and sit down."
Hilda sits on the sofa, where Cat is curled up.
He looks at her, puts his head back and goes on sleeping.
Tom stirs his coffee vigorously and takes one sip and puts the cup down.
We want to get married."
Pop doesn't look as surprised as I do.
"Congratulations!" he says.
Tom says, "Thanks" and looks at Hilda, and she blushes.
Really.
Tom drinks a little more coffee and then he goes on: "The trouble is, I can't get married on this flower shop job."
"Doesn't pay enough?" Pop asks.
"Well, it's not just the pay.
The job isn't getting me anywhere I want to go.
So that's what we've been talking about all evening.
You know, I'd get drafted in a year or two, anyway.
I've decided to enlist in the Army."
"No, not if I enlist in the Army.
That's for three years.
In that I can also choose what metropolitan area I want to be stationed in.
Pop says, "You sound like the recruiting officer himself.
"I'll have to check some more," says Tom.
"The recruiting officer, as a matter of fact, tried to persuade me to shoot for officers' training and go into the Army as a career.
"Well, shove back the coffee cups, and I'll break out that bottle of champagne that's been sitting in the icebox since Christmas."
I go and retrieve my spilled bottle of soda.
There's still enough left for one big glass.
Pop brings out the champagne, and the cork blows and hits the ceiling.
Pop fills little glasses for them and raises his to Tom and Hilda.
"Here's to you-a long, happy life!"
"Here's to Cat!
Tom wouldn't even be standing here if it wasn't for Cat."
The ghoul like fever was not to be braved with impunity, and baulked of its prey.
The board, not so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case; and, instead of sending her to Stoke Claypole, her husband's Buckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed to pay her rent.
So food for four mouths was all she was now required to find; only for three she would have said; for herself and the unweaned child were but reckoned as one in her calculation.
Her plan of living was so far arranged, when she heard, with keen sorrow, that Wilson's twin lads were ill of the fever.
They were like many a pair of twins, and seemed to have but one life divided between them.
But when the twins, after ailing many days, and caring little for their meat, fell sick on the same afternoon, with the same heavy stupor of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so, each felt, though none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance for life.
Over the child, which yet breathed, the father bent, watching anxiously for some ground of hope, where hope there was none.
But earnest as the father was in watching the yet living, he had eyes and ears for all that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead son on his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried him upstairs as if afraid of wakening him.
"We mun get him away from his mother.
He cannot die while she's wishing him."
Alice and Mary stood by with eyes fixed on the poor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till at last his mother said with a choking voice,
She bent down, and fondly, oh! with what passionate fondness, kissed her child, and then gave him up to Alice, who took him with tender care.
Nature's struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed his little life away in peace.
Again Alice laid out the dead, Mary helping with reverent fear.
"Where is he?" asked Mary.
But just now he hardly saw her; he went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps were.
He had stolen out during the half hour allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now puffed out his jacket pocket.
"They're both gone," said she.
"Dead!"
They took worse about two o'clock.
Jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his pocket the oranges he had bought.
They cried afresh in company.
Mary's heart melted within her as she witnessed Jem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her hand softly on his arm, said,
"Oh, Jem, don't give way so; I cannot bear to see you."
Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she had of comforting him.
"Don't, Jem, please don't," whispered she again, believing that his silence was only another form of grief.
He could not contain himself.
But as he turned to catch a look at her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost amounting to vexation; a dread of him, that he thought was almost repugnance.
Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural desire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the utmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went up stairs to the chamber of death.
Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she performed through the remainder of that long night, but she did not see Jem again.
So leaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating whether she might dare to send a few kind words to Jem, and deciding that she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had been.
Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, or the broad daylight that poured in through the sky window, or whether it was over excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink of sleep.
Her thoughts ran on Jem's manner and words; not but what she had known the tale they told for many a day; but still she wished he had not put it so plainly.
I think I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I'm downright cross to him, or else I speak just natural, and that's too kind and tender by half.
And I'm as good as engaged to be married to another; and another far handsomer than Jem; only I think I like Jem's face best for all that; liking's liking, and there's no help for it.
Well, when I'm mrs Harry Carson, may happen I can put some good fortune in Jem's way.
How she would surround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was to live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be very pleasant things, and bless his lady daughter!
The flakes came down so thickly that from the sitting room windows I could not see beyond the windmill-its frame looked dim and gray, unsubstantial like a shadow.
The snow did not stop falling all day, or during the night that followed.
The cold was not severe, but the storm was quiet and resistless.
The men could not go farther than the barns and corral.
They sat about the house most of the day as if it were Sunday; greasing their boots, mending their suspenders, plaiting whiplashes.
Jake was sure he could get through on horseback, and bring home our things in saddle bags; but grandfather told him the roads would be obliterated, and a newcomer in the country would be lost ten times over.
We decided to have a country Christmas, without any help from town.
I had wanted to get some picture books for Yulka and Antonia; even Yulka was able to read a little now.
She cut squares of cotton cloth and we sewed them together into a book.
We bound it between pasteboards, which I covered with brilliant calico, representing scenes from a circus.
For two days I sat at the dining room table, pasting this book full of pictures for Yulka.
We had files of those good old family magazines which used to publish colored lithographs of popular paintings, and I was allowed to use some of these.
I took "Napoleon Announcing the Divorce to Josephine" for my frontispiece.
On the white pages I grouped Sunday School cards and advertising cards which I had brought from my "old country." Fuchs got out the old candle moulds and made tallow candles.
Grandmother hunted up her fancy cake cutters and baked gingerbread men and roosters, which we decorated with burnt sugar and red cinnamon drops.
On the day before Christmas, Jake packed the things we were sending to the Shimerdas in his saddle bags and set off on grandfather's gray gelding. When he mounted his horse at the door, I saw that he had a hatchet slung to his belt, and he gave grandmother a meaning look which told me he was planning a surprise for me.
I put on my cap and ran out to meet Jake.
When I got to the pond I could see that he was bringing in a little cedar tree across his pommel.
He used to help my father cut Christmas trees for me in Virginia, and he had not forgotten how much I liked them.
The cedar was about five feet high and very shapely.
Its real splendors, however, came from the most unlikely place in the world-from Otto's cowboy trunk.
Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches.
We put sheets of cotton wool under it for a snow field, and Jake's pocket mirror for a frozen lake.
I can see them now, exactly as they looked, working about the table in the lamplight: Jake with his heavy features, so rudely moulded that his face seemed, somehow, unfinished; Otto with his half ear and the savage scar that made his upper lip curl so ferociously under his twisted mustache.
As I remember them, what unprotected faces they were; their very roughness and violence made them defenseless.
Jake and Otto shouted "Merry Christmas"! to me, and winked at each other when they saw the waffle irons on the stove. Grandfather came down, wearing a white shirt and his Sunday coat.
Morning prayers were longer than usual.
He read the chapters from saint Matthew about the birth of Christ, and as we listened it all seemed like something that had happened lately, and near at hand.
In his prayer he thanked the Lord for the first Christmas, and for all that it had meant to the world ever since.
He gave thanks for our food and comfort, and prayed for the poor and destitute in great cities, where the struggle for life was harder than it was here with us.
Grandfather's prayers were often very interesting.
He had the gift of simple and moving expression.
Because he talked so little, his words had a peculiar force; they were not worn dull from constant use.
His prayers reflected what he was thinking about at the time, and it was chiefly through them that we got to know his feelings and his views about things.
After we sat down to our waffles and sausage, Jake told us how pleased the Shimerdas had been with their presents; even Ambrosch was friendly and went to the creek with him to cut the Christmas tree.
It was a soft gray day outside, with heavy clouds working across the sky, and occasional squalls of snow.
There were always odd jobs to be done about the barn on holidays, and the men were busy until afternoon.
Then Jake and I played dominoes, while Otto wrote a long letter home to his mother.
He always wrote to her on Christmas Day, he said, no matter where he was, and no matter how long it had been since his last letter.
All afternoon he sat in the dining room.
At about four o'clock a visitor appeared: mr Shimerda, wearing his rabbit skin cap and collar, and new mittens his wife had knitted.
He had come to thank us for the presents, and for all grandmother's kindness to his family.
This feeling seemed completely to take possession of mr Shimerda.
I suppose, in the crowded clutter of their cave, the old man had come to believe that peace and order had vanished from the earth, or existed only in the old world he had left so far behind.
He sat still and passive, his head resting against the back of the wooden rocking chair, his hands relaxed upon the arms.
His face had a look of weariness and pleasure, like that of sick people when they feel relief from pain.
Grandmother insisted on his drinking a glass of Virginia apple brandy after his long walk in the cold, and when a faint flush came up in his cheeks, his features might have been cut out of a shell, they were so transparent.
He said almost nothing, and smiled rarely; but as he rested there we all had a sense of his utter content.
As it grew dark, I asked whether I might light the Christmas tree before the lamp was brought.
When the candle ends sent up their conical yellow flames, all the colored figures from Austria stood out clear and full of meaning against the green boughs.
His long body formed a letter "S." I saw grandmother look apprehensively at grandfather. He was rather narrow in religious matters, and sometimes spoke out and hurt people's feelings.
We persuaded our guest to stay for supper with us.
He needed little urging.
As we sat down to the table, it occurred to me that he liked to look at us, and that our faces were open books to him.
When his deep seeing eyes rested on me, I felt as if he were looking far ahead into the future for me, down the road I would have to travel.
At nine o'clock mr Shimerda lighted one of our lanterns and put on his overcoat and fur collar.
He stood in the little entry hall, the lantern and his fur cap under his arm, shaking hands with us.
As we turned back to the sitting room, grandfather looked at me searchingly.
"The prayers of all good people are good," he said quietly.
thirteen
The soft black earth stood out in patches along the roadsides.
In the kitchen she caught up an iron pot that stood on the back of the stove and said: "You got many, Shimerdas no got." I thought it weak minded of grandmother to give the pot to her.
After dinner, when she was helping to wash the dishes, she said, tossing her head: "You got many things for cook.
If I got all things like you, I make much better."
I was so annoyed that I felt coldly even toward Antonia and listened unsympathetically when she told me her father was not well.
He not look good.
He never make music any more.
At home he play violin all the time; for weddings and for dance. Here never.
When I beg him for play, he shake his head no
Some days he take his violin out of his box and make with his fingers on the strings, like this, but never he make the music.
"We don't make them come here."
But my mama, she want Ambrosch for be rich, with many cattle."
"Your grandfather is rich," she retorted fiercely.
Ambrosch be rich, too, after while, and he pay back.
He is very smart boy.
For Ambrosch my mama come here."
Though Antonia loved her father more than she did any one else, she stood in awe of her elder brother.
Grandmother chuckled and drove her bright needle across a hole in Otto's sock.
Now read me a chapter in 'The Prince of the House of David.' Let's forget the Bohemians."
We had three weeks of this mild, open weather.
The cattle in the corral ate corn almost as fast as the men could shell it for them, and we hoped they would be ready for an early market.
One morning the two big bulls, Gladstone and Brigham Young, thought spring had come, and they began to tease and butt at each other across the barbed wire that separated them. Soon they got angry.
They bellowed and pawed up the soft earth with their hoofs, rolling their eyes and tossing their heads.
Each withdrew to a far corner of his own corral, and then they made for each other at a gallop. Thud, thud, we could hear the impact of their great heads, and their bellowing shook the pans on the kitchen shelves.
Had they not been dehorned, they would have torn each other to pieces.
Clearly, the affair had to be stopped.
When I went down to breakfast that morning, Jake and Otto came in white as snow men, beating their hands and stamping their feet.
"You've got a birthday present this time, Jim, and no mistake.
The snow did not fall this time, it simply spilled out of heaven, like thousands of feather beds being emptied.
We could not so much as see the corrals, but we knew the steers were over there, huddled together under the north bank. Our ferocious bulls, subdued enough by this time, were probably warming each other's backs.
"This'll take the bile out of 'em!" Fuchs remarked gleefully.
At noon that day the hens had not been heard from.
After dinner Jake and Otto, their damp clothes now dried on them, stretched their stiff arms and plunged again into the drifts.
We found the chickens asleep; perhaps they thought night had come to stay.
By five o'clock the chores were done-just when it was time to begin them all over again!
She was four years older than I, to be sure, and had seen more of the world; but I was a boy and she was a girl, and I resented her protecting manner.
I offered to take her on the pony, and she got up behind me.
There had been another black frost the night before, and the air was clear and heady as wine.
Within a week all the blooming roads had been despoiled-hundreds of miles of yellow sunflowers had been transformed into brown, rattling, burry stalks.
As we rode away with the spade, Antonia suggested that we stop at the prairie dog town and dig into one of the holes.
We might get some puppies, or owl eggs, or snake skins.
The dog town was spread out over perhaps ten acres.
The holes were several yards apart, and were disposed with a good deal of regularity, almost as if the town had been laid out in streets and avenues.
The dogs were out, as usual, dozens of them, sitting up on their hind legs over the doors of their houses.
As we approached, they barked, shook their tails at us, and scurried underground.
Before the mouths of the holes were little patches of sand and gravel, scratched up, we supposed, from a long way below the surface.
It was on one of these gravel beds that I met my adventure.
I was walking backward, in a crouching position, when I heard Antonia scream.
When I turned he was lying in long loose waves, like a letter "W." He twitched and began to coil slowly.
He was as thick as my leg, and looked as if millstones could n't crush the disgusting vitality out of him.
I did n't run because I did n't think of it-if my back had been against a stone wall I could n't have felt more cornered.
I saw his coils tighten-now he would spring, spring his length, I remembered.
I ran up and drove at his head with my spade, struck him fairly across the neck, and in a minute he was all about my feet in wavy loops.
I struck now from hate.
Antonia, barefooted as she was, ran up behind me.
Even after I had pounded his ugly head flat, his body kept on coiling and winding, doubling and falling back on itself.
I walked away and turned my back.
I felt seasick.
Antonia came after me, crying, "O Jimmy, he not bite you?
You might have told me there was a snake behind me!" I said petulantly.
I suppose I looked as sick as I felt.
Now we take that snake home and show everybody.
She went on in this strain until I began to think that I had longed for this opportunity, and had hailed it with joy.
Cautiously we went back to the snake; he was still groping with his tail, turning up his ugly belly in the light.
A faint, fetid smell came from him, and a thread of green liquid oozed from his crushed head.
"Look, Tony, that's his poison," I said.
I explained to Antonia how this meant that he was twenty four years old, that he must have been there when white men first came, left on from buffalo and Indian times.
As I turned him over I began to feel proud of him, to have a kind of respect for his age and size.
He seemed like the ancient, eldest Evil. Certainly his kind have left horrible unconscious memories in all warm blooded life.
When we dragged him down into the draw, Dude sprang off to the end of his tether and shivered all over-would n't let us come near him.
We decided that Antonia should ride Dude home, and I would walk.
I followed with the spade over my shoulder, dragging my snake.
Her exultation was contagious.
If the red grass were full of rattlers, I was equal to them all. Nevertheless, I stole furtive glances behind me now and then to see that no avenging mate, older and bigger than my quarry, was racing up from the rear.
Otto Fuchs was the first one we met.
Antonia called him to come quick and look.
He did not say anything for a minute, but scratched his head and turned the snake over with his boot.
"Up at the dog town," I answered laconically.
"We'd been up to Russian Peter's, to borrow a spade for Ambrosch."
"It was just luck you had a tool," he said cautiously.
"Gosh!
Did he fight hard?"
Antonia broke in: "He fight something awful!
He is all over Jimmy's boots. I scream for him to run, but he just hit and hit that snake like he was crazy."
Otto winked at me.
Subsequent experiences with rattlesnakes taught me that my first encounter was fortunate in circumstance.
I had been adequately armed by Russian peter; the snake was old and lazy; and I had Antonia beside me, to appreciate and admire.
That snake hung on our corral fence for several days; some of the neighbors came to see it and agreed that it was the biggest rattler ever killed in those parts.
This was enough for Antonia.
She liked me better from that time on, and she never took a supercilious air with me again.
I had killed a big snake-I was now a big fellow.
WHILE the autumn color was growing pale on the grass and cornfields, things went badly with our friends the Russians.
peter told his troubles to mr Shimerda: he was unable to meet a note which fell due on the first of November; had to pay an exorbitant bonus on renewing it, and to give a mortgage on his pigs and horses and even his milk cow.
peter could give no very clear account of his transactions with Cutter.
He only knew that he had first borrowed two hundred dollars, then another hundred, then fifty-that each time a bonus was added to the principal, and the debt grew faster than any crop he planted.
Now everything was plastered with mortgages.
Soon after peter renewed his note, Pavel strained himself lifting timbers for a new barn, and fell over among the shavings with such a gush of blood from the lungs that his fellow workmen thought he would die on the spot. They hauled him home and put him into his bed, and there he lay, very ill indeed.
Misfortune seemed to settle like an evil bird on the roof of the log house, and to flap its wings there, warning human beings away.
The Russians had such bad luck that people were afraid of them and liked to put them out of mind.
One afternoon Antonia and her father came over to our house to get buttermilk, and lingered, as they usually did, until the sun was low.
Just as they were leaving, Russian peter drove up.
Pavel was very bad, he said, and wanted to talk to mr Shimerda and his daughter; he had come to fetch them.
My plan must have seemed very foolish to her, but she was often large minded about humoring the desires of other people.
She asked peter to wait a moment, and when she came back from the kitchen she brought a bag of sandwiches and doughnuts for us.
mr Shimerda and peter were on the front seat; Antonia and I sat in the straw behind and ate our lunch as we bumped along.
After the sun sank, a cold wind sprang up and moaned over the prairie.
We burrowed down in the straw and curled up close together, watching the angry red die out of the west and the stars begin to shine in the clear, windy sky.
peter kept sighing and groaning.
Tony whispered to me that he was afraid Pavel would never get well.
We lay still and did not talk.
Up there the stars grew magnificently bright.
Though we had come from such different parts of the world, in both of us there was some dusky superstition that those shining groups have their influence upon what is and what is not to be.
Perhaps Russian peter, come from farther away than any of us, had brought from his land, too, some such belief.
The little house on the hillside was so much the color of the night that we could not see it as we came up the draw.
The ruddy windows guided us-the light from the kitchen stove, for there was no lamp burning.
We entered softly.
The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported the thatch overhead.
Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and he kept moaning.
The wind shook the doors and windows impatiently, then swept on again, singing through the big spaces.
Each gust, as it bore down, rattled the panes, and swelled off like the others.
They made me think of defeated armies, retreating; or of ghosts who were trying desperately to get in for shelter, and then went moaning on.
Presently, in one of those sobbing intervals between the blasts, the coyotes tuned up with their whining howl; one, two, three, then all together-to tell us that winter was coming.
He was sitting on the floor by the kitchen stove.
The coyotes broke out again; yap, yap, yap-then the high whine.
Pavel called for something and struggled up on his elbow.
I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed.
His shirt was hanging open, and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow bristle, rose and fell horribly.
He began to cough.
peter shuffled to his feet, caught up the tea kettle and mixed him some hot water and whiskey.
The sharp smell of spirits went through the room.
Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made peter give him the bottle and slipped it under his pillow, grinning disagreeably, as if he had outwitted some one.
His eyes followed peter about the room with a contemptuous, unfriendly expression.
Presently Pavel began to talk to mr Shimerda, scarcely above a whisper. He was telling a long story, and as he went on, Antonia took my hand under the table and held it tight.
He grew more and more excited, and kept pointing all around his bed, as if there were things there and he wanted mr Shimerda to see them.
"It's wolves, Jimmy," Antonia whispered.
"It's awful, what he says!"
The sick man raged and shook his fist.
mr Shimerda caught him by the shoulders, but could hardly hold him in bed.
At last he was shut off by a coughing fit which fairly choked him.
Quickly it was covered with bright red spots-I thought I had never seen any blood so bright.
He lay patiently fighting for breath, like a child with croup.
Antonia's father uncovered one of his long bony legs and rubbed it rhythmically.
From our bench we could see what a hollow case his body was.
His spine and shoulder blades stood out like the bones under the hide of a dead steer left in the fields.
That sharp backbone must have hurt him when he lay on it.
Gradually, relief came to all of us.
Whatever it was, the worst was over. mr Shimerda signed to us that Pavel was asleep.
Without a word peter got up and lit his lantern.
We sat and watched the long bowed back under the blue sheet, scarcely daring to breathe.
On the way home, when we were lying in the straw, under the jolting and rattling Antonia told me as much of the story as she could.
What she did not tell me then, she told later; we talked of nothing else for days afterward.
When Pavel and peter were young men, living at home in Russia, they were asked to be groomsmen for a friend who was to marry the belle of another village.
It was in the dead of winter and the groom's party went over to the wedding in sledges.
After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a dinner given by the parents of the bride.
The dinner lasted all afternoon; then it became a supper and continued far into the night.
There was much dancing and drinking.
At midnight the parents of the bride said good bye to her and blessed her.
He sprang in beside her, and Pavel and peter (our Pavel and peter!) took the front seat.
All the drivers were more or less the worse for merry making, and the groom was absorbed in his bride.
The wolves were bad that winter, and every one knew it, yet when they heard the first wolf cry, the drivers were not much alarmed.
They had too much good food and drink inside them.
The first howls were taken up and echoed and with quickening repetitions.
The wolves were coming together. There was no moon, but the starlight was clear on the snow.
A black drove came up over the hill behind the wedding party.
The wolves ran like streaks of shadow; they looked no bigger than dogs, but there were hundreds of them.
The shrieks that followed made everybody sober.
The drivers stood up and lashed their horses.
The groom had the best team and his sledge was lightest-all the others carried from six to a dozen people.
Another driver lost control.
Pavel sat still and watched his horses.
The road was clear and white, and the groom's three blacks went like the wind.
It was only necessary to be calm and to guide them carefully.
At length, as they breasted a long hill, peter rose cautiously and looked back.
"There are only three sledges left," he whispered.
"And the wolves?" Pavel asked.
Enough for all of us."
Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two sledges followed him down the other side.
Presently the groom screamed.
He saw his father's sledge overturned, with his mother and sisters.
He sprang up as if he meant to jump, but the girl shrieked and held him back.
The black ground shadows were already crowding over the heap in the road, and one horse ran out across the fields, his harness hanging to him, wolves at his heels.
But the groom's movement had given Pavel an idea.
They were within a few miles of their village now.
Beside a frozen pond something happened to the other sledge; peter saw it plainly.
Three big wolves got abreast of the horses, and the horses went crazy.
They tried to jump over each other, got tangled up in the harness, and overturned the sledge.
"They still come?" he asked peter.
"Yes."
"Twenty, thirty-enough."
Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the other two.
Pavel gave peter the reins and stepped carefully into the back of the sledge.
He called to the groom that they must lighten-and pointed to the bride.
The young man cursed him and held her tighter.
Pavel tried to drag her away. In the struggle, the groom rose.
Pavel knocked him over the side of the sledge and threw the girl after him.
peter, crouching in the front seat, saw nothing.
Pavel and peter drove into the village alone, and they had been alone ever since.
They went away to strange towns, but when people learned where they came from, they were always asked if they knew the two men who had fed the bride to the wolves.
Wherever they went, the story followed them.
It took them five years to save money enough to come to America. They worked in Chicago, Des Moines, Fort Wayne, but they were always unfortunate.
Pavel died a few days after he unburdened his mind to mr Shimerda, and was buried in the Norwegian graveyard.
peter sold off everything, and left the country-went to be cook in a railway construction camp where gangs of Russians were employed.
At his sale we bought Peter's wheelbarrow and some of his harness.
During the auction he went about with his head down, and never lifted his eyes. He seemed not to care about anything.
The Black Hawk money lender who held mortgages on Peter's live stock was there, and he bought in the sale notes at about fifty cents on the dollar.
I did not see him do it, but this I know: after all his furniture and his cook stove and pots and pans had been hauled off by the purchasers, when his house was stripped and bare, he sat down on the floor with his clasp knife and ate all the melons that he had put away for winter.
The loss of his two friends had a depressing effect upon old mr Shimerda. When he was out hunting, he used to go into the empty log house and sit there, brooding.
This cabin was his hermitage until the winter snows penned him in his cave.
For Antonia and me, the story of the wedding party was never at an end.
CHAPTER six.
The last armed struggle of Druidism, and the only invasion of Ireland by the Anglo Saxons, are also events of the civil history of the seventh century.
The cause of the battle was the pretension of the petty Prince of Ulidia, which comprised little more than the present county of Down, to be recognised as Prince of all Ulster.
It is pretty clear also that the last rally of Druidism against Christianity took place behind his banner, on the plain of Moira.
Congal had recruited numerous bands of Saxons, Britons, Picts and Argyle Scots, who poured into the Larbours of Down for months, and were marshalled on the banks of the Lagan, to sustain his cause.
King Donald was accompanied by his Bard, who described to him, as they came in sight, the several standards of Congal's host, and who served under them.
Like the two kings of Sparta they reigned jointly, dividing between them the labours and cares of State.
To heighten the awful sense of inevitable doom, an eclipse of the sun occurred concurrently with the appearance of the pestilence on the first Sunday in May.
The Munster King, and many of the chieftain class shared the common lot.
Lastly, the royal brothers fell themselves victims to the epidemic, which so sadly signalizes their reign.
The only conflicts that occurred on Irish soil with a Pictish or an Anglo Saxon force-if we except those who formed a contingent of Congal's army at Moira-occurred in the time of the hospitable Finnacta.
As leading to the mention of other interesting events, we must set this inroad clearly before the reader.
The Saxons had now been for four centuries in Britain, the older inhabitants of which-Celts like the Gauls and Irish-they had cruelly harassed, just as the Milesian Irish oppressed their Belgic predecessors, and as the Normans, in turn, will be found oppressing both Celt and Saxon in England and Ireland.
Britain had been divided by the Saxon leaders into eight separate kingdoms, the people and princes of several of which were converted to Christianity in the fifth, sixth, and seventh century, though some of them did not receive the Gospel before the beginning of the eighth.
The Saxons of Kent and the Southern Kingdoms generally were converted by missionaries from France or Rome, or native preachers of the first or second Christian generation; those of Northumbria recognise as their Apostles saint Aidan and saint Cuthbert, two Fathers from Iona.
The Kingdom of Northumbria, as the name implies, embraced nearly all the country from the Humber to the Pictish border.
York was its capital, and the seat of its ecclesiastical primacy, where, at the time we speak of, the illustrious Wilfrid was maintaining, with a wilful and unscrupulous king, a struggle not unlike that which Becket maintained with Henry the second.
This Prince, Egfrid by name, was constantly engaged in wars with his Saxon cotemporaries, or the Picts and Scots.
The piety of an after age saw in the retribution which overtook Egfrid the following year, when he was slain by the Picts and Scots, the judgment of Heaven, avenging the unprovoked wrongs of the Irish. His Scottish conquerors, returning good for evil, carried his body to Iona, where it was interred with all due honour.
The barren rock, about three miles in length, was covered with monastic buildings, and its cemetery was already adorned with the tombs of saints and kings.
Five successors of Columbkill slept in peace around their holy Founder, and a sixth, equal in learning and sanctity to any who preceded him, received the remains of King Egfrid from the hands of his conquerors.
Adamnan regarded the fate of Egfrid, we may be sure, in the light of a judgment on him for his misdeeds, as Bede and British Christians very generally did.
He learned, too, that there were in Northumbria several Christian captives, carried off in Beort's expedition and probably sold into slavery.
Now every missionary that ever went out from Iona, had taught that to reduce Christians to slavery was wholly inconsistent with a belief in the doctrines of the Gospel.
saint Aidan, the Apostle of Northumbria, had refused the late Egfrid's father absolution, on one occasion, until he solemnly promised to restore their freedom to certain captives of this description.
In the same spirit Adamnan voluntarily undertook a journey to York, where Aldfrid (a Prince educated in Ireland, and whose "Itinerary" of Ireland we still have) now reigned. The Abbot of Iona succeeded in his humane mission, and crossing over to his native land, he restored sixty of the captives to their homes and kindred.
So slow and patient is the process by which Christianity infuses itself into the social life of a converted people!
The all powerful intercessor in this case was Saint Moling, of the royal house of Leinster, and Bishop of Fernamore (now Ferns).
In the early part of his reign Finnacta seems not to have been disposed to collect this invidious tax by force; but, yielding to other motives, he afterwards took a different view of his duty, and marched into Leinster to compel its payment. Here the holy Prelate of Ferns met him, and related a Vision in which he had been instructed to demand the abolition of the impost.
The abolition, he contended, should not be simply a suspension, but final and for ever.
The tribute was, at this period, enormous; fifteen thousand head of cattle annually.
Abolished it was, and though its re-enactment was often attempted, the authority of Saint Moling's solemn settlement, prevented it from being re enforced for any length of time, except as a political or military infliction.
Finnacta fell in battle in the twentieth year of his long and glorious reign; and is commemorated as a saint in the Irish calendar.
Nothing could be more natural than such an assembly in such a place, at such a period.
In every recorded instance the power of the clergy had been omnipotent in politics for above a century.
RECIPES.
TO MAKE YEAST FOR BREAD.
seventeen sixteen.
seventeen seventeen.
seventeen eighteen.
[Illustration: TIN BREAD.]
Pour the yeast into the hole made in the flour, and stir into it as much of that which lies round it as will make a thick batter, in which there must be no lumps.
Strew plenty of flour on the top; throw a thick clean cloth over, and set it where the air is warm; but do not place it upon the kitchen fender, for it will become too much heated there.
Look at it from time to time: when it has been laid for nearly an hour, and when the yeast has risen and broken through the flour, so that bubbles appear in it, you will know that it is ready to be made up into dough.
Then place the pan on a strong chair, or dresser, or table, of convenient height; pour into the sponge the remainder of the warm milk and water; stir into it as much of the flour as you can with the spoon; then wipe it out clean with your fingers, and lay it aside.
In three quarters hour look at it, and should it have swollen very much, and begin to crack, it will be light enough to bake.
If baked in tins or pans, rub them with a tiny piece of butter laid on a piece of clean paper, to prevent the dough from sticking to them.
[Illustration: ITALIAN MILLET.]
RICE BREAD.
[Illustration: MAIZE PLANT.]
SODA BREAD.
INGREDIENTS.--To every two pounds. of flour allow one teaspoonful of tartaric acid, one teaspoonful of salt, one teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, two breakfast cupfuls of cold milk.
[Illustration: ROLLS.]
Put the flour into a pan, stir in the above ingredients, and let the dough rise, covered in a warm place. Knead it well, make it into rolls, let them rise again for a few minutes, and bake in a quick oven.
HOT ROLLS.
TO MAKE DRY TOAST.
seventeen twenty five.
TO MAKE HOT BUTTERED TOAST.
MUFFINS.
[Illustration: MUFFINS.]
CRUMPETS.
[Illustration: CRUMPETS.]
Mix all these ingredients well together; make a hole in the middle of the flour, and pour in the milk, mixed with the egg, which should be well beaten; mix quickly, and set the dough, with a fork, on baking tins, and bake the buns for about twenty minutes.
VICTORIA BUNS.
ITALIAN RUSKS.
seventeen thirty three.
They should be kept in a closed tin canister in a dry place, to preserve their crispness.
The nations who make use of it grind it, in the primitive manner, between two stones, and make it into a diet which, cannot be properly called bread, but rather a kind of soft thin cake half baked.
WHEN a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed that he wishes to claim a certain latitude, both as to its fashion and material, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume had he professed to be writing a Novel.
The former-while, as a work of art, it must rigidly subject itself to laws, and while it sins unpardonably so far as it may swerve aside from the truth of the human heart-has fairly a right to present that truth under circumstances, to a great extent, of the writer's own choosing or creation.
If he think fit, also, he may so manage his atmospherical medium as to bring out or mellow the lights and deepen and enrich the shadows of the picture.
He will be wise, no doubt, to make a very moderate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to mingle the Marvelous rather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, than as any portion of the actual substance of the dish offered to the public.
He can hardly be said, however, to commit a literary crime even if he disregard this caution.
The point of view in which this tale comes under the Romantic definition lies in the attempt to connect a bygone time with the very present that is flitting away from us.
It is a legend prolonging itself, from an epoch now gray in the distance, down into our own broad daylight, and bringing along with it some of its legendary mist, which the reader, according to his pleasure, may either disregard, or allow it to float almost imperceptibly about the characters and events for the sake of a picturesque effect.
The narrative, it may be, is woven of so humble a texture as to require this advantage, and, at the same time, to render it the more difficult of attainment.
Many writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at which they profess to aim their works.
In good faith, however, he is not sufficiently imaginative to flatter himself with the slightest hope of this kind.
When romances do really teach anything, or produce any effective operation, it is usually through a far more subtile process than the ostensible one.
The author has considered it hardly worth his while, therefore, relentlessly to impale the story with its moral as with an iron rod,--or, rather, as by sticking a pin through a butterfly,--thus at once depriving it of life, and causing it to stiffen in an ungainly and unnatural attitude.
A high truth, indeed, fairly, finely, and skilfully wrought out, brightening at every step, and crowning the final development of a work of fiction, may add an artistic glory, but is never any truer, and seldom any more evident, at the last page than at the first.
The reader may perhaps choose to assign an actual locality to the imaginary events of this narrative.
If permitted by the historical connection,--which, though slight, was essential to his plan,--the author would very willingly have avoided anything of this nature.
A hop vine, springing from last year's root, was beginning to clamber over it, but would be long in covering the roof with its green mantle.
Three of the seven gables either fronted or looked sideways, with a dark solemnity of aspect, down into the garden.
The black, rich soil had fed itself with the decay of a long period of time; such as fallen leaves, the petals of flowers, and the stalks and seed-vessels of vagrant and lawless plants, more useful after their death than ever while flaunting in the sun
Phoebe saw, however, that their growth must have been checked by a degree of careful labor, bestowed daily and systematically on the garden.
The remainder of the garden presented a well selected assortment of esculent vegetables, in a praiseworthy state of advancement.
Summer squashes almost in their golden blossom; cucumbers, now evincing a tendency to spread away from the main stock, and ramble far and wide; two or three rows of string beans and as many more that were about to festoon themselves on poles; tomatoes, occupying a site so sheltered and sunny that the plants were already gigantic, and promised an early and abundant harvest.
Phoebe wondered whose care and toil it could have been that had planted these vegetables, and kept the soil so clean and orderly.
Not surely her cousin Hepzibah's, who had no taste nor spirits for the lady like employment of cultivating flowers, and-with her recluse habits, and tendency to shelter herself within the dismal shadow of the house-would hardly have come forth under the speck of open sky to weed and hoe among the fraternity of beans and squashes.
The spot acquired a somewhat wilder grace, and yet a very gentle one, from the fact that a pair of robins had built their nest in the pear tree, and were making themselves exceedingly busy and happy in the dark intricacy of its boughs.
Bees, too,--strange to say,--had thought it worth their while to come hither, possibly from the range of hives beside some farm house miles away.
How many aerial voyages might they have made, in quest of honey, or honey laden, betwixt dawn and sunset!
Yet, late as it now was, there still arose a pleasant hum out of one or two of the squash blossoms, in the depths of which these bees were plying their golden labor.
There was one other object in the garden which Nature might fairly claim as her inalienable property, in spite of whatever man could do to render it his own.
The play and slight agitation of the water, in its upward gush, wrought magically with these variegated pebbles, and made a continually shifting apparition of quaint figures, vanishing too suddenly to be definable.
Thence, swelling over the rim of moss grown stones, the water stole away under the fence, through what we regret to call a gutter, rather than a channel.
It now contained only Chanticleer, his two wives, and a solitary chicken.
All of them were pure specimens of a breed which had been transmitted down as an heirloom in the Pyncheon family, and were said, while in their prime, to have attained almost the size of turkeys, and, on the score of delicate flesh, to be fit for a prince's table.
In proof of the authenticity of this legendary renown, Hepzibah could have exhibited the shell of a great egg, which an ostrich need hardly have been ashamed of.
Be that as it might, the hens were now scarcely larger than pigeons, and had a queer, rusty, withered aspect, and a gouty kind of movement, and a sleepy and melancholy tone throughout all the variations of their clucking and cackling.
It was evident that the race had degenerated, like many a noble race besides, in consequence of too strict a watchfulness to keep it pure.
They kept themselves alive, unquestionably, and laid now and then an egg, and hatched a chicken; not for any pleasure of their own, but that the world might not absolutely lose what had once been so admirable a breed of fowls.
The distinguishing mark of the hens was a crest of lamentably scanty growth, in these latter days, but so oddly and wickedly analogous to Hepzibah's turban, that Phoebe-to the poignant distress of her conscience, but inevitably-was led to fancy a general resemblance betwixt these forlorn bipeds and her respectable relative.
The girl ran into the house to get some crumbs of bread, cold potatoes, and other such scraps as were suitable to the accommodating appetite of fowls.
Returning, she gave a peculiar call, which they seemed to recognize.
So wise, as well as antique, was their aspect, as to give color to the idea, not merely that they were the descendants of a time honored race, but that they had existed, in their individual capacity, ever since the House of the Seven Gables was founded, and were somehow mixed up with its destiny.
They were a species of tutelary sprite, or Banshee; although winged and feathered differently from most other guardian angels.
The chicken, hereupon, though almost as venerable in appearance as its mother-possessing, indeed, the whole antiquity of its progenitors in miniature,--mustered vivacity enough to flutter upward and alight on Phoebe's shoulder.
"That little fowl pays you a high compliment!" said a voice behind Phoebe.
Turning quickly, she was surprised at sight of a young man, who had found access into the garden by a door opening out of another gable than that whence she had emerged.
He held a hoe in his hand, and, while Phoebe was gone in quest of the crumbs, had begun to busy himself with drawing up fresh earth about the roots of the tomatoes.
"Those venerable personages in the coop, too, seem very affably disposed.
You are lucky to be in their good graces so soon!
They have known me much longer, but never honor me with any familiarity, though hardly a day passes without my bringing them food. Miss Hepzibah, I suppose, will interweave the fact with her other traditions, and set it down that the fowls know you to be a Pyncheon!"
"The secret is," said Phoebe, smiling, "that I have learned how to talk with hens and chickens."
"Ah, but these hens," answered the young man,--"these hens of aristocratic lineage would scorn to understand the vulgar language of a barn yard fowl.
I prefer to think-and so would Miss Hepzibah-that they recognize the family tone.
For you are a Pyncheon?"
"My name is Phoebe Pyncheon," said the girl, with a manner of some reserve; for she was aware that her new acquaintance could be no other than the daguerreotypist, of whose lawless propensities the old maid had given her a disagreeable idea.
"I did not know that my cousin Hepzibah's garden was under another person's care."
"Yes," said Holgrave, "I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black old earth, for the sake of refreshing myself with what little nature and simplicity may be left in it, after men have so long sown and reaped here.
My sober occupation, so far as I have any, is with a lighter material.
In short, I make pictures out of sunshine; and, not to be too much dazzled with my own trade, I have prevailed with Miss Hepzibah to let me lodge in one of these dusky gables.
It is like a bandage over one's eyes, to come into it.
But would you like to see a specimen of my productions?"
"A daguerreotype likeness, do you mean?" asked Phoebe with less reserve; for, in spite of prejudice, her own youthfulness sprang forward to meet his.
"I don't much like pictures of that sort,--they are so hard and stern; besides dodging away from the eye, and trying to escape altogether.
They are conscious of looking very unamiable, I suppose, and therefore hate to be seen."
"If you would permit me," said the artist, looking at Phoebe, "I should like to try whether the daguerreotype can bring out disagreeable traits on a perfectly amiable face.
But there certainly is truth in what you have said.
Most of my likenesses do look unamiable; but the very sufficient reason, I fancy, is, because the originals are so.
There is a wonderful insight in Heaven's broad and simple sunshine.
There is, at least, no flattery in my humble line of art.
Now, here is a likeness which I have taken over and over again, and still with no better result.
Yet the original wears, to common eyes, a very different expression.
It would gratify me to have your judgment on this character."
He exhibited a daguerreotype miniature in a morocco case.
Phoebe merely glanced at it, and gave it back.
"I know the face," she replied; "for its stern eye has been following me about all day.
It is my Puritan ancestor, who hangs yonder in the parlor.
To be sure, you have found some way of copying the portrait without its black velvet cap and gray beard, and have given him a modern coat and satin cravat, instead of his cloak and band.
I don't think him improved by your alterations."
"You would have seen other differences had you looked a little longer," said Holgrave, laughing, yet apparently much struck.
"I can assure you that this is a modern face, and one which you will very probably meet. Now, the remarkable point is, that the original wears, to the world's eye,--and, for aught I know, to his most intimate friends,--an exceedingly pleasant countenance, indicative of benevolence, openness of heart, sunny good humor, and other praiseworthy qualities of that cast.
The sun, as you see, tells quite another story, and will not be coaxed out of it, after half a dozen patient attempts on my part.
Here we have the man, sly, subtle, hard, imperious, and, withal, cold as ice.
Look at that eye!
Would you like to be at its mercy?
At that mouth!
Could it ever smile?
And yet, if you could only see the benign smile of the original!
It is so much the more unfortunate, as he is a public character of some eminence, and the likeness was intended to be engraved."
"Well, I don't wish to see it any more," observed Phoebe, turning away her eyes.
"It is certainly very like the old portrait.
But my cousin Hepzibah has another picture,--a miniature.
If the original is still in the world, I think he might defy the sun to make him look stern and hard."
"You have seen that picture, then!" exclaimed the artist, with an expression of much interest.
"I never did, but have a great curiosity to do so.
And you judge favorably of the face?"
"There never was a sweeter one," said Phoebe.
"It is almost too soft and gentle for a man's."
"Is there nothing dark or sinister anywhere?
Could you not conceive the original to have been guilty of a great crime?"
"It is nonsense," said Phoebe a little impatiently, "for us to talk about a picture which you have never seen.
You mistake it for some other.
A crime, indeed!
Since you are a friend of my cousin Hepzibah's, you should ask her to show you the picture."
"It will suit my purpose still better to see the original," replied the daguerreotypist coolly.
"As to his character, we need not discuss its points; they have already been settled by a competent tribunal, or one which called itself competent.
But, stay!
Do not go yet, if you please!
I have a proposition to make you."
Phoebe was on the point of retreating, but turned back, with some hesitation; for she did not exactly comprehend his manner, although, on better observation, its feature seemed rather to be lack of ceremony than any approach to offensive rudeness.
There was an odd kind of authority, too, in what he now proceeded to say, rather as if the garden were his own than a place to which he was admitted merely by Hepzibah's courtesy.
"If agreeable to you," he observed, "it would give me pleasure to turn over these flowers, and those ancient and respectable fowls, to your care.
Coming fresh from country air and occupations, you will soon feel the need of some such out of door employment.
My own sphere does not so much lie among flowers.
You can trim and tend them, therefore, as you please; and I will ask only the least trifle of a blossom, now and then, in exchange for all the good, honest kitchen vegetables with which I propose to enrich Miss Hepzibah's table.
So we will be fellow laborers, somewhat on the community system."
Silently, and rather surprised at her own compliance, Phoebe accordingly betook herself to weeding a flower bed, but busied herself still more with cogitations respecting this young man, with whom she so unexpectedly found herself on terms approaching to familiarity.
She did not altogether like him.
His character perplexed the little country girl, as it might a more practised observer; for, while the tone of his conversation had generally been playful, the impression left on her mind was that of gravity, and, except as his youth modified it, almost sternness.
She rebelled, as it were, against a certain magnetic element in the artist's nature, which he exercised towards her, possibly without being conscious of it.
That last stroke of the hoe has cut off a beanstalk.
"Be careful not to drink at Maule's well!" said he.
"Neither drink nor bathe your face in it!"
"Maule's well!" answered Phoebe.
"Oh," rejoined the daguerreotypist, "because, like an old lady's cup of tea, it is water bewitched!"
He vanished; and Phoebe, lingering a moment, saw a glimmering light, and then the steady beam of a lamp, in a chamber of the gable.
On returning into Hepzibah's apartment of the house, she found the low studded parlor so dim and dusky that her eyes could not penetrate the interior.
She was indistinctly aware, however, that the gaunt figure of the old gentlewoman was sitting in one of the straight backed chairs, a little withdrawn from the window, the faint gleam of which showed the blanched paleness of her cheek, turned sideways towards a corner.
"Shall I light a lamp, Cousin Hepzibah?" she asked.
"Do, if you please, my dear child," answered Hepzibah.
"But put it on the table in the corner of the passage.
My eyes are weak; and I can seldom bear the lamplight on them."
What an instrument is the human voice!
How wonderfully responsive to every emotion of the human soul!
"In a moment, cousin!" answered the girl.
"These matches just glimmer, and go out."
But, instead of a response from Hepzibah, she seemed to hear the murmur of an unknown voice.
It was strangely indistinct, however, and less like articulate words than an unshaped sound, such as would be the utterance of feeling and sympathy, rather than of the intellect.
So vague was it, that its impression or echo in Phoebe's mind was that of unreality.
She concluded that she must have mistaken some other sound for that of the human voice; or else that it was altogether in her fancy.
She set the lighted lamp in the passage, and again entered the parlor. Hepzibah's form, though its sable outline mingled with the dusk, was now less imperfectly visible.
In the remoter parts of the room, however, its walls being so ill adapted to reflect light, there was nearly the same obscurity as before.
"Cousin," said Phoebe, "did you speak to me just now?"
"No, child!" replied Hepzibah.
Fewer words than before, but with the same mysterious music in them! Mellow, melancholy, yet not mournful, the tone seemed to gush up out of the deep well of Hepzibah's heart, all steeped in its profoundest emotion.
There was a tremor in it, too, that-as all strong feeling is electric-partly communicated itself to Phoebe.
The girl sat silently for a moment.
But soon, her senses being very acute, she became conscious of an irregular respiration in an obscure corner of the room. Her physical organization, moreover, being at once delicate and healthy, gave her a perception, operating with almost the effect of a spiritual medium, that somebody was near at hand.
"My dear cousin," asked she, overcoming an indefinable reluctance, "is there not some one in the room with us?"
"Phoebe, my dear little girl," said Hepzibah, after a moment's pause, "you were up betimes, and have been busy all day.
Pray go to bed; for I am sure you must need rest.
I will sit in the parlor awhile, and collect my thoughts.
It has been my custom for more years, child, than you have lived!" While thus dismissing her, the maiden lady stept forward, kissed Phoebe, and pressed her to her heart, which beat against the girl's bosom with a strong, high, and tumultuous swell. How came there to be so much love in this desolate old heart, that it could afford to well over thus abundantly?
"Goodnight, cousin," said Phoebe, strangely affected by Hepzibah's manner.
"If you begin to love me, I am glad!"
She retired to her chamber, but did not soon fall asleep, nor then very profoundly.
CHAPTER two
WHAT POVERTY THREATENED: OF GRANITE AND BRASS
It was on the third floor, the front windows looking down into the street, where, at night, the lights of grocery stores were shining and children were playing.
Her husband asked a few questions and sat down to read the evening paper.
He was a silent man, American born, of a Swede father, and now employed as a cleaner of refrigerator cars at the stock yards.
