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Babies of Chinatown : [ article in The Cosmopolitan, v.28, n.6, April, 1900 ] Davison, Mary 1900

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Array Gen. Nelson A. Miles
Edgar Saltus
Edward S. Holden
Edward S. Martin
Susan B. Anthony
Max O'Rell    ^K?*^?
Maurice Thompson
Thomas R. Slicer
W. J. Henderson
John Brisben Walker
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Niagara in Winter,  illustrated.
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arThe Babies of Chinatown,  illustrated.
  MARY DAVISON         °°5
The Girl-Ranchers of California,  illustrated.
W. F. WADE *>     6l3
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One Year
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The Cause of Paralysis
And NERVo-ViTAXi Diseases Found in the Diseased
Veins of Varicocele.  The Condition Cur able
Copyrighted 1900, D. D. Richardson, M. D.
A varicose condition of the veins means that
there is something radically wrong not only with the
circulation, but with the nervous system as well.
The disease of Varicocele is more serious than varicose veins on the limbs because of its.nearness to
the vital centers and the effect that it has upon the
whole   nervous   organism.
In handling
the Nervo-
Vital cases
that come to
me for cure,
I first direct
the most
searching inquiry toward
the reason
for the disorder.
circulat i on
may arise
from a variety of causes,
but when it
results i n
Varicocele, it is the strongest evidence of predisposition to Paralysis
It is manifestly true that the blood that is retained
for an unnatural period in the diseased and feverish
veins of. Varicocele cannot be healthy, pure and
nourishing blood.
My researches have demonstrated conclusively
that the "exact opposite is the case.
Nerves that should be nourished with vitalizing
blood are fed on the toxins (poisons) generated in
the sluggish currents of varicose veins, and clogged
with minute clots which interfere with nerve impulse.
Paralysis or Apoplexy claim every year many
victims of Varicocele who invited disaster by neglect.
Understanding as I do the real nature of this disease and that it is in many cases the direct cause of
Locomotor Ataxia and other forms of Paralysis, I
have made a specialty of the cure of Varicocele.
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which I originated— the
Electro- Che-
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THE first MOBILES were turned out at the factory of
Kingsland-Point-on-the-Hudson during the month of March.
Nine months before, two hundred and thirty-three acres
of the famous Philipse Manor property, having nearly a
mile of river frontage on the Hudson and bisected by the
New York  Central Railway, was purchased with the idea
of building there an automobile factory of such extent that
the cost of production  could be  brought to the  lowest
possible figure.     While the factory was in course of erection, a corps of engineers and experts under the direction
of the Messrs. Francis and Freeland Stanley was engaged in strengthening and improving the carriage and perfecting methods and special tools for the manufacture of the
automobile carriage invented by the Messrs, Stanley.
The carriage thus perfected is to be known as the "WESTCHESTER COUNTY
MODEL" to distinguish it from the carriages of the Stanley design turned out at the
works in Massachusetts. It carries the very latest improvements, and the orders for its
construction have been to use only the finest quality of material and to spare no pains
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MOBILE COMPANY OF AMERICA, is not excelled in strength, durability and
excellence of design. what the mobile is.
OF AMERICA, is a horseless carriage weighing less than five hundred pounds, and
costing but six hundred and fifty dollars. Compactly built, with workmanship of the
finest quality, capable of traveling twenty miles or more an hour or reducing its speed so
that it can take its place in the slowly moving and stopping line of travel in the great
cities, it is operated by steam under circumstances which render it absolutely safe. More
than a thousand Stanley carriages of the Massachusetts model are now in public use, and
there has never been a single boiler accident. The fuel shuts off automatically when the
steam reaches one hundred and sixty pounds. There is a safety-valve which opens at
one hundred and seventy pounds. Each boiler is wound with piano-wire and tested up to
six hundred pounds pressure, and is calculated to withstand a strain up to thirty-five r"
hundred pounds pressure to the square inch.
Recently, as an experiment, a boiler was
placed in an excavation, all valves closed,
and the fire turned on full head. A gauge
carried off to a distance showed a steam
pressure of twelve hundred pounds. Then
the steam began to drop, owingv to a slight
escape around the head of each of the copper tubes which compose the boiler flues,
and the pressure did not rise above the
twelve hundred pounds indicated, until all
the water was exhausted. If the water
supply should be exhausted in the boiler
through oversight, the pressure drops and
the boiler ceases to produce ste*am, and
with the decreased pressure of^he steam
the carriage comes to a stop and the pump which supplies water ceases to work.
The factory of the company has been fitted up with the most perfect machinery
and special tools, all new and of the latest design for manufacturing on the most
extensive scale. In this way the company proposes to bring the price within the reach
of every class. The charge made is SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS, payable
upon delivery at the Kingsland Point station of the New York Central Railway. The
is that it has no superior in the world's markets to-day.
One of the improvements in the "WESTCHESTER COUNTY MODEL" is a tank
made from seamless copper tubing, giving a fuel-storage capacity double that in the
original Stanley carriage, and equal to one hundred miles' run on smooth, level roads.
The MOBILE can travel over any class of road, rough or smooth; but it must be distinctly understood that the rougher the road the more fuel required.
The question of steep grades is an annoying one for the average horseless carriage.
Not so for the MOBILE. It can climb on a fairly made road up a fourteen per cent,
grade (which is considered a pretty steep county road) at the rate of fifteen miles an
hour. At a test made at the Charles River Park, in Boston, Mr. Stanley took the earlier
and less perfect form of his carriage up a thirty-six per cent, grade built for the purpose,
and rising
Iniore than
I forty feet in-
[to the air.
[No other car-
I riage accom-
I plished this
1 feat. During
[the past sum-
I mer, Mr. Freehand O. Stan-
lley and his
[wife ascended
I the long, steep
I road up Mount
I Washington
two hours
[and   twenty
The question is frequently asked regarding the cost of maintaining the MOBILE.
The same care that is given to a bicycle must also be given to the MOBILE—
not a quarter as much care, however, as would be required by a highly bred horse.
Some difficulty was experienced in the earlier forms of the Stanley carriage with the
engine bearings. In the MOBILE, "WESTCHESTER COUNTY MODEL," these
bearings have been increased to one-half inch balls, and the additional strength gained
is equal to all the demands of rapid motion.
■ All the parts of the MOBILE are built with special tools, so that they are alike
in size, and in the event of breakage new ones may be substituted for the old.
The MOBILE is perfectly smooth in operation. It moves without jar or vibration
of any kind. When in motion, the products of combustion are carried underneath the
carriage, and neither heat nor odor of any kind arises. The machinery is noiseless
except in climbing stiff grades, when a slight puffing is audible, but nothing in the
least degree objectionable.
Beyond guiding the carriage along the road with care, no attention is required on
the part of the driver other than to occasionally observe his water-gauge. If the boiler
should fill to the top of the glass, the supply is cut off and is opened when the glass
notifies the driver that the working of the pump should be resumed.     When the car-
riage is stopped, the supply of fuel is automatically turned off and nothing but a pilot
light remains. In ordinary weather it is probable that in an hour the steam in the boiler
would fall to the point of insufficient pressure.
Any one interesting himself, in the subject may acquire a full knowledge of how to
operate a MOBILE carriage after a couple of days' trial. The mistake made by most
operators is to suppose that a few minutes' explanation suffices to enable one to operate
a carriage safely. They move the lever and off they go—they know it all. This
machine, which has in it the possibility of darting swiftly from twenty to thirty miles
an hour, may be compared to a pair of high-strung, spirited horses. No one would
think of intrusting mettlesome horses to an inexperienced driver. The man or woman
who intends to drive a MOBILE should make up his or her mind to study the subject thoroughly, to go at it systematically, master till the details, and then drive slowly
and cautiously until the hand becomes thoroughly expert in handling the machine.
The MOBILE moves so swiftly and noiselessly under the slight touch of the lever, that
many drivers fail to understand the tremendous speed at which they are traveling. On
ordinary roads, it is not safe to go above twelve or fifteen miles an hour at the limit,
and a conservative driver should keep within this speed. To the man or woman who
learns his machine thoroughly and who is capable of managing it with skill, no greater
pleasure can be found than in the swift motion of the MOBILE. From the Prince of
Wales to the humblest clerk who  can afford it, the desire for MOBILE ownership is ADVERTISING SUPPLEMENT.
pleasure-carriage than as one to be tested
Spreading. There is no
movement which so exhilarates. One correspondent asks if a MOBILE can cross a ford
where the water is five
feet deep; another asks
if it can travel through
three feet of snow.
All of these inquiries
may be put under one
general head. The
MOBILE should be regarded rather
under extreme   conditions.
First. The Engine. The engines are made with a peculiar piston-head, a water
ring being substituted for the usual packing and fitting so perfectly in the cylinder as
to require no oil. Mr. Francis E. Stanley writes as follows regarding his experiments
with this engine:—"I have been using the engine with the long piston similar to those
you are receiving until I am satisfied that it is far superior to any other engine I have
ever tried. I find that the carriage on the road keeps up steam much better than the
other machines that we have working here with the old style of engine, that the carriage will coast much better than the other machines, showing that the pistons move
with very little friction or resistance. I am very glad that you have these engines to
go with your first machines, as it will entirely dispense with any oil-cup on the steam-
chest, as there has never been one particle of oil in the cylinders of this engine of mine,
and it works perfectly."
The engine is double-cylinder, giving 2J^ strokes to one revolution of the wheel,
the length of the engine stroke being three and a half inches.
The claims which the MOBILE makes upon the public confidence may be briefly
summed up as follows: —
First.-. The lightest, most compact, best designed and most perfect horseless carriage now before the public.
Second.     The highest class of materials and workmanship.
Third.     Cost—but $650.
Fourth.     Simplicity in construction, odorless when running, and almost noiseless.
Fifth.     It can speed at a gait up to thirty miles per hour or follow the slowest
Sixth. It is operated by steam, the standard power of the world, under perfect
regulation and test.
Seventh. Its fuel is inexpensive; it carries a supply for fifty to one hundred miles,
I according to the character of the road, which can be
I procured at any drug-store at slight expense.
Eignth. It embraces all the latest improvements,
j and is confidently recommended as the most perfect piece
[ of machinery now on the market.
The probabilities are that not  one  automobile car-
I riage will be built during the coming season where ten
will be required to supply the demand.    The impression
j prevails that there are a great number of horseless carriage factories being erected and that   the   output will
I be large during the coming season.     The fact remains
jj that there are not in operation in the United  States at
j this time factories capable of  turning out twenty ma-
I chines a  day other than the   Stanley carriage.     After
three years of  experiment on the part of the Messrs.
■ Stanley and  nine months spent in the construction of a
factory, we are only now in a position to turn out carriages on a considerable
scale. Nine-tenths of all the establishments referred to in the newspapers have
yet to buy their first piece of machinery for manufacturing, and most of the
remainder are in the stages of preliminary experiment—just where the Stanleys
were two years ago. The public has been greatly misled by irresponsible publications
on this subject, and many who intend buying will find when summer arrives that they
have deferred the matter until it is too late to secure delivery this year.
A carefully prepared book of instructions will be furnished with each carriage sold,
and it is possible for any one with some mechanical knowledge to master the handling
of the MOBILE from the instructions therein given. Unmechanical purchasers living
at a distance who cannot come to the factory for instructions are advised to secure a careful and competent engineer, a man of good judgment and likely to be thorough, who
can master the machine and then instruct the purchaser.
The MOBILE carriage, "WESTCHESTER COUNTY MODEL," may be found
from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. in front of the office of the company. Times Building, New York.
Instruction in the handling of the carriage  will be given at Kingsland Point, Tarry-
The Philipse Manor property contains many beautiful roadways, steep, level, good,
and some bad, so that the purchaser or intending purchaser will find it admirably
adapted as a place to try automobiles. Ilfcil
Tarry town is a little more than half an hour's run from New York by the fast
trains. Of the fifty-nine accommodation trains which stop at Tarrytown station, fourteen each day stop at Kingsland Point upon application to' the conductor. Kingsland
Point itself is considered to be one of the two or three most beautiful places on the
Hudson. It stands well out in the Tappan Zee with Grant's Tomb visible on a clear
day to the south, and a great stretch of water to the north off into the Highlands.
The place is full of historic memories. The original Philipse Manor and mill, more
than two hundred years old, are still standing. The "Headless Horseman's Bridge"
is near by. The mansion was the center originally of the Philipse estate, which
embraced two hundred square miles and reached from Spuyten Duyvel to Peekskill. It
seems proper that here should be opened the manufacture of automobiles, for here were
begun more than two hundred years ago manufacturing operations on the Hudson.
John Brisben Walker, President. William A. Pell, Vice-President.
Freeland O. Stanley, ) Inventors and Consulting Engineers.
Francis E. Stanley,     \
Mew York Office :
H80 Times Building,
f     New York City.
-._„„_„.) Kingsland Point,
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l_ The Cosmopolita
From every man according to his ability : to every one according to his needs.
Vol. XXVIII. APRIL,   1900. No. 6.
By Orrin E. Dunlap. >
WHEN zero has prevailed for days;
when the wind has been shifting,
now blowing the spray-cloud this way, now
that way, touching everything all about
as though by liquid marble which hardened as it fell, then is the time to visit
Niagara if you wish to dwell in a fairyland
where the Ice-King reigns in all his glory.
The familiar rocks, the familiar shrubs, the
familiar trees, all have disappeared, and
in their place there is a forest and setting
of purest marble.
The proper conditions for Niagara ice-
bridge formations are then at hand also.
Weeks of severe cold weather result in the
formation of large bodies of ice in Lake
Copyright, 1900, by Joh
Erie. Then comes a tli" w .to rot the ice,
followed by a high wind from the west to
break it and sweep it down the lake to the
entrance to the Niagara. Once it is in the
grasp of the river, the current hurries it on
toward the falls with rapid pace. On the
occasions of large floes the ice gathers in
considerable quantities on the reefs and bars
above the falls, in many cases diverting the
direction of the current, and making it
possible to cross on the ice to points seldom
The most wonderful incident of this kind
on record occurred on March 29, 1848.
The winter had been very cold, and the
ice in Lake Erie was exceedingly thick.
n Brisben Walker. 594
The warm days of approaching spring
weakened it, and during the day a heavy
wind started the ice-field in motion. It
was swept into the river entrance in such
immense quantities that it filled the outlet
of the lake to such an extent that the flow
of the wrater was impeded. In the morning the people at Niagara Falls found their
river was half gone. Only a creeklike
stream flowed through the American channel, and the water in the Canadian, or
deeper, channel had also dwindled away,
so far as water was concerned. The rocky
bed of the river was bare. Niagara's roar
was  gone.     During the  day  the ice-dam
these small pieces of ice find it possible to
jam on such a current as that of the Niagara River below the falls and form an ice-
bridge of such remarkable strength as some
of these structures prove to possess. No
feature is so interesting as the formation of
a Niagara ice-bridge. Hour after hour the
ice tumbles over the American and the
Horseshoe Falls. Gra'dually the eddies in
the lower river become filled, and the ice
in them extends out to the main current.
When this stage of formation has been
reached, the ice coming downstream is
passing through a channel in the center of
the stream.     It  may flow on for hours in
at the river's entrance near Buffalo gave
way, and the torrent again plunged over
The ice as it leaves Lake Erie sweeps down
the river in a mass that whitens the river
from shore to shore, making ax spectacle
well worth watching from the trains of
the several railways running' between
Buffalo and the falls along the river-bank.
The trip of the ice through the upper
rapids and over the falls breaks the mass
into small, uneven pieces, few of which,
strange as it may seem, are as large as a
peck measure.   And stranger still it is that
this way, the ice in the eddies still, and
gradually being added to from the moving
mass in the center. The size of the floe
increases', the channel in midstream is not
large enough to carry the ice downstream.
There comes a jam, the ice stops in its
headway. A grinding, pushing, crowding
noise comes up from the gorge. An ice-
bridge is forming. It is fast. There it is
breaking away at the lower end, while
some of the ice at the upper end is being
swept beneath the quiet portion. It is
moving. The ice in the center is again
going downstream.   This may continue for NIAGARA IN WINTER.
hours longer until another great mass of ice
comes over the falls. It fills the channel
and piles up so that it is evident that it is
firmly wedged. The ice already in the
upper river and that at the lower section of
the lake continue to pour down over the
falls for days. The wind changes. The
water, which has been quite high, lowers;
the icy mass in the gorge settles and
wedges itself more firmly between the
shores. Great cracks open here and there
on the surface of the jam. The experienced eye says, "It is safe," and out from
either shore plunge venturesome people
anxious to be the first to cross.
This first crossing of a Niagara ice-bridge 596
is desperately dangerous business. The
ground, if so it may be termed, is uncertain. Before starting out from the shore
the adventurers take a survey of the surface
of the bridge, deciding to avoid this or
that fissure or crevasse, to accomplish which
they frequently have to take a roundabout
course. The longer they are on the ice,
the longer they are in danger. They all
aim to be fleet of foot, but the surface is
most uneven. Smoothness is unknown in
a Niagara ice-bridge. The trip across is
simply uphill and downhill. The -icy
hillocks form an uncertain footing. There
is many a tumble in the early trips, and
when one falls at such times he wonders
where he is going. At times the route
selected leads high up on an icy mound,
and then down between the walls of a
crevasse from which even the high banks
are not to be seen. It is every man for
himself during the first trip, for it couldn't
well be otherwise. It is a wild scramble,
and there are always many spectators on
the cliffs to watch the success of the several
aspirants   for fame.     Women,   as  well  as
men, endanger their lives at this stage of
the ice-bridge, and the names of the leaders-
in crossing are usually heralded through
the press, while they also make an interesting record in the ice-bridge history. Nothing in the world makes such a wonderful
demonstration of the power of email things
when united, as do these Niagara ice-
bridges. At the point where the jams
occur, the river is about one thousand two
hundred to one thousand five hundred feet
across, and the water in the channel has a
depth of about one hundred and ninety-
four feet. Back of this water there is ever
the force of the falling water of the cataract, over which it is estimated that fifteen
million cubic feet of water pass every
minute. It is this stream, this current,
this force of water, that these small particles of ice-bridge span so firmly that thousands of people cross from shore to shore on
the mass, and even horses have been
known to cross and climb the ice-mound.
Horses that have made this trip have been
brought down the path on the? Canadian
side of  the  river  and led across the ice-
bridge and up the mound, owing to the
fact that there is no path to descend the
cliff on the American side of the river.
During the period of their existence the
ice-bridges undergo wonderful changes.
In the early stages the changes are frequent.
Very often the first bridge lasts but a few
days, but if the ice-bridge season is on,
another bridge quickly takes its place.
After a substantial bridge has formed and
there comes a heavy floe of ice, the bridge
is usually greatly^strengthened. The new
ice  lodges against  the  upper line of the
bridge, frequently building it away up to
the foot of the Horseshoe or Canadian
Fall. The water in the lower river rises,
and the loose ice is swept over and on top
of the bridge, changing its formation entirely, and building a structure that will
last for weeks despite weather-changes.
When this condition is reached, the hearts
of the Niagara hotel proprietor, the bazaar
man and the guide thump with joy. The
season is then at its height. Excursionists
number thousands upon thousands, all
crowding to Niagara, by steam-roads and m
pjbrn*  J*
by trolley-lines, all eager to see the winter
spectacle. By this time the residents on
both sides of the river have worn a good
pathway across the bridge from shore to
shore. Men of the hour, or, men of opportunity, erect "shanties," sometimes
dignified by the name of "hotels," on the
bridge along the path. These buildings
are a wonder. They spring up in a day,
in an hour, in fact. Their only foundation
is the ice, and each one has nearly two
hundred feet of water in the "cellar." Variety is the spice of ice-bridge life, and
here and there is to be seen an Indian
tepee. Squatter sovereignty prevails. In
the matter of location it is first come, first
served, and to get there means ownership of the site. Right in midstream, as
near as the eye can judge, shanties crowd
each other, and in these places liquors are
frequently served. A few days of this
seldom excites comment, but after the
bridge has been in existence many days
and has become well advertised, there is a
change in the composition of the class of
visitors. People who might have overlooked the sale of liquors at the start now
criticise it. This develops a public sentiment, and the officials on each side act.
Arrests are made, but the boundary line is
always disputed, no matter on which side
the culprits are held, and as the ice-bridge
has passed away by the time the trial is
heard, convictions are hard to obtain. In
fact, with the possibility of repeating the
offense removed, public sentiment has always, at this stage, been lenient.
With the bridge firmly established, the
shanties in place and the people pouring
into Niagara, a glorious winter festival is
opened. From shore to shore across the
icy mass the people wend their way by
thousands, a black, serpentlike moving
mass of humanity, bending in and out, up
and down the grandly uneven mass. They
go and they come, a jolly, boisterous, laughing lot of people, the circulation of their
blood stirred by their activity and outing,
and the circulation of their finances increased by the smooth words of the tintype man, the bazaar man and the coffee
and sandwich, or the wiener, vender.
Ladies rich in furs eat sausage with a relish
on the ice-bridge, for tramping about the
formation creates a startling appetite. During the ice-bridge season, Sunday is the
heaviest day at Niagara, and on such occasions the cliffs echo and reecho with the
hilarity of the visitors. The free parks
on both sides of the river are black with NIAGARA IN WINTER.
humanity, and the wonder is that s
lives are not crushed out in the thrc
Here and there about the ice-bridge 1
knots of people may be seen.     They re
sent  that cl
mined to d
planting a tree or bush on some hitherto
unreached point.     A flag will float from
f individual who is deter-
something different from the
rhey  are   explorers bent   on
the deep crevasses, taking soundings to
determine, if they can, how thick the ice
is at this or that spot. This matter of
thickness is an interesting study, and men
of considerable ability like to know the
result of these investigations. It is usually
estimated that about one-third of a body
of ice remains above the surface of the
water.    In many instances the crevasses of
the top, and cheer on cheer will denote the   the Niagara iee-bridges are all of thirty or
success of the venture.   Others will explore   forty feet deep, and on the basis referred
to the thickness of the body of ice would
be nearly one hundred feet. This is not
given as an accurate statement of the thickness of the ice, for this question of thickness is a hard matter to ascertain with any
degree of accuracy. However, if the ice
has a thickness of thirty feet above the
river's surface, it is a safe conclusion that
there is a considerable depth below the
The winter of 1899 brought a most wonderful ice-bridge to Niagara. The formation
was massive. Its power was threatening. The
was many feet thick below the water-level.
They also found that, owing to the strange
formation of the ice-bridge, the operation
of blasting had to be repeated several
times. During the last summer the abutments of the arch have had protective walls
built about them to assure their safety in
times of similar ice-jams.
There is no little gratification in the
thought that the forming of an ice-jam at
Niagara does not necessarily mean the loss
of life and the destruction of homes and
other   property.     On   the   Niagara   River
abutments of the upper steel-arch bridge,
the greatest all-metal arch in the world,
are located close to the water's edge, right
where the ice-bridges form. The ice
gathered about these abutments to a height
of eighty feet, extending away up into the
steel work of the arch, pieces of which
were bent. So immense was the jam of
ice that gangs of men were set to work on
both sides of the river blasting the ice from
about the abutments in order that those
structures might not suffer. The men
-who  did  this work    found   that the ice
from the point of formation to Lake Ontario, the banks are sufficiently high to
prevent a flood and to conduct the ice and
water safely to the lake. But some of the
ice-bridges at the falls have wrought damage. It was on January 15th that the
first bridge of 1S83 formed, and on January 22d the second bridge came. With'
the coming of this second bridge in 1883
there was a great rush of ice. The wTater
in the lower river was very high and about
one hundred feet of the inclined railway
building was carried away.    At that time NIAGARA IN WINTER.
in order to reach the surface of the ice-
bridge it was found necessary to excavate a
tunnel eight feet high, fifteen feet wide
and twenty-five feet long through the ice.
Naturally, this tunnel added to vhe interest
of a visit, and the wrecking of the incline
building excited the curiosity of thousands.
The bridge lasted thirteen weeks, and the
crowds were tremendous. The night the
bridge formed, a house on the Canadian side
of the river, near the water's edge, and
occupied by John McCloy and family, was
carried from its foundations and tipped
No matter how far up toward the Horseshoe Fall a bridge may form in its early
stages, it usually breaks away until its upper line is straight with the lower edge of
the American Fall, but great masses of ice
hold fast to either shore above that point. 602
The formations frequently extend down the
river close to the whirlpool rapids, and
many crossings have been made below the
old ''Maid of the Mist" landing. On the
Niagara River between Lewiston and Fort
Niagara teams have frequently been driven
across the ice-bridges, and old residents
recall that they have seen the river from
the whirlpool to the mouth jammed with
ice of wonderful shapes. Frequently when
an ice-bridge is forming and the water is
high, huge timbers are swept from points
on the upper river and carried over the
falls. Occasionally these timbers lodge in
the ice-bridge, and when viewed from
certain points appear to stand high above
the cliffs. In some places on the ice-
bridge, the mass forms like a congealed
tidal wave, appearing like a great roll. To
get down into a crevasse and peek through
the ice at the falls is a novel experience
and well worth the trouble. - When the
bridge first forms, all the little pieces of ice
are plainly to be seen. However, after a
snowfall an indescribable softness is given
to the scene. The snow fills in about the
icy hillocks. It clings to the sides of the
mountainous formations, the solid ice of
the   chunks    peeking    through   here   and
there, now one color, now another.
Of all the thrilling experiences on the
Niagara ice-bridges, none equals that of
the people who were on the ice on the
afternoon of Sunday, January 22, 1899.
That afternoon soon after four o'clock, the
people who had gathered in the free parks
and on the upper steel arch to view the
winter spectacle were startled to notice that
the icy mass had broken loose and was
being carried downstream toward the whirlpool rapids by the current. On the ice-
bridge at the time were from fifty to one
hundred persons, some of them having
ventured out only a short distance from
shore, while others were well out in the
center. There was prospect of a terrible
river catastrophe, and the thousands of
spectators stood aghast. At the first trembling of the ice, the people on the ice-bridge
increased their efforts to reach the shore.
The journey of pleasure had now turned
into a race for life. Across the upheaving,
moving mass of ice they ran, their feet
hardly touching the surface in their progress. Down the river the ice continued to
move.     The excitement  lessened  slightly NIAGARA IN WINTER.
i^flfmfife-     T_jjj_&#*<
when it was apparent that all but three
persons had reached places of safety. These
three were a man and a woman out toward
the center, who wTere making for Canada,
and a young man who actempted to reach
the American shore. This young man
displayed   wonderful   coolness.      He   had
approached as close to the shore as the
moving ice would allow and then he turned
his face downstream. It was evident that
he must change his route. Some began
to think he was lost. He faced the upper
steel-arch bridge. The crowd on the banks
immediately got his   idea of  safety  and 604
cheered him for his nerve. Up against the
abutments of the bridge, the ice was
crowding mountains high. There was an
element of great danger in this turmoil of
ice, but the young, man kept his head.
Straight up he stood. The ice moved
along. If he passed under the bridge, he
would certainly lose his life in the wash of
the stream that poured out from the power
tunnel. It was a moment of intense
excitement. He must catch the bridge
or die.
Up from the abutments, in most graceful
form, the main span of the arch rises. It
seemed almost impossible for him to grasp
the bridge from where he stood, but fortune favored him. At the critical moment
there was a mighty upheaval of ice. He
was fairly lifted from the ice-bridge and
thrown upon the arch, to which he clung
with desperate tenacity until sufficiently
composed, after which he made his way
along the girders to the shore, cheered by
all who were about. In the mean time the
man and woman farther out on the ice had
been making terrific efforts to reach the
The course they took was full of peril.
It led them nearly the entire length across
the ice-bridge. When they started they
were nearer  the  American shore,  but  it
was evident that they were frightened by
the ice piling up there. They had selected
the route they took because of its apparent
smoothness, but it was terribly rough at its
best, as they found in their flight. The
man led the way, in order to pick safe
footholds. Repeatedly the woman was seen
to fall. Her companion hurried on at
times in his efforts to set a pace to encourage her and hurry her on. Once the
crowds felt that he was deserting her.
Time and again, however, he turned and
helped her to her feet and prayed her to>
keep up courage. He did all that man
could do for a fair companion, and when the
people recognized his devotion to her, and
that both would be saved or both die,
they breathed silent prayers that their lives-
might be spared.
Finally, they were seen to reach the
still ice in an eddy on the Canadian side
and from this point men who had hurried
down the bank aided them to shore. They
had been carried over two thousand feet
downstream on the moving ice, which,
seemed every moment as about to open out
in a great crevasse • beneath them. The
lady was Miss Bessie Hall, of Johnsonburg,
Pennsylvania, while her companion was-
C. E. Misner, of Buffalo. No lives have
ever been lost on the Niagara ice-bridges. THE BABIES OF CHINATOWN.
By Mary Davison.
T N one of the many steep hillsides facing
1 the east, the beautiful bay of San
Francisco, and the long, low range of hills
which slants up from its waters, lies huddled together, in most picturesque confusion, "Little China of the City of the
Golden Gate." This most interesting
quarter of San Francisco occupies what, at
one period in the city's growth,
was known as the very fashionable
part of town. There on its sheltered slope, from
which they could
watch the incoming vessels, prosperous miners and rich
traders of the days
of '49 built their
mansions and established their homes.
Soon  the ships  began
bringing as cargo swarms
of   almond-eyed   Mongolians   from   China's vast
domain—merchant,   clerk
and    laborer,    high-
caste and coolie—all     ^
seeking a bit of the
wealth which this new
country had to offer.
The strangers took up
their abode at the foot
| of this beautiful part of the
city, because
of its proximity to the business shops,
and the active
shipping life
of the wharves.
And it was not
long before
Chinese immigration to California became
so large that
this colony began spreading
itself over and
up   the  entire
slope, squeezing into every
available nook
and corner,
and eventually
forcing the old
settlers to
move on and
over the crest
of the hill,
Copyright, i8gg, by Schulze.
their mansions to the Chinese immigrants.     And today, except for a few landmarks,   such as these old-
fashioned homes, no stretch,
of   the imagination   could
picture this village, peopled
as it is with  its hurrying
crowds of Chinese humanity,  other   than   "Little
China."     The faces of  its
houses have had new fronts,
of an Oriental color and
architecture, added  to
them.     Quaint  balconies
ther. and odd gratings of iron
and fretwork are seen at the windows
everywhere. Temples of worship, or joss-
houses, and restaurants, glittering under
rays from the sun above or street-lamps below, with their carvings and gilded woodwork, their potted dwarf trees and plants
and many rich-toned lanterns always swinging, form most effective splashes of artistic
color in the street's moving panorama.
The limited space of the general thoroughfares has been encroached upon by
interesting stalls, wherein peculiar foreign-
looking dried herbs, fish, fruits and meats
are displayed and dispensed to the Chinese
housekeeper, male and female. Still narrower alleys and lanes, full of twists and
turnings, have been cut through many of
the squares. Underground streets have
been built, having passageways so narrow 6o6
that the tourist must walk
single file, after the custom of the people whose
k homes he is viewing.
On each side of   one
of these underground
alleys,   is
built a sue
cession   of
low   rooms,
about   five
feet   square,
only   by   a
hole the size
of a copper
coin.   There
are   found
\t, mgg, by schuize. sleeping the
two young autocrats. Chinese act
ors, opium-smokers, and habitues of the
theater above. Many of these passages
are secret and not even known to the
police, and in these gruesome lanes are
dragged and hidden the murdered victims
of the highbinder's knife.
One stumbles over the Mongolians living
* in every available corner and crevice of the
hillside. An old peddler, preferring solitude to the sharing of his sleeping-place
with possibly five fellow-coolies, built for
himself a bunk over his fruit-stand on the
street corner. He climbed to this modest
dwelling by means of a ladder which he
hauled up after him. For years he lived
there through winter storms and summer
heat. One day a wayfarer, missing him
at his post, clambered up, somehow, and
peeking through the tiny ventilator, found
that the poor old fellow had quietly joined
the great majority during the night.
I was much perplexed during my first
introduction to Chinatown by the strange
rhythmic sound in the streets which
greeted my ears. I stood in one of the
most crowded thoroughfares and listened,
and found the explanation in the continual
swish-swish of the hundreds of moving
sandaled feet. It is a most peculiar sound,
giving the sensation almost of the murmur
ojf the ceaseless lapping of quiet waters.
And one finds it the more noticeable,
coming, as one does, so suddenly from the
harsh  sounds of  the   heavy-soled  pedes
trians' tramp, the grind of cable-cars and
cobblestone traffic, of our own less picturesque community. This bit of San
Francisco is a constant source of delight
and charm to both artist and tourist, so
full of -'color" in the lights and shadows
of its daily life and scenes.
Fronl the windows of my house, which
is perched high on the hillside and overlooks one of the old mansions, now a
crowded tenement, I have followed for
some time the domestic life of several of
these Chinese homes—homes of families
occupying various positions on the rungs
of China's social ladder. I have watched
the young merchant's first-born open its
tiny round black beads, better known as
eyes, to the darkness of its nursery surroundings and the glare of the outside day.
These home interiors are invariably dark
and very small and this is the case even
in the well-regulated establishment of this
prosperous merchant. And baby (alas! in
this particular household the first-born
was a girl) was beloved of its mother and
only just tolerated by its paternal relative,
and it occurred to me that the poorer
clerk living in rooms underneath Mr. Merchant's was more often seen lolling on his
lower balcony, dreamily and everlastingly
puffing at his pipe and always with his
child in his arms. But his was a boy.
And with what fine pride and affection he
bestowed on this tinv son all the love in
ight, i&qq. by Schuize.
his nature! How he fondled and. played-
with it, laughed with it, and again tenderly
removed the cause of its baby tears!
And somehow the man on the upper balcony appeared quite unconscious of his
daughter's presence and seemed more
intent on watching with curious, and possibly envious, eyes the apparent happMess of
his more fortunate neighbor. But when
another pair of bright eyes came to lighten
the gloom of my merchant's surroundings,
great was the light that crept into his heart
and home—seen notwithstanding the heavy
old-fashioned green shutters at his windows
and the imperturbable yellow mask of his
face—he, now with his son in his arms,
daily sunned himself and smoked his pipe
of content, paying no more heed to his
neighbors above, below or around him.
These apartment-homes, if such they
may be termed, are very tightly squeezed
together and thickly inhabited, as many as
twenty families living in this old palace of
the "forty-niner," now hardly recognizable With its added walls and partitions
and- general air of wreck and ruin. But
with all their uninviting appearances, their
bare floors and undecorated walls, these
nurseries of the little ones, and courts
where the mother reigns supreme, are
[ clean, no matter how dark
and huddled.
Which fact,
no doubt, accounts for the
good health of
the Chinese
young and the
sweetness and
freshness of its
baby skin.
Have you ever
kissed one of
these children?
I have. And
I found the sen
sation quite as
pleasant as a
similar expression of affection bestowed
on a youthful
member of my
  own race.   The
perfume which comes from their tiny
bodies is quite Oriental, conveying faint
suggestions of sandalwood, Eastern herbs
and spices, but it has all the pure
charm of a "clean baby" clinging about
it, and a Chinese baby at that. Little
grown-up \vise ones, all softness and
circles; bright
black round
eyes, slantingly
set in the
roundest of
faces; for a
the clearest |
and smoothest of young j
olive skins
that ever were
seen; pudgy
little, broad j
noses,  and be-     ^^^^^^^^^^^
lOW them pudg-   Copyright, 1899, by Schuize.
ier red   lips interested. 6o8
_^_**_^ *»,*^^H
—Jj**§L                                     -"Si
^^^^      "*j_S_S
^               ***       J_PiW^
whose   color
V   _^_sr#     ||p
more   often   is
heightened by
a vain loving
touch from Ma
ma  Merchant's
M i
beautifying pot
of rouge, so
dear to the Chi-
nese woman's
Serious and
wise these babies are, indeed
—although  al-
copyright, 1899, by Schuize. ways   seamper-
OUT  ON  A SUNNY DAY. \ng   in   Rnr\   OUt
of the\ doorways and along dark alleys and
corridors, reminding one for all the world
of so many young mice. And in truth,
there is a suggestion in these baby faces of
the sharp, bright eyes and the daring
timidity which young mice exhibit when
"learning their
way about
through the
gloomy and
mysterious lab-
Copyright, 1899, by Schuize.
yrinths of life—between walls. And I
often wonder whether these children are
really possessed of the same, young emotions of intense satisfaction, anticipations,
affections and distrusts, which our little ones
show so keenly in their faces, all hidden behind their baby masks of inheritance. The
little ones play about somewhat, usually close
to the sidewalk's edge or in the very center
of the streets. The male element is much in
the majority in all these sports, if such
these mild diversions of baby's day could
be called. These games nearly always
have something to do with fire. The
building up of tiny bonfires—fortifications
of already exploded fire-crackers which
they have rescued from some recent feast-
day or New Year's celebration in which
their elders took the more active parts—
as did also the explosives now being
made into various forms—suggests a wonderful architectural town to the young
male Chinese mind. But these palaces
and forts are unsatisfactory and the youthful happiness is not complete without an
additional realistic touch of true fire and
the sharp explosion of a real cracker,
which breaks down all the barricades and
scatters all the young architects and bom-
barders, sending them scampering back to
seek shelter under the protecting sleeve-
wings of their sister or to the doorways to
hide behind the long coats of their
interested and admiring parents.
The sister is ever on guard over these
pleasures of her small brother. He is her responsibility in life, and hers is the hand
which guides his wanderings along all the
ways and byways, from shop and temple
back and forth through the jabbering,
crowded masses of Chinese humanity
which throng this picturesque Oriental village of the West. Yes, sister's life is full
of housewifely dignity, young responsibilities, and "freedom" up to a certain age
—of twelve or more. Then she becomes
a young miss. The little maid begins to
assume the coy and flirting airs and graces
of her mother. She is seen no more piloting brother about, but, accompanied by
three or four other maidens, all most properly rouged and gaily adorned, their feet
incased in cramped embroidered sandals,
she topples up and down the streets paying
social visits to her various little-girl friends THE BABIES OF CHINATOWN.
and marketing
for her mother.
And how dignified, demure
and shy the conduct of these
little young
ladies always is.
But at home she
again assumes
the duties of
nurse and housewife, and takes
precedence, in
the management
of these very
important cares,
of the boy. Not
so in the father's
heart, however.
The pulses of
that Mongolian organ throb only for his
boy. He loves his daughter, perhaps, in
a Chinese way which we cannot fully appreciate, but apparently her existence counts
for very little with him.
And what extraordinary
coiffures I notice my little
maid and her youthful girl
friends appearing with nowadays—all sizes and shapes
and positions, and glued together and set upon these
childish heads in most outlandish fashions. The circular coils of their glossy
black hair, with an additional
gloss of some glue or glazing
pomade, are stiffly arranged
ht, 1899, by Schuize.
over one ear,
giving to the
little maid's
head a most tip-
tiJted and overbalanced appearance, and
quite dispelling
all effect of coquetry, which
motive surely
prompted the
original designer of this ponderous fashion.
TL\3 beauty of
this wondrous
coil is further
enhanced by
numerous artificial adornments— gay flowers, bright-hued embroideries, beaded strings of glass and gold
ornaments. Then again, she
wears a succession of glazed
rolls at the back of her head
and low on her neck, and
these too are held in position
by the same gold clasps
and ornamented with the
flower affairs. She submits
very patiently to the dressing
of her shiny locks, knowing
that when once completed it
will so remain for days. And
even the comfort of her
night's rest is not disturbed
by the substitute of the
wooden block in place of
some more easy pillow.    Her
Copyright, 1S99, by Schuize.
Copyright, 1899, by Schuize.
Copyright, 1899, by Schuize.
! m ot her 's
vanities are
creeping into her nature, and she
must endure
with an air
of patient
much discomfort for
the preservation of
this inspiring headgear.
Little Miss
feet cause
her much
thought and
time and
pain, too.
Not so, Miss
I downstairs.
The steps of
life which
must stand
! on are broad
and low, and
although she
might with
' her highborn neighbor's tiny,
warped feet rest there with far more
ease and comfort, the status and conventions of Chinese social life have
arranged it so that her feet shall remain
as nature intended—and that not so very
large either. Possibly this is the compensation for being born downstairs.
And again, as I watch my little girl mincing about on her bandaged feet along her
upper balcony, I feel that she accepts the
inevitable with the grim stoicism born of
the knowledge of the result, and that she
really delights in enduring the torture
which will accomplish the final enhancement of her charms. A patient little
slave to the conventions of fashion is my
little lady, as were her mother and her
grandmother before her.
Copyright, 1899, by Schuize.
And her gowns—the gala-day gowns
which are tenderly lifted from their
lockers and donned to complete the toilet
of the occasion which has prompted the
magnificent coiffure—how beautiful in
texture and color they are! Soft, clinging
silks and rich brocades in every conceivable
shade, and trimmed with broad bands of
somber blue and black satins, and edgings
of heavy, rich embroideries in conventional
patterns of flowers and scrolls and interlaced throughout with threads of gold and
silver—the dark note of the satins forming just the proper frame for this exquisite
picture of feminine youth in its flowers and
silks—how many colors they combine and
the effect always how harmonious!
And Master Merchant, Junior, while having to go to the barber's and have his head
shaved and his hair braided into a Very
saucy swinging cue behind, is not at all to
be outshone in his holiday attire. He, too,
appears in glorious, soft shades of colors
and materials—a loose outer coat, fashioned
after his father's, of delicate green brocaded silk; a padded undergarment of
pale-pink satin, richly worked in tender
rainbow silks and silver thread, and reach-
Copyright, 1899, by Schuize.
Copyright, 1899, by Schuize.
ing some four inches below this first outer
coat. Possibly the little chap has two or
three coats still concealed under these.
His final appearance suggests them. Loose
bagging trousers of pale lilac silk, bound
in and tied at the ankles over the finest of
starched white linen stockings, and sandals
of black satin or embroidered velvet, complete the little man's costume. And his
caps and head adornments are quite as beautiful as sister's coiffure—little round gaily
embroidered satin caps, surmounted by
fuzzy knobs of quite another color; sometimes a gorgeously trimmed band with the
crown removed, and hanging over both
ears huge rosettes of flowers, ornaments of
gold and beads, et cetera, while from these
rosettes float streamers of glass beads, gilt
coins and ribbons in most fantastic and
barbaric confusion.
Miss Dignity's head must always go uncovered, but she carries a coquettish little
fan with which to protect her'eyes from
the summer sun. And my maid has more
responsibilities than ever on this Newr Year's
or gala-day. She must bring, in her round,
flat quaint-looking basket, gifts of sweets
and nuts, perfumes and silk handkerchiefs
and teas, et cetera, to her mother's friends,
and make funny little salaams to the floor
several   times  before   she delivers   the
New Year's greetings with which she
has been intrusted,
-p      And I see her toddling along, carrying
■B her  lighted   punk,  to   the   joss-house,
there to place it with her silent prayer
in the large brass urn, adding, its ashes
—which typify cremated sins, I'm told—
the many others before her.     She prostrates herself before the altar whereon are
the various Chinese gods, and before them
more   punk  burning  in  their honor,   and
utters her little prayers.     Then home she
toddles to help in  the preparation of the
hor"?y feast.
loio Chinese girl does not play much of
an acilve part in the schools; several of
which institutions are located on the side-
hill in the midst of this Chinese colony—
mission schools, public and Chinese schools.
Hers is not a thinking mind, and she is not
so eager to acquire knowledge as is her
The boy shows superior brain here. He
enjoys his lessons and is bright and quick
in his recitations, receiving at the end of
the term a very good percentage. At some
recent exa-~ii nation in the public schools of
San Francisco  one little  bright-eyed chap
Copyright, 1899, °y Schuize.
of this school in the Chinese quarter received a per cent, higher than any other
child in the city who had taken the same
examinations.    .
I have often wondered why these babes
are taught to run from the camera and its
industrious operator. I have been told
that it was a superstition. Perhaps it is
in China, but not in this, infant China of
the West, I'm sure. The solution of the
mystery I think I found while sketching
at a baby-show one day. A show of Chinese babies—can you imagine anything
more attractive and picturesque in the way
of baby-shows? It was held in one of the
city's large pavilions, and how all these
sixty or seventy
timid mothers
were persuaded
to come from
the seclusion of
their homes,
bringing babies
for the inquisitive stranger eye
to gaze upon, is
yet puzzling
me. Probably
some clever Chinese interpreter
managed them,
and he must
have been very
clever and persuasive indeed.
I was tQld to be
most careful and
not let mothers
see that I was
sketching their,
little ones, which if discovered would
cause instant flight and general pandemonium. But one of the curious mothers
did see, and immediately visions of the
breaking-up of the show, and my ultimate disgrace, flashed before me, and I
wondered what was the best course to
pui^ue. And I thought, "Surely if her
mol .erly vanity has persuaded her to put
her child on exhibition on grounds of
whose friendliness she has been assured,
by the same argument I can prevent the
stampede, perhaps." So I confidingly
showed her the sketch of her son, which
Copyright, 1899, by Schuize.
fortunately was about completed, and sure
enough, motherly pride won and superstitions were forgotten. And soon she told
all the other mothers, and it ended in
my having more babes to sketch than I
could possibly manage. The drawing of
the prizes at this baby-show caused the
most intense excitement among the fathers,
who were lined up around the outside
ropes which formed the circle, strongly
suggesting an arena for little animals.
Not in their .faces but in the excited
sing-song of the many tongues was the excitement of the fathers marked. One poor
little fellow, the pride of a coolie father
and mother, came expectant in his very
best. But
his best
meant only
a stubby
< print baby-
apron, with
placed high up
in the exact
front and huge
colored cotton
whose ends
stuck out from
■' this pocket in a
manner very
pert; a little
padded stuffy-
looking blue
cotton coat;
faded blue cotton trousers, and
plain black sandals; and this cunning youngster was
bonneted with only an ordinary American
child's round straw hat. His fond parents
took him home, showing in their manner
perfect satisfaction and happiness over t he
fact that he had won "something." That
"something" was only a legal-looking roll
of paper which told that he had been enteral
at the show. But the young man held it
under his arm as though he were carrying
home all the weight and importance of
first prize. It was so with many of the
other children, and that baby-show is still
talked of in Chinatown.
By W. F. Wade.
A TRAVELER who had penetrated to
the rocky fastnesses of Mendocino
County, California, not long ago reined
in his horses at a point known as Big
Rock, where one of the Eel River tributaries comes cascading down the mountains
to its own rollicking music, to watch the
passing of a great flock of sheep. The
attracting interest of the spectacle lay, in
fact, not in the sheep, but in the herders
in charge of them. They were astride
spirited mounts, one of which also carried,
slung behind the rider, the body of a
full-grown panther. The wide Mexican
sombreros shaded good-natured, sunburnt
faces, which hardly belonged, however, to
typical men of the mountains, and the
voices which replied to the traveler's interrogations were too musical not to make
strange the owners' occupation and appearance. They were, in fact, girls—well-
known personages, with the story of whose
lives the county resounds.
It was perhaps twenty years ago when
Jacob Lahm married a wife and with her
came to this northern wilderness to establish a home.     He was the pioneer on his
ten thousand
acres of virgin forest-
land, stretching along the
range. His
domain had
to be cleared
not only of
the gigantic
the pines and
firs, but also
of the bears
and panthers
native to it.
So Jacob
Lahm, before
he could be
a stock-
raiser, had
to be a hunter and trapper.
his children ought to
have been boys.   But
in point of fact they
were girls. And
Jacob Lahm,
realizing that
feminine   qualities alone could
never meet the
■ necessities   of
H existence in that
remote and wild
country, set  to
work   to   graft
on  the   gentleness and modesty of his girls"
the   independence,   resourcefulness,  practi-
strength,  courage and hardiness    of    the
A few months ago, this
father died, and the care
of the ranch fell upon the
daughters, Miss Gussie, and
Miss Louise, Lahm. They
are respectively eighteen
and nineteen years old, and
they have full management
of an estate which is worth
perhaps fifty thousand dollars.
These young women
now, therefore, devote
their time to the practical
affairs of stock-raising, and
the varied details of a
mountain farm. Their five
thousand sheep, together
with droves of horses and
cattle, look to them fcr
care. They brand the increase of the sheep, supervise the shearing and market  the   wool.     Plowing,
harrowing, sowing and harvesting are in
the list of their agricultural employments.
Tracking, trapping and shooting game are
their avocations. The reatas at their saddles are used by hands that can lasso a wild
horse or a steer with unerring success. In
the late fall months, when the grass is
short, the stock are fed in the corrals, but
at other times they stray and must be
driven in at night. It may not be the
idyllic picture of the traditional pastoral
heroine, but it is, none the less, a pleasing
one to see the great flock of silly sheep
and bleating lambs running before their
modern herders and their dogs. Your
shepherdess of song and fable is a lovely
little fairy with a ribboned crook. With
yawning difference, these modern Califor-
nian ones have guns and lariats, and are
clad in the amazonian garb of overalls and
During the seasons in which the cares of
the ranch are lighter, they may indeed don
skirts, and join the pupils in a district
schoolhouse miles away.     They are more THE GIRL-RANCHERS OF CALIFORNIA.
likely to change the duties of farm superintendence for a far-ranging search after
missing sheep, or a hunt for the enemies
of the flocks.
The range upon whose side stands the
Lahm ranch stretches for twenty miles,
and there is little of it that is not familiar
to these young women. From the time
they were old enough to hang on by clinging to a horse's mane, they have been as
much at home galloping astride over these
mountains as a debutante of last season in
a to-day's drawing-room. Between
the ranges run canons covered with
chaparral, manzanita and oaks whose
acorns tempt the sheep—canons in the
depth of which many a straying beast
gets lost. Then when the count at feeding-time shows a shortage, the girls
slap saddles on their broncos, pull their
leather-trimmed sombreros down, and
are off to find and bring back the
missing. The search may last till midnight, it may take them miles away
from home over wild passes and by
the brink of precipices, perhaps
through the blinding fury of a storm.
The frightened sheep have sought shel-
ter in the dangerous depth of some Canada,
but these intrepid rescuers are ready to risk
their lives wherever the piteous bleating
calls them.
More exciting excursions are those
upon which the Lahm girls are called
when the skulking enemy prowls too
freely upon the flocks.     If he be a coyote,
steel traps need
placed at such
are most likely to
by his predatory
only to be
points as
be passed
feet.    If he Ca
be a bear—his tracks will show^—these
Dianas set aside a day and a night, take the
hounds and hunt him to his death.
The Lahm home is bric-a-bracked with
innumerable trophies of its daughters' valorous deeds, skins of lynx and panther, of
cinnamon bear and black bear, testifying to
a prowess of which backwoodsmen might
boast.      That    beautiful   panther   which
caught the eye of the traveler at Red Rock
measured eleven feet and weighed two hundred and thirty-two pounds. In the saddle, out under the sky by day and night,
on the wind-swept plateaus and in the dark
underbrush of the canadas, life apparently
has its own interests and its sufficient excitement for these girls of the golden
By Arthur Ketchum.
Paling stars and a waking breeze,
Then faintly—hardly heard
Across the dewy silences,
Drowsy and sweet—a bird! THE POETRY OF
IT has come to pass that the
poet who desires to write of
the stage-dancing of the present
day must discard the poetry-of-
motion figure and* substitute the
phrase, the poetry of skirts. Most
stage-dancing is now done with
aid of other parts of the body
than the legs, although the
leg is popularly supposed to
be the root, the foundation,
the very basis, of the dance.
To be sure, there is an occasional performer who pirouettes about, and now and
then, in the vaudeville houses, there can
be found a man or woman who can and
does do a straight jig or clog or reel. But
these are few and far between. Fancy-
dancing has taken the place of what the
professionals know as step dancing and it
is necessary for a woman to be a contortionist or to have the biceps and triceps of
a Sandow to win applause. So far as the
feet and legs go, they might be made of
cork without material detriment to the act.
Skirt-dancing, which began
very modestly (as to the skirts,
at any rate) ten or a dozen years
ago when the London Gaiety
Girls- came to this country and
four of them danced and pranced,
wearing accordion skirts with
comparatively few yards of silk
in them, to the everlasting and
inharmonious lum-te-de-dum-de-
dum-de-dum - de-dum-de-dumte-
de-de-dum, became very pop- a
ular. It has been so exten- |]i
sively   improved   upon   that   1
to-day   the
Gaiety   Girls
who first did
it    would
great difficulty in
recognizing   it   as   the
same sort of thing, un-
\z28n perchance, they have
progressed with the
dance and are now waving about yards and yards
of    diaphanous   silk   in
many-colored   beams  of
calcium and electric light.
Perhaps it was Loie Fuller who
first saw the possibilities of a
voluminous silk skirt and a
colored light. Perhaps not.
T*here's nothing to be gained in
arguing the question. The
point is that somebody saw the
possibilities and scores of clever
minds developed them until,
to-day, skirt-dancing is a matter
of an extensive electric-light
equipment, an artistic blending
of colors in those lights, special
paraphernalia  of   all
sorts, yards and yards
of    the    finest    and
lightest   silk,   and   a
woman who has arms
well   enough   trained
to wave the silk skirt i
about   in    the    light!
for  twenty   minutes.
That   means, by   the
way, a special muscular development that
very few men possess. 6i8
The skirt-dancer who
now hopes to attain that
greatest vaudeville joy and
i distinction and become a
I "headliner" (get her name
on the bills and programs
in large black letters) must
carry a force of men and
half a carload of mechanical appliances. The best
effects are produced by
throwing up colored lights, through glass
let into the floor of the stage, by means
of suitable slides and powerful electric
lamps. These devices are the result of long
study of the conditions needed to produce
certain effects, and in some instances are so
elaborate that eighteen men are required
properly to manipulate them. Then, too,
there are often intricate arrangements of
mirrors on the stage and the dance is shown
at all angles and with a be-
and changing of col-
and contours. There is
no field of endeavor where
ingenuity keeps
closer pace with
the demands for
novelty than in the amusement
field. The performer must be
always a little ahead of the persons who
see the performance or there will be no
applause and no popularity. Hence it is
that the skirt-dance has become an elaborate spectacle instead of the graceful
divertissement it originally was.
The effects that can be produced by the
graceful manipulation of two hundred, say,
yards of silk, fastened to the ends of long
bamboo wands held in the
hands, said silk shrouding
the body of an agile woman,
are marvelous, especially
when skilfully handled calcium or electric lights are
used. She can swirl the
silk up above her head in
a crimson light and seem
to be enveloped in roaring
Note.—The pictures used here
skirt-dancer, for The Cosmopolii
flames. She can
twist the silk
into the similitude of a lily
blossom and
stand, in the
rays of a strong
white light, a
striking personification of purity and beauty.
A twist this way
in a blue light
and a few spangles,    and    it
seems as if a bit of sky were there on the
stage within reach. The blackness of
night, the brilliancy of noon, the fluttering
of the leaves in the forest, the undulation of the grass on the prairie, the yellow
waves of a field of wheat, the tossing surf
of 'the rocky coast, the
gleam and glister of the
frost on the deadened turf,
the sweep of the blowing,
blustering, drifting snow—
all can be portrayed.
The present-day skirt-
dancer riots in color. She
brings to her aid every shade
that pleases the eye and
carries well from a calcium.
The combinations that are
made on her swaying
skirts are intoxicating in
their beauty to the mind that is receptive to the gradations of color. She runs
the gamut up and down the scale of reds
and blues and golds and purples and greens
and yellows. She twists and turns in a
flood of soft and shaded glories. She
emerges from a sheet of fire to stand
shrouded in the white of a summer cloud.
She seems to writhe at tl 2 center of a
crater's yellow flame and, presto! the lights
are changed and the cornucopia of an Easter
lily sways and trembles before your eyes.
It isn't dancing—no, but it is a combination of lights and shades, a collision between a rainbow and a kaleidoscope, a ribbon counter in a galo of wind. It gratifies '
the color sense. I_ is a welcome addition
to the list of theatrical amusements, and
its popularity appears to be substantial.
urith were especially posed for by Papinta, the famous
an and were taken by J. W. Stover. MEN,   WOMEN  AND  EVENTS.
The free and easy ways of American women often startle us
in Europe, but invariably charm us. For that matter, it
does not take much to startle us in Europe. Dear old
Europe I Delightful old museum of antiquities 1 But, I repeat it, invariably charm us.
Not only are American "women most popular in France and in England, but the London
season, from the 1st of May to the end of July, and
the Paris season, from the 1st of April to the 10th
or 12th of June, are now absolutely run by the
American women who reside in the two cities, or
who come to visit them every year.
When I mentioned to my beloved old-fashion
compatriots that an American girl often has her
own reception-day and her own reception-room,
quite independent of her mother's, they stared at
me and seemed to doubt my sincerity. When I
told them that the American girl carried in her ,
pocket the latchkey of her house, their eyes got
out of their sockets. When I added that the American girl can cultivate the friendship of a man on ■
the same terms as that of a woman, they utterly collapsed, and said to me: "You don't say so! Can
young men in America be trusted so much as that?"
To which I replied, "I don't know about young
men, but the girls can.'' Of course, they immediately called upon me to explain the phenomenon,
and tell them how it was that the American girl
could afford to be so free.     I think I felt comfort- *^i '
able when I held the floor to give them my explanation. I am more than ever persuaded (on this, my sixth visit to America) that it is the respect which woman
inspires in American men of all classes that enables the youngest girl to go about in
such freedom and such security and to queen it all over the United States. And .let
me tell you that, in the matter of politeness and respect to women, the most common,
the most vulgar of Americans might teach a great lesson to the men of the Old World,
even including, if 1 must say so, my own compatriots, who,
in this point of politeness and respect to women, live a
little, I am afraid, on the reputation of their ancestors.
I know that a Frenchman who sees a woman come his
way, will always stand back to let her pass first, in front
of him, but he will generally profit by it to have a
[good look at her. It is not an act of pure disinterestedness, there is a little business connected with it. Under
the same circumstances, I have noticed it throughout
the length and breadth of the United States, the American man lowers his eyes, to allow the woman to pass
«? before him more comfortably. The Frenchman sights
the miss at once, the American misses the sight. Well,
we French people are a nation of artists, lovers of the beautiful. We will
• look at a pretty face, a graceful bearing, an artistically dressed figure, as we
will look at a picture, at a landscape, and our women are used to it. When
they express their disapproval they are not sincere. They are like those singers who call it
an awful nuisance to have an encore; and when they do not get one, you should hear the language they use in the artistes' room.     *    *    *    * Max O'Rell. 6jo
The idea of a national highway running almost straight
-across the continent has been received with marked
interest. Preliminary investigations go to show that if
t he route is well selected the property interests along the highway will see to it that
the construction is speedy. Private subscription, township and county pride, and state
iuterests, undoubtedly will combine to bring this to pass. That the route will be well
selected one cannot doubt from the personnel of the commission. The General commanding the army has consented to act.
General Miles' is an alert brain, always
interested in what concerns the public welfare, with no old-fogy notions to interfere
with the proper consideration of a. new
subject, and ever ready to lend assistance
to anything that promises public benefit.
He has probably ridden on horseback over
a great portion of the continent. From
the battle-fields of the Potomac to the
parade-ground of the Presidio, almost every
foot of ground must be personally familiar
to him, stationed at one time or another at
almost every leading military post in the
Col. Peter Michie, now professor at the
United States Military Academy at West
Point, became distinguished as an engineer
officer soon after leaving West Point. He
was with Gillmore at Charleston, South
Carolina, when the latter made his famous
requisition for one hundred men twenty
feet high to work in mud nineteen feet
_____ 11f ___g__U-
_dpl   * -B^_i■tin..
jM$&          -H m ■
deep, Gillmore having been told to requisition anything that might be needed to
complete the Swamp Angel battery. Colonel Michie is recognized throughout the
service as a man of excellent judgment,
especially as an engineer.
Col. Samuel E. Tillman is also a professor
at West Point. Soon after graduating
from West Point, he gave up several years
to active work in connection with the Hay-
den survey—work which particularly fits
him for his duties in connection with a
national highway.
Maj. Richard L. Hoxie, of the Corps
of Engineers, United States Army, graduated from West Point in 1864, and has
since served with distinction, rising to the
important post of Secretary to the Light-
House Board. He is recognized as one of
the most able among army engineers.
Mr. Francis E.
of Newton, Massachu-
has made a study,
of the requirements of
and brings still other
task. Nowhere in
they finer roads than
Boston. In fact, the
vard which leads out
River is the best type
road should be—one
feet in width, and so
may travel at widely
out being a menace to
Much pains has
for this commission
especially qualified for
It is hoped to have
the commission at the
Hotel, New York city,
This Cosmopolitan is
and arrangements to
being   made   by   the
Stanley is a resident
setts, an inventor who
covering several years,
the horseless carriage,
qualifications to his
the United States have
in this suburb of
great Newton Boule-
along the Charles
of what a national
hundred and twenty
arranged that vehicles
different speeds with-
each other's safety,
been taken to select
these gentlemen, so
th6 task.
the first meeting of
before this issue of
given to the public,
that end are now
The inquiry most frequently made of me is, "What are
the prospects for woman suffrage, is it sure to come and is
- it near at hand?" Wendell Phillips, when asked a similar
question in regard to the abolition of slavery, said, "Now that every state legislature
and the Congress of the United States are resolved into debating societies on this question, the end cannot be far off. 622
This closing year of the century finds the legislatures of almost every state discussing the extension of suffrage to women, either in whole or in part. Committees in
Senate and House of each new Congress grant extended hearings to the leading advocates of the cause, and eleven favorable reports have been made at different times. At
this very writing, suffrage for the women of the new territories is being considered on
the floor of the United States Senate. Petitions from hundreds of state and national
organizations of both men and women have been presented to Congress this winter asking that whatever qualifications be imposed upon the voters of these new possessions,
they shall apply equally to the two sexes.
The national Federation of Labor, representing a million and a half of voters; the
national Building and Trades Council, standing for half a million votes; the International Union of Bricklayers and Stonemasons, with a membership of several hundred
thousand; and a number of other strong organizations of men, within the last three
months have adopted resolutions demanding a Sixteenth Amendment to the Federal
Constitution which shall enfranchise women. In not one instance where a similar resolution has been presented to a national convention of men in the past year, has it failed to
be adopted with unanimity and enthusiasm.     A significant indication is the increasing
tendency of women themselves to rush into organizations—the National Council, composed of twenty
national bodies, with a constituency of two million
women, among them those of the Grand Army of
the Republic, the Maccabees, the Woman's Relief
Corps, the Woman's Christian Temperance Union,
and the National Suffrage Association. Outside of
this council are the Federation of Clubs, the
Daughters of the American Revolution, the Collegiate Alumnae, the great missionary societies of
the various churches representing millions, and
an endless number of clubs and societies whose
names even could not be mentioned within the
limits of a magazine article.
While these women do not stand for suffrage
per se, yet their founders and leadersj with but
few exceptions, believe in political equality. The
masses who compose .these immense organizations
are now in the process of evolution along the line
of progress, which eventually will land them upon
the suffrage platform. All are animated by some earnest purpose which usually carries
them to the point of asking for the enactment of new laws or the enforcement of old
ones. Whenever they do this, they are brought face to face with the helplessness of
women without the ballot, and they begin to study the question of enfranchisement.
Women are coming as rapidly as men into a recognition of the justice of permitting
every individual opinion an equal opportunity to impress itself upon affairs of
These facts show intellectual and spiritual growth. There is also evidence of progress in the response of the pocketbook. Ten years ago, it would have been a great
achievement of an annual convention to obtain pledges of one thousand dollars for the
general suffrage work. At the one just closed in Washington, the sum of ten thousand
dollars was contributed in less than an hour. The generous response which is being
made to the half-million-dollar standing fund which I am raising, the income to be usecT
to secure the enfranchisement of women, emphasizes the wide-spread, increasing and
permanent interest in this movement.
Therefore, in whatever direction I look, I see only hope and encouragement for the
ultimate victory of the struggle to enfranchise women. As the principle involved is
eternal and immutable, and its establishment is only a matter of education and evolu- MEN,  WOMEN AND EVENTS.
tion it must go forward until it universally prevails. As to when this will be accomplished, it is impossible to prophesy. In four of the states, it is wholly accepted • in a
majority, it is partially recognized. It will not, however, evolve of itself but demand*
the unceasing effort of all who desire its success, and so my parting word is, agitate—
agitate-agitato! Susan B.   Anthony.
WILL imagination       J When    Alexander,    as-
RUN dry? suming that he had ex-
—  hausted all the resources
of conquest, fell into hysterics over the prospect of
activities, he was not more un-
a lull in his exciting
reasonable than the pessimists of our day who keep
their eyes forever sore weeping in flabby despair because, as they imagine, there is no possible good for |
mankind in the future. We Americans have been
the world's most optimistic comforters; but even we
of late seem not to hold together in the wholesome
business of self-confidence. It is probably all owing
to a weakening of imagination under the constant
and long-continued strain of interest in purely material considerations. As the desirable areas of earth
have all been discovered and explored, and as knowledge of the heavenly bodies is quite on the outmost
limit of probable extension, what have we left to
busy imagination withal? Critics tell us that the
stories are all told, that every fret of Poesy's old
guitar is worn until it no longer preserves the pitch and timbre of a chord, that the
drama is stale, and that, since Montaigne, the essay has been but an echo. Naturalists
have lost their occupation of unveiling the wonders of animal and vegetable life and
mineral formations. Sea, air, sky, mountain heights and the inner veins of earth no
longer tantalize us with unsolved mysteries of practical use to higher imagination.
What are we to do? Is philosophy accomplished? Is song exhausted? Shall we no
more have the minstrel at the gate, the story-teller in the hall?
So long as there were strange lands to visit, virgin wildernesses to explore, fair,
wild islands to expect just over old ocean's shimmering horizon, the returning travelers
brought us delicious food for our imagination to grow fat on—food that melted
into song on the poet's lip and brimmed the romancer's ink-pot
with magic. In those days Perrin du Lac saw, with his own
eyes, savages gargle savoyanne sap and then munch coals of fire
. red-hot and sizzling, roll them under their tongues and enjoy
their taste with leisurely labefactions. Long after De Soto died
on the malarious bank of our great river, men reported findino-
there a plant called racine a bequet, with which even a broken
leg or arm could be healed as if by magic; and another plant,
still more extraordinary, as Baudry des Lozieres tells us, furnished an element which froze water as soon as it touched the
same. Other fortunate sojourners in the Louisiana wilderness
found the homme-plante, a wonder of wonders, and a hundred
more might be mentioned.
Of course such reports were loaded with untruth; they seem
frivolously impossible to us now; but in the imaginative and romantic long-ago they
thrilled every soul that heard them. These were the picturesque days when a gust of
surprise puffed out of every source of discovery. Pizarro, De Soto, Ponce de Leon and
the buccaneers left behind them a bright wake of that phosphorescence with which r^
this strange, contradictory and curiously savage thing we call imagination was electrified. We were sustained by it—living bravely on it through the almost impossible
hardships of pioneer experiences—until we outgrew the fascination of unknown things
and the stimulus of constantly expected wonders. Now, alas! the days of surprise are
over—no more worlds to conquer—what shall we do? It is true that we have hypnotism, faith-cure, the elixir of longevity, and theosophy, not to mention the flying-machine, with which we may amuse ourselves; but the vaster sources of imagination, are
they not running dry? Cervantes is said to have crushed chivalry as a fad; but Scott
revived it as romance. Is it possible that another great genius, even greater than the
Wizard of the North, may soon arise to undo the injury wrought upon imagination by
the ravages of ^science? Materialism has its substantial advantages; to banish the cold
practicalities of applied science would be fatal to civilization; and yet what a luxury it
would be to feel the wind veer until it brought back to us a fresh whiff from the unspoiled sources of song and story!       *    *    *    * Maurice Thompson.
Two men, each of them fairly successful as the world
estimates success, were talking recently of motive for
"No," said one, "money beyond a very small amount is trifling."
"Valuable only," said the other, "in that it gives power—enlarges one's sphere
of action—puts one in a place to engage in work which tests one's intellectual
"Do you believe that there is that thing called philanthropic motive?" asked the
"No. It seems probable that no man who views himself critically can be
satisfied that he acts from philanthropic motives. There are so many molecules of
self-satisfaction, so many atoms of delight over accomplishment, so many vanities even
when concealed, and above all the pleasurable excitement of intellectual effort based
upon the advantage of others."
"Ah, yes I now you have said it: 'The pleasurable excitement of intellectual
effort'; that t£s the underlying motive which may satisfy the minds of higher caliber.
When the appetite for acquisition has become dulled, when one has grown beyond the
period of life when the praise of others satisfies, when he has come to believe that the
apple of popularity is liable to turn quickly to Dead Sea fruit, that praise by others is
generally of those actions which least merit praise, while the things we do that are
somewhat worthy go entirely unappreciated—when one has reached this mile-post
in life, he can settle down to taking an intellectual interest in affairs. Some day the
caliber of men will be described something in this way:
" 1.     The man who works under fear.
" 2.     The man who works by combined fear of punishment and promise of reward.
"3.     The man who works from hope of accumulating more than he can use.
"4.     The man who works for public applause.
"5. The man who is uninfluenced by any of the preceding motives, but works
because of intellectual interest in affairs.
"It is needless to go further with the present generation. The man who will
fulfil this last requirement will some day make his appearance, but it is doubtful if he is
yet on the ground." *    *    *    * John Brisben Walker.
Three kinds of temperament work together
for good in promoting the cause of letters.
There is the artistic temperament, which
incites persons to do poems and write books, which restrains the hand
from labors which do not concern it, no matter what ^^^
promise of fiscal reward that labor may hold out, which ^5gj
constrains the spirit to toil terribly after the realization ^{V__ X-WM
»Ark     i-^i~>- - *'<£-
of an ideal which is never quite caught up with, and
which swells the bosom with exaltation when rhymes
and sentiments come fairly right and words and
•moods prove tractable. The hen, that humble
feathered creature, seems to have the artistic temperament. Observe her triumph and the vociferous-
ness of it, when she has laid an egg, even though it
is but a common one and single-yolked. How the )
memory and the merit and the" satisfaction of ||
possess her for the time being. And then, when she
sets, what doggedness, what indifference to all concerns other than ultimate chicks.
And there is the editorial temperament, where
the aspiration to produce has been superseded by the
desire   to   induce   high   qualities  of   production  in
others. The writer is professionally an egotist, but the editor who would be great in
his calling is bound to lose himself in others. He is like the woman in scripture who
lost the piece of silver and made so great a search for it. The good editor has always
lost a piece of silver and is always in a seething quest for it. He searches every
writer he meets for it, and urges him to produce it if he can. And when he finds it, as
he does now and then, there is joy in his heart, and he exhibits it as proudly to the
world as if it was his very own. Often enough he has good ground to be proud of it,
for if he had not searched for it it would never have been found.
Then there is the publisher temperament. When the editor has discovered what
the author has produced, and they are both cackling, the publisher turns from both and
concerns himself with distribution. As a man he may have a sentiment for art and a
sympathy for artists, but as a publisher his concern is with his market. He has need
to be more catholic than either editor or author, for whereas the writer writes what he
can and the editor takes what he chooses and both have their personal and artistic
prejudices, the publisher is ready do seek any lawful and reputable literary goods that
readers are willing to buy. He invites the multitude to sit down, and sees to it that
the loaves, and the fishes go around no matter how great the crowd is. If there are some
basketfuls coming to him afterward, so much the better. But just as it is true
that many good things that ought to come to light never would come to light unless
the editor searched for them, so it is true that the great famished multitude would
never get its due food unless the publisher thrust it into its hands. Sometimes the
multitude has to be crowded hard before it will take what is good for it; sometimes
what the publisher offers won't go down and can't be made to. But if the food is
really good, and the publisher is duly active, there is a great distribution.
We are used to the workings of all these temperaments in connection with literature,
but they have to do with many concerns besides. One may find them even in politics
if he searches intelligently. Have we not in Governor Roosevelt a living and conspicuous example of the artistic temperament? May we not see the editorial temperament discreetly exemplified in the astute Senator Piatt? And the zeal of the
publisher? Where does that come in in politics? Senator Hanna! Where was there
ever a more zealous promulgator of political works than he? We may feel that the
voter ought to be in the publisher's place in politics, but nowadays he rather represents
the reading public, which makes its choice of what is offered or goes without.
Edward S.  Martin.
The man who "works" his friend is called a sponge; the
man who joins a church for his own personal advancement
is familiarly described as a hypocrite; the man who absorbs
from the community without giving out in return is spoken of as a miser; the man who
exploits the community for what he can make out of it is
known as an adventurer; no term has yet been discovered for
the man who uses his country for his private gain: but there
are so many of him now in evidence in national affairs, as to
constitute a class, and a class cannot long exist without a
The impulses for the interest of mankind are sometimes
felt in the nation's heart; and there were not wanting many
who believed that our duty to Cuba and Porto Rico was a
.duty which we owed humanity. High praise was given to us
by the civilized world for wrenching from the hand of Spain
the Pearl of the Antilles. The danger which confronts us
now is, that we shall hypothe6ate the pearl to see what we
can raise on its value, and put the islands of Cuba and Porto
Rico in pawn to promote American industries. What America
can devise for the world, is the dream of the statesmanlike
mind: what America can get for herself, is the lust of the
moneyed interests which sit, spiderlike, at the center of the web of politics. It would
seem as if the controlling financiers of the country, whether in the field of banking,
or of trade, or of manufacture, should have \' devised,'' by this time, some '' liberal
thing'' as a national policy. One must not lose sight of the rise of wages in this era
of prosperity; but this is a fraction of what is due, paid grudgingly to its rightful
owner. The infection of this disease of "government for private interest" has spread
from the city to the state, and from the state to the nation, and it is of no political
party. The brute instinct that growls over its own bone, and keeps a paw ready to lay
it upon the bone of the next brute, existed in the human race before it became human,
and its survival retards its complete humanity.
This "government for private interest" is as likely to take the form of ambition
as of gain. The "man of destiny," provided he has figured it out himself, is no
more to be depended upon than the man of enterprise. The man who lays his ear
upon the public heart, to know what he is to get from the public hand, is not much
to be preferred  to the man who lies with his ear to the ground  for the  purpose  of
discovering whether thinj
If you point to the pages
ient decay in "government
illustrations seem so remote
by the hot blood of one in
own ends; and yet the path
by the ruins of private
or personal ambition. In
may be found the remains
The commonweal has gone
to tread these ruins into
many-trampling feet. There
tory on which such a tragedy
might have been written in
and the common good have
ignoble selfishness. The
tion that is at work in our
witnessed the production of
surely forbid the retrogres-
tal instincts. The soul of
has rights which are quickly
belonging to the soul of the
sons who keep their hand
are coming his way.
of history, in proof of incip-
for  private   interest,"   the
that  they are not  credited
immediate   pursuit   of   his
of the world's life is strewn
enterprise, "or class failure,
the   debris  of   these   ruins
of   some   private   interest.
by that road, and has had
dust,    under    its
is no page of his-
is    written    but
letters    of   light,
taken the place of
great law of evolu-
human world has
man,     and    will
sion of man to bru-
the   people  also
acknowledged   as
man.      The   per-
upon the page of MEN,   WOMEN AND EVENTS.
their accounts, while they speculate what can be made out of the people of the United
States, by advising the President, by bullying the Senate, by seducing the House of
Representatives, by invading the chambers of legislation in the states, by choosing governors and party leaders, and by assuming to be the owners rather than the trustees of
private wealth, are all preparing a page of history, which they may not live to read, and
which would be read with tears by their descendants, but that the kindled indignation
of the common heart will surely dispossess them of their advantage, and return to
the saner methods embodied in that constantly repeated phrase, "a government of the
people, for the people, by the people"—a phrase which, repeated often enough, takes
its place in the vocabulary of cant; but acted upon now and then, holds its place in the
arsenal of power. Thomas r<  Slicer
During no epoch in history has such rapid progress been
made in warlike appliances as in the period which has
elapsed since our civil war. The changes, however, have
been more evolutionary than revolutionary—largely a development and refinement of
materials and principles, many of which were known for decades, but which had to wait
for the mechanical ingenuity of recent years before they could stand the vital test on the
field of battle. For example, the question of breech-loading guns for military use
assumed some importance as far back as 1841; yet we went into and fought most of the
civil war through with the larger number of our troops armed with muzzle-loaders, and
it was only after this conflict that the breech-loader, responding to satisfactory improvements, was adopted throughout the world, the Franco-Prussian war being the first in
which both sides used breech-loading rifles.
In recent years, science has made so many startling discoveries in such bewilderino-
succession that the lay mind is ready to accept without surprise the wildest end-of-the^
century innovations in warlike appliances, and will therefore probably be disappointed
with a bare recital of the rapid and really phenomenal improvements in military armaments. For it must be remembered that a comparatively slight disparity in the range
of a weapon or in the rapidity of fire may determine the fate of a battle, and affect
the destiny of a nation.
It is during the last ten or fifteen years that the greatest changes and improvements
in the science and practice of war have been made, and these changes are found in the
record for the perfecting of arms, large and small, and for the repulsion of missiles.
Conspicuous among these has been the reduction of the caliber in the infantry firearm. Sixteen years ago, the armies of the civilized world were carrying large-bore rifles
varying in caliber from .4 in. to only .6 in. Small-bore arms w§re beginning to be seriously considered. England, even then, had just adopted, and was arming her infantry
with, the large-caliber Martini-Henry, and as late as 1886, Germany introduced a magazine rifle of large bore. In this year France and Portugal led the way by adopting a
magazine arm of nearly . 3 in. caliber. The other nations followed this lead rapidly, the
United States holding on to the forty-five-caliber single-loader until the last few years,
when the entire army was equipped with the .30 Krag-Jorgensen. The calibers vary
from a little less than a quarter of an inch (Italian) to three-tenths of an inch (French).
The modern bullet weighs about half of what the old one did; yet it is much longer in
proportion to its diameter. The maximum effective range of the old rifle averaged
three thousand yards, while that of the new is over four thousand one hundred—about
two and one-third miles. The penetration in elm of the old Snider was only four and
one-half inches at one hundred yards, whereas the bullet of the new arm at two hundred
yards goes through twenty-three and one-half inches of pine. The Mauser projectile
will pass through five or six men in a row at one hundred yards, and through one man
at nearly a mile. Thirty years ago, a soldier considered himself safe from rifle-fire so
long as he kept behind a good-sized log; now the log would furnish scant protection.