His one observation to the point was concerning the chances of work in Chicago.
"It's a big place," he said.
In the interval which marked the preparation of the meal Carrie found time to study the flat.
She had some slight gift of observation and that sense, so rich in every woman-intuition.
Then she walked and sang to it, until Hanson, disturbed in his reading, came and took it.
A pleasant side to his nature came out here. He was patient.
"Well, we'll go out Sunday and see Lincoln Park."
Carrie noticed that Hanson had said nothing to this.
He seemed to be thinking of something else.
"Well," she said, "I think I'll look around to morrow.
"You'd better look in those big manufacturing houses along Franklin Street and just the other side of the river," he concluded. "Lots of girls work there.
It isn't very far."
"I've got to get up early in the morning, so I'll go to bed," and off he went, disappearing into the dark little bedroom off the hall, for the night.
"At about twenty minutes of five."
He could not come here.
She read from the manner of Hanson, in the subdued air of Minnie, and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of the flat, a settled opposition to anything save a conservative round of toil.
If Hanson sat every evening in the front room and read his paper, if he went to bed at nine, and Minnie a little later, what would they expect of her?
"No," she said to herself, "he can't come here."
"I cannot have you call on me here.
She troubled herself over what else to put in the letter.
She was pleased to see her in a way, but reflected her husband's point of view in the matter of work.
Anything was good enough so long as it paid-say, five dollars a week to begin with.
A shop girl was the destiny prefigured for the newcomer.
She would get in one of the great shops and do well enough until-well, until something happened. Neither of them knew exactly what.
They did not figure on promotion. They did not exactly count on marriage.
These vast buildings, what were they?
These strange energies and huge interests, for what purposes were they there?
What they dealt in, how they laboured, to what end it all came, she had only the vaguest conception.
ASHES OF TINDER: A FACE AT THE WINDOW
That night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the Palmer House for a bed after his work was through.
He was in a fevered state of mind, owing to the blight his wife's action threatened to cast upon his entire future.
While he was not sure how much significance might be attached to the threat she had made, he was sure that her attitude, if long continued, would cause him no end of trouble.
She was determined, and had worsted him in a very important contest.
He walked the floor of his little office, and later that of his room, putting one thing and another together to no avail.
Now that she had practically cowed him, she would follow up her work with demands, the acknowledgment of which would make her word law in the future.
He would have to pay her the money which she would now regularly demand or there would be trouble.
She would find out at once just what advantages she could gain.
Hurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points of his situation.
"What a fool trick that was.
Curse it!
What a fool move that was."
He also thought of his managerial position.
My friends, too!" He grew more angry as he thought of the talk any action on her part would create.
He would have to explain and deny and make a general mark of himself.
Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated this, and his brow moistened.
He saw no solution of anything-not a loophole left.
It was the one pleasing thing in this whole rout of trouble.
He could arrange that satisfactorily, for Carrie would be glad to wait, if necessary.
He saw only her pretty face and neat figure and wondered why life was not arranged so that such joy as he found with her could be steadily maintained.
How much more pleasant it would be.
Then he would take up his wife's threat again, and the wrinkles and moisture would return.
He began to feel the appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the office, and decided before going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop in at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls.
If he could only get plenty of time to think, perhaps something would turn up.
His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited and waited and Carrie did not come.
Could something have happened out there to keep her away?
Could she have been reached by his wife?
She had not been able to get away this morning.
After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the Madison car. To add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun
He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from Carrie. Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either.
He thanked his stars that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when he needed to think so much.
He walked the floor again, pretending to be in an ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond the expression of words.
He looked at the little chap with a feeling of doubt.
"I'm to bring an answer," said the boy.
Hurstwood recognised his wife's writing.
He tore it open and read without a show of feeling.
I need it to carry out my plans.
You can stay away if you want to.
So don't delay, but send it by the boy."
The audacity of the thing took his breath.
It roused his ire also-the deepest element of revolt in him.
His first impulse was to write but four words in reply-"Go to the devil!"--but he compromised by telling the boy that there would be no reply.
Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without seeing, contemplating the result of his work.
What would she do about that?
The confounded wretch!
He would go up there and have it out with her, that's what he would do.
She was carrying things with too high a hand.
These were his first thoughts.
Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself.
He knew her well enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow it up.
"Damn her!" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, "I'll make it hot for her if she causes me trouble.
I'll make her change her tone if I have to use force to do it!"
He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street.
Pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers at the bottom.
Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellaless; umbrellas were up.
The street looked like a sea of round black cloth roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving.
He scarcely noticed the picture.
He'd take it to her-he would go up there and have a talk with her, and that at once.
He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella.
On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the case.
He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other-that he had sent the money.
Perhaps he could do it up here.
He would have no row.
By the time he reached his own street he was keenly alive to the difficulties of his situation and wished over and over that some solution would offer itself, that he could see his way out.
He alighted and went up the steps to the front door, but it was with a nervous palpitation of the heart.
He pulled out his key and tried to insert it, but another key was on the inside.
He shook at the knob, but the door was locked.
No answer.
He rang again-this time harder.
He jangled it fiercely several times in succession, but without avail.
What could it mean?
He rang the bell and then waited.
Finally, seeing that no one was coming, he turned and went back to his cab.
"I saw a young girl up in that winder," returned the cabby.
Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now.
So this was the game, was it?
Shut him out and make him pay.
CHAPTER twenty five
ASHES OF TINDER: THE LOOSING OF STAYS
When Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater quandary than ever.
Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got into?
How could things have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly?
He could hardly realise how it had all come about.
It seemed a monstrous, unnatural, unwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon him without his let or hindrance.
Meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie.
What could be the trouble in that quarter?
No letter had come, no word of any kind, and yet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed to meet him that morning.
He saw that in the excitement of recent events he had not formulated a plan upon that score.
He was desperately in love, and would have taken great chances to win her under ordinary circumstances, but now-now what? Supposing she had found out something?
It would be just like this to happen as things were going now. Meanwhile he had not sent the money.
He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his hands in his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set.
He was getting some vague comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for the ill which affected him.
Every once in a while he would clinch his fingers and tap his foot-signs of the stirring mental process he was undergoing.
He drank more brandy and soda than he had any evening in months.
He was altogether a fine example of great mental perturbation.
For all his study nothing came of the evening except this-he sent the money.
It was with great opposition, after two or three hours of the most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got an envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it up.
"You take this to this address," he said, handing him the envelope, "and give it to mrs Hurstwood."
"Yes, sir," said the boy.
"If she isn't there bring it back."
"Yes, sir."
"You've seen my wife?" he asked as a precautionary measure as the boy turned to go.
"Oh, yes, sir.
I know her."
"All right, now.
Hurry right back."
"Any answer?"
"I guess not."
The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings.
Now he had done it.
There was no use speculating over that.
He was beaten for to night and he might just as well make the best of it.
But, oh, the wretchedness of being forced this way!
He could see her meeting the boy at the door and smiling sardonically.
She would take the envelope and know that she had triumphed.
He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture from his face.
He tried to get the interest of things about him, but it was not to be.
In about an hour and three quarters the boy returned.
He had evidently delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign of taking anything out of his pocket.
"Well?" said Hurstwood.
"I gave it to her."
"My wife?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any answer?"
"She said it was high time."
Hurstwood scowled fiercely.
There was no more to be done upon that score that night.
He wondered what the morning would bring forth, and slept anything but soundly upon it.
Next day he went again to the office and opened his mail, suspicious and hopeful of its contents.
No word from Carrie.
Nothing from his wife, which was pleasant.
The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it worked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done it receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more.
He fancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for a week or two.
Meanwhile, he would have time to think.
How about that now?
He decided to write her care of the West Side Post office and ask for an explanation, as well as to have her meet him.
The thought that this letter would probably not reach her until Monday chafed him exceedingly.
He must get some speedier method-but how?
The hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union he had contemplated.
Three o'clock came, four, five, six, and no letter.
It was the worst Sunday he had spent in his life.
He read it through carefully several times, and then merely shook his head.
It seemed as if his family troubles were just beginning.
"Well!" he said after a time, quite audibly, "I don't know."
Then he folded it up and put it in his pocket.
To add to his misery there was no word from Carrie.
He was quite certain now that she knew he was married and was angered at his perfidy.
He thought he would go out and insist on seeing her if she did not send him word of some sort soon.
He was really affected most miserably of all by this desertion.
He had loved her earnestly enough, but now that the possibility of losing her stared him in the face she seemed much more attractive.
He really pined for a word, and looked out upon her with his mind's eye in the most wistful manner.
He did not propose to lose her, whatever she might think.
Come what might, he would adjust this matter, and soon.
He would go to her and tell her all his family complications. He would explain to her just where he stood and how much he needed her. Surely she couldn't go back on him now?
It wasn't possible.
He would plead until her anger would melt-until she would forgive him.
Suddenly he thought: "Supposing she isn't out there-suppose she has gone?"
He was forced to take his feet.
It was too much to think of and sit still.
Nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing.
He did manage to bring himself into the mood to go out to Carrie, but when he got in Ogden Place he thought he saw a man watching him and went away.
He did not go within a block of the house.
One of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came back on a Randolph Street car, and without noticing arrived almost opposite the building of the concern with which his son was connected.
This sent a pang through his heart.
His absence did not seem to be noticed by either of his children.
Well, well, fortune plays a man queer tricks.
He got back to his office and joined in a conversation with friends.
That night he dined at Rector's and returned at once to his office.
In the bustle and show of the latter was his only relief.
He troubled over many little details and talked perfunctorily to everybody.
He stayed at his desk long after all others had gone, and only quitted it when the night watchman on his round pulled at the front door to see if it was safely locked.
On Wednesday he received another polite note from McGregor, james and Hay.
It read:
"Very truly yours, etc"
"Compromise!" exclaimed Hurstwood bitterly.
So here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew what to expect.
If he didn't go and see them they would sue him promptly.
If he did, he would be offered terms that would make his blood boil.
He folded the letter and put it with the other one.
The Author wishes it to be understood that Erewhon is pronounced as a word of three syllables, all short-thus, E re whon.
This is a mistake, though a perfectly natural one.
On my return, I purposely avoided looking into it until I had sent back my last revises to the printer.
Then I had much pleasure in reading it, but was indeed surprised at the many little points of similarity between the two books, in spite of their entire independence to one another.
I have also parted with the word "infortuniam" (though not without regret), but have not dared to meddle with other similar inaccuracies.
june ninth eighteen seventy two
The next part of "Erewhon" that I wrote was the "World of the Unborn," a preliminary form of which was sent to mr Holyoake's paper, but as I cannot find it among those copies of the Reasoner that are in the British Museum, I conclude that it was not accepted.
I also wrote about this time the substance of what ultimately became the Musical Banks, and the trial of a man for being in a consumption.
Having now, I fear, at too great length done what I was asked to do, I should like to add a few words on my own account.
Suffice it, that when I left home it was with the intention of going to some new colony, and either finding, or even perhaps purchasing, waste crown land suitable for cattle or sheep farming, by which means I thought that I could better my fortunes more rapidly than in England.
The colony was one which had not been opened up even to the most adventurous settlers for more than eight or nine years, having been previously uninhabited, save by a few tribes of savages who frequented the seaboard.
The climate was temperate, and very healthy; there were no wild animals, nor were the natives dangerous, being few in number and of an intelligent tractable disposition.
Men pushed farther and farther into the mountains, and found a very considerable tract inside the front range, between it and another which was loftier still, though even this was not the highest, the great snowy one which could be seen from out upon the plains.
I had a telescope and a dog, and would take bread and meat and tobacco with me. Starting with early dawn, it would be night before I could complete my round; for the mountain over which I had to go was very high.
I knew that there was a range still farther back; but except from one place near the very top of my own mountain, no part of it was visible: from this point, however, I saw, whenever there were no clouds, a single snow clad peak, many miles away, and I should think about as high as any mountain in the world.
wonderful!
Aha! they see, and rush towards each other.
Alas! they are both mistaken; the ewe is not the lamb's ewe, they are neither kin nor kind to one another, and part in coldness.
Ah! who could say?
Could I hope to cross it?
This would be the highest triumph that I could wish for; but it was too much to think of yet.
I would try the nearer range, and see how far I could go.
Even if I did not find country, might I not find gold, or diamonds, or copper, or silver?
CHAPTER seven: FIRST IMPRESSIONS
We followed an Alpine path for some four miles, now hundreds of feet above a brawling stream which descended from the glaciers, and now nearly alongside it.
The morning was cold and somewhat foggy, for the autumn had made great strides latterly.
Sometimes we went through forests of pine, or rather yew trees, though they looked like pine; and I remember that now and again we passed a little wayside shrine, wherein there would be a statue of great beauty, representing some figure, male or female, in the very heyday of youth, strength, and beauty, or of the most dignified maturity and old age.
My hosts always bowed their heads as they passed one of these shrines, and it shocked me to see statues that had no apparent object, beyond the chronicling of some unusual individual excellence or beauty, receive so serious a homage.
However, I showed no sign of wonder or disapproval; for I remembered that to be all things to all men was one of the injunctions of the Gentile Apostle, which for the present I should do well to heed.
But it was not so.
My guides spoke to many in passing, and those spoken to showed much amazement.
I may as well say at once what my after experience taught me-namely, that with all their faults and extraordinary obliquity of mental vision upon many subjects, they are the very best bred people that I ever fell in with.
The village was just like the one we had left, only rather larger.
It was here as hitherto: all things were generically the same as in Europe, the differences being of species only; and I was amused at seeing in a window some bottles with barley sugar and sweetmeats for children, as at home; but the barley sugar was in plates, not in twisted sticks, and was coloured blue.
Glass was plentiful in the better houses.
Lastly, I should say that the people were of a physical beauty which was simply amazing.
I never saw anything in the least comparable to them. The women were vigorous, and had a most majestic gait, their heads being set upon their shoulders with a grace beyond all power of expression. Each feature was finished, eyelids, eyelashes, and ears being almost invariably perfect.
Their colour was equal to that of the finest Italian paintings; being of the clearest olive, and yet ruddy with a glow of perfect health.
Their expression was divine; and as they glanced at me timidly but with parted lips in great bewilderment, I forgot all thoughts of their conversion in feelings that were far more earthly.
I was dazzled as I saw one after the other, of whom I could only feel that each was the loveliest I had ever seen.
Even in middle age they were still comely, and the old grey haired women at their cottage doors had a dignity, not to say majesty, of their own.
The men were as handsome as the women beautiful.
I have always delighted in and reverenced beauty; but I felt simply abashed in the presence of such a splendid type-a compound of all that is best in Egyptian, Greek and Italian.
The children were infinite in number, and exceedingly merry; I need hardly say that they came in for their full share of the prevailing beauty.
I expressed by signs my admiration and pleasure to my guides, and they were greatly pleased.
I could fill many pages with a description of their dress and the ornaments which they wore, and a hundred details which struck me with all the force of novelty; but I must not stay to do so.
When we had got past the village the fog rose, and revealed magnificent views of the snowy mountains and their nearer abutments, while in front I could now and again catch glimpses of the great plains which I had surveyed on the preceding evening.
The country was highly cultivated, every ledge being planted with chestnuts, walnuts, and apple trees from which the apples were now gathering.
Goats were abundant; also a kind of small black cattle, in the marshes near the river, which was now fast widening, and running between larger flats from which the hills receded more and more.
I saw a few sheep with rounded noses and enormous tails. Dogs were there in plenty, and very English; but I saw no cats, nor indeed are these creatures known, their place being supplied by a sort of small terrier.
In about four hours of walking from the time we started, and after passing two or three more villages, we came upon a considerable town, and my guides made many attempts to make me understand something, but I gathered no inkling of their meaning, except that I need be under no apprehension of danger.
I will spare the reader any description of the town, and would only bid him think of Domodossola or Faido.
In fact, one of them was plainly very much out of health, and coughed violently from time to time in spite of manifest efforts to suppress it.
The other looked pale and ill but he was marvellously self-contained, and it was impossible to say what was the matter with him.
Both of them appeared astonished at seeing one who was evidently a stranger, but they were too ill to come up to me, and form conclusions concerning me.
These two were first called out; and in about a quarter of an hour I was made to follow them, which I did in some fear, and with much curiosity.
He looked me all over for about five minutes, letting his eyes wander from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, up and down, and down and up; neither did his mind seem in the least clearer when he had done looking than when he began.
He at length asked me a single short question, which I supposed meant "Who are you?" I answered in English quite composedly as though he would understand me, and endeavoured to be my very most natural self as well as I could.
He appeared more and more puzzled, and then retired, returning with two others much like himself.
They felt my pulse, they looked at my tongue, they listened at my chest, they felt all my muscles; and at the end of each operation they looked at the chief and nodded, and said something in a tone quite pleasant, as though I were all right.
They even pulled down my eyelids, and looked, I suppose, to see if they were bloodshot; but it was not so.
As soon as it was ended, they proceeded to overhaul my swag and the contents of my pockets.
This gave me little uneasiness, for I had no money with me, nor anything which they were at all likely to want, or which I cared about losing.
At least I fancied so, but I soon found my mistake.
When I had shown them what I did with it, they were astonished but not displeased, and seemed to like the smell.
But by and by they came to my watch, which I had hidden away in the inmost pocket that I had, and had forgotten when they began their search.
They seemed concerned and uneasy as soon as they got hold of it.
I remember that when they first found it I had thought of Paley, and how he tells us that a savage on seeing a watch would at once conclude that it was designed.
He spoke to me solemnly and sternly for two or three minutes.
The larger specimens had a case to themselves, and tickets with writing on them in a character which I could not understand.
As I said before, all were marred and broken.
We passed many cases, and at last came to one in which there were several clocks and two or three old watches.
Here the magistrate stopped, and opening the case began comparing my watch with the others.
The design was different, but the thing was clearly the same.
AN old-fashioned CHRISTMAS.
CHAPTER one
THE PROMISE.
"An old-fashioned Christmas.--A lively family will accept a gentleman as paying guest to join them in spending an old-fashioned Christmas in the heart of the country."
That was the advertisement.
It had its points.
I was not sure what, in this case, an old-fashioned Christmas might happen to mean.
Yes!
She and her husband, who suffers from melancholia, and all the other complaints which flesh is heir to, and I, dragging through what I call a patent medicine dinner, and talking of everybody who is dead and gone, or else going, and of nothing else.
So I wrote to the advertiser.
The reply was written in a sprawling feminine hand.
It appeared that the terms would be five guineas; but there was no mention of the length of time which that fee would cover.
I might arrive, it seemed, on Christmas Eve, but there was no hint as to when I was to go, if ever.
The whole thing was a trifle odd.
There was nothing said about the sort of accommodation which would be provided, nothing about the kind of establishment which was maintained, or the table which was kept.
No references were offered or asked for.
Now it is a remarkable thing that I have always had an extraordinary predilection for the name Madge.
And yet, from my boyhood upward, I have desired to meet one. Here was an opportunity offered.
She was apparently the careworn mother of a "lively family." Under such circumstances she was hardly likely to be "lively" herself, but her name was Madge, and it was the accident of her Christian name which decided me to go.
No doubt the five guineas were badly wanted; even a "lively family" would be hardly likely to advertise for a perfect stranger to spend Christmas with them if they were not.
I did not expect a princely entertainment.
Still I felt that it could hardly be worse than a chop or cousin Lucy; the subjects of her conversation I never cared about when they were alive, and I certainly do not want to talk about them now they are dead.
As for the "pills" and "drops" with which her husband doses himself between the courses, it makes me ill even to think of them.
On Christmas Eve the weather was abominable.
All night it had been blowing and raining.
In the morning it began to freeze.
By the time the streets were like so many skating rinks it commenced to snow.
And it kept on snowing; that turned out to be quite a record in the way of snow storms.
Hardly the sort of weather to start for an unknown destination "in the heart of the country." But, at the last moment, I did not like to back out.
I said I would go, and I meant to go.
I had been idiot enough to load myself with a lot of Christmas presents, without the faintest notion why.
I had not given a Christmas present for years-there had been no one to give them to.
I am no dealer in poisons.
I knew nothing of the people I was going to.
The youngest member of the family might be twenty, or the oldest ten.
Still, if you have not tried your hand at that kind of thing for ever so long, the mere act of purchasing is a pleasure.
That is a fact.
I felt quite lively myself as I mingled with the Christmas crowd, looking for things which might not turn out to be absolutely preposterous.
I even bought something for Madge-I mean mrs Wilson.
Of course, I knew that I had no right to do anything of the kind, and was aware that the chances were a hundred to one against my ever presuming to hint at its existence.
I hoped to goodness that he would not prove to be a hypochondriac, like Lucy's husband.
I would not give him pills.
What the "lively family" would think of a perfect stranger arriving burdened with rubbish, as if he had known them all their lives, I did not dare to think.
No doubt they would set him down as a lunatic right away.
It was a horrible journey.
The trains were late, and, of course, overcrowded; there was enough luggage in our compartment to have filled it, and still there was one more passenger than there ought to have been; an ill conditioned old fellow who wanted my hat box put into the van because it happened to tumble off the rack on to his head.
I pointed out to him that the rack was specially constructed for light luggage, that a hat box was light luggage, and that if the train jolted, he ought to blame the company, not me.
He was impervious to reason.
His wrangling and jangling so upset me, that I went past the station at which I ought to have changed.
Then I had to wait three quarters of an hour for a train to take me back again, only to find that I had missed the one I intended to catch.
So I had to cool my heels for two hours and a half in a wretched cowshed amidst a bitter, whirling snowstorm.
It is some satisfaction for me to be able to reflect that I made it warm for the officials, however cold I might have been myself.
When the train did start, some forty minutes after scheduled time, it jolted along in a laborious fashion at the rate of about six miles an hour, stopping at every roadside hovel.
I counted seven in a distance, I am convinced, of less than twenty miles.
When at last I reached Crofton, my journey's end, it turned out that the station staff consisted of a half witted individual, who was stationmaster, porter, and clerk combined, and a hulking lad who did whatever else there was to do.
There was a trap at the "Boy and Blunderbuss," but that required fetching.
Finally the hulking lad was dispatched.
Never shall I forget the drive, in that miserable cart, through the storm and those pitch black country lanes.
"Be you going to stop with they Wilsons?"
"I am."
There was something in the tone of his "Ah!" which whetted my curiosity, near the end of my tether though I was.
"Why do you ask?"
"It be about time as someone were to stay with them as were a bit capable like."
I did not ask.
I was beyond it.
I was chilled to the bone, wet, tired, hungry.
I had long been wishing that an old-fashioned Christmas had been completely extinct before I had thought of adventuring in quest of one.
We passed through a gate, which I had to get down to open, along some sort of avenue.
Suddenly the cart pulled up.
"Here we be."
That might be so.
It was a pity he did not add where "here" was.
There was a great shadow, which possibly did duty for a house, but, if so, there was not a light in any of the windows, and there was nothing visible in the shape of a door.
The whereabouts of this, however, the driver presently made clear.
If they have, there's a bell on your right, if it isn't broken."
There appeared to be no knocker, though whether it had been "twisted" off was more than I could say.
I heard it tinkle in the distance.
No answer; though I allowed a more than decent interval.
"Better ring again," suggested the driver.
"Hard.
Maybe they're up to some of their games, and wants rousing."
Was there a chuckle in the fellow's voice?
I rang again, and again with all the force I could.
The bell reverberated through what seemed like an empty house.
"Is there no one in the place?"
Where's another thing.
If they know you're coming perhaps they hear and don't choose to answer.
Better ring again."
I sounded another peal.
Presently feet were heard advancing along the passage-several pairs it seemed-and a light gleamed through the window over the door.
A voice inquired: "Who's there?"
"mr Christopher, from London."
The information was greeted with what sounded uncommonly like a chorus of laughter.
There was a rush of retreating feet, an expostulating voice, then darkness again, and silence.
Are the people mad?"
"Well-thereabouts."
Once more I suspected the driver of a chuckle.
My temper was rising.
I had not come all that way, and subjected myself to so much discomfort, to be played tricks with.
I tolled the bell again.
After a few seconds' interval the pit pat of what was obviously one pair of feet came towards the door.
Again a light gleamed through the pane.
After a vast amount of unfastening, the door was opened, and on the threshold there stood a girl, with a lighted candle in her hand.
The storm rushed in; she put up her hand to shield the light from danger.
"Can I see mrs Wilson?
I'm expected.
That was all she said.
I looked at her; she at me.
The driver's voice came from the background.
"I drove him over from the station, Miss.
There be a lot of luggage. He do say he's come to stay with you."
I'm afraid I can offer you nothing to drink.
We've lost the key of the cellar, and there's nothing out, except water, and I don't think you'd care for that."
"I can't say rightly as how I should, Miss.
Next time will do.
Be it all right?"
"Perhaps you had better come inside."
"I think I had."
I went inside; it was time.
"Have you any luggage?" I admitted that I had.
"Perhaps it had better be brought in."
"Do you think that you could manage, Tidy?"
"The mare, she'll stand still enough.
mr
WHITING AND MARY ANN.
I did not mean to kiss her; it was a pure accident.
Her face was close to mine, or my face was close to hers, and then her lips came into contact with my lips, or my lips came into contact with her lips-I don't know which it was-and then at that moment her mother came into the room, and she said, "mr
Whiting, may I ask what is the meaning of this?" I said it meant nothing-nothing!
Absolutely nothing!
Only I found it difficult to explain, and when I did explain she would not understand.
Her manner was not at all the sort of thing I care for. The result is that I am engaged to Mary Ann Snelling without being conscious of having entertained any intention of the kind.
Not that I have a word to say against Mary Ann, except that I never knew a girl with quite so many relations.
To begin with she had six brothers and five sisters, and she is the eldest of the batch, and there's not one of the brothers whom I feel drawn to.
Her father is a most remarkable person, to say the least.
I do not know what he meant, and would rather not attempt to imagine.
All, apparently, that is left for me to do, is to pay for everything.
It is most delightful.
It might just as well be some one else's wedding, so unimportant is the part which I am set to play in it.
And it is all the result of an accident.
I deny that for the last six months I have been using mr Snelling's home as if it were a boarding house.
Nothing of the kind.
The mere suggestion is absurd.
It is true that I have dropped in to dinner now and then, or to spend the evening, or for an afternoon call, or for an hour or two in the morning; but that has been simply and solely because the Snelling family have evinced so marked a desire for my society.
The alteration which has taken place in their demeanour since my accident with Mary Ann is, therefore, all the more amazing.
The accident in question occurred upon the Sunday evening.
I had been with Mary Ann to church, and had seen her home, and had had a little supper, and it was after supper that it happened.
I did not go and purchase the engagement ring the first thing on the Monday morning, I own it.
Certainly not.
Nor did I take any steps in that direction during the whole of that week.
I was not pressed for time.
Besides, I was turning things over in my mind.
But that was no reason why, the Monday week following, four of her brothers should have called on me on their way to the office, when I was scarcely out of bed, and actually breakfasting, and assailed me in the way in which they did.
There was William Henry, john Frank, Ferdinand Augustus, and Stephen Arthur.
Each of them twice my size and all of them frightfully ignorant and wholly regardless of the sensitive little points of those with whom they came in contact.
There is no circumlocution about them. They go straight at what they want; and were scarcely inside my door before they blurted out the purport of their coming.
It was Frederick Augustus; if the thing is possible he is, if anything, more direct even than the rest of his family.
"Look here, Whiting, how about Mary Ann's ring?
The girl is fretting, but you don't seem to notice it.
And as you don't appear to know what is the proper thing to do in a case of this kind, and don't understand that the ring ought to be bought straight away, we've bought it for you."
I gasped-positively gasped.
"That's it; on your account.
From a cousin of ours who's in that line."
I never saw people like the Snellings for possessing relatives in all sorts of "lines." No matter what you want, or do not want, and never will want, they are sure to have some relative who has dealt in it, his or her whole life long.
They produced the ring, and told me what I had to pay for it.
A handsome price it was.
I was persuaded that somebody besides that cousin got a profit out of Mary Ann's engagement ring.
I did not want any unpleasantness; and I am quite sure there would have been unpleasantness had I demurred.
Her head dropped on my shoulder, and she kissed me under the chin, observing, "You dear old Sam." The moments when I am alone with Mary Ann are alleviations for those more frequent moments when I am not alone with Mary Ann.
Still I noticed that the ring fitted her perfectly, and I could not but wonder if she had tried it on before.
It is from her action in that matter that my suspicion springs.
The Snellings have an aunt who lives in an out of the way hole at the other end of nowhere.
The woman's name is Brady.
There she owns a cottage, or it may be a pigstye for all I know.
When she heard of my engagement with Mary Ann, she wrote and suggested that we should spend our honeymoon in her cottage, or pigstye, and that I should pay her rent for it.
The matter was talked about at dinner.
Mary Ann was silent for some time; then she quietly remarked:
"Don't trouble yourselves to discuss Aunt Brady's proposal.
I shall do nothing of the kind."
This observation was followed by perfect silence.
The members of the family looked at one another.
But, after a very considerable pause, her mother said, with quite unusual mildness, "Very well, my dear. Then, it's settled."
After dinner I took advantage of an opportunity which offered to thank Mary Ann for her action in the matter, because, of course, I had no wish to spend my honeymoon in a place of which I knew nothing, to oblige an aunt of whom I knew still less.
Mary Ann beamed at me, and she said, "You dear old man!" Presently she continued:
"Do you know that in marrying me you are doing the best thing for yourself that you ever did in all your life?"
I endeavoured to explain to her that I felt sure of it; but I fear that my explanation was a little stumbling.
But she went on with the most perfect fluency.
There were no signs of faltering about her flow of language.
"You want someone who can look after you; and you could not, by any chance, have chosen a person who will look after you better than I shall."
Such an assurance was most satisfactory.
We had a long confidential chat on matters of business.
I found that as a woman of business she was beyond all my expectations.
I told her exactly what my income was; and the source from which it came, and all about it.
She drew up a plan on which we were to lay it out.
It was an admirable plan.
I had never had one, but I saw clearly that in that way the money would go twice as far.
It turned out that she had a little money of her own; about a hundred and thirty pounds a year.
And, of course, I had my expectations, and she had hers.
It was plain that together we should manage most comfortably.
Delightfully, in fact.
"I shall make papa give me five hundred pounds, at least.
'A bird in the hand is worth two in a bush'--and it will be something to have by us."
I will take care that my relations do their duty.
I have drawn up a list of all the people who ought to give us a present, and I shall tell them what they ought to give-it won't be my fault if I don't get it.
Of course there are some people with whom you can't be perfectly plain, but I shall be as plain as I can; there's a way and a manner of doing that kind of thing.
I have no intention of being presented with an endless collection of duplicates, or a lot of useless rubbish which I don't know what to do with.
I endeavoured to.
At least I drew up a list of people who ought to meet the occasion, and I tried in more than one instance to drop a hint of what, as I felt, they ought to meet it with.
But I am bound to admit that so far my success has been as nothing compared with hers.
Hers has been prodigious.
It is certain that we have a large collection of really valuable property about the house-the wedding presents to Mary Ann.
She has a knack of getting people to do what she wishes and to give her what she wants, which is a little short of miraculous.
The fact of having given Mary Ann a wedding present seems to fill them with a feeling of rancorous acidity which, to me, is inexplicable.
My belief is that they have been induced to spend at least twice as much as they intended, and that they resent it.
But why, on that account, they should pity me, I altogether fail to understand.
"We have all been giving Mary Ann presents, and I suppose you, mr Whiting, have been giving her something too." That was what mrs Macpherson said to me only the other day.
I have given Mary Ann two or three trifles, and I said so.
"And what," inquired mrs Macpherson, "has Mary Ann given you?"
"Her love."
Someone sniggered.
I cannot pretend to explain why, except on the supposition that romance is dead; at least in that circle of society in which the Snellings move.
But that is not the only society the world contains.
It is true that they are a trifle large for me, and that I shall never be able to keep them on my feet except when I am sitting still.
But Mary Ann does not seem to think that that matters, so why should I? Her youngest sister, Clara Louisa, has quite gratuitously informed me that she has had them by her for some considerable time, and that, not to put too fine a point on it, they were originally designed for another individual altogether-a mr Pilbeam.
It is true that there are times when I am a little disposed to wish that she were not quite so good a manager; now and then every man likes to call his soul his own.
On the other hand, she is well qualified to protect me from the rest of the family.
She will keep them at bay.
Which is just as well.
If she had been like me they would have rent us limb from limb.
As it is, unless I am mistaken, some of the rending will be on our side.
And they know it!
p s--The cards are out for the wedding.
It is to take place on Tuesday fortnight.
We are going for our honeymoon to Italy and the South of France.
A second cousin of Mary Ann's is in the Cook's Tours line.
He has given us free passes all the way to the end of our journey, and all the way back again; and coupons for free board and lodging at the hotel.
It's a wedding present.
So that, as Mary Ann says, our honeymoon need cost us practically nothing.
Besides which we can always sell the coupons and railway passes which we don't use.
Nothing could be more delightful.
THE PEOPLE OF THE BLACK CIRCLE
one Death Strikes a King
Through the hot, stifling night the temple gongs boomed and the conchs roared.
Beads of sweat glistened on his dark skin; his fingers twisted the gold worked fabric beneath him.
He was young; no spear had touched him, no poison lurked in his wine.
She threw up her head in a gusty gesture of wrath and despair as the thunder of the distant drums reached her ears.
'The priests and their clamor!' she exclaimed.
Nay, he dies and none can say why.
He is dying now-and I stand here helpless, who would burn the whole city and spill the blood of thousands to save him.'
'I tell you it is not poison!' she cried.
'Since his birth he has been guarded so closely that the cleverest poisoners of the East could not reach him.
Five skulls bleaching on the Tower of the Kites can testify to attempts which were made-and which failed.
She ceased as the king spoke; his livid lips did not move, and there was no recognition in his glassy eyes.
But his voice rose in an eery call, indistinct and far away, as if called to her from beyond vast, wind blown gulfs.
My sister, where are you?
I can not find you.
All is darkness, and the roaring of great winds!'
'Brother!' cried Yasmina, catching his limp hand in a convulsive grasp. 'I am here!
Do you not know me-'
Her voice died at the utter vacancy of his face.
A low confused moan waned from his mouth.
The slave girls at the foot of the dais whimpered with fear, and Yasmina beat her breast in anguish.
In another part of the city a man stood in a latticed balcony overlooking a long street in which torches tossed luridly, smokily revealing upturned dark faces and the whites of gleaming eyes.
A long drawn wailing rose from the multitude.
The man shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back into the arabesque chamber.
He was a tall man, compactly built, and richly clad.
'The king is not yet dead, but the dirge is sounded,' he said to another man who sat cross legged on a mat in a corner.
This man was clad in a brown camel hair robe and sandals, and a green turban was on his head. His expression was tranquil, his gaze impersonal.
'The people know he will never see another dawn,' this man answered.
The first speaker favored him with a long, searching stare.
If they have slain the king now, why could they not have slain him months ago?'
'Even the arts you call sorcery are governed by cosmic laws,' answered the man in the green turban.
'The stars direct these actions, as in other affairs.
Not even my masters can alter the stars.
Not until the heavens were in the proper order could they perform this necromancy.' With a long, stained fingernail he mapped the constellations on the marble tiled floor.
'The slant of the moon presaged evil for the king of Vendhya; the stars are in turmoil, the Serpent in the House of the Elephant.
A path is opened in the unseen realms, and once a point of contact was established, mighty powers were put in play along that path.'
'Point of contact?' inquired the other.
'Do you mean that lock of Bhunda Chand's hair?'
'Yes.
All discarded portions of the human body still remain part of it, attached to it by intangible connections.
The priests of Asura have a dim inkling of this truth, and so all nail trimmings, hair and other waste products of the persons of the royal family are carefully reduced to ashes and the ashes hidden.
When my masters decided upon his doom, the lock, in its golden, jewel encrusted case, was stolen from under her pillow while she slept, and another substituted, so like the first that she never knew the difference.
Then the genuine lock travelled by camel caravan up the long, long road to Peshkhauri, thence up the Zhaibar Pass, until it reached the hands of those for whom it was intended.'
'Only a lock of hair,' murmured the nobleman.
'By which a soul is drawn from its body and across gulfs of echoing space,' returned the man on the mat.
The nobleman studied him curiously.
'I do not know if you are a man or a demon, Khemsa,' he said at last. 'Few of us are what we seem.
I, whom the Kshatriyas know as Kerim Shah, a prince from Iranistan, am no greater a masquerader than most men.
There at least I have no doubts; for I serve King Yezdigerd of Turan.'
'And I the Black Seers of Yimsha,' said Khemsa; 'and my masters are greater than yours, for they have accomplished by their arts what Yezdigerd could not with a hundred thousand swords.'
Outside, the moan of the tortured thousands shuddered up to the stars which crusted the sweating Vendhyan night, and the conchs bellowed like oxen in pain.
All the noble born fighting men of Ayodhya were gathered in the great palace or about it, and at each broad arched gate and door fifty archers stood on guard, with bows in their hands.
On the dais under the golden dome the king cried out again, racked by awful paroxysms.
'Aid me!
I am far from my mortal house!
They seek to snap the silver cord that binds me to my dying body.
Their fingers sear me like fire!
But the glassy blankness passed from his eyes like smoke blown from a fire, and he looked up at his sister with recognition.
'Brother!' she sobbed.
'Swift!' he gasped, and his weakening voice was rational.
'I know now what brings me to the pyre.
I have been on a far journey and I understand.
There they strove to break the silver cord of life, and thrust my soul into the body of a foul night weird their sorcery summoned up from hell.
Ah! I feel their pull upon me now!
Your cry and the grip of your fingers brought me back, but I am going fast.
My soul clings to my body, but its hold weakens.
Quick-kill me, before they can trap my soul for ever!'
'I cannot!' she wailed, smiting her naked breasts.
'Swiftly, I command you!' There was the old imperious note in his failing whisper.
'You have never disobeyed me-obey my last command! Send my soul clean to Asura!
Haste, lest you damn me to spend eternity as a filthy gaunt of darkness.
Strike, I command you!
Sobbing wildly, Yasmina plucked a jeweled dagger from her girdle and plunged it to the hilt in his breast.
He stiffened and then went limp, a grim smile curving his dead lips.
Shortly afterward, the malady turned into a mild fever, from which she recovered.
Nobody else seemed to have caught it.
Fitzgerald was still trying to find out how the germ had been transmitted.
They located the city, and learned that its name had been Kukan-or something with a similar vowel consonant ratio.
Immediately, Sid Chamberlain and Gloria Standish began giving their telecasts a Kukan dateline, and Hubert Penrose used the name in his official reports.
Four hundred miles from Kukan, and at fifteen thousand feet lower altitude, he shot a bird.
At least, it was a something with wings and what were almost but not quite feathers, though it was more reptilian than avian in general characteristics.
He and Ivan Fitzgerald skinned and mounted it, and then dissected the carcass almost tissue by tissue.
About seven eighths of its body capacity was lungs; it certainly breathed air containing at least half enough oxygen to support human life, or five times as much as the air around Kukan.
That took the center of interest away from archaeology, and started a new burst of activity.
The civilian specialists in other fields, and the Space Force people who had been holding tape lines and making sketches and snapping cameras, were all flying to lower Syrtis to find out how much oxygen there was and what kind of life it supported.
Sometimes Sachiko dropped in; most of the time she was busy helping Ivan Fitzgerald dissect specimens.
The high point came when one party, at thirty thousand feet below the level of Kukan, found breathable air.
The daily newscasts from Terra showed a corresponding shift in interest at home.
The discovery of the University had focused attention on the dead past of Mars; now the public was interested in Mars as a possible home for humanity.
It was Tony Lattimer who brought archaeology back into the activities of the expedition and the news at home.
Martha and Selim were working in the museum on the second floor, scrubbing the grime from the glass cases, noting contents, and grease penciling numbers; Lattimer and a couple of Space Force officers were going through what had been the administrative offices on the other side.
It was one of these, a young second lieutenant, who came hurrying in from the mezzanine, almost bursting with excitement.
"Hey, Martha!
dr von Ohlmhorst!" he was shouting.
Selim dropped his rag back in the bucket; she laid her clipboard on top of the case beside her.
"Where?" they asked together.
"Over on the north side." The lieutenant took hold of himself and spoke more deliberately.
"Little room, back of one of the old faculty offices-conference room.
That's where they are.
Eighteen of them, around a long table-"
Gloria Standish, who had dropped in for lunch, was on the mezzanine, fairly screaming into a radiophone extension:
" ... Dozen and a half of them!
Well, of course they're dead.
What a question!
They look like skeletons covered with leather.
No, I do not know what they died of.
Well, forget it; I don't care if Bill Chandler's found a three headed hippopotamus.
Sid, don't you get it?
She slammed the phone back on its hook, rushing away ahead of them.
Martha remembered the closed door; on the first survey, they hadn't attempted opening it.
Now it was burned away at both sides and lay, still hot along the edges, on the floor of the big office room in front. A floodlight was on in the room inside, and Lattimer was going around looking at things while a Space Force officer stood by the door.
The center of the room was filled by a long table; in armchairs around it sat the eighteen men and women who had occupied the room for the last fifty millennia.
Another had fallen forward onto the table, arms extended, the emerald set of a ring twinkling dully on one finger.
Skeletons covered with leather, Gloria Standish had called them, and so they were-faces like skulls, arms and legs like sticks, the flesh shrunken onto the bones under it.
"Isn't this something!" Lattimer was exulting.
"Mass suicide, that's what it was.
Notice what's in the corners?"
Braziers, made of perforated two gallon odd metal cans, the white walls smudged with smoke above them.
Von Ohlmhorst had noticed them at once, and was poking into one of them with his flashlight.
"Yes; charcoal.
That's why you had so much trouble breaking in; they'd sealed the room on the inside." He straightened and went around the room, until he found a ventilator, and peered into it.
They must have been all that were left, here.
So they just came in here and lit the charcoal, and sat drinking together till they all fell asleep.
Sid and Gloria made the most of it.
The Terran public wanted to hear about Martians, and if live Martians couldn't be found, a room full of dead ones was the next best thing.
Maybe an even better thing; it had been only sixty odd years since the Orson Welles invasion scare.
Without question, he had become, overnight, the most widely known archaeologist in history.
"Not that I'm interested in all this, for myself," he disclaimed, after listening to the telecast from Terra two days after his discovery.
Bring it to the public attention; dramatize it.
"In nineteen twenty three?
And, for a while, it was easier to get financial support for new excavations.
"I'd hoped it would be you; your voice would carry the most weight.
But I think it's important that one of us go back, to present the story of our work, and what we have accomplished and what we hope to accomplish, to the public and to the universities and the learned societies, and to the Federation Government.
We must not allow the other scientific fields and the so-called practical interests to monopolize public and academic support.
So, I believe I shall go back at least for a while, and see what I can do-"
Lectures.
The organization of a Society of Martian Archaeology, with Anthony Lattimer, p h d, the logical candidate for the chair.
Degrees, honors; the deference of the learned, and the adulation of the lay public.
Positions, with impressive titles and salaries.
Sweet are the uses of publicity.
She crushed out her cigarette and got to her feet.
Let the infantry do the slogging through the mud; the brass hats got the medals.
"Tom, we're having a problem with the gyro stabilizer," said Mark Faber, gray haired president of the Faber Electronics Company.
"Hope you can find out what's wrong."
The eighteen year old inventor accepted the challenge with a smile. "I'll be glad to try, sir," he replied.
Bud Barclay, a dark haired young flier and Tom Swift Jr's closest friend, chuckled.
"If anyone can get the bugs out of your new invention, genius boy here will do it!"
The two boys followed mr Faber and his engineers to a wooden building which was tightly guarded.
Inside, a secret rocket telemetering device was mounted on its test stand.
"As you know, Tom," mr Faber began, "the usual conditions of rocket flight will be-"
He broke off with a gasp of astonishment as the whole building suddenly began to shake.
"Good grief!" Bud exclaimed.
"This isn't part of your testing routine, is it?"
The walls and roof were shuddering and creaking, and the concrete floor was heaving under their feet.
"Look out!
The test stand's breaking loose!" Tom warned.
Another engineer rushed toward the door to see what was happening outside.
Before he reached it, another shock knocked all of them off their feet.
Electronic equipment cascaded from the wall shelves, and a heavy duty chain hoist came loose from its overhead track, plunging to the floor with a terrifying crash.
"An earthquake!" Tom gasped.
"The roof! It's caving in!" he heard someone scream.
Bud threw up his arms to protect himself, but too late!
A falling beam caught him on the back of the head and the young flier blacked out.
For minutes, no one stirred among the wreckage.
Then Tom, who had been stunned by some falling debris, raised himself to a sitting position.
"Good night!" Tom's eyes focused in horror on the wreckage enveloped by still billowing dust.
Only two thirds of the walls were still standing.
Suddenly Tom stiffened in fear.
Disregarding his own injuries, Tom hastily freed himself from the debris and groped his way to Bud's side.
With a desperate heave, he shoved the beam away, then cradled Bud's head in his arm.
His friend's eyelids flickered.
"Are you all right?" Tom asked fearfully.
The answer came in a groan.
Wow!...
What hit me?"
"You got conked by a falling timber.
Or grazed, at least," Tom added thankfully.
"If that beam had landed square on your noggin, even a rock head like you couldn't have survived!"
"We grow 'em tough out in California where I come from!" he joked.
Somewhat shakily, Bud got to his feet with Tom's assistance.
He had heard about the great San Francisco earthquake from his grandfather, and had no doubt about the nature of the tremors.
"mr Faber!" he gasped.
The two boys scrambled through the clutter of debris toward the spot where the test stand had been erected.
Bud seized a slender, steel I beam and managed to pry up the wreckage while Tom carefully extricated mr Faber.
The scientist seemed to be badly injured.
"We'd better not try to move him," Tom decided.
Of the four other company engineers, two were now stirring and partly conscious.
The boys found a first aid cabinet and gave what help they could to them and the other two men.
Then Tom taped a bandage on Bud's scalp wound.
"Let's see if we can find a telephone and call the local hospital," Tom said.
"Right!" Bud responded.
They picked their way through the wreckage and emerged on a scene of frightful destruction.
The main plant building of Faber Electronics had been partially demolished by the quake.
Power lines were down and an outlying storage shed was ablaze.
Dazed and panic stricken survivors were wandering around aimlessly or rushing about to assist the injured.
"Good thing the main shift of workers knocked off before this happened," Bud observed with a shudder.
"There would've been a lot more casualties."
"Look!" Tom pointed to a huge crevasse.
"Right where we landed our Whirling Duck!"
The boys exchanged rueful glances as they realized that the craft which had brought them to Faber Electronics-one of Tom's unique helijets-had been swallowed up in the gaping chasm.
"No use fussing about it now," Tom said.
"Come on, Bud!
Let's see about getting help for mr Faber!"
Despite the chaotic confusion, the boys managed to locate the plant superintendent-a harried, middle aged man named Simkins-who was doing his best to restore order.
"mr Faber is badly injured," Tom said.
"Why not send a car?
It's only a few miles away, isn't it?"
"Tough break," Tom sympathized.
"Anyhow, we want to help.
Got a job for us?"
Within minutes, Tom was in charge of clearing away rubble and extricating anyone who might be trapped inside the buildings. Bud organized a fire fighting crew to keep the blaze in the shed from spreading.
The telephone line was soon repaired and a steady stream of rescue vehicles began arriving from Harkness-fire trucks, three ambulances, and private cars driven by volunteers.
Two hours later there was nothing more Tom and Bud could do at the disaster scene and they hitched a ride into Harkness.
The town had suffered some damage, though only slight compared to the destruction at the plant.
"The center of the quake was right under Faber Electronics," Tom remarked.
From a pay telephone, he called Swift Enterprises in Shopton.
Tom asked the operator to send a helicopter immediately to pick them up.
He also called home and spoke to his sister, Sandra.
"What a relief!" Sandy gasped.
"We heard a bulletin about the quake over the radio!"
"Don't worry, Sis.
Tell Mother and Dad that we're okay," Tom said. "We'll be home in a jiffy-with big appetites!"
The helicopter arrived within twenty minutes at the place Tom had named. After landing at Enterprises, the boys drove to the pleasant, tree shaded Swift home on the outskirts of town.
mrs Swift, a slender, petite woman, tried not to show concern when she saw the boys, bruised and disheveled.
"I'm so thankful you're both safe!" she murmured.
Phyl, a pretty, dark haired girl, was the daughter of mr Swift's long-time friend and business associate, "Uncle Ned" Newton.
The two girls were as much upset as Tom's mother.
Tom laughed.
"We're not stretcher cases," he said.
"Why, one of the ambulance doctors checked us out."
"Why did you have to go and spoil it?" he complained jokingly.
"I was all set for Sandy's cool soothing touch on my fevered brow!"
"I tried to assure them that you and Bud can take care of yourselves in any crisis." He smiled guiltily as he added, "But I must admit I was more than a little concerned myself."
After the two boys had showered and changed their clothes, mrs Swift served them a delicious, hot meal.
While they ate, mr Swift managed after some difficulty to get a call through to the Harkness Hospital. His face was grave as he hung up.
"Mark Faber is not expected to live," the elder inventor reported.
"A pity.
He's a great scientist."
Tom nodded unhappily.
Sandy, to take her brother's mind off the disaster, said, "Dad, tell Tom and Bud about the visitor who's coming."
"A visitor?" Tom looked at his father.
"From another planet," mr Swift revealed.
Both boys were amazed and excited.
"Wow!" Bud gasped.
"Male or female? Human or animal?"
mr Swift's eyes twinkled.
"None of those," he replied as the boys stared, mystified.
STILL this wearisome voyage dragged on.
The wind was fair, nevertheless, and blew steadily from the southwest; but the currents were against the ship's course, and she scarcely made any way.
The heavy, lumpy sea strained her cordage, her timbers creaked, and she labored painfully in the trough of the sea.
They often braved the weather, and went on the poop till driven down again by the force of a sudden squall.
Then they returned to the narrow space, fitter for stowing cargo than accommodating passengers, especially ladies.
Their friends did their best to amuse them.
Their minds were so distracted at this change of route as to be quite unhinged.
Much as they had been interested in his dissertation on the Pampas, or Australia, his lectures on New Zealand fell on cold and indifferent ears.
Besides, they were going to this new and ill reputed country without enthusiasm, without conviction, not even of their own free will, but solely at the bidding of destiny.
He could not stay in one place.
john came up to him and said, "Your Lordship is looking out for land?"
Glenarvan shook his head in dissent.
"And yet," said the young captain, "you must be longing to quit this vessel.
We ought to have seen the lights of Auckland thirty six hours ago."
He still looked, and for a moment his glass was pointed toward the horizon to windward.
"Look more to starboard."
"Why, john?" replied Glenarvan.
"I am not looking for the land."
"What then, my Lord?"
"My yacht! the DUNCAN," said Glenarvan, hotly.
"It must be here on these coasts, skimming these very waves, playing the vile part of a pirate! It is here, john; I am certain of it, on the track of vessels between Australia and New Zealand; and I have a presentiment that we shall fall in with her."
"God keep us from such a meeting!"
"Why, john?"
"Your Lordship forgets our position.
"Fly, john?"
"Yes, my Lord; we should try in vain!
We should be taken, delivered up to the mercy of those wretches, and Ben Joyce has shown us that he does not stop at a crime!
Our lives would be worth little.
We would fight to the death, of course, but after that!
Think of Lady Glenarvan; think of Mary Grant!"
"Poor girls!" murmured Glenarvan.
"john, my heart is broken; and sometimes despair nearly masters me.
"You, my Lord?"
"Not for myself, john, but for those I love-whom you love, also."
"Keep up your heart, my Lord," said the young captain.
"We must not look out for troubles.
Will Halley is a brute, but I am keeping my eyes open, and if the coast looks dangerous, I will put the ship's head to sea again. So that, on that score, there is little or no danger.
But as to getting alongside the DUNCAN!
God forbid!
And if your Lordship is bent on looking out for her, let it be in order to give her a wide berth."
There was every reason to fear such an engagement in these narrow seas, in which pirates could ply their trade without risk.
However, for that day at least, the yacht did not appear, and the sixth night from their departure from Twofold Bay came, without the fears of john Mangles being realized.
CHAPTER twelve STRANGELY LIBERATED
They had one night in which to prepare for death.
Overcome as they were with horror and fatigue, they took their last meal together.
We must show these savages how Europeans can die."
The meal ended.
Lady Helena repeated the evening prayer aloud, her companions, bare headed, repeated it after her.
Who does not turn his thoughts toward God in the hour of death?
This done, the prisoners embraced each other.
Sleep, which keeps all sorrow in abeyance, soon weighed down their eyelids; they slept in each other's arms, overcome by exhaustion and prolonged watching.
Then Glenarvan, taking his friends aside, said: "My dear friends, our lives and the lives of these poor women are in God's hands.
If it is decreed that we die to morrow, let us die bravely, like Christian men, ready to appear without terror before the Supreme Judge.
God, who reads our hearts, knows that we had a noble end in view.
Stern as the decree may seem, I will not repine.
But death here, means not death only, it means torture, insult, perhaps, and here are two ladies-"
Glenarvan's voice, firm till now, faltered.
He was silent a moment, and having overcome his emotion, he said, addressing the young captain:
"john, you have promised Mary what I promised Lady Helena.
"I believe," said john, "that in the sight of God I have a right to fulfill that promise."
"Yes, john; but we are unarmed."
My Lord, whichever of us survives the other will fulfill the wish of Lady Helena and Mary Grant."
After these words were said, a profound silence ensued.
I am not an advocate of irremediable measures."
"I did not speak for ourselves," said Glenarvan.
"Be it as it may, we can face death!
Let us attack these wretches!' But with these poor girls-"
At this moment john raised the mat, and counted twenty five natives keeping guard on the Ware Atoua.
But they all kept watchful guard on the hut confided to their care.
The jailer may forget that he is on guard; the prisoner never forgets that he is guarded.
The captive thinks oftener of escaping than the jailer of preventing his flight, and hence we hear of frequent and wonderful escapes.
All escape was thus hopeless, and Glenarvan having tried the walls for the twentieth time, was compelled to acknowledge that it was so.
The hours of this night, wretched as they were, slipped away.
Thick darkness had settled on the mountain.
Neither moon nor stars pierced the gloom.
"Listen," said he, motioning them to stoop.
The scratching became more and more audible; they could hear the little stones grate on a hard body and roll away.
Glenarvan struck his forehead.
"Animal or man," answered the Major, "I will soon find out!"
Wilson and Olbinett joined their companions, and all united to dig through the wall-john with his dagger, the others with stones taken from the ground, or with their nails, while Mulrady, stretched along the ground, watched the native guard through a crevice of the matting.
The soil was light and friable, and below lay a bed of silicious tufa; therefore, even without tools, the aperture deepened quickly.
It soon became evident that a man, or men, clinging to the sides of the "pah," were cutting a passage into its exterior wall.
The prisoners redoubled their efforts.
Some minutes more passed, and the Major withdrew his hand from the stroke of a sharp blade.
john Mangles, inserting the blade of his poniard, avoided the knife which now protruded above the soil, but seized the hand that wielded it.
It was the hand of a woman or child, a European!
It was evidently the cue of both sides to be silent.
"Is it Robert?" whispered Glenarvan.
But softly as the name was breathed, Mary Grant, already awakened by the sounds in the hut, slipped over toward Glenarvan, and seizing the hand, all stained with earth, she covered it with kisses.
"My darling Robert," said she, never doubting, "it is you! it is you!"
"Yes, little sister," said he, "it is I am here to save you all; but be very silent."
"Brave lad!" repeated Glenarvan.
"Watch the savages outside," said Robert.
"There are only four awake; the rest are asleep."
Round his body was rolled a long coil of flax rope.
"My child, my child," murmured Lady Helena, "the savages did not kill you!"
I stole this knife and rope out of the desert hut.
"Let us be off!" said he, in a decided tone.
"Is Paganel below?" asked Glenarvan.
"No, my Lord; but is he not here?" inquired Robert.
"No, Robert!" answered Mary Grant.
Did you not get away together?"
"No, my Lord!" said Robert, taken aback by the disappearance of his friend Paganel.
"Well, lose no more time," said the Major.
"Wherever Paganel is, he cannot be in worse plight than ourselves.
Let us go."
They had to fly.
The escape was commenced, and every precaution was taken.
john Mangles, before leaving the hut, disposed of all the evidences of their work, and in his turn slipped through the opening and let down over it the mats of the house, so that the entrance to the gallery was quite concealed.
The next thing was to descend the vertical wall to the slope below, and this would have been impracticable, but that Robert had brought the flax rope, which was now unrolled and fixed to a projecting point of rock, the end hanging over.
john Mangles, before his friends trusted themselves to this flax rope, tried it; he did not think it very strong; and it was of importance not to risk themselves imprudently, as a fall would be fatal.
"This rope," said he, "will only bear the weight of two persons; therefore let us go in rotation.
Lord and Lady Glenarvan first; when they arrive at the bottom, three pulls at the rope will be a signal to us to follow."
"I will go first," said Robert.
"I discovered a deep hollow at the foot of the slope where those who come down can conceal themselves and wait for the rest."
"Go, my boy," said Glenarvan, pressing Robert's hand.
Robert disappeared through the opening out of the grotto.
Glenarvan and Lady Helena immediately ventured out of the grotto.
She felt stronger and commenced her perilous descent.
Glenarvan first, then Lady Helena, let themselves down along the rope, till they came to the spot where the perpendicular wall met the top of the slope.
Then Glenarvan going first and supporting his wife, began to descend backward.
Some birds, suddenly awakened, flew away, uttering feeble cries, and the fugitives trembled when a stone loosened from its bed rolled to the foot of the mountain.
They had reached half-way down the slope, when a voice was heard from the opening of the grotto.
Glenarvan, holding with one hand to a tuft of tetragonia, with the other holding his wife, waited with breathless anxiety.
One of the warriors on guard, startled by an unusual sound, rose and drew nearer to the Ware Atoua.
Then shaking his head like one who sees he is mistaken, he went back to his companions, took an armful of dead wood, and threw it into the smouldering fire, which immediately revived.
john signaled to Glenarvan to resume his descent.
The rope was shaken three times, and in his turn john Mangles, preceding Mary Grant, followed in the dangerous route.
They walked quickly, trying to avoid the points where they might be seen from the pah.
Where chance led them, but at any rate they were free.
Toward five o'clock, the day began to dawn, bluish clouds marbled the upper stratum of clouds.
The misty summits began to pierce the morning mists.
Another half an hour and the glorious sun would rise out of the mists of the horizon.
Paganel was not there to take the lead.
He was now the object of their anxiety, and whose absence was a black shadow between them and their happiness.
Soon they had reached a height of five hundred feet above Lake Taupo, and the cold of the morning, increased by the altitude, was very keen.
Dim outlines of hills and mountains rose behind one another; but Glenarvan only thought how best to get lost among them. Time enough by and by to see about escaping from the labyrinth.
At last the sun appeared and sent his first rays on their path.
Suddenly a terrific yell from a hundred throats rent the air.
It came from the pah, whose direction Glenarvan did not know.
Besides, a thick veil of fog, which, spread at his feet, prevented any distinct view of the valleys below.
But the fugitives could not doubt that their escape had been discovered; and now the question was, would they be able to elude pursuit?
Had they been seen?
While they looked they were seen.
A PEEP INTO ONE OF GOD'S STOREHOUSES
Once there was a father who thought he would build for his children a beautiful home, putting into it every thing they could need or desire throughout their lives.
The floors were carpeted with velvet, and the whole was lighted with lamps that shone like stars from above.
The sweetest perfumes floated through the air, while thousands of birds answered the music of fountains with their songs.
At first, you know, they will only play.
Why did he give that so odd a shape, or so strange a covering?
And so through many questions, and many experiments, they learn at last how to use the contents of this one storehouse.
But do you imagine that sensible children, after one such discovery, would rest satisfied?
Of course they would explore and explore; try every panel, and press every spring, until, one by one, all the closets should be opened, and all the treasures brought out.
And then how could they show their gratitude to the dear father who had taken such pains to prepare this wonderful house for them?
The least they could do would be to try to use every thing for the purposes intended, and not to destroy or injure any of the precious gifts prepared so lovingly for their use.
It is this earth on which we live.
If you have not, perhaps you would like to go with me to examine one that was opened a good many years ago, but contains such valuable things that the uses of all of them have not yet been found out, and their beauty is just beginning to be known.
The doorway of this storehouse lies in the side of a hill.
The entrance is light, because it opens so wide; but we can see that the floor slopes downward, and the way looks dark and narrow before us.
We shall need a guide; and here comes one,--a rough looking man, with smutty clothes, and an odd little lamp covered with wire gauze, fastened to the front of his cap.
But you will find that they are really pulled and pushed by an engine that stands outside the doorway and reaches them by long chains.
So this great green hill, upon which you might run or play, is inside like what I think some of those large anthills must be,--traversed by galleries, and full of rooms and long passages.
All about we see men like our guide, working by the light of their little lamps.
Look a little closer, while our guide lets the light of his lamp fall upon the black wall at your side.
Do you see the delicate tracery of ferns, more beautiful than the fairest drawing.
See, beneath your feet is the marking of great tree trunks lying aslant across the floor, and the forms of gigantic palm leaves strewed among them.
Here is something different, rounded like a nut shell; you can split off one side, and behold there is the nut lying snugly as does any chestnut in its bur!
Did you notice the great pillars of coal that are left to uphold the roof?
Let us look at them; for perhaps we can examine them more closely than we can the roof, and the sides of these halls.
Here are mosses and little leaves, and sometimes an odd looking little body that is not unlike some of the sea creatures we found at the beach last summer; and every thing is made of coal, nothing but coal.
How did it happen, and what does it mean?
Ferns and palms, mosses and trees and animals, all perfect, all beautiful, and yet all hidden away under this hill, and turned into shining black coal.
Now, I can very well remember when I first saw a coal fire, and how odd it looked to see what seemed to be burning stones.
What should we have done, if everybody had kept on burning wood to this day?
These forests were of trees, different in some ways from those we have now, great ferns as tall as this house, and mosses as high as little trees, and palm leaves of enormous size.
This served for a hint to curious men, to make them ask "What is this?" and "What is it good for?" and so at last, following their questions, to find their way to the secret stores, and make an open doorway, and let the world in.
The thought came to them that it might be prepared from coal, and conducted through pipes to our houses to take the place of lamps or candles, which until that time had been the only light.
And so it began to be used to cover roofs of buildings, and, mixed with some other substances, made a pavement for streets; and being spread over iron work it protected it from rust.
Don't you see how many uses we have found for this refuse coal tar?
What do you think of that from the coal tar.
Besides the dyes, we shall also have left naphtha, useful in making varnish, and various oils that are used in more ways than I can stop to tell you, or you would care now to hear.
But here is another surprise of a different kind.
As it floated on the surface of the water (for oil and water will not mix, you know), the boys, for mischief, set fire to it, and a stream of fire rolled along down the river; proving to everybody who saw it, that a new light, as good as gas, had come from the coal.
When your hands or lips are cracked and rough from the cold, does your mother ever put on glycerin to heal them?
If she does, you are indebted again to the coal oil, for of that it is partly made.
I have only told you enough to teach you how to look for yourselves; a peep, you know, is all I promised you.
This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
HYPATIA
By Charles Kingsley
PREFACE
A picture of life in the fifth century must needs contain much which will be painful to any reader, and which the young and innocent will do well to leave altogether unread.
It has to represent a very hideous, though a very great, age; one of those critical and cardinal eras in the history of the human race, in which virtues and vices manifest themselves side by side-even, at times, in the same person-with the most startling openness and power.
He dare not tell how evil people were; he will not be believed if he tells how good they were.
In the present case that disadvantage is doubled; for while the sins of the Church, however heinous, were still such as admit of being expressed in words, the sins of the heathen world, against which she fought, were utterly indescribable; and the Christian apologist is thus compelled, for the sake of decency, to state the Church's case far more weakly than the facts deserve.
For a time had arrived, in which no teacher who did not put forth the most lofty pretensions to righteousness could expect a hearing.
And He who excited the craving, was also furnishing that which would satisfy it; and was teaching mankind, by a long and painful education, to distinguish the truth from its innumerable counterfeits, and to find, for the first time in the world's life, a good news not merely for the select few, but for all mankind without respect of rank or race.
For somewhat more than four hundred years, the Roman Empire and the Christian Church, born into the world almost at the same moment, had been developing themselves side by side as two great rival powers, in deadly struggle for the possession of the human race.
Here and there an abuse was lopped off; or an edict was passed for the visitation of prisons and for the welfare of prisoners; or a Theodosius was recalled to justice and humanity for a while by the stern rebukes of an Ambrose.
So thought many then, and, as I believe, not unwisely.
They brought before the minds of churchmen a thousand new questions which must be solved, unless the Church was to relinquish for ever her claims as the great teacher and satisfier of the human soul.
And the new blood, at the era of this story, was at hand.
And their strength was felt at once.
Their vanguard, confined with difficulty for three centuries beyond the Eastern Alps, at the expense of sanguinary wars, had been adopted wherever it was practicable, into the service of the Empire; and the heart's core of the Roman legion was composed of Gothic officers and soldiers.
But now the main body had arrived.
How iniquitous was the conduct of the sons of Theodosius, in refusing the usual bounty, by which the Goths were bribed not to attack the Empire!--The whole pent up deluge burst over the plains of Italy, and the Western Empire became from that day forth a dying idiot, while the new invaders divided Europe among themselves.
The fifteen years before the time of this tale had decided the fate of Greece; the last four that of Rome itself.
The Egyptian and Syrian Churches, therefore, were destined to labour not for themselves, but for us.
That very peculiar turn of the Graeco Eastern mind, which made them the great thinkers of the then world, had the effect of drawing them away from practice to speculation; and the races of Egypt and Syria were effeminate, over civilised, exhausted by centuries during which no infusion of fresh blood had come to renew the stock.
Monastic isolation from family and national duties especially fitted the fathers of that period for the task, by giving them leisure, if nothing else, to face questions with a lifelong earnestness impossible to the more social and practical Northern mind.
I can only say that I have laboured honestly and industriously to discover the truth, even in its minutest details, and to sketch the age, its manners and its literature, as I found them altogether artificial, slipshod, effete, resembling far more the times of Louis Quinze than those of Sophocles and Plato.
School after school, they had all walked, and taught, and sung there, beneath the spreading planes and chestnuts, figs and palm trees.
The place seemed fragrant with all the riches of Greek thought and song, since the days when Ptolemy Philadelphus walked there with Euclid and Theocritus, Callimachus and Lycophron.
On the left of the garden stretched the lofty eastern front of the Museum itself, with its picture galleries, halls of statuary, dining halls, and lecture rooms; one huge wing containing that famous library, founded by the father of Philadelphus, which hold in the time of Seneca, even after the destruction of a great part of it in Caesar's siege, four hundred thousand manuscripts.
There it towered up, the wonder of the world, its white roof bright against the rainless blue; and beyond it, among the ridges and pediments of noble buildings, a broad glimpse of the bright blue sea.
Listen!
'Yes.
The statues there are broken.
The alcoves are silent.
The oracles are dumb.
If the gods have deserted their oracles, they have not deserted the souls who aspire to them.
If they have ceased to guide nations, they have not ceased to speak to their own elect.
To show oneself superior to the herd, by seeing boundless depths of living glory in myths which have become dark and dead to them....
I see her everywhere-till the last month at least-and here she is again!
I will ask the prefect to find out who she is, and get rid of her, before she fascinates me with that evil eye.
Thank the gods, there she moves away!
Foolish!--foolish of me, a philosopher.
I, to believe, against the authority of Porphyry himself, too, in evil eyes and magic!
But there is my father, pacing up and down in the library.'
He was a Greek, also, but of a more common, and, perhaps, lower type; dark and fiery, thin and graceful; his delicate figure and cheeks, wasted by meditation, harmonised well with the staid and simple philosophic cloak which he wore as a sign of his profession.
He paced impatiently up and down the chamber, while his keen, glittering eyes and restless gestures betokened intense inward thought.... 'I have it....
If there is faith in Pythagoras, the symbol should be an expanding series of the powers of three; and yet that accursed binary factor will introduce itself.
Did not you work the sum out once, Hypatia?'
You have tasted no food yet this day.'
'What do I care for food!
The inexpressible must be expressed, the work must be done if it cost me the squaring of the circle.
How can he, whose sphere lies above the stars, stoop every moment to earth?
But while we are in this prison house of matter, we must wear our chain; even wear it gracefully, if we have the good taste; and make the base necessities of this body of shame symbolic of the divine food of the reason.
There is fruit, with lentils and rice, waiting for you in the next room; and bread, unless you despise it too much.'
'Well, I will eat, and be ashamed of eating.
Stay, did I tell you?
Six new pupils in the mathematical school this morning.
It grows!
It spreads!
We shall conquer yet!'
Strange! that men should be content to grovel, and be men, when they might rise to the rank of gods!
That is my bitterest grief! to see those who have been pretending in the morning lecture room to worship every word of mine as an oracle, lounging in the afternoon round Pelagia's litter; and then at night-for I know that they do it-the dice, and the wine, and worse.
'His excellency, madam, the prefect!
'And why should that disturb me?
Let him enter.'
'Ah, so they say-Your excellent father has vanished.
'And multiplying, I don't doubt.
Well, there will be less loss to the empire if I have to crucify a dozen or two, as I positively will, the next riot.
It is really a great comfort to a statesman that the masses are so well aware that they deserve hanging, and therefore so careful to prevent any danger of public justice depopulating the province.
But how go on the schools?'
I plead guilty myself.
You must not be hard on us....
I met that prettiest and naughtiest of humanities half-way between here and Thebes, transformed into a perfect Andromache of chaste affection.'
'And to whom, pray?'
What men those barbarians do breed!
I was afraid of being crushed under the elephant's foot at every step I took with him!'
'To tell you the truth, he had some forty stout countrymen of his with him, who might have been troublesome to a perplexed prefect; not to mention that it is always as well to keep on good terms with these Goths.
Really, after the sack of Rome, and Athens cleaned out like a beehive by wasps, things begin to look serious.
And as for the great brute himself, he has rank enough in his way,--boasts of his descent from some cannibal god or other,--really hardly deigned to speak to a paltry Roman governor, till his faithful and adoring bride interceded for me.
However, I got rid of them; quoted all the geographical lies I had ever heard, and a great many more; quickened their appetite for their fool's errand notably, and started them off again.
'Justice.'
'Ah, Fairest Wisdom, don't mention that horrid word out of the lecture room.
In theory it is all very well; but in poor imperfect earthly practice, a governor must be content with doing very much what comes to hand.
'Well, my dear lady, and has not the villainous demagogue got the whole mob on his side?
'Ah, that your excellency but saw the great duel which depends on you alone!
'I expect every time I ride, to have my brains knocked out by some mad monk.'
'Why not?
In an age when, as has been well and often said, emperors and consulars crawl to the tombs of a tent maker and a fisherman, and kiss the mouldy bones of the vilest slaves?
Why not, among a people whose God is the crucified son of a carpenter?
I quite agree that there are very great practical inconveniences of this kind in the new-I mean the Catholic faith; but the world is full of inconveniences.
'That it never will be, as long as Hypatia lives to illuminate the earth; and, as far as I am concerned, I promise you a clear stage and-a great deal of favour; as is proved by my visiting you publicly at this moment, before I have given audience to one of the four hundred bores, great and small, who are waiting in the tribunal to torment me.
What am I to do?'
But out of the lecture room I prefer a practical expedient for instance, Cyril writes to me here-plague on him! he would not let me even have a week's hunting in peace that there is a plot on the part of the Jews to murder all the Christians.
Here is the precious document-do look at it, in pity.
For aught I know or care, the plot may be an exactly opposite one, and the Christians intend to murder all the Jews.
But I must take some notice of the letter.'
'Why, if anything did happen, after all, conceive the missives which would be sent flying off to Constantinople against me!'
'Let them go.
'Consciousness of innocence?
How the finances of the provinces would go on without their kind assistance, I dare not think.
If those Christians would but lend me their money, instead of building alms houses and hospitals with it, they might burn the Jews' quarter to morrow, for aught I care.
But now....'
Does your excellency, or this proud bishop, govern Alexandria?'
The consequence is clear.
You philosophers, however raised above your own bodies you may be, must really not forget that we poor worldlings have bones to be broken.'
'Recollect that you are a Christian,' answered Hypatia, half smiling.
Arctic beauty and desolation, with their blessings and dangers, all may be found here, to test the endurance and skill of adventurous climbers; but far better than climbing the mountain is going around its warm, fertile base, enjoying its bounties like a bee circling around a bank of flowers.
The distance is about a hundred miles, and will take some of the time we hear so much about-a week or two-but the benefits will compensate for any number of weeks.
Perhaps the profession of doing good may be full, but every body should be kind at least to himself.
Take a course of good water and air, and in the eternal youth of Nature you may renew your own.
Some have strange, morbid fears as soon as they find themselves with Nature, even in the kindest and wildest of her solitudes, like very sick children afraid of their mother-as if God were dead and the devil were king.
But it is far better to go afoot.
Then you are free to make wide waverings and zigzags away from the roads to visit the great fountain streams of the rivers, the glaciers also, and the wildest retreats in the primeval forests, where the best plants and animals dwell, and where many a flower bell will ring against your knees, and friendly trees will reach out their fronded branches and touch you as you pass.
One blanket will be enough to carry, or you may forego the pleasure and burden altogether, as wood for fires is everywhere abundant.
Only a little food will be required.
Berries and plums abound in season, and quail and grouse and deer-the magnificent shaggy mule deer as well as the common species.
As you sweep around so grand a center, the mountain itself seems to turn, displaying its riches like the revolving pyramids in jewelers' windows.
One glacier after another comes into view, and the outlines of the mountain are ever changing, though all the way around, from whatever point of view, the form is maintained of a grand, simple cone with a gently sloping base and rugged, crumbling ridges separating the glaciers and the snowfields more or less completely.
Yet, strange to say, there are days even here somewhat dull looking, when the mountain seems uncommunicative, sending out no appreciable invitation, as if not at home.
But Shasta is always at home to those who love her, and is ever in a thrill of enthusiastic activity-burning fires within, grinding glaciers without, and fountains ever flowing.
And the wandering winds, how busy they are, and what a breadth of sound and motion they make, glinting and bubbling about the crags of the summit, sifting through the woods, feeling their way from grove to grove, ruffling the loose hair on the shoulders of the bears, fanning and rocking young birds in their cradles, making a trumpet of every corolla, and carrying their fragrance around the world.
Slight rainstorms are likely to be encountered in a trip round the mountain, but one may easily find shelter beneath well thatched trees that shed the rain like a roof.
Then the shining of the wet leaves is delightful, and the steamy fragrance, and the burst of bird song from a multitude of thrushes and finches and warblers that have nests in the chaparral.
The nights, too, are delightful, watching with Shasta beneath the great starry dome.
A thousand thousand voices are heard, but so finely blended they seem a part of the night itself, and make a deeper silence.
And how grandly do the great logs and branches of your campfire give forth the heat and light that during their long century lives they have so slowly gathered from the sun, storing it away in beautiful dotted cells and beads of amber gum!
The neighboring trees look into the charmed circle as if the noon of another day had come, familiar flowers and grasses that chance to be near seem far more beautiful and impressive than by day, and as the dead trees give forth their light all the other riches of their lives seem to be set free and with the rejoicing flames rise again to the sky.
"...beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds, The slight Linnaea hang its twin born heads, And [bless] the monument of the man of flowers, Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers."
This is one of the few places in California where the charming linnaea is found, though it is common to the northward through Oregon and Washington.
Here, too, you may find the curious but unlovable darlingtonia, a carnivorous plant that devours bumblebees, grasshoppers, ants, moths, and other insects, with insatiable appetite.
In approaching it, its suspicious looking yellow spotted hood and watchful attitude will be likely to make you go cautiously through the bog where it stands, as if you were approaching a dangerous snake.
It is lined with emerald algae and mosses, and shaded with alder, willow, and thorn bushes, which give it a fine setting.
Its waters, apparently unaffected by flood or drouth, heat or cold, fall at once into white rapids with a rush and dash, as if glad to escape from the darkness to begin their wild course down the canyon to the plain.
Muir's Peak, a few miles to the north of the spring, rises about three thousand feet above the plain on which it stands, and is easily climbed. The view is very fine and well repays the slight walk to its summit, from which much of your way about the mountain may be studied and chosen.
The view obtained of the Whitney Glacier should tempt you to visit it, since it is the largest of the Shasta glaciers and its lower portion abounds in beautiful and interesting cascades and crevasses.
It is three or four miles long and terminates at an elevation of about nine thousand five hundred feet above sea level, in moraine sprinkled ice cliffs sixty feet high.
The long gray slopes leading up to the glacier seem remarkably smooth and unbroken.
This may be done by keeping well down on the base until fronting the glacier before beginning the ascent.
The gorge through which the glacier is drained is raw looking, deep and narrow, and indescribably jagged.
The walls in many places overhang; in others they are beveled, loose, and shifting where the channel has been eroded by cinders, ashes, strata of firm lavas, and glacial drift, telling of many a change from frost to fire and their attendant floods of mud and water.
Tracing this wild changing channel gorge, gully, or canyon, the sections will show Mount Shasta as a huge palimpsest, containing the records, layer upon layer, of strangely contrasted events in its fiery icy history.
But look well to your footing, for the way will test the skill of the most cautious mountaineers.
Here you strike the old emigrant road, which leads over the low divide to the eastern slopes of the mountain.
Far the most beautiful and richly furnished of the mountain caves of California occur in a thick belt of metamorphic limestone that is pretty generally developed along the western flank of the Sierra from the McCloud River to the Kaweah, a distance of nearly four hundred miles.
These volcanic caves are not wanting in interest, and it is well to light a pitch pine torch and take a walk in these dark ways of the underworld whenever opportunity offers, if for no other reason to see with new appreciation on returning to the sunshine the beauties that lie so thick about us.
Sheep Rock is about twenty miles from Sisson's, and is one of the principal winter pasture grounds of the wild sheep, from which it takes its name.
It is a mass of lava presenting to the gray sage plain of Shasta Valley a bold craggy front two thousand feet high.
They are a portion of a flow of dense black vesicular lava, dipping northeastward at a low angle, but little changed as yet by the weather, and about as destitute of soil as a glacial pavement.
The surface, though smooth in a general way as seen from a distance, is dotted with hillocks and rough crater like pits, and traversed by a network of yawning fissures, forming a combination of topographical conditions of very striking character.
The way lies by Mount Bremer, over stretches of gray sage plains, interrupted by rough lava slopes timbered with juniper and yellow pine, and with here and there a green meadow and a stream.
This is a famous game region, and you will be likely to meet small bands of antelope, mule deer, and wild sheep.
Mount Bremer is the most noted stronghold of the sheep in the whole Shasta region.
Large flocks dwell here from year to year, winter and summer, descending occasionally into the adjacent sage plains and lava beds to feed, but ever ready to take refuge in the jagged crags of their mountain at every alarm.
While traveling with a company of hunters I saw about fifty in one flock.
On smooth spots, level or ascending, the hounds gained on the sheep, but on descending ground, and over rough masses of angular rocks they fell hopelessly behind.
Only half a dozen sheep were shot as they passed the hunters stationed near their paths circling round the rugged summit.
The full grown bucks weigh nearly three hundred and fifty pounds.
The mule deer are nearly as heavy.
Their long, massive ears give them a very striking appearance.
One large buck that I measured stood three feet and seven inches high at the shoulders, and when the ears were extended horizontally the distance across from tip to tip was two feet and one inch.
Here you are looking southeastward, and the Modoc landscape, which at once takes possession of you, lies revealed in front.
When I first stood there, one bright day before sundown, the lake was fairly blooming in purple light, and was so responsive to the sky in both calmness and color it seemed itself a sky.
No mountain shore hides its loveliness.
It lies wide open for many a mile, veiled in no mystery but the mystery of light.
The forest also was flooded with sun purple, not a spire moving, and Mount Shasta was seen towering above it rejoicing in the ineffable beauty of the alpenglow.
But neither the glorified woods on the one hand, nor the lake on the other, could at first hold the eye.
That dark mysterious lava plain between them compelled attention.
Here you trace yawning fissures, there clusters of somber pits; now you mark where the lava is bent and corrugated in swelling ridges and domes, again where it breaks into a rough mass of loose blocks.
Tufts of grass grow far apart here and there and small bushes of hardy sage, but they have a singed appearance and can do little to hide the blackness.
Then fell the gloaming, making everything still more forbidding and mysterious.
Then, darkness like death.
Next morning the crisp, sunshiny air made even the Modoc landscape less hopeless, and we ventured down the bluff to the edge of the Lava Beds. Just at the foot of the bluff we came to a square enclosed by a stone wall.
This is a graveyard where lie buried thirty soldiers, most of whom met their fate out in the Lava Beds, as we learn by the boards marking the graves-a gloomy place to die in, and deadly looking even without Modocs.
The poor fellows that lie here deserve far more pity than they have ever received.
This is where General Canby was slain while seeking to make peace with the treacherous Modocs.
Two or three miles farther on is the main stronghold of the Modocs, held by them so long and defiantly against all the soldiers that could be brought to the attack.
Indians usually choose to hide in tall grass and bush and behind trees, where they can crouch and glide like panthers, without casting up defenses that would betray their positions; but the Modoc castle is in the rock.
Yosemite was not held for a single day against the pursuing troops; but the Modocs held their fort for months, until, weary of being hemmed in, they chose to withdraw.
Other castles scarcely less strong are connected with this by subterranean passages known only to the Indians, while the unnatural blackness of the rock out of which Nature has constructed these defenses, and the weird, inhuman physiognomy of the whole region are well calculated to inspire terror.
Deadly was the task of storming such a place.
They were familiar with byways both over and under ground, and could at any time sink suddenly out of sight like squirrels among the loose boulders.
To judge from the few I have seen, Modocs are not very amiable looking people at best.
When, therefore, they were crawling stealthily in the gloomy caverns, unkempt and begrimed and with the glare of war in their eyes, they must have seemed very demons of the volcanic pit.
Captain Jack's cave is one of the many somber cells of the castle.
It measures twenty five or thirty feet in diameter at the entrance, and extends but a short distance in a horizontal direction.
The floor is littered with the bones of the animals slaughtered for food during the war.
The sun shines freely into its mouth, and graceful bunches of grass and eriogonums and sage grow about it, doing what they can toward its redemption from degrading associations and making it beautiful.
On our return, keeping close along shore, we caused a noisy plashing and beating of wings among cranes and geese.
The ducks, less wary, kept their places, merely swimming in and out through openings in the rushes, rippling the glassy water, and raising spangles in their wake.
From year to year in the kindly weather the beds are thus gathering beauty-beauty for ashes.
These, with a few others as yet nameless, are lingering remnants of once great glaciers that occupied the canyons now taken by the rivers, and in a few centuries will, under present conditions, vanish altogether.
The rivers of the granite south half of the Sierra are outspread on the peaks in a shining network of small branches, that divide again and again into small dribbling, purling, oozing threads drawing their sources from the snow and ice of the surface.
Only a very small portion of the water derived from the melting ice and snow of Shasta flows down its flanks on the surface.
Probably ninety nine per cent of it is at once absorbed and drained away beneath the porous lava folds of the mountain to gush forth, filtered and pure, in the form of immense springs, so large, some of them, that they give birth to rivers that start on their journey beneath the sun, full grown and perfect without any childhood.
Thus the Shasta River issues from a large lake like spring in Shasta Valley, and about two thirds of the volume of the McCloud gushes forth in a grand spring on the east side of the mountain, a few miles back from its immediate base.
Should the volume of the stream where you strike it seem small, then you will know that you are above the spring; if large, nearly equal to its volume at its confluence with the Pitt River, then you are below it; and in either case have only to follow the river up or down until you come to it.
Under certain conditions you may hear the roar of the water rushing from the rock at a distance of half a mile, or even more; or you may not hear it until within a few rods.
It comes in a grand, eager gush from a horizontal seam in the face of the wall of the river gorge in the form of a partially interrupted sheet nearly seventy five yards in width, and at a height above the riverbed of about forty feet, as nearly as I could make out without the means of exact measurement.
The vivid green of the boulders beneath the water is very striking, and colors the entire stream with the exception of the portions broken into foam.
The color is chiefly due to a species of algae which seems common in springs of this sort.
That any kind of plant can hold on and grow beneath the wear of so boisterous a current seems truly wonderful, even after taking into consideration the freedom of the water from cutting drift, and the constance of its volume and temperature throughout the year.
The temperature is about forty five degrees, and the height of the river above the sea is here about three thousand feet.
Tracing rivers to their fountains makes the most charming of travels. As the life blood of the landscapes, the best of the wilderness comes to their banks, and not one dull passage is found in all their eventful histories.
Food may be had at moderate intervals, and the whole circuit forms one ever deepening, broadening stream of enjoyment.
Fall River is a very remarkable stream.
It is only about ten miles long, and is composed of springs, rapids, and falls-springs beautifully shaded at one end of it, a showy fall one hundred and eighty feet high at the other, and a rush of crystal rapids between.
The banks are fringed with rubus, rose, plum cherry, spiraea, azalea, honeysuckle, hawthorn, ash, alder, elder, aster, goldenrod, beautiful grasses, sedges, rushes, mosses, and ferns with fronds as large as the leaves of palms-all in the midst of a richly forested landscape.
Nowhere within the limits of California are the forests of yellow pine so extensive and exclusive as on the headwaters of the Pitt.
They cover the mountains and all the lower slopes that border the wide, open valleys which abound there, pressing forward in imposing ranks, seemingly the hardiest and most firmly established of all the northern coniferae.
The volcanic region about Lassen's Butte I have already in part described.
Miles of its flanks are dotted with hot springs, many of them so sulphurous and boisterous and noisy in their boiling that they seem inclined to become geysers like those of the Yellowstone.
The lofty, icy Shasta, towering high above all, seems but an hour's walk from you, though the distance in an air line is about sixty miles.
The "Big Meadows" lie near the foot of Lassen's Butte, a beautiful spacious basin set in the heart of the richly forested mountains, scarcely surpassed in the grandeur of its surroundings by Tahoe.
During the Glacial Period it was a mer de glace, then a lake, and now a level meadow shining with bountiful springs and streams.
In the number and size of its big spring fountains it excels even Shasta.
One of the largest that I measured forms a lakelet nearly a hundred yards in diameter, and, in the generous flood it sends forth offers one of the most telling symbols of Nature's affluence to be found in the mountains.
The great wilds of our country, once held to be boundless and inexhaustible, are being rapidly invaded and overrun in every direction, and everything destructible in them is being destroyed.
How far destruction may go it is not easy to guess.
Every landscape, low and high, seems doomed to be trampled and harried.
Even the sky is not safe from scath-blurred and blackened whole summers together with the smoke of fires that devour the woods.
The Shasta region is still a fresh unspoiled wilderness, accessible and available for travelers of every kind and degree.
Would it not then be a fine thing to set it apart like the Yellowstone and Yosemite as a National Park for the welfare and benefit of all mankind, preserving its fountains and forests and all its glad life in primeval beauty? Very little of the region can ever be more valuable for any other use-certainly not for gold nor for grain.
How quickly he disappeared!"
Perhaps you can.
"So they tell me."
What do you make of it, Gryce?"
"Yes."
"But the blood?
The weapon must still have been there.
I Turn Out A Worthless Fellow-My Good Fortune-I Become A Rich Nobleman
With an education which ought to have ensured me an honourable standing in the world, with some intelligence, wit, good literary and scientific knowledge, and endowed with those accidental physical qualities which are such a good passport into society, I found myself, at the age of twenty, the mean follower of a sublime art, in which, if great talent is rightly admired, mediocrity is as rightly despised.
I was compelled by poverty to become a member of a musical band, in which I could expect neither esteem nor consideration, and I was well aware that I should be the laughing stock of the persons who had known me as a doctor in divinity, as an ecclesiastic, and as an officer in the army, and had welcomed me in the highest society.
I felt that in my first profession, as I was not blessed with the vocation necessary to it, I should have succeeded only by dint of hypocrisy, and I should have been despicable in my own estimation, even if I had seen the purple mantle on my shoulders, for the greatest dignities cannot silence a man's own conscience.
By scraping my violin I earned enough to keep myself without requiring anybody's assistance, and I have always thought that the man who can support himself is happy.
I grant that my profession was not a brilliant one, but I did not mind it, and, calling prejudices all the feelings which rose in my breast against myself, I was not long in sharing all the habits of my degraded comrades.
When the play was over, I went with them to the drinking booth, which we often left intoxicated to spend the night in houses of ill fame.
Our scandalous proceedings often exposed us to the greatest danger.
We would very often spend the whole night rambling about the city, inventing and carrying into execution the most impertinent, practical jokes.
We did the same with physicians, whom we often sent half dressed to some nobleman who was enjoying excellent health.
Whenever we could contrive to get into a church tower we thought it great fun to frighten all the parish by ringing the alarm bell, as if some fire had broken out; but that was not all, we always cut the bell ropes, so that in the morning the churchwardens had no means of summoning the faithful to early mass.
The city was alive with complaints, and we laughed at the useless search made by the police to find out those who disturbed the peace of the inhabitants.
We took good care to be careful, for if we had been discovered we stood a very fair chance of being sent to practice rowing at the expense of the Council of Ten.
In every one of the seventy two parishes of the city of Venice, there is a large public house called 'magazzino'.
People can likewise eat in the 'magazzino', but they must obtain what they want from the pork butcher near by, who has the exclusive sale of eatables, and likewise keeps his shop open throughout the night.
The nobility, the merchants, even workmen in good circumstances, are never seen in the 'magazzino', for cleanliness is not exactly worshipped in such places.
Yet there are a few private rooms which contain a table surrounded with benches, in which a respectable family or a few friends can enjoy themselves in a decent way.
It was during the Carnival of seventeen forty five, after midnight; we were, all the eight of us, rambling about together with our masks on, in quest of some new sort of mischief to amuse us, and we went into the magazzino of the parish of the Holy Cross to get something to drink.
Our chief, a noble Venetian belonging to the Balbi family, said to us, "It would be a good joke to carry off those three blockheads, and to keep the pretty woman in our possession." He immediately explained his plan, and under cover of our masks we entered their room, Balbi at the head of us.
The waiter of the magazzino came to be paid, and our chief gave him what was due, enjoining silence under penalty of death.
We took our three prisoners to a large boat.
Not one of us knew where Balbi wanted to take the three poor devils.
He sails all along the canal, gets out of it, takes several turnings, and in a quarter of an hour, we reach Saint George where Balbi lands our prisoners, who are delighted to find themselves at liberty.
After this, the boatman is ordered to take us to Saint Genevieve, where we land, after paying for the boat.
"Do not weep, my beauty," says Balbi to her, "we will not hurt you.
We intend only to take some refreshment at the Rialto, and then we will take you home in safety."
"Where is my husband?"
"Never fear; you shall see him again to morrow."
We take off our masks, and the sight of eight young, healthy faces seems to please the beauty we had so unceremoniously carried off.
We soon manage to reconcile her to her fate by the gallantry of our proceedings; encouraged by a good supper and by the stimulus of wine, prepared by our compliments and by a few kisses, she realizes what is in store for her, and does not seem to have any unconquerable objection.
Our chief, as a matter of right, claims the privilege of opening the ball; and by dint of sweet words he overcomes the very natural repugnance she feels at consummating the sacrifice in so numerous company.
She, doubtless, thinks the offering agreeable, for, when I present myself as the priest appointed to sacrifice a second time to the god of love, she receives me almost with gratitude, and she cannot conceal her joy when she finds out that she is destined to make us all happy.
My brother Francois alone exempted himself from paying the tribute, saying that he was ill, the only excuse which could render his refusal valid, for we had established as a law that every member of our society was bound to do whatever was done by the others.
My readers may imagine whether we felt inclined to laugh when the charming creature bade us good night, thanking us all with perfect good faith!
Two days afterwards, our nocturnal orgy began to be talked of.
The young woman's husband was a weaver by trade, and so were his two friends.
They joined together to address a complaint to the Council of Ten.
The complaint was candidly written and contained nothing but the truth, but the criminal portion of the truth was veiled by a circumstance which must have brought a smile on the grave countenances of the judges, and highly amused the public at large: the complaint setting forth that the eight masked men had not rendered themselves guilty of any act disagreeable to the wife.
The said lady having been handsomely entertained by the eight masked men, had been escorted to her house, where she had been politely requested to excuse the joke perpetrated upon her husband.
The three plaintiffs had not been able to leave the island of Saint George until day break, and the husband, on reaching his house, had found his wife quietly asleep in her bed.
The offer of that reward would have made us tremble if our leader, precisely the one who alone had no interest in turning informer, had not been a patrician.
The rank of Balbi quieted my anxiety at once, because I knew that, even supposing one of us were vile enough to betray our secret for the sake of the reward, the tribunal would have done nothing in order not to implicate a patrician.
There was no cowardly traitor amongst us, although we were all poor; but fear had its effect, and our nocturnal pranks were not renewed.
Three or four months afterwards the chevalier Nicolas Iron, then one of the inquisitors, astonished me greatly by telling me the whole story, giving the names of all the actors.
He did not tell me whether any one of the band had betrayed the secret, and I did not care to know; but I could clearly see the characteristic spirit of the aristocracy, for which the 'solo mihi' is the supreme law.
I played the violin in one of the numerous bands engaged for the balls which were given for three consecutive days in the Soranzo Palace.
On the third day, towards the end of the dancing, an hour before day break, feeling tired, I left the orchestra abruptly; and as I was going down the stairs I observed a senator, wearing his red robes, on the point of getting into a gondola.
In taking his handkerchief out of his pocket he let a letter drop on the ground.
He received it with many thanks, and enquired where I lived.
I told him, and he insisted upon my coming with him in the gondola saying that he would leave me at my house.