The attachment to the rifle of a magazine holding from five to ten rounds has added _p
greatly to the rapidity of fire, while the reduction in the size and weight of the cartridge itself, made possible by a more powerful powder by overcoming mechanical difficulties of manufacture, enables the soldier to carry on his person over two hundred
charges now, where formerly he carried from fifty to seventy.
The introduction of smokeless powder has perhaps brought about the greatest
changes in the methods of warfare. France was first to adopt one, in 1887, followed
by Germany in 1889; while the United States army, closely watching the experience of
European powers, has hot as yet decided on a satisfactory formula.
In respect to field-artillery, we still had less than two decades ago old muzzle-loading
guns. The first important change was the adoption of the rifled breech-loading field
mortars and howitzers, the chief object being to reach the enemy under cover behind
parapets by means of the high-angled fire which this type of gun permitted. The improvements in field-artillery during the last ten years have been looking mainly toward
increase of fire. For twenty years after the civil war, the best we could do was to load,
aim and fire a field-gun once in about three minutes. Now we can fire several shots in
a minute. Within recent years the French have adopted a field-piece capable of being
fired, it is reported, twenty times a minute. Our rifled 3.2 light-artillery arm is a great
improvement over the old twelve-pounder of Napoleon, but the immense strides made in
gun construction during the fifteen years since the introduction of the first model in
1885 have rendered it obsolete in comparison with the rapid-fire machine of the same
caliber now in use by the armies of Europe. This disparity is due mainly to the new
all-metal cartridge, and the successful means adopted for checking recoil, the most novel
having been recently submitted for test by an American inventor, who, by a very
ingenious device, makes the powder gas, after it has performed its work on the projectile, exert a pull forward on the muzzle of the gun as opposed to the backward
motion due to the initial pressure of the gas against the bottom of the bore. Space will
not permit my noting the many ingenious devices submitted by our inventors to improve
machine-guns and other military weapons. It is to America that the world looks to-day
for improvements in military appliances. The ingenuity of our inventors has produced
the Sharpe carbine, the Colt's revolver, the Snider rifle, the Gatling, Gardiner and
Maxim guns, the Hotchkiss quick-firing cannon, each in its turn the best of its
kind, and many more wonderful war devices, which are being sought after and
experimented with by foreign governments. It is a principle with us to be very conservative in adopting any new ordnance. Our authorities wait until the European has
gone to the trouble and expense of experiment, and then embody the results of his
experience. This is a very economical method, but it is apt to prove disastrous should
a war come upon us suddenly.
In heavy sea-coast guns, real progress has been concerned with the increase in their
power by improving the powder and the materials and workmanship of the guns and
projectiles. The guns of our artillery consist of rifled-steel breech-loaders. For a time
all nations vied with each other in increasing the caliber of their large guns, the limit
being reached in a thirty-six-inch mortar. There is now a reaction in favor of a reduction in size. The largest in our system is a sixteen-inch gun that has just been completed at the Watervliet arsenal. It is probably the only one that will be made. This
tremendous engine fires a projectile weighing two thousand four hundred pounds, has a
muzzle velocity of two thousand three hundred feet per second, shooting five hundred
and seventy-six pounds smokeless or one thousand one hundred and seventy-six pounds
of brown powder. The kinetic energy of this enormous missile as it leaves the muzzle
of the gun is eighty-eight thousand eight hundred and one foot-tons. To get a concrete idea of this force, conceive of an engine of over ten thousand horse-power being
necessary to produce on an instant an equivalent power. An illustration is afforded by
the following comparison: One of our modern battle-ships weighs over eleven thousand
tons, and if the energy stored by any one of these sixteen-inch projectiles could be
applied properly to this enormous dead weight, it would lift the battle-ship, completely
loaded and ready for action, a distance of eight feet. MEN,   WOMEN AND EVENTS. 629
A limited express train, consisting of locomotive and fifteen loaded Pullman
coaches, moving at the rate of a mile a minute, if stopped instantly by a solid wall of
masonry would have considerably less energy than is represented by" a sixteen-inch shot
striking armor-plate. The effect of such a blow upon a battle-ship can be only faintly
The general of to-day has a bewildering array of auxiliary appliances for fighting.
He has a lime- or electric-light signaling apparatus; field telegraph equipment; wireless
telegraphy; portable field-observatories, furnished with delicate range-finding instruments, telephones and powerful telescopes; observing balloons; telephoto cameras, which
give him detailed pictures of the enemy's unseen position many miles away; aerial torpedoes; gun-cotton and dynamite and explosive gelatin for blowing up obstacles, tearing up railroad lines, and dealing wholesale destruction to the enemy. He has armored
trains, traction engines for heavy transportation, portable shields for his scaling parties,
automobile ambulances, and many other appliances that we could mention. The arts
and.sciences are drawn upon to serve him. The ablest inventors place the products of
their ingenuity in his hands. Yet we have not reached the limit of military progress.
Fresh inventions are continually reinforcing present appliances, and startle us by their
novelty and promised efficiency. To-day we have captive observing balloons; to-morrow they will be navigable—these to be superseded by fighting-machines equipped as
aerial destroyers. Nelson A. Miles.
General Miles, than whom no one is quicker to weigh the
value of new military inventions, might have gone much
further if he had chosen to do so in his estimates. Not
having any military reputation at stake, I do not hesitate to predict that the wars
of the next century will be fought on quite a different basis from those of the
nineteenth. In a sketch called "A Brief History of Our Late War with Spain,"
which was written some months in advance of the beginning of hostilities in Cuba,
I endeavored to show the power that the new breech-loading small-bore gun
would have behind earthen embankments. The Boer defenses illustrate the absolute truth of the position then taken. Even artillery has played an unimportant part
in the South African war. Neither English nor Boers have paid much attention
to the bursting shells, and one hundred guns concentrated on Cronje's position for ten
days did not dislodge him. Invariably the English troops have melted away when
they have dared to come within range of the small-bore.
But the element which has counted most of all in South Africa, just as
it has in fact in all wars of all times, has been the ability to move with
rapidity. The invention of the automobile is about to impart an entirely
new aspect to military movement. From some practical familiarity with the
subject, I venture the assertion that the French factories can to-day build an automobile which will cany four riflemen with their arms and three hundred rounds of
ammunition, a week's supply of the more scientific forms of condensed foods, a fuel-
supply sufficient to cover a movement over two hundred miles, with light rubber cloths
rolled up on either side of the machine, furnishing when unrolled shelter-tents for four
men alongside the carriage—the entire machine to be built at a cost of less than one
thousand dollars, and when loaded with both food and fuel supplies, weighing less than
twelve hundred pounds—a weight which could easily be handled by troops across
difficult ravines and up the steepest embankments. On good roads, its speed could
exceed fifteen or even twenty miles an hour. In actual operation on a. large scale, it
would be quite possible to move an entire army a distance of one hundred and twenty
miles between sunrise and sunset in a country having fairly good highways, or even
over such prairies as those of Kansas or Colorado, the rubber wheels quickly smoothing
down their own roadbeds.
With  a force  having  this  mobility, artillery would be  a matter of little conse- 630
quence. If the operations were against foot-soldiers or cavalry such as we have to-day,
the automobile army could strike at lines of communication far in the rear and compel
the abandonment of fortified positions. It would have no ammunition trains, and no
baggage or commissary wagons, because each automobile would be complete in itself,
carrying all of its supplies. The army so equipped and capable of such movement
would be able to flank an opposing force, to run around it, to concentrate upon and
suddenly strike its weak places, to move down upon and cut off its reinforcements;
in other words, ever taking the opposing forces at a disadvantage by its bewildering
rapidity of motion. John Brisben Walker.
A coronet is a pretty ornament.    A crown is simply splendid.    Barring the ducal variety, which latterly has got
rather common, there are, at present, but three in Ameri-
The first is the crown of Monaco.    It is a trifle gimcrack, not entirely
The incumbent was a Miss Heine, of New Orleans.
can heraldry
respectable yet very becoming.
The second, a viceregal and therefore temporary article, is worn by the lady who was
formerly Miss Leiter,   of Chicago.    The third, composed of feathers and beads, sits
very well on a young woman from Fourth Avenue, New York, who at present is the
queen of a South Sea isle.
American heraldry has just missed a fourth. Some
years ago a young man went up, as the phrase is, for examination. He happened to have a newspaper of his own
and on the morrow it chronicled the fact that he had
passed. By way of celebrating the miracle he gave a luncheon. To it he asked nearly every person of note whom
. he knew. He knew a good many. Some were generals,
some were statesmen, some were wise and some were
stupid, some were brave and some were not. For lack of
anything better to do, or, it may be, to humor the lad,
they all accepted. On the appointed day, at the appointed
1 hour, they passed through gilded gates, mounted a marble
stairway, promenaded through a ball-room of primro&e and
cream and entered a dining-hall where a hundred guests
could breakfast.     It was there the youngster received them.
When they were seated he stood up, motioned the lackeys to go, and,   glass in hand,
with a nod which was meant to be insolent, but which succeeded only in being inane,
announced to those awaiting a toast that he proposed to be King.     What!    Yes, indeed.
And there,  behind him,   doors suddenly opened,   disclosed vistas of men-at-arms, stilettos, oubliettes, bread
and water, deportation, decapitation for all we know to
the contrary, in short, all the outfit of a coup-de-main.
For those who were there, for those who were wise and
those who were brave and particularly for those who
were neither, there was but one thing to do and they did
it.     Alexander of Servia was proclaimed King on the
spot.     Through a side-door the villain, Milan, looked
and laughed.    To be complete the comedy needed only
a heroine.     One princess after another was asked to assume the role and one after the other declined.
There was the chance for American heraldry.    With
five million any man could have got for his daughter
the crown of  Servia,  the throne  too with Alexander
thrown in.     Though it was a bargain-counter affair, we
believe the lot could have been had for less.    As a mat MEN,  WOMEN AND EVENTS.
ter of fact, and also of gossip, there was some chaffering, but nothing done. Now the
chance is gone. A month or so ago it was announced that the goods had found an
Austrian purchaser. It is too bad, of course, yet for the betterment of American heraldry the King of Spain remains. Having taken his colonies we would not begrudge
him one of our girls. In view of the heraldry we are even sorry that he can't take
two- Edgar  Saltus.
What relation does the opera
in New York bear to the general musical life of the community? That is a question which one often hears. For
four months the Metropolitan Opera House is packed at
five performances a week, while piano recitals and orchestral concerts are comparatively infrequent. It may be
said that this is a condition of affairs that will be found
to exist in all other cities which have opera as well as other
forms of musical entertainment. Opera is the most popular
kind of music, because it is not wholly music. It is music
made easy by the help of action and text. The
great majority of persons who fancy that they love
"v!? music are unsatisfied by music in the. abstract, or
absolute music, as it is called. They desire to find something behind the music, an
idea which will give them a peg on which to hang their imaginations. They wish to
think that the music is a means, not an end, that it exists for the purpose of
expressing something outside of itself.
They have heard all their lives the saying, "Music is the language of the emotions, '' and they seek always for a plain indication of the emotional plan of a composition. This is not always easy for the unskilled listener to find. But in the opera
he need never go astray. The libretto is a ready guide to the emotions which the
composer desires to set before the hearer. Even when the indolent listener does not
take the trouble to read the libretto, the action is a help to him, for it gives him at
least an inkling of the feelings which the musician has sought to express 'through his
score. Naturally, then, those who do not regard music very seriously, who have no
disposition to follow the development of a fugue nor to observe the working out of
themes in a symphony, to whom the brilliant palette of the modern orchestral tone-
colorist is without charm and the tinkling of piano-wires without fascination, find in
the opera a form of music congenial to
their tastes. And when to the attraction
of the entertainment itself is added that of
the interesting personality of the singer
(generally the creature of the opera-goer's
imagination), we get a form of public
amusement which easily finds a patronage
much larger than that of the concerts.
The devotees of music, however, form
a part of the operatic public in New York.
They are to be found in the house when
the music-dramas of Wagner are performed
and when the better works of the French
school are sung. The later operas of the
Italian also attract them. They are absent
when "II Trovatore" and "Rigoletto" and
other operas of the older style are sung.
This is especially true of the younger gen- 632 MEN,  WOMEN AND EVENTS.
eration of music-lovers, who began their music culture with Wagner. They cannot
appreciate the older Italian works at all. It may be said, then, that the operatic
public is much larger than the strictly musical public, but that the latter is
included in the former. The serious appreciation of the opera comes chiefly from the
real musical public. The hysterical singer-worship is to be found mostly among those
to whom the singers seem to be the creators of the music sung by them. It is
hardly necessary to say that such persons do not belong to the serious musical public
of the metropolis. W. J. Henderson.
Nothing in the recent history of science is more important than the separation of Prof. St. George Mivart
from the Catholic Church, and his formal excommunication
by this church. Its importance consists in the fact that Professor Mivart is one of
the most distinguished scientific men of England and that for most of his life (he was
born in 1827) he has remained within the Roman Catholic Church, all the while carrying on his researches in biology. Any conflict between theology and science
seemed to be unnecessary so long as one could point to this distinguished man of
high character and say "he is at the same time a scientist and a churchman, and we
are now at the end of the nineteenth century."
A modern example of the sort is far more important than any example from
history. We know exactly what modern science is, and we comprehend our own
century. Galileo's science we understand, but it is certain that most of us
fail to understand the position of his judges. He was tortured in his mind,
and perhaps by bodily pains, and we unthinkingly assume that
science was attacked by the church of his day. Nothing is more
certain than that Galileo's accusers did not care a fig for his
scientific opinions in themselves; they were concerned only with
what they thought to be his theological errors. Freedom of scientific thought was not directly attacked in his person, but heresy,
as then understood, was punished. The church of to-day does
not take the same view of heresy as the church of the seventeenth
century, and the case of Galileo does not represent any actual conflict, important as it may be historically.
But the case of Professor Mivart does represent actualities. He has been summoned to deny and reject his presumed errors; he has felt obliged to decline; and
he has been formally excommunicated. He has found it impossible to retain a freedom
in investigation and expression which each one of us feels to be his birthright and still
to remain a member of the Church of Rome. In his letter to Cardinal Vaughan he
says: "Very many men and women are now anxious and distressed about their
duty with regard to the Bible. What good end can be served by telling them that
it lcontains no errors' while a multitude of its statements are altogether false?"
Is it true, he asks as a naturalist, that the animals went up to Adam to be named, et
cetera?    It is not true.     The Bible contains errors of statement.
Similar questions are arising in Protestant churches also. Recent trials for heresy
will be found in the recollection of all. These matters are of capital importance to
us all and they mark an epoch in history. We are not dealing with historical ques-.
tions of the seventeenth century, but with actualities of the nineteenth. The issue
has been raised in unmistakable form. The conclusion is that a man's first duty'
is to Truth as he conceives it, not to Authority. He may be mistaken, but his
duty is plain: It is to announce the Truth as he sees it after taking every pains to
know. He is responsible to no college or congregation, but solely to "the God of
Things as They Are." Edward S. Holden. ERIC   HERMANNSON'S   SOUL.
By Willa Sibert Cather.
IT was a great night at the Lone Star
schoolhouse—a night when the Spirit
was present with power, and when God was
very near to man. So it seemed to Asa
Skinner, servant of God and Free Gospeller.
The schoolhouse was crowded with the
saved and sanctified, robust men and
women, trembling and quailing-before the
power of some mysterious psychic force.
Here and there among this cowering, sweating multitude crouched some poor wretch
who had felt the pangs of an awakened conscience, but had not yet experienced that
complete divestment of reason, that frenzy
born of a convulsion of the minxl, which,
in the parlance of the Free Gospellers, is
termed "the Light." On the floor, before
the mourners' bench, lay the unconscious
figure of a man in whom outraged nature
had sought her last resort. This '' trance''
state is the highest evidence of grace among
the Free Gospellers, and indicates a close
walking with God.
Before the desk stood Asa Skinner,
shouting of the mercy and vengeance of
God, and in his eyes shone a terrible earnestness, an almost prophetic flame. Asa
was a converted train gambler who used
to run between Omaha and Denver. He
I was a man made for the extremes of life;
from the most debauched of men he had become the most ascetic. His was a bestial
face, a face that bore the stamp of Nature's
eternal injustice. The forehead was low,
projecting over the eyes, and the sandy
hair was plastered down over it and then
brushed back at an abrupt right angle.
The chin was heavy, the nostrils were low
and wide, and the lower lip hung loosely except in his moments of spasmodic earnestness, when it shut like a steel trap. Yet
about those coarse features there were deep,
rugged furrows, the scars of many a hand-
to-hand struggle with the weakness of the
flesh, and about that drooping lip were
sharp, strenuous lines that had conquered
it and taught it to pray. Over those
seamed cheeks there was a certain pallor,
a grayness caught from many a vigil. It
was as though, after Nature had done her
worst with that face, some fine chisel had
gone over it, chastening and almost transfiguring it. To-night, as his muscles
twitched with emotion, and the perspiration dropped from his hair and chin, there
was a certain convincing power in the man.
For Asa Skinner was a man possessed of a
belief, of that sentiment of the sublime before which all inequalities are leveled, that
transport of conviction which seems superior to all laws of condition, under which
debauchees have become martyrs; which
made a tinker an artist and a camel-driver
the founder of an empire. This was with
Asa Skinner to-night, as he stood proclaiming the vengeance of God.
It might have occurred to an impartial
observer that Asa Skinner's God was indeed
a vengeful God if he could reserve vengeance for those of his creatures who were
packed into the Lone Star schoolhouse that
night. Poor exiles of all nations; men
from the south and the north, peasants from
almost every country of Europe, most of
them from the mountainous, night-bound
coast of Norway. Honest men for the
most part, but men with whom the world
had dealt hardly; the failures of all countries, men sobered by toil and saddened by
exile, who had been driven to fight' for
the dominion of an untoward soil, to sow
where others should gather, the advance-
guard of a mighty civilization to be.
Never had Asa Skinner spoken more
earnestly than now. He felt that the Lord
had this night a special work for him to
do. To-night Eric Hermannson, the wildest lad on all the Divide, sat in his audience with a fiddle on his knee, just as he
had dropped in on his way to play for
some dance. The violin is an object of
particular abhorrence to the Free Gospellers. Their antagonism to the church
organ is bitter enough, but the fiddle they
regard as a very incarnation of evil desires,
singin'g forever of worldly pleasures and
inseparably associated with all forbidden
Eric Hermannson had long been the object of the prayers of the revivalists. His
mother had felt the power of the Spirit
weeks  ago,   and  special  prayer-meetings 634
had been held at her house for her son.
But Eric had only gone his ways laughing,
the ways of youth, which are short enough
at best, and none too flowery on the Divide. He slipped away from the prayer-
meetings to meet the Campbell boys in
Genereau's saloon, or hug the plump little
French girls at Chevalier's dances, and
sometimes, of a summer night, he even
went across the dewy cornfields and through
the wild-plum thicket to play the fiddle
for Lena Hanson, whose name was a reproach through all the Divide country,
where the women are usually too plain and
too busy and too tired to depart from the
ways of virtue. On such occasions Lena,
attired in a pink wrapper and silk stockings and tiny pink slippers, would sing to
him, accompanying herself on a battered
guitar. It gave him a delicious sense of
freedom and experience to be with a woman
who, no matter how, had lived in big
cities and knew the ways of town-folk,
who had never worked in the fields and had
kept her hands white and soft, her throat
fair and tender, who had heard great
singers in Denver and Salt Lake, and who
knew the strange language of flattery and
idleness and mirth.
Yet, careless as he seemed, the frantic
prayers of his mother were not altogether
without their effect upon Eric. For days
he had been fleeing before them as a criminal from his pursuers, and over his pleasures had fallen the shadow of something
dark and terrible that dogged his steps.
The harder he danced, the louder he sang,
the more was he conscious that this phantom was gaining upon him, that in time
it would track him down. One Sunday
afternoon, late in the fall, when he had
been drinking beer with Lena Hanson and
listening to a song which made his cheeks
burn, a rattlesnake had crawled out of the
side of the sod house and thrust its ugly
head in under the screen door. He was
not afraid of snakes, but he knew enough
of Gospellism to feel the significance of the
reptile lying coiled there upon her doorstep.
His lips were cold when he kissed Lena
good-by, and he went there no more.
The final barrier between Eric and his
mother's faith was his violin, and to that
he clung as a man sometimes will cling to
his dearest sin, to the weakness more pre
cious to him than all his strength. In the
great world beauty comes to men in many
guises, and art in a hundred forms, but
for Eric there was only his violin. It stood,
to him, for all the manifestations of art;
it was his only bridge into the kingdom
of the soul.
It was to Eric Hermannson that the evangelist directed his impassioned pleading
that night.
11 Saul, Saul, .why perseoutest- thou me?
Is there a Saul here to-night who has
stopped his ears to that gentle pleading,
who has thrust a spear into that bleeding
side? Think of it, my brother; you are
offered this wonderful love and you prefer
the worm that dieth not and the fire which
will not be quenched. What right have
you to lose one of God's precious souls?
Saul, Saul, .why-persecutest thou me?"
A great joy dawned in Asa Skinner's
pale face, for he saw that Eric Hermannson
was swaying to and fro in his seat. The
minister fell upon his knees and threw his
long arms up over his head.
'' O my brothers! I feel it coming, the
blessing we have prayed for. I tell you
the Spirit is coming! Just a little more
prayer, brothers, a little more zeal, and
he will be here. I can feel his cooling
wing upon my brow. Glory be to God
forever and ever, amen!"
The whole congregation groaned under
the pressure of this spiritual panic. Shouts
and hallelujahs went up from every lip.
Another figure fell prostrate upon the floor.
From the mourners' bench rose a chant of
terror and rapture:
" Eating honey and drinking wine,
Glory to the bleeding Lamb !
I am my Lord's and he is mine,
Glory to the bleeding Lamb / "
The hymn was sung in a dozen dialects
and voiced all the vague yearning of these
hungry lives, of these people who" had
starved all the passions so long, only to
fall victims to the basest of them all, fear.
A groan of ultimate anguish rose from
Eric Hermannson's bowed head, and the '
sound was like the groan of a great tree
when it falls in the forest.
The minister rose suddenly to his feet
and threw back his head, crying in a loud
voice :•
"Lazarus, come forth! Eric Hermannson, ERIC HERMANNSON'S SOUL.
you are lost, going down at sea. In the
name of God, and Jesus Christ his Son, I
throw you the life-line. Take hold ! Almighty God, my soul for his!" The minister threw his arms out and lifted his quivering face.
Eric Hermannson rose to his feet; his
lips were set and the lightning was in his
eyes. He took his violin by the neck and
crushed it to splinters across his knee, and
to Asa Skinner the sound was like the
shackles of   sin  broken audibly asunder.
For more than two years Eric Hermann-
son kept the austere faith to which he had
sworn himself, kept it until a girl from
the East came to spend a week on. the
Nebraska Divide. She was a girl of
other manners and conditions, and there
were greater distances between her life and
Eric's than all the miles which separated
Rattlesnake Creek from New York city.
Indeed, she had no business to be in the
West at all; but ah! across what leagues
of land and sea, by what improbable
chances, do the unrelenting gods bring to
us our fate!
It was in a year of financial depression
that Wyllis Elliot came to Nebraska to buy
cheap land and revisit the country where
he had spent a year of his youth. When
he had graduated from Harvard it was still
customary for moneyed gentlemen to send
their scapegrace sons to rough it on ranches
in the wilds of Nebraska or Dakota, or to
consign them to a living death in the sagebrush of the Black Hills. These young
men did not always return to the ways of
civilized life. But Wyllis Elliot had not
married a half-breed, nor been shot in a
cow-punchers' brawl, nor wrecked by bad
. whisky, nor appropriated by a smirched
adventuress. He had been saved from
these things by a girl, his sister, who had
been very near to his life ever since the days
when they read fairy tales- together and
dreamed the dreams that never come true.
On this, his first visit to his father's ranch
since he left it six years before, he brought
her with him. She had been laid up half
the winter from a sprain received while
skating, and had had too much time for
reflection during those months. She was
restless and filled with a desire to see some
thing of the wild country of which her
brother had told her so much. She was
to be married the next winter, and Wyllis
understood her when she begged him to
take her with him on this long, aimless
jaunt across the continent, to taste the last
of their freedom together. It comes to
all women of her type—that desire to taste
the unknown which allures and terrifies,
to run one's whole soul's length out to the
wind—just once.
It had been an eventful journey. Wyllis
somehow understood that strain of gypsy
blood in his sister, and he knew where to
take her. They had slept in sod houses
on the Platte "River, made the acquaintance of the personnel of a third-rate opera
company on the train to Deadwood, dined
in a camp of railroad constructors at the
world's end beyond New Castle, gone
through the Black Hills on horseback,
fished for trout in Dome Lake, watched a
dance at Cripple Creek, where the lost
souls who hide in the hills gathered for
their besotted revelry. And now, last of
all, before the return to thraldom, there
was this little shack, anchored on the
windy crest of the Divide, a little black
dot against the flaming sunsets, a scented
sea of cornland bathed in opalescent air
and blinding sunlight.
Margaret Elliot was one of those women
of whom there are so many in this day,
when old order, passing, giveth place to
new; beautiful, talented, critical, unsatisfied, tired of the world at twenty-four.
For the moment the life and people of the
Divide interested her. She was there but
a week; perhaps had she stayed longer,
that inexorable ennui which travels faster
even than the Vestibule Limited would
have overtaken her. The week she tarried
there was the week that Eric Hermannson
was helping Jerry Lockhart thresh; a
week earlier or a week later, and there,
would have been no story to write.
It was on Thursday and they were to
leave on Saturday. Wyllis and his sister
were sitting on the wide piazza of the
ranchhouse, staring out into the afternoon
sunlight and protesting against the gusts of
hot wind that blew up from the sandy river-
bottom twenty miles to the southward.
The young man pulled his cap lower over
his eyes and remarked: 636
"This wind is the real thing; you don't
strike it anywhere else. You remember
we had a touch of it in Algiers and I told
you it came from Kansas. It's the keynote of this country.''
Wyllis touched her hand that lay on the
hammock and continued gently:
"I hope it's paid you, Sis. Roughing
it's dangerous business; it takes the taste
out of things.''
She shut her fingers firmly over the brown
hand that was so like her own.
"Paid? Why, Wyllis, I haven't been
so happy since we were children and were
going to discover the ruins of Troy together some day. Do you know, I believe
I could just stay on here forever and let
the world go on its own gait. It seems as
though the tension and strain we used to
talk of last winter were gone for good, as
though one could never give one's strength
out to such petty things any more."
Wyllis brushed the ashes of his pipe
away from the silk handkerchief that was
knotted about his neck and stared moodily
off at the sky-line.
"No, you're mistaken. This would bore
you after a while. You can't shake the
fever of the other life. I've tried it.
There was a time when the gay fellows of
Rome could trot down into the Thebaid
and burrow into the sandhills and get rid
of it. But it's all too complex now. You
see we've made our dissipations so dainty
and respectable that they've gone further
in than the flesh, and taken hold of the ego
proper. You couldn't rest, even here.
The war-cry would follow you."
"You don't waste words, Wyllis, but
you never miss fire. I talk more than you
do, without saying half so much. You
must have learned the art of silence from
these taciturn Norwegians. I think I like
silent men."
"Naturally, "said Wyllis, "since you
have decided to marry the most brilliant
talker you know.''
Both were silent for a time, listening to
the sighing of the hot wind through the
parched morning-glory vines. Margaret
spoke first.
"Tell me, Wyllis, were many of the
Norwegians you used to know as interesting as Eric Hermannson?"
"Who, Siegfried?    Well, no.     He used
to be the flower of the Norwegian youth
in my day, and he's rather an exception,
even now. He has retrograded, though.
The bonds of the soil have tightened on
him, I fancy.''
"Siegfried? Come, that's rather good,
Wyllis. He looks like a dragon-slayer.
What is it that makes him so different from
the others? I can talk to him; he seems
quite like a human being.''
"Well," said Wyllis, meditatively, "I
don't read Bourget as much as my cultured
sister, and I'm not' so well up in analysis,
but I fancy it's because one keeps cherishing a perfectly unwarranted suspicion that
under that big, hulking anatomy of his, he
may conceal a soul somewhere. Nicht
11 Something like that,'' said Margaret,
thoughtfully, "except that it's more than
a suspicion, and it isn't groundless. He
has one, and he makes it known, somehow, without speaking.''
"I always have my doubts about loquacious souls,'' Wyllis remarked, with the
unbelieving smile that had grown habitual
with him.
Margaret went on, not heeding the interruption. "I knew it from the first, when
he told me about the suicide of his cousin,
the Bernstein boy. That kind of blunt
pathos can't be summoned at will in anybody. The earlier novelists rose to it, sometimes, unconsciously. But last night when
I sang for him I was doubly sure. Oh,
I haven't told you about that yet! Better
light your pipe again. You see, he stumbled in on me in the dark when I was
pumping away at that old parlor organ to
please Mrs. Lockhart. It's her household
fetish and I've forgotten how many pounds
of butter she made and sold to buy it.
Well, Eric stumbled in, and in some inarticulate manner made me understand that
he wanted me to sing for him. I sang
just the old things, of course. It's queer
to sing familiar things here at the world's
end. It makes one think how the hearts
of men have carried them around the
world, into the wastes of Iceland and'the
jungles of Africa and the islands of the
Pacific. I think if one lived here long
enough one would quite forget how to be
trivial, and would read only the great
books that we  never get time to read in ERIC HERMANNSON'S SOUL.
the world, and would remember only the
great music, and the things that are really
worth while would stand out clearly against
that horizon over there. And of course I
played the intermezzo from 'Cavalleria
Rusticana' for him; it goes rather better
on an organ than most things do. He
shuffled his feet and twisted his big hands-
up into knots and blurted out that he
didn't know there was any music like that
in the world. Why, there were tears in
his voice, Wyllis! Yes, like Rossetti, I
heard his tears. Then it dawned upon
me that it was probably the first good
music he had ever heard in all his life.
Think of it, to care for music as he does
and never to hear it, never to know that
it exists on earth! To long for it as. we
long for other perfect experiences that
never come. I can't tell you what music
means to that man. I never saw any one
so susceptible to it. It gave him speech,
he became alive. When I had finished
the intermezzo, he began telling me about
a little crippled brother who died and
whom he loved and used to carry everywhere in his arms. He did not wait for
encouragement. He took up the story
and told it slowly, as if to himself, just
sort of rose up and told his own woe to
answer Mascagni's.    It overcame me."
"Poor devil," said Wyllis, looking at
her with mysterious eyes, "and so you've
given him a new woe. Now he'll go on
wanting Grieg and Schubert the rest of
his days and never getting them. That's
a girl's philanthropy for you!"
Jerry Lockhart came out of the house
screwing his chin over the unusual luxury
of a stiff white collar, which his wife insisted upon as a necessary article of toilet
while Miss Elliot was at the house. Jerry
sat down on the step and smiled his broad,
red smile at Margaret.
"Well, I've got the music for your
dance, Miss Elliot. Olaf Oleson will
bring his accordion and Mollie will play
the organ, when she isn't lookin' after
the grub, and a little chap from French-
town will bring his fiddle—though the
French don't mix with the Norwegians
^SBfefightf ul! 5 ilr.' Lockhart, that dance
wirfWJhe feature of our trip, and it's so
nice^f^you to get*it up for us.     We'll
see the Norwegians in character at last,''
cried Margaret, cordially.
"See here, Lockhart, I'll settle with you
for backing her in this scheme," said
Wyllis, sitting up and knocking the ashes
out of his pipe. "She's done crazy things
enough on this trip, but to talk of dancing
all night with a gang of half-mad Norwegians and taking the carriage at four to
catch the six o'clock train out of Riverton
—well, it's tommy-rot, that's what it is!"
"Wyllis, I leave it to your sovereign
power of reason to decide whether it isn't
easier to stay up all night than to get up
at three in the morning. To get up at
three, think what that means! No, sir,
I prefer to keep my vigil and then get
into a sleeper."
"But what do you want with the Norwegians? I thought you were tired of
"So I am, with some people. But I
want to see a Norwegian dance, and I intend to. Come, Wyllis, you know how
seldom it is that one really wants to do
anything nowadays. I wonder when I
have really wanted to go to a party before.-
It will be something to remember next
month at Newport, when we have to and
don't want to. Remember your own theory
that contrast is about the only thing that
makes life endurable. This is my party
and Mr. Lockhart's; your whole duty tomorrow night will consist in being nice to
the Norwegian girls. I'll warrant you
were adept enough at it once. And you'd
better be very nice indeed, for if there are
many such young valkyrs as Eric's sister
among them, they would simply tie you up
in a knot if they suspected you were guying them.''
Wyllis groaned and sank back into the
hammock to consider his fate, while his
sister went on.
"And the guests, Mr. Lockhart, did
they accept?" Sl^Hl
Lockhart took out his knife and began
sharpening it on the sole of his plowshoe.
"Well, I guess we'll have a couple
dozen. You see it's pretty hard to get a
crowd together here any more. Most of
'em have gone over to the Free Gospellers,
and they'd rather put their feet in the fire
than shake 'em to a fiddle."
Margaret made a, gesture of impatience. 638
"Those Free Gospellers have just cast an
evil spell over this country, haven't
"Well," said Lockhart, cautiously, "I
don't just like to pass judgment on any
Christian sect, but if you're to know the
chosen by their works, the Gospellers can't
make a very proud showin', an' that's a
fact. They're responsible for a few suicides, and they've sent a good-sized delegation to the state insane asylum, an' I don't
see as they've made the rest of us much
better than we were before. I had a little
herdboy last spring, as square a little Dane
as I want to work for me, but after the
Gospellers got hold of him and sanctified
him, the little beggar used to get down
on his knees out on the prairie and pray by
the hour and let the cattle get into the
corn, an' I had to fire him. That's about
the way it goes. Now there's Eric; that
chap used to be a hustler and the spryest
dancer in all this section—called all the
dances. Now he's got no ambition and
he's glum as a preacher. I don't suppose
we can even get him to come in to-morrow
"Eric? Why, he must dance, we can't
let him off,'' said Margaret, quickly.
"Why, I intend to dance with him myself!"
"I'm afraid he won't dance.    I asked
him this morning if he'd help us out and
he said, 'I don't dance now, any more,' '
said Lockhart, imitating the labored English of the Norwegian.
" 'The Miller of Hoffbau, the Miller of
Hoffbau, O my Princess!"' chirped Wyllis,
cheerfully, from his hammock.
The red on his sister's cheek deepened a
little, and she laughed mischievously.
"We'll see about that, sir. I'll not admit
that I am beaten until I have asked him
Every night Eric rode over to St. Anne,
a little village in the heart of the French
settlement, for the mail. As the road lay
through the most attractive part of the
Divide country, on several occasions Margaret Elliot and her brother had accompanied him. To-night Wyllis had business
with Lockhart, and Margaret rode with Eric,
mounted on a frisky little mustang that
Mrs. Lockhart had broken to the sidesaddle.   Margaret regarded her escort very
much as she did the servant who always
accompanied her on long rides at home*
and the ride to the village was a silent one.
She was occupied with thoughts of another
world, and Eric was wrestling with more
thoughts than had ever been crowded into
his head before. He rode with his eyes
riveted on that slight figure before him, as
though he wished to absorb it through the
optic nerves and hold it in his brain forever. He understood the situation perfectly. His brain worked slowly, but he
had a keen sense of the values of things.
This girl represented an entirely new species
of humanity to him, but he knew where to
place her. The prophets of old, when an
angel first appeared unto them, never
doubted its high origin.
Eric was patient under the adverse conditions of his life, but he was not servile.
The Norse blood in him had not entirely
lost its self-reliance. He came of a proud
fisher line, men who were not afraid of
anything but the ice and the devil, and he
had prospects before him when his father
went down off the North Cape in the long
Arctic night, and his mother, seized by a
violent horror of seafaring life, had followed her brother to America. Eric was
eighteen then, handsome as young Siegfried, a giant in stature, with a skin singularly pure and delicate, like a Swede's;
hair as yellow as the locks of Tennyson's
amorous Prince, and eyes of a fierce, burning blue, whose flash was most dangerous
to women. He had in those days a certain
pride of bearing, a certain confidence of
approach, that usually accompanies physical
perfection. It was even said of him then
that he was in love with life, and inclined
to levity, a vice most unusual on the Divide. But the sad history of those Norwegian exiles, transplanted in an arid soil
and under a scorching sun, had repeated
itself in his case. Toil and isolation had
sobered him, and he grew more and more
like the clods among which he labored.
It was as though some red-hot instrument
had touched for a moment those delicate
fibers of the brain which respond to acute
pain or pleasure,. in which lies the power
of exquisite sensation, and had seared them
quite away. It is a painful thing to watch
the light die out of the eyes of those Norsemen, leaving an expression of impenetrable
sadness, quite passive, quite hopeless, a
shadow that is never lifted. With some
this change comes almost at once, in the
first bitterness of homesickness, with others
it comes more slowly, according to the
time it takes each man's heart to die.
Oh, those poor Northmen of the Divide !
They are dead many a year before they are
put to rest in the little graveyard on the
windy hill where exiles of all nations grow
The peculiar species of hypochondria to
which the exiles of his people sooner or
later succumb had not developed in Eric
until that night at the Lone Star school-
house, when he had broken his violin across
his knee. After that, the gloom of his
people settled down upon him, and the
gospel of maceration began its work. "If
thine eye offend thee, pluck it out," et
cetera. The pagan smile that once hovered
about his lips was gone, and he was one
with sorrow. Religion heals a hundred
hearts for one that it embitters, but when
it destroys, its work is quick and deadly,
and where the agony of the cross has been,
joy will not come again. This man understood things literally: one must live
without pleasure to die without fear; to
save the soul it was necessary to starve the
The sun hung low above the cornfields
when Margaret and her cavalier left St.
Anne. South of the town there is a stretch
of road that runs for some three miles
through the French settlement, where the
prairie is as level as the surface of a lake.
There the fields of flax and wheat and rye
are bordered by precise rows of slender,
tapering Lombard poplars. It was a yellow world that Margaret Elliot saw under
the wide light of the setting sun.
The girl gathered up her reins and
called back to Eric, "It will be safe to run
the horses here, won't it?"
"Yes, I think so, now," he answered,
touching his spur to his pony's flank.
They were off like the wind. It is an
old saying in the West that new-comers
always ride a horse or two to death before
they get broken in to the country. They
are tempted by the great open spaces and
try to outride the horizon, to get to the
end of something. Margaret galloped
over the level road, and Eric, from behind,
saw her long veil fluttering in the wind.
It had fluttered just so in his dreams last
night and the night before.     With a sudden inspiration of courage he overtook her
and rode beside her,   looking intently at
her half-averted face.   Before, he had only
stolen occasional glances at it, seen* it in
blinding flashes, always with more or less
embarrassment,   but now   he   determined
to let every line of it sink into his memory.