I accepted gratefully, and sat down near him.
A few minutes afterwards he asked me to rub his left arm, which, he said, was so benumbed that he could not feel it.
I rubbed it with all my strength, but he told me in a sort of indistinct whisper that the numbness was spreading all along the left side, and that he was dying.
I was greatly frightened; I opened the curtain, took the lantern, and found him almost insensible, and the mouth drawn on one side.
I understood that he was seized with an apoplectic stroke, and called out to the gondoliers to land me at once, in order to procure a surgeon to bleed the patient.
I jumped out of the gondola, and found myself on the very spot where three years before I had taught Razetta such a forcible lesson; I enquired for a surgeon at the first coffee house, and ran to the house that was pointed out to me.
I knocked as hard as I could; the door was at last opened, and I made the surgeon follow me in his dressing gown as far as the gondola, which was waiting; he bled the senator while I was tearing my shirt to make the compress and the bandage.
Taking everything upon myself, I ordered a servant to hurry out for a physician, who came in a short time, and ordered the patient to be bled again, thus approving the first bleeding prescribed by me.
An hour later, two noblemen, friends of the senator, came in, one a few minutes after the other.
They were in despair; they had enquired about the accident from the gondoliers, and having been told that I knew more than they did, they loaded me with questions which I answered.
They did not know who I was, and did not like to ask me; whilst I thought it better to preserve a modest silence.
All visitors were sent away by my advice, and the two noblemen and myself were the only persons in the sick man's room.
In the evening one of the two friends told me that if I had any business to attend to I could go, because they would both pass the night on a mattress near the patient.
"And I, sir," I said, "will remain near his bed in this arm chair, for if I went away the patient would die, and he will live as long as I am near him."
This sententious answer struck them with astonishment, as I expected it would, and they looked at each other in great surprise.
He was celebrated in Venice not only for his eloquence and his great talents as a statesman, but also for the gallantries of his youth.
He had been very extravagant with women, and more than one of them had committed many follies for him.
He had gambled and lost a great deal, and his brother was his most bitter enemy, because he was infatuated with the idea that he had tried to poison him.
I examined him closely, and found him hardly able to breathe.
"Doctor, the person who has delivered me from your mercury, which was killing me, is a more skilful physician than you;" and, saying these words, he pointed to me.
It would be hard to say who was the more astonished: the doctor, when he saw an unknown young man, whom he must have taken for an impostor, declared more learned than himself; or I, when I saw myself transformed into a physician, at a moment's notice.
I kept silent, looking very modest, but hardly able to control my mirth, whilst the doctor was staring at me with a mixture of astonishment and of spite, evidently thinking me some bold quack who had tried to supplant him.
I must confess that I was very glad of it, and I told my patient that a proper diet was all he needed, and that nature, assisted by the approaching fine season, would do the rest.
Their infatuation encouraging me, I spoke like a learned physician, I dogmatized, I quoted authors whom I had never read.
He entreated me to tell him the truth.
What extraordinary things will sometimes occur from mere chance, or from the force of circumstances!
Unwilling to hurt his vanity by telling him that he was mistaken, I took the wild resolution of informing him, in the presence of his two friends, that I possessed a certain numeral calculus which gave answers (also in numbers), to any questions I liked to put.
"The hermit," remarked the senator, "has without informing you of it, linked an invisible spirit to the calculus he has taught you, for simple numbers can not have the power of reason.
You possess a real treasure, and you may derive great advantages from it."
"How so?"
The three friends were astounded.
I declared myself quite willing, for it was necessary to brazen it out, after having ventured as far as I had done.
He wrote the question, and gave it to me; I read it, I could not understand either the subject or the meaning of the words, but it did not matter, I had to give an answer.
If the question was so obscure that I could not make out the sense of it, it was natural that I should not understand the answer.
After they had assured themselves of the reality of my cabalistic science by questions respecting the past, they decided to turn it to some use by consulting it upon the present and upon the future.
I saw how easy it must have been for the ancient heathen priests to impose upon ignorant, and therefore credulous mankind.
But what I could not, and probably never shall, understand, was the reason for which the Fathers, who were not so simple or so ignorant as our Evangelists, did not feel able to deny the divinity of oracles, and, in order to get out of the difficulty, ascribed them to the devil.
But, although believing fully in my oracles, they were too kind hearted to think them the work of the devil, and it suited their natural goodness better to believe my answers inspired by some heavenly spirit.
They were not only good Christians and faithful to the Church, but even real devotees and full of scruples.
They were not married, and, after having renounced all commerce with women, they had become the enemies of the female sex; perhaps a strong proof of the weakness of their minds.
With all these oddities, the three friends were truly intelligent and even witty, and, at the beginning of my acquaintance with them, I could not reconcile these antagonistic points.
But a prejudiced mind cannot reason well, and the faculty of reasoning is the most important of all. I often laughed when I heard them talk on religious matters; they would ridicule those whose intellectual faculties were so limited that they could not understand the mysteries of religion.
The incarnation of the Word, they would say, was a trifle for God, and therefore easy to understand, and the resurrection was so comprehensible that it did not appear to them wonderful, because, as God cannot die, Jesus Christ was naturally certain to rise again.
As for the Eucharist, transubstantiation, the real presence, it was all no mystery to them, but palpable evidence, and yet they were not Jesuits.
I confess candidly that I deceived them, as the Papa Deldimopulo used to deceive the Greeks who applied to him for the oracles of the Virgin.
I certainly did not act towards them with a true sense of honesty, but if the reader to whom I confess myself is acquainted with the world and with the spirit of society, I entreat him to think before judging me, and perhaps I may meet with some indulgence at his hands.
I might be told that if I had wished to follow the rules of pure morality I ought either to have declined intimate intercourse with them or to have undeceived them.
There is also another consideration, dear reader, and as I love you I will tell you what it is.
An invincible self love would have prevented me from declaring myself unworthy of their friendship either by my ignorance or by my pride; and I should have been guilty of great rudeness if I had ceased to visit them.
Through the friendship of those three men, I was certain of obtaining consideration and influence in my own country.
"Whoever you may be, I am indebted to you for my life.
Your first protectors wanted to make you a priest, a doctor, an advocate, a soldier, and ended by making a fiddler of you; those persons did not know you.
God had evidently instructed your guardian angel to bring you to me.
I know you and appreciate you.
Your apartment is ready, you may send your clothes: you shall have a servant, a gondola at your orders, my own table, and ten sequins a month.
It is the sum I used to receive from my father when I was your age.
You need not think of the future; think only of enjoying yourself, and take me as your adviser in everything that may happen to you, in everything you may wish to undertake, and you may be certain of always finding me your friend."
I threw myself at his feet to assure him of my gratitude, and embraced him calling him my father.
She, however, flattered herself that what she had said might be excused as a mistake, the lapse of memory, or some other trifling fault, when he should know the truth.
Her guardian looked astonished.
"I mistook-for I had before given my word that I should pass it abroad."
"I do."
"Miss Milner, you shall not leave the house this evening."
"I command you to stay at home this evening." And he walked immediately out of the apartment by another door.
"What could be worse, Madam?" cried Miss Milner; "am not I disappointed of the ball?"
"It is not the first time, I believe, you have acted contrary to that, Miss Milner," replied mrs Horton, and affected a tenderness of voice, to soften the harshness of her words.
Dorriforth read on, and seemed afraid of looking up, lest he should see what he could not have pardoned.
After a few minutes' pause, and some little embarrassment on the part of mrs Horton, at the disappointment she had to encounter from this unexpected dutiful conduct, she asked Miss Milner, "if she would now have any tea?"
She was going to reply, but found she could not, without accompanying her words with tears, therefore, after the first attempt, she desisted.
mr
With Hugh Stanbury, Trevelyan had had a direct quarrel.
But now, when a demand was made upon Bozzle to violate the sanctity of the clergyman's house, and withdraw the child by force or stratagem, she began to perceive that the palmy days of the Trevelyan affair were over for them, and that it would be wise on her husband's part gradually to back out of the gentleman's employment.
"Gammon, Bozzle."
We'd all be shewed up in the papers as that black, that they'd hoot us along the streets.
It ain't the regular line of business, Bozzle; and there ain't no good to be got, never, by going off the regular line." Whereupon Bozzle scratched his head and again read the letter.
"It ain't to be done, you know," said Bozzle.
"Of course it ain't," said mrs Bozzle.
"It ain't to be done anyways;--not in my way of business.
The paternal parent has a right to his infants, no doubt." That was Bozzle's law.
"I don't believe it, b"
"But he have, I tell you."
I don't believe a bit of his rights."
He'll get the child fast enough if he'll go before the court."
"I'll tell you what it is, b," exclaimed mrs Bozzle, "it's my belief as he ain't quite right up here;" and mrs Bozzle touched her forehead.
"It's love for her as has done it then," said Bozzle, shaking his head.
"I'm not a taking of her part, b A woman as has a husband as finds her with her wittels regular, and with what's decent and comfortable beside, ought to be contented.
Drat 'em all; what is it they wants?
They don't know what they wants.
But as for this here child, b--." At that moment there came a knock at the door.
mrs Bozzle going into the passage, opened it herself, and saw a strange gentleman.
Bozzle, who had stood at the inner door, saw that the gentleman was mr Trevelyan.
Then Bozzle came forward and introduced his wife.
mrs Bozzle had set a chair for him, but he had declined to sit down.
"Perhaps you could put on your coat, and walk out with me for a few minutes," said Trevelyan.
mrs Bozzle, who well understood that business was business, and that wives were not business, felt no anger at this, and handed her husband his best coat.
The well brushed hat was fetched from a cupboard, and it was astonishing to see how easily and how quickly the outer respectability of Bozzle was restored.
"Why not?" Trevelyan could perceive at once that the authority which he had once respected had gone from the man.
Bozzle away from his own home, out on business, with his coat buttoned over his breast, and his best hat in his hand, was aware that he commanded respect,--and he could carry himself accordingly.
But he had been found with his coat off, and a baby in his arms, and he could not recover himself.
As he went about, his eyes were ever cast downwards, and he walked with a quick shuffling gait, and he suspected others, feeling that he himself was suspected.
And all work had ceased with him.
And he knew it all.
He looked up for a moment at Bozzle, and then asked him a question.
"You mean the Colonel, sir.
He have been up all this month, sir."
"They haven't met?"
Bozzle paused a moment before he replied, and then smiled as he spoke.
I ain't got no evidence, mr Trevelyan.
"He's disturbed in his mind,--quite 'orrid," Bozzle said when he got back to his wife.
"He cursed and swore as made even me feel bad."
Who is touching me and untrussing me?"
"It will not do to leave it to thy courtesy, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for thou art hard of heart and, though a clown, tender of flesh;" and at the same time he strove and struggled to untie him.
He trembled with fear and made for another tree, where the very same thing happened to him, and he fell a shouting, calling upon Don Quixote to come and protect him.
Don Quixote did so, and asked him what had happened to him, and what he was afraid of.
He saw that his squires (for so they call those who follow that trade) were about to rifle Sancho Panza, but he ordered them to desist and was at once obeyed, so the girdle escaped.
He wondered to see the lance leaning against the tree, the shield on the ground, and Don Quixote in armour and dejected, with the saddest and most melancholy face that sadness itself could produce; and going up to him he said, "Be not so cast down, good man, for you have not fallen into the hands of any inhuman Busiris, but into Roque Guinart's, which are more merciful than cruel."
Give me my horse and arms, and wait for me here; I will go in quest of this knight, and dead or alive I will make him keep his word plighted to so great beauty."
"What are you talking about, man?" said one of the bystanders; "I have got them, and they are not worth three reals."
Upon this Sancho remarked, "From what I have seen here, justice is such a good thing that there is no doing without it, even among the thieves themselves."
At this instant one or two of those squires who were posted as sentinels on the roads, to watch who came along them and report what passed to their chief, came up and said, "Senor, there is a great troop of people not far off coming along the road to Barcelona."
"Well then, away with you all," said Roque, "and bring them here to me at once without letting one of them escape."
And if you have any desire to shorten the journey and put yourself easily in the way of salvation, come with me, and I will show you how to become a knight errant, a calling wherein so many hardships and mishaps are encountered that if they be taken as penances they will lodge you in heaven in a trice."
And now the squires despatched to make the prize came up, bringing with them two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full of women with some six servants on foot and on horseback in attendance on them, and a couple of muleteers whom the gentlemen had with them.
"So then," said Roque Guinart, "we have got here nine hundred crowns and sixty reals; my soldiers must number some sixty; see how much there falls to each, for I am a bad arithmetician." As soon as the robbers heard this they raised a shout of "Long life to Roque Guinart, in spite of the lladres that seek his ruin!"
One of the squires observed in his mixture of Gascon and Catalan, "This captain of ours would make a better friar than highwayman; if he wants to be so generous another time, let it be with his own property and not ours."
CHAPTER thirteen.
His name was Kirkland, and he belonged to what were known as the "educated" prisoners.
He had been a clerk in a banking house, and was transported for embezzlement, though, by some, grave doubts as to his guilt were entertained.
So, doubtless, it was, and might have been, had not an untoward accident occurred.
Kirkland belonged to a Methodist family and owned a piety utterly out of place in that region.
"You blank blank, is that your blank game?
I'll blank soon cure you of that!" and forthwith ordered him to the chain gang for "insubordination".
The toil was severe, and the companionship uncouth, but despite his blistered hands and aching back, he had not experienced anything so very terrible after all.
"I'm not to go in there?" says the ex bank clerk, drawing back in dismay from the cloud of foul faces which lowered upon him.
"But, mr Troke-"
"Stow your gaff," says Troke, with another oath, and impatiently striking the lad with his thong-"I can't argue here all night.
Get in." So Kirkland, aged twenty two, and the son of Methodist parents, went in.
Rufus Dawes, among whose sinister memories this yard was numbered, sighed.
So fierce was the glamour of the place, however, that when locked into his cell, he felt ashamed for that sigh, and strove to erase the memory of it.
About dawn the next morning, mr North-who, amongst other vagaries not approved of by his bishop, had a habit of prowling about the prison at unofficial hours-was attracted by a dispute at the door of the dormitory.
"What's the matter here?" he asked.
"A prisoner refractory, your reverence," said the watchman.
"Wants to come out."
"mr North!
mr North!" cried a voice, "for the love of God, let me out of this place!"
Kirkland, ghastly pale, bleeding, with his woollen shirt torn, and his blue eyes wide open with terror, was clinging to the bars.
"Oh, mr North!
Oh, mr North!
Oh, for God's sake, mr North!"
"What, Kirkland!" cried North, who was ignorant of the vengeance of the Commandant.
But Kirkland could do nothing but cry,--"Oh, mr North!
For God's sake, mr North!" and beat on the bars with white and sweating hands.
"Let him out, watchman!" said North.
"Can't sir, without an order from the Commandant."
"I order you, sir!" North cried, indignant.
"Very sorry, your reverence; but your reverence knows that I daren't do such a thing." "mr
North!" screamed Kirkland.
"Would you see me perish, body and soul, in this place?
mr North!
Oh, you ministers of Christ-wolves in sheep's clothing-you shall be judged for this!"
"Let him out!" cried North again, stamping his foot.
"I can't.
If he was dying, I can't."
North rushed away to the Commandant, and the instant his back was turned, Hailes, the watchman, flung open the door, and darted into the dormitory.
"There's more trouble with you bloody aristocrats than enough.
Lie quiet!"
The Commandant, roused from slumber, told mr North that Kirkland might stop where he was, and that he'd thank the chaplain not to wake him up in the middle of the night because a blank prisoner set up a blank howling.
"But, my good sir," protested North, restraining his impulse to overstep the bounds of modesty in his language to his superior officer, "you know the character of the men in that ward.
You can guess what that unhappy boy has suffered."
"Impertinent young beggar!" said Burgess.
"Do him good, curse him!
mr North, I'm sorry you should have had the trouble to come here, but will you let me go to sleep?"
North returned to the prison disconsolately, found the dutiful Hailes at his post, and all quiet.
"What's become of Kirkland?" he asked.
"Fretted hisself to sleep, yer reverence," said Hailes, in accents of parental concern.
"Poor young chap!
In the morning, Rufus Dawes, coming to his place on the chain gang, was struck by the altered appearance of Kirkland.
His face was of a greenish tint, and wore an expression of bewildered horror.
"Cheer up, man!" said Dawes, touched with momentary pity.
"It's no good being in the mopes, you know."
"What do they do if you try to bolt?" whispered Kirkland.
"Kill you," returned Dawes, in a tone of surprise at so preposterous a question.
"Thank God!" said Kirkland.
"Now then, Miss Nancy," said one of the men, "what's the matter with you!" Kirkland shuddered, and his pale face grew crimson.
"Oh," he said, "that such a wretch as I should live!"
"Silence!" cried Troke.
March!"
The work of the gang that afternoon was the carrying of some heavy logs to the water side, and Rufus Dawes observed that Kirkland was exhausted long before the task was accomplished.
"What have you been doing to get into this scrape?"
"Have you ever been in that-that place I was in last night?" asked Kirkland.
Rufus Dawes nodded.
"I suppose so.
What does he care?"
Hold up, my lad.
If you fall, we must fall over you, and then you're done for."
He had hardly uttered the words, when the boy flung himself beneath the log.
"Hold on to me, Miss Nancy," said the giant, "I'm big enough to carry double."
"Halt! you young fool," roared Troke, raising his carbine.
But Kirkland kept steadily on for the river.
Just as he reached it, however, the figure of mr North rose from behind a pile of stones.
Kirkland jumped for the jetty, missed his footing, and fell into the arms of the chaplain.
"You young vermin-you shall pay for this," cries Troke.
"You'll see if you won't remember this day."
"Oh, mr North," says Kirkland, "why did you stop me?
"Your blessed hide'll feel for this, see if it don't."
Kirkland only breathed harder, and looked round for mr North, but mr North had gone.
Troke reported the ex bank clerk that night to Burgess, and Burgess, who was about to go to dinner with the new chaplain, disposed of his case out of hand.
"Tried to bolt, eh!
Must stop that.
Fifty lashes, Troke.
Tell Macklewain to be ready-or stay, I'll tell him myself-I'll break the young devil's spirit, blank him."
"Yes, sir," said Troke.
"Good evening, sir."
"Troke-pick out some likely man, will you?
That last fellow you had ought to have been tied up himself.
His flogging wouldn't have killed a flea."
"They won't do it."
I won't have my men knocked up with flogging these rascals.
If the scourger won't do his duty, tie him up, and give him five and twenty for himself.
I'll be down in the morning myself if I can."
Kirkland was put into a separate cell that night; and Troke, by way of assuring him a good night's rest, told him that he was to have "fifty" in the morning.
CHAPTER fourteen.
mr NORTH'S DISPOSITION.
"It has made me heartsick."
"I thought it was a little paradise," said Meekin.
"Captain Frere says that the scenery is delightful." "So it is," returned North, looking askance, "but the prisoners are not delightful."
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon that bank!
"Abandoned, indeed, by God and man-almost."
His staff, you know, mr North.
mr North sighed again.
"You have not been long in the colony, mr Meekin.
I doubt-forgive me for expressing myself so freely-if you quite know of our convict system."
"An admirable one!
"There were a few matters I noticed in Hobart Town that did not quite please me-the frequent use of profane language for instance-but on the whole I was delighted with the scheme.
It is so complete."
North pursed up his lips.
"Yes, it is very complete," he said; "almost too complete.
"If you please," said Meekin gravely.
The dinner went off successfully.
Burgess-desirous, perhaps, of favourably impressing the chaplain whom the Bishop delighted to honour-shut off his blasphemy for a while, and was urbane enough.
"You'll find us rough, mr Meekin," he said, "but you'll find us 'all there' when we're wanted. This is a little kingdom in itself."
"Or like Sancho Panza's island," said North.
"Not at this moment, sir," said Burgess, with dignity.
"Pray help yourself to wine."
"Thank you, none," said North, filling a tumbler with water.
"I have a headache." His manner of speech and action was so awkward that a silence fell upon the party, caused by each one wondering why mr North should grow confused, and drum his fingers on the table, and stare everywhere but at the decanter.
Meekin-ever softly at his ease-was the first to speak.
"Very few.
Sometimes a party comes over with a recommendation from the Governor, and I show them over the place; but, as a rule, we see no one but ourselves."
"Do you know Captain Frere?"
"Frere!
I should say so!" returned Burgess, with a laugh, modelled upon Maurice Frere's own.
"I was quartered with him at Sarah Island.
He is just married, you know."
"The devil he is!
I heard something about it, too."
"Miss Vickers, a charming young person.
They are going to Sydney, where Captain Frere has some interest, and Frere thinks of taking Port Arthur on his way down."
"Captain Frere takes a deep interest in all relating to convict discipline," went on Meekin, unheeding the interruption, "and is anxious that mrs Frere should see this place."
"So Captain Frere thinks.
A romantic story, Captain Burgess.
He saved her life, you know."
"We've got the fellows here, you know."
"I saw them tried at Hobart Town," said Meekin.
"A great rascal," put in North.
"Well now!" said Meekin, with asperity, "I don't agree with you. Everybody seems to be against that poor fellow-Captain Frere tried to make me think that his letters contained a hidden meaning, but I don't believe they did.
He seems to me to be truly penitent for his offences-a misguided, but not a hypocritical man, if my knowledge of human nature goes for anything."
"I hope he is," said North.
"I wouldn't trust him."
"Oh! there's no fear of him," said Burgess cheerily; "if he grows uproarious, we'll soon give him a touch of the cat."
"I suppose severity is necessary," returned Meekin; "though to my ears a flogging sounds a little distasteful.
It is a brutal punishment."
"It's a punishment for brutes," said Burgess, and laughed, pleased with the nearest approach to an epigram he ever made in his life.
Here attention was called by the strange behaviour of mr North.
"Hullo, North! what's the matter?"
"Nothing," said North, recovering himself with an effort.
"A spasm.
"No, no, it will pass.
No, I say.
The Reverend Meekin eyed his clerical brother with horror.
The Reverend Meekin was not accustomed to clergymen who wore black neckties, smoked clay pipes, chewed tobacco, and drank neat brandy out of tumblers.
"Ha!" said North, looking wildly round upon them.
"That's better."
So they went on to the verandah, and looked down upon the lights of the prison, and listened to the sea lapping the shore.
The Reverend mr North, in this cool atmosphere, seemed to recover himself, and conversation progressed with some sprightliness.
"Well, how's Forrest?" cried Burgess.
"mr Meekin-dr
"Confound it-another of my best men," grumbled Burgess.
"Macklewain, have a glass of wine." But Macklewain was tired, and wanted to get home.
"I must also be thinking of repose," said Meekin; "the journey-though most enjoyable-has fatigued me."
"You won't have a nip of brandy before you start?" asked Burgess.
"No?
Good night.
Macklewain, I want to speak with you a moment."
"Up at daylight, I suppose, again."
"Whom is he going to flog now?"
"That young butler fellow of his." "What, Kirkland?" cried North.
"You don't mean to say he's going to flog Kirkland?"
"Fifty lashes."
"Oh, this must be stopped," cried North, in great alarm.
"He can't stand it.
"Perhaps you'll have the goodness to allow me to be the best judge of that," returned Macklewain, drawing up his little body to its least insignificant stature.
"My dear sir," replied North, alive to the importance of conciliating the surgeon, "you haven't seen him lately.
He tried to drown himself this morning."
mr Meekin expressed some alarm; but dr Macklewain re assured him. "That sort of nonsense must be stopped," said he.
"A nice example to set.
I wonder Burgess didn't give him a hundred."
"He was put into the long dormitory," said North; "you know what sort of a place that is.
"Well, he'll be put into the hospital for a week or so to morrow," said Macklewain, "and that'll give him a spell."
"If Burgess flogs him I'll report it to the Governor," cries North, in great heat.
"The condition of those dormitories is infamous."
"If the boy has anything to complain of, why don't he complain?
We can't do anything without evidence."
"Complain!
Besides, he's not the sort of creature to complain.
He'd rather kill himself."
I can't help it.
The boy's made his bed, and he must lie on it."
"I'll go back and see Burgess," said North.
"mr Meekin, here's the gate, and your room is on the right hand.
I'll be back shortly."
"Pray, don't hurry," said Meekin politely.
Everything must give way to that.
I shall find my portmanteau in my room, you said."
"Yes, yes.
Macklewain shook his head seriously.
"There is something wrong about him, but I can't make out what it is.
He has the strangest fits at times.
Unless it's a cancer in the stomach, I don't know what it can be."
"Cancer in the stomach!
dear me, how dreadful!" says Meekin.
"Ah! Doctor, we all have our crosses, have we not?
How delightful the grass smells!
This seems a very pleasant place, and I think I shall enjoy myself very much.
Good night."
"Good night, sir.
I hope you will be comfortable."
"And let us hope poor mr North will succeed in his labour of love," said Meekin, shutting the little gate, "and save the unfortunate Kirkland.
Good night, once more."
Captain Burgess was shutting his verandah window when North hurried up.
"Captain Burgess, Macklewain tells me you are going to flog Kirkland."
"Well, sir, what of that?" said Burgess.
The lad has been cruelly punished already.
He attempted suicide to day-unhappy creature."
"Well, that's just what I'm flogging him for.
I'll teach my prisoners to attempt suicide!"
He's too weak."
"That's Macklewain's business."
"Captain Burgess," protested North, "I assure you that he does not deserve punishment.
I have seen him, and his condition of mind is pitiable."
"Look here, mr North, I don't interfere with what you do to the prisoner's souls; don't you interfere with what I do to their bodies."
"Captain Burgess, you have no right to mock at my office."
"Then don't you interfere with me, sir."
"Do you persist in having this boy flogged?"
"Then, Captain Burgess," cried North, his pale face flushing, "I tell you the boy's blood will be on your head.
I am a minister of God, sir, and I forbid you to commit this crime."
"Damn your impertinence, sir!" burst out Burgess.
"You're a dismissed officer of the Government, sir.
This, of course, was mere bravado on the part of the Commandant.
North knew well that he would never dare to attempt any such act of violence, but the insult stung him like the cut of a whip.
He made a stride towards the Commandant, as though to seize him by the throat, but, checking himself in time, stood still, with clenched hands, flashing eyes, and beard that bristled.
The two men looked at each other, and presently Burgess's eyes fell before those of the chaplain.
Burgess, white with rage, rang the bell that summoned his convict servant.
"I'll report this to the Government," said North, aghast.
"This is murderous."
"The Government may go to----, and you, too!" roared Burgess.
North returned home in great agitation.
"They shall not flog that boy," he said.
I'll report this to the Government.
"Fool that I am."
Then he began to walk up and down, to fling himself on the sofa, to read, to pray.
"Oh, God, give me strength!
Help me!
I struggle, but I am weak.
To see him rolling on the sofa in agony, to see his white face, his parched lips, and his contracted brow, to hear his moans and muttered prayers, one would have thought him suffering from the pangs of some terrible disease.
He opened the book again, and forced himself to read, but his eyes wandered to the cupboard.
There lurked something that fascinated him.
He got up at length, went into the kitchen, and found a packet of red pepper.
He mixed a teaspoonful of this in a pannikin of water and drank it.
It relieved him for a while.
"I must keep my wits for to morrow.
Meekin, too, will suspect.
He went into his bedroom and flung himself on the bed, but only to toss from side to side.
In vain he repeated texts of Scripture and scraps of verse; in vain counted imaginary sheep, or listened to imaginary clock tickings.
Sleep would not come to him.
It was as though he had reached the crisis of a disease which had been for days gathering force. "I must have a teaspoonful," he said, "to allay the craving."
Twice he paused on the way to the sitting room, and twice was he driven on by a power stronger than his will.
He reached it at length, and opening the cupboard, pulled out what he sought.
He raised it to his lips and eagerly drank.
Still he could not sleep.
The taste of the liquor maddened him for more.
He saw in the darkness the brandy bottle-vulgar and terrible apparition!
He saw its amber fluid sparkle. He heard it gurgle as he poured it out.
He wept, he prayed, he fought with his desire as with a madness.
That, at all times debasing, at this particular time it was infamous; that a vice, unworthy of any man, was doubly sinful in a man of education and a minister of God.
In the midst of his arguments he found himself at the cupboard, with the bottle at his lips, in an attitude that was at once ludicrous and horrible.
He had no cancer.
What shall you choose, Davy?"
"How terrible!
"Yes, David," sister and sweetheart answered, bravely forgetting in the fervor of the moment what heavy consequences God might see fit to send.
"Good!
He's a kind, neighborly man, and his boy will take my place about the house and protect you faithfully.
"You mean it?"
"I mean it as honestly as you do.
I, too, have prepared for it, and even spoken to mrs Amory.
She never had yet, and now resolved to ask nothing, but to earn her blessing by doing her share in the great work.
"I shall remember that," was all David answered to that last promise of hers, and three months later he took her at her word.
"Come and walk a little in the lane."
She put her arm in his, and answered quickly:
"You've something to tell me: I see it in your face."
"Dear, I must go."
"Yes, David."
"I go too."
"Yes, Christie."
That was all: she did not offer to detain him now; he did not deny her right to follow.
"I've done it, mother: tell me you're not sorry."
When mr Power presently came in, followed by the others, they found their soldier standing very erect in his old place on the rug, with the firelight gleaming on his bright buttons, and Bran staring at him with a perplexed aspect; for the uniform, shorn hair, trimmed beard, and a certain lofty carriage of the head so changed his master that the sagacious beast was disturbed.
Letty smiled at him approvingly, then went to comfort her mother who could not recover her tranquillity so soon.
But Christie stood aloof, looking at her lover with something more than admiration in the face that kindled beautifully as she exclaimed:
"O David, you are splendid!
Yes, mr Power, I've found my hero at last!
Here he is, my knight without reproach or fear, going out to take his part in the grandest battle ever fought.
When the deed was once done, it was astonishing what satisfaction they all took in it, how soon they got accustomed to the change, and what pride they felt in "our soldier." The loyal frenzy fell upon the three quiet women, and they could not do too much for their country.
mrs Sterling cut up her treasured old linen without a murmur; Letty made "comfort bags" by the dozen, put up jelly, and sewed on blue jackets with tireless industry; while Christie proclaimed that if she had twenty lovers she would send them all; and then made preparations enough to nurse the entire party.
David meantime was in camp, getting his first taste of martial life, and not liking it any better than he thought he should; but no one heard a complaint, and he never regretted his "love among the roses," for he was one of the men who had a "principle as well as a weapon," and meant to do good service with both.
He accepted all that came, and furnished forth those of his company who were less favored. Among these was Elisha Wilkins, and how he got there should be told.
Finding that Lisha showed little enthusiasm on the subject, she tried to rouse him by patriotic appeals of various sorts.
But nothing seemed to rouse the supine Elisha, who chewed his quid like a placid beast of the field, and showed no sign of a proper spirit.
Which threat she carried out with such skill and force that Lisha was effectually waked up, for he was "partial to good vittles," and Cynthy was a capital cook.
Poor rations did not suit him, and he demanded why his favorite dishes were not forthcoming.
He said no more but fell a thinking.
Nature abhors a vacuum, and when food fell short patriotism had a chance to fill the aching void.
This was a favorite dish of Lisha's, and she had prepared it as a bait for this cautious fish. To say that the fish rose at once and swallowed the bait, hook and all, but feebly expresses the justice done to the cakes by that long suffering man.
"David Sterlin' has enlisted!"
"Of course he has! any man with the spirit of a muskeeter would."
Imagine her dismay, when, having consumed the bait, her fish gave signs of breaking the line, and escaping after all; for mr Wilkins pushed back his chair, and said slowly, as he filled his pipe:
"Lisha, ain't you got no heart?
Lisha Wilkins, look at that, and say no e f you darst!"
Ah! but it was that old mother worked and waited for so long: blind now, and deaf; childish, and half dead with many hardships, but safe and free at last; and Hepsey's black face was full of a pride, a peace, and happiness more eloquent and touching than any speech or sermon ever uttered.
"I thought that would fetch him!"
"He's a comin', Ma!" called Gusty, presently.
Before mrs Wilkins could reply to these conflicting rumors her husband walked in, looking as martial as his hollow chest and thin legs permitted, and, turning his cap nervously in his hands, said half proudly, half reproachfully:
"Now, Cynthy, be you satisfied?"
I be, I be!" and the inconsistent woman fell upon his buttony breast weeping copiously.
"I'm glad I done it; for it will make a man of Lisha; and, if I've sent him to his death, God knows he'll be fitter to die than if he stayed here idlin' his life away."
"Another great battle!" screamed the excited news boys in the streets.
"My precious people, I've got something to tell you: are you ready?"
mrs Sterling clasped her hands and bowed her head.
"Ready, my General."
"We are ordered off at once, and go at four this afternoon.
Now, let's be brave and enjoy every minute of it."
"Keep your promise, dear," he answered, while the warlike expression changed to one of infinite tenderness.
"What promise?"
"This;" and he held out his hand with a little paper in it.
"I'll keep it, David."
She understood, put both arms about his neck as if to keep him safe, and whispered fervently:
"Nothing can part us any more, not even death; for love like ours will last for ever."
"Then you are quite willing to try the third great experiment?"
"Glad and proud to do it." "With no doubt, no fear, to mar your consent." "Not one, David." "That's true love, Christie!"
Then they stood quite still for a time, and in the silence the two hearts talked together in the sweet language no tongue can utter. Presently David said regretfully:
Now it's all so hurried, sorrowful, and strange.
Can you bear it, love?"
"Have no fear for me: I feel as if I could bear any thing just now; for I've got into a heroic mood and I mean to keep so as long as I can.
I've always wanted to live in stirring times, to have a part in great deeds, to sacrifice and suffer something for a principle or a person; and now I have my wish.
Surely I shall if I give you and myself to the cause; and I do it gladly, though I know that my heart has got to ache as it never has ached yet, when my courage fails, as it will by and by, and my selfish soul counts the cost of my offering after the excitement is over.
Help me to be brave and strong, David: don't let me complain or regret, but show me what lies beyond, and teach me to believe that simply doing the right is reward and happiness enough."
Christie was lifted out of herself for the moment, and looked inspired by the high mood which was but the beginning of a nobler life for her.
"I'll try," was all his answer to her appeal; then proved that he meant it by adding, with his lips against her cheek: "I must go to mother and Letty.
We leave them behind, and they must be comforted."
He went, and Christie vanished to make ready for her wedding, conscious, in spite of her exalted state of mind, that every thing was very hurried, sad, and strange, and very different from the happy day she had so often planned.
"David sends you these, dear.
"I thought he'd give me violets," and a shadow came over Christie's face.
"But they are mourning flowers, you know."
"My dearest Christie, don't be superstitious: all brides wear roses, and Davy thought you'd like them," said Letty, troubled at her words.
But I think few brides dress with a braver, happier heart than mine, though I do choose a sober wedding gown," answered Christie, smiling again, as she took from a half packed trunk her new hospital suit of soft, gray, woollen stuff.
"No, I will be married in my uniform as David is," she answered with a look Letty long remembered.
Power has come," she said softly a few minutes later, with an anxious glance at the clock.
"Go dear, I'll come directly.
But first"--and Christie held her friend close a moment, kissed her tenderly, and whispered in a broken voice: "Remember, I don't take his heart from you, I only share it with my sister and my mother."
"I'm glad to give him to you, Christie; for now I feel as if I had partly paid the great debt I've owed so long," answered Letty through her tears.
"No bridal white, dear?" said David, going to her.
"Only this," and she touched the flowers, adding with her hand on the blue coat sleeve that embraced her: "I want to consecrate my uniform as you do yours by being married in it.
Isn't it fitter for a soldier's wife than lace and silk at such a time as this?"
"Then I'm satisfied."
"mr
Power is waiting: are you ready, love?"
"Quite ready."
"THEN THEY WERE MARRIED."
David and Christie went smiling away together, and if they shed any tears over the brief happiness no one saw them but the flowers, and they loyally kept the secret folded up in their tender hearts.
A very simple little marriage feast, but more love, good will, and tender wishes adorned the plain table than is often found at wedding breakfasts; and better than any speech or song was Letty's broken whisper, as she folded her arms round David's empty chair when no one saw her, "Heaven bless and keep and bring him back to us."
How time went that day!
"I must go!" cried David with a sort of desperation, as Letty clung to one arm, Christie to the other.
"Give the last kiss to mother," added Letty, following her example, and in another minute David was gone.
At the turn of the lane, he looked back and swung his cap; all waved their hands to him; and then he marched away to the great work before him, leaving those loving hearts to ask the unanswerable question: "How will he come home?"
Christie was going to town to see the regiment off, and soon followed with mr Power.
Wash had heard drums every five minutes since he arrived, but this time he was right, and began to cheer the instant a red cockade appeared at the other end of the long street.
Even the lookers on were different.
Once all was wild enthusiasm and glad uproar; now men's lips were set, and women's smileless even as they cheered; fewer handkerchiefs whitened the air, for wet eyes needed them; and sudden lulls, almost solemn in their stillness, followed the acclamations of the crowd.
As the inspiring music, the grand tramp drew near, Christie felt the old thrill and longed to fall in and follow the flag anywhere.
"I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more."
CHAPTER nine.
Be natural!
One must appeal to immense opposing forces, in order to thwart this natural, all too natural PROGRESSUS IN SIMILE, the evolution of man to the similar, the ordinary, the average, the gregarious-to the IGNOBLE-!
They stood, without any respect for regularity, on each side of a straggling kind of unpaved street, where children, almost in a primitive state of nakedness, lay sprawling, as if to be crushed by the hoofs of the first passing horse.
The evil and remedy (such as it is) still exist.--But this is remote from our present purpose, and is only thrown out for consideration of the collectors under mr Dent's Dog Bill.
Three or four village girls, returning from the well or brook with pitchers and pails upon their heads, formed more pleasing objects, and, with their thin short gowns and single petticoats, bare arms, legs, and feet, uncovered heads and braided hair, somewhat resembled Italian forms of landscape.
The whole scene was depressing; for it argued, at the first glance, at least a stagnation of industry, and perhaps of intellect.
The children also, whose skins were burnt black, and whose hair was bleached white, by the influence of the sun, had a look and manner of life and interest. It seemed, upon the whole, as if poverty, and indolence, its too frequent companion, were combining to depress the natural genius and acquired information of a hardy, intelligent, and reflecting peasantry.
In a few favoured instances, there appeared behind the cottages a miserable wigwam, compiled of earth, loose stones, and turf, where the wealthy might perhaps shelter a starved cow or sorely galled horse.
But almost every hut was fenced in front by a huge black stack of turf on one side of the door, while on the other the family dunghill ascended in noble emulation.
In the centre of the exterior barrier was the upper gate of the avenue, opening under an archway, battlemented on the top, and adorned with two large weather beaten mutilated masses of upright stone, which, if the tradition of the hamlet could be trusted, had once represented, at least had been once designed to represent, two rampant Bears, the supporters of the family of Bradwardine.
This nether portal, like the former, opened in front of a wall ornamented with some rude sculpture, with battlements on the top, over which were seen, half hidden by the trees of the avenue, the high steep roofs and narrow gables of the mansion, with lines indented into steps, and corners decorated with small turrets.
It was one of those effects which a painter loves to represent, and mingled well with the struggling light which found its way between the boughs of the shady arch that vaulted the broad green alley.
The opening into the paved court yard corresponded with the rest of the scene.
The house, which seemed to consist of two or three high, narrow, and steep roofed buildings, projecting from each other at right angles, formed one side of the inclosure.
It had been built at a period when castles were no longer necessary, and when the Scottish architects had not yet acquired the art of designing a domestic residence.
The windows were numberless, but very small; the roof had some nondescript kind of projections, called bartizans, and displayed at each frequent angle a small turret, rather resembling a pepper box than a Gothic watchtower.
Neither did the front indicate absolute security from danger.
Stables and other offices occupied another side of the square.
Two battlemented walls, one of which faced the avenue, and the other divided the court from the garden, completed the inclosure.
Nor was the court without its ornaments.
This dove cot, or columbarium, as the owner called it, was no small resource to a Scottish laird of that period, whose scanty rents were eked out by the contributions levied upon the farms by these light foragers, and the conscriptions exacted from the latter for the benefit of the table.
This work of art was the wonder of the country ten miles round.
The court was spacious, well paved, and perfectly clean, there being probably another entrance behind the stables for removing the litter.
Everything around appeared solitary, and would have been silent, but for the continued plashing of the fountain; and the whole scene still maintained the monastic illusion which the fancy of Waverley had conjured up.
[Footnote: See Note seven.]
They take their name from their leader, Richard Cameron.'
This person, whom they call Gifted Gilfillan, has been long a leader among them, and now heads a small party, which will pass here to day or to morrow on their march towards Stirling, under whose escort Major Melville proposes you shall travel.
TOURMALINE THE POVERTY QUEEN
The open space which they entered was paved with pink marble and around it were two rows of large pink statues, at least life-size and beautifully sculptured.
It had no ornamentation, being exceedingly plain in appearance.
No banners floated from it; no flowers grew near it.
"Here," said one of their guides, as the procession halted before the little stone building, "is the palace of Tourmaline, who is our Queen."
"What! that little cabin?" exclaimed Trot.
"Of course.
Did you suppose a palace would be like one of our handsome residences?" asked the woman, evidently surprised.
"I thought it would be better," said the girl.
"All the palaces I've seen were splendid."
"A splendid palace!" exclaimed one of the Pinkies, and then they looked at one another in amazement and seemed to doubt that their ears had heard aright.
"These intruders are very peculiar people," remarked a man in the crowd.
"They seem very ignorant, poor things!" said another, in reply.
"Come!" commanded the woman who led the party; "you three must follow me to the presence of Tourmaline.
The people must wait outside, for there is no room for them in the palace."
So they followed her through the low archway, and in a room beyond, very simply furnished, sat a young girl engaged in darning a pair of pink stockings.
She was a beautiful girl of about seventeen years of age, not fat like all the rest of the Pinkies, but slender and well formed according to our own ideas of beauty.
It was her badge of office, and seemed very incongruous when compared with her poor raiment and simple surroundings.
As they entered, the girl sighed and laid down her work.
Her expression was patient and resigned as she faced her audience.
"What is it, Coralie?" she asked the woman.
They tell a queer story of an escape from the Blueskins, so I decided to bring them to you, that you may determine their fate."
The Queen gazed upon our friends with evident interest.
She smiled-a little sadly-at Trot, seemed to approve Button Bright's open, frank face and was quite surprised because Cap'n Bill was so much bigger than her own people.
"No, your Majesty," he replied; "I'm only ----"
"Majesty!" she exclaimed, flushing a deeper pink.
"Perhaps you are trying to ridicule me," she continued, regarding the sailor's face closely.
"There is nothing majestic about me, as you know very well.
Coralie, do you consider 'majesty' a proper word to use when addressing a Queen?" she added, appealing to the Pinky woman.
"By no means," was the prompt reply.
"What shall I call her, then?" inquired Cap'n Bill.
"Just Tourmaline.
That is her name, and it is sufficient," said the woman.
"The Ruler of a country ought to be treated with great respec'," declared Trot, a little indignantly, for she thought the pretty little queen was not being properly deferred to.
"Why?" asked Tourmaline, curiously.
I even decree death, when such a punishment is merited.
"In that case," said Button Bright, "you're entitled to the best there is, to pay for your trouble.
A powerful ruler ought to be rich and to live in a splendid palace.
Your folks ought to treat you with great respect, as Trot says."
"Oh, no," responded Tourmaline quickly; "that would indeed be very wrong.
If, with my great power, conferred upon me by the people, I also possessed great wealth, I might be tempted to be cruel and overbearing.
In that case my subjects would justly grow envious of my superior station.
If I lived as luxuriously as my people do, and had servants and costly gowns, the good Pinkies would say that their Queen had more than they themselves-and it would be true.
No; our way is best.
The Ruler, be it king or queen, has absolute power to rule, but no riches-no high station-no false adulation.
"What pays you, then, for all your bother?" asked Trot.
"I have one great privilege.
That is my reward."
"I did not choose to be the Queen," answered Tourmaline, simply.
"A misfortune of birth placed me here and I cannot escape my fate.
It is much more desirable to be a private citizen, happy and care free.
Between them they told the story of how the Magic Umbrella had taken them to Sky Island, which they did not know, when they started, was anywhere in existence.
Button Bright told this, and then Trot related their adventures among the Blueskins and how the Boolooroo had stolen the umbrella and prevented them from going home again.
Cap'n Bill finished the story by telling of their escape through the Fog Bank.
"Pretty wet!
Pretty wet Was the journey, you can bet!"
declared the parrot, in conclusion.
"But what can you do here?" asked Tourmaline.
"You are not like my people, the Pinkies, and there is no place for you in our country."
Your Sky Island ain't very big, so when we couldn't stay in the Blue Country, where ever'body hated us, or in the Fog Bank, which ain't healthy an' is too wet for humans to live in for long, we nat'rally were forced to enter the Pink Country, where we expected to find nice people."
In all our history you are the first people from outside our borders who have ever stepped a foot in our land.
We do not hate you, as you say the Blueskins do, nor are we savage or cruel; but we do not want you here and I am really puzzled what to do with you."
"Isn't there a law to cover this case?" asked Coralie.
"If not," said the woman, "you must make a law.
It is your duty."
"I know," answered Tourmaline; "but I hope such a responsibility will not fall upon my shoulders.
"Thank you," said Trot.
"We wish so, too.
"Oh, there are fairies, of course, as there are everywhere," answered Tourmaline; "but none that we can call to our assistance, or command to do our bidding."
"How about witches?" asked Button Bright.
"I know of one witch," said Tourmaline, thoughtfully, "but she is not very obliging.
She says it makes her head ache to perform witchcraft and so she seldom indulges in it.
But, if there is no other way, I may be obliged to call upon Rosalie for help.
I'll look in the Great Book first.
Meantime you will go home with Coralie, who will feed you and give you entertainment.
To morrow morning come to me again and then I will decree your fate."
Solitary Worship.
The Savage Philosopher.
The Paradox of "Christian Civilization."
The original attitude of the American Indian toward the Eternal, the "Great Mystery" that surrounds and embraces us, was as simple as it was exalted.
To him it was the supreme conception, bringing with it the fullest measure of joy and satisfaction possible in this life.
The worship of the "Great Mystery" was silent, solitary, free from all self seeking.
It was silent, because all speech is of necessity feeble and imperfect; therefore the souls of my ancestors ascended to God in wordless adoration.
It was solitary, because they believed that He is nearer to us in solitude, and there were no priests authorized to come between a man and his Maker.
None might exhort or confess or in any way meddle with the religious experience of another.
Among us all men were created sons of God and stood erect, as conscious of their divinity.
Our faith might not be formulated in creeds, nor forced upon any who were unwilling to receive it; hence there was no preaching, proselyting, nor persecution, neither were there any scoffers or atheists.
Being a natural man, the Indian was intensely poetical.
Having first prepared himself by means of the purifying vapor bath, and cast off as far as possible all human or fleshly influences, the young man sought out the noblest height, the most commanding summit in all the surrounding region.