Men of the world would have said that it
was an unusual face, nervous, finely cut,
with clear,   elegant lines  that betokened
ancestry.      Men   of   letters   would   have
called it a historic face, and would have
conjectured  at  what   old   passions,   long
asleep, what old sorrows forgotten time out
of mind,   doing   battle   together   in   ages
gone, had curved those   delicate nostrils,
left   their   unconscious   memory   in   those
eyes.     But Eric read no meaning in these
details.    To  him  this  beauty was something more than color and line; it was as
a flash of white light, in which one cannot distinguish color because all colors are
there.     To him it was a   complete revelation, an embodiment of  those dreams of
impossible loveliness that linger by a young
man's pillow on midsummer nights;  yet,
because it held something more than the
attraction of  health and youth and shapeliness, it troubled him, and in its presence
he  felt  as  the   Goths  before   the  white
marbles in the Roman Capitol, not knowing whether they were men or gods.     At
times he felt like uncovering his head before it, again the fury seized him to break
and despoil, to find the clay in this spirit-
thing and stamp upon it.   Away from her,
he longed to strike out with his arms, and
take and hold; it maddened him that this
woman whom he could break in his hands
should be so much stronger than he.     But
near her, he never questioned this strength;
he admitted its potentiality as he admitted
the miracles of the Bible; it enervated and
conquered him.     To-night, when he rode
so close to her that he could have touched
her, he knew that he might as well reach
out his hand to take a star.
Margaret stirred uneasily under his gaze "
and turned questioningly in her saddle.
"This  wind   puts   me   a   little out  of
breath when we ride fast," she said.
Eric turned his eyes away. r
"I want to ask you if I go to New York
to work, if I maybe hear music like you
sang last night? I been a purty good hand
to work," he asked, timidly.
Margaret looked at him with surprise,
and then, as she studied the outline of his
face, pityingly!
"Well, you might—but you'd lose a
good deal else. I shouldn't like you to
go to New York—and be poor, you'd be
out of atmosphere, some way," she said,
slowly. Inwardly she was thinking :
"There he would be altogether sordid,
impossible—a machine who would carry
one's trunks upstairs, perhaps. Here he
is every inch a man, rather picturesque;
why is it?" "No," she added aloud, "I
shouldn't like that."
"Then I not go," said Eric, decidedly.
Margaret turned her face to hide a smile.
She was a trifle amused and a trifle annoyed.     Suddenly she spoke again.
"But I'll tell you what I do want you
to do, Eric. I want you to dance with us
to-morrow night and teach me some of the
Norwegian dances; they say you know
them all.     Won't you?"
Eric straightened himself in his saddle
and his eyes flashed as they had done in
the Lone Star schoolhouse when he broke
his violin across his knee.
"Yes, I will," he said, quietly, and he
believed that he delivered his soul to hell
as he said it.
They had reached the rougher country
now, where the road wound through a
narrow cut in one of the bluffs along the
creek, when a beat of hoofs ahead and the
sharp neighing of horses made the ponies
start and Eric rose in his stirrups. Then
down the gulch in front of them and over
the steep clay banks thundered a herd of
wild ponies, nimble as monkeys and wild
as rabbits, such as horse-traders drive east
from the plains of Montana to sell in the
farming country. Margaret's pony made a
shrill sound, a neigh that was almost a
scream, and started up the clay bank to
meet them, all the wild blood of the range
breaking out in an instant. Margaret
called to Eric just as he threw himself out
of the saddle and caught her pony's bit.
But the wiry little animal had gone mad
and was kicking and biting like a devil.
Her wild brothers of  the  range   were all
about her, neighing, and pawing the earth,
and striking her with their fore feet and
snapping at her flanks. It was the old
liberty of the range that the little beast
fought for.
"Drop the reins and hold tight, tight!"
Eric called, throwing all his weight upon
the bit, struggling under those frantic fore
feet that now beat at his breast, and now
kicked at the wild mustangs that surged
and tossed about him. He succeeded in
wrenching the pony's head toward him and
crowding her withers against the clay bank,
so that she could not roll.
"Hold tight, tight!" he shouted again,
launching a kick at a snorting animal that
reared back against Margaret's saddle. If
she should lose her courage and fall now,
under   those   hoofs He struck   out
again and again, kicking right and left
with all his might. Already the negligent
drivers had galloped into the cut, and
their long quirts were whistling over the
heads of the herd. As suddenly as it had
come, the struggling, frantic wave of wild
life swept up out of the gulch and on
across the open prairie, and with a long
despairing whinny of farewell the pony
dropped her head and stood trembling in
her sweat, shaking the foam and blood
from her bit.
Eric stepped close to Margaret's side and
laid his hand on her saddle. "You are
not hurt?" he asked, hoarsely. As he
raised his face in the soft starlight she saw
that it was white and drawn and that his
lips were working nervo tsly.
"No, no, not at all. But you, you are
suffering; they struck you!" she cried in
sharp alarm.
He stepped back and drew his hand
across his brow.
"No, it is not that," he spoke rapidly
now, with his hands clenched at his side.
"But if they had hurt you, I would beat
their brains out with my hands, I would
kill them all. I was never afraid before.
You are the only beautiful thing that has
ever come close to me. You came like
an angel out of the sky. You are like the
music you sing, you are like the stars and
the snow on the mountains where I played
when I was a little boy. You are like all
that I wanted once and never had, you are
all that they have killed in me.    I die for ERIC HERMANNSON'S SOUL.
you to-night, to-morrow, for all eternity.
I am not a coward; I was afraid because I
love you more than Christ who died for
me, more than I am afraid of hell, or hope
for heaven. I was never afraid before. If
you had fallen—oh, my God!" he threw
his arms out blindly and dropped his head
upon the pony's mane, leaning limply
against the animal like a man struck by
some sickness. His shoulders rose and fell
perceptibly with his labored breathing.
The horse stood cowed with exhaustion and -
fear. Presently Margaret laid her hand on
Eric's head and said gently:
"You are better now, shall we go on?
Can you get your horse?"
"No,_ he has gone with the herd. I will
lead yours, she is not safe. I will not
frighten you again." His voice was still
husky, but it was steady now. He took
hold of the bit and tramped home in
When they reached the house, Eric stood
stolidly by the pony's head until Wyllis
came to lift his sister from the saddle.
"The horses were badly frightened,
Wyllis. I think I was pretty thoroughly
scared myself,'' she said as she took her
brother's arm and went slowly up the hill
toward the house. "No, I'm not hurt,
thanks to Eric. You must thank him for
taking such good care of me. He's a
mighty fine fellow. I'll tell you all about
it in the morning, dear. I was pretty well
shaken up and I'm going right to bed now.
When she reached the low room in which
she slept, she sank upon the bed in her
riding-dress face downward.
"Oh, I pity him' I pity him!" she
murmured, with a long sigh of exhaustion.
She must have slept a little. When she
rose again, she took from her dress a letter
that had been waiting for her at the village
post-office. It was closely written in a
long, angular hand, covering a dozen pages
of foreign note-paper, and began:—
"My Dearest Margaret: If I should attempt to say how like a winter hath thine
absence been, I should incur the risk of being tedious. Really, it takes the sparkle out
of everything. Having nothing better to do,
and not caring to go anywhere in particular without you, I <? ained in the city
until Jack Courtweu no+od my general de
spondency and brought me down here to
his place on the sound to manage some
open-air theatricals he is getting up. 'As
You Like It' is of course the piece selected.
Miss Harrison plays Rosalind. I wish you
had been here to take the part. Miss
Harrison reads her lines well, but she is
either a maiden-all-forlorn or a tomboy;
insists on reading into the part all sorts of
deeper meanings and highly colored suggestions wholly out of harmony with the
pastoral setting. Like most of the professionals, she exaggerates the emotional
element and quite fails to do justice to
Rosalind's facile wit and really brilliant
mental qualities. Gerard will do Orlando,
but rumor says he is epris of your sometime friend, Miss Meredith, and his memory
is treacherous and his interest fitful.
"My new pictures arrived last week on
the 'Gascogne.' The Puvis de Chavannes
is even more beautiful than I thought it in
Paris. A Dale dream-maiden sits by a pale
dream-cow and a stream of anemic water
flows at he feet. The Constant, you will
remember, 1 got because you admired it.
It is here in all its florid splendor, the
whole dominated by a glowing sensuosity.
The drapery of the female figure is as wonderful as you said; the fabric all barbaric
pearl and gold, painted with an easy,
effortless voluptuousness, and that white,
gleaming line of African coast in the background recalls memories of you very precious to me. But it is useless to deny that
Constant irritates me. Though I cannot
prove the charge against him, his brilliancy
always makes me suspect him of cheapness. ''
Here Margaret stopped and glanced at
the remaining pages of this strange love-
letter. They seemed to be filled chiefly
with discussions of pictures and books,
and with a slow smile she laid them by.
She rose and began undressing. Before
she lay down she went to open the window. With her hand on the sill, she hesitated, feeling suddenly as though some
danger were lurking outside, some inordinate desire waiting to spring upon her in
the darkness. She stood there for a long
time, gazing at the infinite sweep of the
'' Oh, it is all so little, so little there,''
she murmured.    "When everything else is 642
so dwarfed, why should one expect love to
be great? Why should one try to read
highly colored suggestions into a life like
that? If only I could find one thing in it
all that mattered greatly, one thing that
would warm me when I am alone! Will
life never give me that one great moment?"
As she raised the window, she heard a
sound in the plum-bushes outside. It was
only the house-dog roused from his sleep,
but Margaret started violently and trembled
so that she caught the foot of the bed for
support. Again she felt herself pursued
by some overwhelming longing, some desperate necessity for herself, like the outstretching of helpless, unseen arms in the
darkness, and the air seemed heavy with
sighs of yearning. She fled to her bed with
the words, "I love you more than Christ,
who died for me!'' ringing in her ears.
About midnight the dance at Lockhart's
was at its height. Even the old men who
had come to "look on" caught the spirit
of revelry and stamped the floor with the
vigor of old Silenus. Eric took the violin
from the Frenchman, and Minna Oleson sat
at the < >rgan, and the music grew more and
more characteristic—rude, half-mournful
music, made up of the folk-songs of the
North, that the villagers sing through the
long night in hamlets by the sea, when
they are thinking of the sun, and the
spring, and the fishermen so long away.
To Margaret some of it sounded like Grieg's
Peer Gynt music. She found something
irresistibly infectious in the mirth of these
people who were so seldom merry, and she
felt almost one of them. Something
seemed struggling for freedom in them tonight, something of the joyous childhood of
the nations which exile had not killed.
The girls were all boisterous with delight.
Pleasure came to them but rarely, and
when it came, they caught at it wildly and
crushed its fluttering wings in their strong
brown fingers. They had a hard life
enough, most of them. Torrid summers
and freezing winters, labor and drudgery
and ignorance, were the portion of their
girlhood; a short wooing, a hasty, loveless marriage, unlimited maternity, thankless sons, premature age and ugliness, were
the dower of their womanhood.    But what
matter? To-night there was hot liquor in
the glass and hot blood in the heart; tonight they danced.
To-night Eric Hermannson had renewed
his youth. He was no longer the big,
silent Norwegian who had sat at Margaret's
feet and looked hopelessly into her eyes.
To-night he was a man, with a man's
rights and a man's power. To-night he
was Siegfried indeed. His hair was yellow as the heavy wheat in the ripe of summer, and his eyes flashed like the blue water
between the ice-packs in the North Seas.
He was not afraid of Margaret to-night,
and when he danced with her he held her
firmly. She was tired and dragged on his
arm a little, but the strength of the man
was like an all-pervading fluid, stealing
through her veins, awakening under her
heart some nameless, unsuspected existence
that had slumbered there all these years
and that went out through her throbbing
finger-tips to his that answered. She wondered if the hoydenish blood of some lawless ancestor, long asleep, were calling out
in her to-night, some drop of a hotter fluid
that the centuries had failed to cool, and
why, if this curse were in her, it had not
spoken before. But was it a curse, this
awakening, this wealth before undiscovered, this music set free? For the first time
in her life her heart held something stronger
than herself, was not this worth while?
Then she ceased to wonder. She lost
sight of the lights and the faces, and the
music was drowned by the beating of her
own arteries. She saw only the blue eyes
that flashed above her, felt only the warmth
of that throbbing hand which held hers and
which the blood of his heart fed. Dimly,
as in a dream, she saw the drooping shoulders, high white forehead and tight, cynical mouth of the man she was to marry in
December. For an hour she had been
crowding back the memory of that face
with all her strength.
"Let us stop, this is enough, "she whispered. His only answer was to tighten the
arm behind her. She sighed and let that
masterful strength bear her where it would.
She forgot that this man was little more
than a savage, that they would part at
dawn. The blood has no memories, no reflections, no regrets for the past, no consideration of the future. ERIC HERMANNSON'S SOUL.
"Let us go out where it is cooler," she
said when the music stopped; thinking,
"I am growing faint 4tere, I shall be all
right in the open air.'' They stepped out
into the cool, blue air of the night.
Since the older folk had begun dancing,
the young Norwegians had been slipping out
in couples to climb the windmill tower into
the cooler atmosphere, as is their custom.
"You like to go up?" asked Eric, close
to her ear.
She turned and looked at him with suppressed amusement.     "How high is it?"
"Forty feet, about. I not let you fall.''
There was a note of irresistible pleading in
his voice, and she felt that he tremendously
wished her to go. Well, why not? This was
a night of the unusual, when she was not herself at all, but was living an unreality. Tomorrow, yes, in a few hours, there would
be the Vestibule Limited and the world.
"Well, if you'll take good care of me.
I used to be able to climb, when I was a
little girl."
Once at the top and seated on the platform, they were silent. Margaret wondered
if she would not hunger for that scene all
her life, through all the routine of the
days to come. Above them stretched the
great Western sky, serenely blue, even
in the night, with its big, burning stars,
never so cold and dead and far away as in
denser atmospheres. The moon would not
be up for twenty minutes yet, and all
about the horizon, that wide horizon,
which seemed to reach around the world,
lingered a pale, white light, as of a universal dawn. The weary wind brought up
to them the heavy odors of the cornfields.
The music of the dance sounded faintly
from below. Eric leaned on his elbow beside her, his legs swinging down on the
ladder. His great shoulders looked more
than ever like those of the stone Doryph-
orus, who stands in his perfect, reposeful
strength in the Louvre, and had often
made her wonder if such men died forever
with the youth of Greece.
"How sweet the corn smells at night,"
said Margaret nervously.
"Yes, like the flowers that grow in paradise, I think."
She was somewhat startled by this reply,
and more startled when this taciturn man
spoke again.
"You go away to-morrow?"
"Yes, we have stayed longer than we
thought to now.''
"You not come back any more?"
"No, I expect not. You see, it is a
long trip; half-way across the continent.''
"You soon forget about this country, I
guess.'' It seemed to him now a little
thing to lose his soul for this woman, but
that she should utterly forget this night
into which he threw all his life and all his
eternity, that was a bitter thought.
"No, Eric, I will not forget, You have
all been too kind to me for that. And you
won't be sorry you danced this one night,
will you?"
"I never be sorry. I have not been so
happy before. I not be so happy again, ever.
You will be happy many nights yet, I only'this
one.    I will dream sometimes, maybe."
The mighty resignation of his tone
alarmed and touched her. It was as when
some great animal composes itself for death,
as when a great ship goes down at sea.
She sighed, but did not answer him. He
drew a little closer and looked into her eyes. •
"You are not always happy, too?" he
"No, not always, Eric; not very often, I
"You have a trouble?"
'' Yes, but I cannot put it into words. Perhaps if I could do that, I could cure it."
He clasped his hands together over his
heart, as children do when they pray, and
said falteringly, "If I own all the world,
I give him you."
Margaret felt a sudden moisture in her
eyes, and laid her hand on his.
"Thank you, Eric; I believe you would.
But perhaps even then I should not be
happy. Perhaps I have too much of it
She did not take her hand away from
him; she did not dare. She sat still and
waited for the traditions in which she had
always believed to speak and save her. But
they were dumb. She belonged to an
ultra-refined civilization which tries to
cheat nature with elegant sophistries.
Cheat nature?    Bah!    One generation may
do   it,   perhaps two,   but  the  third	
Can we ever rise above nature or sink below
her? Did she not turn on Jerusalem as
upon Sodom,  upon   St.  Anthony   in  his 644
desert as upon Nero in his seraglio? Does
she not always cry in brutal triumph: "I am
here still, at the bottom of things, warming
the roots of life; you cannot starve me nor
tame me nor thwart me; I made the world,
I rule it, and I am its destiny."
This woman, on a windmill tower at the
world's end with a giant barbarian, heard
that cry to-night, and she was afraid!
Ah! the terror and the delight of that moment when first we fear ourselves! Until
then we have not lived.
'' Come, Eric, let us go down; the moon is
up and the music has begun again,'' she said.
He rose silently and stepped down upon
the ladder, putting his arm about her to
help her. That arm could have thrown
Thor's hammer out in the cornfields yonder,
yet it scarcely touched her, and his hand
trembled as it had done in .the dance. His
face was level with hers now and the moonlight fell sharply upon it. All her life she
had searched the faces of men for the look
that lay in his eyes. She knew that that
look had never shone for her before, would
never shine for her on earth again, that
such love comes to one only in dreams or
in impossible places like this, unattainable
always. • This was Love's self, in a
moment it would die. Stung by the agonized appeal that emanated from the man's
whole being, she leaned forward and laid
her lips on his. Once, twice and again
she heard the deep respirations rattle in his
throat while she held them there, and the
riotous force under her heart became an engulfing weakness. He drew her up to him
until he felt all the resistance go out of her
body, until every nerve relaxed and yielded.
When she drew her face back from his, it
was white with fear.
"Let us go down, oh, my God! let us
go down!" she muttered. And the
drunken stars up yonder seemed reeling to
some appointed doom as she clung to the
rounds of the ladder. All that she was to
know of love she had left upon his lips.
"The devil is loose again," whispered
Olaf Oleson, as he saw Eric dancing a moment later, his eyes blazing.
But Eric was thinking with an almost
savage exultation of the time when he
should pay for this. Ah, there would be
no quailing then! If ever a soul went
fearlessly, proudly down  to the  gates in
fernal, his should go. For a moment he
fancied he was there already, treading
down the tempest* of flame, hugging the
fiery hurricane to his breast. He wondered whether in ages gone, all the countless years of sinning in which men had sold
and lost and flung their souls away, any
man had ever so cheated Satan, had ever
bartered his soul for so great a price.
It seemed but a little while till dawn.
The carriage was brought to the door
and Wyllis Elliot and his sister said good-
by. She could not meet Eric's eyes as she
gave him her hand, but as he stood by the
horse's head, just as the carriage moved
off, she gave him one swift glance that
said, "I will not forget." In a moment
the carriage was gone.
Eric changed his coat and plunged his
head into the water-tank and went to the
barn to hook up his team. As he led his
horses to the door, a shadow fell across his
path, and he saw Skinner rising in his
stirrups. His rugged face was pale and worn
with looking after his wayward flock, with
dragging men into the way of salvation.
"Good-morning, Eric. There was a
dance here last night?" he asked, sternly.
"A dance? Oh, yes, a dance," replied,
Eric, cheerfully.
"Certainly you did not dance, Eric?"
"Yes, I danced. I danced all the
The minister's shoulders drooped, and
an expression of profound discouragement
settled over his haggard face. There was
almost anguish in the yearning he felt for
this soul.
"Eric, I didn't look for this from you.
I thought God had set his mark on you if
he ever had on any man. And it is for
things like this that you set your soul back
a thousand years from God. O foolish
and perverse generation!''
Eric drew himself up to his full height
and looked off to where the new day was
gilding the corn-tassels and flooding the
* uplands with light. As his nostrils drew
in the breath of the dew and the morning,
something from the only poetry he had
ever read flashed across his mind, and he
murmured, half to himself, with dreamy-
exultation :
"'And a day shall be as a thousand
years, and a thousand years as a day.' " ROBERT-HOUDIN—CONJURER,   AUTHOR AND  AMBASSADOR.
By Henry Ridgely Evans.
ROBERT-HOUDIN'S    father    was    a
watchmaker  in   moderate   circumstances.    At the age of eleven Jean-Eugene
Robert (for   such was  the necromancer's
real name) was sent to college at Orleans.
On  the completion  of his studies, he entered a.notary's office
at Blois, at the earnest
solicitation of  his
father,    but   soon
abandoned the uncongenial pursuit of engrossing musty parchments for watchmaking.    One evening the
young apprentice entered   a   bookseller's
shop   in   Blois   and
asked  for   a treatise
on   clockmaking   by
Berthoud.     By   mistake   the   shopman,
who was busy attending to more important
customers,   handed
him a couple of odd
volumes of the Encyclopedic,    which    in
appearance closely resembled   Berthoud's
famous work.    Home
went Jean-Eugene to
his   little   attic,    au
sixieme in the  mansard  of   an    ancient
house. Judge
of   his   surprise  to find
one   of   the
books labeled
tl Scientific
Amusements," containing explanations of
various feats of legerdemain.    Overpowered   spouse, but had adopted her name, Houdin,
with astonishment and fascinated beyond   as part of his own cognomen,
measure, Houdin devoured the mystic vol- ^
ume until far into the night, finally sleeping with it beneath his pillow. In the year 1843, there stood in an un-
This trivial incident was provocative of   pretentious street of the Marais quarter of
great changes in his future   career.    He   Paris, a dark little shop, over the door of
vowed to become a famous prestidigitator,    which was displayed the following modest
\4ft*4&b #*&<■
Living at Blois was a mountebank, who,
for a Consideration, initiated the young aspirant for magical skill into the multiform
mysteries of juggling, enabling him in a
short while to keep four balls going in the
air at once and read a book at the same
moment. From juggling he passed on to
sleight-of-hand proper, in which the art
of palming plays the
principal part.
Though his passion
for prestidigitation
was so intense, Houdin
had   sufficient   command over himself not
to displease his master.      He  never neglected   his   trade   of
watchmaking.     At
length the apprenticeship   was   over,   and
Jean-Eugene went to
Tours  as  a journeyman.     He   faithfully
served   his   new   employer, M. Noriet, who
subsequently   became
a sculptor of distinction.    In   after-years
the conjurer and the
sculptor met on equal
ground, both masters
in their particular professions, in which delicacy of touch and real
sleight-of-hand enter.
After remaining in
Blois    for
quite a little
while,     he
proceeded to
Paris,   with
his  wife—
for he had not only taken unto himself a
_• J 646
sign: "M. Robert-Houdin, Pendules de
Precision.'' This sign indicated that the
proprietor was a watchmaker, and that his
wares were noted for precise running. Outwardly it was not an attractive shop, but
its windows possessed a fascination for
curious quid-nuncs. There were watches
displayed for sale, and there were some
peculiar-looking clocks of clearest crystal
that ran apparently without works, the invention of M. Robert-Houdin.
One day there sauntered by. a certain
wealthy scion of the Old Regime, the Count
de l'Escalopier, who was a great lover of
curios. He saw the magic clock in the
watchmaker's window, and purchased it.
Being an ardent devotee of science amu-
sante, or science wedded to recreation, the
Count became a frequent visitor to Houdin's shop, to watch the construction of various automata. Houdin often showed
sleight-of-hand tricks for the edification of
his patron, and confessed his burning desire
to become a public performer. The Count
urged him continually to abandon the watchmaking and mechanical-toy trade and go on
the boards as a prestidigitateur. Finally
Houdin confessed his inability to do so, owing to lack of means, whereupon the kind-
hearted nobleman exclaimed: '' Mon cher
ami, I have at home, at this very moment,
ten thousand francs or so, which I really
don't know what to do with. Do me the
favor to borrow them for an indefinite period: you will be doing me an actual
But Houdin would not accept the offer,
for he was loath to risk a friend's money
in a theatrical speculation. The Count
in a state of pique left the shop, and did
not return for many days. Then he
rushed excitedly into the workroom, sank
upon a chair, and exclaimed:
"My dear neighbor, since you are determined not to accept a favor from me, I
have now come to beg one of you. This
is the state of the case. For the last
year my desk has been robbed from time
to time of very considerable sums of money.
I have adopted all possible safeguards and
precautions—having the place watched,
changing the locks, secret fastenings to
the door, et cetera—but none of these has
foiled the villainous ingenuity of the thief.
This very morning, T have discovered that
a couple of thousand-franc notes have disappeared. ''
The upshot of it all was that Houdin
invented a clever device for apprehending
the criminal. It consisted of an apparatus
fastened to the inside of the desk in the
Count's house. When the desk was unlocked, and the lid raised ever so little, a
pistol was discharged; at the same time a
clawlike arrangement, attached to a light
rod and impelled by a spring, came sharply
down on the back of the hand which held
the key, inflicting a superficial flesh-wound.
With this clever machine the robber was
successfully apprehended. He proved to
be the Count's valet and factotum—a
most trusted employee. The nobleman
forced the thief to disgorge over fifteen
thousand francs, which he had invested in
government stock.
M. de l'Escalopier took the money thus
recovered to Houdin, saying: '' Take it, return it" to me just when you like, with the
understanding that it is to be repaid only
out of the profits of your theater.''
With this money, Houdin built a little
theater in the Palais Royal. One day the
following modest handbill appeared on
the theatrical bulletin-boards:—
"Aujourd'hui Jeudi, 3 Juillet 1845.
'' Premiere Representation
1' Robert-Houdin. "
These fantastic evenings became wonderfully popular. The little theater would
seat only two hundred, but the prices of
admission were rather high.
During the Revolution of 1848, when the
poor "pear-headed" Louis Philippe was
driven from his throne, most of the theaters of Paris went to smash financially.
Houdin simply closed up his hall, put the
key in his pocket, and went to inventing
new tricks. His loss was very slight, as
he was under no great expense. When
order was restored he resumed his soirees'.
To Robert-Houdin we are indebted for
a complete revolution in the art of conjuring. Prior to his time magicians draped
all of their tables to the floor, thereby mak- HOUDIN—CONJURER, AUTHOR AND AMBASSADOR.
ing them little else than huge confederate-
boxes. Conjuring under such circumstances
wns child's play, as compared with the
difficulties to be encountered with the apparatus of the new school. In addition,
Houdin discarded the long, flowing robes
of his predecessors, as savoring too much
of charlatanism, and appeared in evening
dress. Since his time no first-class pres-
tidigitateur has dared to offend good taste
by presenting his illusions in any other
costume than that of a gentleman habited
a la mode, nor has he dared to give a performance with draped tables.
Houdin's center-table was a marvel of
mechanical skill and ingenuity. Concealed
in the body were "vertical rods, each arranged to rise and fall in a tube, according as it was drawn down by a spiral
spring or pulled up by a whip-cord which
passed over a pulley at the top of the tube
and so down the table-leg to the hiding-
place of the confederate." There were
"ten of these pistons, and ten cords passing under the floor of the stage, terminated
at a keyboard. Various ingenious automata were actuated by this means of transmitting motion."
Houdin's stage was very handsome. It
was a reproduction in miniature of a salon
of the Louis XV. period—all in white and
gold—illuminated by elegant candelabra
and a chandelier. The magic table occupied the center of the room.     This piece
of furniture was flanked by
little gueridons. .At the
sides were consoles, with
about five inches of gold
fringe hanging from them,
and across the back of the
apartment ran abroad shelf,
upon which was displayed
the various apparatus to be
used in the stances. '' The
consoles were nothing more
than shallow wooden boxes
with openings through the
side-scenes. The tops of
the consoles were perforated with traps. Any object which the wizard desired to work off secretly to
his confederate behind the
scenes was placed on one of
these traps and covered
with a sheet of paper, pasteboard cover or a
handkerchief. Touching a spring caused
the article to fall noiselessly through the
trap upon cotton batting, and roll into the
hand of the conjurer's concealed assistant."
Now for some of the tricks of this
classic prestidigitator. His greatest invention was the "light and heavy chest."
Speaking of this remarkable experiment he
wrote: "I do not think, modesty apart,
that I ever invented anything so daringly
ingenious." The magician came forward
with a little wooden box, to the top of
which was attached a metal handle. He
addressed the audience as follows: ''Ladies
and gentlemen, I have a cash-box which
possesses some strange properties. It
becomes heavy or light at will.     I place in
it some banknotes for safekeeping and
deposit it here on the 'run-down' in sight
of all. Will some gentleman test the
lightness of the box?"
When the volunteer had satisfied the audience that the box could be lifted with
the little finger, Houdin executed some
pretended mesmeric passes over it, and
bade the gentleman lift it a second time.
But try as he might, the volunteer would
prove unequal to the task. At a sign
from Houdin the box would be restored
to its pristine lightness. This trick was
performed with a powerful electro-magnet
with conducting wires reaching behind the
scenes to a battery. At a signal from the
performer an operator turned on the electric current, and the box, which had an iron
plate let into its bottom, covered with
mahogany-colored paper, clung to the
magnet with supernatural attraction. In
the year 1845, the
phenomena of electro-
magnetism were unknown to the general
public, hence the trick
of the spirit cash-box
created the most extraordinary sensation.
When the subject of
electricity became
better known, Houdin
made an addition to
the trick which threw
his spectators off the scent. After first having shown the trick on the "run-down," he
hooked the box to one end of a cord which
passed over a pulley attached to the ceiling
of the hall. A spectator was requested to
take hold of the other end of the cord and
keep the chest suspended.
"Just at present," remarked the conjurer, "the chest is extremely light; but
as it is about to become, at my command,
very heavy, I must ask five or six other
persons to help this gentleman, for fear
the chest should lift him off his feet.''
"No sooner was this done than the chest
came heavily to the ground, dragging
along and sometimes lifting off their feet
all the spectators who were holding the
cord. The explanation is this: On a casual inspection of the pulley and block
everything appears to indicate that, as us-
ual in such cases, the cord passes straight
over the pulley, in on one side and out on
the other; but such is not really the fact,
as will be seen upon tracing the course of
the dotted lines (Fig. 3), which, passing
through the block and through the ceiling,
are attached on either side to a double
pulley fixed in the room above. To any
one who has the most elementary acquaintance with the laws of mechanics, it will be
obvious that the strength of the person who
holds the handle of the windlass above is
multiplied tenfold, and that he can easily
overcome even the combined resistance of
five or six spectators.''
The "bust of Socrates" was another
favorite experiment with Houdin. In this
illusion a living bust with the features of
Socrates was suspended in the middle of
the stage without visible support. The
performer, habited as
an Athenian noble,
addressed questions to
the mutilated philosopher and received replies in stanzas of elegiac verse. The mi se -
en-scene is represented in Fig. 1. Houdin explains the illusion as follows:
"A,B, G, D, (Fig.
2) represents a section of the stage on
which the trick is
exhibited. A sheet of silvered glass, G,
67, occupying the whole width of the stage,
is placed in a diagonal position, extending
from the upper part of the stage at the rear,
down to the footlights, so as to form an
angle of forty-five degrees with the floor.
In the center of the glass is an opening
through which the actor passes his head
and shoulders, as shown in the figure. It
should be further mentioned that the ceiling and the two sides of the stage are hung
with wall-paper of the same pattern, and
are brilliantly illuminated, either by means
of footlights at C, or by gas-jets placed be- j
hind the border A. Such being the condition of things, the effect is as follows:
The ceiling A is reflected in the mirror,
and its reflection appears to the spectators
to be the paper of the wall B, D, which in
reality is hidden by the glass. HOUDIN—CONJURER, AUTHOR AND AMBASSADOR.
(The signatures are those of Houdin and his son in-law, Hamilton.)
"By means of this reflection, of which
he is of course unaware, the spectator is
led to believe that he sees three sides of
the stage; and there being nothing to
suggest to his mind the presence of the
glass, is led to believe that the bust is suspended in mid-air, and without any support."
I' Aerial Suspension'' was one of Houdin's
inventions. It has been a favorite trick
since Houdin's time. In the original illusion Houdin had one of his young sons,
who was dressed as a page, stand on a
small stool. The performer then placed a
walking-stick under the extended right
arm of the boy, near the elbow, and one
under the left arm. First the stool was
knocked away and the youthful assistant
was suspended in the air, held up only by
the two frail sticks, which were in themselves inadequate to support such a weight.
Then the left stick was removed, but the
boy did not fall. To the astonishment of
every one, the youth was placed in a horizontal position. He remained in a perfectly rigid attitude with his head leaning
on his arm, the top of the cane under his
This very ingenious trick was suggested
to Houdin on reading stories about the
alleged levitation of Hindoo fakirs. The
walking-stick that supported the right arm
of the assistant was of iron, painted to resemble  wood.     It  fitted   into   a  slot   in
the stage; its top connected with
concealed in the sleeve of the boy.
bar formed part of a strong steel framework worn under the assistant's clothing.
Thus was the page suspended in the air.
Houdin's trick of the "orange-tree" was
a capital one. The tree blossomed and bore
fruit at the command of the conjurer. All
the oranges were distributed among the
spectators except one on the topmost branch
of the tree. In this orange the magician
caused a handkerchief to appear, which
had been previously borrowed. The handkerchief was made to vanish from the
hands of the performer. "Hey, presto!"
the orange fell apart in four sections, whereupon two butterflies sprang out and fluttered upward with the handkerchief. The
explanation of this beautiful trick is as follows: The tree was a clever piece of mechanism, so closely fashioned to resemble a
plant that it was impossible to detect the,
difference. The blossoms, constructed of
white silk, were pushed up through the
hollow branches by pistons rising in the
table and operating upon similar rods contained in the tree. When these pedals were
relaxed the blossoms disappeared, and Jhe
fruit was slowly developed. Real oranges
were stuck on iron spikes protruding from
the branches of the tree, and were concealed from the spectators by hemispherical
wire screens painted green. The screens
were  also partly  hidden  by the  artificial
-_£_# 650
By means of
running down
: through the branches of
the tree and off behind
the scenes, an assistant
caused the screens to
make a half-turn, thereby
developing the fruit. The
borrowed handkerchief
was exchanged for a
dummy belonging to the
conjurer, and passed to
an assistant who placed
it in the mechanical
the orange. The tree was now
brought forward. After the real fruit had
been distributed, the magician called attention to the orange on the top (the mechanical
one). By means of sleight-of-hand the handkerchief was made to vanish, to be discovered
in the orange. The butterflies, which were
fastened by wires to the stalk and fixed
on delicate spiral springs, invisible at a little
distance, flew out of the orange of their
own accord, carrying with them the handkerchief, as soon as the fruit fell apart.
The crowning event of Houdin's career
was his embassy to Algeria to overcome
the influence of the Marabout priests over
the ignorant Arabs. The Marabouts, or
Mohammedan miracle-workers, were continually fanning the flames of discontent
and rebellion against French domination.
The French government asked Houdin to
go to Algeria and perform before the Arabs
in order to show them that a French wizard
using only sleight-of-hand and the resources of science, was greater than the
Marabouts, who pretended to occult powers
and accomplished but simple feats. His
success was most gratifying. The mission
over, he returned to France and settled
down at St. Gervais, near Blois, having
ceded his theater to his brother-in-law, M.
Hamilton. He had amassed a handsome
fortune as a magician. In his retirement
he was ever at work.
Houdin's magic villa at St. Gervais was
full-of surprises for visitors. The simple
peasantry of the neighborhood regarded the
place with awe, and imagined that the
owner was in league with the powers of
darkness.     The villa was called the "Pri
ory" by Houdin, but his friends jokingly
named it "La Trappe Abbey." Electrical devices played a prominent part at
"Catch "em Abbey."    Says Manning:
"Robert-Houdin's employment of electricity, not only as a moving power for the
performance of his illusions, but for domestic purposes, was long in advance of his
time. The electric bell, so common to us
now, was in every-day use jfor years in his
own house, before its value was recognized
by the public.
"He had a favorite horse, named Fanny,
for which he entertained great affection,
and christened her 'the friend of the
family.' She was of gentle disposition and
was growing old in his service; so he was
anxious to allow her every indulgence, especially punctuality at meals, and full al-■
lowance of fodder.
"Such being the case, it was a matter of
great surprise that Fanny grew daily thinner and thinner, till it was discovered that
her groom had a great fancy for the art
formerly practised by her master, and converted her hay into five-franc pieces! So
Houdin dismissed the groom and secured a
more honest lad, but to provide against
further contingencies and neglect of duty,
he had a clock placed in his study, which
with the aid of an electrical wire, worked
a food supply in the stable a distance of
fifty yards from the house. The distributing apparatus was a square funnel-shaped
box, which discharged the provender in
prearranged quantities. No one could
steal the oats from the horse after they
had fallen, as the electric trigger could not
act unless the stable door was locked.
The lock was outside, and if any one
entered before the horse had finished
eating his oats, a bell would immediately
ring in the house.
"This same clock in his study also transmitted the time to two large clock-faces,
placed one on the foot of the house, the
other on the gardener's lodge, the former
for the benefit of the villagers.
"In his bell-tower he had a clockwork
arrangement of sufficient power to lift the
hammer at the proper moment. The daily
winding of the clock was performed automatically by communication with a swing-
door in his kitchen, and the winding-up
apparatus of the clock in the clock-tower HOUDIN—CONJURER, AU1H0R AND AMBASSADOR.
was so arranged that the servants in passing
backward and forward on their domestic
duties, unconsciously wound up the striking movement of the clock."
The Priory is now a ruin! Nothing
whatever is left of the wonderful work
which existed at the time of Houdin's
death. There was some dispute concerning
t he title of the property, so that no one
seems to have inherited it. Owls and bats
are now the sole inhabitants of the magic
Houdin's personal appearance is thus
described by a writer in Larousse's "Encyclopedic" : "He was a man of small
stature. His manners were exceedingly
engaging and vivacious. His clean-cut
profile    re-
with snow-white hair; his eyes up to the
last retained the fire and brilliancy of a
man of twenty years.''
Houdin died June 13, 1871, at St.
Gervais, his age being sixty-six years.
Not a very long life, but one crowded
with strange incidents.
Not only was Houdin the progenitor of
the modern school of conjuring, but he
was a man of science and a remarkable
mechanical genius, having received several
medals from the French government for
his successful application of electricity to
the running of clocks. If he had accomplished nothing more during his life than
his electrical inventions, his name would
have been heralded down to posterity.
Besides this, he wrote several books, there
by distinguishing himself in the world of
letters. Houdin was a master in all that
related to the psychology of deception.
His treatises on the art of legerdemain are
really psychological studies of very great
interest to students. Houdin placed
sleight-of-hand on a scientific basis, showing that it depended not only upon digital
dexterity but upon the careful observance
of certain mental characteristics, common
to all individuals. He laid down the
axiom that it is easier to deceive an intelligent person than an ignorant one. This
sounds like a paradox, but it is a fact.
The ignorant man who witnesses a conjuring exhibition has determined beforehand
not to be deceived by the artifices of. the
In the case
of educated
I t persons, the
appeal to
the imagination is
eagerly responded to.
People who
have read
about clair-
v o yan c e,
etry, telepathy, hypnotism, and
the like, are
ever ready
to attribute the feats of the necromancer to anything save mere conjuring; especially is this the case in mental
magic, i.e., second-sight experiments, et
A magician, said Houdin, should always assign some plausible explanation
to all his illusions, other than mere nim-
bleness of fingers. The public loves to
be mystified. He remarks: "Although
all one says during the course of a performance, is—not to mince the matter
—a tissue of falsehoods, the performer must
sufficiently enter into the part he plays, to
himself believe in the reality of his fictitious
statements. This belief on his own part
will infallibly carry a like conviction to
the minds of the. spectators."