At the solemn hour of sunrise or sunset he took up his position, overlooking the glories of earth and facing the "Great Mystery," and there he remained, naked, erect, silent, and motionless, exposed to the elements and forces of His arming, for a night and a day to two days and nights, but rarely longer.
Of the vision or sign vouchsafed to him he did not speak, unless it had included some commission which must be publicly fulfilled. Sometimes an old man, standing upon the brink of eternity, might reveal to a chosen few the oracle of his long past youth.
The native American has been generally despised by his white conquerors for his poverty and simplicity.
To him, as to other single minded men in every age and race, from Diogenes to the brothers of Saint Francis, from the Montanists to the Shakers, the love of possessions has appeared a snare, and the burdens of a complex society a source of needless peril and temptation.
It was not, then, wholly from ignorance or improvidence that he failed to establish permanent towns and to develop a material civilization. To the untutored sage, the concentration of population was the prolific mother of all evils, moral no less than physical.
All who have lived much out of doors know that there is a magnetic and nervous force that accumulates in solitude and that is quickly dissipated by life in a crowd; and even his enemies have recognized the fact that for a certain innate power and self poise, wholly independent of circumstances, the American Indian is unsurpassed among men.
The first is pure spirit, concerned only with the essence of things, and it was this he sought to strengthen by spiritual prayer, during which the body is subdued by fasting and hardship.
In this type of prayer there was no beseeching of favor or help.
From the Sun, as the universal father, proceeds the quickening principle in nature, and in the patient and fruitful womb of our mother, the Earth, are hidden embryos of plants and men.
This is the material or physical prayer.
The elements and majestic forces in nature, Lightning, Wind, Water, Fire, and Frost, were regarded with awe as spiritual powers, but always secondary and intermediate in character.
We believed that the spirit pervades all creation and that every creature possesses a soul in some degree, though not necessarily a soul conscious of itself.
The tree, the waterfall, the grizzly bear, each is an embodied Force, and as such an object of reverence.
The Indian loved to come into sympathy and spiritual communion with his brothers of the animal kingdom, whose inarticulate souls had for him something of the sinless purity that we attribute to the innocent and irresponsible child.
He had faith in their instincts, as in a mysterious wisdom given from above; and while he humbly accepted the supposedly voluntary sacrifice of their bodies to preserve his own, he paid homage to their spirits in prescribed prayers and offerings.
The Indian was a logical and clear thinker upon matters within the scope of his understanding, but he had not yet charted the vast field of nature or expressed her wonders in terms of science.
With his limited knowledge of cause and effect, he saw miracles on every hand,--the miracle of life in seed and egg, the miracle of death in lightning flash and in the swelling deep! Nothing of the marvelous could astonish him; as that a beast should speak, or the sun stand still.
Who may condemn his superstition?
Surely not the devout Catholic, or even Protestant missionary, who teaches Bible miracles as literal fact! The logical man must either deny all miracles or none, and our American Indian myths and hero stories are perhaps, in themselves, quite as credible as those of the hebrews of old.
We have still to face the ultimate miracle,--the origin and principle of life!
In his own thought he rose superior to them!
It was clear to him that virtue and happiness are independent of these things, if not incompatible with them.
Yet the religion that is preached in our churches and practiced by our congregations, with its element of display and self aggrandizement, its active proselytism, and its open contempt of all religions but its own, was for a long time extremely repellent.
To him, it appeared shocking and almost incredible that there were among this people who claimed superiority many irreligious, who did not even pretend to profess the national faith.
Not only did they not profess it, but they stooped so low as to insult their God with profane and sacrilegious speech!
They spoke much of spiritual things, while seeking only the material.
The lust for money, power, and conquest so characteristic of the Anglo Saxon race did not escape moral condemnation at the hands of his untutored judge, nor did he fail to contrast this conspicuous trait of the dominant race with the spirit of the meek and lowly Jesus.
He might in time come to recognize that the drunkards and licentious among white men, with whom he too frequently came in contact, were condemned by the white man's religion as well, and must not be held to discredit it.
But it was not so easy to overlook or to excuse national bad faith.
THE FAMILY ALTAR
Pre natal Influence.
Early Religious Teaching.
There was no priest to assume responsibility for another's soul.
That is, we believed, the supreme duty of the parent, who only was permitted to claim in some degree the priestly office and function, since it is his creative and protecting power which alone approaches the solemn function of Deity.
The Indian was a religious man from his mother's womb.
Silence and isolation are the rule of life for the expectant mother.
And when the day of days in her life dawns-the day in which there is to be a new life, the miracle of whose making has been intrusted to her, she seeks no human aid.
The ordeal is best met alone, where no curious or pitying eyes embarrass her; where all nature says to her spirit: "'tis love!
Presently she returns to the camp, carrying the mysterious, the holy, the dearest bundle!
She feels the endearing warmth of it and hears its soft breathing.
She continues her spiritual teaching, at first silently-a mere pointing of the index finger to nature; then in whispered songs, bird like, at morning and evening.
In the old days, our mothers were single eyed to the trust imposed upon them; and as a noted chief of our people was wont to say: "Men may slay one another, but they can never overcome the woman, for in the quietude of her lap lies the child!
In due time the child takes of his own accord the attitude of prayer, and speaks reverently of the Powers.
At the age of about eight years, if he is a boy, she turns him over to his father for more Spartan training.
If a girl, she is from this time much under the guardianship of her grandmother, who is considered the most dignified protector for the maiden.
Advancing years brought with them much freedom, not only from the burden of laborious and dangerous tasks, but from those restrictions of custom and etiquette which were religiously observed by all others.
A soft, low voice was considered an excellent thing in man, as well as in woman!
The betrothal might or might not be discussed and approved by the parents, but in either case it was customary for the young pair to disappear into the wilderness, there to pass some days or weeks in perfect seclusion and dual solitude, afterward returning to the village as man and wife.
The family was not only the social unit, but also the unit of government.
The very name of our tribe, Dakota, means Allied People.
The remoter degrees of kinship were fully recognized, and that not as a matter of form only: first cousins were known as brothers and sisters; the name of "cousin" constituted a binding claim, and our rigid morality forbade marriage between cousins in any known degree, or in other words within the clan.
It has been said that the position of woman is the test of civilization, and that of our women was secure.
In them was vested our standard of morals and the purity of our blood.
All of the family property was held by her, descent was traced in the maternal line, and the honor of the house was in her hands.
Modesty was her chief adornment; hence the younger women were usually silent and retiring: but a woman who had attained to ripeness of years and wisdom, or who had displayed notable courage in some emergency, was sometimes invited to a seat in the council.
When she fell, the whole race fell with her.
Indian names were either characteristic nicknames given in a playful spirit, deed names, birth names, or such as have a religious and symbolic meaning.
He wakes at daybreak, puts on his moccasins and steps down to the water's edge.
Here he throws handfuls of clear, cold water into his face, or plunges in bodily.
His mate may precede or follow him in his devotions, but never accompanies him.
Every act of his life is, in a very real sense, a religious act.
His respect for the immortal part of the animal, his brother, often leads him so far as to lay out the body of his game in state and decorate the head with symbolic paint or feathers.
He cuts off the choicest morsel of the meat and casts it into the fire-the purest and most ethereal element.
Yet, if an enemy should honor us with a call, his trust will not be misplaced, and he will go away convinced that he has met with a royal host!
Friendship is held to be the severest test of character.
ON THE BORDER LAND OF SPIRITS
Death and Funeral Customs.
The Sacred Lock of Hair. Reincarnation and the Converse of Spirits.
Occult and Psychic Powers.
The Gift of Prophecy.
The attitude of the Indian toward death, the test and background of life, is entirely consistent with his character and philosophy.
Death has no terrors for him; he meets it with simplicity and perfect calm, seeking only an honorable end as his last gift to his family and descendants.
If one be dying at home, it is customary to carry his bed out of doors as the end approaches, that his spirit may pass under the open sky.
His family affections are strong, and he grieves intensely for the lost, even though he has unbounded faith in a spiritual companionship.
The outward signs of mourning for the dead are far more spontaneous and convincing than is the correct and well ordered black of civilization. Both men and women among us loosen their hair and cut it according to the degree of relationship or of devotion.
Finally, the wailing for the dead is continued night and day to the point of utter voicelessness; a musical, weird, and heart piercing sound, which has been compared to the "keening" of the Celtic mourner.
At the end of a year from the time of death, the relatives made a public feast and gave away the clothing and other gifts, while the lock of hair was interred with appropriate ceremonies.
Certainly the Indian never doubted the immortal nature of the spirit or soul of man, but neither did he care to speculate upon its probable state or condition in a future life.
A Sioux prophet predicted the coming of the white man fully fifty years before the event, and even described accurately his garments and weapons.
No doubt, many predictions have been colored to suit the new age, and unquestionably false prophets, fakirs, and conjurers have become the pest of the tribes during the transition period.
This was carried out to the letter.
This child lived to become great among us, as was intimated to the superstitious by the circumstances of his birth.
The father of Little Crow, the chief who led the "Minnesota massacre" of eighteen sixty two, was another prophet of some note.
One of his characteristic prophecies was made only a few years before he died, when he had declared that, although already an old man, he would go once more upon the war path.
There are many trustworthy men, and men of Christian faith, to vouch for these and similar events occurring as foretold.
Some of us seemed to have a peculiar intuition for the locality of a grave, which they explained by saying that they had received a communication from the spirit of the departed.
Of course, the outward signs of burial had been long since obliterated.
At another time, when I was fourteen years old, we had just left Fort Ellis on the Assiniboine River, and my youngest uncle had selected a fine spot for our night camp.
This incident made a great impression upon our people.
There was a well-known Sioux war prophet who lived in the middle of the last century, so that he is still remembered by the old men of his band. After he had reached middle age, he declared that he had a spirit brother among the Ojibways, the ancestral enemies of the Sioux.
They sent out scouts, who soon returned with news of the approaching party.
The response came in like manner, and they entered the camp, with the peace pipe in the hands of the prophet.
It was quickly agreed by both parties that they should camp together for several days, and one evening the Sioux made a "warriors' feast" to which they invited many of the Ojibways.
The prophet asked his twin brother to sing one of his sacred songs, and behold! it was the very song that he himself was wont to sing.
SHILOH
I do not pretend to tell of what command distinguished itself; of heroes; of blood and wounds; of shrieks and groans; of brilliant charges; of cannon captured, etc
I was but a private soldier, and if I happened to look to see if I could find out anything, "Eyes right, guide center," was the order.
I remember a man by the name of Smith stepping deliberately out of the ranks and shooting his finger off to keep out of the fight; of another poor fellow who was accidentally shot and killed by the discharge of another person's gun, and of others suddenly taken sick with colic.
Our regiment was the advance guard on Saturday evening, and did a little skirmishing; but General Gladden's brigade passed us and assumed a position in our immediate front.
I do not know what it was, but I heard Gladden say, "Tell General Bragg that I have as keen a scent for Yankees as General Chalmers has."
The air was full of balls and deadly missiles. The litter corps was carrying off the dying and wounded.
We could hear the shout of the charge and the incessant roar of the guns, the rattle of the musketry, and knew that the contending forces were engaged in a breast to breast struggle.
Martin.
He said to us, "Give 'em goss, boys. That's right, my brave First Tennessee.
The fact was kept from the troops.
About noon a courier dashed up and ordered us to go forward and support General Bragg's center.
It all seemed to me a dream; I seemed to be in a sort of haze, when siz, siz, siz, the minnie balls from the Yankee line began to whistle around our ears, and I thought of the Irishman when he said, "Sure enough, those fellows are shooting bullets!"
I had been feeling mean all the morning as if I had stolen a sheep, but when the order to charge was given, I got happy.
They retreat in wild confusion.
We were jubilant; we were triumphant.
Officers could not curb the men to keep in line.
When in the very midst of our victory, here comes an order to halt. What! halt after today's victory?
Sidney Johnson killed, General Gladden killed, and a host of generals and other brave men killed, and the whole Yankee army in full retreat.
The harvest was great and the laborers were not few.
The boys were in clover.
This was Sunday.
But they didn't.
Flushed with their victories at Fort Henry and Fort Donelson and the capture of Nashville, and the whole State of Tennessee having fallen into their hands, victory was again to perch upon their banners, for Buell's army, by forced marches, had come to Grant's assistance at the eleventh hour.
Gunboats and transports were busily crossing Buell's army all of Sunday night.
Our regiment was the advance outpost, and we saw the skirmish line of the Federals advancing and then their main line and then their artillery.
Should you desire to find out more about the battle, I refer you to history.
One incident I recollect very well.
w h rushed forward and grabbed his horse by the bridle, telling him at the same time to surrender.
His pistol had missed its aim.
He was not a fast mule, and I soon found out that he thought he knew as much as I did.
He was wise in his own conceit.
He had a propensity to take every hog path he came to.
If blood makes speed, I do not suppose he had a drop of any kind in him.
The mule was loath to take to the water.
He was no Baptist, and did not believe in immersion, and had his views about crossing streams, but the rope began to tighten, the mule to squeal out his protestations against such villainous proceedings.
The rope, however, was stronger than the mule's "no," and he was finally prevailed upon by the strength of the rope to cross the creek.
He seemed to be in deep meditation.
I got on him again, when all of a sudden he lifted his head, pricked up his ears, began to champ his bit, gave a little squeal, got a little faster, and finally into a gallop and then a run.
MURFREESBORO
We came from Knoxville to Chattanooga, and seemed destined to make a permanent stay here.
We remained several months, but soon we were on the tramp again.
From Chattanooga, Bragg's army went to Murfreesboro.
The Federal army was concentrating at Nashville.
There was no rest for the weary.
Our army stopped at Murfreesboro.
Our advanced outpost was established at Lavergne.
From time to time different regiments were sent forward to do picket duty.
I was on picket at the time the advance was made by Rosecrans.
At the time mentioned, I was standing about two hundred yards off the road, the main body of the pickets being on the Nashville and Murfreesboro turnpike, and commanded by Lieutenant Hardy Murfree, of the Rutherford Rifles.
I had orders to allow no one to pass.
In fact, no one was expected to pass at this point, but while standing at my post, a horseman rode up behind me.
I halted him, and told him to go down to the main picket on the road and pass, but he seemed so smiling that I thought he knew me, or had a good joke to tell me.
It was an order from General Leonidas Polk to allow the bearer to pass.
I read it, and looked up to hand it back to him, when I discovered that he had a pistol cocked and leveled in my face, and says he, "Drop that gun; you are my prisoner." I saw there was no use in fooling about it.
I dropped the gun.
The Yankee picket lines were not a half mile off.
I was perfectly willing to let the spy go on his way rejoicing-for such he was-but he wanted to capture a Rebel.
And I had made up my mind to think likewise.
There I was, a prisoner sure, and no mistake about it.
His pistol was leveled, and I was ordered to march.
I was afraid to halloo to the relief, and you may be sure I was in a bad fix.
Finally says I, "Let's play quits.
I think you are a soldier; you look like a gentleman.
I am a videt; you know the responsibility resting on me.
You go your way, and leave me here.
Is it a bargain?"
Says he, "I would not trust a Secesh on his word, oath, or bond.
March, I say."
I soon found out that he had caught sight of the relief on the road, and was afraid to shoot.
I quickly made up my mind.
My gun was at my feet, and one step would get it.
He divined my motive, and fired.
The ball missed its aim.
He put spurs to his horse, but I pulled down on him, and almost tore the fore shoulder of his horse entirely off, but I did not capture the spy, though I captured the horse, bridle and saddle.
Major Allen, of the Twenty seventh Tennessee Regiment, took the saddle and bridle, and gave me the blanket.
But they continued to advance upon us, we firing and retreating slowly.
We had several pretty sharp brushes with them that day.
I remember that they had to cross an open field in our front, and we were lying behind a fence, and as they advanced, we kept up firing, and would run them back every time, until they brought up a regiment that whooped, and yelled, and charged our skirmish line, and then we fell back again.
BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO
The next day, the Yankees were found out to be advancing.
Soon they came in sight of our picket.
We kept falling back and firing all day, and were relieved by another regiment about dark.
It was Christmas.
john Barleycorn was general in chief.
Our generals, and colonels, and captains, had kissed john a little too often.
They couldn't see straight.
It was said to be buckeye whisky.
They couldn't tell our own men from Yankees.
But here they were-the Yankees-a battle had to be fought. We were ordered forward.
I was on the skirmish line.
We marched plumb into the Yankee lines, with their flags flying.
I called Lieutenant Colonel Frierson's attention to the Yankees, and he remarked, "Well, I don't know whether they are Yankees or not, but if they are, they will come out of there mighty quick."
The Yankees marched over the hill out of sight.
We were ordered forward to the attack.
We were right upon the Yankee line on the Wilkerson turnpike.
A universal cry was raised, "You are firing on your own men." "Cease firing, cease firing," I hallooed; in fact, the whole skirmish line hallooed, and kept on telling them that they were Yankees, and to shoot; but the order was to cease firing, you are firing on your own men.
Captain james, of Cheatham's staff, was sent forward and killed in his own yard.
The crest occupied by the Yankees was belching loud with fire and smoke, and the Rebels were falling like leaves of autumn in a hurricane. The leaden hail storm swept them off the field.
They fell back and re-formed.
General Cheatham came up and advanced.
I did not fall back, but continued to load and shoot, until a fragment of a shell struck me on the arm, and then a minnie ball passed through the same paralyzing my arm, and wounded and disabled me.
General Cheatham, all the time, was calling on the men to go forward, saying, "Come on, boys, and follow me."
I saw either victory or death written on his face.
The ground was literally covered with blue coats dead; and, if I remember correctly, there were eighty dead horses.
By this time our command had re-formed, and charged the blazing crest.
The spectacle was grand.
I said, "O, O, I'm wounded," and at the same time I grabbed my arm.
I thought it had been torn from my shoulder.
This I do know to be a fact.
As I went back to the field hospital, I overtook another man walking along.
I do not know to what regiment he belonged, but I remember of first noticing that his left arm was entirely gone.
His face was as white as a sheet.
The breast and sleeve of his coat had been torn away, and I could see the frazzled end of his shirt sleeve, which appeared to be sucked into the wound.
I looked at it pretty close, and I said "Great God!" for I could see his heart throb, and the respiration of his lungs. I was filled with wonder and horror at the sight.
He was walking along, when all at once he dropped down and died without a struggle or a groan. I could tell of hundreds of such incidents of the battlefield, but tell only this one, because I remember it so distinctly.
ROBBING A DEAD YANKEE
In passing over the battlefield, I came across a dead Yankee colonel. He had on the finest clothes I ever saw, a red sash and fine sword. I particularly noticed his boots.
But I could not bear the thought of wearing dead men's shoes.
I took hold of the foot and raised it up and made one trial at the boot to get it off.
I happened to look up, and the colonel had his eyes wide open, and seemed to be looking at me.
He was stone dead, but I dropped that foot quick.
It was my first and last attempt to rob a dead Yankee.
Our pickets had run in and reported a night attack.
We ran forward, expecting that our men would recognize us, but they opened fire upon us.
ADVANCE INTO TENNESSEE
After remaining a good long time at Jonesboro, the news came that we were going to flank Atlanta.
We flanked it.
A flank means "a go around."
Yank says, "What you doing, Johnny?"
Johnny says, "We are flanking."
Yank says, "Bully for you!"
It took us four months in the first instance, and but little longer than as many days in the second, to get back to Dalton, our starting point.
On our way up there, the Yankee cavalry followed us to see how we were getting along with the flanking business.
We had pontoons made for the purpose of crossing streams.
When we would get to a stream, the pontoons would be thrown across, and Hood's army would cross.
We passed all those glorious battlefields, that have been made classic in history, frequently coming across the skull of some poor fellow sitting on top of a stump, grinning a ghastly smile; also the bones of horses along the road, and fences burned and destroyed, and occasionally the charred remains of a once fine dwelling house.
The country looked like it did at first. Citizens came out, and seemed glad to see us, and would divide their onions, garlic, and leek with us.
The soldiers were in good spirits, but it was the spirit of innocence and peace, not war and victory.
But we always flanked these little affairs.
WE CAPTURE DALTON
When we arrived at Dalton, we had a desire to see how the old place looked; not that we cared anything about it, but we just wanted to take a last farewell look at the old place.
We saw the United States flag flying from the ramparts, and thought that Yank would probably be asleep or catching lice, or maybe engaged in a game of seven up.
He walked up and says, "Hello, boys!"
We marched the black rascals out.
Reader, you should have seen how that old railroad did flop over, and how the darkies did sweat, and how the perfume did fill the atmosphere.
But there were some Yankee soldiers in a block house at Ringgold Gap, who thought they would act big.
They said that Sherman had told them not to come out of that block house, any how.
They persuaded eloquently.
They persuaded effectually-those feelers did.
The old place looked natural like, only it seemed to have a sort of graveyard loneliness about it.
A MAN IN THE WELL
On leaving Dalton, after a day's march, we had stopped for the night. Our guns were stacked, and I started off with a comrade to get some wood to cook supper with.
We were walking along, he a little in the rear, when he suddenly disappeared.
I could not imagine what had become of him.
I looked everywhere.
The earth seemed to have opened and swallowed him.
I called, and called, but could get no answer.
Going back to camp, I procured a light, and after whooping and hallooing for a long time, I heard another groan, this time much louder than before.
The voice appeared to be overhead.
There was no tree or house to be seen; and then again the voice seemed to answer from under the ground, in a hollow, sepulchral tone, but I could not tell where he was.
But I was determined to find him, so I kept on hallooing and he answering.
I went to the place where the voice appeared to come out of the earth.
I was walking along rather thoughtlessly and carelessly, when one inch more and I would have disappeared also.
But how to get him out was the unsolved problem.
TUSCUMBIA
We arrived and remained at Tuscumbia several days, awaiting the laying of the pontoons across the Tennessee river at Florence, Alabama, and then we all crossed over.
While at Tuscumbia, john Branch and I saw a nice sweet potato patch, that looked very tempting to a hungry Rebel.
We looked all around, and thought that the coast was clear.
We jumped over the fence, and commenced grabbling for the sweet potatoes.
We broke and run like quarter horses, and the guard pulled down on us just as we jumped the fence.
We marched from Decatur to Florence.
Here the pontoon bridges were nicely and beautifully stretched across the river.
We walked over this floating bridge, and soon found ourselves on the Tennessee side of Tennessee river.
"And nightly we pitch our moving tent A day's march nearer home."
How every pulse did beat and leap, and how every heart did throb with emotions of joy, which seemed nearly akin to heaven, when we received the glad intelligence of our onward march toward the land of promise, and of our loved ones.
The cold November winds coming off the mountains of the northwest were blowing right in our faces, and nearly cutting us in two.
We were inured to privations and hardships; had been upon every march, in every battle, in every skirmish, in every advance, in every retreat, in every victory, in every defeat.
I was simply one of hundreds of thousands in the same fix.
The tale is the same that every soldier would tell, except Jim Whitler.
Jim had dodged about, and had escaped being conscripted until "Hood's raid," he called it.
Hood's army was taking up every able bodied man and conscripting him into the army.
The army had been passing a given point, and Jim was sitting quietly on the fence looking at the soldiers.
Jim tried to beg off, but all entreaty was in vain. He wanted to go by home and tell his wife and children good bye, and to get his clothes.
It was no go.
He didn't know B from a bull's foot in the spelling book.
Jim was soon in line, and was tramping to the music of the march.
He stayed with the company two days.
The third day it was reported that the Yankees had taken position on the Murfreesboro pike.
A regiment was sent to the attack.
It was Jim's regiment.
The regiment was ordered to fire.
He loaded and fired the second time, when they were ordered to retreat.
He didn't see anything to run from, but the other soldiers began to run, and Jim run, too.
Jim had not learned the word "halt!" and just kept on running.
Nature had been prodigal of her kindness to Gwynplaine.
She had bestowed on him a mouth opening to his ears, ears folding over to his eyes, a shapeless nose to support the spectacles of the grimace maker, and a face that no one could look upon without laughing.
But was it nature?
Had she not been assisted?
Two slits for eyes, a hiatus for a mouth, a snub protuberance with two holes for nostrils, a flattened face, all having for the result an appearance of laughter; it is certain that nature never produces such perfection single handed.
But is laughter a synonym of joy?
If, in the presence of this mountebank-for he was one-the first impression of gaiety wore off, and the man were observed with attention, traces of art were to be recognized.
Such a face could never have been created by chance; it must have resulted from intention.
Such perfect completeness is not in nature.
Man can do nothing to create beauty, but everything to produce ugliness.
A Hottentot profile cannot be changed into a Roman outline, but out of a Grecian nose you may make a Calmuck's.
It only requires to obliterate the root of the nose and to flatten the nostrils.
Had Gwynplaine when a child been so worthy of attention that his face had been subjected to transmutation?
Why not?
According to all appearance, industrious manipulators of children had worked upon his face.
It seemed evident that a mysterious and probably occult science, which was to surgery what alchemy was to chemistry, had chiselled his flesh, evidently at a very tender age, and manufactured his countenance with premeditation.
Man is not born thus.
However it may have been, the manipulation of Gwynplaine had succeeded admirably.
Gwynplaine was a gift of Providence to dispel the sadness of man.
Of what providence?
Is there a providence of demons as well as of God? We put the question without answering it.
Gwynplaine was a mountebank.
He showed himself on the platform.
No such effect had ever before been produced.
Hypochondriacs were cured by the sight of him alone.
He was avoided by folks in mourning, because they were compelled to laugh when they saw him, without regard to their decent gravity.
One day the executioner came, and Gwynplaine made him laugh.
Every one who saw Gwynplaine held his sides; he spoke, and they rolled on the ground.
He was removed from sadness as is pole from pole. Spleen at the one; Gwynplaine at the other.
Thus he rose rapidly in the fair ground and at the cross roads to the very satisfactory renown of a horrible man.
It was Gwynplaine's laugh which created the laughter of others, yet he did not laugh himself.
The extraordinary face which chance or a special and weird industry had fashioned for him, laughed alone.
Gwynplaine had nothing to do with it. The outside did not depend on the interior.
The laugh which he had not placed, himself, on his brow, on his eyelids, on his mouth, he could not remove.
It had been stamped for ever on his face.
It was automatic, and the more irresistible because it seemed petrified.
Two convulsions of the face are infectious; laughing and yawning.
By virtue of the mysterious operation to which Gwynplaine had probably been subjected in his infancy, every part of his face contributed to that rictus; his whole physiognomy led to that result, as a wheel centres in the nave.
All his emotions, whatever they might have been, augmented his strange face of joy, or to speak more correctly, aggravated it.
Any astonishment which might seize him, any suffering which he might feel, any anger which might take possession of him, any pity which might move him, would only increase this hilarity of his muscles.
It was like a head of Medusa, but Medusa hilarious.
All feeling or thought in the mind of the spectator was suddenly put to flight by the unexpected apparition, and laughter was inevitable.
Antique art formerly placed on the outsides of the Greek theatre a joyous brazen face, called comedy.
It laughed and occasioned laughter, but remained pensive.
All parody which borders on folly, all irony which borders on wisdom, were condensed and amalgamated in that face.
One corner of the mouth was raised, in mockery of the human race; the other side, in blasphemy of the gods.
Men confronted that model of the ideal sarcasm and exemplification of the irony which each one possesses within him; and the crowd, continually renewed round its fixed laugh, died away with delight before its sepulchral immobility of mirth.
One might almost have said that Gwynplaine was that dark, dead mask of ancient comedy adjusted to the body of a living man.
That infernal head of implacable hilarity he supported on his neck.
What a weight for the shoulders of a man-an everlasting laugh!
An everlasting laugh!
Let us understand each other; we will explain.
The Manichaeans believed the absolute occasionally gives way, and that God Himself sometimes abdicates for a time.
So also of the will.
We do not admit that it can ever be utterly powerless.
The whole of existence resembles a letter modified in the postscript.
For Gwynplaine the postscript was this: by the force of his will, and by concentrating all his attention, and on condition that no emotion should come to distract and turn away the fixedness of his effort, he could manage to suspend the everlasting rictus of his face, and to throw over it a kind of tragic veil, and then the spectator laughed no longer; he shuddered.
It was a terrible effort, and an insupportable tension.
Moreover, it happened that on the slightest distraction, or the slightest emotion, the laugh, driven back for a moment, returned like a tide with an impulse which was irresistible in proportion to the force of the adverse emotion.
With this exception, Gwynplaine's laugh was everlasting.
On seeing Gwynplaine, all laughed.
Women especially shrank from him with horror.
The man was frightful.
The joyous convulsion of laughter was as a tribute paid; they submitted to it gladly, but almost mechanically.
Besides, when once the novelty of the laugh had passed over, Gwynplaine was intolerable for a woman to see, and impossible to contemplate.
But he was tall, well made, and agile, and no way deformed, excepting in his face.
This led to the presumption that Gwynplaine was rather a creation of art than a work of nature.
Gwynplaine, beautiful in figure, had probably been beautiful in face.
They had left the body intact, and retouched only the face.
Gwynplaine had been made to order-at least, that was probable.
The death's head retains them.
Surgical sculpture of the kind could never have succeeded except on a very young child, and consequently on one having little consciousness of what happened to him, and who might easily take a wound for a sickness.
Besides, we must remember that they had in those times means of putting patients to sleep, and of suppressing all suffering; only then it was called magic, while now it is called anaesthesia.
Besides this face, those who had brought him up had given him the resources of a gymnast and an athlete.
His articulations usefully displaced and fashioned to bending the wrong way, had received the education of a clown, and could, like the hinges of a door, move backwards and forwards.
In appropriating him to the profession of mountebank nothing had been neglected.
Gwynplaine had yellow hair.
His hair having probably been dyed with some corrosive preparation, had left it woolly and rough to the touch.
Its yellow bristles, rather a mane than a head of hair, covered and concealed a lofty brow, evidently made to contain thought.
The operation, whatever it had been, which had deprived his features of harmony, and put all their flesh into disorder, had had no effect on the bony structure of his head.
The facial angle was powerful and surprisingly grand.
Behind his laugh there was a soul, dreaming, as all our souls dream.
However, his laugh was to Gwynplaine quite a talent.
He could do nothing with it, so he turned it to account.
By means of it he gained his living.
CHAPTER eight.
NOT ONLY HAPPINESS, BUT PROSPERITY.
In Gwynplaine evil thoughts never ripened, and he had therefore no remorse.
Sometimes he felt regret.
This green colour had succeeded in drawing attention to the carriage, which was known in all the fair grounds as The Green Box.
The Green Box had but two windows, one at each extremity, and at the back a door with steps to let down.
In front, on a ledge fastened to the van, with the window for a door, behind the horses and by the side of an old man who held the reins and directed the team, two gipsy women, dressed as goddesses, sounded their trumpets.
This was the old establishment of Ursus, its proportions augmented by success, and improved from a wretched booth into a theatre.
This was Homo. The old coachman who drove the horses was the philosopher himself.
From this-Gwynplaine had become famous.
Ursus, it may be remembered, had made Gwynplaine his pupil.
Unknown people had worked upon his face; he, on the other hand, had worked on his mind, and behind this well executed mask he had placed all that he could of thought.
So soon as the growth of the child had rendered him fitted for it, he had brought him out on the stage-that is, he had produced him in front of the van.
The passers by were immediately struck with wonder.
The curiosity of one place exhausted, they passed on to another.
"What a good turn they did you there, my boy!" said Ursus.
This "fortune" had allowed Ursus, who was the administrator of Gwynplaine's success, to have the chariot of his dreams constructed-that is to say, a caravan large enough to carry a theatre, and to sow science and art in the highways.
These two gipsies, picked up by the philosopher from amongst the vagabondage of cities and suburbs, were ugly and young, and were called, by order of Ursus, the one Phoebe, and the other Venus.
Phoebe cooked; Venus scrubbed the temple.
Gwynplaine had, besides, for his work and for his feats of strength, round his neck and over his shoulders, an esclavine of leather.
He took charge of the horses.
Ursus and Homo took charge of each other.
The eye which could penetrate within this structure and its internal arrangements might have perceived in a corner, fastened to the planks, and immovable on its four wheels, the old hut of Ursus, placed on half pay, allowed to rust, and from thenceforth dispensed the labour of rolling as Ursus was relieved from the labour of drawing it.
It now contained two beds.
In the opposite corner was the kitchen.
The caravan was divided into three compartments, partitioned from each other.
A piece of stuff fell over them, and answered the purpose of concealment.
The compartment behind belonged to the men, the compartment in front to the women; the compartment in the middle, separating the two sexes, was the stage.
A loft under the arch of the roof contained the scenes, and on opening a trap door lamps appeared, producing wonders of light.
"Father, you look like a sorcerer!"
"Then I look, perhaps, like what I am."
As it dropped it set at liberty three legs on hinges, which supported the panel when let down, and which placed themselves straight on the ground like the legs of a table, and supported it above the earth like a platform.
This exposed the stage, which was thus enlarged by the platform in front.
This opening looked for all the world like a "mouth of hell," in the words of the itinerant Puritan preachers, who turned away from it with horror.
It was, perhaps, for some such pious invention that Solon kicked out Thespis.
For all that Thespis has lasted much longer than is generally believed. The travelling theatre is still in existence.
The chariot, of the colour of hope, which carried Ursus, Gwynplaine, and their fortunes, and in front of which Fibi and Vinos trumpeted like figures of Fame, played its part of this grand Bohemian and literary brotherhood.
"Citizens and townsmen, the Gregorian form of worship, this great progress, is opposed in Italy to the Ambrosial ritual, and in Spain to the Mozarabic ceremonial, and has achieved its triumph over them with difficulty."
The scene of the Green Box represented a landscape painted by Ursus; and as he did not know how to paint, it represented a cavern just as well as a landscape.
The curtain, which we call drop nowadays, was a checked silk, with squares of contrasted colours.
The public stood without, in the street, in the fair, forming a semicircle round the stage, exposed to the sun and the showers; an arrangement which made rain less desirable for theatres in those days than now.
Ursus was in everything-in the piece, in the company, in the kitchen, in the orchestra.
Often when they appeared side by side on the stage-Ursus in his tightly laced bear's skin, Homo with his wolf's skin fitting still better-no one could tell which was the beast.
CHAPTER three.
WHERE THE PASSER BY REAPPEARS.
Ursus had been tempted by the bowling green, which had one great recommendation, that it was always fair day there, even in winter.
London, take it all in all, has some good in it.
It was a brave thing to dedicate a cathedral to saint Paul.
He entered heaven only by the artists' door.
A cathedral is a sign.
saint Peter is the sign of Rome, the city of the dogma; saint Paul that of London, the city of schism.
A large wooden balcony, roofed over, and supported on posts, on which the rooms of the first story opened, ran round the three fronts of the interior facade of the house, making two right angles.
The windows of the ground floor made boxes, the pavement of the court the pit, and the balcony the gallery. The Green Box, reared against the wall, was thus in front of a theatre. It was very like the Globe, where they played "Othello," "King Lear," and "The Tempest."
In a corner behind the Green Box was a stable.
Ursus had made his arrangements with the tavern keeper, Master Nicless, who, owing to his respect for the law, would not admit the wolf without charging him extra.
The sitting room of the tavern had, as we have seen, an inside door which opened into the court.
By the side of the door was constructed off hand, by means of an empty barrel, a box for the money taker, who was sometimes Fibi and sometimes Vinos.
This was managed much as at present.
Pay and pass in. Under the placard announcing the Laughing Man was a piece of wood, painted white, hung on two nails, on which was written in charcoal in large letters the title of Ursus's grand piece, "Chaos Vanquished."
In the centre of the balcony, precisely opposite the Green Box, and in a compartment having for entrance a window reaching to the ground, there had been partitioned off a space "for the nobility."
It was large enough to hold, in two rows, ten spectators.
"We must be prepared for the gentry."
They began their performances.
The crowd immediately flocked to them, but the compartment for the nobility remained empty.
With that exception their success became so great that no mountebank memory could recall its parallel.
Besides the small fry, the swallowers of swords and the grimace makers, real performances took place on the green.
There was a circus of women, ringing from morning till night with a magnificent peal of all sorts of instruments-psalteries, drums, rebecks, micamons, timbrels, reeds, dulcimers, gongs, chevrettes, bagpipes, German horns, English eschaqueils, pipes, flutes, and flageolets.
There was a travelling menagerie, where was to be seen a performing tiger, who, lashed by the keeper, snapped at the whip and tried to swallow the lash.
Even this comedian of jaws and claws was eclipsed in success.
Curiosity, applause, receipts, crowds, the Laughing Man monopolized everything.
Nothing was thought of but the Green Box.
"'Chaos Vanquished' is 'Chaos Victor,'" said Ursus, appropriating half Gwynplaine's success, and taking the wind out of his sails, as they say at sea.
That success was prodigious.
Still it remained local.
The sea is a wall; and if Voltaire-a thing which he very much regretted when it was too late-had not thrown a bridge over to Shakespeare, Shakespeare might still be in England, on the other side of the wall, a captive in insular glory.
The glory of Gwynplaine had not passed London Bridge.
It was not great enough yet to re echo throughout the city.
At least not at first.
"The money bag grows palpably bigger."
Between the acts Ursus exhibited his power as an engastrimist, and executed marvels of ventriloquism.
He imitated every cry which occurred in the audience-a song, a cry, enough to startle, so exact the imitation, the singer or the crier himself; and now and then he copied the hubbub of the public, and whistled as if there were a crowd of people within him.
These were remarkable talents.
"They are the ancient Trinobantes," he said.
Then he added, "I must not mistake them, for delicacy of taste, for the Atrobates, who people Berkshire, or the Belgians, who inhabited Somersetshire, nor for the Parisians, who founded York."
At every performance the yard of the inn, transformed into a pit, was filled with a ragged and enthusiastic audience.
It was composed of watermen, chairmen, coachmen, and bargemen, and sailors, just ashore, spending their wages in feasting and women.
All these flowed from the street into the theatre, and poured back from the theatre into the tap.
This connoisseur was suddenly fascinated, and had adopted the Laughing Man.
He did not come every evening, but when he came he led the public-applause grew into acclamation-success rose not to the roof, for there was none, but to the clouds, for there were plenty of them. Which clouds (seeing that there was no roof) sometimes wept over the masterpiece of Ursus.
They had a great friend in this unknown visitor.
"Do you know that man?"
"Of course I do."
"A sailor."
"Tom Jim Jack," replied the inn keeper.
Then as he redescended the steps at the back of the Green Box, to enter the inn, Master Nicless let fall this profound reflection, so deep as to be unintelligible,--
"What a pity that he should not be a lord.
He would make a famous scoundrel."
Otherwise, although established in the tavern, the group in the Green Box had in no way altered their manner of living, and held to their isolated habits.
Except a few words exchanged now and then with the tavern keeper, they held no communication with any of those who were living, either permanently or temporarily, in the inn; and continued to keep to themselves.
A certain vagrancy in our spirits impels us to take walks at night, and to saunter under the stars.
There is a mysterious expectation in youth. Therefore it is that we are prone to wander out in the night, without an object.
The empty taverns were shut up, and the lower room in the Tadcaster Inn was dark, except where, in some corner, a solitary candle lighted a last reveller. An indistinct glow gleamed through the window shutters of the half closed tavern, as Gwynplaine, pensive, content, and dreaming, happy in a haze of divine joy, passed backwards and forwards in front of the half open door.
Of what was he thinking?
Of Dea-of nothing-of everything-of the depths.
A few steps away from it was far enough for him.
CHAPTER six
Our Voyage to Iceland
The hour of departure came at last.
"Well, and have we a fair wind?" cried my uncle, in his most mellifluous accents.
A few minutes afterwards, the schooner started before the wind, under all the canvas she could carry, and entered the channel.
My uncle was delighted; for myself, moody and dissatisfied, I appeared almost to expect a glimpse of the ghost of Hamlet.
"Sublime madman," thought I, "you doubtless would approve our proceedings.
You might perhaps even follow us to the centre of the earth, there to resolve your eternal doubts."
The fact is, the castle is much later than the time of the heroic prince of Denmark.
The castle of Kronborg soon disappeared in the murky atmosphere, as well as the tower of Helsinborg, which raises its head on the Swedish Bank. And here the schooner began to feel in earnest the breezes of the Kattegat.
Her cargo was coal, furniture, pottery, woolen clothing, and a load of corn.
As usual, the crew was small, five Danes doing the whole of the work.
"How long will the voyage last?" asked my uncle.
At all events, we shall get there some day."
The voyage offered no incident worthy of record.
I bore it very well, but my uncle to his great annoyance, and even shame, was remarkably seasick!
On the eleventh day we sighted Cape Portland, over which towered Mount Myrdals Yokul, which, the weather being clear, we made out very readily. The cape itself is nothing but a huge mount of granite standing naked and alone to meet the Atlantic waves.
After some hours we came in sight of a solitary rock in the ocean, forming a mighty vault, through which the foaming waves poured with intense fury.
From that moment the schooner was steered to the westward in order to round Cape Reykjanes, the western point of Iceland.
My uncle came out of his cabin pale, haggard, thin, but full of enthusiasm, his eyes dilated with pleasure and satisfaction.
Nearly the whole population of the town was on foot to see us land.
Then without further remark, he put his finger to his lips, frowned darkly, and descended into the small boat which awaited us.
He was, however, but a civil servant, a magistrate, the governor of the island-Baron Trampe.
Out of three rooms of which his house was composed, two were placed at our service, and in a few hours we were installed with all our baggage, the amount of which rather astonished the simple inhabitants of Reykjavik.
"How the worse difficulty over?" I cried in fresh amazement.
Here we are in Iceland.
"Well, sir, to a certain extent you are right.
We have only to go down-but, as far as I am concerned, that is not the question.
I want to know how we are to get up again."
"That is the least part of the business, and does not in any way trouble me.
I am about to visit the public library.
I shall be glad to consult them."
"In the meanwhile," I replied, "I will take a walk through the town. Will you not likewise do so?"
"What for me is curious in this island, is not what is above the surface, but what is below."
I bowed by way of reply, put on my hat and furred cloak, and went out.
The town lies on a flat and marshy plain, between two hills.
A vast field of lava skirts it on one side, falling away in terraces towards the sea.
They were now, however, absent on duty.
The other street, situated more to the west, runs toward a little lake between the residences of the bishop and the other personages not engaged in commerce.
I had soon seen all I wanted of these weary and dismal thoroughfares. Here and there was a strip of discolored turf, like an old worn out bit of woolen carpet; and now and then a bit of kitchen garden, in which grew potatoes, cabbage, and lettuce, almost diminutive enough to suggest the idea of Lilliput.
In the centre of the new commercial street, I found the public cemetery, enclosed by an earthen wall.
Though not very large, it appeared not likely to be filled for centuries.
I have not the slightest doubt that in high winds its red tiles were blown out, to the great annoyance of the pastor and congregation.
Upon an eminence close at hand was the national school, in which were taught Hebrew, English, French, and Danish.
In three hours my tour was complete.
No trees, no vegetation, so to speak-on all sides volcanic peaks-the huts of turf and earth-more like roofs than houses.
I saw but few inhabitants during my excursion, but I met a crowd on the beach, drying, salting and loading codfish, the principal article of exportation.
The men appeared robust but heavy; fair haired like Germans, but of pensive mien-exiles of a higher scale in the ladder of humanity than the Eskimos, but, I thought, much more unhappy, since with superior perceptions they are compelled to live within the limits of the Polar Circle.
Sometimes they gave vent to a convulsive laugh, but by no chance did they smile.
Their costume consists of a coarse capote of black wool, known in Scandinavian countries as the "vadmel," a broad brimmed hat, trousers of red serge, and a piece of leather tied with strings for a shoe-a coarse kind of moccasin.
CHAPTER nine
OUR START-WE MEET WITH ADVENTURES BY THE WAY
The weather was overcast but settled, when we commenced our adventurous and perilous journey.
We had neither to fear fatiguing heat nor drenching rain.
It was, in fact, real tourist weather.
As there was nothing I liked better than horse exercise, the pleasure of riding through an unknown country caused the early part of our enterprise to be particularly agreeable to me.
I began to enjoy the exhilarating delight of traveling, a life of desire, gratification and liberty.
The truth is, that my spirits rose so rapidly, that I began to be indifferent to what had once appeared to be a terrible journey.
There could be no doubt that this was all this terrible Saknussemm had done.
All, then, that may be required of me I will do cheerfully, and will create no difficulty.
It was just before we left Reykjavik that I came to this decision.
Hans, our extraordinary guide, went first, walking with a steady, rapid, unvarying step.
Our two horses with the luggage followed of their own accord, without requiring whip or spur.
My uncle and I came behind, cutting a very tolerable figure upon our small but vigorous animals.
It contains thirty thousand square miles of surface, and has about seventy thousand inhabitants.
Geographers have divided it into four parts, and we had to cross the southwest quarter which in the vernacular is called Sudvestr Fjordungr.
Hans, on taking his departure from Reykjavik, had followed the line of the sea.
We took our way through poor and sparse meadows, which made a desperate effort every year to show a little green.
They very rarely succeed in a good show of yellow.
The rugged summits of the rocky hills were dimly visible on the edge of the horizon, through the misty fogs; every now and then some heavy flakes of snow showed conspicuous in the morning light, while certain lofty and pointed rocks were first lost in the grey low clouds, their summits clearly visible above, like jagged reefs rising from a troublous sea.
Every now and then a spur of rock came down through the arid ground, leaving us scarcely room to pass.
Our horses, however, appeared not only well acquainted with the country, but by a kind of instinct, knew which was the best road.
My uncle had not even the satisfaction of urging forward his steed by whip, spur, or voice.
"Good beast, good beast," he would cry.
Snow, tempest, impracticable roads, rocks, icebergs-nothing stops him.
He is brave; he is sober; he is safe; he never makes a false step; never glides or slips from his path.
We must not, however, attempt to hurry him; we must allow him to have his own way, and I will undertake to say that between us we shall do our ten leagues a day."
"We may do so," was my reply, "but what about our worthy guide?"
Look at Hans.
He moves so little that it is impossible for him to become fatigued.
Besides, if he were to complain of weariness, he could have the loan of my horse.
I should have a violent attack of the cramp if I were not to have some sort of exercise.
My arms are right-but my legs are getting a little stiff."
All this while we were advancing at a rapid pace.
The country we had reached was already nearly a desert.
In this country there are no roads, paths are nearly unknown, and vegetation, poor as it was, slowly as it reached perfection, soon obliterated all traces of the few travelers who passed from place to place.
What, then, must be the state of the less known and more distant parts of the island?
A few stray cows and sheep were only seen occasionally.
What, then, must we expect when we come to the upheaved regions-to the districts broken and roughened from volcanic eruptions and subterraneous commotions?
We were to learn this all in good time.
In reality, the great volcanic movement of the island, and all its attendant phenomena, are concentrated in the interior of the island; there, horizontal layers or strata of rocks, piled one upon the other, eruptions of basaltic origin, and streams of lava, have given this country a kind of supernatural reputation.
Little did I expect, however, the spectacle which awaited us when we reached the peninsula of Sneffels, where agglomerations of nature's ruins form a kind of terrible chaos.