By Harold Jacoby, Adjunct Profess*
LONG before clocks and watches had
been invented, people began to tell
the time with sun-dials. Nowadays, when
almost every one has a watch in his pocket,
and can have a clock too on the mantelpiece of every room in the house, the sundial has ceased to be needed in ordinary
life. But it is still just as interesting as
ever; for any one would like to have the
means of getting the time direct from the
sun, which is the great hour-hand or
timekeeper in the sky. Any person who
is handy with tools can make a sun-dial
quite easily, by following the directions
given below.
In the first place, you must know that
the sun-dial gives us the time by means
of the  sun's shadow.    If you stick
walking-cane   up  in the   sand   on  a
bright,    sunshiny    day,    the    cane
has   a  long  shadow  that
like a dark line on the
ground. Now if you
watch this shadow
carefully, you will see
that it does not stay
in the same place
all day. Slow- /^
ly but surely, as the sun ^
climbs up in
the sky, the
shadow creeps around the cane. You can
see quite easily that if the cane were fastened
in a board floor, and if we could mark on the
floor the places where the shadow was at
different hours of the day, we could make
the shadow tell us the time just like the
hour-hand of a*«lock. A sun-dial is just
such an arrangement as this, and I will
show you how to mark the shadow places
exactly, so as to tell the right time without
any trouble whenever the sun shines.
If you were to watch very carefully such
an arrangement as a cane standing in a
board floor, you would not find the creeping shadow in just the same place at the
same time every day. If you marked the
place of the shadow at exactly ten o'clock
by your watch some morning, and then
went back another day at ten, you would
not find the shadow on the old mark.    It
or of Astronomy, Columbia University.
would not get very far from it in a day
or two, but in a month or so it would be
quite a distance away.    Now, of course, a
sun-dial would be of no use if it did not
tell the time correctly every day;  and in
fact, it is not easy to make a dial when the
shadow is cast by a stick standing straight
up.     But we can get over this difficulty
very well by letting the shadow be cast by
a stick that leans over toward the floor
just the right amount, as I will explain in
a  moment.      Of   course,   we   should   not
really use the floor for our sun-dial.     It is
much better to mark out the hour lines, as
they are called, on a smooth piece of ordinary white board, and then after the
dial is finished, it can be screwed down
to a piazza floor or railing, or it can be
fastened on a window-sill.    It ought to
be put in a place where the sun can get
, at  it   most
of the   time,
because,     of
course, you cannot use the sun-dial
when the sun is not
shining on it. If the
'rJv dial is set on a window-
sill (of a city house, for instance) you must choose a south
window if you can, so as to get
the sun nearly all day. If you
have to take an east window, you can
use the dial in the morning only, and
in a west window only in the afternoon.
Sometimes it is best not to try to fasten <
the dial to its support with screws, but
just to mark its place, and then set it
out whenever you want to use it. For if
the dial is made of wood, and not painted,
it might be injured by rain or snow in
bad weather if left out on a window-sill or
It is not quite easy to fasten a little stick
to a board so that it will lean over just
right. So it is better not to use a stick or
a cane in the way I have described, but
instead to use a piece of board cut to just
the right shape.
Fig. 1 shows what a sun-dial should
look like. The lines to show the shadow's
place at the different hours of the day will HOW TO MAKE A SUN-DIAL.
be  marked  on   the   board  A B
CD,  and this will be put flat
on the window-sill or piazza
floor.*    The three-cornered
piece of board a be is
fastened to the bottom
board   A B C I) by &"
screws going through FIG* 2
AB C D from underneath. The edge a & of
the three-cornered board a$c then takes the
place of the leaning stick or cane, and the
time is marked by the shadow cast by the
edge a b. Of course, it is important that
this edge should be straight and perfectly
flat and even. If you are handy with
tools, you can make it quite easily, but if
not, you can mark the right shape on a
piece of paper very carefully, and take it
to a carpenter who can cut the board according to the pattern you have marked on
the paper.
Now I must tell you how to draw the
shape of the three-cornered board a b c
Fig. 2 shows how it is done. The side a c
should always be just five inches long.
The side b c is drawn at right angles to a c,
which you can do with an ordinary carpenter's square. The length of b c depends on the place for which the dial is
made. The following table gives the
length of J c for various places in the
United States, and after you have marked
out the length of b 'c, it is necessary only
to complete the three-cornered piece by
drawing the side a b from a to b.
...4 11-16
..4   1-16
...4   1-2
.. .4 11-16
...3   1-4
...4   1-2
...4   1-16
...4   1-2
...4  3-i6
...4   1-2
Indianapolis ...
...4   1-16
Kansas City.
.. .3 15-16
..., 11-16
New Orleans...
L.2  7-8
mentioned which is nearest to you in a
north-and-south direction. It does not
matter how far away the place is in an
east-and-west direction. So instead of
taking the place that is nearest to you on
the map in a straight line, take the place
to which you could travel by going principally east or west, and very little north
or south. The figure drawn is about the
right shape for New York. The board
used for the three-cornered piece should be
about one-half inch thick. But if you are
making a window-sill dial, you may prefer
to have it smaller than I have described.
You can easily have it half as big by
making all the sizes and lines in half-inches
where the table calls for inches.
After you have marked out the dimensions for the three-cornered piece that is to
throw the shadow, you can prepare the
dial itself, with the lines that mark the
place of the shadow for every hour of the
day. This you can do in the manner
shown in Fig. 3. Just as in the case of the
three-cornered piece, you can draw the dial
with a pencil directly on a, smooth piece
of white board, about three-quarters of an
inch thick, or you can mark it out on a
paper pattern and transfer it afterward to
the board. Perhaps it will be as well to
begin by drawing on paper, as any mistakes can then be corrected before you
commence to mark your wood.
In the first place you must draw a couple
of lines M N and M'N', eight inches long,
and just far enough apart to fit the edge of
8  C
New York 4
Omaha 4
Philadelphia 4
Pittsburg 4
Portland, Me 4
Richmond 3
Rochester 4
San Diego 3
San Francisco 3
Savannah 3
St. Louis 3
St. Paul 5
Seattle 5
Washington, D. C..4
If you wish to make a dial for a place
not given in the table, it will be near
enough to use the distance b c as given for
the place nearest to you. But in selecting the nearest place, from the table, please
remember to take that one of the cities
-J-W 654
your three-cornered shadow piece. You
will remember I told you to make that one-
half inch thick, so your two lines will also
be one-half inch apart. Now draw the
two lines NO and jVO' square with MN
and WN*, and make the distances N 0 and
N/0/ just five inches each. The lines
0 K, 0/K/, and the other lines forming the
outer border of the dial, are then drawn
just as shown, 0 K and O'K' being each
just eight inches long, the same as MiVand
M/N/. The lower lines in the figure, which
are not very important, are to complete
the squares. You must mark the lines
NO and N/0/ with the figures VI, these
being the lines reached by the shadow at
six o'clock in the morning and evening.
The points where the VII, VIII, and other
hour lines, cut the lines OK, 0/K/, MK
and M'K', can be found from the following table:—
Baltimore ..
Cincinnati. .
Distance from O
to the line marked
I I5-K
Kansas City..
New Orleans
New York	
Portland, Me.
San Diego....
San Francisco]
Savannah ...
St. Louis	
St. Paul	
Wash'ton D.C
i-4 ,
1 15-16
2 7-i6i
2  9-16
1 15-16
1 13-16
♦   3-i6|
4 1
4   L
4 3-i6
1 2
.   5-i6
4   1-16
4 11-16
' 1-16
4   1-2 ,
. 3-i6
4 11-16
|5 3-8
1    .1-16
4 11-16
3 15-16
Distance from M
to the line marked
7   7-i6|
7   7-i6|
7   7-16
7  7-i6
7 11-16
7 11-16
7 11-16
7 11-16
7 1-8
7   7-J6|
6  5-8
3 116
2 7-8
3  1-16
3 1-16
\ 3-8
2 1-2
3 1-16;
2 7-8
3 1-16
2 7-8
3  1-16
2 7-8
2 78
2 7-8
3  1-16
i. 1-16
2 5-16
3 1-16
3 1-16
2 7-8
3  1-16
3 3-i6
2 7-8
3  1-16
1 3-8
2  1-2
2 7-8
•  1-4
2 1-2
2 7-8
3 3-i6
3 3-8
2 7-8 J
I   7-l6
[   7-16
t   7-16
I   7-16
I   I-S
1 7-16
1 7-16
1 7-16
1 7-16
1 1-2
1 5-16
1  1-2
1 7-16
In using the table you will notice that
the line IX falls sometimes on one side of
the corner K, and sometimes on the other.
Thus for Albany the line passes seven and
seven-sixteenths inches from 0, while for
Charleston it passes four and three-eighths
inches from M. For Baltimore it passes
exactly through the corner E.
• The distance for the line marked V from
0/ is just the same as the distance from 0
to VII. Similarly, IV corresponds to VIII,
IH to LX, II to X, and I to XL. The
number XII is marked at M M/ as shown.
After you have marked out the dial very
carefully, you must fasten the three-cornered shadow piece to it in such a way
that the whole instrument will look like
Fig. 1. The edge a c (Fig. 2) goes on
NM (Fig. 3). The point a (Fig. 2) must
come exactly on N (Fig. 3), and as the
lines NM (Fig. 3) and iT It (Fig. 3) have
been made just the right distance apart to
fit the thickness of the three-cornered piece
ab c (Fig. 2), everything will go together
just right. The point c (Fig. 2) will not
quite reach to M (Fig. 3) but will be on
the line NM (Fig. 3) at a distance of three
inches from M. The two pieces of wood
will be fastened together with three screws
going through the bottom board A B C D
(Figs. 1 and 3) and into the edge ac (Fig.
2) of the three-cornered piece. The
whole instrument will then look something
like Fig. 1.
After you have got your sun-dial put
together, you need only to set it in the suu
in a level place, on a piazza or window-
sill, and turn it round until it tells the right
time by the shadow. You can get your
local time from a watch near enough for
setting up the dial. . Once the dial is set
right, you can screw it down or mark its
position, and it will continue to give correct solar time every day in the year.
If you wish to adjust the dial very
closely, you must go out some fine day and
note the error of the dial by a watch at
about ten in the morning, and at noon,
and again at about two in the afternoon.
If the error is the same each time, the dial
is rightly set. If not, you must try by
turning the dial slightly to get it so
placed that your three errors will be nearly
the same. When you have got them as
near alike as you can, the dial will be
sufficiently near right. The solar or dial
time may, however, differ somewhat from
ordinary watch time, but the difference
will never be great enough to matter,
when we remember that sun-dials are only
rough timekeepers after all, and useful
principally for amusement. THE BUSINESS OF THE STAGE AS A CAREER.
By May Irwin.
T N the twenty-five years that I have been
i- before the public, I have been pressed
some hundreds of times by young people,
and some no longer young, natives of various parts of the globe, to express my
opinion with regard to the stage as offering
a career for ambitious talent, and more
particularly relating to the business of the
stage, in which I am supposed to excel.
By business I refer to that phase of the
profession which deserves consideration
quite apart from the artistic side, and something that seems to be quite beneath the
genius of the average aspirant. My answer
to these questions has always been practically the same—that sincerity alone wins
with an American audience; and that however much native talent one may have,
without sincerity, and secondly, the ability'
to withstand repeated discouragements,
the footlights offer a poor recompense for
fears and tears, abundant toil on small
compensation and energy untiring.
And looking back over these years, I can
see a vast
change in the
whole machinery of the
stage. It is no
i onger the
wildcat, marionette affair
that recruited
its bright
lights from
with tie-walking, greasy
gowns and a
trail of dissipation from
province to
province, when
was indulged
in on the sly,
Is^sT^^T^^^L^)    the   actress
shunned and
the playhouse the
horrible ex-
a m p le of
nearly every I
Thanks to I
few uplifting
geniuses, both
players and
managers, and
above all to |
the better element of the
great American public,
which refuses to patronize the meretricious and the inartistic, the stage to-day
is a perfectly running machine as unlike
that of the past as a wooden-cog clock to
a judge's stop-watch. The play has become a business as much as banking and
insurance; and whatever individual aptitude
the aspirant may have, the business phase
of it must enter largely into the equation.
The public taste has changed, and is constantly changing, and the stage is what the
public makes it—reflects the public mind
as the smooth lake mirrors the image that
bends to its very depth, though apparently
When, as tiny Georgie Campbell, I made
my debut in the western part of this state,
fresh from Canada, with a fund of health
and ambition as a singer, though a mere
tot, the stage was a very shabby institution. I have watched it improve year by
year, and what is more, improve on purely
American lines. This is a great gratification to me, for I am American to the bone,
even though I was born of Scotch parentage in the forests of the North. Morally
as well as' artistically, the standard of intelligence of audiences, as well as actors,
has improved, till now I believe it to be
one of the most powerful instruments for
good  in our whole social well-being;  and 656
the few exceptions only serve to prove the
rule. Kings and princes have allowed
the rigid barriers between thrones and the
footlights to melt away; the pulpit has
consented to regard the stage seriously as
an educational factor; society, which is
usually spelled with a capital to distinguish its exclusive prerogatives, has met it
on common ground—not in the patronizing, supercilious manner of the past, but
as a legitimate and altogether worthy aspirant for public favor, meriting the regard
of all classes. I believe this largely due
to the sincerity and earnestness with which
young people enter the ranks of the profession with an eye to making it a business and not a pastime, a profession and
not a quick corridor into the ranks of
lower bohemia: a worthy end, and not a
makeshift or haphazard expedient till something supposed to be better happens along,
presumably a titled husband or a banker's
People who regard the stage through
the glamour of' the footlights do not realize that that apparent fairyland is as
monotonous in its system as a counting-
house, that its rules are as rigorously exact
as a military barracks in time of war.
Every one is bent upon fulfilling some duty
to the best of the artist's ability; and with
the least slip, the whole company—yes,
the whole playhouse, audience and all, is
compromised. It is this continual strain
upon nerves that makes all the dissipations
which lurid periodicals picture for the
benefit of witlings and the vicious simply
impossible. It seems to the audience that
it is the easiest thing in the world to go
through an act—that everything is for-
* tuitous, and nothing delicately planned,
from the setting of the scene to an inflection of the voice that brings a laugh or
tear. Every member of a company carries
a portion of the entire burden and takes
personally the lash of criticism for the
lapse, the blunder, or the failure of any one
to maintain the standard of excellence
which may be called the collective honor
of the company that all are bound to uphold through all. And this business of
the stage grows more complicated and
exact every year, and further removed from
it in consequence is all the mountebank
flippancy that   characterized  the  average
theater in the past. Midnight suppers,
birds, bottles, and high jinks generally,
are no more possible to one who would
succeed in it than to one who would become a successful banker or drive the Limited Express with a thousand passengers
aboard a thousand miles in a thousand
minutes. The responsibility is too great,
and the danger of lapsing in public regard
too certain, to make anything but singleness of aim and absolute fidelity to the
individual part, as well as to the honor of
the company as a whole, the paramount
gospel of the footlights. So much for the
nonsense believed by the unthinking and
disseminated by the unjust, that stage-life
is the easiest of all careers, that time hangs
so heavily on the actor's hands that when
not actually prancing along the footlights
he is giving himself up to the flatteries of
women and the seductions of the cup that
cheers and also inebriates. But I suppose
that this delusion will pervade some portion of the public mind as long as there
are paragraphers who will exploit cynicism at the expense of truth, and caricaturists who will perpetrate dressing-room
imaginings of impossible women in fraudulent periodicals upon a farce-loving
And this brings me to another conviction \
that must come to the mind of every stage-
worker sooner or later; particularly here in
America: that
the admiration
of the average
audience is at
best a verv
transient commodity to
count upon.
In England I
have seen an
audience go
wild over some
poor, broken-
down singer,
listening with
rapt awe, not
for the glory
of his present
effort, but in
reverence    for I
what   he   was miss irwin at the time op her fi_$§
twenty  years        NBW ™N\ ?™ol"s*CE " THE BUSINESS OF THE STAGE AS A CAREER
before. That is because in England
recreation is a serious business, and theater-going is not regarded as it is here
—a mere forgetting-time between long
struggles in the money-mad whirl of the
metropolis. In London a bank clerk will
save up for a week to afford a stall at the
opera or theater, dreaming of it for days
before and after the actual enjoyment, and
his impression is lasting. With us it is
all so different. We may be challenged
with the trite reproof that republics are
ungrateful; but the facts remain, and the
public entertainer is in
the best possible position to know thaf the
success of yesterday
does not insure the success of to-day, and today's prosperity with a
good play will not in
j the least atone, nor save
defeat, for a poor play
to-morrow. To us who
live in the present, the
past is little or noth-
g, and the future
brings little worry, for
fortunes are made, un-
I made and made again
almost in a day. The
is irwin when actor, then, who does
sixteen years old. not achieve a high
standard by hard labor and by harder labor
maintain it, is simply lost in the handicap.
The shout and hurrah, the flowers lifted
over the bass drum, and the lurid press
notices, of to-night's performance do not
insure against the absolute downfall of the
one given a year hence; and even an
auspicious first night may see an apathetic
public sniffing at the bill-boards and roving
down the street a day or two later. I never
take my initial cue at any performance,
the first or the five-hundred-and-first night
of the run, without a little qualm of uncertainty and a fear that the applause of last
night's audience will give way to a cold
patronage. This is an illustration of the
little faith that I have in the lasting affections of the public. This is not disloyalty
by any means. It is merely a bowing to
the inevitable result of our American institutions which I nevertheless revere and
honor, of which  I  am a  part and parcel,
and proud to be so.
It is merely yielding
to the spirit of the
times, an acknowledgment of the ephemeral
nature of our most
accepted enterprises
and the restless, nobly
discontented trend of
our national character
with which I myself
am imbued to the
COre. IN "courted into court.'
But if this keeps the player ever on the
brink of oblivion, as it were, it also quickens
the spirit to ever-renewed effort, and is
after all the grandest stimulant. The artist
knows that the audience is saying: "Yes,
that is good.     Let us cheer with a will.
Eat all the same "     And here they
do not say, "You should have seen Edwin
Forrest or Mrs. Siddons forty years ago,"
but, "Wait six months or a year, and
there will come along a play or a star that
will make all this look like a firefly in a
thunder-storm." The public is very
capricious, but that very uncertainty of
the actor's hold upon it makes him
strain mightily to retain that which he has
striven mightily to attain, for heaven help
him if he fail.
But again, if there is seeming ingratitude on the part of the public, it is nothing to that which the leader in the profession must contend with from the unthank-
fulness of those* taken from the ranks of
obscurity and licked into a shape that is
acceptable to
the public. I
can recall few
instances of
positive and
lasting gratitude on the
part of any of i
my support
in whom I
have discerned some
inkling of
genius and
developed it
patiently and
conscientiously   to AS THE WIDOW JONES. 6*8
their lasting benefit. I must say in all
justice that there are some exceptions, and
the remembrance of these I hold veiy
dear. But after a star has coached and
drilled, labored over and encouraged step
by step the embryonic Thespian till the
aspirant has found favor with the public,
like as not the youth will repay these
efforts by going over to a rival company
at a slight increase of salary, or worse still,
allow the flatteries and hospitality of stage-
door satellites to beguile the favorite into
dissipation and prodigality, to the banishment of artistic ideals and the inevitable
ruin of the person of promise. The artist
does not seem to realize that as long as
one is an accepted idol of the public's
evanescent worship, one will 'be
sought out, lauded and chani-
pagned into the
illusion that one
has attained the
acme of human
achievement; but
that the moment
the player is relegated to the rear
ranks rivalrous
connection on the
part of sycophants and
knaves ceases,
and the dupe is
abandoned by the
very sirens that
contributed to
the ruin. These
temptations that beset the actor or actress
are manifold and disastrous; and strong
indeed is the character that resists them.
A subtle perception of the hidden value
of every line is part of the business of the
stage, and something that requires the
most constant study and development. I
have taken a keen—perhaps even abnormally keen-r-perception of the humorous
and the surprising, in either the turn of a
phrase or an unexpected situation. I have
transposed a single line a score of times
to bring out more clearly its meaning, and
more than that, have rehearsed it in a
hundred different ways, trying it on the
public variously, so as to get the best laugh
at the quickest moment after delivery.
Still more, I have tried every expression
of countenance to suit the line, from a
broad grin or a funereal severity to absolute
marble blankness of countenance, keenly
noting the effect on the audience and almost every person of the audience. People
who are not familiar with life before the
public cannot realize the value of absolute
reciprocity between artist and audience.
Nothing escapes the player's keen eye, a
listless yawner of the front row sending
down the spirits more than the roar of
both galleries has the power to elate. And
not only do I watch the effect of my own
lines on the audience, but those of every one
of the cast, with whose parts I am of course
equally familiar. One can tell almost with
the first spoken line whether or not the
audience is with one—whether it is going -t
to be plain dallying over a clover meadow,
or a veritable San Juan Hill of conquesj:.
Audiences seem oftentimes to take the
color and spirit of some one or two strong
souls that dominate them, whether receptive or surly, repellent or genially encouraging. Sometimes struggling through the
jolliest act is like battering down a stone
wall, so unresponsive is the audience, while
again, one single burst of laughter will go
off like a percussion-cap and start a whole
cannonading of merriment, after which all
is easy.    It is part of the business of the
MISS  IRWIN   IN   1878.
stage to maintain
like composure in
both extremes,
never to be unduly elated with
vociferous response, nor yet
show by gesture
or intonation the
depression that
may be eating
away at your very
heart. In fact,
the chief business
of the stage is
being always the
master of the sit
uation. It is a hard lesson to learn, for
one can acquire it only by experience, and
that takes years.
American in sentiment and spirit, I have
vast hopes for American plays, as for expressions of American talent generally. I
think our national life is varied and stirring enough to furnish the strongest situations without anachronism or straining
points to accomplish them. In the last
decade we have produced two or three
veritable classics, and I know of scarcely
a district of our wide domain that is not
capable of great things in the hands of a
master. I think the persistent foreign
worship that has afflicted us for some years
past is fast disappearing, and that Americans are giving more and more support to
native talent. This is very gratifying to
one who has seen the stage pass through
many cycles of rages and fads, and come
out at last clear and
strong for wholesome
American drama.
More than that, our
plays are receiving
higher recognition
year by year in foreign countries, which
shows that we have
approached the best
transatlantic standards. Our future in
this direction is most
promising, and of particular consolation to
miss Irwin at thirteen, those who insist upon
when she first went     a merican   drama  for
ON THE STAGE. .  -Q-""'
Americans, as I always have and always
The building of a play is in itself part
of the business of the stage—that is, the
reconstruction that a play always undergoes more or less after the assigning of
the parts. Here is another chance for the
inventive genius of the ambitious player,
not only to help fcring out the spirit of
the author, but to assist him in coaching
up every part and every line of the part to
the required standard. However conversant with stage business a playwright may
be, the actor always sees chances for
changes to the betterment of the situation
and the more telling effect of the lines
upon the audience. An, intimacy with the
literary side
of the institution is essential to
perfect mastery of stage -
craft, and the
aspirant cannot afford to
regard this
im portant
factor lightly. Playwrights are
clever people; but few
indeed are
they that ever
see their productions set
upon the ■
stage as thev in a vaudeville sketch.
are written. With all his intimate
knowledge of literary effect and of stage
machinery, after the author has done
his best there come two strong factors
into the equation bearing upon its success—the actor and the manager, both
of whom are in a position to make the success of the play or bring defeat, if not
ruin, upon all three.
To advise every star to become his or
her own manager will strike the novitiate
as overleaping counsel; but that is about
what things will resolve themselves to,
after the player is an accepted entertainer
and instructor of the public. This brings
me to another phase of the business of the 66o
stage—one which would require several chapters to do
justice. A good manager
must be a good lawyer, conversant with business rules,
an accomplished press agent
and advertising authority in
the front office, and a
thorough stage mechanic,
scene-painter, musician and
all-round genius of expedients behind scenes. When
the player achieves such an
intimacy with all phases of
the craft that to be his or
her own manager becomes
quite in the nature of things,
all these accomplishments
must be on the side, as it
were. It is plain, then, that
the stage has undergone a
great change within the last
few years, when an actor
who thought if he did a ten-minute turn
every night and two matinees he was earning his salary and with two encores was
overworked, now is compelled to be the
most versatile genius in Christendom.
These several departments of the business
of the stage which I have touched upon
include those which can be acquired by
patience and industry unflagging, and above
all, the ability to bear up against repeated
discouragements. But there is one quality
which must be inherent, which can be
learned in no school, and which, while it
may be developed greatly for a little,
must have a foundation in the natural char
acter. I do not know how
to designate this elusive factor in th# player's very life
and success, nor does anybody, for it seems to overleap the most palpable expression. We may term it
personal magnetism, if we
will, but the truth is, there
is nothing that quite defines
the necessary reciprocity between player and audience,
without which' there can be
no lasting and genuine interest on the part of either, the
audience to applaud and recommend, and the player to
endeavor to excel. The human page that nightly
spreads so brilliantly before
the player is capable of deep
reading between the lines,
and lost is he whom it escapes. Nightly this page is turned, revealing new lines that are capable of a new
reading. Sometimes I think I understand
it, sometimes I am in mortal doubt; but
nevertheless, I read it earnestly, eagerly,
up and down from margin to margin, between the lines and all, and every sincere
effort is worthy. Without this deeper
reading of the public mind no player can
hope to maintain high position in the public esteem for long. With it, all things
are possible, for this gift of genius can
reach hidden depths that the ordinary
mind cannot understand; and therein lies
By Deshler Welch.
A STORE insisted upon giving a formal
chafing-dish dinner the other evening and declared that as the Connoisseur of
Poverty Flat I should be able now to display my metier. As our own buffet exhibited but one presentable dish, three
others were borrowed for the occasion.
They were handsome affairs in plate, and
as Astore prided herself on possessing several small sets of hand-painted china of her
own decoration, sufficient for several courses
without confusion, the table really did look
superbly with its candelabra, cut glass
and violets. "Covers" were laid for
twelve, and the menu (which was actually
printed) was as follows:—
" Olives stuffed with Peppers.
Anchovy Pasted Toast.
Shrimps a la Newburg.
Sandwich a la Manhattan.
Scotch Woodcock.
Spaghetti a la Italienne.
Welsh Rabbit.
There was no necessity to wait on appetite. Astore led the way into the
" dining-hall, " as she facetiously dubbed
it, at eight o'clock. Our guests were of
a kind who knew better than to feast before the gathering. There was our artist
friend, McShane, with his pretty Nora
Creina, who had brought the moors and
the heather into our life and taught us not
to despise Scotch haggis and who warned
me merrily with a "Hoot, mon!" when I
was caught using too much cayenne or was
saying nothings sotto voce to Nora. Then
there was our friend Maurice, the actor,
who was beautiful to gaze upon and who
engaged us in repartee as one would a
gentleman of the Empire with the rapier.
Monsieur Maurice was married, though, and
his wife was "a good fellow" who, not
being able to have much control over her
dashing spouse, wielded a feminine sword
of sarcasm which Astore had learned to
meet with brass corselet. Then there
was our friend the critic, who defied by
his beard all other critics and had established his own school of emphasis, and
looked upon my cooking with such witty
contempt that Astore always insisted upon
having him as a sort of balance-wheel.
Then there was '' Cousin Tom,'' who had
a little peach of a wife who belonged in
good "sassiety" but loved our informal
functions so much that they were thinking
of putting their money into a common fund
for the benefit of us all, but we would
not think of such a thing—and they were
forever sulking over it. And finally came
"Jim"—dear old good-natured Jim, who
had written a play and a book and was on
the threshold of success but forever mourning over something that was either "dead
wrong'' or " unparliamentary."
While I do not think any of us were inclined to be arrogant or arbitrary, I think in
this Poverty Flat of ours we individually 662
set ourselves up as being connoisseurs
—in just exactly what we didn't know.
Our galley-slave was an adept at toast,
and while she supplied diamonds of it
spread with anchovy paste, thereby adding
further zest to appetite, I began to demonstrate the utility of the chafing-dish.
On a little side-table at my elbow were the
condiments, and the stuffs for cooking.
The   deep
lowing this, the slavey passed sandwiches
made of trimmed bread slightly toasted
and served hot with layers of boned
chicken, lettuce, and mayonnaise dressing.
The spaghetti, which had need of occasional watching, was now tender after some
twenty minutes of boiling, and the water
nearly absorbed. Over the fire of the
chafer I had just used, I heated a dish of
sauce previously made
of a cup of
tomato soup
to which
were added
cayenne, a
flavor of
salt, butter
the size of a
walnut, and
a cup of
olives and
This was
poured upon the spaghetti and
t he whole
was easily
served with
a spoon, we
cutting it
across, and
not eating
it in lengths
in the vulgar Italian
way that has
n o possible
excuse at a
refined table. The
sauce was
piquant, even biting like a Mexican dish,
raph by the Campbell Studio especially for The Cosmopolitan.
shrimps were now nearly ready, so, with a little salt added and a judicious sprinkling of
cayenne—perhaps a teaspoonful—the whole
was somewhat thickened by half a teacupful
of flour and water. Finally, with the addition of two glasses of sherry, the proper
aroma was complete, and the shrimps a la
Newburg were served on hot plates.    Fol-
and the whole was pronounced delicioiis.
The two chafers were removed from the
table, and in the third one I scrambled six
eggs with a pint of cream, flavored with
paprika and salt. This was for the
"Scotch woodcock," but the receipt for
the use of anchovies was changed to sar- THE CONNOISSEURS OF PO VERTY FLA T.
dines and these wTere spread finely on
squares of toast on which were placed the
scrambled eggs. The piece de resistance
of the evening was contemplated in the
J'rabbit." But we voted that the preparation for that ceremony be approached with
a due sense of respect after an interval.
So over the last glasses from the Chianti
carafes there were stories told, and enjoyed
as we always did enjoy them no matter if
they had been told before. Maurice usually had a new one, and Nora always
thought she had, but generally it was something dreadfully old with the point turned
the wrong way. And Astore—God bless
her!—at this moment of the entertainment
was always all red and white by turns and
her little heart beating with anxiety about
Astore is my admiring friend; once she
was a lonely denizen like myself, but her
aureole of hair so fascinated me when I
tried to transfer its golden values to my
canvas that I told her then and there it
would better be were we to boil our eggs
together—forever. She consented; she
said that if there was one thing in which
she needed constant advice and friendly
cheer it was in cooking eggs. She said
she had heard that there were over five
hundred ways of cooking them and if she
could become a passed master in the art of
at least one way she would die happy.
"I will even teach you how to sauter
them, Astore,'' said I.
"Then I am yours, Jack—whether it be
boiled, scrambled or saute, I don't care,"
she exclaimed. She will tell you now it is
the chafing-dish that made us happy and
that nothing else will ever come between us.
Again Astore has invited half a dozen
congenial souls, who wear their hearts on
their sleeves and in their boots most of the
time (God bless 'em!), and has given it out
that it is to be merely a Welsh rabbit feast,
and that, you know, is the king of the
pan. Astore had insisted upon this and
nothing more, for had she not come in on
that day radiant with her purchase of some
fine American dairy cheese that any one
could see was not "seconds," and for that
had fcid the guests?
But to the table!   It is after the theater;
it is after the hours of our studio work
and we who are of that bohemia where
charity hath no chill and Mrs. Grundy
holds no sway have met on common
ground. We have put a glittering chafing-
dish on a dais of mahogany, and we have
chosen our cook, a good fellow who can
tell us stories as he stirs, or perhaps if he
be more philosopher than raconteur and
taketh not away his eye from the compound
of his concoction, let us sit interested but
not interfering—not like most of those
unwieldy people such as I have met who
insist upon sawing the air with their instructions and do so beetle the master of
the spoon with objection that the intellectual acumen that brings zest and delicacy
to the dish has become dulled and chilled.
The master-chafer must be heroic and
heed not the chatter of his minions.
Astore arranged her table just right. It
was a fine piece of wood and polished hard
as marble, and nothing could be better
than that for the display of her delicate
tea-cloths and doilies. There were no
sweets on the table; there were some little
side-dishes of olives stuffed with anchovies,
smoked goose-breasts, caviare on sippets
of toast, and slivers of Westphalia ham,
and some dainty slices of bread. The
table was not suggestive of the "pub" with
patent beer-bottles, but instead there was
a large and wonderful "Krug" with a
chorus of '' Steins.'' Alongside the chafing-
dish were the necessary condiments—paprika, mixed mustard, butter, and a bottle
of Bass, and three pounds of grated cheese.
Our slavey in the galley was ready to
serve hot toast and plates at any moment.
The main secret of a good rabbit is the
cheese. Get the best; it must be fresh.
Some groceries sell cheap cheeses, what are
known as seconds, but these will make
your dish a failure. But now to business:
Light your lamp (and I hope it is a good
hot fire) directly under your chafing-dish
(for you need not use the hot-water pan),
and put into it a couple of "walnuts" of
butter and add to it as soon as melted a
third of a bottle of Bass ale, a teaspoonful
of paprika, just a pinch of salt and a little
black pepper. As soon as this comes to a
boil, whilst stirring add your grated cheese,
which constantly manipulate with a spoon
until it can be beaten to the consistency of
-_-_£__# 664
molasses. Now add four teaspoonfuls of
made English mustard. Stir and beat constantly until the mass begins to bubble.
The plates and toast being ready at your
left elbow with some one to assist, plunge
each piece of toast directly into the dish,
turning it over with fork and spoon, and
serve quickly on a plate.
You can do almost anything with a
chafing-dish. You cannot bake in it, of
course, but you can come very near broiling. A split spring chicken with just
enough oil to flood the dish will be practically broiled. The same with mushrooms.
Invert them, add a little piece of butter
and some cayenne to the cups, and serve
on toast as soon as browned. But really
an indispensable accompaniment to the
chafing-dish are the new patent toasters
that work well on any flame.
You can do everything with eggs in a
chafing-dish. For a late supper nothing
is more palatable than scrambled eggs
served on toast spread with anchovy paste.
Beat the eggs up well. For four people,
six will do, then add half a pint of cream,
a pinch of salt and a pinch of cayenne.
Manipulate carefully and the scramble will
be fit for a king.
A very tasty dish for a chafing-dish
party is sweetbreads, terrapin style. Say it
is for six people. Previously parboil two
sweetbreads, extract the tubes, and cut
into half-inch pieces. Put a walnut of
butter in the pan, a little salt, black pepper, a bay leaf, and three-quarters of a pint
of consomme" or white soup stock. When
this is heated through, gradually add the
same amount of cream or milk. Now add
the sweetbreads and cook with a brisk fire
for ten or twelve minutes, add a thickening of flour and cream, stir a few minutes,
and then throw in a good wineglass of
sherry, stir, and serve on buttered toast.
Nearly every man who professes anything
that has to do with a more or less philosophical occupation seems to have an instinctive love for the art of cookery. If
he fails in any -of his efforts he is generous in his accord with the success of others,
and becomes an admiring disciple. I find
that women, on the other hand, do not
regard cooking as a fascinating art at all.
With them it is a labor to an end. In
youth the boy early manifests his curiosity
and gratifies it by roasting potatoes in a
bonfire or boiling things in the camp-
kettle, and he watches the process of
transformation with a keen and happy interest that is incomprehensible to a girl.
The latter, to be sure, is fond of making
cake or candy, but it is mere play which
she soon tires of. Very few women exhibit any actual energy in the workings of
their kitchen laboratory, and a majority of
those who can easiest afford a perfect complement do not visit their kitchens, but
leave the work of supplying the most important factor in the success of home management to an unresponsive, unintellectual
and frequently slovenly Biddy. Were men
to neglect the personal investigation of the
mechanical departments of their business,
to the extent their wives neglect their
kitchens, the consequences would be more
fatal than one, who does not seriously consider it, would imagine. Even in the
marketing, which should be a delightful
occupation, where one is able to buy with
a fat purse, women shirk, and explain in
rebuttal that "men would soon tire of the
drudgery.'' Yet men day after day polish
up the machinery of their business engine,
or work in worry enough to send them to
lunatic asylums. Nearly all famous dishes
were concocted by men; the greatest chefs
in the world are men, and the man in the
kitchen disposes of all suspicions of dirt
because he enforces systematic and scrupulous cleanliness. The male cook in the
limited area given him in a public grill, or
when cabbed, cribbed and confined in a
ship's galley, does not complain. His
implements are cleaned and placed as he
proceeds, and half an hour after serving a
dinner of many courses there is no evidence that his kitchen has been tenanted
within the day.
But the chafing-dish is working wonders.
It is really civilizing the men, and is almost
an inspiring concomitant of tired woman's
life. It is making heroes out of cooks and
cooks out of heroes. It is the coddling
toy of society, and is becoming responsible
for marriage and divorce, and bachelors.
Bridget knows, however, that the chafing-
dish is merely a stew-pan which you, can
fry in, and that it adds to the labor of her THE CONNOISSEURS OF PO VER TY FLA T.
Photograph by the Campbell Studio especially for The Cosmopolitan.
dish-cleaning. She does not believe in
either the witchery or the sorcery of cookery, but she can beat you frying "praties."
The greatest of men have been great
cooks. The philosophy of cooking has always appealed to philosophic and kindly
temperaments among men. Dumas was
only better as an author than as a cook.
Savarin and Sala were cooks as well as
writers; and the latter held that he would
rather die famous as the author of a noted
cook-book, and he did. Pythagoras was
a devotee of the chafing-dish, and Apicius,
the greatest of all gluttons, wrote an elaborate work on culinary science. Boswell
says that Doctor Johnson "was a man of
very nice discernment in the science of
cookery." " Some people,'' said Johnson,
"have a foolish way of not minding, or
pretending not to mind, what they eat;
for my part, I mind my belly very studiously and very carefully, and I look upon
it that he who does not mind his belly,
will hardly mind anything else. . . .
I could write a better book of cookery
than has ever yet been written.
Women can spin very well, but Ihey cannot make a good book of cookery.'' But
Johnson was a pig when he ate, and I
doubt his perfect discernment.
Dickens, Thackeray, Reade, Marryat,
were all devoted to the art of cooking,
and even the sedate Hume, the historian,
had no patience with the indifference of
women to the interesting niceties of the
science. Women have said that the surest
way to reach a man's heart is through
his stomach, but men of educated taste
may be gourmets without being gluttons,
and the good esthetics of the dinner-table
advances manners as well as morals.
Madame du Barry best appreciated this
when she gave her famous petit souper to
Louis XV. which led to the institution of
the Order of the Cordon Bleu for accomplished cuisiniers. It was in this period,
says Brillat-Savarin, that attention was
paid for the first time to the chemistry
of cookery, while the dinners of the regency
were famous for their art—'' for mantelotes
of the most tempting quality and for turkeys superbly stuffed."
_^\J 666
No simpler or more delightful method
of entertainment could be devised than
that afforded by the informal chafing-dish
supper with its spirit of impromptu surprise and genial bonhomie. The utensil
itself has so many virtues, that in faith it
ought to be inscribed on the coats-of-arms
of all bachelor men and maids to whom
the world
a buffet.
A s t o r e ' s
eyes had
been full of
glitter and
mystery and
when  si
Photograph by the Campbell Studio especia
and it was hardly light
awakened me that morning.
Oh, but it was a great day for St. Nicholas
and his reindeer and his goodies, and
Astore supplied me with youth in her
delight  as  we   gazed   out   on   the   new-
fallen snow. She thought only of what
she was giving me—not what I should be
giving her! Then she led me carefully to
it. It stood by the little window in the
shadows of the purple dawn. It looked
like an upright boiler, or an air-brake of
some kind.
"Isn't it just splendid, Jack?"
"Perfectly elegant;
but what, is
it, Astore?"
I asked, approaching it
really ''
Her eyes ,
actually began to fill.
Then she
burst out:
"Why, it's
a d u c k -
press, you
silly boy!
It's to
squeeze the
marrow out
of a duck's
of course!"
I said, now
examining it
"I thought -
you'd just;
rave over
it, Jack —
and besides,
every cent
it cost was only thirty-four dollars.''
Well, we had to save so much on that
Christmas present that as a consequence
we weren't able to buy any ducks, but
we are going to experiment with it some
lly for 1
By John R. Spears.
WHETHER I was a born sailor or not,
is a question in my mind. I was
a handy man anywhere about a ship—
everybody says that—-but when I was a boy
of sixteen my great ambition was to learn
the ship-carpenter's trade and establish a
shipyard alongside of that belonging to
Capt. John Brooks at Northport, Long
Island. Captain Brooks was the great man
of Northport, in those days, and he had
become so through less than ten years'
work as a master builder and repairer of
coasters, with now and then a bark of four
hundred tons or so to boast of. So I spoke
to my father about the matter.
"I hate to have you leave the farm," he
said, "though you ought to have a trade,
for sure. But here's the trouble. 'Twouldn't
do for you to go to the city to learn it—
you'd learn too much. And Captain Brooks
'11 never give you a job on account of the
trouble we had when he was starting in."
I had forgotten about the trouble. The
captain's first venture, after establishing a
yard at Northport, was the repairing of a
brig that had got so rotten no one would
insure her. Captain Brooks put in some
new timbers, loaded her with oak staves
for Cuba, in company with a couple of
moneyed men in New York, sailed away
in her himself and came back without her,
four months later. He said he was wrecked
on one of the low-lying islands just below
Charleston, with a cargo of molasses. But
when it appeared, soon after, that Captain
Brooks had a deal more money than before
he went on what he reported as a losing
venture, people began to say that he had
carried what they called "black ivory,"
instead of molasses, to the Carolina coast
—that is, a cargo of slaves that had'been
brought to Cuba from the African coast.
And with that, father, who was the rankest
abolitionist on Long Island, made an investigation that developed a lot of evidence,
but not enough to convict. Captain Brooks
was arrested, but he was at once released
on bail, and was never brought to trial. 668
I knew all about this in a way, but Captain Brooks, who was the politest man in
town, always said "Good-day, sonny," or
''Hello, boys,'' whenever he met any of us
youngsters on the street, and I thought he
would surely give me work, especially as it
was then the month of March, and some of
his men were leaving the yard to go to
their farms. At any rate, I tried my luck.
On entering the yard, I found the captain,
with his daughter Gladys, a pretty youngster of ten or twelve, beside him, watching
some men stretch the keel of a new pilot-
He greeted me in his usual manner, and
looked me over, as if to measure my
strength, while I told him my errand.
Then taking out a pocket-knife, he smilingly began cutting a four-foot switch from
a young beech-tree not far away, and said:
"Want to be a ship-carpenter, eh? Ever
handled tools any?"
'' Yes, sir, some; building fences and doing things round the farm,'' I replied.
"Swing an ax, eh?"
'' Yes,sir"1'—emphatically. "I've stacked
up a cord and a half of wood in a day."
He was trimming the gad he had cut
now. When that was done, he laid his hand
caressingly on one shoulder (an act which,
to my wonder, made the girl shrink away),
and then he said in the same easy voice:
"And you would obey orders strictly, of
"Yes, sir.    I'd do my best."
"That's right, "said he, approvingly,
but the next moment his fingers gripped
into my collar and then with a decided
change in look and tone he continued:
"Your name is Dick Havelock and
you're old Ben Havelock's son. The first
order you're to get from me is to keep off
my property, and for fear you'll forget it,
damn you, I'm going to give you this!"
"This" was the threshing of a lifetime.
It ended my notions about learning that
trade, turned my thoughts to the sea, and
within a month I had run away and
shipped on a China trader that was lying
at a South Street pier. Six years later I
reached San Francisco, and found the harbor full of ships that were idle for want of
the crews that had gone to the gold-diggings. In all that time I had neither seen
nor heard from Northport, and  I was get
ting homesick. To add to this feeling, I
met Capt. Ben Packard of the "Ailsa," a
Northport bark, whom I knew very well.
He was one of the derelicts, as the captains
without crews styled themselves, and very
naturally asked me to ship. In the strait
he was in I was able to make a very comfortable bargain—it was comfortable for
him, as well as me, because I proposed to
gather enough men for a crew, a proposition he accepted at my own terms, but
with many doubts as to my success until he
saw me on the bay in a lateen-rigged fishing-boat with a dozen roistering young fellows, as happy as an abundance of good
liquor could make them. This craft I managed to wreck alongside the "Ailsa." It
was a lovely moonlight night. Captain
Packard had a number of ropes and a
couple of ladders over the side in no time,
and we all clambered up. Then he invited us into the cabin, where he brewed a
bowl of punch that was to the queen's
taste, and when that was gone, a tug had
towed us outside the Golden Gate and we
were en route for Manila.
When I at last reached home, I had been
away for almost seven years, but I had
more than three hundred dollars in my
pocket, and was dressed in what I thought '
was a most stunning rig, for I had got myself up like a naval tar on dress-parade.
For two or three days I was a loud swell
on the streets of the old town, and probably I should have remained so until my
money was gone, only that I went to a
church festival one night, and there met
Gladys Brooks, whom I had not seen since,
she shrank away from her father as he was
about to thresh me in the old shipyard. I
remembered her as a youngster in short
dresses, and I fohnd her the brightest,,
sweetest, plumpest young lady I had ever
seen. And from the moment she came
and spoke to me all my vainglory fled, *
because I supposed she read my thoughts
and saw my vanity. I had strutted around
with the feeling that I was dressed more
becomingly than any man there, but now
I would have given a hundred dollars if I
could have shifted into an inconspicuous
suit! And yet, if I had only known it,
Miss Gladys was enough like all other
women to think I was as "stunning" as I
Not to dwell on these shore matters too
long, I must relate that ten days or so
later—I think it was in the month of February, but at any rate there was snow on
the ground—I went home with the young
lady one night, in the fashion common to
such young folks as we were in a country
village of the old days—in the fashion of
two chums, if not two lovers. Certainly
there was one lover. I-was thoroughly enamored, and I was beginning to hope that
my suit was not in vain. Reaching the
house, I stopped at the door of the storm
veranda, as I had done on two other occasions of the kind, but this time she drew
me within while she related some incident
I have long since forgotten, and then as I
was ready to go I drew her to me with one
arm, turned her face up to mine and
would have given her my first kiss, only
that the house-door opened just then, and
out came her father with an ugly knife in
There were no kerosene lamps in those
days—only candles and whale-oil lamps
—but I saw the gleam of the blade, nevertheless, as the door opened. The sight
recalled the day nearly seven years before
when he had threshed me before the girl,
and it showed, too, that he was more
vicious than ever. But I was not now of
the sort that run. He grabbed the girl to
jerk her out of his way, and in the delay
this caused him it was so easy for me to
reach him that I was half ashamed of the
blow I gave him. However, it was a
blow that settled the fight for that time,
if not longer, for he lay unconscious for
nearly two minutes, and his knife was in
my hands when he came to. Then, with
a hearty expression of sorrow to Miss
Gladys, I went away, without having received a word from her to let me know
what she thought of the fracas.
I was younger then than I am now—say
fifty years younger. The more I thought
about the trouble the more convinced I
was that Miss Gladys would never speak
to me again, and I cursed my folly, as it
seemed to me, in remaining to fight her
father when I might easily have evaded
him by running. So when morning came
I went down to Long Wharf, where the
sloops trading to New York always lay,
having  more   than   half  a mind  to  go
to the city and see whether Captain
Packard didn't want a mate for the
As I reached the head of the pier, I
found an old-fashioned topsail schooner
had come in during the night and was lying alongside. The rake of her masts was
like that of an old-fashioned war-schooner,
and she had her yards squared by the lifts
and braces and everything so snug and neat
that I instantly went for a closer look.
Standing on the pier beside her, I found her
rigging had been recently tarred, and
paint and holystones had been used until
she was, without being in any way gaudy,
as clean and bright as if the veritable man-
o'-war she resembled.
But while I looked her over, whom
should I see coming from her cabin but
Capt. John Brooks. He was followed by
a round-shouldered seafaring man with a
lean, hook-nosed face, and both of them
looked up at me as if they had seen me
through the skylight and had come on deck
to speak to me. And so, in fact, they had.
"Come down on deck. We want to talk
to you,'' said Brooks.
I smiled benignly.
"I left my knife at home," said I.
"That's all right," replied Brooks.
"We'll call that quits if you will." He
smiled in his old polite way, and continued: "I know when I've got enough,
and I know when I've found a good man.
I want a mate for this schooner. Capt.
Dan Griswold, here, is master, and we've
heard how you got a crew for the 'Ailsa'
out of 'Frisco. If you're a-mind to go,
I'll make it worth while. Your name's
Havelock, and I—um—I don't like the
old man, but I'll make it worth your
while—say fifty dollars a month."
That was right good pay, but I said:
"Where's she bound?"
"Mosquito Coast."
"It's a trading voyage alongshore for
the products of the country," said Captain Griswold, suavely, speaking for the
first time. "Ever been on that coast?
No? Well, the best product is niggers, '' he said, looking keenly at me as he
spoke, "but it ain't safe dealing in them,
the owner thinks, and so we're to swap
for such other things as we can find—
turtle-shells,   and logwood, and maybe  a
■_-_-_^*# 670
little gold-dust. We reckon on a snug
voyage soon over.''
The truth is, I had then no thought of
going at any price on a vessel belonging
to Captain Brooks, but I replied, without
knowing why I said so:
"I'll let you know in the morning."
"All right," said Captain Brooks, smiling as before. "Come around this afternoon and see her take in ballast. I think
it will help you make up your mind."
Out of idle curiosity, I strolled down
the pier about two o'clock, and found
Captain Brooks the center of a considerable group of men. There were two or
three Northport merchants; a young fellow named Eldridge from New York, who
said he was an underwriter, though he
looked to me more like a clerk on six dollars a week than a capitalist; a drayman,
with his rig, who was regularly employed
by Captain Brooks, and three or four idlers,
besides Captain Griswold. All were gathered about the dray, and the dray was
loaded with more than threescore of new
pine boxes, of which sixteen were rather
small but remarkably strong, while the
others were four feet long, a foot square
on the end, and also notably strong in
make. Just as I arrived, Captain Griswold climbed down on the schooner's
deck and the drayman picked up one of
the smaller boxes.
"Huh," said he, "a hundred and
twenty-five pounds, is it? And solid with
silver dollars? It's me that can handle a
fortune every minute and never get rich.''
He raised the box above his head, as if
to show off, for he was as strong as an ox,
and then started to hand it to Captain
Griswold, but stubbed one foot against the
other, staggered and pitched the box to
the deck end on, where it broke open and
poured out a shining flood of two thousand
Mexican silver dollars.
How Captain Brooks cursed the drayman
I shall not try to tell. But when I saw
those shining coins roll across the deck I
remembered a recent pamphlet, printed by
Quakers, describing the existing slave-trade,
and it had said that hard cash had come to
be the favorite medium of exchange on the
slave-coast in place of the oldtime rum.
"Was the 'Wild Rose' (for so the
schooner was called) bound to the Mosquito
Coast, then?" thought I. "Wasn't shea
slaver?" The question set me in a tremor
that was for the moment. unaccountable.
And while I was in the flurry I glanced at
the larger boxes and found they were
marked muskets and had been taken from
a bonded warehouse within three days.
To my mind that settled the matter as to
her destination, for muskets were, of all
manufactured goods, most in demand
among the small dealers on the slave-coast.
So Captain Brooks was going to send me
to Africa, if I would go, was he? I'd
be far enough away from Gladys when
there, to please him, however anxious he
might be to get me out of her sight. And
very likely he intended to leave me there,
for the fashion of the Yankee slavers in
those days was, as I knew, to take the vessel out with an American crew, and bring
her back to the Cuban market with Spaniards or Portuguese, leaving the white crew
to shift for themselves. No wonder the
old scoundrel had been willing to flatter
me that morning, and offer me the wages
of a clipper's mate to go on his schooner.
He had calculated he would never have to
pay me a cent.
And then, along with these thoughts,
came another. Why not go, as he wished
me to do, and so get indisputable evidence
that he was in the piratical trade? With
such evidence in hand I could go to him
and say.
"Now, then, Captain, will you face these
charges, pr "
A wild and foolish notion?    Well, yes,.
but  just like the thoughts of a boy like
me at that age, and in that frame of mind,
for the alternative I would offer him was,c
of course, the hand of the charming Gladys. K
Turning to, I helped get the remainder
of the drayload of cargo stowed on board,
and then I told Captain Brooks I had decided to ship with him, whereat he expressed his pleasure with an effusiveness
that he checked suddenly, for some reason,
and thereafter treated me with great politeness, but without enthusiasm.
We finished loading that afternoon, and.
Captain Griswold warned me, as I went
away for my dunnage, to be on board at
daylight. I was extremely anxious to see
Miss Gladys before I sailed, for I had more
than a mere farewell to say to her, but, THE CONFESSIONS OF A SEAFARING BLACKMAILER.        671
although I haunted the street between her
house and the village post-office, I neither
saw her nor heard from her in any way
until near ten o'clock, when, as I was
walking past her gate, a young brother
came from behind the house, ran to me
with a note, and then fled the way he
I ran hastily to the tavern, the only place
where a light could be found. The note
"Dear Dick: Have you really shipped
in the 'Wild Rose'? If so fly for your life.
I am sure she is bound for a place where
he has'sent other vessels and that you'll
never come back if you go."
I hugged the little slip of paper, and in
a less public place could have shouted for
joy at this proof of her interest in me.
And what was more, it proved to me
definitely that the "Wild Rose" was off
for slaves.
We sailed at daybreak next morning, and
once we were clear of the bay, Captain
Griswold did me the honor to put the
schooner wholly in my charge while he
turned in for a good sleep, as he said.
Thereafter I kept her a-booming along
down the sound with a smart northwest
breeze, ran through Plum Gut with a fine
tide to help, and by the middle of the
afternoon we were midway between Mon-
tauk Point and Block Island, when Captain
Griswold came on deck, jibed her over and
gave us a compass course, which, as I figured the variation, and the drift of the
Gulf Stream, would take us to Cape Maysi,
in the east end of Cuba—the exact route to
the Mosquito Coast instead of the coast
of Africa.
That staggered me for a minute, but I
very soon recollected that, so far as I had
seen, there was no slave jewelry on board
—no supply of chains or manacles—and
moreover there were no casks for water, nor
food for an African voyage. This explained our present course. We were to
go to Cuba—probably Saint Jago (Santiago,
as it is now called)—to fit out, and get a
few Spaniards for slave-drivers.
The fact is that in the matter of food I
soon saw we were ill-found even for a
voyage to Cuba. On the very next day,
and as I recollect it, that was on March 2,
1854, the four men in the forecastle came
aft to protest that they could not eat the
I had seen several such protesting bodies
as that in my time—I had been a member
of at least four committees of protest—and
I looked for a fight between them and the
captain, wherein I should be obliged to
join the men. Their faces showed their
desperation, but the captain knew a trick
worth several fights. He put a piece of
the pork to his crooked old nose and then
with ripping oaths hove the stuff overboard.
Never had he seen such stuff fed to hogs,
let alone men who had work to do! The
dealers who had sent it aboard were
"Heave the whole barrel overboard and
break out another," he ordered.    It was
^ i 672
done, but when the barrel was opened the
same rotten stuff was found. Then he
cursed like a pirate, but "it's too late to
go back and. we'll be in port inside of ten
or twelve days," he continued. "Go forward and do the best you can with it till
we make port, and then we'll have food
that a man can eat."
With these and other words he smoothed
down the anger of the men and kept them
in good temper, though there was not a
pound of food forward that was*, really fit
to eat, and even that served in the cabin
was worse than what I had seen in some
forecastles. In fact, I found him an exceedingly suave old skipper, never given to
violence toward the men, and not at all a
bad shipmate in the cabin, although when
there he rarely spoke a word either to me
or even the second mate, who was his son.
After the food trouble had been settled, no
memorable event occurred until we had
been out six days, when we passed Cape
Maysi. There the skipper spread a chart
on top of the cabin, laid his parallel rulers
on it and marked the course to Bluefields,
Nicaragua. He had called me to look
over his shoulder, and when he announced
the compass course I was so astonished
that I involuntarily, as it were, began to
ask if we were not going to Saint Jago.
As I checked myself Captain Griswold
turned on me with a sharp look in his eyes
and said:
"What have you on your mind now?"
As an amateur detective, bound on a
voyage to get evidence against a slaver, I
was not in a good frame of mind. I
stuttered and stammered as I strove to
say that I had meant to tell him I
had been in Saint Jago and could pilot
her in if he should want to go there. To
this he made no reply, and for thirty-six
hours thereafter never said a word to me.
Now, as all nautical readers know, the
trade-winds usually come fanning along
over the Caribbean Sea during the month
of March in a most delightful fashion.
Gentle, sweet, exhilarating—they make it
the joy of a sailor's life to cross those waters.
And now and again the gentle breeze
freshens until even a moderate gale is
found—a wind that travels at forty miles
an hour. It was our luck to have such a
breeze come on the afternoon of the third
day from Cape Maysi. We had been doing
very well, but now the fore topgallan'sail
had to come in, and then both topsail
and the jib topsail were also taken in,
which rather astonished me, for I was used
to carrying on. However, the weather
rigging still sang the old refrain that
soothes the sailor's heart when homeward
bound, and the lee dipped down, as she
heeled to it, betimes, until the lower dead-
eyes plowed up a spurting spray like that
under the bow of a steamer; for she was
in ballast and the wind was only a little
-abaft the beam. From eight knots the
speed rose to ten and at six o'clock it was
twelve and there it was when I came on
deck for the first watch.
No seaman could tread that deck and
look over the starlit sea unmoved—not
even an old one of the experience of Captain Griswold, and when, soon after I took
the deck, he came from the cabin, he had
lost the feeling that had kept him silent
for nearly two days. Coming to where I
stood just abaft the weather main rigging,
he said:
'' You're not half bad, Havelock; no, not
half. Smart trick, that, getting a crew
for the 'Ailsa.' If you'd been up to snuff
and took to the owner first and his darter
afterwards—urn. You might have had
this job all to yourself, and it's a right
good job, too. I'm most half sorry for ye.
I'd had a better one, too, but for this, so
I'm sorry for myself as well as you. Now
what was it throwed ye all aback so when
I laid the course from Cape Maysi? Did
ye think we were bound to some port, say,
in Cuba?"
"Aye, Saint Jago," said I, feeling that
I'd better tell the truth as far as I might.
"That's the idea that came to me this
afternoon," he continued. "And where
did you calculate we'd go from Saint
I hesitated half a breath and then said,
"Well, Captain, the dollars and the
muskets would bring better returns if sold
on the Congo than on the Mosquito Coast,
according to all I've heard of the trades."
"That's right, son," said he. Just
then his son, the second mate, came on
deck and the two went forward and
looked over the longboat stowed on chocks THE CONFESSIONS OF A SEAFARING BLACKMAILER.        673
between the masts. They had a look also
at the yawl over the stern, where they
talked in voices I could not understand,
and then the young man went below while
the captain came to me again.
"And had you calculated all along on
making the Congo voyage?" he asked.
"Well, I thought I'd get something out
of it worth while,'' I said.
"Is that so? Is that so?" he said, musingly. "Now, I'm most half sorry for ye.
You've got the making of just what he
needs in skippers. If he'd knowed it,
why, it might have been different."
For an hour he paced the weather-deck,
.stopping at the forward end of his walk
each time to look ahead a minute. Then
he came aft and took a seat on a big cleat
under the weather-rail, where he kept his
left hand on a belaying-pin and his right
in his coat-pocket, and gazed steadfastly
ahead without saying a word. Finally he
began to grow uneasy, though the wind
was now still fresher, and we were doing
at least twelve and one-half knots, and I
thought it a good plan to offer him a comfortable chair.
I "Shan't I bring up your arm-chair?"
said I. *
"Damnation! No!" said he, with an
irritation I had never seen before. '' What
in hell made you ask me "
There he stopped, jumped to his feet,
leaped on the rail and peered ahead. I
turned that way myself, and as a big swell
rose under the weather-counter I saw a
long line of tumbling breakers square
across the bows, while the snore of a
mighty surf sounded dull on the ear. I
turned instantly to throw down the wheel,
but as I did so something struck me over
the ear and down I went unconscious.
When I came to life again, as I may say,
it was late in the afternoon of some day—
the next after I was knocked down, as I
suppose—and I was lying alone on the
floor of the cabin of the "Wild Rose." I
was conscious, first, of a severe pain in the
head. Then I heard the plash of gentle
waves against the hull, with the scream
of gulls flying overhead.
Putting my hand to my head, I found
it matted with blood on the right side—
blood that had flowed from a cut made by
a club of some kind.    I   was faint and
feverish, and my first thought was for
liquor. But when I reached the captain's
locker it was empty, while a glance around
showed that the cabin had been stripped
of the chronometer and other valuables
easily carried. This did not astonish me,
for in some vague way I had realized that
the schooner was deserted.
My next move was to go on deck. Never
had a vessel had greater luck in striking
a reef, for a sea had lifted her so that
when her bow struck she had slewed
around broadside to, and so, riding the
wave, had crossed over and landed on a
table of coral where she rested now with
no more than five feet of water about her
as comfortably as if in a dry-dock. In
fact, she was in what was well-nigh a
basin, for the coral rose to the surface all
around her save for shoal channels. The
bulwarks on one side had been carried
away, the yawl at the stern was spitted on
a davit, the bowsprit was gone and the
forefoot crushed in so that her hold was
flooded. When I came to look in the forecastle I found that the two men of the
watch below had drowned in their bunks.
The absence of the longboat showed plainly
enough that the remainder of the crew had
gone away in it. In fact, the tackles by
which it had been hoisted out were dangling from aloft.
Climbing into the rigging (it was rather
a painful job at that time), I took a severe
look around the sea, but nothing was visible other than the tumbling waves, the
reef, and a low yellowish island at the
westerly end of that, whereon a few small
palms and some brush were growing. This
done, I began a search for drinking-water,
and found one barrel forward of the house
that was full. Then I found food in the
cabin pantry. While I ate, I recalled the
chart by which we had sailed and rightly
concluded we had stranded on Roncador
Reef. With a boat and sail it would be
an easy matter to reach some of the islands
to the south and west, provided always
that the weather favored, and there was
the yawl astern.
I do not wish to linger long on my experiences here, but I must say that I now
began to think of what a fool I had been
to come on this voyage, and especially with
the idea of blackmailing old Brooks into
_£j# 674
giving me his daughter when I was not
sure she would have me, to begin the story.
And even if she would favor me, it was
easy now to see that I should have persuaded her to elope with me instead of engaging in this folly. But while entertaining these very solemn reflections (they were
solemn enough to me), I was looking at
the yawl. There were no carpenter's tools
on board worth mention, but I had a palm
thimble, needles and twine, and there were
the sails. Eventually I just put that old
yawl in a bag—covered her with canvas,
putting double thickness over the hole,
taking care to slush the inner layer well,
and there she lay as tight as a bottle.
It took me a full day to rig the yawl
with sail and sea-anchor. After I had
passed more than three days getting her
patched up, for I was ill, or at least was
very weak from the effect of the blow I
had received—a blow, by the way, that
puzzled me not a little, for I could not
imagine what gave it me—after that,
finally, when about ready to shove off, I
remembered the boxes full of Mexican
dollars. They had been stowed in the
cockpit, under the cabin. They were
under about four feet of water, but I
counted them and found one missing.
"The captain took it for ballast and expenses," thought I, foolishly, "and I
guess I'll take another." But when I
went down and tried to lift one out I found
my strength unequal to the task and I went
away, thinking I was under no obligation
to save any property for Captain Brooks,
and that it was certain he would very soon
have a wrecking-schooner there to recover
them, anyway, if they were not found and
stolen by natives of the other islands meantime.
Three days later, as I was sailing toward
the Mexican coast, I was picked up by a
small slaver carrying negroes from an island
off the Honduras coast to a lagoon on our
Gulf coast—of which I might tell a curious
story—and I was landed by them.
Then, as luck would have it, when I
reached the piers of New York by working
my passage on a Mobile packet, the first
man I met was hook-nosed Captain Griswold. It was just at nightfall, but he saw
and recognized me by the lamplight at the
head of the pier and almost tumbled over
board at the sight of me. In fact, as he
staggered back he tripped on the string-
piece and would have gone over but that I
caught him.
His eyes were bulging as I stood him on J
his feet, and for a minute he gasped for
breath as he eyed me. "D-d-don't hit
me, Dickie—Mr. Havelock! Please don't,"
he stammered. "I had to do it. Didn't
I say you wasn't half bad, and that you
—ah—you won't hurt as old a man as
me?"    His words were a revelation.
"That's it?" said I. "Well, who made
ye do it then, if ye had to give me that
crack on the head?"
"Why, don't you know, now, after I was j
fool enough to  split out like that?"  he
said.    His  wits  were  returning  rapidly,
and he glanced around toward South Street
as he spoke.
"No, I don't," said I.     "Out with it."
He out with a knife instead, but I
clutched his neck and had his tongue over
his chin before he could use the blade, and
when I had picked the knife from the pier,
where it fell, and had dropped it overboard, I loosened my grip again, and he
became as contrite as before.
"I give it up, Mr. Ha^lock," he said. I
"You're too many for me. I told Captain
Brooks you were a good man for him, if
you were once in with us, but I didn't
know you'd as soon kill a man as not. I
did thump ye, but if you'll come and see
Captain Brooks you can get anything you
want if you'll play fair with him. You've
got a grip on him, knowing what you do,
and he'll have to come down to you. But
if you work it right he'll be glad to give
you all the chance you need, and more
too, whether it's the Congo or more 'Wild
Rose' jobs. Get right away to Northport
and I'll go up in the morning, too."
His words puzzled me. "Knowing what
you do"—what did that mean? The
only thing I could think of that offered an
explanation was the fact that this hooknosed scoundrel had tried to kill me at
Brooks' behest, unless,, indeed, it was
that I knew where the coin-boxes were under the cabin of the "Wild Rose." But
neither of these suppositions, nor both together, explained th" fears of Captain Griswold ; and so I said, with as ugly a growl
as I ©ould command, that I would see him THE CONFESSIONS OF A SEAFARING BLACKMAILER.       675
Drawn by Clyde O. De Land.
in Northport, but I should come ready to
meet any such uses of a knife or club as
he and old Brooks had both attempted.
He shuffled off the pier ahead of me,
while I slowly walked ashore, considering
where I should stay for the night, until I
reached the watchman's shanty at the head
of the pier. There was no one in the
shanty, but coming from behind it I found,
to my surprise (and to his), young Eldridge,
who had styled himself an underwriter when
he saw the cargo of Mexican dollars placed
on the "Wild Rose."
His amazement at seeing me was, in
fact, still greater, if possible, than that of
Captain Griswold, although differently expressed, of course. He fired, so to speak,
a dozen different questions at meall in such
rapid succession that I could make no reply
to any but the last when he stopped for
breath.    This qdestion was a double one:
"How big a part of the 'Wild Rose's'
hull held together, and was it bow or
"Why, the hull's all together—was
when I left," I said. "She'd a hole in
her forefoot, and it showed she was old
and rotten, but you never saw such luck
as she had in standing."
"The deuce you say!"
"Well, it's just as I tell you. She's
there, cargo and all, unless Captain Brooks
has got his dollars out of her.''
He took me away home with him, at
once. He was plainly not a little excited,
and he continued to ask me no end of
questions about the passage out, the wreck,
and my talk with Griswold on- the pier,
and finally I began to see that the boxes of
dollars were the main point of interest.
Captain Griswold had reported the "Wild
Rose" smashed to pieces and sunk out of
sight in the deep water off the coral reef
called Roncador, where, also, I was said
to have drowned with the two men I had
found dead in the forecastle. His son corroborated the story and the two sailors
saved had disappeared, after signing a
statement to support Griswold's story.
Under the circumstances the underwriters
had paid the insurance, amounting to nearly
thirty-five thousand dollars. Said I, when
I had learned all this:
"Well, Eldridge, those dollars are there
in the boxes just as you saw them stowed
under the cabin floor and there are about
thirty thousand of them.     That hook-nosed i
old   scoundrel   Griswold   is   going   therefj
after   them   himself,   I'll   bet   on   that.'*!
"Maybe so, maybe so," said Eldridge, y
"but you can't be sure. There's so many
tricks in this business that you've got to
have a good many years' experience as an.
underwriter before you can make even a
guess. But there's one thing that's got
to be done at once, and that's to make an
examination of the wreck. If you want
to go along, why, of course you shall have
the chance."
"Suppose, now, we find the dollars
there," said I. "It's a case of salvage,
ain't it?"
"Surely," said he.
"And the court would decree a good
share to us for getting them?"
"Well, rather!    Not less than a third."I
"And I would come in for a divide of
"Of course. We underwriters have been
indebted to you for the knowledge that
they were there, if they are there. If
they ain't, why, it's worth something
handsome if you prove they ain't."
Not to make an unduly long story, I
must say that we sailed on a steamer for
Key West at ten o'clock the next morning—Eldridge and I did, at the expense
of the New England Lloyds. There the
local agent of the underwriters chartered
a small schooner for us, and five days later
we were at Roncador Reef and found the
"Wild Rose" almost precisely as I had
left her. It did not take us five minutes
to get one of the coin-boxes on deck, but
when I brought a screwdriver and purposed
opening the thing, Eldridge stopped me.
"Not on any account," said he.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Well, it ain't the custom. We'll deliver the cargo as we find it. That's the
underwriters' rule."
"All right, you know best, of course^
But there's some reason for doing so, and
my curiosity is up. They'll be opened in
New York, won' t they ?''
"They may be and they may not. When
you've been an underwriter a few years
you learn to attend to business and not
give away mere opinions. We came down
here for business, didn't we?    What we're THE CONFESSIONS OF A SEAFARING BLACKMAILER.
after is to make all the money out of the
job we can. Now I'm not expressing any
opinions about this cargo, but if those
boxes go to court just as they are and all
hands of us swear the boxes weren't
opened, why, the contents will be good
'' Good evidence ? I don't understand,''
I said.
"Why, the court will believe that what's
in 'em was shipped in them. If we open
them the lawyers might say we took out
the original contents and put in something
"Why," said I, "if they find silver dollars there, and full count, at that, would
they say we put them there?"
He laughed. "You're not up to snuff,"
he said. "If they found silver dollars,
well and good. If they found something
else—old type, say—what then?"
That was a new idea, and I said nothing, whereat he continued: "When the
'Helen Bessie' was wrecked at Barnegat,
when she was intended for a reef off Sagua,
the owner of the cargo paid twice the invoice value for ninety-odd cases of stuff
that we saved."
"So?" said I. "Must have valued the
goods as family heirlooms, eh?"
Eldridge laughed heartily. "Well, you
are innocent," he said. "Why, he insured the stuff as silks on false invoices,
when it was mostly old paper. He
bought all the cases that were saved so
that they could not be used as evidence
against him in case he was arrested for perjury and an attempt to swindle us.
"Now, I ain't saying a word against
Captain Brooks. He's a right smart man.
He's made money hand over fist—more
than a hundred thousand—since he got a
start at Northport. But if there should be
anything but dollars in these small cases
and muskets in the others, he'll be so
anxious to buy them he'll meet us inside
the point of Sandy Hook, with the cash
ready to pay salvage so that no one but
him will ever open the goods.''
It was now plain to me that Eldridge believed Brooks had insured worthless property as silver dollars and had purposely
wrecked the "Wild Rose" on Roncador
that he might collect the insurance. I
recalled now what Captain Griswold had
said about "this job," as. he called the
voyage of the "Wild Rose," and the better one he might have had if I had had
this. And yet I could not think it. Had
we not seen the box picked from the dray
and broken open on the deck? I reminded
Eldridge of that, and he flushed at my
"Yes," he said. "Did our president
say anything against me when he talked
with you about it? No? I'm glad we left
in such a hurry. I know he thought I
was fooled too easy by Captain Brooks,
though I ain't saying Captain Brooks
fooled anybody. But the boys chaffed me
a deal about that trick of breaking a box
taken by random. You see, there were
sixteen boxes put in the hold and we find
only fifteen here. Would you think it
possible that sixteenth box, after getting
repaired   at   Northport,    stayed   there?"
That pretty well convinced me. Along
with the conviction came the knowledge
that young Eldridge was going to drive a
stiff bargain with Captain Brooks, and the
thought of that revolted me. I forgot
that my chief reason for shipping in the
"Wild Rose" was to blackmail old Brooks
into consenting that I marry his daughter.
I thought only of the undoubted fact that
Brooks was to be compelled, under threat
of arrest, to return the insurance money he
had collected, and then buy the saved
cargo, whatever it might be, at an enormous price to prevent exposure. I determined at once that I should have no part in
any such doings, and to this determination
I adhered while we sailed up the coast and
finally anchored inside of Sandy Hook one
afternoon at sunset.
The next morning we got under way
bright and early for quarantine.
"I think we'll have a very interesting
time, after the doctor visits us,'' said
Eldridge. "Let's see—this is the last of
June, isn't it? Just about harvest-time
on Long Island, eh? Little early, maybe,
but I guess not this year; no, I guess it's
just about our harvest-time, anyway. The
captain will meet us at quarantine to fix
And it was so. In fact, too, in spite of
my good resolutions about participating in
any blackmailing scheme, I shared in the
harvest.   Just as the doctor's yawl left us,
__£_^J ir
after we anchored at quarantine, one of the
big sidewheel tugs, common in those days,
came plowing up to our little schooner,
and as she fetched to, bow on, with reversed wheels, Captain Brooks came from
under an awning aft and leaped over to
where Eldridge and I were standing. It
was the same old Captain Brooks, smiling
and polite. Coming to me first of all, he
held out his hand and said:
"Let's shake. Do. I give it up.
You've beat me clean out. I ought to
hate you like the devil, but I don't. You
haven't a milk-and-water hair in your
head, if you are a Havelock. Of course,
you've had luck, but I don't stack up
against lucky men, either. Just get
aboard the tug there."
He turned toward the quarter-deck of
the tug, that was now in plain view, showing his wife and Miss Gladys seated there,
smiling most invitingly.
"The tug will take you back to the city
with   them,   and  I'll   settle   with   your
partner here. If I'd been in town the
morning you left for Key West, it would
have saved me a few thousand, but you've
got me now, and I'm game enough not to
squeal when you pinch me."
He turned to Eldridge, who grinned and
held out his hand to me, glancing the
while toward the quarter-deck of the tug.
"It's all right, eh?    And just our luck. I
But, Dick, I wish I was going in the tug
instead of you.''
And it was all right. How he settled f
with Eldridge I never learned; I wouldn't
listen when Eldridge came to give me my
legal share of the proceeds of the venture.
I told him it was a blackmailing scheme,
whereat Captain Brooks decided that I was
"a fool Havelock after all," and did not
speak to me again for a year. But little
that worried me then, or worries me now,
for in the mean time Gladys had given me
the welcome for which I had wished, and
we had placed it beyond the power of her
father to molest or make afraid.
By Susan Hartley.
The east wind comes gaily with ripple and foam,
With white caps and frolic and glee,
But mine is the joy, for the wind in its play
Is bearing me on, love, by night and by day,
Home, my love, home,
Home to my joy and thee.
When the watches are still and the stars shining clear,
Then my dreamings are brighter than they.
Ah! sweet are the visions from over the sea,
For I think of the arms that are waiting for me;
Soft arms, my love, soft,
And kisses that never betray.
Come kiss me, sweet lass, and kiss me again,
And here shall our two lives agree:
We'll catch all the sunshine, we'll heed not the storm,
We'll live and we'll love and we'll keep our hearts warm.
Joy, my love, joy
Is waiting for thee and for me. m
By John Barker.
BY the fading light of an oil-lamp a girl
sat reading a letter. The words all
ran together before her tear-dimmed eyes,
but she had read them over so many times
during that long, unhappy day that she
knew the form of every letter in the short,
businesslike note, dated six months back:—
"My Dear Ida:—
"While the course you impose on me is
a very hard one, I shall respect your
"If you should ever change your mind,
a word will be sufficient to call me to you.
'' Should the time ever come when I can
be of service, do not hesitate to command
me. Faithfully yours,       J.  H."
That was all, but the girl clung to the
few hastily scribbled lines as a drowning
man clings   to   a   straw.     To  her  excited
imagination they were all that stood between her and the river. After pushing
aside the paper and fumbling with the
screw of the sputtering lamp, she rose and
paced up and down the floor of her scantily
furnished hall bedroom.
"And why not?" she asked herself for
the hundredth time that day. "I shall
not be the first woman who has bartered
her soul for bread and shelter. He is an
honorable man and will always be kind to
me. If I only loved him a little it would
not be so bad, after all. Perhaps I could
learn to love him; perhaps when a woman
belongs to a man "    And so her mind
worked on, trying, womanlike, to reconcile
the want which sells and the love which
She was a girl of religious tendencies
and strong imagination, and she tried to
picture to herself what  such  a life would f^
be. The inherited traditions of a line of
Puritan ancestors made her shrink from
the thoughts which, nevertheless, had the
fascination of the mysterious and unknown.
Going back to the table she picked up
another letter, in the cramped handwriting
of her landlady, and held it under the
"Miss Foster:—
"You are now three weeks behind in
your room-rent. As I am a poor woman
who depends on lodgers for a living, and
as there seems no chance of your being
able to pay your rent in the future, I shall
have to ask you to give up your room tomorrow morning.
"Your landlady,
' 'Matilda Jones. ''
With a deep sigh, she blew out the
empty lamp, raised the curtain and undressed by the light of the electric street-
lamp across the way. As she unfolded her
worn little nightgown and discovered a
long rent in the back, a hot flush overspread her face in the semidarkness.
Then she knelt beside the bed and said
her prayers. She did not pray earnestly
and passionately, as a girl might be expected to pray under the circumstances,
calling wildly on the invisible God to help
her in her distress, but listlessly and perfunctorily, as one performs an accustomed
duty. As she arose from her knees and
got into bed she said to herself:
"That is probably the last time I shall
say my prayers."
She then settled herself comfortably and
slept like a child till eight o'clock the next
morning, when she was awakened by a
knock at the door.
"Come in," she called, rising on her
elbow and gazing with wildly beating
heart toward the door, expecting to see
the face of her irate landlady, who would
demand that she get up and leave the house.
Instead, the freckled face of the little Irish
slavey appeared in the doorway, and something hard hit against the panels. Then
the door opened wider, and a tray with a
cup of steaming coffee and some rolls was
placed on the foot of her bed.
"The missis said," explained the
servant, "that this might hearten you a
little before you go out.''