It consists simply of a few houses-not what in England or Germany we should call a hamlet.
Hans stopped here one half hour.
He shared our frugal breakfast, answered Yes, and No to my uncle's questions as to the nature of the road, and at last when asked where we were to pass the night was as laconic as usual.
I pointed this out to my uncle, who made a very energetic grimace.
He was about to make some energetic observation to the guide, but Hans, without taking the slightest notice of him, went in front of the horses, and walked ahead with the same imperturbable phlegm he had always exhibited.
Three hours later, still traveling over those apparently interminable and sandy prairies, we were compelled to go round the Kollafjord, an easier and shorter cut than crossing the gulfs.
These sacred edifices are, however, very much like these people, who do without watches-and never miss them.
The sweeping and broken waves came rolling in upon the pointed rocks; the gulf was surrounded by rocky walls-a mighty cliff, three thousand feet in height, remarkable for its brown strata, separated here and there by beds of tufa of a reddish hue.
Now, whatever may have been the intelligence of our horses, I had not the slightest reliance upon them, as a means of crossing a stormy arm of the sea.
To ride over salt water upon the back of a little horse seemed to me absurd.
"If they are really intelligent," I said to myself, "they will certainly not make the attempt.
In any case, I shall trust rather to my own intelligence than theirs."
But my uncle was in no humor to wait.
He dug his heels into the sides of his steed, and made for the shore.
His horse went to the very edge of the water, sniffed at the approaching wave and retreated.
At length the sturdy little pony, spreading out his legs, in a stiff and ludicrous attitude, got from under the Professor's legs, and left him standing, with both feet on a separate stone, like the Colossus of Rhodes.
"What, a ferry boat!"
"Der," answered Hans, pointing to where lay the boat in question-"there."
"Why did you not say so before," cried my uncle; "why not start at once?"
"Tidvatten," said the guide.
"What does he say?" I asked, considerably puzzled by the delay and the dialogue.
"He says tide," replied my uncle, translating the Danish word for my information.
"Of course I understand-we must wait till the tide serves."
"For bida?" asked my uncle.
My uncle frowned, stamped his feet and then followed the horses to where the boat lay.
I thoroughly understood and appreciated the necessity for waiting, before crossing the fjord, for that moment when the sea at its highest point is in a state of slack water.
The favorable moment did not come until six o'clock in the evening.
Then my uncle, myself, and guide, two boatmen and the four horses got into a very awkward flat bottom boat.
Accustomed as I had been to the steam ferry boats of the Elbe, I found the long oars of the boatmen but sorry means of locomotion.
CHAPTER two
Had the young hunters the power of looking into the future, their camp fire that night on the frozen Ombabika might have been one of their last, and a few days later would have seen them back on the edges of civilization.
But this power of discernment was denied them, and only in after years, with the loved ones of their own firesides close about them, was the whole picture revealed.
If there is such a thing as love at first sight, it sprang into existence the moment john Newsome's eyes fell upon this lovely princess.
From the beginning Minnetaki returned the young factor's affections, but a most potent reason prevented their marriage.
Minnetaki herself replied to this ultimatum.
Those who were left moved to the vicinity of the Post.
The feud still existed.
The passing of each day became a painful task to him.
There were now few lonely hours for the two boys.
It was accompanied by one from the factor himself, another from the princess mother, and by a tiny note from Minnetaki, who pleaded with the others that Roderick and mrs Drew might spend the winter with them at Wabinosh House.
We will hunt wolves.
The country is alive with them, and the government gives a bounty of fifteen dollars for every scalp taken. Two winters ago I killed forty and I did not make a business of it at that.
We have everything here."
In the end they came to an understanding.
On the tenth of October he would meet Rod at Sprucewood, on the Black Sturgeon River.
Not until the eleventh did he arrive at Sprucewood.
CHAPTER seven
Boats put out both from the fort and the shore.
He was watching the boats.
Harry's heart and judgment alike responded to the call.
"This is your discharge from the Palmetto Guards," he said.
"Colonel Kenton writes wisely.
I shall look for you there."
His manner was much more considered and grave.
The very triumph and joy of living penetrated his soul. Youth swept aside the terrors of war.
All the winds blew in the same direction in South Carolina and they sang one song of triumph, but in Kentucky they were variable and conflicting, and their voices were many.
People were cooler here and they were more prone to look at the two sides of a question.
It was afternoon when he reached the little station of Winton and left the train, a tall, sturdy boy, the superior of many a man in size, strength and agility.
You were at the bombardment of Fort Sumter, they tell me! It's made a mighty stir in these parts!
"Look out for what?"
"I will," replied Harry, with vivid recollection of his ride from Pendleton to Winton.
"If you've got pistols, just you think once before you shoot," said Collins.
He had little fear.
This was not the fashion of a year ago, when they exchanged a friendly word or two, but Harry knew its cause.
But he saw nothing that moved there.
A CATASTROPHE.
One winter evening, as soon as his work was over for the day, Joseph locked the door of his smithy, washed himself well, put on clean clothes, and, taking his violin, set out for Testbridge: Mary was expecting him to tea.
It was the afternoon of a holiday, and she had closed early.
His being was like an all sided lens concentrating all joys in the one heart of his consciousness.
Earth was gone, and heaven was all.
When he reached the suburbs, the light of homes was shining through curtains of all colors.
When he reached Mary's shop, he turned into the court to the kitchen door.
"Through the kitchen to the parlor!" he said.
O my God-through the mud of me, up to thy righteousness!"
Mary came half-way to meet him.
He stepped across the floor, still, stately, and free.
Letty, finding herself not quite equal to the emergency, came in her turn to call Mary: she went as quietly as if she were leaving a tiresome visitor.
The music was broken, and Joseph left alone with the dumb instruments.
Mary had not listened long before she found herself strangely moved. Her heart seemed to swell up into her throat, and it was all she could do to keep from weeping.
A little longer and she was compelled to yield, and the silent tears flowed freely.
Letty, too, was overcome-more than ever she had been by music.
A mood had taken shape in the mind of the blacksmith, and wandered from its home, seeking another country.
Thus, in a garment of mood whose color and texture was music, did the soul of Joseph Jasper that evening, like a homeless ghost, come knocking at the door of Mary Marston.
It prayed, it wept, it implored.
It cried aloud that eternity was very long, and like a great palace without a quiet room.
On the bough of an apple tree, in the fair moonlight, sat a nightingale, swaying to and fro like one mad with the wine of his own music, singing as if he wanted to break his heart and have done, for the delight was too much for mortal creature to endure.
He that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath not seen?
It broke the enchantment in which Joseph was bound.
That enchantment had possessed him, usurping as it were the throne of his life, and displacing it; when it ceased, he was not his own master.
How it happened he never could tell, but he brought down his violin with a crash against the piano, then somehow stumbled and all but fell.
His violin was broken, but his being was made whole! his treasure taken-type of his self, and a woman given him instead!
"It's just like him!" he murmured.
A DARING RESCUE
Running to the edge of the cliff, he leaned over and listened intently.
A moment more and he too caught the plaintive cry for help from below.
"Keep back!
Keep back!" he shouted, as the boys and Professor Zepplin began crowding near the masked edge of the cliff.
"You'll all be over if you don't have a care.
"What is it?" demanded the Professor breathlessly.
"It's Master Walt," snapped the guide.
"Stand still.
Don't move an inch.
I'm going back for a torch," he commanded, leaping by them on his way to the camp fire.
"Where-is-he?" stammered the Professor, not observing that the guide had left them.
"Down there, sir," explained Tad, pointing to the ledge of rock over which Walter had fallen.
"I know-I know-but----"
"I heard him call.
Walt's alive!
But I don't know how we are going to get him."
The shout of joy that had framed itself on the lips of Ned Rector and Stacy Brown died out in an indistinct murmur.
"Is it possible!
What are we going to do, Thomas-how are we to rescue the boy?"
"See anything?" asked Tad tremulously, creeping to his side.
"Looks like a clump of bushes down there.
But I ain't sure.
Can you make it out?"
"no
All I can see is rocks and shadows.
Where is it that you think you see bushes?"
"Over there to the right, just near the edge of the light space made by the torch light," answered the guide.
"Yes," agreed Tad, "that does look like bushes.
Hey, Walter!
"All right, old man.
Stick tight and don't get scared.
We'll have you out of that in no time."
"Don't move around.
Lie perfectly still," warned the guide.
"Are you hurt?"
To this question Walter made some reply that was unintelligible to them.
"Now, what are we going to do, I'd like to know?" asked Ned.
"It's a tough job.
"Why not get a rope and let it down to him," suggested Tad.
"Yes, that's the only way we can do it.
Run over to the cook tent and tell Jose to give you those rawhide lariats that he will find behind his bunk.
Hurry!"
The mountaineer quickly formed a loop in one end of the rope, making it large enough to permit of its slipping over the shoulders of a man.
"Hello, down there!
Let me know when the rope reaches you.
Can you slip it over your shoulders and under your arms?" called the guide.
There was no response.
They gazed at each other in perplexity.
"Has-he---gone?" asked the Professor weakly.
"no
But I don't dare try it.
I don't dare try any experiments."
"What do you think has happened to him?" asked Tad in a troubled voice.
"Fainted, probably.
He ain't very strong, you know.
And that tumble's enough to knock the sense out of a full grown man.
Ain't no use to expect him to hook himself onto the line, even if he does wake up," decided the guide with emphasis, beginning to haul up the lariat, which he coiled neatly on the rock in front of him.
"Then what are we going to do?
We've got to get Walt up here, even if I have to jump over after him," said Tad firmly.
"Right you are, young man.
But talking won't do it.
Something else besides saying you're going to will be necessary."
"What would you suggest!"
"One of us must go down there," was the guide's startling announcement.
"In that case, you will have to go yourself, Thomas," decided the Professor sharply.
"Let me go, mr Thomas," interrupted Ned Rector, stepping forward, with almost a challenge in his eyes.
"I am the one to go after Walt, if anyone has to.
I'll go down, mr Thomas."
"Master Tad is right," decided the guide, gazing at the two boys approvingly.
"It will be better for him to go, if he will----"
"And he most certainly will," interrupted Tad, advancing a step.
"I protest!" shouted the Professor.
You are----"
"I am needed right here, sir," replied the guide, shortly.
"You'd have both of us at the bottom if I left it to you to take care of this end."
The guide, without further delay, and giving no heed to Professor Zepplin's nervous protests, slipped the noose over Tad's shoulders, and, drawing it down and up under his arms, secured the knot so that the loop might not tighten under the weight of the boy's body.
"Now, be very careful.
And, if you meet with anything unlooked for, let me know at once.
But, before removing the rope from your own body, make sure that you are safe.
If you find the support too weak to bear your weight, let me know.
I'll send down another rope to which you can tie yourself until we get Master Walter to the top.
Be sure to fasten him securely to the loop before you give the signal to haul up," warned the guide.
"Here, put my gun in your pocket."
"I understand."
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
After winding the end tightly about his own arm, he handed a lighted torch to Tad.
It was a trying moment for all of them, and naturally more so for the boy who was about to descend into the unknown depths of the mountain canyou.
"Right!" announced the guide in a reassuring voice.
"Good!" approved Lige encouragingly, beginning to let the rawhide slip slowly around the trunk of the tree.
As he did so, Tad felt himself gradually sinking into the sombre depths.
He tilted his head to look up.
The movement sent his body swaying giddily from side to side.
Cautiously placing a hand against the rocks to steady himself, Tad wisely concluded that hereafter it would not pay to be too curious.
"Hold a torch over the edge of the cliff, Master Ned," directed the guide.
"Better lie down so you, too, don't take a notion to fall off.
Keep your eyes shut till I tell you to open them."
After what seemed to them hours, a sharp call from the depths reached their ears.
"Yes?
Got him?" he answered, leaning over the cliff.
"I see him," called Tad, his voice sounding hollow and unnatural to those above.
"He's so far to the right of me that I can't reach him.
Will it be all right for me to swing myself?"
"Where is he?"
"Lodged in the branches of a pinyon tree, I think it is.
But he doesn't answer me."
"Wait a minute," cautioned the mountaineer.
"All right.
Now try it."
The creaking of the rawhide told them that Tad Butler was swaying from side to side, fifty feet below them, at the end of a slender line.
Then followed a long period of suspense.
But from the cautious movements of the light far below them, the guide understood that the lad was at work carrying out his part of the task of rescue to the best of his ability.
"Keep still!
Don't bother him.
The boy's doing the best he can.
"Yes; haul away.
Tell them Walt's all right.
He can talk now," was the answer that carried with it such a note of gladness that Ned and Stacy were unable to resist a shout of joy.
"Are you all safe down there, Tad?"
"Sure thing!" answered the boy.
Very slowly, restraining their inclination to haul the rope in with all speed only because the warning eyes of the guide were upon them, the two boys, assisted by Professor Zepplin, began hoisting Walter Perkins toward the top.
Walter had fully regained consciousness by this time, and a brief examination showed that he had sustained no serious injury, he having struck on the yielding branches of the pinyon, which broke his fall and saved his life.
The boy could not repress a shudder.
Closing his eyes, he clung to the slender support with grim courage until a hail from above told him that the rawhide loop was rapidly squirming down toward him.
CHAPTER twelve
ROUGH RIDERS IN THE SADDLE
He no doubt would bring food of some kind with him.
The fire would be ready and thus no time would be lost in preparing the first meal of the day, which, in this case, would be breakfast, dinner and supper all in one.
The boys awaited the guide's approach with impatience, some pacing back and forth, while others coaxed the fire into a roaring blaze, at the same time confiding to each other how hungry they were.
It was a gladsome sound to this band of hungry boys, whose ordinarily healthy appetites, under the bracing mountain air and the long fast, had taken on what the Professor described as a "razor edge."
"Now you may go," he nodded.
With a shout, the boys dashed pell mell to meet the pack train, and, falling in behind the slow moving burros, urged them on with derisive shouts and sundry resounding slaps on the animals' flanks.
"Had anything to eat!" asked the guide.
"Not enough to give us indigestion," answered Ned.
"Cold water is the most nourishing thing we've touched since last night."
"But I left you a rabbit.
Didn't you find it?"
"We did not.
It must have come to life some time during the night and dug its way out," laughed Tad.
"And we've got a surprise for you," announced Stacy, swelling with pride.
"You'll see when you get to camp," answered Chunky.
"I don't need guns to hunt with.
A stout club for mine."
By the time the meal was ready the tents had been pitched and the boys had returned from the spring, rubbing their faces with their coarse towels, their cheeks glowing and their eyes sparkling in anticipation of the feast.
Chunky reached the table first, greedily surveying what had been placed on it.
"Hooray, fellows!" he shouted.
What do you think of that?"
"Honey?
Why, mr Thomas, where did you get honey?" asked Walter.
"Found a bee tree on my way back, and cut it down.
"We'll take all chances," advised Ned.
"But what's this!
It looks like jam."
"Yes; wild plum jam," answered the guide.
"Now, fall to, young gentlemen," directed the Professor.
"I am free to admit that I am hungry, too.
I think I shall help myself to some of that wild plum jam and biscuit, first It reminds me of old times.
We sometimes had jam when I was with the German----"
"Army," added Ned.
"Yes."
Chunky did even better than that.
He buried his biscuit under a layer of jam, over which he spread a thick coating of honey.
Ned fixed him with a stern eye.
"Remember, sir, that a certain amount of dignity befits the office of president of the Pony Riders Club," he said.
Chunky colored.
"It's good, anyway."
"Then, I think I'll try some myself," announced Ned, helping himself liberally to the honey and jam.
"I'd lose my dignity for a mouthful of that, any day," he decided after having sampled the combination. "President Brown, I withdraw my criticism.
I offer you my humble apologies.
Next thing we know you'll be providing us with bear steak."
"Are there bears up here?"
"I reckon there are," smiled the guide.
"We are in the bear country now.
I came near losing my life too, and----"
"A cave?" interrupted Tad.
"Yes, the country is full of caves.
Besides this, there are many abandoned mines up the range further.
"All you want.
This announcement filled the boys with excitement.
"What I want to know, is, when do we go hunting?" asked Ned.
"That depends.
Perhaps Tuesday.
We shall need a dog.
But I know an old settler who will lend us his dog, if it is not out.
Of course, dogs can't follow the trail of an animal as well, now, as they could with snow on the ground.
But this dog, you will find, is a wonder.
"I think I'll ride my own pony and let the dog walk," announced Ned.
Supper having been finished, the party gathered about the camp fire for their evening chat, after which, admonishing Stacy to keep within his tent and not to go borrowing trouble, the boys turned in for a sound sleep.
As yet, they had been unable to attempt any fancy riding with their ponies, owing to the rugged nature of the country through which they had been journeying.
The guide said that, by making a detour in their journey that day, they would cross table lands several acres in extent and covered with grass.
The trail is so plainly marked that he can't miss it."
The boys were now all anxiety to start, while the ponies, after their Sunday rest, were almost as full of life as were their owners.
The little animals were becoming more sure footed every day, and Ned said that, before the trip was finished, "Jimmie" would be able to walk a slack rope.
An early start was made, so that the party reached the promised table lands shortly before ten o'clock in the forenoon.
A temporary camp was quickly pitched.
At their urgent request, Professor Zepplin told the boys to go ahead and enjoy themselves.
"I guess I had better go along to see that you do not."
They assured him that nothing was further from their intention, and quickly casting aside guns and cartridge belts, they threw themselves into their saddles again for a jolly romp.
The great, green field, surrounded on all sides by tall trees, made the place an ideal one for their purpose.
"Suppose we start with a race?
We'll race the length of the field and back.
We'll do it three times, and the one who wins two times out of three will be it."
To this all agreed.
Walter Perkins won the heat.
The next two heats were different.
This time the battle lay between Tad Butler and Ned Rector.
It was a beautiful race, the little Indian ponies seeming to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the contest, stretching themselves out to their full lengths, and, with heads on a level with their backs, fairly flew across the great plot of green.
Up to within a moment of the finish of the second heat the two ponies were racing neck and neck.
Tad hitched in his saddle a little, throwing the greater part of his weight on the stirrups.
He slapped Texas sharply on the flank with the flat of his hand.
Texas seemed to leap clear of the ground, planting himself on all fours just over the line, the winner by a neck.
The third heat was merely a repetition of the second.
All agreed that Tad's superior horsemanship, alone, had won the race for him.
Ned took his defeat good naturedly.
By this time, the boys had come to feel fully as much at home in the saddle as they formerly had been out of it.
Even Stacy Brown, though he did not sit his saddle with the same grace that marked the riding of Tad Butler and Ned Rector, more practiced horsemen, was nevertheless no mean rider.
"I'll show you," promised Tad.
Galloping into camp the boy fetched his sombrero, which he carried well out into the field and tossed away.
All at once he dropped to the saddle and slipped the left foot from the stirrup.
Grasping the pommel with the left hand, he appeared to dive head first toward the ground.
"Huh!
That's nothing.
I can do that myself," he grunted.
"I've seen them do that in the wild west shows too many times not to know how myself."
Walter smiled, with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Why not show us, then?" he said.
"I will," replied Chunky, confidently.
"Got your life insured?" asked Ned.
"If you haven't I would advise you to go easy.
"Don't you worry about me, Ned Rector.
Guess I know how to ride.
Let me have that hat, Tad," he demanded as the latter came trotting up to the group.
Stacy, his face flushed, determination plainly showing in his eyes, stretched forth his hand for the sombrero.
Riding bravely out into the field, he tossed it to the ground.
Stacy dismounted and removed the hat carefully to one side.
I couldn't get it," explained Chunky.
"Why don't you move the pony?
You don't have to move the hat, you ninny."
"Be careful, Chunky," warned Walter.
"He's got to learn," declared Tad.
Then Chunky essayed the feat.
At the moment when he freed his left foot from the stirrup, he threw his body sharply to the right, reaching for the hat without taking the precaution to grasp the pommel.
As a result, instead of stopping when he reached the hat, the boy kept on going.
Fortunately, his right foot freed itself from the stirrup at the same time, or there might have been a different ending.
Chunky turned a double somersault, lay still for a moment, then struggled up, rubbing his body gingerly, as the rest of the party came hurrying up to him.
"Are you hurt?" asked Tad apprehensively.
CHAPTER four
THE FIRST NIGHT IN CAMP
The camp fire was burning brightly when the first guard, having completed its tour of duty, came galloping in.
In a few moments the sound of singing was borne to the ears of the campers.
"It's the 'Cowboy's Lament,'" laughed Bob Stallings.
"Listen."
Off on the plain they heard a rich tenor voice raised in the song of the cowman.
"Little black bull came down the hillside, Down the hillside, down the hillside, Little black bull came down the hillside, Long time ago."
"I don't call that much of a song," sniffed Chunky contemptuously after a moment of silence on the part of the group.
"Even if I can't sing, I can beat that."
"Better not try it out on the range," smiled the foreman.
"Not on the range?
Why not?" demanded the boy.
"Bob thinks it might stampede the herd," spoke up Big foot Sanders.
A loud laugh followed at Chunky's expense.
"When you get to be half as good a man on cows as your friend the Pinto, here, you'll be a full grown man," added Big foot.
"The Pinto rounded up a bunch of stray cows to night as well as I could do it myself, and he didn't go about it with a brass band either."
The foreman nodded, with an approving glance at Tad.
Tad's eyes were sparkling from the experiences of the evening, as well as from the praise bestowed upon him by the big cowpuncher.
"The pony did most of it," admitted the lad.
"I just gave him his head, and that's all there was to it."
"More than most tenderfeet would have done," growled Big foot.
Walter had gone out with the second guard, and the others had gathered around the camp fire for their nightly story telling.
"Now, I don't want you fellows sitting up all night," objected the foreman.
"None of you will be fit for duty to morrow.
We've got a hard drive before us, and every man must be fit as a fiddle.
You can enjoy yourselves sleeping just as well as sitting up."
"I'll give it as a horseback opinion that the only way to enjoy such a night as this, is to sit up until you fall asleep with your boots on.
That's the way I'm going to do it, to night."
The cowboy did this very thing, but within an hour he found himself alone, the others having turned in one by one.
"Where are your beds?" asked Stacy after the foreman had urged the boys to get to sleep.
"Beds?" grunted Big foot.
"Anywhere-everywhere.
Our beds, on the plains, are wherever we happen to pull our boots off."
"You will find your stuff rolled up under the chuck wagon, boys," said Stallings.
These they spread out on the ground, using boots wrapped in coats for pillows.
Stacy Brown proved the only grumbler in the lot, declaring that he could not sleep a wink on such a bed as that.
In floundering about, making up his bunk, the lad had fallen over two cowboys and stepped full on the face of a third.
Instantly there was a chorus of yells and snarls from the disturbed cowpunchers, accompanied by dire threats as to what they would do to the gopher did he ever disturb their rest in that way again.
This effectually quieted the boy for the night, and the camp settled down to silence and to sleep.
Besides holding the untrustworthy horses, it afforded a temporary corral for catching a change of mounts.
In spite of their hard couches the Pony Riders slept soundly, even Professor Zepplin himself never waking the whole night through.
With Stacy Brown, however, severe measures were necessary when one of the returning guard routed him out at half past three in the morning.
Stacy grumbled, turned over and went to sleep again.
The guard chanced to be Lumpy Bates, and he administered, what to him, was a gentle kick, to hurry the boy along.
"Keep still, you baby!" growled the cowman.
"Do you want to wake up the whole outfit?
There'll be a lively muss about the time you do, I reckon, and you'll wish you hadn't.
If you can't keep shut, the boss'll be for making you sleep under the chuck wagon.
If you make a racket there, Pong will dump a pot of boiling water over you.
You won't be so fast to wake up hard working cowboys after that, I reckon."
"What do you want?" demanded the boy.
"It's your trick.
Get a move on you and keep still.
There's the pony ready for you.
I wouldn't have saddled it but the boss said I must.
"Is breakfast ready?" asked the boy, tightening his belt and jamming his sombrero down over his head.
"Breakfast?" jeered Lumpy.
"You're lucky to be alive in this outfit, let alone filling yourself with grub.
Stacy ruefully, and still half asleep, made a wide circle around the sleeping cowmen that he might not make the mistake of again stepping on any of them.
Lumpy watched him with disapproving eyes.
The lad caught the pony that stood moping in the corral, not appearing to be aware that his rider was preparing him for the range, Chunky all the time muttering to himself.
Lumpy Bates came running toward him, not daring to call out for fear of waking the camp.
The cowman was swinging his arms and seeking to attract the lad's attention.
Chunky, however, was too sleepy to see anything so small as a cowman swinging his arms a rod away.
"Hi, there!" hissed Lumpy, filled with indignation that anyone should attempt to mount a pony from the right side.
His warning came too late.
Stacy Brown's left leg swung over the saddle. No sooner had the pony felt the leather over him than he raised his back straight up, his head going down almost to the ground.
Stacy shot up into the air as if he had been propelled from a bow gun. He struck the soft sand several feet in advance of the pony, his face and head ploughing a little furrow as he drove along on his nose.
"Don't you know any more than to try to get onto a broncho from the off side?
Say, don't you?"
He shook the lad violently.
"Does it make any difference?"
The boss said the first man he heard using language while you tenderfeet were with us, would get fired on the spot."
At first the pony began to buck; then, evidently thinking the effort was not worth while, settled down to a rough trot which soon shook the boy up and thoroughly awakened him.
The rest of the fourth guard had already gone out, Chunky meeting the returning members of the third coming in.
"Better hurry up, kid," they chuckled.
"The cows'll sleep themselves out of sight before you get there, if you don't get a move on."
"Where are they?" asked the boy.
In a few moments they, too, had turned their ponies adrift and had thrown themselves down beside their companions, pulling their blankets well about them, for the night had grown chill.
Out on the plains the fourth guard were drowsily crooning the lullaby about the bull that "came down the hillside, long time ago."
It seemed as if scarcely a minute had passed since the boys turned in before they were awakened by the strident tones of the foreman.
"Roll out!
Roll out!" he roared, bringing the sleepy cowpunchers grumbling to their feet.
Almost before the echoes of his voice had died away, a shrill voice piped up from the tail end of the chuck wagon.
It was the Chinaman, Pong, sounding his call for breakfast, in accordance with the usage of the plains.
By the time the cowmen and Pony Riders had refreshed themselves at the spring near which the outfit had camped, a steaming hot breakfast had been spread on the ground, with a slicker for a table cloth.
"You boys don't have to swallow your food whole," smiled the foreman, observing that the Pony Riders seemed to think they were expected to hurry through their meal as well.
"Those fellows have to go out.
Take your time.
The fourth guard has to eat yet, so there is plenty of time. How did you all sleep?"
"Fine," chorused the boys.
"And you, mr Professor?"
"Surprisingly well.
It is astonishing with how little a man can get along when he has to."
"Who is the wrangler this morning?" asked the foreman, glancing about at his men.
"I am," spoke up Shorty Savage promptly.
"Wrangler?
What's a wrangler?" demanded Stacy, delaying the progress of a large slice of bacon, which hung suspended from the fork half-way between plate and mouth.
"A wrangler's a wrangler," answered Big foot stolidly.
"He's a fellow who's all the time making trouble, isn't he?" asked Stacy innocently.
"Oh, no, this kind of a wrangler isn't," laughed the foreman.
The horse wrangler is the fellow who goes out and rounds up the ponies.
Sometimes he does it in the middle of the night when the thunder and lightning are smashing about him like all possessed, and the cattle are on the rampage.
He's a trouble curer, not a troublemaker, except for himself."
"I guess there are some words that aren't in the dictionary," laughed Tad.
"I think you will find them all there, Master Tad, if you will consult the big book," said the Professor.
The meal was soon finished, Pong having stood rubbing his palms, a happy smile on his face, during the time they were eating.
"A very fine breakfast, sir," announced the Professor, looking up at the Chinaman.
"What do you mean?" asked Ned Rector.
"Pong, tell the young gentlemen what would become of you if you were to serve bad meals to this outfit of cowpunchers."
The Chinaman showed two rows of white teeth in his expansive grin.
"Allee same likee this," he explained.
"How?" asked Tad.
Pong, going through the motions of drawing a gun from his belt, and puffing out his cheeks, uttered an explosive "pouf!"
"Oh, you mean they would shoot you?" asked Walter.
"I hardly think they would do that, Pong."
"I guess we are pretty sure of having real food to eat, then," laughed Tad, as the boys rose from the table ready for the active work of the day.
"We will now get to work on the herd," announced the foreman.
"We had better start the drive this morning.
THE WIND AND THE FLOWERS
By mrs Alfred Gatty
"What a fuss is made about you, my dear little friends!" murmured the Wind, one day, to the flowers in a pretty villa garden.
I have been watching your friend the gardener for some time to day; and now that he is gone at last, I am quite curious to hear what you think and feel about your unnatural bringing up."
"I smile at your question," was the answer of the Wind.
"You surely cannot suppose that in a natural state you would be forced to climb regularly up one tall bare stick such as I see you upon now.
She runs along and climbs about, just as the whim takes her.
Sometimes she takes a turn upon the ground; sometimes she enters a hedge, and plays at bo peep with the birds in the thorn and nut trees-twisting here, curling there, and at last, perhaps, coming out at the top, and overhanging the edge with a canopy of green leaves and pretty white flowers.
I quite feel for you!
Now the Convolvulus was quite abashed by the words of the Wind, for she was conscious of feeling very conceited that morning, in consequence of having heard the gardener say something very flattering about her beauty; so she hung down her rich bell flowers rather lower than usual, and made no reply.
I am not aware that I have any poor relations in this country, and I myself certainly require all the care that is bestowed upon me. This climate is both too cold and too damp for me.
My young plants require heat, or they would not live; and the pots we are kept in protect us from those cruel wire worms who delight to destroy our roots."
Why not allow your silver tufts to luxuriate in a natural manner?
Why must every single flower betied up by its delicate neck to a stick, the moment it begins to open?
Really, with your natural grace and beauty, I think you might be trusted to yourself a little more!"
And the Carnation began to think so, too; and her colour turned deeper as a feeling of indignation arose within her at the childish treatment to which she had been subjected.
"With my natural grace and beauty," repeated she to herself, "they might certainly trust me to myself a little more!"
What a difference in size, in colour and in fragrance!
And what is the matter with the beautiful straggling branches, that they are to be cut off as fast as they appear?
Why not allow the healthy Rose Tree its free and glorious growth?
Oh, Rose Tree, you know your own surpassing merits too well to make you think this possible!"
And so she did, and a new light seemed to dawn upon her as she recollected the spring and autumnal prunings she regularly underwent, and the quantities of little branches that were yearly cut from her sides, and carried away in a wheel barrow.
Then the Wind took another frolic round the garden, and made up to the large white Lily, into whose refined ear he whispered a doubt as to the necessity or advantage of her thick powerful stem being propped up against a stupid, ugly stick!
He really grieved to see it!
Did that lovely creature suppose that Nature, who had done so much for her that the fame of her beauty extended throughout the world, had yet left her so weak and feeble that she could not support herself in the position most calculated to give her ease and pleasure?
"Always this tying up and restraint!" pursued the Wind, with an angry puff.
"Perhaps I am prejudiced; but as to be deprived of freedom would be to me absolute death, so my soul revolts from every shape and phase of slavery!"
"Not more than mine does!" cried the proud white Lily, leaning as heavily as she could against the strip of matting that tied her to her stick.
Indeed, not a flower escaped his mischievous suggestions.
He murmured among them all-laughed the trim cut Box edges to scorn-maliciously hoped the Sweet Peas enjoyed growing in a circle, and running up a quantity of crooked sticks-and told the flowers, generally, that he should report their unheard of submission and meek obedience wherever he went.
Then the white Lily called out to him in great wrath, and told him he mistook their characters altogether.
They only submitted to these degrading restraints because they could not help themselves; but if he would lend them his powerful aid, they might free themselves from at least a part of the unnatural bonds which enthralled them.
To which the wicked Wind, seeing that his temptations had succeeded, replied, in great glee, that he would do his best; and so he went away, chuckling at the discontent he had caused.
He managed the affair very cleverly, it must be confessed.
Making a sort of eddying circuit round the garden, he knocked over the Convolvulus pole, tore the strips from the stick that held up the white Lily, loosed all the Carnation flowers from their fastenings, broke the Rose Tree down, and levelled the Sweet Peas to the ground.
In short, in one half hour he desolated the pretty garden; and when his work was accomplished, he flew off.
Meanwhile, how fared it with the flowers?
The Wind was scarcely gone before a sudden and heavy rain followed, so that all was confusion for some time.
But towards the evening the weather cleared up, and our friends began to look around them.
The white Lily still stood somewhat upright, though no friendly pole supported her juicy stem; but, alas! it was only by a painful effort she could hold herself in that position.
The Convolvulus fared still worse.
The garden beds sloped towards the south; and when our friend was laid on the earth-her pole having fallen-her lovely flowers were choked up by the wet soil which drained towards her.
She felt the muddy weight as it soaked into her beautiful velvet bells, and could have cried for grief: she could never free herself from this nuisance.
Oh that she were once more climbing up the friendly fir pole!
The Honeysuckle escaped no better; and the Carnation was ready to die of vexation, at finding that her coveted freedom had levelled her to the dirt.
Before the day closed, the gardener came whistling from his farm work, to look over his pretty charges.
But for the sight that awaited him he was not prepared at all. Struck dumb with astonishment, he never spoke at first, but kept lifting up the heads of the trailing, dirtied flowers in succession.
It's all over with them, I fear;" and the gardener went his way.
Alas! what he said was true; and before many days had passed, the shattered Carnations were rotted with lying in the wet and dirt on the ground.
Weeds meanwhile sprang up, and a dreary confusion reigned in the once orderly and brilliant little garden.
At length, one day before the fortnight was over, the house dog was heard to bark his noisy welcome, and servants bustled to and fro. The mistress had returned; and the young lady was with her, and hurried at once to her favourite garden.
She came bounding towards the well-known spot with a song of joyous delight; but, on reaching it, suddenly stopped short, and in a minute after burst into a flood of tears!
Presently, with sorrowing steps, she bent her way round the flower beds, weeping afresh at every one she looked at; and then she sat down upon the lawn, and hid her face in her hands. In this position she remained, until a gentle hand was laid upon her shoulder.
"This is a sad sight, indeed, my darling," said her mother's voice.
"I am not thinking about the garden, mamma," replied the young girl, without lifting up her face; "we can plant new flowers, and tie up even some of these afresh.
But I cannot say so, now I see the result.
"These men," he said to his mighty company, "are nothing but a source of trouble.
When they were good and happy, we felt afraid lest they should become greater than ourselves; and now they are so terribly wicked that we are in worse danger than before.
Once every year he had gone to the land of the Caucasus to talk with his father, who was hanging chained to the mountain peak.
Be sure that you are ready for it, my son."
While they were talking and trying to think what they should do, they heard a voice behind them.
"Is there anything that you wish?" he asked.
"Surely I do not know," said Deucalion.
"But let us think a moment.
Who is our mother, if it is not the Earth, from whom all living things have sprung?
And yet what could he mean by the bones of our mother?"
"Perhaps he meant the stones of the earth," said Pyrrha.
"Let us go on down the mountain, and as we go, let us pick up the stones in our path and throw them over our shoulders behind us."
"It is rather a silly thing to do," said Deucalion; "and yet there can be no harm in it, and we shall see what will happen."
Once upon a time there was a king and a queen who grieved sorely that they had no children.
When at last the queen gave birth to a daughter the king was so overjoyed that he gave a great christening feast, the like of which had never before been known.
He asked all the fairies in the land-there were seven all told-to stand godmothers to the little princess, hoping that each might give her a gift, and so she should have all imaginable perfections.
Before each was set a magnificent plate, with a gold knife and a gold fork studded with diamonds and rubies.
The fairies now began to endow the princess.
The youngest, for her gift, decreed that she should be the most beautiful person in the world; the next that she should have the mind of an angel; the third that she should be perfectly graceful; the fourth that she should dance admirably well; the fifth, that she should sing like a nightingale; the sixth, that she should play charmingly upon every musical instrument.
The turn of the old fairy had now come, and she declared, while her head shook with malice, that the princess should pierce her hand with a spindle and die of the wound. This dreadful fate threw all the company into tears of dismay, when the young fairy who had hidden herself came forward and said:
"Be of good cheer, king and queen; your daughter shall not so die.
It is true I cannot entirely undo what my elder has done.
The princess will pierce her hand with a spindle, but, instead of dying, she will only fall into a deep sleep.
The sleep will last a hundred years, and at the end of that time a king's son will come to wake her."
The king, in hopes of preventing what the old fairy had foretold, immediately issued an edict by which he forbade all persons in his dominion from spinning or even having spindles in their houses under pain of instant death.
"What are you doing?" asked the princess.
"I am spinning, my fair child," said the old woman, who did not know her.
"How pretty it is!" exclaimed the princess.
"How do you do it?
Give it to me that I may see if I can do it." She had no sooner taken up the spindle, than, being hasty and careless, she pierced her hand with the point of it, and fainted away.
People came running in from all sides; they threw water in the princess's face and did all they could to restore her, but nothing would bring her to.
The king looked sorrowfully upon her.
He knew that she would not awake for a hundred years.
The good fairy who had saved her life and turned her death into sleep was in the kingdom of Mataquin, twelve thousand leagues away, when this happened, but she learned of it from a dwarf who had a pair of seven league boots, and instantly set out for the castle, where she arrived in an hour, drawn by dragons in a fiery chariot.
The king came forward to receive her and showed his grief.
The good fairy was very wise and saw that the princess when she woke would find herself all alone in that great castle and everything about her would be strange.
So this is what she did.
She touched with her wand everybody that was in the castle, except the king and queen.
She touched the governesses, maids of honour, women of the bedchamber, gentlemen, officers, stewards, cooks, scullions, boys, guards, porters, pages, footmen; she touched the horses in the stable with their grooms, the great mastiffs in the court yard, and even little Pouste, the tiny lap dog of the princess that was on the bed beside her.
Even the spits before the fire, laden with partridges and pheasants, went to sleep, and the fire itself went to sleep also.
It was the work of a moment.
The king and queen kissed their daughter farewell and left the castle, issuing a proclamation that no person whatsoever was to approach it.
That was needless, for in a quarter of an hour there had grown up about it a wood so thick and filled with thorns that nothing could get at the castle, and the castle top itself could only be seen from a great distance.
A hundred years went by, and the kingdom was in the hands of another royal family.
The son of the king was hunting one day when he discovered the towers of the castle above the tops of the trees, and asked what castle that was.
All manner of answers were given to him.
The prince did not know what to believe, when finally an old peasant said:
The young prince at these words felt himself on fire.
He had not a moment's doubt that he was destined to this great adventure, and full of ardour he determined at once to set out for the castle.
He walked toward the castle, which appeared now at the end of a long avenue, but when he turned to, look for his followers not one was to be seen; the woods had closed instantly upon him as he had passed through.
But the faces of the men were rosy, and the goblets by them had a few drops of wine left.
The men had plainly fallen asleep.
His steps resounded as he passed over the marble pavement and up the marble staircase.
He entered the guard room; there the guards stood drawn up in line with carbines at their shoulders, but they were sound asleep.
He passed through one apartment after another, where were ladies and gentlemen asleep in their chairs or standing.
He drew near, trembling and wondering, and knelt beside her.
Her hand lay upon her breast, and he touched his lips to it.
At that moment, the enchantment being ended, the princess awoke, and, looking drowsily and tenderly at the young man, said:
"Have you come, my prince?
The prince was overjoyed at the words, and at the tender voice and look, and scarcely knew how to speak.
But he managed to assure her of his love, and they soon forgot all else as they talked and talked.
The lady in waiting became very impatient, and at length announced to the princess that they all waited for her.
Then the prince took the princess by the hand; she was dressed in great splendour, but he did not hint that she looked as he had seen pictures of his great grandmother look; he thought her all the more charming for that.
They passed into a hall of mirrors, where they supped, attended by the officers of the princess. The violins and haut boys played old but excellent pieces of music, and after supper, to lose no time, the grand almoner married the royal lovers in the chapel of the castle.
When they left the castle the next day to return to the prince's home, they were followed by all the retinue of the princess.
They marched down the long avenue, and the wood opened again to let them pass.
Outside they met the prince's followers, who were overjoyed to see their master. He turned to show them the castle, but behold! there was no castle to be seen, and no wood; castle and wood had vanished, but the prince and princess went gayly away, and when the old king and queen died they reigned in their stead.
CHAPTER twelve.
That night, and every night until the dust was laid to the dust, Mary slept well; and through the days she had great composure; but, when the funeral was over, came a collapse and a change.
That night was the first herald of the coming winter, and blew a cold blast from his horn.
All day the wind had been out.
The smell of the linen, of the blue cloth, and of the brown paper-things no longer to be handled by those tender, faithful hands-was dismal and strange, and haunted her like things that intruded, things which she had done with, and which yet would not go away.
If for a moment a thing looked the same as before, she wondered vaguely, unconsciously, how it could be.
Death was a fact.
The loss, the evanishment, the ceasing, were incontrovertible-the only incontrovertible things: she was sure of them: could she be sure of anything else?
How could she? She had not seen Christ rise; she had never looked upon one of the dead; never heard a voice from the other bank; had received no certain testimony.
At last she fell asleep, and in a moment was dreaming diligently.
She was one of a large company at a house where she had never been before-a beautiful house with a large garden behind.
Every now and then she came on a little group, or met a party of the guests, as she walked, but none spoke to her, or seemed to see her, and she spoke to none.
She found herself at length in an avenue of dark trees, the end of which was far off.
At the end of it she was in a place of tombs.
Terror and a dismay indescribable seized her; she turned and fled back to the company of her kind.
But for a long time she sought the house in vain; she could not reach it; the avenue seemed interminable to her feet returning.
She was out of place, and much unwelcome.
No carriage rolled along the center, no footfarer walked on the side.
She knew nothing of the place, had nowhere to go, nowhere she wanted to go, had not a thought to tell her what question to ask, if she met a living soul.
It was all deadness.
But not a throb went through her heart.
He came to her side, and she gave him no greeting.
"He is dead.
It is nothing.
I am nothing.
Everything is an empty dream of loss.
I know it, and there is no waking.
The old time was but a thicker dream, and this is truer because more shadowy." And, the form still standing by her, she felt it was ages away; she was divided from it by a gulf of very nothingness.
Her only life was, that she was lost.
Her whole consciousness was merest, all but abstract, loss.
Then came the form of her mother, and bent over that of her brother from behind.
"She is nothing to me.
If I speak to her, she is not there.
Oh, cold creatures, ye are not what ye seem, and I will none of you!"
Even if he were alive, her heart was past being moved.
The universe was sunk in one of the dreams that haunt the sleep of death; and, if these were ghosts at all, they were ghosts walking in their sleep.
But the dead, one of them seized one of her hands, and another the other.
Thus was she borne away captive of her dead, neither willing nor unwilling, of life and death equally careless.
Through the moonlight they led her from the city, and over fields, and through valleys, and across rivers and seas-a long journey; nor did she grow weary, for there was not life enough in her to be made weary.
The dead never spoke to her, and she never spoke to them.
Of a sudden a great splendor burst upon her, and through her eyelids she was struck blind-blind with light and not with darkness, for all was radiance about her.
She was like a fish in a sea of light.
But she neither loved the light nor mourned the shadow.
And the voice said, "Poor child! something has closed the valve between her heart and mine." With that came a pang of intense pain.
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BY e NESBIT
SHE was going to meet her lover.
And the fact that she was to meet him at Cannon Street Station would almost, she feared, make the meeting itself banal, sordid.
She would have liked to meet him in some green, cool orchard, where daffodils swung in the long grass, and primroses stood on frail stiff little pink stalks in the wet, scented moss of the hedgerow.
The time should have been May.
She herself should have been a poem-a lyric in a white gown and green scarf, coming to him through the long grass under the blossomed boughs.
Her hands should have been full of bluebells, and she should have held them up to his face in maidenly defence as he sprang forward to take her in his arms.
You see that she knew exactly how a tryst is conducted in the pages of the standard poets and of the cheaper weekly journals.
She had, to the full limit allowed of her reading and her environment, the literary sense.
He had asked her to meet him at Cannon Street; he had something to say to her, and at home it was difficult to get a quiet half hour because of her little sisters.
And, curiously enough, she was hardly curious at all about what he might have to say.
She only wished for May and the orchard, instead of January and the dingy, dusty waiting room, the plain faced, preoccupied travellers, the dim, desolate weather.
The setting of the scene seemed to her all important.
Her dress was brown, her jacket black, and her hat was home trimmed.
He would hardly have known her in green and white muslin and an orchard, for their love had been born and bred in town-Highbury New Park, to be exact.
He came towards her; he was five minutes late.
She had grown anxious, as the one who waits always does, and she was extremely glad to see him, but she knew that a late lover should be treated with a provoking coldness (one can relent prettily later on), so she gave him a limp hand and no greeting.
"Let's go out," he said.
"Shall we walk along the Embankment, or go somewhere on the Underground?"
It was bitterly cold, but the Embankment was more romantic than a railway carriage.
He ought to insist on the railway carriage: he probably would.
So she said-
"Oh, the Embankment, please!" and felt a sting of annoyance and disappointment when he acquiesced.
They did not speak again till they had gone through the little back streets, past the police station and the mustard factory, and were on the broad pavement of Queen Victoria Street.
He had been late: he had offered no excuse, no explanation.
She had done the proper thing; she had awaited these with dignified reserve, and now she was involved in the meshes of a silence that she could not break. How easy it would have been in the orchard!
She could have snapped off a blossoming branch and-and made play with it somehow.
Then he would have had to say something.
But here-the only thing that occurred to her was to stop and look in one of the shops till he should ask her what she was looking at.
And how common and mean that would be compared with the blossoming bough; and besides, the shops they were passing had nothing in the windows except cheap pastry and models of steam engines.
Why on earth didn't he speak?
He had never been like this before.
She stole a glance at him, and for the first time it occurred to her that his "something to say" was not a mere excuse for being alone with her. He had something to say-something that was trying to get itself said. The keen wind thrust itself even inside the high collar of her jacket. Her hands and feet were aching with cold.
How warm it would have been in the orchard!
"I'm freezing," she said suddenly; "let's go and have some tea."
"Of course, if you like," he said uncomfortably; yet she could see he was glad that she had broken that desolate silence.
Seated at a marble table-the place was nearly empty-she furtively watched his face in the glass, and what she saw there thrilled her.
Some great sorrow had come to him.
And she had been sulking!
The girl in the orchard would have known at a glance.
She would have shared his sorrow, and shown herself "half wife, half angel from heaven" in this dark hour.
Well, it was not too late.
She could begin now.
But how?
Yet she must speak.
When she did her words did not fit the mouth of the girl in the orchard-but then it would have been May there, and this was January.
"How frightfully cold it is!"
"Yes, isn't it?" he said.
The fine tact of a noble woman seemed to have deserted her.
I can't bear to see you looking so miserable," and there was another silence.
The waitress brought the two thick cups of tea, and looked at him with a tepid curiosity.
As soon as the two were alone again he leaned his elbows on the marble and spoke.