The lump in Ida's throat choked her so
that she could not say "Thank you," but
could only nod her head in mute acquiescence. The slavey vanished through the
doorway, after stubbing her toe on the worn
rug, and Ida was left alone with her breakfast. It was the first food she had eaten
for thirty-six hours. She would not have
believed a week before that plain hard
rolls could taste so like the ambrosia of the
gods. And the coffee! People who have
not fasted for thirty-six hours don't know
the taste of coffee.
When she had eaten the last crumb of
roll and drank the last drop of coffee, Ida
rose and dressed for the street. Her best
dress was a plain little coat and skirt of
blue serge. It fitted her very well, and
when it had been new, in the spring, she
had looked very smart in it; but that was
before she lost her position as bookkeeper
in the big leather establishment in Gold
Mr. Henderson, the "J. H." of the letter
and the attorney of the leather establishment, had admired the dress and told her
that it made her look more beautiful than
usual, and that, he said, was very beautiful indeed. Then he had tried to kiss her,
but she ran away from him, and he called
her a tease and said other things which
men say under such circumstances.
With these thoughts running through
her mind, she fastened on her little hat,
which had pretty red roses on the front.
That, too, was a relic of the prosperous
days of the spring. There was a little
tear in her veil over her left ear, and her
gloves were badly worn; but, on the whole,
it was a neat, though not particularly
-stylish, little figure which went down the
steps of Mrs. Jones' furnished-room house
a few minutes later. In her purse was an
elevated-railroad ticket, but no money.
She left the train at Rector Street and
went straight to Mr. Henderson's law-office
on Broadway. When she stepped out of
the elevator at the fifth floor, she was
trembling so that she could hardly stand.
Mr. Henderson was very busy that morning preparing a complaint in an important
case. He was a fairly good-looking man
of medium height, always carefully dressed,
though by no means a dandy, and if it had
not been for the bald spot on the crown of A METROPOLITAN LOVE INCIDENT.
his head and the deep line on either side
of his thin-lipped mouth, he would have
looked considerably younger than his acknowledged forty-two years.
By close attention to his profession he
had earned a solid, though not brilliant,
reputation among his fellow-members of
the bar, and enjoyed, in his own quiet
way, a yearly income varying from, ten to
twelve thousand dollars. He had been a
widower for more than ten years, and lived
with a maiden sister in a substantial, old-
fashioned house in Brooklyn.
He was writing on a large pad of yellow
paper, such as lawyers use:     "The   plain-
fully behind the office-boy, he held out
his hand to the girl.
"I am very glad to see you, Miss Foster," he said. "I was wondering only
yesterday what had become of you. Are
you still with the leather men in Gold
He had noticed the little tear in the veil
over Ida's left ear and the worn fingers
of the brown gloves, and the thought occurred to him that the girl might have lost
her position and have come to him to borrow money. He was accustomed to such
requests from all sorts and conditions of
t by Max F. Klepper.
tiff further alleges, on information and
belief, that on or about the twenty-first
day of June, 1898," when there came a
knock on the door of his private office,
and in response to his "Come in" the
office-boy appeared with the announcement:
"A lady to see you, sir."
Mr. Henderson laid down his pen and
rose, thinking that his caller was probably
the lady for whom he was drawing the
complaint on his desk. When he saw Ida,
he was very much surprised, for he had
not even thought of her for a month or
two.    When he had closed the door care-
Ida shook her head. "I am not at Geld
Street now," she said.
• Mr. Henderson motioned her to a chair
beside his desk, then sat down himself
and, leaning his elbow on the unfinished
complaint, looked inquiringly at the girl
and waited for her to* speak.
"I don't know how to say what I have
to say," she began, flushing deeply, and
in a voice so weak that he had to lean
forward to catch her words. "I don't
know how to begin, but I've lost my
position, and the landlady has put me out,
and—and—I remembered you told me last
spring that if I ever changed my mind and 682
came to you, you'd take care of me,
and I've—I've come! Boo-hoo-hoo!"
Having made her meaning tolerably
clear, she put her head down on the
edge of the desk and sobbed without restraint.
Mr. Henderson didn't say anything at
first, but merely stroked her worn little
glove and waited for her to cease crying.
As she sat there with her head on his desk,
the tear in the veil over her left ear was
particularly prominent, and it slowly
dawned on his mind that her tears would
wrinkle the front of the veil beyond hope
of rejuvenation.
"Don't cry so, Ida," he said; "you'll
feel better presently."
Her sobs gradually ceased, but she still
kept her head on the table.
Now, there is in most men, especially
in those who have had the privilege of the
companionship of a deeply religious sister,
an ideal of the heroic in masculine conduct, especially when such conduct does
not involve the relinquishment of any very
strong desire. If the heroic ideal does
mean such a relinquishment—why, then
the case is quite different. The Ida Foster
who sat weeping in distress beside his
desk, with her little pink ear sticking
through her torn veil, somehow did not
appeal to the man's imagination as the
coquettish, prosperous Ida Foster of the
spring had done. However, as he looked
down at her he was not conscious of any
influence save that of the heroic ideal.
"How long have you been out of a
position?" he asked, when she had stilled
her sobs.
'' Three months,'' she answered, raising
her head and passing her handkerchief
over her pink and swollen nose and cheeks;
"three months, and I owe my landlady
three weeks' rent."
"And how much does that come to?"
'' Twelve dollars.''
"And is that all you owe?" be asked,
opening his eyes a trifle wider. It seemed
such a paltry sum!
"That, and a dollar and a half to the
Mr. Henderson sat for a moment, drumming the fingers of one hand on the palm
of the other, after a habit of his. Ida
was conscious that her eyes were  swollen
and her nose was red, and she began  to
wish she hadn't cried.
"I have it!" Mr. Henderson suddenly
exclaimed, jumping up and fumbling
among the papers on his desk. "Smith &
Jackson, up in Pine Street, are looking for
a good bookkeeper, and I'm sure you're
just the person they want. I'll give you
a letter of introduction to Smith, saying
you're the best bookkeeper in the city of
New York, and you'll probably be installed
there to-morrow and your troubles will be
all over."
He grasped his stub-pen and wrote sc
glowing a letter in praise of Miss Foster's
wonderful ability that when the letter was
finally delivered to Smith, of Pine Street,
the latter scratched his head thoughtfully
and offered Miss Foster two dollars a week
more than his former bookkeeper had received.   But I am getting ahead of my story.
After putting the letter of recommendation into an envelope, Mr. Henderson
handed it to the astonished Ida, remarking
in cheering tones:
"There! Now you're all right! Dry
your eyes and go and see Smith. -But
wait a minute!''
He thrust his hand into his, vest-pocket,
drew out three ten-dollar bills and crowded
them into the girl's hand. "Go pay your
landlady," he said, "and when you have
seen Smith come back and tell me what he
Ida was so much surprised by the turn
of affairs that she could only stammer out
her thanks in broken sentences, which Mr.
Henderson cut short by saying cheerily:
"That's all right now, that4s all right.
It's a mere trifle, anyway."
When . the door had closed behind the
girl's retreating figure, Mr. Henderson
paused in the middle of the floor and
scratched   his   ear with   his   penholder.
"Wonder if she thought I was an awful
gump!" he exclaimed to himself. "Hope
she gets the job all right, poor little thing.''
Then he turned to the table, pulled the
yellow paper in front of him once more,
frowned slightly and began where he had
left off on the complaint: "That on or
about the twenty-first day of June, 1898,
the plaintiff herein and the defendant
Machen entered into an agreement in writ
ing,'' et cetera A METROPOLITAN LOVE /NC/DEN7
At eleven o'clock that night Ida Foster
once more knelt beside her bed in the little
hall bedroom of Mrs. Jones' furnished-room
house in West Eleventh Street. She was
thanking God that she had obtained the
position as bookkeeper at Smith & Jackson's, and had been able to pay her overdue
room-rent and one week's rent in advance.
Then she asked God to bless Mr. Henderson, whom she declared to Mr. Henderson's
Creator to be the noblest man in the world.
At the same hour, in a rose-tinted restaurant uptown, noted for its exorbitant
prices and the perfection of its cuisine, Mr.
Henderson sat at a small table opposite to
a very pretty, fashionably dressed woman,
who held a champagne-glass daintily poised
between her thumb and fingers while she
listened intently to the story which her
companion was telling.
'' And after the girl went away,'' he
said, "I felt at least two inches taller.
Now,  the majority   of   men   would  have
taken advantage of the situation; but I
should have always felt guilty if I had
done otherwise than I did."
The pretty woman took a sip of champagne, and then put the glass down on the
"And you are quite sure, John, that you
were not the least bit sweet on the poor
little thing?" she asked, leaning forward
and looking at him in her most fascinating
"Quite sure. Of course I admired her
when we first met, as a man always admires a pretty girl; but that was all-''
The woman, being wise in her way, did
not make any reply to this, and the man
went on, after a moment:
"I may have said some foolish things to
her last spring; I presume I did; but that
was before I met you, Rosamond. Wouldn't
you like some more champagne, dear?"
'' Yes, I think I would, And you might
order another bird, too."
By Thomas Walsh.
In dreams of thee I feel the eloquence
That floods the souls of poets half divine;
Earth blooms anew, and music takes a sense
Of glorious pain, and thought gives warmth like wine.
Oh, to give this to language! to distil
With wizardry the heavenly vapor fleet
And in a word, a gem, a flower, at will,
Cast it in trembling passion at thy feet. »l
By Harry Thurston Peck.
VERY   interesting   subject   for  the        Now in every country except our own,
social^ philosopher to investigate is   there is in this matter of courtesy-titles no
found in the evolution of courtesy-titles
among the nations of the West. In the
days when Rome was truly Roman and before it had become hybrid and cosmopolitan, such a thing as prefixing a title to a
name was quite unknown. The meanest
slave in addressing the proudest patrician
would call him by his nomen; and, as in
Russia to-day, no one thought of this
practice as involving any suggestion of
familiarity or of disrespect. And, indeed,
when examined in the abstract, this was
natural enough. A man's name is given
to him in order to distinguish him from
other men. It is a convenient label. Why,
then, should he not be called by it tout
court ?
Courtesy-titles came in with the Empire
when the sycophancy of the courtier
sought for artificial distinctions in social
usage.* It was not long before the Emperor
began to receive titles equivalent to the
English '' Lord," " Your Majesty," " Your
Serene Highness," "Your Mightiness"
and "Your Grace." Then, after the principle had been once established, it was
extended to the formal usage of all classes,
until at last we find the Romans evolving
various modes of polite address which find
their exact parallel in our modern titles
of courtesy. Thus, the poet Martial
apologizes to an acquaintance because on
meeting him one morning "I spoke to
you accidentally by your own name and
forgot to call you 'Mister'" (domine).
From   the   second   century on, it became
difference between the usage of the most
highly cultivated and that of the masses of
the people. If anything, indeed, the man
of the people in other countries observes the
requirements of established custom rather
more carefully than do his superiors, at
least in his intercourse with them. He
addresses them as they are entitled to be
addressed by accepted usage. He never
thinks of inventing any new titles of his
own for them, nor has he any feeling about
giving them their social due. If he be a
German or an Englishman he even takes a
certain pleasure in rolling out a sonorous
"Excellenz" or an eternally recurrent
"Sir." This is because he is a believer
in the claims of class and in whatever is
established, and he likes in whatever he
does or says to fit into the existing scheme
of things.
In the colonial period of American his- '
tory, the case was much the same. Most
of the colonies were formed under royal
charters granted to men who belonged to
the aristocratic section of English society
and who in consequence brought with them
all the forms and customs and observances
of the class to which they themselves belonged. Moreover, this was quite as true
of Puritanic Massachusetts as of Cavalier
Virginia; and indeed in Massachusetts
the colonists were perhaps even more tenacious of such class distinctions as existed
than were the less formal and more easygoing Southerners. They illustrated the
well-known truth that at heart there is no
more and more essential for persons of essential difference between the Englishman
breeding in speaking to others to use the who is a Whig and the Englishman who
various prefixes which in their modified is a Tory, so far as concerns the innate
forms are adopted by all the peoples of the conservatism of their actions. Hence to-
West who have felt the influence of Roman
custom. Don, Dona, Senor, Senora, Monsieur, Madame, Mademoiselle, Sir, Mister
(Master), Mrs. (Mistress), Miss—these and
day, Massachusetts is the only state in the
whole Union whose Governor is by law
"His Excellency" and Lieutenant-Governor "His Honor," just as it is the only
state whose official proclamations end with
that good old formula   which smacks of
other verbal marks of personal respect are
all descended  directly,  even though not
always etymologically, from the titles which   English dignity—"God save the Common
the Roman gentlemen and ladies used in   wealth of Massachusetts!"
speaking to each other. I*118
general observance of titular eti- 686
quette as understood and practised in the
mother-country, survived the crisis of the
Revolution and the severance of our political connection with the English people.
The traditional feeling was strong enough
to find official expression at the time when
our Constitution was adopted, for many of
the framers of this instrument sought in it
to bestow upon the President the title of
"High Mightiness''—a title which it is said
that Washington himself desired. But by
that time a change was slowly becoming
perceptible in the temper of the American
people. The leaven of republicanism in
its strictest sense had begun to work. A
certain scorn of foreign example, a certain
restlessness and resentment under even the
slightest restraint, a touch of lawlessness
perhaps, and a growing passion for an independence which should be more than
political, stirred the masses of the people.
They were feeling the exhilaration of
power, and they chafed as much under
conventional restraint as they had formerly
chafed under political injustice. American
independence was already beginning to
express itself as American irreverence; Yet
it is interesting to remember that if our
President to-day has not the legal right to
figure as '' His Excellency," it is because
the title which belongs to a mere ambassador was thought too paltry for the ruler of
the triumphant young Republic; while
'' His High Mightiness,'' which was the
title adopted by the Stadtholder of Holland,
was opposed by many patriots for a similar reason. The American President, if
he was going to have any title at all,
deserved a better one than that officially
given to a Dutchman!
The influence of the French Revolution
and the. rise of a Jacobin party in this
country completed in popular sentiment the
change which was still in embryo when
Washington was inaugurated President.
From 1793 to 1816 a wave of radicalism,
of iconoclasm, of rampant rudeness, swept
over almost the entire nation. The American people ceased to speak in modulated
tones and began to yawp. It was the
period of the Whisky Rebellion, of enthusiasm for all the excesses of the Parisian
sans-culottes, of Citizen Genet's astonishingly impudent defiance of Washington,
the period of Jefferson's intriguing, of the
Embargo, and finally of the war with England which in the end made it appear almost a patriotic duty for an American to
abjure the conventions inherited from England, even though they included many of
the ordinary decencies of life. The Great
Unwashed began to reign; and when
Jefferson, though himself a thorough
aristocrat in his thought as in his mode of
life, hitched his horse to a stump and went
up to the Capitol on foot to be inaugurated, he was ostentatiously sympathizing
with that contempt of form which was
becoming almost a religion with the masses.
The Middle West, still raw and rough,
was beginning to be felt; and the typical
American of that period always appears to
me as a raw-boned, unshaven, vociferous,
brawling creature, redolent of onions, and
thrusting aside with his cowhide boots
everything that belonged to the refinements
of an older civilization which to him seemed
only senseless or ridiculous. As with the
centurion in Persius, what he already
knew was enough for him to know; and
his formula was the formula of false democracy, "I'm as good as you!" rather
than the formula of true democracy, which
is, "You're as good as I." Later,, a certain slyness and smugness, as of the huckster and small trader, were superadded;
but down to the time of the Civil War,
the American people as a whole were pretty
thoroughly devoid of the graces and
amenities of life as these were elsewhere
known. Chroniclers like Marry at and Mrs.
Trollope and Dickens who have left enduring pictures of the manners which they
found here, were of course malicious in
stressing all the most unlovely phases of
our social life; yet after due allowance has
been made for their unfriendliness, there
can be no doubt at all that they set down
substantially the truth.
Just how titles of courtesy fared during
this long period of aggressive incivility it
is not my purpose to consider here. Indeed, to do so would be to writer a volume,
nor after all would it be very satisfactory.
Everything was so heterogeneous, and
there were such infinite varieties of local
usage, as to make an orderly analysis impossible. Suffice it to say that pretty nearly
every form of address that savors of deference went  by the board  with  the grpat NATIVE TITLES IN THE UNITED STATES.
mass of our population. In the small communities especially, courtesy-titles, save in
exceptional cases, were discarded altogether, often by an unconscious instinct
that sought equality in everything, sometimes through a sort of defiant anxiety to
prove by sheer offensiveness that no man
had any claim to especial consideration as
against another. The social spirit of the
Jacksonian Epoch was that displayed by
the citizen whom Martin Chuzzlewit encountered at the dinner-table of a river
steamer and who sucked his knife for a
moment in his tobacco-stained mouth before making a cut with it at the butter.
It was shown by the Western boors who
habitually spoke of Mrs. Trollope as "the
English old woman''; and by the Chesterfield of Cincinnati who, when President
Jackson visited that town in 1828 just
after the death of Mrs. Jackson, greeted
the distinguished soldier with "There goes
Jackson! Where's his wife?" It was
seen in the abrogation of all modes of
speech that savored of inequality of social
conditions, substituting, for example,
"help" for "servant," and "old man"
(later "boss") for "master." Just a
little touch of it enters into Daniel Webster's famous letter to the Chevalier Hulse-
mann; and traces of it unfortunately survive in the "shirt-sleeve diplomacy" of
very recent times.
That was a long while ago. Since then,
the great war has shaken our institutions
into something like a definite system. Vast
fortunes have been made; we are gaining
a knowledge of elegance and perhaps a
taste for it; and there is coming into existence the beginning of a system of class
distinction. We are slowly establishing all
over again for ourselves a new set of usages
that are unlike those of any other people.
As yet it is all indefinite and unsettled;
yet the curious observer may at least set
down some notes for future use when the
evolution shall have proceeded somewhat
It is interesting to note that the American
aversion to titles has been, in the main,
consistently directed against those titles
that denote anything like caste and that
are associated with inherited rank or place
or family. Titles of nobility, of course, have
been  especially tabooed  and  held  up to a
real or an affected ridicule. But the same
thing was for a while almost as true of the
minor titles of courtesy such as "Mr." or
"Esquire," which in their way also set off
the person to whom they were applied as
apart from Tom, Dick and Harry. On the
other hand, titles that were earned or that
might be supposed to have been earned by
actual achievement, were not, even in the
middle of this century, disliked; in fact,
they were very much approved. And this
was consistent enough. The feeling was
the true American feeling of respect for
the man who does things, who himself
is somebody. It fitly supplements the
dislike of inherited distinction, which is
distinction based upon what some one else
has done. Hence Americans have looked
kindly upon military titles, upon professional
titles and upon political titles. Just because these in themselves represented
achievement, personal effort and success,
they were sought and won; and though
they have been misappropriated and ludicrously abused, the original feeling in their
favor was not only respectable but commendable. '' Colonel," " Major, " " Judge,''
"Doctor," "Professor," "Governor" and
"Commissioner," may or may not have
any especial meaning in a given case. The
Colonel may, to be sure, be a veteran of
many battles, but he is more likely to have
been at some period of his career a militia
officer, or to have held an honorary appointment upon a governor's staff. Or
perhaps, especially in the South, he may
never have had any martial experience at
all, but the title may be meant as a recognition of general eminence. I am informed
that in Georgia, for instance, any one who
has attained to a high position in the
practice of law and who does not happen
to have secured the designation of "Judge"
receives by general consent the honorific
title of "Colonel." The "Major" may
have at some remote period of his career
been only a drum-major; the "Marshal"
a census-taker; the "Judge" a justice of
the peace; the "Doctor" a dentist or a
veterinary; the "Professor" a teacher in a
local school or possibiy a boxing-master,
an aeronaut or a barber; and the "Commissioner" a school-commissioner ; yet
none the less, the fondness for these titles
springs  less   from   an Old   World   love   of NATIVE TITLES IN THE UNITED STATES.
precedence than from a New World admiration of achievement. In other words,
we have gone back to that primitive stage
when titles were based upon service rather
than upon birth, when the Duke was the
general (dux), and the Baron the stout man-
at-arms (Jbaro), when the Chamberlain performed household duties, when the Master
of Horse and the Constable were actually
in charge of the royal stables, and when
the Chancellor sat behind a latticed screen
(cancelli) and did the work of an accountant.
To-day, with the advent of a powerful
plutocracy and with the consequent introduction of much of the external pomp and
circumstance of a privileged class, the
American people is beginning dimly to
recognize the claims of such a class as
those are understood elsewhere. Democratic simplicity is rapidly departing from
the national life. When Dickens visited
the United States in 1840, he noted the
fact that while in New York he saw, during
his whole stay there, only one carriage
driven by a man in livery—a very lonely,
unhappy-looking importation. Now, even
the cabmen on the public stands get themselves up in a shabby imitation of their
liveried congeners. All the employe's of
the great corporations such as railway and
steamboat companies are made to wear a
distinctive dress ; policemen, firemen,
messenger-boys, hotel-attendants and elevator-men are uniformed; waiters are compelled to shave. Everywhere about us we.
see personal service marked by some kind
of badge, and in a thousand ways the popular mind is habituated to the thought of
class and caste, not long ago so foreign to
it. It would be strange if this constant
appeal to the eye did not in the end affect
the manner and the bearing of one man
toward another, and if the recognition of
all these distinctive divisions did not influence the forms of speech that are in
vogue among us. Democratic theory cannot
long hold out in one particular sphere after
it has given place to undemocratic reality
in every other.
Just at present, then, we are working
out the problem of how to make our colloquial usages fit in with what is essentially
to us a brand-new social order. The attempts to solve the problem are Still very
crude; for though the matter is superficially
a very trifling one, it in reality goes down
pretty deep into human nature, and it
touches the seat of long-standing prejudice
and national tradition. The man in the
street, the man who needs to please, or at
least not to offend, so that he may live and
prosper, has come to feel that he must be
compliant, that he must admit in his very
speech an inequality of condition which
in his heart he may entirely reject or even
bitterly resent. Yet he has no choice.
He must become externally a respecter of
persons, a thing which few Americans are
naturally apt to be. So his attempts at
doing what he knows to be inevitable usually represent a curious and oftentimes
amusing compromise. It is a compromise
between the desirability of using the Old
World forms which plainly mark the difference between superior and inferior, and the
American distaste for any such distinction
whatsoever. And the compromise is
effected, on the part of the majority of our
population, by a resort to modes of address
which may be held on the one hand to imply respect, and on the other hand not to
impair the self-esteem and independence of
the one who uses them. These modes of
address are characteristically American, for
they are drawn nearly always from the vocabulary of localities where they have always been employed, though not with the
same implications which they are now supposed to bear. In other words, the sometimes friendly, sometimes jocular and sometimes neutral expressions of the village
community, of the ranch, of the workshop,
and even of the mining-camp are all being
pressed into service as being titles by which
a certain degree of deference may be implied
without any concomitant suggestion of
servility. The result is an extraordinary
combination from every point of view, and
is interesting alike to the social observer,
to the collector of Americanisms and to the
serious student of the American character.
Of course, when the name of the person
spoken to is known, the proper prefix is
not a matter of any special doubt.
No one to-day, outside of very small and
very rustic communities, objects to giving
any one the title "Mr.," at least in speaking
to him. There may, however, be some
half-conscious dislike even  for  this neces- NATIVE TITLES IN THE UNITED STATES.
sity, and I think there really is; else why
do Americans almost universally drop the
"Mr." in speaking of a person? Why do
they mention any one and every one, from
the President down, by his last name only
or by a nickname? Even the leader-
writers in the newspapers, barring a very
few, rejoice to write of "McKinley" and
"Bryan" and "Roosevelt" and "Piatt"
and "Lodge" without the courteous prefix
that would make even an attack upon those
gentlemen more effective in conveying the
impression of moderation and self-restraint.
And in private life it is just as true. The
stable-boy, the laborer, the clerk, the em-
ployG of every grade, will almost invariably
be heard describing his employer and his
employer's friends by their last names.
It really sounds as though in doing so he
were soothing his own feelings for having
had to show in their presence the verbal
symbols of respect, refreshing himself, as
it were, by an assertion in private of his
own equality.
While the prefix "Mr." is before our
minds, it may be well to mention one
curious use of it which prevails in certain
parts of New England, more particularly
in Connecticut—r-a use which seems to
make the prefix indicative almost of a
certain disrespect 'in. the mind of persons
who employ it. In the small hamlets of
western Connecticut the population is
almost wholly made up of native Americans, so that a resident of foreign birth is
a rarity. Now the natives all address
each other by their first names or by local
nicknames, and they form almost one family
in the intimacy of their intercourse. But
if there happens to have settled among
them a stray Irishman or a German, the
natives will not, even after many years,
quite feel that he is one of them, that he
belongs, so to speak, to their guild. He
participates in all their festivities, and
enters into their life completely, and he
treats them with the same familiarity which
they display toward one another. The
delicate nuance of feeling which separates
him from his neighbors in their consciousness is indicated by this one thing alone:
that they almost invariably give him the
prefix which. they withhold from one another, styling him"i_>. O'Brien" or "Mr.
Hiiller.''    And this is obviously not done
because they view him with a respect
which they withhold f] *:m even the most
prosperous and influential of their own
number, for in their heart of hearts they
look down upon him as an alien and a
foreigner. They call him "Mr." through
a more or less unconscious instinct which
compels them in some way or other to set
him off as one who has no real identity
with them.
Reverting to our main proposition, it may
be said that it is not in the forms of address applied to persons whose names are
known to the speaker that any particular
difficulty arises. The complication begins
when it is necessary to address a stranger,
to call his attention suddenly, or to answer
his questioning in such a way as to convey
a shade of deference or at least to avoid a
shade of disrespect. There is a strongly
rooted American dislike to the use of the
word "sir." I do not suppose that one
American in a million could give any reason
whatsoever for this dislike, because the
historical origin of it is unknown to the
masses. In reality, however, the avoidance of the word is traditional, because
"sir" has descended to us from the days
of feudalism, because it has all sorts of
aristocratic associations, and because even
to-day in England its use implies the essential inferiority of the person who uses it.
As a title, it smacks of knights and baronets. As a form of address, it means that
the person to whom it is applied is the su- .
perior and perhaps the master of the one
who applies it to him. Consequently, the
man in the street, if he wishes to attract
the attention of any one who appears to be
a person of consideration, will not accost
him as '' sir,'' nor will he readily say
"Yes, sir," in answer to his questions.
And yet he must call him something
if he wishes to make a good impression.
And here is just where we begin to observe the compromise of which I have
already spoken—a compromise which is
effected in various ways according to the
age and apparent station of the person
addressed, and the age and station and
geographical affinities of the speaker. With
the least-educated section of the community, the word "boss" is getting to be perhaps the most frequent of these native titles
of ours.    To a newsboy or a boot-black r^f
or the driver of a "night-hawk" or a day-
laborer, "boss" connotes a certain magnificence and power and general eminence
that make it in such a mind extremely flattering. A boss is always a man who is at
the head of something or other—of a gang
of laborers, of a big manufacturing establishment or of a business house. At any
rate, he is the head man, the man to be
looked up to and to take orders from, and
therefore the title is a complimentary one,
while it does not compromise the person
who uses it; since the followers of a boss
of any kind are his voluntary followers,
and it is understood that he is their chief
only for so long a time as they choose to
accept his control or so long as he continues to "boss the job." Moreover, of
late, "boss" has become a political title;
and although it is used by many as a term
of opprobrium, there is no doubt that
with the masses it is a title of honor because with it go power and responsibility
and the notoriety which with the majority
of men stands for fame. Indeed, a friend
of mine has very cleverly suggested that
"boss" in political parlance is the exact
equivalent of the Latin word princeps as
employed by Cicero in his comments on the
political intrigues of ancient Rome. Therefore, we find that there are several million
Americans who if they wish to call your
attention in a respectful way will do so
with the introductory ejaculation, "Say,
boss!" and will answer your questions with
"Yes, boss," or "No, boss." In the
vocabulary of the newsboy and of the bootblack these forms represent the highest
possible degree of deference. If your appearance fails quite to come up to the
standard of one who is entitled to be called
"boss," you will be hailed with "Say,
mister!'' while if it is not worth while to
be ceremonious at all, you will be greeted
simply as "Young feller" if you are under
fifty, or, if of uncertain age, as "cully."
Some one may object, with reference to
what has been said above as to the American dislike to "sir," that in the South
and West almost every sentence is punctuated with that word, and this is true. Yet
its use in this way belongs to an entirely
different category of usage. It is a mere
trick of speech and it is not given to one
person   and   withheld from  another, but »s
universally employed without any intention
or implication on the part of the speaker.
The reason for its use in the two sections
of the country just named has been a matter of speculation for many years, the prevailing opinion being that it is the child of
the debating society, the public meeting
and the political assembly, all so popular
in the South and West, and that in consequence it was at first a purely parliamentary piece of phrasing. A much less probable theory ascribes it to an imitation of
the perpetually recurring "monsieur" in
French and dating from the days when
everything French was intensely popular in
this country; but a sufficient objection to
this theory is found in the fact that the
frequent use of "sir" prevails only in those
sections to which the French influence
never really penetrated but which have remained both in custom and in population
almost purely Anglo-Saxon.
There is a stratum of our population of
a class more intelligent than the class
which uses "boss" as a title of courtesy.
Its members are even more sensitive about
appearing to accept a position of inferiority, while on the other hand they are still
more anxious to avoid offense. These are
the persons who are apt to select the titles
which sprang up in the rural districts, and of
these titles the most popular are '' neighbor''
and "friend." To my mind there is something cruder about these than about "boss,''
and they are essentially less indicative of
respect, because they imply affinity and
even equality. "Neighbor" is a thoroughly New England form, and had its
original habitat in Connecticut, in western
Massachusetts and in Vermont. As used
in its early home, it was a friendly and rather
natural term to use, savoring strongly of
the small community all of whose inhabitants were closely allied by the fact of
their collective isolation and their mutual
dependence on one another. When one
hears it, however, in a great city and upon
the lips of an entire stranger, it is utterly
grotesque. I do not think that it has become grafted upon the urban vocabulary of
any class; and when a person in a city is
found using it, investigation will generally
show that he is a new-comer. Not long
ago, calling at the box-office of a theater
for two tickets that I had ordered, I was NATIVE TITLES IN THE UNITED STATES
thus addressed by the man who gave them
to me: "Here's your tickets, neighbor."
It seemed so unlikely a place in which
to hear this rustic utterance that I took a
look at the man and then inquired whether
he was from Bridgeport, Connecticut, and
he answered with a great deal of surprise
that he was. I was rather surprised myself that I had hit the truth so exactly;
but his Fairfield County manner was unmistakable.
Of "friend," very much the same thing
may be said as of " neighbor''; except that
it is used by persons who occupy a slightly
higher social stratum than that which belongs to those who call you "neighbor."
"Friend" is generally applied to you by
some one who would like to drop any and
every kind of title and call you simply by
your name, but who is a little uncertain of
how you would take such an unmistakable
familiarity. He does not quite venture to
drop all formality, yet he wishes to get a
little nearer to you than if he were to
prefix "Mr." to your name; and so he
calls you "friend." The persons who do
this sort of thing do. it oftenest in their
letter-writing, beginning their epistles with
"Friend Brown," for example. This form
is not so rural as '' neighbor,'' but is best
characterized as provincial; and it is very
common among a certain class of people
living in the larger inland cities, such as
Buffalo and Pittsburg, and in the Middle
West. Mr. Cleveland's rather celebrated
letter in which he spoke of marriage as
"one grand sweet song" began by addressing the person to whom it was written
as "Friend So-and-So"—which is about
what one would have expected from him
at that particular period of his career.
There are a number of more strictly localized Sforms of address which play a less
important part in the intercourse of Americans with one another. "Cap" is sporadically employed in various parts of the
country, chiefly by small hotel-keepers and
proprietors of livery-stables. It is supposed to represent a combination of geniality tempered by courtesy—the former
shown in the abbreviation and the second
in the employment of the military
title. "Doc" is bestowed by the same
individuals who use "Cap"; only they
febestow it   with  somewhat  less  profusion
and only upon those whose appearance
is somewhat professional. "Doc" is
also applied quite generally, even in
large cities, to druggists, as distinguished
from physicians, and in this sense it
has a greater currency and among a
more numerous class than "Cap." In
certain parts of the West "pard" and sometimes, more seriously, the unabbreviated
"partner," represent an equivalent of the
Eastern '' neighbor '' and '' friend.''
"Stranger" is still fairly common in portions of the Southwest and West, but it is
dying out little by little, except among
the writers of dialect stories.
In addressing ladies, and especially in
calling their attention when their names are
not known, there is very little range of
usage. Outside of the larger cities,
"madam" is seldom heard in the mouths
of the multitude, and there seems to be a
very general shyness about using any title
whatsoever. This bashful hesitancy is exceedingly American, and is rather admirable in its way, because it means that those
who possess it are afraid lest their manner
of speaking to a woman may not be sufficiently respectful. In an emergency, however, the casual man will call out, "Say,
Mrs.!" or "Say, Miss!" according to his
instantaneously formed theory of the status
of the lady in question. The difficulty,
however, of drawing this delicate distinction has led to a general use in cities of the
cautious compromise found in "lady,"
which one hears perhaps oftenest in the
public conveyances, where the formulas,
"This way, lady," and "Step lively,
lady,'' are kept going all day long.
Among persons of education and a fair
degree of cultivation (which is a very different thing), the American aversion to
titles is not consciously felt though its
presence is perhaps perceptible in a certain
carelessness and looseness in their employment. Thus, the number of Americans
who accurately discriminate in their use of
"Mr.'' and ' 'Esquire'' is a very small one;
and when it comes about that an American
has any occasion to address a person who
possesses a foreign title, he usually makes
some odd mistake in doing so. One might
write an interesting essay on the American
attitude toward foreign titles of nobility;
but  the essence of   the whole  thing has
r^J 692
been very subtly realized by Mr. Henry
James in "An International Episode,"
where he analyzes the feeling which Bessie
Alden entertains toward her admirer Lord
Lambeth. She is intensely interested in
him as an English peer, as one who actually
lives in a "castle" and has a seat in the
House of Lords, and presumably a family
history which is full of everything that is
historical and romantic. Now to the Englishman, this interest of hers was the sort
of interest that an English girl would feel
in a man who was a highly eligible matrimonial catch, blended perhaps with a
touch of middle-class snobbery. As a
matter of fact, it was anything and everything else—principally, indeed, the interest
of a girl who had read many English novels
and who is delightfully entertained at finding herself on familiar terms with the sort
of person who figures as the hero in so
many of these stories. For Lord Lambeth as a man and for Lord Lambeth as a
possible husband she cared nothing whatever. In fact, she found him decidedly
commonplace and prosaic, and she proved
it   by  rejecting him  when  he  desired to
marry her. And this is very much the
feeling which the average American entertains when he first meets a casual marquis
or earl or baron. He rather resents the
fact that there should be any such person
at all in actual life. He likes to confine
him to literature where he is picturesque
and harmonious with his surroundings.
To have him, as it were, stepping out of a
book into real life is disquieting, and in
the end excites a little of the American
sense of humor. In consequence, the everyday American has a sheepish feeling in addressing some commonplace Englishman
dressed in a suit of tweed as "Lord So-and-
So,' \ and if he does it at all he feels as
though he were taking part in some species
of mummery.
This is the reason why, if we are
ever going to have any consistent and
well-established system of courtesy-titles
that shall be recognized throughout our
country as a whole, it will have to be
a system of native origin and national development; for anything else can never be
seriously and universally accepted by all
classes of our people.
By Frank L. Stanton.
I reckon I'm kin to the lilies: I toil not, an' never spin;
I only answer to roll-call when the winds from the west blow in
Over the dew-drenched medders—over the song-sweet rills,
An' the sun with a glad uGood-mornin'," reads the dreams o' the
drowsy hills.
What do I want to toil fer, when the golden bee contrives
To feed a feller on honey stored in the drippin' hives;
When I see the color creepin' to the peach's rosy roun',
An' the red-ripe apples are fallin' an' dentin' the wet, sweet
groun' ?
Never was made fer a worker; how kin I stack the hay
Or follow the furrow when all the birds are singin' my soul away ?
Singin' my soul away to the medder-grasses sweet;
With the green o' the boughs above me, an' the violets at my
Reckon I'm kin to the lilies—that's what the workers say ;
Brother-in-law to the medder dressed fer the marriage with May:
But I alius answer to roll-call—though I toil not, an' never spin—
The roll-call o' the roses, when the winds from the west blow in ! STRAY LEAVES FROM A TRAITOR'S LIFE.
By Paul Leicester Ford.
I jPHERE is a class of autograph col-
A lectors who deserve praise rather
than abuse—a class who scorn the autographs of their contemporaries as too
modern and easily obtainable, who consider money as dross compared with the
really rare or interesting autograph. To
this class we are indebted for the preservation of many of the records of the past;
for many a valuable or picturesque paragraph in history and biography; and to
illustrate this truth, I have
through the courtesy of a half
a dozen such collectors selected from their portfolios a
series of documents throwing
new light on the career of
Benedict   Arnold,
The earliest,
and perhaps
the most curious, of these
is his singing-
book. It is
entitled, "The
Grounds and
Rules of Mu-
sick Explained:
or, An Introduction to the
Art of Singing
by Note, Fitted
to the Meanest
and is praised
by a score of
the good old New England clergy in the
"recommendatory preface," because they
would encourage all, more particularly
"our Young People, to accomplish themselves with Skill to Sing the Songs of the
Lord, according to the Good Rules of
Psalmody: Hoping that the consequence of
it will be, that not only the Assemblies of
Zion will Directly and in Order carry on
this Exercise of Piety, but also it will be
the more Introduced into Private Families,
and become a part of our Family Sacrifice.
"At the same time we would above all
Exhort, That the main Concern of all may
be, to make it not a meer Bodily Exercise,
but Sing with Grace in their Hearts, and
with Minds Attentive to the Truths in the
Psalms which they Sing, and effected with
them, so that in their Hearts they may
make a Melody to the Lord."
We all know how far these songs made
Arnold's heart "a melody to the Lord,"
but if the little book left no apparent impression on him, he had left upon it his
impress. Across the title is boldly written
the name he later made almost a synonym
of treachery; and at the end
of the book, on the blank
leaves, evidently bound in for
such use, are manuscript notes
of a number of tunes then in
vogue. Some are in the same
clear strong schoolboy hand
as the name on
the title-page;
others are in a
rounded and
rather ornate
hand, which
we know to be
: that of his sis-
ter Hannah;
and one, with
a cramped
hand evidently
little at ease
with the pen,
and with spelling that evidences an equal
difficulty in using the queen's English, is written by
Hannah Arnold, his mother.
To his mother we are also indebted for
the following letters written to Benedict,
then a lad of twelve, while at school with
the Rev. Doctor Cogswell at Coventry,
Connecticut; in which the love and piety
shown more than atone for the lack of education :—
"norwich, august 13th, 1753^
"My dear child—through ye goodness of god wee are living and sumthing
comfortable att present but deths are multiplied all round us and more daly expected
and how soon our time will come wee know _r^
not—pray my dear whatever you neglect
dont neglect your presios soul which once
lost can never be regained—your uncel
Zion Arnold is dead—no 'eft time ye 5 of
this instant.