"Look here, darling, I've got something to tell you, and I hope to God you'll forgive me and stand by me, and try to understand that I love you just the same, and whatever happens I shall always love you."
This preamble sent a shiver of dread down her spine.
What had he done-a murder-a bank robbery-married someone else?
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would stand by him whatever he had done; but if he had married someone else this would be improper, so she only said, "Well?" and she said it coldly.
Oh, Ethel, do try to forgive me!
I haven't answered her letter."
"Well?" she said.
She drew a deep breath.
What was it, compared with her fears?
She almost said, "Never mind, dear.
What opinion would he form of the purity of her mind, the innocence of her soul, if an incident like this failed to shock her deeply?
He himself was evidently a prey to the most rending remorse.
He had told her of the thing as one tells of a crime.
As the confession of a crime she must receive it.
How should she know that he had only told her because he feared that she would anyhow hear it through the indiscretion of the girl in pink, or of that other girl in blue who had seen and smiled?
How could she guess that he had tuned his confession to the key of what he believed would be an innocent girl's estimate of his misconduct?
Following the tingle of relief came a sharp, sickening pinch of jealousy and mortification.
These inspired her.
"You don't love me-you've never loved me-I was an idiot to believe you did."
"You know I do," he said; "it was hateful of me-but I couldn't help it."
Those four true words wounded her more than all the rest.
"Couldn't help it?
Then how can I ever trust you?
Even if we were married I could never be sure you weren't kissing some horrid girl or other.
No-it's no use-I can never, never forgive you-and it's all over.
He could not say, "And so I am, on the whole," which was what he thought.
Her tears were falling hot and fast between face and veil, for she had talked till she was very sorry indeed for herself.
"Forgive me, dear," he said.
Then she rose to the occasion.
"Never," she said, her eyes flashing through her tears.
"You've deceived me once-you'd do it again!
No, it's all over-you've broken my heart and destroyed my faith in human nature. I hope I shall never see you again.
"Do you think I'm not sorry now?"
At home she could at least have buried her face in the sofa cushions and resisted all his pleading,--at last, perhaps, letting him take one cold passive hand and shower frantic kisses upon it.
He would come to morrow, however, and then- At present the thing to compass was a dignified parting.
"Good bye," she said; "I'm going home.
And it's good bye for ever. No-it's only painful for both of us.
There's no more to be said; you've betrayed me.
I didn't think a decent man could do such things." She was pulling on her gloves.
"Go home and gloat over it all!
This really was a master stroke of nobility.
He stood up suddenly.
"Do you mean it?" he said, and his tone should have warned her.
"Are you really going to throw me over for a thing like this?"
The anger in his eyes frightened her, and the misery of his face wrung her heart; but how could she say-
I'm only talking as I know good girls ought to talk"?
So she said-
"Yes.
Good bye!"
He stood up suddenly.
"Then good bye," he said, "and may God forgive you as I do!" And he strode down between the marble tables and out by the swing door.
It was a very good exit.
At the corner he remembered that he had gone away without paying for the tea, and his natural impulse was to go back and remedy that error.
But how could he go back to say, "We are parting for ever; but still, I must insist on the sad pleasure of paying for our tea-for the last time"?
He checked the silly impulse.
So she waited for him in vain, and at last paid for the tea herself, and went home to wait there-and there, too, in vain, for he never came back to her.
He loved her with all his heart, and he, also, had what she had never suspected in him-the literary sense.
Because Destiny is almost without the literary sense, and Destiny carelessly decreed that he should die of enteric in a wretched hut, without so much as hearing a gun fired.
Yet perhaps, after all, that is not because of the literary sense. It may be because she loved him.
THE last strains of the ill treated, ill fated "Intermezzo" had died away, and after them had died away also the rumbling of the wheels of the murderous barrel organ that had so gaily executed that, along with the nine other tunes of its repertory, to the admiration of the housemaid at the window of the house opposite, and the crowing delight of the two babies next door.
The young man drew a deep breath of relief, and lighted the wax candles in the solid silver candlesticks on his writing table, for now the late summer dusk was falling, and that organ, please Heaven, made full the measure of the day's appointed torture.
There had been five organs since dinner-and seven in the afternoon-one and all urgently thumping their heavy melodies into his brain, to the confusion of the thoughts that waited there, eager to marshal themselves, orderly and firm, into the phalanx of an article on "The Decadence of Criticism."
He filled his pipe, drew paper towards him, dipped his pen, and wrote his title on the blank page.
After all, it was a "quiet neighbourhood" as the advertisement had said-at any rate, in the evening: and in the evening a man's best efforts-
He sprang to his feet-this was, indeed, too much!
and so forth.
The performer was evidently singing "under her voice," but the effect was charming.
He stood with his hand on the curtain, listening-and with a pleasure that astonished him.
Then there was silence-then a sigh, and the sound of light moving feet on the gravel.
He threw back the curtain and leaned out of the window.
"Here!" he called to the figure that moved slowly towards the gate.
She turned quickly, and came back two steps.
She wore the dress of a Contadina, a very smart dress indeed, and her hands looked small and white.
"Won't you sing again?" he asked.
She hesitated, then struck a chord or two and began another of those little tuneful Italian songs, all stars and flowers and hearts of gold. And again he listened with a quiet pleasure.
Never had any act seemed so impossible.
"Aren't you tired?" he said.
"Wouldn't you like to sit down and rest? There is a seat in the garden at the side of the house."
Again she hesitated.
Then she turned towards the quarter indicated and disappeared round the laurel bushes.
He went into the dining room, dark with mahogany and damask, found wine and cake in the sideboard cupboard, put them on a tray, and took them out through the garden door and round to the corner where, almost sheltered by laburnums and hawthorns from the view of the people next door, the singer and her guitar rested on the iron seat.
"I have brought you some wine-will you have it?"
Again that strange hesitation-then quite suddenly the girl put her hands up to her face and began to cry.
"Here-I say, you know-don't-" he said.
Here, signorina, ecco, prendi-vino-gatto-No, gatto's a cat.
I was thinking of French.
Oh, Lord!"
She rose.
She looked at him and spoke for the first time.
"It serves me right," she said in excellent, yet unfamiliar, English.
"I don't understand a single word you say!
I might have known I couldn't do it, though it's just what girls in books would do.
It would have turned out all right with them.
Let me go-thank you very much.
I am sure you meant to be kind." And then she began to cry again.
"Look here," he said, "this is all nonsense, you know.
What is it?
Do drink this, and then tell me.
Perhaps I can help you."
She drank obediently.
He hurriedly cut cake and pressed it upon her.
He had no time to think, but he was aware that this was the most exciting adventure that had ever happened to him.
Her eyes filled again with tears.
"You don't know how horrid everyone has been.
Why, that's nothing.
I'm poor, too."
She laughed.
You've quarrelled with your friends, and-Ah, tell me-and let me try to help you."
Her little foot tapped the gravel impatiently.
"I'm coming to that," she said.
"Of course he didn't.
The hotel folks let her go-I can't think how people can be so silly.
She stopped short, and looked at him through the dusk.
"Go on," he said, "tell me all about it."
"Well, then, I went into lodgings; that wicked woman had left me one street suit-and to day they turned me out because my money was all gone.
And I've been at it since five o'clock-and I've only got one shilling and seven pence.
I feel as if I had been beaten."
"Let me think," he said.
He reflected a moment.
"I shall lock up all the doors and windows in the house-and then I shall give you my latch key, and you can let yourself in and stay the night here-there is no one in the house.
I will catch the night train, and bring my mother up to morrow.
Then we will see what can be done."
The only excuse for this rash young man is to be found in the fact that while he was feeding his strange guest with cake and wine she was feeding, with her beauty, the first fire of his first love.
Love at first sight is all nonsense, we know-we who have come to forty year-but at twenty one one does not somehow recognise it for the nonsense it is.
"But don't you know anyone in London?" he asked in a sensible postscript.
You see, papa's so very rich, and at home they expect me to-to get acquainted with dukes and things-and-"
"American heiresses are expected to marry English dukes," he said, with a distinct physical pain at his heart.
"It wasn't I who said that," said the girl, smiling; "but that's so, anyhow." And then she sighed.
"So it's your destiny to marry a duke, is it?" the young man spoke slowly.
"All the same," he added irrelevantly, "you shall have the latch key."
He did not kiss it then, only took it in his, and felt how small and cold it was.
Then it was taken away.
"An adventuress!
I told you so!" said his mother at once-and the young man sat down at his study table and looked at the title of his article on "The Decadence of Criticism." It was surely a very long time ago that he had written that.
And he sat there thinking, till his mother's voice roused him.
She held out a pair of little patent leather shoes, very worn and dusty-the slender silken web of a black stocking, brown with dust, hung from her hand.
He answered nothing.
She spent the rest of that day in searching the house for further losses, but all things were in their place, except the silver handled button hook-and that, as even his sister owned, had been missing for months.
The half dozen pairs of embroidered silk stockings and the dainty French silver buckled shoes, which arrived a month later addressed to Miss ----, Hill View Villa, only confirmed their distrust.
It was plain that his castanet girl-his mother and sister took a pleasure in crediting her daily with some fresh and unpleasing instrument-could have had neither taste, money, nor honesty to such a point as this.
Use only the white inner stalks, serve with a cream dressing.
Amontillado, Montilo and Olorosa sherries.
Chateau Lafitte: Has beautiful color and delicate flavor.
Dreimanner: Similar to Brauneberger.
Deidesheimer: Similar to Brauneberger.
Graffenberg: Light and pleasant.
Good aroma.
Johannisberger Schloss: One of the best of the German wines.
Lacrima Christi Spumanti: The finest Italian champagne.
Barsac: Rich and good.
"He isn't fit to hear what's said here.
He believes it's all true.
He gets into his passions over it."
"He glared at me, as if he didn't know who I was, when I went downstairs. His heart was going like a hammer.
He can't help being excitable.
It isn't his fault.
Mr Verloc made no comment.
"I wish he had never been to school," Mrs Verloc began again brusquely. "He's always taking away those newspapers from the window to read.
He gets a red face poring over them.
We don't get rid of a dozen numbers in a month.
And Mr Ossipon brings every week a pile of these f p tracts to sell at a halfpenny each.
I wouldn't give a halfpenny for the whole lot.
It's silly reading-that's what it is.
There's no sale for it.
The other day Stevie got hold of one, and there was a story in it of a German soldier officer tearing half off the ear of a recruit, and nothing was done to him for it.
The brute!
I couldn't do anything with Stevie that afternoon.
The story was enough, too, to make one's blood boil.
But what's the use of printing things like that?
We aren't German slaves here, thank God.
ULYSSES SIMPSON GRANT.
When a man is energetic and determines to be somebody in the world-which is praiseworthy so long as that energy is guided by propriety and a just conception of right-there are always scores, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who endeavor to depreciate that man's reward.
No other excuse can be assigned for the slander and vituperation which has from time to time been heaped upon the fair reputation of General u s Grant.
Thomas l Hamer he was admitted at West Point in eighteen thirty nine.
Personally, at this early age, he detested war and was opposed to accepting the opportunity, but his father persuaded him to go, and his name was blunderingly registered as u s, instead of h u, hence he was ever after known as u s Grant.
In eighteen forty three he graduated, ranking twenty first in a class of thirty nine.
It will be remembered that Lee and McClellan each ranked second when they graduated.
At this time Grant was not taken with war, and probably evinced little interest in army tactics.
The Mexican war came on and Grant here distinguished himself, rising to the rank of captain.
After the war he was stationed at Detroit, and Sacketts Harbor, but this kind of inactivity was ill suited to the restless nature of Grant; he therefore resigned.
Having married a Miss Dent, of saint Louis, he accordingly moved onto a farm near that city.
When the news of the fall of Fort Sumter reached Galena he immediately raised a company and marched to Springfield where they tendered their services to the governor.
Grant acted as mustering officer until, being commissioned colonel of the Twenty first Illinois Volunteers, he took the field.
His first great victory was the capture of Fort Donelson with fifteen thousand prisoners.
I propose to move upon your works at once." The fall of Fort Donelson and the capture of its garrison being the first substantial victory that had crowned the Union cause, together with the above described answer to General Buckner, brought the name of General Grant prominently before the country.
Pittsburgh Landing followed and then Grant determined to take Vicksburg. All his generals declared the plan he proposed unmilitary and impossible, but after several unsuccessful attempts the Gibraltar of the Mississippi was captured, and this time twenty seven thousand prisoners taken.
Now came the battle of Chattanooga.
General Halleck in speaking of this battle said:
"Considering the strength of the rebel position, and the difficulty of storming his intrenchments, the battle of Chattanooga must be considered the most remarkable in history.
After Grant had turned the Confederate right flank, Sherman was intercepted between Longstreet and Bragg, thus cutting Longstreet entirely out, and preventing another junction being possible.
Resolutions of thanks were passed in Ohio and New York, and Congress created Grant a Lieutenant General, a commission which had been held by no one since General Scott resigned.
Indeed, if ever a General deserved honor, Grant had won it; he had opened the Mississippi to navigation, and had captured nearly one hundred thousand prisoners and arms."
He was now commander of all the Federal forces.
He at once inaugurated two campaigns to be carried on at once.
One under Sherman, against Atlanta commanded by the skillful rebel General Johnson; the other under Meade, directed against Lee and the Confederate capitol.
The capture of Lee was a far more difficult undertaking.
After various flanking movements and costly assaults, the problem of taking Lee narrowed itself down to a siege of Petersburg.
Grant perceived that his only hope lie in literally starving the Confederate army out by cutting off all resources as far as practicable.
Lee attempted to draw off attention toward Washington, but General Sheridan drove Early out of the Shenandoah Valley, devastating the country to such an extent that it was impossible to forage an army there should Lee attempt such a maneuver again.
Time wore away, and on the ninth of April, eighteen sixty five, Grant captured the Confederate army under Lee, thus virtually ending the war.
On july twenty fifth eighteen sixty six, he was made general of the United States army; the rank having been created for him, he was the first to hold it.
At the next Republican Convention, Grant was nominated for President on the first ballot, and was elected over Seymour, and was re-elected a second term by an increased majority.
When his public services were finished he started in company with his wife, son Jesse, and a few friends.
They visited nearly all the countries of Europe, and part of those of Africa and Asia.
On this trip the Grant party were the guests of nearly all the crowned heads of those foreign countries, everywhere receiving the most exalted honors it has ever been the pleasure of an American to enjoy, and on his return to the United States they were the recipients of an ovation in many of the principal cities of this country.
His success seems to have been the outgrowth of hard study and ability to perform the most exhaustive labor without fatigue.
The scenes of his later days were clouded with the intrigues of a stock gambler, but the stain that the Grant Ward failure seemed likely to throw on the spotless reputation of General Grant was wiped away when the facts were brought to light, and a new lustre was added to his fame by the self sacrifice shown in the final settlement.
General Grant proved to be a writer of no low order, and his autobiography is a very readable book.
On july twenty third eighteen eighty five, the General surrendered to a loathsome cancer, and the testimonials of devotion shown the honored dead; and the bereaved family throughout the civilized world, indicated the stronghold upon the hearts of the people held by the dead General.
MOTHER MAGPIE'S KINDERGARTEN
Did you ever notice how different are the nests which the birds build in springtime, in tree or bush or sandy bank or hidden in the grass?
Some are wonderfully wrought, pretty little homes for birdikins.
But others are clumsy, and carelessly fastened to the bough, most unsafe cradles for the feathered baby on the treetop.
Sometimes after a heavy wind you find on the ground under the nest poor little broken eggs which rolled out and lost their chance of turning into birds with safe, safe wings of their own.
Now such sad things as this happen because in their youth the lazy father and mother birds did not learn their lesson when Mother Magpie had her class in nest making.
The clumsiest nest of all is that which the Wood Pigeon tries to build.
Indeed, it is not a nest at all, only the beginning of one.
And there is an old story about this, which I shall tell you.
In the early springtime of the world, when birds were first made, none of them-except Mother Magpie-knew how to build a nest.
In that lovely garden where they lived the birds went fluttering about trying their new wings, so interested in this wonderful game of flying that they forgot all about preparing a home for the baby birds who were to come.
When the time came to lay their eggs the parents knew not what to do.
I don't know anything about housekeeping." And the poor silly things ruffled up their feathers and looked miserable as only a little bird can look when it is unhappy.
All except Mother Magpie!
She was not the best-oh, no!--but she was the cleverest and wisest of all the birds; it seemed as if she knew everything that a bird could know.
Already she had found out a way, and was busily building a famous nest for herself.
She was indeed a clever bird!
She gathered turf and sticks, and with clay bound them firmly together in a stout elm tree.
About her house she built a fence of thorns to keep away the burglar birds who had already begun mischief among their peaceful neighbors.
She popped into her new house and sat there comfortably, peering out through the window slits with her sharp little eyes.
"What silly birds they are!" she croaked.
"Ha, ha!
What would they not give for a nest like mine!"
But presently a sharp eyed Sparrow spied Mother Magpie sitting in her nest.
"Oho!
Look there!" he cried.
"Mother Magpie has found a way.
Let us ask her to teach us."
Then all the other birds chirped eagerly, "Yes, yes!
Let us ask her to teach us!"
So, in a great company, they came fluttering, hopping, twittering up to the elm tree where Mother Magpie nestled comfortably in her new house.
"O wise Mother Magpie, dear Mother Magpie," they cried, "teach us how to build our nests like yours, for it is growing night, and we are tired and sleepy."
The Magpie said she would teach them if they would be a patient, diligent, obedient class of little birds.
And they all promised that they would.
She made them perch about her in a great circle, some on the lower branches of the trees, some on the bushes, and some on the ground among the grass and flowers.
When these things were all piled up before her she told every bird to do just as she did.
It was like a great big kindergarten of birds playing at a new building game, with Mother Magpie for the teacher.
She began to show them how to weave the bits of things together into nests, as they should be made.
And some of the birds, who were attentive and careful, soon saw how it was done, and started nice homes for themselves.
You have seen what wonderful swinging baskets the Oriole makes for his baby cradle?
Well, it was the Magpie who taught him how, and he was the prize pupil, to be sure.
But some of the birds were not like him, nor like the patient little Wren.
Some of them were lazy and stupid and envious of Mother Magpie's cosy nest, which was already finished, while theirs was yet to do.
So, as she went on bit by bit, the silly things pretended that they had known all about it from the first-which was very unpleasant for their teacher.
Mother Magpie took two sticks in her beak and began like this: "First of all, my friends, you must lay two sticks crosswise for a foundation, thus," and she placed them carefully on the branch before her.
"Oh yes, oh yes!" croaked old Daddy Crow, interrupting her rudely.
"I thought that was the way to begin."
Mother Magpie snapped her eyes at him and went on, "Next you must lay a feather on a bit of moss, to start the walls."
"Certainly, of course," screamed the Jackdaw.
"I knew that came next. That is what I told the Parrot but a moment since."
Of course, of course!
Tell us something new."
She turned toward the Wood Pigeon, who was a rattle pated young thing, and who was not having any success with the sticks which she was trying to place.
"Criss cross, criss cross, so," interrupted the Wood Pigeon.
Mother Magpie hopped up and down on one leg, so angry she could hardly croak.
You are spoiling your nest.
"We all know that-anything more?" chirped the chorus of birds, trying to conceal how anxious they were to know what came next, for the nests were only half finished.
But Mother Magpie was thoroughly disgusted, and refused to go on with the lesson which had been so rudely interrupted by her pupils.
You say you know all about it,--then go on and finish your nests by yourselves.
Much luck may you have!" And away she flew to her own cosy nest in the elm tree, where she was soon fast asleep, forgetting all about the matter.
But oh!
What a pickle the other birds were in!
The lesson was but half finished, and most of them had not the slightest idea what to do next. That is why to this day many of the birds have never learned to build a perfect nest.
Some do better than others, but none build like Mother Magpie.
But the Wood Pigeon was in the worst case of them all.
And the queerest part of all is that the birds blamed the Magpie for the whole matter, and have never liked her since.
THE DRAGON FLY CHILDREN AND THE SNAPPING TURTLE
The Dragon Flies have always lived near the pond.
Not the same ones that are there now, of course, but the great great great grandfathers of these.
A person would think that, after a family had lived so long in a place, all the neighbors would be fond of them, yet it is not so.
The Dragon Flies may be very good people-and even the Snapping Turtle says that they are-still, they are so peculiar that many of their neighbors do not like them at all.
Even when they are only larvae, or babies, they are not good playmates, for they have such a bad habit of putting everything into their mouths.
Indeed, the Stickleback Father once told the little Sticklebacks that they should not stir out of the nest, unless they would promise to keep away from the young Dragon Flies.
The Stickleback Mothers said that it was all the fault of the Dragon Fly Mothers.
"What can you expect," exclaimed one of them, "when Dragon Fly eggs are so carelessly laid?
I saw a Dragon Fly Mother laying some only yesterday, and how do you suppose she did it?
Just flew around in the sunshine and visited with her friends, and once in a while flew low enough to touch the water and drop one in.
It is disgraceful!"
The Minnow Mothers did not think it was so much in the way the eggs were laid, "although," said one, "I always lay mine close together, instead of scattering them over the whole pond." They thought the trouble came from bad bringing up or no bringing up at all.
Now most of the larvae were turning into Nymphs, which are half grown Dragon Flies.
They had been short and plump, and now they were longer and more slender, and there were little bunches on their shoulders where the wings were growing under their skin.
They had outgrown their old skins a great many times, and had to wriggle out of them to be at all comfortable.
Like most growing children, the Dragon Fly larvae and Nymphs had to eat a great deal.
Their stomachs were as long as their bodies, and they were never really happy unless their stomachs were full.
They always ate plain food and plenty of it, and they never ate between meals.
They had breakfast from the time they awakened in the morning until the sun was high in the sky, then they had dinner until the sun was low in the sky, and supper from that time until it grew dark and they went to sleep: but never a mouthful between meals, no matter how hungry they might be.
They were always slow children.
You would think that, with six legs apiece and three joints in each leg, they might walk quite fast, yet they never did.
When they had to, they hurried in another way by taking a long leap through the water.
Of course they breathed water like their neighbors, the fishes and the Tadpoles.
They did not breathe it into their mouths, or through gills, but took it in through some openings in the back part of their bodies.
When they wanted to hurry, they breathed this water out so suddenly that it sent them quickly ahead.
They all put their queer little three cornered heads together, and there was an ugly look in their great staring eyes.
"Horrid old thing!" said one larva.
"I wish I could sting him."
"Well, you can't," said a Nymph, turning towards him so suddenly that he leaped.
She was often impatient, and said she could never go anywhere without one of the larvae tagging along.
"I tell you what let's do," said another Nymph.
"Let's all go together to the shallow water where he suns himself, and let's all stand close to each other, and then, when he comes along, let's stick out our lips at him!"
"Well, our lower lips anyway," answered the Nymph.
"Our upper lips are so small they don't matter."
"We'll do it," exclaimed all the Dragon Fly children, and they started together to walk on the pond bottom to the shallow water.
They thought it would scare the Snapping Turtle dreadfully.
They knew that whenever they stuck out their lower lips at the small fishes and bugs, they swam away as fast as they could.
The Giant Water Bug (Belostoma), was the only bug who was not afraid of them when they made faces.
Indeed, the lower lip of a Dragon Fly child might well frighten people, for it is fastened on a long, jointed, arm like thing, and has pincers on it with which it catches and holds its food.
Most of the time, the Dragon Fly child keeps the joint bent, and so holds his lip up to his face like a mask.
But sometimes he straightens the joint and holds his lip out before him, and then its pincers catch hold of things.
When they reached the shallow water, the Dragon Fly children stood close together, with the larvae in the middle and the Nymphs all around them. The Snapping Turtle was nowhere to be seen, so they had to wait.
"Aren't you scared?" whispered one larva to another.
"Scared?
Dah!
Who's afraid," answered he.
"Oh, look!" cried a Nymph.
Just you wait until I change my skin once more, and then won't I have a good time!
Sure enough, there he came through the shallow water, his wet back shell partly out of it and shining in the sunlight.
He came straight toward the Dragon Fly children, and they were glad to see that he did not look hungry.
They thought he might be going to take a nap after his dinner. Then they all stood even closer together and stuck out their lower lips at him.
They thought he might run away when they did this.
IN MOMENTS of deep feeling, alike sudden bursts of prosperity as in darker hours, man must be alone.
It requires some self communion to prepare ourselves for good fortune, as well as to encounter difficulty, and danger, and disgrace.
It was one of those soft summer mornings which are so delightful in a great city.
Ferdinand felt his freedom as well as his happiness.
He seated himself on a bench and thought of Henrietta Temple! he took out her note, and read it over and over again.
Restless with impending joy, he sauntered to the bridge, and leant over the balustrade, gazing on the waters in charmed and charming vacancy.
How many incidents, how many characters, how many feelings flitted over his memory!
A beautiful bride awaited him, whom he had loved with intense passion, and who he had thought but an hour ago was another's.
A noble fortune, which would permit him to redeem his inheritance, and rank him among the richest commoners of the realm, was to be controlled by one a few hours back a prisoner for desperate debts.
What man in the world had friends like Ferdinand Armine?
Ferdinand Armine, who, two days back, deemed himself alone in the world!
He could not flatter himself that he indeed merited such singular blessings; and yet with all his faults, which with him were but the consequences of his fiery youth, Ferdinand had been faithful, to Henrietta.
His constancy to her was now rewarded. As for his friends, the future must prove his gratitude to them.'
Ferdinand Armine had great tenderness of disposition, and somewhat of a meditative mind; schooled by adversity, there was little doubt that his coming career would justify his favourable destiny.
It was barely a year since he had returned from Malta, but what an eventful twelvemonth!
Everything that had occurred previously seemed of another life; all his experience was concentrated in that wonderful drama that had commenced at Bath, the last scene of which was now approaching; the characters, his parents, Glastonbury, Katherine, Henrietta, Lord Montfort, Count Mirabel, himself, and mr Temple!
Ah! that was a name that a little disturbed him; and yet he felt confidence now in Mirabel's prescience; he could not but believe that with time even mr Temple might be reconciled!
That was a mad life.
What a Neapolitan ball was his career then!
And now all had ended so happily!
Oh! could it indeed be true?
Was it not all a dream of his own creation, while his eye had been fixed in abstraction on that bright and flowing river?
But then there was Henrietta's letter.
He might be enchanted, but that was the talisman.
In the present unsettled, though hopeful state of affairs, Ferdinand would not go home.
He was resolved to avoid any explanations until he heard from Lord Montfort.
As for Henrietta, it seemed to him that he never could have heart to meet her again, unless they were alone.
Count Mirabel was the only person to whom he could abandon his soul, and Count Mirabel was still in his first sleep.
So Ferdinand entered Kensington Gardens, and walked in those rich glades and stately avenues.
It seems to the writer of this history that the inhabitants of London are scarcely sufficiently sensible of the beauty of its environs.
On every side the most charming retreats open to them, nor is there a metropolis in the world surrounded by so many rural villages, picturesque parks, and elegant casinos.
With the exception of Constantinople, there is no city in the world that can for a moment enter into competition with it.
In exactly ten minutes it is in the power of every man to free himself from all the tumult of the world; the pangs of love, the throbs of ambition, the wear and tear of play, the recriminating boudoir, the conspiring club, the rattling hell; and find himself in a sublime sylvan solitude superior to the cedars of Lebanon, and inferior only in extent to the chestnut forests of Anatolia.
Kensington Gardens is almost the only place that has realised his idea of the forests of Spenser and Ariosto.
What a pity, that instead of a princess in distress we meet only a nurserymaid!
But here is the fitting and convenient locality to brood over our thoughts; to project the great and to achieve the happy.
It is here that we should get our speeches by heart, invent our impromptus; muse over the caprices of our mistresses, destroy a cabinet, and save a nation.
About the time that Ferdinand directed his steps from these green retreats towards Berkeley Square, a servant summoned Miss Temple to her father.
'Is papa alone?' enquired Miss Temple.
'Only my lord with him,' was the reply.
Iuka, the fiercest battle of the war, two hundred seventeen men out of four hundred eighty two of my regiment are shot-The awful Rebel charge at Corinth-Moonlight on the battlefield-Bushels of arms and legs-Tombstones for fireplaces-One of Grant's mistakes.
All that summer, after taking Corinth, we chased up and down the State of Mississippi, trying to get fair battle with the Rebel army.
At last the chance came, and for my regiment it was an awful one-the battle of Iuka.
It was fought by a handful of the troops of General Rosecrans against half the army of General Price.
One morning before daylight while camped in the woods near Jacinto half expecting to be attacked, we heard that Price's army was in Iuka, some eighteen miles away, and that if we would hurry there and attack from one side, General Grant, with Ord's troops, would attack from another side.
How eagerly the regiment made the forward march on that beautiful autumn day!
The woods were in their fairest foliage, and it seemed too lovely a day for war and bloodshed.
The bugles played occasionally as the men hurried along, but not a shot was fired.
They had time for reflection as they marched, and they knew now they were going to battle.
There were only four hundred eighty two of my little regiment now marching there, hoping, almost praying, the enemy might only wait.
How little anyone dreamed that before the sun set two hundred seventeen of that little command would be stretched dead or dying among the autumn leaves!
It was just two o'clock when the regiment ran on to the army of the enemy, lying in line right across the road close to Iuka.
My own regiment was in the advance.
Our brigade was fearfully outnumbered. Rosecrans, had ten thousand soldiers within five miles of the battlefield, yet let three or four small regiments and a battery do all the fighting.
Ten miles away, in another direction, lay General Grant and General Ord, with many other thousands, as silent as if paralyzed. An unlucky wind blew, they said, and the sound of our cannon, that was to have been the signal for them to attack also, was unheard by them.
Charge after charge was made upon our little line, and the Eleventh Ohio Battery, which the regiment was protecting, was taken and retaken three times.
There were no breastworks, yet that one little brigade of Hamilton's division stood there in the open and repulsed assault after assault.
It was the Iowa, the Missouri, and the Ohio boys against the boys of Alabama and Mississippi, and the grass and leaves were covered with the bodies in blue and gray.
Not Balaklava, nor the Alma, saw such fighting.
Antietam, Gettysburg, the Wilderness, could show nothing like it. Only the setting sun put an end to what was part of the time a hand to hand conflict.
One daring Rebel was shot down and bayoneted clear behind the line of Company B, where he had broken through to seize the flag of my regiment.
That night the enemy slipped away, leaving hundreds and hundreds of his dead and wounded on the field.
With a few lanterns our men then went about and tried to gather up the wounded; the dead were left till morning.
There were seven hundred eighty two Union men lying there in their blood that long night, six hundred eight of them out of a single small brigade.
While mothers and sisters at home were praying for the safety of these dear ones at the front, their spirits that night were leaving their torn bodies in the dark and ascending heavenward.
Five of my eight messmates of the day before were shot.
Fifteen officers of our little half regiment were dead or wounded.
The enemy lost more than one thousand men in trying to destroy that single brigade and its Ohio battery.
The burying party the next morning found nineteen dead Rebels lying together at one place.
At another spot one hundred eighty two Rebel corpses lay in a row covered by tarpaulins.
The enemy had not had time to bury them.
And so it was that within two weeks my regiment was placed outside the breastworks at Corinth, to wait and receive another awful assault.
The night before the battle of Corinth the Fifth Iowa Regiment lay across the Purdy road, in the bright moonlight.
Poor Jimmy King! he survived the war only to be murdered later on a plantation in Mississippi.
When morning came the firing opened, and for all that day the battle raged fiercely at the left and center left, we getting the worst of it, too.
The Rebels were charging works that they themselves had built when they held the town during Halleck's siege. General Haccelman and many other of our officers had fallen.
Our own division, though fighting some, had lost but few men.
That evening an order came for us-Hamilton's Division-to assault the enemy's left flank at midnight.
Before the hour came, however, the move was decided to be too dangerous, and we changed our position to one nearer the forts.
All the night we lay there under the brightest moonlight I ever saw.
Under the same quiet moonlight, and only six hundred yards away from us, also lay the victorious Rebel army.
Yet it looked very bad for us.
Every house in town was full of our wounded and our dead lay everywhere.
Once in the night I slipped away from the bivouac and hurried to the old Tishimingo Hotel, to see a lieutenant of my company, who had been shot through the breast.
Never will I forget the horrible scenes of that night.
The town seemed full of the groans of dying men.
It was too late, for he was dying.
"Go back to the regiment," he said, smiling, "all will be needed."
It was a relief to me to get back into the moonlight and out of the horror, yet out there lay thousands of others in line, only waiting the daylight to be also mangled and torn like these.
The moon shone so brightly the men in the lines, tired though they were, could scarcely sleep.
God could not answer the prayers of the men in both armies that night.
Had He done so, all would have been killed on the morrow.
As I entered the building a cannonball from the enemy crashed through the house and killed four soldiers by the stairway.
My friend, with many others, was being carried out to die elsewhere.
It was soon full day.
In one of the rooms I saw the floors, tables, and chairs covered with amputated limbs, some white and some broken and bleeding.
There were simply bushels of them, and the floor was running blood.
It was a strange, horrible sight,--but it was war.
Yes, it was "hell." I hastened back to the lines.
Nine o'clock came, and now we knew that the great assault was to be made.
We looked for it against our own division, as we lay in the grass waiting.
Suddenly we heard something, almost like a distant whirlwind.
My regiment rose to its feet, fired a few moments at scattering Rebels in our front, and were amazed to see a great black column, ten thousand strong, moving like a mighty storm cloud out of the woods and attacking the forts and troops at our left.
Instantly we changed direction a little and, without further firing, witnessed one of the greatest assaults of any war.
It was the storming of Fort Robinett.
The cloud of Rebels we had seen divided itself into three columns.
These recklessly advanced on the forts, climbing over the fallen trees and bending their heads against the awful storm of grape and canister from all our cannon.
A perfect blaze of close range musketry, too, mowed them down like grass.
Even a foe could feel pity to see brave men so cruelly slaughtered.
When the assault had failed and the noise of battle was stilled, I hurried down in front of Robinett.
My canteen was full of water and I pressed it to the lips of many a dying enemy-enemy no longer.
Our grape shot had torn whole companies of men to pieces.
They lay in heaps of dozens, even close up to the works.
General Rogers, who had led a brigade into the hopeless pit, lay on his back, dead, with his flag in his hand.
Another had taken his fine gold watch.
Our own loss had been two thousand two hundred dead and wounded.
That night I stood guard under an oak tree on the battlefield among the unburied dead.
Many of the wounded, even, had not yet been gathered up.
Our regiment now pursued the flying Rebels with great vigor.
Possibly the best friend I had in the world, save my kin, was killed at that bridge.
It was Lieutenant William Dodd, a classmate in school.
His head was shot off by a cannonball just as his regiment was charging at the bridge.
The pursuit of the enemy was being pushed with vigor when the army was ordered to desist and return to camp.
It was an astounding order, as it was in our power to destroy the defeated and flying columns.
That order was one of the mistakes of Grant's earlier days as a commander.
Indeed, we of the rank and file had little confidence in Grant in those days.
We reflected that at Shiloh he was miles away from the battlefield at the critical moment.
Sherman had saved the Union army from destruction there.
At Iuka, Grant, though commander, did not even know a battle was going on.
At Corinth he was forty miles away, and now, when we had the enemy almost within our grasp, he suddenly called us back.
Rosecrans protested.
The order, more imperative than before, was repeated.
It required months, and great events, to make Grant the hero of the army which he afterward became.
Rosecrans is at present the hero of this army, and, with him leading it, the boys would storm Hades."
On inquiry for certain ones I learned that they were dead and lying out in the improvised graveyard near by.
For some reason the dead at Hatchie Bridge were not buried.
We now camped on the edge of the town and went on building still other and greater forts.
Many of the soldiers made huts for themselves.
It was getting cooler now, and little fireplaces were built in the huts and tents.
Brick was scarce, and in a few instances the men used the stone slabs from a graveyard close at hand.
Long ago there lived a merchant who had three daughters.
Every year at a certain day of a certain month he went away to a distant city to collect money on an account.
His wife and daughters remained at home, and all went well until one sad day the wife died.
That year the merchant looked forward to his journey with dread for he would have to leave his daughters alone.
"I cannot bear to go away," he said to them.
"My heart is filled with fear lest some evil may befall you during my absence."
He worried about the matter night and day.
However, the question of leaving three such pretty girls unprotected was a thing not to be regarded lightly.
"Do not be afraid to leave us, dear father," said his daughters. "Nothing will harm us while you are away."
"How do you know?" asked their father.
"I am older and wiser than you are and I know that there are many evils which might come upon you. There are many bold thieves in this city, for instance, who would be only too ready to take advantage of my absence and rob my home of all I possess."
"We can lock ourselves securely in the house and not let any one enter," said the three daughters.
"Be sure that you admit no one," commanded the merchant.
They gave him their promise and he started on his journey. Nevertheless, he went with an anxious heart.
Now, outside this city there was a band of bold robbers.
The captain of the band had watched the merchant's departure, and when he was safely away the thief dressed himself in the disguise of an old beggar. When it was evening he led his band into a nearby street and in his disguise approached the merchant's house.
He knocked at the door.
"Have pity upon a poor unfortunate one!" he called out.
Let me enter, I pray you, to pass the night under your roof."
"It's surely a terrible storm outside," said the merchant's eldest daughter, as the wind rattled the tiles of the roof and the rain beat in torrents against the doors and windows.
The second daughter peeped out of the window at the beggar.
"He is old as well as poor," she said.
"Our father has always taught us to show mercy and kindness to the aged."
"Remember our promise to our father!" cried the youngest one.
We can give this poor beggar some alms and send him away with a blessing."
The eldest daughter frowned.
"It is not for the youngest and most childish one of us to make the plans," she said.
The second daughter added.
"We two are older and wiser than you are. It is for us to determine what shall be done.
If we decide to show mercy to this poor beggar it is not for you to oppose it."
However, in spite of all she could say, the elder sisters opened the door and admitted the beggar.
They led him into the kitchen to dry his clothes.
They gave him his supper in the kitchen and then they ate their own.
"It is a fearful night to send away a beggar," said the eldest sister while they were eating.
"I am thinking that our dear father would be anxious if he knew that we had broken our promise so easily," said the youngest sister.
"For shame!" cried the eldest.
While they were talking, the beggar had taken the apples which the girls were to eat for dessert and had sprinkled a sleeping powder over them.
The two eldest ate their apples, but the youngest could not eat that night.
She threw the apple away.
As soon as they had eaten, the girls went to their room, and the two eldest were overcome with sleep almost before they had time to get into bed.
The youngest one was so frightened that she could not sleep a single wink.
Soon she heard footsteps.
The beggar entered the room.
The youngest one pretended that she, too, was asleep.
The man went to the bed of the eldest sister and stuck a pin into her foot to see if she were completely unconscious.
She did not stir and he knew that the sleeping powder had thoroughly done its work.
Then he went to the bed of the second sister and did the same.
She was as completely unconscious as her sister.
It hurt terribly when he stuck the pin into the foot of the youngest, but she did not stir.
The robber thought that she was as completely overcome by the sleeping powder as the others.
The youngest sister peeped through her long heavy eyelashes and watched the beggar.
She saw to her surprise that he had laid aside the heavy ragged old coat which he had kept wrapped about him even while he ate. Underneath he was dressed like a robber with a sword, pistols and dagger.
She was so terribly frightened that it was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering.
Then she heard him go down the stairway and unbolt the heavy doors which led into the store.
The little girl flew down the stairs and closed the doors of the store securely.
They were big and heavy, but her great fear gave her strength.
"He'll find it difficult to get into our house again," she said to herself as she waited to see if the robber returned.
Soon she heard footsteps outside.
She knew that the thief had brought back others with him.
"It was the youngest one who deceived me!" cried the robber chieftain. "I knew all the time that she did not want to let me in.
I was suspicious of her from the first."
"She may not be so wise as she appears.
The leader of the band of thieves went up close to the keyhole and whispered: "Kind lady of the house, have pity on me."
The merchant's daughter at first did not answer; but, as he kept on calling to her, she finally asked him what it was that he wanted.
"I have left my charm behind!" he cried.
"Pray let me enter to get it. I promise you I will do you no harm."
"I do not trust your promises," replied the little maid.
"You shall not come into my father's house."
"Pass the charm out to me, then," said the robber.
"It's in the fire," replied the girl.
"Go throw vinegar on the fire and put it out," said the captain of the thieves.
"Then you can pull my charm out in safety."
Now it happened that there was a little hole in the door just large enough for a man's hand to enter.
"Put your hand through the hole in the door," replied the little maid. "Then I'll give you your charm."
She quickly ran upstairs and got the robber's sword which he had left on a chair in the dining room.
She struck it with all her might with the great sword and cut it off.
The cries and curses of the robbers filled the air.
They tried in vain to break down the great doors.
The doors were strong and held securely.
At last it was daylight and the band of thieves had to flee.
In the morning the effect of the sleeping powder wore off and the two elder sisters awoke.
When they heard their sister's story they were filled with amazement.
"I don't believe a word of it!" cried the oldest.
"You are making it up."
"I had such a nightmare myself that I have a headache this morning."
It was not until their little sister had shown them the robber's hand and the great sword that they were convinced that she had told them the truth.
"Oh, why didn't we keep our promise to our father!" cried the middle one.
When at last the merchant returned from the distant city where he had been to collect money he was delighted to find his house and his three daughters safe.
"I see that no harm befell you in my absence," he said as he embraced them fondly.
"All my worries about you were foolish."
The eldest daughter blushed and hung her head.
"Great danger threatened us while you were away," she said.
"Thanks to our youngest sister, we are safe."
"Our little sister was wiser than we were," said the middle daughter.
When the merchant had heard the whole story, he said: "After this we must all give ear to the wisdom of this little maid.
HANSEL AND GRETHEL
Once upon a time there dwelt near a large wood a poor wood cutter, with his wife, and two children by his former marriage, a little boy called Hansel, and a girl named Grethel.
He had little enough to break or bite; and once, when there was a great famine in the land, he could hardly procure even his daily bread; and as he lay thinking in his bed one night, he sighed, and said to his wife, "What will become of us? How can we feed our children, when we have no more than we can eat ourselves?"
"No, wife," replied he, "that I can never do; how can you bring your heart to leave my children all alone in the wood; for the wild beasts will soon come and tear them to pieces?"
"Oh, you simpleton!" said she, "then we must all four die of hunger; you had better plane the coffins for us." But she left him no peace till he consented, saying, "Ah, but I shall miss the poor children."
Grethel wept bitterly, and said to Hansel, "What will become of us?"
"Be quiet, Grethel," said he; "do not cry-I will help you." And as soon as their parents had gone to sleep, he got up, put on his coat, and, unbarring the back door, went out.
The next morning, before the sun arose, the wife went and awoke the two children.
When they had gone a little distance, Hansel stood still, and peeped back at the house; and this he repeated several times, till his father said, "Hansel, what are you looking at, and why do you lag behind?
Take care, and remember your legs."
"Ah, father," said Hansel, "I am looking at my white cat sitting upon the roof of the house, and trying to say good bye."
"You simpleton!" said the wife, "that is not a cat; it is only the sun shining on the white chimney." But in reality Hansel was not looking at a cat; but every time he stopped, he dropped a pebble out of his pocket upon the path.
Then they set fire to them; and as the flame burnt up high, the wife said, "Now, you children, lie down near the fire, and rest yourselves, whilst we go into the forest and chop more wood; when we are ready we will come and call you."
Hansel and Grethel sat down by the fire, and when it was noon, each ate the piece of bread; and because they could hear the blows of an axe they thought their father was near; but it was not an axe, but a branch which he had bound to an old tree, so as to be blown to and fro by the wind.
They waited so long, that at last their eyes closed from weariness, and they fell fast asleep.
When they awoke, it was quite dark, and Grethel began to cry.
All night long they walked on, and as day broke they came to their father's house.
They knocked at the door, and when the wife opened it, and saw Hansel and Grethel, she exclaimed, "You wicked children!
Why did you sleep so long in the wood?
We thought you were never coming home again." But their father was extremely glad, for it had grieved his heart to leave them all alone.
But her husband felt heavy at heart, and thought, "It were better to share the last crust with the children." His wife, however, would listen to nothing that he said, and scolded and reproached him without end.
He who says A must say B too; and he who consents the first time must also the second.
The children, however, had heard the conversation as they lay awake, and as soon as their parents went to sleep Hansel got up, intending to pick up some pebbles as before; but the wife had locked the door, so that he could not get out.
Nevertheless he comforted Grethel, saying, "Do not weep; sleep in quiet; the good God will not forsake us."
Early in the morning the stepmother came and pulled them out of bed, and gave them each a slice of bread, which was still smaller than the former piece.
On the way Hansel broke his in his pocket, and stopping every now and then, dropped a crumb upon the path.
"Hansel, why do you stop and look about?" said the father, "keep in the path." "I am looking at my little dove," answered Hansel, "nodding a good bye to me." "Simpleton!" said the wife, "that is no dove, but only the sun shining on the chimney." But Hansel kept still dropping crumbs as he went along.
We are going into the forest to hew wood, and in the evening, when we are ready, we will come and fetch you again."
When noon came, Grethel shared her bread with Hansel, who had strewn his on the path.
Hansel kept saying to Grethel, "We will soon find the way;" but they did not, and they walked the whole night long and the next day, but still they did not come out of the wood; and they got very hungry, for they had nothing to eat but the berries which they found upon the bushes.
Soon they were so tired that they could not drag themselves along, then they lay down under a tree and again went to sleep.
It was now the third morning since they had left their father's house, and they still walked on; but they only got deeper, and deeper, and deeper into the wood, and Hansel felt that if help did not come very soon they must die of hunger.
As soon as it was noon they saw a beautiful, snow white bird sitting upon a bough, singing so sweetly that they stood still and listened to it.
"We will go in here," said Hansel, "and have a glorious feast.
I will eat a piece of the roof, and you can eat the window.
Will they not be sweet?" So Hansel reached up and broke a piece off the roof, in order to see how it tasted; while Grethel stepped up to the window and began to bite it.
Hansel thought the roof tasted very nice, and so he tore off a great piece; while Grethel broke a large round pane out of the window, and sat down quite contentedly.
Just then the door opened, and a very old woman, walking upon crutches, came out.
Hansel and Grethel were so much frightened that they let fall what they had in their hands; but the old woman nodding her head, said, "Ah, you dear children, what has brought you here?
Come in and stop with me, and no harm shall come to you;" and so saying she took them both by the hand, and led them into her cottage.
A good meal of milk and pancakes, with sugar, apples and nuts, was spread on the table, and in the back room were two nice little beds, covered with white, where Hansel and Grethel laid themselves down, and were happy as could be.
Witches have red eyes, and cannot see very far; but they have a fine sense of smelling, like wild beasts, so that they know when children approach them.
So a nice meal was cooked for Hansel, but Grethel got nothing else but a crab's claw.
Every morning the old witch came to the cage and said, "Hansel, stretch out your finger that I may feel whether you are getting fat." But Hansel used to stretch out a bone, and the old woman, having very bad sight, thought it was his finger, and wondered very much why he did not get fat.