"give sarvis to Mr. Cogshall and ladey
and deaf mrs Hannah from your affectionate mother Hannah Arnold.
"Capt. bill has lost all his sons—John
post has lost his wife—John Lathrop and
his son barnibus are boath dead."
"norwich august 9 1754.
"my dear I wright to Let you know ye
situation of our famoly: your father is in
a poor state of helth but designs if abel to
"p. s.    your father and aunt givs servisi
to mr   Cogswell and Ladey and Love  to
These glimpses of Arnold—one, standing
with his mother and sister in the little New
England church, and singing with them
from the same book; and of the merry-
hearted schoolboy, implored by his "tender
and distrest mother" not to neglect his
"presios soul"—are made sad, by our
knowledge of what followed. But long
before his treason, Arnold had begun the
downward march. In "Weyman's New
York Gazette" of May 21, 1759, a reward
of forty shillings is offered for the arrest of
Grounds and Ruks^
Explained: Or,
An InmdAn to the Art of Singi^ of ott?|
by N O TR X0c?^.v
       Fitted to the meaneft Capacities.        A We rejoice .10
^Mie Beautiful aid1
By Th om as Walter,
Recommended by_ feveral Minis Tjjrmaqce of that holy
COe g>econfr *MWow«/re^^afe to Gltf
Let every thing that bath Breath Prqife the Lo>dt
i BOSTON: Printcdby B.Green, for S.GeriiJb, mtt the Brick Mceti^
set out for newpprt (august 23) and if I
Can, I shall journey with him; and if
providenc permitt wee shall be back by ye
midel of septr. when I shall send for you
home, my dear take doctr watses advise
to make ye Lorde your dwelling plase and
try and trust his Cair
"wee have a verey unsertain stay in this
world and itt stands us all in hand to se
that wee have an intrist in Christ without
which wee must be Eternaly misarabel—
your sister hannah is poor but gives Love
to you—present my best Compliments to
mr. Cogswell and Ladey and accept Love
from your tender and distrest mother
1' Hannah  Arnold
"Benedict Arnold, by trade a weaver, 18
years of age, dark complexion, light eyes
and dark hair," for desertion from Capt.
James H. Holmes' company of provincial
troops—an act doubly mean in spirit, for
it was desertion at the opening of the great
campaign against Canada, and after having received a bounty for enlisting, thus
bearing out the tradition, that Arnold
could not resist a money temptation. Our
next contribution, written a year later,
presents him in another, though a little
less shameful, light:—
"To the Sheriff of the County of New
London, his Deputy, or either of the Con- STRA Y LEA VES FROM A  TRAITOR'S LIFE.
'' *r"j^**; "j^^'1l"^^'M^Jg|P!! 15**2
stables of the Town of Norwich, within the
said County, Greeting.
"In his Majesty's name you are hereby
Commanded to apprehend Benedict Arnold
of Norwich, and him forwith have before
me, Isaac Huntington, one of His majesty's Justices of the Peace for the County
aforesaid, to answer the complaint made
against him by the select men of Norwich,
for Drunkenness and being disabled in the
use of his understanding and reason.
"Dated at Norwich the 12th Day of May,
1760. Isaac Huntington
"Justice of the Peace."
This was a failing of Arnold's that followed him through life; yet, if tradition is
to be believed, not always to his injury,
for his mad, brave charge on the Hessran
redoubt at Saratoga, which practically
wrote "Jinis" to Burgoyne's invasion, and
goes far to condone his later deed, was made
under the influence of a dipper of rum. Perhaps it was the influence of the convivial
glass, too, which produced the two following papers, drawn up and signed, as will
be seen, on the same day, thus suggesting
a jolly bachelor dinner or carouse:—
"This Agreement made the 17th Day of
February 1764, between Benedict Arnold
of Nw. Haven & Abrm. Beach of Hartford
"That whichever of the parties shall be
first lawfully married the other hereby binds
himself to present the Party so first married with a Silver Tankard & Salver worth
fifteen Pounds
"In Witness whereof we have hereunto
set our Hands
In presence of Abrm.  Beach
"Bute Benedt. Arnold."
"This Agreement made this Seventeenth
of Febry 1764 between Andrew Thomson
on the One part & Benedt Arnold on the
other witnesseth That, In Case the Sd
Thomson Enters into the bonds of Matrimony Before Sd Arnold then Sd Arnold
promises to present Sd Thomas with a
Silver Tea Pot. worth Fifteen pounds Law-
full Money but in Case Sd Arnold is Mar-*
ried first Then Sd Thomson promises to
present Sd Arnold with a Tea pott as above.
In presence of And. Thomson
"Abrm.  Beach Benedt.  Arnold."
Arnold was, in the following years, engaged in the West India trade, and there
now lie before me a number of his invoices,
amusingly assorted, and most typical of the
New England trading voyage of the day.
He often sailed a vessel in the trade him*
self, and it was during one of these trips
that he wrote to his friend, Douglas, upon
hearing of the Boston massacre in 1770:—
"St. George's Key, 9th June, 1770.
"Dear Sir,—
"I am now in a Corner of the World
whence you can expect no News of Consequence—Was very much shocked the other
Day, on hearing the Accounts of the most
Cruel, Wanton & Inhuman Murders, committed in Boston by the Soldiers—Good
God,   are   the   Americans  all   asleep   and
Ms  i 696
tamely giving
up their Liberties ["birthrights" effaced] or are
they all turned
that they don't
take immediate
Vengeance on
such Miscreants ; I am afraid of the latter and that shall
all soon see ourselves as poor and as much
oppressed as ever heathen Philosopher was—
With greatest Esteem Dr Sir
"Yr sincere Friend
"B. Arnold.
14to B. Douglas, Esq., New Haven."
Our next document brings us to the
actual Revolution, being written during
Arnold's expedition against Ticonderoga.
He was many times during the war charged
with private plundering.
"Ticonderoga, July 6, 1775.
1' Gentlemen,
'' Colo Hinman has Just shewn me a Letter, Dated at Charleston June 30, & Signed
by a number of Gentlemen, which Sems
evidently Calculated (by Cpl. Coughran, or
some other Person) to, Asperse my Character by Intimating, I, gave orders or rather
Countenanced the Plundering Major Skenes
House, &c. To Convince you of my In-
nocency in the Matter herewith you have a
Coppy my Orders to Capt. Herrick,, the
Officer I sent to take Possession of the Majors, Vessel, Boats, &c. Neither have I
ben at Skensborough, nor did I know of
► Doctr. Sterne's receiving, any Plunder
there Untill after his return from St. Johns
& he was gone home. Nor do I recollect
ever, speaking to him or hearing him say
anything in regard to, Major Skenes Effects.
"Neither have I ever given the least
Countenance to Plundering but Positive
Orders to the Contrary, & I now declare
on my honour I have, never received Directly or Indirectly, Six pence worth of any
kind of Plunder, except the Property of
Oapt. Friend Taken in the Sloop great Part
of which is returned, & I have wrote to the
Continental   Congress,  in  regard   to   the
remainder,   &   am   Determined   to   Abide
their Decision.
"I am Gentn. Your Vy Obt Ser.
"Benedt.  [Arnold]"
Before passing to his treason, let us
glance at two excerpts from letters not
worth entirely printing. The first was
dated May 12, 1776, and was written to
Col. James Clinton. It relates to the retreat from Canada, and indicates most
clearly the brute strength of purpose that
helped the man to force his way, as well
as the absolute disregard of honorable warfare, which he later exhibited in his burning
of New London:—
"You must retreat by Caughnawaga. If
the Inhabitants of Montreal Attempt to
molest your with drawing of the Troops,
Set fire to the Town & take such of
them prisoners as you find in Arms.''
The second extract is interesting from its
sentiments. It was written to S. Chase
from Providence, February 12, 1777:—
"I beg leave, tho' late, to congratulate
you on our Successes in the Jersey's, the
sudden Reverse, and promising Aspect of
Publick Affairs.—We have it yet in our
power to be free, and happy, if we will
exert ourselves. These states seem spirited
and determined."
To pass from this optimistic view, to his
papers relating to his treason, is a curious
contrast. Yet even here, we find light on
his reasons for betrayal of his country.
The first of these papers was written to
Washington, after his flight to the British,
upon hearing that Congress had ordered his
name struck from the army-list:—
"New York, Nov 7th, 1780.
"Sir, I take this opportunity to inform
your Excellency that I consider myself no
longer acting under the commission of
Congress, their last [here the words are
illegible] being my papers at West Point,
you, sir, will make such use as you think
proper. At the same time I beg leave to
assure your Excellency that my attachment
to the true interest of my country is invariable, and that has ever been the governing
rule of my conduct in this unhappy contest.
"I have the honor to be  your  Excel- STRA Y LEA VES FROM A TRAITOR'S LIFE.
lency's most obedient   and most humble
servant B. Arnold.
"His Excellency George Washington."
In his next letter he assumes the same
high and mighty tone of patriotic love of
country, but otherwise the spirit is cringing and servile, for in place of writing to
his old commander, his letter was intended
for the eye of Lord George  Germain, the
Intercession, that I may be restored to the
favor of my most gracious Sovereign; In
the'fullest Confidence of his Clemency, I
most cheerfully cast myself at his Feet,
imploring his Royal Grace and Protection.
"I have that Confidence in the Goodness
of Sir Henry Clinton, That His Majesty
will not remain long, uninformed that
some considerable time has elapsed, since I
resolved to devote my Life and Fortune to
^^(^i3/<^^^ turns** e£*>*£4t**<>J f^&^f*— **w
%i/L4&£r *Lx<*u-« Ae****^'***~- /**&rrt&**^&€^,$£>*^
English Secretary of War, and through
him, for that, of his new master, George
III. :—
"New York, 7th October 1780.
"My Lord,
"Conscious of the rectitude of my Intentions (whatever Constructions may have
been put on my Conduct,) and convinced
of the benevolence of your Lordship, I am
embolden   to   request  Your   Interest   and
his Majesty's Service, and that I was intent
to have Demonstrated my Zeal by an Act,
which had it succeeded as intended, must
have immediately terminated the unnatural
Convulsions that have so long distracted
the Empire.
"Your Lordship will perceive by the enclosed address to the Public, by what Principles I have been and am now actuated,
to which I shall at present only add my
most sacred Assurance that  no endeavors 698
of mine shall be wanting to confirm the
Profession I make of an unalterable Attachment to the Person, Family and Interest
of my Sovereign" and the Glory of his
Reign. I enclose another Paper with"some
imperfect Notes, but will do myself the
honor by the next Conveyance to transmit
Your Lordship a more full and perfect State
of Matters than in my present Confusion
and Circumstances I am able to do.        •
"I shall endeavor to merit your Lordships
Patronage by my Zeal and Assiduity in His
Majesty's Service.
"I have the honor to be with the greatest Respect My Lord Your Lordships Most
Obedient and most humble Servant
"B. Arnold.
"The Right  Honble.  Lord  George  Germain."
That Arnold believed in his own good
intentions, has always been a moot point of
history, but the following paper, perhaps
the most important Arnold ever wrote, indicates that he had come to despair of the
American cause, and was desirous of making his peace with the victors, before it entirely collapsed. It is a private statement
of the American condition, drawn up immediately after his treason, for the information of the British:—
"The Present State of the American Rebel
Army, Navy, and Finances, with some
* Remarks.
"The present operating Force under the
immediate Command of general Washington as stated by himself to a Council of
general officers the 6th ulto. amounts to
.     . 10,400 men
"One Battalion of Continenl
jiroops at .Rhode Island , 500
**Two State   Regiments   of
Continl Militia at North
Castle 500
"About one half of these Troops are
Militia, whose time of service expires on
the first day of January next, which will
reduce the Army engaged for the war to
less than Six Thousand men exclusive of
the Troops in the Southern Department under General Gates, who may amount to
eight hundred or a thousand regular troops,
besides Militia; about 350 Light Horse are
included in the above Calculation. AI!
these troops are illy clad,, badly fed, and
worse paid having in general two or three
years pay due to them. Many of the best
officers of the Army have resigned, and
others are daily folldwing their Example,
through Disgust, necessity, and a Conviction that the Provinces will not be able to
Establish there Independence.
"There has long subsisted a Jealousy
between Congress and the Army. The
former have been Jealous of the Power of
the latter, and the latter have thought
themselves neglected, and ill treated by the
former, who have excluded the Army from
every Appointment of honor, or profit in
the Civil Line. The Common Soldiers are
exceedingly disgusted with the Service, and
every effort to Recruit the Army (except
by Temporary Draughts of Militia) has
hitherto proved ineffectual. Congress and
General Washington last Spring made the
most pressing Demands on the Colonies to
furnish a Body of Troops to complete the
Army to 35,000 men, every Argument was
urged to enforce the Demand, among others
that it would enable General Washington
(in conjunction with the French Troops) to
oblige Sir Henry Clinton to evacuate New
York—and thereby put a Period to the
War: The Colonies promised to Comply
with the Requisition, every effort was used,
but without Success. The Body of the
People heartily tired of the war refused '
to Inlist Voluntarily, and not more than
one-third of the men ordered to be
Draughted, appeared in the Field The
Distress and Discontents of the People are
daily increasing, and the difficulty of Recruiting the Army another year will undoubtedly be greater than ever.
"The Navy is reduced to three Frigates,
and a few small vessels, who are generally
in Port, for want of hands to man them.
"The Treasury is entirely empty and the
finances are at the lowest Ebb. The Public
Debt inclusive of Paper emitted by Congress, and the Colonies, Loan Office Certificates, and Arrears due to the Army, Commissaries and Quarter Masters, amounts to
upwards of Four hundred Million of Paper
Dollars. Congress have lost all Confidence
and Credit with the People, who have
been too often deceived and duped by them
to pay any regard to their promises in fut- STRA Y LEA VES FROM A  TRAITOR'S LIFE.
U&faZecr)  l^9m»/ &%UyfY+»
(f2-J& ^-e/^^^yC^^. ^/Cz^c/fjSfa** •£
pj/sf'*. oC»'X«Jr-<*f
ure, the different Provinces have very little
more Credit with the People than Congress.
Their late Emissions of Paper for the payment of which they have given every possible Security, can hardly be said to have
any Currency, and is Depreciating Rapidly.
"As the result of their Distresses the
Eyes of the People are in general opened,
they Feel their Error and look back with
Remorse to their once happy Condition, and
most ardently wish for a reconciliation on
Terms safe and honorable to both countries.
Many would Return to it with implicit Confidence. Some doubt the Sufficiency of the
Powers of the present Commissioners to
Offer or Accept Terms for an Established
accommodation. It would serve very
good uses if the commissioners have Authority for it, to Signify, that the Colonies upon returning to their obedience,
shall be restored to their Ancient Condition
with Respect to their Charter, Rights and
Privileges, Civil and Religious, free from
British Taxation, and to Invite to Negoci-
ation for General Regulations.    It will in
crease the number of Advocates for the
"But the best step is to Vest Commissioners with Decisive Powers on such Settlement as Great Britain may be willing to
Establish. There will always be Jealousies
seen while a Power is Reserved to Great
Britain to approve or disapprove, what Her
Commissioners have done. With power in
a Sett of Commissioners to bind the Nation
as firmly as she would bind herself, by
Future Acts of Parliament, I am of opinion
that a Pacification would immediately take
"But should the Artful and Designing
who have assumed the Reins of government,
continue to have sufficient influence to mislead the Minds of the People, and continue
the Opposition to Government, I am Clearly
of Opinion that, an addition of Ten thousand Troops to the American army (including those who may be on their way to America) will be sufficient Force under the Direction of an Officer of the Experience and
abilities of Sir Henry Clinton to put a pe-
jjgg fsw^
riod to the Contest in the Course of the
next Campaign.
"I have forgot to mention that the want
of Provision in the Army is not owing to
the Scarcity of Provision in the country,
But to the weakness of the Usurpation in
every Colony, without Money or Credit
Supplies must be collected by Force and
Terror, wherever the Army are they take
without opposition. But this force acts
against Itself by Creating internal Enemies,
and by making Friends to Great Britain.
"It is One of the Principal Saps hourly
undermining the Strength of the Rebellion.
"N. B. In the foregoing Estimate the
French Troops at Rhode Island who amount
to about 5000 Effectives are not Includecl.
"B.  Arnold."
Still other reasons, even, than the apparent hopelessness of the American cause,
existed, however, for Arnold's treachery.
In his command at Philadelphia, he had
been tried for peculation and corruption,
and his methods did not change when
transferred to West Point. General Greene,
the upright and honest old Quaker, who
succeeded Arnold in command of that post,
wrote to Jeremiah Wadsworth: —
"West Point, Octr. 15th, 1780.
"My Dear Sir.
"I think I have not written you since
the late desertion of Arnold. Was you
ever more astonished in your life? A man
high in reputation, and with the fairest
prospects of domestic happiness. The love
of parade and the thirst for gold has proved
his ruin. How black, how despised, loved
by none, and hated by all. Once his
Country's Idol, now her horror. Curse
on his folly, nay his villainy, and most of
all his meanness. The latter has been
displayed in such dirty colours in his
transactions at this post, as has not been
equaled in the history of man. All kinds
of private and public robbery has he pursued, and accompanied it with such circumstances of littleness as shows him to be
the basest of mortals. I freely confess I
had no conception, notwithstanding the
converse I have had with mankind, that
it was possible for human nature to arrive
at such a degree of corruption. The discovery had been very providential.    Had
these Posts fallen into the Enemies hands
God   knows what   might   have   been   the
consequences.    But I think little short of
the entire subjection of America.
"Yours &c.
"N. Greene."
Perhaps the saddest episode in his treason
was his enforced desertion of his lovely
young wife, leaving her an object of suspicion in the hands of his present enemies.
Washington, Hamilton, and others, have
left their opinions as to her absolute innocence of all knowledge of her husband's
guilt, but popular feeling was too strong
against Arnold to be satisfied with burning
and hanging him in effigy, and so they
wreaked their vengeance on this girl of
nineteen. After Arnold's flight she had
been sent, at her own request, by Washington, to her father in Philadelphia; but
a rumor became current that she was corresponding with her husband in New
York, and a mob demanded that the Governor's Council should send her away. Her
father endeavored to save her from this by
writing to the President of the Council as
"Under the deepest affliction, and
call'd upon by the strongest ties of Nature, I take the Liberty of addressing your
Honor in behalf of a child whose distresses
and deplorable State of body, and mind
exceed description, and would excite Compassion in the most unfeeling breast—altho'
greatly unfortunate I am fully convinced
she never participated in the guilt of her
perfidious Husband—His Excellency General Washington, who happened to be an
Eye-witness of her Condition and Conduct,
declares in the Pass he gave her to proceed thither, that 'there is every Reason
to believe she is only unfortunate in the
late unhappy affair of her Husband,' and
recommends it 'to all persons to treat her
on the Journey with the delicacy and
tenderness due her Sex and Virtues'—This
Testimony in her favor from so great and
good a Man, after a thorough Examination
into her behavior, will I hope stand her
some Stead—She is very young and possessed of qualities which intitle her to a
better fate—if she were again put into the
hands of so bad a man her mind might in STRA Y LEA VES FROM A TRAITOR'S LIFE.
time be debased, and her Welfare even in
another World endangered by his Example—
"Be pleased, Sir, to communicate the
Contents of this Letter to the Honorable
Council, with my earnest Supplications that
they will not proceed to any Resolutions of
sending her from her parents till they favor
me with an Opportunity of laying before
them such further reasons against it, as a
more composed mind may suggest.
"Ed.   Shippen."
That this dislike of Arnold by his family -
in-law was not merely assumed to win the
made clear by a
favor of the Council,
private letter from
Edward Burd, who
had married a sister
of Mrs. Arnold, to
his father; which also
recites the- action
of the Council in her
"Lanr. 10 Nov. 1780.
*' Dear & Honored Sir.
"I was in great
hopes of receiving a
Letter from you this
Court, but as some of
the Paxton people
will be agoing up
this Afternoon, I embrace the opportunity
of writing to you.
You have doubtless
heard of ye unfortunate affair of Mrs.
Arnold. -
'' We tried every means to prevail on the
Council to permit her to stay among us,
and not to go to that infernal Villain her
Husband at New York. The Council
seemed for a considerable time disposed to
favor our Request, but at length have ordered  her away.     Yesterday was the day
Arnold, any Letters whatever, and to receive no letters without showing them to
Council, if she was permitted to stay—
However this did not answer ye purpose
we hoped for—If she could stay Mr.
Shippen would' not have wished her ever
to be united to him again. It makes me
melancholy every time I think of the matter. I cannot bear the Idea of her Reunion. The sacrifice was an immense one
at her being married to him at all—it is
much more so to be obliged against her
will to go to the Arms of a Man who appears so very black.
"dear Sir
"Yr. aff, & dutiful Son
"Edward Burd."
The two papers
with which we close
this series illustrate
how little Arnold derived from his treason. The first was
written to Thomas
Townsend, the English Home and Colonial Secretary:—
"London August 27,
" . . . I must
beg leave to Solicit
your Interest and
Patronage, Sir, to
carry my proposal in*
to execution, by which
means I may be enabled to Render essential service to
Government, and at the same time have
a chance of making some provision for
my Family, which is Numerous and expensive, nor have any other provision
at  present   than    my   Pay,
she was to have set off, and Mr. Shippen
intending to  accompany her the greatest
and a Pension worth £375. per Annum Settled on
Mrs. Arnold, neither of which Are permanent, and barely a Support.
"Permit me, Sir, to say that from the
•^"of ~tL WayTcould not be put ufat this Sacrifices I have made of Country, Friends,
Cmrrt This circumstance has involved fortune and prospects, to my attachment
the whole family in the deepest distress, to Government, I think I have a Just Claim
Mr Shippen had promised the Council, and to Her protection, and Support, and the
Mrs Arnold had signed a writing to the Aid which, I now Solicit to Enable me
same purpose, engaging not to write Genl   to serve the Publick and myself is much 702
less than I have Sacrificed for Her, and
as my Services are not at present wanted,
I make no Doubt, Sir, from your humanity and Justice, you will Consider my Request as reasonable and worthy your Notice,
and Incouragement.
"B.  Arnold."
The second letter is written to his old
comrade in arms, Lord Cornwallis, while
the latter was Governor-General in India:—
"London, Deer. 10th, 1799.
"My Lord.
"Nothing but my very great Confidence
in your Lordships goodness, which I have
experienced on so many occasions, and my
extreme solicitude to make some provision
for my Son Could induce me to again take
the liberty of troubling your Lordship.
He is extremely anxious to go out to India,
and having failed in my endeavors to procure him a writership, he has for some
time past been qualifying himself for an
Engineer, in which he has made great proficiency, and proposes spending the Winter
in studying with the Master of the Academy
at Woolwich, and has no doubt in a few
months of procuring their testimonials of
his being perfectly qualified for that situation. Your Lordship was once Kind
enough to offer him a Cadetship to India,
and the offer has lately been repeated by
a Friend here, which he will be happy to
accept provided he can be assured of receiving a Commission in the Engineer
Corps on his arrival there; I shall therefore
esteem it a very particular favor if your
Lordship will have the goodness to recommend him for the appointment, "when he
has qualified himself for, and received his
Certificates to that effect, which I have no
doubt will immediately procure him the
Appointment On his arrival in India, permit
me my Lord to add that I have the fullest
Confidence that he will merit your Lordships lecommendation, being possessed of
strict principles of honor and integrity, and
with a good understanding, which he has
taken great pains to improve, he has a
degree of prudence seldom to be found in
a young Man, and I presume for the immense Territory that we have lately acquired in India, that young Men of this
description Will be much wanted there.
'' Allow' me my Lord to assure your Lordship of the grateful and very great Respect
with which I have the honor to be.
"Your Lordships
"Most Obedt. & Most Hunmle Servt.
"B.  Arnold."
A deserter and bounty-jumper, a drunkard and duelist, a smuggler and plunderer,
it seems strange that Arnold was trusted
by Congress and proves what a period of
war brings to the surface and what questionable tools a revolution must avail itself
of. Certainly in the light of these facts,
his treason seems but the legitimate outcome of his life and character. THE  COSMOPOLITAN.
It is not very hard to make a
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It IS hard to find a manufac
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ms*_ w *&¥$. _if'^Vai_r^ir
196 Main St., Brockport, N. Y.
Esps-^Sor-wornen.** \
Tannin conquered at last w
The Greatest *Dis-
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TEA-ETTE is Pure Tea of the best grades,
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finding its way into the best families, who recognize the evil'effects of Tannin on the Lining
Membrane of the Stomach* TEA-ETTE is
the Purest Tea in the Market. If your grocer
has not yet included it in his stock ask him to
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half-pound package. Name the kind of Tea
you drink.
43 Wallabout Market, Brooklyn, N. Y.
When you write, please mention " The Cosmopolitan."
You worry over trifles, and strange fancies, born of a disordered mind, rob you of sleep. Things which would not trouble
you in the day take horrible shape at night and bring dreams
which rob your sleep of benefit. Or you toss uneasily, asking
for morning to come. Sights and sounds annoy you and stillness
oppresses you. You complain of numbness and a prickling sensation
in the limbs.    You are "an absent-minded beggar."
Ttats Nervous Prostration
" During last year I was suffering with nervous prostration. For weeks I grew worse, became thin, could not sleep, had no appetite, and was in a wretched concuiioii. After taking
several kinds of medicines without result, I took Ayer's Sarsaparilla with more than pleasing
results. My appetite returned, I slept soundly, my strength and weight increased, and now I am
well and strong without the slightest trace of my old trouble. Indeed, I would hardly believe it possible for medicine to bring about stfch a change in any person."— Clara Mealy,
Winter Hill, Somerville, Mass., Dec. 21, 1899.
A delicious and  highly scientific blend of the strongest  and   purest
vegetable extracts.
That's AYEB'S
Manufactured under the personal supervision of a graduate in pharmacy, a graduate in chemistry, and a graduate in medicine.
You are as tired in the morning as you are at night, and
yet your tired doesn't bring sweet, sound sleep. You have an
appetite, yet food seems to nauseate you. Your mind does not
respond quickly and your memory fails you. You lack energy,
the eyes droop, the head is tired and heavy. You want to do
many  things, yet  do   no   one  thing  satisfactorily.    Most  likely,
That's OvcrworK
** Last July my oldest daughter was taken sick, and I was on my feet, it seemed to me, night
and day for weeks taking care of her. I had no other help than that which my husband gave
me, and by the time daughter began to mend I was down sick myself. I was discouraged, and
did not care much whether I lived or died. My husband got me a bottle of Ayer's Sarsaparilla,
and its effects were magical. Two bottles of this medicine put me on my feet and made a well
woman of me."—Jane M. Brown, Bentonsport, Iowa, Jan. 19, 1900. -
When you write, please mentk
'The Cosmopolitan." THE COSMOPOLITAN.
You complain of fulness and pressure after eating; your head
aches, usually in front. You are subject to the annoyance of bad
breath and an unpleasant taste. Your eyes are affected by a
strong light; and you are hungry even after a good meal. These
things affect your temper and disposition, and you are none too
sweet to those around you.
That's Dyspepsia
" For two years I suffered from dyspepsia, until for days at a time I could not eat a thing.
I had tried almost everything, but could not get relief.    I then thought I would try Ayer's
I    Sarsaparilla, and in one week I Was a new man.    My tired feelings were gone ; I was stronger
I   and better in every way.    I believe now if it were not for this medicine I would be in a dying
I   condition."—John MacDonald, Philadelphia,* Pa., Aug. 16, 1899.
V —i ■■■■ , , m™*mmmmmmM»*mm I— *
A Sarsaparilla made of chemically pure drugs, thoroughly examined, scientifically exhausted, and prepared with the utmost care.
That's  AYER'S
Manufactured under the personal supervision of a graduate in pharmacy,
a graduate in chemistry, and a graduate in medicine.
Your muscles are flabby and flat. Your shoulders stoop.
You are weak, listless, and tired. You are too cold or too
warm; short of breath. You are like an engine that needs more
fuel. You are one day sick and one day well; yet one day's
good work brings three days' weariness. You feel old at thirty
and ready to drop.
That's Starved Blood
" Last spring I could not walk, my feet were so swollen. I was emaciated and my blood
was like water, it was so colorless and thin. Eight doctors tried to cure me, but they did me
no good. A council of doctors said that I could not possibly live. Then I thought I would
try Ayer's Sareaparilla, as I had read so much about it. I took three bottles, and now I am
perfectly well and weigh over 150 lbs."— Mrs. M. E. Slater, Pulaski, N. Y., July 13, 1899.
When you write, please mention "The Cosmopolitai THE COSMOPOLITAN.
The Prudential
Total Assets Increased to over $33,900,000.00
Total Liabilities    27,934,337.87
Surplus Increased to over   . 6,000,000.00
Income Increased to over 20,580,000.00
Paid Policy-Holders during 1899, over . . 6,250,000.00
Paid Policy-Holders, to date, over .... 42,700,000.00
Insurance in Force Increased to over ... 500,000,000.00
New Insurance written during 1899 over .   . 222,600,000.00
A gain of over 1
Half a Million Policies
was made during 1899        |
Increasing the total number
of policies in force to over
We have no agents or branch stores.   All orders should be sent direct to i
'J J
New Easter Suits, $5
The costumes and skirts which we make are exclusive in style and
distinctly different from the ready-made garments. When wearing one
of our styles you do not run the risk of meeting other ladies wearing
garments which look exactly like yours. There are hundreds of firms
selling ready-made suits and skirts such as you see everywhere, but we
are the only house
making fashionable goods to
order at moderate
Our new Spring
Catalogue illustrates an exclusive line of suits
and skirts selected from the newest Paris models,
aud the materials
from which we
make our garments comprise
only the very
latest novelties.
We will mail our
Catalogue Free,
together with a
choice line of
samples to select
from, to the lady
who wishes to
dress well at
moderate cost.
Our catalogue illustrates :
Ne w Skirts in the latest Paris cut, $4 up.   |J
Tailor-Made Suits, $5 up. |J
Wash Suits, $4 up. j|
Wash Skirts, $3 up. *
Rainy-Day Suits and Skirts made of $
double-face materials. ^
\sicycle Suits, $5 up; Bicycle Skirts, $3.50 up.  Jackets, Riding Habits, Qolf Suits and Skirts. |J
We also make finer garments and send samples of all grades. fr
WE PAY EXPRESS CHARGES EVERYWHERE. If, when writing, you will mention any particular kind |J
br color of samples that you prefer, we shall be glad to send you an assortment of the kind you wish. Write to-day Z
for Catalogue and samples—we will send them to you FREE by return mail. |j
THE  NATIONAL CLOAK CO.,  U9 and  \2\  West 23d Street, New York. |
When you write, please mentif
'The Cosmopolitan.* THE COSMOPOLITAN.
^^Jl>^i    COMPOUND
fc____f _eil ?J\v_J .#W -fcw/VO nwt &£XP£NS£
VftWQUt Injury To The
| TexriiREiCoiotiOtt Hanos.
^ §xne Tesl|
|||pmpare SoJjSoap
tt;SoafePaste mam
^^B^tn^fe with '
When you write, please mention ** The Cosmopolitan.' THE COSMOPOLITAN.
_ ™8 is I*1* Testimonial Referred to in the March Cosmopolitan.
This Baby was 3 Months Old j
When He was Afflicted
with a Dreadful
Required Constant
Watching and Bathing
Made  Perfectly Well   By
Hood's Sarsaparilla
Hood's Medicated Soap
Hood's Olive Ointment
Help came when  hope   seemed   flying.
! For Mis. Guerinot's child these medicines
did what they have done for thousands of
others, young and old, and will do many
a time again, wherever faithfully tried ;
brought healing to the little sufferer, and
gave him back with fair skin and laughing
eyes, to the parents who loved him so dearly.
We will let the mother tell the story in her
own way and it is well worth reading.
There is an important lesson in it, too.
I When my baby was 3 months old festers broke
out on his neck. They appeared like boils, spread
down his back along the spinal column until it
appeared one mass of sores. Our doctor prescribed, but the disease spread, the little one's
sufferings increased and he became a mere shadow.
His pitiful wailing was heart-rending. It nearly
crazed me, worn-out as I was from constant
watching and nursing. The discharge was so
profuse that it was necessary to dress his back
three times a day. Every time the bandages were
removed blood would flow. It became necessary
to wrap the little body in silk. When the trouble
was at its height our anxiety increased on the
appearance of a boil near one eyelid, as we feared
the scrofulous matter might get into the eye, and
even if life was spared his sight would be affected.
I had about given up hope of saving my baby
when I was asked why I did not try Hood's Sarsa-
I-—•>.M«-^*»»t»l f  •»! — ft-^-^tM — IM
When you write, please mention
Baby Edward Guerinot
parilla.   Eager for anything that held out hope, I A
procured a bottle of Hood's.   I also got a cake of I
Hood's Med'cated Soap and a box of Hood's Olive S
Ointment.   I immediately laid aside all the doc- A
tor's medicines and gave the infant the smallest f
dose of the Sarsaparilla, and then took off  the •
bandages and washed the mass of sores with the A
Medicated' Soap.   Next I applied the Olive Oint- f
ment and adjusted a fresh wrapping of silk.   A X
change   was noticeable the next Sunday, giving A
assurance that we had at last hit upon the treat- f
ment to successfully battle the poisonous blood. •
M Slowly, but perceptibly, the discharge grew I
less, the inflammation disappeared, the surround- f
ing skin took on a healthy color, and what had 2
been a mass of raw flesh began to scale over and f
gradually a thin skin formed   and   the   scales 1
dropped off.   Not a scar or blemish around the 3
eye, neck or back, or anywhere on his body is to A
be found, and now, at eight months old, he is as |
bright, healthy and full grown as any child of that 2
age.   Less than two bottles of Hood's Sarsaparilla •
aided by Hood's Medicated Soap and Hood's Olive A
Ointment, accomplished this wonderful cure.   I J
cannot begin to express my gratitude."   Mrs. N. 2
Guerinot, 37 Myrtle Street, Rochester, N. Y.
To any reader of the above testimonial who will J
send address on a postal card we will send a •
sample of Hood's Medicated Soap free.   Address i
Department X, C. I. Hood  & Co., Lowell, Mass. f
I^HM^tH-<»«H*^>«H  —   Of   ■ ll
'The Cosmopolitan.' ^#*
HOOD'S   |
IMi soap
It thoroughly cleanses the teeth without
scratching, roughening or otherwise injuring the enamel; prevents decay; hardens
and reddens the gums; refreshes the mouth;
sweetens the breath, and is what thousands
of fastidious users call it,—
The One Entirely Satisfactory Dentifrice*
Large bottle, 25c. Mammoth size. 50c. Free Sample.
It cleanses, disinfects and heals; makes and
keeps the skin pure and healthy; is equally
excellent for children and adults; lathers
abundantly; emits a delicate fragrance, and
is positively the best soap for the toilet,
bath and shaving;  not costly but always
A Luxury Within   the  Reach   of All,
Trial size, 10c.   Full size, 25c.   Free Sample.
These Standard Preparations Are sold by drug?is
ceipt of price by C. 1. Hood & Co., Lowell, Mass.
Jabon de Arnica.
Savon Dentifrice D'Arnica.  -
Arnica Zahn Seife.
The Only International Dentifrice.
The Standard for 30 years.
Preserves and whitens the teeth, strengthens the
gums—sweetens the breath.
25c at All Druggists.
C. H. STRONG & CO., Props., CHICAGO, U. S. A.
ELECTRUJ  apparatus is the only device ever invented
for the positive, permanent removal of super-
flous hair from face,
neck or arms by electrolysis; also effectually   removes Moles
Warts, Red-
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Ladies   can
operate iu
the   privacy
of their own
homes   with
results as positiv
.   -^8 can be obtained by skilled speci
ali sts at a great saving in expense. Send stamp for eat-
alog. D.J.Mahler,343Matthew8Qn St.Providence,R.I
Direct at Wholesale.
We manufacture 178 styles of vehicles and 65 styles of harness and
we sell them direct to you at wholesale.
and axe the largest manufacturers of vehicles and harness in the
world selling: to the consumer exclusively.     We give you the
advantage of the largest selection.   Ton run no risk for we ship all
goods anywhere with privilege   of examination; we guarantee
etrerythiiag.   Our line consists of Surreys, Traps, Phaetons, Spiders,
Stanhopes,  Driving  Wagons.  Top   Buggies,  Open   and Top
Road Wagons, Spring Wagons, Delivery Wagons, Milk Wagons,
Wagonettes, and all styles of harness.   Send at once for our
large illustrated catalog
proposition, mailed FREE
CLMlAni e. b. Pratt. Seey*.     ELKHART, INDIANA.
When you write, please mention "The Cosmopolitan.' THE COSMOPOLITAN.
is preferable to that of other PURGATIVE WATERS.
More gentle in action.   Does not cause crampy pains.
use Apenta   regularly.      It   is   recommended   by the leading
j£&jjj Physicians of the World.
The name of the APOLLINARIS CO., Let, London,
on the label is a guarantee of uniformity and superiority.
For    ANALYSIS,    Etc.,    Address   UNITED    AGENCY    CO.,    503    Fifth    Ave.,    NEW    YORK.
The perfection of all reservoir ranges is reached
In a range that will work equally well with soft coal
or hard coal, wood or cobs—bake, roast, boil, seethe
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almost instantly—properly used, last a lifetime;
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Malleable Iron and Steel
does all of it, and the reservoir will not boil,
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range will not clog with ashes and clinkers, allow
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of every other cooking apparatus.   Made of Malleable Iron and best open-hearth cold-rolled steel,
10 to 50 per cent heavier throughout than any other
range.   Flues lined with pure asbestos, and the entire range riveted with the best Norway iron rivets—
air-tight and dust-tight.   This explains why a Great
Majestic Range will do its work in half the time,
and with half the fuel,
are different and distinct from all others—made  in variety to
fit all conditions and every purse—with or without water connections—for wood, coal, gas; also in combination for coal and gas.
•I  ««A Model Kitchen," SENT FREE.   Half the bad cooking is due to defective flue and range
arrangement   'This Booktet tells "How a Kitchen Should be Arranged "to ge^st cooking results from any
?aTge!Tnd tells all about Majestic Ranges and Malleable Iron. ^ Postal brings it.
new york salesroom   Majestic Manufacturing Co.
Majestic Ranges
45 CLIFF 8T.
Shall we send it
St. Louis, Mo
"The Cosmopolitan." THE  COSMOPOLITAN.
Letter- Filing
Direct from the Factory, 1
freight prepaid, sent "On Ap- 1
proval," to be returned at ettr I
expense if not positively the ]
best 12-drawer filing cabinet j
ever sold at so low a price. -
Each drawer is fitted with a .|
good index, poli sh ed brass labeWj
holder pull, and strong nickel \
plated spring compressor. |
Front, top and ends are best 1
quarter-sawed oak with a fine j
polish finish. At retail this size I
and quality sells for $18 to $25.
The above is but one of j
many sizes of Letter Files j
made by us and sold " Direct |
from the Factory at Factory 4
Prices," and indexed to suit tht-. j
requirements of any business.
We Prepay Freight^sl'of'tte 3
Mississippi and north of South Carolina. (Points beyond oft an equal basis)
Write for Catalogue No. D 4-
THE FRED MAGEY CO., Grand Rapids, Mich.
Makers of Office and Library Furniture
rite, please mention "