"Dear good God, help us now!" she prayed.
"Had we only been eaten by the wild beasts in the wood, then we should have died together." But the old witch called out, "Leave off that noise; it will not help you a bit."
So early in the morning Grethel was compelled to go out and fill the kettle, and make a fire.
"First, we will bake, however," said the old woman; "I have already heated the oven and kneaded the dough;" and so saying, she pushed poor Grethel up to the oven, out of which the flames were burning fiercely.
See, I could even get in myself!" and she got up, and put her head into the oven.
Then Grethel gave her a push, so that she fell right in, and shutting the iron door bolted it.
Oh! how horribly the witch howled; but Grethel ran away, and left her to burn to ashes.
Now she ran to Hansel, and, opening the door, called out, "Hansel we are saved; the old witch is dead?"
So he sprang out, like a bird from his cage when the door was opened; and they were so glad that they fell upon each other's neck, and kissed each other over and over again.
And now, as there was nothing to fear, they went back to the witch's house, where in every corner were caskets full of pearls and precious stones.
"These are better than pebbles," said Hansel, putting as many into his pocket as it would hold; while Grethel thought, "I will take some home too," and filled her apron full.
"We must be off now," said Hansel, "and get out of this enchanted forest;" but when they had walked for two hours they came to a large piece of water.
"We cannot get over," said Hansel; "I can see no bridge at all." "And there is no boat either," said Grethel, "but there swims a white duck, I will ask her to help us over;" and she sang,
"Little Duck, good little Duck, Grethel and Hansel, together we stand; There is neither stile nor bridge, Take us on your back to land."
So the Duck came to them, and Hansel sat himself on, and bade his sister sit beside him.
"No," replied Grethel, "that will be too much for the Duck, she shall take us over one at a time."
This the good little bird did, and when both were happily arrived on the other side, and had gone a little way, they came to a well-known wood, which they knew the better every step they went, and at last they perceived their father's house.
Then they began to run, and rushing into the house, they fell upon their father's neck.
Listen to Reason.
Not having heard from Captain Bennydeck for some little time, Randal thought it desirable in Sydney's interests to make inquiries at his club.
Nothing was known of the Captain's movements there.
On the chance of getting the information that he wanted, Randal wrote to the hotel at Sandyseal.
The landlord's reply a little surprised him.
Some days since, the yacht had again appeared in the bay.
Captain Bennydeck had landed, to all appearance in fairly good health; and had left by an early train for London.
The sailing master announced that he had orders to take the vessel back to her port-with no other explanation than that the cruise was over.
This alternative in the Captain's plans (terminating the voyage a month earlier than his arrangements had contemplated) puzzled Randal.
He called at his friend's private residence, only to hear from the servants that they had seen nothing of their master.
Her letter concluded in these words: "You will only meet one person besides ourselves-your friend, and (since we last met) our friend too.
Captain Bennydeck has got tired of the sea.
These lines set Randal thinking seriously.
To represent Bennydeck as being "tired of the sea," and as being willing to try, in place of the breezy Channel, the air of a suburb of London, was to make excuses too perfectly futile and absurd to deceive any one who knew the Captain.
In spite of the appearance of innocence which pervaded Catherine's letter, the true motive for breaking off his cruise might be found, as Randal concluded, in Catherine herself.
Her residence at the sea side, helped by the lapse of time, had restored to her personal attractions almost all they had lost under the deteriorating influences of care and grief; and her change of name must have protected her from a discovery of the Divorce which would have shocked a man so sincerely religious as Bennydeck.
Had her beauty fascinated him?
Was she aware of the interest that he felt in her? and was it secretly understood and returned?
Randal wrote to accept the invitation; determining to present himself before the appointed hour, and to question Catherine privately, without giving her the advantage over him of preparing herself for the interview.
In the short time that passed before the day of the dinner, distressing circumstances strengthened his resolution.
After months of separation, he received a visit from Herbert.
Was this man-haggard, pallid, shabby, looking at him piteously with bloodshot eyes-the handsome, pleasant, prosperous brother whom he remembered?
He could only point to a seat.
And yet he spoke roughly; he looked like an angry man brought to bay.
"I seem to frighten you," he said.
"You distress me, Herbert, more than words can say."
"Give me a glass of wine.
I've been walking-I don't know where.
A long distance; I'm dead beat."
He drank the wine greedily.
Whatever reviving effect it might otherwise have produced on him, it made no change in the threatening gloom of his manner.
In a man morally weak, calamity (suffered without resisting power) breaks its way through the surface which exhibits a gentleman, and shows the naked nature which claims kindred with our ancestor the savage.
"Do you feel better, Herbert?"
He put down the empty glass, taking no notice of his brother's question. "Randal," he said, "you know where Sydney is."
Randal admitted it.
"Give me her address.
My mind's in such a state I can't remember it; write it down."
"You won't write it?
and you won't give it?"
"I will do neither the one nor the other.
Go back to your chair; fierce looks and clinched fists don't frighten me.
Miss Westerfield is quite right in separating herself from you.
And you are quite wrong in wishing to go back to her.
Try to understand them.
And, once again, sit down."
He spoke sternly-with his heart aching for his brother all the time. He was right.
The one way is the positive way, when a man who suffers trouble is degraded by it.
The poor wretch sank under Randal's firm voice and steady eye.
"Don't be hard on me," he said.
"I think a man in my situation is to be pitied-especially by his brother.
I'm not like you; I'm not accustomed to live alone.
You don't know what it is to be used to seeing a pretty creature, always nicely dressed, always about the room-thinking so much of you, and so little of herself-and then to be left alone as I am left, out in the dark.
I haven't got my wife; she has thrown me over, and taken my child away from me.
And, now, Sydney's taken away from me next.
I'm alone.
Do you hear that?
Alone!
Give me back Sydney, or knock out my brains.
I haven't courage enough to do it for myself.
Oh, why did I engage that governess!
I was so happy, Randal, with Catherine and little Kitty."
He laid his head wearily on the back of his chair.
I tried it yesterday; it set my brains on fire; I'm feeling that glass I took just now.
No! I'm not faint.
It eases my head when I rest like this.
Shake hands, Randal; we have never had any unfriendly words; we mustn't begin now.
There's something perverse about me.
I didn't know how fond I was of Sydney till I lost her; I didn't know how fond I was of my wife till I left her." He paused, and put his hand to his fevered head.
Was his mind wandering into some other train of thought?
He astonished his brother by a new entreaty-the last imaginable entreaty that Randal expected to hear.
"Dear old fellow, I want you to do me a favor.
Tell me where my wife is living now?"
I have something to say to her."
"You can't do it."
Will you give her a message?"
"Let me hear what it is first."
Herbert lifted his head, and laid his hand earnestly on his brother's arm.
When he said his next words he was almost like his old self again.
His tone touched Randal to the quick.
"I feel for you, Herbert," he said, warmly.
"She shall have your message; all that I can do to persuade her shall be done."
"As soon as possible?"
"Yes-as soon as possible."
"And you won't forget?
No, no; of course you won't forget." He tried to rise, and fell back again into his chair.
"Let me rest a little," he pleaded, "if I'm not in the way.
I'm not fit company for you, I know; I'll go when you tell me."
Randal refused to let him go at all.
"You will stay here with me; and if I happen to be away, there will be somebody in the house, who is almost as fond of you as I am." He mentioned the name of one of the old servants at Mount Morven, who had attached himself to Randal after the breakup of the family.
"And now rest," he said, "and let me put this cushion under your head."
Herbert answered: "It's like being at home again"--and composed himself to rest.
Chapter forty.
Keep Your Temper.
His prospects of success, in pleading for a favorable reception of his brother's message, were so uncertain that he refrained-in fear of raising hopes which he might not be able to justify-from taking Herbert into his confidence.
No one knew on what errand he was bent, when he left the house.
As he took his place in the carriage, the newspaper boy appeared at the window as usual.
The new number of a popular weekly journal had that day been published.
Randal bought it.
After reading one or two of the political articles, he arrived at the columns specially devoted to "Fashionable Intelligence." Caring nothing for that sort of news, he was turning over the pages in search of the literary and dramatic articles, when a name not unfamiliar to him caught his eye.
He read the paragraph in which it appeared.
It is whispered that the lady is to be shortly united to a retired naval officer of Arctic fame; now better known, perhaps, as one of our leading philanthropists."
The allusion to Bennydeck was too plain to be mistaken.
Randal looked again at the first words in the paragraph.
"The charming widow!" Was it possible that this last word referred to Catherine?
With his own suspicions steadily contradicting him, he arrived at the hotel, obstinately believing that "the charming widow" would prove to be a stranger.
mrs Presty was at home; she was reported to be in the garden of the hotel.
Randal found her comfortably established in a summerhouse, with her knitting in her hands, and a newspaper on her lap.
She advanced to meet him, all smiles and amiability.
"How nice of you to come so soon!" she began.
Her keen penetration discovered something in his face which checked the gayety of her welcome.
"You don't mean to say that you are going to spoil our pleasant little dinner by bringing bad news!" she added, looking at him suspiciously.
"It depends on you to decide that," Randal replied.
"How very complimentary to a poor useless old woman!
Don't be mysterious, my dear.
Out with it!"
Randal handed his paper to her, open at the right place.
"There is my news," he said.
"I am indeed sorry to spoil your dramatic effect," she said.
The report is premature, my good friend.
Besides, if it isn't true now, it will be true next week.
The author only says, 'It's whispered.' How delicate of him!
What a perfect gentleman!"
"Am I really to understand, mrs Presty, that Catherine-"
"You are to understand that Catherine is a widow.
I say it with pride, a widow of my making!"
"If this is one of your jokes, ma'am-"
"Are you aware, mrs Presty, that my brother-"
"Oh, don't talk of your brother!
He's an obstacle in our way, and we have been compelled to get rid of him."
Randal drew back a step.
mrs Presty's audacity was something more than he could understand.
"Is this woman mad?" he said to himself.
"Sit down," said mrs Presty.
"If you are determined to make a serious business of it-if you insist on my justifying myself-you are to be pitied for not possessing a sense of humor, but you shall have your own way.
I am put on my defense.
Very well.
You shall hear how my divorced daughter and my poor little grandchild were treated at Sandyseal, after you left us."
Having related the circumstances, she suggested that Randal should put himself in Catherine's place, before he ventured on expressing an opinion.
"Would you have exposed yourself to be humiliated again in the same way?" she asked.
"And would you have seen your child made to suffer as well as yourself?"
"I should have kept in retirement for the future," he answered, "and not have trusted my child and myself among strangers in hotels."
"Ah, indeed?
And you would have condemned your poor little daughter to solitude?
You would have seen her pining for the company of other children, and would have had no mercy on her?
He was introduced to mrs Norman, and to mrs Norman's little girl, and we were all charmed with him.
When he and I happened to be left together he naturally wondered, after having seen the beautiful wife, where the lucky husband might be.
If he had asked you about mr Norman, how would you have answered him?"
"I should have told the truth."
"Yes."
"Exactly what I did!
And the Captain of course concluded (after having been introduced to Kitty) that mrs Norman was a widow.
If I had set him right, what would have become of my daughter's reputation?
If I had told the truth at this hotel, when everybody wanted to know what mrs Norman, that handsome lady, was-what would the consequences have been to Catherine and her little girl?
No! no! I have made the best of a miserable situation; I have consulted the tranquillity of a cruelly injured woman and an innocent child-with this inevitable result; I have been obliged to treat your brother like a character in a novel.
I have ship wrecked Herbert as the shortest way of answering inconvenient questions.
Vessel found bottom upward in the middle of the Atlantic, and everybody on board drowned, of course.
Worse stories have been printed; I do assure you, worse stories have been printed."
Randal decided on leaving her.
"Have you done all this with Catherine's consent?" he asked as he got up from his chair.
"Catherine submits to circumstances, like a sensible woman."
"Does she submit to your telling Kitty that her father is dead?"
For the first time mrs Presty became serious.
"Wait a minute," she answered.
"Before I consented to answer the child's inquiries, I came to an understanding with her mother.
I said, 'Will you let Kitty see her father again?'"
The very question which Randal had promised to ask in his brother's interests!
"And how did Catherine answer you?" he inquired.
"Honestly.
She said: 'I daren't!' After that, I had her mother's authority for telling Kitty that she would never see her father again. She asked directly if her father was dead-"
"That will do, mrs Presty.
Your defense is thoroughly worthy of your conduct in all other respects."
"Say thoroughly worthy of the course forced upon me and my daughter by your brother's infamous conduct-and you will be nearer the mark!"
Randal passed this over without notice.
"Be so good," he said, "as to tell Catherine that I try to make every possible allowance for her, but that I cannot consent to sit at her dinner table, and that I dare not face my poor little niece, after what I have heard."
mrs Presty recovered all her audacity.
"A very wise decision," she remarked.
"Your sour face would spoil the best dinner that ever was put on the table.
Have you any message for Captain Bennydeck?"
Randal asked if his friend was then at the hotel.
mrs Presty smiled significantly.
"Not at the hotel, just now."
"Where is he?"
"Where he is every day, about this time-out driving with Catherine and Kitty."
It was a relief to Randal-in the present state of Catherine's relations toward Bennydeck-to return to London without having seen his friend.
He took leave of mrs Presty with the formality due to a stranger-he merely bowed.
That incorrigible old woman treated him with affectionate familiarity in return.
"Good by, dear Randal.
One moment before you go!
Will it be of any use if we invite you to the marriage?"
Arrived at the station, Randal found that he must wait for the train. While he was walking up and down the platform with a mind doubly distressed by anxiety about his brother and anxiety about Sydney, the train from London came in.
He stood, looking absently at the passengers leaving the carriage on the opposite side of the platform.
Make the Best of It.
For a moment the two men looked at each other without speaking. Herbert's wondering eyes accurately reflected his brother's astonishment.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Suspicion overclouded his face as he put the question.
"You have been to the hotel?" he burst out; "you have seen Catherine?"
Randal could deny that he had seen Catherine, with perfect truth-and did deny it in the plainest terms.
Herbert was satisfied.
"In all my remembrance of you," he said, "you have never told me a lie.
We have both seen the same newspaper, of course-and you have been the first to clear the thing up.
That's it, isn't it?"
"no"
"She's not Catherine, at any rate; I, for one, shall go home with a lighter heart." He took his brother's arm, to return to the other platform.
"Do you know, Randal, I was almost afraid that Catherine was the woman.
The devil take the thing, and the people who write in it!"
He snatched a newspaper out of his pocket as he spoke-tore it in half-and threw it away.
"Malcolm meant well, poor fellow," he said, referring to the old servant, "but he made a miserable man of me for all that."
Not satisfied with gossip in private, the greedy public appetite devours gossip in print, and wants more of it than any one editor can supply. Randal picked up the torn newspaper.
It was not the newspaper which he had bought at the station.
Herbert had been reading a rival journal, devoted to the interests of Society-in which the report of mrs Norman's marriage was repeated, with this difference, that it boldly alluded to Captain Bennydeck by name.
"Did Malcolm give you this?" Randal asked.
It drove me out of the house and into the railway.
If it had driven me out of mind, I shouldn't have been surprised."
"Gently, Herbert!
Supposing the report had been true-?"
"After what you have told me, why should I suppose anything of the sort?"
"Don't be angry; and do pray remember that the Divorce allows you and Catherine to marry again, if you like."
Herbert became more unreasonable than ever.
"If Catherine does think of marrying again," he said, "the man will have to reckon first with me. But that is not the point.
You seem to have forgotten that the woman at Buck's Hotel is described as a Widow.
The bare doubt that my divorced wife might be the woman was bad enough-but what I wanted to find out was how she had passed off her false pretense on our child.
No more of it now.
Have you seen Catherine lately?"
"Not lately."
"I suppose she is as handsome as ever.
When will you ask her to let me see Kitty?"
"Leave that to me," was the one reply which Randal could venture to make at the moment.
The serious embarrassments that surrounded him were thickening fast.
His natural frank nature urged him to undeceive Herbert.
If he followed his inclinations, in the near neighborhood of the hotel, who could say what disasters might not ensue, in his brother's present frame of mind?
If he made the disclosure on their return to the house, he would be only running the same risk of consequences, after an interval of delay; and, if he remained silent, the march of events might, at any moment, lead to the discovery of what he had concealed.
Add to this, that his confidence in Catherine had been rudely shaken.
Having allowed herself to be entrapped into the deception proposed by her mother, and having thus far persevered in that deception, were the chances in favor of her revealing her true position-especially if she was disposed to encourage Bennydeck's suit?
Randal's loyalty to Catherine hesitated to decide that serious question against the woman whom he had known, trusted, and admired for so many years.
In any event, her second marriage would lead to one disastrous result.
It would sooner or later come to Herbert's ears.
In the meantime, after what mrs Presty had confessed, the cruel falsehood which had checked poor Kitty's natural inquiries raised an insuperable obstacle to a meeting between father and child.
If Randal shrank from the prospect which thus presented itself to him, in his relations with his brother, and if his thoughts reverted to Sydney Westerfield, other reasons for apprehension found their way into his mind.
He had promised to do his best toward persuading Catherine to grant Sydney an interview.
To perform that promise appeared to be now simply impossible.
Under the exasperating influence of a disappointment for which she was not prepared, it was hard to say what act of imprudence Sydney might not commit.
That the Captain would welcome his friend's daughter as affectionately as if she had been his own child, was not to be doubted for a moment.
But that she would receive the same unremitting attention, while he was courting Catherine, which would have been offered to her under other circumstances, was not to be hoped.
Be the results, however, what they might, Randal could see but one plain course before him now.
He decided on hastening Sydney's introduction to Bennydeck, and on writing at once to prepare the Captain for that event.
Even this apparently simple proceeding required examination in its different bearings, before he could begin his letter.
Would he be justified in alluding to the report which associated Bennydeck with Catherine?
Considerations of delicacy seemed to forbid taking this liberty, even with an intimate friend.
It was for the Captain to confirm what mrs Presty had said of him, if he thought it desirable to touch on the subject in his reply.
Besides, looking to Catherine's interest-and not forgetting how she had suffered-had Randal any right to regard with other than friendly feelings a second marriage, which united her to a man morally and intellectually the superior of her first husband?
What happier future could await her-especially if she justified Randal's past experience of all that was candid and truthful in her character-than to become his friend's wife?
Written under the modifying influence of these conclusions, his letter contained the few words that follow:
"I have news for you which I am sure you will be glad to hear.
Your old friend's daughter has abandoned her sinful way of life, and has made sacrifices which prove the sincerity of her repentance.
Without entering into particulars which may be mercifully dismissed from notice, let me only assure you that I answer for Sydney Westerfield as being worthy of the fatherly interest which you feel in her.
Shall I say that she may expect an early visit from you, when I see her to morrow?
I don't doubt that I am free already to do this; but it will encourage the poor girl, if I can speak with your authority."
He added Sydney's address in a postscript, and dispatched his letter that evening.
On the afternoon of the next day two letters were delivered to Randal, bearing the Sydenham postmark.
The first which he happened to take up was addressed to him in mrs Presty's handwriting.
His opinion of this correspondent was expressed in prompt action-he threw the letter, unopened, into the waste paper basket.
The next letter was from Bennydeck, written in the kindest terms, but containing no allusion to any contemplated change in his life.
He would not be able (he wrote) to leave Sydenham for a day or two.
No explanation of the cause of this delay followed.
But it might, perhaps, be excusable to infer that the marriage had not yet been decided on, and that the Captain's proposals were still waiting for Catherine's reply.
Maximilian.
Villefort rose, half ashamed of being surprised in such a paroxysm of grief.
The terrible office he had held for twenty five years had succeeded in making him more or less than man.
His glance, at first wandering, fixed itself upon Morrel.
"Who are you, sir," he asked, "that forget that this is not the manner to enter a house stricken with death? Go, sir, go!" But Morrel remained motionless; he could not detach his eyes from that disordered bed, and the pale corpse of the young girl who was lying on it.
"Go!--do you hear?" said Villefort, while d'Avrigny advanced to lead Morrel out.
But in less than five minutes the staircase groaned beneath an extraordinary weight.
"See what they have done!" cried Morrel, with one hand leaning on the back of the chair, and the other extended towards Valentine.
"See, my father, see!"
Villefort drew back and looked with astonishment on the young man, who, almost a stranger to him, called Noirtier his father.
And the cry issued from his pores, if we may thus speak-a cry frightful in its silence. D'Avrigny rushed towards the old man and made him inhale a powerful restorative.
"Sir," cried Morrel, seizing the moist hand of the paralytic, "they ask me who I am, and what right I have to be here.
One could have thought that he was undergoing the agonies preceding death.
At length, happier than the young man, who sobbed without weeping, tears glistened in the eyes of Noirtier.
Tell them-oh, tell them, that corpse belongs to me!"
But you see that the angel whom you hoped for has left this earth-she has nothing more to do with the adoration of men.
Take a last farewell, sir, of her sad remains; take the hand you expected to possess once more within your own, and then separate yourself from her forever.
Valentine now requires only the ministrations of the priest."
"I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father has mourned sufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his office."
The eyes of Noirtier glistened, and d'Avrigny approached.
"Gentlemen," said Morrel, reading all that passed through the minds of the witnesses to the scene, "I know what I am saying, and you know as well as I do what I am about to say-Valentine has been assassinated!" Villefort hung his head, d'Avrigny approached nearer, and Noirtier said "Yes" with his eyes.
mr Procureur," said Morrel with increasing vehemence, "no mercy is allowed; I denounce the crime; it is your place to seek the assassin." The young man's implacable eyes interrogated Villefort, who, on his side, glanced from Noirtier to d'Avrigny.
"Yes," indicated the old man.
"Sir," said Villefort, striving to struggle against this triple force and his own emotion,--"sir, you are deceived; no one commits crimes here.
I am stricken by fate.
"And I say that murders are committed here," said Morrel, whose voice, though lower in tone, lost none of its terrible distinctness: "I tell you that this is the fourth victim within the last four months.
I tell you that the dose has been double, the poison changed, and that this time it has succeeded.
"Oh, you rave, sir," exclaimed Villefort, in vain endeavoring to escape the net in which he was taken.
"Yes, yes," continued Morrel; "recall the scene, for the words you thought were only given to silence and solitude fell into my ears.
Noirtier wishes to speak."
"Yes," replied Noirtier.
"And will you direct us?" exclaimed the young man.
"Do you wish me to leave?" said Morrel, sadly.
"Yes," replied Noirtier.
"Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me!"
"Yes."
"no"
The procureur?"
"no"
"The doctor?"
"Yes."
"But can he understand you?"
"Yes."
"Oh," said Villefort, inexpressibly delighted to think that the inquiries were to be made by him alone,--"oh, be satisfied, I can understand my father." D'Avrigny took the young man's arm, and led him out of the room.
At the end of a quarter of an hour a faltering footstep was heard, and Villefort appeared at the door of the apartment where d'Avrigny and Morrel had been staying, one absorbed in meditation, the other in grief.
"You can come," he said, and led them back to Noirtier. Morrel looked attentively on Villefort.
"Gentlemen," he said in a hoarse voice, "give me your word of honor that this horrible secret shall forever remain buried amongst ourselves!" The two men drew back.
"But," said Morrel, "the culprit-the murderer-the assassin."
"Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice will be done," said Villefort.
"My father has revealed the culprit's name; my father thirsts for revenge as much as you do, yet even he conjures you as I do to keep this secret.
Do you not, father?"
Morrel suffered an exclamation of horror and surprise to escape him.
Is it not so, father?"
Villefort continued: "He knows me, and I have pledged my word to him.
"Yes," replied Noirtier with an expression of sinister joy.
We have before stated that all the servants had fled.
It was something terrible to witness the silent agony, the mute despair of Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled down his cheeks.
But he stopped on the landing; he had not the courage to again visit the death chamber.
The two doctors, therefore, entered the room alone.
Noirtier was near the bed, pale, motionless, and silent as the corpse.
The district doctor approached with the indifference of a man accustomed to spend half his time amongst the dead; he then lifted the sheet which was placed over the face, and just unclosed the lips.
"Alas," said d'Avrigny, "she is indeed dead, poor child!"
He therefore approached the bed, and while his companion was dipping the fingers with which he had touched the lips of the corpse in chloride of lime, he uncovered the calm and pale face, which looked like that of a sleeping angel.
The doctor of the dead then laid his permit on the corner of the table, and having fulfilled his duty, was conducted out by d'Avrigny.
Villefort met them at the door of his study; having in a few words thanked the district doctor, he turned to d'Avrigny, and said,--"And now the priest."
"Is there any particular priest you wish to pray with Valentine?" asked d'Avrigny.
"no" said Villefort; "fetch the nearest."
"Do you wish to see him?"
"I only wish to be alone.
You will excuse me, will you not?
For some temperaments work is a remedy for all afflictions.
As the doctors entered the street, they saw a man in a cassock standing on the threshold of the next door.
D'Avrigny accosted the priest.
"Sir," he said, "are you disposed to confer a great obligation on an unhappy father who has just lost his daughter?
"Ah," said the priest, in a marked Italian accent; "yes, I have heard that death is in that house."
"I was about to offer myself, sir," said the priest; "it is our mission to forestall our duties."
"It is a young girl."
"I know it, sir; the servants who fled from the house informed me.
"Thank you, sir," said d'Avrigny; "since you have commenced your sacred office, deign to continue it.
"I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate to say that no prayers will be more fervent than mine." D'Avrigny took the priest's hand, and without meeting Villefort, who was engaged in his study, they reached Valentine's room, which on the following night was to be occupied by the undertakers.
Purgatorio: Canto twenty eight
A softly breathing air, that no mutation Had in itself, upon the forehead smote me No heavier blow than of a gentle wind,
Yet not from their upright direction swayed, So that the little birds upon their tops Should leave the practice of each art of theirs;
But with full ravishment the hours of prime, Singing, received they in the midst of leaves, That ever bore a burden to their rhymes,
Already my slow steps had carried me Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could not perceive where I had entered it.
With feet I stayed, and with mine eyes I passed Beyond the rivulet, to look upon The great variety of the fresh may.
And there appeared to me (even as appears Suddenly something that doth turn aside Through very wonder every other thought)
May the desire come unto thee to draw Near to this river's bank," I said to her, "So much that I might hear what thou art singing.
Thou makest me remember where and what Proserpina that moment was when lost Her mother her, and she herself the Spring."
As soon as she was where the grasses are. Bathed by the waters of the beauteous river, To lift her eyes she granted me the boon.
I do not think there shone so great a light Under the lids of Venus, when transfixed By her own son, beyond his usual custom!
Erect upon the other bank she smiled, Bearing full many colours in her hands, Which that high land produces without seed.
Apart three paces did the river make us; But Hellespont, where Xerxes passed across, (A curb still to all human arrogance,)
More hatred from Leander did not suffer For rolling between Sestos and Abydos, Than that from me, because it oped not then.
"Ye are new comers; and because I smile," Began she, "peradventure, in this place Elect to human nature for its nest,
Some apprehension keeps you marvelling; But the psalm 'Delectasti' giveth light Which has the power to uncloud your intellect.
"The water," said I, "and the forest's sound, Are combating within me my new faith In something which I heard opposed to this."
The Good Supreme, sole in itself delighting, Created man good, and this goodly place Gave him as hansel of eternal peace.
By his default short while he sojourned here; By his default to weeping and to toil He changed his innocent laughter and sweet play.
And so much power the stricken plant possesses That with its virtue it impregns the air, And this, revolving, scatters it around;
It should not seem a marvel then on earth, This being heard, whenever any plant Without seed manifest there taketh root.
But issues from a fountain safe and certain, Which by the will of God as much regains As it discharges, open on two sides.
Then backward did I turn me wholly round Unto my Poets, and saw that with a smile They had been listening to these closing words;
Purgatorio: Canto twenty nine
Between her steps and mine were not a hundred, When equally the margins gave a turn, In such a way, that to the East I faced.
Nor even thus our way continued far Before the lady wholly turned herself Unto me, saying, "Brother, look and listen!"
And lo! a sudden lustre ran across On every side athwart the spacious forest, Such that it made me doubt if it were lightning.
But since the lightning ceases as it comes, And that continuing brightened more and more, Within my thought I said, "What thing is this?"
Underneath which had she devoutly stayed, I sooner should have tasted those delights Ineffable, and for a longer time.
O Virgins sacrosanct! if ever hunger, Vigils, or cold for you I have endured, The occasion spurs me their reward to claim!
Now Helicon must needs pour forth for me, And with her choir Urania must assist me, To put in verse things difficult to think.
But when I had approached so near to them The common object, which the sense deceives, Lost not by distance any of its marks,
The faculty that lends discourse to reason Did apprehend that they were candlesticks, And in the voices of the song "Hosanna!"
Then back I turned my face to those high things, Which moved themselves towards us so sedately, They had been distanced by new wedded brides.
The lady chid me: "Why dost thou burn only So with affection for the living lights, And dost not look at what comes after them?"
And I beheld the flamelets onward go, Leaving behind themselves the air depicted, And they of trailing pennons had the semblance,
So that it overhead remained distinct With sevenfold lists, all of them of the colours Whence the sun's bow is made, and Delia's girdle.
Even as in heaven star followeth after star, There came close after them four animals, Incoronate each one with verdant leaf.
Plumed with six wings was every one of them, The plumage full of eyes; the eyes of Argus If they were living would be such as these.
Reader! to trace their forms no more I waste My rhymes; for other spendings press me so, That I in this cannot be prodigal.
But read ezekiel, who depicteth them As he beheld them from the region cold Coming with cloud, with whirlwind, and with fire;
And such as thou shalt find them in his pages, Such were they here; saving that in their plumage john is with me, and differeth from him.
The interval between these four contained A chariot triumphal on two wheels, Which by a Griffin's neck came drawn along;
And upward he extended both his wings Between the middle list and three and three, So that he injured none by cleaving it.
So high they rose that they were lost to sight; His limbs were gold, so far as he was bird, And white the others with vermilion mingled.
Not only Rome with no such splendid car E'er gladdened Africanus, or Augustus, But poor to it that of the Sun would be,--
Three maidens at the right wheel in a circle Came onward dancing; one so very red That in the fire she hardly had been noted.
And now they seemed conducted by the white, Now by the red, and from the song of her The others took their step, or slow or swift.
In rear of all the group here treated of Two old men I beheld, unlike in habit, But like in gait, each dignified and grave.
Thereafter four I saw of humble aspect, And behind all an aged man alone Walking in sleep with countenance acute.
And when the car was opposite to me Thunder was heard; and all that folk august Seemed to have further progress interdicted,
Motionless halted, the veracious people, That came at first between it and the Griffin, Turned themselves to the car, as to their peace.
And one of them, as if by Heaven commissioned, Singing, "Veni, sponsa, de Libano" Shouted three times, and all the others after.
Even as the Blessed at the final summons Shall rise up quickened each one from his cavern, Uplifting light the reinvested flesh,
They all were saying, "Benedictus qui venis," And, scattering flowers above and round about, "Manibus o date lilia plenis."
And the sun's face, uprising, overshadowed So that by tempering influence of vapours For a long interval the eye sustained it;
Over her snow white veil with olive cinct Appeared a lady under a green mantle, Vested in colour of the living flame.
And my own spirit, that already now So long a time had been, that in her presence Trembling with awe it had not stood abashed,
As soon as on my vision smote the power Sublime, that had already pierced me through Ere from my boyhood I had yet come forth,
To the left hand I turned with that reliance With which the little child runs to his mother, When he has fear, or when he is afflicted,
But us Virgilius of himself deprived Had left, Virgilius, sweetest of all fathers, Virgilius, to whom I for safety gave me:
"Dante, because Virgilius has departed Do not weep yet, do not weep yet awhile; For by another sword thou need'st must weep."
I saw the Lady, who erewhile appeared Veiled underneath the angelic festival, Direct her eyes to me across the river.
"Look at me well; in sooth I'm Beatrice! How didst thou deign to come unto the Mountain? Didst thou not know that man is happy here?"
Mine eyes fell downward into the clear fountain, But, seeing myself therein, I sought the grass, So great a shame did weigh my forehead down.
But when I heard in their sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, "O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus upbraid him?"
The ice, that was about my heart congealed, To air and water changed, and in my anguish Through mouth and eyes came gushing from my breast.
She, on the right-hand border of the car Still firmly standing, to those holy beings Thus her discourse directed afterwards:
Therefore my answer is with greater care, That he may hear me who is weeping yonder, So that the sin and dole be of one measure.
But by the largess of celestial graces, Which have such lofty vapours for their rain That near to them our sight approaches not,
Such had this man become in his new life Potentially, that every righteous habit Would have made admirable proof in him;
But so much more malignant and more savage Becomes the land untilled and with bad seed, The more good earthly vigour it possesses.
Some time did I sustain him with my look; Revealing unto him my youthful eyes, I led him with me turned in the right way.
As soon as ever of my second age I was upon the threshold and changed life, Himself from me he took and gave to others.
When from the flesh to spirit I ascended, And beauty and virtue were in me increased, I was to him less dear and less delightful;
And into ways untrue he turned his steps, Pursuing the false images of good, That never any promises fulfil;
Nor prayer for inspiration me availed, By means of which in dreams and otherwise I called him back, so little did he heed them.
For this I visited the gates of death, And unto him, who so far up has led him, My intercessions were with weeping borne.
Purgatorio: Canto thirty one
"O thou who art beyond the sacred river," Turning to me the point of her discourse, That edgewise even had seemed to me so keen,
My faculties were in so great confusion, That the voice moved, but sooner was extinct Than by its organs it was set at large.
Confusion and dismay together mingled Forced such a Yes! from out my mouth, that sight Was needful to the understanding of it.
Even as a cross bow breaks, when 'tis discharged Too tensely drawn the bowstring and the bow, And with less force the arrow hits the mark,
So I gave way beneath that heavy burden, Outpouring in a torrent tears and sighs, And the voice flagged upon its passage forth.
Weeping I said: "The things that present were With their false pleasure turned aside my steps, Soon as your countenance concealed itself."
But still, that thou mayst feel a greater shame For thy transgression, and another time Hearing the Sirens thou mayst be more strong,
Cast down the seed of weeping and attend; So shalt thou hear, how in an opposite way My buried flesh should have directed thee.
The callow birdlet waits for two or three, But to the eyes of those already fledged, In vain the net is spread or shaft is shot."
Even as children silent in their shame Stand listening with their eyes upon the ground, And conscious of their fault, and penitent;
So was I standing; and she said: "If thou In hearing sufferest pain, lift up thy beard And thou shalt feel a greater pain in seeing."
Than I upraised at her command my chin; And when she by the beard the face demanded, Well I perceived the venom of her meaning.
And as my countenance was lifted up, Mine eye perceived those creatures beautiful Had rested from the strewing of the flowers;
Beneath her veil, beyond the margent green, She seemed to me far more her ancient self To excel, than others here, when she was here.
So pricked me then the thorn of penitence, That of all other things the one which turned me Most to its love became the most my foe.
Such self conviction stung me at the heart O'erpowered I fell, and what I then became She knoweth who had furnished me the cause.
Then, when the heart restored my outward sense, The lady I had found alone, above me I saw, and she was saying, "Hold me, hold me."
Up to my throat she in the stream had drawn me, And, dragging me behind her, she was moving Upon the water lightly as a shuttle.
When I was near unto the blessed shore, "Asperges me," I heard so sweetly sung, Remember it I cannot, much less write it.
The beautiful lady opened wide her arms, Embraced my head, and plunged me underneath, Where I was forced to swallow of the water.
Then forth she drew me, and all dripping brought Into the dance of the four beautiful, And each one with her arm did cover me.
Thus singing they began; and afterwards Unto the Griffin's breast they led me with them, Where Beatrice was standing, turned towards us.
Think, Reader, if within myself I marvelled, When I beheld the thing itself stand still, And in its image it transformed itself.
While with amazement filled and jubilant, My soul was tasting of the food, that while It satisfies us makes us hunger for it,
In grace do us the grace that thou unveil Thy face to him, so that he may discern The second beauty which thou dost conceal."
Purgatorio: Canto thirty two
When forcibly my sight was turned away Towards my left hand by those goddesses, Because I heard from them a "Too intently!"
I saw upon its right wing wheeled about The glorious host returning with the sun And with the sevenfold flames upon their faces.
That soldiery of the celestial kingdom Which marched in the advance had wholly passed us Before the chariot had turned its pole.
Then to the wheels the maidens turned themselves, And the Griffin moved his burden benedight, But so that not a feather of him fluttered.
The lady fair who drew me through the ford Followed with Statius and myself the wheel Which made its orbit with the lesser arc.
I heard them murmur altogether, "Adam!" Then circled they about a tree despoiled Of blooms and other leafage on each bough.
Its tresses, which so much the more dilate As higher they ascend, had been by Indians Among their forests marvelled at for height.
"Blessed art thou, O Griffin, who dost not Pluck with thy beak these branches sweet to taste, Since appetite by this was turned to evil."
After this fashion round the tree robust The others shouted; and the twofold creature: "Thus is preserved the seed of all the just."
And turning to the pole which he had dragged, He drew it close beneath the widowed bough, And what was of it unto it left bound.
Less than of rose and more than violet A hue disclosing, was renewed the tree That had erewhile its boughs so desolate.
Even as a painter who from model paints I would portray how I was lulled asleep; He may, who well can picture drowsihood.
Therefore I pass to what time I awoke, And say a splendour rent from me the veil Of slumber, and a calling: "Rise, what dost thou?"
peter and john and james conducted were, And, overcome, recovered at the word By which still greater slumbers have been broken,
And saw their school diminished by the loss Not only of Elias, but of Moses, And the apparel of their Master changed;
So I revived, and saw that piteous one Above me standing, who had been conductress Aforetime of my steps beside the river,
Behold the company that circles her; The rest behind the Griffin are ascending With more melodious song, and more profound."
And if her speech were more diffuse I know not, Because already in my sight was she Who from the hearing of aught else had shut me.
Alone she sat upon the very earth, Left there as guardian of the chariot Which I had seen the biform monster fasten.
"Short while shalt thou be here a forester, And thou shalt be with me for evermore A citizen of that Rome where Christ is Roman.
Therefore, for that world's good which liveth ill, Fix on the car thine eyes, and what thou seest, Having returned to earth, take heed thou write."
Thus Beatrice; and I, who at the feet Of her commandments all devoted was, My mind and eyes directed where she willed.
Thereafter saw I leap into the body Of the triumphal vehicle a Fox, That seemed unfed with any wholesome food.
Then by the way that it before had come, Into the chariot's chest I saw the Eagle Descend, and leave it feathered with his plumes.
And as a wasp that draweth back its sting, Drawing unto himself his tail malign, Drew out the floor, and went his way rejoicing.
The first were horned like oxen; but the four Had but a single horn upon the forehead; A monster such had never yet been seen!
But because she her wanton, roving eye Turned upon me, her angry paramour Did scourge her from her head unto her feet.
And Beatrice, compassionate and sighing, Listened to them with such a countenance, That scarce more changed was Mary at the cross.
Then all the seven in front of her she placed; And after her, by beckoning only, moved Me and the lady and the sage who stayed.
So she moved onward; and I do not think That her tenth step was placed upon the ground, When with her eyes upon mine eyes she smote,
As soon as I was with her as I should be, She said to me: "Why, brother, dost thou not Venture to question now, in coming with me?"
It me befell, that without perfect sound Began I: "My necessity, Madonna, You know, and that which thereunto is good."
Within which a Five hundred, Ten, and Five, One sent from God, shall slay the thievish woman And that same giant who is sinning with her.
Note thou; and even as by me are uttered These words, so teach them unto those who live That life which is a running unto death;
Whoever pillages or shatters it, With blasphemy of deed offendeth God, Who made it holy for his use alone.
Thou by so many circumstances only The justice of the interdict of God Morally in the tree wouldst recognize.
I will too, if not written, at least painted, Thou bear it back within thee, for the reason That cinct with palm the pilgrim's staff is borne."
And I: "As by a signet is the wax Which does not change the figure stamped upon it, My brain is now imprinted by yourself.
But wherefore so beyond my power of sight Soars your desirable discourse, that aye The more I strive, so much the more I lose it?"
Whence her I answered: "I do not remember That ever I estranged myself from you, Nor have I conscience of it that reproves me."
And if from smoke a fire may be inferred, Such an oblivion clearly demonstrates Some error in thy will elsewhere intent.
Truly from this time forward shall my words Be naked, so far as it is befitting To lay them open unto thy rude gaze."
The ladies seven at a dark shadow's edge, Such as, beneath green leaves and branches black, The Alp upon its frigid border wears.
In front of them the Tigris and Euphrates Methought I saw forth issue from one fountain, And slowly part, like friends, from one another.
"O light, O glory of the human race! What stream is this which here unfolds itself From out one source, and from itself withdraws?"
For such a prayer, 'twas said unto me, "Pray Matilda that she tell thee;" and here answered, As one does who doth free himself from blame,
And Beatrice: "Perhaps a greater care, Which oftentimes our memory takes away, Has made the vision of his mind obscure.
Even so, when she had taken hold of me, The beautiful lady moved, and unto Statius Said, in her womanly manner, "Come with him."
The task of the translator (and with all humility be it spoken) is one of some self denial.
Thereafter, this sonnet bred in me desire to write down in verse four other things touching my condition, the which things it seemed to me that I had not yet made manifest.
And I said these four things in a sonnet, which is this:--
But albeit I spake not to her again, yet it behoved me afterward to write of another matter, more noble than the foregoing.
And for that the occasion of what I then wrote may be found pleasant in the hearing, I will relate it as briefly as I may.
Through the sore change in mine aspect, the secret of my heart was now understood of many.
And as I was going that way by chance, (but I think rather by the will of fortune,) I heard one of them call unto me, and she that called was a lady of very sweet speech.
And when I had come close up with them, and perceived that they had not among them mine excellent lady, I was reassured; and saluted them, asking of their pleasure.
But when I still spake not, one of them, who before had been talking with another, addressed me by my name, saying, "To what end lovest thou this lady, seeing that thou canst not support her presence?
Then I, being almost put to shame because of her answer, went out from among them; and as I walked, I said within myself: "Seeing that there is so much beatitude in those words which do praise my lady, wherefore hath my speech of her been different?" And then I resolved that thenceforward I would choose for the theme of my writings only the praise of this most gracious being.
Whereupon I declare that my tongue spake as though by its own impulse, and said, "Ladies that have intelligence in love." These words I laid up in my mind with great gladness, conceiving to take them as my commencement.
The poem begins here:--
The first part is a proem to the words following.
The second is the matter treated of.
The third is, as it were, a handmaid to the preceding words.
The second begins here, "An Angel;" the third here, "Dear Song, I know." The first part is divided into four.
In the first, I say to whom I mean to speak of my lady, and wherefore I will so speak.
In the third, I say what it is I purpose to speak so as not to be impeded by faintheartedness.
The second begins here, "And I declare;" the third here, "Wherefore I will not speak;" the fourth here, "With you alone." Then, when I say "An Angel," I begin treating of this lady: and this part is divided into two.
In the first, I tell what is understood of her in heaven.
And that every vicious thought may be discarded herefrom, let the reader remember that it is above written that the greeting of this lady, which was an act of her mouth, was the goal of my desires, while I could receive it.
Then, when I say, "Dear Song, I know," I add a stanza as it were handmaid to the others, wherein I say what I desire from this my poem.
A few days after this, my body became afflicted with a painful infirmity, whereby I suffered bitter anguish for many days, which at last brought me unto such weakness that I could no longer move.
And I remember that on the ninth day, being overcome with intolerable pain, a thought came into my mind concerning my lady: but when it had a little nourished this thought, my mind returned to its brooding over mine enfeebled body.
She that was thine excellent lady hath been taken out of life." Then I began to weep very piteously; and not only in mine imagination, but with mine eyes, which were wet with tears.
Then my heart that was so full of love said unto me: "It is true that our lady lieth dead;" and it seemed to me that I went to look upon the body wherein that blessed and most noble spirit had had its abiding place.
Wherefore come now unto me who do greatly desire thee: seest thou not that I wear thy colour already?" And when I had seen all those offices performed that are fitting to be done unto the dead, it seemed to me that I went back unto mine own chamber, and looked up towards Heaven.
And so strong was my phantasy, that I wept again in very truth, and said with my true voice: "O excellent soul! how blessed is he that now looketh upon thee!"
And as I said these words, with a painful anguish of sobbing and another prayer unto Death, a young and gentle lady, who had been standing beside me where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with trembling and began to shed tears.
Whereby other ladies, who were about the room, becoming aware of my discomfort by reason of the moan that she made, (who indeed was of my very near kindred,) led her away from where I was, and then set themselves to awaken me, thinking that I dreamed, and saying: "Sleep no longer, and be not disquieted."
Also, after I had recovered from my sickness, I bethought me to write these things in rhyme; deeming it a lovely thing to be known.
Whereof I wrote this poem:--
"And I became so humble in my grief, Seeing in her such deep humility, That I said: 'Death, I hold thee passing good Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief, Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee: Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood. Lo!
I do so desire to see thy face That I am like as one who nears the tomb; My soul entreats thee, Come.' Then I departed, having made my moan; And when I was alone I said, and cast my eyes to the High Place: 'Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!' ...
Just then you woke me, of your complaisaunce."
In the first, speaking to a person undefined, I tell how I was aroused from a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and how I promised them to tell what it was.
In the second, I say how I told them.
The second part begins here, "I was a thinking." The first part divides into two.
In the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after I had left off this wandering: and it begins here, "But uttered in a voice." Then, when I say, "I was a thinking," I say how I told them this my imagination; and concerning this I have two parts.
In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination.
After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, as I sat thoughtful, that I was taken with such a strong trembling at the heart, that it could not have been otherwise in the presence of my lady.
A short while after these words which my heart spoke to me with the tongue of Love, I saw coming towards me a certain lady who was very famous for her beauty, and of whom that friend whom I have already called the first among my friends had long been enamoured.
The second says how it appeared to me that Love spake within my heart, and what was his aspect.
The third tells how, after he had in such wise been with me a space, I saw and heard certain things.
The second part begins here, "Saying, 'Be now;'" the third here, "Then, while it was his pleasure." The third part divides into two.
seventeen.
eighteen.
The choice of arms was thine; Yet art thou scoffed at by the crucified! He lives-thy loss.
nineteen.
These things gave you birth: So have they mind and God.
Repent; be wise! Man fights but ill with Him who rules the skies.
twenty three.
But my bell hath broke Her silence.
Yield, thou deaf, blind, tainted beast, To the wise fervour of a blameless mind!
twenty five.
twenty six.
All crime is its own torment, bearing woe To mind or body or decrease of fame; If not at once, still step by step our name Or blood or friends or fortune it brings low. But if our will do not resent the blow, We have not sinned.
Organ of rut, not reason, is the lord Who from the body politic doth drain Lust for himself, instead of toil and pain, Leaving us lean as crickets on dry sward. Well too if he like Love would filch our hoard With pleasure to ourselves, sluicing our vein And vigour to perpetuate the strain Of life by spilth of life within us stored! Love's cheat yields joy and profit.
twenty eight.